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I'd betray the gods PT.2

Drug dealer!Luke - Masterlist

1/20/xx (9:43 pm)

"Take off your shirt," the guy with the crooked grin said, nudging a baggie across the sticky table toward you. His fingers were ink-stained, like he'd been grading papers or maybe just too lazy to wash off last night's Sharpie scribbles. You didn't ask.

The basement smelled like stale beer and something sharper—chemically clean, like a hospital hallway after a bleach wipe-down. You tossed your shirt onto a pile of abandoned hoodies, the fabric landing with a damp slap. Someone cheered. Someone always cheered.

Luke's coke was cut just right—enough bite to make your gums go numb, but none of that chalky bullshit that made you cough. You leaned over the girl's collarbones, catching the metallic tang of her necklace against your tongue as you snorted the line. Her skin was warm under your palms where you braced yourself against the couch.

The hundred-dollar bill in your hand rolled into the perfect cylinder, because that's how it was at your college. Money was just paper, and paper was just for rolling. You snorted another line, your nose burning pleasantly as the coke hit your bloodstream like a freight train. The girl beneath you arched her back, her breath hitching, whether from the drugs or your proximity, you couldn't tell.

Luke grinned, watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes. "Told you," he said, tapping the baggie. "None of that stepped-on shit." His voice was smooth, practiced, like he'd said it a thousand times before. Maybe he had. The girl giggled, her fingers brushing your ribs as she reached for the baggie. "My turn," she whispered, her pupils blown wide.

The music upstairs pulsed through the floorboards, bass thudding against your bare feet. Someone dropped a glass—the shatter barely registered over the noise. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, tasting salt and something bitter at the corner of your mouth. The girl's thigh pressed against yours, hot and slick with sweat. She licked her lips, slow, deliberate. "You're not done yet," she murmured.

You get on your back so she could have her turn, feeling the sweat from your shoulders sticking to the pleather couch. The girl straddled your hips, her knees digging in as she leaned forward—her hair smelled like vanilla and cigarette smoke. She rolled the bill tight between her fingers before bending down, her lips brushing your ribs as she inhaled sharply. The burn was instant, electric, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

Your eyes flick up to hers, "You know your limit right? Don't take too much." She just laughs, shaking her head as she rolls the bill tighter. The basement lights flicker—some drunk idiot probably bumped the fuse box again—casting jagged shadows across her collarbones. You can feel Luke's gaze on both of you, amused, detached, like he's watching reruns of a show he's already seen.

The girl exhales sharply through her nose, nostrils flaring as she wipes her upper lip with her thumb. She doesn’t answer, just leans back, fingers trailing down your stomach like she’s testing the tension of a guitar string. The music upstairs shifts—somebody changed the playlist—and suddenly it’s all heavy bass and muffled laughter. Your pulse thrums in your throat, syncopated with the beat.

You hold your hand out and someone places a blunt in your hand. The end is already wet with spit when you wrap your lips around it. The girl leans down to light it for you, her lighter clicking three times before the flame catches. The first drag burns deep—good weed, the kind that makes your eyelids feel weighted. She watches you exhale, her gaze tracking the smoke as it curls toward the water-stained ceiling. "Luke doesn't fuck around," she says, and her voice is lower now, rougher.

"Who the fuck asked if he did?" You ask unimpressed, exhaling smoke through your nose while watching her pupils dilate further. She laughs again—too loud, too sharp—and you notice Luke's grin widen slightly from the armchair, his fingers drumming against his knee in time with the bass. The girl's hand ghosts over your hipbone, her nails catching on the waistband of your jeans as she leans in close enough that her breath smells like menthol and coke. "You're fun," she slurs, and you wonder if she'll remember any of this tomorrow.

"Ginny was it? Or Gemma?" you ask, flicking ash onto the floor as her fingers trace the outline of your zipper. She doesn’t answer—just presses her forehead against yours, her pulse rabbit-quick where your thighs meet. The blunt hangs limp between your fingers, forgotten, as Luke leans forward to snatch it from your grip, his knuckles brushing yours with deliberate slowness.

The girl—Ginny, Gemma, whatever—suddenly stiffens, her breath hitching in a way that has nothing to do with the coke. You follow her gaze to the staircase, where some pledge in a ripped polo is vomiting quietly into a red Solo cup. Behind him, the basement door creaks open, flooding the room with a sudden rectangle of yellow light. Two campus cops stand silhouetted in the doorway, their flashlight beams slicing through the haze like machetes.

You groan sitting up, Ginny-Gemma sliding off your lap with a yelp as Luke casually palms the baggie off the table and into his waistband without even looking. One cop—thick-necked, probably a former linebacker—steps forward, his boot squelching in a puddle of beer. His flashlight lands on the rolled bill still clutched in the girl’s hand. “Party’s over,” he says, voice flat. “Upstairs. Now.”

"What the fuck did Mattheo do now?" Luke muttered, rubbing his temple like he'd already rehearsed this conversation a dozen times. His voice didn't waver—barely even rose above the muffled bass still thumping through the ceiling—but the girl beside you went rigid, her fingers digging into your thigh hard enough to leave crescents. The cop's flashlight swept across her face, catching the sweat glistening above her lip.

You look around for your shirt that was tossed aside before looking at the girl next you, "Don't say shit to them," you murmur under your breath, just loud enough for her to hear. She nods, wiping her nose quickly with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of white powder across her wrist. The cop’s flashlight lingers on it for a second too long before swinging toward Luke.

Snapping your fingers at the cop you raise your voice, "This is private property, man. You got a warrant?" The linebacker cop's jaw tightens, his flashlight beam trembling slightly as the other officer shifts uncomfortably by the stairs. Luke exhales through his nose—half-laugh, half-sigh—as he leans back in the armchair, fingers laced behind his head like this was just another Tuesday. The girl—definitely Ginny, you remember now—digs her nails deeper into your leg, her breath coming in shallow bursts against your neck.

"You're not allowed to be on campus unless you have one," you look the cop up and down unimpressed, "So unless you got one…" You trail off, watching his nostrils flare as he shifts his weight. Ginny's grip loosens slightly—whether from the coke or your bravado, you're not sure, but Luke's smirk widens, lazy and knowing. The second cop clears his throat, radio crackling with static as someone upstairs screams about "pigs in the house."

The linebacker's flashlight flicks to your bare chest, then to the pile of discarded clothes. "Public intoxication," he mutters, but it's half-hearted, like he's already tallying the paperwork in his head. Ginny lets out a shaky giggle, her knee bouncing against yours as Luke smoothly stands, stretching his arms above his head like he's just waking up. "Officers," he drawls, "we're just studying." The baggie stays tucked in his waistband, invisible.

A laugh falls from your lips unfiltered—sharp and jagged—as the linebacker cop’s face darkens. Ginny’s fingers twitch against your thigh, her pulse fluttering visibly at her throat. Luke doesn’t move from his sprawl, but you catch the way his toes flex against the carpet, ready to bolt if needed. The second cop radios something static-choked into his shoulder mic, gaze darting toward the staircase like he’s calculating how fast he’d have to run to escape the coming stampede of drunk undergrads.

"I'd suggest you leave," You tilt your head to hear the oncoming crowd. "This is technically a private residence since the campus doesn't own it, so there is no public intoxication charge." The cop's jaw clenches as Luke casually fishes his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen—whether to call a lawyer or delete evidence, you’re not sure. Ginny exhales shakily, her fingers now tracing nonsense patterns on your thigh like she’s trying to distract herself from the adrenaline spike.

The linebacker cop steps closer, his flashlight beam quivering as the music upstairs cuts out abruptly—someone killed the speakers. In the sudden silence, you hear the unmistakable creak of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a chorus of drunken whispers. Luke doesn’t look up from his phone. "Last chance," you say, grinning as the cop’s radio erupts with garbled shouts about a "10-78 in progress" upstairs—probably some idiot setting a couch on fire again.

Ginny’s breath hitches when the second cop suddenly backs toward the staircase, muttering about "backup." The linebacker hesitates, his flashlight flickering over the empty baggies and crumpled bills on the table before landing on your face. You hold his gaze, exhaling slowly through your nose—the coke’s still buzzing in your veins, sharpening the edges of everything. You stick your tongue out with a teasing grin, letting him see the residue clinging to your gums. His jaw twitches.

"Fuck off, pig," someone shouts from the top of the stairs—Ron, probably, judging by the slurred indignation, and suddenly the basement door slams shut, plunging the room back into murky darkness punctuated only by the cops’ swinging flashlights. Ginny jerks against you, her elbow digging into your ribs as she scrambles for balance. Luke’s already moving, slipping past the cops with the practiced ease of someone who’s memorized every creak in the floorboards.

You easily press Ginny on her back as You down the rest of a beer can, throwing it to the side with a metallic clatter. The cops are arguing with someone upstairs now—raised voices, the thud of bodies shoving against the doorframe. Ginny’s pupils are black holes swallowing the dim light as she tugs at your belt buckle with shaky fingers, her breath coming in uneven bursts. Luke’s already vanished into the shadows near the utility closet, his laughter a quiet rasp under the growing chaos.

Your lips move against her collar bone, tasting salt and coke residue as Ginny arches beneath you—less from pleasure now, more like a trapped rabbit realizing the fox’s teeth are already in its neck. The cops’ flashlights cut erratic arcs across the ceiling, illuminating the dust motes swirling like static between you. Someone’s Doc Marten crashes against the basement door upstairs, followed by a guttural chant of "PIGS OUT PIGS OUT." Luke’s phone screen glows eerie blue from the corner where he’s crouched, his thumbs moving fast.

Lips now on hers, you can taste the coke still clinging to her teeth—bitter and chemical-sharp. Ginny moans into your mouth, half-genuine, half-performative, her fingers tightening in your hair as the cops' radios erupt with static and muffled shouting upstairs. The basement door groans under another impact, and for a split second, the flashlight beams swing wildly toward the sound long enough for Luke to slip the baggie into the vent above the washing machine with a flick of his wrist.

