The Nathan Of It All

“Isaa-I- Isaac,” you breathed out, chest heaving as a warmth ran down your body, pooling at where he was ravenously pressing kisses to.

“shh…don’t…we haven’t even gotten to the good part…” he whispered, glancing up at you.

Isaac moved his hand from your thighs, thumb rubbing up and down your clit before yanking the fabric to the side, taking a moment to watch your wetness flow onto his crafting desk. He wouldn’t condone any mess, so he’d have to clean you up, of course… He licked the fluid up like he was thirsty and you were the only remedy. His tongue was as masterful as his hands with crafts, artfully dipping between the lips into your warmth. Isaac was by no means a quiet eater, more so moaning into your pussy and messily painting his face in your wetness.

You felt the length of his tongue slowly enter your pussy, taking all your willpower not to whine too loudly, instead opting to let quiet whimpers out. He paused, moving to look up at you to your dismay,

“You like that?” He tilted his head innocently at the noises you were making.

“Ye-yeah you bastard- keep going,” you shot him a withering glare. He laughed, a cold, fickle sound that reverberated through the lab before he abruptly stood up, hand clenched as he raised it. You felt your body get pressed down by a force, so that you laid back down against the desk. You watched as Isaac climbed on top of you, with your thighs still spread and pretty cunt still exposed. He shifted, pushing your legs up over his shoulder to fold you into a mean, nasty mating press.

“I’m full,” he whispered in your ear, shrugging as he pulled at his pants, freeing an already erect cock. He looked down at you, getting full view of the whorish expression you made as he pushed his length between your lips. He frowned, groaning a little as your walls immediately clenched around him, “But you’re hungry too, aren’t you?” Isaac smirked, roughly bullying his cock deeper into your hungry cunt. He dipped his head down to nuzzle at your neck, tongue slithering out to lap at your neck and collarbones, sucking to create little love bites. His hips pressed into yours, his motions all rough and apathetic like the only thing he was focused on was making a mess of your guts. Your walls clenched around him one final time, effectively milking his dick for all it was worth, his cock shooting ropes of cum, filling you up. He panted like a madman, slowly moving off you as he pulled his pants back up and tugged at his lab coat. He watched you on the desk, his cum dripping out of your pussy. What a pretty artwork he’d made…

“Back to work,”

Warnings: the reader is referred to as a girl or a woman, and has a vagina and breasts, and the reader is referred to using she/her pronouns, but as with all my fics, the primary pronouns used in the narration are you/yours; the reader does wear skirts; the reader is a Ravenclaw (a bit of self indulgence, hehe); this fic does use Y/N to refer to the reader, as well as L/N (in this case, meaning Last Name); the reader is referred to as Miss at some points; the reader’s hair colour, eye colour, body type, race, and other physical attributes are not described in any way; it is mentioned that the reader wears skirts; it is mentioned that Fred is taller than the reader, but this is based on the assumption that he would be taller than most people because James Phelps is over six feet tall; this is set during the Hogwarts era, but there is no mention of specific book or film plotlines, and for those who have a stick up your ass about it, for all intents and purposes, the characters are eighteen or older (there is a passing mention of them graduating soon); Fred calls reader a number of pet names, including: ‘love’, ‘darling’, ‘sweetheart’,; this fic contains Dubious Consent - Fred grabs and gropes the reader without her explicit consent and permission, and she continually denies that she enjoys it, but they have an unspoken sexual attraction toward each other while all this is going on; severely under-negotiated kink; panty stealing (magic edition); flashing (reader flashes Fred); Fred having (at one time) one-sided sexual fantasies about the reader, Fred writing smut about the reader (Fred refers to the reader as ‘a good little whore’ in this written smut fantasy); there is some Dom and Sub dynamics, and Fred is more dominant and the reader is more submissive, though it is very brat tamer themed (Fred outright refers to the reader as a brat at one point); public/semi-public sex (it’s in a public and well trafficked area, but at a low traffic time while no one else is there); hair-pulling (reader recieving); spanking (reader recieving); dumbification kink - Fred calls the reader a ‘dumb whore’; ass eating (reader receiving) (I know not everyone likes it but Fred is an ass man through and through in this fic); teasing, edging, purposeful orgasm denial (reader receiving); humiliation kink (in little bits and dashes through); anal sex (reader receiving) (spit is used as lube, and there is implications of magically appearing additional lube) (no condom is used); first time anal (but the reader and Fred are definitely NOT virgins in general); punishment anal - Fred uses this as a tactic to get the reader to ‘behave’ and because he thinks she doesn’t ‘deserve’ vaginal sex yet; the anal sex is NOT described as painful, and pain is not majorly used as part of the punishment (it’s more about orgasm restriction and Fred being a teasing, purposefully selfish lover); creampie kink; exhibitionism kink (on Fred’s part, reader is terrified of getting caught) (they don’t actually have sex in front of other people, just in high risk areas); getting interrupted (briefly) - George interrupts them briefly but Fred doesn’t care; I hope I didn’t forget anything, and if I did please let me know!

A/N: I had sooo much fun writing this. The title is an homage to when I first started writing fanfiction (which was Harry Potter fanfiction) - at the time, this song and Dirty by Christina Aguilera where the most scandalous songs I could think of, and I would listen to this song all the time when reading fanfiction (as well as the whole album in general). Idk what it is, but I am just sooo convinced that Fred would be an ass man, and that inspiration alone drove me to this fic. Originally this fic was just gonna be the common room scene, but I got carried away, as I usually do. I hope you enjoy it!

...

You were not someone who took the concept of 'hatred' lightly.

Unlike Slytherins who threw around insults without care, the kind of people who were capable of holding grudges for years, you thought of yourself as someone more intelligent, someone who operated with a higher level of logic and reason. When you chose to hate someone or something, it was with a good pile of evidence backing you up. You were a Ravenclaw, and you liked to believe that you looked at the world through a wiser lens, and you gathered all the evidence on something before you brought your emotions into it.

You hated it when people mispronounced words – a show of mocking intelligence and cockiness, without enough humility to ask for help. You hated feeling belittled, especially by men and boys who thought they knew more than you. You hated people whining and complaining, especially without good reason. And you hated onions – the smell, the texture, the sight of them. That last one was just personal, but still, should be noted.

So when you said that you hated Fred Weasley, it wasn't something that you ever said lightly. You had truly found a long, long list of reasons to hate him. Even if he was so similar to his twin brother George, you found George to be far more tolerable than Fred. For some reason, Fred was the grander of the two scheming, prankster evils, downright detestable, even when he was just standing around and breathing near you.

You found yourself more and more steaming angry whenever you had to be around him for a prolonged period of time. He was cocky, he was far too grand for no reason, he was boisterous, and loud, and generally bloody annoying. And worst of all, he got away with so many little things that other students would never even dream of getting by with. All he had to do was wink and give a smile, and he could move on with his day without the slightest consequence coming his way.

He could swear in front of Professors and as long as he rushed to apologize, they would shake it off. He could turn in his homework late, and as long as it came with some funny, long, winding excuse, they never cared. They seemed proud of him for simply getting it done in the first place. He could tease and taunt other students right in front of authority figures and as long as a group was laughing along with him, nobody reprimanded him for it. It was all simply in good fun, it seemed.

It pissed you off to no end that Fred Weasley got away with so much when others got house points deducted by Professors and Prefects for simply sneezing in the wrong direction sometimes. You were sick of Fred's attitude, and you were more than sick of him acting as though he ran Hogwarts, acting like he was some sort of king that all others should kneel too.

All of this became all the more aggravating and apparent to you one day in class, an unlucky day when Ravenclaw was in the Transfiguration room with the Gryffindor students. A day when you were woefully forced to be around him.

Even before class began, Fred was in the back of the room, speaking in his usually loud, boisterous voice as he regaled his classmates with some tale of his needless stupidity.

“-so Georgie pitched it over my shoulder, and it lands-”

“-right in McLaggen's face!” George added on with a bright laugh.

“We weren't expecting the thing to burst open.” Fred commented, somehow his laughter louder, and all the more annoying than his twin brother's.

“And we certainly weren't expecting the thing to be filled with so much puss.” George finished, causing a round of rousing laughter to come from the Gryffindors they were surrounded by.

You scoffed at the disgusting end to this story while others laughed, shaking your head, making no effort to hide your disdain for their antics. You were annoyed by their overwhelming loudness, the fact that they felt the need to perform for the room like jesters that nobody had called for. You felt deeply disrupted while you were trying to focus on your journal. You weren't writing anything particularly important, just doing random doodles in the margin to try and distract yourself from Fred's irritating voice bouncing off the back of your head. But still – a classroom is a place to study, not to fool around.

“Got a problem there, Miss L/N?” Fred asked, directing his attention toward you, sharply eyeing the tension that was knit across your shoulders as you held your pen with tight fingers. “Or is it just the usual stick up your arse? Making you a bit too stiff this morning, hmm?”

There was a round of quieter, snickering laughter from the group he was sitting with, and you let out another harsh scoff, refusing to turn and look at him. You refused to engage him in this conversation, unwilling to respond to something so stupid, so low.

“Oi, Freddie, one of these days you'll have to have a look up her skirt and see if there is actually one there.” George added on with a laugh. “S'pose you might even find a whole broom up there, with how uptight she acts.”

You distinctly felt the hemline of your skirt move where it was sitting on the edge of the classroom stool, the gentlest shift as if someone had tried to pick it up and look underneath it, just barely threatened to. This was followed by more laughter. You slapped your pen down and whipped around sharply, glaring at the group of Gryffindor boys who were all ruffled with laughter now.

“Stop it!” You snapped. “Don't you have any manners? Have you nothing better to do with your time? You pathetic, mindless-”

“I like that stick up my arse! Right where I intended it to be!” Fred cut you off, performing a shrill, mocking tone of a girl's voice that sounded nothing like you. “Come on, you wouldn't know fun if it smacked you in the face like a...”

He struggled for a moment, looking for a good metaphor, and then George stepped in.

“Like a puss-filled Dittany leaf!”

They rolled into laughter once again, and you were more than thankful when Professor McGonagall strolled into the room.

“Everyone, in your seats!” She yelled out, trying to bring order to the room. “Everyone, stop your rough-housing, and get your seats! I do apologize for my tardiness, but we do need to begin.”

You were surprised when the boys actually listened to her, and relieved when the general noise of the classroom quieted down. Finally, a peaceful place to concentrate. You didn't notice Fred's eyes lingering on you as you turned around in your seat, facing the front of the classroom once again.

“Now, for our first order of business, I will be collecting the essays I requested last time on the history of Vanishing Spells-”

A large portion of the class collectively groaned, and Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes, well you should all have it completed by now. No excuses.” She scolded gently. “Miss L/N, can you please collect the essays and put them on my desk while I write some notes for today's lesson on the board?”

“Yes, Professor.” You nodded and stood from your seat, taking your own essay with you, which you had ready and sitting on the corner of your desk.

You began to walk the room, collecting piles of parchment from everyone else.

And of course, it wasn't long before you came to the row of desks in the back where Fred was sitting.

You were annoyed to even be in his presence, and of course, he didn't have his homework ready to hand over to you. He was even making this process drawn out and detestable.

“Oh, hello love.” He smirked at you. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You didn't say anything in return, and instead, you gave him a harsh look as you held out your hand expectantly.

“You know, not a lot of people could pull off that uptight, frigid expression as well as you do, but somehow, you really make it work.” He said, his voice soft and flirtatious, the half-baked compliment only further serving to piss you off.

“Your essay.” You demanded, pressing your open hand closer to his face, knowing that your tone was, brash, short and nagging. But of course, you did not truly have the patience to be sweet or polite with him. Ultimately, he didn't deserve it.

“Oh, right.” He nodded, putting on that comical act once again, as though he had just remembered what he had been instructed to do only moments ago.

He made a show of slowly bending down to his book bag at his feet, whistling idly as he did so, while George handed you his essay over Fred's back. Because of course, George wasn't nearly as irritating as his brother.

Fred Weasley would never call himself short-sighted. Many others would, because they often never saw the brilliance in all of the detailed planning that went into his pranks. He was definitely impulsive, but he would never call himself short-sighted.

So as his hand came out of his bag with his half-finished, half-assed essay in hand, and he was struck with the most brilliant idea that he had conceptualized in a long time, his impulses certainly got the better of him. Because of course, everything aligned to be so perfect in that moment – how could he resist?

He was still half bent over near his bag, and he found himself perfectly staring at your ass as you faced the front, your eyes locked intently on what McGonagall was writing on the board with all the intensity of a curious, mindful Ravenclaw. And he couldn't help but to chase his impulses then. You weren't paying attention and neither was McGonagall, and you weren't wearing any tights with your school skirt that day – just some sinfully tempting knee high socks, and one well-timed glance up a bit higher told him that you had chosen pink panties that day.

He really couldn't help himself.

He sat back up to his full height, and just before he placed his essay onto the desk top, he reached over with his free hand and grabbed a greedy handful of your ass. No hesitation, no shyness, harsh, demanding, his palm slipping underneath the edge of your skirt and gripping onto the bare flesh where it was sneaking out from the edge of your panties. Such a firm hand that his fingerprints could still be felt in your flesh even after he pulled away.

You let out a quiet, tight gasp, the barest escape of air through your lips – a sound that could barely be heard over the general chatter in the classroom and the sound of McGonagall's chalk smacking against the blackboard. But still, that reaction left Fred intensely satisfied, nonetheless.

By the time you whipped around to catch Fred, his hand was back in his own lap safely, innocently, as if nothing had ever happened. A harsh zip of electricity that you would deny felt anything like lust ran through you, leaving your heart pounding and your pussy echoing a small ache like a scream resounding through a lonely cave, dangerous traces of something yet to come. It left you buzzing with warmth between your thighs, and your mild annoyance toward Fred turning into a bubbling rage.

As if it were some kind of muscle-driven instinct, you reached up with the thick handful of essays that you had in hand and smacked Fred across the back of the head with the pile of parchment. It was no where close to a harmful blow, just a move to stun him in return as he had stunned you.

Fred burst out laughing, even more pleased with your reaction as you grew angrier and more visibly flustered, which made you even more angry as your pussy tingled with lust.

“Weasley!” You snapped. “How dare you-!”

“Miss L/N!” McGonagall's voice entered the mix, and you felt a sharp twist of shame jolt through your stomach, as though you had been caught doing something terrible, something deeply wrong.

You stood up straight, facing the front, hating Fred's wide, satisfied grin in your peripheral vision.

You hated that you felt guilty when in fact, Fred was the one who had groped you so boldly, in public, without even asking permission first. Especially when the context of your interaction was nothing even close to be sexual. What the hell had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking at all?

“I suppose you have a good reason for smacking Mr. Weasley upside the head?” Professor McGonagall continued. “I know it's something we've all had the desire to do at one time or another, but please, tell me it wasn't unprompted.”

Your throat went dry. You could have just told her that he had grabbed your ass. She definitely would have given him detention over it. But some nagging thing in the back of your head told you that he would find a way to escape blame. That he would somehow turn it around on you. You felt him staring at your cheek, and out of the corner of your eye, you could still see his horrible, devious smirk. Maybe he would tell McGonagall that your skirt was too short, maybe he would tell her that you had liked it...

“Miss L/N?”

Unconsciously, your free hand rushed behind you to yank down your skirt, trying to hide yourself from view, hating how it had obviously ridden up from you sitting down, and you cleared your throat.

“He – he was stalling.” You quickly accused, avoiding the truth. “He wasn't getting his essay nearly fast enough-”

“Well, unfortunately, that's not a good enough reason to inflict abuse on someone.”

“Abuse?” You gaped in return. “Professor, I didn't even hit him hard-”

“Oh, my poor head.” Fred moaned dramatically, reaching up and grasping his head.

“Stop it, Mr. Weasley.” McGonagall barked at him, causing him to sit up straight in his seat. “You're not getting out of my class to go to the Hospital Wing.”

Fred sighed and shook his head.

“As for you, I expect better from you, Miss L/N. Five points from Ravenclaw.”

“I'm sorry, Professor.” You rushed to apologize, that ugly guilty feeling biting up far too much for your liking. Especially because the whole thing had not even been your fault.

“What about me?” Fred complained. “I was the one that was abused.”

“I'm sorry.” You groaned out, not even looking at him.

He let out a bright laugh.

You let out a harsh sigh, and simply stomped away, moving to collect the rest of the essays before class began. After you handed them in, walking back to your seat, Fred caught your eye and winked at you, and you glared intensely at him.

You were so tired of him getting away with everything. Something needed to be done.

...

You quickly realized that if anything was going to be done about Fred Weasley, then he would need to be caught doing something small, pointless, and stupid. He would need to be punished for something less grand that turning a fifth floor classroom into a swamp or causing a group of third year Hufflepuffs to start balding by putting something into their morning pumpkin juice.

You realized that he would need to be caught doing something vile, short-sighed, and stupid, like grabbing your ass. Everyone would see, call him an awful pervert, and then you would win.

So you would simply have to bait him into doing it again. It was for the greater good.

...

This simple idea turned into a woefully stupid cat and mouse game.

From then on, whenever Fred was around, you tried your best to get his attention without making it seem like you were trying to get his attention. Which strangely, was much harder than you first thought it would be. You had many academic accolades under your belt, and you were far from socially inept, but of all things, this was making you feel clumsy and stupid.

You couldn't walk by him without him calling your name and drawing attention toward you, causing loud hoots and hollers from the group he was with. You couldn't wear a skirt that was shorter than usual without him making some loud, dumb comment about it, immediately drawing attention to the bait of your plan. He always seemed to be one step ahead of you. He was a dumb, loud mouth, but somehow, he was outsmarting you in this. You could never get him to move from that first stupid step – speaking loudly and laughing – into the second step, taking action, in order for him to actually get caught doing something.

He would never get caught wronging you if he never actually did anything wrong. And perhaps he had sniffed out your whole plan days ago and that was the thing he was entirely counting on. Perhaps, somehow, he had the upper hand.

But no, you weren't going to give up that easily.

You would just have to catch him off guard. You would have to catch him when he wasn't expecting it.

And unexpectedly, a fruitful bit of luck fell into your lap one afternoon. It seemed things were actually going your way. You were more than surprised when Fred Weasley and a group of his Gryffindor buddies came into the library to study. You knew some Gryffindors who frequented the library here and there, it wasn't entirely strange to see a Gryffindor caring as much about their studies as Ravenclaws did.

But Fred Weasley wasn't one of those Gryffindors.

Hearing his boisterously loud voice echoing down through the shelves, disrupting your peace as you tried to work on an essay, was just as irritating and shocking as it was pleasing. Pleasing to that tiny, nagging, hateful part of you that wanted so badly to get him in trouble. You just wanted the satisfaction of having him caught have him punished, whether that be by a teacher or having him socially ousted by his friends for once, rather than having everyone laugh along with him at his performances of stupidity.

You pushed aside the supplies for your essay and stood up from your chair, reaching underneath the modest outer grey sweater that covered up your white uniform button up blouse, grabbing at the band of your skirt. This was a longer one, with the hem comfortably touching your knees. A skirt that you had gotten more recently rather than one from years ago that you refused to give up that was maybe a bit too short on you.

You rolled the band over once, twice, tucking the fabric over itself and securing it in place, until this skirt was now much shorter, hovering around your mid thigh – not scandalously short, but enough to definitely catch his eye. You then smoothed down the material and made sure that your sweater was covering the now oddly bunching waistband before you moved down the stacks, moving toward the sound of Fred's voice. You were surprised that Madame Pince hadn't come over to scold him for being so loud yet, but of course – he was Fred Weasley, and he could get away with anything.

The fucking prick.

You tried to look natural as you walked up through the narrow passage jammed with books – of course, you didn't want it to look like you were rushing toward him. Because you weren't. You were just browsing through the books, and Fred was going to see you, be far too tempted, and then he was going to do something absolutely idiotic right in front of all of his friends. And he would get caught, and they would ridicule him. Everything would go according to plan.

You did genuinely get caught up looking at the differences between two copies of Classical Cures for Complex Maladies – one that seemed much older and one that seemed to be a newer reprint, fascinated by the much more worn version of the text, and you hadn't even realized how long you had been standing there. Not until you heard more loud, bursting laughter coming from the table that Fred and company must have been sitting at. You were startled out of your thoughts by their hyena-like qualities.

“Oh my god, you can't be serious? You would rather marry a ground toad than Snape?” One the Gryffindors at the table spoke up, someone whose voice you couldn't easily recognize, roaring with laughter after he spoke the words.

You rolled your eyes at this. Dumbly, their conversation had strayed to something so stupid and shallow. Of course they were spending their time discussing things like that.

“Of course.” Fred's distinctive voice answered. “And it would be a beautiful, long marriage. Well – for however long ground toads live for.”

“You could look it up. In a book.” You recognized the strained, annoyed voice of Angelina Johnson. “Freddie, we came here to study-”

“Yes, and I'm sure I'll get to it in a few minutes.” He quickly cut her off, brushing off her concerns. “Come on, come on, one more round.”

You had no clue how she had the patience to put up with being around someone like him all the time. You were tensely irritated, and you were standing six feet away.

“Alright,” George chimed in. “Snog, marry, hex – a dragon, Harry Potter, and... uh... Y/N L/N.”

There was another round of laughter from the table, and your whole body tensed up even more at the sound of your own name. You now found George to be a bit more detestable for bringing you into the stupid game. You hated how your stomach churned as you waited eagerly for the answers from a conversation that you weren't even supposed to be privy to.

“Well...” Fred said thoughtfully, and you could imagine him stroking his chin in that dumb, cartoonish way that he usually did when he pretended to think. “I'd say I have to marry Mr. Potter, because he's got gold, and I am not opposed to being a spoiled wife.”

“Really, Freddie?” Angelia replied, brightness and laughter lingering in her voice. “You? A spoiled housewife?”

“I think it would quite suite me.” Fred chuckled. “And ya know, we do share a lot of similar interests, so he is pretty decent to be around. And you know that Mum would be over the moon about it.”

Someone let you a snort of laughter at this comment, and you rolled your eyes.

“Ginny would kill you, though.” George replied.

“I... I did not take that into account.” Fred sighed. “I suppose I will have to elope.”

More laughter.

“And well, I would snog Y/N, because she's absolutely fit, but I think she would hex me if I did.” Fred concluded. “It's a bloody dangerous venture that I don't intend to embark on.”

Your insides stilled, filling with a mixture of disgust and... that horrible, bitter lust you had felt when Fred had grabbed your ass so harshly in front of everyone. The way he said the words, such intense passion bubbling in his voice, declaring so certainly that you were so 'fit', so gorgeous, that he found you attractive, but then immediately writing you off because he believed that you would never allow his affections, or because... he was afraid of you?

You didn't want him to snog you. And it was a stupid game.

You wanted to slam your head into the bookcase in front of you, just to shake away some of the stupid thoughts you were experiencing.

“So I'll have to snog the dragon, and hex Y/N.” Fred announced finally.

“What if you got your face burned off?” The other Gryffindor that you didn't know spoke up again.

“Can we focus, please? For once?” Angelina begged, and finally, the table went silent.

You wanted to march out there and yell at him. But you knew nothing good would come of it. You didn't even know what you would be yelling at him for. 'Hey, asshole, don't tell your friends in some stupid game that you don't want to kiss me.' Because you didn't want to kiss him. You didn't want him. You wanted to embarrass him. You wanted to have him caught. You wanted him to feel as low as he made you feel at times. He deserved it.

You were resigned to it, then. You were going to carry on with your plan, no matter what.

You grabbed several random books off the shelves, making a large stack in your arms, and after a moment of considering the logistics, you made a wide lap around the library, so you could casually pass by the table that Fred was sitting at with his friends. You would walk by him on the way back to your private study desk without making it seem like you were walking by him intentionally. You moved to walk by him, and in the most seemingly accidental, on purpose, un-graceful way that you could, you stumbled on your feet and spilled all the books across the floor beside the table that he was sitting at.

“Oh no!” You gasped, hoping that your acting wasn't grossly cheesy or too fake as you looked upon the mess you had made for a quick moment before you leaned down to start picking things up.

You got on your hands and knees, positioning yourself right in front of Fred, sloping your ass towards him, feeling your skirt riding up in the awkward position, knowing that soon, he would reach out and grab you. He would be stupid enough to take the bait. He would callously, boldly touch you like he had that day in class, and finally, everyone was there to see. As you stacked one book on top of another, you glanced over your shoulder at him and found his eyes searing into yours from his position at the table, a quill clenched tightly in hand. But he hadn't moved an inch.

Bloody bastard. He wasn't falling for it.

You whipped your head back around and grabbed another book, and then, a moment later:

“Need some help with those, darling?”

Internally, you flinched with disgust at the nickname, hating the way the false sweetness settled deep in your stomach. The distinct tone of condescending making you even more irritated with him.

“No, thank you.” You said the words confidently, but you couldn't beat him to grabbing the last of the books, stolen right out from under your touch.

When you grabbed the whole stack and stood up with the heft of it in your arms, he placed the last few on top, giving you a small, fake smile over top of the books.

“You should be more careful next time, sweetheart.” He told you, tossing out another horribly sickly sweet pet name, something dancing in his eyes that said he knew exactly what you were doing, but he wasn't going to fall for it.

“Oh, I will.” You easily agreed – it was those words of double meaning in your game. A battle of wills that you weren't prepared to give up on.

Next time, you were going to get him.

You stewed on it far too much as you put the books back and settled back into your study desk. His stupid smirk, the look in his eyes. He thought he was so damn clever. You hated every single damn inch of his stupid, awful face. You wanted to punch him, you wanted to make him cry, you wanted to see him groan in pain, you wanted to see him so weak and pathetic. You wanted him to admit that he was wrong.

For once in your life, you wanted to see Fred Weasley lose.

More than an hour later, you were still stewing with anger toward Fred. You had managed to write down a few more scribbled, distracted lines of your essay, and inevitably, it was something you would have to finish later that night in your dorm when you had finally calmed down.

You moved deep into the stacks, looking to gather all the reference books you would need for your homework that night before you finally left the library. You needed to go for a long, calming walk around the castle before locking yourself in your dorm that night to actually work on your homework. You would need to forcefully push Fred out of your mind so that you could do what Ravenclaws did best – clean, accurate academics.

But of course, Fred Weasley couldn't leave well enough alone.

You were trying to put him out of your mind, readying yourself to do so for the rest of the night, and as far as you were concerned, he was out of your mind. You had plenty of other things to worry about. Like the fact that one of the books you needed was just out of reach, and you were too tiredly stubborn to walk all the way back to the study desk where you had left your things just to get your wand in order to use a summoning spell in order to get it down with magic.

So as you reached high up, stretching to reach the book you needed, pressing hard on your aching toes, you were far too concentrated on your own problem, and you became shocked when a pale, freckled hand appeared in your line of sight, seemingly reaching for the same book, and a warm presence folded over your back, far too close for your liking. Fred's hot breath puffed over your back like an unwelcome humidity in the middle of a never-ending summer day as he reached up and snatched the book from you without a word.

You whipped around, quickly finding his neck and jaw far too close to you, crowding you, and as you moved to jump away, seeking some personal space, you were met with a harsh wall behind you. It was the tall wall of the bookshelf stopping you – your heart thumped hard inside your chest as you realized that you were caged in. Your legs turned to jelly as easily as if he had jinxed you, and you were forced to lean on the shelf for support, faint and fading like some frail maiden from a former century. It was pathetic, and you knew that you would have laughed if you had seen yourself from the outside.

He leaned in closer to you, just a bit, barely noticeable, but enough to be looming and intimidating in a way that made your heart beat harsher. He was still holding the book with one hand down by his hip, paying no mind to it as he stared you down with intense eyes, a million thoughts churning within his hazel irises.

“Fancy seeing you here, darling.” He said, greeting you as though it were some sort of casual date.

This annoyed you deeply, and caused everything in you to quickly shift from frail and swooning back to the burning anger that you usually felt around him.

“Give me that.” You snapped, reaching out for the book.

He whipped it back, chuckling under his breath, easily playing the game, clearly getting joy out of taunting you. He had the advantage in reach with his long arms and his height, holding it far away from you, and you didn't play into him, crossing your arms firmly over your chest, hating how numb your hands felt as you continued to glare at him with a stiff jaw.

“So snippy.” He scolded, clicking his tongue, shaking his head as though his opinion of you mattered at all. “And yet you were the one on your knees, showing off your perfect arse to me, on your knees in front of me, practically begging for my cock.”

A flash of heat zipped through you, and you hated it.

The filthy words so easily slipped off his tongue, and you would deny with every inch of your being that his smooth voice started a harsh burn between your legs. He was too cocky. You hated it. You hated him.

“It's the library. I was studying.” You tried to argue, hating the blip of a falter in your soft, betraying throat.

“Oh, is that what you're calling it?” He nipped back, that horrible smirk coming across his sharp teeth once again.

You wanted to smack him, and you gripped the sleeves of your sweater hard inside your crossed arms, purposefully holding your fists back. You knew that if you gave into the stupid impulse, it would only further satisfy him. He would be too damn smug, knowing that he had gotten such a rise out of you.

You were too distracted, attempting to control your own emotions, far too stuck in your own head, and you didn't notice the look in his eyes. The mischief. You barely had time to react when he started moving again. He reached out and shoved a hand under your sweater, grabbing at the thick bundle of rolled fabric still bunched at the top of your skirt. The proof that you had deliberately made your skirt shorter, trying to show off your ass in front of him.

“I didn't know you had to roll up your skirt to study.” He wheezed, his voice ripe with such heavy sarcasm that made you want to smack him once again.

You were quick to reach down and swat his hand away, causing a harsh smack of skin on skin through the quiet of the library as you looked at him with a sour expression.

“Shut up.” You hissed. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

It wasn't clever, and it wasn't a denial. You hated that you had nothing better to say. You hated that he had cornered you, caught you, and stalled your brain.

