THIS IS PURE FILTH AND HOLY HELL

THIS IS PURE FILTH AND HOLY HELL

𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑩𝒀 𝑽𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬

PAIRING: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

SUMMARY: When Mattheo begins to wander his eyes a little too much, you have the perfect way to remind him who he belongs to — by wrecking his moss prized possession, his car. But better than that, he has the perfect opportunity of fucking some sense into your mind.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: MDNI! College/University AU. Toxic Relationship (But They’re Trying). They’re Super Rich Kids. Mentions of Cheating. Foul Language. Oral (female receiving). P in V. Unprotected Sex. Somewhat Degradation and Dumbification.

You could feel the blood boiling in your veins as your fingers gripped the silver fork so tightly that your manicured nails were turning pale from lack of circulation, but you didn't care, or rather, you didn't even notice the abuse of your knuckles with your eyes focused on the pathetic scene at the end of the dining hall.

Mattheo was leaning against one of the tables occupied by people you could only classify as lessers since none of them were known to you, not caring one bit if he was disturbing their lunch, much more concerned with giving one of his bright smiles to a girl who was almost drooling over your boyfriend, her poor fertile imagination probably running to scenarios where he took her to meet his parents and fucked her against the wooden table in his father's office — one that you knew all too well.

Poor little thing was what you usually thought when you came across one of these, making a point of pushing Mattheo a little harder against the brick walls, pulling his hair just enough to make him moan against your lips, a sight for all to see and know that he was off limits. In your opinion, they should even be grateful that you gave them some material to fantasize about while masturbating in their rooms alone while your boyfriend fucked you in some exclusive club in the city center, but now things were starting to go a little too far and you were growing irritated by it.

“For God's sake, put down that fork before you break it or your fingers,” Pansy's exasperated voice snapped you out of your poisonous thoughts, only moving your eyes to see one of your closest friends who had one of Blaise's muscular arms around her shoulders, so they'd been at it again, but it wouldn't be long before it was over once more, that was the dynamic that seemed to work for them.

“I think someone's jealous,” Draco quipped with his usual smug grin, making you want to punch him in the face more than ever, but you controlled yourself, giving him one of your tight sarcastic smiles.

“I thought you didn't care what Mattheo does, or rather who Mattheo does, after you snogged Oliver fucking Wood at the Astoria's party,” Theodore pointed out, always defending his best friend.

You rolled your eyes at the boy, wondering what made you keep hanging around with idiots like them, “I don't care who he decides to play shove-the-stick with, but I think it's funny the level he's stooping to, it's downright depressing. Who's going to be next, that Granger girl? For God's sake, that thing he's talking to is only here because of a scholarship, she must think Annabel's is a person.”

You were so invested in your rant that you didn't even notice that Mattheo was heading back to the table where you were all gathered, a smug smile painted his features and that was enough to indicate that he knew exactly what the commotion was about, “What are we talking about?”

He left a quick kiss on your cheek before squirming to sit down next to Lorenzo, leaving you to wipe your face exaggeratedly with an outraged expression of disgust that clearly amused him, “Don't spread your drool on me when you've probably caught thrush from that weirdo.”

“Don't worry, darling, girls like her don't have that sort of thing. The only one who can give someone an STI with their promiscuity is you,” Mattheo's crude words were followed by a laugh and you wanted to physically attack the asshole sitting across the table, but that wasn't the worst of the pleasantries you'd exchanged in all the years of your relationship.

You and Mattheo had crossed paths for the first time during the summer vacations on the French Riviera when you were still at Wycombe Abbey and he was an Etonian, although you didn't hit it off at first because he thought you were a stuck-up, conceited brat and you believed he was just a savage who had hit the jackpot, but that didn't stop your parents from striking up a good relationship — despite your parents' belief, both from aristocratic families, that they should only associate with other people of their lineage, Mattheo's father had enough money and influence to penetrate the tight circles of the nobility, although always with one foot out the door, never really being treated as a natural like the rest of you.

