Summary: You’re content with your quiet, peaceful life, but it suddenly becomes dangrously intense when an alpha, Steve Rogers, forces himself into it. You never believed nor seeked out the old fairytales of true mates, but Steve will make you admit there’s a grain of truth in every fairytale.
synopsis ; A surprise birthday success brings forth underlying feelings beneath the sacred moonlight. Leave it to Bucky Barnes to push them further down.
or ...
All your friends are in relationships. Will you and Bucky ever catch up?
pairing ; college AU!bucky barnes x college AU!reader
content warnings ; fem!reader, no smutt here!, modern AU, college AU, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, nicotine consumption in the form of cigarettes, cursing, reader smokes cigarettes, reader drinks alcohol, bucky smokes cigarettes, multiple mentions of drunk persons, a try at comedy, a nibble at angst, hurt/no comfort, weird ending (???), guys they're just best friends, idiots in love, yearning tuned to 100%, miscommunication, severe case of pining, (supposed) unrequited love, everyone's in love —it's disgusting, misuse of baby oil, if i missed anything let me know !
word count ; 11.2k
laye's notes ; jesus fucking christ this was supposed to be posted a week ago. tbh i don't know how to feel about this eek, but i did cry writing some parts.
also be warned, there's so much fucken dialogue lmfao. i send my regretful regards. this took a whole month to finish so please enjoy my fellow gremlins !!
The kickback was a hit. Streamers and DIY lights illuminate the room in shades of blue and red. The cheap plastic disco ball hangs on the chandelier, shines, attracting attendees swaying in slow silver shards, igniting subpar dance moves in the navel of the room.
The planned surprise birthday party for Sam was meticulously organized. Students ripe with nerves, the first hectic weeks of college.
The new semester brought with it tempered professors, seasoned in their respective fields; professionals in snuffing out the fidgety, fresh-out-of-high-school kids, barely containing the aftermath of their first unsupervised start-of-the-year party. And total and complete dangerous free will.
Will they stay and revise obsessively on the introduction to Biotechnology & Entrepreneurship till their muscles atrophy over scalding computers, spilling in open tab decay—or, take their friend up on that party invite on 7th Ave?
The evidence lies on Facebook dashboards featuring unflattering accidental photos posted in the peak social euphoria of weed and various bottles of cheap alcohol and mixers.
Cradling a concoction of vodka-red bull, you sit alone on a vintage leather club chair. It was bought on a last-minute decision when you accompanied Sam on his expedition for furniture. Having recently rented an unfurnished apartment.
It was old. Really old. Fractures on the side of the cushions with an unusual smell preceding it, kind-of-old. But you liked it, said it had character. Sam had ridiculed you for a good twenty minutes.
“I can’t imagine the deadly gas passed on this couch.” Sam deadpanned at you. People sent you puzzled glares from bookshelves and propped up wooden chairs as your snort echoed in the makeshift warehouse down in Soho.
In the end, he bought it with an exasperated gummy smile. Later that week, you found an engraving of your first initial on the left side of the weathered armrest. You’d poked Sam on his side — where he’s the most ticklish— when you found it.
You were so using this against him.
He yelped, almost having dropped the pan that held his grilled cheese à la tuna. He scolded you while you beamed pearly whites that sing-songed: You like me, you like me!
You pointed in the general direction where the incriminating evidence lay.
And that got him riled up.
He barked in frustration. Apparently, it wasn't your dear friend who loved you so, but Bucky, with his dad’s Swiss army knife, after he witnessed you consoling it after everyone who’d passed by said it was a foul-looking thing. He yelled at the culprit and had ignored him for a good full day.
“You know how expensive it was to splurge like I shit money for basic decor!” He soured.
You would've sat cross-armed with an angry frown beside your friend too, muttering in solidarity with him about ‘spoiled rotten rich kids’ – or repeating: “What brings wealth to the bourgeoisie brings misery to the working class.” Like broken second-hand records.
If it wasn’t for your heart currently soaring in the air with the doves, humming cheerful symphonies of love and passion, like some Disney princess. You froze as Sam continued his annoyed muttering. A childish joy almost brought you to your knees, as if you were a kid again being promised a visit to the candy store.
These tiny minute occurrences fill your stomach with little hopeful butterflies, a kaleidoscope garden of them maddening you with nausea as they protest: Maybe, maybe, maybe!
They also give you excruciating migraines.
You watch Sam fondly as he recounts a story across the wooden coffee table—with conductor’s hands flying in excitement, exaggerating his words—he leads the group of people to laugh when a joke is made, or ‘awh’ when it’s rightfully needed for the score.
Rhodey’s to his left—cutting in with extra details, adding to the snorts and snickers—while Thor, to his right, having drunk two full bottles of Fireball before the party even started, sluggishly tries to keep up.
An assortment of scarlet cups and ashtrays clutching joints and cigs rest within sticky puddles of spilled mixers. People lean towards Sam in all directions, some behind the couch, others just arriving, completely forgetting what they came for, but staying for the radiant character—the sole reason for this party.
Sam always veered to attention and it to him. A siren song for those impatient to hear what happens next to Rhodey, after he cursed old man Chester. The cranky jank on Hicks st, readied at the porch with his roughened throat, gravelly ache achieved from years of nicotine fumes.
You huffed an amused chuckle at his antics, shaking your head at his expressive recounting of Chester. The man is pushing 60 and divorced—rightfully so, he’s all hostile depression and a full-out nightmare.
“I’m telling y’all, the dude’s head was red as hell, I was scared it was 'bouta pop!”
Laughter boomed as Sam finally concluded the end of the retelling. Drinks sloshed dangerously at the rim of red solo cups to the rhythm of Outkast as the group of strangers and friends alike bopped and carelessly shoulder-bumped.
He caught your eyes from across the couch, showing you his signature grateful smile, his corona-glossed lips forming an inaudible ‘thank you’.
You scrunched your nose, the sheer hemline of your black shirt slipping by your slick, body-glittered shoulder as you shrugged a ‘no problem.’
You spectated the scene around. Party-goers’ cackles bellow to the beat of the speakers booming nearby. The bass sends vibrations through the floor where it lands beneath your feet, sending shudders down your spine.
Your eyes hung on Nat and Cam, gazing at each other as if they were the only people in the world right now.
Nat’s lips, a catch red sheen as the crystal ball above whirls carefully, taking quiet turns to reveal her Slavic beauty in the hidden indigo. Cam, your best friend since sophomore year, is sporting baggy jeans, worn and scruffed within the years, and a navy jersey—one you've seen brandished on countless occasions; ‘The lucky Jersey’ they dubbed it with starry eyes that fateful day when Nat asked her out senior year.
Misty affinity swirled in their eyes. When Nat speaks, no one holds more importance to Cam when she’s around.
Next to them, scarlet wine sloshed over the rim onto the front of some random guy’s shirt, it was all inebriated drama—truly entertaining seeing two drunkards apologize in lethargic hand pats— as a girl, skin-tight in violet, grates her hips with purpose so mighty she might break the front of some frat guys skinny denim shorts—and still! The two of them never even looked up at the commotion.
A tender smile rests on your lips. Your two best friends. Reminiscing on their history, slow and precious in the way only puppy crushes can be. Fluttered lashes and uneasy fingers playing with strands of hair nervously.
And like any predictable, well-oiled clock—especially when love is in the air—you wonder where Bucky is.
Your thighs have practically formed a bond to the leather chair under you, leaving an embarrassing squeak in their wake as your eyes search the sea of people.
You smooth out the black mini you’ve chosen tonight and adjust to the extra three inches beneath the balls of your feet. Black knee-high leather boots that Nat let you borrow for tonight. A dark charcoal that conceals shadowed insecurity in moonless spilled ink. A try for quiet confidence but safe within the shells of typical attire.
Bucky complimented you on them, his body turned away as he hung the “Happy Birthday!” banner over the window. He’d said they suited you.
A surge of self-assurance drowned you; it’s a little pathetic. Bucky has a secure hold—a lasso rung around your suffocating heart, emblazoning his name across bleeding muscle.
You thanked him as blush sneaked up to the warmth of your cheeks. Never knowing how to rightfully respond to him. Never knowing if he actually means it in a silly romantic light or just being nice.
Confusion settles for practiced avoidance.
You teased him, saying he’s going soft on you. He huffed a smile as he sent you that adoring baby blue-eyed look. That honeyed, incorrigible look that sticks to every crevice of your being like molasses, making sure he’s reached deep enough in your coding to remember him, hear him, feel him. Even if he’s not around.
You squeeze by parting stiff dance moves and marijuana haze. You hear the song change—Sweetest Thing by Lauryn Hill. You like this song. Recalling the snug memory, woven into the crochet of your brain. Baby sophomores with legs crossed, facing each other on Bucky’s bed as he excitedly toured you through his vast collection of CDs.
That night, you nibbled on your bottom lip till it throbbed an angry, raw red, staring at him nervously through your lashes.
You spot Tony and Pepper on the petite balcony, midnight stretching over New York.
The sky is decorated with a million twinkling stars. They don't beg for attention with black boots and short skirts. They garner it wordlessly still, shining without clawing at their thighs for embarrassing attention.
Tony and Pepper star-gaze, his nails caressing up and down gently, hypnotizing the stars to glimmer slightly brighter, manipulating even celestial clusters miles away to flutter and blush. Pepper points up at the sky, successfully spying a hidden constellation. An easy smitten smirk pinches at Tony’s cheeks, pressing a kitten kiss to her jaw. So small, so faint—it still made you swoon.
You continue your trek through the apartment.
Interrupting plastered lip locks and interesting renditions of ‘to the roof’—especially in recent change of the smooth ballad.
You finally reach the kitchen, now a laboratory of drunk college students and glass bowls transfigured into cauldrons and bottles of alcohol, mixing liters of liquid into tall red cups. With no help from your heels, you tiptoe over tall men, turned scientific mixologists under the kitchen’s fluorescent lights. They concoct a slew of juice and liquor—god is it green?
You bobble your head over upland shoulders dressed in Jerseys and polos and catch Clint and Laura in the corner, nursing drinks as he makes a—what you believe to be–crude joke.
Laura laughs with closed eyes—like it’s escaped the clear directive order of not giving the blond the satisfaction of ‘yeah, you might actually be funny dickhead’.
And like always, Clint's eyes glint that bright, cheeky sparkle. Always around Laura. Because of her and for her.
Seems like everyone’s taken lines of an aphrodisiac tonight.
You make your way over to the couple, stumbling when one of the kids backs up into you accidentally. You squeeze through sweat and the scent of ‘1 Million’ and reach out to the couple in the back.
Laura calls your name out delightedly when she spots you, stretching an arm to help you out of the six-foot jock predicament you found yourself in. You lunge and grasp her hand, huffing a frustrated breath as you free your body.
You laugh in exasperation in front of the duo, “Thank you! Jesus, I thought I was gone for good.”
Laura chuckles, clasping your hand in her black manicured one. “It’s nothing, we’ve been trapped here behind them since Clint’s stomach betrayed us. I told him to eat before the shindig started.”
“Usually—most of the time—a party has food!” he debated, whirring his head at the gall of his girlfriend.
“Well, my dear friend, usually, when we throw parties, the food’s always gone in the first five minutes.” You side with Laura.
“First-come, first-serve.” She nods her head, agreeing with you as she eyes Clint with pursed lips.
“Or the two of you are ganging up on me like Yelena and Kate do,” He deadpans, leaning onto the marble island.
Laura starts, “They’re your friends, Clint–”
“–And one being Nat’s little sister,” You point out with a swig from your cup.
“Right,” Her hand waves in agreement at you, “If anything, they’ve learnt it from the two of you.”
“An observation deserving of a cheer,” the rattling of plastic chips at Clint’s hubris, watching as the two of you clink cups.
“Unbelievable.”
“Your girlfriend is a psychology major, Clint, do catch up.” You nod sympathetically.
And like always, an accusing point of the finger finds its way to the vicinity of your laid-back figure.
“You persuade them into annoying me—remember junior year when they posted compromising photos of me from Tony’s party? And sweet Laura here,” His right bicep resting across her shoulder squeezed and shook her, “Ignored me for a full week!”
You and Laura laughed as frustration picks at Clint’s conscience, remembering the pure agony he endured
“I couldn’t be seen in public with you, honey. The one of you, submerged in baby oil and powder, is still engraved into the deepest recesses of my brain.” Laura grins painfully at the memory, pursing her lips.
“Oh my god, if I could burn it,” You scrunch your face in disgust. “You were grinding weed, and it kept slipping from your fingers. You wasted the whole baggie!”
“You trusted a man, slicked with baby oil and impaired hand-eye coordination to roll joints—that was not my fault.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “Also, what the hell were two sophomores doing at that party? They shouldn't be anywhere near that type’a crowd!”
“You’re protective, and they’re curious. Lord knows I was. Now I’m an honorary member of the Half-wit Clubhouse.” Laura sighs.
“Plus, they were there for blackmail. Left promptly when they received more than they bargained for.”
You unknowingly started a war with this quip.
Clint sizes with a scarily inquisitive eye, “You let them in, didn’t you?”
The relaxed shrug of your shoulders is a muletta to tipsy Clint. There's smoke coming out of his pierced ears, kicking dust with his foot, and beginning to charge at you.
“Those pictures continue to follow me in job interviews, you conniving rat!” The accusatory point of his finger returns.
“What has your mother said about pointing fingers at women, Clint?” Your mouth falls agape at his ire.
“Don’t bring ma’ into this.”
“They just wanted to see their favorite junior shit-faced and stupid, what was the harm?” Your hand waves simply in the air between the triad of you.
Clint, readying to chew you out, is interrupted by the fair brunette beside him, “–Or! You're just hangry!” She reclaims her right hand out of your grasp, patting the blonde’s torso consolingly as if she’s calming a barking dog. She sends you a warning glare, an indefinite stop to the vulgarity down memory lane.
He shuts his mouth, a pout twirls around blond scruff. “You’re rotten—Laur’ she’s rotten!” Clint points at you like a petulant child.
“To the core, dweeb,”
You stick your tongue out at him in jest when Laura huffs in a harmless manner, “Real mature, the two of you.”
Both of you stumble over syllables, pointing at each other in the way only bothersome siblings would—something she’s seen Nat and Yelena do.
“She started it!” Clint shrieked.
“Now that’s mature!” You sass with a jerk of your hip.
Laura waves her hand between the two of you—ever the mediator of the group—shutting the two of you up successfully. There’s a peeved expression on her countenance. All perfected, sleek liner and smoky eyes highlighting maroon irises while her thick fringe fans her forehead.
She takes a deep breath before continuing, in a scarily calm tone, “Keep this up, or so help me god, I will make both of you drink whatever foul concoction those guys are mixing over there. No chasers.”
The two of you pivot your attention to the group of guys huddled around the glass bowl. You don’t know if it's just your eyes playing tricks on you, but the green slush has started to bubble.
The two of you know very well she’s only joking, but Laura’s mastered that chilling cadence, one you can’t ignore. One you remember vaguely being whispered threateningly in your ear when you were a child, being scolded quietly by your parents in the grocery store for misbehaving too loudly.
Suddenly, a quiet apology itches at the back of your throat as you pout with Clint at his girlfriend, burning you with a smoldering stare.
“Are we clear?” She cuts your internal monologue.
Both of you nod your heads fervently. You, wanting your friend back—and to inquire where Bucky is—and Clint, missing his sweet, warm girlfriend, engulfed in his favorite hair perfume of hers.
“Good.”
Clint, a graceful gazelle, slides in quietly and wraps a muscled right bicep around her waist, draped in ink-dark fabric. He glides his left arm around her shoulders and squeezes. It was cute and genuinely disgusting.
He rests the front of his head against the back of her cascading hair. You were about to tell him off on the overtly revolting gesture.
But the idiot chooses to open his mouth, “Come back to me, baby..”
Laura escapes his grasp with a push, swiftly twirling to send him an incredulous, wicked frown.
Clint cackles as he clamors over to you, snorting as you hold back a laugh, biting your bottom lip. Obviously, doing a horrible job when a snort escapes you.
“The two of you are maniacs—sick, twisted individuals. Your brains need to be dissected and studied in the name of science.”
The disturbing chortles are put to a pause when Clint’s stomach gurgles something fierce. Something that would put Tony’s exhaust at the rear of his flashy Mustang to absolute shame.
You slowly turn your head to him, another giggle skips out of your mouth, “Was that you?”
“Screw off, man, I’m hungry!” He scuttles away from you with quick swooshes of his lanky hands.
Laura sends you a pondering look, “Does Sam seriously have nothing in his pantry—how does he survive? These idiots inhale food like vacuums around the clock.” She mutters the last part, careful of Clint’s mood.
“Did you look in the pots?” You point with your hand, cradling the shining reason to your everlasting energy. “Under there, the cupboard under the Shit drawer.” A reference to Sam’s void of coupons, gum wrappers, and other paraphernalia.
Clint swerves his head in neck-breaking speeds as he practically lunges towards the cupboard in question. Its doors rip off hinges as he grabs the nearest pot and chucks the lid off, revealing the contents inside.
You swear you hear angels sing—Sade—and Georgian chants when Clint finds Sam’s secret stash of cheese naan flavored chips. He holds them delicately, the answers to his prayers, the first light after the horrid storm of desperate human necessity. A metaphorical tear glides down his sharpened cheekbone.
Clint tears into the bag like a raccoon hitting the garbage jackpot, reducing the vermin to smacks of lips and broken crumbs on the ground. The white fortress of cabinets and pots of Sam’s kitchenette shields the bag from capable predators, otherwise known as other stoned college students.
“Behold, thy people, where stoned starvation may subdue man.” A disbelieving shake of your head is accompanied by Laura’s concerned eyes.
“Geez..” An understatement.
You take a sip from your cup. Laura spins to you once more, a joking shudder.
“Know him?”
A severe grave reflection falls onto her fair skin, “I’ve never seen that man in my life.”
“I hear’ tha’!” A mouthful of salt and vinegar buffers the words Clint shouts beneath the two of you. Pelts of chewed-up chips fly out of his mouth. A truly repulsive sight.
Revolt contorts on your face, turning away from the man turned rodent.
“So what’s up with you? You came here for a refill?” Beside you, Laura steals your judging attention away from her boyfriend, relieving you from the sore sight.
A slight embarrassment kicks in full throttle, burning your chest at the reason for your arrival here—you are so getting hounded by these two.
Your hands clasp together around your cup sheepishly, “Um, no, I was looking for Bucky, actually. Have you seen him anywhere?”
Clint's ears perk up at your query while a mischievous grin shoots up Laura's mouth. Gone were your friends, Bienvenue, Beavis, and Butt-Head.