Ginny’s hips jerk against yours as the first cop finally turns back, his flashlight catching the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. “Hands where I can see them,” he barks, but his voice wavers when the door upstairs splinters with a crash. Ginny freezes, her breath hot and uneven against your cheek, and you grin against her skin—slow, deliberate as the second cop’s flashlight clatters to the floor, rolling toward Luke’s discarded sneakers.

The linebacker lunges forward just as a tidal wave of frat brothers pours down the stairs, their shouts echoing off the concrete walls. Someone’s elbow catches you in the ribs as bodies surge past, the stench of cheap vodka and adrenaline thick in the air. Ginny scrambles upright, her bra strap snapping as she claws her way onto the couch to avoid the stampede. You catch Luke’s eye across the chaos—he’s already by the vent, one hand casually resting on the slatted metal like he’s leaning against a bar.

You toss Ginny her shirt as you grab yours, "Alright time to go sweetheart," you smirk, watching her fumble with the fabric while the linebacker cop gets swallowed by the crowd. The second cop's flashlight rolls underfoot, casting strobe-like flashes across the chaos—somebody steps on it with a crunch, plunging the basement into near-darkness save for the red EXIT sign above the utility closet. Luke's already vanished through the side door, the hinges squealing faintly before the night air swallows the sound.

The girl—Ginny—staggers to her feet, her pupils still blown wide as she stumbles into you. "They're gonna fucking arrest us," she slurs, her fingers digging into your forearm. You pry her hand off with a laugh, steering her toward the broken basement window where three other guys are already shimmying out into the bushes. "Only if you're dumb enough to stay," you say, boosting her up as she whimpers about the glass shards.

"You crash in my dorm tonight, my roommate is with her boyfriend, no pressure though if you don't want to," you tell Ginny while pushing her bare feet through the jagged window frame. She hesitates—eyes darting between the cops now tangled in a sea of backwards baseball caps—before nodding sharply, her lower lip trembling as she slides out into the cool night air. You follow just as the linebacker cop finally breaks free from the crowd, his badge glinting under the basement’s flickering fluorescents when he spots you mid-escape.

The grass outside is damp under your bare feet, the dew soaking into your jeans as you haul Ginny upright by her elbow. She sways, blinking at the sudden brightness of the porch light two houses down—her irises are still dilated enough to look like spilled ink. Behind you, the basement window shatters completely as some pledge belly-flops through it, his frat letters smearing red where the glass caught his forearm.

"Good girl."

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I’ll keep you my dirty little secret PT.2

Frat boy! Mattheo - Masterlist

MIDNIGHT RECIVER UNIVERSE - Master list

Mattheo community

1/20/xx (9:35 pm) Same time as Theo and Sorority President! Reader

The dress Percy picked was too tight. The fabric clung to every curve, synthetic and unforgiving, digging into your ribs whenever you inhaled too deeply. It smelled like the back of Percy’s closet; for some reason, the sea and regret. You tugged at the hem for the third time, but it barely budged, riding up your thighs with every step.

Inside, the Omega house pulsed like a bad toothache. Bass throbbed through the walls, rattling the framed photos of past frat kings—Mattheo’s smug face among them, front and center. Someone had spilled something sticky near the door, and your shoe made a wet, peeling sound as you stepped in. Percy was already gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you stranded.

You were going to kill him. Percy had promised this would be "fun" his exact word, spat between drags of his vape while he tossed the dress at you like some kind of dare. Now, wedged between a sweating guy shouting about beer pong and a girl whose eyeliner was already smearing down her cheeks, you scanned the crowd for any sign of him. The air was thick with the sour tang of spilled liquor and bodies packed too close, heat radiating off strangers in waves.

A hand clamped onto your wrist. You jerked back, but the grip tightened; some guy with glazed eyes and a crooked grin, slurring something about dancing. Before you could wrench free, another hand—larger, rougher—closed over the drunk guy's forearm. "She's not interested." The voice was low, edged with something dangerous. Mattheo. Of course.

From far away Mattheo didn't look like all that but from up close? God, he was a deadly kind of beautiful; all sharp jaw and coiled muscle, smelling faintly of expensive bourbon and something darker, smokier. His fingers burned where they still gripped the drunk guy’s wrist, knuckles whitening just enough to make the guy whimper and stumble back into the crowd. You should’ve thanked him. Should’ve run. Instead, you stayed frozen, pulse hammering in your throat as Mattheo’s gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, like he was peeling back the too-tight fabric with his eyes alone.

"You're Percy's friend right? The one who keeps glaring at me from across the quad." Mattheo's thumb brushed your pulse point, his grip loosening but not releasing. The bourbon on his breath mixed with the humid press of bodies around you, making your head swim. His other hand came up, fingertips grazing the strap of your dress where it bit into your shoulder. "This looks painful."

You swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to pull away, but the heat of his fingers against your skin rooted you in place. Over his shoulder, you caught Percy emerging from the crowd, his grin brightening, "Hey looks like you ran into each other—" His voice cut off when Mattheo's grip shifted, pulling you half a step closer. The movement sent Percy's eyebrows skyrocketing.

"You should pick better friends," Mattheo murmured, low enough that only you could hear, his breath warm against your temple. The words slithered under your skin, twisting something tight in your gut. Percy had promised this was just a dumb party, not whatever game Mattheo was playing.

Your noes scrunches and you pull away from him. Mattheo was drunk, it was obvious from the glassiness of his eyes, but not drunk enough to lose control, which was worse. His fingers tightened again, halting your retreat, pressing just shy of painful. "Percy's got bad taste in clothes too," he added, thumb tracing the ridge of your collarbone. The party noise faded to a dull roar, replaced by the rush of blood in your ears.

"You don't get to talk about him like that, aren't you two friends?" you snap, twisting your wrist in his grip as you raise a pierced brow. Mattheo's grin sharpens, the dim light catching the edge of his canine—too white, too pointed.

Mattheo's mouth parts to say something else, but he's dragged away by some dude, Theodore Nott, if you remember correctly. He's stumbling, barely keeping his balance, but Theodore keeps him upright effortlessly. A look passes between them—something predatory—before Mattheo's gaze snaps back to you, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. Theodore pulls him further into the crowd, their shoulders bumping as they disappear behind a wall of swaying bodies.

Percy materializes at your side like a ghost, his fingers digging into your elbow as he steers you toward the kitchen. "The hell was that?" he hisses, dodging a girl spilling red wine down her front. The kitchen reeks of stale beer and burnt popcorn, the counter sticky under your palms as you brace yourself. Percy leans in, his breath hot and frantic against your ear. "You weren’t supposed to engage him—"

The music cuts out abruptly, replaced by the sharp crack of shattering glass. A hush ripples through the crowd before the bass kicks back in, louder. Over Percy’s shoulder, Mattheo reappears in the doorway, Theodore nowhere in sight. His tie is loosened now, his collar undone, and his gaze locks onto you with terrifying precision. Percy stiffens, his grip on your arm tightening like a vice.

"You need to leave," Percy mutters, but it’s too late—Mattheo’s already crossing the room, weaving through bodies with practiced ease. His knuckles are split, blood smeared across his fingers like ink. The sight sends a jolt down your spine. "Now," Percy insists, shoving you toward the back door.

Before being pushed out the back door you grab two big bottles of vodka off the counter—one in each hand—your fingers slick with condensation. Percy's panicked breathing hitches when he sees your grip tighten around the necks. "What the fuck are you—" The words die as Mattheo shoulders past a group of pledges, his bloodied hand outstretched toward you, pupils blown wide with something between hunger and fury.

"Time to go," you mutter, pulling Percy behind you as you bolt for the exit. The bottles clink together, their weight reassuring in your hands—if you weren't going to get drunk at a party you were going to get drunk in your dorm room. Preferably with Percy's explanations running through your ears.

When you're back at the dorm room you finally collapse into your bed, Percy panting behind you as he locks the door—twice. You toss him one of the vodka bottles without looking, and he catches it with a grunt. The cap twists off with a sharp crack, the smell hitting you like a slap: industrial-strength cleaner with a hint of regret. You take a swig, the burn searing your throat, but it's better than thinking about Mattheo's bloody knuckles, the way his gaze had locked onto you like prey.

God, you hated the way your body heated at the sight of Mattheo’s split knuckles; like violence was something that could be attractive if wrapped in the right package. Percy took a long pull from his bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "We’re never going back there," he declared, but the way his eyes darted to the door betrayed him.

You shove his shoulder, "You dickhead, you're so lucky you're my friend. Explain." Percy flinches, not from your shove, but from the muffled thud outside your door. Neither of you breathes. The silence stretches, suffocating, until some drunk idiot down the hall laughs, shattering the tension. Percy exhales shakily, his fingers tightening around the vodka bottle like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"It’s complicated," he mutters, avoiding your eyes. You snort, kicking his ankle, hard. "Ow, fuck—okay!" He rubs his shin, scowling. "Mattheo’s got this… thing. About people who don’t belong in his world." His gaze flicks to your dress, still too tight, still smelling like regret. "And you, in that? You might as well have waved a red flag."

"You owe me so many fucking things, don't even get me started." You groan, but you knew you couldn't stay mad at him forever. Percy pulled out his vape and took a deep drag, the exhale curling like smoke signals between you, distress in the shape of blueberry menthol. The vodka was settling into your limbs now, blurring the edges of your panic, but not enough to erase the phantom press of Mattheo's fingers on your skin.

As much as you looked at Percy as a best friend, in that moment, you knew you loved him deeper than that, more than a friend should, but you'd never tell him, not when he was still hung up on the thing he had with his ex Jason. That's why you agreed to tutor Mattheo in the first place, wasn't it? Because you were so in love with him that you'd suffer through anything just to see him happy.

Percy sighed deeply, rubbing his temples like he could physically push the thoughts out. "Mattheo doesn't… he doesn't do casual interest. If he looks at you like that, it means he's decided something." The way Percy said it, like Mattheo was some kind of storm system moving in, made your stomach twist. You didn't want that, you hadn't even hooked up with someone properly yet, much less someone who ran the Greek kingdom on campus like a medieval warlord.