“You think you're so clever.” He laughed, a hint of bitterness sneaking into his voice, finally showing a bit of real disdain for you in return. “You were trying to bait me-”

“Oh please.” You bit back, cutting him off, pointedly rolling your eyes. You were feeling far too caught, and you hoped that he couldn't see it on your face. “Bait you? Bait you into what, exactly?”

You were no good at playing dumb. You were so used to being the smartest person in the room that it absolutely did not suit you.

Fred bit his lip, staring at you with a cocky knowing in his eyes and your stomach churned horribly once again. The flood of lust was disagreeing with you like a batch of bad pumpkin juice. It simply wasn't settling right.

“You want me to grab your arse again.” He declared confidently.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, even painting on more annoyance and anger, hoping he wouldn't notice.

“No.” You easily lied, more anger streaking through your voice.

“You liked it.” He continued on, reeking horribly of that terrible, cocky confidence that always came off him. “The first time, in McGonagall's class, you liked it-”

“No.” You said, more firmness in your voice, trying to convince yourself it was the truth.

“Admit it, you liked the feeling of my hand sneaking up your skirt and grabbing a handful of your plump, pretty arse-” He grinned, and you had to cut him off before he strung together more perfect, awful words.

“No.” You ground harshly through your teeth. “I don't want your stupid, slimy hands on me, Weasley. Not now, not ever.”

You were shocked when he didn't open his mouth to speak again.

The fact that he remained silent almost terrified you more. He was dangerous when he switched from speaking to silently thinking, planning his next move.

Instead, his lips remained pressed together as he stared at you, his eyes two bright orbs full of mischief, utterly focused on you. His cheeks were round with a smile that he was struggling to contain, a look of pure, unbridled joy that only made you want to smack him yet again. He was having far too much fun with your denials, as though he somehow knew that deep down, you were having difficulty swallowing them yourself.

You were pressing your teeth together far harder than you knew would be advisable, a harsh strain humming through your entire skull, threatening a headache soon. But it felt better than the intense external pressure of the room, threatening to swallow you up. You knew that you should just run, but you feared that he would take it as a sign of weakness – you backing down from the conflict that you had been the one to start. Then he would win, and that was the last thing you wanted. You couldn't stand to give Fred Weasley another victory.

Idiotically, you felt words swelling up inside your throat before you could stop them.

“Listen, Weasley, whatever stupid, idiotic idea you have brewing inside your head, you better get rid of it – right now.”

You hated that he had dumbed you down so much that he had you using double synonyms in the same sentence. But hell, you felt the need to drive your point home rather than resorting to slapping him like a common angry neanderthal.

Again, he simply stared at you for a moment, his face still cheery and bright, causing an agonizing wait while your blood thumped hard through your neck, and then – he let out a laugh.

“Oh, darling, I can assure you, you have no idea what's going on inside my head.” He said this so proudly, more brightness and lust dancing behind his eyes in the most taunting way possible.

You knew this could only mean one thing: whatever he was thinking, it was far filthier than anything you could have dreamt up.

Obviously, he didn't just want to touch your ass, he didn't just want to snog you. He was thinking far ahead, crossing so many lines in his stupid mind – he wanted to fuck you. Perhaps he was imagining pinning you against the stacks right there and shoving up your already shortened skirt to just take you, despite the fact that anybody could walk by and see the two of you.

Perhaps he was imagining shoving you down to your knees and forcing you to suck his cock, forcing you to swallow down any of your bitter words, quieting your protests that you didn't like him, that you didn't want it. He was thinking of finally proving that yes, you did want him, despite all your denials. Perhaps he was thinking of whipping off his Gryffindor tie and using it to tie your hands together so that he could...

He let out another chuckle, and you were immediately drawn out of your thoughts, back to reality.

He looked at you with a horribly victorious expression and you pressed your teeth together harshly once more. You couldn't bear to say it, but you both knew that he had won a small victory over you – he had successfully gotten your mind to wander to those terrible, filthy places. Even if he had started it, he had successfully dragged you down with him.

He glanced down and saw your thighs pressed together, quivering hard as the muscles clenched, something you struggled with unconsciously and hadn't even realized you were doing. You swallowed thickly, wanting desperately to shout at him that you thought he was foul, that you wanted him to leave, but you knew he would only laugh again. He found this whole thing entirely too amusing.

You were lost for words, and of course, he easily took advantage of that fact.

Fred put a hand on the shelf above your head, and while keeping his body very purposefully poised away from yours, keeping a few dangerous, heated inches between the two of you, he leaned his face incredibly close to your ear, letting his breath waft across your neck in a horribly irritating and intimate way. And then, he whispered something in a low voice that would come to haunt you for many nights when you were alone in the dark of your dormitory inside Ravenclaw Tower.

“You know, if you weren't such a brat and knew how to simply ask nicely, I might have fucked you by now.”

What?

While you were still reeling with shock, he moved to walk away, dropping the book he had been holding away from you onto the ground as he left, naturally adding one last ounce of humiliation in forcing you to pick it up after he was gone.

Once you finally left the library for the night, you took a long lap around the castle, trying to forget about what he had said before you went back to your dorm and finished up all your homework. You would deeply deny that your hand wandered beneath the sheets late that night when his words echoed through your mind once again.

You hated him so much. Fred Weasley, awful scheming bastard...

...

In the next few days, you easily found yourself driven insane by him. You still had classes with Fred, so you had to see him. It was deeply annoying and deeply against your will. And stupidly enough, even outside of class, you found yourself running into him when you never intended to. Even though you couldn't prove it, you knew that it was something he had planned. He was trying to get back at you. He was trying to bait you in return. Likely trying to bait you into another argument to try and get more upended emotional reactions out of you.

You would be on your way to a class that you didn't even share with him, and suddenly, you would find him and a large group of his friends sprawling around a corridor, blocking your path. And then he would start speaking to you casually, surprised, as though he had no idea you were supposed to be in this area of the very large castle at this time. He just happened to be right where you needed to be, right in your path, just then, just by coincidence.

You would be studying in the library and you would look up and see him looking at you – standing by one of the shelves, hovering, just staring at you. And of course, you weren't going to get up to speak to him. You weren't going to engage in his nonsense. Not after what happened last time. So after a while, he simply left. But he made sure that you had seen him and made eye contact each time before he did.

You would be sitting out on one of the many sprawling lawns outside of the castle, trying to enjoy some fresh air while you did your homework, and he would be on his way back from Quidditch practice, sweaty, covered in mud, walking along with the group of tired Gryffindors all looking the same. And even from a distance, he would lift his head and wink at you through his sweaty tufts of hair, as though he knew your eyes were focused on him from a far and not looking at the book in your lap.

Of course, you couldn't outright accuse him of stalking you, otherwise that would sound absolutely insane. You couldn't let him know that he was getting inside your head. You couldn't let him know that he was succeeding. (Even if you weren't entirely sure of what he was even trying to do.)

He was an awful prat, and if you let him know for a second that he was getting under your skin, then he would only use it as a tool to burrow his way further in. And you wanted Fred Weasley out of your life. You wanted him out of your head, and as far away from you as possible.

You were stewing over all this at dinner in The Great Hall, trying to come up with a solid way to get him to leave you alone, once and for all.

Once again, Fred was sitting with that large group of friends, laughing and talking eagerly, having some in-depth conversation about something that was, without a doubt, utterly idiotic. His twin was tossing peas into the air and Fred was sitting with a wide mouth, trying to catch them. Something that greatly amused everyone at the table, but grandly disgusted you. You were poking halfheartedly at your half-eaten roast potatoes, glaring at Fred and wondering how you were going to solve this problem.

You couldn't confront him directly, because that went horribly last time. And if you did, what would you even say?

'Hey asshole, stop being in the places that I have to be in. And stop looking at me. And you better stop thinking about me.'

He was also a student of Hogwarts, he had to be there, and that wasn't going to stop anytime soon. Hell, he didn't seem likely to pass his N.E.W.T.s in order to graduate, so he might have to be here for longer than you in life. But that wouldn't be your problem all too soon – you only had to worry about him right now. And he was bothering you deeply right now.

He was so obnoxious, and he chewed his food in such an utterly disgusting way. He was such a handsome face drowned out by such a loud, grotesque, overwhelming, stupid, cocky personality. You hated him. He annoyed you far too much. He sent your stress levels rocketing up to a place that was never healthy.

And when you least expected it, he looked up from a very involved conversation where he was flailing his hands, explaining some nonsense, and he locked eyes with you as though he had known the whole time that you had been staring at him, fixated on him as the problem he was. He winked at you with a grin, and then in a blink of a second, he went right back to the conversation, focusing back on his friends and not paying you another single bit of mind.

It had you fuming. He was messing with you. He was playing stupid, awful little mind games.

You weren't having it.

You shoved yourself up out of your seat, and the first thing on your mind was to march over to the Gryffindor table and pour an entire pitcher of pumpkin juice right over his head. But no – he would have loved that. He would have loved knowing that he had gotten to you. He would have loved his stupid, simple little wink to cause you to fly into an entire blown out public tantrum. He would have loved making you look like a crazy, overly dramatic dolt in front of everyone.

So you did the exact opposite of what he wanted – you turned around and marched right out of The Great Hall, abandoning your dinner altogether and abandoning Fred Weasley. If he was so determined to trip you up, you were going to avoid him. You weren't going to let him have the satisfaction of getting any reaction out of you.

It was going to be perfect.

Of course, it would have been perfect – if not for the fact that he was good at keeping up in these little games. He was a lot more used to playing than you were.

You only had a blink of a moment to feel satisfied with your quick thinking before you felt the presence at your back. And then, those large, hot hands were on your shoulders, flipping you around and shoving you into the nearest wall. It wasn't a harsh collision by any means, simply an abrupt one. A move startling enough to have your body going all stupidly jelly-fied once again. It was a declaration of his presence over your own, a stiff command that you stop, an annoyance that you had walked away from his attention rather than continuing to play.

You bit your lip sharply to keep yourself from smiling, loving how much you were getting to him now. The feeling only deepened when you saw the knit of frustration across his brows, having to forcefully crane your neck up across his obnoxiously tall frame to finally meet his eyes, even seeing some wonderfully tedious heat and anger stewing there. Perhaps this was the first time you had gotten a leg up over him. He would never admit it, but you both knew it. He craved a reaction out of you, and when you didn't give him one, it bothered him just as much as his mere existence bothered you.

“Leaving so soon, darling?” He huffed out, his usual smooth charm missing, slightly breathless, revealing just slightly to your trained ear that he was truly bothered. He had rushed out of his seat to follow you. He was overwhelmed. He had been shaken.

“Unlike you, Weasley, I actually have some studying to do.” You hissed in return. “Which I could get to if you stopped using the stupid tree branches that you call arms to block me.”

He had you fenced in on either side, blocking you tightly in against the stone wall of the corridor. You had your wand securely in the pocket of your Ravenclaw robe, and you both knew that if you really wanted to, you could just hex him and be on your way. But that wasn't part of the game. This was a battle of wills, a battle of wits, not a classic wizard's duel.

“Studying... studying...” He mumbled harshly under his breath, reaching up with one hand to rub his chin in a stupidly cartoonish way, pretending to think. “Is that what you call it when you touch yourself while you think about me? Is it some kind of little Ravenclaw code?”

You squeezed your fists tightly again, resisting the urge to slap him.

Once again, he had gotten you with his filthy words.

He bit his lip, not hiding the way his cheeks flexed into a smile when he saw the angered heat lighting up your eyes, knowing that he had brilliantly and easily flipped things to his advantage again. He had truly gotten you. Without you admitting it in any words, he had discovered it, hit the truth right on the head, and he loved that he could picture it so perfectly – the desperation of you biting your lip, trying to be so quiet as to not alert your dorm mates, your hand going wild under the sheets, your whole body writhing, unable to fully satisfy yourself because you were so needy for Fred's cock.

That lustful mischief streaked through his eyes again, and you hated the twist that went stiff from your gut right up through your throat. A sharp zap of electricity that caused goosebumps to form across your skin.

He leaned in close, putting all his weight on his hand that was still perched on the stone beside your head, his lips hovering so, so, so close to yours. You held your breath for a moment, thinking that he might try to kiss you, and wondering what you would do if he did.

You were surprised when he didn't close the final breath of a gap, and instead, his voice came to life against your lips in a whisper.

“You know, darling, it's almost cute... how obsessed you are with me.”

You were quick to react, all that melty lust flowing through you freezing into harsh anger within seconds.

“I am not obsessed with you!” You shouted, reaching up and smacking his chest, a harsh thud against the soft, thick wool of his school jumper, causing him to let out a bright, loud laugh and recoil away from the intense closeness. “I am absolutely not obsessed with you! You are just stupid, and foil, and obnoxious, and awful, and-”

Your words were sharply cut off with a gasp when he stepped close to you again, and in seconds, his hands were boldly up inside your skirt. The shock numbed your voice, and you could barely believe it when he moved to grip onto the waistband of your knickers like he owned them, so bold and confident. The intense heat of his body pressing against yours, your legs quivering – you had no clue why you didn't hit him again, why you didn't move to stop it.

“Oh, but you are obsessed with me, darling.”

He huffed the words tightly against your cheek, his voice dark and confident in a way that you had never heard before, any sense of brightness and joking long gone.

You hardly knew it was you before the whimper escaped your throat, terrible and uncontrollable. You swallowed sharply, trying to force the sound down after it had already reached the air, and he let out a horrible, mocking laugh in response.

“You're just a needy girl, aren't you?”

His hot, rough voice spewed the words at you, and you didn't even fully realize that between those words and the presence of his hands still so confidently under your skirt, you were quickly becoming drunk from the sensations. You hated him – how the hell was he making you feel this way?

He tugged sharply on your panties, forcing the material up between the lips of your cunt, causing a harsh gasp from you as the cotton rubbed right up against your clit. You reached down and grabbed has his hands, attempting weakly to bat away his touch. But your hands, and legs, and mind was far too foggy and numb, your spine and pussy somehow tingling with a blazen heat that you had never felt before, a rumbling fire that had started in seconds of him getting so close to you.

He only found it more amusing – you wiggling in his grasp, unconsciously humping your pussy toward him, desperately seeking out his touch where you needed it most while trying to shove him off you. It was oddly adorable in his eyes.

“See, you would let me fuck you right here, right in this corridor, right where anybody could see.” He growled out those two words, put so much heat into his voice right then, made those two simple syllables sound like the filthiest thing on earth.

“No-” You tried to argue, your voice all breath, trying to deny something that you both knew was the truth.

“No? You wouldn't let me shove my cock inside you right now?” He chuckled in return, loving the way you unconsciously clenched your thighs together at his reckless, rough, filthy words. “See, I know it. You would take it right here, right where the whole school can see how desperate you are for my cock. I bet you're so wet for me right now, aren't you, darling?”

The thing was, your pussy was so throbbing and hot, you couldn't even tell.

You were breathless, your tongue terribly dry, almost on the verge of hyperventilation, and you knew this whole thing was far too dangerous. He was making you stupid. He was knocking away every single possible weapon you had in this battle of wits, and you had to re-arm yourself. You had to get back on solid ground, now.

“Idiot-” You snapped at him, your voice sounding far weaker than you would have liked. You delivered another weak swat to his chest, causing him to let out another bright laugh. He was far too amused by your anger, and it only made you angrier, an odd combination that battled with the lust in your gut.

After some more flailing, he let you go, and you quickly squirmed out of his hold, eager to get away from him, to escape the way he made you feel. You took a few wide, stumbling steps until you were safely on the other side of the corridor, breathing in thick, cool breaths and trying to steady yourself. His laughter only got bolder and brighter, and you hated it oh so much. You whipped back around, prepared to yell at him, prepared to ask him what was so damn funny, but he cut you off with an idiotic, puzzling question first.

“Missing something, sweetheart?”

You raised a brow at him, and it took moment far too long, your brain foggy with that horrible lust, before you truly felt your body again. But then it clicked. That pinch of irritating cotton was no longer pulled taught between your pussy lips. In fact, it had disappeared altogether, leaving your arse and pussy completely bare underneath your skirt. The cool air coming off the stone only made you all the more aware of the throbbing, wet heat between your thighs, something you hated that he had evoked from you.

You continued to look puzzled and Fred smirked at you proudly when he noticed the way you unconsciously clenched your thighs together, seeking friction, or seeking coverage from the air, you weren't entirely sure.

“What-?” You gaped, hating how dumb and unsure you sounded. “What did you do?” You growled out quietly between your teeth.

Fred grinned at you, and then he pursed his lips as he began to whistle rhythmically, fully prepared to put on a show as he would have for his dumb friends. He lifted up his hands, presenting two empty palms to you. He twirled them both in a showy, comical fashion, and after a moment of agonizing showmanship, with your heart thumping heard against your chest the whole time, he dipped two long, painfully handsome fingers into the opposite sleeve, and – fucking hell... he began to pull out the simple white cotton fabric of your knickers. He pulled them taut between two hands, holding them up proudly like the flag of a land he had just conquered.

“Ta-da!” He said, giving another stupid grin.

“Give them back!” You demanded, diving toward him, knowing that it would likely be useless because he had height and strength as two advantages against you.

“Mine now!” He shouted, whiny and petulant like a child fighting to keep a toy he favoured.

Naturally, he was quick to draw them away and hold them above your head, an incredibly childish move that you couldn't think of a way around. Ruefully, a swarm of lust and embarrassment battled in your stomach as you imagined how this would look to someone else walking by – Fred holding your knickers high above your head, taunting you with them as you tried to conquer his tall frame in order to grab them back, your skirt possibly riding up in the back to show off the slightest bit of your bare ass, showing how well you had been bested by him as he laughed gleefully the whole time.

You heard footsteps against the stone, a sure sign of someone else coming along, and your breath stilled in your throat. You couldn't be caught like this.

“Fine. Keep them.” You hissed at him, and the last thing you saw was him stuffing the fabric into his pocket with joyful victory in his eyes as you whipped around and walked in the other direction, desperate to finally distance yourself.

You did receive a strange look from those stray students walking out of The Great Hall as you whipped by, and you thought you heard Fred mocking innocence with more dumb whistling as he walked back in to join his friends once again.

...

Stupidly, the more time you tried to avoid thinking about Fred, the more you ended up thinking about him. He started to consume your mind more and more, and unfortunately, as a Ravenclaw, when you fixated on a problem, you couldn't leave it alone until you solved it. You spent the next few days once again wrecked by thoughts of him, feeling his eyes on you from across the room.

You knew it was no mistake when he showed up to your next Transfiguration class together with the tiniest bit of white cotton sticking out of his pants pocket. It was something that nobody else would ever notice or consider suspicious, but your eyes locked onto it immediately, hyper-focusing on that terrible little detail.

When he felt you staring and he looked over his shoulder, he easily caught your eye, and then – he winked at you.

And of course, he noticed your bouncing knee and the fact that you were barely able to focus for the entirety of the class because of that stupid little bit of white cotton sticking out of his pocket. It was too damn satisfying for him.

You knew that you had to do something to get back at him, but you were puzzled as to what exactly that would be. Confronting him directly didn't seem to work, ignoring him didn't seem to work either. You had to do something more clever. You had to play this game on his level.

You were racking your brain about what to do, until Miriam, a Gryffindor girl in your year asked you to help her with some homework later that night, and she asked if it would be alright if you met her in the Gryffindor common room. You felt bad that a friend was asking you for a favour, and once again, you were stuck thinking about bloody Fred Weasley. But that stupid little devil was acting up in your head, thinking of a way that you were finally going to best him. So you easily agreed to it, promising yourself that you wouldn't let Fred compromise your study efforts – you would let him fall to the background, especially because that would perfectly align with your plan.

You already knew that he got so much more bothered when he was ignored.

...

When you showed up to the Gryffindor common room that night after dinner, you had changed out of your uniform and into some clothes that were nice, but not too suspiciously nice. You didn't want Fred to think that you had gone out of your way to dress up for him. You were wearing a pair of simple, clean trainers with cute, short socks that had lace around the ankles, along with a comfortable, oversized pullover jumper made out of a soft material that had some flowers embroidered all over it, and a short skirt that showed off a lot of your legs. The skirt didn't stand out too much as scandalous or showy with the generally casual nature of your outfit.

It was perfect.

The Gryffindor common room wasn't too crowded, especially because it was only a Thursday night – no excuses for staying up late, no wild parties. There was a dozen or so people lazing around, some odd lone people in quiet corners studying, and you easily found Miriam among them.

She was taking up one half of a cozy little couch with her books already spread out, and you gave her a quick hug before you sat down and began to take out your things. The two of you had agreed to work on some questions from the textbook that you had been assigned by Professor McGonagall, then work on studying some material for an upcoming Charms quiz, and then Miriam had asked you to read over a Potions essay that she had worked on the night before. It would be a full night, but nothing too overwhelming.

Fred was sitting across the room, perfectly in your eye line, cozied up on the rug, his stupidly gangly limbs sprawling across the floor. He was with his usual group of friends, playing a game of Exploding Snap between loud bits of loud, distracting conversation. As planned, you tried your best not to pay him any mind, even if you felt his eyes on you. You had work to do.

Which is exactly what you did. You discussed the homework with Miriam as you worked through it, working quietly and independently on some bits, and then discussing your answers. The two of you worked well for more than an hour or so while Fred continued to play loudly and talk with his friends across the room, and you resisted the urge to yell at him about how annoying he was being. You refused to pay him any mind. Not yet.

It was only when you were sitting quietly, reading through Miriam's Potions essay, that you felt his eyes glued to you once again. You could practically feel him begging for your attention – attention that his obnoxious loudness hadn't gotten him this time. That was when you decided to make your move. You decided to hit him with something that you knew would affect him more than yelling ever would, something more stunning than any hex you could have fired off.

With your eyes still focused on the parchment, still diligently reading through the words, you uncrossed your legs, trying to purposefully appear as though you were adjusting yourself to get more comfortable on the sofa. With Fred sitting on the rug the way he was, even with his massive height, he was perfectly in line to see up your skirt. Especially as you widened your thighs, stretching your legs for a moment before you crossed your leg over the opposite side once again, hiding yourself from view.

This gave him a perfect view of your completely naked cunt underneath your skirt.

It wasn't your fault that he had stolen your panties. Now, he was simply paying the price.

As you handed the essay back to Miriam and began discussing possible improvements with her, you saw a streak of bright red out of the corner of your eye. It wasn't the usual soft, Weasley ginger, but rather a bright, beating red that was most definitely Fred's intense, blushing face. A heat pumping through his cheeks that he couldn't deny. You didn't dare to look directly at him. You couldn't afford to give him a single crumb of the attention that he so desperately craved. Instead, you focused on discussing the work with your friend while he stewed in the consequences of his own thoughtless actions.

You told Miriam about some genuine, thoughtful edits she could make to her essay before handing it in (especially knowing that Snape was a stickler for details and good penmanship). So she was pleased as punch as she walked back upstairs with all her books in hand, ready to make those changes before going to bed. The occupancy of the common room was now trickling off as it got later, and you were staring to get a bit tired yourself. Naturally, you began to pack up your things, readying yourself to leave and head back to The Ravenclaw Tower, hoping that you wouldn't be caught and busted for being out past curfew along the way.

You felt a twist in your stomach when a heavy weight flopped down on the couch beside you, tall and careless as always. You didn't have to look up to know who it was, feeling the presence of a tight smirk and a pair of unholy, mischievous eyes burning against the side of your face.

You glanced over at the rug where Fred and his friends had been sitting, and it seemed that the group had broken off and gone to bed. Only George was left behind, cleaning up the remains of the Exploding Snap cards as he grinned to himself and shook his head, likely thinking about what an idiot Fred was for trying to approach you yet again.

“Good evening, darling.” Fred greeted you without you even looking up to acknowledge him.

“Goodnight.” You huffed out, tired and frustrated with him already. “I was just leaving.”

You grabbed your bag as you stuffed the last things in, getting up off the couch, still refusing to look at him. You were hoping to make a clean getaway, but of course, he couldn't make it so simple. He stepped cleanly in the middle of your path, somehow moving so quickly, finally forcing you to look up at him – making you once again faced with just how damn tall he was as he gave you a terrible, wicked grin.

“Really?” He mumbled out, his deep voice seeming to vibrate against your skin in the eerie quiet of the room. “Leaving so soon?”

“It's getting late.” You told him, attempting to be casual. “I have to get to bed.”

“Hmm.” He nodded. “Could I trouble you for something?”

No. No, no, no, no, no, bad idea-

“What?” You asked, feeding the tiniest bait to a big shark that easily smelled blood in the water now. “What do you want, Weasley?”

“I was wondering if I could get you to look over one of my essays.” He posed, sounding oddly sincere. “I don't want to trouble you, but you are quite brilliant, and I wanted a second pair of eyes on it.”

You could sense that something was off. There was some secret tripwire ready to dump muck on you, some dung bomb ready to explode. But you couldn't quite tell what it was, so stupidly... you played right into his hands.

“Fine.” You sighed, putting your bag back down onto the floor and sitting back down on the couch. “I'm not going to re-write it for you if it's terrible, though.”

“Sweet. Thanks.” He said, turning and rushing upstairs to grab the essay in question.

George walked by, giving you a knowing look.

“Good luck.” He said before he walked off.

A quick glance around the room then caused you to realize that with George's exit, everyone else who was once in the common room had disappeared off to bed, leaving you completely alone with Fred when he returned. You tried your hardest not to let this realization churn your stomach. Surprisingly, he came back with a thick wad of parchment in hand, one that appeared to be covered in his handwriting. So seemingly, he hadn't been lying. How delightfully strange.

He flopped back onto the couch again, flailing himself about carelessly, and handed the parchment over to you with an expression that you couldn't quite read. You thought that for once in his life, Fred had approached you with genuine intentions.

You were quickly proven wrong.

As you began to read through what he had written, you soon discovered the trick behind all of this.

'-with her legs pinned against my chest, I shoved my cock forward, forcing my way into her dripping-'

You let out a harsh huff through your nostrils, not daring to look over at Fred, feeling his gaze staring at you, knowing that he was waiting for a reaction. You could see that stupid smirk out of the corner of your eye, and you wouldn't dare to give him the satisfaction. You knew he wanted you to be shocked, for you to scream, to throw some outrageous fit. But you refused to play into his hands.

Your eyes flickered to the bottom of the page, skipping ahead quite a few paragraphs, wondering if it was all the same.

'-she cried out again, with those pretty, uncontrollable moans, finally opening her mouth and giving in to the pleasure that my cock was giving her. “Please, oh please, Freddie, I need you!” She cried out, desperate for more, needing me, needing my huge, magnificent cock.'

You inhaled slowly, resisting the urge to laugh. You purposefully set a deep frown across your brows, knowing that he was watching you. You hated that this tricked you into even thinking about his cock at all, knowing he had such a self inflated ego... wondering if this writing was over-hyped, wondering if his cock truly was huge and magnificent.

You flipped the page over, and dared to glance at another line.

'-I gripped her hair tighter, pulling her closer and shoving her face down onto my cock. “Yes, take it, take it like a good little whore.”-'

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, finding the phrase to be utterly ridiculous upon first examination. But something deeper in you was utterly melted by those words. Words you had never before considered sexy, were now causing a harsh stinging between your legs.

“So?” Fred prompted from where he sat beside you, now finally attention starved enough that he had to go fishing for a reaction from you. “What do you think?”

“I think it's rubbish.” You told him, keeping your voice dead and dull as you shoved the parchment roughly toward his chest, rushing to pick up your bag once again, trying to flee the common room before he could root around for the truth.

“Really? I thought it was quite good.” His voice was still light and eager, and you let out a sigh.

Fred got up, eager to follow you, tossing the papers carelessly on the couch behind him.

You were so deeply frustrated, and that feeling weighed you down like an anchor, keeping you from running out into the corridor. For some reason, you couldn't leave until you resolved your anger toward him – until you slapped him, until you saw him crumble. Some stupid thing in you froze, spinning around to glare at him.

He gave another smirk, knowing that he had successfully captured your attention, feeling the glory of that victory bathe him like beautiful warm sunlight. You were endlessly aggravated with him, glaring at him with a tense jaw as he stood in the middle of the room and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looked rudely good, standing there tall and broad, wearing a simple tee shirt, the low light of a dying fire in the hearth of the fireplace crackling against his pale skin and ginger hair, highlighting every single hard plane of his tall, muscular body.

You swallowed down every single terrible, rude thing you wanted to say, once again waited for him to be attention starved enough in order for him to speak first.

“Given, I'm not the academically inclined type like you are.” He added on, trying to carry on the halfhearted 'conversation' from earlier. “That is why I showed it to you.”

You both knew why he had shown it to you. But you weren't going to play into what he wanted so easily. If you said that he showed it to you hoping to evoke a reaction, then he would deny that it was even about you at all. Even if he had spoken about your body in detail, he had intentionally avoided the use of your name.

“You misspelled mattress.” You told him, something stupid you had caught in passing that you could hold over his head. You were bitter, and you were smarter than him.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Leaving it you, darling, to ruin a perfectly good fantasy with a spelling lesson.”

“Perfectly good fantasy-?”

You froze up, cutting yourself off, hating Fred's words and idiotically parroting them back.

You weren't even sure if it was because he called a fantasy, something unreal, something else that could be played off as a joke, or if it was because it called it 'perfectly good'. Not when you could think of more than a few ways it could be improved upon. But you would never admit that aloud.

“You're a stupid, awful pervert.” You hissed at him, posturing, making your shoulders stiff and your voice mean.

Ultimately, you were trying to protect yourself. You were trying to protect that weak little part of yourself that still feared he would laugh at you, shove you away, and call you stupid when you finally admitted your desire. You were protecting yourself when the thing you truly wanted was too dangerous to speak aloud.

He scoffed, glaring at you. “And you're a bloody tease.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” You replied, your voice dull and unconvincing, even to your own ears.