“Oh, Bucky, huh?” A salacious wink flutters under the skin of Laura's eye.
“Did th’am finally give in and give him the keys to the be’room?” Clint’s throat bobs as he swallows the handful of chips he’s shoveled in his mouth.
“Don’t start–”
An audible gulp reverberates between the three of you before Clint continues, “Oh come on, even Stevie Wonder can cut through your guys’ pure sexual tension—that by the way makes all of us extremely uncomfortable.”
“He always looks like he’s a half-second away before jumping your bones, babe.” Laura betrays. Now siding with Gollum, clutching his bag of chips aggressively to his chest when a stranger asks for some.
You could vow on every deity above he’s whispered in horrifying accuracy: ‘My precious’
“‘Jumping my bones’ is one massive exaggeration—which isn't true—we’re just friends. No ampersands—nothing. Completely platonic in every aspect of the word,” You defend yourself convincingly, almost believing the words tumbling out of your mouth. Your honor and dignity are traipsing a very thin, long rope of fallacy.
This rope—so straightened out and frayed, you feel yourself tipping over the edge more and more. You’ve basically exploited this deluded lie, scars accumulate on your tongue every time you remind yourself of it—like it’s some sick curse you've unluckily been hexed with.
Fluorescent lights buzz as the couple stares at you nonchalantly. You think you’ve managed to successfully appease their pesky teasing, hopefully getting to the bottom of Bucky’s location and stealing a swig from his flask and a gander at his striking profile.
“You don’t actually think we believe that?”
“We’ve gotta get working on your poker face, kid, it’s no good.” From the floor.
“Oh my god–”
“I’ve observed the two of you since sophomore year; the eye-fucking across rooms is getting a little embarrassing.” Clint’s face now writhes in revolt.
“Then get a life, cheese-dick,” You deadpan, “Also—we do not eye-fuck! I think you need to get your eyes checked.”
“I’ve got 20/20 vision, thank you very much!” He squawks the ‘ch’.
“Didn’t he leave with Steve and Peggy for a breather?” Laura audibly questions.
Clint’s eyes widened, maneuvering over to his girlfriend's traitorous admittance of Bucky’s whereabouts, “Laur’!” He calls out petulantly.
“Oh!–”
You take this opportunity to bolt out of their teasing spider-web. An impossible warmth stings your cheeks uncomfortably, plopping a wet kiss on Laura’s cheek, cutting her surprise short.
“Thank all the heavens above for making you weird!” You chug the remaining contents in your cup and set it down on the marble counter.
Twirling out of the sweltering atmosphere—when did it get so hot? You scamper away from their disappointed yells and teasing banter.
“Use protection!”
“Call me during the cigarette!”
You roll your eyes and wave them goodbye, now faced with drunk mountains of men.
You barely squeeze through, tripping once free from suffocating sweaty backs and hollers of achievement. You inhale deeply before balancing on your heels in front of the entrance archway of the kitchen. Passing towards the exit door of the apartment, you grasp the cool steel splitting the hazy-dark with the yellow corridor blaze.
Stepping out of the threshold, your eyes land on two sat figures, legs spread out at the end of the hall. Peggy and Steve are tangled, two forgotten cups sprawled by them. He’s playing with his girlfriend's stiletto fingers, bright red manicures hypnotizing him as he attentively listens to her talk.
You smile at the sweet sight, but pause at the lack of dazzling blue.
Interrupting the deafening lull, the clack of your blocky heels alerts to your presence. Heads shoot up in your direction
A cool red showcasing pearly dentition, Peggy salutes with a hello.
Steve nods his head at you in greeting, “What’s up? Clint throwing a peep-show on the table again?”
A snort belts off the walls of the quiet corridor, cutting the slow air like a hot knife into malleable metal, fabricated by the calm individuals in front of you.
“No, surprisingly, the raccoon's currently devouring Sam’s cheese naan chips.” You chuckle.
Peggy’s brows crease confusedly, “Raccon?”
“Not the cheese naan chips.” Steve’s jaw gapes in shock.
“I’d advise against the curiosity—and, yeah, it’s a great tragedy.”
Steve guffaws, “And on his birthday..” A denouncing disappointment ruffles Steve's golden locks.
You hum in agreement, nibbling on your bottom lip. Washing away the taste of bitter alcohol with artificial strawberries. Your left hand plays the hem of your right sleeve, mind wandering to where a specific intense jawline and wide lips are; velvet, a salacious wine-red rivaling freshly picked cherries after a couple of beers.
“You alright, darling? You look a little flushed?” Peggy inquires concernedly from beneath you.
“Hm? Oh, yes! Y-yeah, I’m okay,” You pause, swinging your hands before continuing, “I’m just—I’m looking for Bucky, Laura mentioned he was with you guys?”
A similar rogue smirk appears in Steve's eyes while Peggy’s features soften knowingly.
“He’s just left for a breather in the park.” She stares at you gently.
A taunting grin transfigures on Steve’s face. “You should join him. ‘Believe he’d like some company.” A playful hum reverberates in the air.
“Shut up, old man.” You tisk. Mascara-lidded lashes tickle your brows.
“If you keep rolling your eyes, they’re going to get stuck.” He snarks.
“And not get to see your face? Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“You’re hopeless.” He sighs.
You scrunch your nose in reply.
Yeah, a hopeless romantic.
“He asked Nat about you before we left, she said you were with Deedee.”
In the years you’ve known Peggy Carter, she’s made herself known as a reliable and trustworthy friend: Stress-cramming for your calculus final? A pot of freshly brewed coffee is filled and waiting. Don’t have anything to wear to your job interview? Navy pants and pencil skirts are being thrown at you. Feel like this car dealer is scamming you? Her car skids to a sudden stop, red lips artfully debating prices with the snobby dealer and professionally insulting him down a peg to reality.
Pining for your best friend that you know very well doesn’t share the same sentiments?
She’ll feed into the delusions alongside you—or steer you into a dangerous town called wishful thinking. Yes, you are the mayor.
“He did?” Your visage lights up like a puppy snuffing out its favorite treats.
“Mhm, wanted to look for you before she mentioned Wanda's wardrobe malfunction—everything fixed?” She bobs her head, encouraging your approaching departure to find the man you’re absolutely not completely and utterly infatuated with.
Your eyes are darting obsessively to the direction of the descending staircase, your body in first gear, ready to skid off to the place—the man—your heart has been yearning for.
“Y-yeah, everything's okay, uh, listen, I’ll catch up with you guys later?” Your heart erupts, the crazed animal driving your shoulders up, almost protectively. A beat faster, and the damned thing might jump out of your chest, howling the syllables of a name written in the margins of romance novels and corners of high school notebooks.
The two of them smirk. Melting down into each other as you speed walk, a suffocating lump in your throat enrages your fists, carving crescent marks in your palms. A different stage of its orbit, as the moonlight shines a spotlight on a park bench occupied by one lone man.
“Do you think she’ll ever tell him?” Steve nudges his nose into Peggy’s neck, inhaling the sweet floral scent of her perfume.
She gives it a long thought before replying, “I don’t know.”
Slender fingers caress Steve's hair. Their robbed silence finding its way to the corners of the corridor hall. Fragments of music bleed through the walls of the building.
Peggy Carter, reliable and trustworthy, is also a firsthand witness to the ugly creature that latches onto your pseudo-confidence. One so unnecessary and pesky, but so easily ejectable. If you would just push the red button and finally see your sunny worth that enlightens every irritated character that gets to bathe in your kindness.
One you are yet to acknowledge; One Bucky is yet to accept.
There are countless couples inside—some belonging to your group, others are strangers—cozying up in comfortable ease, finding complete solace in their match.
All of them had met their person, their soulmate, their shared giddiness. One they get to call their own – not in possession but pride. A trustful confidant who couldn’t dare judge, but gaze in amazement and protectively.
Surges of electricity when fingertips touch warm skin, singing happily in a shared subconscious. Learning and growing as people, watering the expectant flowering buds of relationships in a careful grasp of the watering jug.
Peggy, in the arms of her lover, hopes deeply in her heart, Bucky finally plucks up the courage to confess feelings the two of you have been tortured with since pudgy cheeks and damp palms. While your high school literature teacher drones on and on about tragedies like: Orpheus and Eurydice, Romeo and Juliet, The Narrator and Annabell, and so many more.
Stories you’ve raved about throughout your high school years, gushing with such fervor, it boiled you down to tears during lunch, “They’re so tragic–it’s not fair!”. Like you were in some dramatic melodrama.
You’d thought yourself pathetic—but Peggy knew exactly why you’d been so worked up and hopeful. Lie after lie as you preached: 'We're just friends!'. Like the broken record player she helped you negotiate the price of.
But then you look back at Bucky. Slow blinks and admiration. And you question, maybe, just maybe, there's a chance.
But hope and chance are synonyms for an evil trickster, alluding to an illusion so believable and real you could feel the ghost of its burden. And what is it against the harsh cool of reality?
An exhale of smoke obscures Bucky's vision of the moon. Thick tobacco lingers at the roof of his mouth as he lifts the cigarette to his chapped lips, drawing in another criticizing cloud of it. He lets it linger and flare in his lungs for a couple of seconds.
His mind is an outpour of poignant self-deprecation. It's a needlessly vile and vicious thing, lodged heavy in his sternum, a bag of boulders imprisoning his lungs from taking another breath of air.
Waves of tobacco, patronizing fumes, trap his ankles and sink him down to the bottom of his aching being. A cargo transporting a buckload of insecurity and woeful affection. It won’t reach the docking ports of acceptance—he won't allow it to—so it’ll float and wobble, the anchor rusted with barnacles in his sea of abnegation.
Your presence filled the living room with color. Gone were shadows and glow sticks–you were a star at threading different cloths into one. From snobby business majors to the nice old lady selling plums in the farmers' market. It never matters—you melt flawlessly within human connection.
So, of course, the douchy art major–whose blonde hair flops like he stuck his finger in an open electrical socket–donning an outfit that looks like its fate is in the hands of the thousand safety pins littered across tattered, layered shirts and unwashed jeans– would take interest in you. Stimulate you with intellectual conversation.
He's probably the quirky guy who believes dragons are real, just scaled down in size. Claims Jane Austen is his favorite author and probably takes care of plants.
The cigarette between his fingers bends. Bucky's nostrils flare, a downturned expression slapped on his face.
Bucky can take care of plants just fine. Keep them alive, remember to water them—hell, he'll take them on walks if it pleases you. Okay, maybe he's still in the middle of reading your copy of Sense and Sensibility—but! In his defence, he doesn't want to give it back. You've written your thoughts in a light-orange pen in the margins. It felt all too intimate to be granted this piece of you.
If that jerk asks for your limited edition copy, you'll likely ask for it back. That's just how kind you are.
Jealousy is one ugly feeling. One he can’t help but let linger and fester as it lurches in his stomach. He knows it’s not fair. You don't belong to him, and it’s not like his name is tattooed on your forehead or his leash is wound tight around your waist.
It’s also definitely not a competition. He’s young and free and apparently attractive enough for girls to fiend over. You’re having fun, so why can’t he? This childish one-sided battle that’s been raging since sophomore year of high school is: 1) Not happening – there is no competition. 2) Completely unnecessary.
It isn't as if you're doing this on purpose to rile him up.
So he’ll let other girls unzip his jeans, let them slip their hands over sensitive ribs, and suffer the consequences of his actions. His build, strong and sharp, aches like a haunted house. Which is concerning for his young bachelor age.
Groans and croaks wail from cracked knees, so extremely tired of carrying this heavy weight of secrecy. A muscle so hidden wails syllables of your name, over and over again.
But he’ll continue to ignore it, step by excruciating step, he’ll sack this weight happily, singing tunes, if it means he gets to keep you by his side, unaware of the war being waged in his mind.
He toys with the idea. What would acceptance look like for him? To confess this burning sin, his lifelong desire for you?
Then he’s reminded of his cowardly nature and the type of company you keep. Comically different from him.
But he still thinks about it.
Would it feel as it does now? Joyful and child-like, the comfort of colloquial hums and endless inside jokes has him clutching sore abs. Laid side by side as the quiet thrum of music bounces off the walls of his room, so very conscious not to disturb the two of you. The air, a devoted stupor, pressuring him to nudge that tiny bit closer to you. Like a worn-in cardigan. The one you put on for movie nights.
Or would it feel new? Vulnerable skin protected by shirts and hoodies, now eager for touch. Trinkets belonging to you would purchase spots on his windowsill. Half a closet cleared and a wardrobe empty. Waiting.
An offending space. The one that separates Bucky from inching that last bit closer to your warm figure, snug on his couch.
Where he would kiss you so passionately, soft, breathing you in like you're the only source of oxygen he’d ever accept.
He’d kiss you hard—but so so gently—furrowing his brows in near pain at getting a taste of your candied lips. He’d rest his lips on pinky gloss just to feel the beat of your heart through the cavern of your mouth. He’d obsessively tangle his fingers in tendrils of your hair, carding through, silky thickness, making sure not to pull away from him—god, he would stay breathing you for lifetimes if he could.
He would let you consume him in body, in soul, cutting his skin madly slowly, to let you burrow yourself in and settle deep beneath his ribs if you so choose to. He’d get rid of superfluous organs to have you sit comfortably for his awaiting spirit.
His fingers twitch, the taste of iron swimming in his mouth. He’s bitten his bottom lip to shreds. He swipes his tongue over it, soothing the stinging flesh, and takes another long drag of his cigarette. Red bleeding the white butt of it.
He rubs at his navel firmly, precisely where his heart lies open and begging. Exactly where the necklace you made for him rests. It’s staved in—a permanent ‘you’ shaped branding, blistering and swelling. Like he was some horse and you were his keeper.
Which you are.
You held the answers to questions that haven’t been asked. You command full authority of his being with no standing rank. An off-hand comment will have him changing his appearance drastically. He’ll stay quiet until you give him the green light to answer back—and shuts up with a simple wave of your hand.
It’s all for you. His entire cowardly being—all for you. Even if you’ll never know.
He gazes at the moon hard. Maybe if he does so long enough, she’ll grant him a glance into the future if he takes this terrifying risk. He remembers a time so young, in snug dinosaur blankets, ‘Becca wishing upon the celestial sky, weeding out the heavy light pollution of Brooklyn.
Tiny hands clasped tightly in front of her, she began with a ‘hello’, then she’d subdued her child self into silence as she prayed for her wishes to come true, and ended it with a ‘thank you’.
He’d made fun of her every night, telling her she’d have to actually work for the things she wants, not wish under a rock.
He sits and wonders if her wishes ever came true.
He should try his luck at it. See if his sister was once again right and give her the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” With that poised, smug smirk of hers.
There wasn’t any harm in doing so. He’s already flirted with the impossible—being so in love with his best friend, it's damned him for eternity. It feels like straying away from his mother's glare during mass to explore the grand cathedral of their neighborhood.
He sees you within the marble walls of his childhood church, captures notes of your floral perfume on the front lawn of it. Your memorized order on his tongue is steady in neon bodegas filled with the drunkards of the night. Your giggles, an embraced ringing in his ears, amongst the rowdiness of Sunday potluck.
What’s a little more faith?
A cynical breath of air exits the cavern of his mouth. Peppermint and American Spirit lather on his tongue. Suddenly, he’s reminded of his dad, smacking minty gum, a try at concealing his finished packet of cigarettes that warmed his and his sisters’ faces when he greets them with a warm kiss on the cheek.
“A viciously smart and witty girl. She’ll give ya a run for your money, kid.” His father approved.
His teeth grind the invasive thoughts. His eyes glisten under the street lamp. The boulders push down and down. That lodged weight in his throat—it's razor sharp and bile-filled. That knowing pressure after losing soccer games and failed tests. The same one he feels when he's stood tall in front of his mother as she tilts her head and stares at him. That look. The one that says:
"I know. I know."
Sometimes, if he really focuses. You'll sometimes look at him the same way.
That heaviness that breaks him.
The skin under his eyes is an ugly, darkish purple as they flit down to tap access ashes.
“Quite the disappearing act you’ve pulled. Had me running around like some idiot.”
His pathetic reverie is cut short when your tender voice cuts through the fog of his mind. He knows it's you before he even needs to turn his head around. Having dreamed of the frequency of sleepless nights, where the only thing that eases him into slumber is the lullaby of your voice.
He takes a steadying breath in, pushing it all the way to be forgotten. Just until he's back in the safety of his room to scream into his pillow.
Bucky twists his torso behind him to send a coy smirk. And finally, since this long night has started, you get to drench yourself in azure.
And there you decide. Under this street lamp. On Sam's birthday. As the wind pushes you towards your reason. You would look for him.
You would follow these eyes to wherever they desire; over the edge to final demise, to bliss and back. You would paint these eyes for eternity, working diligently to find the exact innocent hue of bright blue. You would wait centuries for these specific blues to come back, no matter where they were from. You would stay with no complaints, not when you’d get rewarded by his presence. Just him. Only him.
But there’s something underlying, with eyes puffy with nicotine fog, that highlights fatigue. His smirk doesn't hold as much levity as it usually does when you’re about to berate him. No, it looks like it’s taking everything in him to hold his features together.
You pause, the grin falters.
He taps the empty spot beside him on the park bench, a silent invitation, your skin would jump and leave your body carelessly cold, for a chance to be that bit nearer to him.
You hesitate, you're worried. It makes you eager. Ultimately, you unstick your feet from the ground.
A slight breeze tussles orange and red branches when you sit on the opposite side of the bench.
“You can never say hello like a normal person, can you?” A corner of his lip is nudged upward.
“Saying hello is so old school, we gotta keep up with the times, James.” Your voice is quiet and smug; no need to raise your voice when you're with him.
His pupils dilate.
He puts out the cigarette perched between his pointer finger and thumb, rolling it on the side of the bench before tossing it. He's about to grab another one from the pack squished in the pocket of his jacket.
“Fancy a cancer stick?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He plucks one and hands it to you; your fingers caress his calloused ones. These simple touches give you life—a reason to stitch near him just so you can steal one more. Powering up like a machine made to love only him.
He retracts his hand as soon as you take his offering. You scrutinize the place where his hand was just airborne.
Retrieving his lighter, he beckons you forward and lights the cigarette dangling between your lips. You stare at him through mascara-coated lashes as he flicks the fire alight. He avoids your eyes skillfully, painfully, focusing on firing up the nicotine and reclining back to his place.
Your lips purse in confusion as you drag a breath from the cig, expanding your lungs with fumes and hurt. “So, what scared you off tonight?”
Bucky’s figure is stiff as a rock, the only movement coming from the hand that holds his stick, to the entrance, curved lips.
