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iydiamartinx · 2 days ago

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A STUDY OF RIVALS

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 4.7k synopsis: Damian meets his rival but perhaps he doesn't hate her as much as he thought. a/n: This one took forever!

Damian Wayne was infuriatingly brilliant.

But even more infuriating? So were you.

From the moment you stepped through the wrought-iron gates of Gotham Academy, you were a headline. The only daughter of your mother—billionaire philanthropist and formidable tech magnate—you had been raised in private academies scattered across Europe and Asia, groomed for excellence in spotless marble halls and classrooms with vaulted ceilings. You returned to Gotham only when your mother decided it was time to come home, bringing her empire and her heir with her.

You arrived polished and composed. Impossibly articulate for someone your age. And intelligent—almost scarily so.

The paparazzi did anything to get a photo of you and your mother

Despite transferring half way through the school year at Gotham Academy the prestigious school was more than happy to take you in. By first period, your name was already on everyone’s lips. Teachers adored you and students all wanted to be your friend. They whispered about your legacy. Your net worth. Your wardrobe. Your private driver. You were the closest thing to royalty Gotham had since the Waynes.

At first Damian didn’t bother to pay attention, you were just another socialite in designer shoes. However, that changed by second period when you dared to challenge him in literature class.

The teacher had called on Damian, who, without looking up from his annotated copy of The Raven, delivered a perfectly adequate—if not slightly bored—analysis of Poe’s narrative technique. He’d spent enough time reading Jason’s battered paperbacks to be familiar with Poe’s rhythm.

That should've been the end of it but then you spoke up.

“I actually disagree,” you said, your voice calm and clear for someone your age. There was no malice or the intent to belittle—just the unwavering tone of someone who had never once been taught to doubt herself. “I think the narrator’s unreliability was intentional. Poe used it to emphasize the descent into madness, not obscure it.”

The room had gone quiet. Even the teacher blinked, caught off guard by your boldness. No one ever dared to disagree with Damian, usually because he was always right, or because they were terrified of the consequences that would come from doing such a thing.

Damian turned in his seat slowly, regarding you like a hawk sizing up competition.

Your eyes met his calmly.

He stared back, impassive. “It wasn’t meant to obscure, no. But emphasizing madness through unreliability can still hinder clarity of narrative. The reader is left unanchored—intentionally.”

You tilted your head slightly. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Poe wanted us to feel disoriented. He wasn’t just telling us the character was unraveling. He was making us experience it.”

From the back of the classroom, someone muttered under their breath, “Uh oh.”

The teacher cleared his throat, clearly unsure whether to intervene or just let the exchange continue. “Excellent… insight,” he offered cautiously, glancing between the two of you like a man tiptoeing through a minefield. “Both of you. Let’s move on, shall we?”

But you and Damian didn’t move on.

From that moment on, it was war.

The rivalry began innocently enough—almost imperceptibly at first.

He completed a pop quiz in twelve minutes. You finished it in ten.

He aced the physics lab. You beat him in algebra.

He turned in an essay on ancient warfare quoting The Art of War. You cited Thucydides, pointed out a flaw in his argument, and corrected his citation aloud when it came to peer editing them.

By the end of the week, you’d tied his calculus score. By the next, your name appeared beneath his on the school’s academic leaderboard. Only one point behind. The following Monday, it was on top.

Damian hadn’t lost a ranking since he started at Gotham Academy.

“Tt,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the board.

“She’s impressive,” one of the teachers had said offhandedly. “Such a brilliant student. She reminds me of you, Mr. Wayne.”

Damian had scowled. You were not like him. There was no one like him, he had been raised to surpass excellence—to conquer it. Trained since birth by the League of Assassins, tutored by the world’s brightest minds, fluent in four languages by age six. He had Sun Tzu memorized before most children learned to read. And you? You were just some rich girl in a perfectly pressed uniforms.

Meanwhile, you couldn’t figure out what you’d done to earn his scorn—but his snide remarks and condescending tone had begun to gnaw at you. Irritating you to the point you made it a personal mission to beat him at everything.

One afternoon, after an especially gruelling debate in History, the two of you were called to stay behind. The teacher then turned to face you both with a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and reluctant pride.

“I’ve never had two students correct me in the same breath,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re both brilliant, but maybe next time let me finish the sentence before starting a turf war over Napoleon.”

You cast a sideways glance at Damian, only to find that he was already looking at you.

His sharp green eyes narrowed slightly. You looked away, lifting your chin and straightening your shoulders as you turned your gaze back to the teacher. You weren’t about to be caught admiring his infuriatingly handsome self.

Once you two were dismissed, he turned to you in the nearly empty hallway, brushing nonexistent dust off his blazer.

“You know,” he started, voice dry, “you talk too much for someone who’s wrong half the time.”

Your eyes narrow. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and stalked away—head held high, heels clicking, and more than ready for a Damian-free weekend.

Only… that wasn’t the case.

Not even twenty-four hours after your latest victory in the history debate, you found yourself being pulled from the backseat of your town car in front of Gotham’s most exclusive ballroom. Cameras flashed. Paparazzi shouted your mother’s name and yours. Your jaw locked the moment you stepped out, heels clicking sharply against the marble as you followed her up the steps.

“This is a waste of time,” you muttered under your breath, gaze fixed ahead.

“Nonsense,” your mother replied without so much as a glance over her shoulder, her tone breezy and clipped, laced with that ever-present note of amusement. “A little public goodwill never hurt anyone. Besides, it’s good to make connections. One day, you’ll take over my legacy.”

Inside, the venue glittered. Filled with polished chandeliers, soft golden lighting, and murmured laughter. Gotham’s elite mingled beneath banners for children’s hospitals and tech-forward philanthropy. Champagne flutes sparkled between manicured fingers. A string quartet played something classic in the corner. And you stayed precisely half a step behind your mother as she navigated the room like a queen surveying her court.

At some point, you stopped paying attention.

Your mother flitted between conversations with years of practiced charm. Making the rounds as she talked to important investors and socialites. It wasn’t until she said your name that you blinked back to the present.

“Y/N.”

You looked up. Both your mother and a tall, dark-haired man were watching you expectantly.

“Bruce, this is my daughter, Y/N,” your mother said smoothly. “Honey, this is Bruce Wayne.”

The name instantly grabbed your attention. You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did.

Bruce Wayne offered you a hand and an easy smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard impressive things.”

You returned the gesture with one of your own—polite but not quite warm. “Likewise, Mr. Wayne.”

His eyes, though friendly, were sharp—like he saw more than he let on. You recognized the look. You’d seen it in boardrooms, in interviews, in your mother’s own reflection when she touched up her lipstick before a negotiation. It was the look of someone sizing you up—measuring your potential.

“My youngest son is about your age,” Bruce commented casually. “Perhaps you know him—Damian?”

Before you could respond, the devil himself materialized like he’d been summoned by name. “Father—”

“Ah, Damian, we were just talking about you!” Bruce said, his entire expression shifting as he reached to pull his son closer with a fondness that Damian met with stiff resistance. “This is Ms. L/N,” he added, gesturing to your mother, “and this is her daughter, Y/N.”

Damian’s sharp green eyes landed on you, his mouth tightening ever so slightly. “Yes. We share classes.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” your mother said smoothly, her voice laced with that signature diplomatic charm—the kind designed to make people feel flattered, even when they weren’t. “She’s spoken so highly of her classmates. I’m glad to know she’s surrounded by such… driven young people.”

You caught the subtle pause. Driven, not kind. Not friendly. Your mother had no patience for meaningless social niceties. She reserved her praise for those she deemed worthy, and the way she was now sizing up Damian said it all. Just like Bruce had done with you, she was assessing Damian with the same calculating precision she used on CEOs across glossy conference tables—because like you, he was a legacy.

“Likewise,” Damian said smoothly, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed any sincerity. “Y/N is… competent.”

You turned to him slowly, one brow arched. “Just competent?” you echoed, voice as sweet as honey, but the edge beneath it was razor-sharp. “Funny. I seem to recall consistently scoring higher than you on every major assessment.”

He scoffed. “Then perhaps your memory is askew.”

Bruce let out an awkward chuckle, and your mother’s brow lifted in amusement as the tension between you and Damian practically crackled.

“It seems our children have a bit of healthy competition,” Bruce remarked lightly, though his eyes flicked to Damian warningly but also filled with new understanding. So that was the reason for the sudden uptick in academic ambition. Before you, Bruce had to practically hunt him down and threaten to ban him from patrol to get him to go to school. “You’ll have to forgive him. Manners are still a work in progress.”

“I don’t know,” your mother mused, taking a slow sip of her champagne. “He reminds me a bit of you when you were younger. All sharp eyes and sharper opinions.”

“Mother,” you warned under your breath.

“Oh, come now,” she said with a smirk, eyes glinting. “I’m simply saying it’s nice to see you have a rival to keep you on your toes. Bruce and I were much the same in our youth. It’s good for you.”

Something unspoken passed between them, buried under years of power and poise. They stood too close for it to be entirely innocent, their glances too measured, their silences filled with unspoken words. You weren’t sure if you wanted to roll your eyes, gag, or start backing away before things got weird or well…weirder.

“Well,” Bruce said at last, raising his glass in your mother’s direction, “I’m glad they’re getting along... sort of.”

Damian let out a scoff beside you.

“Mmm,” your mother hummed, clinking her glass to his with a knowing smile. “Let’s just hope they’re nothing like us in our youth.”

You finally chose option three—and it seemed so did Damian.

Without a word, the two of you turned on your heels and made a clean, silent escape. You didn’t need to say anything. The moment your mother started reminiscing about her and Bruce’s youth—with that knowing look in her eyes—you knew it was time to evacuate.

You didn’t so much as glance his way as you moved, but you could feel him beside you, the stiffness in his posture betraying his quiet irritation.

The ballroom opened into a quieter hallway off to the side, lined with towering windows and heavy velvet drapes that muffled the noise from the main event. It was cooler here, the lighting softer, almost reverent. You paused near one of the window alcoves and plucked a glass of water from a tray left on a pedestal, the crystal catching the dim light as you took a slow sip.

Damian stopped beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Does your mother and my father know they’re insufferable?”

You took another sip before replying. “I don’t think they care.”

He gave a soundless huff of agreement, eyes scanning the crowd judgmentally. “How long do you think they’ll keep us here?”

“Long enough to secure five new investors and two photo ops,” you muttered, setting your glass down.

He absentmindedly nodded. “An accurate assessment.”

You tilted your head, giving him a slow look. “Careful. That almost sounded like agreement.”

He scoffed without looking at you. “Statistically speaking, even you were bound to say something useful eventually.”

Your eyes narrowed, a sharp retort already forming on your tongue—but you didn’t get the chance.

“Y/N!” a shrill voice called, honeyed and eager.

You turned just in time to see a well-dressed socialite approaching, eyes alight with recognition. “I just have to say, your mother is such an inspiration—I’ve followed her work for years! And you’re her daughter? My goodness, the resemblance is uncanny…”

As the woman launched into a full-blown gush fest, you fought the urge to sigh—and instinctively glanced to your side.

But Damian was gone.

Meanwhile, Damian had taken the opportunity to slip away, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease until he rejoined his siblings near the bar. Jason, leaning casually against the counter with a glass in hand, raised a brow and nodded subtly in your direction.

“Who was that you were talking to?”

Tim glanced up as well, curiosity piqued. “Yeah, I didn’t realize you had any friends, Demon Spawn.”

Damian rolled his eyes, arms folding across his chest in irritation. “She’s not my friend,” he muttered. “She’s an infuriating enemy I unfortunately cannot get rid of.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze cutting across the ballroom to where you stood at the far end, still trapped in conversation. You nodded politely, offering a rehearsed smile while yet another socialite praised your mother’s latest tech innovation. Damian looked visibly annoyed just watching it.

“What’d she do?” Dick asked, genuine interest threading through his voice. It wasn’t like Damian to fixate on anyone who wasn’t a threat—or family.

“She exists,” Damian said flatly. “And insists on doing so at the top of every class ranking I hold.”

Tim let out a low whistle, dragging out the sound. “Ah. Academic rivalry. That explains the tension. Thought for a second you were flirting.”

Damian’s head whipped over to look at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jason grinned behind the rim of his glass. “You mean to tell me someone’s finally smart enough to challenge you and you don’t like it? You’ve been whining about your classmates’ IQs ever since Bruce made you go to school.”

“They are stupid,” Damian snapped. “And she’s not a challenge. She’s just—annoying. Always has an opinion. Always needs to correct everyone.”

"By everyone, I'm assuming that you're referring to yourself," Jason smirked.

“You know all of that sounds a lot like you, actually,” Tim pointed out, shrugging with a completely unapologetic smile.

Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Does not.”

Jason elbowed Dick, who had been quietly sipping his drink with a growing smirk. “Ten bucks says they get partnered on some school project and fall in love by spring.”

"You're on," Dick grinned.

Damian’s entire expression darkened.

“I will set you three on fire,” he said, dead serious.

Unfortunately for Damian, the first part of Jason’s prediction came true.

It was Monday morning, second period, and the classroom still buzzed with low chatter and the scraping of chairs as students trickled in and settled down. You had just taken your seat, already flipping open your notebook, when the teacher stepped to the front of the room, her expression far too cheerful for a Monday morning. That alone should’ve been your first warning.

“As you all know we have an upcoming literary analysis project,” she began, scanning the room like she was delivering good news and not the academic equivalent of a grenade, “and I’ve decided to personally pair you all up to ensure balanced collaboration.”

Around the room, groans erupted. A few students exchanged panicked looks or hopeful glances toward their friends. You, however, didn’t care much, prepared to do all the work to ensure the best grade. That was until—

“Finally, Y/n and Damian.”

You blinked once. The words taking a moment to fully register.

From a few seats over, Damian let out a noise that sounded almost like a choking cough.

The teacher—either oblivious to the knife-sharp tension that immediately spiked between your desks or possibly very aware—beamed. “I trust the two top students in our class will produce something exceptional.”

Damian looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

You offered your teacher a faux pleasant smile, tilting your head. “Looking forward to the challenge.” And then you turned to Damian. “Try not to fall behind.”

The look Damian shot you could’ve curdled milk. He scoffed but didn’t rise to the bait—not verbally, at least. His glare was sharp enough to count as a response on its own as he stood, gathered his things, and reluctantly moved his desk beside yours like he was being sentenced to death.

His books hit the surface of your shared desk with a muffled thud, and he sank into his seat like it physically pained him to be there, sitting stiffly beside you and crossing his arms almost as if he was pouting.

You didn’t so much as twitch. You merely turned toward him with a sickeningly sweet smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Shall we begin?” you asked. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to sulk and pout this entire project.”

“I don’t sulk,” he muttered darkly.

“Sure you don’t.” You agreed sarcastically, before scoffing. “You’re the epitome of brooding.”

He glared at you like he was contemplating homicide—but wisely chose not to respond. Instead, he pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen with more force than strictly necessary.

Unbothered, you flipped open your own notebook, already prepared. “The prompt says we’re to write a five-page analytical paper on a theme of our choice from any of the assigned novels this semester. Preferably one with—” you glanced down at the rubric, “—‘literary merit.’”

Damian raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Which rules out anything you picked, I assume.”

You rolled your eyes. “God forbid we write something that isn’t dripping in post-war existentialism and masculine angst.”

“I vote Frankenstein,” you continued, undeterred. “Morality, monstrosity, creation and consequence—it’s rich. And you can wax poetry about man’s hubris to your heart’s content.”

Damian ignored the jab and frowned thoughtfully. “Overdone. Everyone will be choosing to write about Frankenstein. It’s predictable.”

You turned toward him, brows lifting. “Predictable is safe. Safe is how we get full marks. Unless you want to take a creative risk and tank your precious GPA.”

Damian didn’t even flinch. “The greater the risk, the greater the reward.”

You snorted. “You once titled your essay ‘The Idiocy of Hamlet’s Entire Bloodline.’ I’m still amazed you didn’t fail on principle.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “And I stand by that.”

You sighed, resisting the overwhelming urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fine,” you muttered. “What do you suggest, then?”

He drummed his fingers against the desk thoughtfully, gaze sweeping over the list of literature they’d covered that year. Once. Twice. Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

You blinked. “Wilde?”

“Morality. Duality. Self-destruction,” he said smoothly. “All the themes you wanted in Frankenstein, only with better prose and far more interesting characters.”

You hesitated—just for a second. Then you gave a small nod. “…Not a terrible idea.”

He turned toward you slowly, eyes narrowing as though unsure he’d heard you right. “Was that an agreement?”

You smirked. “Statistically, even you were bound to say something useful eventually.”

Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “How original.”

Despite the initial tension, working together became… surprisingly seamless.

Over the next few weeks, you found yourselves forced into truce—and then, somehow, into something almost akin to a friendship. The first week was hell, of course. You argued over structure, disagreed on thesis points, and debated which citations to use�� like the fate of Gotham depended on it. But somehow—between your scribbled annotations and his painfully neat footnotes—you found a rhythm. There were still jabs and snide comments, of course. You wouldn’t have expected anything less. But there were also late afternoons at the library, debates that turned into almost companionable, and quiet moments where you realized he wasn’t as insufferable as you first thought.

You were used to handling things alone. Your mother’s world was ruthless, and you’d learned early to hold your own. Trust was a currency, and most people were too quick to squander it. But Damian… he didn’t put you on a pedestal, didn’t flatter you or fawn over your name like the way other children of Gotham’s elite often did, eager to secure favour or avoid offence. He didn’t nod along just to stay in your good graces. If anything, he seemed allergic to the idea of appeasing you.

Instead of charming you—he challenged you. Constantly.

As much as it pained you to admit it… your mother had been right. Being challenged was good for you.

Damian didn’t make things easier. Instead, he made you better—made you grow.

Soon, you found yourselves almost reluctant to call it a night. You began to look forward to your time together—your new routine. You always ended up at the same back-corner table in the library, shoulder to shoulder, your shared workspace a pile of chaos filed with overlapping notebooks, highlighters, and the book itself.

Your notebooks a mess of underlined passages, marginalia, and colour-coded tabs. Damian’s handwriting was immaculate and neatly written cursive. While yours was sharper, more angular—more chaotic, if you were honest—but it didn’t matter. Your minds clicked in ways your hands didn’t need to.

“Here,” you murmured, nudging his notebook. “You keep saying Dorian’s downfall was vanity, but I think it’s more about his willful ignorance. He chooses not to see the damage he causes. It’s not just narcissism—it’s self-preservation.”

Damian’s gaze shifted to the passage you pointed at, brows furrowing. He didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re saying he wasn’t blinded by ego,” he said slowly. “He blinded himself. On purpose.”

You nodded. “He wanted to live without consequence. The portrait just made it possible.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he mulled it over. His jaw was tight with thought, but when his eyes lifted to meet yours, something was different. There was no smugness, no bite, no thinly veiled disdain. He had genuinely considered your point of view and there was even a bit of respect.

“I hadn’t considered that,” he said finally. “That’s not bad.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Was that a compliment?”

He scoffed and turned back to his notebook, the moment gone as quickly as it had come. “Don’t get used to it.”

But you were already smiling to yourself.

And strangely—unexpectedly—you almost found yourself disappointed when the project finally came to an end.

The perfect scores had been inevitable.

With minds like yours and Damian’s, there was never going to be another outcome. The thesis had been sharp, the analysis layered and airtight, the presentation polished to the point of you could probably recite it in your sleep. When your teacher returned the papers—each one marked with glowing remarks and a rare, handwritten “Flawless work”—you barely reacted. Neither did Damian. There was no need for celebration when you both expected nothing less.

And with the project behind you, you assumed things would go back to normal. Cold glances. Sharp remarks. Mutual irritation and academic rivalry. After all, that was what you were good at—competition. Not… whatever the past few weeks had been.

You were just zipping up your bag at the end of the day, earbuds half in as you walked out of the class when a group of boys from your class approached you. You’d never personally interacted with them, but they were always loud a disruptive.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s golden girl,” one of them drawled. “Did mommy buy that perfect score for you too?”

You straightened slowly, expression unreadable, already preparing a verbal lashing when another boy added, “Bet she made Wayne do all the work,” he said with a snort. “There’s no way she’s that smart. I bet Wayne was ready to hit his head against the wall working with her.”

The words weren’t new—God, no. You’d heard them all before. The digs, the undercutting, the suggestion that your success wasn’t really yours. Different faces, different schools, always the same venom. It never used to sting. But today… for some reason it did.

Maybe it was because, for once, the accusation didn’t even come close to the truth. Maybe because—despite everything—you were genuinely proud of the work you and Damian had done. It wasn’t just about the perfect grade. Somewhere along the way, the project had stopped being a competition and started becoming something else entirely. Something collaborative.

You’d found yourself enjoying the process. The way your mind and his clashed and overlapped. The way your perspectives differed—and how those differences pushed you both further. And for once, the outcome wasn’t the reward. The understanding was. You felt like you understood Damian better and had enjoyed the time you two had spent together.

Everything you and Damian had built—every late night, every debate, every carefully chosen word in your paper—they reduced it to manipulation. To nepotism. To the idea that you weren’t enough.

Then much to your horror, the last person you expected to see had just approached. And your body tensed instinctively. The project was over. You and Damian had been companionable these last few weeks, maybe even—if you squinted—friendly. But now? You didn’t know. Would he say something? Join in?

Instead, his emerald green eyes narrowed—on them, not you.

“I suggest you walk away,” he said coldly, voice like cut glass.

You blinked, startled, watching as he came to stand beside you, arms crossing neatly over his chest.

One of the boys laughed, nervously. “Oh come on, Wayne. We all know you did all the work, the only reason she’s here is ‘cause Mommy made a generous donation to the school.”

Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “As did my father. And one call to him, and the lot of you will be expelled before the end of the day.”

And then—before you could even register it—one of them said something utterly vile about you. The implications of it made your stomach twist. The air went still filling with tension.

Damian’s fist flew before you could even blink.

It connected with a sickening crack against the boy’s jaw, dropping him like a rock. The boy lay groaning on the tile, already being dragged away by his friends, who looked more terrified than smug now, stumbling over themselves as they disappeared down the corridor without another word. Cowards, all of them.

You stood frozen for a beat, blinking.

Damian’s shoulders were squared, his breathing steady. He didn’t even glance at you. He just flexed his hand once and muttered, “Tt. Idiots.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “You punched him.”

“He deserved it.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flicking back to where he was standing stoically and glaring at the space where the group had been standing. Then—impulsively, heart hammering in your chest—you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “…Thank you.”

Damian froze.

His entire body went stiff, posture locked like he’d just been turned into a statue. A deep flush bloomed across his cheeks, colouring them a violent crimson as his mouth parted slightly in shock. For once, he had nothing to say.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “…You’re welcome.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “Do you want to grab a milkshake?” you asked, trying to sound casual—like you hadn’t just kissed Gotham’s most emotionally constipated teenager. “We can study for finals too.”

He blinked once. Twice.

Then, in the stiffest, most painfully formal voice imaginable, he replied,

“Yes. That… would be acceptable.”

Grinning now, you slung your bag over your shoulder and started walking, tossing him a glance over your shoulder. Damian trailed behind you silently begging whatever gods existed to will the red dusting his cheeks to fade.

Somewhere along the line he realized his brothers had been right. He didn’t dislike you. Not even a little.

In fact, it was probably the opposite.

And he was already halfway through making Jason’s second prediction come true.

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lucis-dove · 1 day ago

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𝖣𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗋𝖺 {2}

𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 summary; 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖨𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅. 𝖡𝗎𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖮𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽-𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾…

pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

rating: 𝖤𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍

chapter no/𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍: 2/2

wc; 13𝗄

tags/warnings; 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 (18+, 𝗆𝖽𝗇𝗂), 𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗏, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 (𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀), 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒, 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗑, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖾-𝗀𝖺𝗉

Author; @lucis-dove

You arrive at Robby's apartment block not long after. It's not a skyscraper like some others in Downtown, but it's still high enough that you need to crane your neck sharply.

It isn't until he jostles his arm, the one you still have your hands wrapped around, that your attention is brought back to him.

You catch the glimmer of the keychain and fob Robby had used to unlock the door he now opens before your eyes track upwards. He's already watching you with a quirk on his lips, one that's almost hidden behind his beard. But, like always, his amusement is noticeable through the creases beside his eyes.

He ushers you inside, your hands dropping from his arm as he lets you step into the building first. But the point of contact simply shifts from you holding onto him to his touch brushing the small of your back.

The elevator is already waiting for you on the ground floor and Robby lets you step into it first after he pushes the button. He isn't far behind. Simply a foot and a bit. It's just enough to not crowd you but still let you feel him close.

As you settle against the metal railing on one side, you watch how Robby's muscle memory kicks in.

It looks well-practised, reflexive, as he leans against the railing opposite you and reaches to push a button for one of the higher floors.

The elevator kicks into life, rocking upward to begin the ascent.

Even if you and Robby stand on opposite sides of the elevator, the metal box is small enough that he isn't more than a step away from you. It makes it impossible to look at anything else, especially with how he's standing, hands shoved in his front pockets, shoulders hunched as he leans —more so is partly seated, considering his height— on the railing behind him.

Your eyes drag over his form, up to the line of his beard, lips and nose, only to settle once your gaze meets his. But your eyes only stay connected to Robby's for a second before he averts them to the floor.

The drop of his gaze evolves into a shake of his head, followed by his somewhat awkward chuckle as he admits, "I don't do this."

You don't know exactly how he would specify this. Inviting someone over after a first date or dating in general. You guess you knew he didn't do the second, at least from the sounds of it, so you settle on interpreting it as the first.

"Yeah, no, me neither," your chuckle escapes through your nose, short and leaning more towards a slightly disbelieving huff.

Brown eyes return to you even if Robby's head stays ducked. As they do, it's your turn to look elsewhere, eyes shifting sideways to watch the numbers slowly change on the display above the doors.

The movement in your periphery makes you unconsciously look back —noting how Robby has moved to stand in front of you— yet you don't have a chance to move your head before a few fingers notch under your chin, angling it straight with a slight pull.

While his hand drops from your face once your attention is on him again, Robby doesn't retake his previous position. He stays standing in front of you with a smile tugging his lips.

"I could've guessed."

"Yeah?" The word is drawn out, your mind replying the way he'd gently urged you to look at him.

"Your cross-examination isn't so subtle as you would like," he says, voice teasing and light.

"It's not meant to be. I want to scare off those who want easy."

For a moment, Robby just looks at you, and you look back at him. His brown eyes don't flitter away this time.

When he sighs, it isn't strained but soft. With a dip of his face, he notches his head lower, slightly angled to his chest, seemingly trying to fall to your eye level without actually crouching.

"I'm serious about not expecting anything to happen."

You can't help but smile as you inhale slowly, exhaling as you nod. "I know."

"Good."

"But-" Robby's eyebrows raise questioningly. "-you're standing awfully close for someone saying that. That nothing needs to happen."

His lips flatten into a line as he rocks on his feet, more backwards than forwards, even if he doesn't step in either direction.

"Do you mind?"

You can't keep away the smirk pulling at your mouth as your fingers anchor in his belt loops, giving them a slight tug. It's not more force than the crooking of your fingers could conjure, yet it's enough to decide which way Robby finally moves.

"No." Your head cranes backwards, falling to rest against the metal wall as you finally answer him. "I like having you close."

Robby's head drops, his deep and slow breathing… not really fanning, but stirring the air over the skin of your throat. The sensations cease as he speaks, "Don't know what I'd do if you didn't."

That's not true.

If anything, Robby was respectful. He'd proved that to you during the evening. If you changed your mind and wanted him to stop, you know he would. If you wanted this to just be a sleepover? He would probably say, 'So be it.'

That's why you find yourself here in the first place; he didn't assume anything or expect things would happen just because you'd agreed to a date.

You chuckle slightly, the difference from what you're used to stark. The suddenness of it makes Robby arch his brows in a silent question.

You cock your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "I had a whole speech prepared to escape the inevitable home-invite after."

He chuckles when you catch him up to speed on your thoughts. "Are guys that confident?"

"Even when they shouldn't be."

Robby hums lowly at that and waits a few beats, then, "But I didn't get it."

It was the soundless but very incredulous-tinged mental scoff the proposal usually elicits while you gave a polite smile and declined. Sorry, tired and have work tomorrow. Didn't matter if you didn't.

"Well, your confidence-" You don't know if that was the word to use. Robby had been blushing when he'd asked you to stay the night. But neither could you call him shy. No, the confidence was there, but it was the sort you felt, a reassuring kind, rather than one only seen when bragged about. "-it's… sexy."

"Yeah?" Robby tilts his head, brows just slightly raised. Your eyes flutter down, watching your thumbs brush the small strip of denim your index fingers are hooked through.

You intend to answer. But you're unable to sound out the words you planned, any traces of vowels and consonants dying on your tongue once you glance up at him through your lashes, finding him gazing at you intently. A little, agreeing hum is all you manage to give him instead.

Robby swallows hard, feeling the stirring low in his gut.

It's not the soft, fluttering kind that made him kiss you before. It's a progression, a corruption, of the worry his invite had stemmed from. Then hesitant and spurred from concern, now beating steadier, hungrier after what you revealed.

"Why did I get the pass?"

"I- you- it's just- ." Something akin to a warm flush rushes through your chest, making you stutter to a stop as you speak.

All the things you liked about Robby were for your friends to know as you raved about this date tomorrow. Not things you would say to his face during it.

And how would you even describe that it's just him? His slight awkwardness at first. The way he almost haunched his shoulders to appear smaller when you first stepped up to greet him, which you found awfully cute. Only to watch a quick-witted playfulness and calm kind of self-assurance appear during the dinner as he sat tall and much more relaxed in his chair.

It just fit him and was unbelievably attractive to you.

"Come on," Robby urges playfully. There's a glint in his brown eyes as if he knows you won't reveal it but enjoys tormenting you about it anyway.

"Are you trying to farm compliments?" You deflect.

One side of his lips rises higher. "Only if they come from you."

"God didn't know you were such a sap."

He sucks his lips against his teeth to stop his smile, but the telltale lines appear beside his eyes. "It's only been one date. You haven't seen all of me."

You roll your eyes, looking sideways to escape from his gaze once you find him watching you in entertainment. But you only succeed in getting a firsthand seat to follow his hand as it settles on the railing behind your back. You felt the other doing the same, the air on your left side stirring. He wasn't touching you but caged you in all the same, the realisation making your heartbeat pick up.

With your breath caught between your breastbone and the hollow of your throat, you face forward again. Apparently, Robby has never looked away from you.

His brown eyes are intoxicating this close, making it hard to swallow around whatever lump has grown in your throat, and your words come out thicker than you intend.

"Has anyone said you got a staring problem?"

Robby arches his brows in a quick up-and-down movement, pursing his lips. "Something tells me you don't mind."

"And that you're insufferable?"

He rocks his head back and forth, looking away but at nothing in particular as if he considers it, eventually responding when his eyes meet yours again.

"Not to my face."

"I can do them a favour." Robby chuckles, head staying cocked, nearly resting on his shoulder.

"Can you?" He questions, lines on his forehead accentuated as he sends you a sceptical look. "I can't be that insufferable if you're still here."

You humph, raising your chin defiantly. "I can still leave."

It's such a fat fucking lie, one you almost laugh at yourself. You don't want this night to end. If you did, you would already be on your way. And with the look Robby pins you with, how he scoffs as if to call bullshit, he knows it as well.

"Ohoh, I know you won't."

"You're sure of yourself."

"You learn to spot fakers when they visit your department close to every day." He shrugs.

Your brows surge upwards. "Your department?"

"Chief attending," he drops the title as if it's a minor detail he'd forgotten to mention and didn't mind omitting.

You hum at the newly learned fact. It explains his workload and the responsibility he hinted at was attached to him around the clock.

Without knowing where you're going with it —aside from the sudden need to release some of the weight from his shoulders, even if you only can work with distraction from how briefly you've known him— your hands slowly trail up his torso.

Robby inhales sharply, chest expanding rapidly beneath your palms as his nostrils flare. His eyes snap down to your hands and then up to your face.

"Well, Mr Chief Attending." One of your hands stops at his chest while the other circles his neck. You tug him towards you, feel him exhale only to sharply breathe in the air close to your lips. "You're right. I'm more than comfortable being here," you mumble, this time being the one to initiate a kiss.

Robby reciprocates instantly, pressing his mouth against yours, hands finding your hips.

You go one step further than he'd done previously when you lick into his mouth, gliding your tongue over his with a tilt of your head and slow flex of the muscle.

A near-buzzing shiver spreads from the back of your head, down your neck, arms and further along your spine when he meets your tongue with his own.

It's only by luck you manage to stop your moan. It had been so long since you went on a date with someone, let alone made out with anyone. That it was Robby who now broke both of those too-long spells was a dizzying thought. It was not made easier by the low sound you definitely caught vibrating in his throat.

Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, pinning his forehead to yours as his eyes remain shut, a drawn-out groan now audible in the elevator's small space.

"Kiss me like that, and you'll send me mixed signals about tonight." His fingers dig into your hips in a warning.

You know what he means, still, you coily ask, "And what signal are those?"

He leans away, not far since your hand still cups the back of his head. He pins you with a heated look.

"That we're about to do something neither of us usually does."

It's silent after he says it, at least in the elevator. But in your ears, your pulse is pounding.

Somewhere, not even deep down, you already knew it could happen. Not in the general way dates could lead to something more, something shared in the dim light after a home invite. But from what had flittered through your head, body, when Robby had kissed you the first time.

A need was what it had been, a need for this night not to end. The feeling only grew the longer you spent with him, from something excited and pleased into something low and thrumming in your core rather than chest.

And fuck, you really didn't mind if this night ended in the polar opposite to one of innocent bed-sharing, now when you considered it. Not at fucking all with how Robby's brown eyes met yours or how his chest wasn't far from considered heaving.

"You make it feel way too right." If Robby hadn't stood so close, he probably wouldn't have caught your words. They were murmured more against his lip than said into the open air.

His eyes jump back and forth before settling into steady eye-contact. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes, Robby, it is." He surges toward you, lips and tongue moving in tandem with yours, dictating the kiss this time around.

It literally and figuratively takes your breath away. Your hand on Robby's chest fists the material of his jumper, and the one on his neck digs into the skin just below his hairline.

You can't stop the pitched sound from forming in the back of your throat. And judging from his reaction, Robby eats it right up. Leaning more, not all, of his weight against you as he grunts into your mouth.

It's the ping of the elevator doors that breaks you apart.

Robby doesn't linger, yet the look he sends as he steps away is heated. His eyes skate to your mouth, returning with a smirk sowly curling his mouth when he sees your lips stay parted.

You fluster, sending him a glare. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything." He's so full of it. And of it, you mean smugness. It's eating at his words as he leads you out of the elevator.

"Fuck you," you mutter.

Apparently, it isn't low enough for him to miss.

It's easy for Robby to settle his hand where your neck meets your spine as he walks beside you. His hand, hot, heavy and large, reaches around your nape in a way that reminds you of a kitten being scruffed. But his fingers don't dig even if they brush either side of your throat.

If your heart isn't already in your throat, it jumps there when Robby bends until his mouth brushes close to your temple, words dripping down your skin and into your ear, "I'm planning to."