You insisted on playing dumb again, something you were never good at, and Fred shook his head harshly as he let out a stiff breath, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply in his throat with frustration in a way that you found far too attractive.

Your heart thudded hard against your chest when he took a step toward you, reminding you of his towering height, his shoulders looking broader and more intimidating when he wasn't wearing his thick, bellowing school robes. With your intelligence, you weren't used to feeling so powerless, and you found it (oddly enough) to be a bitter thrill.

“We both know what you're doing, sweetheart. Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit a pretty Ravenclaw like you.” He insisted. “You're no dumb slut, are you?”

You scoffed in shock, finding the words offensive as your pussy gave another nagging throb. You found your mouth too terribly dry to reply. You stood there with a terrible gape between your lips, your brows dipped together, as he continued.

“You came here tonight, wearing one of the shortest skirts I've ever seen, no underwear, your cunt bared to the world-”

Those filthy words also lit a fire in you, but suddenly, you found your voice once again.

“To the world?” You echoed back, aghast at this horrible exaggeration. “It's not my fault that you stole my knickers.”

Fred let out another harsh huff, his tongue dipping out to lick his lips as he shook his head once again. Again, him forcibly holding back his anger was terribly attractive.

“Oh yes, of course!” He bit back sarcastically. “The only pair of undies in the entire world! I must have forgotten about that part.”

“Consequences of your own actions.” You hissed back at him, resisting the urge to reach out and shove him, knowing that if you laid your hands on him, you might not be able to stop. “Besides, you're the perv who was looking up my skirt in the first place. It's none of your business what's underneath it. Or what's not.”

Fred smirked.

You had a terrible feeling that a joke was coming and you were missing the punchline.

“Consequences. You know, I like that word.”

He leaned in close, then, and you found yourself holding your breath. He reached out, no hesitation, and grabbed the back of your hair tightly, taking a stinging, possessive hold on you by the roots. This had you shuddering in shock, dropping your bag near your feet carelessly as you leaned into the touch, trying to close the gap between yourself and his fist so there was less yanking but also secretly loving the feeling.

“I think you could learn a thing or two about consequences, darling.”

“Fred-” You gasped out, barely able to speak past the stinging thrill that lit up your body from your scalp. A consuming feeling that went all the way down your spine to your cunt, now positively throbbing between your legs, awoken and needy.

“Hush, now.” He spoke out, so casual and calm, making you entirely unquestioning of his next move.

Somehow, your body was so pliant to his whims as he used the grip on your hair like a dog-lead, bringing you back over to the couch and wrestling you down onto it, crushing the parchment with his filthy story under your knee and easily forgetting it there. He shoved your face into one of the fluffy throw pillows, pressing down for good measure before he finally released your hair, and then, he climbed on top of you from behind.

You swallowed down a moan as he settled over your thighs, forcefully pinning you down with his weight, something that felt so utterly perfect and delicious, yet so wrong at the time time. His weight felt impossibly large anchored onto your hips, and you immediately felt the press of a bulge against your ass, through your clothing and his, something else that sent a spark through you. That bulge was as large as he had described it, and that made you pissed off and excited at the same time.

Your muscles were melting and your whole body was pulsing with the thrill, waiting to see what would come next... you were quickly falling victim to the lust that he had constantly accused you of having. There was still that tiny, nagging part of you that felt the need to fight back. Something in the back of your mind that said you couldn't let him win so easily. Something that felt the need to deny the truth right up until the last possible moment, lest you be mocked by him.

You wrenched your head up out of the pillow, needing to be heard, feeling hot lust pumping through you, yet, you were still fighting it, still trashing him and everything he made you feel with the words flowing out of your mouth.

“Get off me, you dumb perv!” You hollered at him, not nearly hard enough punch from your breathless lungs, causing him to let out a taunting laugh above you. Somehow, that sound only served to turn you on more.

“If I'm a perv, then you're a stalker, sweetheart.” He leaned down, humming the words against the back of your neck, laying a few stray kisses there in a way that send tingles through your whole body.

At the same time, his hands pushed up the back of your jumper, exposing your burning skin to the cool air of the room, making the most teasing, shiver-inducing patterns with his fingers just barely brushing across your skin. You hated that your body involuntarily responded, arching into the touches, visibly seeking more before you could control it.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He stated firmly, still swirling his rough, calloused fingers across your skin in a way that was almost exploratory, putting his hands all over you like he already owned you, as if he somehow already knew the answer.

Your tongue felt impossibly fat inside your mouth. Somehow, this was the one thing you couldn't bring yourself to say. You could muster every insult in the world against Fred Weasley, but you couldn't say that one negative word to him... you wouldn't dare tell him to stop. The crying hot need between your thighs was just too much, and you feared that you just might fall apart if he stopped touching you then.

“Tell me that you don't like this.” He continued, his voice soft but somehow so confident, like he was reading from a script, like all the answers were written on the skin of your back and he was discovering them as he lifted up your jumper more.

He used two deft, quick fingers to flick open the clasp of your bra and you couldn't contain a whimper at the sudden move, such a contrast to all his over agonizingly slow movements, daring you to believe that he might finally do something – but no. He just continued brushing his touch across your bare skin in tedious, stupidly slow movements, not even bothering to reach for your now available breasts. He was very purposefully taunting you.

“Tell me that you're not aching to be touched.”

The rumbling of his deep voice against your skin felt too good. The heat of his body against yours felt too good. The weight of him pressing down on top of you felt too good.

He was so horrible and perfect at the same time.

“Tell me that you don't want my cock, darling.”

Those words lit up fireworks inside you, and you wheezed out a hot breath before you finally found words.

“Shut up, Weasley.” You huffed, your tone oddly whiny even to your own ears, and Fred let out another annoying laugh.

He scooted further down your thighs, you swallow down sounds of protest as you silently feared that he was backing away and leaving you alone completely because you hadn't complied with what he wanted you to say.

But once again, he shocked you with his sudden movements – he reached forward, ripping up your skirt, shoving it as far as he could up around your waist, seemingly offended by the item now. This left you completely bare to the warm air of the room and feeling as though you were completely naked, still mostly covered with your ass now completely exposed to him, your pussy weeping between your thighs, your pleasure fully visible to him now, no room for doubt about your feelings.

You could feel his eyes on that space between your thighs. He didn't say anything about it, but you could feel his cocky victory polluting the room like poisonous gas coming off a poorly brewed potion. You rushed to close your legs, rushing to hide from him, and he was quick to clamp his hands down onto your skin, tearing your thighs wide open so that he could see.

“Not so fast, love.” He growled out, the growling lust in his voice such a terrible turn-on. “You think you can hide from me?”

“Shut up.” You hissed out again, still dull and breathless.

Feeling so exposed sent another thrill through you, and you knew you were getting visibly wetter and clenching around nothing.

He didn't hesitate or warn you before he delivered three harsh smacks across your ass, quickly painting the skin with a layer of stinging pain that sent more jolts between your thighs and caused you to squirm frantically below him. You couldn't control the moans you let out, shoving your face back into the pillow, hoping he wouldn't recognize your sounds of needy pleasure.

He could not know that you liked this. He would hold it over your head forever if he did.

“The arse that started it all.” He sighed, an odd edge of nostalgia to his voice, seemingly speaking to himself. He grabbed your ass cheeks in both hands and groped them with tight, firm, possessive hands, causing you to arch up into his touch. “Do you have any idea how long I've been obsessed with this perfect, round arse, darling? Watching you waltz around in your pretty skirts, watching you bend over to pick things up when you think no one is watching. And I've been watching you for a lot longer than you knew it.”

You heard the distinct sound of a zipper, and your cunt tingled harshly, zapping with need, unconsciously clenching, waiting to be filled. You squirmed underneath him, trying to part your legs wide, wanting to invite him in between, and he used his thigh to force your leg back into place, snapping your knees shut with a jolt. It was a silent signal that he was in charge, and you wouldn't move without him ordering you to. Another thing that sent a twist through your gut and had you swallowing another moan.

“You know, for a Ravenclaw, you can actually be pretty stupid.” He whispered in your ear, shoving his fingers into your hair once again to take a tight hold, extending your neck just until it ached to force your ear closer to his mouth at his own leisure. “You think I only started watching you because you rolled up your skirt around me? Because you started dropping things in front of me like some dumb whore?”

You let out a sharp breath through your nostrils, the realization hitting you like a truck. He had known the whole time.

Had you thought that he had only started watching you because you engaged him first?

Maybe.

Probably.

But you could never let him know that you were wrong.

“Shut up, Weasley.” You sighed, your sandpaper tongue making the words come out dull and lifeless.

Fred chuckled again.

“I would tell you to shut up, sweetheart, but even when you talk nonsense, I like the way you sound.”

Like most things in life, you thought for certain that you knew the way this would go. You thought Fred would be like most men – take his cock out and stick it into the nearest, willing pussy and then pump until he was satisfied. You didn't think it would take much to get you there at this point, with you being so dangerously turned on, so you didn't even fully care if he actively tried to make you cum or not.

But once again, Fred Weasley surprised you, and left you feeling dumber than ever.

He descended your body in a quick second and grabbed a hold of your ass with two hands again, digging his fingers in, surely leaving marks on top of the ones from where he had swatted at your flesh. He moaned to himself as he kneaded the flesh and stared at you, enjoying the view for a moment.

But then, in a blink, he lowered himself down and you felt something warm and wet pushing against the rim of your ass, feeling his breath against you in hot puffs in a place that you would have never expected. You let out a squeal, partially shocked, twinging with embarrassment, and partially rocked by the pleasure shooting through you.

It was a strange kind of pleasure that you had never felt before, something you had never even considered, and with all the knowledge you had, this left you flailing and wondering how the hell you had never known you could feel like this. He easily had you gasping for breath as your whole body warmed over, arching away from the strange new feeling while loving it at the same time. He forcefully held you down, harshly digging his fingers into the globes of your ass in an attempt to keep you still, working his tongue across your untouched tight hole with a determined fury.

“Oh!”

You struggled to get any words out, moans and breaths choking off in your throat, your lungs just as confused as your mind when processing this brand new feeling. You were unable to squirm away from his firm hold, forced to face the overwhelming new pleasure. He moaned against you, seemingly enjoying himself, sending vibrations through your whole body, making it all the more overwhelming.

When your brain was good and melted, when you had just barely started to comprehend the feeling, he snuck a hand between your legs, forcing his fingers between your quivering thighs at the front between your body and the couch. You wanted to cheer out gratefully, trying once again to lean into the touch, trying to gain more pleasure, enough to finally cum. But all he did was brush two fingers against your swollen clit, waiting for the wail that came out of your mouth, watching the way your body seized with pleasure – as though he was tuning some kind of instrument, testing.

“Oh, fuck!”

And then – he stopped.

He pulled away altogether, causing an embarrassingly wet sound to come from the separation of his lips and your now swollen, over-worked hole. Something that seemed even louder in the empty room where only a few cracks of embers in the fire could barely be heard over your sounds. It should have occurred to you that you were being too loud – that every whorish sound that came out of you was carrying right up the stairs and to the Gryffindor dorms, and the boys would have a field day teasing you after this. It should have occurred to you that this was so out in the open, that literally anyone could walk in and see you with your arse fully exposed, needy and practically begging for Fred's cock.

But Fred had your brain so damn melted that any logical thought slipped from your mind as quickly as it came. Any forethought of the future was not possible between your ears right now.

Fred delivered a few more smacks to your ass, causing you to moan out harshly again, the sound scraping against your throat bitterly now. The echoes of the stinging pain seemed to pang more harshly right between your cheeks, even though he wasn't touching you there anymore. You swore you felt his saliva dripping down through your ass crack, leaking down and mixing with the overwhelming wetness already dripping from your pussy, and that little embarrassing thought had more heat pumping through your cheeks.

“You do have a perfect, sweet arse.” Fred chuckled joyfully, seemingly speaking to himself again. “I always knew you would.”

He rose back up to hover perfectly over your back, a heavy presence of muscle and heat that only made everything between your thighs further cry out. Those nerve endings from your needy cunt now lighting up through to your swollen, spit-sloppy asshole, as though him touching you there for the first time had activated a sense of need there for the first time, had awoken a sense of pleasure there that you had never known before.

“I would say that I can't wait to taste your twat to see how it compares, but that's something you need to earn, darling. I can't very well go rewarding such awful behaviour with my head between your thighs, now can I?” His voice was so light and jovial, so casual when spewing such filth. Which somehow only turned you on more.

This did cause a pang somewhere deep in your stomach, lighting up something inside of you that you hadn't even fully realized was there. That academic achiever in you that loved to be praised for your intellect, the part of you that loved getting assignments back with high grades marked on them. You loved the thought that you could earn things from Fred, that he would be observing you and waiting to reward you and praise you, but at the same time, there was still that last bit of devil fighting within you, that last part of you that said you didn't need his approval.

“You – you would be so lucky.” You said, choking on a horse throat, your words sounding so utterly bitter. “You don't deserve what's between my thighs.”

“Aww, bless her.” Fred hummed, that condescending tone, seemingly talking over you rather than to you – it caused another pleasurably thrum through you that you didn't even truly realize the source of. “She still thinks this is about her.”

You heard the rustling of more clothing, and you could easily picture Fred behind you, struggling to shove his jeans further down in such an awkward position, not wanting to get off you in order to take off his pants completely. You resisted the urge to cheer, because – yes, finally, he was moving on to the main event. You were finally going to get some much needed friction on your aching, swollen cunt.

You let out another shocked gasp when you felt the thick, round head of his cock press forward – not between your thighs and toward the swollen, leaking lips of your pussy, not to the place where you needed him most. But instead, his cock pressed between your arse cheeks, which he was holding apart with one hand, making room for himself between the fatty globes. He used his cock to make strokes across your cleft through the river of spit, seemingly already lubed up with something more that you didn't even have the brain power to fully comprehend.

Your body seized, curious to rock toward the feeling and aching to get away from it, needing him more somewhere else, at war with yourself and quickly losing the ability to fight it. He dug his fingers in once again, shoving you down harder into the sofa, holding you in place with that strong hand firmly on the globe of your ass, while the other hand held onto the base of his cock as he hovered on his knees behind you.

“I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, darling.” Fred began, his tone still utterly condescending as he continued to stroke his cock along the cleft of your ass, not truly applying pressure, just teasing you.

“I saw right through you from the beginning.” He announced, knocking any final air out of your lungs. You should have known it, but hearing him say it well and truly defeated you. “And if you had wised up and simply asked me nicely, I would have fucked you properly. I would have treated you like a proper lady. I would have been so sweet with you – kissed you all over, ate your pretty cunt like a good meal, kissed you while making passionate love you.”

The remaining live part of your brain couldn't conceptualize Fred Weasley making love to anybody. He was rough, rowdy, and rude, and you couldn't imagine him doing anything but this – pinning a girl down and speaking filth to her while mocking her about her need for his cock. Maybe that's why you were so painfully attracted to him... because you knew it would always end like this. Because you knew he would give you something that no other man could.

“But since you had to pretend to be so smart and so mighty, since you had to pretend to be so smart, now it's like this.” He sighed. “You walk around, making everyone believe you're that big, bold Ravenclaw girl on her high, high horse, thinking she's so much smarter than everyone else... but now, you're gonna shut up and take my cock. You get to be treated like the dumb whore that you played for me, teasing me all along. I get exactly what I want, and you get nothing.”

He whispered the words harshly against your neck as he finally pushed forward, the unbelievable thickness of his cock breaching your tight, virgin asshole slowly but in an utterly unforgiving way, forcing you to feel every single bit of just how thick and swollen he was. The slow, smooth stretch only made your pussy sting with more sharp need.

“No!” You cried out, so utterly curious about the feeling, mostly protesting due to desperately wanting him somewhere else. “Weasley, you-!”

You were about to rant, filling your lungs for it, winding up to call him several names, but he stopped you in your tracks. He laid several more quick, heavy smacks across your ass, the sound so sharp in the room, causing more stinging pleasure through you. Then he drove his cock sharply into you another inch, his hips not yet touching your body, causing you to moan out loudly as you wondered just how much you were prepared to take, wondering how much more there was, wondering if his self inflated story had been grossly exaggerated or not.

With him behind you the whole time, you hadn't gotten a good look, and feeling his cock without seeing it only made it seem so much bigger.

“Consequences of your own actions.” He growled, pushing more into you, stretching you to the point where it began to sting.

“But – but – but – ah!”

He delivered another sharp smack, making your body mingle more with pleasure and pain.

“B-b-b-but!” He repeated in a whiny tone, mocking you. “Spoiler for you, darling-”

He huffed, finally sinking those last inches into you, causing your mouth to gape wide as you were finally filled – the feeling so brand new and shocking, your pussy still weeping with need and feeling so empty in contrast to the overwhelming fullness you felt from behind, feeling just how big he was, every single detail, every single vein. Along with the shocking red hot pleasure coming from your flesh from the spanks he had delivered, each jolt of pleasure mounting right where the two of you were joined.

Something so wrong and yet so perfect at the same time.

“I always get what I want. I always win.”

He growled the words lowly, something that would have pissed you off to no end just a few days ago now sparking even more pleasure through you.

You shook your head harshly, still in deep denial of this, your mind yet to acknowledge that he had won a victory over you. Even with his cock throbbing inside your asshole as your body ached to accommodate him, you still couldn't admit that he had won. Your pussy was making a sloppy mess between your thighs – wet, needy, and untouched, your body having no trouble keeping up with the situation at hand, catering to his whims so easily and still begging for more.

Fred was smiling against your neck as he let out a wonderful, wicked chuckle. And somehow, you were all the more turned on by his terrible, wicked attitude.

“But you love it, don't you darling?” He whispered. “You love it when I win.”

And then, he began to move.

It was only a few slow, teasing movements before he picked up a rhythm, seemingly testing you out like trying a new broom before he truly got used to it and could truly have his fun. Barely waiting for your body to adjust to him before he bent his knees, digging into the sofa cushions, and truly put his back into it, going wild. He started slamming his hips harshly into you, creating loud smacking sounds each time his hips collided harshly with your ass, creating more friction along the marks he had left there with his hands, driving home the filthy pleasure with little bits of pain.

It was a feeling you had never considered before, something you had never even dreamt of. So damn full, the overwhelming presence of his cock, but duller than being fucked in the front, like trying to scratch an itch that would never be satisfied, like feeling food stuck at the back of your throat. An echo of a truer pleasure that you knew and loved so well. Halfway there, but not perfect, constantly reminding you of the need singing from your poor, untouched cunt.

Fred was having a perfect time, though.

He let out another bright laugh as he weaved his fingers back into your hair, yanking your head up toward him once again, crowding in close to get a good look at your face as you breathed in harshly through your nostrils, desperately trying to process it all.

“Did – did you really think I wouldn't catch on to you, darling?” He said brightly, his breath hot and heavy across your cheek, causing you to flinch slightly, unintentionally tugging on the grip he had on your hair, sending more jolts of pleasure through you. You let out a loud moan in response, and you though you saw that cocky smirk in your peripheral vision. “Do you really think I'm that stupid? Or do you think that somehow you're so much smarter than everyone else?”

His words lit a fire in your belly yet again, and after swallowing thickly, you found your voice.

“You're the one that stuck in the wrong hole. You can't be that bright.” You huffed in return.

Fred grinned against your cheek.

“No, darling, I'm right where I wanna be.” He hissed, letting out a low groan of pleasure. “Cause while you're leaking all over my bullocks, I get to finish in here,” He thrust particularly hard, driving home his point, and your attempt to swallow down a moan caused a pathetic little whimper to escape, only making him smile wider. “Nice and perfect and warm. And you'll still need to cum. Thinkin' about my cock while my spunk is runnin' down your thighs. You won't be able to get me out of your head, love.”

You did despise his choice of words somewhat, the word 'spunk' making you cringe, but the imagery hit you so hard. You almost wished you had a camera -

No. No.

You wouldn't let yourself be turned on by something so filthy. Not even with the thick, round head of his cock bouncing around inside of you, hitting you in impossibly deep places. You couldn't let yourself stray so far.

“Shut up.” You cursed him, the words sounding far too much like a moan on your lips.

Fred let out another airy chuckle, his voice wavering, sounding so much like he was getting close to cumming. Something that was unfair while you were still so tight with need, your pussy thrumming and your whole body on fire, just as he had wanted.

All that need zapped to anxiety the second that you heard the distinct sound of a foot on the stairs. Your whole body froze, and you found yourself holding your breath, your lungs pulled horribly tight against your ribs as you gripped the couch cushions beneath you, unintentionally trapping Fred's cock in a tight vice as he stilled on top of you, also now suddenly aware of the presence of someone at the mouth of the room, just lingering there.

You were rocked with cruel humiliation when the person spoke.

“It's getting pretty late, isn't it, Freddie?”

It was George.

You tried to press yourself tightly into the couch, pancaking yourself impossibly, praying that if you couldn't see him, it meant that he couldn't see you. You hoped that none of your limbs or any traces of you were visible from around the large back of the couch, not from his position still lingering on the bottom of the stairs.

Fred huffed out an unsteady breath, obviously trying to remain casual, trying desperately not to give away the fact that he was currently inside you while his brother was standing just a few feet away.

“Yeah.” He replied, sounding curt and short, the most irritated you had ever heard him when talking to George, someone who usually made him happy, and you easily understood why. “Why do you care?”

Every single word vibrated through you, his voice feeling deeper as it rocked through his hard cock, so still inside you, persistently reminding you of just how empty your pussy was. You had to shove your face deeply into the throw pillow in front of you to stifle a moan, to silence the sound of your own overwhelmed, hot breaths.

“S'pose I don't, not really.” George replied, letting out a loud yawn. “I just came lookin' for my jumper. I think I left it down here. It's bloody cold tonight.”

You were too far gone to see this for what it truly was – George had intentionally planted his jumper in the common room before he left, wanting to use it as a built in excuse to come back, all too nosy to see how things would boil down between you and Fred.

But this didn't even occur to you, not even popping up as a thought when you were too consumed by dizziness and pleasure. You were far too distracted by the harsh muscles twitches in your own leg and the feeling of all Fred's body weight balancing on his cock, so heavy, so deep inside of you, focusing on trying to keep yourself silent, lest you be mocked by the entirety of Gryffindor house for the rest of the century.

“So take one of my mine.” Fred bit back, impatient and more irritated by the second.

You could have sworn you heard George laugh – a small, nasally breath. Fred's body jostled when he shook his head in annoyance, and the smallest, throaty whimper escaped you, causing him to put a hand on the back of your neck and shove you further into the pillow. He needed you silent and still – it was already torture trying to be silent himself while you were hanging off his cock.

“I thought you'd be in bed by now.” George chuckled quietly.

Again, something that passed over your head – George's coded admission that he thought Fred was going to crash and burn with you once again. He thought that you would be flying out of the Gryffindor common room fast enough to give Fred lots of time to get a long, restful night of sleep.

“So did I.” Fred grunted in return. “Can you leave now?”

George sighed.

“Goodnight, Freddie.”

Your entire system flooded with relief, though your muscles did not dare to relax yet.

“Tell Y/N I said 'hi'.”

Those words zapped through you, hitting you harsher than a jinx. Of course you couldn't have the true hope that George didn't actually know you were there. Was he just working based on assumptions or had he actually caught sight of your position? How much had he seen? It was swirling in your stomach as a terrible feeling, embarrassment and cruelty, and before you could even fully comprehend it, Fred's cock was pulling out of you again, onto to stab back into you in a sharp, unforgiving way that made you cry out.

“Glad we got rid of him.” He grunted against your neck.

“You're awful.” You whined. “You're so awful, terrible, the pair of you.”

Fred huffed, the sound choking off into a moan before laughter could form this time, his thrusts becoming sloppier and uncoordinated with each passing second.

“Perhaps.” He replied, his breath hot and messy against the back of your neck. “No better than you.”

You hated that you couldn't fully deny it. Fred Weasley had caused you to sink to his level.

But even then, any stinging annoyance or hatred that threatened up inside of you was easily drowned out by lust, all you could really feel towards him now. It was a bell easily rung by his heated grunting behind you, by the thickness of his cock pumping into your ass in demanding strokes, by the hum of your pussy between your thighs still begging to be touched. With each harsh slam of his heavy balls against your skin, making you more and more perfectly sore, with each sharp grope of his fingers against your skin, with the stinging pleasurable pain flowing through you – you were coming to know as an iron-clad fact how much you couldn't truly hate this.

You were teetering on the edge of realizing that you didn't hate him, didn't hate being around him if he was the source of this intoxicating feeling. But you weren't quite there yet. Not all the way to that epic realization that would ultimately ruin your life, more than hating him ever did.

His strokes became faster, more shallow, more abrupt, his hips slamming tightly against your ass every second as he hummed moans against your neck, clearly chasing his own pleasure with no regard for the clear evidence of your need dripping between your thighs, or perhaps enjoying his own pleasure more in spite of it, loving using you for himself while denying you what you needed most. He was enjoying being selfish, simply enjoying the feeling of your tight, warm body hugging his cock without a single care for anything else.

You would never admit it, but the feeling of being used so carelessly only added to the fire in your stomach in an utterly dangerous way.

“Gonna dirty you up.” He grunted, his thrusts growing even faster and more desperate, causing another rush of heat through you. “Pretty girl, so proper. Gonna make you so fuckin' filthy.”

He delivered on his promise with a harsh grunt, the sudden wave of wetness and heat deep inside of you feeling so strange. Only growing more and more wet as he as he slammed his hips deep into you one last time, making you feel just as filthy as he had promised. It made the fullness of his cock feel even more smothering, even heavier, and you gasped for breath, almost feeling as though you were choking on it.

When he pulled out all too abruptly, leaving you gaping around nothing but emptiness, the breath didn't return your lungs even then. The feeling of that warm cum starting to leak out of you was such a dirty shock that somehow it turned you on even more.

He sighed brightly, a sound so entirely satisfied, and you felt the tiniest bit of annoyance toward him bubble up again. You then felt his hands digging into the tender flesh of your arse cheeks once again, spreading you open. Somehow, among everything that had happened that night, feeling his eyes on your clenching, gaping hole while his cum leaked out of you was the most invasive, filthy thing yet. You reached back around to smack his arm, trying to get his gaze off you, and he only laughed.

When another needy pang rang through your cunt, you were met with the first good idea you had been blessed with in a while.

You used tired, numb fingers to grab his wrist, lifting your body as much as you could to force his hand between your pelvis and the couch, forcing his hand between your thighs now. Even just the incidental graze of his fingers along your clit from this movement had your whole body jolting, so sensitive and overwhelmed already.

“It's my turn now.” You huffed at him. “That's only fair.”

He let out another horrible, deep, mocking laugh – one that vibrated right to your core in the worst way. His fingers skimmed across your swollen, throbbing clit yet again, an entirely teasing motion that had your entire body buzzing.

“Fair, huh?” He rumbled into your ear. “Darling, I don't think you want to hear about my idea of 'fair'.”

You let out a bitter whine when he drew his hand away from where you needed it most, frustration now pumping through you. In a blink, he put his hands on both your shoulders and flipped your limp body over, finally forcing you to face him. His skin was flushed and coated in a layer of sweat, and his hair was messy, his eyes absolutely wild. He was like you had never seen him before, and you knew that you would always remember him like this.

“If you wanted me to touch that pretty cunt of yours, you should have asked nicely instead of being so damn rude.” He told you firmly. “All the puffing and all the denial will get you nowhere.”

You looked at him sourly. Obviously, you wanted to resort back to rudeness, so you held your tongue.

There was a moment, a heavy moment where neither of you spoke.

He simply stared you down, as though waiting to see if you were even capable of complying with this request.

The silence allowed you to feel your body more, feeling the aching soreness of your asshole and his cum slowly leaking out of you, feeling the harsh throbbing need of your pussy. And somehow... you caved.

“Please?”

You finally found your voice, the word sounding so unsure on your lips, almost dumbly sarcastic – it was something that easily made Fred roll his eyes, and you knew that you hadn't done it correctly.

“Please,” You repeated, trying your hardest to sound more sincere. “Please, please touch me.”

Each attempt ripened with more warmth, and you hated it when you saw Fred's stupid, awful, cocky smirk widening across his lips.

He knew that he had won.

But still, with the twinging need between your thighs, so swollen with blood and desperate to cum that it was almost painful, you were prepared to let him have this.

You would get something in return this time, even if it wasn't the downfall you had wanted to see to desperately upon him.

You nearly cheered when he gripped your hips and descended down your body once again, a harsh whimper radiating through your throat when you felt his breath fanning out against your swollen, glossy wet clit. He leaned in, making you ache with anticipation, and with perfect pursed lips... he laid a single, gentle kiss against your clit. You held your breath, waiting for more, but he made no other moves to attempt to satisfy you or pleasure you before he came back up to smirk at you with his now wet lips. He was devious, basking in his perfect victory.

You let out a ragged, horrible whine, glaring at him indignantly, lost for words.

He leaned down, leaning in tightly to whisper in your ear like he had that fated day in the library.

“If you want to cum, darling, you have to be a good girl.”

He then moved to lay a single, somehow chaste kiss on your forehead. He was refusing to even perform the dignity of kissing you on the mouth after everything else that had happened between the two of you. He then got up off the couch entirely, leaving you tired, throbbing with need, and confused as he tucked his cock back in and did up his pants.

“I – but – you – and-”

You hated stupidly stuttering, but you truly weren't even sure what to say.

“You should probably get going. It's a long walk back to Ravenclaw Tower. And I imagine you'll be walking a bit slower this time 'round.”

He gave you a filthy wink before he walked up the stairs, and you were left stunned, sitting in silence by yourself. Your whole body was terribly stiff now, but eventually, after a moment too long, you forced yourself to get up and move.