“Needed a minute, idiots hotboxed the shit outta’ the place.” A drawl of his Brooklyn youth would’ve clenched your thighs if his voice wasn’t hardened and scratchy.
You sneak glances at him from your peripheral vision. Something is off tonight, but you can't quite point your finger at what exactly prompted this drastic change in attitude. Bucky isn’t boisterous, so to say, he directs a room’s vibe from tea with grandma to a rock metal concert in a beat.
His disastrous ideas come with an entrée of relaxed broad shoulders and a side of wolfish grin. Spontaneity follows Bucky like a sunflower to the sun; It’s only pleasing when Bucky’s there.
But the man sitting to your left isn't exuding that coy air he manipulates around him. This man is limp and caving in on himself. A shriveled-up autumn leaf that hopes to pass by guardedly.
You take a drag from the cigarette. The tobacco leaves a tense taste that has your tongue curling away. It fires wild questions to be spat out desperately: ‘Are you okay? What happened, tell me, please let me help–’
You pinch yourself and exhale.
There’s a lag to the air, the September weather creeping in with pumpkin light street lamps and a calm, biting cold. The see-through black mesh is doing nothing to quell your shivering body in this weather. Especially not with the black mini you’ve matched it with.
Bucky catches the subtle bounce on your propped-up leg. Ever the observant when it comes to you. He quickly props his cigarette between his lips and shrugs the jean jacket off his shoulders immediately. It’s done so in such a specific way, like it’s demanding you to accept it before you’ve even started to object to this maddening offer.
“Bucky no—”
“Don’t start, doll, you know how this ends.”
You give him a withering look that he shakes with the denim in his outreached hand. You take it gingerly, cautiously, making sure you get to touch the incredible, electrifying, calloused skin of Bucky’s knuckles.
It jolts you awake and cowers him away. But he glances back at your hand with failed-hidden desire swirling in his eyes. He wants to tangle his long, thick fingers with your much smaller, smoother ones.
You fit into his jacket. It drowns you in its sheer size, successfully taking away your attention from the man beside, teetering on the lines of sanity.
“One day I’m gonna win this fight.” You shoot him a determined look.
Bucky huffs an effortful chuckle and rubs his bloodshot eyes. “You keep on dreaming.”
He's leaning forward on his knees now. The sound of his laugh—if you can even call it that with how soulless it sounded—was dense. Like a fog so humid it usually takes a great deal not to stop and regain your breath. Like he had to push it out of him, or it would’ve left him limp.
You’re worried. It’s just enough for you to peek at him carefully and move more slowly to not spook him. He’s reminding you an awful lot of Alpine when you found the little piece of snow by the big dumpster of Wanda’s apartment complex. Weak and hungry, but so alert.
There's something bigger here. Something awfully pressing and heavy. He’s not telling you, and it's killing you not knowing.
You’d cross acres of land and swim hundreds of nautical miles to aid in his troubles. You’d drop whatever not-important chore that's occupying your time to catch the midnight subway if he ever needs help placing a simple Band-Aid on a paper cut.
You'll cup the blood oozing out of the opening of your chest as well as the buttons on his shirt, fixing them right for his next date with Judy. Or Jodie. Or Maya. Or whoever else is deemed more worthy of Bucky’s attention.
There's no better state than the continuous bleeding injury of waiting for him. With thoughtless fingers, he masterfully reopens the stitches wrought tight, a feeble attempt at closure and protection. He will always find a way to possess your heart and spill its complicated secrets onto the ground.
And you’ll continue to wipe the floors clean, on the off chance he trips on the bothersome fragments of your messy, immature feelings.
The conversation dulls, and you don't know what to say or ask to keep it going. So you sit and smoke in tranquil September as loud music spills onto Harlem streets.
A light bulb blinks bright above you when you catch a stray thought. A thing sure to stray his overthinking mind away from whatever's bothering him.
"Hey, did you hear about the re-show for Casablanca? It's supposed to be the 57th anniversary or something. They're showing it at the local theatre near us." Your head turns to him with a cheeky expression, trying to rouse him out of his gloom.
Bucky takes a look at you, then forward again, bringing his almost-finished stick to his mouth for a final inhale. "A little late for it, no?"
You stub your own on the side of the bench. "I guess, but when has anything in this city been on time?"
He hums indifferently. It's bitter and somehow forced.
"Well, I thought perhaps we could go? It'd be nice to get away from school for a bit—and you know, for old times' sake?"
You probably look stupid with hope pinching your warmed cheeks. This could be good. An opportunity to breach friendship protocols. You could finally confess and take everyone out of their misery. Get yourself out of misery, too.
Perhaps Bucky, too?
You can imagine it, under the black and white screen, as Ilsa leaves Rick; you'll stay. For Bucky, you would leave familiarity and obligation just for the simple promise of being with him.
Maybe you'll have Paris forever.
"When is it?" He exhales the last blob of smoke.
You beam. "This Saturday,"
Bucky nods his head lazily, shifting the cigarette particles around him to form a sad halo. He shakes his head like he's balancing disappointment and desperation.
You try not to furrow your brows, but fail when Bucky's face contorts in pain when he graces you with his sharp cheekbones.
"Are there showings on a different day?"
You try to rake your brain for the dates on the ad posted over fraying paper on the street sign. All that comes up is 'SPECIAL SHOWING ONLY ON THE 26TH'
You narrow your glossed lips. "I don't think so, why?"
You know fully well why. And it hurt like a cigarette butt being stubbed out on your tongue. Maybe you wanted to test something. See if he'll contemplate canceling on whoever is more important to be with you. See if you'll ever have a chance. A far-fetched, far-away dream, crazy off-chance.
Bucky looks at you, then away with a quiet hiss. He licks his lips, tranquilizingly slow. Trying to quell your arriving gut-wrenching disappointment.
He's done a horrible job. You already are. But you won't say it out loud. You could never hurt him like that.
And then, Bucky's eyes flicker left, then down. It's quick and memorable. You've seen this gesture on Monopoly nights and pranks. He's lying. Why is he lying to you?
He sharply inhales.
"I kind of…" He pauses to reel himself in to making eye contact with you, "Have a date."
You lift your head to breathe the upcoming biting air, let it cool your warming chest. And then down slowly, to let a burning exhale out. Humorlessly, it's similar to Bucky.
"Oh." You wish you hadn't stubbed your cigarette now that your fingers are clenched around nothing. You're considering interrogating him. This is the first time you've heard about this impromptu 'date'. All your daily Bucky news comes from Sam. And he hasn't mentioned anything about a date.
Bucky's gaze is obsessed with your figure. His hands are copying yours, clenching, and unclenching. His lips part, then close again.
You know he hates disappointing you. But he'll continue to do it. As will apologies from Kim's tamales and maybe a rented movie. Bringing Up Baby, like the last four times.
Cause you don't really deserve more than comedy.
Your humiliating love life, already wearing a red clown nose, is dancing around for a flicker of attention. At least it knows what it is, the part being played perfectly.
"I'll come over right after. Your place, like always—hey, what about that new burger joint that opened up on your street? Passed by it the other day, smelled pretty damn good." He tries. It's an offer that drags.
And that's the devastating goodness about James Buchanan Barnes. He tries. It's never half-assed, or 'we'll figure something out', or brushed off to forget. He'll try to make up for missed celebrations, parties, or casual hangouts. He'll call back immediately once he's heard his message box, pages back the second he gets his hands on it after lectures.
That's all you are. Ever will be to Bucky. The make-ups, the after parties, the slobber of grease running down hands, and never fine-dining.
You pick at your nails and stare at your cigarette on the ground. Why the hell is he lying? Why does he continue to run away from this, time and time again? Why will he never notice you? It's all why, why, why.
"Sure, why not?" You bite the inside of your cheek. The one hidden from his scrutinizing eyes, to hold yourself from breaking. You sit up straighter to diminish your being. You methodically mask the unshed crystals threatening to fall over the roundness of your cheeks with a smile practiced to perfection.
This disappointment will pass. And the cycle will continue.
He doesn't seem to notice while he fiddles away with his pack. "How about we go horror this time? Rosemary's Baby. For October and Halloween, huh? Whadd' ya think, doll?
He looks at you, baby blue and expectant. He's biting his lip now, searching your shadowed face. Like the moonlight will speak your mind for you. Like the leaves will coax you into agreement. Like this lie might be the undoing of it all.
You nod vigorously if you do so hard enough; maybe it'll disorient you long enough to get by this night. You understand now. Why he looks so fed up and weighed down.
You shouldn't have come down to search for him. You're such an idiot! He obviously wanted to be left alone. Away from you.
"Horror sounds perfect. Let's invite Sam, he's been mentioning movie nights lately." You nod.
The leaves whirl around frantically. They scrape the ground like they're trying to convey something. You want to understand. Have them tell you what you've been doing wrong for the past four years.
"Sounds great." His voice is pitched low. And something in your throat tightens.
Your cheeks puff up with the words and declarations you desperately want to shout. You prop your right knee up on your thigh. It bounces furiously. You stay silent and let the world scream. You've dug multiple graves on your palms at this point, so you clasp them together and rest them on your thigh.
You wish he were a better liar. It'll hurt less, you think. You wish you just knew how fucking quit him. You wish you didn't notice things he'd like. Things he doesn't. You wish he weren't scarred onto the insides of your fingers. You wish you didn't feel so frozen in his jacket. You wish you didn't smell afterthoughts and perfume that wasn't yours. You wish you weren't a pining loser. You wish life didn't taste like tobacco and salt.
Your bottom lip wobbles. Something needy and hurtful. So you bite it and swallow.
Bucky's lighter ignites, a bloody orange and a blue. Another thing you wish to forget. His thumb flickers it alive and then kills it again. He's staring at it instinctively. And just like your lip, it wobbles something ruinous.
It hurts how much you know him. You know him like he's the chip on the teacup you dropped in the sink. You know him like the little scribbles that decorate behind the doors of your childhood home. You know him inside and out. You know when he's beating himself up.
You wish that didn't kill you.
"You sure you want to watch Rosemary's Baby? I don't think you'll handle it." You could be an Oscar-winning actress in another life.
You put on a smug grin and will yourself to fully look at him. He looks so small for someone who stands a good six feet.
Bucky's head shoots up quickly, a barely concealed surprised expression dawning on his perfect face. You suppose he didn't expect it. For you to continue this long-overdue, dwindling road of choked-up feelings.
Maybe he's even shocked you're even willing to throw yourself into more unrequited longing and apathy.
He collects himself just as quickly and clears his throat.
"Funny you say that. Remind me who latched onto me like an abandoned koala when we watched Amityville?" He shrugs his shoulders cooly and narrows you down.
"Hey, that pig squeal was uncalled for!" You laugh. It's laced with something neither of you will comment on.
He chuckles along with you with a shake of his head. "That movie wasn't even all that scary until you assailed my ears!"
The loud giggles that leave you teeter at the end. But it alleviates in a minuscule way. Hiding behind good memories and ignorance. It even encourages Bucky to join you.
And oh, how the realization hits you fast and hard, it sends your head spinning. This is why you keep coming back, like a muddied stray cat. For the aftermath. For the shelter after the shattering storm of 'will we?'. For moments like this. For the giggles and glimmering eyes with unshed tears.
It passes by fast and selfishly. It snatches your energy and expectations and smashes them. Unforgiving and sour. It's the alcohol wipe on a wound that stings shivers.
However, it then gives way to this. The blow of cold air on the wound. The slow dance under this street lamp. The song of the wind and colorful trees. The uncomfortable wooden bench that you'd sit on for the rest of the night if it's beside him. The taste of cigarettes, letting you imagine his lips on yours, his tongue tangling with your own.
Your laughs still. The quiet isn't yours, and it definitely isn't comfortable. But it lessens the gravity of it all. It shoves tissues on an open wound and hopes it stops the bleeding.
There are small grins on your faces. He might never feel the same. Bucky won't ever see you. But you think you can live with that.
His tongue teases you. It licks his lips purposefully and cautiously, then he looks at you.
The wind pauses, and the ruffle of trees seizes. The concrete wall of Sam's apartment finally does its job by stopping the music from spilling onto the streets.
He blinks slowly and stares, and so do you. He says your name like a secret. One he doesn't want the universe to mess with.
"I…" He starts. And you wait. Your method is patience, even though your skin wants to jump and run around in circles.
He clenches his jaw and closes his eyelids, stripping his eyes away from you.
"I'm sorry." He whispers. His eyes are foggy and regretful.
Your eyebrows furrow. You don't know what to say or how to feel. Well, you never do when you're with him—but still—it hums something primal in your throat.
"What for, buck?" You push gently.
His fingers tremble, it's not because of the cold.
"Casablanca." He shakes his head, "And all the canceling. I'm sorry."
And for the second time tonight, Bucky's eyes flicker left, then down.
You want to laugh, but you settle for a heavy hum. It wasn't that you didn't believe him; Bucky has this particular tone when he means something wholeheartedly.
Something's troubled him deeply to the point he couldn't even confide in you. You won't pry. He always comes back.
"It's alright." There's an unreadable expression pulling on your face, "You're always there when it matters."
You mean it. And you make sure he sees it—hears it.
Because whatever—fine—Bucky doesn't breathe freely with you like you do for him. Rooms don't brighten for him when you're in them like they blind you when he's there. Bucky's lips don't tingle when they're near yours like your own do when he's inches away.
Bucky might not see you like you do. He doesn't accept the numerous flaws that keep you awake at night, how you love his. How you cherish them. Because they don't take away from him, they flourish him. And to you, he's beautiful. Just as he is.
Bucky's shoulders drop, and he exhales. You may feel less than around him, but at least you have this small power. To reassure. To make it that tiny bit better.
For now, that's enough. These slices of wretched pathetic-ness will subside and pass. They may hurt. And god do they take. But you'll stay here. Half for you. Half for him. You don't know why. You never question yourself long enough to make sense of this little Russian roulette of unrequited love.
But that's love, isn't it? To accept. To choose this life because there isn't another better without him. The hurt and what comes after. The healing laughs and illegal touches. The limited safety of it all. It's a ticking bomb wrapped in silk and blissful ignorance. It's dangerous and so thrilling.
It sucks. So bad most days. But at least it's him. At fucking least it's Bucky.
You’ve witnessed from your friends just how soft love can be. You try and condense yourself to fit into their perfected examples: a lull of quiet so comforting it shouts confessions and ardor for you, a touch so searing it cools you; an embrace so far away you desire to lie within the same body. A kiss so gently subtle it shoves the world off its axis.
But you settle for a deafening quiet, set on opposite sides of a bench, and a breaking resolve.
"You okay over there?"
No.
"Yeah," You take a peek at him, "Just thinking."
Bucky purses his lips, "What about?"
You.
"Clint."
A dumbfounded laugh joins the silence. "What about Clint?"
"I may or may not have told him where Sam's secret chips are." A weak, cheeky smile pinches your cheeks.
Bucky gapes at you. "You did not."
"I'm awaiting my impending demise." You say with a forlorn shake.
"Did he find the cheese naan ones?"
Your answer comes in the form of a cramped expression and a grin.
Bucky scoffs endearingly. "Sam's gonna freak. He's had those stashed for a week."
"It was either me or the chips! Plus, I'll buy him some tomorrow. Rony always gives them to me for free." You wave a dismissive hand.
Rony, the lovable owner of the convenience store near the high school you and your friends attended. He'd taken a significant role in your life when you worked there over the summers. Funnily, he'd always warn you about your best friend.
'He'll make you walk the rainbow with no gold pot at the end, sweet pea.'
His words sting harsh and sweet.
"The old chump has always preferred you." Bucky ignores your feeble protest of the nickname and sends you a grin. "It's true! Always looks at me like he wants to stab my eyes with his pen."
"No, he does not! He likes you just fine, he's just a little protective, that's all." You think of your old friend dearly. It brings a smile to your face.
"Remember that summer, we just graduated, and we went to visit him? He was all over you, kisses and hugs, even tried to give you all the money in the register. The man didn't even acknowledge the rest of us—and we've lived here longer than you have!" He scoffs disbelievingly.
You laugh at the memory, all your friends in blue gowns and squared caps, blocking the store like a bunch of academic Smurfs.
"Yeah, maybe he does prefer me." You reply sheepishly.
Bucky joins you in quiet laughter. A gust of wind picks up around you, it flutters Bucky's overgrown locks as your own whips across your face, it's frantically trying to turn your head away from his figure. It fusses your hair over your eyes to get you to look away.
It shuts you guys up for a second. From beneath your hair, as you try and tuck it behind your ear, Bucky gazes at you. It's unreadable and aching.
"Who doesn't?" As soon as it explodes in your ears, it parts with the wind.
You believe you misheard him. Another joke the universe is playing to mess with you as they mock and point at you.
You don't know what to say. Or how to feel. Or what to do with your nails and lashes. So you say nothing at all. Do nothing and sit still. And let his words drift away. He doesn't mean it. Don't let it get to your head.
How so very weird. A chance. The very same one you've begged for, and there you go, mute. Rejecting. He doesn't mean it. His jacket feels like an elephant's foot rather than a warm embrace. Still, that perfume that's not yours is lingering. It slaps you awake.
You don't know what he's noticed, so you briskly smile something small at Bucky. Something grey and forgetful, and turn away.
"Sam won't when he finds out what I've done." It's a weak attempt at crossing the levity of his words away. You don't look at him.
He chuckles softly and leaves it like that. Simple. Tangled in cyanide and gasoline. Because the two of you know, if another word is spoken, this could all go up in flames. It could be destroyed. You would lose him. That terrifies you more than it should.
There's a ruckus of slamming doors and cheers behind you. You don't dare look back, for you might catch Bucky's pending countenance.
This game you've found yourself playing alone is scary. It feels like lying on your bed after a night out and feeling soullessly empty. It's bizarre and intense. Most philosophers wouldn't even entertain trying to understand the way you lead life.
It's also incredible.
Well, you think so—Nat would've slapped you upside the head.
It's incredible. There isn't another word to define this thing you and Bucky have. It's an adverb to accompany the plethora of adjectives that best define this odd friendship. Or a word of encouragement when words escape your friends.
"It's incredibly embarrassing." Tony sassed.
"It's incredible how you haven't lashed out at him yet." Wanda sympathizes.
"It's incredibly stupid, is what it is. Stand up and leave!" Sam.
"It's hurt you an incredible amount. Why don't you just," Thor pauses, "Move on?"
They mean well, they really do.
And you never know how to respond. Word evade you like even they're embarrassed of being seen with you. You'll probably go back to your shared apartment and sob onto Nat's lap. And she'll refrain from cussing you out lovingly. And the cycle continues.