And he says it without losing his pace, not missing a step. Meanwhile, your inhale is sharp as your face jerks to watch him, met by his very pleased expression.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Oh no," he elongates the o's as he cocks his head. He proceeds his following words with a minimal, single shrug of his shoulders, "You're just making it too easy."

The look in his eyes is way too entertained, brown eyes twinkling in amusement as his crow's feet grow. It's enough for you to knock his hand off your neck, but it only works in his favour as he grabs his keychain again, stopping by a door you presume is his with a deep chuckle.

And well, Robby is right. You make it easy for him because he makes it easy for you.

You forgo any filling conversation as he loops his arms around you once the door is locked behind you once more. It's not yet teenage desperation. You share a moment where you gaze at each other, your small smile mirrored back at you from behind his beard.

But once you meet in the middle, you lose yourself in him, how it feels so right, good to kiss him. The tingles never subside, not with how his lips move in sync with yours, the heavy press of his hand at the back of your head, his warm tongue caressing your own.

"Do you want this? To continue?" Robby asks as he parts with a soft groan, head bent, observing you through his brows.

"God, yes," you breathe.

"Good, because I also want to." That he admits it after you answered only makes you realise how good of a man Robby is, not wanting to pursue you in any direction. "Shoes off, I'm not doing it here, too old for that shit."

Your chuckle slips through the lip caught between your teeth. The way he says it, not meant like anything else than a comment —one that tickles you— but still sounding so commanding does more to you than he ever could guess.

You could see the chief attending thing, now.

As he toes off his shoes, he offers you a hand to help you balance while you slip off your heels. You don't care that only one remains standing while the other clatters sideways when Robby pulls you forward, attention zeroed in on him.

He leads you straight through the large, open space that serves as his living room and kitchen. The two areas are separated by the feet between the back of his couch and the kitchen island. More than that, you don't manage to gather about his home as he drags you along.

As he arrives at the door he led you to, Robby is quick to turn around and tug you against him once he steps across the threshold. You let yourself be brought closer to him.

Robby settles his large palm on your cheek, angling your face to his liking before dipping down into a deep kiss. It's the kind that has your heart thrumming wildly and thoughts dispersed in all directions until they rush back, focusing on him.

A heated flush spreads through your body. You feel like you are burning up from the feel of his beard chafing against your chin, how his hand isn't shy to travel down your body and settle on your lower back, and how he pulls your hips flush against his pelvis.

"Jesus, Robby," you break away from him, forehead instantly dropping against his chest as you catch your breath.

You can't meet his gaze as your chest heaves for air, the tension in your body amounting dangerously fast as there's definitely a bulge pushed into your stomach.

"Too much?" Although the hand previously cupping your face has already moved to your neck, he shifts the one on your back, sliding it until his whole arm encircles your waist.

You're completely pressed against him now, chest to thighs, realising he's not afraid to keep you close even if you feel him straining against his jeans.

"Too much, not enough," the words rush from you as you look at him again. His chin had dropped considerably to look at you from how close you two were.

There's a tug in his lips, a delighted kind of satisfaction in his eyes as he steps backwards, leading you deeper into the room. You have no option but to follow along his shuffling steps.

Moving further inwards, Robby slowly reveals more of the bedroom his frame previously covered. As he does, your eyes can't help but track sideways, landing on the corner that's disturbing the otherwise tidy space. A giggle slips out before you can quell it.

Upon the sound, Robby's brows furrow, following your line of sight.

He groans when he looks over his shoulder. The scattered piles of clothes in the corner of the room are right where he —forgot— he left them. Some hanging over the loveseat, others crumpled on the floor.

"Sorry 'bout the mess. It doesn't usually look like that."

You find yourself smiling, the incipient haze from desire settling into something more manageable and not gnawing at every fibre of your being.

"Didn't think you would get any visitors?"

"Would lie if I said no." He chuckles sheepishly, eyes moving back to you

"You should see my place," you laugh along with him. "It looked like a hurricane ran through it. I couldn't find anything to wear."

"I'm inclined to disagree", he hums, not breaking eye contact as his fingers creep beneath your cardigan. Only once he does, Robby finds there's no shirt, only skin.

His smile falls, his eyes flickering down and up as his lips remain parted once he realises you have nothing beneath the top. One you apparently considered enough of a shirt to wear on its own.

"But I reckon I'll like what's underneath even more."

"Stop flirting with me." You breathe, inhaling deeply at the sensation of his rough palm finding its way beneath your clothes, now stroking your spine right above your jeans.

"Deserve to be flirted with-" his eyes drop to follow your body, and you can nearly see how he imagines what's beneath,"-when looking this good."

You whine, quelling it by gripping Robby's chin, pulling his face to yours, hastily pressing your mouth to his. Even though he reciprocates the kiss with a surprised grunt, it's brief before he dips his head to your ear.

"Don't sidetrack me," he mutters hotly, his voice rough, deeper than before.

If your skin wasn't already ridden with goosebumps, the shiver zipping down your pine at the gravel coating his vocal cords definitely would've prickled your skin.

Your fingers curl into his jumper once Robby's soft lips descend down your throat, his beard scratching along your skin. An unsteady sound swishes past your lips as your head lolls backwards.

You're positive he feels your pulse hammer beneath your skin as he reaches the hollow of your throat. And if he doesn't, he must feel how it halts altogether when he licks into the divot between your clavicles, tongue scooping the thin chain into his mouth to suck gently at, having it tug slightly into your neck.

"Fuck," you barely know where your hands scramble for purchase, but you dig your fingers into some parts of Robby.

You can't understand how he's winding you up this much without a single piece of clothing stripped from your body, with so little skin to access. But he does, and he does it well.

"Robby, fuck, I-I neeed-."

"Need me to touch you properly?" He chuckles against your throat, dropping the chain against your skin again, now spit-slicked.

You squirm, a frustrated noise preceding your equally frustrated 'yes'. You feel his mile grow from the way his beard tickles in a new way and a little higher up.

"Want me to start with this?" Robby's words wash over your skin as his hands settle on your stomach, toying with the front of your cardigan.

Your head drops forward, unable to see how he tugs at the hem of it even though you feel it.

His soft, brown hair brushes your cheek as your face rests against his. Your eyes are locked on his haunched shoulder, not focusing at first. But once it does, you realise you're the one who's kept him against your throat by the hand on his neck.

"Y-yeah, but don't rip it. I like this one," your voice is shaky as you ease your grip, letting your hand fall to his shoulder.

Robby leans away as he feels the pressure on the back of his head disappear, enough so his eyes can meet yours.

"Never intended to," he inhales deeply as his fingers fiddle with the lowest button, popping it open. "But now, when you've said it, I'm expecting I can rip something off you next time."

"Wouldn't mind." He groans, leaning in to catch your lips momentarily. You hum happily into the kiss, Robby mirroring the pleased sound but a few octaves deeper.

When the press slows until your lips simply brush, his forehead comes to rest against yours, head tilting as he gazes down your body. Meanwhile, you find yourself watching him.

It's torture, pure and debauched torture.

Robby is teasingly slow to unbutton your shirt. You almost wish he wouldn't have listened and ripped it off your body. Then you wouldn't have to squirm beneath his eyes reverently following the fabric part, revealing more of your skin for each buttoned opened.

And he seems to like it, taking his goddamn time, stretching out the process, letting his little fingers brush beneath the fabric. Never more than teasing you with his touch.

By the time he finally undoes the last button, your heart is hammering wildly in your chest.

The fabric hangs loosely, revealing a strip of skin down your middle. Robby slides his index beneath the fabric covering your shoulders, only to push it off completely.

When the piece of clothing drops behind you, he leans his upper body backwards.

"You wore this?" He rumbles, chest rising and falling notably, eyes moving from your bra to lock with your eyes.

"Makes me feel pretty." It does. The lace is remarkably comfortable to make your boobs look as good as they do in it.

"Makes you look fucking beautiful." The words wash across your skin as Robby bends down to kiss the area above your breasts, the view he hasn't stopped staring at.

Your eyes flutter when his big hands settle on either side of your bare upper body. Splayed wide across your ribs, his fingers press into the soft divots between them.

His lips move feather light first, brushing more than kissing. Then, he grows more intent. The occasional feel of his tongue now laps over the swell of your breast, the softness of them revealed above the line of fabric. Robby groans as he does, and soon, he's pressing open-mouthed kisses firmly enough that he steps into you, forcing you backwards.

Not until you feel a mattress hit the back of your knees and thighs, forcing you to sit down, do you realise he knowingly led you to the bed.

You sit down with a bounce, catching yourself with your hands behind your back. Robby has stopped before you, towering even if you sat upright. Although his head is bowed to accommodate, his gaze is cast lower than your face.

"Eyes are up here." A smile pulls at your lips when you realise what's got Robby's attention.

His brown gaze travels upwards, a wry smile preceding his excuse, "You would do the same with a similar view."

"So give me something to ogle at." You poke your foot against his calf, truly enjoying the pink spreading across his cheeks. But he doesn't argue, simply grabs the back of his jumper, pulling off both layers in one motion.

As he strips, Robby finds himself waiting for your reaction, gauging in what way you look at him. He does it with glances at you between throwing his shirts aside and working his jeans off his legs.

He's not expecting anything in particular, but he knows he isn't in his prime. Fifteen years ago, maybe. More visibly toned muscle, sharper lines of definition. All of the accompanying strength remains, if it hasn't actually increased over decades of labour. However, that doesn't take away the fact it's hidden behind aged softness.

But he hears you whisper 'Oh, fuck' as your eyes flicker over him. Only to be followed by his name as you desperately take hold of his hand to urge him closer, a need so evident in your eyes that it even creases your brows.

"Christ," he groans against your lips, catching himself with one knee on the bed, hands beside you, stopping himself from falling onto you as you drag him down.

"Should I take that as you like what you saw?" He gets out between the press of your mouth against his.

You hear how he tries to beat down his self-satisfaction, but it feels like you don't know where to go. The desire to have him close and stare at him simultaneously tears you in different directions. But the latter wins this time, your head falling against the mattress so you can stare at him.

His body, god, you could snap your teeth, sink them into him with how feral it made you. His arms, the bulge of his bicep flexing beside your head and the tattoos you spotted. The dark hair speckled across his chest, the Magen David you saw for the first time hung from his neck and glittered on its golden chain.

And when your eyes glide from his sculpted upper body to his softer middle and lower stomach, the dark, happy trail running from his stomach only to disappear beneath his black trunks, you writhe.

"Robby," you whine his name, eyes flittering up to him only to fall down his body again. "You-"

"Don't need to hear it," he cuts you off with a chuckle. One side of his mouth is quirked a little higher, but not without the blush still cresting over his cheeks. "Your turn. You're way too dressed."

He's got you watching him in silence as he pushes himself upright again.

With your eyes gliding over his flexing arms as he unbuttons and starts rucking down your jeans —with your assisting wiggles and kicking— Robby barely leaves you any space to be irritated at the ordeal.

You don't care where the heavy material even thumps to the ground before you're sitting up, this time meeting Robby in the middle as he bends down.

Your mouth moves eagerly against his, your arm reaching around his neck as you lay down again, simultaneously trying to scoot up the bed to make room for him. What you don't anticipate is him looping one arm around your waist and heaving you upwards.

You slide up the mattress with an excited gasp, parting from his lips as your wide eyes meet his as he climbs over you.

It's been more than a while since Robby did this. The memory of someone else's warmth seeping into his body faint, burrowed and forgotten due to time. But if it doesn't feel good to hold you close, feel you crane your neck to give him access to the spot beneath your ear so willingly.

He feels a moan scratch his throat at the way your nails bite into his muscles, back arching, gasp getting stuck in your throat as he finally reaches and closes his lips around your still-clothed nipple.

It's perked behind the flimsy lace, and he sucks it through what barely can be called a cover. Yet he only spends so much time teasing you, the hand splayed beneath you slipping upwards, easily reaching the clasp between your shoulder-blades.

You shoot him a look as he opens the clasp and helps peel the material from your arms. Brows arched and your mouth open yet curled upward at the edges.

"You learn a thing or two", his mumble fans between the valley of your breasts as he switches from one to the other nipple.

Without the barrier of your bra —which you don't know where Robby tossed it— the swipe of his tongue is wetter, hotter. When he closes his lips around the peaked bud and sucks, you moan, the sound soft and breathy.

You arch closer to him, eyes falling shut. With how he's positioned between your thighs, you can't clench them to ease the throbbing there. But your frustrated whine pivots sharply to a harsh breath when you grind against the upper part of his crotch, sensing the outline of his hard-on.

You hold your breath as you shimmy your hips, reaching just a bit lower. When you roll your hips this time, Robby's bulge presses firmly into you.

A moan punches out of you, letting free all of the air trapped there moments prior. When you continue to roll your hips, Robby breaks away from teasing your nipple between his teeth, pressing his face between your breasts.

"Fuck." Oh, the way he cursed, low and on the verge of a growl into your skin, dripped straight down between your legs, making you clench around nothing, "If you keep doing that-"

"What? I'll regret it? " His bearded chin scraped across your skin as he perched it on your chest, staring up at you. "Don't think so."

He moves upwards until his head hangs between his shoulders, necklace dangling in the air, face hovering above yours.

"You got a mouth on ya."

"And you-," you hook a finger in his golden chain, gently tugging it so he sinks closer, never not rolling your hips upwards, not when he now presses himself against you, egging you on. "-got something I want inside me."

A flurry of emotion passes through his eyes and his mouth drops open on a restrained pant. "Oh, be careful what you ask for."

"Do you need me to beg?"

His head tilts slowly, "I wouldn't mind."

Your heartbeat picks up a few notches at the drawl in his voice, forcing another shiver of anticipation through your body.

You bend your knees as high as they go with Robby between them, feet brushing against his underwear when you cross your ankles behind his back. When you tug him against you by digging your heels into his spine, you feel his cock twitch against you. The feeling is muted through the fabric still separating you but enough to embolden you to speak steadily.

"Please, I need you," you release his chain, cradling his face as you meet his gaze through your lashes, layering it on extra thick when you speak again. "Please, Michael."

He snaps. His mouth crashes against yours, making you swallow his groan.

You feel him shuffle, knock his knuckles against your thigh when wedging a hand between your bodies to pull at his underwear. Letting your legs fall and splay sideways, you try to concentrate on reciprocating the hungry tangling of your tongues while Robby yanks his boxers down, only parting from your lips when he needs to reach lower to kick them off.

When a hot, heavy weight taps and stays resting against your stomach, you look down. Eyes travelling down your body —all while Robby settles back to evenly distribute his weight on both his forearms— your mouth drops open.

"Of course."

"What?" You find his head tilted when your eyes return to his face.

"You're big." Big was an understatement to all the synonyms you could use. Thick, girthy, heavy as it hung between his legs, tip flushed, and the base covered with thick, but not unkept, dark hair. "And, of course, you are after I haven't slept with anyone in ages.

"Said to be careful what you wished for," he has the nerve to chuckle, letting himself fall against you, at least his lower body, trapping his cock snuggly between your and his stomach. "But I'll prep you good."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Robby." Your groan, wringing the sheets beneath you in a knuckled grip.

Even if the smugness faded to give way to something softer as he'd said it, that it came from him in that voice made your stomach flip.

Your breathing was already unsteady, but it grew worse when he began kissing down your body. Only to shudder to a stop when Robby's beard scrapes against your hip as he parts your legs wide to fit his shoulder when he lays down on his stomach.

The muscles in your thighs tremble as he uses his chin to tease the inside of your legs with his beard. Without realising it, your eyes had shut somewhere along the way of Robby working his way to the fabric of your underwear. Yet, they open once you feel him stop, his breath fanning against your core as he hovers.

Your eyes open, shifting down, lips parting open upon the sight of Robby between your legs.

His brown eyes are dark, with a raw, heady kind of steadiness as he keeps your gaze. And he continues holding it until you squirm, trying and failing not to crumble under his attention.

You catch his slight smirk when his gaze finally drops, and he peels the fabric of your thong sideways, the thin strip of material hooked on his finger.

"Fuck so pretty," his deep groan fills the air. Seconds later, his broad tongue laps up the seam of your pussy.

Your lips part, moan spilling into the air as your hips chase after the sensation leaving a searing trail up to your clit. When Robby's lips find your bundle of nerves, sucking, only to flick it with the tip of his tongue, he has to wrap his arms around your thighs and lock his hands over your stomach to stop your bucking.

When Robby dips lower, inserting his tongue into your drenched hole, he moans. Your taste fills his mouth, nearly making his eyes roll into the back of his head.

You feel him moan into you as he eats you out. It's enough to make you spiral and want more. Trying to move your hips to guide him closer, you cry out in frustration at the broad palms pressing into your abdomen, restricting all movement.

You don't know if Robby is using all of his strength, but from the lack of tension in his shoulders, you would guess that he isn't. Your head swirls with the realisation that he can keep you pinned with a fragment of his strength.

A strangled whine bubbles in your throat as Robby he drags his tongue back from your entrance and through your slit, circling it over your clit lazily. And then something shifts, like he's done playing nice when you've gotten used to his touch. The edge of finesse is overruled by slurping sounds as he buries his face deeper, dragging his beard without care that it collects your wetness.

Your thighs snap against his head and your hand shoots to his hair to tug on it. He grunts at the sting, making your stomach clench.

While you ease your grip when his brown eyes meet yours, your head snaps backwards when he uncurls one arm, wedging it between his face and your thigh and pins it with his elbow at the perfect angle to reach your clit.

His thumb rolls the bundle of nerves as his tongue wriggles into your hole, and you keen, mindful enough to wring the life of the already lifeless duvets rather than Robby's hair this time around.

You feel him smile before he mumbles, "Need something else?"

With your mouth agape, eyes closed tightly shut, still angled towards the roof, you nod.

"Need words, sweetheart," he mutters between laps.

You whine at the teasing lilt in his voice, accidentally tightening the grip on his hair before you catch yourself. "Yeah…"

"What do you need?"

"I-I…" your stuttering words halt in a sudden gasp when he increases the speed at which he toys with your clit just as you're about to speak. "What's that?" But he doesn't let up immediately. He enjoys making you moan, being unable to answer his question as long as he rolls your bundle of nerves.

When he eventually lets the digit rest against the bundle beneath his thumb, feeling it jump slightly as you clench around nothing from the previous pleasure, you take a deep breath like you haven't been able to until now. Once you do, the words tumble from you, "I need your fingers, something to fill me!"

He hums low and in the back of his throat. "Promised to stretch you good, didn't I?"

Your nod turns into a gasp when he dips a thick finger into you, which pivots into a moan when he slips another finger in with the first after pumping it a few times.

Robby curls his digits, watching your face contort before it relaxes. Soft breaths or moans spill from your lips depending on how he strokes them and what spot he hits inside you. They all make his cock throb, and he can't help but rock his hips into the bed, groaning at the pleasure.

"Fuck, sweetheart, the sounds you make." He sees you shudder, and a gratifying pleasure rises, watching you writhe in pleasure, knowing you're doing it because of him.

Maintaining his weight on his knees, Robby pushes up to balance above you. Still rhythmically pumping his fingers, he uses his other hand to curl beneath your neck, cupping it to tilt your head to face him.

Your eyes open, surprise and pleasure intertwined in your gaze.

"There she is." The skin beside his eyes crinkles. "Can you keep those pretty eyes on me? I want to see how good you feel."

You blink, nod, "Y-yeah."

One side of his lip curls a little higher, and then he starts jerking his whole hand up and down. You squeal, hands flying to hold onto him from the onslaught of pleasure.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Your answer is a moan as you stare at his profile, his eyes cast down at your body. "Yeah, it does. Just look at you, taking them so good for me", Robby mutters, almost as if he doesn't realise he is saying it.

But you do, the lightning down your spine revealing you certainly do.

His eyes flicker back and forth, from watching himself finger you to meeting your eyes. You can't describe the look in them, but it makes your jaw go slack and your mouth hang open, moans ripping themselves from your lungs.

Robby groans at the way you clench around him, the image of you doing it around him making his cock twitch, greedy to finally slide into you.

"That's it, just a little more," he heaves, eyes zeroed in on the glistening slick coating his wrist. "Doing so good for me, sweetheart."

Your breath hitch, limbs locking up as your fingers twitch, nails dig into his bicep.

There's a tight vibration in your chest as you register his words. The weight of them, the desire curled around them. They made you melt and tense at the same time.

A flush burns your whole body, alight and addictive while simultaneously making you fidgety. It's too much, it's-

"Stop, please stop-"

Robby halts the movement of his fingers, mind spiralling in milliseconds towards the worst possible scenario as his eyes snap up to you again.

"You can't say shit like that," you continue, eyes open but not really meeting his gaze, flickering across his face, then sideways, only to repeat the pattern.

Robby's breath rushes from his lungs, calming down when he realises he hadn't pushed too far or that you'd changed your mind. "No?"

You're about to answer, but he accidentally bumps your clit as he slides from within you to settle on your thigh. Your mouth snaps shut, instead giving him a sharp nod.

"Why?"

"Because," you glance up at him, trying to send him a 'this conversation is over' kind of look, but it fails hilariously with the visible desire softening the glare.

He jerks his head sideways, not beating down the quirk on his lips. "Not working, sweetheart. You look just as pretty with a pout on your face."

You squirm enough that Robby needs to move his hand to your hip when your thighs shut. While your gaze falls on nothing in particular, he watches you in intrigue. And it dawns on him.

"You like the praise."

Your eyes widen and snap to meet his, only to be forcefully shut as you groan.

A disbelieving but much more pleased huff escapes Robby upon your reaction. And even if he knows there is nothing to test —your fidgeting and nervous eye-contact was enough— he still decides to tease you.

"You like it. I know you do," Robby hums, eyes flittering down to watch his hand gently slide back between your legs, cupping your mound.

You whine as one of his long fingers slips between your outer lips, collecting your slick before he slides his finger into you again. Once he curls it, stroking that spongy spot on the roof of your walls, your hips shift.

"Just look at you, writhing so prettily when I praise you for taking my fingers so good," he muses, attention returning to your face. Your eyes are squeezed shut, lips pressed tight together as if to force yourself to be silent.

Robby has to fight a chuckle as he bends down, head dipped low enough to brush your ear and disturb your hair with his heavy breaths.

"Come one, sweetheart, tell me how good it feels." He smirks as you tighten and flutter around him. "Tell me you're growing desperate for me to fill you up with my cock and call you a good girl for taking me so-."

You suddenly whip your head towards him, pressing your mouth against his in a haphazard kiss to shut him up, swallowing his laugh in the process.

Before Robby manages to more than reciprocate the kiss, you flip him over while he's distracted, knee pushed against his hip as you set him off balance.

His fingers slip from inside you, the kiss breaking as you settle on his lap.

Your breathing is laboured, pleasure still making your nerves buzz as you stare down at him. He watches you smugly, seemingly not taken aback that you managed to reverse your position.

"You're going to exploit this too much." You tell him, palm pressed pointedly into his chest, brows furrowed.

His eyes twinkle as he stares up at you. His hands naturally seek out your thighs, one hand slick with your wetness. "You've only known me for a few hours."

"And yet I know you will."

"Yeah, you're right," he breathes, smile unfolding entirely.

You marvel at the boyish but awfully charming smile of his. But only for a second, utilising having your sopping wet pussy sitting on his aching cock to wipe the too-entertained look off his face.

When you roll your hips, the effect is immediate. His brows furrow, eyes closing, a moan filling the air, thick and raspy.

It's intoxicating watching a man like Robby give in to pleasure. Feel him do as his fingers dig into your hips, urging you to press firmer against him with each slide of your pussy.

He must feel your stare as his eyes open, heavy-lidded and pleasure-filled gaze meeting yours.

"Using it against me," his words are cut, followed by a deep moan.

"Just letting you feel how wet you made me," your voice is nearly a purr, never letting up on swivelling your hips.

"Talks dirty but can't take praise," he chuckles breathily, but the sound falters into a groan.

"Bet if I started praising you, you would react-"

"Come here," he cuts you off, one hand yanking at your wrist, tugging your chest flush against his.

He kisses you with an open mouth, tongue pushing against yours as his teeth graze your bottom lip. As he unwraps his hand from your wrist, you wriggle both your hands from between you, planting them on either side of his face.

You don't care about finishing your sentence when you part from Robby, your lips having the sole purpose of mapping the skin of his throat.

Leaving lingering kisses along the same path, your hands wander, and you soon reach the top of his chest. But you don't stop once wiry hair presses against your lips, and Robby seems to notice as his hand suddenly grips your upper arm, preventing you from shuffling further down than you already had managed.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't want to do that."

Your eyes flicker to meet Robby's, which are already set on you. "You don't even know what I was going to do."

He chuckles admonishingly, the look he sends you silently saying he's been in the game long enough to know exactlywhat you wanted to do.

"I won't last long," he warns, still holding onto your arm. "Even shorter if you blow me."

"Please, just a taste." The sound he releases stems from deep in his lungs.

"Fine," he grits out, releasing you. "But I'm not cumming like this."

Your lower lip catches between your teeth as you scoot down with a nod.

When your breath fans across his length, it twitches before your eyes. Your gaze flickers to Robby as it does, your smile breaking from the confines you try to keep it under.

As one of your hands closes around his shaft, you watch how his eyes flutter shut, a groan following as you lean in and swirl your tongue around the tip.

There's a stretch in your jaw when you open your mouth wide to close your lips around him. You can taste yourself, but behind it, it's Robby's unique muskiness, tangy and salty but in no way off-putting. You don't even realise you're humming until his hand tangles in your hair and gives a tug once.

Even if he most likely intended it as a warning, it only spurs you to move.

Your eyes close as you slip down his cock, taking him shy of your gag reflex before retreating. His hand twitches as you bob your head, but he doesn't demand anything. By the sounds of it, he simply does it to anchor himself.

You lose yourself in swallowing him down, enjoying the girth that you know will make your jaw ache sooner rather than later. But it's worth it. His deep and rumbling moans do nothing but spur you on and make you mindlessly swirl your tongue and suckle at his tip.

"No- no teasing," he chokes out, broken on a grunt and an aborted thrust after you flicked your tongue against the underside of his cockhead.

You let go of him to speak, but don't stop jerking your hand at his base. With your mouth out of the way, he gives in, rolling his hips into your spit-slicked fist, groans following his motion.

"I'm not." You grin up at him only to lean down to push your tongue pointedly at the underside of his tip, the very same sensitive area that makes him inhale through his teeth, pleasure edging on too much.

"Fucking- no goddamn teasing if you want this to end early."

"Pent up-", you kiss his cock between your words, "-much?"

Robby's eyes are already dark, but suddenly, it feels like you stare more into black than brown. His gaze is heavy to hold, clouded with lust.

You're almost vibrating while running your tongue against the back of your teeth, collecting a pool of saliva in your mouth.

With your eyes locked with Robby's brown ones, you spit onto his tip, keeping his cock upright with solely a thumb to not prevent the glob of saliva from trickling down his length.

You bend down to catch it with your tongue once it reaches his base, dragging your tongue flat to smear it over him. You make sure he's still watching you when you slap his cock against your tongue a few times, smiling as you do.

He twitches violently and maybe that should've been enough forewarning that the hand in your hair would tighten and pull you away.

"That's enough from you," Robby drags you off before he feels the curl of his toes, the release of the pleasurable tug in his abdomen. He knew your mouth could get him there. Especially if you pull stunts like that.

You don't speak as you let him guide you into his lap, but your shit-eating grin gives away everything you don't say.

As you straddle him again, he looks sideways as he stretches one arm towards the bedside table. He manages to open it and dip his hand inside, only to pull out an easily recognisable foil. Your lips manage to purse before you roll them inwards.

"Don't pout," Robby's comment draws your attention back to him again. He's looking up at you with stern eyes, without a doubt having caught your reaction. "Don't tempt me."

"Always feel better without." His hand, which had found your thigh, gives a warning squeeze.

"Don't fucking make me a bad doctor by listening to you," he grinds out, pointing at you with the condom pinched between his index and middle finger. "And you should be careful."

You can't help but chuckle at the medical advice given despite the setting.

"Don't worry, Dr Robby, I'm on birth control, and I always check with my partners." You card your fingers through his chest, bending until you go from steadying yourself with your hands to settling on your underarms. "Besides, I always test myself after either way."

"Aren't you a good girl?" You reactively swat his chest, body set ablaze, heat licking along your entire backside.

"I know you would do this," you accuse.

Robby smirks at you. "Not sorry in the slightest."

"Fuck you," you murmur, but there's no venom behind it, so he simply hums a 'mhm' and raises his chin to swipe you into a kiss.

The exchange is slow, leaning more towards lazy, with Robby exhaling heavily through his nose as you melt against his mouth. Regardless, it leaves you breathless, enough that a shaky inhale proceeds your question once you lean away.

"So-" You lick your lips. Robby's eyes flitter to the move as if he wants to pull you close again, before his gaze returns. "-know if you're clean?"

He should be, Robby hasn't slept with anyone in a long time. But he hasn't had a test, don't know for sure and fuck if he wishes he knew.

"Don't know," he groans, lamenting his own tardiness.

"Don't you practically work where they're taken?" You're mouth jerks as you now twirl his chain lazily around your finger before uncurling it.

"Not like I take my lunch break to do STI checks," he scoffs. Over his fucking dead and buried body that he would take one at PTMC anyway.

Your smile only grows as you curl your finger —making his head raise as the chain digs into his neck— and press a kiss to his lips. "Next time, then?"

"Yeah, next time," he mumbles, following you as you sit up straight, his necklace resting against his chest once more.

You waste no time in shuffling down his body. As you do, you spot the ripped open foil, only to realise Robby has already managed to roll the condom over himself.

With the low current running through your body, anticipation, need, you don't hesitate to grind against him once you settle atop him.

There's a tinge of disappointment at feeling the rubber keep that silky warmth at bay, but feeling him rock solid and twitching makes your mouth water all the same.

Once gliding over him easily, you rise slightly onto your knees, grabbing hold of his cock to line him up.

He's prepped you well —just like he promised— his tip gliding in easily once you lower yourself slightly, one hand anchoring you on his chest to not drop too fast.

"Yeah, fuck, that's it, sweetheart," he rumbles as you slowly sink down on him, rolling your hips to go up and progressively lower.

You shut your eyes, exhaling raggedly at the pleasurable warmth of his words and his cock spreading you open.

About two-quarters down, you stop.

No longer required to keep him aligned with your entrance, your other hand falls to his chest to steady yourself as you simply breathe, accustoming to his girth.

Robby must see that you slowed. Heck, he must have felt how tightly you clenched him as you needed a moment to collect yourself. But he doesn't push you to continue when his fingers dig into your hip, simply kneading the flesh.

What you don't know is there's a loop of 'think of kittens and puppies' rolling around in his head, but it's more words than pictures as he can't wipe away what he sees, you hovering, mouth agape and another two inches to go. It's enough to bust. And with how tight and wet you are, hugging him like a dream, fuck...

"I know, it's a lot to take", his voice thick, raspier than before, eyes seeking yours from beneath. Once you hold his gaze steadily, he continues, "But you're doing so good for me."

A shiver runs down your spine, and you clench around him again, but once you relax, you find yourself sinking deeper.

Experimentally, you roll your hips, rising slightly on your knees, before pushing down again. This time around, you slide far enough that the hair on his pelvis tickles against your mound. Robby moans as you do, rendered speechless. The sound is intoxicating enough that you chase it again, moving your hips to slide him out of you only to settle down with the added force of your body weight.

"Oh-"

"That's it-shit" The groan, deep and vibrating from the chest beneath your hand, makes you clench as you finally manage to fully settle into Robby's lap.

You watch with lidded eyes how he clenches his jaw, hissing an additional fuck through his teeth as his head falls backwards on the pillow.

Once you start moving up and down, your and Robby's moans sound at the same time.

The dark happy trail leading down his abdomen, underneath you, to connect with the hair at the base of his cock acts exactly as the stimulation you need when starting at a slow and steady rock.

When you feel comfortable enough, you lift onto your knees, arching your back, dropping your weight onto him. He hits so deep it makes your head crane back, chasing the sensation over and over again as the sound of slapping skin ensues.

"Look at you-" You barely hear him, but your body feels his words. "-looking so good bouncing on me."

You moan, head rolling forward on your shoulders. It hangs lax as you watch him.

Sweat is starting to collect on his forehead. His chest is heaving, making the star pendant on his chain catch the remaining light from outside every now and then. His eyes are heavy-lidded and there's a dazed, pleasure-drunk smile on his lips.

"You feel so fucking good," his smile pulls upwards at one side, watching your eyes close sharply, brows furrowing. "Real good, sweetheart."

Your rhythm stutters. "You can't, R-Robby-"

His hips buck to meet yours with how you whine his name, and you're thrown off for a second, slowing your bounce into a grind.

"But you're doing such a good job for me." You moan, an almost pleading look in your eyes as they meet his. But Robby is too wrapped up in the way you flutter around him. "So- fucking- good," he punctuates each word with an upwards shove of his hips and you just fold.

Your head falls to rest against Robby's shoulder, moaning out a 'fuck' sounding far too wrecked. He envelops you in his arms, loving to see the power of his praise.

Now unmoving, just rolling your hips, Robby takes it upon himself to thrust himself into you from below.

He plants his heels into the bed, finding footing to gain enough leverage to push himself into you. The bite of your nails is immediate, digging crescents into the skin above his ribs as your moans vibrate against his skin, unfiltered and constant.

You let him do as he pleases, gripping your hips, angling them to find the best angle to slide deep. Your breaths come out short, mixed with strings of fuck - so deep - Robby. Your moans only seem to spur him on, as he answers with muttering short, moaned expletives and praise.

"You gonna let go for me?" He grunts once he feels you flutter around him. "Gonna come on my cock?"

You clench him tight, unrhythmically. It's a telltale sign, but rather than nod, you shake your head.

"N-not like- fuck- this, not u-usually. But- s'good," moans fragment the sentence, but you get it out in the end.

You sound on the verge of drunk, not entirely there, and there's a haze in your eyes as Robby turns his head to face you. You're so close he can taste the pleasure on your exhales.

"How?"

It takes you a second to catch up, staring at him with your mouth hanging open as he continues thrusting up into you, even if it's more a roll of his hips than snaps.

"Missionary."

Your world suddenly tilts, a swoosh in your ears followed by a dizzying sensation behind your eyes at the unanticipated shift from being on top to below.

You blink, regaining your orientation and focusing on how Robby is now above you.

"Robby, it felt good, I can-"

"Don't mind doing the work if it makes you cum," he cuts you off. "Want you to feel just as good as me."

"Yeah?" And the way you ask, small and vulnerable, makes Robby's chest tight with frustration.

"Fuck, of course," he bends down and plants a kiss on your lips, eager to reassure you. "This isn't only for me."

He seals his words, promise, with another press of his mouth over yours.

Partly reluctant and partly eager, Robby leans away, sitting on his haunches and watching you splayed out in front of him, his cock resting against your stomach.

He can't believe the people who rushed this. He could spend hours between your thighs. With you, like this, squirming beneath his attention with kiss-swollen lips and a heaving chest.

"Look at you," the way he says it, reverent almost, makes you swallow. That white, burning sensation isn't only simmering in your core as you wait for him to touch you. It licks your skin right along the trail of his eyes.

