I like to write. so I thought I would start a page so I can post stuff I like.
I mostly write Fan Fiction and stuff like that but I'm trying to start some original stuff aswell.
My first Language Isn't English so my grammar is really terrible, I don't know where to write Capitals or where to set commas.
So if you do read sm from me and see spelling mistakes you can either ignore it or you can copy it Fix it all and i'll post that one to make u happy!
Please don't steal my work cuz that's kinda fucked up and just like never do that in general!
I like pretty much everything but at the moment i'm mainly writing for HP aura like the Marauders but not rly for the golden trio itself cuz they kinda bore me. but i love the slytherin gang so i like writing for those!
Hmu if your bored or want to talk to me in any way I'm pretty much always free and I'd love for ur support!
I'm okay with anything as long as it's not feet kink's!
oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 8.5k.
ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, dry humping. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, he is a teensy 🤏 bit manipulative, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. title only kind of from niki’s backburner (which could mean nothing,,).
ꔮ commentary box: hi, oh my gosh, i don’t think i’ve ever written pwp this long in my life. i’m kind of mortified (especially with the fact this has some >2k more words i shaved off). anyway, this was commissioned, tysm!!! 📑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 + read part two here!!!
Oscar Piastri is a patient man.
He has to be. With the way you barrel into his life and make yourself at home—your duffle bag always one laundry cycle away from living in his flat full-time, your half-drunk coffees trailing behind you like breadcrumbs, your laugh breaking over his ribs every time you tease him about being the most boring twenty-something alive—patience is the only option.
He thinks of himself as quiet. You call him steady. Reliable. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with,” you said once, tucked under the same throw blanket, both of you half-asleep while a movie played on loop. The confession buzzed in his ears for days.
So, yes. Oscar Piastri is a patient man. But we never said he was a good one.
Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.
You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.
“Lando asked me out,” you breathe.
Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”
You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”
“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”
You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.
Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.
He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.
“Done?”
You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”
He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.
“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”
Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.
“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”
You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”
He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.
Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.
Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.
He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”
You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”
His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself.
You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.
“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”
He waitswaitswaits.
You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then.
You nod.
It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.
You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.
He doesn’t.
He only steps closer.
“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”
You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”
You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier.
You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other. Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.
“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”
You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”
Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”
There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.
“That’s good to know,” he says plainly.
You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”
You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”
Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”
It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.
You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.
“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”
You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused.
“A little. But in a good way.”
Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.
Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”
You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”
You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient.
You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.
Still, he waits.
“You okay?” he checks in.
You nod.
“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”
You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.
“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you.
“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”
Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”
He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”
He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been.
He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”
Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.
Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.
“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”
Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.
You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”
He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”
You look up at him, startled.
Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.
“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”
You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.
Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.
You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this.
Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”
You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.
“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”
You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.
“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.
He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”
Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction.
Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”
You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”
“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.
You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly.
You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.
After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.
Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.
But then you pause.
Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.
“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”
Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.
“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.
You go very, very still.
Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”
He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.
You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference.
“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.
Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”
“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”
You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.
“Still okay?” you ask.
He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”
You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”
You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”
You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”
“Coaxing?” you echo.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”
You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.
Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan.
Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”
He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.
And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be:
Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.
Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.
Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.
You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.
He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?”
“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”
Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.
He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."
You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.
“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."
You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.
“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.
You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."
Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.
“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."
You try again.
This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.
Because it’s you.
You, trying for him.
You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.
He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”
Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.
Lando won’t get this version of you.
Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”
You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.
Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.
“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”
Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”
He hates himself for saying it like that.
Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.
You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”
Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”
You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.
The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”
He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.
You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”
You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.
“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”
He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.
“Mouth so fucking perfect.”
“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”
“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”
The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.
His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.
“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”
Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.
He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”
And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.
He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.
Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.
“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”
He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.
“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”
You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.
The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.
“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”
You do.
You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down.
When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”
Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.
“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.
“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.
Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”
You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”
Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”
You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.
He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”
Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.
Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.
You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.
“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”
You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”
Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”
Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”
You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”
You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”
Oh.
It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.
“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.
He hesitates.
“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”
You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.
“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”
It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.
You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.
Not triumph. Not desire.
Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.
Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.
“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”
You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”
It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees.
He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.
“That one?”
You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”
Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.
He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.
“Oh.”
Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.
You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”
He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”
“No, like. A lot a lot.”
He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.
Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”
He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.
You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”
He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”
“I’m saying that because it’s true.”
You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.
Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.
The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”
You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”
Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”
“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”
He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.
Wet.
When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”
He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.
He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”
He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”
Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.
Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.
“You good?” he checks in again.
You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”
He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”
The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”
“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”
You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.
“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”
You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”
He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.
He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”
You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.
“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”
You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”
Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”
Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.
“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.
You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”
He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.
It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.
Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.
“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.
You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”
He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”
Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”
His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.
“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”
But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.
“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”
Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”
You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.
Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.
The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.
He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.
You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.
He should stop.
Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.
He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.
You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup.
He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.
“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”
You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.
“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut.
“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”
Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”
He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”
Your face burns.
“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.
The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.
Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.
“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”
When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.
Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.
Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core.
He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.
Your cry breaks sharp in the air.
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”
You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”
Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.
His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”
Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.
Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.
You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.
“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”
He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.
You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this.
You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else.
How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?
This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.
He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.
But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—
Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.
And he still won’t kiss you.
Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil.
The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.
You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.
Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.
“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”
He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”
You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”
You glance at him, waiting.
“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”
Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.
“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”
You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh.
Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”
You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.”
Does it sting to hear? Of course.
But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat:
Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐
box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.
Warnings: implied sex, implied stuff, uhm implied alcohol consumption, hot guy fr.
Uhm so like the Olympic village, aftermath of sex, Quinn being cute, kinda sad I didn't come up with more.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
It's still dark outside, the clock beside the bed shows six a.m. the room cold as my eyes adjust to the reality of having opened them.
My mind drifts from one place to another, my body remembering first when I turn slightly, I'm basically on top of him, one of my legs over his hips, my head on his chest, my fingers still in his hand. His arm is over my shoulder, keeping me in place, I glance up to see him still asleep, his chin resting against my forehead softly, he's not snoring, staying quiet as I watch for another five minutes.
I close my eyes and open them again in shock.
Where the fuck am I?
I look up to the guy, he's pretty and the momeries of last night reassure me that I don't have to be worried, not so I take a calming breath.
I glance around, my phone is on the floor, having fallen down along with my panties and my pants apparently, my shirt is nowhere to be seen and I wonder where my bra is, the purple condom packs we packed up in bulk on the first day are empty on the table and I grimace a little in embarrassment.
I glance down, the blanket is covering me, even though I'm the one wearing a T-shirt. His T-shirt now that I notice.
I look up again trying to figure out who he is, embarrassed to realize I have no idea, a high performance athlete I've never heard of? The village was full of them so not my fault but still.
Slowly I take my hand out of his, then without much expected effort I try to lift my leg over his, he audibly groans and rolls into me, his second arm coming around my shoulders and pulling me back on top of him. Like my entire weight type of thing.
Smiling I rest my chin on his chest and look up at him, still asleep his head falls back a little, he still smells like his cologne, a bit of mint and sleep.
I control myself not to kiss up his neck so he could made the same sounds as last night.
Thinking off last night I try to remember the details, I remember the amounts of alcohol consumed, I remember a bar and a club, I remember the cold and I remember him.
I remember the messy walk back to his room, the cold and I remember how he smelled when he leaned down to kiss me, I remember his hands, the way he picked me up, the wall against my back, his lips against my skin, his eyes as he looked up, his grin when my fingers couldn't let go of his hair and I remember his fucking moans.
As slow as I can I lift my hand, my fingers playing with his hair, softly letting them go through them.
"Mhm" his arms tighten around me, he shifts to his side, my arm drops on his shoulder, as he buried his face in my neck, his leg now coming over mine, trapping me in his little bubble.
Before I can think of escaping again I grow tired, the small warmth he's giving off forcing me back to sleep.
"Yeah no I just woke up" the room is brighter now, his voice is quiet, a whisper almost, as if he's trying to be quiet for me while still loud enough for someone else.
"Uhh no no alone" he coughs awkwardly as if he knows that wasn't convincing, I notice I'm still in his arm, his fingers playing with my hair, trying hard to be subtle, I rested on his chest again.
"No yeah, uhhh, it's nice to be winning. Yeah thanks, look I'll call you back– no no I just want to wake up– I am I am" his fingers moved up into my hair, softly drawing circles on the back of my neck with his thumb, his eyes are on the wall, starring coldly as if he just saw a ghost.
"Bye Luke, send me pictures" he hung up, throwing his phone back on the nightstand, I shut my eyes, debating whether or not to admit to my peering.
I heard him sigh, then I felt his fingers on my cheek, finding some hair to push past my ear.
He didn't move, didn't try to wake me, simply letting me stay there, and so I let myself stay there. Enjoying the warmth he provided until I felt myself drift of to real sleep again and decided it was time to break out of this perfect bubble of happiness.
I shift slightly, he removed his hand from me so fast I might have imagined them even being there.
I get to see his face again, this time he's a little more relaxed than after his phone call, his eyes shimmering a little as I propped my head up on his chest.
"Hi" I whisper, my thoughts spiraling a little.
"Hey" his voice was low, uncertain and testing.
"Morning" I answered, I shifted again, this time his arm fell off me completely, sitting up I stretch a little before looking down at him again, he's leaned back now, shifting upward to use the bed board as a head rest.
"Sleep well?" He asks, I let my hands run through my hair, making a makeshift ponytail before letting it drop back down and look at him. His legs are spread a little, and even though I know he's wearing boxers I still glance down, and still, disappointed by the blanket that provided extra cover.
"I feel like I've been hit by a truck repeatedly, but well, thank you." I muse a little, rubbing my face, my eyes, and neck.
"Don't look like it" he muttered, he began to rub his eyes as well, I noticed how dark his eyes were now and laughed a little
"You're just making it worse" I reach out and bring his hand down, as if on instinct he listens and his hand follows mine.
"So it's bad already?" He asks a little amused.
"Mhm no, just dark" I mutter inching closer to inspect his eyes, he doesn't seem to enjoy it much as he covers his face, my hand still in his, laughing again I remove his hands once move, shifting closer toward him to get more control.
"You can't get shy now" I comment with a slight chuckle, offended he gasps softly, his mouth parting with a slight tsk at his lips.
"Says you? Little miss biting down on everything so she can to stay quiet?" I gasp loudly, blushing faster than ever before, instinctively I go to cover my face but he seems to be faster, catching my other hand as well.
"Who's being shy now?" He asks grinning, I giggle like a school girl who's history teacher just complimented her, my face heating up even more.
Calming down a little I try to wiggle myself out, but he pulls me closer, unprepared I fall forward face first into his chest, he laughs and annoyed I follow his cocky attitude, without much problem I climb into his lap, he doesn't seem to mind, his hands still keeping mine in check while his gaze follows mine, his head upward and with a slight grin, he pulls me forward. I hesitate and then he lets me go. I'm close to him, closer than normal, closer to make me think straight, his hands are still on mine, except not harshly, this time their just holding me.
"I don't know your name" I whisper, this seems to make him laugh, not just like a little, but wholeheartedly, his face lights up with it, his body shaking beneath me and my eyes can't get enough of it as I watch.
"I suppose that's a good thing..." He mumbles after a while, a tear is in his left eye and the laugh still visible on his face.
"Why are you like one of those famous athletes?" I question, he tilts his head and shrugs.
"Not really" he lets his head fall back, some annoyance now lacing his attitude.
"I'm Quinn" he said after a beat of silence which I refused to interrupt.
"Nice to meet you" I whisper, it's his turn to giggle, this time his hands don't even attempt the hiding.
"I'm–" my phone rings I almost jump out of fear but he seems to be expecting it somehow, groaning and lifting me softly to reach for my phone on the floor.
"It's your... Mother?" He hands me my phone and I groan.
"Fuck I have to take it" I mumble, i pick up and roll my eyes immediately.
Quinn, which fits him, is playing with my fingers, as I hung and nod to my mother's questions about the following week in the Olympics game.
"Mum I'm with a friend, we're about to get breakfast–" she interrupts me quicker than I expected
"Friend?" She asked, my gaze lifts to Quinn, he's starring again, now at my fingers which are falling through his one after one, reminding me a little of a toddler who just got a new toy.
"Uh yeah, Riley" I mention, only to be stuck at the following question.
"No uhm she's in the shower" Quinn chuckles and I reach up to cover his mouth.
"I'll tell her you said hi" I nod glaring at the boy who seems to find this appropriate to bite my hand.
"Ow– no no I'm fine i stubbed my toe" playfully I hit his cheek.
"Yes mum, I've got to go" I let my head fall back as she begins another lecture of being careful, Quinn laughs again, this time as quietly as he can.
Finally my mother hangs up, laughing I drop my head into his chest.
"Ugh what is wrong with you!" I ask, he shrugs pulling me closer to him, without much warning his lips finally land on mine.
I don't hesitate to kiss him back, not for a single second, his warm lips and his hand which are back on my entire body, running up my back and pulling on my shirt a little, but before I can properly get a taste of him, before I can wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him as close as possible we are interrupted once again, this time it's him who goes absolutely cold.
He clasps a hand over my mouth and warns me to stay quiet with a stare.
"Quinn! Open up it's fucking freezing!" It's a male voice, obviously wanting to come inside, and obviously sharing the room.
I glance to the side noticing the second bed for the first time.
"Fuck" Quinn whispers, he looks at me and I almost suggest that I could climb out of the window before remembering something kind of important.
"Dude we're adults?" I asks softly, a stupid smile spreading on my face.
"Oh yeah" Quinn drops his hands, staring at me dumbfounded.
"I think the village setting makes us feel like camp again" I mutter grinning, getting of off him and starting to collect my clothes, he gives out an agreeing hum while following my quest in getting dressed
"Uh Jack give me a second" Quinn calls out, there's a groan to be heard and I laugh.
"Where's my shirt?" I ask flipping the blanket up.
Quinn is already halfway by the door trying to slip into his jeans gracefully.
"Under the bed?" He asks and I check only to groan.
"I'm stealing yours, thank you" I declare to which he shrugs, I grab my phone and try to find my jacket which is thankfully by the door.
"Uhm thanks for the night" this I whisper, he seems to appreciate it as he smiles.
"Yeah uh thank you too" he mutters, a blush spreading on him.
"Dude open the fuck up!" His teammate knocks on the door as loud as he could and I giggle.
"I said give me a fucking second" Quinn shouts back just as loud and I press my lips into a thin line.
"I'll see you around, maybe?" I ask, he bites his lip and looks upward before nodding.
"Yeah, of course" he looks back down, I reach up and give him another kiss, this time it's him who doesn't hesitate, and without much effort my back is pressed against the door, his hand on my neck, his thumb lifting my chin ever so slightly, his warm lips pushing past mine, and I forget to breath as he does so.
"Look I will piss right on the floor if you don't fucking open up–" Quinn locked the door open and with an arm halfway over my shoulder, staring down who I figured was Jack.
"Oh... Sorry" the boy was younger than Quinn and now very shy apparently.
"I uhm I'm Jack, Quinn's brother" he introduces himself, laughing I shake his hand and glance back at Quinn who is staring at his younger brother with much annoyance.
"Yeah yeah get inside asshole" Quinn pushes his brother inside by the jacket and us in front of the door, shutting it behind him, he takes a deep breath.
Out here everything felt a little more real
"I should get going" I mutter staring at my feet a little.
"Yeah uhm– bye then?" His hand reached out and his pinky interlocked with mine.