She'll put on Casablanca. Cuddle up with you, a prescription of cookie dough ice cream to ease heartbreak, then nod off.
While you'll lay there, tears falling diagonally, and hopefully realize—
Paris will never be yours.
Bucky shifts around in his seat, his teeth clattering about as he rubs his hands together, gathering warmth.
"Hey, you wanna head up? It's freezing." It's shaky and adorable.
You chuckle at your best friend. For a guy so burly and broad and addictive and sweet and painful—To you, he'll always be the sixteen-year-old boy in chem lab with a dangerous smile and blue eyes.
"Yeah, Buck. Let's head back up."
He'll always be your first love. He'll always ring in your ears and invade your mind like he did the first time.
With that, you'll linger and dream. In the blue and reds of Sam's apartment, in classrooms bumbling with students, in Bucky's childhood room, listening to mixtapes he's made. You'll be pathetic. And he won't say anything.
How it's always been. How it always will be.
additional notes ; HOOOLLLLYY SHIITTT YA'LL OKAY?? DID WE SURVIVE?? if you've read this far, thank you ! these two are actual idiots—i mean, four years? seriously? lets stand up, please and thank you !! formally, i'd like to thank my cigarettes and Hana Stretton's album, soon, for giving me the power to finish this 🙌
OH ! my little 'OC' that's dating nat is actually my real-life bestie since sophomore year lol 😋 they helped edit the first part of this !! so shout out to cammie wammy @boobiluvr ily to bits <33
Plot: Colson has tried to block you from his life but can’t seem to rid himself of you but you get your revenge.
You stare at the text message from your best friend. You can’t believe what you’re reading. Colson blocked you after all this time? You open Facebook, Instagram and Twitter just to be sure and you’re met with a blank screen. Nothing comes up when you type in his name. You feel a knot in the pit of your stomach and your eyes begin well. Why does this hurt so badly? It’s been 6 months since you broke up. Why do you still care what he does or says?
There is a small voice in the back of your mind that reminds you how much you still love him. How your break up was over such a stupid fight that just snowballed until neither of you could look at the other without feeling frustration and pain. It was something you couldn’t come back from. All of your seperate insecurities rolled into one fight and once you knew how vulnerable and unpredictable the other was, it just seemed impossible to overcome.
Is he doing this now because he knows he’s probably going to run into you tonight? A mutual friend is having a big bash for their 30th birthday and you know he’s going. Is he doing this as a warning to stay away from him? It’s not like you were going to attempt small talk with Colson anyway. It probably would end in a fight. Pointing the finger at the other as the cause of your relationship ending. Please, as if you don’t have any pride.
You feel a weird flutter of butterflies as you walk into the nightclub, ignoring the crowd of flashing cameras outside. There’s going to be a lot of celebrities here so of course the paparazzi are trying their best to get a glimpse of a few. You pull the hem of your leather skater skirt and adjust your tight black turtleneck. The club is loud, which is great. It means you won’t have to talk to many people. You can give the birthday present to your friend, have one drink and be home to sit in bed and watch reruns. That is until you smack straight into a tall figure. You don’t see much except a black leather jacket and red checkered pants but then you see the chunky black boots and you immediately know who it is.
Colson turns around and his eyes are immediately hostile. He has a blunt hanging out of his mouth and a lighter in his hand. You try not to look at him but it’s hard to move around him without looking up. You don’t want to give him the opportunity to say anything so you square your shoulders, hold your head high and walk straight past him. You could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to be an asshole and make some comment but you didn’t let him.
You find the birthday girl and hand her the small Tiffany bag. She squeals with delight and envelops you in a hug. She introduces you to people she’s standing with and one of the guys, Tyler you think she said, smiles widely at you. He offers to take you get a drink and you gladly accept. After you’ve got your drink, he takes hold of your hand and leads you to the dance floor. You’re actually having a good time, which surprises you. You finish your drink and Tyler hands you another one. When did he even get that? After you finish that, you feel yourself beginning to get flushed from all the dancing. You excuse yourself and find the hallway door that leads to the restroom to fix your makeup and have a breather. Once the door closes, it’s much quieter in this small hallway. The door opens again but you don’t think much of it as you hear the thump of the music and walk down to the women’s.
“You trying to make me jealous or something?” You hear Colson’s booming voice in the small space. You want to ignore him but the alcohol coursing through your veins won’t let you.
“I don’t know, why don’t you block me and we’ll talk about it?” You call over your shoulder.
“What the fuck did you say?” Colson is somehow now in front of you just as you reach the bathroom door.
“What, you think I wouldn’t find out?” You spit at him through gritted teeth.
“I…” his anger seems to have faltered slightly. “Why would you care?” He growls so low you barely hear him.
“Why do you always make me out to be so heartless?” You almost whimper.
You stare at each other for a while. You’re both trying to gauge what the other is thinking but the task is near impossible. You don’t mean to but you can’t stop yourself as your eyes briefly flutter down to his lips and then back up to his eyes. It was dumb of you to assume he wouldn’t see it because he is studying your eyes so intently.
“Fuck it,” he growls with more purpose this time and pushes you against the wall.
His lips are on yours before you even have a second to think but your entire world crumbles. You melt into his body, instantly wrapping your arms around his neck and lacing your fingers into his thick blond mop. His long fingers wind their way around your hips and his entire body pins you to the wall. Your heart is racing, your head is swimming and your body feels hot. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you fight for dominance. He has you so tightly that even in heels, you have to lift yourself onto your toes to be on level with him. He reaches his hands around to hold your ass and he squeezes. You moan into his mouth and he just about loses it. He pulls you into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He lifts you onto the sink top and kneels down between your legs before you even have a chance to get your bearings. He lifts your skirt and kisses up your thighs as you writhe under his warm lips. You lace your fingers into his hair as he pushes your panties aside with his long fingers.
“Mmm so wet,” he moans.
He dips a long, slender finger into your core. You gasp as he hooks his finger, gently stroking your g-spot. Then his mouth is on you, licking and sucking at your clit. You moan and lean back into the mirror as he works you. It’s been so long since you’d had him so before you knew it, your walls were tightening and convulsing around him. He stands up, a proud smile on his face. He wipes his lips and leans down to kiss your neck.
“Bend over for me,” he whispers in your ear before nipping at your earlobe.
“No thanks,” you whisper back. You adjust yourself and chuckle.
You smile sweetly as you push him off you. You stride over to the door and unlock it. You swing the door open and walk back down the hallway, fixing your lipstick as you leave. You open the door into the club, a huge grin on your face as you celebrate your little victory.
Warnings/tags: Smut , Age Gap (reader is in her 30’s) tipsy hookup (consent implied) mentions of prior divorce, pregnancy, c section and children. Body image issues /self conscious reader . Mention of coopers death/fentanyl poisoning.
A/N: 5.5k words! This one’s for the self conscious and tired mamas on this app. Go find yourself a Jaden lol
You and your two other friends, Ashley and Liz, had planned the perfect getaway to celebrate your messy divorce being finalized: A child-free, 7 day, all-inclusive, 21+ cruise to the Bahamas. Tickets were purchased, excursions were selected, trustworthy babysitters were hired and bags were packed, there’s only one thing you all forgot…
“Is it just me or are we like the oldest ones here?” You ask your friends, looking around as you all board the cruise ship.
“Yeah, I noticed that too— seems like mostly college kids for some reason?” Liz responds.
Just then you all notice the banner on the side of the ship ‘Spring Break 2023’!
The three of you, having been out of school for close to two decades already, had completely forgotten this week was usually spring break.
“Ugh,” Ashley groans, “I can’t believe we forgot. I was hoping we could all get some much needed rest and a full night's sleep this week without our kids, not be kept up by a bunch of frat boys and sorority girls partying.”
“Hey, you know what? As long as I’m with you guys I’m sure we’ll still have a great time, even if they do keep us up. Besides you know the saying ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. When was the last time any of us got to let loose and party a little?” You reply.
“True,”
“Yeah, you’re right,” your friends answer in unison.
“Ok,well now that that’s settled, first order of business is finding our cabin, changing into our bikinis, and working on our tans while we sip margaritas pool side.” You instruct. “Let’s go!”
**********
“Whooof!” You exhale. “I’m getting hot. I’m gonna go take a dip in the pool and cool off real quick. I’ll be right back.” You head into the pool.
“Ash, do you hear that? I think those guys next to us on the right are talking about Y/N. Listen,” Liz says, keeping her voice low..
“— yeah the one in the yellow floral two piece… right there … she just got into the pool… she’s a total MILF bro—“
“Okay, I’m back, mmmn that cold water was refreshing. Did I miss anything?” You joke, knowing you were only gone for a minute.
“You did actually,” Ashley speaks in a whisper “Apparently you’re a Milf!” Liz adds.
“Says who!?” You laugh.
“Shhhh! Liz warns. “That little cutie right over there,” She nods in his direction. “The one in the black swim trunks.”
Descretly, you turn to see who your friends are talking about.
“Oh my god, I’m pretty sure I have jeans in my closet older than him! You scoff before taking another look. “I mean… he is pretty cute though— solid body, lots of tattoos.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you actually do,” Ashley laughs. Which reminds me we need to go shopping and update that wardrobe of yours, I haven’t seen you in anything but leggings for the past 6 years.”
“Ugh I know! It’s because nothing fits! It’s been 6 years since I had the twins and I’m still not back to my pre-baby weight,” you sulk. “Plus I’ve been so busy taking care of them and putting them first, I haven’t even had time to think about me. And now with the divorce and paying my lawyer— money’s tight. If it wasn’t for you guys paying my share of this trip, I wouldn’t have been able to go, and lord knows I need the break. I can’t thank you guys enough.”
“Aww you’re so welcome,” Liz hugs you.
“You deserve it,” Ashley says, patting your shoulder.
“Sorry, I’m being a negative Nancy. Fuck all our problems! We’re here to escape them and have fun!” You state. “Anyone else getting hungry, I could totally go for a burger?”
**********
At night, the pool area transforms into somewhat of a night club, with drinks, dancing, swimming and fun events— tonight’s is a singles lap dance competition.
“Good Evening,cruisers!!! The lap dance competition is about to begin,” the event organizer announces. “I need three single people to volunteer to receive a lap dance, raise your hand if your single and would like to receive a lap,” he shouts loud and enthusiastically as if announcing a wrestling match.
“Oh my god y/n! You should totally do it!” Ashley squeals, trying to raise your hand for you.
“No way, are you crazy?” You laugh pulling your hand back down.
“C’mon y/n, you’re single now , and when was the last time you had a hott guy on top of you?”
“Not within the last eight years, I know that much!” Liz sasses, wide-eyed taking a sip of her drink, and making you spit out yours.
“Fair enough,” you cough out after practically choking. “Fine I’ll do it,” you agree,the liquid courage you’ve been sipping on, helping to release your inhibitions.
“Alright, I just need one more volunteer!”
You adjust your bathing suit and raise your hand.
“ Ok pretty lady, c’mon up,” the DJ calls out. You head up onto the stage, your friends laughing, screaming and cheering you on. “Now I’m gonna need some volunteers to give the lap dances. Let’s start with this pretty lady right here,” the DJ motions to you. “Who wants to give this beautiful woman a lap dance?”
You look out into the crowd watching as a few hands go up. One in particular catches you eye, and you try to place why he looks slightly familiar, and then it hits you; it’s the young guy your friends overheard calling you a MILF earlier in the day.
“Alright, take your pick,” the DJ tells you.
“Him—the one with the dark hair and tattoos,” you point into the audience, before taking a seat on the folding chair on stage.
“You heard her, my man, c’mon up,” the DJ calls him to the stage.
He stands in front of you wearing his black swim trunks from earlier but is now also sporting a white tank top and a forward facing baseball cap. You can feel his eyes looking down at you, checking you out while waiting for the other contestants to choose their lap dance partner.
“Let’s get it started!” the DJ announces. “At the end of the song, y’all are gonna help me decide the winner,” he says, speaking to the audience. “Let’s gooo!!”
Sam Smith’s ‘Unholy’ starts bumping from the speakers and your tattooed partner throws his head back in a brief laugh at the song choice, before locking eyes with you. He wastes no time getting close; stepping forward so that both of your legs are sandwiched between his wide stance. With one hand on your shoulder he begins rolling his body in your lap, his free hand quickly grabbing his hat and turning it backwards so the brim doesn’t hinder his view of you. He glides that same hand down his torso over his white tank to its hem, bunches the material in his hand and slides it up, exposing his perfectly toned abs. You smirk, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth at the sight. He removes his hand from your shoulder and uses both hands to peel his tank off completely, tossing it down on the stage. Then he slides his thumbs into the waistband of his swim trunks purposely lowering them, his prominent V-lines on full display, along with a fuzzy line of hair descending from his navel. Your eyes follow the trail down until it meets a small patch just barely visible peeking out the top of his swim trunks. Your mind wanders, imaging what’s below—imaging what he’s working with. The trance you’re in is broken when he places one of your hands flat on his chest, inviting you to touch him while he moves in your lap. You let your hand glide down over the topography of his body, your fingertips exploring the hills and valleys of muscle as you go, stopping when your hand reaches the horizon where flesh meets material, even though your hand craves to continue its descent. As if he can read your mind, he pushes your hand lower, pressing his half hard bulge against your palm as he rolls his hips insync with the last ‘unholy’ of the song before it ends.
“Alright it’s time to vote. Let me hear you give it up for couple number one,” the DJ instructs. The audience claps, cheers and hoots. “Alright, a alright, now make some noise for couple number two.” A slightly louder roar of cheer and applause echoes under the night sky. Your sexy partner stands behind you with his hands on your shoulders as you both await your turn.“And last but not least couple number three.” The crowd goes wild with thunderous clapping,and high pitched whistles —your friends cheers the loudest of them all. “We have a clear winner here tonight, folks,” the DJ announces. “Winning by a landslide…couple number three!”
Tattooed arms unexpectedly scoop you up off the chair, running bridal style off the stage and towards the pool with you. You playfully shriek and laugh the whole way until … splash... he jumps in the water with you. When you both surface again, your hungry mouths are attacking one another like prey: desperate and determined. He moves forward in the water, pinning you against the side of the pool with his body as you devour each other— all lips, tongue, teeth and flesh. His skin tastes like chlorine, his kisses- a hint of nicotine; and just as addictive. Underwater, he teases a hand up your inner thigh and begins gently rubbing you through the fabric of your bathing suit. You allow it, encourage it actually—rocking your hips to press yourself firmer against his fingertips. You can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks and you opt to help him out, grasping his hard cock through the thin veil of fabric. You work each other into a sexual frenzy and it’s not long before his fingers transcend the boundary of your bathing suit bottoms, pushing the fabric aside and inserting two slender fingers inside of you. You follow his lead, sinking your hand into his swim trunks and wrapping your fingers tightly around him.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a complete stranger who’s name you don’t even know, or that he’s much younger than you, or perhaps even because no one besides your ex-husband has touched you this intimately in years, but you feel a familiar sense of heightened arousal that can only compare to the giddy exhilaration of your first sexual experience. God the nostalgia!—Back when just the novelty of making out, and touching each other was enough. Back when foreplay still existed, before the busyness of life and motherhood had you trading sex for sleep. Or swapping making love for quickies during naptime.
Every swirl of his tongue, curl of his fingers, and flick of your wrist has you feeling renewed, awake and alive again. You never want this to end but your body is chasing after the high it so desperately wants bucking against his palm while his fingers caress that sweet spot inside of you. As your orgasm begins to build, your grip on him falters so he places his free hand over yours, helping you stroke him. The feeling of your walls squeezing his fingers as you cum is so sexy to him that he finishes shortly after you.
Since the moment he jumped into the pool with you in his arms, you’ve been in your own world, oblivious to anything or anyone around you. It’s not until you start coming down from your high that the outside world starts to trickle back in: the music, the people, the sounds of your friends cheering your name. You turn to the direction of the noise in search of your friends, but a series of cannonballs by a group of guys momentarily blocks your view before you finally spot them. When you turn back after locating them, the boy is gone.
***********
The next morning in line for the breakfast buffet you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder.
“Hey, sorry about last night. My name’s Jaden by the way,” he holds out his hand.
“I’m y/n,” you shake his hand. “What exactly are you sorry about? I may have been a little tipsy, but I remember having a great time.” You give a small smirk.
“Ok, good,” he smiles “I was worried I got a little too caught up in the moment and took things too far,” he admits. “But mostly I’m sorry I disappeared on you like that. My buddies almost drowned me with their cannonballs and I wanted to spare you from having to see me choke to death and squirt water out of my nose.” He laughs.
“Fair. You’re forgiven,” you joke. “Can I ask you something?
“Of course, ask away.”
“How old are you?” You brace yourself for the answer, but at least you know he’s at least twenty one.
“Twenty two, you?”
“Oh god, umm let’s just call it mid 30’s” you answer, slightly embarrassed, and worried about how he might react.
“Can I ask you a question now?” He asks.
“Sure.”
“I’d like to spend some more time with you today. Would you like that?” He asks.
“Wait, so your not bothered by me being much older than you?” You question.
“Not at all,” he smirks. “Sooo is that a yes then?”
“I-I dunno..” you're sure he just wants to hook up again , and you don’t want to give him that impression. Last night was just a heat of the moment thing.
“I just wanna talk, get to know you. Hands to myself this time, promise,” he replies as if he’s read your mind.
“Okay,” you agree. “My friends and I have a dolphin excursion during the day and dinner reservations at 6:00, so why don’t we meet somewhere around 8:00?”
“That works for me. Meet at the hot tubs?”
“Sounds good, I’ll see you then.” You answer.
**********
You head down to the deck with the hot tubs after dinner; bathing suit on and towel in hand. You know you’re going to be a few minutes early but you figure you’d get there before they get crowed. When you arrive however you see Jaden already in one of the hot tubs; his elbows resting on the edge, and a cigarette between two fingers. You know it’s a nasty habit and not good for his health but fuck - why does he look so good doing it.
“Hey,” you say, grabbing his attention.
“Shit!” He blows out a mouthful of smoke and ashes the cigarette out on the edge of the hot tub. “Sorry, bad habit, tryna quit. I wasn’t expecting you for like another ten minutes, thought I could sneak one in.”
“No worries,” you smile, stepping into the hot tub with him. “I expected there to be more people out here, thought I’d come early before they filled up.”
“Yeah, same,” he says as you scoot over next to him . “But apparently there’s supposed to be a rainstorm some time tonight, so maybe that’s why. Although I don’t really see why it would matter, like you’re in a bathing suit literally sitting in water anyways.” He shrugs. “So anyways, tell me about yourself. I’m guessing you’re not here on Spring Break too.” He laughs.