You watch as Robby takes his cock and slaps it against your pussy. The jolt makes you twitch, your fingers digging into his kneecaps as he repeats it.

The wet slaps of skin echo, soon joined with your whimpers as he every now and then swipes his cock across your folds, jerkily nudging your clit with his tip. He only stops for a second to tilt his head down and then…

"Oh my- fuck- shit, that's-" your ramble, mind shattering as he spits on your pussy.

It's one of the lewdest things you've witnessed in person. The second filthiest is the smug, pleasure-stained glance he does up at you as his jaw hangs slack, lips curled at the edges, moving his cock with wet squelches over your clit, mixing his saliva with your slick. You moan, throwing your head back dramatically.

You feel his body settle over yours, his hand beside your head while the other grips your cheeks, making your lips pucker. As your head is tilted forward, eyes snapping wide open, you find Robby hovering close to your face.

"I want your eyes on me," his voice is gravelly, serious, and not meant to be argued with. And you don't, only nodding. "Good."

When Robby slowly moves his hips this time around and grinds his cock through your wetness, you keep your eyes locked with his. It's intoxicating, having his brown eyes unwaveringly stare into yours as your breath mingles.

As his tip bumps your clit, you whimper, already teased and riled up enough by him that the sensation sips up your spine. His chest heaves at the sound, lips remaining parted. But that's nothing compared to the bone-deep sound he groans out when he angles his hips and slides into you again.

You don't know where to go. It is too fucking much.

You trash beneath Robby, back arching only to be stopped by his sturdy chest, the wiry hair sticking against your sweaty skin. One of your hands finds its way to his lower back. The other shoots to his wrist, the one he holds your face with.

But he doesn't let go, keeping your head locked forward as he simply lets your fingers curl around his limb.

He breathes a drawn-out fuck when he bottoms out. You moan at the feeling of him stretching you out, how his curls rub against your clit and the way his weight and warmth press into you.

It's so intimate, breathing your pleasures into each other's mouths, gazes locked as you feel the furrow between your brows, the same kind pulling his together.

"Keep them open," he orders when your eyelids flutter, attempting to escape his heavy stare.

"Robby-"

"On me," he jostle your head side to side, not mean or rough, just pointed, fondly mocking.

Even if you complained through a whine, you let him, Robby feels it. Your nails don't bite into the inside of his wrist to stop him. Despite not rocking his hips, the same kind of pleasure curls his toes when realising you simply let him do as he pleases.

And you listen, you listen so goddamn good as he watches you force your eyes to stay only partly lidded rather than fall shut entirely. Your battle against pleasure —that easy, mindless daze that was growing more tangible in your eyes— makes him chuckle.

The sound is laced with amusement and desire, noticeable in the roughness of his voice, which is gritty and low in his throat. Your eyes flutter, but you keep looking at him. Even as Robby starts rocking his hips slowly —letting you adjust to the feeling of him in this position, pulling out far enough you feel empty and push in just as slowly— your eyes stay connected with his.

It isn't you who breaks first.

You keep looking at Robby when his hips start rutting with enough force that your body rocks. Even as he punches a moan out of you upon each jolt of pleasure, your eyes stay connected with his.

No, it's Robby who folds first.

While you don't know it's because of you —how those pretty eyes of yours display every last drop of pleasure contorting your face and which spills into the air with your moans— he's the one to burrow his face into your neck. The hand that previously held your face also falls, taking yours with it as he pins it at the other side of your head.

His grunts only make you wetter, each slide of his cock now accompanied by wet, squelching sounds. When he picks up the pace a notch, your pussy welcomes him by sucking him back inside as if not realising he pulled out.

The snap of his hips fills the air with the sound of smacking skin. Your moans grow louder as Robby doesn't leave a single pleasurable zone untouched. Brushing against that pleasurable spot on each thrust inside. Stimulating your clit by grinding his hips enough to curve his spine. Only to pull out and do it all over again.

Your legs cage his body as you sloppily try to meet his thrusts. It feels so fucking good but it isn't enough for Robby. He wants- needs more of you, to be closer, deeper.

He lets go of your hand and moves the forearm he's braced himself on. All of a sudden, he leans his entire weight on you as his warm hands slide beneath your ass to raise it off the bed.

Your hands shoot to his back, clinging to him, nails dragging down his lats as the angle makes you take his thrusts deep and his chest press flush against yours, trapping his Mangen David between the valley of your breasts.

"Fuck me," Robby groans beside your face upon hearing the sweetest moan of the evening from you. Deep, warbled and pleasure-drunk.

It almost does too much to him, the coil far down in his stomach jerking, threatening to make his toes curl in more than restraint.

"You feel too fucking good, I'm-"

You feel him twitch, once, twice, erratically enough you know he isn't coming but that he's damn near close to finishing with how his thrusts grow desperate.

"Do what you need to come, sweetheart. Need you to- shit, show me what you like for next time," he orders abruptly, the words hurried. You follow them with a moan, hearing how equally drunk on the pleasure he is, wedging your hand between your bodies.

It is a mixture of sweat and slick that covers your hand once your fingers circle your clit.

It's so messy, the way you can't move much with how close Robby is and how you feel him fuck into you just beneath your fingertips. But it doesn't take much. The mixture of rapidly toying with your clit and Robby's grunting in your ears as he praises you with 'that's it, sweetheart' pushes you across the edge.

You jerk, moan ripping out of you as your thighs shake. You try but can barely elongate the pleasurable high form of how intense it is, hand falling slack and being trapped when Robby continues shoving himself into you with a strangled moan upon your tightness.

It's so much that you have to hold on to the fleshy juncture between his shoulder with your teeth as your eyes fall shut, forced to accept the feeling scorching your nervous system with pleasure.

Robby comes with a near-growling moan after you start twitching each time he bumps your clit and skims your sweet spot.

His teeth graze your neck in return as he freeze deep inside, back curled as if he wants to climb into you. Your orgasm has left a dazy cloud in your head, but you feel the steady jerks of Robby inside you as he spills into the condom.

Time becomes a foggy concept you don't care much about when Robby melts into you. You welcome his weight, mouth opening and releasing him from your mouth as you pant into the humid air, your neck relaxing backwards. He does the same but keeps his face buried against your throat.

You stretch your arm —that apparently had wrapped around him during your climax— before raising your hand to the back of his head. The slow carding of your fingers through his hair makes him inhale, only to exhale a sated groan.

Slowly, it seems like Robby comes to, his lips finding your skin to soothe where he'd held you betweeen his teeth to ground himself.

He leaves a trail of feather-light kisses from the curve of your shoulder to the hollow of your throat. Before he emerges, his mouth lingers against your necklace, the metal no longer cold but just as warm as your skin.

There's a serene kind of look in Robby's eyes once they connect with yours. His brown gaze is heavy even if he pushes himself to his knees, taking his weight off of you.

Despite twitching in overstimulation once he pulls out, you smile up at him. He reciprocates with a smile of his own, but one side of his mouth bows higher in a lopsided fashion, making you giggle.

That only makes his smile grow enough to flash teeth as he asks, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing", you mumble, following how easily he takes off and ties the condom. He watches you the entire time, humming a sceptical sound, but does not say anything else about it.

"That was-"

"Good," you finish his sentence for him. His hand dips into a nod, a chuckle preceding his 'yeah'.

He looks up at you through his brows before he raises his head to face you properly.

"Do you need anything?" Your head tilts, brows arching.

It makes his head cock, eyebrows also raise until the lines of his forehead appear. "Don't tell me-"

You hurry to sit up, your body feeling like it moves like molasses, interrupting him. "I'm just not used to it, Robby."

"Boys these days," he grumbles as your hands settle on his thighs, neck craning to keep your eyes locked with his.

"You did say you didn't want to hear about the miserable dating scene."

Although it makes him chuckle, it's biting, the sound low and frustrated more than amused as he shakes his head.

"Seriously, do you need anything?" His brown eyes are locked with yours again.

"A little bit of water, maybe," you shrug slightly but blink slowly up at him when you continue, "A cuddle?"

His lips tick upwards at that, bending down to press his lips against yours before he mumbles, "Wait here."

And you don't mind just flopping back on the bed as Robby leaves the bedroom.

You can hear him move around in the apartment. The sounds are dull, as if he tries to not make too much noise. Somewhere whilst listening to him, your eyes close, basking in the afterglow.

"Haven't fallen asleep on me, have you?"

Your eyes crack open, pleasantly surprised Robby still moves around naked and for you to witness him in all his glory. "Almost could've."

"And I'm supposed to be the old one," he sends you a smile as you chuckle.

Once Robby climbs onto the bed, he sets aside the water bottle he brought, shifting the grip on the towel you'd noticed he got in his opposite hand.

"What-oh." Your face feels like it's suddenly on fire as he slowly parts your legs, only to gently wipe away all the sticky wetness between them with the lukewarm cloth.

"You should still go to the toilet," Robby's voice is soft as he instructs you, eyes flickering to your face.

"I-I know," you stutter, watching him turn and toss the towel with ease into the hamper once he's done.

He's smiling once he turns back to face you, but he doesn't mention your flustered look, instead offering the water bottle.

"Here." He holds it out for you and you take it from him.

The condensation that previously coated his fingers now drips across yours as you prop yourself on an elbow to drink. Your eyes flutter as soon as the cold water soothes your mouth and throat. After a few gulps, you hand the water bottle back to Robby, who'd settled beside you.

Shifting to lay on your side, you watch Robby also take a few mouthfuls before stretching behind him to put the bottle on the bedside table.

A warm feeling blooms in your chest as he turns back to you and instantly draws you into him.

You seamlessly tangle with him, his legs intertwining with yours, your arms around his neck, and his circling beneath and over you to engulf your upper body in a tight hug. A sigh leaves you, and Robby exhales slowly once the two of you settle.

For a moment, you just lay there, eyes closed, face pressed into his skin that's slightly damp. Your heartbeat slows into a rhythmic pound as he soothes his thumb against your spine. It only stops once he presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.

"I'll melt through the bed if you continue with that," you sigh, looking up at him while he looks down.

"Thought I already had?" Even if you roll your eyes, you catch the pull in the side of his lips. "Not regretting saying yes to my invite yet?"

You hum, fingers carding through his beard, eyes flickering over him.

"Maybe I'm-" he interrupts you with a kiss, "-starting to," another one, "-just a little bit," your smile only grows between each kiss. You start giggling when his lips stray to your cheeks and nose, "Fine, no."

You playfully push at him to stop the way his beard tickles across your face.

"Good," he kisses you one last time before you burrow your face against his chest, trying to hide from his onslaught. But Robby only chuckles, notching his chin above your head.

"Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

He doesn't see your face, but he feels your smile grow. "Should I clear my schedule to watch you cook breakfast for me?"

"You picked the perfect time when my fridge looks like a frat boy's"

"Mhm, yeah, sure," you retract from your hiding spot against his sternum to look at him. Robby is greeted with a smile that he can't help but return.

One of your arms drops from his neck so you can gently trace a finger across his face. It follows the arch of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, the soft skin beside his eyes, and the line of his beard.

"There's a brunch spot not too far from here. I've heard it is good," you break the silence with a murmured suggestion.

Robby doesn't even need to consider it, kissing you before muttering an equally soft, "Perfect."

424 notes · View notes

osarina · 3 days ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai's worst nightmare has come true, and with you standing before him once again, he has no idea how to act or feel. he's angry. he's resentful. hateful. sad. hopeful. yearning. in love. there's so many emotions clouding his mind that he can hardly think straight. but he's sure of one thing: his run-in with you makes him realize that he'll do anything to get you back again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWO IS HEREEEEE HEHEHEHEHE I HOPE U ENJOY - i rushed getting it together skfaizsjf so hopefully it's all ok. let me know if im missing any warnings. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of past war crimes, ptsd, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

God is famous for his coincidences and absurdism. Dazai is all too familiar with it. Time and time again in his life, it’s been proven over and over. You and he are even the prime example of this: everything from the part you played in his family’s demise eight years ago to you unwittingly saving his life last year.

But this?

This can’t be real.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Dazai stares at you like you’re a ghost, the air whooshes out from his lungs, and his vision blurs and tunnels until all he can see is you. All of the other patrons of the bar fizzle out of space and time until only the two of you are left in the room, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to do. He’s still half convinced that this is a hallucination, a cruel trick—even an ability working on him would make more sense than you actually standing in front of him.

When he doesn’t respond to you, you raise your eyebrows at him, but he thinks that even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice is stuck in his throat, along with a lump shaped suspiciously like his heart. He can’t get a grasp on his surroundings, and he’s starting to feel dizzy; his ears are ringing terribly, and his fight or flight instincts are triggered, but Dazai is just frozen. He can’t push himself off the chair to leave, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything.

This can’t be real, he thinks again, more desperately this time, but the longer he stares at you, the more real you become. You’re wearing a sleek black suit, the same one you were wearing when you called for the meeting with Fitzgerald to get Dazai back, and a dark coat over it, the same one you would drape over him when you came home to him passed out on the couch, and you’re beautiful, you’re as beautiful as Dazai remembers. More. Impossibly more. Though your eyes are much more tired and vacant than he last remembered them being, and you now wear a red scarf around your shoulders and a ribbon around your neck, it’s you standing a few feet away from him—there’s no mistaking it.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” you continue conversationally when he remains silent, and to his horror, you make your way over to him. “You’re really familiar, though, maybe we’ve met in passing. Do you come around here often?”

Your words feel like knives jabbing into his back, and Dazai almost wants to cry, but he refrains with a thick swallow and a deep breath. He’s had nightmares about bumping into you on the streets and being slapped in the face with his new reality this way: that you have no idea who he is, that he’s a stranger to you when you’re still everything to him. He’s had nightmares, but he never thought those nightmares would become reality. You’re the boss of the Port Mafia now, what the fuck are you doing at some random bar without any protection?

He’s drawn out of his trancelike state once you’re standing next to him, and Dazai is acutely aware of the number of eyes on him now. The bartender is looking between the two of you with a concerned expression, and the other patrons aren’t slick in the way they keep casting nosy looks in your direction. It’s only when your gaze snaps up, an irritated expression crossing your face, that they all look away, and Dazai realizes a bit dreadfully that this must be a mafia establishment.

Of course, it is, he thinks bitterly, no wonder he met you here the first time.

The irritated expression is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced with a far more pleasant one as you look back down at him.

For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s chest swells with warmth because he can almost pretend it’s the same way you’d look at him when you’d come home to find him sitting at the piano trying to teach himself a song that he could only vaguely remember. A small smile curling at your lips, a soft expression on your face, and a fond look in your eyes that would make Dazai’s breath catch.

But he can’t pretend because it’s fake. Dazai can tell it’s fake—the small smile on your lips is disarming, and the soft expression is enchanting, but it’s not enough for him not to notice the way it doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe it would be enough if he were anyone else in the world, but he’s not. He knows you well enough to catch what others would miss, and he’s so used to you looking at him with all three that the absence of one is glaring and unsettling.

It’s not right—none of this is right.

“No,” he finally answers your question when it becomes abundantly clear that you’re not going to move on until he addresses you. Does he want you to move on? Dazai doesn’t know; he can’t even bring himself to look away from you, trying to memorize your face before you disappear again. “I don’t come around here often.”

His voice is unbearably hoarse, and as your eyes trail over him curiously, Dazai becomes hyper-aware of how sloppily he’s dressed. His clothes are rumpled because he was lying in his futon for hours, and he hasn’t changed his bandages in days, so the ones on his wrist are yellowed and frayed at the edges. He tries to pull the sleeves of his tan coat down to cover them, but you’ve already caught sight of them from the way you squint and then look back up to his face.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, pulling out the stool next to him to sit down. You rest your elbow on the bar top and your chin on your hand as you look at him. Dazai wonders what you’re thinking; you’ve always been hard to read, but never more than now. “What’s your name?”

That lump is back in his throat, and the air around him feels too thin. Dazai almost struggles to breathe, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He’s finally able to bring himself to look away from you, staring down at his lap—his fingers are trembling, he notices absently, starting to feel oddly detached from the situation. He forcibly stills them, trying to get himself together before answering your question, but each passing second only makes him spiral more.

What’s your name?

The question rings through his head mockingly, and at once, the resentment he feels is back with a fervor. What’s your name, asks the woman who almost died trying to protect Dazai less than a year before. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai lived with for months. What’s your name, asks the woman who sacrificed everything, killed her own father, just to keep Dazai safe. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai loves because she wiped her memories of him after he begged her not to.

It’s like a joke, he thinks so bitterly that he can taste it in his mouth. It’s putrid, disgusting—his life has always been a joke, but things finally started looking up once he met you. You gave him hope for the future, you made him want a future, and then you ripped it away from him, worse than anyone ever has before.

A joke.

“Don’t wanna tell me?” you ask easily, leaning back in your stool. The smile on your face is teasing, but it still doesn’t meet your eyes—he’s a bit unnerved by it. When he first met you, you were cold and aloof; you wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t think you were even listening to him while he rambled; he’d been surprised when he ran into you the day after, and you remembered what he’d been saying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Are you… flirting with him?

The teasing tone, the small, flirty smiles, the way you’re putting in just enough effort that any other man would’ve been charmed—he would’ve been charmed if he didn’t know any better—is that what this is? Dazai suddenly feels unsettled. He thought maybe you came here to relax… take a break from work, like the first time he met you here. Maybe you were even just coming to drown out your sorrows like him, although that may just be wishful thinking on his part. The realization that you might’ve come here to find someone to fuck away whatever is clearly eating at you for the night didn’t cross his mind once until now. He doesn’t like it—something in his gut twists, and he thinks he might throw up. He blames it on the whiskey he’s been drinking, but he knows that’s not the real reason.

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

His suspicions from earlier were confirmed just like that, and Dazai is miserable about it.

“Dazai,” he finally tells you, throat spasming like it doesn’t kill him to have to introduce himself to you again. “My name is Dazai.”

You give him your name in return, and it’s just another stab to the heart—he knows your name. It’s the same name that haunts his dreams. The same name he’d spent half a year cursing into oblivion. The same name he’d gasp when he was in bed with a stranger. He knows your name better than his own, it’s etched into his soul; he would never forget you like you’ve forgotten him.

Something strange crosses your face when Dazai looks back at you—a hint of familiarity that has his heartbeat stuttering. He sees the brief confusion, the way your mind races behind your pretty eyes as if trying to understand why his name and face were inexplicably familiar to you. For a brief second, he allows a speck of hope to bloom: your love for him is enough to overcome the ability that was used to wipe your memories of him.

“You’re an author,” you say suddenly, finally realizing why he seems so familiar to you. The spec of hope that had begun to bloom withers in an instant—his throat feels swollen, and his mouth is dry. “I read your book.”

What.

“What?” Dazai asks hoarsely, voicing his thoughts aloud as he stares at you. “You—”

“That’s what it is. I knew your face was familiar, but your name is what made me realize,” you add more to yourself than to him.

Dazai wants to be disappointed that it’s not just you subconsciously recognizing him, that your love for him is not strong enough to outweigh the effects of the ability used on you, but he can’t be because he’s frozen at the idea of you actually having read his book. He’s wondered over the past few months if you’ve seen it around—when he first published it, it started gaining a lot of traction. It’s still pretty popular; he has people come up to him to talk to him about it, and he always thought maybe you would see his face or hear his name in passing, that maybe when you did, a part of you would subconsciously miss him. That he could haunt you like you’ve haunted him.

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

“You read my book?” Dazai presses, his voice almost as faint as he feels. The ground suddenly feels uneven, and the stool he’s sitting on sways. He has to try to casually reach for the bartop to pretend like he’s not having to steady himself.

“Yeah,” you say, and don’t add anything else.

Dazai turns his head to the side to look at you. Did you think it was bad? Why aren’t you saying anything else? He wonders, a bit horrified by the thought. When you don’t make any effort to explain how you feel about it, Dazai grimaces and forces himself to speak up.

“And… what did you think?”

He’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer.

“It was good,” you say simply, but Dazai can tell that’s not your full opinion. He can hear the unsaid ‘but’, and he doesn’t want to know what that ‘but’ is, yet he finds himself pressing anyway.

“But…?” he prompts, against better judgment.

You look at him, that empty look that’s been lingering in your eyes is replaced, a bit more entertained now as you look over him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not you actually want to tell him the ‘but.’ Dazai’s fingers thrum impatiently against the bartop as he waits for you to speak, and you notice from the way you glance down and then back up to his face.

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

“It was cynical,” you amend, and Dazai’s eye twitches. “The whole novel was built up to expect a happy ending, and you had the main couple just leave each other at the end. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t like it.”

“Sometimes, people don’t get happy endings, and sometimes, it happens when you don’t expect it,” Dazai spits, a bit too bitterly from the way you raise your eyebrows, the corner of your lips curling up in amusement. Dazai isn’t quite as entertained, wondering where you get the audacity to say you didn’t like the ending that you gave him. “It’s realistic. People don’t get happy endings. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, sounding all too entertained by the conversation that has Dazai’s blood boiling.

“What? And you think it’s not realistic? Is that it?” Dazai turns his head away from you instantly, taking a long sip of his drink to try to quell the way his stomach churns.

“I think it’s cynical,” you repeat. “They clearly loved each other—there was no reason for them to split the way they did.”

Dazai’s head snaps back in your direction. “Well, that’s life—one minute, someone loves you, and you’re their whole world, and the next, they toss you aside. You’re forgotten, left behind. And they just move on like you never even existed.”

“Cynical,” you say again, and Dazai wants to throttle you for it, but he refrains. “People don’t just forget someone that they loved. It’s not possible—you can’t forget someone who was once so important to you.”

“Impossible?” Dazai asks through gritted teeth. “What about you? You’ve never forgotten about someone important to you?”

The amusement on your face fades as you study him a bit more carefully; Dazai realizes miserably that he’s being way too obvious with his resentment toward you, and you’re going to get suspicious. And you don’t know him, the last thing he needs is to be on the Port Mafia’s radar like this.

… Or maybe, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, he thinks, mind starting to race with possibilities. You told him how Ilya Repin’s ability worked while in the safe house. Now that you’ve followed through with your plan, the Three Deaths should officially be subsumed into the Port Mafia, meaning there’s a high chance that Repin is still somewhere in Yokohama, and with him, the painting that stole your memories of him.

If he could find it…

“What do you mean?” you finally question, and Dazai’s drawn back to reality.

He averts his gaze from you immediately. “Nothing,” he replies quietly, the fight draining from him instantly when he sees your brows furrowed in confusion. “It’s nothing.”

Your lips part to speak, but you’re interrupted when the door to the bar slams open harshly. You don’t even turn around to see who entered before you roll your eyes, giving Dazai a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s my cue, my keeper has arrived.”

You rise to your feet to leave, your drink still untouched on the bar in front of you. Dazai’s gaze lingers on you for a second before he looks to the door, eyes shooting open when he sees none other than Nakahara Chuuya standing there. The man is livid, and Dazai can hear the litany of curses about to spill from his lips, but tilts his head curiously when it never comes.

It doesn’t come because he’s too busy staring at Dazai, eyes wide and lips parted.

Does he… recognize Dazai?

Dazai straightens in his seat, brows furrowing as he observes Chuuya carefully. You seem to notice the odd reaction, too, from the way you squint at your executive. This shouldn’t be possible, though—the plan was that everyone would have their memories of Dazai wiped in order to ensure that there was no evidence that he was ever connected to the Port Mafia. Connected to you. There’s no way Chuuya should know who he is, but that expression was damning; it’s like he knows exactly who Dazai is and knows the implications of you running into Dazai by chance.

“We’ll talk later,” Chuuya finally says, voice rough. “Let’s go.”

You sigh, looking thoroughly disappointed as you glance back at Dazai once, an odd expression on your face. He thinks maybe you’ll say something, but you don’t, and the bitterness he feels returns with a vengeance.

He calls your name as you turn your back to him, and when you pause, he says, “Red is your color.”

It’s not a compliment, it’s him sharpening a knife that he’s preparing to jab into your chest, but he guises it as one because you don’t know that he knows what he does. You stiffen at his words, and Dazai’s suspicions are confirmed when Chuuya shoots him a vicious look behind your back. He knows.

“Yeah? My father used to say the same,” you say, voice a bit too tense to be casual.

“Used to?” Dazai presses, readying the knife against your skin.

You hum in agreement. “Used to. He passed.”

Passed, Dazai thinks mockingly. He makes sure to hide his scathing tone as he smiles sweetly and drives the dagger right into your heart, “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

You don’t respond, but Dazai can see the way your head hangs a bit lower at his words, and your hand lifts to toy with the ribbon around your neck. For a brief second, Dazai feels gleeful—he’s glad that he can hurt you, even just a little—but the momentary satisfaction dissipates quickly. He doesn’t like hurting you, but more than that, he knows whatever pain he might’ve caused with his words is still nothing compared to the last six months he’s suffered.

You leave without another word, and Chuuya follows after you, but not before giving Dazai another dirty look, one that promises that this isn’t the end. He sighs as he slumps over on the barstool. The satisfaction is long gone, the adrenaline rush that your appearance triggered has dissipated, and Dazai just feels sick again. He feels sick and lonely, but most of all, he just misses you. He misses you so bad that he thinks he might be willing to do anything to get your memories of him back

With that thought in mind, he fumbles for his phone and shoots a text to Ranpo before he can lose his nerve.

Dazai: ok. i’ll help but under one condition

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

Chuuya has been stiff since the two of you left the bar. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to say something, and that alone is proof that something weird is going on. You figure otherwise, you would’ve been scolded from the moment you stepped outside of the bar to the moment you slammed the door to your office in his face.

You don’t confront him right away—he’ll try to slip away if you make an attempt at cornering him, so you wait until the two of you are in the elevator going up to your office to say anything.

“Who was he?” you ask as soon as the doors slide shut, positioning yourself in a way so that he can’t reach the buttons without getting through you first. Chuuya stiffens as his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. “The boy at the bar. You recognized him. How?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly.

Your eyebrows shoot up at the blatant lie, mind spinning as you try to figure out why Chuuya would lie to you about this. The only thing he’s ever lied to you about before is whatever it is he knows about the Port Mafia’s regime change that eludes you. Could it be related? You doubt it—you’re not sure what some random one-hit-wonder author would have anything to do with a mafia coup—but it makes you feel a bit nervous, it makes you unsure of where you stand with the one person who has always been your other half.

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you?

Why is he lying to you at all?

“And you’re lying to me about it,” you say tightly, swallowing thickly as your mind races for answers to your questions.

He’s been distant lately—is it because there’s something going on that no one is telling you about? You know Chuuya wasn’t happy about your decision to demote Kouyou. Has it left him more resentful than you initially thought? You suddenly feel very, very alone. If you don’t have Chuuya solidly at your side, then who do you have? Klaus? Is that it?

History moves in such vicious circles, doesn’t it? You remember the amused words Mori spoke to you many, many years ago—back when you’d followed him to the underground clinic before he became a doctor for the previous boss, when he would sit you at his desk and force you to read old textbooks and recite them to him because he refused to have an uneducated protege.

Doesn’t it?

The previous boss was the right-hand of his father and took power from him by force; you heard it was a brutal execution, and people whispered that it should’ve been the first sign of madness. The previous boss was killed by Mori, the man he trusted to take care of him, a man who quickly became his right hand when his mind continued to deteriorate, and then Mori took control. Mori was killed by you, his heir, his second-in-command, his right hand, and then you took control.

Your gaze slowly tracks over to where Chuuya still refuses to look at you.

Doesn’t it?

“I met him before,” Chuuya finally says, shaking his head, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts. “He was a fucking asshole. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“When did you meet him?” you ask, voice coming out a bit sharper than you intended. Chuuya gives you a wary look, like he’s only now realizing that something is seriously wrong, and you try to smooth your face out. “Just curious.”

“At the same bar,” Chuuya tells you. “A couple weeks ago. He was a little shit—drunk and insulting me as soon as I walked in.”

“Is that so?” you question flatly, eyes settling on him, watching the way his expression twists in frustration.

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Chuuya demands.

“I don’t know, Chuuya, why would you?”

A hurt expression flies across his face as he fully turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest. When he speaks, you can hear the anger dripping from his tone, but more than that, you hear the hurt. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining from you when you see how betrayed Chuuya looks by your questions. Your voice wavers as you whisper, “I don’t know.”

He sighs at your answer and then steps forward. Your eyes slide shut as he rests his hand on top of your head. He brings his other hand up to cup the side of your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. You want to cry when you see the pain in his eyes as he studies your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek and try to look away, but he forces you to keep your gaze on him.

“I’m on your side,” he whispers, thumb running over your cheek. His other hand slides from the top of your head to hold your face between both of his hands. The leather of his gloves is coarse against your skin, but it’s achingly familiar—you’ve missed Chuuya desperately. “I’ve always been on your side.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” you ask weakly, hands coming up to curl around his wrists. “Chuuya, I feel so lost. I don’t understand what’s going on, I—”

Chuuya sighs and steps away as the elevator reaches the top floor of the building. The two of you walk down the hall past your guards and step into your office quietly. You walk over to the door in the back of the office, leading to the penthouse apartment. The moment you get in there, you feel suffocated again. The air is too heavy, and when you try to breathe in, it tastes stale and rotted. You look back at Chuuya to distract yourself and raise your eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

You nod tightly and look around the apartment. It’s just as Mori left it—you’ve hardly touched it at all. You haven’t brought anything over from your own place. The walls are still black and empty except for some pinned-up crayon drawings of Elise’s, their bright colors feeling almost out of place. The living room is staged with gaudy decor, remnants of Mori’s taste, meant to impress any possible guest rather than comfort its owner. But the bedroom is stripped of everything personal, as cold and impersonal as a hotel room.

You like it this way. It’s easier to pretend you don’t actually live here, that this isn’t where you fall asleep at night, isn’t where you wake up to suffocating silence. You can almost pretend that Mori is still around, and you’re just occupying his space until he returns. But some nights, the weight of it settles too heavily on your chest, and the emptiness echoes too loudly for you to handle. Like tonight.

Chuuya follows you into the living room, expression unreadable as he glances around. “You still haven’t done anything with this place.”

“I haven’t,” you agree quietly, looking down at a picture on a nearby table. It’s of you, Mori and Elise—you were much younger then, it was taken when you were ten, still at the underground clinic, before he became the doctor for the previous boss. “Did I ever tell you how I met him?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately. “How you met… Mori?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you to look down at the picture in front of you. “When you were still cute.”

“Hah,” you say, unamused, nudging his shoulder. “I lived on one of the main warfronts during the Great War before Tokoyami Island appeared and the fighting moved there.”

Chuuya lets out a noise of acknowledgment. “You told me that much.”

“It was a small village in a valley,” you continue quietly. “I don’t even… really remember where. The war was going on all around us, but the mountains and the forests kept us shielded from the worst of it. But we could hear it. Smell it. The gunfire and the explosives, the smoke was so thick that it reached our village. We couldn’t leave our houses without masks; there was a constant haze and—”

You cut yourself off as you look away, swallowing thickly. You feel Chuuya’s hand come to rest on your shoulder, concern rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this,” he says. “From before Mori found you.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, voice cracking. “Not until—”

Until you killed him. Until all of the memories you repressed came rushing through the floodgates without the one person who helped you hold them back.

“We weren’t supposed to leave the village,” you rasp. “They were scared that one wrong move would draw attention our way. I was seven, Chuuya. I didn’t understand, not really. I didn’t understand why my dad suddenly stopped bringing me out to the river—it was the only place where we could see the stars clearly, and I loved the stars, so I went to go see them on my own one night when everyone was asleep.”

Chuuya says your name quietly, like he knows what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. Your mouth is so dry that it feels like ash has built up in it, but you force yourself to continue.

“I didn’t even see him at first—the soldier,” you whisper. “He was hidden in the brush. Hurt. His leg was stuck in a bear trap, and he was dehydrated. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw me, thought I was an angel. He scared me, I wasn’t going to help him, but he was so young, Chuuya. He didn’t look any older than my cousin, and he was in so much pain, and he was so kind to me. Offered me the last of his food when he realized I was scared. I got him water and bandages and helped him free his leg. I was just a kid, I was only trying to help. I didn’t understand what I’d done.”

“That’s not your fault,” Chuuya says hoarsely. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, that’s—”

“By the next night, the village was burning,” you interrupt. “He got back to his regiment with my help, and he led them back to us. I don’t even remember his face now, but I remember him. I was playing with my brother by the well, and he stepped out of the tree line, and I didn’t even think I was seeing things right until my brother dropped his toys, but then the rest of his regiment followed, and the gunfire started, and the screaming. And he came up to me, and his eyes were empty. I’ve never seen anything like it before, it was—”

Chuuya starts to say your name, but you interrupt him, agitated.

“Would you just listen?” you rasp, nails biting into your black jacket. “He didn’t kill me. I figured it was his way of repaying me for saving his life; he hit me over the head, and when I woke up, I was at the bottom of a pile of corpses.”

Chuuya inhales sharply. He reaches out hesitantly for your hand, and you let him hold it, but your hand remains limp in his.

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

“No, the decay, Chuuya. For the first few hours, all you can smell is the blood,” you breathe out. “That’s what you smell. You never stick around for cleanup, and even if you did, cleanup always happens quickly. But after a day passes, the bodies start to decompose. It happens fast when it’s humid. And it was the middle of the rainy season. Hot. Muggy. By the end of the first day, all I could smell was rot.”

Chuuya looks sick, you can see it in the reflection of the picture you’re staring at, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“It’s so thick that you can taste it in your mouth when you try to breathe,” you say softly. “I tried to hold my breath at first, but that only made it worse because eventually I needed to breathe, and when I did, it was so…”

You don’t finish the sentence, lost in your own thoughts as you look up at the window looking over the city.

“And the flies,” you swallow thickly, almost gagging past the lump in your throat. “The flies showed up after the first day. The buzzing. There were so many of them, I wanted to cover my mouth, but my arms were pinned at my side. I still can’t take deep breaths without tasting the rot in the back of my throat. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I can hear the buzzing of the flies around me.”

Chuuya lifts his free hand to wipe away a tear that you didn’t realize was rolling over your cheek.

“I could just barely see the sun rising and setting through the limbs above me. I was stuck beneath the corpses of my family members and neighbors for four days before a different regiment showed up—they saw the smoke. They started pulling the bodies off the pile to bury them, but I couldn’t even call out for help.”

You reach out for the picture on the table, brushing your thumb over Mori’s face.

“He was the first face I saw,” you whisper. “He didn’t even realize I was alive at first, but when he did, he pulled me out of the pile and carried me somewhere safe. I couldn’t speak or move for weeks; I was pretty much catatonic. His superiors wanted him to send me away, but he was the head physician and said I was better off with him. I don’t know if it’s because he realized I had an ability or if it was because he was worried about sending me away, that he knew I’d never be okay again back in the real world.”

“He saved me, Chuuya,” you finish, turning to face Chuuya again. You reach out to grab his jacket, forcing him to look you in the eye. “Do you understand now why I can’t just accept I did what I did on a whim? On a suspicion that he used me as a scapegoat? Do you understand why I can’t just let it go—why I need to know what you’re keeping from me?”

Chuuya almost looks like he wants to cry when he looks down at you. You know his answer before he says it. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Chuuya finally says, hands reaching up to cradle your face again, begging you to listen. “Please, you have to stop asking.”