You had to perform a cleansing charm on yourself when you felt his cum dripping down your thighs. Even if you didn't run into anyone else at this hour, which, you prayed not to, just the thought of it being so visible with your short skirt was enough to have you recoiling in embarrassment and shock. You felt another twinge of embarrassment as you fumbled to redo your bra behind your back without taking off your jumper.

As you picked up your belongings, you found the crushed, slightly torn remains of Fred's stupid erotic story wedged between the couch cushions, and you shoved it into your bag – the only thing possibly more embarrassing than being caught with his cum on your legs would be if someone found and read and erotic story about you and Fred Weasley. (If that person put together the details and realized it was about you.) You needed to hide the evidence if Fred was going to be so careless with it.

You read through it in more depth as you soaked in the tub that night, obviously unable to sleep after what had happened, and as you read through many lines of your perfect body being 'all his', you realized that he had unintentionally given you the perfect weapon to fight back with.

The dumb bastard.

...

The next morning, you walked into The Great Hall, perfectly polished and made up, and you felt Fred's eyes on you in a moment, especially with the bit of soreness to your gait that would only truly be noticeable to his eye.

And rather than giving him a lick of attention, you moved toward the Slytherin table. You picked the first decent guy you could find, and sat down beside him. You made sure you were well within Fred's eyeline when you began squeezing his bicep and complimenting him on his Quidditch technique – something you knew nothing about, but you laughed brightly and nodded along as he told you some cocky story of an amazing play he had made.

This Slytherin boy had no clue that the real reason you were smiling was because you could feel Fred's eyes on the back of your head, burning up with intense jealousy.

This was going to be so much fun.  

...

A/N: Please keep in mind, this is a oneshot, and this is the end, there will not be an immediate continuation or a 'Part 2'.

Even though I do have an idea in mind for a potential sequel, I will not be rushing to make a follow up anytime soon, and I do not appreciate when people rush to the comments of a oneshot (especially one that is longer like this) and immediately ask for 'Part 2?'. If you liked this and you would like to see a potential sequel someday, I could be encouraged along to make one if you come into my inbox and let me know how much you liked this fic and let me know that you would stick around for a sequel.

Otherwise, I would like the comments section of this fic to stick to discussion about this fic, its characters, and things that have happened here, rather than asking for more.

If you don't want to comment, reblogs are always appreciated because sharing my work always does make my day.

Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope you have a great day!

Happy Reading,

You did your best to adjust your expression and be empathetic. “Okay, well that didn’t happen with Sheryl, did it?” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re still stuck on Sheryl.”

He shrugged, letting himself relax a little. “Eh, not really. She was fun, but clingy.”

You sighed, leaning forward like a scientist observing him under a microscope. “Other than like… the finale, was the sex good?”

“Yes! And the date was perfectly fine too.” He sat up straighter, crossing his arms across his chest. He was telling the truth… mostly. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t amazing. It was just… fine. He gave you a half-smile. “Thanks for letting me talk to you about this. Robin would be all weird about it.”

You smiled teasingly. “Oh, Robin would’ve bailed the moment you said the word cum.” You altered your voice into a shockingly accurate impression of your friend. “‘Ew, Steve! I don’t want to hear about the details of hetero sex. I faked mono during sex-ed for a reason.”

“She would’ve agreed about Katie’s tits, though,” Steve insisted. “She’d pretend to be mortified that I’m objecting women or whatever, but she’d agree.”

You laughed and shook your head at his words, and he felt a tiny tug in his chest— some sort of like, stirring, big feeling.

He didn’t get it. The two of you had been friends since Freshman year, when you moved next door to Carol and she dragged you to every hangout, big and small. He always sort of figured that Carol was trying to set you up with him, but neither of you ever made a move.

He wasn’t sure why he felt that uncomfortable ache in his chest when you smiled lately. There had never been any feelings there in all the time he’d known you, right? Sure, he thought you were hot— that’s why he had to give you dating advice all the time—but that was different.

"Maybe you just need to find the right girl, or something,” you said earnestly. “Like… maybe your dream girl is right in front of you, and even if your brain doesn’t know it, your body does.”

You tucked your permed hair behind your ear and it made his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. And he was confused about how such a tiny sensation could feel so overwhelming when he heard the bells above the door ring.

The girl approached the counter with big brown eyes and hair that looked a little fried by bleach and perm solution. He did love curls, though.

“I called this morning,” she said, her voice low and sultry. He liked sultry. “Some guy named Keith set aside Footloose for me? Should be under Rebecca Martin, or Becky, maybe.”

Steve smiled and turned on the charm.

Becky wasn’t the hottest thing to moan during sex, but Steve Harrington wasn’t a quitter. He’d just… avoid names in general.

Steve was a gentleman. They’d gone to dinner a few nights prior, and he’d been polite and kissed her at the front door. It had gone well enough to tell Robin about, which was saying something. He liked her sense of humor, she was sweet, and her perfume was so nice that it was practically addicting.

The second date wasn’t as formal. Movie at his place, stealing his parents’ fancy wine out of the cabinet like a high schooler. It started innocently enough that he wasn’t even sure if he should go any further, keep things cool, really see this one through this time.

But, Jesus Christ, did she have other plans. Pretty, pink manicured nails traced along his thigh, dimpling the fabric of his jeans, which were already tight enough. She played coy— eyes on the movie, a satisfied smirk on her lips as her hand paused just below where he wanted it. He squirmed, just slightly, feeling his dick stir with interest. She batted big doe-eyes at him and furrowed her brows in a very practiced manner.

“Something wrong?” She asked, and he could see the amusement in her gaze as her hand wandered up, cupping the bulge that was swelling in the front of his jeans. She sprung into action after he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, making quick work of the button and zipper so she could wiggle her hand beneath his boxers.

Her hand was deliciously soft, and he liked the soft gasp of surprise that escaped her when she took him into her hand and gave a testing stroke. It was dry, and a little uncomfortable until she spat into her hand and started over. It felt good. She felt good.

“Do you wanna go to your room?” Her words were damp against the column of his throat, no doubt leaving pink stains from her lipstick.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah. I want to.”

——

His cheeks were burning as he watched Becky redress, hurriedly tugging her panties up her legs. Her annoyance and disappointment was blatant in her features, and it made his chest ache with mortification.

“That doesn’t—“ He shook his head. That doesn’t usually happen sounded like a stupid excuse, especially considering that his last hookup had ended similarly. This time had been worse. “I don’t know why that happened.”

She shrugged, shimmying into her denim skirt. “It’s whatever, Steve.”

“No, no I mean it,” he said, trying to fight the frown on his lips, trying to seem at least a little… casual about it all. He’d gone down on her until she came apart right on his tongue, then he took his time to get her stretched out and ready for him until she couldn’t take anymore and begged for him.

He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to feel her around him, warm and tight and pliant, blinking prettily up at him while she moaned and gasped. So why wouldn’t his body let him do it?

What the fuck?

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” As soon as he heard the pity in her voice, he nearly wanted to die. “I’m only in town to visit my aunt anyway.”

“This really never happens to me,” he insisted. The look on her face— the subtle mix of disbelief and scorn— made him feel like he was a bug under her shoe.

He didn’t bother redressing more than just tugging on his boxers as she left, and he was grateful she at least let him walk her to the door after the world’s most disastrous hookup attempt.

He groaned in annoyance as he closed the door behind him, running his hands through his mussed-up hair. He was at the phone before he even realized where he was walking, dialing the number through sheer muscle memory.

“Hello?” Your voice crackled along the line, sounding sleepy. What time was it?

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning against the wall where the phone was mounted. He didn’t need to worry about calling directly from his personal line when his parents weren’t home. Besides, he was sweating, smelled like sex, and there was something comfortable about the cool, empty room downstairs. “Am I bothering you?”

“Nuh-uh,” you hummed, and he heard something shuffle on your side of the phone. “Just painting my nails. What’s up? I thought you were busy with Becky tonight?”

His heart thumped uncomfortably and he wished he hadn’t called. “Yeah, uh, she left.”

“Oh,” you replied, and he could picture the look of soft concern you would be wearing. “You sound disappointed. Did it not go well?”

Steve scratched at his chest, the hair there still a bit tacky with sweat. “Permission to overshare?”

You paused. “Hm…” Another beat. “Uh, I guess so. Why not?”

You were quiet as Steve recounted the experience with you, right down to the horrific realization that he couldn’t stay hard and their night had to be cut short. He waited as soon as he explained Becky's departure, waiting for you to laugh or tease him.

“That’s tough, but it happens, Steve,” you said softly. “Maybe your heart wasn’t in it.”

He groaned again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don’t care if my heart was in it. I wanted my dick to be in it.” He paused. “That wasn’t on purpose, but you know what I mean. My heart has never been a problem before.”

“Well, stress can impact performance,” you explained. “Especially if you’re psyching yourself out about whether or not you’re going to get off. Permission for me to overshare?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Permission granted.”

“Last year when they hired me at The Gap at the mall and made me a manager for no reason, I was so fucking stressed out that I couldn’t get myself off for weeks. Like, I tried everything. You know what finally helped?”

Steve swallowed. Hard. “W-what?”

“I turned off my brain for a few hours. I just let my hands wander a bit, figured out what felt good, and explored that for a while before moving on to the next spot. Eventually, I made myself cum without even realizing what I was doing.” You paused, and he heard a nervous laugh slip past your lips. “Um, that's just, like, a suggestion.”

The mental image was enough to make his cock twitch beneath the thin material of his boxers. He swallowed, trying to block out the images of you; naked, hand between your thighs, writhing in pleasure. His length throbbed again, because despite his best efforts, the image didn’t go away.

“I’m just trying to explain that it’s super common to have issues getting off, and it’s not weird!” You said, the silence clearly making you antsy. “Did that help at all?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “Robin would say this is a sign from the universe that I should just be single for a while.”

“Maybe.” You paused. “Give yourself some time, alright? You’ve been through a lot, Steve. Stuff like that is bound to catch up sooner or later.”

You were waiting for him by your next shift, sneaking past Robin to pull him aside. “Did you try it?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“What?” He furrowed his brows until you mimed jerking off and his cheeks fucking burned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t up for it.” He groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that either.”

“I know, I know,” you assured, a pretty smile on your lips. “So, do you think that Becky’s not…”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, which blows.”

You shrugged. “Screw that. You can find someone way better, alright?” He wanted to roll his eyes as you grabbed his shoulders in your hands, making him look right at you. When he tried to look away, you repeated yourself. “Alright?”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” He wriggled out of your grip. “Can you just hand me the returns cart so I can shelve them?” You shrugged and passed him the cart, eager to offload your tasks if he was willing to take them.

He needed a distraction. Because you were wearing a black miniskirt with your dumb family video vest, and a fucking Star Wars shirt he would’ve found dorky if you weren’t perfectly endearing.

You were giggling and smiling, fighting with Robin over a copy of some movie you both were dying to see before the other. He sighed as he shelved a copy of A Christmas Story, wondering why someone would’ve rented that in August.

He got the cart shelved, helped a nice old lady find a Hitchcock movie she’d liked when her late husband showed her, and even reorganized the snack counter before he finally came upon a hitch in his day.

“Steve!” Your voice was barely a whisper, coming from Keith’s office. He looked around at the store, where Robin was sitting unfazed at the main counter, and slipped past the door.

Oh fuck. You were bent over Keith’s desk, legs sprawled awkwardly, tugging hopelessly at where your shirt was caught on a screw pinning it and you to the wall. He couldn’t even fathom how you’d gotten into that position— maybe reaching for something that had fallen behind the bulky desk?

Worst of all, that stupid mini skirt. Bent over the desk, he saw the baby blue cotton of your panties. His mouth went dry. He’d forgotten why he’d walked into the room in the first place.

“Steve! My shirt is stuck on one of the screws,” you explained, squirming slightly with impatience. “I got this when Empire came out, it’s irreplaceable. Just pull the desk out so I can move.”

It took a few seconds for his brain to comprehend what was asked of him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Easy-peasy.” He grimaced. Why the fuck did he say that?

“Steve, hurry.” He tried not to look back at your ass as he approached the desk, giving it a slight tug so you were no longer pinned. You stumbled a bit before standing and tugging your skirt down, giving him a sheepish smile. “Jesus, that was so stupid. I dropped my time card clocking in from my break. Thanks Steve.”

With the desk pulled out, you grabbed it easily and waved it in front of his face. He gave a weak heh as you patted his shoulder and sauntered back out.

He leaned against the wall, relishing in how cold it was against his weirdly hot body. He wasn’t dumb. He knew you were attractive. He thought you were fucking stunning. But you were his friend, not someone he was trying to fuck around with.

Imagine his surprise when he found himself already half-hard just from barely even a glimpse of your panties when he couldn’t even get it up for the girls he was actually trying to sleep with.

“God fucking damn it,” he muttered, adjusting himself as best as he could before stepping out of the office. As soon as he hit the floor, Robin grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a box of new releases.

“Hey, Stevie, do you mind putting out the pornos? I would but… you know. I don’t really want to.”

Better and better. “Yeah, what would Gloria Steinem think if she knew you saw a VHS sleeve that showed tits?” He raised a brow and took the new box, boasting salacious titles like— Slutty Slumber Party and Cock Fight III.

She pinched his cheek with a grin and patted his back. “You’re the best, Steve.” He rolled his eyes. He knew that already.

You caught up to him before he could pass the privacy curtain that partitioned the triple X section from the rest of the store, peering down into the box.

“Let me help you put these out,” you offered, already scooping up as many titles as you could carry from the box. It was his worst nightmare come to life— an inconvenient boner, his cute friend, and a million sets of tits and dicks everywhere the eye could see.

It was blissfully quiet as he focused intensely on alphabetizing the titles. You helped him do stuff all the time, no need for him to make it weird just because you were shelving movies like Hot Groupie Fuckfest 2.

“Maybe you should sneak one of these home,” you finally said, turning the title in your hand towards him. “It could help.”

“I don’t need tapes to get off,” he insisted, maybe a little too defensively. “I like magazines better anyway. Classier.” He swore internally, realizing he had revealed something extremely private that he hadn’t shared with anyone.

You shrugged and continued shelving. “Magazines are cool,” you replied, rather awkwardly, like you were walking on eggshells. “Very classy.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” he finally said. His mortification had gotten the best of him and the words just came out. “I’m fine.”

“Okay…” you replied, a furrow between your brows. “I never said you weren’t, Steve. I’m just—“

“Trying to help— I know but…” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s drop it, alright?” You nodded in agreement and he sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The two of you stood there for a moment before you nodded back to the crate. “Okay, we’ve got, like, three dozen more to stock, so let’s just get it done.”

He hated that he’d upset you, or offended you, or made you feel any way towards him other than perfectly happy. But what was he supposed to do? The entire ordeal was utterly humiliating.

And you seemed totally unbothered as you read the back cover of some girl on girl flick, interest in your eyes. Were you into that stuff? Was that what you liked thinking about? Why was he even concerned about what you think about?

You shelved the movie and moved on— grabbing your next pile, one that took you across the room to the shelf of more taboo, kinky stuff. He stared as you got onto your knees, bending over to stock the bottom shelf. And there he was— greeted by another tiny flash of your panties under the fluorescent lights just before you tugged your skirt down.

His cock stirred with interest, toeing the line between half-hard and impossible to ignore. Jesus. Were you doing it on purpose?

“Hm? Doing what?“ you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “Because if you mean stocking the weird shit on the bottom shelf, that’s a yes. No one wants to walk in and be eye-level with Fist Fest II.”

There was something about your smile then— sweet, like you had no idea the torment you were putting him through. He wanted to cry. “I’ll be right back.”

Robin ignored him as he practically darted past her and into the back rooms. He didn’t even bother clocking out for his break before he ducked into the employee’s only bathroom and locked the door behind himself.

He wasn’t an animal. Typically, he had self control. But a week of being unable to get off combined with your obliviousness as to what you were doing to him had him ready to jump out of his skin.

He fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking echoed off of the tile walls as he practically ripped it off. He made quick work of the button and zipper of his fly, practically moaning with relief at the lack of restriction. He spat into his hand before he shoved it into his briefs, crying out in relief before he thought better of it and bit onto his fist to keep quiet.

This, he realized as he grew frustrated with the lack of mobility and pulled his dick out at work, was a new low for him. Teeth cut into the meat of his palm as he fucked his hand in earnest, muffled moans coming out strangled and desperate. There wasn’t time for teasing, for drawing it out like he usually did when he was alone. It felt like his body was a rubber band, stretched and poised to snap.

And, god help him, he was thinking about you. Of you bent over Keith’s desk, legs gangly and awkward, ass in the air, wriggling to try to free yourself before caving and asking him for help. Steve was a gentleman. He only spared one look of shock before averting his eyes. But fantasies didn’t hurt anyone.

Fantasies about you doing it on purpose— arching your back and wiggling your hips invitingly because you wanted him to see you like that. In another world, where you wanted him and he wanted you, he would’ve relished in that scenario. Of you teasing and entrapping him in some game of cat and mouse. Of fucking you over the stupid squeaky desk and covering your mouth so Robin didn’t hear. Biting into your shoulder to keep himself quiet.

He came thinking about you, a guttural, desperate moan cutting into the air despite his best efforts to stay quiet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a release until he was coming down, his hand sticky and warm, cum painting the tile in front of him.

“Jesus fucking— goddamn it.” His voice wavered, most of his energy sapped. He felt pathetic as he stuffed his softening length back in his briefs and tugged his pants up, wincing at the sensitivity. And he felt even more pathetic as he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned up his spend from the bathroom wall at his fucking workplace.

A sudden loud knock sounded on the door, nearly making him yelp. “Are you okay in there, dingus?” Robin asked, her genuine concern masked by the sarcasm that dripped from her tone. “You ran past like you needed to shit, or something, so I wanted to check.”

He sunk onto the gross bathroom floor and banged his head against the wall. Dying, he decided, would have been less painful than whatever this was.

It had been days, and he had yet to cum unless you were at the top of mind. It had to be a coincidence, like he’d Pavlov-ed himself into only getting hard if he thought about you.

No. That wasn’t exactly true. He could get hard, he just couldn’t cum unless he thought about you. There was a big difference, and it meant he wasn’t totally broken after all. It meant he could fix it.

The most inconvenient thing about it was the fact that he had to jerk off before any shifts with you or he’d have to repeat that first bathroom session, which was something he really, really wanted to leave in the past.

There was a possibility that there was something to the situation at hand— that the reason for his body’s reaction to you was beyond just physical. But that was dumb, and every time that tiny voice in his brain told him to consider it, Steve just shook it off.

His phone rang at his bedside and he sighed, tossing the book he’d been trying to read for the past hour with no avail.

“Yeah?” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed some glasses, huh?

“Hey, Steve, it’s me.” Your voice was like music over the phone, and he sat up quickly, like you were there to witness his lazy, slouchy morning. “I was just calling to ask if you could cover my shift this afternoon. I know it’s a big ask since it’s so last minute, but I can totally pay you back double sometime.”

He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking Keith was on the schedule tonight, and they hated each other. Then again, it wasn’t like he had any plans. He couldn't risk another failed hookup, or word might get around that he was a limp dick loser. “Mhmm. Shouldn’t be too bad,” he lied.

You sighed with relief on the other end. “You’re a lifesaver, Steve. I thought I was gonna have to cancel my date.”

His heart stuttered for a few moments before he recovered and tried to act casual about it. “Date? I didn’t even know you were…” He trailed off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence. His voice was higher than usual, so he cleared his throat to brush it off.

You laughed. “Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I figured I should stop waiting around for something to fall into my lap and just put myself out there, or something. You know, just… casually, nothing too serious.”

Oh. He didn’t have the right to feel disappointed, and yet… He wanted to tell you not to go, to stay home like normal, and keep things like they were already. He didn’t want to imagine you with some random Hawkins asshole right now, especially when he couldn’t think of a single person in city limits who might be worthy of your time.

It was crazy. He’d set you up on plenty of dates and coached you through even more. He didn’t have any reason to feel weird about it now.

“Steve? Did I lose you?” You asked softly. “I know you’re still dealing with… you know, everything. I don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want me to. God, hearing you talk about getting laid while I was having a dry spell used to make me want to rip my hair out.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Go have a good date, and don’t let him have all the fun, alright?”

You laughed, and he could picture you wrinkling your nose the way you always did when he said something dumb. “I would never. Thanks again, Steve.”

You were giddy at work the next morning, a pretty glow about you, an unusual chipper attitude that you shared with every single guest. You weren’t even being particularly snarky with him or Robin.

“Good night?” He asked, despite not really wanting to know. God, it was like there were two halves of himself constantly working against the other.

You smiled brightly, and he almost winced. “It was so good. I think you know him— Andy from Varsity baseball in ‘84. He graduated a year earlier than us and goes to Purdue. He’s living at home while he’s doing an internship for some financial firm.”

“What happened to just being casual?” Steve asked, brows furrowing as he looked at you.

You laughed in lieu of a response and grabbed the box of merchandise for the latest new releases. He stood there dumbly until Keith knocked into his shoulder.

“Back to work, Harrington,” he said in that stupid, asshole voice of his. “These returns aren’t going to shelve themselves.”

——

“You’re glowering.” Robin whispered into his ear a few days later, so close it made him jump out of his frustrated stupor and back into reality.

“I’m not, I'm just focused,” he insisted, even though his eyes were burning holes into the back of Andy’s head. He hit stop on the tape he had successfully rewound and put it back into the case, then back into the cart for shelving.

It was the sort of monotonous task that gave him time to ruminate. And to glower.

Why was Andy even there? Just to distract you from work and charm his way into your pants? Again? You’d been shelving the same tape of The Outsiders for twenty minutes, at least.

God, he sounded like Keith. Wasn’t that terrifying?

“Do you remember him from high school?” Steve finally asked, sparing a glance back at Robin. She shrugged, and he whipped his gaze back to the two of you. His hand was on your hip, dangerously close to grabbing your ass. Classless, asshole college guy. “Yeah, I figured. He graduated in ‘84. Third baseman.”

Robin snorted. “I bet.”

“Cute. Very charming, Robin,” Steve sighed, shaking his head. He stopped the tape and slipped the cover back on. “Whatever. He just doesn’t seem her type, that’s all.”

Robin rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand before he could reach for the next tape. “Steve. Andy is exactly her type. Sweet guy, athletic, charming…” She raised her brows, like she was trying to make a point. But to Steve, the only point she seemed to be making was that Andy was the total package and he was a loser.

“I’m not glowering,” he repeated, if only to prove it to himself. “I’m just trying to finish up the rewinds since we’re down an employee.” He gave a lazy gesture towards the front of the store, where you and Andy were making eyes at each other.

Not jealous. Not jealous at all. Just… sexually frustrated. That was an easy fix.

His Rolodex was filled with girls who he’d fooled around with. When he got home, he flipped through the remaining names, each eliciting vague memories.

Deanna was hot… she had a weird laugh though. Not like you. Your laugh was a nice, warm sound. He liked your laugh more than anything. As a friend. Of course.

Maybe Kelly? She was sweet, pretty. Not as pretty as you were, obviously, but who was?

He tried calling a few, but most of them wanted nothing to do with a guy who’d forgotten to call for a few months. After his third rejection, he gave up entirely. He didn’t really have it in him to lead another girl on, anyway.

Maybe there was something there he should acknowledge. That itching, stirring feeling of want that had started to fester months ago. Gnawing at the edges of each interaction he had with you. Maybe it had always been there and his dumb body was making him do something about it, just like you’d said.

He was in a mood for the next week. He hadn’t felt this pent up since after graduation, when he had to wear a sailor uniform and perform a public humiliation ritual for minimum wage.

You sidled up to him at the register at closing, where he was getting a sick sort of satisfaction in checking on all of the late charges about to hit the overdue rentals.

You were dressed like you were going to go on a date later— with one of your favorite tops and that goddamn mini skirt. Even worse, you were smiling a pretty smile like you wanted something, which made the itch of irritation claw at his tongue. “I’m not taking another one of your shifts so that you can go out with Andy,” he said sternly, with a narrowed glance at you.

Your brows raised and you gave him a look that told him he was being an asshole, which he already knew. “Okay, one, I wasn’t going to ask you to take one of my shifts, and two, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

He just huffed. “Sorry, long day.” Long month. “I’m being a dick.”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you are… but I forgive you.” You brushed your hair back and leaned imperceptibly closer. It probably wasn’t on purpose, but your arm pushed against his and you were so warm, and you smelled like the Avon perfume your mom always bought you. ”Let’s hang out tonight. I feel like I only ever see you at work lately. I’ll rent us a movie, grab some dinner on the way… it’ll be just like old times.”

The realistic part of his brain told him it was a bad idea. He’d been plagued with graphic, explicit images of you playing in his head at the worst of times. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to be normal about hanging out at your place.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. It would be the thousandth time he’d been over, but the odds of him getting an inconvenient, persistent boner around you were frustratingly high.

But his alternative was going home to sulk alone and sink deeper into his funk, so he nodded. “Yeah, sounds fun.” It would be fine. He could persevere.

——

Your basement had always been his favorite place to hang out. Unlike his own parents who wanted input into every facet of his young life, your parents let you do whatever the hell you wanted to the space, as long as they could store their treadmill and your mom’s Tupperware stock.

It was lit with old Christmas lights and covered in tchotchkes that you had found in garage sales. Old quilts, your grandma’s macrame, needlepoint throw pillows. It was like an estate sale had crawled inside to die, and he loved it.

The couch had an uncomfortable spring that always dug into his thighs, you picked a really dumb movie, and you had slightly burned the popcorn on the stove, but he couldn’t complain. Maybe he did need this.

”So… are you still seeing Andy?” He asked when the movie hit a lull. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention, it was just hard to focus.

You laughed, shaking your head. You were sprawled across the ugly floral couch, legs in his lap, curled up facing the TV. “Ew, no,” you said with an eye roll. “He was fun at first, but I was just kind of using him, you know?”

Did he know? Probably not, but he nodded like he understood anyway. He took another handful of the mildly-burnt popcorn and watched you out of his periphery (which was, admittedly, not what it used to be).

He tried to focus on the movie some more, but it was you that broke the silence next. You shifted your legs a bit to get comfortable before he felt your gaze on him. “So, how’s your problem?” You asked.

His cheeks felt hot, like his entire head had been shoved under the heat lamp in Dustin’s turtle’s tank. “Oh,“ he cleared his throat. “Fine, I guess. I don’t know, actually. I haven’t been on any dates since Becky, so…”

“Really? Why not?” You asked, brows knit.

His expression was incredulous. Why not? Oh, nothing too bad— just that I can’t get hard lately unless I’m fantasizing about you. “Why do you think? This is totally reputation killing stuff here. I’ll be lucky if the entire female population of Hawkins doesn’t think my dick doesn’t work.”

You shifted closer, but your legs were still heavy in his lap, which he was growing increasingly conscious of. “What about when you’re alone?”

His heart started to hammer as thoughts flooded his brain of the session he’d had in the shower that morning, which had been, in part, fueled by a quick perusal of his photo album from last summer and the handful of pictures of you in a remarkably high cut swimsuit.

“Uh…” His voice was higher than usual, and he tried to bring it back down to Earth before continuing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, glancing only briefly at your lips before forcing himself to look back up at your eyes. “Normal. It’s normal.”

“So, if that's normal, what do you think about when you’re alone?”

His throat feels tight as he tries to think of something to say other than you, you, you, you. You in your stupid granny pajamas, you in the backseat of his car, you bending over to shelve DVDs… you had burrowed into his mind and totally corrupted it. He squints, like he’s considering anything else. “Um… normal things. Just… normal stuff, you know?”

You sighed out a soft huh, and there was something in your gaze that made his stomach flip. It was an expression he’d never seen you wear so plainly, especially not towards him. Pure, hungry desire, so obvious that he had to have been imagining it. “Steve,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, swallowing. “Mhmm? Yeah?”

“You’re hard right now.”

He glanced down as you shifted your legs again and had to swallow a pathetic moan at the tiniest amount of friction. And, well, he was obviously, undeniably hard in his jeans.

“Oh, that’s just… y’know, from me remembering all of the totally normal stuff that I—“

The rest of his lame excuse was swallowed by the warm press of your lips against his. Lapped away as your tongue slipped into his mouth and took every rational thought away with it. It was slow and sweet, like you were trying your best to savor every second of it. Jesus, had you always been that good of a kisser?

When you pulled back, with spit-glossed lips and met his gaze, he felt so turned on that his head started to swim. He couldn’t find words for how he was feeling, for how he’d been feeling, so he offered a meager, “You’re really good at that.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, and his heart did that thing again, which felt more embarrassing than the obvious bulge straining in his Levi's. For once, his body’s ability (or lack thereof) to function was the least of his worries.

“I don’t know how much more obvious I can possibly make it,” you said softly. “I’m really into you.”

His brows furrowed. For a second, he thought he might have slipped in the shower, died, and woken up in a very forgiving afterlife. “What? Since when?”

You swallowed and chewed your lip sheepishly for a moment. “Um, on and off since I’ve known you, but, like, very much on since graduation.”

It was like a fog had lifted over his memories. The lingering touches and flirty eyes across the rooms. The late nights on the phone, where it felt like talking to Steve was the only place you wanted to be. And, frankly, it had been all he wanted to do too.

Maybe he had been a total idiot this whole time. A dense, oblivious dumb ass who had been ignoring his dream girl because she was one of his best friends first.

Then his brows knit deeper, forming two parallel furrows between your brows. “But you were just dating Andy.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “I was trying to make you jealous, which obviously worked since Robin told me that she caught you pouting.”

Robin. “I didn’t pout,” he insisted, but he knew that lying was futile. He had just… glared in Andy’s general direction. “Okay, fine. If that was on purpose, I’m guessing your panty flashing was too.”

That seemed to make you pause. Your head tilted, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry, my what?”

He blanched, embarrassed. “You know, the time you wore this same skirt, and you got stuck on Keith’s desk. You were messing with me, obviously.”