Percy's fingers twitched toward his phone, screen lighting up with a text notification that he immediately silenced. Jason's name flashed briefly before the screen went dark again.

Your lips purse, and you reluctantly have to let him go, "Go see Jason, I'll be fine here, just leave me the bottle," you say, gesturing towards the door. Percy hesitates, his fingers hovering over the doorknob like he's debating whether to stay or bolt—the vodka and Jason’s name tipping the scales. He mutters a quick apology before slipping out, leaving you alone with the half-empty bottle and the gnawing realization that Mattheo’s gaze had felt more like a brand than a glance.

Now you're throbbing, not just from the vodka, but from the way your mind keeps replaying Mattheo's grip, the rough press of his fingers. You drain another mouthful, letting the burn drown out the memory, but it doesn’t work. The dorm room feels suffocating, the walls too close, the air thick with the ghost of Percy’s panic. Outside, laughter echoes down the hall—normal, drunken laughter, nothing like the sharp-edged tension Mattheo carried in his silence.

Your fingers wander between your thighs before you can stop them, pressing hard against the fabric of your panties—already damp, already betraying you. The vodka bottle rolls off the bed with a hollow thud as you arch into your own touch, teeth sinking into your lower lip. It’s pathetic, how easily Mattheo’s face replays behind your eyelids, how vividly you feel the phantom scrape of his split knuckles dragging across your collar bone.

A sharp knock at the door jerks you upright, heart slamming against your ribs. “Percy, I swear to god—” The knock comes again, slower this time. Deliberate. The silence between each rap is worse than the sound itself. Your legs tangle in the sheets as you scramble for the empty vodka bottle, useless as a weapon, but it’s something. The doorknob rattles once. Stops.

When you open the door it's just your roommate, Hermione, holding two pizza boxes with a look that says she's judging your life choices. "You look like hell," she says, stepping past you and wrinkling her nose at the vodka fumes. The knock hadn’t been deliberate—just Hermione’s usual impatient rap. Relief crashes over you, followed immediately by something hotter and sharper when your gaze darts past her, down the empty hallway. No Mattheo. No bloody knuckles. Just the faint echo of a party still raging somewhere on campus.

"You scared the shit out of me, why are you here? Weren't you supposed to be with Pansy tonight?," you mutter, kicking the vodka bottle under the bed with your heel. Hermione drops the pizza boxes onto your desk, her gaze flickering to the rumpled sheets, the flush still high on your cheeks. "Pansy bailed. Said something about Theo dragging Mattheo home before he ‘did something stupid.’" Her eyes narrow as she pops open a box—pepperoni grease glistening under the dorm’s harsh fluorescent light. "You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"

"No," You mutter before looking around the messy room. "I'll clean this up tomorrow, sorry." Hermione sighs, tossing you a slice. "You're lucky I love you." The grease burns your fingertips, but the first bite is heaven—salty and rich, anchoring you back to reality.

Hermione chews slowly, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Percy texted me. Said you two had a ‘situation.’" She air-quotes the word, sauce glinting on her fingers. "He also said Mattheo looked at you like you were his next meal." Your throat tightens around the bite of pizza. Of course Percy ran to her—he always did when things got messy.

"It's no big deal, he was drunk, and he's not even going to remember it in the morning," you say, but Hermione's raised eyebrow says she's not buying it. She wipes her hands on a napkin before fishing her phone from her pocket and sliding it across the desk, screen lit up with a blurry Snapchat from Pansy. Mattheo's forearm is braced against Theo's dorm wall, head bowed, his other hand gripping his hair like he's trying to tear it out. The caption reads: Who tf got him like this??

The pizza turns to ash in your mouth. You should've stayed home, should've never let Percy drag you to that party. Hermione's voice cuts through the static in your head. "Percy says Mattheo hasn't been drunk enough to lose control since freshman year. Whatever happened tonight, it wasn't just the bourbon." She pauses, then adds quietly, "And you're still wearing that dress."

Your fingers twitch toward the hem instinctively, fabric riding up another inch. Outside, a door slams down the hall—too loud, too sharp—and you both freeze. Hermione's phone buzzes again, the screen flashing with another snap from Pansy. This time, it's Mattheo's bloodied fist wrapped around a bottle of something dark, his lips moving against the rim like a threat. The caption is a single emoji: 🎯.

You groan in frustration as you strip out of the slinky dress you were wearing, tossing it onto the floor in a heap. Hermione's lips purse as she watches you rummage through your drawers for sweatpants and a hoodie, anything to erase the feeling of Mattheo’s gaze lingering on your skin. "You know he's not going to let this go, right?" she says, tapping her phone screen pointedly. "Mattheo doesn’t do ‘accidental’ interest. If he looked at you like that, he’s already decided what happens next."

Your pierced brows furrow, "He's not some predator, Hermione. He's just a drunk asshole with a god complex." The sweatpants feel like armor as you yank them up, but the hoodie still smells faintly of Percy’s vape, sweet and cloying, a reminder of how badly this night had spiraled. Hermione’s phone buzzes again; you don’t look.

The knock this time isn’t hesitant. Three sharp raps—the kind that brook no argument. Hermione’s spine stiffens, her fingers tightening around her pizza crust. You don’t move. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken dread, before a voice cuts through the door, deep, roughened by bourbon and something darker. "Open up, Granger. I know she’s in there." Mattheo. You signal for Hermione not to say anything before you roll under her bed. The mattress creaks above you as she stands, tossing a blanket over your legs just before the door swings open.

Mattheo’s shadow fills the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hallway’s flickering fluorescents. Even from this angle, you can see the dried blood on his knuckles, the way his shirt hangs open at the collar like he’d torn at it in frustration. Hermione blocks his path, arms crossed. "You’re not welcome here." Mattheo’s laugh is low, humorless. "I don’t recall asking." His gaze sweeps the room—lingering on the discarded vodka bottle, the rumpled sheets—before settling on the notes on your desk.

The floor digs into your spine as you hold your breath. Above you, Hermione’s voice is sharp. "Leave, or I’ll call campus security." Mattheo’s shoe taps once against the threshold, deliberate, testing. "You’re bluffing." The mattress shifts as Hermione steps closer, her tone dropping. "Try me." A beat of silence. Then Mattheo exhales, the sound almost amused. "Tell her I’ll be seeing her." The door clicks shut.

You don’t move until Hermione yanks the blanket off. "What the hell did you do to him?" she hisses. You scramble out, knees barking against the hardwood, but your eyes dart to the desk—your notes are gone. Hermione follows your gaze and swears. Mattheo hadn’t just come for you; he’d taken something. The syllabus for your shared Lit seminar sticks out from under the pizza box, his scrawl in the margins suddenly ominous.

"I wen't to a fucking part to get drunk that's what I did but aparently that's a felony in Mattheo's world," you snap, snatching the syllabus back. His notes are brutal—sharp slashes of ink dissecting every argument you'd made in class, each correction signed with his initials like a goddamn warrant. Hermione's fingers dig into your shoulder, forcing you to meet her gaze. "This isn't about Lit. That boy doesn't chase anyone unless they owe him something." The pizza grease on your fingertips suddenly feels filthy.

"That little shit is failing that class, so I don't know why he marked up my paper like he was doing something," you mutter, crumpling the syllabus and tossing it at the trash can, missing by a foot. Hermione exhales sharply through her nose. "You're missing the point. He didn't take your notes because he cares about Lit." The unspoken implication hangs between you—Mattheo had just marked his territory like a wolf pissing on a tree.

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I don't really like this version. I might delete the whole thing, but idk, tell me what you think.

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Band Member! Theodore x Sorority Prez! Reader

Frat boy! Mattheo x EMO! Reader

Car racer! Annabeth! x Lady of the line! Reader

Drug dealer! Luke x Party girl! Reader

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reader getting high for the first time with dealer!luke and they freak it out.. just putting this out there

Drug dealer!Luke - Masterlist

Nothing that happens in this one shot is cannon in the MRU.

One Shot - you're not new at sex, just drugs

Luke had the kind of hands that looked like they’d never held anything gently. Knuckles scarred, nails bitten down, a silver ring on his thumb that caught the dim light of the basement where he weighed out his product. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent years doing this—flicking the scale’s lever with his pinky, licking the corner of a baggie shut, tossing it onto the growing pile without looking. His jeans were frayed at the pockets, riding low enough to show the waistband of his boxers when he leaned forward.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, trying not to fidget. The fabric under you smelled like stale beer and sweat, and the air had the sharp tang of weed and something chemical you couldn’t name. Your fingers tapped against your knee, nails chipped from last weekend’s manicure. "So," You said, aiming for casual, "you sure this isn’t gonna, like, kill me?" Your voice came out higher than you meant it to.

Luke snorted, not looking up as he pinched a bud between his fingers, rolling it into a tight little cylinder. "If it does, I’ll refund your money." The joke was dry, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes when he finally glanced at you—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. You’d seen him around campus, always at the edges of parties, never quite in the thick of it. People said he sold to half the school, but no one really knew him.

You watched as he lit the joint, the tip flaring orange in the dim light. He took a deep drag, held it, then passed it to you. The paper was warm where his lips had been. Your fingers brushed as you took it, and you swore you felt the roughness of his knuckles against your skin for a second too long. The first inhale burned, hot and harsh, and you coughed violently, eyes watering. Luke chuckled, low and raspy, and you hated how the sound made your stomach twist. "Easy, princess," he said. "It’s not a competition."

The second hit was smoother, though your lungs still protested. The smoke curled in your chest before you exhaled, slow and deliberate, like you’d seen in movies. Luke’s gaze lingered on your mouth, then dropped to your throat as you swallowed. The basement felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. You could hear the faint hum of the fridge in the corner, the creak of the couch as you shifted. Your skin prickled, hyperaware of everything—the way his knee almost touched yours, the way his tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, and how your panties were now incredibly soaked.