"Yeah. Bye." I whispered, leaning forward, bringing my lips to his, the kiss doesn't last long, both of us looking around the second it was done.
I took a step back and waved at him, smiling he pushed the door back open and with a last glance disappeared.
Warnings: lots of lore for some reason, underage drinking and consumption of drugs, oral (f receiving) overthinking.
- chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- Chapter 5.1 -
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
When your done with
the Prefects meeting
Will you come to the dorms or?
I have to check on my potion
I will come to the party do not worry
Alrighttt
Write me if something changes
The common room is fairly empty in the afternoon, most sixth and seven years have stayed to study for the OWL's over the Christmas break, some fifth years and as I know three second years, five third years, and maybe four first year's.
a first year is sitting beside me reading a book, unbothered by Mary who is standing on the sofa side beside him trying to pinch a decoration up with her wand while halfway falling down on him.
"Mary give the Bloke some space" I smile at the boy who looks up and stares at me with wide eyes.
I close the black notebook and shove it into my bag, the Transfiguration notebook is almost full of ideas and plans for the Party so I close it as well pushing it away.
"Your fine I don't mind" He says moving a little toward me.
"You know you can't stay for tonight right? There will be loads of drinking and smoking, it's no place for a twelve year old."
"I won't stay, I'm in a dorm with a guy who's not the nicest, so I might have to find someplace to hide" the boy explained and I frown.
"Whats your name?"
"John" I look him up and down, he's a bit scrawny, wearing a blue jumper and a ragged cap, his big brown eyes are staring back at me when I look back up.
"getting bullied?" I ask, sudden concern, I didn't really know him, it was hard enough to keep track of everyone in the upper classes so we didn't even bother with the ones below these days.
"Just the usual" John says, he pulls his lips together and looks down. I hum in agreement as if anybody has ever bullied me.
"Alright, you can stay for the party, tickets are 22 sickles" I grab a ticket out of my bag and give it to him.
"I don't have money" he whispers, my heart sinks a little when his hands come together and he starts to pick at his skin.
"It's on me, but don't drink to much. Who's your dorm mate?" I reach over and take his hand, putting the ticket into his, making sure to pull them apart to stop the anxiousness.
"Mathew borruw" he says, he's staring at the small paper, then pushes it into his pocket, the name makes me alert.
"Where he at now?" I sit up straight and look around the common room, Archie is holding up Lucille on his shoulder, her hands are in the air trying to place another blue paper flower in-between a painting.
Then I spot Rax and Nott who are counting bottles and categoriesing them on a large table in the back.
"Uh probably in the hall, eating like everyone else?" He asks, I look back at him and smile, then I whistle sharply making Rax look around to find me.
"Oy need ya help come over here" I wave my hand toward me.
A second later both boys lean over the sofa, Nott grabs John's book and flips it over.
"What's good little man?" He ruffles his hair and smiles.
"Are you two going to the hall in a bit?" I ask, Rax takes my notebook and flips toward the back checking the inventory while nodding.
"Aye" he mutters
"alright, let's go then, need your help teaching someone a small lesson" I smile at John who's eyes widen.
"No you will only make it worse! It's not worth it", he squeals and Nott laughs.
"Meet John, my new best friend. He's coming to the party tonight-"
"No one under forth year." Rax says with a stern voice.
"It's my party I can make an exeption, he even wore the right colors, come on don't be a puff" I shove his arm and give him a knowing look.
"Aren't you a muggle?" Nott asks and I look at him for a second.
"Yeah" John looks down again, his fingers finding each other in his lap.
"Is that why someone's messing with you?" Nott asks after a second.
"Borruw says I'm a mudblood, shouldn't even be here" John mutters, Mary looks down, a second later she falls in between us and looks around.
The blond is rather short, one of the best in Runes and now her eyes are on the first year with a concerned look.
"Hey that's just pureblood nonsense, I'm a muggle too, you wanna see if he'll call me a mudblood?" Mary soft voice makes me smile, Nott and Rax on the other hand look down to me, I can't help but give them the same look. We all grew up with the pureblood nonsense, most of us believed it.
"I mean look at these three, their purebloods but their still my friends, they don't mind that I wasn't born pure." Mary looks at us, we smile back because it is true, non of us really cared about blood status, maybe in the early years we made a joke or two, but soon everyone realized it was just dumb, especially when the ones we called mudbloods were better at some things than we were.
"Alright Johnny boy, let's go get some food and have a little talk with you friend." Nott pats John's shoulders and pushes him off the sofa, I grab the notebook back and shove it into my backpack, placing it under the sofa so no one would trip over it and waving my wand to hide it from sight.
"Archkins, Lucciiiillleee were going to eat coming?" Mary winds around and shouts at the two, Lucille shakes her head.
"We'll finish up here and find you guys later" Archie nods absent mindedly.
A few minutes later we're walking into the Great Hall, it was decorated for Christmas and most kids were sitting together, ignoring the house rules while everyone else was away.
there were three first year Slytherins sitting down in the middle, one of them I recognized two not so much. Rax placed a hand on John's shoulder and led the way sitting down in front of them, I pushed myself between the boys, Nott took one side and Mary set down beside John.
"Hello enjoying dinner?" Rax asked, staring dead cold at them.
"Is everything alright?" One of them asked, I looked at him, Malfoy was small, not as confident as his big brother who was a year below me, his green eyes were staring at us in confusion.
"Well about that" Nott said picking up a fork and taking one of Malfoys grilled potatoes.
"You three know our mate John?" He asks after biting into the potato.
Malfoy shrugs looking over at him, the other two beside me exchange a glance, John is moving toward Rax his eyes full of worry.
"Not really, he's not in my dorm so" Malfoy shrugs and gives him a smile.
"I'm Marcelle Malfoy" he extends his hand, John blinks a bit surprised then takes it.
"You were in my group at potions once right?" Marcelle asks and John nods.
"Well Marcelle do you think blood status matters?" I ask slowly, the blond boy shrugs and takes his fork, then reaches over the table and takes one of Notes freshly plated Potatoes.
"No one actually cares about it, we just act like we do because of our parents" he says, then bites into the potato staring at Nott who whips his head around confused.
"What about you two, I don't remember either of you telling us your names?" Rad glared at the two boys beside me.
"I'm Mathew Borruw. Your Father works with mine at the ministry. I was at your house once, not that you were there, heard you were off with the lady friend your parents want you to marry" I almost consider punching the child beside me, he's fat and ugly, with big teeth and frizzy locks.
Rax looks at me, I blink in surprise and then smile.
"I'm gonna go" the other scared sounding boy beside me gets up and leaves quickly, I look at Nott who is also glaring down at the boy in-between us.
"Wow a true pureblood at our side" Nott says, his tone is dead, when I look toward John is can only see Mary giggling.
"I can only guess it's you, they said something about how thrilled they are to be marrying into friends." Mathew snarls, silence over comes us but it doesn't stay long.
"Merlin are they really? My parents are going to be mad, they wanted you to marry my brother" Marcelle jokes while cutting up a bread, I grimace and he laughs.
"Though they should've guessed it" he adds shrugging.
"Mine wanted Him to marry my older sister" Mathew says kicking his head toward Abraxas.
"A Lestrange in the family would have been a gift they said. Though I will have to dissapoint them if I tell them what you were trying to do" Mathew looks toward John.
"Hm" I hum, Rax chuckles and crosses his arms.
"Do you want to know how many children die when they accidentally wander into the forbidden forest?" Mary asks, her sweet voice making all of us calm down, Mary was one of the few who got detention and was made to clean up the forest site, then she almost died so everyone kind of made sure first year's weren't allowed to go in anymore, though everyone knew that the Ravenclaw boys made the younger ones go in for some kind of test.
"I don't talk to Mudbloods so no." Mathew says, what happens next is quick as a blitz, I whip my wand around us and cast a silencing spell, Mary casts a disfiguring spell, Nott grabs the first year's head and smashes him into the table so fast some kids still look at us the sound escaping me.
Mathew screams and John jumps up a little.
"Didn't hear you what was that?" Nott holds his neck making him unable to get up, bringing his face close to his, his eyes lighting up.
"You broke my nose" the boy began to cry, he was crying loudly and I almost felt bad for him, blood spilled over his shirt and plate but before he could say anything else Rax pointed his wand at him.
"Look at me." He snarled.
"You will utter a single word, you will ever say that word again. I will not only make sure you will never speak again. I will make sure your parents hear the nastiest rumors about you and your sister. I will ruin your life for the rest of my time here, and when I'm gone I'll make sure someone else will do it for me. You dare to touch John and you will never walk the halls again without the fear of me. I am Abraxas Lestrange And I promise you, you have no idea who you just called a mudblood " Rax lowered his wand but just about the boy took a sigh to relax, Mary lifted hers, she smiled, then Mathew began breathing slowly, all this time he was crying and holding up his head while trying to get up and at the same time shivering and staring back at Rax with wide eyes.
Mary whispered a spell, so quietly I didn't even catch it, then Mathews voice went quiet, he opened his mouth.
He gasped, then tried again.
"Have a fun winter break, though I doubt you'll be doing much without talking, or without being able to write for that matter" Mathew pushed out of Notts grasp and fell on the floor, people around us only looked up when he began running toward the door. I didn't let my gaze linger, flicking my wand and letting Mathew dirty plate disappear, I glanced at John, who was staring at us mouth hanging open, Nott had begun eating his food again, Rax was deciding which pudding to take, Malfoy was putting butter on his bread.
I grabbed a fresh plate from the side and stacked some potatoes on my plate.
"What an arse" Malfoy said suddenly, Mary laughed and I joined, Rax smiled and at that glancing down at the blond.
"How is it that your brother such a twat?" He asks, Marcelle shrugs stabbing another potato and placing it on the buttered bread.
"You could have just switched dorms, there's a bed free in mine anyways" he pushes his head forward to Look at John.
"I probably will do that tonight." John says softly, I smile at him but he doesn't return it.
"Wasn't that a bit mean?" He asks carefully, I shrug at him.
"It wasn't just about you anymore, he was mean to all of us, just because he thinks his daddy is high up in the ministry " I explain just as carefully.
"Isn't he the one who got kicked out of the board?" Nott asks, Rax narrows his eyes and then laughs.
"Now that you mention it, pretty sure he was having an affair."
"What are the chances of you guys letting me sneak into that party tonight?" Marcelle asks pointing his fork at me.
"Sorry kid no one under fourth year" Nott says but I roll my eyes.
"Tickets a galleon"
"It's 22 sickles." Malfoy objects
"Yeah but your rich, plus your brother will be there so keep an eye out will ya?" Rax explains shoving him a little.
"You should worry about your beater skills rather than my Brother" Malfoy jokes making all of us laugh instantly.
"That was just a bad day" Rax says a little to fast and too emotional as well, as if on que Lucille appears with Archie in tow.
"Bullshit you suck at being a beater, even I'd be better and I'm a seeker" Lucille sits down beside me.
"The only reason your not off the Team is cause Riddle feels bad for you" Lucille takes a fork and steals one of my potatoes, I grin at Rax who rolls is eyes, but at the mention of Tim my heart sinks a little.
I've been doing everything I can not to think about him, maybe that was the only reason I decided to help John, just to be thinking about something else for a while.
Everytime I thought about him, everytime I saw him I felt hollow and sad, I didn't know why, I didn't understand anything anymore, and it hurt, it hurt to know he didn't love me.
"Where's the Captain anyways?" Archie asks, I glance over at him frowning when I see he's plating only beans on his plate.
"Fucking Brits" I mutter
"Prefect meeting, plannings for the next year then Slughorn of course" I say afterwards.
"Who's the fella?" Lucille asks looking at John.
"New pet project " I explain grinning.
"Thinking off adopting him" I add making the brunette laugh, John blushes and sinks into himself.
"Ugh I love first year's, their so precious and full of hope" Mary sings and the table erupts in laughter again.
"Yeah I'm just full of sunshine" Malfoy says his face expression less making Mary chuckle.
"Wait aren't you a Malfoy?" Archie asks making Marcelle roll his eyes.
"The one and only- well I guess the one and in fourty" Marcelle says still unbothered, Nott cackles at that.
"Ugh how's you Aunt?" Lucille asks her lips pulling into a thin line, we all copy that movement and look at him awkwardly.
"Hopefully dying, nasty cunt that one" Marcelle says, I'm the first to laugh having met the woman a year ago.
"Oh thank god someone said it" Nott aays
"I felt bad for her yeah but she had it coming, she actually pulled my ear once" he adds looking at all of us as if we understood anything when his mouth was full of food.
"She's still at the hospital" Marcelle says toward Lucille who nods.
"Why is there a disfiguring spell around you fool?" I feel his hands first, both of them around my shoulders, then when he speaks I can't help but feel horrid again.
"Hey I thought you were at the Prefects meeting?" I look up toward him, he looks down, nodding a little.
"Was" he says, I look back down at my plate while Tom pushes Nott away and takes a seat beside me.
"Who is the child?" He asks after looking around.
"John meet Riddle" Nott takes his plate toward him and switches the empty plate beside him toward Tom who nods at him.
"Hello" Tom extends his hand across the Table and John shakes it.
"Malfoy" Tom says and nods toward the blond who waves.
"Riddle" he says back mocking his English accent.
"Is everything set for tonight?" Tom turns toward me, lifting his fork and taking one of my potatoes.
"Yeah, we just need to set up another set of wards for the others, and maybe a special one for Slughorn" I explain mentally making sure who to add to the list of people who won't be able to enter.
"I will be done with Slughorn around eight so, I will make sure he goes straight to his chambers" Tom says, I nod at him, looking up I see Rax eyeing me with a soft look.
He tried talking to me a couple of times about it but I would just brush him off.
We settle into comfortable conversation, Malfoy asks John to walk with him afterwards and when I walk back toward the dorm I see the two boys carrying John's bags toward Malfoys dorm.
The entire room was upside down, every blue and white clothing piece I had was thrown on the bed, my fingers still itches a little from the warding spell and every five minutes I set down and took a deep breath.
I was deciding between wearing a skirt or some jeans, I got asked one of the Ravenclaws for the signature blue skirt they wore sometimes, below I wore the white leggins, when Tom entered I was debating which heels to wear.
"Hello" he stayed in the doorway, watching as I lifted my head from the ground.
"Hi!" I smiled, for a second I forgot about everything, I forgot what he had said and I forgot that I should be wearing clothes because Tom was removing his tie, lifting his bag over his head and throwing it in a corner all while keeping his eyes on me.
"Why are you half naked?" He asked, I looked down on myself realizing I'm only wearing the white blue Bra and then leggings.
"Uh I'm deciding what outfit to wear?" I ask confused, why couldn't he have pieces that together.
"How about you wear nothing?" He stalks forward, crouching down and lifting the sparkling blue high heel.
"These are incredibly tacky" he looks up toward me, I smile and lean forward.
"I'll go with these then" I mutter, lifting the lower, dark blue heels.
"At least you will be able to walk in those" he says, I chuckle and take the other heel out of his hand, throwing them to the side.
"I can walk in anything" I object
"Yeah what about Dance? I will not dance with you out of fear of having my foot stabbed" his lips turn into a smile and I laugh.
"I would never stab you!"
"Eh you stabbed that time in Defense against dark arts?" One of his eyebrows lifts and my eyes widen.
"That wasn't a stab! That was like a scratch with a sword... It's not my fault they let us spar?" I cross my arms below my chest and pout.
"Why are you back early anyways?" I ask after he tilts his head and smiles.
"Slughorn might have opened a sleep potion on accident" Tom inches forward, his eyes lighting up when I smile.