He could see the gears turning in your mind as you thought back to when you’d gotten stuck on the desk. As soon as the grin split across your features, he wanted to melt right into the shitty couch cushions and die next to the fucked-up spring. “You think I’d risk my Empire shirt just to turn you on?” You questioned, frankly offended at the insinuation. When his face went pink with embarrassment, you looked positively giddy. “Oh my god, Harrington you perv—“

He had you pinned on your back before you could fully form the insult, planting kisses to your neck. “You’re so evil,” he mumbled into your throat, lips grazing, soft and wet against your fluttering pulse. Each kiss made you squirm beneath him, which wasn’t doing much to help him cool down. “You’ve been driving me crazy, like you’ve got some sort of witchy spell on me.”

You giggled, and the sound went straight into the warm, gooey center of himself. “Did it turn you on?” You gasped softly. He groaned as you hooked one of your legs around his thigh and pulled him closer against you, so he was grinding directly against your core.

Did it turn him on? It had led to one of the most humiliating moments of his life, of which there had been many. It was embarrassing, but the sound of your laughter was like a drug to him, so he’d throw himself into the fire for your amusement. “It turned me on so much that I had to jerk off in the employee bathrooms,” he mumbled against your throat.

That was a dumb thing to admit. A dumb, gross, creepy thing to tell one of your best friends. Your oldest friend! Stupid, stupid Steve—

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said finally. One of your hands came up and he shivered as he felt your nails combing through his hair. “But you could have just told me, dummy. We could’ve run out to my car so I could take care of it for you.”

Just the thought made his hips buck against yours, seeking sweet, sweet friction between your thighs. “Don’t say things like that,” he groaned. “If you talk like that it’ll fucking kill me, I swear.”

He pulled back, just to see the sharp, wet glint of your teeth as you smiled up at him. You drove him crazy. Before, it was just in the normal ways, like when you made him give you a ride into the city and didn’t give him gas money, or when you drank too much at a party and puked on his new sneakers.

This was new. He felt stricken by some new form of hysteria, where something as tiny as the smallest twitch in your brows made him feel overcome with intense need. Jesus, he’d never been so pent up in his life. He felt the soft pressure of your leg tugging him close again, then the slow roll of your hips against his.

"Fuck," he panted. It was embarrassing, frankly, how gone he already was. He leaned down, capturing your lips with his again, and relished in the slow drag of your tongue against his.

He'd never loved a kiss so much in his life. With you beneath him, grinding up against him and moaning against his lips. The way your tongue felt tangling with his. He got too lost in it— in the kiss, in your bodies pressing together. After a while, the kissing got lost and it was just the two of you, panting into each others mouths as you slowly ground against each other.

You pulled back first— lips kiss-swollen and slick. It took everything in him not to kiss you again.

“So…” You murmured, peering up at him. When you bit your lip sheepishly, he wanted to bury his face in your throat and groan. He watched, hypnotized, as your tongue slipped out and wet your lips. “Everything definitely feels like it's working like normal.”

He nearly whined as your other hand moved down and palmed him through his jeans. Your fingers pressed against his button, working it undone. He groaned as your hand wriggled past his waistband to grope him through his briefs.

It all felt so good, too good. Your thumb brushed over the damp fabric clinging to his weeping tip and he swore he saw stars. "Ah, just… just wait—" He choked out.

You froze, brow quirked. He could feel his cock twitching in your palm, and tried to think about horrible, disgusting things to keep from coming too soon. Demodogs, Russian torture, Tommy Hagan's gym locker, mopping random kids' puke off of the Scoops Ahoy tile. "What? Is it happening again?"

"No, no, the opposite," he panted. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to control himself as best as he could, given the circumstances. You showed him a little bit of mercy and slipped you hand free, which he was immensely grateful for.

"So I beat the curse, huh?" You asked with a coy smile. "Becky Martin and Katie Frey can totally suck it."

Steve laughed, despite everything. "Jesus, you are the curse," he said, meeting your gaze. "For the past month, I could only get off if I was thinking about you." He swallowed, feeling vulnerable with you looking up at him. "Like I said… witchy spell."

He sat back as you pushed at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the cushions. His eyes widened as you shifted into his lap, the weight of you warm and comfortable there. When he glanced down at where you sat on his lap, where your skirt rode up your thighs, he got a head rush. "You know…" You trailed off, looping your arms around his neck. "Usually, I'd never sleep with a guy who said I'm a curse."

He groaned as you tugged at the hair at the base of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. He laughed weakly, eyes half lidded as he looked at you. "Usually," he echoed.

You nodded and leaned closer, so he could feel the warm buzz of your proximity. Like every cell in his body was vibrating with the desire to just press against you. "Well, someone needs to fix that attitude of yours. You've been really bitchy for the past few weeks." He scoffed at your words, but couldn't fight the smile on his lips.

You sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. He hummed contentedly as your fingers combed through his chest hair, just exploring the newly exposed skin.

Your hands trailed down, following the trail of dark hair on his tummy that disappeared into his briefs. He swallowed hard as you wrapped your hand around his cock, warm and tight. He wanted to see though. He wanted to look at the way your manicured hand fit around him, so he tugged his pants down and moaned at the sight.

"You must really want this," you murmured, lips twitching up in what he could only recognize as pure triumph. "You're dripping." The pad of your thumb swept over his tip, gathering slick precum to make the glide of your hand smooth.

It didn't take much. Actually, it took a mortifyingly small amount of attention. Your hand just felt so good wrapped around him, and it was the very thing he'd been fantasizing about for the past month. You, in his lap, with your hand around his pulsing cock and your lips on his throat. It couldn't have been more than three pumps of your hand, not even enough time to get a good rhythm, and he was crying out with pretty moans and shooting thick ropes of cum all over his abdomen.

His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon as you worked him through it. "Fuck," he panted. "Nngh— You've gotta— Ah, fuck— 's too much." You relented, like a benevolent god, and released him from your grip, so his dick twitched and softened against his stomach.

"Is that how you sounded when you faked it for Katie?" You teased.

"Oh, fuck off," he panted, a smile splitting his features.

When his mind cleared enough to have a little bit of shame, he realized how embarrassing it was that he'd finished so fast. Maybe you were into him for other things, but he didn't want to risk losing you now. So as he hastily tugged his pants back up, he stumbled through an explanation. "I'm not usually, like… I mean… I do have stamina, typically."

"I actually think it's really sweet, Steve. It's like a compliment." He was going to argue more, then you licked the cum from your fingers to clean it up and he nearly blacked out at the sight. He couldn't wait a second more, he had to have his hands on you.

"Alright, your turn," he said, and before you could say anything, he had you pinned beneath him on the couch again. He worked the buttons of your shirt quickly, until it fell open at your sides. He sat up, just to take in the sight.

"You're so goddamn pretty," he practically groaned. With your shirt undone, he relished in the sight of your tits cupped by white lace. "I don't even wanna take it off."

"Steve," you gasped as his mouth moved down your throat and sternum, until he was planting wet, hot kisses onto the plush of your breasts. He moaned against your chest, propping himself with one arm so he could grope at your tit with his free hand. You keened, arching into the attention, and he relished in your neediness. "I think you should take it off."

Your wish was his command. Not that it was such a difficult ask. He made quick work of the clasp and let you shrug it off and onto the floor. He sat back and really had to fight the urge to whistle at the sight. "Goddamn," he murmured, letting his hands roam up your body and cup your breasts.

You rolled your eyes, but he could see the tiniest bit of bashfulness in your eyes. In the back of his mind, it was kind of weird. Not bad weird, just… different. You were the person he went with to the hair salon and watched the Bulls with. It felt odd to have you pinned beneath him, moaning softly as he squeezed the plush of your tits and teased your nipples.

To your credit, you let him take his time. You let his hands wander and explore at his own pace. Your breath hitched as his hands dipped lower, until he was hiking up the fabric of your mini skirt to reveal your panties. Baby blue.

"Oh, fuck you," he groaned, meeting your gaze. "It was on purpose, you liar."

You grinned, and the smug expression you wore made him feel like his chest was going to implode. "I don't know what you're talking about, Steve. Do you really think I'd play mind games to torment you when you're pent up and needy?"

Yes, actually. He huffed and shifted down your body. He felt right at home with your thighs bracketing his head. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The pastel of your panties betrayed just how affected you were, much to his amusement. He ran a thumb over the damp patch at your center and felt your thighs tense on either side of him. "You must really want this," he said with a grin, echoing your previous teasing.

"Jesus, of course I do," you said, breath shuddering as he thumbed at your clit through the sodden fabric. "You're, like, my dream guy, and you're about to go down on me."

Your dream guy. Steve's pulse thrummed as he took it in. You were incredible, way too good for a Hawkins loser who spent his shifts renting video tapes. To be fair, you were also spending your days shelving video tapes, but he always felt like that was a brief stop in your life that you'd move on from.

But if you thought he was good enough to be your dream guy, maybe there was something worthwhile left in him after all.

He kissed your clit through your panties almost reverently. His tongue laved over the fabric and he groaned at the taste of you saturating the cotton. God, you were like heaven. He could have stayed like that for hours— just tasting you through your panties. Each lap over your center just soaking the fabric more, until it clung to the shape of your lips like a second skin.

It wasn't enough though, and he was too lost in his desire to be particularly patient. He wanted his tongue on you, in you, licking up every drop of your juices until he made you spill more onto his tongue. He sat up and tugged your panties down, then quickly repositioned himself between your legs with your thighs over his shoulders.

Steve's tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the sight of your pussy. Slick with arousal, twitching with anticipation. He ran his thumb up the seam of you, spreading you open. He relished in the cute twitch of your clit as blew a puff of cool air over your heated, sensitive skin.

"You're really pretty," he murmured. "So wet for me. And so goddamn responsive." He grinned up at you from between your thighs, relishing in the way your tits heaved with each shuddery breath.

His tongue lapped at your center, tasting just how badly you've wanted him. You writhed beneath him, thighs tensing to clamp around his head before he finally just held them apart. He started to taste you in earnest then, lapping up your juices, stroking the bud of your clit with the flat of his tongue.

You tasted so good, practically gushing onto his tongue as he feasted on you. His tongue pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in so he could feel the way you clenched around the intrusion.

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. Your hips bucked, practically grinding against his mouth. He moaned against you, nuzzling his nose against your clit. "That's— ah, fuck— that's really good."

He smiled against your pussy, giving a few more slow, wet kisses before he sat up. In the dim light of the basement, you could see where his face was slick and shiny with your spit and juices. "Gonna stretch you out a little for me, okay?"

You nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see him better. He pressed another sweet kiss to your clit before he eased his middle finger into you. If he hadn't already fully recovered from his first orgasm, just the feeling of your walls clenching around his finger would have done it for him.

It took a minute for him to learn your body. Where to touch, what spots inside made your legs shake. You took two fingers easily, squirming as he pressed his fingers against a sensitive, spongy spot. Your eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the arm of the sofa, which made him grin.

"Right there, huh?" He teased. He applied a little more pressure and felt you gush around his fingers. Yeah, right there. He wrapped his lips around your your sensitive clit and sucked until your thighs trembled on either side of him.

"Steve!" You gasped, back arching. Your voice was high and breathy, he'd never heard you so desperate before. He knew you were close— he could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. "Oh, fuck. Jesus christ, like that— Just like that—"

When you finally came around his fingers and on his tongue, he had never heard such a perfect sound before. Soft, keening moans and pretty cries of his name. Your clit twitched against his tongue, and when your sweet moans finally turned into overstimulated whimpers, he relented.

You panted, chest heaving breathlessly as you came down from your high. You propped yourself up on your elbows and giggled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Holy shit," you gasped.

He grinned, crawling up your body to plant a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. He could feel you smiling into the kiss, until his teeth knocked with yours and he had to pull back with a sheepish laugh. "Think you can give me another one?"

You raised a brow. "I can, but do you think you can?"

He laughed. Jesus, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his hands on your tits. "I definitely can."

Your gaze was on him as he stripped the rest of his clothes off— kicking his socks, jeans and briefs into a messy pile on the floor. For the first time in a long string of hookups, Steve Harrington felt self-conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're staring," he said weakly, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Usually, the second he was undressed he had a partner ready to jump his bones, but you just took in the sight of him.

"Only because you're really hot. You're forgetting that this is the culmination of every teenage fantasy I've ever had," you finally said, shifting to sit up. He hummed contentedly as you ran your hands up his chest then traced over his broad shoulders

"How did this next part go in those fantasies, huh?" He asked.

With a tiny grin, you pushed him back onto the couch, which creaked under his weight. "Well, usually," you began, straddling his hips. "They start like this."

Oh. Steve swallowed, peering up at you with wide eyes. Your hands splayed over his chest, fingers dimpling the muscle of his pecs. He groaned as you gave a slow rock of your hips, gliding your cunt along his length.

You were so wet and warm on top of him, and the precum dribbling from his top only added to the sticky mess. All he could do was watch, totally slack-jawed as you ground your hips against his.

Well, he could also reach up and play with your tits. So he did. His heart thrummed at the soft and pretty sound that fell past your lips as he tugged and pinched your nipples.

You didn't wait any longer, not that he would have made you. There was something so sexy about the way you took control— taking his cock in your hand so you could line him up with your entrance and begin to slowly sink onto him. His hands quickly moved down to your hips, squeezing tight as you took inch after inch.

Jesus, you were taking it like a champ. With your head tossed back and your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew you really fucking loved it. He wanted you to love every bit of it.

"That's it," Steve goaded, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Just a little more, honey. You've got it."

You moaned, lips parted as you sunk down. Warm, wet, tight until you were fully seated. A furrow formed between your brows as you stilled, accommodating to the size of him. "Fuck," you breathed, fingers tensing on his chest.

He wanted to squirm, to buck his hips deeper, to force you to finally move. But he could behave, he could let you have this. You gave a slow roll of your hips and he groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. "You doing okay?"

A cocky smile broke across your lips, and when you laughed he felt your walls squeeze around him. "I'm doing great," you said, punctuation your words with another slow grind. "I'm just trying to make sure you can last long enough to enjoy it."

His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and arousal, the smirk faded into mild offense. "Don't be cute. I'm fine."

"Yeah?" You began to move faster, your thighs colliding with his with each bounce onto him. You took him as deep as you could, then rose up until he was just about to slip out of you, only to slam back down. In, out, in, out, in, out. "Is this what you've been thinking about every time you jerked off?"

Had he thought of this? And then some. Steve had learned that he could be very creative when he needed to be. "Something like it," He managed, eyes squeezing shut as you gave a particularly sinful swivel of your hips.

He groaned, head falling back, neck bared as you rode him within an inch of his life. At least, that's what it felt like. Pretty moans and soft ah, ah, ahs slipped past your lips like his cock was punching them out of you. He moved his hands, grabbing your ass like he had any semblance of control over what you were doing to him.

Who the fuck taught you to ride dick like this? And should he thank them or murder them?

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. "Should've known you'd feel this good. No wonder you have a fucking harem around you."

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about another girl ever again. In one steady motion, he had you pinned to the couch. From beneath him, he relished in the way your eyes went wide with surprise. He didn't just feel good, he was good. He wanted you to know how good he was for you, how good he could make you feel.

"You feel goddamn perfect," he groaned. As soon as the compliment passed his lips, he felt you squeeze around him, pussy fluttering as he drove into you again and again. "So wet and tight, so pretty. Can't believe I've wasted my time when you've been right here."

Steve moved his mouth to your throat, licking and sucking and biting at all of the soft skin there. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted Andy to show up to Family Video the next day so he could beg for a second chance, only to see you'd already moved on.

But he couldn't focus too much on vindictive pettiness when you were so beautiful beneath him, with your eyes wide and full of so much want. Had he ever felt so wanted before? So needed? Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging in to drive him deeper.

His thrusts slowed, until he was buried deep inside of you and grinding nice and slow, rubbing against the soft, sensitive spots inside of you that made you drip around his cock.

It was then that he pulled back, meeting your gaze as he ground into you. Your eyes fluttered, rolling until he saw the whites of them. "Jesus Christ," you gasped. "Fuck, Steve, just like that. Feels s'good."

He grinned, preening at your praise. He propped himself up on one arm, then snaked the other between your bodies, so he could rub at your clit. The second his thumb rubbed over the slick bundle of nerves, your walls squeezed around him so tight he could hardly move.

You cried out prettily, nails cutting into the meat of his back. "Just a little more, yeah?" He cooed. He moved his thumb a little faster, feeling the way your clit twitched against the pressure.

"Fuck—" You gasped. "Steve, god, don't stop, please—"

He could feel that the band was going to snap. Your gasping breaths and whiny moans were as much of an indicator as the fluttery way your walls clamped down on him.

Steve wasn't much better off. He could sense his impending orgasm like the buzz of lightning about to strike. A tightly wound spring, a dam about to burst. But, god, he wanted to feel you cum first. "C'mon, I've got you, sweetheart. Just give it to me."

It was a goddamn miracle that you came when you did— crying out nice and pretty as you clenched around him like a vise. The sound of his name falling from your lips, with your body enveloping him like you were made to… it was everything he'd been craving for the past month. Probably longer, if he was honest with himself.

He barely managed to work you through your orgasm before it all became too much. He pulled out and spilled onto your tummy with a guttural moan.

"Fuck," he panted, collapsing onto you. He should have been disgusted about the warm slickness of his cum sandwiched between your bodies, but he was so sated that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Was it okay for you?"

Steve propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. God, you were pretty. You'd always been pretty, but right now you looked so perfect.

You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, it was great," you replied. "Really great, actually. I guess it was okay for you too, considering I'm glazed with your cum right now."

He laughed sheepishly and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

The two of you dressed in comfortable silence, mopping yourselves clean of fluids and sweat with a few towels sitting on top of the washing machine… that promptly went right back in for another clean.

You hopped on top of the machine when it was running, peering over at where Steve stood. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked. He glanced over and his heart thrummed. Even in shitty lounge wear with your hair pulled back in a banana clip, you looked like a supermodel.

"Just thinking about work tomorrow," he confessed. Your brows knit in confusion as you looked at him. Work? Now? "I don't know how we're going to share a shift without me going absolutely crazy and wanting to get my hands on you. Especially now that I know that I can."

You grinned, and Jesus, he wanted to just jump your bones again. "Well, it's just you and me on the schedule tomorrow," you reminded him. "Maybe we close at lunch so you can help me with restocks? Just to make sure your problem is completely solved. I don't want you relapsing."

He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever have a problem getting hard again. Not with you around, looking like the finest goddamn thing to ever set foot in Hawkins, Indiana. "Might as well," he said. "Just to be sure."

How her knee had been hiked up so that he might spread her wider, work deeper into her quivering cunt.

He didn’t put much thought into it. Not when his fingers curled into the crook of her knee, forcing it up higher, sitting back just enough to watch the ring of slick drool down his length to make a mess of his curls, paying little mind to how the desk might have bitten into her skin, pressed against the bone, bruising her with the force of it.

“P-professor, I–” 

He shushed her, muffling the weak attempts at a whine, a hand leaving its anchor on her hip to clamp firmly around her jaw. His heavy palm pressed against her parted lips, forcing them shut, directing her ragged breath through her nose so that her head swam. Starving the meagre thoughts of protest and demands for more. 

“Don’t–” his words came staggered, ragged with the exertion, “Can’t get caught, can we?” 

She shook her head awkwardly, glancing the best she could over her shoulder, her pupils as blown as he imagined his own were – the effect of the norepinephrine he knew to be coursing through her system as it did his. Her elevated heart rate evident beneath his palm, accelerating respiratory activity, increasing blood pressure. The endocrine responses stimulating the release of hormones – oxytocin, adrenaline, prolactin… 

She whined again, the muffled sound catching in her throat and cracking, a broken sob that only encouraged the tightening of his grip, dragging her head back with the effort. 

“Be good for me.” 

The hand slipped to her throat, caging but not pressing; he could never hurt her, after all, not his prized student. Instead, his lips took the place of his palm, swallowing each stuttered moan, his tongue lathing over hers, stifling each subsequent whine and huff of his name as she slowly collapsed beneath him, giving into him entirely. As much as he wanted to hear it, he would have to satisfy the urge another time. When he could make her his. When he could indulge her more thoroughly than this excuse of a tryst, her underwear strung limply from an ankle, each creak of wood a threat to their discovery. 

She tightened around him again, and he could feel the warm slick building against the back of her thigh — sweat from the exertion and the risk of what lay behind the locked door. 

“Fuck, need you to cum for me, dove. With me.” Each word struggled against the chase of her kiss, as if to break from him more than a millimetre was to suffocate. 

She managed little more than an ‘okay’ before she came apart, trembling, her arms buckling under the force of it, slipping on the papers beneath so that he alone supported her. His muscles demanded respite, each tightening and burning with the effort as he rutted desperately, giving into base urge and loosening his control, twitching, the heat in his stomach snapping as he filled her again. He pressed so deeply that he allowed himself to revel in the misplaced illusion that he might take root, that she might sit in his lecture hall round with him. His teacher’s pet.

The sheets had tangled in his legs when he awoke, sticking to the tacky sheen of his skin in his fuss. He sat up shakily, the strength drained from his arms despite his rest, disturbed rudely by the subconscious convulsions of his body and a betrayal not known since his dreadful teenage years. 

Isaac fell back against his sweat-damp pillow, cringing as his pyjamas peeled from the slick against his thigh.

How was he to survive her final year?

It's now been a few weeks since you had your first time with Ilya, and it's been nothing short of wonderful. Intimate, slow, sweet sex whenever you want it. One evening, as you and Ilya were sitting in bed cuddling, he slowly turns to you. You feel his soft lips moving agaisnt yours in a warm kiss. Ilya's presses the half-smoked cigarette in his hand down into the ashtray beside the bed, and moves to cup your face. As the kiss deepens, your mind is elsewhere.

The first clear image that comes to your mind is nothing new to your filthy imagination. You decide to try something, something you've been planning on for a couple of days now; giving Ilya the ride of a lifetime. Although your sex skills have only just began to better, you muster up all the courage you have to do what usually was Ilya's job. You push him back into the sheets and climb up on top of him, straddling him.

The kiss, that now turned sloppy, finally breaks leaving a short string of saliva connecting both of you for a moment. "Hmm what is this любловь моя (my love)?" Says Ilya, his voice a low grumble laced with his growing arousal. "You have been getting...how you say, creative?" He adds. A soft giggle coming form you follows his words. His hands slide up to your hips, steading you over him. "Maybe I have." You reply. It comes out softer than intended, probably because you're not entirely sure of how to handle this situation, but you are too determined to bother about tone.

His eyebrows raise seductively at your words. "Okay. Tonight, is up to you baby." He whispers, slowly pulling your hips forward on his, letting you feel the growing tent in his boxers. This is all the confirmation you need to set the plan into motion. Your hands reach down to the hem of one of Ilya's hockey t-shirts which you are currently wearing. His eyes follow your hands and you hear his breath hitch as you pull it over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. You're left in just a simple pair of black lace panties.

Ilya's gaze glides over you body, completing one long, appreciative glance, after which his eyes meet your once more. "You are gorgeous." He says. You don't think you could ever get tired of hearing those words coming from him. The praise, enveloped in his rough Russian accent sends a shiver down your spine. You dip down to sloppily kiss him. His hands travel up your back, pulling you impossibly closer to his warm, muscly body . You move down to his neck, sucking gently at the sensitive pulse point beneath the hinge of his jaw.

Ilya groans at the feeling, slipping his hands into your underwear to squeeze your ass. By the time you finish your job, he'd seamlessly slipped off your underwear, as well as his. He looks up at you with those sex-drunk eyes which now seem to have a greyer hue than before. "You need help?" He asks, his own way of conveying his urgency. You take a long breath in, aligning yourself with him. "Ready?" You whisper, more to yourself than to him, yet you still receive a sharp nod in return.

You slowly sink down onto him, taking him slowly, inch by inch until he's fully inside you. You balance yourself with one hand on his chest, a trembling breath following Ilya's own noise of relief. "Fuck. You are so tight baby." He grits out form behind his clenched teeth. It's obvious that he's using all the power left inside of him not to fuck up into you.

After your body adjusts, you give your hips a slow, tentative roll. Holy shit you think, as you let out a soft moan against your own will. It's not your first time taking him, but having him this way, at this angle, feels completely new. "Good girl." He says to you. His hands, gripping your hips, start to push and pull you, setting a slow, but powerful pace. The hand you're leaning on him with trembles slightly, but this was your idea and you're the one in charge today. So, you take responsibility and start rocking over him, slightly faster than his own set pace.

Ilya groans under you, his eyes staring hungrily at the place where you're both connected. "Is beautiful view from here." He says past one of his own, deeper moans. All you can do in return is whimper and continue moving your hips. A few moments later, you find yourself bouncing, as well as rocking on him, hardly containing the high pitched moans and whimpers coming from your mouth. You're way too far gone, drowning in the feeling and the everlasting sounds Ilya is making beneath you.

Ilya's restraint seems to snap, as his hands resume pushing and pulling at your hips. His own hips bucking up to meet your motions sloppily. "Ilya...I'm so close!" You manage to state, the sentence pushed out hurriedly from behind you whimpers. Ilya makes an almost primal noise, fucking up into you harder than before. "Let go for me." Is the last thing you hear before everything is drowned out by the sound of your own pleasure crashing over you in an instant. Ilya continues moving, before finally pushing himself deep inside you. He shudders and moans under you as he fills you up.

Your body collapses over his, breathing heavily while you come down from an earth shattering orgasm. His big, warm hands move up your back in calming motions. "Good girl. Such a good girl for me." He says softly in your ear. His own breathing still uneven as you feel the warm huff against your ear. "You did so well." He adds. You lost track of how long you stayed close like that, but before you knew it, you were both cuddled up close and happy, falling asleep in each others arms.

Thanks for reading!! I want to say a huge thank you for all the support I've gotten on my other works, I didn't think people would like those so it really means a ton!

Like and re blog if you enjoyed 💗💗

The back rows housed those students who came purely because missing a lecture meant failing swathes of assignments. Asking for a copy of the re-typed lecture notes proved futile – hardly legible even in print, written in some half-formed shorthand that was almost certainly punishment for a lack of punctuality. For those already struggling to keep up, it was an academic death sentence. 

The middle of the hall was for those who kept up relatively well, by the professors' standards. These oft demonstrated the most promise in assignments, and were poised and ready for his irregular habit of asking questions in a lecture format, as opposed to waiting for the seminar. 

The front row, if not sparsely populated by those who arrived too late for their regular seat, was reserved for those who attended purely to spectate the youngest associate professor on campus. At just 28, Professor Night had beaten the previous record by five years at least, and was, in his younger age, undeniably a sight to behold. 

You found yourself at home on the second row. As if that did anything to mark you as different to the admirers before you.

Summer term made for a particularly fierce struggle for front-row seating. The tailored suit blazer he usually wore was abandoned long before reaching the lecture hall each day, and, if you the spectators, were lucky, so too was the tie. This particular day, being well into the midst of the most oppressive heatwave in the last three years, marked the first occasion on which the first two buttons of his pressed shirt were abandoned, too. It felt Victorian, really, to have had to cross your legs beneath the cramped desks at the suggestion of a clavicle. Thankfully, the steady dishevelment of his hair made it feel marginally less puritanical, only marginally, as lithe, splayed fingers pushed the defiant curls back from his forehead as they sprang forth from their gel in the humidity. 

The old building did nothing to make the heat any better. Cramped as you all were in the hall, the old stone could only do so much to block out the sun, even this early in the day. For a moment, you swore that the hand that rose to brush his neck, dipping beneath the collar just enough to move the fabric further from his skin, was to wipe at a slow bead of sweat. If he hadn’t tossed his papers to the desk in defeat just moments afterwards, you may have disregarded it on the grounds of heat stroke. 

“Do not expect this to become a regular occurrence, but I am ending class there.” The glasses came off next, another piece of his usually staunch uniform discarded – how strange for an otherwise remarkable Thursday morning to quickly become the slow strip tease of your otherwise upright professor. “I urge you all to cool off. We will reconvene next week.” 

The order in which the hall emptied followed much the same regime as the seating arrangements. The back scuttling out first, followed by the far less hurried middle, and finally those too busy fawning to realise the class was over brought up the rear. Where you may have expected a heat-induced lethargy to have slowed the procession out the door, the usual order was disrupted, people springing from seats as if powered by motors. At least that may have explained the disgusting 8:30 temperature.

“Sir?” The honorific left your lips before you could think of a particularly good reason for it. Unlike your peers, you had not leapt at the chance to leave, even as Professor Night moved with significantly more haste than was usual for the end of his classes. He paused, regardless, papers halfway to hand, glasses tucked neatly into the front of the unbuttoned shirt. It was strange how strikingly he resembled a student, suddenly so undone in the way he was, even as his forehead creased in surprise, like a deer in headlights, that anyone could possibly want anything from him in conditions such as these. 

“Sir,” your hand lowered slowly, wetting your lips. “I was hoping that I might ask you some questions on the latest assignment? The one due next week?” 

The papers lowered to the desk, and once again the hand rose to his collar, following the same path as moments before. The hall emptied. 

For a moment, he only looked at you. It was undeniable that his eyes dipped, grazing over the edge of the camisole that had been your only defence against melting before you reached class. It wasn’t something you would typically wear to a lecture, dipping a little too low to be comfortable around some of the boys you shared class with, and barely made more modest by your thin overshirt. Against what you believed possible, your cheeks warmed further as his gaze lingered, longer than necessary to assess if you had violated the common-sense dress code. He relented at last, as the echo of students began to fade. 

“You?” He came to lean against the edge of the desk, arms folding across his chest as he did when he was pondering something. You wondered for a moment if in the quietening hall he could hear the inappropriate reaction your heart was having to being almost alone – the final stragglers easing bags onto their shoulders. “I’d assumed you’d finished it already.” 