The high hit in slow waves, your limbs turning liquid, your thoughts syrupy and warm. Colors blurred at the edges of your vision, and you laughed at nothing, the sound bubbling up without warning. Luke’s grin was lazy, predatory. “There she is,” he murmured, taking the joint back. His fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time, lingering just long enough for you to notice the calluses on his fingertips. You wondered what they’d feel like dragging down your thighs. The thought sent a jolt through you, sharp and electric.

That was not a thought you wanted slipping past your lips, but your tongue felt loose now, the filter between your brain and mouth dissolving with every exhale. Luke’s smirk widened, like he could hear it anyway. His free hand—the one not holding the joint—dropped to the couch between you, fingers splayed, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your thigh where your shorts had ridden up. The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a shockwave of heat straight to your core. You should’ve pulled away. You didn’t.

The joint burned down to the filter, but neither of you moved to put it out. The air between you crackled, charged with something reckless. Luke’s gaze dropped to your chest, to the rapid rise and fall of your breathing, and you didn’t bother hiding it. "You’re a fucking liar," he said, voice rough. "Never done drugs, my ass." His thumb traced a slow circle on your thigh, just above the hem of your shorts. "You take to this too easy."

You leaned into his touch, your body humming with the high and something darker. "Maybe I’m just good at things," you said, the words slurring slightly. His laugh was a low rumble in his chest, and you felt it more than heard it, the vibration thrumming through the scant inches between you. His hand slid higher, fingertips pressing into the soft skin of your inner thigh, and your breath hitched.

"I need your consent princess, cause I ain't going further unless you say do." His voice was gravel scraping against pavement, fingers digging slightly harder into your thigh. The joint had burned down to nothing between his fingers, forgotten ashes crumbling onto the carpet. Your pulse thundered in your ears, loud enough you wondered if he could hear it—or if it was just the drugs making everything unbearably amplified. The basement lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the sharp angles of his face.

Your mouth opened, but what came out was a ragged "Fuck yes" instead of whatever witty thing you'd rehearsed in your head. His nostrils flared, pupils swallowing the blue of his irises whole as he crowded into your space without hesitation. One hand fisted in the fabric of your top while the other slid fully under your shorts, calloused fingers finding you already wet and aching. "Jesus," he muttered, dragging his thumb through your slick, making you arch off the couch. "Been thinking about this, huh?"

The joint ashes scattered forgotten as he pushed you back into the cushions, his mouth hot on your neck, teeth scraping where your pulse jumped. You clawed at his shoulders, the muscles there taut under your fingertips, and he groaned when your nails dug in. His hips ground down against yours, the hard line of his cock pressing through his jeans, and you whimpered—too loud, too desperate, but you couldn’t care less. The drugs had lit your nerves on fire, every touch electric, every sound obscenely vivid: his ragged breathing, the creak of the couch springs, the wet slide of his fingers working you open.

It's all quick, sloppy movement after that—Luke's belt buckle clinking against the zipper of your shorts as he yanks them down, your hips lifting to help, the fabric catching on your ankles before you kick them off entirely. His hands are everywhere at once, rough and impatient, palming your breasts through your top, then shoving it up to latch his mouth onto a nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. You can feel the smirk against your skin when you arch into him, your back bowing off the couch. "So fucking greedy," he rasps, biting down just to hear you gasp.

His jeans are halfway down his thighs when you reach for him, fingers wrapping around the thick heat of his cock, stroking once before he growls and bats your hand away. "Not yet." He pins your wrist above your head, the weight of his body pressing you deeper into the cushions. The stretch burns when he pushes into you, your body tight around him, but the pain melts into a dizzying pleasure as he bottoms out, his groan vibrating against your collarbone. You can taste the weed on his tongue when he kisses you, messy and open-mouthed, his hips already moving in sharp, shallow thrusts.

The air reeks of sweat and sex, the basement’s dampness clinging to your skin as you drag your legs up his sides, heels digging into the small of his back. Luke curses, his rhythm stuttering when you clench around him, and his free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His teeth find the tendon there, biting down just shy of breaking skin, and the sharp sting makes you sob his name. You can feel every ridge of his cock inside you, the brutal drag of him, the way his breath hitches when you rock up to meet him.

His grip tightens on your wrist, fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises, and you know you’ll wear them like a badge tomorrow. The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through you, your thighs trembling as he fucks you deeper, harder, the couch springs screeching in protest. "Look at you," he grits out, pulling back just enough to watch where you’re joined, his cock glistening with your slick. "Fucking ruined already." You whine, oversensitive and strung out, but he doesn’t slow down, his hips snapping into yours with a punishing pace.

The high twists everything into something sharper, more visceral—the sweat dripping down his temple, the way his bottom lip catches between his teeth when he’s close, the raw, animal sounds tearing from his throat. You’re teetering on the edge again, your toes curling, your nails scraping down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. Luke hisses, his hand sliding between you to rub rough circles over your clit, and that’s all it takes. You come with a choked scream, your body clamping around him, and he groans, fucking you through it, his rhythm turning erratic.

His hips stutter, then still as he buries himself deep, his forehead dropping to your shoulder with a muttered curse. You can feel him pulsing inside you, hot and thick, his breath ragged against your skin. For a moment, neither of you move, the only sound the ragged pull of air into your lungs and the distant drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the basement. Then Luke pulls out, the loss of him making you shiver, and collapses onto the couch beside you, his arm slung over you.

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I’ll keep you my dirty little secret PT.1

Frat boy! Mattheo - Masterlist

MIDNIGHT RECIVER UNIVERSE - Master list

Mattheo community

1/20/xx (8:15 pm)

The first time you saw Mattheo Riddle, he was standing in the middle of the campus quad, balancing a half-empty bottle of soda on his forehead while a circle of laughing frat brothers egged him on. The sun glinted off his dark, messy hair, and his grin was wide enough to split his face, like he knew everyone was watching and didn’t give a damn. You’d paused mid-step, backpack slipping off one shoulder, because there was something about the way he moved—loose-limbed, effortless, like gravity worked differently for him.

That was a year ago, and that was the only time you had even thought about him. Until today, you were walking back from the library with Percy, and he had brought the subject of Mattheo up. "You know, you two are opposites, but I think you'd get along," Percy had said, nudging your shoulder as you both crossed the quad. You scoffed at the idea; Mattheo Riddle was the kind of person who thrived in chaos, who drew attention like a magnet, while you preferred the quiet corners of the world where no one noticed you at all.

"You bought me a snack, actually studied in the library with me, and now you're talking about Mattheo." Your eyes narrow in suspicion, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you glance sideways at Percy. "What's the catch?"

Percy just laughs, shaking his head like you're being ridiculous, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe—before he shrugs. "No catch. Just think you both could use what the other's got."

You raise an unimpressed brow at Percy, waiting for the punchline, but he just keeps walking like he hasn’t just suggested the most absurd social experiment of the semester. Eventually, he caves, "Ok, maybe there might be a little bit of a catch," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual easygoing demeanor slipping into something sheepish. "Mattheo's on academic probation after that stunt with the library fountain last semester, and if he flunks one more exam, his frat's charter gets suspended. And you? You haven't left your dorm for anything but class in three weeks. It's depressing."

You punch him in the arm—hard enough that he yelps and nearly drops his coffee. "What the hell?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, but the sting of Percy’s words lingers. You weren’t some charity case to be pawned off on the campus golden boy. "And what am I supposed to do about him? He's not my problem, and we've literally never interacted before."

Percy rubs his arm, grinning despite the glare you're leveling at him. "That's the point," he says, stepping closer, lowering his voice like he's sharing a secret. "You're not like everyone else fawning over him; you'd actually call him out on his bullshit. And he could get you out of your own head for once. Win-win." The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, makes you pause. You hate that he's right; you do spend too much time trapped in your own thoughts, analyzing every interaction until it feels like walking through quicksand.

"Ok first of all, fuck you. Second of all, I get nothing out of helping him..." You trail off. "I do need service hours...let's say hypothetically, if you're saying he's failing that hard, tutoring him would count, right? Hypothetically, of course," Percy grins. You can almost see the imaginary lightbulb flicker above his head as he claps your shoulder. "That's the spirit! And who knows? You might actually like the guy. He's not as insufferable as he seems."

"That's a terrifying thought." You roll your eyes, already regretting this conversation. "I'll consider it. No promises." Percy pumps his fist like he's just fought the gods and won, but before he can launch into another sales pitch, a loud crash echoes from across the quad, followed by raucous laughter and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. You both turn just in time to see Mattheo vault over a picnic table, his jacket flaring behind him as he dodges a flying frisbee, his voice carrying across the grass. "Nott, I swear to god, if that was my phone—"

You shoot another glare at Percy, who's grinning like he's already won. "This is your fault," you mutter, watching as Mattheo drops to his knees beside the shattered remains of what might’ve been a phone, his frat brothers howling with laughter around him. There’s something almost theatrical about the way he throws his head back, groaning loud enough for half the quad to hear—like even his exasperation is performative. You don’t realize you’re staring until Percy nudges you again, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "See? He needs you."

As I told you, I'll consider it, "You reply, watching as Mattheo yanks Theodore Nott into a headlock, the other guy wheezing with laughter despite the chokehold. "Do not go running your mouth; in fact, don't even say anything to him because I know you will." Percy holds up his hands in surrender, but you know him too well. Later that night, you were in your room, your roommate was out, and you were looking over your schedule for the next semester. Hermione was a good roommate, but she always had something planned and was gone most nights. When she was in the room, she was respectfully quiet, but she was also the reason you didn't have any friends; she was just too intimidating to be around. It wasn't that she was mean or anything; she was just so focused on her studies and future that it made you feel like you were wasting your time just by existing around her.

You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard as your eyes flickered to the empty service hours column on your degree audit. Percy’s ridiculous proposal wormed its way back into your thoughts, stubborn as a splinter—annoying, but impossible to ignore. You groaned, rubbing your temples. The idea of willingly spending time with Mattheo Riddle was absurd, but the logistics were worse. Where would you even meet? His frat house smelled like stale beer and regret, and the library was too quiet for someone who treated gravity like a suggestion.