"Aren't you rotten?" I muse leaning forward again, he meets my lips with another soft smile, I let my hands drop into my lap, Tom steals my breath when he reaches out and grabs my neck, he pulls me toward him, sitting back on his heels he pulls me up into his own lap, letting me wrap my legs around his waist, I run my hands up his body, my lips moving, my mind blurring as his tongue moves into mouth.
"We don't have time" I say, only deepening the kids, pulling his hair and bringing his body closer to mine.
"I always have time for you" he mutters back, his hands drop toward my shoulders, then my back unclipping the bra, I don't waist time to let my fingers find the buttons on his shirt.
"Not to mention you are simply assisting me with getting undressed" he elaborates, I laugh into the kiss, pushing the shirt over his shoulders, letting my hands run down his biceps, my fingers caress his stomach, my lips beginning to hurt, his hands find my thighs squeezing them softly, abruptly he pushes me forward and stands up, I Yelp a little grabbing his neck he moves toward the bed, when he sits me down he pulls away and pushes my clothes to the ground, I kick the rest Off while moving backwards, taking off my legging as well, one of his hands wrap around my ankle, kissing it softly, then he begins to move up, trailing kisses up toward my thigh, he looks up.
I've messed his hair up, because of the rare light in the room there's a shadow across his face, his mouth is hanging slightly open, I realize he's panting as he moves upward, I keep my eyes on him as his fingers slip under my knickers, pulling them down slowly, I lift my hips and he pulls them down, my hand reaches out to touch his face, skimming up toward his hair, he smirks softly when I pull him toward me, his hand clawing into one of my thighs and pushing my leg upward, I groan as his thumb inches closer inside, he doesn't look away and I am unable to focus on anything else than his eyes as one of his fingers enters me, my mouth opens slightly as I take in a sharp breath and I hear him chuckle before he lowers himself.
We haven't had sex in weeks, to busy with mid terms and other things to find time, either he came back late or I did, he was mostly gone by the time I woke up, and now as his lips caress me, as his eyes devour me I realize how much I missed him like this, how much I missed the feeling of forgetting everything as soon as he touches me.
Nothing mattered beside him, I let myself relax and didn't even try to keep quiet, my moans escaping me faster than I can realize, my eyes rolling upward as his teeth dragged into my skin, he's cold and harsh and everything I need.
"Tom" I moan, my fist clenches around his curly hair, my other hand hold onto the sheets as my vision blurs, I don't even realize I'm crying.
"Tom I'm going to cum please slow down" I moan but that only seems to drive him to speed up, my hand finds my mouth, covering my lips in a desperate attempt to keep calm, my legs shaking, closing around him, quivering. He uses one hand to keep them apart, his other to busy to fill me up over and over at a forsaken pace.
"That's a good girl" I hear him say, he curls his fingers inside of me and I let out another way to loud moan.
"Please I need you" I grasp out, I only hear him laugh before his lips go back to sucking on my oversensitive clit.
"Tom please" I let my head fall back, let one of my legs go over his shoulder, using one of my hands to hold my second leg up which seemed to be a mistake because he used his second hand to just stimulate me more.
"Fuck please right there, oh fuck" My vision blurred to the point I didn't even know if I had my eyes open, my body moving on its own as the orgasm shock through my body, my toes curling and my stomach clenching.
"Fuck you make me go crazy" I hear him whisper, when I open my eyes I realize he's resting his chin on the side of my leg, grinning up at me, as if nothing happened, his mouth was wet from partly me and himself.
"Merlin your so messy" I let out a loud breath, letting my head drop back again, still shaking against him.
"We should get ready it's almost nine"
"Couldn't care less, come here" I reach toward his neck and pull him on top of me, I bring his lips to mine, tasting myself in the kiss as I move my body on top of his.
A second later I groan and grab a nearby blanket.
"You two being decent?" The door opens and Tom buries his head in a nearby pillow, wiping his mouth.
"No get out!" I scream, but when I look toward the door Rax is already inside with Mary in tow.
"Eugh disgusting" Rax grimaces and I glare at him.
"Get out!" I shout again
"No can do, we need ya, problem with the wards aye" Rax grin widens when I groan again.
"We shall be out shortly" Tom says, I glare down at him.
"Will we not love?" He grins and I try not to groan again.
"Yes of course." I mourn while letting my body drop down onto Tom's.
"Waiting" Rax shouts as Mary drags him back out, the door closes and I groan.
"Fuck" I hit Tom in the chest a couple of times letting my head drop onto him repeatedly until he laughs.
"Come on now" his hands wrap around my shoulders and he sits up.
"Let's do this" I mutter.
Ten minutes later I'm staring at Tom.
Because he's wearing his uniform pants, and a blue shirt.
"Absolutely not" I cross my arms and tap my heels on the ground, I've decided to go with the skirt, and a blue top, I was just adjusting the silver necklace when I saw Tom and might actually gauge my eyes out.
"You can't wear that" I flick my fingers up and down with disgust.
"Of course I can" he looks himself up and down, I shift my leg upward and fix my heel.
"It looks shite" I protest but he shakes his head.
"Nott brought you that blue blazer? Why can't you wear it? And put on some bloody jeans or something" I explain pointing to the wardrobe.
"I am not wearing jeans"
"Sure you are, it's my party. You look like you have a stick rammed up your arse"
"Your roots are showing when you talk like that, love" he says and I scoff.
"Wait here" I adjust my lace top, making sure just enough of the white bra is to seen from underneath, then I grab my wand and leave the room, Rax is setting up the vinyls and barely looks up as I skim past him in the common room.
"Where's Nott?"
"Snugging some bird in the dorm" Archie answers while passing by.
"Well get him, I'll fix the ward, tell him to go to my dorm, give Riddle a hand" Archie takes a second to stand and look at me then groans and moves toward the dorm where I've just come from.
Half an hour later, the common room is full, I'm leaning against the door and looking down at a very fake ticket, I want to reach out to my glass but glancing down I notice it's empty again.
"Aye so you got this from Nott?"
"Yeah what's the problem?" The English Gryffindor fella stares me down, he's a bit taller than me but I have to pull my face down not to laugh.
"So it is" I flip the bit of paper over.
"Can I just get in?" He tried to push past me.
"No you can't" I push him back, he glares at me and tries again.
"Get out of here you bampot" I lift my wand slightly but he looks behind me and backs up without another word.
"Problem mate?" Rax leans up behind me and I roll my eyes.
"Not a problem" the Gryffindor leaves and I look up toward the tall boy.
"Don't you look interesting?" I mutter he's wearing a blue blazer and jeans with no shirt underneath.
"Ah you should see your fella he looks mighty alright" Rax says a little insulted.
"What Riddle? Don't tell me Nott managed to get him out of those awful pants." I looked inside the common room trying to find him but it seemed as it has already been overflowed.
"Oh he sure has"
"Alright I'm going to try find him can you take care of the line?"
"shift it" I grin at him and shuffle into the common room.
Someone enchanted the candles to shine out blue rays, half the walls and ceiling was covered in paper flowers, blue orchids was playing loudly in the background.
Most of the kids had already gotten more than drunk and were now dancing softly with one another.
I couldn't help but cringe a little.
"Merlin who put this shite on?" I asked when I reached Archie and Lucille.
"I like it!"
"What are we ninety?" I ask shocked.
"It came out like last year"
"He's a muggle!" I object but that just gains me another set of rolled eyes.
"Have ya seen Riddle?"
"Pretty sure he's smoking one with Nott in the stairwell"
"Alright cheers" I smiled at them, I pushed myself past the crowd and walked toward the stairwell, I grabbed another ale and downed it.
"It's not like she was trying to hurt you" I stood still, the stairwell toward one of the study rooms was empty, and the Irish voice was unmistakable.
"It is not like I was hurt" I hear Tom say, there's a soft shuffling sound and the smell of weed hits me, I stay still.
"Mate you have no idea what her parents would do if they find out she was in a relationship with you" Nott says, I begin to move a little, trying to spot them up the stairs, their both sitting on a window ledge, staring into the lake, their backs toward me and unaware.
"I know, that is explicitly why I will not be in a relationship with her" Tom takes another hit, letting the smoke blow up to the top.
"Just because yer not calling it a relationship doesn't mean it ain't one, heck she basically lives at you place" I can hear Notts concern.
"I like her around, the dorm is to big to be alone in it anyway " Tom mutters, his head falls on the glass.
"You should probably tell her that, I haven't her seen this down ever" Nott whispers softly.
"what?" His voice has a hint of surprise, I want to smile because it means he may care about me, even if it's the only thing I feared, I still wanted it.
"I mean she's just been distracted, Rax means it's just because the midterms but you must have noticed shes been stabbing the poor table in the dining hall?" Nott chuckles but Tom just stays quiet.
"Well it was either lie or tell her the truth, since the truth would sent her to her actual death" Tom shrugs, his shoulders sag and I stop breathing.
"Oh yeah so you decided to tell her you hate her?"
"Where'd your hear that?" He slurs his words and I try not to laugh.
"Not from her, won't speak a word about it, but we pieced it together."
"I did not tell her I hated her, just..."
"Mate I don't get you, if I had a woman like that coming up my leg I'd fight for her for sure"
"Oy talk about your own girl" Tom hits his leg against Notts who laughs.
"She would have been my girl if your looks hadn't snatched her off" Nott says grinning.
"she would not go for you with a ten foot pole" Tom mutters earning him a punch to the shoulder.
"I mean mate, your still in school, afterwards you can make a name of yourself your bloody brilliant, I'm sure her parents will agree if your the minister of fucking Magic" Nott chuckles softly but Tom just groans.
"I would have to be the minister of the whole world to keep her by my side" Tom let's out a soft sigh, then takes another deep drag.
"That would be hard to achieve" Nott took the joint back and took a quiet hit.
I stepped down a little and entered the stairwell again louder
"Riddle you up there?" I called out before taking up any steps.
"We're up here" I hear Nott call, I walk up the stairs slowly, they both turn around, Nott gives me a warm smile which I return, Tom just stares at me.
"You two being decent up here?" I ask amused, I sit down by their feet and reach out taking the weed off Nott.
"I'll leave you two to it, barely anything left anyways" Nott gets up, he hands me his hand which I take to occupy the empty seat.
We sit in silence for a while, until Notts footsteps echo away and we're sure there's no one else present.
"Everything good downstairs?"
"Shitty music but otherwise yeah"
"Have you had something to drink?" He asks looking down at my glass.
"Just a few while checking tickets outside" I mutter, he nods and looks outside.
"Want to dance?" He offers but I shake my head.
"I just want to sit with you" I mutter giving him a cheeky grin.
"Oh well am I not lucky" he mutters, he reaches out, his fingers grazing mine, his eyes locking with mine, I let him take the blunt.
I savor the feeling of his skin against mine, his cold fingers touching mine, the sensation of touching the person you want is like holding your hand over a burning flame, even if his hands were cold his touch burned me, ignited me, my breath loosing itself, my eyes lingered on his hands, the way he brought the small paper against his lips, the way smoke filled his mouth, the way he exhaled it into slow circles aiming for the sky, I leaned forward and brought my lips to his, my hand reaching up to cup his cheek, my body itching to be closer to his. It was slow and heavy, his lips moving against mine in a sensitive way, the feeling of having him right where I wanted him to be overwhelmed me slowly.
The room was cold, I was still naked, the blanket barely keeping me warm as it covered half of my body, I let my fingers trace my skin, imitating the feeling of him, my eyes shut again and I hummed softly. The bed was empty without him and I didn't even know where he went. But when he came back it felt as though another part of him was gone, and I could never understand why.
Ok ok I'm sorry for this one, I was just exploring the back characters and I might be working on some for Nott and Lucille cuz ahejrhishdi, also again no Grammer check cuz it's shite bla bla.
Uh yep yep yep.
- chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- chapter 5.1 -
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Abraxas Lestrange was a prodigy.
He knew it, everybody knew it.
He was set out to be one of the most successful wizards the world had ever seen, the determination and strength of his entire bloodline, his head held so high he looked down on everyone, no matter what room he entered he knew he was better than all of them.
No wizard could match the skill of someone trained to kill.
Maybe that's why he hated himself, maybe that's why he could never look at himself in the mirror, there wasn't a fiber in his body not disgusted by the way he looked.
He cut his hair, scratched, bit, clawed and let it free but none of it was ever enough.
Maybe that's why he loved her so much.
She was always satisfied with herself, she didn't doubt decisions, she didn't linger on last mistakes, at least not the real her.
He knew it was his mistake, he had only himself to blame, he thought they would be friends forever anyways, he didn't dwell on it, he didn't think it through, one second she was running back to him and the next she was looking past him.
It fell apart so fast he didn't even know what caused it.
The summer before his fifth year, when Abraxas First started growing out his hair, the summer she seemed to forget about him was when he lost himself completely.
Everytime he thought of something his mind seemed to crumble, sitting in a big empty house, awaiting nothing anymore he couldn't even understand how it had happened.
But he blamed himself, partly it might have been because his Father always blamed everything in him, it might have been because his mother seemed to look at him and see someone he wasn't.
It could have been how she wanted to change him all the time, how all she ever told him was how to do something different.
And then he came back to school, exited to be free of his parents for a while, awaiting to fall into the same pattern but only to find her bickering with no one else but Tom Riddle.
He would tell himself it wasn't serious, she was his to be in the future anyways, so what if she didn't want to hang out anymore, or found it strange if he looked at her for to long.
In the end they would be together.
So he took a step back, he set with Nott, he stopped talking to her in class.
When they went back home the year after he told himself she would come over, maybe get something she forgot, but the only think she seemed to have forgotten about was him.
"Aye very unfortunate" the living room was dimly lot, his father was reading the newspaper, flipping it over and looking up at his son who was lost in his own world stabbing at a half eaten plate.
"You know him then?" He asked, Abraxas looked up, confused he looked between his parents.
"Who?"
"The wee lad in yer year?" His Father's tone lowered slightly in annoyance, Abraxas straightened his back and shrugged.
"The Riddle wain?" His Father clarified with a sigh.
"Oh yeah, he's a good one" Abraxas muttered, his eyes finding the table again.
"Nasty bussiness, both parents murdered" his mother muttered taking a long sip from the second glass of red wine.
Abraxas blinked, his eyes scanning the newspaper.
"Aye, his Father was with me at Hogwarts, horrid fella" Abraxas wasn't listening, not really, he wondered how you were doing, first the horrid business at Hogwarts the past year and now this with Riddle? Maybe he should go over to you, ask how you were doing.
"I suppose" Abraxas agreed, he pushed another Salat petal into his mouth and chewed slowly.
"Disgusting thing to do, Amortentia, even more to produce a half-blood with it" his mother said slowly, her tone bitter and cold.
"You better not be running around with him" His Father said, the stern tone making Abraxas Shift slightly away.
It was enough motivation for him, anything to piss off his parents.
The train was already full, to none of his surprises Riddle was sitting alone in one of the carriages, back straight and gaze on the platform, when he looked the same way his heart stung a little as he saw her, her freshly tailored uniform, the small bag in her hand, the way she lifted herself on her heels and back down again, smiling absent mindedly at something her mother was saying, half of her hair was tied up, the other half falling into her face softly, when she turned toward someone else her hair shifted with the wind and his heart began racing as he watched.
He cleared his throat and Tom Riddle turned toward him.
"Won't be a bother" he said as he entered, pulling his suitcase behind him and shifting it upward.
Tom nodded a little and went back to look at her though she had already dissapeared.