“Nope, celebrating my divorce actually,” you admit, holding up your left hand and wiggling your ring finger— a lighter band of flesh, where a ring once sat.
“Ooh brutal, sorry to hear that. Did you guys have kids together?” Jaden asks.
“Dont be. I’m glad it’s over. And yeah twin boys actually. They’re six. My moms watching them while we’re gone.”
“Aww, sweet” he smiles.
“How ‘bout you? I already know you’re here on Spring Break. Sooo ummm—ooh I know, tell me about your tattoos, do they have any special meaning or anything?
“Some I just liked, and some have meaning but this one’s the most important to me,” he points to a scrawling of repeated sentences that goes from his chest down his side. I got it for my best friend Cooper who passed away from fentanyl poisoning last year. I just didn’t know what say, didn’t know what to do after he passed , ya know, it’s like — “ he pauses a moment and swallows hard . “Fuck, I’m sorry. Let’s just talk about something else,”
“Sure, no problem. I understand” you say supportively, placing a hand on his shoulder.
The rest of your conversation is much more happy and upbeat —sharing your favorite movies, music, and books, where you both live and what you do for work. Also telling silly anecdotes about your childhoods, college life, motherhood and so on.
And then the rain starts; which you both agreed was no big deal but, unfortunately this rain is accompanied by thunder and lighting.
“Ugh, I was having a great time talking with you. Sorry the rain cut our little date short.” You say, sounding disappointed as you both quickly exit the hot tub.
“Is that what this was?” He smiles.
“Maybe,” you answer coyly with a shrug and flirty smile.
“If you’re okay with it, you can come back to my cabin and talk a little more, hangout, watch a movie or something,” he suggests. “But I totally understand if you're not comfortable with that. No pressure.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” you agree.
***********
“Shit, I just realized I don’t have anything dry to change into” you state upon entering his cabin. “And my rooms like on the complete other side of the ship. Do you have anything I could just throw on for now?”
“Uhhhm, sure,” Jaden looks around the room for something to give you. “Here you can wear this bathrobe,” he says, tossing you the white, terry cloth covering before sitting down on the bed.
In the corner of the room you turn, facing away from Jaden, put on the robe, and then descretly remove your bathing suit from under it.”
“What, no show?” Jaden jokes.
“You don’t wanna see, trust me.” You say, sounding down.
“Oh, but I do,” he laughs, but then stops when he notices you aren’t laughing too. Hey, what’s a matter. I’m just joking.I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable that wasn’t my intention. I don’t want you to think that’s why I invited you back to the room. You don’t have to show me anything you don’t want to.”
“It’s not that. I’m just really not comfortable in my own skin these days—haven’t been for a while actually. I love my kids to death but let’s just say pregnancy didn’t do my body any favors. You're young, you can have any hott girl with a tight little body. Why would you wanna see mine, it’s nothing to look at, I promise you.”
“I promise you you’re wrong. Let me show you how beautiful you are.”
You’re not sure what that consists of exactly, but you nod in agreement anyways. Jaden makes you feel so safe, and you could definitely use a confidence boost.
“C’mere,” Jaden leads you by your hand into the bathroom, and positions you in front of the mirror. “Can I take this off?” He whispers in your ear from behind you, as he places a hand on each of your robe covered shoulders. You meekly nod yes and he slips the garment off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet, leaving you completely nude. You fight the urge to cover yourself but the look of awe in Jaden’s eyes as he surveys your naked body helps melt away some of your insecurity. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he breaths against your our neck. “Now what I want you to do is look in the mirror with me,” he instructs. You flick your eyes up to the mirror meeting his in the reflection. “I want you to tell me what you see when you look at yourself in the mirror—give it all to me, the good, the bad, the ugly, then I’m gonna tell you what I see.”
“I see someone I don’t recognize anymore. I used to be pretty, but now I have crows feet by my eyes, and my breasts have lost the perky fullness they had before breastfeeding two kids. It’s been six years and I still haven’t lost all the baby weight,” You poke at your stomach. “And I have this C-section scar from when my body failed to do the one thing it was literally designed to do!“ You start getting emotional. “My hips are so wide now, and my ass is huge , and don’t even get me started on the stretch marks on my inner thighs,” you sigh, holding back tears.
“First of all, you ARE pretty, I think you’re absolutely gorgeous. When I look at your eyes I don’t see crows feet— I see a million smiles and childhood summers spent having fun in the sun,” he says, making you smile. “That’s a million and one now,” he teases playfully. “Now, before I continue, do I have permission to touch you?”
“Permission granted,” you snicker “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dying to feel your hands on me again,” you admit, blushing.
“And my lips too?” He begins kissing slowly up the side of you neck, making every hair on your body stand on end with arousal.
“Mmmhm, yeah, that too.” You giggle coyly.
“And these,..”he continues, cupping you from behind, “I see breasts that nourished two beautiful babies,and still look plenty perky to me, especially these nipples,” he rolls the buds between his thumbs and pointer fingers. “I love how erect they are for me.” He tugs on them gently before moving his hands to your stomach. “You don’t need to lose a single pound, all I see is curves and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not the 90’s anymore where women had to be rail thin to meet some ridiculous standard of beauty— all bodies are beautiful. And besides you don’t give yourself enough credit for growing two human beings inside you, this was their home for nine months!” He grips your soft belly tightly as he speaks. “And this scar,” he traces his finger over it, causing a ticklish chill to run through you at the ghostly sensation— you still don’t have much feeling there. “This is not a failure, it’s a reminder of how your babies were able to safely enter this world when things didn't go quite as planned.” Your eyes begin to well with tears again, not with sadness, but from the joy of a guy you met less than twenty four hours ago helping you fall back in love with your body and realize all its accomplishments. “And your ass and hips— fuck, that might be my favorite part of your body. Do you know how many women literally pay thousands of dollars to make their hips and ass look like this?” He rubs his hands over the swell of your backside. “It’s literally perfect.” He says with a firm squeeze. “And these—” he places his fingertips on the jagged pink and white lines on your inner thigh and begins to trace them upwards. “These are a map, leading me to where I wanna be the most,” he slides his middle finger through your wetness, “God damn you’re soaked and we’re not even in the pool this time,” he teases. “I think you want me here too, huh?” He begins rubbing slow circles on your clit, “and I mean more than just my fingers this time,” he smirks at you in the mirror before pressing his growing erection against your backside, and his mouth to your neck.
“Mhm, fuck—“ you moan, tilting your head and reaching back to run your hand through his dark hair while he marks you. “Mmmm, Jaden… do you… do you have a condom? I mean, my tubes are tied but—”
“I just got tested before the cruise baby—I’m clean.” He states breathily, before reattaching his lips to your neck, and pulling himself free from his swim trunks with his free hand.
“Okaay,” you moan. “I-I trust you.”
He slips in with ease; both of you releasing a shaky breath at the feeling. And while you haven’t exactly seen his dick yet, you can tell that it’s big.
“Fuccck, you feel incredible!” He nips along your jawline as he begins to thrust — one tattooed hand on your hip and the other, full of your breast, holding you against him so you can watch. He begins with a slow, gentle rhythm, taking his time to fully appreciate your warmth and tightness with each lengthy stroke.
“Ohhhh, Jaden!” You moan breathily.
“Mmmh yeah—am I making you feel good, baby?”
“Ss-so good.” And you mean that in every way- not just sexually.
“Keep your eyes on the mirror. I want you to see how beautiful you look while I fuck you,” he rasps in your ear.
You watch Jadens thrusts grow more urgent, his hands more hungry as he claws and grabs at every square inch of flesh he can get his hands on. Because of him you’re able to watch unashamed, as your soft body jiggles everytime Jaden’s hips crash against your backside, the movement spurring him on even more. You’re able to see the undeniable desire in his eyes, hear the truth of his words.
“God, you’re so fucking sexy!” He grunts through clenched teeth, increasing the intensity and depth of his pace even more, as he grows close to orgasm.
You grip the bathroom counter in front of you and let your head hang down in overwhelming pleasure. With a firm but gentle hold of your throat, Jaden lifts your head back up to face your reflection.
“Don’t want you to miss the best part,” he teases.
And with one final thrust, he cums hard, filling you to the brim. The warm eruption triggers your own orgasm, splashing against Jaden’s pelvis and dripping down his tattooed thighs.
“Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever came that hard before,” you admit after finally catching your breath, your legs still weak and trembling.
“I can believe that,” he laughs looking down at the mess you’ve made of him. “It was so fucking hott though…Shower then room service?”
“Sounds perfect” you smile, stepping into the shower with him.
The shower starts off innocent, with the intent of actually washing up and getting clean but when Jaden asks if he can help wash you, things heat up rather quickly. As he soaps up your breasts you feel something brush press against you and look down.
“Are you really hard again, already? You just came!”
“I’m young, I got the drive and the stamina to go all night if you want,” he smirks.
“I just might have to take you up on that,” you smirk back, reaching to grasp his cock. You give it a few teasing tugs before dropping to your knees.
He watches with his bottom lip between his teeth as you tease your tongue along the underside of his shaft , tracing the vein from hilt to tip. He lets out a low and breathy “Fuck” as the head disappears inside your mouth— the rest of his length soon to follow. He tastes of you, and the scent of chlorine still lingers on his skin, especially when you take him deep, your nose pressed into the neatly trimmed patch of hair on his pelvis. The same patch that was just slightly visible last night above the waistband of his low hung swim trunks. You remember the way your eyes followed his happy trail to it, your mind wondering what was below it. Now just barely twenty four hours later it’s been inside of you; first your pussy and now your mouth. Every bob of your head brings him closer, his pleasure building so much he can’t help but buck his hips, gently fucking into your mouth.
“Ohh, shit —Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” He moans out, grabbing the back of your head with both hands holding you in place as he spurts down your throat. “Mhgmmmmmmmmm” he lets out a long and pleasure-filled moan, still pumping his hips in short stokes, enjoying the last tendrils of his orgasm before pulling out. “God damn, that was so good!” He praises your skills, making you blush. “Ok” he starts with a laugh “let’s try this again, shower then room service”
*****************
By the time room service arrives after your shower, you’re at it again, this time riding Jaden in bed— a position you haven’t been brave enough to do in quite some time. You’ve already cum and Jaden is dangerously close when you both hear the faint knock followed by “Room service.”
“Shit, don’t stop,” Jaden whispers to you before shouting to room service “Just—fuck, j-just leave it by the door!”
Another roll of your hips and he’s done for, eyes rolling back, chiseled body twitching under you, calling out your name as he cums for the third time tonight.
*********
“We definitely worked up an appetite,” Jaden laughs looking at all the now completely empty pile of dishes on the room service cart. “You save any room for dessert?”
“No way, I’m stuffed,” you answer.
“Well I did.” Jaden smirks pushing you back down on the bed, and spreading your legs, his head disappearing between your thighs.
“Ohhh Jaden …”
**********
In the morning Jaden wakes before you, he can’t help but watch you sleep, sofly swiping a single knuckle along your cheek as he admires your beauty. The sensation stirs you from your slumber. Your eyes still heavy with sleep blink open and Jaden’s face comes into focus.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Jaden says, his husk, sleep laden, voice sounding so sexy. “It’s just that you're even beautiful when you sleep.”
“S’ok,” You murmur, with a smile. “Gotta get up anyways,my friends are probably wondering where the fuck I am.”
***********
You put your key card to the door of your cabin and the door clanks open rousing your friends from their sleep.
“Shit, what time is it?” Ashley asks, squinting at her phone. “Ten thirty two, sorry we woke up so late. I think me and Liz had a little too much to drink last night. I hope you weren’t bored waiting around for us.” Ashley apologizes. “Have you already been swimming this morning?” she asks noticing you're in a robe with your bathing suit dangling from your hand.
“Wait!” Liz interjects, “That’s the bathing suit you had on when you left for your date with -with that college boy, what’s his face—“
“It’s Jaden” you remind her.
“— you’re just getting back now, aren’t you!! You spent the night!?” Liz exclaims accusingly.
The hue of your cheeks and your guilty smile give you away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed and wait for the slew of questions you know you’re about to get pummeled with.
“Oh my god, did you sleep with him?” Ashley asks.
You answer wordlessly, pulling back the collar of the robe, exposing the numerous wine colored markings that decorate your flesh.
“Jesus! I haven’t seen that many hickeys since highschool” Liz teases. “Ok, spill, how bad was the sex? I’m cringing just looking at your neck.”
“It was honestly the best sex I’ve ever had,” you blushed. “He made me feel like a fucking Goddess!”
“ There’s no way,” Liz scoffs. “How much experience can he even have.” She says with an eyeroll.
“Yeah I’m not buying it either,” Ashley laughs. “C’mom you don’t got to lie to us. We’ve all had our subpar hookups, especially when we were in college. Guys that age are all confidence and no skill.”
“No I’m dead serious, it was amazing!!!” You gush. “And not just his dick, but the way he made me feel…”
You proceed to tell them every detail of last night, from how he praised and appreciated your every flaw and gave you your confidence back, to just how good his dick felt inside you and how talented he was with his mouth and fingers. When you're done talking Liz gets up and starts walking towards the cabin door.
“Where are you going?” You ask perplexed.
“Going to find me one of these college boys” Liz laughs. “Does he have friends?” She jokes, making her way back to the bed. “Seriously though, sorry we teased you, that sounds amazing.”
“Yeah,” Ashley agrees. “I’m a little jealous— good dick AND body positivity, sign me the fuck up!”
“What are you guys gonna do when the cruise is over?” Liz asks, “You’ll probably never see eachother again.”
“Oh my god, that’s right! I forgot to tell you guys the best part! Earlier in the night when we were just talking in the hot tub we figured out that he only lives an hour away from us!”
“Holy shit, what a small world, that’s awesome.” Ashley exclaims.
Summary: You love Logan, but maybe he doesn't love you anymore.
Logan was spending a lot of time with Rory.
Too much time.
At first you didn't care, she needed an article about the secret society you both were in, and he wanted to help. To be honest, you talked to Rory a lot that weekend, and it was easy to be friends with her, it was easy to like Rory.
And maybe that was the problem.
As the weeks went by, things got worse.
You and Logan didn't live together, but you practically lived in each other's dorms.
The thing is, ever since Logan met Rory, Logan hadn't visited you in your dorm, not a single damn day.
It was like you were begging for his presence every time you knocked on his dorm door.
Like you were begging him every time you went to the newspaper to see him, or wait for him after a class.
You tried to talk to him about it weeks ago.
You really thought it would work.
"Hey, can we talk?" You smiled crookedly at your boyfriend as he opened the dorm door.
"Sure, babe." He opened the door wider and kissed the top of your head in greeting.
You sat down on the couch awkwardly and placed your hands in your lap.
"Is something wrong?" Logan sat down next to you and rested his hand on top of yours.
"Er...not really." You took a deep breath. "Did I do something wrong?"
"What do you mean, gorgeous?" He frowned in confusion.
"You've been distant." You took your hand from his and played with your hair. "I mean, you've been busy with Finn, Colin, and...Rory."
Logan sighed and leaned back against the couch.
"It's been crazy with the whole newspaper thing, and Finn and Colin, you know, it's Finn and Colin," he reassured you. "It's not you, I promise." He kissed your cheek and looked at the watch on his wrist.
"What's wrong?" You fidgeted with your hands.
"I have to go," he jumped up. "I'm so, so sorry, love," he grabbed his coat from the coat rack.
"Logan..."
"Rory is helping me with an article, because well, my dad complained." Logan shrugged and gave you a peck on the lips. "I promise I'll be back before 6pm and we can have dinner. What do you think?"
"Yeah, great," you smiled fakely as he gave you another peck on the lips and left.
Your face fell and you felt tears on your cheeks.
It was no surprise when Logan arrived at 10pm on the couch sleeping, with makeup done and a nice outfit for a dinner that would never happen.
Things only got worse from there.
Logan wouldn't call you.
Logan wouldn't come to your dorm.
Logan wouldn't wait for you after class.
Logan was never in his dorm.
Logan wouldn't meet you in the cafeteria.
You had never felt so neglected in your entire life.
Things finally came to a head one Tuesday morning.
You were sitting outside on one of the benches near the coffee stand, your phone in your hand and a forgotten book beside you. You dialed Logan's number and hoped he would answer.
That's when you saw him, walking with Rory Gilmore to the stand next to you. They were so distracted that they didn't notice you, but you saw the look Logan gave her. The way he used to look at you.
You saw him reject the call without even seeing the contact name.
You watched as he paid for her coffee and the two of them walked right past you without any acknowledgement.
That's when you realized you couldn't do this anymore.
That afternoon you unlocked Logan's dorm door with your key and found it empty.
You walked to his room and looked at the details carefully, tears already streaming down your face.
You picked up the cardboard box you had and placed it on the floor.
Starting with the clothes you kept there, you folded them and carefully placed them inside the box, taking your time, accepting your grief.
The next thing you did was remove six remains from the nightstand. Hair bows, makeup scattered around, your cell phone charger, small trinkets you owned.
Then the bathroom was cleaned, a toothbrush, your hair products, your colored nail polishes.
Everything stuffed into a large cardboard box. How could 1 year of your life end up in a box?
You analyzed the room one last time before closing the door.
The key he had given you to the dorm room the second month you had been together was left on the coffee table with a simple note that said exactly what you wanted to say to him.
"I can't ruin your happiness anymore. I love you, I'm sorry."
summary ; there’s a first time for everything — rejection, heartbreak, kissing, humping your friend…you know, the usual.
warnings ; SMUT,, p in v, virginity loss, reader has lady parts, dry humping, swearing, rodrick’s the loser we all know he (not so) secretly is, sorta sub!virgin!rodrick, virgin!reader
a/n ; never posted smut on anything before so…🔥🔥 i like to imagine reader is plus sized and gothic but yk whatever u wanna imagine her as idgaf, anyway hope y’all like (also experimenting in which perspective i like more so this one’s in first person)
first time we fucked, we were both heartbroken— him over heather, and me over some stupid poser punk boy from school. we laid in his bed together, both sulking and talking to each other about how things could’ve went with our crushes.
we take turn taking hits from rodrick’s sloppily rolled joint. we both decide we shouldn’t get too high, just in case susan arrives home early. we’re not crazy high, but high enough to get those risky, crazy ideas and laugh at stupid things we say to each other. eventually, we end up rolled on our sides facing each other. we don’t say anything, just staring with hooded eyes and silly smiles.