But the following summer, to your surprise, the Riddles were invited to your residence in the Scottish Highlands, and although the silly squabbles between you hadn't abated one bit, it wasn't long before you were leaving your bedroom door unlocked to receive nightly visits from the boy while your boyfriend slept in the guest room at the end of the corridor, and since then you'd been in an exhausting relationship that only surfaced during the breaks, but that seemed to have taken some kind of constant form since you joined the same university even though you'd never talked about it.

“We're going out tonight,” Mattheo re-started the conversation after the table fell silent with the only sound being the disgusting kisses between Pansy and Blaise, you were really losing what little patience you had left with your boyfriend.

“It's very nice that you've decided to start doing charity,” you pouted, amusing your friends who now had all their attention on you. “Actually, I was talking to the guys and we want to know who's going to be next, maybe the female Weasley? I mean, you could talk to that loser Longbottom and start a wankers club.”

Mattheo laughed exaggeratedly just to mock you, clapping his hands and attracting a few glances from the other tables, including the one he was at earlier and you rolled your eyes, making the girl switch her attention to her finished dish, “Is this all jealousy, darling? Don't worry, Daddy Riddle always has some time to fuck you into despair, don't worry, I'm just enjoying what else this campus has to offer, but you'll always be my favorite.”

You stood up from the table, your blood steaming, your palms hitting the wood hard enough to silence everyone, your body leaning in to stare deep into the eyes of the boy who seemed to be enjoying your actions more than anything, “I swear, if you dare go out with that bitch, I'll wreck your fucking car and your pretty face.”

Your words had boosted Mattheo's ego, that was a fact, not that he really needed help walking around with his head inflated, but you were a woman who kept her word, and more than that, you were a woman who liked to make sure everyone knew that their place was always below you, not messing with things that were yours — especially not your favorite toy.

So you were in for a treat.

Your hair flew against the wind as you purposely sped through the empty streets, after all, what's the worst that could happen, the police stopping you? Well, it had happened before and your parents had bailed you out without a scratch on your reputation or a criminal record, and they would certainly do it again if necessary, so you enjoyed the drive from your uptown apartment, the loud music blasting on your radio until you pulled up in front of the house Mattheo shared with Theodore and Lorenzo on the outskirts of town, claiming it was better for parties, so they could have more privacy to bring girls to their so-called slaughterhouse.

It was a real shame that Mattheo had forgotten how much of an asshole you could be.

A pitying smile painted your features as you surveyed the beautiful black Ferrari SF90 Stradale Assetto Fiorano that was still parked outside the garage, so predictable, but your expression was quickly replaced by an evil grin as you adjusted the key between your fingers, digging it into the side of the car to leave a long silver stripe down the entire length of your boyfriend's car, a beautiful contrast to its color, almost like a contemporary work of art.

Your hand gripped the key tightly to carve your name into the hood, a sweet reminder of who Mattheo belonged to, just something to make him think twice before trying to cheat on you again. Still with the sharp material, you slashed a hole in all four tires, watching with amusement as they deflated completely.

But that wasn't enough, you needed more to release all the anger that was still building up in your chest.

It was time for the best act of your little vendetta. You grabbed the expensive Miura Golf club from the back seat, your father had commissioned it directly from Japan to have your initials and family crest engraved on it and he'd probably go a bit mad when he found out you'd used his prized relic for it, but it wasn't as if you really cared, he could never stay cross with you for long anyway.

You took a deep breath, using all your years of private training to achieve a perfect swing that hit one of the headlights perfectly, making a loud noise that mixed with the car alarm — oh, you should tell Mattheo to change his car's security system, that one clearly wasn't good enough if it needed a swing to be triggered.

“What the fuck is going on,” Mattheo shouted as he opened the front door, almost fainting at the sight of the scene unfolding in front of his incredulous eyes, you were destroying the other headlight of his car, rushing to hold you tight enough to stop you hitting the windows. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Mattheo manhandled you in his strong arms, an angry look staring at you as if he wanted to reduce your existence to dust right there, and for some reason it made you squeeze your thighs together, “You're a fucking bitch.”