A sharp knock at the door startled you. You barely had time to call out, “It’s open,” before Percy strolled in like he owned the place, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, nudging your foot off the desk chair and plopping into it. “I come bearing bribes.” The rich, bitter scent of espresso cut through the musty dorm air, and you scowled but took the cup anyway. Percy’s grin was infuriatingly knowing as he sipped his own drink, eyes flicking to your laptop screen. “Service hours, huh? Funny how that works out.”

Your face scrunches up into a scowl, "If you even wanted me to consider your proposal, you should've brought me a monster instead of coffee." Percy leans back in the chair, the plastic creaking under his weight, and shrugs. "Too late now. Besides, you're gonna need the caffeine for the shitstorm you're about to agree to." He taps his finger against your laptop screen, right over the empty service hours box, and raises an eyebrow. "C'mon. When have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Just the other day, when you convinced me to go to that party, and I ended up locked in a closet with a drunk philosophy major," you mutter, but Percy only waves a dismissive hand. "Okay, but did you die? No. Growth experience." He leans forward suddenly, elbows on his knees, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—something like the sea and vanilla, the same one he's worn since first year. "Look," he says, voice dropping into that earnest tone that always makes your defenses waver, "Mattheo's not a bad guy. He's just... a lot. But so are you, in your own way. And I think you'd balance each other out."

"Excuse me? I am not a lot, I stay in my dorm all day reading fanfiction, how is that a lot?" You scoff, swirling the coffee in your cup just to avoid Percy's piercing gaze. He rolls his eyes, leaning back with an exasperated sigh. "You're a lot in the way you overthink everything until it's a whole production. Mattheo doesn't think at all. See? Perfect match." The grin he shoots you is so obnoxiously pleased with itself that you consider throwing the coffee at him—except it's your last lifeline before a night of academic doom-scrolling.

A buzz from Percy's pocket interrupts your mental plotting. He pulls out his phone, thumbs flying over the screen before his expression shifts into something dangerously mischievous. "Guess who just texted me asking if you've agreed yet?" You freeze the cup halfway to your lips. "You didn't—" Percy's already nodding, grinning like he's just pulled off the heist of the century. "Mattheo's waiting at the Omega house right now. Says he'll throw in free pizza for the whole semester if you show up tonight."

"Percy! I told you not to tell him anything!" You slam your coffee down so hard it sloshes over the rim, scalding your fingers, but the sting barely registers over the white-hot fury climbing your throat. Percy dares to look wounded, clutching his chest as if you've shot him. "I didn't! He cornered me after practice, okay? The guy's got a sixth sense for when people are talking about him—like a demonic golden retriever."

You press your palms into your eyes until colors bloom behind your lids. The Omega house. Of course. The very thought of stepping into that den of debauchery, reeking of sweat and cheap beer, sticky floors clinging to your shoes, makes your skin crawl. But the service hours gnaw at you, and the pizza offer is a low blow. Your meal plan ran out last week. "One hour," you grit out, snatching your hoodie from the bed. "If he so much as breathes in my direction wrong, I'm out. No—I can't talk to him at all in a public setting like that, I'll meet him tomorrow in the library, I'll still go... I need food anyway.”

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Sorry I took so long to push out more, I went to the beach last week. This week though, you're going to get fed. You can ask to be tagged

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pls pls plssssss can i request more annabeth chase x reader? love the series so much🫰

I have multiple different things in the works, but trust me, I am working on it. I have to do a starting fic for Frat boy! Mattheo x Emo! Reader, before I start on more chapters for the others. I do have a one shot comming up for her though, stay tunned!

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Hubris PT.1

Car racer!Annabeth - Masterlist

MIDNIGHT RECIVER UNIVERSE - Master list

1/1/xx

Annabeth Chase had the kind of hands that told stories knuckles scarred from wrench slips, fingertips permanently smudged with engine grease, a silver owl ring on her pinky she’d stolen off a mechanic who tried to stiff her on a carburetor job. Right now, those hands were wrapped tight around the steering wheel of her mustang, the one she’d rebuilt from scrap metal and sheer spite. The engine growled beneath her like a living thing, and the vibration traveled up her arms, settling into her ribs like a second heartbeat.

The starting line smelled like burnt rubber and cheap perfume some of the other racers had brought their girlfriends, their pit crews, their hangers-on. Annabeth didn’t need any of that. She rolled her window down halfway, letting the cool night air cut through the scent of gasoline, and caught sight of you for the first time. You were holding the checkered flag, laughing at something one of the organizers said, the neon lights from the billboard above painting your skin in shifting shades of electric blue and hot pink. Annabeth’s grip tightened on the wheel. She hadn’t expected distraction tonight, least of all from someone who wasn’t even in a car.

The countdown began—five seconds blared over the PA system—but her focus kept slipping. You were walking toward the line now, hips swaying just enough to make the hem of your shorts ride up, and Annabeth’s teeth sank into her lower lip. She’d raced in cities from Detroit to Miami, faced down cops and rivals and near-death spins, but nothing had ever made her palms sweat like this. The engine roared, impatient, as the final second ticked away. She barely heard it.

She was going to win, Annabeth decided, not because of the money—though four hundred grand would patch up her Mustang’s transmission nicely but because winning meant you’d have to hand her that flag. The thought sent a reckless thrill through her, sharp enough that she almost missed the green light. Tires screeched as she jammed the accelerator, the Mustang lurching forward with a snarl that drowned out the other engines. The city lights blurred into streaks as she hit third gear, but her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, searching for a glimpse of you shrinking in the distance.

The race was a tight coil of asphalt and bad decisions, the kind where a single miscalculation could send you spinning into a guardrail. Annabeth took the corners too fast, the car’s tail fishtailing, but she corrected with a jerk of the wheel that would’ve ripped the steering column clean off a lesser vehicle. Her pulse hammered in her throat, not from the speed she’d gone faster but from the stupid, giddy realization that she wanted you to see this. To see her. She overtook the lead car on a blind curve, close enough to scrape paint, and the driver’s middle finger in her periphery only made her grin wider.

By the final stretch, her fingers ached from gripping the wheel, her shoulders tense as coiled wire. The finish line loomed ahead, a mess of flashing lights and screaming spectators, but her eyes locked onto you standing there with the flag, watching her. The Mustang crossed the line with a howl, half a car length ahead of the competition, slamming her foot on the break just enough to skid sideways in a cloud of burnt rubber. The smell was acrid, clinging to the back of her throat, but she didn’t care.

The crowd erupted as she shoved the door open, boots hitting the pavement with deliberate force. Sweat prickled at her temples, her tank top sticking to her skin, but she didn’t wipe it away. She strode toward you, purposeful, ignoring the hands clapping her back, the shouts of congratulations. Your lips parted slightly, like you hadn’t expected her to come straight for you, and that alone sent a rush through her veins hotter than the engine still ticking behind her.

most of the times the drivers took their grand 'ol time coming up to the podium, they always like to brag to their friends. That's why it came to a surprise when she came sauntering up to you with a smirk. "Well?" Annabeth tilted her chin up, her sweat slicked neck glistening under the neon lights, "aren't you gonna congratulate the winner?" She was close enough now that you could smell the gasoline and leather clinging to her, sharp and intoxicating. Your fingers tightened around the flagpole, the checkered fabric fluttering between you like a dare.

Your eyes, slightly distracted, follow a bead of sweat trailing from her chin to her collar bone that disappears between her breasts. Your throat feels dry. “Congratulations,” you say, pressing the trophy into her hands your fingers brush for a second too long, and Annabeth’s smirk deepens.

Her thumb runs along the trophy’s edge, slow, deliberate, before she tosses it carelessly onto the nearest table with a metallic clang. “That’s it?” she challenges, stepping closer. The crowd noise fades into static her knuckles graze yours as she takes the flagpole from you, pulling it forward until your bodies are inches apart.

Your face blushes, "You get your money up at the front," you explain, trying to ignore how her proximity makes your pulse skip. Annabeth’s grin is wolfish, her fingers tracing the flagpole upwards until they brush yours again this time lingering. “Money’s not what I’m after, Star,” she murmurs, her voice rough from the roar of the engine still ringing in her ears. The neon lights catch the flecks of gold in her eyes, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

Someone shouts her name from the crowd, but she doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she leans in, close enough that her breath ghosts over your lips hot and smelling faintly of spearmint gum and gasoline. “You’re gonna give me something better,” she says, and it’s not a question. The flag flutters between you, trapped between your chests, and you can feel the heat radiating off her, mixing with the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins.

"Jason grace is here!" Someone shouts from the crowd. How do you even begin to describe him, tall blond and handsome just doesn't do him justice. He's built like a greek god, chiseled jawline, piercing blue eyes, and a confident stride that commands attention. The crowd parts for him like the Red Sea, whispers following in his wake. He's the reigning champion, undefeated in the last three seasons, and the way he's looking at Annabeth like she's a bug he's about to squash under his designer boots sends a chill down your spine.

Jason Grace, campus golden boy and Annabeth’s favorite rival. She watches him approach with a lazy smirk, her fingers tightening around the flagpole still trapped between you two. His gaze flicks to the Mustang still idling like a restless beast then back to her, a slow, mocking once-over. “Cute ride,” he drawls, hands shoved in the pockets of his stupidly expensive leather jacket. “Didn’t realize they let juniors race with the big kids now.” The crowd titters nervously, caught between admiration for him and the electric tension crackling off Annabeth.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Just tilts her head, her voice dripping with saccharine venom. “Aw, Jason, you came all this way just to watch me win?” Her thumb brushes against your knuckle again—subtle, possessive. “Should’ve brought a camera.” The air between them thickens, the kind of tension that precedes a fistfight or a kiss, and you’re not sure which would explode first. Jason’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Funny,” he says, too calm. “I came to collect my usual prize.” His gaze slides to you, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. “Guess we’ll see who takes it next week.”