"Quidditch Captain huh?" Abraxas asked, Tom nodded a little, then turned his gaze on the boy, he didn't lower his head or look him up and down, he simply placed his eyes on the brunette and waited.
"My condolences, 'bout your lot" Abraxas offered with a half smile, Tom lifted his eyebrow and nodded again.
"Yes very unfortunate" he said with a cold unbothered tone.
For Tom it was enough to accept Abraxas, in the matter of a week they hung out daily, for the Lestranges delight it meant her around as well, and to add more to his surprise she didn't take long to come back to him, it was subtle at first, taking a seat beside him in the Great Hall or catching up with him after class but soon he was sitting on her bed again, laughing at something she had said and sketching her eyes in his notebook.
Maybe that's why it bothered him so much, maybe that's what made him go mad, maybe maybe maybe.
All he could do was wonder, because she was staring out the window, her eyes down and her figure relaxed, since that day in the pub Tom hadn't been around as much, she said it was because of midterms but everytime he asked she simply turned away and left. And if there was one thing he would ask a maybe about it was her, there was no way in any of the maybes he was letting her get away again.
He was watching from afar, his eyes fixed on the short skirt she wore, his mind wandering up her legs and his fingers twitching as he watched her look the younger but taller Gryffindor up and down, he small features making him go mad.
He wanted to wait, wait for Tom to show up and defend her, because even if he had become friends with him just to get close to her, soon he had realized why she liked him so much, soon he realized maybe he wasn't so great after all.
Tom was good at everything, he was too of the class if he tried, and Abraxas was just someone who had to be great, he believed in it he did, but everytime Tom didn't lower his gaze like everybody else he thought how she was the only one who didn't lower hers when looking at Tom.
And that drove him to wait, to wait and let Tom be the one to rescue her, to wait and see how her face would light up when he showed up.
He saw the empty glass beside her, he imagined how her accent shifted after the drink, exactly how she used to sound after spending the summer with him before her usual Irish accent returned.
But when he didn't he moved, he moved behind her, letting her scent fill him up and grinning down at her.
Problem mate?" Abraxas leans down, she rolls her eyes with a smile enough to light the whole common room up.
"Not a problem" the Gryffindor leaves, muttering something, she looks up toward me, her eyes dropping down my body and with a confused look she asked
"Don't you look interesting?" I look down on myself grinning, Nott took longer than any girl I've seen to dress me up, even longer to get Tom to wear his outfit.
"Ah you should see your fella he looks mighty alright" Abraxas says his heart stinging softly
"What Riddle? Don't tell me Nott managed to get him out of those awful pants." She looked past the boy so fast it broke his heart.
"Oh he sure has" Abraxas muttered.
"Alright I'm going to try find him can you take care of the line?" She asked already walking away.
"shift it" she grins at him when he answers.
He watched her walk away, fingers itching, mind racing, thoughts running wild at the way her eyes scanned the room for someone else.
~
"Shush" Abraxas raises his hand and they come to a stop, it's quiet in the big house, the only voice their heavy breathing and the steady race of their heartbeats.
"Come on" she rushed him but he stayed still, she moved ahead of him in the hallway, sneaking into the kitchen barefoot in that nightgown like a thief, when he entered after her she was already on top of the counter, freaking open a cupboard and grabbing the bottle of liquor they had decided to steal.
Abraxas doesn't know why he agreed, it was stupid, if he got cought he would have to face not only the backhand of his father but probably angry looks from the elves as well.
But none the less he crept after her and helped her down, they snuck back to his room unnoticed and as soon as he closed the door she was already squirming with excitement.
That was the first time he saw her drunk, barely thirteen cramped on his bedside cringing everytime she took a sip and rambeling about something in that Scottish accent.
He can't look a away, not that he's trying to, why would he try to look away from the only thing making sense.
~
"Mate this party is working, the music is shite but even the wains are having fun" Nott appeared out of nowhere, it hadn't been that long since she left Abraxas and he was trying to concentrate on letting people in but he still looked the way Nott was mentioning, John and Malfoy were in a back corner trying not to make faces at whatever they were drinking and giggling like girls, Abraxas laughed and shock his head.
"This whole thing is gonna blow on us tomorrow man" He muttered but Nott just shock his head snack, leaning against the wall and grinning at the Hufflepuff girl who walked past them.
"Mate what's up with Riddle anyways?" That made Abraxas Look down in Nott with a question.
"No idea why?" He looked at the ticket the two Ravenclaw boys gave him and shot them a glare.
"If I have to pull out me wand you two will be so sorry" he said, they groaned and left.
"Acting up isn't he? You think he's gonna break it up with her?"
"Blokes to in love for that"
"You know all about love don't you" Nott kicked his foot softly.
"No idea what your on about"
"That's the thing Raxxy, you don't have to know, just I" he grinned at the taller boy and began moving to the music softly.
"I don't even know why their dating to be honest" Nott continued.
"They fight all the time in class, if you weren't there to be better then both of them anyways they'd rip each other's heads off, like those insect thingies" Nott lifts his hands and mimicks a praying mantis screaming as their head get ripped off.
"Plus he'll be the death of her, I heard her Father's brutal when it comes to Mudbloods" Nott says quietly, moving toward Abraxas so No one else hears him.
"He wouldn't harm her, just... Nothing's gonna happen to her mate it's fine, I'll take care of it" he examines the girl in front of him, somehow clearly remembering she's a third year, but since the ticket was unreal he let her pass.
"Isn't she a third year? Look lad I ain't saying something gonna happen but we both know Riddle, he ain't letting her go easy, and he will have to let her go. After all aren't you two soon to be engaged anyways?" That makes Abraxas Smile, Not because it's funny but because the thought makes him happy.
"Mate you don't know what your on about, just leave off it" when he looks back at Nott he's smoking a cigarette that came from nowhere, he takes in the smell before taking it off him.
"No posh invited sorry" he gave the ticket Back ti the English fella.
"What? I bought the ticket" he says but Abraxas Rolls his eyes.
"No you didn't, I sell the tickets, who's you knick it off ?" Nott pushed off the wall, Abraxas takes a step back, he inhales the smoke slowly while watching Nott jam his finger into the Gryffindors chest until he leaves.
"Fecking Brits" he muttered, Abraxas laughed softly.
"Ay I'm just saying, she's better off with you anyways, mighty dime shouldn't be with someone like Riddle " that's when Abraxas gives him a confused look.
"I'm just saying, he's a Riddle. Rumors are just truths people don't want to believe, I believe em tho. I believe he killed his own parents."
"Knock it off will ya, fucking conspiración " he waved him off, but something rugged at him softly, telling him it was true.
Rumors did travel fast, the ones about you reached him in seconds, the ones about Riddle even less, especially since everyone loved to talk about him.
Abraxas Lestrange was supposed to be a Prodigy.
Everyone knew it, everyone believed it, even she might believe it.
But Abraxas Lestrange only believed in one thing.
And that was the only thing he couldn't have, because in the end she was always looking past him, for someone only he might be understanding as to why she would look at him like that.
Because even if he would burn down the world for her, so would Tom Riddle.
Anyone else accidentally write an OC and fall in love with them but then can't post about them because they were just supposed to be a side character and accidentally got so much depth you don't know what to do anymore?
Warnings: angst, hurt, disgust, underaged drinking, cursing, not smut in this one.
I know I know, took me a while to write this one tho I doubt anyone was waiting up so, the thing is I wanted to write out how Tom Riddle might actually be but after many failed attempts I gave up for a while. Then I had a sudden feeling and tada.
- chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- chapter 5.1 -
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Where are you?
Hogsmead with Rax and Nott
Could you bring me some quills?
I'm stuck with slughorn all day
Oh okayyy
"Riddles's not coming, got stuck with Slughorn" I close the notebook and shove it into my bag, catching up with Rax and Nott who are throwing snowballs at first years, then acting like their talking to each other in professional manner. The ground has barely catched snow, it was freezing and the weather was so cold everybody walked as closely as they could to one another.
The two boys are still talking when I come up to them, pushing myself in between them.
Rax is taller, he was always taller but the past year he's grown over two meters his dark long hair is tied back in a bun, even if his mother tries to shave it off everytime he gets home he's still managed to keep it up, the tailord suit is black with silver buttons, his coat hanging loosely, when I approach he gets out his pocket watch and glances down.
Nott is only a little taller than me, his short blondish hair is skimmed back and he grins at me, his crazy blue eyes lighting up, his hands are covered in rings all of them sparkling in the winter sun.
"Well then, let's get a drink first and plan the fucking Christmas Party without him" Nott pushing his arm over my shoulder, and began walking, I glanced at Abraxas who looked around before following us.
"He's been spending loads of times with Slughorn" Rax's Scottish accent is thick and he snarls a little when dropping the professors name, I look up and shrug, Rax was always the perfect son, my father always said I should try and get my son to be like him, but the past years we did go different paths, maybe it was because we took different classes after third year or that we didn't hang out over summer break as much as we used to but since him and Tom began to hang out at the beginning of the year we fell into the same pattern as before, the silent hellos and a common understanding of what to expect with our parents, if we both stayed at Christmas over the break.
We grew up close to each other, our mothers were in the same year at Hogwarts so they pushed us to become friends.
The pub was full, a couple of second years who had snuck down were hiding in a corner, even if it was early in the afternoon hogs head was still overflowing, so Nott pushed the crowd apart and Rax glared at the younger kids in a booth who quickly scrambled away, I let out a chuckle and set down, grabbing my bag and clearing the table in front of me, I sit with the back toward the door while Nott and Rax share the built in bench.
"Alright, which one of you is getting the booze, the house elf's are still pissed at me for last year's party." I open my Transfiguration notebook and flip toward the end, creating a thorough list, planning the parties were almost as fun as attending, even if Ravelclaws reputation was above us we decided to throw this years party since last years was the sudden success.
"Not me fault I might add" Rax pushes his bag onto the ground and lets his head drop onto the table with a bang.
"Shut it" he mutters groaning softly,
"I'll manage the booze, who's doing decorations?" Nott begins to roll a cigarette in his lap, his fingers twitching as he looks up a little.
"Mary mentioned having time to do it, I'll ask her tonight, we're still going with the blue and white theme?" I ask, scribbling down the list of invited and ticket prices.
"I mean it is pretty Ravenclaw colors but since we're inviting half of the castle I guess it's fine." Nott shrugs softly, I look at Rax's who's still laying on the table.
"No objections" he mutters, I hear the door bell and I turn around to look toward the entrance smiling when I see Lucille and Archie walking in, both are seven year Slytherins and I was assisting them last year with the planning, they wave and walk over to us to sit with us.
"Hey sweets" Lucille is tall, her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, bright against her skin, her green eyes scanning over the table.
"Heya, how did your midterms go?" I ask a little louder since it's already loud in the pub and they haven't even set down yet.
"Yeah good, no answers yet but I'm sure I nailed them all, Luc Here ist a bit concerned about Transfiguration but I'm sure she got it" Archie lifted his hand and patted her head, a crooked smile playing on his lips.
" you two mind helping out with the decorations? Mary will lead but I'm sure she could use the help." I ask, both of them shrug then nod.
"What's the theme?"
"We're doing blue white" I mutter while putting their names down under Mary's, Nott lights the cigarette and hands it to me.
"I'm going to get some drinks" he says after I've taken it.
"Scotch" Rax mutters
"Daisy ale" I request with a sudden smile.
"Two butter beers for us please " Lucille says with a sweet smile.
"Anything for our quidditch prodigy " Nott says and ruffles Lucille's hair while walking away.
I glance around the pub, taking a hit from the cigarette, my mind calming while smoke fills my lungs.
"Whens your midterms done?" Archie asks I push the quill down and take another hit blowing the smoke out slowly.
"None after Wednesday" I answer, Rax jumps up.
"Oh fuck" he drops his head again louder this time.
"What?"
"I've got potions Thursday" he cried, I laughed softly, the common room had been buzzing for the last week, a massive sheet was hung up, everybody coordinating which exam was where, study groups had been opened to everybody and Tom was probably the only one who was just chilling not concerned about anything.
"how have you still not remembered your schedule" I ask confused
"he's a goldfish and can't help but forget." Nott places the ale in front of me, I smile at him leaning back and watching as he pushes the other glasses toward everybody else.
"Ey that was mine" he grabs the cigarette back which was half burned down at this point, I chuckle lifting my hands in defense.
"Shouldn't have given it to me in the first place" I watch him as he inhales the smoke, letting it out slowly in a steady rhythm creating circles out of it, in the dim light he almost looks old, staring, I have to blink to look away.
Time passes quick, I let a third year get me Tom's quills in exchange for buying him alcohol and we spend the rest of the afternoon in the warm pub, Rax let's Archie quiz him half of the time, Lucille decided to play cards so me, her and Nott have been arguing over the rules for the past half hour now, every now and then the bell rings when the door opens and I look back to see if it's Tom.
"Ok you cannot do that" Nott throws his hands up, I groan and Lucille shakes her head.
"She's right you can't!" Lucille backs me up, I nod furiously but Nott begins to shout the rules at us again.
"Oy you three are done with cards!" The bartender, an older man with a soft smile waves his wand, the cards fold themselves up in a stack and fly toward him.
We shout in protest but he gives us a stern look.
"Fine. Can I get another ale?" I ask batting my eyelashes at him sweetly.
"Only because it's Christmas next week" he mumbles, a few seconds later someone places an ale down to me and I smile at the passing by witch.
"So how's it going on with you and Riddle?" Lucille asks, I take a sip from the drink lifting my eyebrow in question, my heart beginning to pound.
Every since the small argument in November me and Tom had been kind off soft spoken to each other, but now during exams we barely had time to talk anyways so it didn't really matter.
I look around the table realizing everyone was looking at me.
"Uh nothing we're friends?" I ask trying to stay subtle.
"Oh? Cause I hear you've been staying at his place quiet often" Lucille gives me an annoying smile
"I mean his rooms bigger, it's convenient -"
"Quiet a lot is an understatement, have you seen her dorm, it's almost cleared out. When was the last time you slept in your own room?" Rax says a very knowing tone in his voice, I think about it for a second, realizing it's been well over a month since I last slept in my own bed.
My eyes find Rax's, he narrows them at me and I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Look you all know how it goes. Me and Tom are just friends, we talked about it, he knows. Do I have to remind you all what happened when your parents found out you were dating that Hufflepuff?" I glance at Nott, silence comes over us.
Lucille and Archie are both purebloods, I remember how Archies Father looked when talking about Gryffindors.
Everyone at this table new how it went, everyone understood, if my parents found out I've been fucking Tom Riddle out of all people he would probably be found dead somewhere, or worse.
"I mean it's not like we're getting married, we're just having fun, plus he's Riddle it's not like he can fall in love anyways." I mutter shrugging, I cross my arms and sink into my chair.
When I look up their all awkwardly staring at the table, I from it's not like they don't know about Tom's past, everyone was talking about it during third year.
"Oy come off it, you all know what me parents would do if they found out I'm fucking a mudblood" I spit out angrily.
"Did not order me anything I see" I freeze, my entire body actually freezes, every fiber in my body turns to stone, my eyes water, my throat closes up, I realize they weren't thinking I was being cruel, I realize they weren't staring at the table because of me.
Tom is standing behind me, in his uniform which is as always clean and spotless, his tone doesn't give anything away, he flicks his wand and a chair moves toward him, he takes a seat between me and Archie, leaning over and grabbing my glass of ale.
I can't move, I can't breathe, can't look at him.