“I warned you I'd break your car if you insisted on going out with that skank,” you replied indifferently, shrugging as if your actions meant nothing, and even if you had crossed the line, Mattheo deserved every second of it.

“What you’re doing was a fucking crime, do that fucking brain of yours know this?” He squeezed the flesh of your arms hard enough to leave marks for days to come, his mind not really knowing what he would be capable of doing to you.

You smiled mockingly, “And what are you gonna do, call the police?”

The boy let go of your body hard enough to make you stumble back a few steps, leaning on the car to regain your balance, running his fingers through your hair and you couldn't help but admire his jaw clenched in anger, “So that's what you want to do, have a fucking fight?”

“And how else am I supposed to get your attention these days?” You retorted angrily, staring into his hazel eyes which were now much darker with hatred. “All you do lately is try to get your dick wet with other girls. The only times you open your mouth to address me is to insult or call me up asking me to come so you can fuck and then dump me like I'm a cheap fucking whore. You don't have the slightest right to treat me like that, Riddle.”

Mattheo was fuming at your accusations, although he knew that some of your anger was genuine, nothing justified you smashing up his car like a maniac, “I wasn't the one practically sucking Wood's cock at the Astoria party, was I?”

An ironic but pained laugh escaped your lips, “Don't you realize that you're just proving my point? You were too busy eye-fucking every other girl to even remember I exist, that I can see the shit you do and that it hurts me, so no, I don't feel guilty about being forced to pull that so you remember you have a girlfriend, that I'm here watching you pay more attention to any slightly cute little thing in a short skirt than to me.”

Mattheo's eyes softened as he turned to you again, and despite all the facade of anger in your expression, he could still see that same girl who sneaked off with him to show him her favorite places on the family property, the one who didn't judge him or try to give him foolish advice when he opened up about his complicated family life, the one who called him as soon as she knew she'd gotten into her dream university —and Mattheo genuinely couldn't tell where you guys started to go off the rails, or if it had ever gone right.

“Jump,” he commanded as he took long strides to reach you, his large hands reaching around your ass to offer you enough leverage to wrap your legs around his waist. “You're a slut, you know that?”

You threw your head back in a hearty laugh, feeling his hard cock against your ass, “And you're a perv, Riddle.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mattheo bited on a bruise on the soft skin of the curve of your neck, making you close your eyes tightly at the sensation. “You're paying for that shit you did to my car.”

“And who's going to force me, you?” You retorted with a stubborn grin on your face that was deliberate to get under your boyfriend's skin, just to see how far you could go.

“I'll have to show you then,” he grunted angrily, walking off with you still in his arms, but before your mind could consider that he was going to take you into the house to fuck you against his soft bed or the glass of the living room, Mattheo threw your body carelessly on top of the hood. “Let's put on a show to the boys inside, stroking their cocks, watching through the cameras you getting fucked until you're a good, pliant girlfriend and not just some common whore, or maybe even let the neighbors hear that the prissy little princess is just a cocksucking little bitch," he stopped his ministrations to reach for your face hard enough to hurt, holding it so that your eyes were fixed on his. “Maybe they even called the cops after the fucking damage you did to my car. You know what, I think a mugshot of the spoiled heiress's pretty little face covered in my cum might do some good as a reminder that the world isn't your playground. If your parents didn't give you any limits as a child, I'm going to fuck some into your stupid little head now.”

Sex with Mattheo was certainly always a trip, but you had never experienced anything like this, and as sick as it sounded, you were enjoying being manhandled and treated like nothing more than one of his little sex toys, his favorite, so different from how people spent their lives kissing the ground your feet walked on.

He wasn't worried about pleasuring you, he just wanted to get his petty personal revenge because two could play this game. Letting all the hatred he felt for you kissing someone else at the party come to the surface, one that he had hidden so well to not give you the slightest satisfaction, but which had been gnawing at his mind ever since he saw it; for you allowing virgin nerds to jerk off to thoughts of your short, skimpy clothes, finding it amusing how they could look, desire, fantasize, but never touch your body; for you wrecking his favorite car out of stupid jealousy instead of acting like an adult.