Asked him to, you think, even more confused than you were to begin with. Your mind races to put together the few pieces of the puzzle that Chuuya gave you. But why wouldn’t you remember asking him unless—

Repin?

“Repin,” you realize softly, looking up at him for answers. The heaviness in his eyes is enough of an answer. “And… does this boy from the bar have anything to do with it?”

He sighs heavily, hands dropping to his side as he gives you a long look.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “That little shit doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is that another lie?” you ask with a slight smile that wavers at the edges.

“No,” Chuuya says quietly. “It’s not.”

You search his face for something—anything—that will make this all make sense. That will make it hurt less. But there’s nothing. Just that same pained look, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing down on you incessantly.

Your fingers loosen their grip on his jacket, slipping away as your shoulders slump. You don’t know what you were hoping for. Answers? Closure? Neither would bring Mori back. Neither would fix whatever had broken inside you the moment you pulled the trigger. Neither would rid yourself of the rot in the back of your throat or the buzzing in your ears.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes flickering toward the window. The city outside is bright, alive—but you feel impossibly far from it, like you’re watching from the wrong side of a one-way mirror. The top of this building is a prison; the scarf around your neck is a shackle.

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips. “It never ends, does it?” you murmur. Your breath hitches, and you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling. “This will never end. I’m so tired, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I just want a break,” you say shakily, leaning into his touch for a moment. “I just need a break.”

Your lips part as you look up at him again, his eyes are dark as he looks down at you, entirely unreadable. You shift your weight forward, closing the space between you again. You lift your hand to trace the light scar on his cheek before sliding to cup his jaw. His lashes flutter as he turns his face into your touch like he always has, the familiar warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips. You look at him through your lashes, studying his face carefully as you run your thumb over his bottom lip.

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” you breathe out, thumb pressing down gently on his bottom lip. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating as his lips instinctively part for you. Your lips curl up into a teasing smile that’s a bit frayed at the edges. “Like old times?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and your hand slides down from his face to cradle the side of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his pulse. You lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw before trailing slow kisses down the column of his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches and how his muscles tense beneath your touch. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s not sure if he should reach out to grab your hip or push you away.

“Please,” you murmur, kissing his pulse point once before resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your hands slide down his body to rest on his waist before you slip them around him, holding him close. You press your body closer to his, your breath shaky against his skin, feeling his warmth, his presence—the one thing that grounds you in the suffocating haze of what has become your life. “Please, I need one night to forget. I can’t keep going like this.”

Chuuya tenses under your touch, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. The silence stretches between you, too heavy, and you hold your breath as you wait, heart hammering in your chest. His hands finally move—one settles at your hip, the other curls into a fist at his side.

For a second, he doesn’t push you away.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and grips your shoulders, pushing you back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze is dark and conflicted, and your heart sinks.

“We can’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking as you shift closer to him. Your fingers hook in his belt loops, clinging to him desperately. “Just for one night.”

You don’t wait for an answer—you don’t want to hear his rejection. You lean in to press your lips against his. They’re warm and familiar, tasting of red wine and nicotine—you’ve kissed Chuuya a million times before, you’ve always felt most at home with him, but it feels… wrong this time, and you don’t know why.

Frustrated, you press yourself into him again, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. You slant your lips against his to deepen the kiss, trying to remind yourself of what this used to be. You barely notice the wetness against your lips until the salty taste seeps in.

When did you start crying?

Chuuya kisses you back, but there’s no heat behind it—it’s empty, he’s just going through the motions. His lips move chastely against yours, never taking the step to deepen the kiss, and you know it’s another rejection. When he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, you take in a ragged breath, swallowing a sob.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he murmurs.

A shudder racks through your body, fingers digging into his shirt as you press your face against his chest. His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, holding you close to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” you gasp, speaking the words out loud for the first time. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chuuya. I don’t know what to do about Cao Xueqin. I can’t get him to back down. And the government is threatening to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama—I don’t know what to do. He would—he would, and he’s gone, and he’s gone because of me. I need him, Chuuya, I don’t know why I did this, I don’t get it, I—”

Your words break into another sob as Chuuya presses his lips to your forehead, arm tightening around you as you collapse into him. He shifts to he can sit down on the couch, pulling you into his lap and cradling you in his arms. He presses your ear to his chest so that you can hear his heartbeat, stroking your hair gently as you let yourself break down in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.”

It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, that Chuuya’s words of reassurance do little to keep your anxiety at bay. Paired with his gentle rejection, it’s useless against the war that’s raging within you. You need to quell the doubt in your mind, the paranoia devouring all of your logical thoughts, the voice in the back of your head that gnaws at your mind and tells you that this isn’t right. But you’re exhausted, so instead of searching for answers or seeking out a body to numb your mind, you allow yourself this moment to drown.

--------

Dazai knows what he signed up for when he agreed to help the Armed Detective Agency. He’s been warring with it since he got home from the bar last night. Helping the Armed Detective Agency means working against you—he knew this when he messaged Ranpo, but it was different actually hearing the plans happening around him.

“Getting the new mayor out of office or trying to apprehend and imprison one of the most dangerous ability users in the world, I think one is quite obviously less dangerous than the other,” Ranpo says dryly, sticking a lollipop in his mouth as he kicks his feet up onto the conference table. “One is also less likely to bring the entire wrath of the Port Mafia down on us. If only marginally.”

“How are we supposed to get the mayor out of office without getting information from the Port Mafia?” Yosano asks, shaking her head. “Pictures of him talking to suspected mafia affiliates aren’t enough to get the assembly to vote him out. We need actual correspondence. Proof that he’s just an extension of the Mafia.”

An extension of you, Dazai finishes when Yosano spares a look in his direction. His fingers are stiff in his lap—he should probably speak up, he’s not even supposed to be here, he’s only here to give some insight into the Port Mafia and he hasn’t helped with much of anything, but every time his lips part to speak, he tastes ash in his mouth.

“I could apply for a job in the city hall,” one of the office workers, Haruno, offers quietly from the corner of the room where she’s taking notes for the meeting. “There’s an open job posting for a secretary at the—”

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa says immediately, raising his hand to silence Haruno. “We will not be putting our office workers at risk.”

“But President,” Haruno protests, setting down her notepad. “The best way to get this information is to get on the inside—”

“No,” Fukuzawa interrupts firmly, crossing his leg over his knee as he leans back in his chair. “Whether we’re directly up against the mafia or going at this from a side angle, this is going to be dangerous. Our detectives will be the ones to handle this, but—”

“Going through it that way will take too long,” Ranpo says dismissively, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Plus, it’s not reliable enough. There’s no telling if you’ll get the job, and if you do, if you’ll have the clearance you need to get the information we need. We need to be more direct than that—”

“We can’t just storm the city hall, Ranpo,” Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “That’s a great way to get us thrown in jail.”

“What about—”

“I met her the other night,” Dazai finally says loudly, too abruptly. He swallows thickly when all eyes turn onto him. His gaze flickers over to Yosano, who looks concerned, and then to Ranpo, who doesn’t look surprised. “Her.”

They all exchange looks with one another, and though Dazai technically knows he is an outsider, the Agency has never made him feel like one before now. He could only imagine what they’re thinking—wondering if he’s going to rat them out to you, wondering if their plan is doomed before they’ve even fully begun. He knows they don’t trust him; they don’t really have much of a reason to, but it still makes his stomach flip. His throat tightens, fingers tensing in his lap as he looks down.

“What do you mean?” Yosano demands after a moment of silence. “She sought you out?”

“No. No,” Dazai says immediately. “She… didn’t even know it was me. It was just by chance.”

“She didn’t know it was you?” Kunikida splutters. “How is that possible—?”

“What happened between you two, Dazai?” Yosano asks quietly, and Dazai’s heart sinks, a lump forming in his throat as he stares down at the table. He knows there’s no getting out of it this time, and he has to brace himself as he decides what to say. “We have to know before doing all of this.”

“She wiped her memories of me. Her and everyone who knew about me. All traces of our—” Dazai cuts himself off, taking in a shuddered breath before exhaling. “That’s not the point. The point is, I know the places she frequents. I can get the information you need if I can get close to her again. I can—”

I can do exactly what I was accused of.

The thought rings through his head too loudly; his stomach churns, remembering the accusations Mori hurled at him and the betrayal on your face. He would be doing exactly what he was accused of. But it’s for the better, right? If he gets close to you, he’ll have a better chance at finding the painting that Repin used to take your memories of him, and if he finds some information to help the Agency, then there’s less of a chance that the military police will be sent in to deal with the Port Mafia and less of a chance that you’ll be caught in the crossfires or targeted yourself.

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa repeats, dismissing Dazai immediately. “You are a civilian. I was against even letting you stay here for mission preparation, but Ranpo insisted on it. We are not sending you into the heart of it.”

“I haven’t been a civilian in a long time, you all know that, and I have the best chance of anyone here,” Dazai argues, sitting up in his seat. He ignores the nausea creeping up his throat. “I know her. I know all the places she likes to go. If one of you tries to do this and gets caught, you’ll be lucky if she kills you. You have no idea what she did to the journalists trying to expose her. But I know her, so—”

“But she doesn’t know you, Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice unusually gentle. “You’ll be at risk.”

“No,” Dazai says, swallowing thickly. His pulse is pounding; he has to blink to clear his vision. “No, she wouldn’t hurt me, she—”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Kunikida says. “She’s boss of the most dangerous mafia in the eastern hemisphere—maybe the world right now. If she figures out that you’re trying to get close to her for information, she’ll kill you just like she would any of us.”

“She won’t,” Dazai insists. He knows it in his heart. Even if you can’t remember him, you’d never hurt him, and it would never get to that point because—“She made sure that her second-in-command kept his memories of me. If things go wrong, I can go to him and he’ll intervene—”

“This is ridiculous.” Kunikida shakes his head, expression twisted in concern. “There are too many holes. It’ll never work. If you get close to her and he notices and realizes what you’re doing, it’ll blow everything up. And there’s no guarantee that he’ll save you if you mess up—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Ranpo says as he sits up in his seat, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he looks down at all of the pictures on the conference table. “Wiping conscious memories might not necessarily affect the subconscious. He’s right—she might not hurt him, might even be blind to his real intentions because her subconscious is at ease with him. And if things do happen to go wrong, he has an extraction plan that has nothing to do with us.”

“And if that extraction plan goes wrong?” Kunikida demands. “There’s no telling it’ll work—we’re betting everything, his life, on a maybe. Just because he thinks the second-in-command of a mafia boss remembers him, how do we know he’ll protect him if things go wrong?”

“Because,” Ranpo says, lips curling up into a smug smirk as he leans forward to look at Dazai, “this whole transition of power happened to keep you safe, didn’t it?”

Dazai stiffens. The weight of Ranpo’s words slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind reels back to the last night he spent with you at the safe house—the resignation on your face, the anguish in your eyes when you realized what had to be done. You made the choice to kill the closest thing you had to a father to protect him.

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

He feels sick so suddenly that he has to physically steady himself by grabbing the arms of his seat. He tells himself again that this is for the best—he needs to get close to you anyway, he needs to find the painting that took away your memories of him because he needs you back, and if the government doesn’t get something, then there’s going to be a military operation in Yokohama that you’ll be at the center of.

Going behind your back to get a few files to incriminate your friend is nothing compared to that.

Right?

“I was trying to figure out what the missing piece was,” Ranpo continues with a grin, looking mighty pleased with himself. “From what I knew about Miss Mafia Princess through Akiko, she never would’ve killed Mori without a reason. It was to protect you—she wiped her memories to not drag you back in, wiped everyone else’s to keep you safe, but let someone she trusted keep their memories to intervene in case she made a mistake somewhere along the way. It was all to keep you safe.”

Dazai gnaws at the inside of his cheek. This is too much for him in one day—seeing you yesterday had been too much, and now this—now working with the Agency, working against you, having all of this brought up again and thrown right in his face—

“I think I should go,” Dazai suddenly says, standing so fast his chair scrapes violently against the floor. “Let me know if you want my help.”

“Dazai—” Yosano starts to call after him, but Dazai is already tunnel-visioned on the door, making his way out of the conference room rapidly.

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats. Dazai pauses, but doesn’t look back. “Do it. Get close to her. See what you can find out.”

Dazai glances over his shoulder. Fukuzawa looks displeased, but Dazai has learned that they seem to know better than to question Ranpo’s decisions, so he’s not entirely surprised when the older man nods in agreement.

Dazai exhales shakily before nodding in return and quickly making his way out of the office. He only gets into the hallway before he’s keeling over, hands on his knees as he breathes in deeply. His head is swimming, his chest is so heavy that he feels like he’s being crushed. He clenches his fists as he tries to push away the nausea rising in his throat, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, but the weight in his chest refuses to lift.

His fingers tremble as he exhales slowly, trying to force the ache into something manageable. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are relentless, whispering accusations in the dark corners of his mind.

Conspiring against you. Doing exactly what he was accused of.

It’s unforgivable.

But it’s for the best, he tries to convince himself desperately. He needs you back, and you need him. Dazai knows it; he could see it in your face just from that brief meeting—you’re lost and lonely, just like him. Despite your betrayal, despite his resentment, despite his desire to hate you, he still loves you. He’ll always love you. He needs to find the painting Repin created that stores your memories of him, so he can destroy it, so you two can have each other again. And he needs to help the Agency find something to get Lippmann out of office, otherwise the military police is going to rain hell down on Yokohama, on you.

It’s for the best.

Dazai presses his knuckles to his lips, biting down on the skin hard enough to hurt, desperate for something to anchor himself, but he’s drowning in memories of you now. The warmth of your skin against his, the way you would gently cradle his face between your hands, the adoration in your eyes as you looked down at him—he needs you back. Everything he’s tried to push away for months crashes onto him at once.

The months of anger and resentment have drained for the time being—all he wants is you, and he’ll do anything to have you back again.

Anything.

--------

The grand chandeliers of the New National Theater glitter like a thousand tiny stars, casting warm, golden light over velvet-lined balconies and the sea of elegantly dressed patrons below. The air is thick with perfume, candle wax, and the hushed anticipation of the evening’s performance. Usually, you wear your suits to your weekly trips to the opera house—you come here for business, not pleasure—but tonight, you’re dressed in a gown.

You move through the crowd easily, your heels clicking against the marble floor. Your executives think that you’re meeting with an informant for intel. You don’t give them specifics. You don’t need to—you’re the boss now. But you give them just enough that they’re not suspicious—that Chuuya’s not suspicious—you don’t need him, of all people, to know who you’re really meeting.

Anticipation curls low in your stomach, fingers twitching in the silk of your gloves. You don’t know what you expect from tonight, but you know what you want, and that’s why you came dressed in your nicest gown and in the color he likes best on you.

You reach the box and pause in front of the heavy velvet curtain. A slow inhale, a careful exhale, and then you push inside.

He’s already here.

Seated in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, Fyodor Dostoevsky looks as unbothered as ever, as if this is simply another night at the opera instead of a meeting between enemies.

“You’re late,” he murmurs when he hears you enter. “The show has almost begun.”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder to assess you, violet eyes widening just a smidge when he sees your attire. His lips curl up into an unreadable smile, something between amusement and curiosity, but he rises to his feet to greet you. He holds out his hand and you place yours in it, breath catching when he bows his head down to brush his lips against your knuckles.

When he lifts his head back up, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, cold despite your gloves. His smile remains in place, but his eyes are as calculated and knowing as ever. In spite of everything, you find yourself enjoying the weekly mind games and power plays that take place between you and Dostoevsky.

“You dressed up for me,” Dostoevsky hums, voice soft as silk, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch that sends a ripple of heat down your spine. “I’m flattered. You look beautiful—I did tell you that red is your color, didn’t I?”

He has said those words to you before—the first time you met him here—but for some reason, your mind draws back to the boy you met at the bar instead. His face flashes through your mind—smiling, eyes warm as he meets yours, which is odd because he didn’t smile at all during your brief encounter with him, and he certainly wasn’t warm; he was angry and bitter about whatever was bothering him.

Weird.

“I dressed for myself,” you reply smoothly before your prolonged silence becomes suspicious. “Though I suppose it’s a happy coincidence.”

His lips curl up into a smirk. “How fortunate for me, then.”

He tugs lightly on your hand, guiding you a step closer. His touch is deceptively gentle, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet command, a reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of.

He’s playing with you. He always is.

You don’t usually entertain it, tonight you do.

You could pull away, but you don’t. You let him guide you forward until your chest nearly brushes his, and you don’t push away his other hand when it comes to rest on your waist.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, eyes lidded and pupils a smidge larger than they should be. “I wonder,” he muses, voice dipping lower, “what it is you truly want from me tonight.”

The question should put you on edge. Instead, it makes the heat spread from your abdomen to your chest, fire coursing through your whole body. You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch and the tension rise between the two of you.

Will you admit it? Or will the two of you spend another evening dancing around what it is you both really want?

He wants you to say it, you know that, but you fear it might cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your enemy still, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on Yokohama. It would not look good if word spread about your meetings with him when it happened, and it could be exactly what he’s plotting to smear your reputation.

“What I always want from you,” you say at last, tilting your chin up. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Information.”

His smile widens, teeth glittering like knives beneath the warm lighting of the opera house, and the thumb on your wrist presses down, just enough for him to feel the steady, rapid beat of your pulse beneath it. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you offer, a lie, and he knows it from the way his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Would that be so strange?”

“Strange?” he echoes, entertained. “Not at all. But terribly dangerous, don’t you think?”

You know what he means. You’ve known from the moment you started these little meetings, these clandestine encounters dressed up as you meeting an informant. You shouldn’t be here, standing so close to him, entertaining whatever this tension is between you. But the thrill of it—of knowing that you shouldn’t and doing it anyway—makes you stay. Gives you something to look forward to when you have nothing.

Dostoevsky leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You intrigue me,” he breathes out. The confession is quiet, meant only for you. “No one plays games with me quite like you do. I enjoy our meetings very much.”

You turn your head to the side just enough that your lips skim his jaw. His throat bobs at your brief touch, and your lips curl up into a pleased smile. You make your decision.

“Or maybe I want something else tonight,” you continue, like he didn’t speak at all, your voice quiet. He turns his face to look at you—you’re so close that your lips almost brush his when you speak, but you don’t let it deter you. “Indulge me?”

His chuckle is soft, and he pulls back just enough to look at you again, violet eyes glinting under the golden light of the chandeliers. He lifts your hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist as the lights of the opera house finally start to dim, signaling the start of tonight’s performance.

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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ln4z · 2 days ago

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but it's the way you smile that does it for me [ 18+ ]

praise, praise, praise, praise!!! team principal!oscar, age gap is not specificed — upto the reader's imagination, mentions of reader having daddy issues

thinking about team principal!oscar know you like the back of his hand. he knows that a pout will form on your lips if the hospitality doesn't have chocolate milk from a particular brand. he knows that you're gonna smile and giggle when he sprays you with champange after winning. he knows that you're gonna sulk about p4. he knows that you sometime get quite after races not because you're tired or upset but because the world was too loud and you need to be in your space.just like now. you won the race, smiled on the podium, giggled exactly the way you do when he sprayed you with champagne. but in your driver's room you were oddly—uncharacteristically quite.

"what's with you?" he says taking the seat on the couch in your driver's room. you already showered and changed into to a brown halter neck top paired with mini white tennis skirt. "what do you mean?" you raised a brow wearing the 81 necklace—the same number he raced for years ago now lies with you. fans think the 81 is for you. but in reality it's about both of you."you're quite." he quipped. "i'm always like that." you continued to pack your suitcase—not sparring a galnce at him. "come here." he said. baffled, when you ignored his call. "i'm talking to you. come here." it was a stricter tone this time. in a tone he knew you would listen. it implied — don't bullshit me right now.

and obviously, obviously you trotted over. letting him place you in lap. his arm immediately snaked behind your bare back like a muscle memory. "talk to me darling, what happened?" and he was back, using the tender tone he always used with you. oscar brushed a strand of your hair out of your face.

"i don't like how the race went." your voice was low—almost ashamed—as you played with the rings on his fingers to avoid eye contact.

"but you won it." he pointed out."i know." you sighed. "but i just don't like how he had to help me to win the race. i can do it in my own." referencing about how 'he' as in your temmate had to put pressure on another driver to stop him from catching up so that you could pull away.

oscar have no idea where—the entire "winning is first place, everything else is loosing" mentality—it comes from. probably from trying to claw your way up into motorsports as a woman. but all he knew was that he had to undo all that mentality etched in you. even if takes all his life.

so his heart breaks a little when you say "i can do it on my own." warm and painfully young doe eyes looking up at him desprate to prove yourself. desperately trying to say, "i am good—please believe me."

"o'my darling." he mumbled against your head. "you don't need to prove that to anyone—specially me." he whispered, voice dipping into something impossibly soft. with your head tucked into the crook of his neck, lips sticky with lip gloss pulled into a pout. oscar could feel the wet faint tacky print near his collarbone. your perfume smelled like trouble—a flirty, powdery floral that always made his head spin.

that damn halter barely holds together behind your neck, the knot sitting pretty just under his jaw as you breathes. and he hates it.no—he loves it.he tilted your chin up with his free hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. "you're a natural on the track, and nothing, not even a little help from your teammate, can change that. you're strong, you're smart, and you're bloody fast. believe in yourself, sweetheart." and that was true. before anything—or anyone—oscar noticed your talent. not your face, your speech, your background, the sway of your hips—nothing, just your pure talent behind the wheel.

"you've earned every bit of that victory," he murmured, his hand sliding down onto your thighs. "you're the one behind the wheel, making the decisions, pushing the car to its limits. no one can take that away from you." he kissed your temple. "and well can you stop moving?" you couldn't help but laugh at his request. "are you really getting horny while trying to comfort me?" you chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. "i'm a man at the end of the day no?" he smirked—somewhat glad that the pout was wiped off of your face.

"can i?" your breath hitched as his hand slipped, under the hem of your skirt. "yeah." you nodded before relaxing into his touch—legs parting slightly. "you know, you earned every inch of that win." he breathed, his voice a low growl. "your skill, your determination—no one can take that away from you." fingers finding the edge of your underwear, tracing the line of them gently, and you shivered in anticipation.

"osc." you whispered as his thumb stroked the sensitive skin. you were wet, and you knew he could feel it. "you're so beautiful when you drive," he said, his voice thick with want. "the way you handle the car, the way you take control . . . it's mesmerizing." his fingers dancing around the your underwear — such a tease, driving you crazy with need.

"you're the best thing that's ever happened to this team" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "and you do it all on your own. you're not just a pretty face, you're the heart of it all." he pushed aside the fabric, his fingertips grazing the slick warmth. you gasped, arching into his touch.

your breathed hitched—eyes closing in pleasure. his fingers moved with purpose. his thumb found your clit and began to circle—his praises a sweet serendae that made your hips rock against his hand. "this is all yours. this team, me—all yours and your only." he murmured, sliding two fingers inside you, feeling you tighten around him. his breath hot against your skin as he watched yor face contort with pleasure.

your moans grew louder—panting more desperate, as his fingers worked their magic. "you're not just a pretty face. you're a champion. and you're all mine." his teeth grazing your earlobe sent shivers down your spine. oscar knew your orgasm was close. the way your hands cluthes his team-branded polo, the way you arched into him, the way your thighs threatened to shut.

oscar added another finger—all three curling into the right places. it was just a matter of time before his hand was stained with your insides and slick. you could feel your orgasm building—the familiar knot tightening in your core. his words, his touch, it all melded into one overwhelming sensation.

"you're so strong and all mine" he murmured, his fingers sliding in and out of you, his thumb pressing rhythmically on your clit. "so, so strong." your breathe grew heavy as your body began to tremble. "come for me, sweetheart. show me how much you've earned it."

and you complied—orgasm crashing over you like a wave, body shuddering in his embrace. you buried your face in his chest, muffling your voices as you rode out the pleasure. as you came down from your high, oscar held you tight, his hand still resting between yout legs. "you're incredible," he murmured, kissing the top of your head. "and get it drilled into that pretty head of yours yeah? because i don't wanna such crap about ever again—specially from you of all people." his tone was stricter now, almost reprimanding.

"osc." you pouted. "can you not use that tone? you remind me of my father." you added. oscar couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of him. "i was so gentle and yet you accuse me of sounding like your father?" a teasing smirk stretched onto his lips. "excuse me! you need to thank him. if it wasn't for him giving me daddy issues i wouldn't be here—all over you." well, you both ended up laughing at your words.

"mhmm, well i suppose i gotta thank him for two things you and your daddy issues." he kissed your forehead. "i didn't get traumatized for you to make fun of me." you shook your head—all in fun zest.

god, all the points, the materialistic lust—everything be dammed as long as he got you in his arms, all smiling, happy & and content.

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cipheress-to-k-pop · 2 days ago

Text

love next door (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 15.9k (UM THESE JUST KEEP GETTING LONGER)

Summary: Your next-door neighbor in a London apartment… Mattheo Riddle? Yeah, didn’t see that coming either.

A/N: yall ik i say this for every fic but honest to god i do not like this fic it was really better in my head i swear😭

credits to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

Most muggleborns spend their lives running toward magic.

After living without it for the first eleven years of their lives, they’re all too eager to lose themselves in a world of spells and enchantments. They trade in double-decker buses and arbitrary chores for castles full of ghosts and a life that feels, at first, like ease. Once you’ve flown a broomstick or charmed a kettle to sing, it’s hard to imagine settling for anything less.

The journey usually only goes one way — from the world of the ordinary to the world of the impossible. Usually.

You moved back to the muggle world shortly after the war ended, wanting to put a great deal of distance between yourself and everything magical. There were a multitude of reasons for that.

To begin with, you wanted to be closer to your family. The war had loomed like a shadow over everything for so long, and when you came so close to losing them, it made you realize just how much you’d taken them for granted. You lived with them in your childhood home for a few months before moving into your own apartment only a few streets over.

Second, you were tired — bone-deep and soul-sick. After witnessing so much destruction, you longed for quiet. The wizarding world, despite its victory, was in a state of chaos. The Ministry was being rebuilt from the ground up, and though they had claimed, with great sympathy, that it was unfair the weight of the world had fallen on such young shoulders, they had no issue asking you — along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione — to serve under Ministry officials and aid in the capture of the remaining Death Eaters.

You had all agreed on one thing: the Ministry was not to be trusted. And with that shared understanding, the four of you parted ways.

Lastly — and most frustratingly — the muggle world was the only place you could escape the insipid reporters who seemed determined to mine every moment of the Golden Quartet’s lives for public consumption. It was another point the four of you agreed on: you wanted no part of the circus.

Now, only your closest friends had your address. Which is why you could only conclude that this was a complete. And utter. Coincidence.

You came home that Tuesday evening with a grocery bag in one hand and your wand tucked safely into your boot. The hallway smelled faintly of burnt toast and lemon-scented floor cleaner, the kind your landlord swore by but never quite masked the damp. You rounded the corner toward your door and stopped short.

There he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in front of the apartment next to yours, two battered suitcases at his feet and a flat key dangling uselessly from his hand.

He looked up at the exact moment you did. His fingers froze on the key. Your hand stilled on the strap of your bag.

And for a long, suspended moment, the two of you just stared.

You hadn’t seen him in years — not since the war — and yet time didn’t seem to matter. Recognition crashed through the hallway like a thunderclap. His curls were longer, face more drawn, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. But it was him. It was undeniably him.

Mattheo Riddle.

In your building.

The silence dragged on until it became unbearable. You were the first to blink.

"...Hi." You said, a little breathless, a little stunned.

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you like he was trying to convince himself you weren’t real. You couldn’t blame him.

"...You."

You raised a brow, "Me."

A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost unsure, "I didn’t know you lived here."

You shifted your groceries in your arms, "I didn’t know you lived here."

Another beat passed, longer this time. The key in his hand twitched like he’d forgotten it was there.

"I don’t," He said finally, "I mean… I just got the place."

You glanced at the door behind him — your door. The one you’d walked through a hundred times without incident. Now it felt like the threshold to something else entirely.

"Next door, huh?" You said, voice light but heart thudding.

He nodded, "Yeah. Lucky me."

You couldn’t tell if he meant it sarcastically, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

There was another pause. Not uncomfortable exactly — just thick with the weight of everything unspoken. You cleared your throat and stepped toward your own door, shifting your keys into your hand.

"Well," You said, half-turning toward him, "If you need help with anything, you know where to find me."

Mattheo blinked, like he hadn’t expected that — kindness, or maybe familiarity. Something flickered behind his eyes. He nodded.

"...Thanks." He said quietly.

You gave him a small nod before unlocking your door and slipping inside, heart hammering as you leaned against the back of it.

Mattheo Riddle. Living next door. You hadn't even unpacked your milk yet, and already the past was knocking.

The morning started like most others — quiet, a little rushed. You always managed to convince yourself you'd dress plain or skip makeup, severely underestimating how long it actually took to get ready. The apartment was practically hell to walk around in — you liked to sleep with the air conditioner blasting, which made getting out of bed feel like leaving heaven. You locked your door with one hand and slung your bag over your shoulder with the other, moving on instinct, drinking down a yogurt smoothie.

The building was still waking up — murmurs behind closed doors, the distant clink of pipes, a cat meowing two floors down. You padded down the stairs toward the lobby, head bowed slightly as you adjusted your coat, not expecting anyone to be around.

But then the front door swung open, and Mattheo Riddle stepped inside.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hoodie was tied around his waist, leaving him in nothing but joggers and a damp black T-shirt clinging to his chest. His curls stuck to his forehead, chest still heaving from the run.

And then — he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up to wipe the sweat from his face.

You froze mid-step.

Because, well. There were abs. Sharp, defined, very real abs. The kind you’d only read about in romance novels or seen in movies — not the kind you expected to run into before 8 a.m. The curve of his ribs, the sharp V of his hips, the abs that could definitely grate cheese, the faint scars vanishing beneath the waistband of his joggers — you saw all of it, burned into your retinas before you could blink it away.

And then he saw you.

His eyes widened, and the shirt dropped instantly back into place.

"Oh." He said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

"Morning." You said, trying your best to sound noncommittal.

"Morning." He said, a bit too quickly.

He glanced toward the door like he might bolt.

Instead, he stepped aside and held it open for you.

"Thanks." You said, quietly.

He nodded, still flustered, eyes flicking down then back up like he wasn’t sure where to look.

You stepped into the sunlight and crossed the lot toward your car, trying hard not to think about the abs. Not to think about the sweat. Not to think about the way your heart had momentarily leapt into your throat like it had no business being there.

God, you were such a teenager sometimes.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

You grabbed the mail like you always did — a quick swipe from the box in the lobby before you headed back upstairs. Most days it was bills, junk flyers, brochures. Nothing worth more than a glance.

But tonight, when you finally dumped the envelopes onto your kitchen counter, your fingers froze.

There, on top of the usual clutter, was a single letter that didn’t belong.

The paper was thick and creamy, the kind that whispered wealth and importance. The edges were hand-cut, the ink flowed in perfect, curling calligraphy, and the wax seal stamped firmly with the unmistakable Malfoy family crest glinted in the kitchen light.

You didn’t have to open it to know who it was for.

Your address was written there, clearly a mistake, but following it was the name Mattheo Riddle. Your fingers traced over the letters without realizing.

You stared at it, thumb brushing over the smooth paper as a knot twisted in your stomach.

Do you knock on his door? Drop it in the mail slot and pretend it was an accident? It felt like less work to just walk over and hand it to him — and honestly, less weird.

You grabbed your coat and stepped out, the letter folded carefully in your hand.

When you reached his door, your knuckles hovered for a moment before you finally rapped softly.

The door opened a crack almost immediately.

He was surprised to see you. Actually, it seemed like he wasn’t expecting any guests, considering the way he was clutching his wand with a grip that almost turned his knuckles white at his side. You tried not to hold it against him. After all, you had been exactly the same during the first couple months of living there. You had cast protection charms and wards over your parents’ house like a crazy lady. Even the slightest noise woke you, and you’d wake up in a cold sweat each night.

However, you definitely felt better the second he noticed it was you — the tension melted from his body.

You held out the letter, voice low.

“It was in my mail. Thought you should have it.”

He blinked, taking it with a slow nod.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

You hesitated, then added, “Accident, I swear.”

He gave a small, dry chuckle.

“Don’t worry.” He said, lifting his eyes from the letter and back to you, "Thank you."

The door shut softly.

It happened three nights later.

You were curled up on the couch in mismatched pajamas, hoodie half-zipped and a blanket tangled around your legs. A sitcom rerun flickered on the TV, but you weren’t really watching — just letting it hum in the background while your tea cooled on the coffee table.

Then came the knock.

You paused mid-sip.

Another knock. Gentle, hesitant. Like whoever it was had seriously debated whether to even bother.

You padded to the door and opened it — just a crack — and, of course, there he was.

Mattheo.

Hair a mess in a way that still looked unfairly attractive, a tight compression shirt that honestly made you embarrassed on behalf of all womankind, and a bashful-but-trying-hard-to-look-nonchalant expression on his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched, like he didn’t want to be there but had talked himself into it anyway.

"…Hey." He said, voice low, like it felt too loud in your quiet hallway.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised, "Hey."

"I, um…" He shifted awkwardly. One foot stepped back, then forward again, like he couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. It was incredibly unlike him, to the point that it made you concerned, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure?" You said, cautiously.

A pause. He looked genuinely tortured.

Then, finally:

"How do I use the microwave?"

You stared at him.

He rushed to add, "I asked the landlord. I swear I did. There’s just… so many buttons. I don’t know what half of them do. This is the fifth time this week my meal is half cold and half hot and I don’t know what else to do because every time I use magic in that damned apartment, all the other technology freaks the fuck out."

You blinked.

That was… the most you’d ever heard him speak.

And not just speak — ramble. Rushed and impulsive, words tumbling out too fast for him to rein in. It felt squirrelly in a way that didn’t fit the boy you remembered from school. Back then, he always had that cocky, relaxed smile, the one that lingered too long and made people nervous. When it wasn’t that, it was fury — sharp and volatile. You’d seen enough of both expressions to find this new one strange.

A part of you almost felt bad. Clearly, the Muggle world wasn’t treating him kindly. And the fact that he was asking you for help — considering how often your friends used to butt heads with his back at Hogwarts — well. That had to sting his pride.

Still, you’d both been on the same side by the end of the war. So you supposed you could let bygones be bygones.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

You failed.

"Sorry," You said, half behind your hand, "It’s just—"

"No, no, go ahead." He said, dryly.

That only made it worse.

You opened the door wider, grabbing your keys and forgoing slippers since you were just walking a few feet to his place anyway, still smiling, "Alright. Lemme see."

His apartment looked almost identical to yours — same layout, same creaky floorboard just inside the threshold — but it felt different. Dimmer. Colder. Like someone was borrowing the space rather than living in it.

The walls were bare, not a single photo or poster in sight. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and something herbal, like spellwork left to linger. A wand lay carelessly on the coffee table, half-tucked beneath a rolled-up Daily Prophet. Books and scrolls were stacked beside it in frighteningly neat piles, next to a tea mug that had clearly gone cold.

You followed him into the kitchen, where the microwave sat perched on the counter like an unwanted guest.

“So,” You said, stuffing your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, “What are we microwaving?”

He reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a sad-looking cup of ramen. The cheap kind. The kind your dad used to stress about every time he caught you eating it — full of sodium, he'd complain, and then buy you another six-pack the next week because he knew you liked the chicken flavor.

“This.” he said, like it was obvious.

You stared at the cup. Then at him. Then back at the cup.

“…You know you’re supposed to make the water hot first before putting the noodles in, right?”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused, “...Am I?”

You stepped forward, peeled back the foil lid with practiced fingers, and pointed at the fine print along the rim.

“The instructions are written right here.”

“They’re in Korean.” He muttered.

You paused. Then looked down. Then back at him.

“…Right.”

“I don’t know how to translate it without using a spell.”

You tilted your head, “Can’t you use your phone?”

He went quiet, eyes drifting away — not defensive, just… quiet. You immediately regretted the question. Of course he couldn’t. The man barely knew how to use a microwave. What were you expecting?

You looked back down at the sad little noodle cup, steam starting to curl from under the foil lid. Then around his kitchen — barren shelves, a half-stocked fridge, one lonely fork sitting in the drying rack like it had never been part of a set.

“Is this what you’ve been eating all week?” You asked slowly, “Badly cooked noodles?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t exactly the answer… but also kind of was.

“They’re not that bad.” He said, avoiding your eyes.

He was still quiet.

“If you’re gonna live off this stuff,” You said, softer now, “You should at least dress it up a little. Toss in an egg. Use bone broth instead of water. Add some greens. Carrots, spinach. Leftover meat, if you’ve got it.”

He tilted his head, brows drawing together slightly like you’d just introduced him to an entirely new concept.

“Right,” He said, “Of course. Bone broth.”

You squinted at him, “Have you… eaten anything not made in this cup since you moved in?”

He hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

You sighed, slow and through your nose, gaze drifting back to the microwave, then to him.

You shouldn’t push.

You knew that.

He hadn’t let you in for tea. He hadn’t sat you down and started talking about his life. He’d asked for help with one tiny thing — and even that probably took more effort than he’d admit. If you offered more… would he take it badly? Would he realize he’d already slipped up just by letting you in this far? Would he shut down, retreat, snap the door shut like none of this ever happened?

Maybe. Probably.

You wouldn’t risk it.

But gods, when you looked at that flavorless brick of noodles, and the silence that filled his apartment like a second layer of drywall, and that one fork drying on its own…

You just couldn’t help but feel bad.

“Next time you’re at the store,” You started, then paused — glanced again at the sad little cup on the counter, then back at him.

Actually… screw it.

“…Forget that,” You said instead, keeping your voice light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, “I’ve got some stuff in my fridge. Eggs, some spinach, maybe a little leftover rotisserie chicken. Won’t take long.”

He looked at you. Not startled, exactly — but something flickered behind his eyes, like he hadn’t expected the offer. Like he wasn’t sure why you’d make it. Like maybe he didn’t think he deserved it.

“You don’t have to do that.” He said quickly, but it didn’t come out sharp. Just automatic. Defensive, out of habit.

You shrugged, already halfway to the door.

“Just give me a sec,” You said, throwing him a quick smile, “Stay here. Don’t burn the noodles.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t stop you, either.

And that, you figured, was enough.

You came back five minutes later, juggling a small pot containing a couple of eggs, a container of broth, a Ziploc bag of spinach, and a pair of chopsticks you’d swiped from your drawer on the way out. The pot knocked softly against your knee as you nudged the door open with your elbow.

Mattheo blinked at you from the kitchen, clearly still not convinced this was real.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” He said, stepping aside as you brushed past him.

“I know,” You said breezily, already unloading your arms onto the counter, “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He opened his mouth — probably to protest again — but you cut him off with a look. Not sharp, just firm.

“I’m not trying to invade your kitchen or anything,” You added, fiddling with the pot lid, “But that sad little cup deserves better. And you kind of looked like you were about to eat it dry.”

“I wasn’t.” He muttered.

You filled the pot with the bone broth and placed it on the stove, clicking the burner on with practiced ease, "Mm-hm.”

He exhaled a short, reluctant laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’re really doing this?”

“If it helps, I’m not being nice,” You said, half-smiling, “I haven’t eaten dinner yet. So if you want to make it fair, give me a bowl too.”

That caught him off guard. He paused, then nodded once, slow and quiet.

“…Alright. Deal.”

You tried not to smile too much as he handed you another cup of ramen from the cabinet. It was chipped at the rim and slightly too small, but it would do. You emptied both noodle cakes into the pot, swapped the water for broth, and got to work, talking him through it as casually as you could.

“You wanna add the spinach last,” You explained, stirring gently, “It cooks fast. And I like cracking the egg straight in — makes the broth thicker. But if you’d rather boil it on the side and slice it, that works too.”

He watched you carefully — not just your hands, but your face, your posture, the way you moved around like you weren’t nervous to take up space in his kitchen. Like you belonged. Like you didn’t find this strange at all.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked quietly.

You looked up from the pot, letting the corner of your mouth tug up just slightly.

“Because,” You said, “I’m very hungry.”

That earned a real smile. Small. Barely there. But real.

“…Thanks.” He said after a beat.

You shrugged, “Don’t thank me till you taste it.”

When you finally passed him a bowl — warm, fragrant, with steam curling gently over the rim — he stared at it like it was more than just dinner. Like it meant something. Like maybe you did.

You sat beside him at the small kitchen table, your shoulder brushing his for a moment before you settled back.

Not quite friends. Not yet. But maybe something was beginning.

You stood in front of his door again, two days later, staring at the worn wood like it might open on its own and save you the trouble.

In your hands was a small Tupperware container — the clear kind, fogged at the edges from the warmth still trapped inside. A generous slice of cake sat inside, a little dented from the walk up and decorated with frankly ridiculous neon frosting. The plastic lid was smudged with your fingerprints from how tightly you’d been gripping it, like maybe it would give you some courage if you just held on long enough.

You’d already knocked three times in your head. Once with your actual hand. And still — no follow-through.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, mumbling under your breath like a lunatic, “Okay, just leave it at the door, ring the bell, run. Not that serious. Not weird. It’s cake. Everyone likes cake. It’s not a big deal. You’re not weird. This is normal. People bring food to people. People are nice. You’re being nice.”

Your fingers twitched toward the doorbell again — and then froze halfway.

“…Unless it’s weird. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe—”

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. Hard.

The container nearly slipped from your hands as you turned — and there he was. Mattheo. Just a few feet away, keys in hand, dark curls a little damp like he’d just come in from the rain. His brows were pulled slightly together, his voice caught somewhere between confusion and caution.

Not quite hostile. But not welcoming either.

“Oh—hi,” You said, voice a little too high, a little too bright, “I was just…”

He looked at you. Then at the Tupperware. Then back again.

You cleared your throat and held the container out between you like it might protect you both from what you weren’t saying. A peace offering. A bribe. A white flag covered in blue frosting.

“I thought you might like this.” You said, trying your best to sound casual, “It’s… cake.”

He didn’t take it.

His expression shifted — cooled, hardened, like a door slamming shut behind his eyes. His voice dropped, quiet and clipped.

“You don’t have to pity me.”

The words landed like a slap.

You blinked, “What?”

“I’m not some sad project,” He said, jaw tight, “You don’t have to keep showing up like this. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your charity.”

It hit you then — not just what he said, but what he meant.

The defensiveness wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about the way he saw himself. The walls he'd spent years building around the idea that maybe he didn't deserve care. That if someone reached for him, they must want something in return — or worse, they must be trying to fix him. To mold him into something less complicated. Less dark. Less him.

You didn’t look away.

Your voice dropped to something softer. Something honest.

“Mattheo… it’s just cake. There are no strings.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. Like he was trying to see through the frosting to the catch hidden underneath. You held his gaze anyway.

“I got it from work.” You added, gentler now, “And I don’t like eating dessert alone.”

That gave him pause. A flicker of something — uncertainty, maybe — passed across his face.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet sigh, brushing past you to the door.

“…Alright.” He muttered, unlocking it, “Fine. Come in.”

You followed him inside, your heart thudding in your chest like you’d just sprinted through a battlefield and not… offered someone cake.

The apartment was exactly as you remembered. Same dim lighting. Same scuffed floors. Same silence that felt like it had weight. You stepped into the small kitchen, placed the container gently on the table like it was something fragile, and cracked the lid open with a soft pop.

Blue frosting beamed up at you — cheerful and absurd — despite the fact that the image was slightly smushed from the walk. The cartoon dog grinning from the top of the cake looked like it had just burst into song, paws raised in eternal celebration.

Mattheo squinted at it like it was a piece of contemporary art meant to make him think deeper.

“…The fuck is that?”

You grinned, “That would be a talking dingo.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

You gestured to the cake, “From this Australian cartoon called Bluey. The kids are obsessed.”

His expression didn’t change, “You got this from… kids?”

“I work at a kindergarten/” You said, already crossing to the drying rack and pulling out two mismatched forks like you lived there, “One of the kids had a birthday today. He got Bluey — obviously. This is the leftover slice of Bluey’s mom. Or aunt. Or whatever. She didn’t make the cut.”

Mattheo blinked at you like you’d just casually confessed to smuggling illegal potions across the border.

“You work with children?”

“Yup.”

“…Why?”

You snorted, handing him a fork, “Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” He said, catching the fork with a nod of thanks, “I just— You could’ve done anything. Back at Hogwarts, you talked about becoming an Auror, didn’t you? Top of the class in Defense. You could’ve had your pick of the Ministry. What changed?”

Your smile faltered.

Your gaze lowered to the cake, the blue frosting suddenly too bright.

“A lot has changed, Mattheo.” You said quietly.

When you looked up again, your eyes met his — and something passed between you. Something that had the magic that was interwoven through every single fiber of his body begin to vibrate and reach for you.

It was lonely in muggle London. Finally, he had someone who understood. The war. The fallout. The ache in your bones that hadn’t quite gone away.

“You know that better than anyone.”

There was a moment where he looked at you differently. Like he was seeing you again for the first time. Not as the student he used to know. Not as his overly hospitable neighbour. But as someone scarred and soft in all the same places he was.

You didn’t touch him. But part of you wanted to. Wanted to reach across the space between you and tell him about yourself. Tell him everything.

Instead, you shrugged, trying to find your voice again.

“I’m not really qualified or anything.” You said, softer now, “But my mum used to teach there. She still has some connections. Put in a good word for me when I needed work. And apparently my talent for counter-curses means nothing next to my ability to recite Five Little Ducks from memory.”

He huffed out a laugh — quiet and unexpected — through his nose. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

You sat together at the small kitchen table, forks in hand, slowly dismantling the slice of cake like it might bite back. You felt a small pang of guilt as Bluey’s mom lost her frosted ears — may she rest in peace — but if there was one thing you’d learned about toddler birthday cakes, it was that they were criminally delicious.

Mattheo didn’t say much. Just watched you with careful eyes, taking small, cautious bites like he wasn’t used to sharing anything — not food, not silence, not company.

You didn’t fill the quiet. You let it settle.

It was nearly two in the morning when you heard it.

A dull thud, followed by the sharp crack of something hitting the floor — hard. Then silence. Then a low, ragged sound that didn’t sound like words at all.

You sat up in bed, heart already pounding.

Your apartment was quiet, cloaked in darkness and long, familiar shadows — but the noise hadn’t come from within your own space.

It had come from next door.

From Mattheo’s.

You hesitated, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath your bare feet. You waited, listening, willing the silence to stay. But then it came again.

A heavy scrape. A crash. The sound of something shattering.

You didn’t think. You just grabbed your wand.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in the weak amber glow of the sconces that never quite worked right. His door was slightly ajar. Not wide — but not locked, either.

You raised your hand, knuckles grazing the wood.

“Mattheo?” You called softly.

No answer.

“Mattheo, it’s me—are you okay?”

Still nothing. Just the same jagged, uneven breathing. Fast. Erratic. Distant.

You glanced down at the doorknob.

“Alohomora.” You whispered, tapping the brass with the tip of your wand.

The latch clicked open.

You stepped inside quietly, careful not to make too much noise. The apartment was dark, save for the silver wash of streetlight spilling through the blinds. The glow cut harsh lines across the floor and furniture, shadow and light slicing the room in half.

And there — crouched beside the overturned coffee table — was Mattheo.

His back was to you. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. His shoulders trembled with barely-contained tension. A mug lay shattered nearby, and his wand was discarded, half-buried under a scattered pile of scrolls. His hands were tangled in his hair, gripping at his scalp like he was trying to hold something in — or hold something out.

He didn’t see you come in.

“Hey,” You said gently, not stepping closer, “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

No response.

His whole body was wound tight, like a live wire — still in the middle of something he hadn’t escaped yet. Like he’d fallen asleep on a battlefield and hadn’t managed to wake up.

You didn’t cross the room. Not yet.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” You added, softer, “I just… heard something. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly — like he was dragging himself back into his body inch by inch — Mattheo turned his head.

His eyes met yours.

At first, they were wild. Unfocused. Distant. Then came recognition — flickering and faint. And then, quickly after, the crash of shame.

He looked away.

“Shit,” He muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m fine. It’s fine. Sorry to wake you. You should go back.”

But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward — quietly, carefully — crouching just far enough away not to crowd him, but close enough to be within reach.

“Are you alright?” You asked, voice calm and low, “Were you asleep?”

He let out a bitter laugh — short and flat, “That wasn’t sleep.”

You waited.

His hands had fallen to his lap. You could see now that his knuckles were raw and red, scraped open from something — maybe the wall, maybe the floor, maybe just the way he fought his own mind.

You nodded toward the couch, “Do you want to sit down?”

He didn’t answer, but after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet. Stiff. Tired. Like his body had only just realized it could stop fighting.

You followed him.

He collapsed onto the cushions like his bones had turned to dust. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, not offering false comfort.

Just… there.

He dragged a hand down his face. Then again. Then let it fall, limp, into his lap.

“It’s not a big deal,” He muttered, “It happens. Has for years.”

You looked at him.

“I know,” You said quietly, “I get them too.”

He stilled.

His eyes flicked to you — surprised. Like he hadn’t expected that from you. Like he couldn’t quite picture it.

“Still doesn’t make it less shitty.” You added.

He let out a sound — half a breath, half a scoff. Not quite a laugh. But not nothing.

“I hate it,” He said, barely above a whisper, “I wake up and it’s like I’m still there. Like it never ended. The smoke, the screaming — I know it’s not real, but my body doesn’t. It reacts. It always reacts.”

He swallowed.

“It’s not even always the same dream. Sometimes it’s the castle. Sometimes it’s… worse. Places I don’t talk about. Places I’ve never told anyone about.”

His voice cracked at the end. You didn’t flinch.

You just curled your knees beneath you, watching your fingers.

“My first week here,” You said softly, “I didn’t sleep at all. I warded the apartment every night. Then I’d wake up at three in the morning and run to my parents’ house just to check their wards. I think I cast every protection charm in existence. I was so convinced… if I let my guard down, even for a second…”

You trailed off. The silence filled in the rest.

Mattheo stared at you. Not in judgment. Just… listening. Like he couldn’t believe someone else carried the same weight.

You — the girl from the Golden Quartet. The one who helped end it. Who came back. Who rebuilt.

But not unscathed.

He remembered what Bellatrix had done to you. What you’d endured. What you’d lost.

And he thought — maybe for the first time — that you’d suffered just as deeply. That you understood.

You glanced up at him again. He didn’t look away.

“Do you want me to set up a few wards?” You asked, “They won’t fix anything, but they help. And I can teach you how to maintain them. Though,” You added with a tired smile, “it’ll probably be harder for me to break in next time.”

That got the faintest twitch of his mouth.

Almost a smile. Almost.

Another long pause.

Then—

“…Just stay.”

The words were barely there. Soft. Uncertain.

But they were enough.

You nodded.

So you stayed.

The silence between you changed — not heavy anymore. Just quiet. Settling.

He leaned back against the cushions, body slowly unwinding, like his nervous system was finally catching up to the fact that he was safe. His eyes drifted halfway shut, breath finally starting to even out.

Eventually, his fingers brushed yours — faint, hesitant, barely even a touch.

You didn’t move.

And neither did he.

Mattheo had come down to check his mailbox like he always did on Saturday mornings—hood up, hair messy, hoodie zipped to his chin—when a voice stopped him mid-turn.

“Flat 2A, yeah?”

He looked up. There was a man squinting at the mailboxes, arms full of grocery bags, car keys dangling from his pinky. He looked vaguely familiar.

“…Yeah?” Mattheo said carefully.

The man nodded to the box beside his, “My daughter’s next door. Flat 2B.”

Mattheo straightened slightly, “Right. You must be Mr. (L/N).”

“You know her?”

“We went to school together,” Mattheo replied, keeping it vague in the safest way possible.

Mr. (L/N) gave him a long, assessing look—longer than was comfortable—then smiled, like he’d just figured something out.

“So you’re special. Like her.”

Mattheo froze, “…Sorry?”

“You know,” The man waved a hand loosely, “special. One of them. Don’t worry—I’ve known for years. Her mum cried when the letter came. I built her a wand stand once. Terrible thing. Lopsided.”

Mattheo blinked. Once. Twice.

Before he could plan an escape—

“Be a good lad,” Your father said cheerfully, already turning toward the exit, “and help me bring these upstairs. (Y/N)’s mum went overboard at the farmer’s market again. Wouldn’t be surprised if we had half of Surrey in the boot.”

“…What?”

“Come give us a hand, will you? These boxes aren’t gonna levitate themselves—ha! Kidding. Muggle joke. Don’t tell your lot I made it.”

Mattheo stood there, stunned, until your dad clapped him on the back like they were old mates, “You’ve got good arms. We’ll be done in no time.”

And then, without ceremony, your dad looped an arm through his and dragged him outside.

“So what do you do, son?” Your dad asked as they hauled bags back up the building stairs.

“Uh… I’m not really doing anything right now.”

“That’s what your twenties are for! Finding yourself. I worked two jobs at your age. One time, my mate Gary and I—ah, Gary, poor bastard, divorced now—anyway, we moved an entire washing machine up six flights with nothing but a strap and willpower.”

Mattheo, sweating slightly, nodded, “…Right.”

“Builds character.” Your dad said, with the authority of someone who’s definitely broken a toe doing that. Then, after a beat, “You know, life’s a lot like grocery shopping.”

Mattheo glanced down at the bag digging into his arm, “Is it.”

“You can make a list, plan every aisle, but there’s always something missing when you get home.”

“…Profound.”

“Exactly! You’re a good listener. Ever think about dating my daughter?”

Mattheo nearly dropped the watermelon.

“What?!”

“I’m just saying,” Your dad shrugged, utterly unbothered, “you’ve got kind eyes and steady hands. Plus you said you went to school together. Shared history’s a good foundation.”

You were halfway through folding laundry when the front door opened. You turned just in time to see your father stroll in, humming cheerfully—followed by Mattheo, who looked like he’d been inducted into a cult against his will.

You blinked, “What—? What is going on? Why is he here?”

“Hi.” Mattheo said, his voice flat with disbelief.

“He helped me carry the groceries,” Your dad said proudly, unloading bags onto the counter, “Nice boy. Good biceps.”

“…What?”

“Anyway,” Your dad continued, turning back to Mattheo, “You’re coming for dinner, obviously. I’ll ask her mum to make the lasagna. The lasagna. The one she makes when she likes someone.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Mattheo started, clearly panicked, but your dad was already on his phone. “She’ll be thrilled. You like cheese, don’t you?”

Mattheo looked at you helplessly. You just raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like cheese?”

“…I mean, yeah?”

“There you go.” Your dad clapped him on the back again, then started pushing jars toward him, “You should take some of these groceries, son. A growing boy needs nutrients.”

Your dad was saying, completely in earnest now as he sorted bags by category on your kitchen counter, “You eat enough protein? You look like you work out. What’s your egg intake?”

Mattheo opened his mouth, then shut it again. He glanced at you like please save me.

You looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Dad,” You said slowly, like approaching a landmine, “What is happening right now?”

“Nothing’s happening, sweetheart,” He said innocently, stacking apples with the precision of a man who’d definitely done this before, “Just making conversation. Mattheo here’s a lovely young man.”

“You’ve known him for twenty minutes.”

“And already I’ve seen enough. Polite, helpful, didn’t even grumble once when I handed him a forty-pound watermelon.”

Mattheo spoke up in a way that was far too timid for him, “I—kind of grumbled.”

“See?” Your dad grinned like he’d just won the lottery, “Humble, too. I want a son-in-law like that.”

“Dad!” You exclaimed, mortified.

Mattheo shifted awkwardly, cheeks flushed, feeling like he’d accidentally walked into a reality show.

“What? I’m not saying I want Mattheo to be my son-in-law, I’m saying I wouldn’t mind if I had a son-in-law like Mattheo. Two completely separate things, my dear.” Your dad said with mock innocence, flouncing around the room as he put away groceries, but kept two of everything right there on the counter instead of where they belonged.

“Now Mattheo, do you like red wine or white? I’ll make sure to have a bottle stocked for you when you come over.”

“Come over?” You echoed, cheeks heating up.

“Of course! He’s coming over for dinner tonight, are you not?”

Mattheo swallowed, clearly overwhelmed but trying to hide it behind a thin smile.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Mattheo said quickly, forcing a polite smile, “I was planning to meet my friends tonight.” A lie. A very hopeful lie.

Your dad didn’t miss a beat. “Then bring your friends as well! Oh, we’ll have a jolly good time—all these blokes under one roof. I’ll ask (Y/N)’s brother to bring a pack of beers, something to liven the old boys up.” He exclaimed, practically floating around the kitchen like a whirlwind of enthusiasm.

“Dad!” You finally exclaimed, trying to snap him out of his party-planning trance.

He stopped and turned, eyes twinkling as he looked at Mattheo’s uncomfortable face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” He said, voice suddenly gentle, “Do you not drink? Very good habit, you know.”

Mattheo swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“That’s okay,” Your dad went on, waving it off like it was no big deal, “My wife would much prefer a boy with good habits for our (Y/N), anyway.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “Dad, please. Stop.”

Finally done messing about your kitchen, your dad began loading the pairs of items he’d left on the counter into one of the grocery boxes.

“There you go, son,” He said, handing the box to Mattheo with a warm, steady smile, “This should keep your fridge stocked for at least another week or two. If you don’t know what to do with any of it, just run down to my house. I’d be happy to whip up something for you to eat.”

Mattheo stared at the carton of food in his hands.

No one had ever offered him that before. Not like this. Not so openly, so simply, so… abundantly. His own father had been a distant shadow in his memories, a figure he’d learned to avoid rather than seek. There was no warmth, no easy kindness like this.

For a moment, something twisted quietly inside Mattheo — a mix of jealousy and something else, something heavier he didn’t quite want to name. You’d grown up with a dad who knew how to care, who showed it. He had thought once that having Muggle parents was the worst thing in the world, but now, holding that box, surrounded by your dad’s easy affection, he wasn’t so sure.

He looked up, meeting your dad’s hopeful gaze.

“Okay,” Mattheo said quietly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’ll come for dinner.”

Your dad’s grin widened, and you felt a little flutter in your chest as the moment settled between all of you—unexpected, but maybe exactly what was needed.

After what felt like hours of your dad chatting nonstop, finally, he was out the door, humming some old tune as he disappeared down the hallway. You shut the door behind him and let out a long breath, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

Turning to Mattheo, you ran a hand through your hair nervously. “I’m really sorry about him,” You said quickly, eyes darting away, “He can be... a lot. You don’t have to come for dinner, honestly. He was just being nice—he does that with pretty much everyone, like some sort of overly friendly hostage negotiator.”

Mattheo shifted his weight, his expression unreadable but somehow softer than usual. “I’m aware.” He said dryly, voice calm and measured, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You bit your lip, “Still, I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I know it’s kind of sudden and probably... weird.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you caught a flicker in his eyes — something quieter, warmer, even if his face didn’t fully show it. “I don’t mind,” He said simply, voice low, “It’s… nice to be invited.”

You blinked, surprised, “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, “It’s rare. People don’t do that for me.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretches with unspoken things, and you realized that beneath all that aloofness, he wanted something like this. Something normal. Something warm.

You smiled gently, “Well, then. Dinner it is. And maybe next time you can teach my dad a thing or two about being subtle.”

Mattheo’s smirk finally turned into a half-smile, “Maybe.”

You felt your heart loosen just a bit, the awkwardness fading into something quieter, something real.

The hallway was still warm from dinner. You walked beside Mattheo, both of you quiet in that way people get after a full meal and too many emotions — like the silence itself had thickened into something gentle.

He had leftovers tucked under one arm, the lasagna carefully packed in a Tupperware with foil pressed down like your mum had sworn it would keep the flavour in, darling. He hadn’t said much since your dad’s final clap on the back and his booming, “Any friend of hers is a friend of mine, son!”

At his door, Mattheo hesitated, keys caught between his fingers.

You glanced at him.

He looked down at the container in his arms like it had grown heavier somehow, then back at you.

“…Your mum’s nice.”

You huffed a laugh, “Don’t get attached. She’s married to my dad.”

That pulled something from him — not one of those breathy, polite almost-laughs he gave people when they said something mildly amusing, but something real. Low and rough, surprised out of him like it had caught him off guard.

He shook his head, still smiling faintly, “Too bad.”

“She’s way out of your league, Riddle.” You replied easily.

“Speak for yourself — she’s the one who was trying to get me out of my pants.”

You choked, “Because she said you looked like you’d tripped over a kerb!”

“These,” He said, tugging lightly at the rip near his knee, “are meant to look like this.”

“There’s no harm in admitting you’re a bit clumsy, Matty.”

He let out a quiet snort, but still didn’t unlock the door. There was something tentative in the way he stood — like stepping inside would be an end to something soft he hadn’t realised he’d needed. Like he was holding on to the aftertaste of lasagna and warmth and your parents' terrible stories, trying to memorise what it felt like to belong.

The whole night, he hadn't felt like an outsider — not even like a guest. He’d just been there, part of the chaos. He’d argued with your brother over Quidditch stats, held up bits of your dad’s entertainment system while he hammered in the nails, and endured your mum fussing with the tear in his jeans. You’d realised halfway through that you could’ve used your wand to float the whole thing into place — but with Mattheo’s biceps straining against his sleeves, you’d decided to keep that to yourself.

Even now, you didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Finally, after a long pause, he shifted the Tupperware under one arm and turned the key, nudging the door open — but still not stepping through.

Then, like he hadn’t been debating it the entire walk up the stairs, he asked, casual as anything, “You wanna come in?”

You blinked, “Now?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of how the question had landed. “For a cuppa.” He added quickly. His voice cracked a little under the forced lightness.

You raised a brow, “Weren’t you just whining all the way up the stairs that you were too full to breathe?”

“It’s tea,” He said, trying for deadpan and failing miserably, “There’s always room for tea.”

You smiled softly, stepping past him into the familiar dimness of his flat, “I’d like that.”

He held the door a little longer to let you through — the smallest gesture, but deliberate. Inside, the flat smelled like warm laundry and whatever incense he’d been burning earlier — something herbal and clean that softened the edges of the silence.

You settled into the sofa, hands curled around a steaming mug. He passed you the sugar silently, like he already knew how you liked it.

“We have dinners like that every other week,” You said, voice low, relaxed, “You should come next time.”

Predictably, he started to refuse, “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose—”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His face had changed since the war. Thinner, maybe. Older in the eyes. But steadier, too. Calmer. There were fewer sharp edges — and maybe that was good. Maybe growing up had done what time always promises to do: carved the pain into shape.

Still, something tugged at your chest.

You both had grown up too fast. Lost too much, too young. Your rebellious teen years had disappeared the second you realised just how quickly your family could be taken from you. You’d watched people like Harry — and Mattheo — walk through fire alone, and you’d never forgotten it.

The war was brutal. There were nights when survival felt like a punishment, not a gift. But sometimes — like tonight — you caught a glimpse of who you’d become, and thought maybe it had made you into someone good.

You looked at Mattheo, still fiddling with the teabag in his mug like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, and wondered if he felt the same about himself.

He had been impulsive, emotional, too quick to lash out. And now? Now he was quieter. Softer around the edges. But part of you missed the fire in him — the cocky confidence, the recklessness. The way he used to speak like the whole world should listen.

You came out of the war a hero.

He came out as the son of the world’s greatest villain.

You had a family who loved you. Who accepted your world and stitched it into their own.

He had parents who only cared how he could serve theirs.

And despite everything — despite the fact that you were perhaps one of the only people alive who truly understood — you hadn’t lived equal lives. You had a family that loved you unconditionally. He had… expectations. Burdens.

“You wouldn’t be,” You said quietly, “My parents would really like it if you came again. And so would I.”

Mattheo’s stirring stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch — until it snapped.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, you know,” He said, voice tight, “I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I’m not going to off myself or host secret Death Eater meetings or whatever it is you think I’m doing alone up here.”

You blinked, caught off guard, “Mattheo—”

“Come on,” He said, rolling his eyes. “You keep checking in. Keep inviting me places. You think I don’t notice?”

You stared at him. And then, to his horror, you started to laugh. Soft and exasperated.

“Oh Godric. I wonder why I keep visiting my super attractive neighbour who’s been through the same traumas I have, who my parents clearly like and who actually laughs at my jokes. Truly a mystery.”

He froze, like you’d hit him with a hex, “Wait — you’re not saying you keep coming around because… because you like me?”

You blinked, smiling slowly, “Why? Can’t I?”

“You can’t,” He said immediately. Adamantly. Like it was law. “You should be with someone like Potter. Or Granger. Or — Merlin, even Weasley.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Harry’s basically my brother. Hermione’s dating Ron.”

“There’s more than one Weasley.” He offered, grasping at straws.

"Mattheo frankly I cannot think of anything worse than ending up related to Ron, Hermione and Harry."

Mattheo shrugged with faux innocence, swirling the teabag in his mug like he hadn’t just tried to sell you off to a different wizarding family, “I’m just saying… you could do better.”

You rolled your eyes, “Right. And what exactly would ‘better’ look like?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned forward, eyes glinting, “Go on. Tell me.”

Mattheo hesitated — the cocky response clearly right there on the tip of his tongue — but something in your expression stopped him short. Maybe it was the way you weren’t teasing anymore. Not really. You were waiting. Listening.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Stripped bare.

“Someone like you. Someone who didn’t spend most of their life calling people like you a Mudblood,” He muttered, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his mug, “Someone who doesn’t make people reach for their wands the second they walk into a room.”

Your smile faded.

He didn’t look up, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I was. You know what I’ve done. I picked sides. I picked wrong.”

There was a long, quiet beat. The kind that carries too much weight.

Then you set your mug down gently on the table and said, “You were just a child, Mattheo.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, uncertain. Wary. Like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t dare.

“A child,” You repeated, firmer this time, “And your father was bloody Voldemort. Of course you were twisted up inside. Of course you were scared. But you’re not that kid anymore.”

“But you—” He started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” You said softly, “I’m not some symbol of bravery or some war hero people should look up to. I left the wizarding world precisely because of that. I didn’t want to be paraded around, painted in gold, turned into a symbol of light just because I happened to survive.”

He swallowed hard. His brows were drawn tight.

“There were so many people caught in that war,” You continued, voice trembling now, “People who didn’t get to pick sides. People like you, who had to follow the only path left open to them.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He looked away again, that familiar wall sliding into place — too fast, too familiar.

“Doesn’t change what I did,” He said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve everything I get now.”

“You don’t,” You snapped, not angry at him — but at the world that had taught him to think like this, “And neither do they. Harry wouldn’t have survived if Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t lied to Voldemort, and now she’s rotting in Azkaban. Theo deflected a curse meant for McGonagall and he’s being shunned like a criminal. And me—”

You paused, eyes suddenly wet, voice quieter.

“I would’ve died that night in the manor,” You whispered, “if you hadn’t lied to Bellatrix.”

He flinched.

You stepped toward him, hands reaching up, gently cupping his cheeks. Forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Don’t you dare pretend like it didn’t matter,” You said, “I know what you’ve done. I know who you are.”

You swallowed, “The second you had the chance to choose, Mattheo, you chose right.”

Then you added, barely above a whisper, “And that’s why I like you.”

“Because I saved your life?”

You shook your head.

“No,” You breathed, “Because you’re not who they said you were. Because you’re a good man. Whether you believe it or not.”

Mattheo looked at you like he didn’t know whether to shatter or kiss you.

You cleared your throat, tried to pull yourself together. Tried not to let your voice break completely, “So… are you coming to dinner next week?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked. Like the pieces of his past were still rearranging themselves in his mind — and for the first time, they weren’t sharp enough to cut.

“I want you there,” You said, softer now, “They do too. But mostly… I do.”

That undid something in him.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed. The tension in his jaw eased. His eyes dropped for a second, and then met yours again.

And when he nodded — small, certain — it felt like something cracked open between you. Not in a way that broke, but in a way that finally let the light in.

“I’ll come.” He said.

You smiled and reached for his shirt, smoothing out imaginary creases as your fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

“Good.” You murmured.

He caught your hand gently in his, eyes searching yours.

And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like someone clawing his way out of the darkness.

He felt seen. He felt chosen.

And maybe — just maybe — he was starting to believe he deserved that too.

Mattheo did come for dinner.

And then he came again. And again after that.

It wasn’t like you suddenly fell into each other’s arms or kissed under the kitchen light while your mum offered dessert. But something shifted — subtle, steady. Like a hinge finally oiled. Like the space between you both had always been there, and now you were finally choosing to fill it.

There were still jokes, still the sarcasm and dry glances and moments where he pretended not to be listening even though he definitely was. But the edges were softer. The glances lingered longer. The silences stopped feeling like things to be filled, and more like things to be shared.

You saw it in the way he sat closer to you now. The way his shoulder would brush yours and stay there. The way his laugh sounded warmer in your presence. The way he always saved you the last spoonful of something without having to be asked.

You hadn’t defined anything. But you were definitely getting closer.

Which is how, a few weeks later, you found yourself sprinting into his flat like you owned the place — because, well, you sort of had started to.

“Matty!” You called out breathlessly, not even glancing at the figure lounging on the sofa, “I need to borrow your leather jacket—where is it? Don’t say it’s in the laundry, I swear to Merlin—”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You kicked off your shoes, breezed past the living room, and charged straight for his bedroom, shouting, “Thanks, by the way! You’re the best!”

Already halfway through the hallway, you threw a hand up in vague acknowledgment and barrelled through the door.

Stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was.

Mattheo.

Fresh from the shower. Shirtless. Damp curls sticking to his forehead. A towel slung low on his hips. Drops of water still trailing down his chest, slow and traitorous.

You made a noise that might’ve been a word. Or a gasp. Or a whimper.

He blinked, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting company, holding a shirt in one hand like he’d frozen mid-movement.

“…Hi.” He said, entirely too casual for someone who was 90% naked.

You let out a squeak — an actual squeak — slapped a hand over your eyes, and spun around so fast you almost collided with the doorframe.

“Oh my Godric, I’m so sorry—I thought you were on the couch, you were on the couch two seconds ago, I swear, I just— I didn’t see anything—well, okay, I did, but I didn’t mean to—”

You opened the door.

Slammed it shut again.

Then leaned against it, face flaming, pulse racing.