I want to throw up, maybe punch a wall, kill someone, because he heard, he heard and he thinks that's what I think, he thinks I think he is incapable of love, he thinks I think that he doesn't feel anything for me. I'm not entirely sure I don't think that but then I remember how I wake up every morning with his head buried in my neck, with his fingers playing with my hair, with his lips kissing up my skin, with his entire body embracing mine, warming me and keeping me close.
How would a person incapable of love, a person born through amortentia be able to wake me with a smile, whisper the sweetest words into my ear and make me laugh until it hurts, how is that not love?
But then I remember how he would drop my hand when someone was looking, how he would take a step back everytime anyone was near.
"Rax how much did you drink? We have practice tomorrow at seven, you too Dolohov." Tom asks looking between them, the tension lifts, Nott begins to talk first, the others join, I snap out of myself a while later.
It's rather late when we get back, missing curfew by a few minutes, wrapped in our coats and one another we shuffle into the common room still cold from the walk up, Rax and Nott push some second years off a sofa and take over their chess set, Archie takes Lucilles hand and whispers something in her ear making her giggle and begin to walk away with him, as they pass us Archie pats Toms shoulder giving him a warm smile, Tom doesn't return it, just as cold as he always is he nods, then he looks at me, I stare back at him, my eyes watering again.
His brown eyes don't falter, they don't dare to show any signs of hurt.
"It is late. Let us go to bed" he says, again nothing in his voice.
I nod and begin to walk, it feels like forever until we reach his dorm, I pass the corridor towards mine, debating whether or not to enter, but before I can hesitate to stop, Tom takes my hand and keeps walking.
His dorm is warm, it smells like him with a hint of my perfume that is standing in the bathroom, because I put it there along with all of my things, because I haven't been to my own dorm in weeks because there is nothing that I've left to take back here.
I take my coat of, watching as he removes his tie and robe.
"Tom" I whisper softly, my shoulders dropping, my knees threatening to give out.
"I finished the history assignment, it's on the desk" he says, looking up while unbuttoning his shirt.
"Tom" I say again, even softer, my voice unable to make a sound.
He keeps looking at me, I can't help but cry, guilt and disgust washing over me, I drop my head into my hands and let out a soft sob.
"I'm so sorry" I whisper, I can't look up, I can't move and I can't stop crying.
"I shouldn't have said that please" I cry out, feeling my hands get wet.
I hear him take his shirt off then kick his shoes off and walk toward me, placing them by the door, he lingers beside me, I hear the soft thud of his head falling against the door.
I begin to wipe my tears, my fingers moving rapidly, my hands harsh against my own face, I want to hurt myself for saying those things, thinking about it makes me so sick I want to throw up.
I lift my head, still crying, still keeping my mouth closed so I don't scream.
"Do not cry" he whispers but that just makes me sob more.
"It is late, come one" he begins to move, taking my hand and pushing me with him, I can't look at him but he just gently makes me sit on the bed, then he kneels down and begins to take my heels off, he moves slowly, his hand wrapping around my ankle, he places the shoes by the door, then comes back and takes off my jumper, he lifts my hands, then moved toward the wardrobe and hangs it up beside my other clothes.
Then he comes back, reaches under my skirt, undoes the clip ons and begins to take the white leggins off I had worn to keep the cold away, he makes me sit up, then he take off the white shirt, pushing both of them on the floor, he grabs one of his T-shirt pulling it down over my head, unclipping my bra when he's done and throwing it on the floor aswell
He takes my skirt off, then still kneeling before me he waits.
"I'm so sorry" I whisper, heart aching.
"I know, please do not cry" he lifts his hands and wipes my tears away.
"Do not cry because of me" he whispers and I sob.
"I'm crying at myself because I was so horrible, I was so horrible to you, I was so horrible and told Greengrass that I wasn't with you. I was so horrible and wrote my parents me and Rax are friends again" I sob, my entire body hurting.
"You did not hurt me" he says placing his cold hands on my neck.
"You cannot hurt me, I am incapable of feeling" he says for a second time today I forget I am alive, I forget how to breath.
"You cannot hurt me with saying the truth, love" he makes me looks at him, smiling he leans up and kisses me. But it's cold and unloving, it taste like nothing, makes me feel nothing, it's nothing compared to every other kiss we have shared.
"I am profoudly tired" he says against my lips.
I nod, my tears have dried up, for a second I feel just like he says he does.
oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader.
ꔮ word count: 20.4k. (!!!)
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between.
ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Oscar spots them before you do.
You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.
Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.
When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”
They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”
“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”
The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”
He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”
The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.
“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”
“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”
You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”
The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.
“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.
You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.”
Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.
Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.
It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.
Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.
Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.
Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.
The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.
Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.
Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.
Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”
“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank.
“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”
You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”
Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”
“Oh? What’s the damage?”
“Dinner tonight. My pick.”
Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”
You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.
And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.
There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.
Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.
When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.
“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”
“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”
“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”
“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”
You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.
The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.
You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”
“It’s called a compromise.”
“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”
“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.
Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.
The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.
There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want.
The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.
By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.
“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.
“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”
“I have a system,” he interrupts.
“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”
“Which is why I’m never locked out.”
You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”
“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”
The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”
“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”
“You loved that one.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You cried.”
“Allergies.”
You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”
He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.
When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.
It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.
He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.
“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.
Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”
Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”
He levels you with a look. “Three.”
“Six,” you insist.
He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.
“And you love me for it,” you retort.
The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.
Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.
“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.
“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”
“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”
You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”
“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.
Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.
The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say.
He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”
You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.
Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.
Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”
He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”
“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!
The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.
“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”
You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.
“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”
You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.
Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”
The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.
“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”
You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”
You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.”
“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.”
“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.”
“Oscar.”
The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”
Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”
“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”
The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”
He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”
“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”
Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon.
The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.
“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine.
You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.
“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”
“Headshots.”
“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”
“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.
You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”
Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.
The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.
“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”
Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”
Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”
There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”
You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.
You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”
“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.
“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”
“I’m a divorce attorney.”
The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”
“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.
Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”
That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.
And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.
Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.
Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”
Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”
You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.
Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.
Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.
“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”
You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”
He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”
“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.
“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”
That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”
The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.
What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?
Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.
“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.
Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters.
The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.
The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.
His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”
“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”
“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”
Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”
“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.
Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.
“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”
His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.
A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.
He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month.
Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.
Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.
Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”
Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”
Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”
Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”
“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”
“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!”
Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern.
Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”
“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to.
There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.
He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.
The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says.
It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.
Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.
Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.
By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.
You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost.
You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.
He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.
And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.
“You’re my logistics team.”
Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”
“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”
“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”
That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.
The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.
Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.
“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.
Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.
He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”
You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”
“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.
From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.
Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”
At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”
“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.
Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.
He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”
Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.
The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.
You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”
He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”
Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.
Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position.
But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.
It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.
“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”
He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”
“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”
“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”
You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”
The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.
Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.
“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”
She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.
On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.
But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.
Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.
He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.
The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected.
“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”
The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”
Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”
Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.
“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”
The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”
She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.
As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.
The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.
They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”
It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”
Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.
When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.
“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.”
He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.
Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.
You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.
You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”
You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.
He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”
“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”
Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”
“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.
You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.
You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”
A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”
He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.
Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.
And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”
“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”
You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.
Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.
The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.
The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.
He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”
You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”
“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.
You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.
Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.
You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.
Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out.
You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands.
“Oscar, I have a million—”
“Eat.”
Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”
You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”
The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.
“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.
It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.
He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl.
It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”
You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”
“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.
But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”
Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.
Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.
The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.
The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.
“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”
“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”
You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.
“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”
“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”
“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”
“And yet you trusted me with it.”
“Desperate times.”
He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.
You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.
Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”
“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”
“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”
“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”
You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”
Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”
It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.
The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.
“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”
The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”
“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief.
Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”
You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.
The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.
“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”
She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.
“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye.
He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.
Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.
“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.”
“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”
There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.
You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks.
“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.”
Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.
“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”
Oscar’s grin freezes.
Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.
He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.
He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”
For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over.
Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.
It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.
He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.
You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.
He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.
It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”
Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out.
“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”
Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”
George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.
“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”
“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”
“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”
Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”
There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”
“Scout’s honor.”
As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.
The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.
He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”
“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”
The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”
Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”
George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”
Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”
The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.
Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”
Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”
The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”
George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily.
Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”
By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.
The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.
Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.
The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.
There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.
Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.
There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.
The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.
You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.
“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”
Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?”
“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”
Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”
You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”
“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows.
“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”
Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”
“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”
“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”
You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.
The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.
The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows.
You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”
He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.
Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.
Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.
Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real.
The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.
Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.
You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.
“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”
“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.
You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.
“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.
Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.
Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.
Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.
You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.
But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”
On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—
You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.
You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”
For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you.
He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.
How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you.
Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.
He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.
Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.
Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.
He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.
He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.
“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.
Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”
“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”
“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”
Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.
He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.
Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”
He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”
Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.
Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.
By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.
Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole.
He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—
Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”
“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”
He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”
Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”
She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.
Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.
Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.
He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”
Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”
Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”
“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”
“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.
“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”
You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.
You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.
He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”
You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”
“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”
The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.
“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”
Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”
You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”
“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”
You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”
“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”
You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.
Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.
You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.
“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.
He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.
“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.
“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.
“Promise?” you say in a small voice.
Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.”
“Already? You rented it already?”
Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”
You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”
Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.
You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”
“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”
“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”
Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.
Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”
See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.
You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.
Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.
By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.
The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.
Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.
He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.
Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.
You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”
You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”
Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”
You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”
That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.
You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”
He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”
A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.
“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point.
Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”
Your brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”
You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”
“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”
Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.
He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”
Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.
Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for.
The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.
Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.
You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”
Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”
“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”
He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.
You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.
What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between.
“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.
It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.
Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.
Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.
There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.
Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”
You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”
“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.
“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”
The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”
Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading.
You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”
“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”
Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.
“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.”
And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.
The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”
Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.
Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.
He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐
Warnings: SEX. Smut, kissing, dirty talk, pining, hickeyyysss. A lot of smut. Suggestive talking i never know how to describe it haha. DID NOT CHECK FOR GRAMMER MISTAKES SO BUCKLE UP.
Tom being kinda hurt that Reader never considert him as a partner... bits of angst like tiny itsy bit. Uh yh. Also softy Tom and meany Tom.
- chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- chapter 5.1 -
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Hogsmead?
I've got detention at four
But until then yeah
Cool meet me at 9.
Oh and bring a coat
Nooo it doesn't look good
With my outfitt
Bring. A. Coat.
Shush
I did infact not bring a coat, i mean i was wearing a sweater and mid november really wasn't supposed to be this cold, and i had tried to shiver quietly but in the end I was walking into rosmertas with his coat wrapped around me, Tom was holding a bag of quills and sweets we had purchased not showing any signs of feeling cold or bothered.
"So i told her to mind her own fucking bussiness I mean i'm not a charity shop to just take everything right? So this bitch actually has the audacity to talk again and get this-" we took a seat at the table in the back, I placed his jacket around my seat and pulling my skirt down to sit down while waving my hands around franticly.
"She literally tells me to be quiet. Me? I mean me? So i did the only responsible and punched her in the face-" Tom had set down before me and I tried not to notice the way he was looking at me or the fact that his feet we're intertwined with mine.
"And then-" Tom seemed to have realized what I said and lifted his hand to stop me.
"You did what?" He asked his lip's pulling up in a small smirk.
"I mean she-"
"No no. You like punched her?" He asked, he set up straight, his feet moved up my leg making me shiver.
"Yeah. And then... I like smashed her head onto the table. Well the point is-" Tom was covering his face, rubbing his eyes and for a second I thought he was going to say something about being dissapointed in me but then i realized he was covering up his laugh.
"Wha- are you laughing Tom Riddle?" I tried to grab his hands but he moved away breathing through and revealing his relaxed face.
"Oh your horrid! I did the right thing!" I said shrugging and he nodded his lip's pulling into a thin line.
"I am not judging you!" He exclaimed lifting his hands in defence.
"Your laughing! Thats worse!" I tell him to which he scowls.
"You have never been judged before i see..." he says and I gasp laughing a little crossing my legs and pushing away from him.
"Uh rude? I'm literally the most judged person in the school. Why do you think people are so annoyed thinking we're going out" I say crossing my hands over my chest and scoffing a little.
"People are annoyed? What?" That seemed to have piqued his intrest as he set up, his eyebrow slightly lifting in question.
"Yeah i've been getting hate owls for weeks now. Since some first year said you bought me flowers for my birthday-" i said his look getting more and more disgusted.
"Your birthday is in February?" He interupts, I blink not remembering that information about myself.
"Yeah so people don't really like you dating me but we're not so whats it matter?" I shrug finally picking the menu of the table and flipping through the pages.
"Wait what letters?" He asks pushing the menu down and making me look at him
"Oh nothing sirius! Just some second years being jealous about the thought that you like me" I chuckle softly, i mean the worst part was that we weren't going out. If we we're I'd atleast find it amusing but now I was just annoyed. Plus why was it so bad that Tom Riddle liked me?
"First of all I do like you and why did you not tell me?" He asks and I shrug placing my open palm on the table.
"It's not that important. Just drop it will you? I'm going to order some coffee what do you want?" I change the subject waving it off and starting to get up.
"I will get them, sit down" I press my lips into a line and sit back down watching him go to the counter and ordering us two drinks.
"Oh y/n! What are you doing here?" Not even two seconds of thinking time and greengrass appears with what looks like Cornelius Malfoy behind her.
"Oh hey" I smile trying not to gag when her perfume hits me.
"Just getting some coffee what about you?" I ask looking her up and down.
"Malfoy asked me out! We we're gonna eat some brunch! You can join us if you don't wanna eat alone" she offers, I notice that Tom had left no trace of sitting there.
"That is alright Donna she is with me" Tom was standing above me, placing a cuo of coffee and a plate full of cookies in front of me before sitting down.
"Oh I didn't realize-"
"Let's go" Malfoy took his bitch and I watched as he pulled her away grinning at Tom who nodded slightly.
"Thank you" I mutter smiling slightly.
We spent the rest of the visit at Rosmertas quizzing each other on Potions answers or history years, his fingers reaching for mine but staying on his side nontheless.
"Why did you not just tell her?" Tom asked, we were walking back to the castle in silence, my face buried in his coat and his hands not even cold. Snow crunched under our footsteps our breaths turning to ice before us.
"What?" I ask making him repeat the question his face slightly turning to look at me.
"Tell who what?" I ask and stop to catch my breath, he turned to me and crossed his arm's the bag still in his hand.
"Greengrass. Why did you not tell her you were there with me?" He ask's and I blink in surprise, it didn't happen often that Tom's curiosity got so big that he actually questioned my actions.
"I... don't know... just didn't think- I mean I didn't like want her to think we were there on a date or something" I say realizing what I did do. It was weird, maybe i really didn't want people to think we were dating but why? I mean it wasn't really bad but it was still Tom. My parents would be furious if they found out I was dating him even worse if they found out he wasn't a pureblood. I watched as his brows furrowed toghether and he shifted on his feet staring ahead before opening his mouth to say something and then whih rarely happened he closed it and continiued to look ahead.
"Come on your gonna freeze to death" he said turning back to the road and walking away.
Instead of doing most of my detention work I stared ahead and thought. Maybe i was overthinking all of this but Tom never wanted to date me, he didn't say it but he kind of made it clear after the first time that this wasn't an emotional relationship, I mean why else would he ask if had already done my runes homework after we just had sex? To change the topic so I would know that studying comes first in his life and so I would know he didn't want to talk about personal things if he did want to talk about personal things he would have asked if I had a good time or I don't know anything else!
Walking down from the tower I decided not to bother him, I could barge into his room make him stop working and make him answer all the questions i never asked just because it's Tom. But I didn't want to ask them I wanted him to answer them without having to ask I wanted him to want me.