“you know…” i begin to say, scanning my eyes over rodrick’s face, taking in every little detail i see, “you’re pretty cute, i guess. i’ve never noticed before until now…” he chuckles, “yeah, i guess you’re pretty cute too, y/n…”
i lick my bottom lip, deep in a certain thought. roderick mimics my action, watching me. i take a deep breath before uttering out, “maybe…”
“maybe, what?” he asks curiously. i hesitate, but continue nonetheless, “maybe, we don’t have to be, um, lonely…in that way…like, i mean…” “what do you mean?” his questioning is innocent, almost like he wouldn’t dare jump to perverted thoughts like he’d usually do because we’re such close friends…
“well, you know…i’m a girl, you’re a boy…” i trail off. my once avoiding eyes are now back on his, staring right into his dark irises. i hear him swallow, he seems to understand what i’m implying this time. he bites him lip, and now i’m the one mimicking him. he nods in slow motion, it seems like. he whispers a borderline silent, “okay.”
i, very, very, slowly push myself up onto my elbow. i gauge his reaction with every small movement.
in all my time of knowing rodrick, he’s never really been with a girl. he’s never kissed a girl, or even held hands with a girl in a romantic fashion. i, on the other hand, has been with two guys. none were very serious, just casual flings— sharing nothing more than a few kisses. he likes to talk big game, especially to greg, and act all confident and flirtatious. in reality, when me and him are alone and hanging out as friends he wasn’t so cocky. he was actually quite ‘dorky’, similar to his brother, and desperate to impress his peers.
now, i’m hovering over him propped up on my elbow as he lays flat on his back. his lips are parted, and his gaze occasionally wanders down to my own lips. i, slowly and gently, lower my face to his. i hesitate for a brief moment before lightly grazing my lips with his, both of our eyes screwed shut. just for a second, our mouths are just barely touching. he closes the gap completely, pressing his lips against mine with no further movement. i let out a breath i didn’t know i was holding in. i part my lips, kissing him properly and bringing my other hand up to rest on his cheek.
he suddenly gains enough confidence to grab my waist, carefully pulling me closer and closer until i’m pressed up again his warm, lanky body. the kiss is sloppy, but slow and gentle. it’s almost as if we’re trying to be careful with each other, both fearing if we make one wrong move, we’ll mess it all up.
i smile into our open mouthed, breathy kisses. i feel his warmth radiating off of him, it’s addictive. with every touch of his calloused hands to my waist, every breath of his i feel on my face, and graze of his pretty lips against mine, the butterflies slam in my stomach. it gets me hot, doing this with roderick.
when i said i’ve shared a few kisses with a couple guys, i meant awkward, tight lipped, quick ‘let’s get this over with’ kisses; nothing like this.
i lap my tongue into his open mouth. he moans oh so quietly at that simple action, but my tummy does flips and my face heats up like it’s been lit on fire. i lose the little self control i tried to keep. my hands move without a second thought, one to tangle in his dark, messy hair and the other to rest along his jawline. my leg whips around to straddle his hips, pressing down on the poor unexpecting boy. he gasps, which fades into a strained groan. the gentle kissing becomes feverish and needy, lapping my tongue against his desperately. he wraps his long arms around me, forcing my back into an arch; rib cage to rib cage, heart to heart. his hands wander would you expect anything else from rodrick from down to rub my hips, to up to grip my shoulders. our tongues wrestle and invade past the others lips. we share whines and little moans, reveling in each others warmth and need for intimacy. we breath heavily between each kiss, taste buds and mouth covered in each others saliva.
finally, i pull away, but not without roderick attempting to chase my lips. i lick my lips clean of our mixed spit. my chest is heaving and my heart is thumping as i speak, “rodrick?” he hums in acknowledgment. his eyes hooded and gazing at me full of lustful infatuation. i feel his heartbeat drum against mine, his chest pushing against mine with every labored inhale. i let my hands wander down to his chest, balancing myself as i lay meeting his stare. “was that okay?” i whisper. he hums first, nodding his head in shallow shakes. “why wouldn’t it be?” his confused tone makes me smile. i laugh, shaking my head, “i- i don’t know…”
he lifts his head to bring his lips back to mine in a sweet kiss. i trail my kisses to his jaw, then down his neck. i suck and bite softly on the column of his throat, bragging my tongue over each tender bite. he moans lowly, his hands caressing my crop top exposed lower back. his touch leaves a fiery path in its wake. i tug at his black loded diper tee. he gets the memo and i sit up a little in my spot on his hips to allow him to tug it off. as soon as the fabric is thrown to the floor, i let my fingertips feel his smooth chest. they run down past his bellybutton to his little happy trail of dark hair. my thighs clench at the feeling, my hips unintentionally wiggling against him. his eyes snap open and he groans, that’s when i notice his dick is firm under me. i snap my head up to look at his face, his eyes are now screwed shut and his lips are slightly parted.
“oh, shit…” he mumbles under his breath. i have to make a decision now. even though our friendship might be ruined after this little make out we just had, am i willing to ruin it for good by fucking him?
yeah, i think i am.
i can’t ignore the pit of fire nestling between my abdomen and the slightly uncomfortable wetness pooling in my panties. caught up in my thoughts, i didn’t notice rodrick had opened his eyes again and he’s staring right down at where our hips are connected. i decide ‘whatever, fuck it’ and lift my shirt above my head to throw it as fast as i can. my lacy bra exposed to his view. his eyebrows are raised, his cheeks dusted with a pretty pink.
“you can touch me, i want you to.” he nods, i gently grab his wrist bringing to my breast. he inhales sharply, softly kneading it. i whine at the feeling. the look on his face could make me cum alone. his hard on pokes at my thigh. i roll my hips down, my core grazing his through my jeans. he chokes on a moan, “y/n!” i smile down at him and giggle, “what?”, i repeat the action.
“that!”
“do you want me to stop?”
“no! it’s just- oh, fuck-“
“just what?”
now, i’m just taunting him. how could i not? he’s cute when he’s flustered. i plant my hands firmly on his chest, and repeatedly grind my core down on his. he grips my hips tightly, moaning at this new feeling. our moans and groans blend together. i speed up, my head hung as my face is contorted in focus and pleasure. he bucks his hips up, and uses his hold on mine to move me back and forth. i feel like we’re two wild animals, humping each other with such desperation and fervor.
“good- feels so good..” he whines out. yeah, this feels good, but i crave more. i abruptly stop, and he groans in frustration. “y/n?-“ “wait.”
i hurry and roll off him to remove my pants, kicking them off my feet. he sees what i’m doing, and is quick to follow. i stand on my knees next to him on the bed, he observes me ready to mimic whatever action i’m to do next. i hold his gaze and slowing pull my matching lace panties down my legs. a thin string of arousal connects my cunt with my panties as they slide down my thighs. he lays watching me, basically drooling as he sees a part of a girl he’s over ever seen in porno magazines. i hear him utter a holy fuck and a i can’t believe this is happening under his breath.
i remove my bra next, the slightly chilly air from his attic bedroom making my nipples harden. too mesmerized by the sight of my completely naked body, he doesn’t notice me reach over to slip my fingertip under the band of his briefs. he feels my warm hands on his skin, and snaps out of his trance. “oh! yeah, yeah, i’ll-“ he pulls down his black underwear and kicks them off his feet, his hard cock springing out. it’s bright pink tip leaks with pre-cum. i practically drool at the sight. i reach out to graze my fingers over his shaft. he softly moans at the small touch. i lean and kiss up his chest while i run my gentle fingertips over him.
i smile down at him, my face heating up at the fact that this is rodrick. that this isn’t a dream and it’s actually happening. the buzz of our shared high has basically worn off, and the reality of it all hits me. it causes a wave of shyness, my cheeks dusted with the same pink roderick has been collecting on his pretty face.
i push my shyness down, forcing myself to not let my nerves ruin this. i pull roderick to move ontop of me as i lay down on my back. “i want you to lead the way, is that okay?” i question, watching him adjust to hover over me. he nods and gives me a toothy grin, “yeah, totally.”
he takes this time to scan over my body sprawled out underneath him, “you’re really cute, y/n, really pretty…” he leans in to kiss me sweetly as i wrap my legs loosely around his waist. he takes that as a sign to look down and grab his cock, taking a deep breath and lining it up with my entrance. a low groan escaped him as he pushes in. i grip his shoulders tightly, feeling a burning pain. “are you okay?” he asks when he sees the grimace on my face.
“yes, i’m okay, i’m okay. please- please, keep going,” i stutter out. he continues to push his length into me, after a moment he bottoms out. “i-,” he chokes on his words, “im all- all the way in.” he moves from his position from hovering over me, holding his weight with his arms, to completely laying over me. his arms snake around to hold me close to him, and i do the same. slowly, he starts shallowing thrusting into my weeping cunt. the pain is quickly swept away with spikes of pleasure shooting up my body.
“rod- rodrick!” i gasp out, my nails clawing at his back. he speeds up, starting from shallow thrusts to quick slams on his hips into mine. he mumbles out praises and whimpers of my name into the nape of my neck. he fucks into me with fervor, “you’re so fucking tight, ohh my god…”
unwrapping himself from my body, he raises up to watch his cock slam into my hole. drools falls from his open lips. he grips with my hips tight, digging his nails into the plush skin. pressure builds in my lower belly. “i- i think im close, rodrick, please- more, more!”
i reach my hand down the rub my bundle of nerves between us. but before i could start, he pushes my hand out the way to press his thumb against it, moving in small circles. “right there?”
“yes! oh god-“
his breathing becomes labored and the rhythm he had stutters. the pressure building in me snaps and my back arches off the mattress. my lips form an O, a silent scream rips through me along with my orgasm. with two final thrusts he freezes up, joining me in euphoric relief, and his head hangs low with a low drawn out moan. i feel his hot seed paint my inner walls. his chest is glittering with a layer of sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead. after a second or two, he drags his softening cock out of my clamping walls. he watches his cum drip out of my hole, seeing it clamping around nothing but the white liquid escaping.
his gaze takes in my spent body from bottom to top. my breasts rising and falling from the intensity of my orgasm, struggling to catch my breath.
rodrick swears he can see her glowing, like an angel sent from heaven just for him, surrounded by light. how could he not see it before? he feels stupid, what did he see in heather? him and y/n have almost everything in common; our taste in music, our style, among so many other things he couldn’t even think of in this moment.
he falls down onto the bed, making my body bounce a little of the bed. i giggle, and turn my head to look at him. he was one step ahead of me, already looking right at me. he pulls me closer, hugging me tightly. “y/n, i-“
the front door slams. “kids! i’m home!”
it’s susan.
we’re completely naked, there’s a half smoked joint resting on his nightstand, and we have no idea where we threw our clothes.
Summary: Mattheo had been losing his belongings, forgetting things, and feeling uneasy about that random girl who was always staring at him. His solution? Blame Theodore. It's always that damn astronomy tower.
A/N: I'm so ass at summaries 😭 lowkey i kinda hate this
When Mattheo woke up, he was unbearably groggy—dragging himself around the dorm with zero fucks to give while his friends hooted and hollered with far too much morning energy.
He sighed, heavy with the weight of a dream he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it started happy—blissfully, achingly so—but by the time he opened his eyes, he felt hollow. The fog in his head made it impossible to grasp.
He barely managed to throw on his shirt, only half-buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly around his neck as he stumbled around looking for his belt. He ruffled through his drawer, groaning when he pulled something unexpected from the back.
With a frustrated grunt, he hurled a cheap bottle of perfume across the room.
It smacked Theo in the back of the head.
“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” Mattheo growled, “Tell your useless fucks to stop leaving their shit in my drawer. My boxers smell like Victoria’s Secret now. What are they, perverts?”
Theo only laughed, ducking Mattheo’s middle finger with the practiced ease of someone far too used to this scenario. It wasn’t the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.
To be fair, it really was on Theo for being a shameless pervert who’d flirt his way into any skirt with a pulse. Mattheo wasn’t a stranger to finding souvenirs left behind after Theo’s conquests—underwear, school ties, even flowers that Theo had given them. Gifts Theo handed out to play the nice guy before inevitably ruining their lives.
Asshole.
But Theo was completely unbothered.
He ruffled Mattheo’s already-messy hair before yanking him into a headlock and dragging him out of the dorm toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Maybe, just maybe, after some tea and food, Mattheo would start feeling like a functional human being again.
Mattheo doubted it.
Still, he knew better than to show up to McGonagall’s first thing in the morning on an empty stomach—unless he wanted to snap and earn himself a detention for cussing someone out. Which, on mornings like this, was always a strong possibility.
He walked into the Great Hall like a stormcloud, shoulders tense, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Without saying a word to anyone, he dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.
Your eyes followed him the moment he entered.
He looked... wrecked. Moving sluggishly, like he hadn’t slept a wink. His mood practically radiated off him. Still, you watched as he poured himself a cup of tea—black, no milk, no sugar—and sipped it with his whole hand clutched around the rim, like the warmth might anchor him. A stark contrast to his polished friends, who had all been raised to drink tea like little lords—fingers lifted, saucers in hand, painfully dainty.
But Mattheo drank tea like a man dragged out of war.
You weren’t one to fall for toxic masculinity tropes, but Merlin help you—there was something a little charming about his ruggedness.
“(Y/N)? Hello?” Your friend whispered, snapping her fingers near your face. You blinked, startled, not realizing how long you’d been staring. She arched a brow, her expression tilting toward concern, “You good?”
Your gaze flicked back to Mattheo instinctively, just as he brought the mug to his lips again, the shadows beneath his eyes catching in the candlelight.
Your friend leaned in and hissed, “Don’t tell me you have a crush on Mattheo Riddle.”
Thank Merlin she had the sense to whisper. If Lavender—just two seats down—had heard, the entire castle would’ve known by lunch.
You gave a quiet huff and a crooked smile, “Me? Like Mattheo Riddle?”
But even as you said it, your eyes drifted back to him—just in time to see a Ravenclaw girl saunter up to his side. Her tone was too soft, her smile too wide, and Mattheo... smirked.
You couldn’t hear what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. She returned to her table tittering like a first-year after her first Butterbeer, and Mattheo’s friends clapped him on the back like frat boys cheering over a win.
Your stomach twisted.
“Fat chance.” You muttered under your breath.
And this time, you didn’t look back.
***
Mattheo slumped into his usual seat at the back of Transfiguration, his head pounding like someone had hexed a war drum into his skull. The classroom was too bright. Too loud. The voices around him felt like nails against his already frayed nerves.
All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep through the day. But McGonagall had already given him a formal warning for skipping too many classes, and he had no desire to sit through another one of her lectures about wasted potential and “throwing your life away, Mr. Riddle.”
So here he was. Half-awake. Half-dressed. Fully over it.
He sprawled in his chair like he hadn’t been raised to sit like a human being. The boys were already talking shit around him. Something about some girl. Someone’s sister. Or cousin. Or ex. Mattheo couldn’t be arsed to care.
And then—
Eyes.
He felt it before he saw it.
A stare. Steady. Intent. Not curious like the usual ones. Not flirty or appraising. This was something else.
He tilted his head lazily, scanning the classroom, and there you were.
Sitting with your friends at the front of the room, quill dangling from your fingers, your books open in front of you but untouched. You weren’t focused on your parchment or your notes or even your friends.
You were watching him.
And not like most girls did. Not like he was a prize or a challenge.
There was something in your eyes. Something he couldn't put his finger on.
For a second, Mattheo just stared back, caught in the intensity of your gaze.
Then:
“Oi, Riddle,” Theo leaned over with a grin far too smug for this early in the morning and jabbed him in the arm with his wand, “You’ve got a fan.”
Mattheo blinked, the moment snapping. His friends were all looking now, following Theo’s nod toward the front row.
“Who is she?” Blaise asked, already smirking.
Mattheo shrugged, leaning back in his chair with practiced indifference, “No clue.”
“You sure?” Draco drawled, giving him a pointed look, “She’s staring at you like you broke her heart.”
“Probably did,” Theo snorted, “Another one of Riddle’s charm-and-ditch girls. What’s this—lucky number fifty?”
Mattheo let a crooked grin spread across his face, “I don’t count past three. After that, it’s just a blur of names and disappointment.”
Lorenzo chuckled, “You’re sick.”
“Don’t blame me,” Mattheo said, “If they confuse good dick with love, that’s on them.”
The boys howled, loud enough to earn a sharp look from a Ravenclaw at the next table over.
Mattheo smirked, brushing his fingers back through his mess of curls. He let his gaze drift back to you again—just for a second.
But this time, your attention had turned. You were laughing at something your friend whispered to you, cheeks flushed, head bowed. The look from earlier was gone. And whatever he thought he saw? It probably never existed to begin with.
Good.
***
It wasn’t rare for Mattheo Riddle to wake up in the middle of the night—heart racing, skin clammy, breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls like he was drowning in his own lungs.
What was rare was not being able to go back to sleep after.
His chest burned. His head was spinning. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs like a vice. He needed a cigarette. Now.
He reached for the pack tucked in his blazer, fingers trembling as he searched the pockets for his lighter—his lighter, the scratched metal Zippo with the chipped corner and the warm, familiar clink that grounded him.
Nothing.
“God-fucking-dammit, Theo.” He hissed, dragging his drawer open with a harsh scrape. No lighter. Of course. His roommate probably nicked it—again—for one of his stress-smoking episodes. Mattheo could’ve used his wand, sure, but that lighter was his. That sharp click when it flipped open was the only thing that made his fidgeting tolerable.
He scratched roughly at his wrist, fingers twitching for something to hold as he climbed the stairs to his usual spot. The cigarette was already between his lips before he’d even reached the top, wand-lighting it with a muttered “Incendio.” He took the first drag, feeling the smoke scrape down his throat and spread like static in his chest.
The cold air helped. A little.
Until he realized he wasn’t alone.
His eyes narrowed when they landed on you, sitting at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling over the stone ledge like it was nothing. You were leaning lazily against the railing, illuminated by moonlight—and you looked just as surprised to see him.
“What are you doing here?” He snapped, accusatory.
You blinked at him, “I could ask you the same thing.”
Mattheo scoffed, taking another long drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out through his nose like a warning sign.
Great.
“Night terrors, huh?” You asked quietly.
He froze mid-drag, lips parting, “…How did you know that?”
“I get them too.”
That shut him up.
It went quiet. For a while, neither of you spoke. He leaned against the opposite railing, cigarette burning slowly to the filter, eyes fixed on the moonlit sky while the silence thickened.
Then he noticed your hands.
You were holding something—clutching it, almost. A stem of small, blue flowers. Mattheo stared, trying to place them. He knew he’d seen them somewhere before, probably in Herbology, but the name wouldn’t come to him.
He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like being watched, not when he was like this. Raw. Frayed. Sleepless. Unmasked.
“…Can you stop fucking staring at me?” He muttered, side-eyeing you.