And from the living room came a voice that was not Mattheo’s:

“Hi.”

You blinked. Turned slowly.

And there, entirely not naked, spoon in mouth and legs still kicked up on the sofa, was Theodore Nott — looking very amused.

He raised the spoon lazily, “Hey. You alright there?”

You blinked at him, brain rebooting, “Nott?”

“In the flesh,” He said, raising a spoon in salute, “Should I be offended you ran past me like I was invisible?”

“I—” You blinked, face aflame, “I thought you were Mattheo.”

“I gathered.” He went back to his cereal.

“I just needed to borrow his jacket!” You said quickly, heat still burning in your cheeks, “Maybe take outfit photos in his mirror.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, “You don’t have your own mirror?”

“My mirror has an antique bronze frame,” You replied flatly, “It doesn’t match the vibe.”

“Right,” He said, utterly unconvinced, returning to his cereal, “Didn’t realize you two were that close.”

You stilled.

You swallowed. How were you supposed to respond to that? Yes, you were close to Mattheo. Close enough to know just how he likes his tea. Close enough to keep biscuits in his cupboard that were only for you. But you'd never said anything out loud. There were no labels. No claims.

It would be kind of humiliating to say something only for Mattheo to come strolling out and be like, “Nah, she just lingers here like a stray cat I accidentally fed once.”

Before you could decide what to say, the bedroom door opened.

Mattheo stepped out, now mercifully dressed in faded black jeans and a plain white T-shirt — though you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse. He had your favourite leather jacket of his slung casually over one arm, and his damp curls clung to his forehead in soft, lazy waves. You were suddenly very grateful he'd decided to wear the jacket… if only so Theo wouldn’t catch you blatantly ogling his best mate’s biceps.

Mattheo just grinned and sauntered over, totally unbothered, and shook the jacket out with a single practiced flick before holding it open for you.

You slid your arms into the sleeves as he held it up, the worn leather warm and familiar, smelling faintly like his cologne — and maybe a little like that soap you'd seen in his shower that was inexplicably labelled dragon ash and sandalwood.

He adjusted the collar gently, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck for a beat longer than necessary, “Looks better on you anyway.”

You glanced up at him, and his eyes met yours — something unspoken passing between you, soft and real. Then, all at once, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and looked toward Theo.

Theo’s smile widened like a cat who’d found something much more interesting than his cereal. “So, just to clarify… what is this, then?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you, “Because if this isn’t dating, it’s the most suspiciously couple-y non-dating situation I’ve ever seen.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate, “It’s none of your business.”

“Ohhh,” Theo said, leaning back, “Which means yes.”

You flushed. Mattheo sighed like this was a discussion he’d already prepared for in his head and hated every second of.

Then, with the most casual tone imaginable, he said to you, “I’m heading out with the guys later. Might be home late.”

You nodded, adjusting the sleeves of the jacket, "Alright. Have fun. Stay safe."

He looked you over, your outfit clearly indicating that you were going out with your friends, "You too. Send me a Patronus when you get home."

You hummed, giving him a small smile, "I know the drill."

Theo raised a brow, “Right, definitely not dating.”

Mattheo gave him a lazy middle finger but didn't deny it and turned back to you, his tone softening just a touch, “You staying for a bit?”

“I just needed the jacket,” You said, trying not to smile, "My Uber's gonna be here any second."

"Right," He responded, raking his eyes over your figure, choosing to tuck your hair behind your ear, "Then I guess I'll see you later."

"I guess you will." You chuckled, before turning to his friend who was watching you both like it was his favourite show. Not that he would even know what a television was, "It was nice seeing you again, Theo. Let's have a drink one day and catch up."

He nodded, giving you a smirk that didn't drop until you had exited and he slid his eyes back to Mattheo, “So when’s the wedding?”

The pub was alive with the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the dartboard. Mattheo sat at the far end of the worn wooden table, surrounded by Draco, Theo, Enzo, and Blaise. Pints and half-empty bottles were scattered across the table like trophies from battles fought and survived.

“Mate,” Draco nudged him with an elbow, voice tinged with mock disbelief, “Why aren’t you drinking us under the table tonight? You usually drown whatever’s bothering you.”

Mattheo glanced at his nearly untouched glass of cider, fingers tapping restlessly on the rim. “Not in the mood.” He muttered, eyes flickering toward the window, where the night had deepened and the streetlights cast pools of gold on the pavement.

“Not like you,” Blaise teased, “Usually, you’d be three sheets to the wind by now.”

Enzo smirked, “Yeah, what gives? You okay, Riddle?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked toward the door, then the window, and back to the table, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the wood. He looked… distracted.

Theo, sitting next to Mattheo with a mischievous grin, leaned in, “Oh, it’s because our dear friend here is waiting on a Patronus.”

The others blinked. “Patronus?” Enzo repeated.

Theo nodded, barely able to keep a straight face, “Yes from his cute little neighbour. She’s supposed to send it when she gets home safe after a night out. Mattheo’s been scanning the streets like a bloodhound all evening.”

Theo leaned back with a sly grin, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “And the neighbour in question? Well, you’re all gonna love this—it's (L/N).”

Blaise nearly choked on his drink, “You’re joking.”

"In a classic tale of Romeo and Juliet, our dear Matty boy has found himself in love with the girl who literally killed his father."

"I'm not in love." Mattheo snapped but a car drove past, shining a light that looked too similar to a patronus and had his neck almost snapping in two in his effort to get a better look.

Enzo burst into laughter, "Oh, yeah, you're not in love, you absolute boob."

The knocking started faintly — not loud, but urgent. Sharp, clipped taps that cut through your dreams like a blade. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, blinking through the dark, tangled in your sheets like you’d been mid-battle instead of mid-dream.

It wasn’t that loud — but something in the rhythm of it pulled you from sleep like a hook behind the ribs.

You squinted at the clock. 03:17.

Groaning softly, you threw off the covers, feet hitting cold floorboards with a quiet thud. You reached for your wand automatically, the weight of it familiar in your palm, even as sleep still clung to you like cobwebs. The knocking came again — quicker now, more urgent.

You padded toward the front door, pulse starting to rise.

When you opened it — just a crack, just enough to see — the cold slammed into you. But it was nothing compared to what you saw standing there.

Theo Nott.

He looked like he’d run across London.

Hair wind-tossed. Chest heaving. Coat half-unbuttoned. His skin was pale, almost grey in the porchlight, and there was something feral in his eyes — panic, fury, fear, all twisted up into one tight, burning thread.

You stared, “Theo?”

His breath puffed in a sharp cloud, “It’s Mattheo.”

Your stomach dropped.

The door was open in seconds, and you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside before the words had even fully registered. It slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

“What happened?” You demanded, voice cracking now, “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. He was pacing your living room like a caged thing, one hand knotted in his hair, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

“They arrested him.”

The air in the room turned cold.

Your voice came out as barely a whisper, “What?”

“Tonight. At the pub. We were all there — Blaise, Draco, Enzo. Just drinking. Laughing. Nothing serious. And then out of nowhere, the Aurors show up. Said there’d been reports. Wouldn’t say of what. Wouldn’t explain. They just—” His jaw tightened, “They just dragged him out.”

You stared, heart pounding, “For what?”

“Suspicion. Loitering. Someone said he ‘fit the description’ of a man acting odd in Knockturn Alley earlier that day — even though we’d been nowhere near there. One of the Aurors looked him dead in the face and said, ‘You know who you are.’ Like that was all the proof they needed.”

You sat down hard on the arm of your couch, breath punched from your lungs.

“He’s done nothing,” You said, “He hasn’t done anything—”

“They don’t care,” Theo snapped, suddenly furious again, “They see the name. They see the face. The bloody Mark. They don’t ask questions. They just act like he’s a ticking time bomb and they’re doing everyone a favour by locking him up before he explodes.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second, trying to breathe — trying to think, “Where is he now?”

“Ministry holding,” Theo said darkly, “They said they’ll process him in the morning. Until then, he’s ‘detained for questioning.’ Which we both know means they’ll keep him in a concrete cell all night and try to wear him down before anyone gets to him.”

You stood up suddenly, fury vibrating through your body.

Theo paused mid-pace to look at you.

“I know we’re not close,” He said, awkward again, “but I know you’re close to him. Closer than he lets on. And you—” He hesitated, “You’re friends with Potter. You’ve got… pull. People listen to you. I didn’t know who else to go to.”

But you were already pulling a jumper over your head, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. You barely heard him over the roar of your own blood in your ears.

“I’ll handle it,” You said, your voice low and shaking with rage, “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Go to him. Now. Stay with him. Don’t let them bully him. Don’t let him say anything to anyone without a lawyer present. No comment. No statements. Not even what his bloody name is. Got it?”

Theo nodded, grim, “Got it.”

You followed him, stepping into your boots, wand ready. You didn’t feel sleepy anymore. You didn’t feel anything but hot, burning, righteous fury.

Because Mattheo had spent years trying to claw his way out of the shadow of his past. Years trying to prove that he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t like them.

And now they’d dragged him back in — without a charge, without a reason, without a second thought.

This was why you left the wizarding world. Why you’d turned your back on the Ministry and its post-war morality circus. You’d fought in the war, bled in it, lost friends in it — and still they hadn’t learned.

Still they saw people like Mattheo Riddle as enemies, not survivors. Not victims of the same fear and violence that had nearly destroyed them all.

At the end of the day, the truth didn’t matter. Not as long as they were able to cram you painfully into whatever predisposed ideas they had.

The two of you raised your wands.

And in two cracks of displaced air, you were gone — vanishing into the night.

Both headed to two separate locations.

You were about to officially return to the wizarding world. And rain hell upon them. You were going to make them listen. You were going to make them pay.

The Ministry’s grand chamber felt colder than usual — or maybe it was just the weight of what was about to happen. Mattheo stood quietly beside you, hands clenched at his sides, eyes sharp but guarded. Harry, Ron, and Hermione flanked you, each radiating the same burning frustration.

You moved through the Ministry of Magic’s atrium like a hurricane. Paper memos paused mid-flight. Aurors stepped aside. One man even dropped his coffee.

Security tried to stop you at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s doors.

They did not succeed.

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” You snapped, wand already glowing, “And I will.”

You shoved open the office doors of Minister Fudge so hard they banged against the walls. His aides leapt to their feet, startled. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t blink. Your eyes were locked on the man behind the desk — Cornelius Fudge, still wearing that smug little bowler hat, like he hadn’t spent the last decade proving he cared more about saving face than saving lives.

Fudge barely looked up, “Ah, the prodigal warriors return.”

You didn’t flinch. “Where is he?” You demanded, voice low but fierce, “Where is Mattheo Riddle?”

Fudge blinked, slightly surprised by your fury. Of course he wasn’t aware of just how close you both were — you could only assume he believed Mattheo wouldn’t be missed, or that those who did care about him wouldn’t have the power to do anything about it.

“He’s in custody. Being held for questioning. Suspicion of—”

Harry cut in, voice thick with disgust, “Suspicion of what, exactly? Because I saw the arrest report — and there’s absolutely nothing of value there.”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes blazing, “You hold a man without charge because of his name and history? That’s not justice — it’s persecution.”

Fudge arched a brow, calm, as you began to tremble with rage, “He’s being held for questioning. Surely even you understand the need for caution, considering his—”

“He defected,” Ron snapped, “He fought with us. He was on our side at the end of the war.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” Fudge folded his hands neatly, "You refused to give your account to the ministry after the war. Refused to cooperate with us."

You stared at him, disbelief rising like bile, “I fought in the war. I didn’t sit like a right old fart in an office and send children to do my job for me.”

That struck. His expression flickered. But he recovered quickly.

“You have no proof,” He said, “No statements. No witnesses. Nothing documented. Nothing official. Just your word, I suppose?”

Your jaw clenched.

And then, the heavy oak doors creaked open again behind you.

The final recipient of your frantic Patronus had arrived.

“I would hardly call my word ‘unofficial’.” Came a cool, clipped voice.

Every head turned.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stepped into the room like she owned it. Her tartan robes swirled around her ankles, her bun was tight, and her wand was already out — not drawn, just held. Like a promise.

“Headmistress.” Fudge said tightly.

“I am here,” She said, “because you are about to repeat the mistakes of your past. And I, for one, will not stand by and let it happen again.”

She turned to you with a brief, firm nod. Then addressed the room.

“Mattheo Riddle was present at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cast no Unforgivables. He struck down more Death Eaters than many fully trained Aurors. He aided in the evacuation of the Astronomy Tower. I can attest to this. I witnessed it myself.”

Fudge scoffed, “If you want to make a case, you need to conduct a hearing. Present evidence. Until then, Riddle remains in custody. This isn’t the proper procedure.”

“You’re right,” Hermione snapped, “Which is why you’ll release Mattheo now and arrange a hearing immediately — not weeks from now, not months. Until then, he walks free.”

You stepped forward, voice like steel, “I have a reporter from every major wizarding outlet standing outside this building. Do you know how long they’ve waited to see me after I disappeared for years? How eager they are for their long-awaited interview with all four of us?”

Fudge paled slightly.

“I can see the headlines now,” You said, voice dripping with venom, “Fudge Fudged Up. Yet again.”

Harry’s eyes were burning, “You think they’ll defend you after seeing how you handled Sirius Black? You locked him up on false charges. How many more lives are you willing to ruin?”

“I will make sure you never make another decision without the press crawling down your throat and breathing down your neck — second-guessing everything you say. Because if you think I won’t drag your entire office into the dirt for this, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Thick with tension. Even Harry looked vaguely stunned.

Fudge’s face had gone bone white, his knuckles gripping the edge of the desk.

“Very well,” He said finally, “Release him. No charges. Effective immediately.”

Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Thank you, Minister.” She said, her tone measured but unmistakably pointed.

You didn’t hold back.

Without missing a beat, you shot over your shoulder, loud enough for Fudge to hear clearly, “I’m not thanking you for shit. Go fuck yourself.”

“A displeasure as always, Cornelius,” Ron added as he turned to leave, “Make sure to get off that fat arse every once in a while and do some actual work. Can’t let the children have all the fun.”

You didn’t look back.

None of you did.

But the echo of your words — and your fury — lingered in the halls long after you’d gone.

The iron doors of the holding chamber creaked open with a groan, and Mattheo stepped into the atrium — free at last.

The Ministry’s harsh lighting did nothing to dull the exhaustion written across his face or the tension that lingered in his shoulders. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess from running his hands through it one too many times. Flanked by Blaise, Theo, Draco, and Enzo — all equally sleep-deprived and stone-faced — he looked like a man still caught somewhere between disbelief and survival.

But the second he saw you sprinting across the floor toward him, something in his expression cracked wide open. The weight dropped from his shoulders.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched forward.

“Mattheo!”

His head snapped up just in time to catch you as you practically threw yourself into his arms. His hands rose on instinct, gripping your waist, steadying you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You pulled back just enough to grab his face, scanning every inch like you had to see for yourself that he was okay, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did they—?”

“I’m okay,” He murmured, voice low and raw, eyes locked on yours, “You came for me.”

“Of course I did.” You whispered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Behind you, Harry, Hermione, and Ron caught up at a far more leisurely pace. They stopped a few paces back, watching you with fond, amused expressions.

“She’s gone." Ron muttered, shaking his head fondly.

“Precisely,” Hermione said, lips twitching, “I haven’t seen her this taken with someone since your brother Bill visited in second year.”

Ron recoiled, “Why would you remind me of that?”

Hermione laughed.

Harry just smiled, arms crossed, “Good for her.”

Across the way, Blaise, Enzo, and Draco were watching the reunion unfold with similarly raised eyebrows and smirking mouths.

“Is it just me,” Enzo said, “or does that look a little more intense than casual neighbours?”

Draco arched a brow, “Considering she just threw herself into his arms? I’d say yeah.”

Theo didn’t even bother hiding his grin, “Told you.”

As pleasantries began to pass between the groups — polite nods, cautious glances, a few lingering tensions quickly diffused by Ron and Blaise’s sarcastic commentary — you and Mattheo found yourselves standing with Headmistress McGonagall, who approached with her usual purposeful stride.

She looked at Mattheo first, and while her expression was sharp as ever, her eyes were kind. “Mr. Riddle,” She said crisply, “What happened to you was shameful. Unacceptable. And not the kind of justice we fought for.”

Mattheo shifted slightly, unsure how to respond.

But McGonagall continued, voice dry, “And I must say… when your Patronus came hurtling into my chambers at three o’clock this morning, I was more than a little surprised. I haven’t seen her beg for anything since third year, when Peeves nicked her entire potions essay.”

You flushed, brushing a hand over your face, “It wasn’t begging.”

Mattheo turned to you, gaze soft and unreadable — something between gratitude, guilt, and something else deeper. Warmer.

“I was worried about him.” You admitted timidly.

McGonagall’s brow rose, “So it would seem.”

You let out a small laugh, breath finally loosening in your chest. Mattheo’s ears turned pink, and you didn’t miss the way he relaxed the longer you stood close.

The headmistress tilted her head slightly, “Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to hear from you again. Especially after how soundly you ignored my last offer.”

Mattheo blinked, “Offer?”

“She was offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” McGonagall said, turning to him, “At the time, I thought she’d be a good fit. Now I’m convinced she’s the best one.”

You hesitated, just like you always did.

But Mattheo didn’t give you the chance to fall silent again.

“You should take it,” He said, firm and certain, “Your grades were the best in our year. You literally teach now — and you’re brilliant at it. You’d make a great professor, (Y/N). Hogwarts would be lucky to have you.”

You blinked at him, startled, “You think?”

He nodded, voice softening, “I know.”

McGonagall watched the exchange with something suspiciously close to amusement, “Wise words, Mr. Riddle. You’d do well to listen to your boyfriend, Ms. (L/N).”

You both flushed scarlet.

But you couldn’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed.

Because for the first time in a long, long while — standing there, surrounded by the people who knew your heart and the boy who held it — everything felt right.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept.” You said at last, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Mattheo leaned toward you — and before you could turn away, his hand slid into yours. Not in a dramatic way. Not like he was making a scene. Just… quiet and sure. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, grounding you.

You looked over at him — and the smile he gave you in return made something in your chest flip.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You turned back to McGonagall, looking at your future boss with a smirk, “Drinks? To celebrate?”

McGonagall gave a long-suffering sigh — but her eyes sparkled, “I suppose one will do, for good will.”

Ron chimed in, already slinging an arm around Theo’s shoulders, “I say we make it a proper celebration. We’ve earned it.”

Hermione arched a brow, “Only you would be up for getting hammered at ten in the morning.”

Draco shared a look with Harry — who gave a subtle shrug, like, he’s got a point — and Blaise was already pulling out his wand to start listing nearby pubs.

You laughed — light and easy now — like the worst of it had passed, like something had finally cracked open in the best possible way.

Mattheo squeezed your hand again, just once.

And this time, you squeezed back.

The apartment building was quiet when you both got back.

The night had blurred into something golden — laughter echoing down cobblestone streets, half-empty pint glasses clinking on wooden tables, Theo and Harry nearly arm-wrestling over who paid the tab (they both lost), and McGonagall giving one tight-lipped smile before declaring she’d “had quite enough of rowdy children for one night” and Disapparating with a dramatic crack.

You were still smiling when you reached Mattheo's door, still glowing from the rush of everything.

Mattheo put his key into the lock—and then paused.

You turned to him, the adrenaline finally ebbing now that it was just the two of you, your pulse still not entirely steady — not after the last twenty-four hours, not after everything that had just happened.

You studied him in the dim light of the hallway. The bruised shadows under his eyes. The tight line of his jaw. The way he was looking at you — like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

There had been something building there, thick in the air between you. Something humid and suffocating since the moment you entered the bar. A part of you had wanted to leave, the lack of sleep beginning to weigh down on your limbs, but then you saw Lorenzo and Hermione clink their glasses in quiet solidarity — and you stayed. You leaned against Mattheo, your head on his shoulder, lulled by the quiet of the nearly empty pub, the alcohol making you soft and sleepy.

Mattheo turned to you, “Do you want to come in?”

You chuckled, “For a cuppa?”

He gave you a half smile, “Not this time.”

You let him lead you inside. Let him shut the door behind you and crowd you gently against it, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a reverence that stole the breath from your lungs.

God, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to mold your mouth to his, press your body against his, and lose yourself in the gravity of him.

“Thank you,” He said finally, voice low, nose a hair away from yours, “For today. For yesterday. For everything.”

You raised your eyes to his, still pressed between him and the door, trying to swallow the want pooling at the back of your throat like syrup, “It’s what you do for people you care about.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something sacred.

And then, softly — like the words hurt on the way out, “Do you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” You whispered, “I do.”

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you, long and quiet — like he was memorizing the moment. Like he was waiting for something to shift.

You reached up and pressed your hand to his chest, fingers spread over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Do you?”

His hand came up slowly, curling around yours, “I’ve been trying not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to have something good.” He dipped his head, eyes flicking to your lips, “But then you showed up. And now I don’t want anything else. I’ll do whatever I have to do to deserve you.”

You cupped his cheeks, brushing your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. “Come here.” You whispered.

And then you kissed him.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just you and him — pressed together under the soft glow of the hallway light. Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, standing on your toes and pressing your body flush to his.

Mattheo kissed you back with quiet desperation, brows furrowed like he was feeling too much at once, like kissing you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. His hands cupped your face like he didn’t trust the world not to take you from him.

And you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment he thought he was unloved.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and tangled in each other, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, softly:

"My dad is going to be thrilled."

Mattheo laughed against your mouth, "I can't say he's going to be too thrilled about what I'm about to do to his only daughter."

You shook your head, laughing — but you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed you again, not when his hands found your waist, not when on this night, he finally, finally, became yours.

Bonus:

It hadn’t been that long since you walked these halls as a student. The scent of old stone and parchment still felt like home, and the echo of your laughter in the stairwells was barely faded.

Which is why it felt a little surreal, standing at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom — your classroom now — watching twenty tired students blink at you, half-asleep, post-midterms.

You remembered this feeling too well. The post-exam lull. The I’d-rather-be-anywhere-but-in-class energy that leaked into the air like a sleeping draught.

So you did what any responsible professor would do.

Time for a little... intervention.

"Alright," You said, clapping your hands once, “Seeing as the lot of you look one Muffliato away from a nap, I brought a guest to help with today’s demonstration.”

The classroom door creaked open at just the right moment.

Boots echoed on stone. A shadow fell across the threshold.

And then in walked Mattheo Riddle — Auror robes fitted and dark, wand holstered, smug expression firmly in place.

The class lit up like you’d cast Lumos Maxima.

Half the class gasped.

The girls — no, scratch that, several students of all genders — squealed.

You actually had to bite back a laugh.

It was like déjà vu. For a moment, you were thirteen again, sitting in this very classroom, watching your friends clutch their chests over Gilderoy Lockhart like he was the second coming of Merlin.

Except now Lockhart was replaced by your fiancé. And your fiancé actually could duel.

You ignored the whispers, fighting a smile as Mattheo strolled in like he owned the castle. You could tell he was enjoying every second of the attention.

"Morning, class," Mattheo said with a smirk, scanning the room like he already knew the effect he had. His eyes finally landed on you, "Hope you're ready to learn something useful for once."

You rolled your eyes, "Don’t get cocky, Riddle.”

The students were wide-eyed now, completely awake, some whispering furiously. You let the tension build, then smiled sweetly.

You turned back to the class. “Since most of you seem to have forgotten how to hold a wand upright this week, Auror Riddle and I will be demonstrating live defensive magic.” You paused, “Via duel.”

The room exploded.

“You’re gonna duel him?!”

“IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?”

“Mister Riddle, PLEASE go easy on her—”

“She’s gonna mop the floor with him, are you kidding?!”

Mattheo tilted his head toward you, amused, "Your students seem confident in your skills. I’d hate to disappoint them when I win."

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him, "I hope you can still keep your job once I humiliate you, darling."

“Oh, it’s like that?” He asked, stepping onto the platform. His wand slid into his hand like it belonged there, “Want to make it interesting, sweetheart?”

"I'm listening."

His grin was wicked, “If I win, we move the wedding up. This winter.”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

A chorus of gasps filled the room.

You raised a brow, “That’s all? I was expecting something scandalous.”

“Scandalous comes after,” He said, low enough only you could hear. Then louder: “Well, Professor, do we have a deal?”

You tipped your head, “Deal.”

The class whooped as you took your stance. Wands raised. Eyes locked.

It started playful — spells exchanged like inside jokes, your shields strong, your counters cheeky. You danced around each other, laughing, bickering like you always did.

“Getting slow in your old age.” You taunted.

“Still fast enough to catch you, sweetheart.” He replied, flicking your spell back with a grin.

You both fell into rhythm effortlessly, spells flying and deflecting with heat and precision. It was like dancing — a dance only the two of you knew the steps to. You hit him with a Flipendo that nearly knocked him on his ass; he responded with a Petrificus Partialis that froze your wand arm mid-jinx.

You countered just in time to send his disarming spell into the ceiling, and he laughed again, breathless, “Merlin, I forgot how annoying you are when you’re winning.”

"You're saying that as if I'm not always winning." You said, already flicking your wand again.

The class was on the edge of their seats. Screaming. Chanting. Cheering for both of you like it was the final match of the Triwizard Tournament.

But then — a flash of motion. A student near the edge tripped on their bag, almost falling off the bench. You turned instantly, wand snapping to cast a cushion charm.

And that was when Mattheo’s spell struck.

Not hard — a harmless stunner meant for flair — but it knocked you slightly off-balance.

The platform dimmed. The match was technically over.

Mattheo, smug as anything, raised his hands as he descended from the platform, walking toward you. “Victory,” He called, lowering his wand with a bow so smug you nearly hexed him right there, “Riddle for the win.”

You glared at him, but still let him wrap his arms around your waist as he lifted you down from the platform — an action that did not go unnoticed by your students, who began to squeal.

“I was distracted. I had you cornered until the end.”

“Still counts,” He said, grinning as he stepped closer, “Should’ve kept your eyes on the target, love.”

You narrowed your eyes, then tilted your head in thought. Loud enough for the class to hear, you said:

“Say I won, and I’ll marry you this weekend.”

The entire class collectively gasped.

“PROFESSOR—”

“WAIT THAT’S NOT FAIR—”

“THAT’S CHEATING!!”

“YOU CAN’T BRIBE HIM INTO LOSING—”

Mattheo laughed so hard he had to put a hand on the desk to steady himself, “You heard them, love. It’s not fair.”

You gave a little shrug, completely unbothered, “Life’s not fair.”

He stepped closer, wand twirling between his fingers, “So what you’re saying is... you’re too proud to admit you lost."

You smiled sweetly, “No. I’m saying you’re going to say I won. And I’ll be in white by Saturday.”

The class exploded.

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT—”

“WE’RE GOING TO A WEDDING???”

“I’M CRYING—”

"I’ll be Mrs. Riddle this time next week," You sang, "Going once, going twice—"

“The greatest duelist of all time,” Mattheo declared, loud enough for everyone to hear, “will be my wife by this time next week.”

The class lost it.

Cheers, whistles, someone even threw a quill in the air like confetti. You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, and Mattheo just smirked, slipping his hand into yours as you both walked out past the chaos.

“Can’t wait to marry me, huh?” You teased, straightening out his robes, choosing not to kiss him — not with your audience so keenly watching.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips near your ear, “You kidding? I've been ready since the day you introduced me to that shitty Australian dingo."

You laughed softly.

Somewhere behind you, a student whispered, "Is he talking about Bluey?

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

@baekjeonheo-blog

@genterom903

Slytherin Boys Taglist:

@laufeysvalentine

@theodoresvalentine

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle oneshot #mattheo riddle fanfic

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capellla · 2 days ago

Text

What do you need to hear right now? | PAC

''Every hope deserves to sparkle in the sky.'' I created this reading with the purpose of giving you hope. What do you need to hear right now? Maybe this reading will give you the answer you are looking for. Clear your mind, focus on the question, and choose an image.

Pick an Image

Masterlist Paid Readings

Pile 1

They say if you keep a green branch in your heart, singing birds will come. I know that for a long time, you kept that green branch alive within you with a deep and meaningful hope. And what if I told you that all your faith, your efforts, and the tears you left behind were not in vain would you believe me?

Maybe you'll tell me about your losses, how much you left behind, how deeply it hurt, and even how you lost yourself entirely along the way. These are not things to be taken lightly. I know that. This is a vast world, and it's so easy to get lost in it. You may feel like a failure, but right here, right now, I ask you to believe in me. Believe in me but more than that, believe in the hope that lives inside of you. The singing bird is looking for you, because that bird finds its joy in you and in your heart. It belongs to you. Your dream is already yours.

We can say that almost everything in this life is a reflection of ourselves. Maybe the people around you have implied that you're small, insufficient, wrong, or even without purpose. But what do you say to yourself? Have you ever told yourself that you are right, that you are enough, and that maybe -just maybe - you are a part of this world and of its beauty? Have you ever told yourself that you belong here, or that if you don’t, you will create your own place?

I want you to look at all your failures and pains..did they defeat you? There is a path in this world written uniquely and only for you. And the owner of this path, this one of a kind journey, is you which is equally unique.

Look at yourself! All your wounds, the appearance you may struggle to accept, and the identity that makes you you.. can you think of anything else in this world that feels more like home than that? Some of you might not accept this. You might say your sense of self feels foreign and that you want to escape it. But I want you to go deeper. Feel the warmth of your heart , there is nothing more hopeful than your existence, because you are the one who brings this world into being.

I want you to thank your body and everything that makes you you. They are the ones who gifted you this experience.

Not everyone in this world has the strength to listen to their heart and stay true to it. But you did. And now you're being called to do even more. You’re being called to see your own strength. You’re being called to let the buds of hope within you bloom again. Because more than anything, the angels and the universe believe in you. Because you were created for this and in this very moment, in this very place, you are here for this.

Have you ever wondered why your dreams and the things that make your heart beat feel so aligned with you? It’s because you were created from beauty. And whatever draws you in ,you are that too.

You might say you haven’t reached some of your dreams, that they seem impossible. But maybe some things are unreachable simply to reveal our own beauty to us. Because if the stars were within reach, would you still look at them with the same longing? I don’t think so. Those stars shine from afar, and they reflect you. They shine thanks to you and for you. Don’t resent their distance because you already possess the most precious thing of all. And that thing is closer than anything else.

Be grateful for your body, your identity, your voice, and everything you have. I want you to see life as a laugh. A melodic laugh in harmony with who you are. Maybe it’s time to laugh at everything that ever hurt you not because you belittle it, but because it no longer has the power to touch you. Because you attract what you are. And those old pains no longer define you.

There is a magic within you that belongs only to you. And now it’s time to find it.

What is your dream? First, I want you to dream it. Then, I want you to have the courage to make it real.

Pile 2

“All the great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope.”

I have beautiful news for you: you are attracting all that is beautiful. I can see that you’re in a transitional phase right now. Your heart and upper chakras are aligning with light, and your heart is filling with love. During this time, your mind and heart will come into alignment, and your life will begin to flow in harmony. All that was broken, shattered, and scattered will fade away, and everything that is meant to be will fall into place.

You may have been broken, your heart and life may have gone through a painful loss. Your soul has been tested, and all of this was preparing you for a new chapter. Now is the time for joy, and you are being called to feel that joy. You’re leaving the past behind and stepping into a brand new life. This is your time to shine.

The Divine never left you. It was always there, loving and embracing you. What you went through was never a punishment or a sign of abandonment. No. It loves you deeply and always will. It only wanted you to learn what true happiness is, and what genuine joy feels like. Without those past experiences, could you truly grasp their value?

You are being called to hear and see inspiration ,first within yourself, and then in everything that exists in this world.

Tell a joke, smile at a child, dance a little, maybe even sing. What inspires you? Let it all out. Look at life again through the eyes of a child. Stay mature, but don’t be afraid to have fun.

Why do you imprison yourself in a scripted body? Don’t let your past or the image of who you think you’re supposed to be lock you in. Why are you hiding your emotions? Embrace them with love.

Believe,right here, right now,that everything will be okay. You need to believe it. And give yourself time to rejoice. Has that violin you’ve been longing to play been waiting for you? Pick it up and play. Have you been postponing a meeting with friends? Say yes to them, don’t hesitate and even go out alone to a café if you like. You need to relearn how to enjoy life, because I know you forgot in the midst of all the struggles. Take off that mask of seriousness and smile.

You might not realize it, but even a small smile makes a big difference. People feel it and they are drawn to your light. And most importantly, you start to notice what you’ve been missing. But no, you haven’t missed anything ,you’re simply stepping into a new chapter of life and seeing things with fresh eyes.

You are being called to open yourself to the life the universe wants to give you. Perhaps this is a time to release expectations, see the positive, and accept what is offered to you.

Trust that justice will be served and that everything you deserve will find its way to you. Create beauty and seek it. Stay in the light.

This is your time to shine. Accept it.

Pile 3

There are moments in life when you feel a sense of déjà vu as if you've experienced that place, those emotions, or that person before and you know a new opportunity to dance has arrived. Yet, because the mysterious fragility of life is being highlighted, a certain melancholy or lingering thought also arises. Sometimes you may forget your humanity, your truest desires, because you've become too materialistic and calculative. You're constantly striving, always doing something. This chase and all that you've been exposed to have alerted you so much that you've forgotten your heart.

Now is the time to align with your playful and creative self with your drive for collaboration to seek harmony, beauty, purpose, and meaning. You are being invited to do exactly that, right now.

This is not the time to be materialistic, fake, or selfish. That is not who you are and now it's time to see what's real. You’ve just forgotten yourself for a while in the chaos of life. Feel your soul again, and see the truth.

People and experiences have hurt you, but what did you do? You accepted them. Learn from them, forgive, and let go. I hear the voices of many. Maybe you don't receive enough support from your family. Maybe you've been exposed to the lies of those you thought loved you. Maybe you feel alone. Maybe your dreams feel out of reach. Maybe you're struggling financially. Maybe you carry a heart longing for love. No matter who you are or where you are, you are being called to freedom.

Don’t let all of this harden you or make you cruel. Where love lives, falseness cannot survive.

Let go of everything you believed in all your fixed patterns. This will make you so free and wise! You will understand that fear is nothing but a waste of time. And by allowing this courage to guide you, you will have already stepped onto the right path.

This can be anything ;your assumed identity, your entire world, your very self… let it all fall apart. That is how you will find what truly makes you you. Allow the feeling of déjà vu to embrace you.

You are one step away from the transformation of your life, and the only obstacle standing in front of that single step is you. Can you imagine a new world? One vastly different from the one before, something never experienced. A world that feels like you've stepped into a parallel universe. A world where the rain no longer falls as it used to, and perhaps the fire no longer burns. It might be hard to imagine, but taking that one step will be enough to begin experiencing this new reality.

Every new piece of knowledge opens a new door. And every false belief that falls away prepares you for a new world. Breathe, release the tension, and allow yourself to be carried by the current.

And now you are ready to step into your new world where everything made of stars and you shine.

Thank you so much for reading ~

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seitmai · 2 days ago

Text

Many thoughts

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

Adorable!

You spot it from across the room. You've been watching him on and off all night. Not in a creepy way— At least, you hope not. Just in a way that's...careful. Curious. Quiet. Like you always are with Bob. Because if you let yourself feel it too hard — the pull, the fondness, the way he talks with his hands when he's excited — you might never stop.