“I have.” 

He paused again. “Then what exactly are you asking me for?” 

It was a good question. You hadn’t come to today’s class with the expectation of doing anything but admiring paying attention, and praying you were not picked on to answer on some obscure equation. You had never been picked, and you feared your good luck streak was waning thin. His brow raised at your hesitation. 

“I want to make sure I understood it correctly.” 

“You finished your last exam twenty minutes early.” It was not your imagination that placed the smirk on his face, the edge of his lip shifting. 

“And? That doesn’t mean I understood it all,” you countered.

“You scored 98%” 

You tried not to look too pleased with yourself. “The missing two percent has been bothering me.” 

Your professor rarely laughed. Smiled, yes – when someone got something right. But laughing was reserved for much rarer occasions. You took his snicker as as good as you might get. 

“Most students would frame that grade,” he noted. 

“Most students didn’t lose marks only because they confused parasympathetic inhibition with reduced sinoatrial node automaticity.” 

His brow lifted slightly, “So you do know where you went wrong.” 

“I know where you said I went wrong,” you clarified. This earned you a sharper look, yet the smirk remained. The lecture hall had emptied entirely now, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. 

“You sound as if you disagree?” 

It didn’t take a year’s worth of classes with him to know that what you were entering was dangerous territory. 

“I think,” you said carefully as you stood, only now starting to slide your notes back into your bag, “that my answer was physiologically defensible.” 

He shifted more of his weight onto the desk behind him, a leg crossing over the other as his arms unfolded, hands coming to rest against the edge of the wood. Really, they did look far too pretty to belong to a teacher, of all people.

You paused over one textbook before flipping it open, turning to the annotated page. “You said I oversimplified the cardiac regulation under stress conditions.” Your finger traced the margin beside your handwriting. “But transient vagal withdrawal does precede sympathetic activation in acute tachycardic response.”

There was no denying, as you glanced up again, that his eyes followed your own, flicking back up to your face. You were suddenly very aware that standing had exposed your choice of shorts. For a second, there was only the buzz of the lights. 

“You’ve been reading beyond the course material,” he said eventually. You couldn’t decide if that impressed him or bothered him. He had an uncanny ability to make anyone second-guess anything. In fact, you were sure that he could make a person reconsider whether their name was actually what it was at the time of introduction, if in the right mood for it. “You realise,” he said, hand outstretched for what you assumed to be your textbook – you stepped down to hand it to him accordingly, “that most doctoral candidates wouldn’t challenge me this confidently.”

Heat climbed your throat despite yourself. “Maybe they should.” He paused halfway to unfolding his glasses, eyes holding your own. “I mean, in the interest of academic development, of course.” 

He hummed at that, resting the frames against his nose at last and glancing over your pages. It somehow felt all the more exposing when your work was not in essay format, not to mention being stood so close as he dissected it – for you were sure that that was what he was doing. Subjecting your ideas to his scalpel as he did so many others. 

A real smile threatened at the edge of his mouth before he suppressed it again. Nevertheless, the movement pulled your attention for half a second too long. 

“You’re still wrong, by the way,” he said calmly.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “I was wondering how long you’d let me think otherwise.”

“The autonomic response wasn’t the issue.” He closed the notebook, handing it back and letting it drop from his fingers. “Your mistake was assuming the heart behaves predictably under stress. Biology rarely respects clean models.”

The glasses were removed again, fingers folding over the arms as he tucked them away once more. “Come to my office tomorrow, does four pm work? I have a paper that would help with this, but right now I’m afraid I need to—”

“That works just fine.”

It was hardly a faculty secret that Professor Night was far from ordinary. Beyond being the youngest, the rhythmic ticking that followed him belied the truth that he was one of the most brilliant da Vinchis of the generation – those students lucky enough to study under him, to work more closely than the front rows, had all confirmed that the clockwork heart story was, in fact, true. And that the man, as young as he may be, was more prone to fits of irritation than the tenured lecturers he worked beside. Usually, it had been deduced, as a result of odd biological habits. If his several winter layers and now uncharacteristic summer fidgeting were anything to go by, an intolerance for thermoregulation appeared to be a symptom. 

“Tomorrow then?” 

“Tomorrow. Thank you, professor.” 

He only nodded. 

Professor Night’s office was at the farthest end of the corridor, the blind on the door always closed, adorned only with his brass ‘Dr. I Night, PhD’ name plaque and a neatly printed schedule relaying his permitted office hours. 

Friday, four pm, was not an allotted meeting time, you noted as you hovered, gathering the will to knock. Friday four pm was blocked out for independent research. Time that your professor was particularly protective of. 

It was well documented after all, that his second year lectures were part of his contract, and not a passion project. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t bother himself with students at all outside of his select doctoral cohort. 

“Are you going to continue hovering?” 

His voice broke through your thoughts, muffled through the door, but clear enough for you to realise he had likely been aware you had arrived five minutes early, and had stood resolutely since. 

You weren’t sure why you expected the door to creak as you pushed it open, but it didn’t, sliding open almost too quickly for you to assert in your balance again, your foot rushing to catch you before you ended up face down, arse up on his office floor. 

You cleared your throat awkwardly as he glanced up, pen paused over paper. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure I had the right time, your schedule—“ 

“You have the right time.” His smile returned. The one that dimpled his cheeks just enough to lean endearing without being over eager. “Early, but correct.” He stopped you before you could form your question: “I could see your shadow beneath the door. Come, sit.” 

The solitary chair beside his desk cleared itself of its own accord, your eyes widening at the feat. The stacks of books drifted purposefully to join a pile behind him, the tomes having long since overflown the allotted shelves. 

For all his precision inside the classroom, Professor Night’s personal office was in a state of disarray. Not the type that came from a lack of care, but rather a great deal of it, if the self-opening drawer and flicked through files were anything to go by. The stacks of paper and leather-bound books littered every corner, but in a form of organised chaos. Everything, it seemed, had a place. Just one that only he could understand. 

Most importantly, it was cosy. You could almost envision yourself working in here regularly. Perched at the edge of that desk as he mumbled to himself in his thoughts— 

“Are you going to sit?” 

“I— yes. Sorry, sir.”

He flicked through the file deposited on his desk, drawing out a thin wad of paper, and pressing it across to you. The file returned itself, his fingers alone orchestrating the movement, curved at the first knuckles and wafted so carelessly, the digits relaxing as the drawer closed itself again. 

What else could his ability do, you wondered. How much could they lift? Is it like a hand? A pressure? Used on a person, could it be felt beyond the tug in whichever direction he dictated? Could you fight against it? Would you want to?

“You shocked me yesterday.” His voice once again dragged you from your own mind. “You’re an intelligent girl, I struggle to see how you could find this difficult.” 

You shifted in your seat, legs crossing again. His attention faltered briefly, fingertips pausing against the edge of the paper.

“I just want the best grade I can get.” Your offer was thin at best. And he could tell. He hesitated, watching you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, his fingers twitched again, a pen drifting lazily into his grasp. Your already uneasy smile faltered, watching, entranced. 

“You seem distracted today, what’s wrong?” 

“Hm?” Your attention refocused. “Oh, nothing, I’m fine.” He only continued staring, brow poised in an obvious display of disbelief. 

“Do I make you nervous?” 

The question caught you off guard. So too did the soft smile that accompanied it as he sat back in his chair. It was odd, really, how untouchable he seemed at the front of a lecture hall, yet this close, he was far more boyish. Almost 10 years your senior, he was at once too old for your late-night thoughts to be rational, but still young enough for the whole thing to be entirely plausible. You realised you were staring again. 

“How did you become a professor so young?” 

His smile held despite your deflection. “Apparently, designing your own heart at 10 years old constitutes the start of your research. Combine 18 years of ‘experience’ with completing a doctorate in two years, and you’re able to frustrate several greying distinguished professors.” 

“Two years?” 

He hummed affirmatively yet dismissively, as if to wave the feat off. “Not the quickest, one is still the record, I believe, but yes. Two.” 

“Impressive.” You nearly kicked yourself.

“I am glad you think so.” The snicker returned, perhaps a little brighter than yesterday, more at ease under the comfort of a fan to cool him. It rustled his hair a little as it oscillated, catching against the whisps that escaped the gel around his temples, dislodged, you assumed, by his glasses. The same glasses nestled against his head, flicked down now to his nose. This close, the lenses made his eyes just a little bigger, the lines that graced the edges of them more noticeable, the deep brown that much more susceptible to being lost in. 

“Why teach? If you don’t like it, I mean?” 

“Do I not?” 

“I hardly think it’s a secret.” 

“Was it your intention to play 20 questions with me today? I thought I was sacrificing my research time to help you better understand the course content.” 

You were correct. You were here outside of his office hours – and on his invitation, too. 

“I never asked you to,” you mused. “I could consult directly with my academic advisor if I’m disturbing you.” 

He scoffed, leaning forward again to the paper. “And risk the ruination of my greatest student's mind? I don’t think so.” 

His assessment gave you pause. 

“Greatest?” You’d had approximately six one-on-one conversations with Dr. Night since you began his class last autumn. Each in seminars, and bookended by him jumping from one student to the next to place them under his proverbial microscope. While each were catalogued away in your own memory, you had hardly considered him to have held you to much esteem in his own. 

“Do you know how many other students came close to your 98%?” he asked, flicking through the paragraphs in front of him. You shook your head. “Sixteen. Do you know what the next highest percentage was?” 

“No.” 

“84%” 

You suddenly felt incredibly giddy. 

“Ah, here it is,” he glanced back at you at last, turning the paper he had dug out to face you, tapping specifically to a paragraph on the second page. “Does that make it clearer?” 

You nodded slowly, eyes moving over the annotated paragraph while trying not to notice how near his hand rested beside yours. “I think so.” Though in truth, your attention had begun splitting itself rather inconveniently between the paper and the low timbre of his voice.

“You argued from the perspective of mechanism,” he explained, “when the question required you to account for variability.”

For a moment, you only studied the paragraph in silence. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement. “I should hope so. It would be concerning otherwise.”

You glanced up to find him watching you over the rim of his glasses again, expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of satisfaction. “So I was close?”

“Oh, dangerously.” His reply came smoothly. “Another paragraph and you might have convinced me.”

Your pulse stuttered unnecessarily. 

He sat back again, sliding the paper closer to your edge of his desk. “Take it, it will be of more use to you at the moment.” 

You accepted the paper carefully, smoothing the edge between your fingers more to steady yourself than anything else, moving to gather it with your notebook. “Thank you.”

He had picked up his pen again, already turned back to whatever it was he was working on before you had interrupted, and you stood. 

Your name came from his lips before you could reach the door again, and you turned far more quickly than necessary. “I could… continue to tutor you, if you wish. Given that you’re going to continue to read beyond the curriculum regardless, I may as well help to focus your efforts more directly, and save you from ending up in some antiquated quagmire.” 

“I– yes, Sir, that would be–” 

“Isaac will do just fine.” 

A strange flutter passed through you at the intimacy of it, your fingers tightening uselessly around your book. “Yes, Isaac. I would enjoy that.”

“Good—” He cleared his throat abruptly, as though the word had escaped him too easily. “Very well.”

He rose then and crossed the small office to instead open the door for you, one arm braced against the frame as you stepped past him. The angle forced you to duck slightly beneath it, close enough to catch the scent of sandalwood and vetiver. You felt positively woozy. 

“Oh, and I think this is best kept between us, for now at least,” he added lightly. “Lest I be accused of favouritism.”

That is exactly what it is, you thought, though you merely nodded, offering what you hoped was a composed smile before turning away.

The extra sway in your step was entirely coincidental. 

Given what you knew of prof Isaac, you had assumed his offer for tutoring would cover the key submission seasons, perhaps a twice-termly interest in your extra-curricular reading and some general pointers in the direction of other journals. What you had not anticipated was that, despite no formal alteration of his schedule, one hour every Friday at four pm would be dedicated almost entirely to you. That you would, over the four meetings thus far, come to know that Dr. Isaac Night only listened to classical music (he favoured Baroque), drank his coffee black and far too late into the day to promise good sleep, and drove a black 1980s Mercedes that had a surprisingly comfortable passenger seat (he was hardly going to let you walk home in the heat, after all). 

What you had dismissed previously as mere admiration was very obviously more. It was hard to deny when your Friday nights were now spent alleviating yourself of the frustration that had built over the hour (often more) spent beside him, a hand pressed to your mouth, imagined to be his, to muffle your sighs for the sake of your housemates. How easy it would be for his hand to reach beyond the desk’s edge, you thought, to dip lower as his eyes so often did, and settle between your thighs, to curl against you as they did when he exercised his ability, to replace your touch with his—

Your name, sharpened with stern repetition, brought you back quickly to the lecture hall. It was already emptying, bags being slung onto shoulders, books gathered, feet slowly shuffling out. You blinked out of your daydream, cheeks warm. 

“Can I speak to you for a moment? It won’t take long.” 

Isaac watched you expectantly with his usually collected smile. It was oddly sterile now, you realised, knowing him as you did – it was almost unsettling. 

“Is everything okay?” your classmates continued to shuffle out around you. Isaac only held your most recent paper aloft. Your stomach dropped. 

“Fine, but I wanted to ask you about something.” A few people murmured to themselves as they passed, a cautious side-eye offered your way as you stood awkwardly and closed the gap to his desk. 

“Could this not have waited until—” 

His sharp warning glance shut you up. “It won’t take long,” he flicked through the pages quickly, settling on one practically stained red, his pen strokes heavily adorning your own. “I knew you wouldn’t mind my work beside yours.” 

Isaac simply turned the page towards you, barely stepping back as you leaned against the desk to study it more closely. Reviewing his notes was not unlike deciphering code, the entire cohort was in agreement on that, and even a month under his tutelage did nothing to familiarise you with his manner of working. 

“They would have been graded sooner had I not been so distracted,” he hummed. You caught him wiping his glasses on his tie from the corner of your eye. “You complicated matters further with this.” 

“What is this, exactly?” you frowned, focusing on the page again. For all his scrawl, none of the instantly recognisable red X’s signified his usual disappointment. “Is it wrong?”

“No, no. The answer is correct,” Isaac bent beside you, one hand braced against the desk. Almost too close. You wondered if he could feel the warmth of your body as you could his, the structure of his shoulder brushing your own. “It is the method that alludes me. Tell me, where did you learn how to do this?” 

Your tongue darted over your lips, glancing to the corner of your vision to where his face practically hovered beside your own, his focus fixed intently on your work, as if blissfully unaffected by the proximity that had you once again at the mercy of his cologne. This close, would it linger against the fabric of your shirt for the rest of the day? You hoped so.

“I didn’t.” Your voice wavered unintentionally. “I mean, it just felt the best way to go about it, no?” 

Isaac paused for a moment longer, but made no effort to move. His eyes flicked over the page again, though you were sure that neither of you were reading it anymore. The muscle in his jaw shifted once. “Hm.” 

“Hm?” Was that all you got?

“Hm.” You risked the turn of your head enough to catch the dart of his eyes over the page once, then twice, fixating at last on the roll of his tongue against his cheek, the protrusion of the dexterous muscle. “I always knew you were impressive, but to surprise me? Very few people can do that.” 

“Is it a nice surprise?” 

Your breath brushed his cheek, and Isaac jolted. Small, imperceptible if you had not been standing so close, and yet he made no effort to move. Rather, his gaze landed on your lips. 

“Very much so.” 

Your breath caught. Isaac’s eyes flicked to yours briefly, as though searching for hesitation, for some indication he should stop. Whatever he found there made something in his expression soften.

Rather, he leaned closer.

You could have stopped it. You knew you should. Instead, your fingers curled against the edge of the desk, his breath feathered warm against your lips.

You felt the hesitation in him then – restraint stretched to its breaking point. His eyes had fallen half-shut now, his composure stripped away piece by piece by fraying discipline.

The slam of the lecture hall door startled Isaac into motion so abruptly it bordered on undignified. He reeled back at once, your own lungs demanding air so viciously it nearly had you staggering. You fixed at once on the back of the hall, two boys lumbering in the back rows as if searching for something, one coming up with a textbook clearly forgotten after class. Neither of them was particularly concerned by what had almost transpired. 

The same could not be said for the man beside you.

Isaac was already gathering his things with urgency, shoving loose papers into his satchel with little regard for their neatness. You did not think you had ever seen him move so quickly; not even the students occupying the back rows escaped his lectures with such efficiency.

“I think it would be best,” he muttered, voice tight as he flipped the leather flap shut, “if we postponed tomorrow’s session. I’ll—” he stopped abruptly. “We’ll revisit this another time. Good work on the paper.”

“Professor, wait—”

Calling after him was useless. Within moments, he was already halfway up the lecture hall steps, taking them two at a time. You cursed his ridiculously long legs. 

The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

When Isaac had walked out that day, he disappeared. You’d tried his office on three separate occasions, including the end of Friday. As usual, the blind remained drawn, but this time the door was locked – and there was no rhythmic ticking beyond it to suggest he was merely bluffing his absence.

That was why seeing him the following Monday, leaning against the back wall of the science offices with a cigarette in hand, caught you so completely off guard. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.” 

He startled, nearly coughing on the lung full of smoke he had just inhaled. He huffed it out awkwardly. 

“I very rarely do.” he flicked the building ash away, intent on watching it as it fell beside his shoes. “I find it helps with stress.” 

“Work?” 

“Something like that.” 

His voice was distracted, his attention fixed firmly on the cigarette between his fingers. He rolled it slowly, the movement pulling taut the tendons along the back of his hand.

“Your research?”

Your attempt to narrow it down earned only a scoff – light enough to almost pass for a laugh. 

“You.”

“Me?” 

He exhaled slowly again. “You’re a smart girl, don’t pretend otherwise.” It was almost condescending, laced with irritation as he brought the cigarette to his lips. 

You fumbled for words. It wasn’t hard to bring the memory of the other day to the front of your mind. You had been replaying it almost every hour for the last five days, trying to shake the ache in the pit of your stomach – to see it in a new light, one that didn’t mourn the fact you were so close to knowing what his lips felt like against your own. 

“Professor, I—“

“Do you think I don’t see it? Hm?” He glanced around then, pausing as a small gaggle of students filed past, his voice lowering. “The way you look at me? All the way through class. It’s enough to drive any man mad, and the other day—” he found himself unable to finish the thought, settling for another harsh drag instead.  

You swallowed hard against the tension in your throat. “Do you think it’s a problem?”

“I know it is a problem. Need I remind you I am your teacher.” 

“You’re the youngest on campus.”

“That does not make it better.” 

“I would argue that it is considerably more tolerable than if it were me and, say, Professor Richardson. Physiologically speaking.” 

Isaac visibly cringed at the thought of his nearing-70-year-old colleague, tossing the butt of his cigarette to the ground and grinding it beneath the toe of his shiny Oxford shoe. “Please do not make me picture that.” 

“It proves my point.” 

“It proves nothing,” he stressed. “I am your tutor, and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to see you so often, not one-on-one.” 

“So, you’re ending the tutoring?” 

“I didn’t say that.” His answer came too quickly, a stern glance offered from beneath his brows at the mere suggestion. It was a strange thing to watch his reason fight his appetite. You didn’t get where he was so quickly without constantly pursuing what you craved, after all, and now he seemed to be at odds with his habits for what might have been the first time.

That almost made you laugh. There was something deeply unfair about the severity with which he approached everything, including this. Especially this.

“You know,” you mused, “most men would simply admit they’re attracted to someone and spare themselves the philosophical crisis.” 

“This is not a game.” His expression darkened at once. “This cannot continue indefinitely.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Then, we seem to be at an impasse.” 

He barely reacted, his eyes not once leaving your own. 

“I can give you one last session,” he offered. You knew that tone. It was the one he used in seminars, relenting to a student begging for an extension on a submission. He was bargaining. But this time, you could hardly tell if it was with you or himself. 

“I want to show you something,” he continued, each word chosen too carefully. “But beyond that, we need to… reassess the arrangement.” 

It was as if he was trying to sound certain, cover himself with his professionalism. It was easy enough to see through the fact his fingers fidgeted in his pocket, twitchy without the comfort of his cigarette.

“In your office?” 

It would have been a disservice to yourself to pretend your stomach didn’t knot at the thought of it. That something inside you hadn’t already gone taut with anticipation. That the same heat didn’t bloom across your chest, multiplied ten fold from your first meeting. 

You knew he felt it too. It only made it worse. 

“I– Are you busy right now?” 

“Not with anything important.” 

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing, and his keys were fished from his pocket. “They’re at my apartment.” 

You almost laughed. “You think that’s smart?” 

“I know it isn’t.” For a second, he stayed there against the wall like he was still arguing with himself, jaw tight enough to ache. Without much other warning he set off walking with an intention that suggested you should follow. “But I’m sure we can be professional about it.” 

Isaac’s apartment was a little way off campus, away from the more student-esque districts. It was nice, suggestive of the nice wage the university must have offered him to keep him in their employ, and not have him dart off to the competition. 

He had stepped back upon opening the door for you, as silent as he had been on the drive over, letting you step beyond the threshold of what appeared initially to be an extension of his campus office. A similar pattern of chaos permeated each corner, this time, however, mixed with a series of chotskies you were sure were of his own design. You wondered if he at all knew how to switch off. 

“Did you make all of these?” Your bag dropped neatly to the floor beside his sofa, a cosy-looking thing, worn but not to the point of ragged. 

“Yes.” He sat back against the cushions, having locked the front door again and kicked off his shoes. You stood for a moment longer, turning slowly as if in some grand museum, when it caught your eye. A picture frame, a young girl, beaming happily from the mantlepiece beside yet another metal contraption. 

“She’s pretty,” you mused, stepping closer. Isaac knew what you were testing here, smart as he was, glancing up just barely from flicking though some large papers on his coffee table. 

“She’s my sister,” he confirmed. “Françoise.” 

You turned at that, an odd satisfaction settling in the pit of your stomach. He went quickly back to hunting for what he wanted, lips pressed together firmly the longer it took to find.

You paced slowly, attention darting between each of the small contraptions, set up in strange ways that you could hardly understand. 

“What does this one do?”

You stopped beside a particularly intricate mechanism, slightly larger than the others and positioned alone on a side table. Interlocking brass gears turned at uneven intervals beneath a lattice of thin steel rods, each movement feeding into the next with precise, deliberate clicks.

You reached forward innocently enough, a finger aiming to brush along the twisted metal, guided purely by curiosity.

That was when you felt it – the firm wrap of a hand around your wrist, stopping you entirely, holding you still without any obvious physical effort. Your eyes widened, breath catching at the steady pressure around your forearm.

Isaac’s hand was barely outstretched, still sat across the room, his gaze firm and unimpressed.

“Can you behave for a moment, please?”

Your mouth dried, a tragic idea forming. He had, after all, hidden from you for several days, avoided you like some child on a playground. If he wanted to be immature, why couldn’t you be. Your lips curled to disguise your shock.  “And if I don't?” 

Something darkened in his expression, the lines between his brows lingering but shifting, his tongue rolling over his lip slowly, preparing the answer. “Don’t push it.”

The pressure dissipated quickly, the sensation odd – there had been no warmth of skin to retract, simply the presence – some ghostly palm releasing you back to yourself. 

“I intended to bring these on Friday,” he muttered, already having gone back to his search, shuffling over a seat to work through another pile. “But, well…” 

“What are they exactly?” 

His hands stalled for only a fraction of a second before continuing. “The plans for my heart. I thought they might help with your final project.”

Something in your own chest tightened at the casualness of it.

“I’m sure they were here.” He exhaled quietly through his nose, shuffling another pile aside.

“You could just show me,” you said. “Your heart, I mean. If you can’t find the plans…”

That finally drew a reaction. His fingers slowed against the papers, then stopped altogether. The room suddenly felt much smaller. 

Isaac glanced at you, expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw gave something away. “I don’t think that quite sticks to the promise of professionalism,” he muttered. Even so, he didn’t resume searching.

You only shrugged. “It saves me coming all this way for nothing.” 

His hesitation lasted for all of about two seconds before he reached for his tie, loosening the fabric incrementally until it hung loose from his collar.

“Fine.”

The word came quieter than you expected. He leaned forward to undo the first button of his shirt, then the next. The cushions shifted beneath him as he moved closer to the edge of the sofa.

“Come here, then.”

For a moment, you didn’t move. You could only watch the slow parting of fabric beneath his fingers, the glimpse of pale skin and the faint metallic framework set into the centre of his chest. Brass caught the low light in narrow flashes between the open edges of his shirt, mechanisms moving with soft, precise clicks beneath the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You hadn’t realised you were staring until he glanced up at you. The look in his eyes snapped you out of it enough to finally cross the room.

Carefully, almost cautiously, you lowered yourself to kneel between his legs. The position alone sent heat rushing to your face, made worse by the way his knees shifted slightly apart to make room for you. Isaac inhaled sharply.

Your fingers hovered uncertainly before finally reaching forward. His actual hand curtailed your reach this time, his fingers wrapped tangibly around your wrist without squeezing. A warning, unlike the last, more to slow you than deter you entirely. He moved with you as you pressed forward, his lax grip steering you to the scarred skin beside the mechanism, free from the cage itself. It trailed from there, guided still by his palm, a tour guide as such, each component's name was announced at each small stop, low and soft beside your ear.

“It’s incredible.” Your voice was little more than a whisper as you allowed yourself to lean closer, weight shifting further onto your knees. You were too transfixed to recognise that your hand had found his thigh for balance, nor his shaky intake of breath. “You really designed this when you were just a child?” 

Isaac offered a quiet affirmative. You glanced up, too enraptured to have realised how close you had really become again. Neither of you moved. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not most of the time.” 

“Does it always tick this quickly?” 

“When you are around, yes.” 

You swallowed hard, heat rising at the overwhelming warmth that spread across your cheeks and prickled down your spine, exacerbated by the warmth of him beside you. Your fingers tightened against his thigh; his breath stuttered. 

“I should stop, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“No.” 

The kiss landed wrong at first. Too fast. Your mouths collided clumsily, breath catching, his hand finding your cheeks with enough force to pull a startled sound from you. It was nothing like the composed precision he carried through the rest of his life. You could feel every fractured second of restraint fighting against instinct beneath it. He pulled back first, but only just enough to breathe.

This close, he looked almost angry about it.

“That,” he said quietly, voice roughened beyond recognition, “was a mistake.”

You could still feel his mouth against yours.

“Probably,” you whispered.

Your hand on his thigh drifted upwards as he leaned down to catch your lips again, tongue rolling over your own with an ease that betrayed his experience, finding where he stiffened, palming over the steadily straining fabric. His breath stuttered, rasping as you descended, trailing your mouth down the column of his throat. 

“W-we absolutely shouldn’t do this.” 

The button of his slacks popped open with the slightest effort, the zipper following suit. For all his eagerness to stop you earlier, there was little sign of the hum of his ability now, not as his hips lifted enough for you to pull the fabric free, to loose him, his flushed tip hitting his stomach. 

His weak protests trailed off into something unintelligible, soft whines taking their place at the wrap of your fingers around him, enveloping the base, catching in the mess of curls. His jaw clenched as you glance up, doe-eyed from beneath your lashes with the steady twist of your grip. 

“Fuck—” 

You gave into your own urges before considering his, you were so tired of navigating the whole thing on his terms, you thought, as you brought your mouth to him at last, the soft stroke of your tongue catching the heat of him, lapping sweetly at the mess he was making of himself, saline and sticky.  

The soft mewl was almost unbecoming of the man who usually commanded your classroom, his stomach tightening with each twitch in your palm. His eyes never once left yours, hooded, pupils blown so wide they were nearly entirely black. They followed the path of your tongue as it circled him, lapping softly at his slit, lips barely closing around him, suckling sweetly until he jerked against the roof of your mouth, pressing himself deeper, groaning at your startled hum around him until he met the back of your throat, the heaviness of him against your tongue halting your breath. 

He dragged you off as you hiccuped, nails digging crescents into the skin of his thigh, water brimming on your lashes. For a moment neither of you could properly breathe, your gentle grip still smoothing over the spit-slick skin. 

“Do you want me to stop, Prof—” 

“Don’t say that.” 

You only smiled, your cheek leaning to press against his thigh, a slow smile curling, emboldened by his steady undoing beneath your palm. “Would you rather I moaned it?” 

“Stop it.” 

“Professor—“ 

Something in him broke, his grip on your hair dipping until it grasped the base of your neck, tugging you back into him with little care for the fact the he could taste himself on your tongue. 

He kissed like a man possessed. Something besides his hands demanding you up towards him, settling you in his lap without effort, securing you against his chest with a near bruising grip. It was all too easy to give in, the startled huff of his name forced from your lungs as he pressed you into the couch beside him, barely allowing himself the distance required to tug at your clothes, stripping them unceremoniously.

There was nothing measured left in him now, not as his lips found your throat, teeth nipping at the skin not entirely intentionally. 

“Please tell me you have done this before?” It was rasped, punctuated by the drag of his lips across the juncture of your throat. 

“Yes.” 

“Thank God.” 

He spared no time working his hand between you, lithe fingers brushing the soaking wet folds, fumbling to find the ridges of your clit, savouring the harsh gasps as he dipped lower, pressing and curling against you for nothing besides satisfying his own desperation. 

“I’ve wanted to ruin you from the day you walked into my classroom—” each laboured word of confession came punctuated with the precise scissor of his fingers, “—So smart, so good. Fuck, made such a mess of myself all because of you.” 

You could do little more than whine, the broken syllables of his name barely discernable through the stuttered, hiccuping sighs, dragged from you with each pull against your walls. 

He pulled from you suddenly, hardly giving you enough time to lodge complaint before he pressed forward, filling you slowly – far slower than you imagined he desired to – inch by devastating inch, until his thighs pressed flush against your own. 

He sat back only enough to study you, his hair a mess, hanging limp in gel-cripsed ringlets by his temples as his thumbs spread your cunt for his observation. “That’s it, oh, good girl.” 