Your cheeks flushed. You dropped your gaze quickly, fingers curling protectively around the petals.
Mattheo exhaled sharply, hating the stab of guilt that followed.
He felt bad. For you.
How Hufflepuff of him.
Mattheo threw the cigarette down with more force than necessary, the end flaring before he crushed it beneath his shoe, muttering another curse under his breath.
He didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t look back.
Just turned, hands once again scratching at his wrist for something to play with, jaw clenched like he was holding something back—words, or maybe the scream in his chest—and disappeared down the stairs.
Leaving you alone again.
The cold crept in as soon as he left, biting at your skin and wrapping around your ribs like a hollow ache.
You stared at the spot where he'd been, at the faint trail of smoke still curling from the squashed cigarette. Then, slowly, your gaze dropped back to the Forget-Me-Not's in your lap.
You sighed.
***
Mattheo was pissed off again.
Theo swore up and down that he hadn’t taken the lighter, which only made Mattheo tear through the dorm in a fury—rummaging through drawers, knocking over books, slamming open cabinets like the thing he was looking for might vanish if he didn’t get to it fast enough.
His wrist was already red and irritated, covered in faint scratches from how often he scratched at it now. Some nervous habit that had crept in without him noticing. It didn’t help. It never helped. Every time his fingers twitched toward that spot on his skin, it felt like he was supposed to find something there. Like something used to be there. Something that mattered.
But it was always nothing.
He yanked open his nightstand drawer again, rifling through clutter and broken quills and the chaos of his own impatience—and paused.
There, wedged between a tattered book and a scrap of parchment, was a small, flattened flower.
A faded blue. Edges browned and curled. Limp, like it had been forgotten for ages.
Mattheo blinked at it, confusion flickering briefly across his features—before his expression twisted into irritation.
“Bloody hell, Theo,” He muttered, snatching it up, “Tell your latest girl to keep her sappy crap out of my things.”
He didn’t know why it made him so angry. Maybe it was the idea of someone else’s sentimental leftovers tucked between his stuff. Maybe it was how… familiar it looked. But that only annoyed him more.
He crushed the flower in his fist and stormed over to the trash, dropping it in without ceremony. Wiped his hand on his trousers like it’d left something behind.
And that should’ve been it.
But it wasn’t.
Hours later, he was still restless. Still scratching at his wrist. Still glancing, without meaning to, toward the drawer where it had come from. Toward the bin where it lay now.
The feeling wouldn’t go away. The unease stayed curled around his ribs like a secret. That damn flower—it was nothing. So why did it feel like everything?
He stood up.
Crossed the room.
And dug through the bin.
There it was—crumpled, soft, and broken now. He lifted it carefully, petals cracking under his fingers.
Something inside him shifted. Just slightly. Like a door creaking open somewhere in the distance.
But nothing came through.
No memory. No explanation.
Only that feeling.
He shoved the flower back into the drawer, slammed it shut like it could bury whatever was clawing at the edge of his mind.
But it lingered.
Gnawing. Heavy. A strange, aching knowing:
He was missing something.
Something important.
***
The dorm was loud when they got back from Hogsmeade—Theo and Draco bickering over whether Honeydukes or Zonko’s was the superior stop, Blaise tossing his coat onto Mattheo’s bed without a care, and Lorenzo humming some obnoxious tune he must’ve picked up at the Three Broomsticks.
Mattheo didn’t say much.
He was still on edge—still fidgeting, still scratching at the inside of his wrist like his skin could give him answers. The chill in his bones hadn’t faded, and neither had the strange weight that had settled in his chest days ago.
Ever since that flower.
Ever since he lost his lighter.
He dropped his bag onto the bed and started to unpack:
Chocolate Frogs. Licorice Wands. Cockroach Clusters—Theo’s, obviously. A new pack of cigarettes.
And then—
“Oi, Riddle,” Theo called from across the room, “Since when do you eat Sugar Quills?”
Mattheo frowned, “I don’t.”
Theo held up the pink-and-blue striped box like he was unveiling a crime scene, “Then what’s this doing in your bag?”
The moment Mattheo laid eyes on it, something echoed in his head.
You’ll like it eventually.
He blinked.
Crossing the room, he took the box, turning it over in his hands like maybe it would offer some kind of explanation.
“I didn’t buy this.” He said, voice firm.
“You sure?” Blaise asked, brows raised, “You didn’t go into Honeydukes and black out in a sugar trance, you big back? You’ve got, like, twelve of these. Mate, what the hell—you’re gonna get diabetes.”
Mattheo rolled his eyes, “I’d never buy these. I hate them. Too sweet. They make my teeth feel like they’re rotting out of my skull.”
Draco smirked, “Aww, are the cigarettes finally rotting your brain too?”
Mattheo didn’t laugh.
He just stared at the box.
He didn’t remember buying it.
But his hands did.
The same way they reached for his wrist like something used to be there.
Like someone used to be there.
He sat down heavily on his bed, still holding the sweets.
His jaw clenched.
“I didn’t buy this.” He repeated, quieter this time. Almost like he was trying to convince himself.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.
***
He hadn’t meant to go up to the Astronomy Tower.
Not really.
His legs just carried him there, like they always fucking did lately. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like his body was trying to remember something his mind couldn’t.
He kept doing things he didn’t mean to do—walking into places without knowing why, reaching for things he didn’t remember losing. It felt like his own body was betraying him. His mind was slipping, fading at the edges, and it was starting to scare him.
He couldn’t remember things.
He scratched at his wrist until it burned—red, raw, relentless. He felt wrong every night when he lay down to sleep, like he was somewhere he didn’t belong. And every morning he woke up with a hollow in his chest, like he’d just lost something—someone—in a dream he could never quite remember.
And this tower.
This fucking tower.
It made his skin itch. Made his hands shake. Made him want to scream and break things and disappear into its stone walls, all at once. It offered a kind of comfort he didn’t understand—a familiarity he couldn’t explain—which angered him more.
But tonight—it was different.
Because when he stepped onto the final stair, he saw you.
And the air was punched from his lungs.
You were sitting cross-legged in your usual spot, the stars painting silver on your skin, your hair spilling down your back like ink across parchment. You didn’t see him. You were too focused on something resting in your hands.
Then it clicked.
Flick. Clink.
That sound.
He stopped cold.
The lighter.
His lighter.
You were flipping it open and closed, spinning it through your fingers with a rhythm that was too natural—like it was yours. Like it had always been yours.
Mattheo’s stomach twisted hard.
He couldn’t breathe.
He knew that lighter. He’d turned the entire dorm upside down searching for it. Tore open every drawer, snapped at Theo, cursed until his throat was raw. He scratched at his wrist for weeks—like something had been ripped from it.
And there it was.
Right there.
In your hands.
And then—everything hit him.
.
“You’ll like it eventually.” You giggled, chewing on the Sugar Quill Mattheo had reluctantly picked up for you at Honeydukes earlier that day.
He grimaced, visibly cringing as you crunched through the overly sweet treat. The sound alone made his teeth hurt. He could practically feel the sugar coating his molars just by watching you. It was going to get stuck between your teeth—he knew it—and while he wasn’t exactly a stickler for dental hygiene like Granger (he smoked, for Merlin’s sake), Sugar Quills were where he drew the line.
Still, you tore into the next package with such delight, he couldn’t find it in himself to berate you. He simply gagged—dramatically, of course—when you offered him a bite.
“I’m gonna Pavlov you into liking these.” You teased, that mischievous glint sparking in your eyes.
Mattheo’s brows furrowed, “What’s tha—?”
He didn’t get to finish.
You grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him—open-mouthed, unrelenting, sweet as sin. He froze for half a second before melting into it, letting your sugar-coated tongue slip past his defenses and press the sickeningly sweet taste right onto his own.
When you pulled away, his lips were sticky, glistening with syrup.
He swallowed, stunned.
“So?” You asked, clearly too pleased with yourself.
Mattheo blinked, then licked his lips, “They’re... not that bad.”
You laughed—bright, triumphant, and a little breathless.
.
It was another late night at the Astronomy Tower.
The stars were out, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled glitter over velvet, and the air had that sharp, biting chill that clung to your skin no matter how many layers you wore.
Mattheo leaned against the metal railing, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.
“You want one?” He asked, offering it to you with a lazy smirk, smoke curling from his lips.
You wrinkled your nose, “I'm not kissing you if you smoke that.”
He chuckled, teeth flashing, “Is that a challenge?”
You shot him a look and snatched the lighter from his hand instead—silver, scratched, familiar. It was always warm, always had just the right amount of heft to it.
“Oi,” He said, eyebrows lifting, “That’s mine.”
“Not anymore,” You replied, holding it up like a trophy, “Finders, keepers.”
Mattheo pushed off the rail, slow and predatory, “You think stealing my lighter’s gonna get me to stop?”
“No,” You said innocently, slipping it into your robes, the metal cool against your chest, “Just… now I have something that reminds me of you.”
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, “You really need a souvenir to remember me by?”
You tried to sound casual, breezy, unaffected—even though your heart was thudding like mad, “Maybe I just like collecting little pieces of you.”
His smirk softened into something quieter. Gentler.
His fingers brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing just under your eye. “You already have me,” He said, voice low. “Completely.”
You swallowed hard.
“I know,” You whispered.
And you did.
But you still kept the lighter.
Just in case.
.
One evening, he pulled a fast one on you.
You were sitting alone in the library, curled into the corner of your favorite window seat with a book in your lap, half-lost in the pages. Your hair was pulled back loosely, strands a bit wild from the wind that afternoon, but held together by your trusty hair tie.
Mattheo had been there a moment ago—pretending to study, but mostly just watching you with that unreadable expression he wore when he thought you wouldn’t notice.
And then suddenly—
Fingers. Gentle and quick.
He slipped behind you like a shadow, and before you could even register his presence, he plucked the hair tie from your ponytail in one smooth, practiced motion.
Your hair tumbled down around your shoulders, soft waves cascading freely as you gasped and whipped around.
But he was already gone.
All that remained was the faint sound of his laughter disappearing down the corridor.
You found him two floors down, strolling like he hadn’t just committed a crime of war against your scalp.
“Mattheo!” You called, breathless and irritated—more flustered than anything else.
He spun around with that devilish grin that made you want to slap and kiss him all at once. “What?” He said, all faux innocence, “I’m sentimental.”
You shot him a look—equal parts annoyance and barely hidden affection—that made his heart stutter. It was the kind of look that made him want to drop to his knees just to hear you laugh.
“You’re a kleptomaniac.” You said, marching up to him.
Mattheo held up the hair tie, lazily looping it around his fingers before slipping it around his wrist like a bracelet. “It’s not stealing if it’s love,” He quipped, “Now I’ve got something of yours, too.”
You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed, “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” He murmured, stepping close enough for his breath to tickle your skin, “You still love me.”
You rolled your eyes but let him steal a quick kiss anyway. Just a brush of his lips against yours. Then you turned on your heel and walked away before he could get even more smug.
But later, at breakfast, you noticed.
He sat with his chin resting in his hand, pretending to listen to Theo ramble about god-knows-what, while the fingers of his other hand fidgeted absently with your black hair tie. Twisting it. Letting it snap against his wrist like a grounding tether.
You saw how he kept it during exams. How he twisted it when he was anxious. How his shoulders always relaxed a little more with it there.
You never asked for it back.
.
It was early spring, the air fresh with promise and the world just beginning to wake. You and Mattheo had slipped away from the noisy halls of Hogwarts, finding a quiet spot near the edge of the Forbidden Forest where wildflowers grew in soft clusters.
You spotted the tiny blue blossoms first—forget-me-nots, fragile and delicate, like little pieces of the sky nestled in the grass. Their soft petals seemed to glow faintly in the dappled sunlight.
Without a word, you bent down and carefully picked one, holding it between your fingers like a secret—its slender stem cool against your skin.
Mattheo watched you with that rare softness in his eyes, his usual guarded expression melting away just enough to let you see the boy beneath the bravado.
You stepped closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the dark curls at his temple as you tucked the forget-me-not behind his ear. The vivid blue popped beautifully against the deep shade of his hair.
“You look pretty good in blue, Matty,” You teased, voice warm and a little breathless, “Pity you weren’t smart enough to get into Ravenclaw.”
He smirked, one brow arching, “Smart enough to land you, thank you very much. Besides, I prefer being underestimated.”
You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up like a melody he wanted to bottle and carry with him forever, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
And then, to your surprise, he didn’t brush the flower away. He just stood there, letting you lean in again—tucking more blossoms into his hair, weaving them gently between his curls. Blue and lavender and a soft yellow bloom, until he looked like something half-wild, half-divine. He only rolled his eyes once, but never told you to stop.
“They’ll think I’ve gone soft.” He muttered, not bothering to hide the fond smile twitching at his lips.
You tilted your head, mock-serious, “They’ll think you’ve finally gotten taste.”
He didn’t take the flowers down. Not when you walked back together. Not when you kissed him goodbye just outside the castle, fingers brushing over his hand like you didn’t want to let go.
But as the stone walls of Hogwarts came back into view, and the sounds of students filtered into the air again, reality sank in.
Your relationship was still a secret — something held in the quiet, in shadows and stolen spaces. Not because you were ashamed, but because the world wouldn’t understand. Because in the daylight, things were louder, crueler, more complicated.
So Mattheo paused, just before you stepped into view of the courtyard. His fingers reached up slowly, brushing through his curls, dislodging the little blooms one by one.
He didn’t look at you as he did it — maybe because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
By the time you reached the castle steps, his hair was bare again. No trace of the wildflowers you’d threaded there with so much affection. Just the same dark, unruly curls — and the carefully unreadable expression he wore so well.
But the forget-me-not? That one he kept. The first one you tucked behind his ear — soft, sky-blue, and still warm from your touch.
He palmed it quietly, slipping it into his jacket pocket like something far more precious than it looked.
Later that night, once the castle had gone quiet and his dorm was dark, he pulled it out again. Held it in the moonlight. Turned it gently between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.
Then, like a secret he meant to keep safe forever, he slid it between the pages of a book and tucked it into the drawer beside his bed.
.
The first time you knew something was wrong, Mattheo flinched when you touched his arm.
It was late — one of your usual hidden meetups by the Black Lake. The sky was an ink spill overhead, stars scattered and silent. He’d been jittery the entire night. Pacing. Checking behind trees. Lighting a cigarette only to toss it into the water before even taking a drag.
You reached for him, “Mattheo, what’s going on?”
He looked at you like he wasn’t really seeing you — his eyes wide and distant, jaw clenched like he was holding something in his mouth that tasted like blood.
“My father’s coming to Hogwarts,” He said quietly, “Not officially. But… he’s been asking questions.”
You felt the cold seep into your chest like water through fabric.
“About you?” You asked, voice hollow, “About us?”
Mattheo hesitated — just long enough to make the answer obvious.
“He can’t know anything,” He said, “But he’s… suspicious. He doesn’t like when I get distracted. When I get soft.”
Your breath hitched, “You’re not soft, Mattheo. You’re—”
“I am with you,” He said, voice breaking, “And that’s the problem.”
After that, things changed.
He didn’t say he was pulling away — he just did. His touches grew shorter, his presence tighter, like he was wound up and couldn’t afford to unravel. He still showed up, but his eyes darted constantly — over your shoulder, into the shadows, like he was always expecting someone else to be there.
Then one night, he didn’t come at all.
You waited at your usual place for over two hours, fingers frozen and heart pacing.
When he finally appeared, it was nearly morning. You were curled on the stone steps of the Owlery, eyes red from cold and fear and something worse.
“You can’t just vanish on me.” You hissed, standing up the moment you saw him.
“I was in detention—”
“You’re lying.”
And his silence confirmed it.
Then, suddenly — he did something he hadn’t done in weeks.
He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last time. Like the world was ending and you were the only thing left worth saving. It was desperate, deep, a confession poured through parted lips.
When he pulled away, his shoulders were shaking.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“No,” You said immediately, because your heart already knew where this was going, “No. Don’t you dare.”
“Please,” He whispered, “You’re the only person I trust. The only one I—”
He stopped himself. Swallowed. Opened his eyes again — and this time, you saw it. Pure terror.
You backed away, “So your solution is to make me forget?”
“Not you,” He said quickly, desperate, “Me.”
You stared at him, stunned, “Mattheo—”
“If my father reads my mind—if he sees you—he’ll come for you. He won’t ask questions. He won’t give you time. He’ll just… take you.”
Your voice cracked, “You know how to protect your mind—Occlumency, you’ve been practicing—”
“It’s not enough,” He said, quietly, “Not against him. Not forever.”
“You know how to do it,” He added, “You’re brilliant. You always have been.”
“That’s not the point!” You cried, “You won’t remember me. Us. Anything.”
“I’d rather forget you than bury you.” He said.
And that was when the tears came.
“I don’t want to,” He choked, “But it’s the only way. You know it is.”
And deep down… you did.
You waited. Waited for him to change his mind. To reach for you and say never mind, say run away with me, say I’ll figure it out.
But he didn’t.
He just closed his eyes.
And nodded.
Your wand trembled in your hand.
He reached forward, gently brushing your hair back behind your ear — his touch unbearably tender.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “If things were different—”
“Don’t,” You said, stepping back, your voice a broken whisper, “Please don’t.”
And with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, with your throat tight and your chest split open, you raised your wand.
You didn’t even need to say it loud.
“Obliviate.”
The moment the light faded, you knew you’d made the wrong choice.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
And then… his eyes didn’t settle on you. They moved right past you, like you weren’t even there. Like you were just another shadow in the morning fog, barely even looking at you as he walked away, not saying another word to you.
Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.
You dropped your wand and cupped a hand over your mouth, falling to your knees before your legs could even register it. The sob tore out of you like a wound — raw and keening and endless.
Why had you listened to him?
Why hadn’t you fought harder?
Why hadn’t you told him you loved him one last time?
Why hadn’t you heard him out — really heard him — when he tried to tell you about his dreams of a different life?
Now you were all alone, doubled over on the stone floor, sobbing into the fabric of your robes, fingers clutching the last thing you had left of him—
His lighter.
Still warm from his pocket.
Still heavy with everything he forgot.
.
Mattheo staggered back a step, like he’d been hit.
You looked up at him, panic flaring in your eyes as you noticed the way he stared — wide-eyed, horrified, stunned. You immediately closed the lighter in your palm, like the damage hadn’t already been done.
"Mattheo..." You whispered, voice barely audible.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might stop entirely.
"You," He said, voice cracking, trembling with something raw, "You—"
You stood quickly, as if trying to close the space between you might somehow take it all back, “It’s not what you think—”
"Don’t," He cut you off sharply, eyes bright with something too painful to name, “Don’t lie to me right now. Please.”