I wouldn't stop either 🤭

Because you've had a thing for Bob Floyd since the first day you saw him fiddling with the collar of his flight suit, too quiet for the room but, damn, if he didn't hold his own in the air. Because he always remembers how you like your coffee. Because he asked how your dog was doing after his surgery, even two weeks later. Because he makes you feel seen.

To be loved is to be known 👀

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

Of course Hangman says stuff like that lol

The drive to his is short but pleasant. Well, if it wasn't for the scent of beer slowly sinking into his shirt and your car seat. The windows are rolled down and you can feel the wind on your face. Neither of you talk but it's a nice silence, like the two of you are just content in each other's company. You like it that way. Like you don't have to fill the silence to be comfortable; you can just co-exist.

Being able to be comfortably silent with someone is something special!

You like the relationship you have with Bob; it's easy and natural. You just feel...at home with him, like you don't have to pretend to be social or talkative. But there's always that warmth that buzzes just below the surface when he catches your eye or when he smiles. Or when he laughs. Or when he fiddles with his glasses. Or when he does literally anything.

Mood 🤭😍

"C'mon, let's get you inside, mister." He leans against you as you walk up to his house. He's so warm and he smells good, despite the spilt beer. He's wearing that aftershave his mom got him for Christmas again. It's citrusy and sweet but still masculine and fresh. He smells amazing.

Bob smells amazing is canon to me

"Upstairs, first door on the left." He points vaguely towards the stairs before continuing to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off and pulling off his undershirt. He's always so conservative with his clothes; never wearing anything too revealing. Hell, even at the beach, he wears a shirt when the rest of the squad is more than happy to run around half-naked. You look back from the stairs to find him shirtless and it's almost impossible to look away.

What the change for him 👀

God, he's gorgeous, almost to the point where it's at odds with his sweet, boyish smile. Strong shoulders, perfect biceps, broad chest, narrow hips; he could be carved out of granite and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference— You shake the thought from your head before it can take root.

Valid lol

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

Not sure if that would only make my fingers tingle 🤭

You stand by the door, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his bedroom. There are certificates lining the walls and pictures of him and his parents at birthdays and holidays. It makes your chest feel tight. He walks over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through to pick out a pair of loose sweatpants. As he pulls out a pair, the towel comes undone from around his waist and pools on the floor. Your eyes go wide and you jerk your head away but not before getting a perfect view of his round, peachy ass. This is cruel and unusual punishment but you're too weak to complain.

His perfect, biteable ass 😍

Once he's pulled on the sweatpants and slid into bed, his hair still damp against the pillow, he takes off his glasses, folds them up and places them on the nightstand before looking at you as you linger in the doorway, looking awkward and out-of-place. "C'mon." He mumbles sleepily. "It's late and you're tired too." He weakly pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed; a silent invitation. One you want to jump at. But you can't.

I wanna grab her by the shoulders and shake her while yelling: do it!!

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

The cutest 🥹🥰

You eat in relative silence, stealing glances at each other over the rims of your coffee cups and between forkfuls of bacon and eggs. The morning light filtering through the window casts a warm glow over his features. He looks peaceful — content, even — sitting across from you, like this is something you do on the regular. You wish it was regular. You want these quiet mornings with him; sharing coffee in comforting silence, surrounded by the scent of fried eggs, the silence only broken by the soft chirping of birds outside.

Truly a dream

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean." "I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

He truly deserves it!

"You think so?" He asks and you nod. There's a pause before he clears his throat. "Would you— Can I— Can I tell you something?" You nod again, lifting your gaze to meet his as he mutters something under his breath. "Okay..." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I think you're amazing. And not just because of how you were on the mission or taking care of me last night or making breakfast..." He sets his coffee cup down, hands tapping restlessly on the side of the table. "I just think you're amazing. Just...as a person." You just stare at him for a moment before heat creeps along your cheeks and you smile widely. "I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Ahhh finally!!

"So... Hypothetically..." He starts, not daring to look up at you as he picks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "If a guy hypothetically really liked you — like really, really liked you — what would he need to do?" You turn around to lean against the table, looking pensive.

I likee where this is going 👀

"I mean..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "If he wanted to be with you, like, properly. Not just friends or whatever... What would he need to do to make you notice him? To make you...want him?" He asks, voice wavering slightly. There's a flutter in your chest as you stiffen slightly. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Don't fumble this— "Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly. "He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

Awwww rats so cute and perfect for them 🥰

The second you kiss him, he's done. Finished. Over. His heart is completely yours and he never wants it back. Your lips are soft and warm, just like your smile, and he parts his lips slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You take it; slowly inching your tongue into his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the coffee, moaning softly. God. You can't make that sound. His brain short-circuits. That one small, needy sound from you against his mouth has blood rushing south and he stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

That kiss truly sounds life-changing 🥰

"Shh..." He whispers against your mouth, warm hands roaming your body, touching you like he's dreamed of doing a million times. He pulls back just long enough to take off his glasses and set them aside. Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time. It takes you by surprise. You never thought he could be this...passionate. You always figured, if you ever got this far, you'd be coaxing it out of him, bit by bit, encouraging him with little kisses and your fingers in his hair.

I would never let go again 🤭

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds. "When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs. "You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath. "Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

"Wh-What...?" You just stare at him owlishly because, God, if that isn't the biggest cock you've ever seen in your life. Thick, throbbing, leaking... And you thought his body was slightly at odds with the personality of sweet, shy, wallflower Bob Floyd but this? This takes the cake. "You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

Maybe not a casual lunch topic 😅

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm. "Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard. "You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees. "God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

🤤🤤🤤

"I'm...getting real close." He warns you, his voice strained with effort. "If you don't want me to...finish in your mouth, you should probably stop now." Still, his hips are flexing, desperately trying to fuck your hand. You take a moment to decide before flicking your tongue over the head and his hands fly to curl around the seat of his chair, nails digging into the wood. "God...! I mean it... I'm...really close..." He gives you one last warning.

Urgh obsessed with him warning multiple times

When he opens his eyes, he sees your face pressed against his inner thigh as you gently squeeze the base of his cock, gazing up at him adoringly. He runs a shaky hand through your hair, still trying to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes. "That was... Holy shit... I..." You smile and press a kiss to his hipbone, nuzzling his thigh, as he tries to find words in the jumbled mess of his orgasm-addled brain. "You... Bedroom... Yes, bedroom." He manages breathily and you nod, getting up from the floor and letting him tug on his sweatpants again before you eagerly pull him upstairs.

Yes bedroom 🙂‍↕

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..." "I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly. "I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

The cutest man alive

Large hands find your thighs, lifting them until your toes touch the headboard, essentially folding you in half and leaving you completely exposed to him. "God, you're so perfect..." He whispers under his breath, holding you in place as he lines himself up, his cock sliding deliciously against your aching, swollen pussy. "Look at me. Look at me." He urges and you lay your head back against the pillows as he slowly pushes in. He feels absolutely massive but it's not painful; just this pleasant, warm ache that seeps through your body as you stretch around him. You grab onto his biceps for support as his fingers wrap around your ankles, holding your legs up. You're so tight around him, it's almost unbearable. He can feel every swell and curve of your inner walls squeezing around him. Your brows knit as he sinks in deeper, your fingers squeezing his arms.

🥵🥵🥵

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs. "Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes. "I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

Great conversation 😌🤭

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

One of the best headcanons for Bob

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

I have a feeling that this secretly spurs him on 👀🤭

"I know... I'll pull out, promise..." But, even as he says it, he feels the heat mounting and he desperately wants to finish inside you. His hips keep rolling against yours in a deep, steady rhythm. You drag your nails across his shoulder blades, your body clenching down around him, throbbing around him rhythmically because, deep down, you'd love if he could cum inside you, leave his mark. But you can't take that risk.

And he doesn't break a promise more importantly!

He gives you a few more slow deep thrusts before pulling back to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, face flushed. "Gonna pull out now, okay?" He pants out and you nod as he pulls out just in time, sandwiching his cock into the crook of your thigh and grinding against it until he cums, decorating your body with slick, white ribbons that ooze across your skin. You run your fingers through his hair as his orgasm hits, his arms clenching around you, hanging onto you for dear life.

Why is it so hot that he checks in before he pulls out? 1😮‍💨

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his. "Mhm. You?" "Perfect."

Truly perfection 🥰

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." He says softly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't do this kind of thing lightly, y'know? I wanted you and I still want you. But, if you're not on the same page, that okay too. We can still just be...friends, if you want." God, he's too sweet for his own good sometimes.

He truly is the sweetest 😍

"And you don't regret it?" "God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you."

🥰🥰🥰

"I mean, we could do that." He says slowly. "But, if I'm being completely honest, I don't want it to be just that? Friends with benefits implies casual and what we just did? It didn't feel casual to me." You cup his face and run your thumb along his cheekbone. "I like you. A lot." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "But if that scares you off, I understand." Without a word, you lean forward, licking your way into his mouth, kissing him slow and lazy. When you break apart, you're both breathless.

I think the answer is clear after that kiss 🤭

"That sounds perfect. But first..." You roll your hips against his, a gentle reminder that he's been inside you for the better half of ten minutes. "Can we do that again?" He wets his lips and rolls you back over onto your back, leaning down to press kisses to your neck.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen. "Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him. "According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!" "In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

The "please say yes" 🥹🥰

Absolutely 100% yes🙂‍↕

I absolutely loved this! If you ever feel up to it, I would love to read more of these two 🤗

> ENTRY: ITS_ALWAYS_THE_QUIET_ONES

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x afab!reader (mc's call sign is 'pez'.)

EST. READING TIME: 37m 0s

INDEX TAGS: (not actually) unrequited love, cock-warming, friends to lovers, love confessions, masturbation, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, size difference, size kink, vaginal sex

SUMMARY: after the mission with mav, you find bob drunk at the resulting party at the hard deck. as a designated driver, you take it upon yourself to get him home and into bed safely but staying composed proves harder than expected

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The Hard Deck is louder than it's been in weeks. Rooster and Hangman are fighting over the jukebox. Payback's halfway into a dramatic retelling of the mission to a captivated circle of admirers, punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures and Maverick's quiet chuckling. Fanboy's mixing questionable liquors together like he's auditioning for a bartending job no one asked for. It's celebration in full swing. The mission's done. Everyone's alive. Everyone made it home.

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

He doesn't look it at first. But you can see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the soft pink in his cheeks, the vague squint he gives the bottles behind the counter like he's trying to read through a fog.

You've had a drink; just the one. You're a designated driver tonight. That and watching Bob lose his balance trying to sit on a barstool has very effectively sobered you up. You finish your water, nod to Phoenix and move across the bar like the world isn't tilting just a little because he's looking at you now.

Why?

"Hey." You say gently, sliding into the space next to him. "You good?" He blinks at you. Then his face lights up; not like a flash but a slow dawn that warms everything it touches.

"Pez." He says, soft and too fond for how casual he tries to sound. "You're here." You smile.

"Been here the whole time, Bob." He looks at his drink like it's betrayed him.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

You glance him over. His collar is a little crooked and his glasses are ever-so-slightly askew. His usually neat hair is slightly mussed and there's a half-moon mark on his palm where he's been gripping his glass too hard. He's not swaying. But he's definitely drifting. You rest a hand lightly on the edge of the bar.

"How many have you had?" He frowns.

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

"That doesn't sound right." Bob leans closer and squints at you.

"You smell like mint."

"That'd be the gum I've been chewing instead of drinking." You reply, amused. "Come on. Let's get you out of here." He straightens. Sort of.

"I'm fine."

"You're adorable." You correct. "But also definitely tipsy and I'd rather you didn't fall asleep like last time."

"I didn't fall asleep, I—"

"You nodded off against the jukebox for twenty-three minutes." He considers this.

"It was playing Fleetwood Mac." You arch a brow.

"That's your excuse?" He almost looks offended.

"I like Fleetwood Mac." He mumbles. You can't help it; you laugh. And, across the bar, the other Dagger Squad pilots exhale in collective relief like finally. It goes unnoticed by you.

You help Bob off his stool, a drink forgotten in his hand, and he goes to steady himself on the edge of the bar but misjudges the distance. In trying to recover, the remnants of his last beer spill all over his uniform shirt, making it cling to him like a second skin.

"Woah!" You grab onto his shoulders. "You okay?" He stumbles slightly as he tries to catch himself, hands reflexively reaching out to hold onto your arms for support. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he feels the cold beer seeping into his shirt, looking down at the mess with embarrassment.

"Sorry..." He murmurs and you haul him upright.

"Don't apologise." You glance across to see Phoenix chuckling and shaking her head. "I think I need to take you home though." He laughs nervously, pushes his hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten his glasses.

"Yeah... Yeah, that might be a good idea." He leans against you for support as you start helping him to the door. You yell over your shoulder that you're taking him home, wishing the rest of them a good night. Some of the Dagger Squad murmur something you don't quite hear as you reach the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool sea breeze.

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as you help him out to the parking lot. You open the passenger-side door for him and he near-collapses onto the car seat. "Thanks for doing this." He says softly, looking up at you with those sweet, grateful eyes. You watch him fumble with his hands as he tries to buckle himself in.

"Stop being so damn polite." You smile, shutting the door and rounding the hood to get in the driver's seat.

Safe to say, you like him a whole lot; pretty much since you were brought on board for the Dagger Squad.

But you don't want to say anything because what if it makes things weird between you? What if he's not into it and everything just gets awkward? What if you accidentally gush about how gorgeous he looks in his uniform and he thinks you're an absolute creep for admiring the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and the way his pants hug his ass perfectly? He probably already knows and just pretends not to for exactly the same reasons. He probably knows and has also made up his mind that you're not really the one for him. He would've said something by now if he was into you but he hasn't so he probably isn't. It's not something you like thinking about.

Finally, you pull up to his house and park outside. You get out, open his door and stand there, just in case he needs the support again.

"I'm fine. I'm good." He starts to protest before immediately losing his balance and grabbing onto your arm. "Actually..." Rolling your eyes, you hang onto him and close the door.

When you haul him up the short flight of stairs and reach the front door, he digs his hand into his pocket and struggles to get his keys out for a moment. He must try to insert the key into the lock a good three times, each time stabbing the door just shy of the lock.

"Can't seem to..." He mumbles and you gently place your hand over his, guiding the key into the lock with a satisfying click, turning it and opening the door.

"There we go." You smile warmly and he stares at you for a moment, swallowing hard, before grabbing onto the door frame and stepping inside.

Once inside, you turn the light on and close the door behind you. He kicks off his shoes and pats down his chest. His uniform shirt is still clinging to him, now sticky from the spilt beer. His nose crinkles as you unlace your shoes and place them on the rack.

"Gotta shower..." He slurs softly. By the time you stand up to look at him, he's already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Your eyes flick down over the angles of his collarbone and, before you can look further, you avert your eyes.

"Okay, which way's the bathroom?" You ask a little too quickly.

He tosses his shirt on the floor and yawns. "You don't have to wait for me or anything." He says and you bring yourself back to the present, your eyes flicking back up to his face. You just pray, in his inebriated state, that he didn't just catch you eyeballing his bare chest.

"No, I don't need to go to the bathroom, Bob. I'm taking you up because I don't trust you on the stairs." You tell him and he protests weakly but you help him up anyway.

When you reach the bathroom, he leans against the sink for support and you have to look away as you notice the veins in his arms and hands become more pronounced from the pressure. Maybe that one drink you had was a little stronger than you thought. God, what would those fingers feel like in your mouth? Or in your— "You gonna be okay in the shower?" You ask him and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mhm. I'm not that drunk." He assures you. "You can go watch TV or something." He reaches down to unbuckle his belt and you pin your gaze to the floor.

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Alright." He reaches down for his belt and you almost slam the door shut, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. You let out a slow exhale. You're heart's going a mile a minute.

Distraction. You need a distraction; something — anything — to get your mind off what it would feel like to have your lips on his or your tongue on his neck or your hands on his chest... Heat pools in the pit of your stomach; a desperate, deep-seated ache. You pull out your phone and start flicking through your socials, trying to find something else to focus on but it's no use.

You hear the shower hiss to life and you can't help but think about what he'd look like if you poked your head in for just a moment; shiny from the water, dripping with soap suds and wreathed in steam. Goddamn... But you couldn't breach his privacy, betray his trust, like that, especially while he's drunk and vulnerable. Even thinking about it feels like a betrayal but you can't get the thought out of your head and the aching between your legs only grows stronger.

Maybe you should've let someone else bring him home.

Eventually, the shower turns off and the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as Bob steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. His skin gleams in the low light of the hallway, flushed pink from the hot water, damp hair falling in front of his face. He's being unknowingly, impossibly cruel.

"Better?" You manage, somewhat breathless.

"Yeah. So much better." Thankfully, he doesn't seem capable of noticing your — very obvious — attraction to him right now. He positions his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as you push off the wall and onto your feet, your own knees slightly weak.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?"

"You don't have to baby me, Pez. I'm sobering up now." He responds softly but lets you guide him anyway, his hand dwarfing your own. He's still a little unsteady on his feet as you reach his bedroom.

He's drunk and not thinking straight and you don't trust yourself. Not that you'd touch him; never that. But you're devastatingly wet and you already know you need to take care of that and you can't do it next to him. To take your mind off that thought, you grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom sink before placing it on the nightstand.

"I'll sleep downstairs. Just yell if you need anything, okay?" You tell him and he nods, a flicker of disappointment flashing across his face.

"Okay... Thanks for taking care of me." A smile curves at your lips as you brush a couple of damp locks out of his face. It brings you some modicum of relief, just that little bit of tender skin-to-skin contact.

"No problem." You sigh longingly, almost ruefully. "Night, Bob." You turn on your heel to leave the room and he catches your wrist with a hand, making you stop in your tracks.

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He looks up at you, eyes lidded with exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours slightly and you feel your pulse racing.

Finally, his fingers loosen on yours as his eyes drop shut. You let out a soft sigh, releasing his hand and rising from the bed. You watch him for a moment, considering, before leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight, Bobby."

You turn off all the lights and head back downstairs. You set up a little bed for yourself on the couch and slip out of your uniform, laying back against the couch cushions in your t-shirt and underwear.

After a moment, you find your hand drifting down between your thighs, pressing your fingertips against the gusset of your panties. It's absolutely sodden. You sigh in defeat, sling one leg over the back of the sofa and push the gusset of your panties to one side, sliding your fingers inside yourself with a sigh, pressing your thumb to the hood of your clit and working in slow circles. With your free hand, you grab a pillow and press it over your mouth to muffle the soft moans that fall from your lips despite knowing that Bob is probably dead to the world right now.

You finish yourself off quickly; imagining it's his fingers buried inside you, his tongue drawing slow, languid circles around your clit. The only sound is the buzzing of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft whines you try to drown out behind the pillow pressed against your face.

As soon as you're done, you pull your underwear back on properly and collapse onto your side, huddling into the blankets, cheeks flaming with heat. You're a mess for him but he can't know that, even if the rest of the Dagger Squad does.

Finally, the sun rises and you pack up the blankets and pillows you'd used before pulling on your pants from the day before. You yawn and stretch before heading into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Your stomach rumbles. After all, you haven't eaten since before the party last night.

Looking up, you check the clock above the fridge. About 10 am. Not too bad.

While rummaging around for the creamer, you stumble across a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon about to go out of date. Pulling them out, you grab a skillet from a nearby rack and set out to make some breakfast.

Upstairs, Bob rubs the sleep from his eyes and replaces his glasses, the glass of water from the night before thoroughly drained throughout the night. He pulls back the covers, swings his legs over the side and pulls on a t-shirt before heading to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he pads down the stairs, drawn toward the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you flip the bacon over, the eggs growing crispy around the edges but the centre staying soft and jammy. You notice Bob leaning against the doorframe out of the corner of your eye, staying quiet as he watches you work. It's domestic, comforting and you find yourself wishing you could do this for him every morning. Finally, you turn to face him and he smiles warmly. Thankfully, he doesn't seem hungover.

"Morning." He says softly, voice a little lower and scratchier from sleep.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a brick." He responds with a small smile, pushing away from the doorframe and walking further into the small kitchen. His voice drops to a more serious tone "Thanks for taking care of me last night. And for making breakfast." He pauses by the counter, looking at you appreciatively. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." You reply simply. He pauses before he quickly looks away, grabbing some plates and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers.

"Need any help?" He asks gruffly, setting the plates next to the stove.

"No, I'm nearly finished here." You turn off the heat and plate up the bacon and eggs before setting the empty skillet on the cool side of the stove. "Order up."

You carry the plates over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Bob digs in eagerly, making appreciative noises between bites. The food is simple but perfect; exactly what he needs after shifting a good amount of alcohol the night prior. You set a couple of mugs down on the table and pour the coffee before sitting down to tuck into your own breakfast, humming in satisfaction.

"Thanks." He says again. "For everything."

"Really, it's fine." You laugh softly, clearing your plate and setting it to one side with your cutlery. He does the same, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee.

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean."

"I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

"I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly.

"And...what else?" He asks and you turn your head to look at him. He looks so open and vulnerable but not in the way he was last night. This is open and honest and completely aware. Suddenly, it dawns on you; he wants this just as much as you do.

"He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

He lifts you onto the dining table and you loop your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Bobby..."

Instead, his hands are firm on your waist, tugging up your shirt just a little to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, as he kisses you like it's all he's ever wanted to do. It steals the breath from your lungs and it has confessions falling from your lips between deep, hungry kisses.

"You don't know...what last night...did to me..." You murmur breathlessly against his mouth and he groans, hands sliding under your shirt.

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds.

"When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath.

"Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

He's losing his mind, control slipping. He steps between your legs, pressing closer, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He feels perfect; pressing against your thigh desperately. "Bobby..." You move to whisper in his ear. "I need my mouth on you."

"Jesus." It comes out as a soft hiss. "You want to..."

"Please."

You— You don't have to..." He breathes but he's already reaching for the tie of his sweatpants. He wants you to. He wants you to want to.

You push him back gently so you can push off the table, guiding him back into his chair.

"I know I don't have to." You kneel on the worn linoleum between his feet, rubbing your hands along his thighs. He's straining desperately against the front of his sweatpants. "I want to." You tug at the tie of his sweatpants before curling your fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. He lifts his hips and you pull them down and off but, when you sit back to look at him—

Holy Mother of God.

"You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm.

"Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard.

"You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees.

"God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.

You run the flat of your tongue from root to tip and a sharp intake of breath stutters in his throat.

"Ohh, my God..." His hands instinctively grab onto your hair but he doesn't pull, just resting there, as you lick along the underside of his shaft. When you reach the top, you swirl your tongue languidly around the head before taking it into your mouth. "Sh-Shit..." His head falls back against the chair with a soft thud.

He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

You take more of him into your mouth, tentatively testing how much you can take. He groans lowly at the sensation of your tongue sliding along the underside, watching you with lidded eyes as his thick cock disappears between your lips. You press your head down until you feel the tip touch the back of your throat and you gag slightly before pulling away. You're panting, lips wet with saliva, and just watching you sends a shiver down his spine, toes curling against the lino. "Do that again... Please..." It's almost a beg and you can't deny him or yourself.

You lean back in, sliding down until it hits the back of your throat. Now you know how far you can take him, you cover the rest of his shaft with your hand, easing the slide with more spit as you work him over. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, only to keep him tethered to the moment. He can feel every inch being worshipped by your greedy mouth and talented hands and his hips start to thrust upward involuntarily. "God, just like that..."

You fall into a steady rhythm, peering up at him through your lashes, and you feel another spurt of pre hit your tongue as he meets your gaze, completely mesmerised. It's almost embarrassingly clear how much you love having him in your mouth; his cock hot and thick and pulsing on your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth and the sight of his cock sliding between your lips are driving him wild and he can feel that familiar feeling deep in his core. He gives your hair a gentle tug. "Hey..." You pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Mhm?"

"Do it." You tell him, dragging your tongue along the cleft at the underside of the head, still stroking along his shaft, your fingers slick and shining with a mix of precum and saliva.

That's all it takes.

With a deep groan that rumbles from deep in his diaphragm, he cums hard, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his eyes roll. You lean back to watch with satisfaction as thick shots of white spurt from his cock, making your hand slicker as you stroke him through his climax. "That's it, Bobby." You encourage him softly as he unloads onto your hands and his stomach. He's panting heavily, his body shaking, as the last few shots of cum ooze down his shaft. Your gentle praise and the feeling of your spit-slick hand only intensify the pleasure.

On the way up to his bedroom, you pull off your jeans and underwear before collapsing onto his bed with an excited giggle. Bob quickly joins you; pulling off his shirt and stained sweatpants, his body hovering over yours. You bite your lip, running your hands appreciatively over his body as you sit up slightly to kiss him, finding warm, firm muscle under your palms. He deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue and exploring your mouth hungrily. But, before he can get too lost in the moment, he pulls back, heavy breaths making his chest heave.

"Wait—"

"Mhm...?" He looks sheepish.

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..."

"I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly.

"I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

"B-Bobby!"

"God, it's so good..." His eyes drift shut as he tosses his head back, starting to move slowly, deliberately rocking his hips against yours. The position is just perfect; hitting all the right spots all at once with every deep, purposeful stroke.

Strong fingers dig into your ankles as he slowly starts to pick up the pace. "You like this?" He asks, sweat beading on his brow as he looks down at you. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a breathless whine. "Fuck, you're so tight..." He huffs through his nose as he targets that sweet spot inside you over and over, drawing these adorable, breathy whimpers from you. Your back arches, hands moving to claw at his broad shoulders.

"Please... Feel good... Feels so fucking good..." You pant out and he nods, his hips snapping forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, rutting against you desperately.

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs.

"Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes.

"I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

"You like them big..." He repeats and you nod, whining as he hammers your sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy.

"Mmhmmm... I didn't...think you'd be so...big... O-Ohhh... It's so fucking good, Bobby..." You manage and he wraps your legs around his waist, coiling his arms under the small of your back, hugging you against him. His thrusts turn shallow but stay deep, your bodies pushed together from shoulder to hip. You hook your arms over his shoulders, nails raking red lines up his back.

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

You nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of him; yesterday's aftershave lingering on his skin, sweat breaking out all across his body. "Love having you like this..." You murmur in his ear and he nods.

"Mhmm... I love it too..." His thrusts grow slower but no less deep; each movement designed to draw out the pleasure, make it last. He stretches you out and fills you up perfectly, holding you through all of it, eagerly soaking up every moan, plea and whimper you give him. He's rubbing up against the deepest part of you now, the crown of his cock sliding perfectly against the swell of your cervix.

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

Finally, his body goes slack. He's panting heavily, tilting his head up to claim your lips again in a soft, slow, lazy kiss. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him so you're lying on top of him. He's still semi-hard against your thigh but he's given you all he can for now so you sit up and sink back down onto him before curling up on top of him, enjoying the feeling of having his huge, softening cock nestled inside you. He lets out a low groan, gathering you up in his arms, fingers drawing idle patterns along the small of your back. "Gonna keep it in?" He asks softly and you look up at him.

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his.

"Mhm. You?"

"Perfect."

A soft silence settles over the room, almost jarring after the slamming and slapping and moaning from just a few moments ago. But you aren't complaining.

You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his face.

"You wanna talk about what just happened?" You laugh softly before sobering. "And where we go from here?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like the 'was this a one-time thing' talk? Or the 'do you regret it' talk?" His thumbs rub the small of your back soothingly.

"Both." He takes a breath and you feel his chest rise beneath you.

"And you don't regret it?"

"God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you." He swallows hard, finally meeting your eyes again. "So where does that leave us?"

"Like friends with benefits or...?" You trail off and he makes a noncommittal sound.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen.

"Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him.

"According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!"

"In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

"I'd like that a lot."

"Thank God." His arms squeeze tight around you. "Should I take you out properly sometime? Coffee, dinner, all that stuff?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"It'd be nice, yeah." You reply and he gives you that sweet, beaming, boyish grin.

"Then it's a date. How about tomorrow night? We can grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie if you're up for it?" You nod and ruffle his hair lightly.

"Mhm. As many times as you want."

Bob's call sign may be just 'Bob' but, in your head, it's 'Tripod'. Sweet, shy Bobby 'Tripod' Floyd.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 day ago

Note

OK NOW WRITE FOR ZOEY AND MIRA

With Zoey you found it easy to be yourself with her becuase she was more then welcoming to it within immedite affect. She's always making life alot more fun in her own way, time flies by when you were with Zoey and you couldn't have lived life in any other fashion then the fun way.

The sky is the limit with Zoey and she makes you feel as though you were soaring alongside her as her viberant grins and her occasional acts of cutness agression towards you, such as squishing your cheeks together and or hugging you tightly from behind and cheering when you retun her tight hug with your own. It was hard to feel anything other then overwheliming happiness and feel that you were capable of doing absolutely eveything when you were with Zoey and you love it more then anything and didn't want it to end.

Zoey may or may not have multiple books with lyrics based on you like how she had volumes of books filled with insults towards every demon imaginable. She is a creative idivisual and needs an outlet for that creativity and so the mountain of notebooks within her room was to be expected sight, most of which were filled with drafts of rap lyrics regarding to how she felt about you. You'll be able to catch her going over them under her breath and making the apropriate changes to them, something you loved to see as you got a glimpse of her hardworking mind, of her ability to create seemingly lyrical perfection.

Zoey would drag you to have movie marathons with her, wearing cute pyjamas and making a pillow fort out of bordom, strining up fairy lighs within it as you both lay upon every cushion you both could snag possible; enjoying the simplicities of life however they may come and whenever they come and knowing they were all the more sweeter with Zoey by your side. She was your light in the dark, the one you listen to to get out of a spot of trouble when it comes to your self worth, she was the one that would encourage any habit of yours as long as it wasn't going to do any damaged to you in the long run.

Zoey is under the believe that she's too much sometimes, or that she's never enough or was too suffocating. You don't see that at all, not one bit and you never could and would do your best to make this well known, mainly by giving her the affection -both verbal and physcial- that she never once failed to give you desite not being in the best of spirits herself. 'You're the best you know that.' You'd say as you squeeze her from behind, kissing just under her ear just the way she liked as her cheeks warmed up.

With Mira it was almost as if it was impossible to hide what was wrong and or annoying you, as though she could see through you and right into the root of your problem. She wouldn't leave you alone to deal with it, she pratically refuses to if she can help it, but wouldn't go as far as to constantly pester you into telling her either as Mira knew that things would only get better if you made the first step into doing so.

'The absolute best at everything you do.' You reitierate as you kiss the back of her neck before burrying your face in it, breathing her in, acting as though you were still trying to accept that being with her was your reality now. 'You're never too much, you're just enough. You're not suffocating, You're comforting and act like my weighted blanket, always grounding me and bringing me back when my mind feels like it's elsewhere.' You add on, caressing her sides as you felt her hands grip over yours, making you smile as you continued to speak words into existence in hopes of getting rid of those voices that tricks your girlfriend into beliving what she's not.

Zoey is everything you dreampt of in a partner and you were going to treasure her as such, whether it'd be spoiling her with affection or gifts and sweet treats, for she deserved to keep smiling as it's beautiful aspect of her that you love and will forever love.

'Something is wrong and i know you might not feel the need to let me know now, but know that i'm by your side no matter what, you shouldn't have to feel as though you are beyond help or are too late to being given help becuase that's not true.' She would say to you as rests a reassuring hand on your knee, letting you rest your head on her shoulder as she reminds you that help was just beyond your doorstep, and how it's whether or not you take that step beyond that doorstep to get it.

Mira is a person you found reassurance within and your relationship was one that had strong foundations of trust and acceptance of one another in you're entirity, but also a relationship that has bouts of playful teasing and moments where all either of you wanted to do was cuddle on the couch in your matching couple pyjamas. Something she enjoys to do with you when she's given the oppertunity as it meant she didn't need to travel far to be where she wanted to be the most after a tiresome day; you looking cute and like an absolute snack in your nightwear.

Truely a divine sight if anyone were to ask her.

'couch?' You ask.

Mira smirks as she shows you the armful of snacks she had. 'couch.' she replied.

You both feel asleep on the couch, but it's okay you were cuddling each other as well, so the aches in your necks was more then worth it.

Mira isn't vocal with her affection to you. It's something that she needs to warm up to, but that doesn't mean she didn't have other ways to remind you that she deeply cared for you, whether it'd be resting a hand on the small of your back or giving you small smiles that were reserved for you that never failed to make you feel warm and fuzzy within your chest. Relationships while being an idol was tricky buissness as there were a specific breed of fans that couldn't understand that what they were participating is an parasocial relationship, not an actual relationship, and thus dangerous situations arising where one or both of you could get potentially hurt.

So Mira makes sure to keep you from the public eye, yet also making sure that you knew it was never out of shame but saftey and security, from both demons and weird people in particular. She wants to keep you safe by whatever means necessary as the idea of you being hurt in any capacity is a fear she didn't wish to become true one day, so she takes measures to make sure it doesn't.

Mira often wonders in moments of vulnerability if her bluntness and straightforward nature would one day push you away, but you were more then ready to tell her that you wouldn't be with her if you did feel that way. You would let her put her head on your shoulder as you rub her back, telling her eveything that you love and admired about her, especially her blunt and straightforwardness. 'Alot of people are concious of what they say and often times it leads to being hurt anyway becuase they were so fearful of telling it how it is,' you tell her as you kissed her forehead, 'you do and it's the most refreshing thing i've ever had in my life as i don't have to unpack a lot of shit to understand whether you meant what you said becuase you always do mean what you say.' You finished.

#kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters x you #kpop demon hunters imagines #kpop demon hunters imagine #mira x reader #zoey x reader #kpdh #kpdh x reader #kpdh x you #kpdh x y/n #kpdh imagine #kpdh imagines

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rauferes · 1 day ago

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Emmrich pokes his head into Rook's rooms; Rook is nowhere to be seen. He's almost back out the door, intending to check the kitchen next, when his eye snags on a new pillow on Rook's chaise lounge.

It's large, cylindrical, more than half as tall as Emmrich and so thick around that it gives him a crick in his neck to even consider sleeping on it. Stranger still, Rook's other pillow is thin, barely more than a cushion.

Is it meant as some sort of... couch cushion, to lean against? But why does it have a case, then? Completely baffled, Emmrich picks it up to inspect it further. The pillowcase is pleasantly smooth to the touch— sateen, he notes.

The smell of Rook hits Emmrich in a heady rush. He clutches the pillow closer on reflex, eyes widening. The scent of their shampoo, their soap, their hair, yes, he recognizes all of these— but overlaid with an intimate bouquet that he has barely known of a whiff of before— their skin, their body...

It was foolish of him to have picked it up in the first place. He should really put it down, right away—

...the cloth warms, radiating back his own body heat, giving the faint but distinct impression of holding a living thing.

Emmrich is three-quarters of the way down the hallway to his rooms before he's processed anything at all. He lurches into his chambers, shutting the door hastily with his back.

Oh, this is foolish. What if someone had seen? The only proper thing would be to turn around now, restore it to its proper place. It's certainly too late for his dignity, but not too late to— to—

Emmrich buries his face against the pillow with a groan. The perplexing thickness of it makes it incredibly satisfying to wrap his arms around.