Mattheo wasn't the least bit gentle in the way he practically ripped off your very tight black pants, leaving a trail of pain from the burning of the fabric against your skin, almost offended that the garment was in his way, but smiling with satisfaction when he saw that you weren't wearing any underwear, leaving your wet pussy exposed for him to delight in the scene in front of his eyes, leaving a slap on your clit that made your body jolt with the delicious burning sensation, “No panties?”

“I know you better than you know yourself,” you winked with what little control you still had over your body, feeling your breath hitch as you watched Mattheo's hands pin your hips down so you wouldn't run away from his touch, sinking into his knees to lick your slit slowly but deeply, making a loud moan escape your throat at the delightful sensation that seemed to consume your body in flames.

Your fidgety fingers found their way into Mattheo's curls, tugging them hard enough to make him moan against your throbbing pussy before going back to devouring it like a starved man —and he really was, it had been weeks since he'd gone down on you, maybe it was the lack of a good fuck that was making you act like such a slut, and how he missed your delicious taste, feeling you come undone on his tongue, your whole facade falling apart because of him.

He pulled away slightly and you whined at the loss of sensation, trying to force his head back into your heated core, but soon being invaded by the feeling of one of his long fingers sliding inside you and curling slightly to press against your sensitive spot, making your body jerk with pleasure at the new stimulation, closing your eyes and begging for more.

“Look at me,” Mattheo demanded as his finger slid torturously slow in and out of your pussy, but you were too lost in the sensation to even hear what your boyfriend was saying, and he wasn't in the mood for it, slowly pulling all the way out only to shove two fingers in hard enough to open your eyes, a scream escaping your lips. “I told you to look at me. I'm not in the mood for another one of your stupid games.”

You nodded quickly, agreeing to anything just to reach your orgasm, and Mattheo laughed darkly, it was so easy to break you. Your eyes never left his as he approached your clit, sucking hard, scraping his teeth only slightly as his fingers continued to pump mercilessly, causing a loud cry of his name to rip through your dry throat, and Mattheo was sure that any nosy neighbors had heard, which was a sweet stroke to his ego.

“Mattheo,” you trilled as the boy's favorite chant, using all your strength to keep your eyes wide open, not wanting to be punished or miss the scene that was his curls falling on his forehead, his dark eyes fixed on you while his pretty mouth and nimble fingers worked non-stop inside you, knowing all the ways of your body. Your hands frantically searched for anything on the hood to hold onto as you felt the sensation growing deep in your stomach.

“Poor little thing,” Mattheo patronized mockingly, grunting against your pussy as his movements increased and slowed only to make you moan and beg all the more, trying to move your hips, but to no avail, in search of some friction. “Don't tell me you want to cum, I just started touching you.”

“Matt, I…” the beginning of a pathetic plea was cut short by a cry as he withdrew his fingers from inside you, leaving your walls contracting around nothing, begging for any friction strong enough to finally make you reach your peak, but Mattheo stood up from his position on the floor, looking far more composed than you despite his slick glistening chin, it was a scene that could almost make you cum.

A gasp escaped you as the bulge still hidden by your boyfriend's dark jeans rubbed against your wet pussy, no doubt leaving a stain, but before you could move for relief, Mattheo wrapped one of his hands in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you curse under your breath, “Language, darling, that's not how a proper Lady behaves, especially not after some cock.”

“Fuck, Mattheo,” you didn't know if it was a curse or a moan when his pants rubbed even harder against your core as he reached down to nibble on your exposed neck, leaving marks that would surely be very visible the next day and he would make a point of bragging about them all day long, but your possessive part liked the idea of all the other desperate women knowing that it was you he was fucking the night before.

“I bet bloody Oliver Wood could never get you like this, ye?” There was a smirk in his words, but much more than that, there was a real need in his seemingly rhetorical question. “I bet he doesn't know how to fuck anything other than a football.”