Coming down the stairs I had my mind made up. Ignore him until he really wants to talk to me.
"Hello." Tom was waiting for me by the great hall, waiting. He was holding a napkin with two toasts which he extended toward me.
"I'm not- thanks" I took them of him our skin touching and his body stepping toward mine.
"Was detention alright?" He ask's and I nod looking at my feet, my socks weren't white anymore but kind of gray, the skirt barely reachig them as the scrunched down.
Tom wasn't talking, like always he just waited for me to say something.
"Tired" He said and I looked up nodding and beginning to walk.
"Are you angry?" He asks as we make our way down to the dungeon.
"No."
"What has gotten into you then?" He presses on and I can't help but smile.
"Nothing I just- it's nothing." I look up smiling and give him a reassuring look leaning into him while walking.
"Tired." I whisper looking back ahead,Tom's fingers graze mine and I softly pull my hand away, entering the common room we walk through thankfully no one was paying us much attention because Tom moved closer and as we got toward the rooms he took my hand and as I was about to enter my own room he pulled me into him and I looked up.
"What is wrong." He asks sternly, his long slender fingers cold against mine, his eyes fixating mine.
"I just wanted to sleep in my own bed. Aren't I allowed to?" I ask skeptisch, his face crunches in a disgusted way as he fully turned toward me.
"I do not like your matress." He says and I scoff.
"Who's inviting you into my bed?!" I ask the toasts holding on for dear life on the napkin.
"I do not need invatation. How do you think i got on the slug club? He invited me? I just showed up and demanded to be let in." He says a small smile curving on his lip's.
"Oh yeah i'll be going inside and you can stand out here and demand all you want because unlike Slughorn I'm not half as guilable with your failed amortentia." I say and try to get my hand to slip out but Tom takes my toast.
"Fine. Hope your hungry"
"I'm not."
"Great." He says stern faced. Anger flashing in his eyes he takes a step back.
"Oh and no coming into my room then." He says walking away. Thats when I realize my wand is in his room, also my books, my papers and pretty much all of my stuff.
Entering my room I let my head fall against the closed door and groan.
Three options.
1. I go and try to seduce him into letting me get my things.
2. I go and seduce him and live happily ever after
3. I do nothing for the rest of term and fail everything without wand or my schoolwork.
3. seemed alright to think about.
I changed quickly, shorter skirt, fresh lingery, a cut out top and fresh white socks that actually reached my thighs instead of my knees.
Fixing my hair and putting some make-up on, I breathed through and took a look at the clock groaning as it was already Eleven.
Tom's dorm was all the way in the back, being a six year prefect he was allowed to chose one himself if and if a headboy didn't want the same one he got to have it.
It was a bit larger than the others and the bathroom was much nicer plus it was much cozier than my own.
Knocking I stared down at my feet, Tom had changed too, the sweatpants he was wearing pulled down his v-line exposed and his upperbody very much not covered. And he's wearing a necklace, my necklace to be exact. The same necklace I lost three weeks ago, the small gold heart, a bit chewed up but still pretty now hung around his neck as he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
"Yes my love?" He asks his voice deep and I roll my eyes at the fact that I want to drop to my knees for him.
"I just wanted to get my wand please?" I look up, holding my hands behidn my back I crane my neck to look at him properly and silently thank Quidditch for being such a demanding sport.
"Oh? I have not seen it" he says tilting his head and smiling sweetly.
"It's under m- your pillow" mentally I did slap myself but Tom seemed to ignore my slip up.
"Hm.... no." He doesn't even look back, his tone mocking and unbothered.
"Tom. Please" I say trying to sound done with his bullshit but I can't deny the view I have of his neck at the moment.
"Hm?" He hums acting so innocent its making me roll my eyes but I stay composed.
"Could I get it maybe?" I take a step forward, my body closer to his now, i can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Oh? Your not invitated sorry love" he says shrugging softly as if he was being clever or something stealing my lines like that.
"Please Tom" I say placing my chin ever so softly on his crossed arms blinking sweatly. He swallows hard, his head dipping down to look at me.
"Please what?" He asked softly.
"Please let me inside" I muse wrapping my hands around his torso and hugging him.
"It's so cold..." I say and he laughs a little.
"Should have brought a coat maybe." He says and I grin batting my eyelashes at him innocent.
"You look so good like that. Staring up at me. You know what would make you look even better? If you were chocking on my dick." He pushed himself forward,my hands dropped and I moved back.
"All quiet and sweet." He says his hand coming up to my face, grabbing my chin and tilting it upward.
"You look so fuckable like this. All dressed up like a doll Love." His other hand pushed the hair that had falled in my face behind my ears his fingers intertwining in the strands as he leans down.
"I just wanna eat you out when your wear that skirt. Have you scream my name all night. Have you coming so hard that you can not remember anything. I just wanna make you mine so bad when you look like this, Love" he waited for a second, his face close to mine, his lip's so close I could almost already taste them, and god his eyes. His eyes were watching me. Watching all of my breath's and hitches, the blush that had spread on my cheeks, the wetness of my lip's and the way my eyes were drowning in his.
I pushed forward to kiss him but he dropped my face and straighened his back out of my reach to kiss.
"Ah consent is key Love, it is pretty late you should go to sleep." He took a step back and I gasped, he was not about to close that door, absoulute emberassment washed over me, i ignored the aching feeling in my stomach and took a step back.
But he did so I knocked again determined to be let inside.
"Yes?" He lifted his arm leaning his head against it and smiling so softly it made me sick.
"Tom. I'm so wet, I need you to fuck me like in the next two seconds or I will have to find somebody to do it. And belive me-" I didn't get to finish my sentence because he had grabbed me by the neck with such force i tumbled forward, i was faster in his room than i acknowledged, his body pressed me into the wall and his lips met mine, his teeth into my lip drawing blood and making me scream but he didn't care, his hands pulled my clothes off leaving them on the ground as his body moved mine against him. Somehow I was on the floor and then his body was on me. my hands fiddled with his belt and i wrapped my legs around him. Tom took a second looking down my body, I let my hands go up his neck and into his hair pulling him down with force, the metallic taste of my own blood filled my mouth as his tounge moved against mine and softly his hands grasped against my hips pulling me into him.
I rolled on top of him, pushing his pants down I set myself down on him quickly, the wetness in between my legs not helping much, i dropped my head on his shoulder with a groan and heard him chuckle softly.
"Hurting?" He asked, I pushed my hips back and forth a little adjusting to him then I slowly got up and watched as his eyes moved down my body, he set up as well, my knees touching the ground as I leaned forward for a kiss.
"Ah come on can not be a brat and then want special treatment" he muttered, rolling my eyes I slowly unbottoned his shirt while adjusting to his size, sometimes jumping a little when he moved inside me, pushing the matirial off his shoulders I kissed his neck, sucking on his skin I let my teeth dig into him and I couldn'd help but grin when he let out a soft moan.
"Always talking about how good I look and how goos I sound but Merlin Tommy everytime you talk I wanna kiss you. You sound so good" I mutter as I lift. Myself up and down on him slowly, until he's hitting just the spot for me to go crazy on him, his hands grab my hips and I expect him to go faster but he seemed to be holding on for himself, his head falling back I continiued to kiss his neck while moving up and down on him, sucking hickeys his skin until I was coming and his neck was covered in blue and purple bruises I moaned softly with each fall and lift.
"Merlin fuck." He pulled my face to his bringing his lips to mine and kissing me until I was seeing stars.
"Tom- fuck ah Tom please I'm gonna cum mhm" I could imagine myself looking up at him, my mouth agape, my eyes watery, salvia dripping down my lip and my voice shaking.
"Oh do not hold back now" He mused his voice hot and heavy, holding back moans of his own.
"Me hold back? Your the one trying not to cum so quick" I whisper and he laughs, his hand lifts to my hair tugging softly at the ends until I comply and let my head fall back, he leans down his breath hot against my skin, he was panting against me his salvia dropping on my chest and down to my breast which he licked up like a hungry dog. I squeezed my eyes shut his hands in my hair tangled, his teeth pulling on my nipple and his dick buried inside me as I came.
"Ah fuck" he groaned again and I felt him cum inside me, filling me up slowly until I could feel every inch of him inside me rubbing against my walls, clenching around him I let out a couple of loose breaths.
Warnings: smut, oral (m reciving) unholy amount of grammer mistakes, fingering. Orgasm control oh jesus just like a lot of sex. Oh and Tom being in love but not admitting it even to himself.
- chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- chapter 5.1 -
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
What do you want for
Your birthday?
?
Gift?
It's not my Birthday?
In a week thoo
No.
I checked ur records
Let me get you something
No.
Plzz tell me
Tom?
Tommm?
Tommyy?
Riddle?
Answer mee
Come on
Tommmmm
Ughh
Having access to Tom's bedroom was nice, espeacially because I could Surprise him at any given moment, I was still in my pajama pants and a loose top when I entered his room, the clock barely over six in the morning, Tom was sleeping shirtless as always, his head buried in his pillow, his body strained on the matress.
I moved silently, careful not to wake him, I slipped under his covers, Before my body got in contact with his, His hand's grabbed my waist and pulled me into him with such force I almost let out a yelp.
"What you think your doing pretty girl" the deepness of his voice made me roll my hips into him sitting up on him as he rolled onto his back, his eyes stayed closed his hand's resting by my side.
"Morning birthday boy" I whispered to which he frowned, pulling me down he hugged me into him groaning softly.
"What time is it?" He buried his face in my neck as I let my legs spread having him inbetween them already feeling him hard.
"Uhm around seven" I whispered to which again he groaned and not the kind I liked.
"I still have time to sleep" His lip's met my skin on my neck and I let my eyes shut as he kissed me a couple of times before biting into my skin.
"Tom its your birthday no time to be lazy" I laugh as he bites into my skin making me whimper a little, he pushes his hip's into me and I can feel my stomach roll around on the ground a little.
"It is also saturday" he muttered, I let my hand run through his hair lifting his face to mine and pressing a kiss to his lip's.
"Happy Birthday" I mutter as he grins.
"I hate Birthdays" he answered but I rolled my eyes.
"Mhmm let me change that" I kissed him again and again until he was relaxed enough for me to get back on top of him, i watched him as I moved down to kiss his neck, from his neck down to his chest, I let my hand run down his stomach my fingers tracing his muscles, I kissed my way down and down, Tom still had his eyes closed his hand combing through my hair now, I palmed him through his pants and he let out a chocked groan which made me throb.
Tom was definetly big, big enough for me to have walking problems if he got to rough and big enough for me to have to take my time while sucking him off so I don't rip my fucking mouth open.
Kissing down his V-line I pulled his pants off, palming him through his boxers and moving my hand up and down getting him compleatly hard.
I kissed my way down, taking him out and licking up his dick I watched as he let out a breath, he tied my hair into makeshift ponytail, as I kissed his tip, softly licking off his precum, wetting him while I jerked him off, slowly I wrapped my lips around his tip and started to suck him off.
"Ah" I looked up at Tom who had covered his mouth with his second hand, a satisfied Moan escaping his mouth.
I felt the wettness between my legs as I made him chocke out more and more of those sounds, I tried to speed up but not the easiest task.
Tom pushed me down, his tip hitting the back of my throat and making him moan.
I bop my head in a steady pace my eyes finding his, not to be dramatic but seeing him all messed up half awake and getting those sound out of him made him look fucking beautiful.
Tom wasn't holding back, he wasn't half awake and the pleasure that was going through him made it hard for him to be quiet.
I felt him vibrate inside of me, his eyes we're glued to me, his body rocking into me.
"Fuck don't stop" He let out a whimper and I moaned, he pushed my head down and held me there until he was filling my throat with his cum.
My eyes watered, tears rolling down my cheeks as he exhaled.
"Fuck come here" Tom pulled me up wiped my tears away as I finished swallowing.
I cleaned my mouth while he let out a raspy laugh.
"Fucking menace" he muttered as he stroked my back.
"Happy Birthday" I whispered giggeling softly when he rolled his eyes.
"Thank you" He whispered before kissing me, he didn't hesitate to pull me into him his hand landing on my thights and slipping panst my pajamas, his other hand slipped under my top as he massagee my breast making me moan, he stroked me over my panties and I let out a whimper even I feeling how wet I was.
"Why are you so wet, love?" He asked between kisses and pressure making me moan again.
"Fuck lift your hips for me" I did as he told me, he pushed my panties aside and two fingers filled me up, I gasped softly sgainst his mouth, steadying myself holding on to his shoulders.
His thumb pushed against my clit, I whimpered as he moved his fingers in and out of my, hitting my g-spot several times while applying pressure to my clit.
I let out a chocked sound the pleasure making me gasp for air.
"Tom fuck- ah-" I dropped my head into his shoulder moving my hips and falling onto him.
"Faster please" I moan into him, biting into his skin as he did as I requested making my knees give out.
"Don't cum" he ordered and I let out a frustrated groan.
"Come on love be a good girl" he tilted his head watching as I turned into a breathless mess his pace only speeding up by the second and a smile catching onto his lips.
"Just a little more" the knot in my stomach spansmend and I let out a moan adjusting my position, my legs shock and my body vibrated as I threw my head back. Tom used his second hand to remove my top, his lip's catching my tit in between his teeth.
I looked down his hungry eyes staring up at me as he let his toungue run over my hard nipple.
"I can't- please" I beg, my voice breaking, my body shaking as he hit my g-spot.
"I'm gonna count down from ten yes?" He asked and I nodded frantically.
"Ten" I let out a moan
"Nine" I threw my head back his lip's attaching onto my chest again.
"Eight" he pushed against my clit hard enough to make me jolt.
"Seven" I let out a cry.
"Six-"
"Please" I whined making him chuckle.
"Five" I tried not to move but he pushed his fingers deeper.
"Four" I drop my head back onto his shoulder.
"Three" I started praying quietly.
"Two" he pushed my face up making me look at him, I let out a breath then a moan, my body hurting.
"One" I finally released, my body shaking as I breathed through.
I collapsed into him, Tom laughed his fingers leaving me coated in my cum he didn't hesitated to push them past his own lips and suck them clean.
"You are so sweet" he muttered.
I let out a soft cry my body trying to relax as I shock.
"Hey" he pulled his arm's around me, leaning back against the bed frame and letting me calm down. I propped my head up on his chest looking up at him.
"I was supposed to give you a gift" I mutter to which he lets out a raspy laugh, his head falls back looking up at the ceeling.
"You did do not worry" he muttered, I pressed my lips to his skin and closed my eyes.
I never really slept over at his, he didn't kick me out or anything I just didn't think he would like it, it took ten minutes before his breathing steadied, his head stayed on mine his arm's hugging into mine.
I didn't move afraid to wake him, he was always quiet but when he was asleep it was diffrent.
I must have fallen asleep aswell as when I woke up I was turned on my side, tom spooning me his leg over mine, his hand holding onto my waist and his face buried in my neck.
I looked at the clock on the night stand closing my eyes when it only showed nine.
Tom woke up before me the next time, his lip's kissed the back of my neck making me hum in response.
"You want to get breakfast?" He asked and I turn around, placing my hands around his neck.
"I want to brush my teeth first but then yes please" I mutter while yawning a little, Tom pushes the hair out of my face and chuckles softly.
"What?" My eyes lock with his, he props himself up his fingers tracing my cheek.
"Nothing you look cute" he mutteres making me blush in an instant.
I push myself up, rolling over him to go toward the door.
"I have an extra toothbrush if you want?" His hand catches mine pulling me into him.
"What?" I think I misheard everything.