Your noes crinkles in discus when you realize Jason was talking about you. "Did the Mrs already break up with you? Did she get sick of you losing?" You spit back at him. The crowd gasps, some laughing nervously at your audacity no one talks to Jason Grace like that.

Annabeth’s smirk sharpens into something dangerous, her fingers now fully interlacing with yours. Jason’s expression darkens, his knuckles whitening where they’re shoved in his pockets. "Careful, sweetheart," he says, voice low, "you don’t know who you’re playing with."

"I think I know exactly who I'm playing with," you shoot back, tilting your chin up to match his glare. "A fucking loser. Now get going before I ban you from racing in this city forever." The crowd erupts into shocked murmurs—no one’s ever threatened Jason Grace before, let alone someone holding a checkered flag, Jason’s jaw twitches. Annabeth lets out a low whistle beside you, her fingers squeezing yours in approval, her grin downright feral.

"Cops!" Someone shouts from the crowd, followed by the unmistakable wail of sirens cutting through the night. Tires screech as racers scatter—money changes hands in frantic grabs, engines roar to life, and the neon-lit chaos fractures into a hundred fleeing shadows. Jason’s smirk returns as he steps back, tipping an imaginary hat. "Till next week, then." He melts into the crowd like smoke, leaving Annabeth’s grip on your hand the only solid thing in the dissolving scene.

You tug on her hand, pulling her towards her car. "We need to move," you say, adrenaline sharpening your voice. Annabeth doesn’t argue her eyes gleam with something wild, alive, as she sprints alongside you, her boots pounding the asphalt. The Mustang’s door slams shut behind you both just as red and blue lights slice through the crowd. The engine roars to life before you’ve even fully settled in the passenger seat, Annabeth’s fingers flying over the gearshift.

She peels out of the lot with a vicious spin of the wheel, the tires kicking up gravel as she guns it down a side alley. The rearview mirror fills with flashing lights, but Annabeth just laughs a rough, breathless sound and downshifts hard, fishtailing onto a narrower street. "You’ve got a mouth on you," she says, flicking a glance at you, her grin lit by the dashboard’s eerie glow. "I like it." The car lurches as she swerves around a dumpster, your shoulder slamming into the door, but her grip on the wheel never wavers.

You grin, "You want to see other things my mouth can do?" The Mustang’s tires scream as Annabeth takes a sharp left, narrowly avoiding a cop car cutting them off. Her laugh is dark, fingers tightening on the gearshift as she floors it down a dimly lit underpass. "Careful," she warns, but there’s hunger in her voice, "I might take you up on that before this chase is over." The tunnel swallows them whole, the engine’s growl echoing off the concrete walls like thunder.

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#annabeth chase #annabeth pjo #Car Racer! Annabeth #pjo #car racer au #annabeth x reader #annabeth x fem!reader #Midnight receiver universe

Pretty little Problem PT. 1

Band Member! Theodore - Masterlist

MIDNIGHT RECIVER UNIVERSE - Master list

1/20/xx (9:35 pm) You and your brother, Mattheo, had three rules:

1. You can’t hook up with anyone from his frat house, and he can't hook up with anyone from your sorority

2. Don’t do anything that would jeopardize you families reputation. No rumors, videos, or scandals.

3. Absolutely no dating each other's best friends. Ever.

Those three rules are the absolute most important rules that you kept sacred in your sibling bond. Rule number three wasn’t tempting at all to Mattheo since your best friend was a lesbian, but his best friend has always been charming.

Theodore Nott had never been tempting to you, always seeing him in the brotherly light. From seeing him form a band in your parents' garage to seeing him play his first show on an actual stage, you’ve never seen him in any other way.

The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber still lingers in your strongest memory; Mattheo laughing as he wiped grease off his hands onto Theodore’s pristine white shirt. Theodore hadn’t even flinched, just grinned and flicked Mattheo’s ear before tossing him the car keys. "Your turn to drive, shithead," he'd said, and Mattheo had whooped, peeling out of your parents' driveway like a maniac. You’d been crammed in the backseat, knees knocking against Theodore’s as the wind whipped through the open windows. That was years ago, back when the three of you were still figuring out who you were, back when rules were just jokes scribbled on napkins.

Theodore had always been there, a constant like the chipped green paint on your childhood dresser or the way Mattheo stole the last slice of pizza without asking. You remember him bent over his guitar in your garage, fingers bleeding from practicing too long, his voice rough from singing until dawn. You’d bring him coffee he never drank, just let it go cold next to his amp while he muttered lyrics under his breath. He never thanked you, but he’d always slide the aux cord your way when you walked in, like an unspoken truce.

The first time you saw him on a real stage, sweat dripping down his temple under the hot lights, you’d felt something twist in your chest, not attraction, just pride. Like watching your brother’s best friend finally become something more than the boy who slept on your couch after parties. Mattheo had elbowed you then, grinning. "Told you he’d make it," he’d said, and you’d rolled your eyes because of course Theodore would. He was relentless like that.

Now, standing in the crowded frat house with a red solo cup in hand, you see him across the room: Theodore, laughing at something Mattheo just said, his head thrown back, throat exposed. The sight is familiar, comforting. Then his eyes meet yours, and for the first time in eighteen years of knowing him, something weird forms in your chest.

You chose to ignore it, opting for a nice, classic hook-up - a thing you do when you can't figure out your feelings. Being the Sorority President of Kappa Kappa Alpha was always a tough job; it was tough being the daughter of someone in politics, but hook-ups were easy, responsibilities weren’t. As president, you had strict rules to follow; rules that kept your reputation intact, rules that kept your family’s name clean, rules that kept your brother happy. Rules you were currently breaking, with Theodore fucking Nott.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when the lines blurred between friendship and whatever this was, but now his hands were on your waist, his lips tracing the shell of your ear as he whispered something filthy that made your knees weak. The worst part? You liked it. You liked the way his fingers dug into your hips, liked the way his breath hitched when you dragged your nails down his back, liked the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

Mattheo would kill you if he found out. Not because Theodore was his best friend, but because Theodore was Theodore; reckless, unpredictable, and entirely too good at making you forget the rules. You could already hear his voice in your head: "You know better." But right now, with Theodore’s teeth grazing your collarbone, you didn’t care.

The music pounded in your chest, the bassline syncing with your racing heartbeat as Theodore pulled you closer, his grip possessive in a way that made your stomach flip. This was a bad idea. A terrible, horrible, delicious idea. And when his lips crashed into yours, you stopped thinking altogether.

You had originally planned to go after Jason Grace, a smart, charming blond. He was bisexual and currently going on and off with Percy Jackson, your ex-boyfriend, so you figured he'd be safe; no feelings, just fun. But when you downed your drink and headed to the bathroom to freshen up, you bumped into Theodore. It started with regular friendly conversation, then escalated to lingering touches, and before you knew it, you were pressed against the bathroom sink, his thigh between yours, his fingers tangled in your hair.

The bathroom door was locked, but the music from the party still seeped through, muffled laughter and shouts making you hyperaware of how reckless this was. His lips traveled down your neck, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of your skin. You gasped when his hand slipped under your skirt, fingertips brushing the lace of your underwear. "We shouldn’t," you breathed, even as you arched into him. He chuckled against your pulse point, voice rough. "Then tell me to stop." You didn’t.

Theo had always been good with his hands; guitar strings, drumsticks, the way he could fix anything with a roll of duct tape and sheer stubbornness, but nothing compared to the way they felt on you now. Every drag of his fingertips sent sparks up your spine, every bite of his teeth made your toes curl. You were drowning in him, in the scent of whiskey and cheap cologne, in the way his body pinned you to the counter like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

His hands slide up your thighs, under your skirt, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. You let out a shaky breath, nails digging into his shoulders as he pulls them down just enough to expose you, just enough for his thumb to brush against the slick heat between your legs. "Fuck," he mutters, forehead pressed against yours as he rubs slow circles that make your hips jerk forward. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, but Theo catches it anyway, his grin predatory. "Louder," he dares, voice low. "Let me hear you."

The sink digs into your back, cold porcelain against your feverish skin, but you barely notice. Not when Theo’s mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting years for this. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have. His fingers push inside you, curling just right, and you gasp, thighs clamping around his wrist. "You’re so fucking wet," he growls, nipping at your jaw. "Been thinking about this? About me?" You don’t answer, too busy chasing the pleasure building in your stomach, but he already knows. The way your body responds to him says it all.

Outside, someone bangs on the door, shouting about needing to piss, but Theo doesn’t pause, doesn’t even flinch. His free hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat as his fingers work faster, deeper. "Come on," he urges, breath hot against your skin. "Let go. I wanna feel you." And god, you do, your vision whites out as you clench around him, muffling your cry against his shoulder. He swallows every sound, every hitch of your breath, like he’s committing it to memory.

When you finally come down, trembling and boneless, Theo pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and for a second, you forget why this was ever a bad idea. He spins you around swiftly, bending you over the sink, fisting your hair as he pulls your head back. "Look at yourself...so messy for me, and I only just used my fingers. Do you want my cock next? Or should I leave you aching?" His voice is rough, edged with something darker than teasing; possessive, almost cruel in its certainty that you’ll cave.

You grip the sink’s edge, watching your own reflection; cheeks flushed, lipstick smudged, Theodore’s fingers still slick between your thighs. The rational part of your brain screams that this is a disaster, but the way he presses his hips against you, hard and impatient, silences it. "You wouldn’t stop," you breathe, and he laughs, dragging his teeth over your shoulder. "Try me." You don’t. Instead, you reach back, fumbling with his belt buckle, and his groan vibrates against your spine.

He slaps your hand away, "Use your words," he growls, his grip tightening in your hair. The sting makes your breath hitch, and you can see the dark amusement in his eyes as he watches your reaction in the mirror. "Say it," he demands, pressing his cock against your ass through his jeans, the heat radiating even through the fabric. Your throat works around the words, sticky with humiliation and desire, "I want you to fuck me." His grin is sharp as a blade, victorious. "Good girl."