But you weren't willing to stroke Mattheo's ego, “No girl has ever gotten out of his bed without some very nice words,” you gasped, and in any other situation, your boyfriend would have known your words were empty, but now they made his blood bubble. “I bet he'd find each of my sweet spots, make me scream his name for all the neighbors to know, I'm sure he'd make me come again and again. Oliver, Oliver, Oliver-”

Your playful moans, which seemed so close to real when they fell on Mattheo's ears, were cut short by an almost superhuman force pulling your body off the hood of the car, twisting your body like a rag doll until you had your face pressed on top of your own name that you had written down earlier, your arms painfully being held back behind your back while your legs were kicked apart to give him better access to your tight cunt.

Mattheo had a plan in mind when he first decided to fuck you tonight. He would bring you over the edge several times, make you cum until your legs were shaking and your stupid little head was all fuzzy, barely focusing on begging for more of his cock, then he would give you one last orgasm on his bed, looking deep into your eyes and assuring you in every way that you were his, and he was all yours. Then, after some good aftercare, you would talk and resolve all the issues that strained your relationship.

But fuck that. If you wanted to act like a whore, you'd be treated like a whore.

Before you could rationalize what was happening, Mattheo had lowered his pants in a single tug, his bulging cock finally relieved to have been freed, and you tried as best you could to turn your head to catch a glimpse of your boyfriend, but your eyes closed against your will when two of his fingers collected enough of your slick to rub on his cock, not that it was necessary with the amount of pre-cum.

A shudder ran through your body as he ran the thick shaft of his dick over your cunt, your breath hitching with the need to feel Mattheo inside you, claiming what had always been his, but before you could beg him to fuck you, he sank into you with a single thrust, making you arch your back at the same time as a loud moan spread through the open space.

There was no time for you to adjust to his size or girth, a delicious burn spreading through your walls as he picked up a brutal pace, one of his arms around your waist to make sure you didn't move while his other hand was in your hair, pulling so that you didn't try to camouflage any of your moans and pleas, his name falling from your lips like a chant.

Your incoherent cries were the only sound that could be heard along with the constant slapping of skin on skin, the coil in your abdomen growing rapidly with the continuous stimulation, and if you could see the boy, you wouldn't be surprised to see him with red cheeks, his curls sticking up against the sweat on his forehead and his pupils dilated as he watched you taking it so well.

“You're mine,” Mattheo almost growled, laying his chest against your back, making his cock go even deeper inside you, leading to a desperate cry of pleasure, your eyes rolling back as you felt the spongy head of his cock hit your cervix. “Mine to fuck whenever and wherever I want,” he fixed the grip on your hair so that you were looking straight into the depths of his eyes when the next words left his pink lips, and you felt your knees give way if it wasn't for his hold on you. “Mine to love. Can you get it through your stupid brain or are you too fucked up to understand anything?”

“Y-You're a dick,” you gasped between thrusts that seemed to take you to the moon and back. “But I love you. I-I fucking love you Mattheo.”

He smiled in satisfaction at your words, capturing your lips in what felt like your first kiss in a long time, not having enough when he pulled apart to catch a breath, “Yeah, you love me, and you love my fucking dick too, don't you?”

He left a kiss on your forehead before standing up again, withdrawing his entire cock from your warmth, grunting when you tried to push your ass back in search of his thickness, but he held you in place before ramming into you again in one go, slamming deep again and again as his thrusts came back even harder, “Say it for me, love.”

“I love your dick,” you cried out strangled, feeling your strength drain away with every second.

“Yes, you do. And it's all yours, love. My dick doesn't belong to anyone but you, go on, milk me dry, pretty girl, show the others that I'm all yours,” he said between groans, his words strangely soothing the black hole of jealousy that had grown in your soul. One of his hands found its way between your legs, his nimble fingers stimulating your swollen clit, making your moans even more frantic. “And whose pussy is that?”

You needed a few seconds to register his words, the pleasure being too much for your foggy mind, “Yours. All yours. Just yours, Matt.”

Mattheo pouted, even if you couldn't see it, but his mocking tone did the job, “Are you sure, baby? It seemed like you were so convinced earlier that you didn't need me, that that bastard Wood could finish you off just as well.”