You glanced down at the lighter still clutched in your hand — tarnished silver, the initials worn smooth, familiar in a way you could never explain away. Your throat burned. Your heart twisted. The thought of letting it go felt like tearing your soul from your body.
But your fingers moved anyway.
You held it out to him, your hand shaking slightly, silently begging — don’t take it. Don’t make me give this up.
"I found it in one of the classrooms," You said softly, voice paper-thin, not meeting his eyes, "If it’s yours... you can have it back."
Mattheo’s expression crumpled. His gaze flicked from the lighter to your face — and stayed there.
Something cracked inside him.
Because now that he really looked at you—he saw everything.
The faint glassiness in your eyes.
The twitch of your mouth as you tried to keep it from trembling.
The hollowness in your expression that matched the ache inside his chest.
Salazar.
How had he not seen you?
He'd looked right past you in that classroom. Days ago. Sat barely feet away and missed the way you blinked too fast. Missed the way your shoulders curled inward like you were trying not to fall apart. Missed every detail of the face he used to know better than his own.
How the fuck could he have forgotten you?
The realization hit him like a punch to the ribs.
Had he really let you go without a fight?
Now you were standing here, holding his lighter out like it weighed more than it should, like giving it up might tear you in half. And he could see the way your other hand was clenched behind your back, knuckles white, like you were physically holding yourself back from something—from reaching for him, maybe, or from falling to pieces.
He didn’t take the lighter.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even breathe.
“I want it back.” He said quietly, voice cracking.
Your hand flinched.
But he wasn’t looking at the lighter anymore.
His eyes dropped to his wrist. Empty.
He remembered now. The hair tie. Black and fraying from how often he used to play with it.
“I want the hair tie back.” He whispered.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Mattheo took a step forward. Slowly, carefully, like you might disappear again.
And your hand began to shake.
Your eyes flickered all over his face—his brows, his lips, the curve of his jaw—as if searching for proof, for something to hold onto. And when you finally found it, that flicker of recognition in his eyes, your breath hitched. Your heart began to thump wildly against your ribcage, like it knew what was coming before your mind could catch up.
“Y-You… do you remember—?” Your voice cracked, brittle with hope and fear.
Mattheo's eyes didn’t waver.
“Remember that I’m in love with you?” He said softly, “I could never forget that.”
Your lips parted in a soundless gasp as the words landed. Your eyes filled with tears so fast they spilled over before you could stop them, hot and stinging as they traced down your cheeks. A sob escaped your throat as you closed the distance and threw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder like the world might fall away if you didn’t hold on tight enough.
And then your fist hit his back. Not hard—but enough to make him feel it. Again. And again.
“You horrible man,” You choked out between sobs, “You awful man. You left me alone for so long. You left me alone with all the memories of you. You let me watch as you moved past me without even acknowledging me—while I waited and prayed and begged for you to look at me just once.”
Mattheo clutched you tighter, his own throat thick with emotion, his arms trembling around your waist.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m so sorry.”
And he meant it—meant it with everything he was. Because now he could feel what he’d been missing all this time. Not just the memories. Not just the pain. But you—your arms, your scent, the way your voice broke when you cried, the weight of everything you’d carried alone.
Mattheo clutched you tighter like he was scared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. His voice trembled as the dam inside him cracked open, everything he’d locked away pouring out with it.
“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so—so sorry,” He murmured against your hair, the words shaky and breathless, “I’m sorry for leaving you alone. For making you carry it all by yourself.”
You hiccuped through another sob, your hands bunching the fabric of his shirt, your face still buried in his shoulder as if you were terrified this moment might end.
“I never could forget you,” He continued, voice raw, “Even when I didn’t remember… it was like the essence of you had been interwoven with the very fabric of my soul.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, jaw tight like he was barely holding himself together.
“I was looking for you, even when I didn’t know who I was looking for,” He said, “I saw you in my dreams, I heard your voice in the empty echoes of a room—I felt you there with me. Like my heart remembered you even when my mind couldn’t.”
Your tears came harder at that—relief, grief, love, and anger colliding inside your chest so violently it almost knocked the air from your lungs.
“I thought I was losing my mind,” He whispered, cupping your face like you were the most delicate, precious thing in the world, “Because everything felt wrong without you. Everything.”
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.
You were trembling, sobbing quietly as you leaned into his touch, hands clutching his wrists now like you needed to anchor yourself to him.
"Tell me." You whispered, voice trembling, raw. Vulnerable.
Mattheo paused, his breath catching in his throat.
"Tell me what you would do if things were different," You continued, "I asked you to stop that day... but I’ve regretted nothing more."
His features softened—pain flickering across his expression like a ghost. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering there, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
“If things were different,” He said, voice hoarse, “I’d announce to the entire world that I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.”
Your breath hitched as his thumb grazed your skin again, so gently it made you ache.
“I’d tie myself to you with an unbreakable vow without a second thought,” He added, his throat tightening painfully around the words, “I wouldn’t hesitate—not for a single second.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely. Hot streaks down your cheeks. But Mattheo was already there, wiping them away as fast as they came, like he could undo the hurt if he just tried hard enough.
“We’d graduate together,” He murmured, “and move into some tiny flat close to your work—something small, maybe a little messy, but cozy. Ours.”
You laughed softly through the tears, already imagining it. He smiled faintly too, the kind of smile that was equal parts love and heartbreak.
“And we’d argue about furniture,” He added, eyes glinting, “Because obviously I’d want dark wood—rich and elegant, fits the whole brooding Slytherin vibe—”
“—and I’d want something light,” You interrupted, a wobbly grin forming, “Warm and soft. Welcoming.”
“Exactly,” He said, voice thick but fond, “We’d compromise. Or maybe I’d just let you win, because seeing you happy would be worth more than being right.”
You let out a shaky breath, and he pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’d support you completely as you started your career,” He whispered, “being the househusband of your dreams—your very own doting malewife.”
You laughed again, really laughed this time, and his heart nearly cracked open at the sound. He cupped your face, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“I’d keep the place spotless, cook you dinner, be there every night when you got home—just to hug you and tell you how proud I am.”
You were crying again. He didn’t try to stop you this time.
“Then once you were settled, really settled... I’d ask you to marry me,” He whispered, “And you’d say yes.”
Your breath caught, and he leaned in closer.
“We’d move far away from here. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere by the sea. And we’d build a life—peaceful, messy, ours.”
He paused, his voice faltering with emotion.
“Maybe we’d have a kid. Or two,” He said, his hand moving to rest gently over your heart, “And we’d raise them right. With kindness. With patience. With love.”
He swallowed thickly, blinking fast.
“We’d give them everything we never had,” He whispered, “We’d give them a home. A real one. One where they never have to question if they’re wanted. Or loved.”
Silence stretched between you—thick with longing and mourning and love that had never really gone away.
And in that quiet, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his once more, tears mixing with his.
“I love you, Mattheo.”
The silence that followed was soft, reverent—like the universe had paused just long enough to let the words sink into the spaces they belonged. Mattheo’s chest rose and fell, his jaw trembling as he took your face in both hands.
“I love you, (Y/N).” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was raw, certain, “More than I can express. More than even I understand.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face, your eyes searching his. “What now?” You whispered.
He looked at you for a long moment—his gaze steady, intense, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then he shook his head with a small, breathless laugh that sounded half broken, half amazed.
“I don’t know,” He admitted honestly, his eyes searching yours, “I really don’t. I thought this plan of mine was foolproof. Now I realize that no magic on Earth could keep me from you.”
His thumb brushed softly along your cheekbone, grounding you in the moment, like he needed you to feel every word.
“But we’ll figure it out,” He murmured, “Together.”
His voice dropped, fierce and tender all at once, “There’s no way I’m ever leaving you alone again.”
And you believed him.
The silence between you was thick with everything unsaid, everything still fragile and aching and hopeful.
You sniffled, tears drying on your cheeks as your lips curled into the ghost of a smile, “You really didn’t get sorted into Ravenclaw, huh?”
He blinked, “What?”
“If you had just thought of all this months ago, we could’ve avoided… well, all of this.”
Mattheo let out a breath of laughter, warm and hoarse. His eyes shone—not just with relief, but with something softer, something that looked a lot like joy. “Brilliant timing’s never been my strong suit,” He said, cupping the back of your head and pulling you gently toward him.
“And yet,” He added, brushing his forehead to yours, “You still love me.”
Then he kissed you—slow and reverent, like a promise being made without words. And you kissed him back, like a vow being answered.
Not perfect. Not finished.
But finally, finally starting again.
***
Bonus (3 years later):
It had taken them months.
Theo had stormed through libraries and pubs, interrogated shopkeepers and old Hogwarts portraits. Draco had used every Ministry connection he had, even bribed a goblin or two. Enzo swore up and down he’d seen Mattheo in Paris (he hadn’t). Blaise exhausted every last connection in his effort to find him.
They were chasing a ghost.
Mattheo had vanished the moment he turned seventeen. No note. No warning. Just gone.
You stayed behind. Finished the year. Graduated. And then disappeared too, vanishing without a trace.
Now, with the war finally over—Voldemort gone, the dust settled—they were left sorting through the wreckage. And only now had the truth surfaced. Mattheo Riddle, the Dark Lord’s son, had been funneling secrets to Dumbledore the entire time. A double agent. A traitor to his bloodline. A hero, some dared to say.
But no one had seen him since.
Until now.
After following a trail of half-clues and rumors, here they were—standing in front of a sun-washed cottage perched on a cliffside in Greece, the Aegean sparkling behind them like a dream.
Theo knocked.
Draco crossed his arms.
“This is ridiculous,” Enzo muttered, “We should still be checking those shady pubs in Transylvania. That prat always wanted to go drag racing there.”
The door creaked open—and there you were.
Their jaws collectively dropped.
“Hi,” You said, startled but steady. A little older, a little different—but still unmistakably you, “Can I help you?”
“I know you,” Draco said, snapping his fingers, “You’re that Gryffindor girl—the one who used to creepily stare at Riddle.”
Your mouth fell open. Creepily? Really?
Then, from deeper inside the house:
“Love? Who’s at the door?”
Mattheo’s voice.
Their hearts stopped.
Before anyone could react, he stepped into view—shirtless, barefoot, hair messy and eyes half-lidded from sleep. He froze when he saw them.
Theo blinked like his brain wasn’t catching up. Blaise muttered something about hallucinations. Draco looked ready to demand blood. Enzo just pointed, wide-eyed.
“Mate,” He said slowly, “what the actual fuck.”
Mattheo ran a hand through his hair and exhaled like he’d just been hit by a Bludger, “Wow. Okay. This is... unexpected.”
“Well, don’t just stand there!” You whispered, nudging him, “Invite them in!”
“…Right. Uh—come in. I guess.”
The four of them stepped inside cautiously, like crossing the threshold of something sacred. The living room was cozy and sunlit, scattered with books, candles, and—
“Hold up,” Enzo blurted, pointing at a pastel blue baby onesie draped over the arm of the couch, “What the hell is that?!”
Mattheo’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again.
Before he could say anything—
A soft, high-pitched wail echoed down the hallway.
And it hit them all like a Bludger to the head.
Theo staggered back. Blaise grabbed the bookshelf for support. Enzo looked like he was about to pass out. Draco let out a strangled “No fucking way.”
You sighed, unfazed, and brushed past them all toward the hallway, “I’ve got him, don’t worry.”
Mattheo watched you go, rubbing the back of his neck, caught somewhere between pride and panic.
The room was silent for a beat before Theo finally broke it, voice rough:
“Mattheo. Riddle.”
He turned slowly, lips twitching with a smirk.
“You have a baby?!”
“HOW?!” Enzo yelled.
Mattheo deadpanned, “Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Draco and Blaise snapped in perfect unison.
Before anyone could add another word, you reappeared—cradling a sleepy, blinking infant in your arms.
His dark curls were mussed from sleep, one tiny fist clutched near his face, eyes fluttering as he took in the unfamiliar faces. He had Mattheo’s wild hair, the same furrowed brow, and—when his lashes finally lifted—the same stormy, soul-piercing eyes as his father.
“This is Leo.” You said gently.
Draco went rigid, color draining from his face. He pointed an unsteady finger between you and Mattheo.
“I think—I’m—oh Merlin—I think I’m having a heart attack. I need to sit down.”
Blaise put his head in his hands and groaned, “I can’t believe I crossed international borders for this.”
summary: you had your eyes set on georgia ever since she moved to wellsbury, so when things start looking bad for her in court, you decide to pay a visit.
cw: no use of y/n, femreader, small angst, mostly fluff, allusion to abuse, paul’s an asshole, paul hate, takes place during s3.
georgia miller was a force.
something you quickly grew to love about her as she spent more time around you. sure, she could be cunning—but her love for her children was admirable.
there was a point in time where you had planned to ask her out, but soon realized she was on a date with mayor paul randolph in the restaurant you worked at. ouch. but no hard feelings—it wasn’t her fault you were hopelessly and irrevocably obsessed with her.
you were surprised at how quickly her relationship with the mayor moved, it seemed as though she had just moved to town last week—and here they were engaged!
when georgia asked you to be a caterer at her wedding, you begrudgingly accepted—it wasn’t exactly on your bucket list to watch the woman you loved get married to someone else, a man at that. it proved she could never love you like that.
when she was arrested, you were more than shocked. georgia miller—randolph now, you corrected. a murderer? wellsbury had a surprisingly low crime rate, so it came as a shock to everyone else as well—who flocked to her like hungry vultures ready to pick her apart until there was nothing but bone left. you thought it was embarrassing and low-dignified, to bombard a woman at her lowest point. record her as she has her children ripped from her? nothing but suburban savages in this town.
you had wanted to visit her since the moment she got arrested, but you never thought there was a good time—especially since you two didn’t hang out outside of when she came to bug you at work. nevertheless, things were starting to look really bad for georgia in court. it was almost guaranteed she was going down for the murder of tom fuller, so you thought now was a better time than ever to visit her—in case she needed someone in her fleeting moments of freedom.
searching through your many recipes books, you decided to make her chicken and dumplings—a southern dish that sounded comforting enough. you grab your best bottle of wine, you weren’t much of a drinker, but you could deduce that showing up to a woman’s house with cheap wine would get you a door to the face. upon thinking further—you decide on two bottles of wine, going down for murder seems like a multiple bottles of wine occasion.
ᯓ★
as you ascend her stairs to the front door, you’re greeted by a loud bang coming from inside and your heart jumps in your chest. your hands are full so you desperately move things around in your arm and shimmy the knob open—shoving your way into the home.
inside stood paul a few inches away from georgia, backing away with his hands raised as georgia looked damn near ready to collapse onto the ground.
“you should leave.” the words fall out of your mouth before you can ever think of stopping them. in response to hearing your voice, paul whips around—clearly shocked by you entering the house.
“i didn’t hear you come in.”
“too busy beating your wife?”
“no i— i know what you’re thinking, but this is not what it looks like”
rolling your eyes, you place the wine and food on the small counter by the door, “just go, i didn’t come here to scold the mayor” you sigh out, but as he moves to leave, you step in front of him—hand placed roughly on his chest.
“the media would eat you alive if they found out about this.” it was a threat. and by the look on his face, he knew it.
he’s quick to leave after you move out of his way and you slowly walk over to georgia—who was trying to control her breathing. you wanted to ask if she was okay, but clearly, she was not. “are you hurt?” you decide on, you hadn’t seen enough to know if he had actually hit her. upon the shaking of her head, you let out a sigh of relief. a breath you head no idea you’d been holding.
you didn’t know what georgia had been through, she was mysterious like that. even without truly knowing her, it was clear paul had triggered something deep within her and it made your heart clench to see her in this state. scaring a woman when she’s already at her lowest—paul wasn’t much of a man at all where it really counted.
“i brought wine—and food. but you look like you need a drink” you say softly and the woman nods, wiping the tears from her face as she slowly walks to the kitchen. you bring the wine and food over, pouring her a glass of wine and opening the container.
“is that-?”
“chicken and dumplings? yeah. i have like three cookbooks on southern dishes alone.” she chuckles at this and you break out into a smile, you were glad that you could manage to make her laugh in a situation like this.
you make her a plate first, then yourself—silently sipping on your wine as you focus more on your plate than actively staring at her.
“are you not gonna ask?” her voice startles you, causing you to snap your head up, “didn’t think it was appropriate. we hardly know eachother—just thought you’d want some company” you explain, and she shoots you an unreadable facial expression, so you continue against your better judgement.
“look—it’s clear you’ve been through some shit, and if you want to talk about it, i’ll listen. but you don’t owe me an explanation for anything.” you finish with a shrug, taking a bite of your food as you stare at her—waiting for a response or even a reaction to your words, but nothing comes, so you take a long chug of the wine.
“i faked a pregnancy.” she admits and you almost spit your wine up all over the table, “what?”
“that’s what he was so angry about. i used my daughter’s pregnancy test so he wouldn’t leave me during the trial. i guess that went to shit.” georgia shrugs as if it was nothing, chugging the rest of her wine and pouring herself another glass.
“well that’s—not great, but i cant say i dont see where you’re coming from. it’s shitty that he tried to bail when things got rocky.” georgia laughs bitterly at your words, shaking her head.
“can’t believe i thought he was the type of man to not waver when the storm came bursting through” she spits and when you look at her again, you notice the tears forming in her eyes.
“i’m about to go to jail for life, and my husband just abandons me.”
“listen, i won’t lie to you georgia. things look really fucking bad. but something i know for certain is that if i were paul, i would’ve stuck it out to the very end. for you. and you deserve a man willing to do that.” you speak tenderly, but the last thing you expected was for georgia to pull you into a tight embrace, sobbing into your neck.
“you have no idea what this means to me” her voice cracks as she speaks, clinging to you desperately. you move your hands to rub her back, not exactly sure what to say so you decided to stay quiet. when she manages to pull herself together, she separates from you, wiping her nose aggressively, “i’m sorry—i cried all over your sweater” she frantically rubs the tear stains on your shirt as you speak, but you just grab her wrist gently. “it’s okay georgia, i don’t care. it’s just a damn sweater” you reassure and she stares at you with these puppy dog eyes that almost make you fold like a damn lawn chair. you stand and gather the plates, preparing to wash the dishes—turning back to georgia while walking to the sink,
“if you ever need a cellmate in prison, i’d be happy to kill paul for you” she rolls her eyes playfully at you, chuckling gently.
“oh please, i have like five different men higher than paul fucking randolph on my ‘need to kill’ list”
“was tom fuller up there?”
“…that ain’t funny.”
you shrug, “it was a little funny.”
a/n : can you guys tell i don’t like paul & am unapologetically team joe? zion’s there too ig
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