There was no control in the way he gave into your warmth, the fluttering squeeze around him driving him to the point of near madness as he pressed deeper still, barely giving himself the chance to withdraw with each roll of his hips. 

“Always knew you’d be so good for me.” His hands found yours, the white-kuckle grip alleviating from your hips in favour of pinning you to his sofa, the throw pillows crushed or tumbled to the floor in his haste, caging your hands in one of his so easily. “The– perfect– student—”

His reminder had you clenching around him, barely registering against the surge of him, the hand not dominating your own slipping between you again to find your clit, unrelenting as he played you so flippantly. 

His lips finding yours quietened you, swallowing the keening moans forced from your chest, drawn out by months of built-up frustration, inhibitions dissolving as he moved with bullying intent. 

“Gonna–” 

It was all you could manage, your fluttering cunt milking him, the gush of your slick making a mess of the fabric below you, body trembling and hips bucking away at the over stimulation as he fucked you through it, half-formed praises dripping from his lips. 

He came undone with a sob, spilling into you recklessly, the grip on your hands loosened, his fingers searching for anything to cling onto as he dropped forward, head pressed into the plush of your chest as he gasped, the keening rasp shaking with the effort as he collapsed, the rigidity of his body softening against yours, save for the cool metal in his chest. 

It somehow felt more strange for your fingers to settle in his hair, brushing the strands from his forehead, combing them back slowly so as not to tug. 

It took him a moment to collect himself before he drew back, hissing at the overstimulation. 

“Oh, shit,” his dispair came halfway between concern and exhilaration, eyes fixing on the slow seep of him from your cunt. “Are you–” 

“I’ll get a pill.” 

You moved to push yourself to sit, only for his hand to land against your shoulder. “Wait here.” 

He disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a washcloth, dampened and warm, pressing it diligently between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”

“It’s okay, honestly.” The quiet that came between you was neither comfortable or awkward, an odd tension settling.“I don’t regret it,” you offered softly, watching the tension in his expression loosen by degrees.

“That doesn’t mean it should have happened.” 

“Do you regret it?” you pressed. His lips twitched faintly, humourless and tired all at once.

“No,” he admitted. “That’s the problem.”

The honesty of it settled warm beneath your ribs. “So,” you said carefully, unable to suppress the hope creeping into your voice, “you maybe want to see me again?”

“I will see you next Friday for your usual session,” he replied at once, the formality of it almost comical considering the state of both of you. Still, disappointment sat heavily against your diaphragm. You tried to hide it, but his eyes flicking across your face told you that you had failed. 

“Then,” he continued, quieter now as he bent to retrieve his shirt from the floor, shaking it out once before holding it toward you. The fabric still carried his warmth. He let it fall deliberately into your hands, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. “So long as you graduate top of your class,” he said, gaze steady on yours, “I will see you again.”

You stared at him. It was impossible not to grin.

His expression shifted immediately in response, something dangerously fond threatening the corners of his mouth before he suppressed it again.

“You realise,” you said, pulling his shirt over yourself, “this is a wildly unethical motivational strategy?”

“And yet,” he replied smoothly, eyes dragging over you once before returning to your face, “I suspect it will be extremely effective.”

one of Primo’s big hands cradling your face, surprisingly strong, but it’s not his touch that keeps you from looking away—it’s the intensity in his eyes. uncanny and ageless, unblinking as he looks down at you. you’re pinned to the spot, even as he moves, hips rocking with shallow thrusts as he works himself deeper and deeper into you. you’re writhing beneath him, panting like an animal, clenching around him as you adjust to his size—and he just gazes at you like you’re all that exists. “let me in,” he says on an undertone, voice thick and husky, “and let go.” and when he finally bottoms out, you arch, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut. with the hand he’s been holding your face with, he taps your cheek—three quick taps—and you quickly look back at him. he sighs and says, “just like that, anima mia. keep your eyes on me.” and you do.

a calm, “look at me,” from Secondo, spoken low and controlled and hot. and it’s hard—it’s so hard—when he hasn’t stopped moving, when his fingers are biting into the meat of your thighs as he pins you open for him. he always looks at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to figure out, like he’s trying to develop the ability to read your mind, and it paralyzes you. it’s like everything disappears—the walls around you, the floor beneath you. you’re just floating in an abyss and all you know is how full you are. but you force yourself to keep your eyes on his, even as you feel your climax building in you, hotter and tighter. he watches. and his mouth quirks up at the corners, pleased. “bene.” a single word. you might have imagined it, but it’s enough to push you over the edge. and a rough hand finds your chin so he can keep you from hiding as you come.

Terzo has his fingers twisted into your hair, but not harshly—merely deliberate. he combs his fingers through your hair, tilting your head back up so you can blink up at him. “there you are,” he says with a smirk, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I want you to watch while I take you apart.” his other hand splays flat against your abdomen, pressing down like he wants to feel how deep he is. the pressure makes you whimper, but his grasp tightens in your hair just slightly—so you catch yourself before your eyes try to squeeze shut. his lips curl up into a satisfied grin. “tell me what you’re feeling, amore. let me hear it.” but as you open your mouth, he angles his next thrust and brushes the spot inside of you that makes your veins flood with electricity. all you can do is cry out his name—which he answers with a rasped out laugh, though the way his breath hitches tells you he’s not unaffected.

holding your hands in his, fingers laced with yours, Copia leans in to nuzzle you, bumping your nose with his, uttering a rasped little plea of, “'look at me… please.” and when you do, dragging your eyes open so you can meet his gaze, you see it. like a switch flipping. and his hips start snapping against yours faster, a vein in his neck popping, his face and chest flushed a delicious shade of red. he’s thanking you, telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel around him. your eyes flutter closed at the next ripple of pleasure, and he says your name like it hurts. your eyes pop open again. focus on him again. and he says, “sì, sì—you’re mine. All mine. my perfect—” his words cut off, turning into a deep groan as his rhythm falters and he comes unexpectedly, with no warning. but the night is young….

Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.

You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.

James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.

He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.

You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.

As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.

But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.

A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.

James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.

That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.

“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”

Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.

“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”

You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”

Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”

You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.

“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”

Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.

“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”

You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.

“I’ll think about it,” you told her.

Steve had moved in that Friday.

The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.

After that, you stopped tiptoeing.

And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.

Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room. 

In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.

And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.

“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.

“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.

Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.

“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.

“D&D?” Steve puts forward.

“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.

“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.

Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.

“Why do you have to remind me?”

“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.

“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”

You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.

“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.

“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.

You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.

“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.

“Both,” Eddie says, smiling. 

You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.

“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.

“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.

Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”

Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”

“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.

Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.

Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.

“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”

You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.

“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”

“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”

Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.

“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.

“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”

Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.

He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.

“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.

“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.

“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door. 

Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.

You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.

Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door. 

“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.

Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.

“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.

It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.

“Hey, (y/n)?”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.

He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.

“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”

Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.

“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”

You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.

When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”

 “Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.

“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”

Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.

Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.

“You know you deserve better, right?”

The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.

Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.

“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).

He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.

“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”

Your face warms, you avert your eyes.

“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”

Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”

You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation. 

“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes. 

The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.

The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.

Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”

The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—

To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.

Your thighs squeeze together without permission.

Holy fuck.

This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—

“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”

You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”

The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.

You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—

Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—

“You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.

You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.

Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.

The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear. 

And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.

Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.

The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.

And that’s when you gave in.

Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.

You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—

“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”

And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”

That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.

You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.

No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.

One time. You told yourself. Just one time.

The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.

You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.

James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.

He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—

“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”

James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.

“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”

You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.

James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.

His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—

But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.

No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve. 

But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—

And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.

You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.

Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—

James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”

But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you. 

You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay. 

And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.

Never again, you told yourself. Never again.

But it happens. More than you care to admit.

The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.

Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.

You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.

And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—

But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.

“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”

But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.

You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.

And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.

You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.

You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.

You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.

And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.

And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.

Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.

You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.

Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.

The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.

The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”

Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.

But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.

You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”

Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.

“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”

“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”

“I don’t—”

“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”

For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.

“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”

“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”

You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.

“James, I—”

“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”

“James—”

But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.

What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.

The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.

Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.

“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”

The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss. 

Especially not Steve.

Especially not Steve.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

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Isaac couldn’t help the fact that his eyes would lock onto you the second you shared a proximity. It was as if he’d developed a sixth sense just for you, one that he couldn’t quite figure out and nothing frustrated him more than his brilliant mind unable to come to a logical conclusion. He’d heard whispers that hung around the mystery of you like a dark cloud. Whispers of a supposed line of demons or witches; burned and condemned to an eternity of endless unrest, a claim he could not confirm, nor deny. There was such a lack of information about you, not even the endless amounts of hours he had scoured through your academic files could ever give him answers. On the days he wasn’t actively stalking you, he’d just watch, overanalysing the way you presented yourself, your cadence, patiently waiting for something, even a glint in your eyes, to reveal just a tiny sliver about you.

He had made his way over to Ophelia Hall, where he found himself leaning towards the door, ear pressed against the cold wood, a poor attempt to squash his overwhelming need to soothe the obsession he called an itch. He knew you were good friends and roommates with Morticia, who continued refusing to tell him anything about you when he caught her alone in passing. Damn her loyalty.

“It’s not my story to tell, darling,” she’d say to him in that obnoxiously honey-sweet voice of hers. Perhaps that response was an understanding on her part that there was more to this obsession. Perhaps the faintest nudge of encouragement for him to just ask you directly. Though there wasn’t much interaction between you and Isaac. He never really spoke to you, only to Gomez or Morticia, but you were often in the background watching him with a neutral expression that was impossible to read, and it pissed him off to no end. He was honestly about ready to drop to his knees for you and beg to know you. Realistically, his pride would never allow him to display such an unbecoming sight. And a deeper part, knew he’d be a stuttering mess under your intense gaze.

This was his last ditch effort, listening for any shuffling or mumbling behind the door, before determining it was safe to step inside your room. Breaking and entering wasn’t necessarily an in character idea for him, but he also wasn’t above it. He’s hit with the familiar scent of the centuries old architecture, Morticia’s small bed of roses, and something even sweeter. You. The smell of you alone sent his blood flowing a little easier as he subconsciously moved closer to it. There was your small corner of the room. It was simple, and yet again, frustration began to bubble up in him as it also seemed to give away nothing. He couldn’t understand how someone was so secretive to the point of managing to evade the most intelligent student in the entire school. You outsmarting him just wasn’t possible.

He let out a grumble and walked closer to your dresser, your perfume, comb and other generic personal care items neatly stacked atop, a small polaroid stuck to the mirror above it, a photo of you actually smiling, while clutching onto Morticia. You both looked like you were mid-laugh, a perfect, candid picture of you experiencing genuine joy. It was a sight that made him sick to his stomach, the dread boiling at the thought of him likely never being the reason for such a beautiful expression on you. He tried to shake off the anxiety, moving back down to open different drawers, mostly just your uniform and some personal clothing. He yanked another smaller drawer open, revealing your underwear, some basics and a few sets in different colours and lace patterns. He swallowed down the tightness forming in his throat, picking a pair up as he wondered how the thin material even covered anything. The thought of you in nothing but your underwear and shooting him that bright smile had heat simmering beneath his skin.

SLAM! The heavy wooden door shut behind him, snapping him out of his fantasy, now frozen in fear, panties still in hand. He slowly turned to confirm his worst fear. You. Standing right there. Shit…

“I-I can explain!” he began in a flurry.

“I’m sure you can,” you retort, with a raised eyebrow, eyes shifting down to the garment he was gripping onto. You stalked towards him and he couldn’t help but tense, feeling like a frightened deer being circled by a hungry lioness. You came to a stop in front of him, invading his personal space, just as he had invaded your privacy.

“Well?” you sneered, “I’m waiting. Explain to me why you’ve snuck into my room and gotten your filthy Da Vinci paws on my panties.” Not much could faze the lanky boy, but fuck was he fascinated and terrified. And not knowing your ability made it even worse. What could you do to him? What would you do to him? The response was stuck in his throat, only a pathetic sound rose.

“I’m aware that you’ve been watching me.” You rolled your eyes.

“I- how would you know that?!” he frowned. Clearly his mania had made him sloppy in his attempts to sneak around you.

“Isaac, come on now, I see the way you stare at me. And it’s not in the way that everyone else does when they’re muttering some bullshit rumour. You look at me as if you have x-ray vision.” He opened his mouth to speak, contemplating on closing it again when he realised any feeble attempt to defend himself would be useless. However, the insufferable genius in him constantly hypothesising just couldn’t resist.

“Why is there no information about you? How do I not know what you are? How have you kept it such a secret for so long?” he rapidly questioned.

You snatched the crumpled fabric from his hands and threw it back in the general direction of your dresser, “Tish knows what I can do because I trust her. The principal ordered that I keep it on the down low. You, on the other hand, Da Vinci, maybe I’ll let you find out for yourself…” you spat as your other hand came up to rest on his lower belly. A sinking sensation started to gurgle gently behind his abdomen, a warmth he hadn’t experienced before. It crept lower, and lower, and lower.

What the fuck? Had he just trampled into something he couldn’t back out of? Of course he had, fucking idiot. This was retaliation for getting too close, he just knew it. You may as well have been a siren instead, he found you so alluring. You consistently revealed yourself in his wispy edged dreams, exchanging soft touches and hot kisses. Yet simultaneously, you were his worst fucking nightmare, plaguing him to no avail. He was so enamoured with you that reality was only now crashing down on him that he’d flown too close to the sun. You were the sun. And he was beginning to burn.

He could feel his blood rushing south, fast enough that a light-headedness overwhelmed him, blurring his vision ever so slightly. An involuntary moan vibrated in his vocal cords, as you backed him to the wall. What was happening? What were you doing to him? Was he finally losing his damn mind? The erection he had felt so good that it was painful; any movement he made caused friction against the fabric of his pants. Your hand slid lower to meet the straining hardness threatening to burst, and Isaac tried biting back a whimper.

“Ah- y-you succubus,” he whispered, struggling to maintain steady breathing. You smiled up at him and gave an amused hum.

“Hm, not quite. Try again. Come on baby, you’re super smart, you can figure it out,” you taunted, hand slowly palming him. His eyes snapped towards you, as it hit him all at once. Blood. It was blood.

“Oh fuck, you- you have blood manipulation. That’s why I’m so-,” a pained groan came out of him before he could finish his sentence. You were ramping up the pressure. It made his head fall back against the wall.

“See? I knew you could do it. Such a smart boy,” you cooed and his breathing stuttered, while his hands reached out to your shoulders to steady him. You pulled back just to push him down again, this time his aching, weak body landed on your soft bed. You hooked a leg over his lap to straddle him, your own pulsing heat directly over his.

Your hands reached for the button of his slacks, opening it with a subdued pop as you spoke, “I could drain every last drop of your blood if I wanted to,” you tugged his shirt out of its tucked position and tore it open, revealing the gaping brass hole in his chest, “I could speed it up, and overload your mechanical heart, or I could slow it down, clot it, make you suffocate. Things I’m sure you already know.” Leaning further over him, your cold fingers deftly found his nipple, giving a light pinch, emitting a gasp.

“But I can also, heighten your pleasure.” Your voice was silky and authoritative; it sent a shiver down the boy’s spine. You quickly replaced your fingers with your mouth, tongue and teeth wrapped around his sensitive nipple, his hips instinctively bucking up into your core, trying desperately to find any sort of relief.

Isaac’s world was swirling around him. He had convinced himself for so long he didn’t have any needs to satisfy; he had more important tasks to focus on, not some useless lascivious desire. He was such a bad fucking liar. In the deepest pits of his brain was an image of you below him, naked, wide eyes, mouth stuffed full of him. An image he would use when he was lonely and restless, hand pumping his length in a pitiful desperation for release, where he would imagine spilling down your throat, only to open his eyes to a pathetic reality.

This was really happening to him. You were on top of him, shuffling his boxers down to his thighs, hiking your skirt up more just to push your panties to one side. He couldn’t believe it when your warm slick came into contact with his embarrassingly hard cock, his eyes rolling back while his hands dug into your hips. You slowly slid against him, back and forth, agonising. He couldn’t take much more of this. You were torturing him as punishment, and fuck, did he love it.

“Please, I- ah- I need- need you, so warm,” he panted out in a strangled voice. You adjusted down to ghost your lips over his, barely touching, a silent threat that you could pull away and leave him at any second. He didn’t dare to make the move, a faint whimper escaped him, waiting, pleading for you to kiss him. You had an amused gleam in your eyes as you stared him down. It was incredible that you were able to reduce the star student of Nevermore, to absolute shambles just by your touch. Finally, you indulged him, pressing your parted lips against his, muffling the moan he didn’t bother to hold back. He had completely melted into you, and he wanted, no, needed more. You were in control, mind, body, soul, the blood that coursed through his veins.

He felt your tongue massage his, an unexpected tenderness where he was convinced you would bite. You broke apart, trailing passionate kisses along his jaw and neck, leaving tiny marks to his contrasting pale skin. Reaching between your legs, you wrapped a hand around his cock, guiding it to your entrance, sinking down onto the tip. You let out a gasp at the sensation, Isaac’s clockwork heart ticked erratically, while he gave short whimpers, begging you in the smallest voice. He was so beautiful.

“This is what happens when you’re naughty and sneak around other peoples’ business. You’re gonna be a good boy for me. You’re gonna take the rest of me. And you’re gonna fill me up until your cum is pouring out of me. And I will keep going until I’m satisfied. Do you understand?” You ordered lowly. He did his best to nod. He was about average, a perfect fit inside you, making it easier to slide further down his shaft at an excruciatingly slow pace. His glossy eyes were trained on you, curses spilt out of his mouth in short whines, attempting to use sheer willpower to not cum right there and then. He’d have this moment, this pleasure, last forever if he could. Your eyelids fell shut at the feeling of his cock buried in you, an exhale leaving your lungs as you relaxed.

In one motion, you dragged your hips into a roll while you raised a hand to float over his chest, just stopping his blood flow to prevent it entering his heart, creating a small, short-circuit, enough for his breath to delay before you let go again. It was incredibly risky to pull off considering the heart was just carefully carved pieces of metal, and he still wasn’t immune to an air embolism. Overwhelming ecstasy shot through his throbbing veins and his hips rutted into you, anguish taking over while he begged you for release. He pawed at your belly underneath your scrunched up skirt, trying to feel himself bulging in and out of you.

He was close, too close. Both of you were slamming into each other with loud slaps, skin contacting with a ferocity Isaac didn’t realise he possessed. His sensitivity was increasing by each second, his sexual excitement had reached white-hot.

“Ah- god- I can’t- I’m gonna- oh fuck,” he let out a moan that rivalled the nastiest pornographic fantasy he’d conjured in his mind. His orgasm was over stimulating, pain beginning to set in while he coated your walls with his seed. You didn’t stop, even when you noticed tears trailing down his temples. If anything, you fucked him harder. A sob clawed his throat.

“You can bitch about it all you like, I don’t care. I’m not stopping until I get what I want,” you said breathless, your harsh bounce never faltering. The steadfast ticking of his heart sounded as if it wanted to give out and kill him any moment. Tears pooled down the sides of his face, onto your pillow soaking it, while staring up at you with a numb expression, yet he was still whimpering. He could easily throw you off of him if he really needed to, but something about you had him willingly taking it, maybe the fear of how lethal your power was. Maybe that had his clouded mind in a chokehold, and it told him not to resist.

Making a bold decision, his thumb found your clit and gently pressed a circular motion, earning a sharp gasp from you.

“Ah fuck, that’s it Isaac. I’m so close,” you whined, the feel of his shaky thumb sending you over the edge alone, dizziness catching up to you as you tried to stop your inevitable collapse and steady yourself on his chest. You were both panting like dogs in a heat wave, your quivering knees held you up again to remove his sore, limp cock from you, and you watched the mixture of cum drip out of you, onto him below, before laying down next to him.

“Does that answer your questions about me?” You asked, his head turning towards you. He pouted, nodding, a fresh wave of tears building up in his waterline. A sudden clinginess took over him, and he wrapped an arm around you, a silent plea as another small sob wracked his body. You couldn’t help but pity him. Underneath that genius, smug appearance was just a boy, who craved touch and attention from his object of desire.

"Fuck, knock it off!" he yelled.

The cloister of giggles at your back egged you on, killing any pity you might have felt for the other Da Vinci.

"Run, Forrest!" you called facetiously.

Slowly, surely, you dragged your prize closer to your person, gloating at the front of the classroom. You rested your foot on it just as Isaac crouched to retrieve it.

"Good, while you're already on your knees down there, just go ahead and beg me to give it back," you grinned cruelly.

Isaac snarled up at you defiantly, reached for your ankle and his notebook. Your fingers twitched. Your telekinesis wrapped around his wrists and yanked until he was on his back in the disused classroom with his hands pinned between his body and the floor.

"Like I said..."

You stooped to collect his notebook, flipped it through the air in your left hand while your right held Isaac prisoner. You felt the tickle of his power colliding with yours, but your ability was so much stronger than his it was almost laughable. He panted under your hold while you took things a step further still, planted your foot on his chest, bent your knee and leaned down to put yourself closer to your squirming victim.

"You can have it back when you beg me for it, Night," you purred.

"God, you're going to fucking regret this!" he hissed, still fighting under your influence.

You thought his struggle was delicious, licked your lips like you were actually savoring its taste.

"That didn't sound like begging," you tsked. You opened his notebook, browsed its contents cursorily. Jibber-jabber, nonsense, indecipherable garbage. "You'd better change that tune of yours real quick, Night."

You didn't budge with your restraining right hand. Instead, you closed your teeth around a corner of a page, halted long enough to quirk an eyebrow down at your gaping prey.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Isaac growled. He thrashed, but you put more of your weight on the foot you had on his chest. Spitefully, you tore the page out with your teeth, let it flutter down to the floor at Isaac's side.

"Emery, give me a little heat," you requested.

The pyro in your friend group eagerly obliged and the page you'd torn from Isaac's notebook went up in flames inches from his face. He watched it with an expression of wrath that was nearly animalistic, snarling in its intensity.

"I still don't hear any begging," you taunted, preparing to repeat the insult.

"Isaac?! Hey, what's the big idea, anyway?!"

Shouts of dismay rang out among your peers. You all knew Gomez Addams voice well by now.

"Hey, don't-"

Your shout went ignored as your friends scrambled over each other in their haste to flee. You were left behind in the fray, knocked to the ground by Emery as he dashed past without a thought for you. You barely had time to seethe at their selfishness before a surge of electricity ensconced your body. You stiffened like a lightning rod, regret and indignation overwhelmed by the atrocious, all-consuming pain of electrocution.

"Isaac! Are you alright?!" Gomez demanded. He stopped shocking you long enough to stoop and clasp Isaac's hand, pulling him up off the floor. Isaac groaned, rolled his shoulders and tried to swat your footprint off the front of his shirt. It smeared, but didn't come out completely.

"I'm fine," Isaac assured his best friend.

He bent to collect his notebook, dropped in the frenzied stampede of your fairweather friends' escape. He scowled at the missing page, snapped it shut and tucked it under his arm.

"I thought I taught these jerks enough of a lesson last week," Gomez sighed.

You started to pull yourself up off the floor, only to collapse again when Gomez sent a stream of electricity flowing around your prone form. You twitched, shook and yelped helplessly, unable to move within the current.

"Guess they didn't get the idea the first time," Isaac sneered. "That's good enough, old friend. I'll handle it from here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Most of them ran off... and this one, I can handle on my own."

"If you say so, Isaac," Gomez shrugged. "But tell you what, I'll be outside waiting for Tish. If you need me to come back in for another zap, just yell."

"Of course, of course," Isaac smirked.

Gomez took his leave and you trembled on the floor at Isaac's feet. He towered over you, still shaking with rage.

"Not so tough when you're alone, huh?" he sneered.

You tried to prop yourself up onto your elbows, but Isaac's foot on your chest stopped you. He pushed you back to the floor, forcing a labored exhalation that stole most of your breath. You had to drag and struggle to bring it back while he leaned heavily over your prone form.

"Now... if you want to get up, you'd better start begging," Isaac smirked down at you.

"Go to hell!" you laughed up at him.

"I mean, I could always call Gomez back in here," Isaac mulled thoughtfully.

"No! No, please!" you choked at once. Aching nerve endings throughout your body prickled unpleasantly at the thought that Addams might subject you to another surge of his electrifying power.

"Ooh, that's good!" Isaac cackled. He leaned a little lower, enticed by your pleading.

You couldn't help but quirk an eyebrow. From your angle, it wasn't hard to see that your subjugation was exciting the Da Vinci you'd been tormenting for the past few weeks in more ways than one. Pinned to the ground under his heel, you were surprised to feel your own body stirring the same way.

"More," Isaac demanded. "Or I call Gomez..."

"You make a terrible bully," you informed him blithely, as if electrocution weren't on the line should you piss him off enough. "Gomez this, Gomez that. Or don't you have the balls to get even on your own, Night?"

It was the farthest thing from subtle, the way your eyes flicked down to linger on his tightening crotch. Isaac frowned, opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat when he followed your gaze. To your immense satisfaction, he went as red as a tomato.

"Here," you grinned up at him. You took control back as easy as breathing, but part of you, a tiny, secret piece that you hid away and denied, was disappointed that he wasn't being more forceful. "I'll show you how, hm?"

You flicked your wrist, dragged Isaac's right hand up haltingly.

"Hey, what are-"

"Relax. Just a quick lesson," you assured him. "Go on. Do it. You know you want to."

Isaac's eyes narrowed further as he glared down at you suspiciously. You both knew your ability was stronger than his. He didn't harbor any illusions that he could hold you with telekinesis... unless you let him.

Your grin widened further, betrayed your burgeoning excitement under the strange turn of events.

Isaac caved to his savage impulses and your goading. His fingers flew, dragged you up onto your knees with your hands held tight behind your back by the unseen force of his ability. You gasped harshly, unsure what you had been expecting from your hapless little victim.

"Now... I'll beg for it, if you really still want me to," you drawled, far too confident for someone on their knees. You couldn't help yourself, even with your heart pounding and heat pulsing wantonly through your body.

"You're getting off on this," Isaac accused you. Behind his vitriol, the growl of his lust was apparent.

"Not yet, I'm not," you protested. "Mostly 'cause you're too scared to escalate it. Come on, Night. Worried I'll bite?"

You flashed him another wide grin, this one intentionally full of teeth. He gulped hard and you felt the vise of his powers tighten around your figure, especially your wrists. Your grin faltered as a little flutter of genuine fear sparked through you. You couldn't move your right hand. You couldn't even bend your fingers. Whether Isaac realized it or not, for this moment alone he had you completely at his mercy.

What a great time to resort to begging.

"Come on, Night," you breathed. You wished you could force the tremble out of your voice, but it seemed it was there to stay. "Please. I was just having a little fun... you know, you're cute when you're upset. I couldn't help myself. Didn't you get back at me enough already, siccing your spark friend on me like that? Please... let me go now, huh? Please?"

The rasp of Isaac's strained breaths was unbearably hot, the way your little show of submission turned him on, the way he struggled to hide it from you.

"Not enough," he finally managed. His fingers twitched and you pulled forward a few more inches. Far enough to put his clothed erection close enough to smell. Whether that was his intention or not was an open question, but you weren't inclined to take the time to ask.

You gave a little moan, glanced up just long enough to catch the way Isaac bit his lip. You held his gaze and leaned in the rest of the way, lips parted just a little while you slowly mouthed his arousal. Isaac's hips jerked like he'd been electrocuted and his breath stuttered. His reaction sent desire coursing through you, coaxed another pathetic little whimper from your throat.

"Is that what you really wanted all along?" Isaac wondered quietly.

The fingers of his left hand sank into your hair, braced against your scalp to crush you closer. Lust gripped you in a vise more devastating than his powers when you felt him get even harder against your mouth. Your body responded to his on primitive reflex, effortless surrender washing over you as your mind went treacherously blank. All you could think about was getting his bare flesh in your mouth.

"I'll give it to you," Isaac rasped, grinding against your face while you whimpered helplessly in his grasp. "But you have to beg me for it."

Your pride flared. Not enough to bring you back fully to your senses, just enough to make it sting when you obliged his demands.

"Fuck, Night! Give it to me, please!" you plead. "Let me- I want to... oh god, fuck! Please let me taste you?"

You batted your lashes at him with all the coyness you could muster from such a humiliating pose. It was a comfort to see Isaac's stricken expression, to feel the slight quiver in his tense muscles. The effect you had on him was delicious, even if you were embarrassed to be found less in control than usual.

"Pathetic," Isaac sneered, taking you by surprise. You had expected your begging to break him to pieces. He had more dominance in him than you'd given him credit for. "Come on, you can do better than that. Beg like you really want it... and don't forget that Gomez is still outside. If you won't break down for me, I can always call him back in here to zap you until you're screaming and crying for me."

"You want tears?" you asked, more amused than anything else. "Did you know you can get tears if you shove your cock down my throat hard enough, Night?"

His erection twitched against your cheek and you closed your teeth around his button. His shocked gasp when you managed to get it open with just your mouth was delightful, music to your ears. You knew you didn't really need to beg Isaac for anything. If his current state was any indication, he would have been begging you before long.

Even so, you couldn't help yourself anymore. You couldn't unbuckle his belt without the use of your hands, and Isaac wasn't budging on your captivity.

"Come on, Night, please!" you whined breathlessly. "I want you to fuck my face 'til I choke on you, please? Want you to make me cry, make me a fucking mess with that big, hard cock..."

You couldn't hold back a little smirk when his nails dug into your scalp. Isaac wasn't that big, you could tell even without undressing him, but the stroke to his ego made him impossibly harder, went a bit of the way toward bridging the distance. You kept pleading with him, kept begging him for your degradation, kept urging him to defile your mouth until finally, he snapped.