“No!” You cried out, your head so confused by the stimuli that you failed to understand that this was a joke, although there was a good deal of truth in the green-eyed monster eating away at Mattheo's peace ever since the scene of you in someone else's arms had made its way into his mind. “He could never treat me as well as you. He couldn't, fuck, shit, Mattheo, he could never fuck me like I need, like only you can do. Only you. Always just you. I fucking love you.”

The words worked their magic, along with the mercilessly rhythm at which Mattheo fucked you stupid into despair, his cock hitting the exact spot inside you that made your walls contract so tightly around him, his fingers working wonders on your clit, and with one last thrust, he lowered his chest against your back, nibling your earlobe, “I've got you,” letting your climaxes take over, your breathing ragged and your eyes rolling as you felt the jets of cum filling you even more, marking you as his all over.

“I love you,” Mattheo was the first to speak after what seemed like hours, still in the same position, buried deep inside you as your breaths evened out, neither wanting to be the first to move, but it was necessary. You whined at the loss of contact as Mattheo withdrew his softening cock from your pussy, watching the pornographic way in which his thick white strands flowed out of your pussy and ran down your legs, and he couldn't resist the temptation to pick up his phone that had fallen on the floor and snap a quick photo for his personal collection. “Let's get you cleaned up, get some rest, and then tomorrow we can talk about everything. All right?”

You nodded weakly, not resisting when Mattheo gently manipulated your body to help you put on your panties, he wasn't lying when he said that Lorenzo and Theodore were at home too, although it was unlikely that they had watched the security cameras for their own good. You nestled your head into your boyfriend's warm chest, smiling slightly when he left a kiss on the top of your head, “I love you, Matt, but I really enjoyed trashing your car.”

(love, as if it were carved in stone) s. geto

when he first lays eyes on you, suguru is fighting sleep, standing in the school’s courtyard at four in the morning taking languid puffs out of a cigarette to pass the time, deliberately dragging it out in hopes that sleep will come. however, these days, it hardly ever does.

it’s mid august and he has never been particularly fond of the summer or it’s heat — nor the endless stream of purging that inevitably comes with it.

you first walk into his life in nothing but a white nightgown — the sight so heavenly it’s almost impossible to forget. when you step outside the girls dorm, barefoot and weary, the smoke rushes to suguru’s lungs a little too abruptly, as if he were gasping for air — the material of your dress so flimsy that it's hardly appropriate to stare. suguru is sensible to a fault, many could agree that, unlike satoru, he is somewhat respectable. right now, however, against his better judgement, he can't seem to tear his eyes off of you.

he watches as you drop defeated on the ground before leaning your head against the wall and closing your eyes with a frustrated sigh that travels all the way through the soothing night breeze into suguru’s ears. he indulges himself for a little longer - you’re pretty, he thinks. had you noticed him standing there you would’ve made out a subtle fondness in the smile that grows, although tiredly, on his face. sympathy. he imagines the summer heat hasn’t been kind to you either. 

you seem younger than him, a first year and freshly arrived, your ingenuity still intact - untarnished. and perhaps its the white that engulfs you but suguru thinks you look much too clean, too pure for the swarm of violence that awaits you. something that has started to slowly but surely eat away at him too. he can’t quite pinpoint when it happened — somewhere down the line though, he had long since lost his innocence. he takes another hit, the bitter taste that lies on his tongue from today's purging spree starting to subdue — he wishes you got to keep yours.

it's only then that you notice him, standing inconspicuously by the boy’s dorm entrance but you can’t quite make out his face in the dark, the canopy under which he stands blocking the light. your hands reach with urgency for the hem of your skirt to tug down on the fabric that had ridden a little too high on your thighs and suddenly you’re wary of the fact that the material was clinging to your sweaty skin leaving very little to the imagination - however suguru had already looked away at the first hint of your discomfort, blowing a cloud of smoke skyward and maintaining his gaze towards the moon, wishing not to compromise your modesty.