Somehow—despite having fought himself every step of the way— he finds himself in his bed, curled around the pillow, breathing in Rook's scent with the avid and hurried air of a cat having stumbled upon a splendid roast duck left unattended in the kitchen. The temptation to imagine Rook lying there, warm and pliant in his embrace, was beyond Emmrich's ability to resist. With his eyes closed, the smooth fabric of the pillow could almost pass for fine pajamas.

Finer fabric than anything that Rook ever wore, a sly part of him noted. A pair of his own sleep clothes, lent to them.

Lent to them so long that their scent had seeped into the cloth—

Emmrich swallows a moan, cock twitching at the thought.

The escapade might have escalated no further, only...

...Emmrich comes to realize, eventually, that the other end of the pillow smells very intimately of Rook, indeed. A faint suggestion, almost as if they had wrapped their legs around it, and—

Things get a little out of hand, after that.

It's rather impossible to keep even a scrap of dignity when naked, whimpering, arm snaked around a pillow to cuddle it close, furiously humping it into the mattress.

If Emmrich comes in an embarrassingly short amount of time, moaning Rook's name, who's to know?

...right up until he remembers this is Rook's pillow and promptly has a post-nut clarity panic attack.

One extremely hasty and thorough laundering later, he sheepishly presents the pillow back to Rook with feeble excuses of Manfred having taken an interest in it (true, once he saw Emmrich feverishly scrubbing it) and, having not known where he'd taken it (Emmrich had very carefully turned his back for precisely eleven seconds while Manfred was petting the still-wet pillow case) he simply had to launder it as an apology. Manfred had been talked to, he assures Rook, and will not do such a thing again.

"Oh, alright," Rook says. "Thanks."

Emmrich leaves, relieved. Rook shakes their head—serves them right for having left their humping pillow out in the open like that.

...Hey, it kind of smells like Emmrich now...

Well. Rook didn't have any afternoon plans.

---

@lavenderprose definitely thought of you and your "let the man be a little bit of pervert" while writing this one lmao

#couldn't get this stupid idea out of my head by ignoring it so. everyone else's problem now #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #emmrich x rook #rook x emmrich #rauferes writes

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chimielie · 6 hours ago

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You've gotten kind of obsessed with Suna's voice.

You don't know how because you so often hate the actual content of his words. He's monotone, often, so you have to really focus in to hear the nuances of it. The chuckle in the back of his throat when he's laughing at someone to their face, the dip when someone annoys him, the slight pitch up when he says something outrageous just to make you start shouting.

His voice is mellow and deep, not so bassy that it's grating, not so quiet that you ever have to ask him to repeat himself. He doesn't ramble and doesn't stumble over his words; if he speaks, he's self-assured and says only what he needs to say. If you unfocus your eyes and let whatever bullshit he's saying fade out and just listen to the rolling sound of it, you could almost imagine...

You refuse to finish that thought.

Still, it keeps leaking into your life in ways that aren't ideal. You try not to show preference when conversing with your friends, but your head snaps toward him whenever he says something, no matter how intently you'd been listening before. You start asking him to repeat himself even when you heard him perfectly clearly because you liked his inflection (or more often, lack thereof) on a particular word, the roundness of a certain syllable. He obliges so easily you start to wonder if he knows.

It's even coming up in your dreams. Nothing too explicit, not that your waking self knows of, anyway—you just wake up, suddenly missing the weight of a hand on your waist and the warmth of lips against the shell of your ear. Only one or two sentences will stay with you: sometimes lacking context, like "I missed this," this forever a mystery to you, or impossible phrases, like "I missed you."

Suna is a friend. A friend of a friend that you think is kind of annoying. You're not sure why you walk around with false echoes of him—him confessing to you in your head.

He's funny, sure, but too often mean. He always looks like he's thinking of a joke about you, one he doesn't even mind saying to your face because he doesn't expect you to get it. He's vitamin D deficient, he didn't know how to do his laundry until way too late in life, and he keeps inviting you over to watch weird experimental films.

You go, but only because you enjoy arguing with him about the meaning of it all and somehow the argument never quite finishes. "We'll finish this next time," he says, and you keep coming back like a lab rat for rage-hormone-laced sugar water. He used to invite the rest of your friends, but they stopped attending one by one until it was just you and him, whisper-shouting at each other at 2 a.m. because his hand touched yours in the popcorn bucket and you reflexively grabbed it and then bit him. And all the time, he has that stupid half-smile on his face, like he knows something you don't, like everything you say to him is a joke.

You're there now, your requisite fist-fight over the popcorn over and vacuumed up already, some 60s Soviet film playing on his TV. Somehow, after the violent intermission had wrapped up, he'd maneuvered you down so that your head was in his lap, petting you every time you started making unpredictable movements in a way that managed to make you go limp. It was unfair and made it much harder to win arguments without utilizing physical force.

"It's kind of obtuse if you don't know anything about the filmmaker," he's saying.

"That's the point," you say, his hand stroking across your forehead and making your eyes flutter closed. "You're telling me you make me watch this artistic shit and you want it to be linear?"

"You're not even watching," Suna laughs. "I don't want it to be linear, I'm just curious how much the average person knew about his biography back in the day."

"Mmf," you say. His other hand is on your shoulder now, gently applying pressure, working out some of the kinks having to put up with him has put there. "Annoying guy. Annoy me all the time."

"Do I?" He says. "You look pretty relaxed. You gonna fall asleep on me, huh?"

"It was an order, get it right," you grumble. "Not gonna fall asleep. Just keep talking."

"Anything you want," he says, "I knew you liked my voice."

You'd fight him about it, but you're so comfortable. It'd be like letting him win to disturb your peace right now, so you just listen to him neg you and then narrate the screen for your closed eyes, your breathing slowing and getting deeper. You'll wake in the morning not remembering coming to bed, a hand on your waist you remember without ever experiencing, a sharp chin you hadn't thought to imagine digging into the crook of your neck.

He'll say something and be smug and obnoxious to the core, maybe (maybe!) awakening something in you even worse than it was with his morning voice.

When he tells you "we didn't finish last night," his lips tilting subtly in a motion that shouts out loud to you, "I thought you'd want to stay and get the last word in," you'll laugh without meaning to.

There's so much to disagree about in the world; you'll have to stay a long time before you've covered all of it. Thank heavens you have the spirit to battle it out till the bitter end.

#shorts!#i dont want to talk about hwat just happened to me he is taunting me in my brain #suna rintaro x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq!! x reader #suna x reader #suna rintarō x reader #suna rintarou x reader #idiots to lovers #up! top!

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blitzwhore · 1 day ago

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That's an interesting question! After giving it a bit of thought, I personally think there wasn't precedent for either thing—a Goetia being spared, or a Goetia being executed.

Firstly, because as Andrealphus said, "a Goetia has never behaved like this before". No one has stepped out of line/out of their intended role before the way Stolas has. That doesn't mean they've not committed what we the audience would consider crimes (eg. Killing, abusing the lower class, etc); but to me, it does mean that they've only ever stuck to crimes that the rest of the upper class could happily ignore, because they were unaffected by it, or even benefitted from it.

And secondly, because I believe the story at large is pointing at how Stolas and Blitz are both outliers in their own worlds, both achieving things that someone of their social status has never achieved before. They're the ones setting the precedent and breaking the chains. Blitz by surviving Satan's death sentence, and Stolas, in this instance, by being judged for a crime in the first place. I think both of these situations are completely unheard of to all Hellborn.

I think the three of them had reasons to believe Stolas could be executed—but those reasons had nothing to do with other Goetia having been executed in the past.

Stolas, being young (for a Goetia), and sheltered, and a kind and loving person who also thinks very little of himself, genuinely believed himself equal to Blitz. In fact, he believed Blitz's life was worth more than his own. This all made him blind to his own privilege when facing Satan.

Blitz, as a few people have pointed out in their reblogs, is not blind to their class difference, but he is very aware of Stolas' mortality now because of Striker. Every thought he's ever had about how Stolas is invincible and unable to be killed has already been shattered. If a situation as absurd to Blitz as an imp almost killing a Goetia can (and did) come true, then anything that would seem impossible and absurd could happen to Stolas. Add to that Blitz's trauma around being the reason his loved ones end up dead or badly injured, and any flicker of rational thought is fully out the window.

As for Octavia, ever since Loo Loo Land, the fandom has speculated that, from a very young age, she's had prophecies where Stolas died, or left her. Yes, she's a Goetia, she understands her father's privilege to some extent—but she is also intimately familiar with the notion of losing him. He even addressed it in his lullaby to her, trying to get her to accept and normalise his absence: "when I'm gone you'll be okay". Not if—when. She's not thinking "oh, my dad is royalty, he's clearly not going to get the same treatment as his imp boyfriend"; she's thinking "so this is it. This is how I lose him. No no no no please this can't be it, please this can't be how I lose him, please say this is how he leaves me behind— he promised he wouldn't!"

The three of them are stuck in their own inner worlds in that moment. And the three of them, up to Mastermind, had spent a significant amount of time grappling with Stolas' mortality. Via through her prophecies and nightmares of losing him, which impacted her enough to still be her biggest fear in her teenage years. Stolas through those same prophecies, through his own suicidal ideation, and through the notion of needing a precautionary heir at all. And Blitz through Striker's attack, and being confronted about it at the beginning of Apology Tour, and then being faced with Stolas' emotional vulnerability afterwards.

I think the topic of Stolas' mortality has been one of the main themes of the show since the very beginning, and will continue to be one for the remainder of it. And one of the reasons it holds as much weight as it does is because, as far as we know, no other Goetia's immortality has ever been disputed, or questioned, or threatened before. Stolas is different. Stolas is queer (in both senses of the word), and just by existing and being himself and having his own needs and wants and desires (and acting on them), he's going against a system no one has ever questioned or pushed back against before.

And the message the show has clearly sent so far is that Stolas is very much capable of being hurt and even killed, but—narratively speaking—that doesn't mean he gets to die. Not yet. Not without being loved. Not without healing from all the hurt he's gone through. Not without learning what it's like to live with his choices, good and bad; not without learning how to keep going even when it hurts, how to lean on others when he can't hold himself. Not without knowing what it's like to belong. To be cherished, and loved, and wanted, and needed.

We don't know what will happen to him, how his story will end, but personally, I think it's possible he'll eventually choose to give up his immortality to grow old with Blitz. But for him to choose that, Octavia would have to accept and support this choice; he would never leave her behind otherwise. And right now, she'd never want something like this. So, we'll have to wait and see!

I wholeheartedly agree with everyone who has pointed out that Stolas believing he would die in Blitzø's place highlights how oblivious he is to his own privilege.

But I also want to talk about how Stolas wasn't the only one who genuinely believed he, a Goetia, could die in Blitzø's place.

Blitzø's agonised cries are not the cries of someone who thinks their lover is making it out alive 👀

#wow this turned into a ramble!!!

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forest-hashira · 20 hours ago

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hi everyone! this is my part of the tea party exchange event being held by @pixelcafe-network today! my assigned giftee was @arkhams-siren, so i hope you enjoy this! 💜

wc: 896 | cw: just fluff, first kisses, a little bit of whiny gojo

Dating Gojo Satoru was a rush. He could have anyone he wanted, and countless people clamored for his attention practically every second he was in public. But he’d chosen you, had pursued you, made sure there was no doubt in your mind that you were the one he wanted.

“Just gimme a chance,” he’d nearly pleaded. “Three dates, that’s all I’m asking. If you really don’t wanna do this after that, I won’t push it anymore. I promise.”

And so you’d agreed. The beaming smile he’d given you was more than worth it. Leading up to your first date, though, you were a little uneasy. Not because you didn’t want to go – nothing could’ve been further from the truth, in fact – but because you were sure he’d regret asking you out after just one date; would he realize you weren’t who he thought you were? Would he think you were boring and grow tired of you? Would you do or say something stupid and make a complete fool of yourself in front of him?

All of those worries wound up being pointless, of course. The date was perfect. You laughed together all throughout dinner at the izakaya Satoru had said he wanted to try, and more than once you caught him watching you over his sunglasses with a look that bordered on adoration in those startlingly blue eyes; it made your cheeks burn every time. He insisted on walking you home, wanting to make sure you arrived safely because, “Can’t have anything happening to you before our next date, can we?”

The second date was just as lovely. He took you to an ice cream shop that had some of the strangest flavors you'd ever heard of – things like sweet corn, ginger, pear and blue cheese, wasabi, vanilla and sriracha, even salted butter – alongside flavors you were used to seeing, like chocolate, matcha, and sweet red bean. Somehow you managed to convince him to get the goat cheese and cherry flavor, and you got the chocolate caramel swirl. After one bite of his own he practically begged you to switch with him, and it didn’t take you long to cave. When you tasted the ice cream after swapping cones, Satoru made a face when you said you liked the flavor. “Cheese and ice cream should not mix,” he insisted; you just laughed and took another big bite.

Your third date was a konbini run and then a movie. Satoru focused on finding candies you guys could smuggle into the theater, while you grabbed a few onigiri – You have to eat some real food before you load up on sugar, ‘Toru – to eat on the walk to the theater. Honestly, you weren’t even completely sure what movie you were seeing; it was some action movie you’d heard Satoru gushing with Yuji about a few days before, so when he suggested it, you obviously said yes. It turned out to be more entertaining than you expected, even though you realized after you arrived that it was the third in a franchise; it had you a little confused on a few of the plot points, but the fight scenes were well choreographed, and Satoru’s excitement more than made up for your lack of understanding.

When the movie ended, Satoru pulled out his phone to call Ijichi to give you both a ride, but you made him put it away.

“It’s his day off, and it actually feels alright outside,” you said. “Let’s walk for a bit.”

Eager to spend more time with you, he agreed, and the two of you began to make your way down the sidewalk, roughly in the direction of your apartment. He didn’t hold your hand, but you felt his fingers brush your own with every step, which was almost as nice.

Just a few minutes later, practically without warning, it started pouring down rain; it had been impossible not to notice the clouds in the sky, but they hadn’t seemed all that threatening. Within just a few seconds, you were soaked to the skin, but rather than getting frustrated, you just laughed.

Satoru looked down at you when you laughed, confused. He was still dry, his infinity protecting him from the downpour, though thankfully nobody else was paying enough attention to notice, too focused on racing indoors to get out of the rain.

You took his hand, tugging lightly in hopes that he’d drop his infinity. “Dance with me!”

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, arching a brow behind his sunglasses.

“We’re already out here. Might as well have some fun,” you shrugged, still smiling.

He was silent for a moment, then laughed, dropping his infinity and letting the rain soak him, too. The two of you laughed and danced down the sidewalk for a bit, splashing in puddles and catching each other before you could slip and get hurt. Eventually, the two of you found an awning to duck under, a little breathless but still grinning.

“So,” he started, giving your hand a nervous squeeze. “Is this our last date?”

You couldn’t help it; you let out a soft huff, rolling your eyes. “You dumbass,” you sighed, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss. “What do you think?”

Satoru gave you the biggest, dumbest grin you’d ever seen. “I think we’re going to dinner next week, angel.”

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#fallon's fics #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fanfiction #jjk fluff #jjk reader insert #divider by saradika-graphics

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juney-blues · 1 day ago

Text

MYSTERY MAN | EGG MAN

Resides in rooms that appear at random, usually requiring the player to go back and forth repeatedly for them to appear.

Vanishes after interacting with him. (Well, there isn't a man here.)

EVIDENCE FOR MYSTERY MAN BEING GASTER:

uhhhh he looks kinda like a skeleton if you squint?

he has holes in his hands,,,? hands are a gaster motif right

appears with fun value of 66. 6 is a number with strong gaster associations

in the context of undetale: well if he's not gaster then who the fuck else could it be? just another follower of gaster??

GUY WE SEE IN DELTARUNE:

bears a striking resemblance to one of gaster's followers. but like. un-goner'd... Capable of holding a somewhat normal conversation, even.

EVIDENCE EGG MAN IS NOT GASTER:

Gaster consistently speaks IN ALL CAPS. OFTEN USING LINE

BREAKS.

FOR AN AWKWARD. DISJOINTED CADENCE.

...Honestly results inconclusive on this one. when the egg man speaks to you it's in all caps but so does everyone in the chapter 3 and 4 egg rooms. because of the 8 bit font.

the dialogue there *feels* different, though.

maybe someone familiar with the japanese translation can bring up how similar or different the dialogue is there to his unique way of writing.

EVIDENCE PART 2:

egg man appears in the light worl.d

this is weird because gaster is kinda established at this point to exclusively make himself known in deltarune through meta elements. the intro text. the game over text. the credits text.

if this is not a hard and fast rule then this evidence is entirely flimsy.

but like c'mon. it would feel weird if he's just... walking around the light world. not lost in the void. right?

INSANE CONCLUSION:

when you look at this sprite. what do you see.

does it look like... a skeletons...?

...maybe kinda. if you squint.

but. not to the extent the confirmed skeletons. look like skeletons.

look at those cracks.

you know what i see? when i look at this man?

Thats fucking right.

eggs.

in conclusion: mystery man probably isn't gaster. he's some kind of egg-based monster with gaster relations (similar to how normal npc up there is a Bird/Face monster with gaster relations. and also all the other gaster followers)

he is meant to resemble an eggs. because he is an. Easter Eggs.

the fandom however has entirely reified this sprite as Gaster in our minds. the idea it could be anything or one else jsut isn't even worth considering.

hence the hiding behind the tree. if we saw the mystery man sprite we would all collectively go apeshit. and then be really confused because it doesn't line up with a shakey assumption we've all accepted as base reality. (assuming egg man Cannot Possibly be gaster. but like assuming he *is* is weird to me. you can assume anyone is gaster. it's almost impossible to *fully* disprove.)

secondary conclusion:

i'm insane and wrong about everything. do not listen to me.

#juney.txt #undertale #deltarune #deltarune spoilers #utdr

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n3ptoonz · 2 days ago

Text

'Last Train Home'

Pairing: 40s!Bucky/F!Reader

Fandom: MCU

Warnings/tags: Smut; Explicit, major canon divergence, PLOT HEAVY, 40s slang used, the slang is so unserious, angsty, mans might be a lil traumatized, flashbacks, reader smokes, f!masturbation, technically mirror sex, riding, tears, creampie, baby is used a lot here, this is the most dramatic fic i've ever written and i kinda hate it but that's just me being over critical so!! half proofread

italicized text in a sequence means a flashback

Word count: 3.7k+

1945, Brooklyn.

He was gone. You were so sure of it.

Lighting your cigarette on the stovetop, you took a long drag and leaned against the counter in your dimly lit kitchen. You never smoked. Not until your high school sweetheart was drafted for WWII. Those damned Germans. Sending their best wishes and a crisp 'Fuck you' to America's loved ones.

You hadn't drank neither. But how could you not? The love of your life used to write you often and suddenly your mail box was only coughing up bills and magazines showing impossible standards for women. As per usual.

You were only 27. A bright young woman who dreamed of being a scientist. Your mother insisted you try to be closer to Bucky by being a nurse but it just wasn't your calling. You started to wonder if maybe she was right. Maybe you should've listened to her because right now, all you can think about is how he said he'd be back around this time. That blood pumping organ in your chest only ached.

He was gone. You were sure of it.

You tapped the ash in the sink and took another drag, chuckling bitterly to yourself. You were zoned out after catching one of his dress shirts you never moved from the dining table in your line of sight. You could hear his laugh, see his smile, see the genuinely impressed look on his face when he saw the future in Howard Stark's hands. Well, almost.

"Look, look!"

"I'm looking, Bucky."

"Isn't that amazing, babe? It's...beautiful."

"Yes, it is."

The look in his eyes.

His smile.

His laugh.

The powder in the corner of your mouth from the funnel cake you took 75% of that he wiped away.

"Nothing is as beautiful as you, darlin'."

You smiled. He didn't.

"I mean it."

You blinked. Nearly bumped into the table not realizing you were walking towards it. Your hand on the back of the chair with his dress shirt on it. You put the cigarette between your lips and put the shirt on, letting it hang loosely. Not buttoning it so it was like he was there. Loosely hanging his arm around your shoulders. Maybe he would whisper something sweet. Something...spicy.

Fuck, it didn't matter. Anything. Whisper anything, Bucky. Please. You're alive and you're coming home. You can't wait to see the love your life safe and sound. That smart pretty girl you flaunt proudly to your boys. Your squad mates that probably didn't give a damn.

A real killer diller, that guy. Bucky literally would never shut up about you. Steve loves it. His best friend--the Casanova--of forever finally quit being so damned doll dizzy, he found the woman that held him down. Challenged him. Was more than a risky make out under the bleachers. More than a quickie behind that pie shop. More than a 'Oh, you'll definitely see me again, baby.'

It was love. Pure. Need. Want. Desire. Of course, he wanted to do all types of things with you when you met at that sophomore school dance. Steve introduced you to him, giving his old pal the 'Don't fuck this up' glare. You're a sweet girl with wit and a backbone and he learned that quickly.

After graduation, he bought a ring and a locket to put a picture of you in. It wasn't your typical 'Say cheese!' type of thing. More like a candid photo of you - the prettiest you've ever looked in his eyes - where you briefly looked over your shoulder when a butterfly passed you by. Whenever he was sad, nervous, terrified...he opened that locket and just stared at it. The face that could launch a thousand ships into a losing battle.

He was gone and you were sure of it.

He was gone. He was sure of it.

Hanging on by that broken handle, reaching for Steve's hand as if it would actually work. No way. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was an absolute goner.

"Look, look!" he exclaimed, pointing to the stage with a wide grin. His hand holding yours firmly.

"I'm looking, Bucky." you playfully rolled your eyes and took another bite. Having to put the plate just under your chin because he refused to let you slip away.

"Isn't that amazing, babe? It's...beautiful." he said in awe.

"Yes, it is." you replied in a gentle, warm tone and looked at him.

The look in your eyes.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

The powder in the corner of your mouth from the funnel cake he let you have 75% of that he wiped away.

"Nothing is as beautiful as you, darlin'." he murmured, fighting the urge to kiss you all over.

You smiled. He didn't. His eyes soft and attentive.

"I mean it."

"Bucky," he heard his name, but he wasn't scared. He wasn't cold. He wasn't surrounded by rocks and snow. He sat in the train wrapped in a blanket.

Wait, no. That's not a blanket.

Bucky snapped out of it and quickly looked over to his left. Steve had his arm slung over Bucky's shoulders to warm him up.

"Bucky," Steve repeated. "You're okay. I pulled you up to safety and we'll be retrieved soon."

Bucky is okay. Steve was sure of it. Steve made sure of it.

"Stay awake, man. You've got someone waiting for the good news back home."

One week passes.

You stared at the ring on your finger. The ring of promise. Cigarette burning in your right hand and still wearing his shirt with just underwear beneath it. You took care of yourself, yes, but this was permanently apart of your wardrobe.

You hadn't gone out much. Not like you did normally. Your friends worry. Your parents worry. Some soldiers came home with a big smile, happy to see their families. You watched them in the window like an old cat lady.

Your birthday was yesterday. You celebrated with your best friends at a jazz bar because they refused to let you sit at home and mope on your own day.

Turning away from the window, you extinguished the cigarette in a makeshift ashtray since you didn't want to feel like you actually committed to this lifestyle. You could quit any time you wanted and it was just to take the edge off. Ain't it?

The raindrops beat against your window like rent was due. Gray clouds casting over the skies could make anyone forget what time it was. You sighed and stared at the ceiling. You needed to relax. Take your mind away from the chaos for just long enough before you lost it.

You bit your index finger to keep quiet while your free hand worked you through your awaited release. Underwear long discarded on the floor. Shallow, weak breaths and strangled whimpers echoing throughout the living room. The rain was almost like added ambience to the filth running through your mind.

You lifted your hips to get deeper. The wet sounds getting louder by the second and you were about to follow. You whispered his name like it was taboo. Like if anybody overheard you there'd be hell to pay.

"Nothing is as beautiful as you, darlin'." he murmured. "I mean it."

"Fuck- sigh Bucky," you muttered weakly. Your chest rising up and down as you got closer and closer.

"Yeah, baby?"

You moaned pathetically and let your head hit the cushion behind you, long not giving a fuck about the wet spot soaking into the couch.

"Bucky," you whispered. "Please, please, please. Let me do this, please-"

You gripped the cushion behind you, curling your fingers against your slippery warm folds. Letting out a guttural moan but quieting yourself before it could get louder. Your legs seized for a second and your hips jerked. Clear liquid gushing from between your thighs like you left the faucet on.

You slumped into the couch and stared at the ceiling. Deep, heavy breaths like you ran a mile.

"Shit." you licked your lips and sighed. Standing up to see a wet spot so big, you'd just flip the cushion over and take care of it later. You went to the kitchen and washed your hands, resting your elbows on the sink. The rainfall and the running water brought clarity.

He's coming back...you're sure of it...

You wiped yourself down and tossed it. Grabbed that cigarette pack by the stove and, oh, huh. The last one. You scoffed and took it out, tossing the box but you missed.

Knock, knock, knock

You were halfway to picking it up off the ground when you heard the door. Who'd come by in the middle of a storm? You threw the box away and grabbed your lighter, mid flick when the knock came again. You huffed dramatically as you haven't even lit the cigarette yet, but knew you'd have to get decent now.

You quickly flipped the cushion but didn't bother to put your underwear back on and just put it with the laundry. Running to your room you slid on a long skirt that didn't require and zipping or tying any pretty bows. You ran back out and fixed your hair a little in the mirror before you made it to the door. You took a deep breath and opened it, attempting not to look pissed off at whoever was here late at night during a storm.

1933, Homecoming.

"...and she's your type." Steve finished explaining as the two were perched by the juice and snacks stand. Bucky rolled his eyes and popped candy into his mouth.

"I don't have a type." he said. "If she's cute, she's cute. I never pass up on a doll and you know that."

"Yeah, that's the damn problem." Steve muttered and shook his head.

"I just don't get why you're trying to set me up with anyone anyway. Not like I ever had a problem with girls in my entire 16 years of existence."

"That's not the point, Buck. I just think that if you knew someone like her, you'd be a little less..." he trailed off.

"If you say 'doll dizzy' one more time I'm going to walk away."

"I wasn't! But- okay. If you don't like her, I'll...I dunno, you think of something."

"Think it might be too late." he said, not looking at his friend anymore.

"What do you mean?'" Steve asked, watching Bucky jut his chin with a growing smirk in the direction he was looking. Steve followed his eyes and smiled. "That's her."

Bucky almost choked on the candy he was swishing around in his mouth and looked at Steve in disbelief. "That's her?" he asked incredulously. Almost like he was offended.

"I told ya." he said and waved as you approached them. You hugged Steve and got introduced to his gorgeous friend.

"James," he said, taking your hand and bringing your knuckles to his lips to leave a soft kiss while looking you in the eyes. "But everybody calls me Bucky." Steve rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, biting down the urge to make fun of him. You smiled and introduced yourself to him, heart fluttering in your chest.

"Now, Rogers, why has it taken you this long to introduce us?" Bucky said in a dramatic tone. You chuckled and answered for Steve.

"We just met in our chem class not too long ago. We have a project together."

"Had to pair with the smartest one in that class." Steve chimed in. You waved him off and laughed.

"No way. You think a girl could be the smartest in that class?"

"Not just any girl. You." he turned to Bucky and nudged his arm playfully. "The girl's a genius."

"I know. Just wanted to hear you say it." you teased. Steve laughed along while Bucky just watched you. Man alive...you were out of this world.

"Alright, well I'll leave you two alone. Drank a little too much of this sketchy fruit punch." he joked, patting Bucky on his shoulder and walking away. But before he was fully gone he turned and narrowed his eyes at Bucky. "Don't fuck this up" in his eyes.

You two instantly clicked. Interesting conversations, corny jokes that only work because he's pretty, and a whole lotta dancin'. The boy could move and he had no problem showing you. However, in the middle of a particularly slow dance, while you were looking into his eyes and he was looking into yours, his hand not daring to move past your hip...everything about this moment was perfect. Until the power went in and out. The music was becoming static-y and the lights flickered.

"Attention students, there's a storm headed this way soon so it'd be best to just leave now before we get trapped for however long."

The kids in the cafeteria all groaned and jeered as the announcement continued. Mumbling under their breath as they started to file out into the halls. You two looked at each other and laughed, getting out of the dancing stance but he kept your hand tight in his.

The rain came sooner than they thought. So by the time you both made it out it was pouring down and the students started to scatter. Bucky held his suit jacket over your heads with both hands and you hugged his side to stay close as possible.

"A shame the night had to end like this." Bucky said, trying to keep his composure while you clung to him. Your breasts against his chest were driving the poor boy crazy.

"It's not all bad. Got to make a new friend tonight." you said. He walked over to a nearby bus stop and lowered the jacket. When he gave you another look, a real look, he almost froze. Your eyes twinkled so naturally in the moonlight. Or maybe that's the street lamp. Either way, his heart was pounding.

"Just friends?" he asked coolly. Damn bastard never missed a beat. You tilted your head and brushed a piece of confetti from his hair. Those steel blue eyes let you know where home was.

"What was your name again?" you teased. That earned a classic tongue-in-cheek response from him as he nodded.

"So that's how it is, huh?" he said, looking back down at you. "It's

"Bucky?" you said in disbelief. He's at your door completely soaked from the rain. Like a sad, wet cat. His hat barely blocked his face from the rain too. His face littered with faded bruises and cuts but the second he laid eyes on you it's like nothing ever happened.

"...Are you real?" you asked quietly. Bucky stepped into your apartment and just stood there. Ears red from the cold and his jaw tight from trying not to cry at that question. He was riddled with guilt that he had to stay an extra week on base for a reason he didn't care to remember. He looked like he was standing at attention and waited for a command. His body wouldn't move on its own.

He'd done it, hadn't he? Worried you sick and drove you mad. He could tell by the cigarette that dropped from your fingers when you opened the door. He'd understand if you hated him. Oh, but you have his shirt on. You're wearing his shirt and you never took the ring off.

His breath stuttered once he heard the door shut behind you. You didn't even care that he was getting your floors wet.

Bucky is here. In front of you. Steve made sure of it.

He mumbled your name and you were on him in an instant. A kiss. A kiss so sweet, so passionate and real. Pure. His hat fell to the ground but neither of you cared right now. His hands roamed your body like he was making sure you were the real one and not a hallucination.

You pulled away and both of you panted. You held his face and could see the turmoil in his eyes. Unshed tears in your eyes.

"I thought I'd never see you again." he said. Ironic you thought the exact same thing at the exact same time. You finally shed a single tear and took him in your arms. His clothes still wet but it didn't matter. You needed to feel him physically in your arms even if he was trembling.

"How'd you get here in this weather?" you asked. You could feel his shaky breaths against your cheek as he nuzzled into you.

"Took the last train home." he said. You exhaled with your eyes closed for a moment and ran your fingers through his damp hair.

"Let's get your clothes in the dryer." you whispered and patted his back. He backed away looked at you with glossy eyes, 100 different emotions simultaneously flashing at you before quietly agreeing, peeling off his wet clothes and handing them to you. Now left in a white tank and boxers.

You stood in your room in front of your vanity table, staring down at the ring on your finger. After begging the universe to bring him back to you, one would be jumping for joy. But that deep look of leftover fear in his eyes didn't make this any easier.

You felt warm, strong arms wrapped around you from behind. Looking up you saw Bucky with his chin on your shoulder and felt him gently caress your ribs.

"Why is your middle cushion flipped over?" he asked. You froze. Not because you didn't want to tell him, but because you knew he already knew.

"Bucky," you whispered. "Please, please, please. Let me do this, please-"

"I thought about you a lot, too." he continued, planting two kisses on your shoulder. "Every single day."

"Bucky," you said while looking at him through the mirror. "We don't have to do this. We don't have to do anything." you heard him sigh behind you and hold you closer.

"Baby," he said. "I have really seen some shit. I need to feel something. I need to feel you."

He hooked his fingers around the band of your skirt and pulled it down until it pooled around your ankles. When he saw you push your thighs together already, you could feel his soft laugh against your neck.

"You had nothing on but my shirt?" he asked--rhetorically--and pressed himself against your ass. He watched you bite your lip and stifle that pretty sound that he never fails to elicit from you.

"Please," you breathed out and involuntarily arched your back like a cat. "Not right now." You heard shuffling behind you and watched him shove his boxers down quickly.

"Bucky," you whined as your head fell back to his shoulder. He held you tighter and sucked in a sharp breath. His shaft glided past your warm, welcoming walls. Just as he remembered. His hands slid under the shirt and mapped your skin like he forgot how you felt. The sound of him first sliding inside of you was lewd. Dirty. Taboo.

His hips met yours at a slow, sensual pace. He savored the feeling of you wrapped around him like a vice made of silk.

"Always so wet for me," he whispered into your neck. "No matter how long I'm gone...Shame on me for making you worry. I'm so sorry, baby."

You were about to fall apart from the first few strokes already. Fuck, you missed him so fucking much.

"Everyday. I thought about you every. Single. Day." he grunted with each thrust. He was quickly unraveling by the overwhelming feeling of love he had for you. Truly, he thought he'd fall to his knees the second you opened that door.

"Damn it- Come here." he said, pulling back and grabbing your hand. He sat down on your bed and pulled you on top of him, ripping the shirt open to reveal the rest of your body. You sank down on his dick with a whimper, tightly hugging him while he guiding your hips. You ground in his lap with haste, chasing a much needed, long awaited climax with him. Words will never describe how he made you feel. What he did to you. What he was doing right now.

You felt a single tear fall on your shoulder. He groaned quietly as the past week was hitting him all over again. He nearly died, and now he's here. He's not dreaming. His life isn't suddenly flashing before his eyes. This is real. The feeling of your hips meeting his and your walls clamping down on him, letting him know he's didn't lose his groove.

He'd seen some things. Too many things. But this? You made it worth it.

"I love you," he said your name in a shaky tone. More tears streamed down his face as he held you tight again. "Please-" he whispered.

"I love you too." you managed to reply.

"I wanna start a family," he muttered, sniffling and panting as he dragged his hands up your spine. "With you."

You nodded and grinned tiredly, fingers raking through his hair. "Okay." you whispered.

He held your hips down to stop you and look into your eyes. His cheeks flushed, nose red, and eyes watery. In an instant, he could see it. Your entire life together. Him coming home to a beautiful wife and rowdy kids tackling him at the door.

"Seriously?" he said. You held his face and kissed him, resting your forehead on his shortly after.

"Why not?" you said. He closed his eyes and sighed. That's all he needed to hear.

He grabbed your waist and kissed you back. He could feel you were close, hoping to all that's holy that you came together. His tongue desperately delved into your mouth like it was fighting yours. You moaned into his mouth the closer you got to the brink, not daring to pull away.

His came first. A soul rocking climax allowing him to pump his hot seed into you and continue his legacy. Yours came after. A body tensing shock hitting you like a truck, gripped his shoulders for dear life.

"I got you...I got you," he whispered against your lips and never let you go. He wouldn't even dream of it. It took a few seconds for him to stop cumming as you started to calm down. You swallowed thickly and wiped away his tears with shaky hands, kissing his eyelids. He rolled over with you on your back and him hovering you. He looked down at you with such pride and joy.

"I hope it's a girl."

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