"I have another toothbrush a clean one you do not have to go, just use mine" he rolls me over the bed and pushes me up, he gets up with me and walks me toward the bathroom, pushing the door open he reaches the cabinet below the sink and gets a light green tooth brush out, handing it to me he takes his own aswell and puts some tooth paste onto the now my toothbrush.
"When did you get a second toothbrush?" I ask leaning against the wall while brushing my teeth, Tom is looking in the mirror fixing his hair glancing over at me, his eyes dip down my body before coming back up to look me in the eyes.
"Hogsmead?" He says stalking toward me.
"Thought you could use it" he says towering above me, the toothpaste turns sweet in my mouth and I grin, wiping my lip's with my thumb I let my head rest against the wall.
"I thought you wouldn't want me in your room longer than needed" I mumble the sound muffled, he laughs slowly still making room for me to go over to the sink and wash out my mouth, I wait for him to be done, he moves toward me his fingerstracing my neck before grabbing my face and pressing a kiss to my lips.
"I'm hungry" he mutters and I nod.
"I'm going to get changed i'll meet you there if you want" I suggeste but he groans in respons.
"Just wait a second i will get dressed and I can come to your dorm" He says walking out if the bathroom and toward his wardrope.
I wash my face again in the meantime a little in dissbelive, the toothbrush I place in the cup on the sink beside his twisting them a little a small smile on my lips.
I walk out watching him as he ties his tie the shirt unbottoned, stepping toward him I slowly button up his shirt my fingers touching his chest softly.
Tom pulls his robe on, takes my hand in his and guides me out the door, theres a strange smell in the air, he walks with me toward my dorm his fingers intertwined with mine not caring that people stare a little, pushing my door open he takes a seat on my bed watching me go through my clothes and get changed, I put my hair up in a bun and put some eyeliner along with lipgloss on, looking behind me through the mirror I see Tom on my bed, his legs are spread, resting on his elbows he watches me his head tilted to the side, his eyes fixed on my lips.
"You think they'll be waffles?" I ask turning toward him, he shrugs reaching out to me until im walking toward him letting him rest his hands on my hips.
"Let us find out please i'm starving" he mutters glasncing at my lips.
Tom liked to kiss me, ever since we first started seeing each other he kissed me multiply times for no reason but the past days it multipled as if he just didn't hold back anymore, in class his lip's would attack the back of my neck hiding from the world of eyes.
Tom pulled me down, trapping my legs inbetween his as he slowly kissed me.
We reached the great hall quickly, his hand touching mine as we walked closer than usual.
Sitting beside Nott and Rax, Tom placed his hand on my thight, tracing my bare skin with his fingers.
Just fluff, Tom being a secret simppp, short one btw i should prolly add word counts... eh enjoy
- Chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- Chapter 5.1 -
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Library?
aye be there in 10
Your late.
I entered twelve minutes later, the dimly lit Library was quiet, only three raveclaws set up front, Tom sat in the back His head buried in a book, his finger tapping rapidly on the table, I drew a dick into the notebook before closing it grinning while I watched Tom check his and roll his eyes.
Inching closer he looked up, his brown eyes looked tired, as always as if he hadn't had enough sleep, the small scar on his neck was barely visible but I still took it into observation.
"You are never on time" Tom muttered as I set my books down, Sitting beside him I checked the title of his book while humming in response.
"You wait for me so" I shrugged while opening my own notebook and potions book, checking the material I took the book on his side and opened it in front of us.
"Where do you wanna start?"
"Nowhere."
In silence we studied for the next two hours, i rested my head on my hand proped up on my elbow, yawning I checked again the book then my own notes then the text and then the outcome.
Tom set still reading a book about... Flowers sprouts?
"Why are you reading that?" I lay down on the table, on my arm, pushing my hair behind my ear I look up at him.
"Because I can read." He answered glancing down at me, he blinked a couple of times before looking away.
"aye but like do I have to read it?" I ask to which he scoff's.
"You can barely read, love" I roll my eyes, yawning I close my eyes, softly nuzzeling myself into my arm.
I drift to sleep, keeping myself awake but letting my body fall, I almost forget where I am when two cold finger's touch my cheek, they push hair behind my ear, grazing my skin and staying until I don't start blinking.
Confused I look at Tom, he's leaned back his hand on his book no sign of him having moved even a centimeter.
"What time is it?" I ask, whispering softly, he looks at me tilts his head a little befpre reaching into his pocket and getting out a watch, he flips it open and looks back at me.
"Around 1 A.M." he answers. I groan sitting up, rubbing my eyes and streching.
"I'm gonna go back, To tired for this lot" I mutter gathering my things.
"I'm coming" Tom got up, and helped me gather my things as well as his own.
I untied my hair and ran my hand through my hair, rolling my neck around I gazed over to Tom, he had taken my bag as well as his, staring at the ground he waited for me, he looked up his eyes meeting mine, I smiled at him he blinked and raised his eyebrows in questions.
His black hair was seat perfectly, his suit perfectly straight.
"Let us go?" He asked and I walked toward him, he looked around after seeing the library empty he placed his hand around my Waist and pulled me in for a kiss, I froze. Melting into him I kissed him back, I would never understand this man.
His tounge slipped past my lip's, pushing against my own his hand laid flat on my back pulling me close to him.
He pulled back and looking down at me he actually grinned.
"Come on I'm tired" He started walking and I followed slightly shocked at what had just happened.
So I've been writing this for soooo long so hopefully its okkkk
Tom Riddle x Reader
Friends with benefits type of situation
Warnings: smut, cursing, unprotected sex, underaged sex, kissing, cute guy, not okay for children stuff.
Chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six -
- chapter 5.1 -
MDNI
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
You busy?
Hello, I'm doing good how
Are you doing?
I am doing Great thanks
My dorm
15 min.
I scowled a little before closing the notebook and sorting my things away, Tom was always like that sending me messeges out of the blue for sex and dissapearing for a week.
The whole casual sex thing started a year ago, we we're never really friends more competitors if I'm honest.
He was always trying to be better than me but sucks to suck I guess.
I quickly put a hoddie over my shirt before slipping out of my dorm, barefoot I rush toward his dorm the cold of the corridors making me shiver, I knock before entering not waisting time to jump onto his bed.
"It's fucking cold outside" I look at him, Tom is wearing pajama pants, no top his abs on full display while a pencil is stuck behind his ear, a book in his hand's his hair messy and still a little damp from a shower.
He barely looks up finishing his reading then he hums in agreement.
"It is winter" He mutters, I smile a little as I move toward him, climbing into his lap I place my hand's on his waist. I let my fingers run down his V line waiting for him to put the book down.
"Aren't you a genius?" I ask a smile spreading on my lip's when he hides his laugh because I touched a tickelish spot.
"Are you mocking me?" He looks up, takes his pencil and circles something in his book, then he closes the book and puts it on the nightstand his hand landing on my waist.
"Ah mocking would be a strong word I think Hoping to get you to kill yourself much better" I lean down to him, his lip's pull into a small smirk as he leans up, For a second I'm on top trying to kiss him the next he is on top of me his body trapping me undearneath him his knee parting my legs as he shakes his head with a tsk.
A year ago I would be baffled by the simple fact of him smiling.
Tom was well composed, he never smiled to much, never showed more emotion than needed to satesfy the people around him, but over time I got him to actually laugh and even giggle on some occasions, we never really discussed what we we're but we also didn't do much outside of studying and fucking so it was a perfect match.
Plus he was fine as hell.
His lip's met mine and his hand's went under my hoodie, unclipping my bra he lifted me toward him, arching my back I grind into him his hardness turning me on immidiatly.
I part my legs some more letting him lay inbetween them, I help him take my hoodie and shirt off, my clothes landing on the floor.
He kisses down my neck, his teeth digging into my skin, my hand reaches my mouth covering it when he bites the sensible spot on my upper neck, I feel him smile against my neck, his hand's cuping my breast, running his thumb over my hard nipples appling pleasure making me close my eyes and find my breath.
I roll my hips into him, the hickeys on my neck already uncountable, needy for him I grab his hair, pulling him off me I wrap my legs around his waist and turn him on his back, I throw my head back and let out a shaky breath.
"Thank Merlin I learnt that hiding spell" Tom muttered his hand resting on my neck his thumb running over my adams apple.
I laugh a little exited to see his art work.
"Tommy I really need you inside off me" I mutter to which he laughs.
"Needy girl" he whisperes his eyes pulling me into heaven.
"I can feel how hard you are don't make me walk out Cause I will find somebody else you definetly won't" Tom rolls his eyes his hand dropping onto my torso pushing past my skirt he lifts my hips up, I push my hand down on his chest holding myself up as he slip's out of his pants, I let out a shaky breath feeling him push my –very wet– underway to the side, his tip touches my entrance and I look up at him, his eyes meet mine and I wish for a second he would be nice and gentle.
I let out a moan when he pushes me down on him in a fast and strong movement, I cover my mouth not wanting to cry out, everytime I remember how big he actually is, filling me up compleatly I feel butterflies errupt in my stomach as he kisses my shoulder slowly.
I moan again when I sit up straight, pushing my head back I place my hand on his as he helps me move up and down.
"Fuck" I mutter my hands wrapping around his wrist, my breath gets shakier and slower, my stomach is in physical pain, the knot in my stomach moving up to my chest.
I feel myself tight around him, my mind goes blank as he speeds up, I moan again and again, the pain unberable as he lets out a groan which makes me whimper.
"Come here" he whispers and his hand suddenly grab my neck pulling me down to him, his lip's meet mine as he thrust himself into me, body trembeling as he softly parts my lip's with his kiss, I pant into him my body starting to sweat.
"Tom, I'm gonna cum please don't stop" I whisper my hands running through his hair as he kisses me, I whimper as his teeth grab my lip's.
He mumbles something, then swears, then he throws his head back.
My forehead meets his.
I moan again finally finding release, Tom lets out a soft groan and I feel him fill me up.
"Who thought you how to pull out" I mutter dropping on his body.
"Somebody should have taught your dad" He muttered his chin resting on the top of my head.
Ten minutes later I was back in my dorm turning the shower on and staring at the wall.
Also like I love this song and Its just soo perfect so yhh.
Idk about part 2 btw maybe maybe not.
I move closer to them, one of them noticing and without hesitation pulling me into the circle of friend's, an arm around me and jumping up and down with me.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
The music is making my body sway, my hip's slowly as I let my hand's go through my hair and down my body, the alcohol making me feel dizzy, looking around I notice the group of boy's before me, all of them jumping up arm in arm laughing, I look back to see my friend's in the booth getting new drink wondering why they aren't here with me like that, returning my attention back to the boy's, I Grin as I see one of the Blondes Loudly singing to the song, His hand in a fist as Microphone as his friend's cheer him on.
"Excuse me baby boy, just had to dance with you know" I muse loudly and finally his eyes lock with mine, he grin's as I loudly sing with him, he step's aside and the other's laugh as I sing toward the boy.
"See theres nobody in here that compares to you, no! Your hand's on my waist, my lip's you wanna taste" He moves closer, his hand's around my hip's and I grind myself into him, wrapping my hand's around his neck, he lick's his lip's and I grin.
"Come muvéte muvéte muvéte" I sing and his face moves closer to mine, his nose brushing mine as he guides my hip's against his, his lip's brushing mine, I press my lip's against his, his hand's responding by pulling me closer into him, running up and down my back he cup's my ass and I part my lip's for his tounge and he bites my lip.
Our bodies move against the music.
The people outside die out, I can hear their laughter but I shut it out as he kisses me toward the music and all I can hear is him panting and the music making my body move.
"Y/N!" I pull away harshly and push him off as my best friend Katie stares at me.
"No! Absoulutly not! We said no boys!"
"I- you did not just ruin the best kiss of my life for a stupid promise!" I scream over the music and notice how his hand's stayed on my hip standing behind me as his friend's laugh.
"Mate fuck off she's on a boy ban"
"Nope babe stay!" I demand and he laugh's laudly.
"Harry come on they're gonna start fighting over you-" one of the boy's say's and me and katie look at him then at each other and start laughing.
"Dude you think we would fight over a guy?" I ask laughing as the boy behind me —Harry— licks his lip's when I look back at him.
"Let alone him" Katie says and I frown.
"What's that supposed to mean he look's good" I ask and she scoff's.
"You drunk and its night-"
"Nope i stand by it he look's like that one youtuber- I always have his thirst traps on my fyp whats his name?"
"The autistic guy?" Somehow as me and Katie talk the guys didn't get bored and created a circle around us.
"Yeah yeah"
"You see the problem in your statement or no?" She ask's and I laugh again.
"Harry Lewis" I look at the boy who gave the answer, A lanky guy who is grinning from ear to ear hitting the guy beside him.
"Yeah that fucker- so hot- look's just like you friend Har-" I look back to see him biting his lip's in a grin.
"Oh fuck-" I gasp my eyes widening as I grab Katie by the hand and literally run.
Harry Lewis. I just made out with Harry Lewis. And he was just as good as I'd imagine.
"Fuck fuck fuck" I run into the bathroom
"Fuck Katie" Katie laugh's as I cover my face in emberassment, the light's of the bathroom wake me up a bit and I laugh again.
I clean up my lip's and my hair before breathing through. Fixing the blue mini dress on my body I look at Katie for help who just shrugg's.
"God's I hope they changed club's" I mutter as we step outside again but no no, he's leaning against the bathroom wall on his phone his friend's in the back chatting with my friend's, at my table.
Harry look's up as I step out, looking me up and down I blush and cover my face looking at Katie for advise but she moved toward the other's leaving us alone.
"I'm Harry" he extend's his hand and I let my eyes lock with his sliding my hand into his.
"Y/n" I whisper and he pull's me closer by the hand.
"May I pay for your next drink?" He ask's and I lick my lip's, he's right before me again and I suppress the urge to just climb him and kiss him again. Nodding slowly I whisper out a yes, his eyes dip to my lip's and my hand around his, he pull's me along.
"Go to drink?" He ask's as we approach the bar, leaning in close to say the word's into my ear letting me actually hear them.
"Double vodka shot with lime?" I ask and he turns his face to me, again his gaze dip's to my lip's and so does mine as he grin's.
"Are you my soulmate or-?"
"Coincidence." I assure him as he order's four shot's and I take the salt shaker off the counter.
"You wanna do something fun?" I ask, he nod's, I wet my lip's with my tounge and start pressing salt on it making it stick, our shot's arrive and I press one into his hand, he doesn't hesitate to lean down and lick the salt of my lip kissing me for a second my own tounge getting the salt too as I lick it off his tounge, I take a shot and quickly grab the lime biting into it.
"Fuck your a dream" He whisper's into my ear and I blush again smiling, I take the salt shaker again this time I simply sprinkle it on my tongue and take the second shot quickly.
He take's his second one aswell and I watch as the liquid spill's over his lip, without thinking I lean up as soon as he set's the glass down I'm going on my tip toes to reach him and kiss him, I wonder if he really wanted to kiss me that bad or if it was the taste of lime juice in my mouth that made him grab my waist and pull me on top of him.
"Can we get out of here?" He ask's and I nod furiusly as I place my hand's on his shoulder's, out of his hair.
"Yes please" I whisper into him and We quickly walk back to the other as I grab my purse and he grab's his jacket, I pull Katie toward me and tell her I'm leaving to which she roll's her eyes.
"Autistic guy she has to pay me 20 pound's if you guys hook up you know" I gasp as the other's stare at us, the girl's giggle as the other boy's start questioning me and Katie but Harry grab's my hand and waist pulling me along.
"I'll pay it don't worry" he say's to Katie who visibly gasp's.