you tuck your knees under your chin, shrinking in on yourself, an attempt to look smaller, invisible if possible. you felt so exposed, ready to be preyed on, but it was so late and you were so tired, you hadn't expected anyone else to be awake. at that moment, the moon shines on his face, illuminating his features and it’s like your body reacts on its own. your shoulders, no longer tense, fall relaxed by your sides and your hands turn soft, loosening the grip you had on the hem of your skirt. it’s him.

it’s just him. 

you had seen him many times before. you’re suddenly envious of the moon for luring him in with her beauty and holding him captive. you didn't mind him looking at you, you want to be object of his admiration, even if just for once. you want him to look back at you. you only. and then it comes unexpectedly, that feeling of revulsion. you become painfully aware that your skin is too sticky with sweat, the sole of your feet is covered in grim and you feel dirty, so dirty when faced with your desperation, your need. how could you crave such a thing - attention, from a stranger, nonetheless. how could you be so vulgar, yearning for someone’s affection and admitting to being starved. it feels like your belly growling in a room full of people - letting your hunger be known. you’re famished and everybody knows and it’s humiliating.

but it was him - you had seen him on the school’s halls before, so unapologetically gentle in the way he speaks to others, so serene in the way in which he carries himself and so so handsome. you think he’s even more handsome now standing there, sleepless and with his hair down, looking so much less intimidating than usual and within your reach. you see bits of yourself in him - on the bags carved under his eyes from countless nights without sleep, on his tousled hair from tossing and turning endlessly on his bed. when he looks this fragile it makes it so obvious, that despite being one of the strongest, he too can break. he’s not so different from you. 

and his hair… it reaches his shoulders. it’s longer than what you expected. you wonder if he’s one to hold on to his past. 

you let your eyes linger. he’s still too focused on the night sky to notice you staring anyway. he knows you are. nevertheless, he acts as if he doesn’t, as if the longer you stare at him doesn’t make it harder for him not to stare back at you, to surrender himself to you. even the moon, standing above with its infinite splendor seems to submit to you, shining its light on you as if in jubilation of your own beauty.

and although you try to be discreet, only peeking at him from behind your knees, suguru’s skin feels feverish. its too hot. and it feels even hotter under your gaze. he slips his hand under the white shirt he’s wearing to let the night breeze caress the skin of his stomach that is covered in beads of sweat that run from his chest downwards. he takes one last drag of his cigarrette and when he glances down to stub it under his slippers his eyes catch yours for the first time tonight. except, this time, you do not shy away from him, neither does he.

it is hesitant what you share, like hands brushing together, fingers that yearn to touch yet are too reluctant to entwine. suguru relishes in the innocence of it, welcomes it back into his life even if just for a brief moment. in fact, you make him realize that maybe he never really lost his innocence in the first place. its just been tucked away somewhere in a corner deep inside him. only coming out when it's safe. and its safe here with you. he feels like a boy again. one who doesn’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

its hesitant yet thrilling like falling in love for the first time. 

suguru chuckles, thinking to himself that this feels nice, oddly intimate.

you were the first one to break, the sound of his laugh pulling you out of your state of reverie and making it hard to handle the tension that grows heavier the longer you stare at each other. you glance up and he follows suit, smiling, thinking that he wouldn’t have withstood the tension for much longer either. 

suguru waits and when you look back at him, he leaves with a wave. frozen in place, you let him leave without so much as mouthing a goodbye to him.

it’s the morning after when he sees you for the second time, sitting outside on a bench, hiding from the scorching sun under a pine tree and chewing on a popsicle stick. you’re wearing white again, he has got his black uniform on and no longer under the moonlight’s spell he’s all too aware that you’re worlds apart. still, he is greedy enough to think that even if decay spreads like poison inside him, you taste like salvation. still, he thinks that he wants you.

then you wave at him and its so full of hope. you’re looking at him so expectantly. like you don’t mind that he is rotten and he’s been pondering taking the seat next to you for the past five minutes. you’re turning him to a madman. had he known you for longer, he could’ve been on that bench eating popsicles with you.

for now, however, he’ll sit down with you and ask you for your name. ask you if you managed to get enough rest. 