The buckle clinks as he undoes his belt, the sound somehow louder than the music outside. His jeans slide down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and already leaking. He spits into his palm, stroking himself once before lining up, the blunt head pressing against you. You whimper, bracing against the sink, but he doesn’t push in, just teases, dragging the tip through your slick, torturously slow. "Please," you gasp, and he chuckles, low and dangerous. "Please, what? Be specific." You hate him. You want him. "Please fuck me, Theo."

He sheathes himself in one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs. Your back arches, fingers scrambling against porcelain as he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips driving you harder into the sink. The mirror rattles, your reflection blurring wild eyes, parted lips, Theo’s hands leaving bruises on your hips. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear. "You feel fucking perfect," he rasps, and you believe him, the stretch bordering on pain, the fullness stealing coherent thought.

Somewhere in the back of Theodore's mind, he's concluded that he absolutely loves mirror sex. He loves the way your body looks pushed up against his, loves the way your lips part around silent gasps when he hits just the right spot, loves the way your fingers claw at the sink like you're trying to hold on for dear life. He shifts his grip, one hand wrapping around your throat, not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to remind you who's in control, while the other slips between your thighs, fingers circling your clit in time with his thrusts.

The sound of skin slapping against skin mixes with the muffled bass from the party outside, the rhythm filthy and relentless. Your legs tremble, your vision blurring as pleasure coils tight in your stomach, but Theo doesn't let up, doesn't let you catch your breath. "Look at you," he grits out, forcing your gaze up to the mirror. "Look how fucking wrecked you are." And you are, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, his fingers working you closer and closer to the edge until you're sobbing his name, and then he pulls his fingers away and stops moving his hips. "Not yet," he murmurs against your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting.

The denial is torture, your body clenching around him, desperate for release, but he holds you still, panting against your back. "Beg," he demands, voice rough. You hate how much you want to obey. "Please," you whimper, arching into him. "Please let me come." He groans at that, his grip tightening on your throat. "I want to watch you fuck yourself onto me," he growls. "Show me how bad you need it."

You rock your hips tentatively at first, then a sharp stinging sensation blooms on your cheek. Your eyes widen. Theodore just fucking slapped you. "Harder," he snaps, and humiliation burns through your veins, but it just makes your sopping wet cunt squeeze around him tighter. You move faster, watching yourself in the mirror, the way your tits bounce, the way your lips tremble as he controls the angle with brutal precision. Theo's breath comes ragged against your ear. "That's it, take what you need." His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he lets you use him; lets you chase your own pleasure while he watches with dark satisfaction.

The pleasure builds like a wildfire, spreading from your clit up through your stomach until you're gasping until you're so close you can taste it, and then Theo suddenly pulls out completely. You nearly scream, whirling around to glare at him, but he's already dropping to his knees. His hands yank your thighs apart before his tongue laps up your mess in one slow, filthy stroke. You collapse backward against the sink, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he eats you out like a man starved. Rough, relentless, sucking your clit until your legs shake. The first orgasm crashes into you so violently you almost knee him in the face, but Theo just growls and pins your hips down, refusing to let you pull away until he's wrung every last tremor from your body.

You're still spasming when he flips you onto your hands and knees over the bathroom tub, your stomach being propped up by the edge of it, his cock slamming back into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. Theo fucks you like he's punishing you; like he's trying to brand himself into your fucking DNA, and you take it, nails scraping against tile as he pounds into your oversensitive cunt. Someone bangs on the door again, yelling about needing to use the bathroom, and Theo snarls, "Fuck off," before biting down on the back of your neck, marking you in a way that'll be impossible to hide later.

Theo's rhythm falters when he gets close, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip on your hips bruising. "Tell me who you belong to, " he demands, voice shredded raw. You don't answer—can't, not when every nerve is lit up like a live wire, so he slows to an agonizing stop, pulling out until just the tip remains. "Say it," he growls, and you sob, pushing back against him, desperate. "Yours," you gasp, and he rams back into you with a groan so deep it vibrates through your bones.

The mirror fogs up from your panting breaths, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the cramped space as Theo finally let's go, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a curse muffled against your shoulder. He doesn't pull out right away, just stays buried deep, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your trembling thighs. "Do you want another drink?"

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#theo nott smut #theodore nott x reader #theo #theodore nott smut #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott scenarios #Band Member! Theodore #Sorority President! Reader #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #Midnight receiver universe

MIDNIGHT RECIVER UNIVERSE

Band Member! Theodore x Sorority President! Reader

Band Member! Theodore meets Sorority President! Reader at one of his band concerts, they happen to go to the same college. Did he forget to mention that he was Frat boy! Mattheo's best friend and that Chapter President! Reader is Mattheos sister? Well, it all spirals as they try to keep their hookup a drunken secret.

Frat boy! Mattheo x Emo! Reader

Frat boy! Mattheo runs into Emo! Reader after their shared class, he's seen that she's got good grades dispite being a social outcast. Their deal: He'll make her popular if she can get his grades up so he can keep his fraternity president spot

Car racer! Annabeth x Lady of the line! Reader

Car racer! Annabeth and Lady of the line! Reader met at Annabeth's first race of the new season for a $400,000 gran prize.

Drug dealer! Luke x Party girl! Reader

Drug dealer! Luke Is FEM! Party girl Reader's personal drug dealer that she meets at a party.

heyyy, was wondering if you could do a dealer!luke one shot where reader buys smth but he wants other payment 🫣

Drug dealer!Luke - Masterlist

Nothing that happens in this one shot is cannon in the MRU.

One Shot - You know you're going to have to give me a form of payment

The guy leaning against the brick wall had the kind of face that made you look twice. Not because he was handsome, but because his expression didn't match the rest of him. Dark stubble that looked more like neglect than style, and a faded hoodie pulled low over his eyes. But his mouth curled in a lazy half-smile, like he knew something you didn't, and his fingers tapped out a rhythm against his thigh like he had music playing in his head.

The alley smelled like wet asphalt and something sweetly rotten old takeout, maybe. A flickering streetlight buzzed overhead, casting uneven shadows across his face as he shifted his weight, one foot propped against the wall behind him. He didn't speak, just watched, and that was the unnerving part. Most dealers talked too much, made jokes, tried too hard. This one just waited, like he had all the time in the world and you were the one who’d come begging.

You cleared your throat, shifting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder. "Heard you’re the guy to see." The words came out steadier than you felt. His gaze slid over you, slow, considering, and then he pushed off the wall with a shrug.

"Depends what you’re looking for," he said. His voice was lower than you expected, rough at the edges. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and shook one loose without breaking eye contact. "And what you’re willing to trade." The way he said it wasn't a question. It was a test.

Your fingers tightened around the cash in your pocket, but something in his smirk told you bills weren’t what he wanted. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of distant traffic and the drip of a leaking pipe somewhere in the alley. He lit the cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating the sharp angles of his face for a split second before the flame died. "You new around here?" he asked, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"No, my dealer moved," you lied, watching the cigarette smoke curl between you like a lazy question mark. His grin widened, showing a chipped front tooth small flaw, but it made him look dangerous. The kind of guy who didn't bother fixing things because broken worked just fine for him. "Yeah?" He took another drag, eyes tracking the way your thumb rubbed the edge of your folded bills. "Funny. People usually lie the other way; say they're regulars when they're not."

Your stomach dropped, but before you could backtrack, he flicked the cigarette away, still half-lit. It hit the wet pavement with a hiss. "Tell you what," he said, stepping closer, close enough you caught the scent of leather and something herbal clinging to his jacket. "First-time customers get a discount. If they're honest." His fingers brushed your wrist when he reached for your hand, turning it palm-up like he was reading your fortune instead of counting cash.

His grip was warm, calloused. Not rough, but deliberate; the kind of touch that said he knew exactly how hard to hold without leaving bruises. "Problem is," he murmured, thumb tracing your pulse point, "money's boring." Up close, you could see the scar slicing through his eyebrow, pale against his tan. "You got anything more... interesting?"

The alley seemed to narrow, the walls pressing in as his other hand slid into your back pocket, slow, giving you time to stop him. You didn't.

His breath was warm against your ear when he chuckled, low and knowing. "That's what I thought." The bills crumpled between your fingers as his knee nudged yours apart, pinning you gently against the brick. His teeth grazed your earlobe; not a bite, just a reminder he could. "You ever fucked a stranger in an alley before?" he asked, like he was asking about the weather, his free hand already working the button of your jeans.

The brick scraped your shoulder blades when he pushed you harder against it, his palm flattening over your stomach, dragging down. You could feel the ridge of his knuckles through the denim, the deliberate pause at the zipper. "Gonna say no?" he prompted, lips brushing your jaw. His hips pressed forward, and the answer died in your throat; hot, insistent, no room for hesitation.

Then came his lips on your neck not soft, not asking just taking, like he'd already decided how this would go. His hands didn't fumble; they knew exactly where to grip, how to twist your shirt collar just tight enough to make your breath hitch. The alley air turned thick with the scent of his tobacco, your sweat, the damp musk of old brick as his knee shoved higher between your thighs. "Look at you," he muttered against your skin, teeth catching on your collarbone when you arched into him. "Knew you'd be like this."

His fingers dipped past your waistband, calluses scraping sensitive skin, and your back hit the wall again as he laughed short, dark into the crook of your shoulder. "Cash is for amateurs," he said, thumb circling slow where it mattered, watching your lashes flutter. "This?" He pressed down hard enough to steal your breath. "This is currency." Somewhere distant, a car alarm wailed, but the sound blurred under the rough drag of his zipper, the wet click of his tongue against your earlobe.

You expected him to rush; alley quick, get-off-and-go; but he didn’t. He palmed you through your clothes until your knees shook, until your nails dug half-moons into his forearm just to stay upright. "Tell me," he ordered, voice gone gravel-low, his free hand tilting your chin up to face him. The streetlight caught the silver hoop in his eyebrow, the flecks of gold in his irises that hadn’t been there a minute ago. "What do you want" wasn’t a question; it was a dare.