Isaac's left hand flew to his belt, unbuckled it in what must have been record time. The moan you loosed was unhinged, your mouth already open wide in preparation to receive him. Cockily, he smacked your cheeks with his length a few times, let you lick your lips and flinch away while he smirked down at you in satisfaction.

"Fuck, you're a tease!" you whimpered. You turned your face enough to steal a taste, lathe the side of him with a single lick that amplified your desire tenfold.

"And you're a hungry little whore!" Isaac shot back.

You expected him to thrust into your mouth, but instead he drew back. Isaac stroked himself with his left hand. It was a relief when his right released you from the grip of his ability, but he didn't give you time to process your freedom. He gripped your jaw, shoved two fingers into your waiting mouth. You moaned your surprise, sucked impulsively while Isaac groaned, slid his long fingers in and out over your squirming tongue. He cursed and squeezed his length harder, fucked your ravenous mouth with his fingers until drool dripped down your chin and coated his hand.

You were unbearably turned on, rubbing your legs together while the hard floor tortured your knees and Isaac's questing fingers relentlessly abused your mouth. He thrust them as far back as possible, matching your moans when he couldn't force a gag out of you. You would have smirked up at him if you weren't so busy desperately sucking his fingers, twining your tongue around them, swallowing every time their tips impacted the back of your throat.

You were on the verge of pulling away so you could start begging again when Isaac finally shifted his grip on you. One hand on your slack jaw, one on the back of your head, he shoved his cock down your throat the way you'd begged him to, gagging you just as your moans escalated to an obscene volume. Filth and praise fell from Isaac's lips while he thrust, hips snapping your head back sharply with every selfish, degenerate inch he forced into your mouth.

You couldn't breathe, couldn't stop moaning, couldn't stop whimpering while you gripped his thighs for dear life and took the cock you'd begged for with enthusiasm checked only by the discomfort of your own ravening, untouched arousal.

Isaac didn't relent, didn't care to give you space to breathe. You heard him laughing breathlessly through the haze of his pleasure, managed to glance up to see him grinning down at you maliciously. Spite tried to revive some resistance in you, but Isaac beat it down effectively with the pounding rhythm of his pleasure as he ravaged your willing mouth.

You pulled back violently, gasping for breath before you could asphyxiate fully from Isaac's careless assault. Mercifully, his hand took over, jerking his spit-slicked member aggressively. He slapped it against your cheeks again while you heaved for air and choked, tears streaming from your eyes as promised.

"Fuck, that's a good look on you!" Isaac purred. "Crying for me, taking my cock like you need it more than air... open your mouth again!"

You were still fighting to catch your breath, but Isaac's patience had run out. His swollen head pressed demandingly to your lips and you opened for him helplessly.

"I said... open your dirty fucking mouth!" Isaac panted, despite the fact that he was already thrusting back down your throat.

He caught you unprepared, finally forced you to gag in earnest. Your eyes rolled back in your head while he fucked your face at a wild, unhinged tempo that left you seeing stars and bright spots. You were just along for the ride, limp as a doll while Isaac used you to get off. His payback was vicious, but all you could think about was how bad you wanted to feel his cock filling you up, barging into other parts of your body besides your mouth. You shuddered, sucked him impossibly deeper while the tenor of his moans gradually grew less controlled.

You were devastated when Isaac pulled out of your mouth, left hand working furiously to finish himself while his right held you in place.

"That's it, keep that mouth open!" Isaac grunted, leering down at you while you seized the opportunity to breathe.

You hadn't caught your breath fully when he came explosively, thick, sticky white strings showering your stricken features, already covered with drool and tears. Isaac had so much to give it made your head spin. You leaned forward desperately past his hold, tongue out thoughtlessly as you greedily, hungrily begged for his cum in your mouth. He let you latch your lips around his pulsing tip, moaned ferally when you sucked him clean, slurped his spend while his revenge dripped down your cheeks and your chin. You whimpered, one eye closing to keep his semen from dribbling into it. You tried to bring your hand up to wipe it away, but the hum of Isaac's ability restrained you one more time.

"Don't you dare!" he panted. "Don't you dare! Open your mouth again!"

You complied helplessly, whimpered like an animal when Isaac dragged his fingers through the mess covering your face, collected his cum and fed it to you. He thrust his fingers back down your throat again and you licked and sucked them in a frenzy, unable to stop yourself from moaning at the taste of him. You devoured his spend ecstatically, mindless with lust beneath Isaac's domineering hand.

"God, that's a good little cock-sucking whore," Isaac sneered. "Take the rest for me... fuck, you're eating it up like you're starving... go ahead, lick your lips... fuck!"

Isaac shoved you back down to the floor when he was finished with you, buttoned his pants back up and smirked down at you before he left.

"Keep your paws off my notebooks," Isaac drawled in parting. "It'd be a shame if someone told your friends how eager you were today... sucking my cock like a filthy, hungry little whore. Lapping up my cum like a full meal..."

"Fuck, please don't!" you whined.

Isaac Night might have been your whole world, but sometimes he could be too much.

Sometimes when he spoke for you, rage stirred like a slumbering beast that his smooth, eloquent voice woke accidentally. The way he apologized afterwards, as soon as you were alone again got old after a while, after he kept doing it no matter how many times he said he was sorry. You never failed to notice that he was always very, very careful to make no promises to refrain from doing so in the future. There was something crafty in the press of his lips to yours at times, the ingress of his sublime fingers beneath your clothes, the way he knew he could wipe your mind clean with the right vulnerable little sounds.

Sometimes when he made plans for you without asking first, it bothered you. Especially the times when you wanted to do something else instead for a change. Your friendships were withering like plants without water because no matter how much you snapped and scowled at him, he always managed to make you acquiesce to his whims. You didn't bend that way for anyone else, easy as a belt's supple leather when a man folded it in half between his hands.

Sometimes when he refused to let your hand go for anything in the world, to the point that you felt like his palm began to chafe against yours like sandpaper, you began to miss your right hand. It started to feel more like it belonged to him, manacled to his side. When you complained that you needed both hands for this or for that, Isaac would simply wave his right hand and telekinesis would leap in to negate your excuse. And he would look down at you with bright, depthless brown eyes, shining with the overwhelming need to hear you tell him he'd done well. You never could bring yourself to demand freedom back for your captive right hand. Instead, you always mustered a smile for him and squeezed his left a little tighter.

You knew that every time you failed to push him back, every time you failed to enforce a boundary, every time you rewarded him for his suffocating possessiveness, you were digging yourself a deeper hole. You weren't enough of a hopeless romantic to be happy with the idea that you would soon be buried for eternity beside Isaac in the grave of your overbearing romance. Most likely beneath him, with his left hand still chaining your right and his voice still ringing out ahead of yours to let the world know what he thought you should be thinking.

The thing that finally made you snap at him was small, but significant.

Isaac was visibly upset from the first time you saw him that Saturday morning. The smile he usually greeted you with didn't reach his eyes. Eyes that brimmed with moisture, you couldn't help but notice. His sadness would have been alarming any day, but especially at the beginning of the ambitious weekend he had planned for you. He was holding you before your confusion even had time to manifest itself on your features.

The embrace you'd come to expect from him was tighter than you were used to, which was saying something. Isaac already held you like he expected someone to try to tear you from his grasp at any moment. Now, you couldn't breathe past the fervor of his grip.

"Isaac... too hard, too... what's wrong?" you managed to gasp.

"Sorry, sorry," he murmured quickly. He didn't release you, just relaxed his grip by the barest margin.

"Something happened," you pressed. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine," Isaac assured you. "Let's go inside, alright? I have to tell you something."

Dread curled forebodingly in your gut as you shut the door behind you. Your roommate was already gone for the day, off on some camping trip. That had been exciting when you first woke up, but now that excitement had soured into grim anticipation. What could Isaac possibly have to tell you that had him in such a state of distress?

"You're scaring me," you told him as he ushered you to the edge of your bed to sit. "What's going on?"

Isaac didn't meet your eyes. He produced an open letter, folded a few times in its torn envelope to fit in his pocket. You recognized the address on the front.

"My doctor?" you puzzled. Then you gasped. You swiped it from him indignantly, features twisting with displeasure as realization washed over you. "Isaac, you opened my mail?!"

"Read it before you get mad at me," Isaac urged you.

"No, I'll be mad first!" you snapped. "Don't tell me the order to feel my emotions in!"

"I need you to-"

"You need an awful lot from me!" you hissed. "Do you go through my mail a lot?!"

"No, I mean... you don't get much mail," Isaac said defensively. "I really think you should-"

"You're unbelievable!" you huffed, anger edging out your concern for his dour demeanor or the usual lovestruck fog that typically muted your rage when he gave you those big eyes of his. You refused to meet them, crossed your arms tight over your chest with your back to him.

"Don't get too worked up, now," Isaac plead.

You expected him to rise from the bed, to smother you with his physicality the way he always did. Grateful as you were for the rare opportunity to keep a clear head in the face of his transgressions, his departure from routine alarmed you. You dismissed the feeling, clinging spitefully to the aggravation working your blood up into a boiling frenzy.

"I'm only worried about you, that's all," Isaac insisted. "I love you... I just want to protect you, please don't me mad at me for wanting to keep you safe."

"I can handle my own mail!" you hissed, though his words did dull the sharp edges of your wrath. They always did. It was impossible for you to stay angry with him in the blinding light of the good intentions he always assaulted you with.

"You need to read the letter," Isaac said softly. He sounded like he was one more word away from breaking down behind you. You sighed deeply.

"I don't need to read it," you told him, weariness lacing the words like poison. "I already know what it'll say."

"How could you-"

"I've known for a long time. Raven, remember?" you sighed. You tossed the letter in the trash listlessly and finally turned back to face him. "What, did you think my ability would spare me from visions of my own impending doom?"

Isaac was silent for a long moment and you watched every gear turn in his head as he processed your confession. You couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of amusement, despite the overwhelming tragedy of your circumstances. Isaac, in his hubris, actually thought he knew you were sick before you knew.

Part of you wished that had been the case. For all your tendency to chafe against his overbearing nature, there was a large part of you that craved Isaac's control. His hand on the reins relieving you of any responsibility in the outcome, any stress during the journey, any anxiety over the destination.

You settled down at his side again. He was too quiet, but you forced yourself to wait patiently for him to speak first, rather than blurting out any of the five hundred things you could have said to him in that instant. The instant stretched to an eternity, measured in the uncounted ticks of his mechanical heart.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asked.

You couldn't meet his eyes when they sought yours. You let his hands have yours, but didn't squeeze back when he laced his fingers through yours. The answer to his question was simple, but that didn't make it easy.

"I was scared, Isaac," you finally admitted.

Your words were little more than a whisper and they were intentionally vague. They were true enough, but you knew Isaac would assume you were only afraid of the illness that was determined to steal away your life. He wouldn't guess that you were really afraid of his obsessiveness, terrified that it would escalate even further if he knew your time together was so harshly limited. He was already loathe to let you leave his side, even for a second, even for a breath, even for a beat of your heart or a tick of his. How much worse would he become if he knew he was going to lose you?

"Don't be scared."

Isaac pulled you close and that trick of his enveloped you like an aphrodisiac or an anesthetic. Any hint of anger, of discontent you felt disappeared at once, smothered like a delicate flame beneath his jacket. You buried your face in his chest, let your mind go blank and your breathing sync up with the unnatural rhythm of his heart. His hands soothed over your back and he held you as close as if the intimacy of your embrace could fix everything if he could intensify it enough.

"Don't be mad at me, alright?" Isaac begged.

"Say you won't open my mail anymore," you managed, words muffled in his clothes.

"No, not about that," Isaac frowned. "You should be mad about that. That's fine."

There he went again, giving you permission to feel whatever he thought was appropriate. If you were't so docile in the grip of his tenderness, you might have slapped him. As it was, you could do little more than growl unhappily while he held you tighter.

"No, I... you're going to see a lot less of me for a while," he informed you. There was a cold edge to his words, something clinical that cut you like a scalpel.

You drew back to meet his eyes, to interrogate him with your gaze as well as your words.

"What do you mean?! Isaac, I need you now more than ever!" you cried. "What do you mean, I'll see less of you?!"

After all his hovering, all his refusal to let you breathe or make your own schedule, to use your right hand in his presence or even speak for yourself, now he was going to pull back? The only thing that stopped you from slapping him was the kiss, the way his body overcame yours completely. Isaac pressed you back into your bed with all the possessiveness you had come to expect from him, ravished your lips with all the potency of his desire, claimed your body with his hands arduously as ever.

The only sign that this was any different than any of the other times he'd made love to you were the tears you couldn't hold back. They wet your cheeks, burned between your skin and Isaac's while you seethed and shuddered under his advances.

"I'm not leaving you!" Isaac promised fervently. He drew back far enough to wipe your tears away with his thumbs, to kiss the trails they left behind like they were wounds he could mend with his affection. "I could never, ever leave you! Don't even think it, do you understand?!"

"Isaac Night, if you don't explain yourself right this-"

"I'm not just going to let them take you away from me!" Isaac cried. His voice broke, something desperate you'd never heard there before shattering the facade of his perfect control. His next words were spoken haltingly, muted and slurred while his lips pressed to yours compulsively, as if he were physically unable to stop himself from kissing you.

"I'm not... going to... rest... until... I fix this!"

"Isaac... Isaac!"

The urgency, the desolation gripping him was bleeding into the air around you in noxious, all-consuming waves. You could feel his distress in the frenzied, harrowed press of his body to yours, but you could sense it with your ability as well. While his lips and his hands competed to be first to find your skin beneath your clothes, you stiffened beneath him helplessly. Your hands tightened until your grip on him was white-knuckled, until he was groaning with pain and looking up to ask you what was the matter.

You couldn't answer him, enthralled in a grim flash torn from the future like a scrap from a sketchbook. You saw Isaac working in a tower. You saw him scribbling hastily, you saw him wrestling with machinery, you saw him cursing and stomping the fury of his repeated failure. You saw him hurl a notebook so hard it crashed through a window, sailed stories and stories down to the ground below.

"Don't you dare!" you yelled desolately.

"What?!" Isaac gasped. His shock brought you back to reality, made you aware of your bruising grip on his shoulders. You didn't relent. If you could have tightened your fingers further against his flesh, you would have.

"You're not allowed to abandon me now searching for a cure that doesn't exist!" you seethed. "Do you understand me, Isaac Night?! I forbid it!"

"You for-"

"I said I forbid it! If you leave me alone to deal with this on my own, I'll never forgive you!" you warned him. "I'll never talk to you again, I'll-"

"If I have to lose you to keep you alive, I will!" Isaac cut you off. "If I have to die to save you, I'll do it! Don't try to tell me I'm not allowed to save you! You don't get to die, not while you're mine, do you understand?! Say you understand!"

You wished you could have rebutted his staunch refusal to back down, but you had no defense against Isaac's devotion. The deluge of his love always washed away reason, left you shivering and wordless in the gale of his stubbornness.

"No!" you choked, clinging to your own brittle resolve for dear life.

Isaac's mouth on your neck, his moans against your skin, the irrational way your body reacted to his touch despite the fact that you were still fighting, still clashing. None of it made sense, but then, neither did Isaac. If you could figure him out, maybe you could have found a way to hold up under the pressure of his will. As it was, you could feel yourself slowly crumbling to pieces returning his heated moans, arching into his touch, wrapping your legs around his waist with a possessiveness that almost matched his.

"Say you understand!" Isaac repeated while he pulled your clothes off hurriedly. This time, it wasn't an order. Isaac was begging for your concession.

"No!" you whimpered, digging your fingers into his hair to demand his lips against yours again while he shed garments distractedly.

"I need you to understand!" Isaac plead.

You couldn't tell him no, not when he was sliding inside you with a vigor you weren't used to, his hands urging your legs higher so he could hit deep with every rhythmless, unceremonious thrust of his hips against yours. All you could do was cry out his name, dig your nails into his back and let him drive you out of your mind with pleasure.

"Say it!" Isaac demanded at your ear.

"Fuck, say... say what?!" you whimpered, hopelessly lost in the euphoria of his skin rubbing against yours, his weight pinning you down, the unbelievable heat of his mouth as he panted against your neck.

Isaac was driving into you like it was the last time he would ever make love to you, kissing you like you were saying farewell, clasping both your hands like he would never have to let go if he could grip you tight enough. He stopped abruptly just as you were creeping toward your highest point. His hips stilled against yours, his hard breaths sweeping scorchingly over your cheeks while he rested his perspiring forehead against yours. You couldn't see his eyes, not this close, but you heard him gulp, squeezed his waist harder between your legs, clutched his palms tighter to your own.

"Say you understand!" Isaac rasped desperately. "Please, I need you to say it!"

"Isaac..."

He started moving again, slowly, intentionally. All you could do was moan at the depth he carved into your body, like he could write his possession inside you if he pushed hard enough. His forehead didn't leave yours, but his left hand abandoned your right. Isaac had never wrapped his fingers around your neck before, but the electricity that raced through you when he did made you wish he would have done so sooner. Your moans degenerated further, barely human under the duress of Isaac's relentless assault on your rationality.

"Say it for me!" he murmured at your ear, the words barely a breath while his tongue tickled your neck and his fingers closed tighter around your throat.

"I- I... I understand!" you all but sobbed. "I understand, Isaac!"

“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“

“It was implied.”

Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.

“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.

“Yeah. You are.”

“I’m not-“

“You are-“

“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“

He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”

You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”

Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.

“Guys…”

“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“

“The hell I’m not-“

“You don’t offer me health insurance-“

“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“

“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”

You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.

“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”

Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.

But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.

The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.

No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.

Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.

You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.

But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.

Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around. 

He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.

But it’s been a year.

And normal is this now.

Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.

For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.

You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.

And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.

It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.

The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.

It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.

He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.

And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.

It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.

You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.

“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”

“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”

Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.

“So you’re planning to look at me today?”

He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.

“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”

That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.

You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.

He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-

“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.

Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.

“Stay with me-“

“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.

The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.

You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.

So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.

But then you actually get here, and you hate it.

It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-

Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.

You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.

Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.

You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.

And it does.

The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.

You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-

 All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.

You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.

Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.

He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.

His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.

The rest of the night is a little hazy.

Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.

The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.

He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.  

You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.

His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.

Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.

Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.

The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.

He hasn’t spoken to you.

It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.

It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.

Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.

The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.

Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.

But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.

When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.

“He’ll get over it-“

“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”

You were not fine.

You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.

His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.

You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.

But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.

The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.

When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.

His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.

It’s cold when he pulls away.

You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.

Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.

Dean fixed you, there.

Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.

He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.

You know, because you stay up waiting.

Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.

Breaking the rule himself.

It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.

But that’s it.

Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.

You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.

Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.

You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.

The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.

But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.

You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.

Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.

He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.

And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.

You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.

It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.

You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.

When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.

“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”

He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.

“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.

“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”

You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”

“Anything else you did.”

“Um- mhm.”

Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.

“I- I made you pie.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“Oh- Okay.”

The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.

It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.

Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.

You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.

Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.

You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.

A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”

“Sweetheart-“

“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.

“Yeah, I know-“

He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes. 

When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.

“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach. 

Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“

“I- I know. I’m sorry-“

“Stop saying sorry!”

He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.

Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”

“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.

He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.

“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.

Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“

“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“

You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.

There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.

“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.

Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”

You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.

“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“

“I know.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”

You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”

Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.

“Leave me alone-“

“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“

“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.

“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“

“Why do you care?”

Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.

“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“

“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t lie-“

“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“

“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“

“I just do, alright?”

“No, you don’t-“

“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“

“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”

The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break. 

Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.

“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”

Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”

The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.

Despite yourself, you lean closer.

“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.

You raise your chin. “No.”

“Come on, just open it-“

“Go away, Dean-“

“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“

His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.

“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“

You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.

“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“

You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.

Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.

His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.

He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.

You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.

“You’re sorry.”

He nods. You swallow.

“Why-“

“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.

You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”

“And did. And-“

“Being a douchebag.”

He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”

“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.

“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”

You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.

Don’t go.

“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.

Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“

“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”

Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“

“You’re both very loud.”

“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”

“Yes, it is-“

“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”

“That’s the same thing-“

“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”

For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-

“What about me.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.

“Are you-“

“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”

“I don’t.”

“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”

Dean swallows. You don’t waver.

“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“

“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”

You snort. “I don’t know about that-“

“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.

“Yeah. But not by that much.”

You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.

“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“

“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”

Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.”

You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.

Dean must feel the same way.

When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.

Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.

He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.

His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry. 

“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“

“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”

You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“

“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”

You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.

His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.

You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.

Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.

Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.

“Do you want-“

“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“

He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.

“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“

He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.

You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.

Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”

You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.

“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“

“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“

You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.

“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”

You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.

“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”

You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“

Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.

“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“

He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.

“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what  you’d let me do to you?”

You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.

“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“

“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”

He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.

“De- Dean-“

“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.

You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.

“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“

“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“

“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”

You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.

“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”

He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”

You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.

“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“

He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.

You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“

He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.

Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.

“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”

He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.

His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.

When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.

“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.

“I want you.”

Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”

“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”

He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”

You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-

Dean pulls away.

He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.

You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.

“De- Dean-“

“Yeah, baby?”

He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes.  “I- I can’t take that.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“No, I-“

“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”

He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.

“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Just if- If I had- That-“

“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.

“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”

He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”

“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.

“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”

“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.

“Good girl.”

Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”

 You gape at him. “Wha- What-“

“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”

“Dean, don’t tease-“

 “Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”

You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.

“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.

 “How.”

“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“

Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.

“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“

He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.

“Fuck-“

“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.

“I’ve never done it before, dick-“

“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“

“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”

“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”

You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.

“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“

“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed. 

“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“

“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“

He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.

“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“

Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.

“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.

“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“

“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“

 “Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“

“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”

You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“

“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-

“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“

He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.

“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“

Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.

“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”

“De- Dean-“

“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”

He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.

“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”

You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.

“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“

“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”

He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.

“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”

You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”

“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”

Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.

You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.

“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“

A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.

But he doesn’t stop.

Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.

This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.

He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.

You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“

Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”

He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.

Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.

When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.

“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”

“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“

He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.

Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.

 There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”

You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.

“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”

You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.

“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”

“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“

“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”

You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.

Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.

Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“

“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”

“No- No-“

“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”

He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.

“That’s right, there it is, come on-“

You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.  

“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“

 Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.

The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.

“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.

“Yeah.”

“You know you could squirt?”

You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.

“Awesome.”

 His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.

“Dean, oh my god-“

“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.

Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.

“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“

You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.

“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.

He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“

“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”

“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”

He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.

You think he got it right, just like that.

“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”

And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.

Isaac considered himself incredibly modest. He had no time to busy himself with the primitive act of teenage lust and self-pleasure. He was too caught up with his mechanics and machinery to give into school-yard crushes. His sister took up most, if not all, of his time. If he could cheat death when it came to his defective heart, he could remove the Hyde from his sister. Yes, it was more complicated. But Isaac loved complicated. Complicated equations. Complicated mechanics. Complicated studies. There was only one thing in his life that he found complicated, and he didn’t like it, and that was you. He found you enticing in a way that was preternatural to him. Something about you drew him in. Maybe it was because you seemed like something he could fix. You didn’t hold yourself high, but like you were carrying a burden. Something he could fix. Someone he could fix. Instead of Francoise taking up his mind, he now had to deal with you. He’d be fine until you walked past him in the halls or sat a few seats away in class. Anytime he saw you, his thoughts would shift. The thoughts were innocent enough, but they still made his face hot. Isaac drew his thoughts, his ideas, his memories. It was easier to see it on paper than in his head. It was easier to change things that way. He often drew everything that was on his mind. He chalked it up to a simple obsession. Not love. Not lust. Not even liking. Just a cruel obsession.

You knew of Isaac Night. Of course you did. Who didn’t? He was considered one of the most brilliant Davincis to walk the halls of Nevermore. He was like a small town celebrity, the small town being Nevermore, of course. He was attractive enough, you figured. He had this peculiar charm to him. Like he could never be touched. Like he was both above and below everyone else. You felt indifferent towards him.

One class, after a long lecture from Professor Orloff, whom Isaac saved from death by putting his head in a jar. Isaac had hurried out of class. You didn’t care. He often did that after classes, ready to get back to whatever project he had started. You were packing up your belongings when you noticed a small journal left on his desk. On the cover, his messy, chicken-scratch handwriting spelt out his name. “Property of Isaac Night”, it read. You looked around the classroom, curious to know if anyone saw or even noticed the belonging left behind. Other students were making their way out of the class, bored out of their minds from the lecture. You quickly grabbed the journal and slipped it into your cross-body bag. You had to return the journal to him, right? That is the right thing to do after all.

You paced down the corridors to your dorm in Ophelia Hall, your fingers wrapped around the journal, your hand still stuck in your back. You dodged other students, trying not to knock into them. You had the opportunity to see inside the mind of Isaac Night, the student prodigy, the mad genius Davinci, and you were not going to waste it. Once you made it to your dorm, you quickly checked to see if your roommate was in there; thankfully, they weren’t. You quickly shut the door behind you and hopped onto your bed. The mattress sank beneath your weight. You pulled the journal out of your bag and stared at it for a few moments. You observed the lack of uniformity, or even legibility he had written his name. Your index finger traced each letter carefully, as if afraid to smudge the already dried ink. Your fingertips pressed against the edges of the pages. Hesitantly, you opened the cover.

The journal was normal enough for someone as extraordinary as him. Each page was covered in equations, diagrams and what you would consider blueprints. Most of it was illegible, like it was some cryptic language only he could understand. Maybe he wrote badly on purpose just in case for moments like this, or maybe that was his natural handwriting. You considered the latter. As you delve deeper into the pages, what turned from doodles of mechanical parts and machines started to turn into humanoid doodles. When you first came across them, most of the face had been scribbled over, as if he couldn’t get the features right, or maybe he didn’t want to. But as each page turned, the figure became more defined. The body, the face, the features were all starting to look familiar. Too familiar. You were hoping you were wrong as you came across a drawing of the face of this person. Their eyes stared gently at you, wide pupils that seemed to be carrying more than what could be seen with the human eye. Graphite smudged for shadows and definition. You should’ve stopped there, but you didn’t. Something inside you wanted to keep looking. So you turned the page. There, smack dab between both pages, even in the gutter of the journal, was you. There was no doubt about it. Each feature seemed highlighted in some cruel and yet perfect way. Like he drew every confidence and insecurity perfectly. He had hatched and cross-hatched each defining shape, each shadow, each indentation of your school uniform. All of it was perfect. You slammed the book shut, you stomach turned in a way that made you feel sick. You didn’t know if you liked it or not. You had to return the journal; that’s all you knew. You threw the journal in your bag and made your way to Iago Tower, where you knew he’d be.

Isaac’s gloves were slick with oil. Completely covered. He had needed it for the mechanisms for his machine. Unfortunately, when he lifted the can into the air to pour it into the valve, there was a voice calling for him at the bottom of Iago Tower, and it startled him, causing him to drop the can and spill the oil all over the front of him, including his gloves. He recognised the voice all too well. His memory was so good that it betrayed him sometimes. He peered over the railing and looked down the abundant number of stairs. He could just make out your figure. You called for him again, your voice small and unsure as it echoed up towards him. He flipped the needle up and off his record player to stop the music.

“Come on up.” His voice boomed as he desperately wiped his gloves off on a hand towel. The sound of you ascending the stairs made its way to him. It took longer than he wished. He shouldn’t have invited you up, but something inside him wanted you there, just for a moment.

When you finally made it up the stairs, you were out of breath. You clutched your chest as you bent over, one hand on your knee to prop you up. You took shallow, short breaths. Isaac stared at you like you were some kind of unknown specimen. His eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Deeper breaths will help you regain your breath sooner.” His tone was cold, dry and detached. He made no motion to approach you. Instead, he sat at the edge of his desk, which was covered in clutter. After another moment of catching your breath, which you ended up taking his advice on, you pulled the journal out of your bag to show him.

“You left this in Professor Orloff’s class.” You stated factually as your eyes darted from him to the journal in your palm. He glanced down at your hand, his facial features unchanging, although you could swear you heard his mechanical heart tick faster for just a second. You didn’t say anything about knowing what was in there. The journal floated from your hand and landed on the table beside him. His eyes avoided you, but that wasnt unusual for him.

“Thanks.” He said, his fingers grazing the rough cover. “Is that it?” He turned to look at you, his eyes still narrowed. You nodded, your face growing hot.

“Yeah, that's it.” The silence that fell after you spoke felt heavier than your bag during finals. You stared at him, and he stared near you. “Well…I’m just going to go now.” You pointed behind you as you spoke, indicating you were going towards the stairs. Isaac did not wave you off; instead, he turned back around to flip through his journal, dismissing you.

Once you had left, Isaac let out a soft sigh of relief. He felt hot, but he ran cold, so he was clammy. You just had to distract him, didn’t you? Now he couldn’t get you off his mind. What was once so focused on fixing his sister was now focused on you. You were still in your uniform, despite it being after school hours, but he loved the way you looked in the uniform anyway. He shook his head and tried to regain his focus. He needed to clean up the oil spill. He took the dirty hand towel from his desk and made his way to the oil puddle that had formed on the metal operating table. He began to wipe it up, but the rag could only take so much. A good amount of oil covered the table and his hands now. He let out an aggravated sigh as his mind lingered on you. His heart ticked rapidly, his blood flowing freely through him.

Back when Isaac had his heart condition, his circulation was poor. He was always deathly cold. Back then, getting it up was always an issue. But now, with his cold, metallic heart, just like any teenager, it was unpredictable. Though now, there was a little predictability, of course, because you had been in here. You had touched his belongings.

Isaac growled as he threw the oil-covered rag back onto his desk. With hands covered in oil, a rager in his pants, and his mind clouded with thoughts of you. There was only one thing to do now, but he detested it. So he went on, trying to redirect his focus, even still, but all he could picture was you. As he continued to work, he imagined you, standing over his shoulder, watching him.