Harry pull's me outside of the club and I start jumping a little as the cold get's to me.
"Fuck" I shudder, Harry pull's his phone out and order's an uber drunkly looking at me.
"Where's your coat?" He ask's, the blue mini dress around me not being the best for cold wheather I suppose but I just smile akwardly as he look's at me with a dissapointmet mum look.
"I can't look good in a coat" I say and he laugh's, taking his coat off he put's it around me, sturggeling with the zipper, I put my arm's through the holes and hug into him as he closes the zipper, I laugh, he put's his arm's over my shoulder's and I hug him back keeping him warm in return.
He look's down and I'm thankful for wearing high heels because I only have to highten myself a little to reach his lip's.
I kiss him quietly, the music and the people gone compleatly as his hand's go into my hair pulling me into him.
Somebody honks and I groan into him.
"Uber" he say's grabbing my hand he pull's me into the car and onto his lap.
"Good night mate?" The driver ask's as I think of kissing him but the taxi driver look's back at us so I curl up into Harry instead blushing horribly against his panting chest, I can feel him hard underneath me and his hand goes to my thigh running it up and down my bare skin making me want to whimper.
"Please tell me you live right around the corner?" I ask whispering but he grin's in response pressing a warm kiss to my lip's.
"10 minutes love" he promises and I close my eyes as he kisses me slowly, nothing like the kiss before, this kiss is warm and soft and there to last for an hour or two without moving a single muscle.
He strokes my back, my hair, my leg's and I pull away panting.
"Few more minutes" I let my head drop into his chest and close my eyes against him.
After what feel's like hour's the Uber stop's and as soon as we step out of the car and the door closes he presses his lip's onto mine harshly, hungryly grabbing my ass he lift's me off the ground and his jacket is the only thing in the way for comfortability as he walk into the building, in the elevator he unzips the jacket as he hold's me up against the wall kissing my neck, biting my neck, sucking on my skin until im moaning.
I walk backward's toward where he is leading me through the hallway, he fumbles in his pocket while his lip's are on mine and I sigh and Pant against his, he groan's until he find's the key's the presses me against the door as he opens it, we collide with the wall in his flat and I gasp as he takes his shirt off and I Try to unzip my dress, turning me around, my ass flusch against him, he kisses my neck from behind unzipping my dress slowly taking it off, I moan loudly as his hand's run down my chest and cup my breast squezing softly, he sucks another hickey into my skin.
Pressing into me from behind, I rub myself against his hardness and he groan's.
"Bedroom" he mumbles turning me back around, my lip's meet his and I fumble with his belt as he moves me from the wall guiding me toward his bedroom, I hear him take his shoes off as I throw his belt to the side.
The dress fall's off compleatly and I struggle to get my heels through it, taking off his pants he leaves my lip's quickly getting down on his knees, with a simple push he sit's me on his bed and I gasp opening my eyes to realize we're already in his room, looking down on him he takes my heel's off quickly kissing up my leg's he kisses the inside of my thigh's, not thankful that I wore white panties because you can see the wetness right through them and he grin's looking up to me with those fucking beautiful eyes.
"Fuck" I swear, his hand hocks around my thigh's and his lip's caress my thigh's, slowly he takes my panties off and I thank all the god's for reminding myself to shave, as his tounge run's over my wetness making me moan out loudly.
"Fuck" I moan again as he start's kissing and sucking and fucking magic on me, I stay silent for about five second before I turn into a moaning mess, One of his hand hold my leg's apart as I shake against his face, his other one running up and down my stomach pushing me to calm my shaking down but fuck i'm sensitive.
His hand moves from my stomach and two of his finger's fill me up, I cry out loudly gasping for air.
"Please please please" I beg screaming as a wave of pleasure roll's through me.
"Fuck Harry please" His head fall's back and he grin's licking his lip's and his finger's clean before moving up to me and kissing my lip's.
"Fuck you taste like magic" He groans loudly into my mouth his hand's holding my face in place.
He moves on top of me and I scotch up the bed hoocking my leg's around his waist I use all the strengh in my body to make him turn around on his back, I grind myself down on him and I use my hand to feel to get him complewttly hard, he moan's as I stroke him a couple of times before alining him to my entrance.
"Hey i'm clean but uhm condom?" He ask's and I shrug.
"Im on the pill? And i'm definetly clean." I Inform, he licks his lip's and his hand come around my waist, pushing me down a little, I let myself drop on him and I moan out, he fill's me up compleatly and I look down groaning in frustraisiton as I see that I'm about halfway down on him. "Fuck" I moan as I start moving up and down until I really have all of him inside of me, I let out a shaky laugh and look at him, he has his head back, his lip's pressed in a fine line as he starts guiding my hip's back and fourth, up and down.
"Fuck your so thight, Love" he moan's and I moan leaning my body down to him, kissing him slowly as he start's moving his hip's into me, He hold's me down steadily as He fuck into me with force, making me cry out again and again, he groans loudly.
"I'm gonna cum, fuck" I whisper my eyes tearing up at the pure pleasure going through my body.
"Fuck please do" he muttered in a groan and it doesn't take much more than that please for me to realease, sitting up I ride out my high as I hear him groan loudly and feel him slowly fill me up, I sink down on him and let him do exactly that, he moans and sit's up grabbing my face with both hand's and kissing me, my skin against his, I feel how sweaty i've gotten, how hot his skin is.
"Shower please?" I ask after ten minutes if not moving, sitting there and kissing him until We finally calm down.
I get off him slowly as he point's toward the shower.
I put the water on and wash my body clean, I can barely stand so I sit down in the shower, noticing how fucking expensive it all look's I take as little as I can from his shampoo and clean my hair and body.
I step outside and notice a fresh towel on the sink along with some boxers and a T-shirt.
I put the clothes on drying my hair with the towel as good as I can.
Stepping outside I notice he's put fresh cover's on the bed and also that he's put my clothes in a near pile on the chair.
"Do you wanna stay overnight or?"
"I mean if you don't want to I can leave no worries? I'll get the uber don't-"
"No no no, I'd love for you to stay, actually please do stay." He say's and I look at him, he's in some grey sweatpant's and I grin a little moving toward him.
"I would love to stay then" I mutter and he leans down because now that I don't have my heals on it would be very hard for me to reach his lip's.
"Great, then I'll just be right back out with you, make yourself comfortable" he kisses me quickly before going to take a shower himself.
I take my phone out my purse and text katie a quick messege.
10/10 asked me to stay over plus fuck fuck fuck he's good. Too good im scared in a good way
I was just like... Barty and Evan probably took years to get to it and like admit it but until then they we're unintentionaly already in Love so yuh
Warnings: Gays, saddness
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Evan Rosier never even thought of dying, it seemed funny if he was honest, to imagine how his lifeless body was strained somewhere with no one to think of him, bullshit.
Because Evan was never alone, since birth he had his Twin by his side Pandora being the light of his life, and then his best friend ran into his life or well rather over his life.
Barty Crouch Jr. Liked to scream, he started the second his Father tried to dissmiss him and wouldn't stop until he got everything he ever wanted.
Because Barty was always alone, he often thought of himself dead, strained somewhere where no one even could find him.
Interestingly enough both sat in silence as the question was asked, the 16 year old's staring into space, their knees touching under the table, Barty's tattoed hand tapping against Evan's seat.
For a second Barty closer his eyes, imagining a sunny beach, the warmth of the sun glazing his skin as he looker up toward the sky.
He could Imagine it he noticed, he could imagine a cottage, on a rocky beach that got sandy when you walked toward it, warm summer rain that would wake them.
Them, because it was never just him he imagined. Sometimes he imagined Regulus and Pandora, Dorcas as well but it was always Evan who woke up beside him, it was always the crazy blond boy that had him wrapped around a finger.
Because since he first met Evan on the train he never imagined something without him in it.
Evan looked over to the Black haired boy watching as he day dreamt through the question non of them listening to the answers the other Student explained.
"What are you thinking about?" Evan asked pushing his leg into Barty's.
"Eh Hookers mostly why'?" Barty grinned opening his eyes to look at Evan.
"Oh so Prostitutes are the new hobby? Didn't know you had those Plans Jr." Evan laughed as Barty rolled his eyes, he watched softly as Barty ran his hand through his hair, then rubbed his face his fingers lingering by his lip's, the skin beneath his fingertips itching.
"Mate you literally are a Whore don't know who your talking off" Barty propped his head up on his arm, looking at Evan, from the window behind the blond sunlight streamed in, the evening sun golden as it hit Evan's skin from behind, using Evan as a shield he watched in awe as the sun turned his Friend into a saint.
Evan didn't seem to notice his Friend staring as he laughed the comment off.
"Mr Rosier?" The room fell silent as Evan lifted his head to see his Teacher.
"Yes?" He asked in actual Confusion making Barty snort out a loud laugh and the other's giggle softly.
"Your death? How do you imagine yourself dying?" Evan stared at Proffesor Binns not sure how to answer said Question, Barty nudged him and he jerked a little before caughing to clear his throat.
"Probably get like mauled to death by a bear or something" Evan joked grinning from ear to ear he looks down at Barty who is still proped up on the table laughing out loud and admiering his view.
"Ah What about you Mr Crouch" Barty cringed internaly at the name, sitting up straight he brough his leg up on his seat leaning on his knee he stared at Proffesor Binn's with a death stare.
"Ain't thought about it before but probably gonna get beaten dead by my Father when he finds out I like to suck Cock" Girls muffled their laugh, boys gagged while laughing, Regulus rolled his eyes in the front glancing back at his Friends, Pandora laughed loudly turning toward Barty and showing him two thumbs ups.
Evan swallowed the lump in his throat, wrapped his arm over Barty's shoulder and ruffled his hair.
"Detention. Both of you. Out." Proffesor Binn was fuming but it only made the two laugh more, pushing each other of their seats.
Evan grabbed their bags while Barty took care of their notebooks.
They waved at Regulus who lifted his middle finger grinning, Regulus groaned internally, he admiared both of them, Barty who was ready to take down the fucking Ministry just so he didn't have to talk to his Father and Evan who once burned down one of the Classrooms for Runes because he didn't have his homework.
Pandora found them the dumbest people she has ever met not only because of how stupid they acted but also because of how oblivious they we're.
The sun was shining, reflecting it's light on the lake, Barty had layed out his cloak on the ground, fresh grass surrounding them, beside him Evan was halfway asleep, his wand lazy in his hand whispering spells practising them on branches above their head, sunlight streamed through the trees, warming their skin, Barty took a drag out of his Fag, the smoke dissolving in the air, the smell filling his nostrills as he watched Evan's hand move through the air's, veins covering the white skin, a small scar under his thumb, another one on his middle finger, several small –barely visible– stars tattoed on his pinky and ring finger.
"So? Didn't know you came out already?" Evan's voice was barely a whisper, his tone soft and caring, his eyes searching for Barty's.
Barty Propped himself up on his elbow looking down at Evan while laying on his side.
"Thought you had noticed when I would stare at you after Quidditch, Love" Barty joked to which Evan rolled his eyes, scoffing he looked up, watching the leaves move in the wind.
"Why you down?" Barty asked, reaching out he turned Evans face toward his his fingers lingering on Evan's skin.
"Just- ah nothing Forget it" Evan Blinked against the sun, fighting the urge to stare into Barty's eyes, most people thought Barty had black eyes, dark brown at most but Evan could see the blue in them, simething shimmering between the darkness sparkeling whenever Barty smiled at him.
"Tell me" Barty shoved his friend, softly his finger's grabbing onto the white fabrik, the material felt soft between his fingers.
"Forget it!" Evan reached out and took the Cigarette out of Barty's hand bringing the filter to his mouth he took a deep drag while looking at barty.
Barty's skin was shimmering in a light brown, the sun already long enough on him during Quidditch that it had darkned him, Evan admierd him for having such deep color he hated the way his skin burned immidiatly, hated the way he blushed immidiatly when Barty's skin brushed against his. Hated how he basically glowed in pictures.
The Fag was still in between the blonds finger's as he reachead out and softly grazed Barty's cheek, Barty who forgot how to breath watched in a trance as Evan's eyes followed his own movement, following his own fingers he didn't see the way Barty was almost suffocating not wanting to move so that Evan wouldn't stop.
Evan had to remind himself to breath aswell, almost as if his heart had stopped beating the feeling of Barty's skin on his was addictive, they had always been close, they're fingers finding each other, Barty's fingers rushing to take Evan's, Evan's arm wrapping around Barty's waist, they're bodies against each other during christmas it was all always so natural.
But now it seemee different, since last september Barty had looked diffrent Evan thought. He had gained more muscle, more charm aswell, the Tattoo's across his body had multiplied the amount of cigarettes he smoked aswell.
And somehow had Barty changed the way he talked, his accent had shifted, he talked loose as if no one was listening, sometimes Evan was scared Barty forgot that he was present, maybe if Evan would change his hair or put a diffrent shirt on Barty would look at him more, maybe then he would stop commenting about how Jasmines ass looked in that skirt or how he liked her hair. Because Evan didn't care about Jas he didn't care how she walked or talked and he definetly didn't care about her fucking hair.
Barty watched as Evan lost himself in his own world, staring into nothing the blue shade of his eyes looked transparent, softly he reached toward Evans hand that had paused milimeters away from his face not quiet touching him.
His fingers grazed Evan's, softly slipping through them Evan's bruised knuckles soft against Barty's palm. Barty pushed Evans hand toward his mouth and took a drag out of his Cigarette.
Meanwhile Evans eyes had snapped toward Barty's, Barty had tilted his head watching a little amused as the smoke escaped his mouth again.
Barty wanted to kiss Evan since 3rd year, after quidditch practise when Evan was still joggif around hype on energy, when Barty had forgotten to pay attention and tripped, right into Evan who had yelped crashing on the ground, Barty had fallen on top of the blond and the groulsome sound of something breaking went through the hall. Barty could hear it in his dreams, because Evan had broken his anckle, Evan was crying, his sobs echoing in the hall as Barty began to panic.
Thankfully some of the older kid's had just come around the corner and helped Evan.
Guiding them toward the hospital wing two of the seventh year girls had stayed with Barty trying to calm him down, because Barty couldn't breath, Barty was shaking, Barty had the feeling that he just ruined Evans life, something inside of him was crying and all he could do was not breath.
There was no oxygen in this world for him.
Arriving at the Hospital wing Barty pushed forward, ready to take the blame and help somehow but he froze when he sae Pomfrey's concerned face, he was frozen in place and emberassed.
"I tripped mustv'e twisted it or something" Evan said to Pomfrey, Barty stared at Evan, Evan was sweaty, his short hair sticking to his forhead, his eyes red from crying and tears had dried up on his cheeks.
Barty was staring, he felt so greatful he could cry but he bit the inside of his cheek and waited.
Later that day, when the sun had set and Evan was asleep, Barty set beside the bed, he was watching how softly Evan was sleeping and he took a shaky breath before crying, he couldn't help it he realized.
But Evan looked so peacefull and so beautfiul all Barty wanted to do, really wanted to do was lean over and press his lip's on Evans.
Barty thought of that moment now, the way Evans eyelashes looked countable, the way his hair was falling into his face, the way his finger felt against Barty's lip's as he brought them toward him again.
All of it made him think, all of it made him want to climb on top of Evan and simply kiss him.
Barty swallowed, blinking he dropped his hands, Afraid he moved back, scared he turned away from Evan.
No because my roman empire is Clarke and Bellamy not ending up toghether. Like how?? They had so much sooooo mcuh amazing chemistry? Its just so stupid that they didn't.