The brick burned cold through your shirt, but his fingers burned hotter, dipping lower, teasing, circling; just shy of where you needed him. You choked on a noise when he finally pressed in, the heel of his hand grinding slow while his mouth mapped the frantic pulse in your throat. "Yeah," he murmured, all satisfaction, like he'd known exactly how you’d sound before you did. His teeth sank into your bottom lip when you rocked against him, not hard enough to split skin, just enough to sting.

Somewhere in the tangle, his belt buckle clanked against your hipbone—cold metal on bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. His laugh curled dark in your ear as he yanked your jeans down past your thighs with one rough tug. "Don’t overthink it," he muttered, fingers slick between your legs now, spreading you open against the brick. His other hand fisted in your hair, angling your head back just enough to watch your face when he pushed in; no preamble, no gentleness, just the hot stretch of him where you were already trembling.

The alley blurred at the edges; his harsh exhale against your temple, the drag of denim on your bare ass where he’d shoved your clothes down, the filthy, wet sound of skin on skin every time he pulled back and slammed home again. He didn’t kiss you, just kept his mouth hovering near yours, close enough to share each ragged breath. "Look at me," he growled, and when you did, his pupils swallowed the gold whole. "Good." His thumb found your clit on the next thrust, rough and unrelenting.

His teeth bit into your shoulder as a low groan passes his lips at a particular thrust that makes your legs tighten around his waist. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hip, sure to leave marks tomorrow—his version of a receipt. The rhythm falters as he leans back, just enough to watch where you're joined, his breath coming in ragged pants. "Fuck," he exhales, dragging a thumb through the mess between your thighs before bringing it to his mouth, sucking it clean with a smirk that makes your stomach twist. "Better than cash."

The streetlight flickers again, casting his face in sharp relief; the sweat at his temple, the muscle jumping in his jaw as he fucks you harder, faster, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back until the cold brick bites into your scalp. "Say it," he demands, voice wrecked, hips snapping in brutal precision. "Say you’ll come back." The words aren’t a request; they’re a challenge, coated in the kind of arrogance that makes your toes curl.

You barely choke out a sound before his mouth crashes onto yours, all teeth and desperation, swallowing every whimper as his fingers find your clit again, relentless. The orgasm hits you like a stolen car; sudden, violent, leaving you gasping against his lips while he fucks you through it, his own release following with a harsh groan muffled into your neck. For a second, neither of you moves, just panting in the humid dark, his forehead resting against yours.

Then, like a switch flipped, he pulls back, buttoning his jeans with one hand while the other fishes a small baggie from his pocket. He drops it into your still-trembling palm, his grin all sharp edges as he steps away. "Next time," he says, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, "Don't bother bringing any cash." The alley swallows him before you can reply, leaving just the echo of his laughter and the ache between your thighs.

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I'd betray the gods PT.1

Drug dealer!Luke - Masterlist

1.5K Words

1/20/xx 7:24 pm

The texts on your phone glared back at you, each one a fresh annoyance. Your usual guy had ghosted you for three days before hitting you with the new rates, like you wouldn’t notice the extra zero tacked onto the price. You thumbed the screen off, then on again, scrolling through your contacts like one of them might magically solve the problem. It wasn’t about the money. It was the principle. And maybe a little bit about the money.

Across the quad, a group of guys erupted into laughter, shoving each other hard enough to stumble. You’d heard the stories of Luke castellan, 'course; who hadn’t? The ones about how he never got caught, how he could get you anything if you knew the right words to say. You’d never been desperate enough to find out. Until now. The contact in your phone was old some drunk night sophomore year, when a friend shoved his number into your hand with a wink, but you typed out the message before you could second-guess it.

He was rumored to be too handsome to be a drug dealer, which was somehow the most irritating detail; like his face alone should’ve made him trustworthy. A face that would make even all the frat boys jealous. You didn’t believe in rumors, but you believed in desperation, and right now, yours was thick enough to choke on.

Your friend Annabeth was street racing tonight, and you had told her girlfriend and your friends that you could acquire the fun...for the evening. So here you were, biting your lip as your fingers hovered over the send button before you finally pressed it.

With a grin on your face, you make your way back to your dorm to take a shower before the meeting. Showering quickly, you grab a purse and wallet for cash before heading out the door, walking through campus. You see a few friends, waving to them before continuing, adjusting your dress slightly as you walk.

Entering the library, you spot study room D; its frosted glass door slightly ajar. Inside, Luke leans against the table, arms crossed, watching the door like he already knew you'd hesitate. His smirk is sharp, effortless, the kind that makes you want to wipe it off his face or kiss it away; you haven't decided yet. His fingers drum against his bicep, a silent countdown. "You're early," he says, voice low enough that the library cameras wouldn't pick it up.

You step in, letting the door click shut behind you. "Yeah, well. Didn’t want to keep you waiting." The lie rolls off your tongue too easily. The room smells like old paper and the faintest hint of his cologne; something expensive, probably stolen. He doesn’t move, just watches you dig the cash from your purse, his gaze heavy enough to make your fingers fumble.

When you finally hand it over, his fingers brush yours, deliberate. "Pleasure doing business," he murmurs, sliding the neatly wrapped package across the table. His eyes linger a second too long, and you hate that you notice. "Next time," he adds, "try not to look so nervous. It’s cute, but it’s also a liability."

You scowl, "I'm not fucking nervous, I've done this before I'm just in a hurry. I've got things to do before tonight; it's like everyone wants me to do everything myself." He tilts his head slightly, amused at your outburst, but says nothing as you shove the package into your purse with more force than necessary. The silence stretches, thick with something you can't name; irritation, maybe, or the lingering electricity from his fingertips grazing yours.

Outside, footsteps echo down the library hallway, too close for comfort. Luke doesn't flinch, just cocks an eyebrow like he's waiting to see if you'll bolt. You hold your ground, lifting your chin. "You gonna stand there staring, or are we done here?" His grin widens, slow and infuriating, and he pushes off the table with a shrug. "We're done. For now." The way he says it makes your stomach twist. You don’t ask what he means.

The second you're out the door, you exhale sharply, adjusting your grip on your purse like it might steady you. You don’t look back, but you feel it; his eyes on you, tracking your every step. The hallway suddenly feels too bright, too exposed. You round the corner fast, heart hammering for no good reason. It’s just a transaction. It’s just Luke. But the weight of his stare clings to you like smoke.

Back in the quad, sunlight hits your face, harsh and sudden. You pull out your phone, thumbs flying over the screen to text Annabeth: Got everything. Meet you at 8. Then you pause, thumb hovering. Add another line, impulsive: Your dealer’s an asshole. She replies instantly: Told you. You pocket the phone, but the ghost of his smirk stays burned behind your eyelids.

Being a party girl gives you an advantage in the social High Archy of your university. You have a very simple list of friends: Annabeth – She's a very hard person to get to know but once you've gotten past her witty remarks and borderline insulting comments she'll spit out sometimes, her pride is what makes her who she is. She's a bit of a golden girl - both smart and pretty, she has everything going for her. The initiator, we call her Star, – She's a kind person, very confident and fiercely loyal. Transferring in the middle of the semester sophomore year was hard because she didn't know how to branch out but eventually, she got into the night life scene and met Annabeth.

Your life at school has always been easy, everyone invites you to everything, you have a thriving social life and have never had to prove yourself to anyone. Except Annabeth, she made you prove yourself in ways no one else would dare. That’s why you liked her, she didn’t care about your reputation; she cared if you could keep up. Tonight’s street race was her idea, a test disguised as fun. You knew the moment you saw her leaning against her Mustang, arms crossed, that she’d already won. Again.

The package from Luke sits heavy in your purse, a tangible reminder of how far you’d go just to impress her. You toss it to her with a smirk, like it’s nothing, like your pulse isn’t still racing from the encounter in the library. She catches it one-handed, inspecting the contents with a practiced eye before nodding. “Good,” she says, simple and final. It’s the closest thing to praise she’ll give.

Her girlfriend, Star, slides into the passenger seat, tossing you a lazy grin. “Ready to get fucked up tonight? I hear a frat's hosting a party tonight, and I'm betting I can get at least five of ‘em to cry before midnight.” Annabeth rolls her eyes but doesn’t disagree; just revs the engine hard enough to make the car shudder. You climb into the backseat, fingers tapping against the door handle as the Mustang peels out of the parking lot, tires screeching.

The city blurs past, neon signs smearing into streaks of color as Annabeth takes corners like she’s got a death wish. Star whoops, hanging halfway out the window, the wind whipping her hair into a wild halo. You grip the seat tighter, laughing despite yourself. The sugar cubes from Luke’s package are already half-gone, dissolved under each of your tongues. The high hits fast, sharpening the edges of everything: the smell of gasoline, the bass thumping from some car ahead, Annabeth’s knuckles white on the wheel.

Standing up from the back seat you fit yourself through the sunroof as the music wafts through the air, the city lights reflecting off your sunglasses. The wind whips through your hair, carrying the scent of burnt rubber and spilled beer from the sidewalk below. Annabeth takes a sharp turn, and you brace yourself against the roof, laughing as Star nearly tumbles out the window—again.

Ahead, the pack of racers weaves through traffic, engines roaring like caged beasts. You recognize the black Audi leading the pack; Jason Grace, campus golden boy and Annabeth’s favorite rival. She grits her teeth, downshifting hard, and the Mustang surges forward with a growl. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through all of you, the sugar cubes humming in your veins like live wires.

Then, headlights flash in the rearview; a cop car swinging onto the street. Star whoops, twisting to flip them off, but Annabeth’s grin falters for half a second before she mutters, "Hold on." The Mustang lurches into an alley, tires screeching against wet pavement. You drop back into the seat just as she cuts the lights, the three of you holding your breath as the cop speeds past, oblivious.

The silence lasts a beat too long before Star bursts into laughter, slapping the dashboard. "Holy shit, that was close." Annabeth exhales, shaking her head, but her fingers tap the wheel like she’s already planning the next move. You catch her eye in the mirror, and she smirks. "Ready for round two?" You grin back, reaching for the bag in your purse. "As long as I don’t die before I get to this party.”

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