“suguru!” he looks away in the direction of the voice that calls out for him, towards satoru who was running to catch up to him. when he looks back at you, you wave him goodbye, only shyly this time with a hint of disappointment in the way you let your eyes fall to your feet and pretend to play with your fingers. satoru is talking his ear off but suguru's eyes are on you.

sometimes fate disguises itself as coincidence. maybe the chance to get you alone has passed him by.

it’s early september and the weather has cooled down a little. suguru is laughing with his friends and you think you’re fine with it. the seat next to you is vacant but he waves at you with a smile and you figure that despite the distance that seems to stretch itself between the two of you with each passing day, you’re fine with watching him from afar. you’re once again sitting on that same bench and even in shade you still feel his warmth and that's enough.

until the incident happens. the news spread fast. riko then haibara. 

spring comes yet again and as the seasons change, so does suguru. he doesn't laugh as much anymore but then, whenever he crosses paths with you, he smiles and there's a tenderness to it that seems to be reserved just for you. you think it’s so unfair. how you didn’t get to meet suguru before sorrow had set itself so deep in the marrow of his bones that it was almost irreversible. but you’re glad to know that despite everything, he remains gentle. its valiant, in a way, that he chooses to stay kind besides having all the reasons not to. and somehow, it gives you hope. 

april arrives. his hair has now grown past his shoulders and suguru is contemplating the transience of things in the emptiness of the room he finds himself sitting alone in. suguru thinks its unfair that despite all the death the world keeps spinning. regardless of all the bloodshed, the sun still shines and he hates it. he feels sick. if the world won’t remember then he will. he will mourn and he will let grief be the thing that keeps them alive. 

he notices you standing at the door and though he wouldn't blame you if you left given the gloominess that hangs in the air that surrounds him, he finds himself wishing that you’d stay, that you'd sit with him and wouldn't falter like he had done so many times before. he was sure of you, has been for a while now but then there were times when he thinks he is so full of filth he wonders if the space that's left for you inside him is enough. if it is okay to be a little greedy. if it’s fair to want to fit you in such a tiny spot. but then you grab yourself a drink from the vending machine and take the seat next to him as if you’re saying. dont worry, ill make room for myself in you.

it's silent for a while. silence has sort of become the predominant language between you.  

“getou, right?” he flinches at the sound of your voice. he realizes this is the first time he has ever heard it. and its so quiet, slightly unsure like suddenly you’re afraid of taking up too much space. and it makes him consider the possibility of tearing himself open just to fit more of you inside - you could never take up enough space. 

“suguru.” he corrects you, albeit gently. he wants to hear you say it. his name. “yes.”

you whisper your name in return, still cautious as not to cut through the quietude that had settled between the two of you. as if this moment right here, with him, was so fragile and precious to you that you’re cradling it to your chest, handling it so carefully as not to break it. “i know” 

he had asked satoru and regretted it just as fast oh, the first year? heard shes the only one in her class. why’d you care? in that moment satoru must´ve found the answer to his question in his friend's face because his tone changes. dont get too attached, suguru. you know few make it past their first year. 

in that moment he had realized something. he had witnessed it himself, how life can be but a dimly lit star in the night sky, its light becoming gradually unperceivable. fragile, fleeting. his time with you isn’t certain. death is a mistress that's always looming around the corner, ever present, always threatening to come out.

he knows he’s still young but he hadn’t met you soon enough. its seems like time is always running out for him. he might be young but he could’ve been younger. could’ve spent more time with you. you could’ve been ten, twelve, fourteen together. he could’ve loved you for longer.

“i hope you don’t think that i'm being nosy.” you mutter to your feet “not too nosy at least. but.” there’s a pause in which you wonder if you imagined everything in your head. that thing that binds you together. but you’ll risk sounding stupid and you will risk rejection because that little sliver of hope inside you tells you that not all has been lost. and although you try to convince yourself you’re doing this with selfless intent you just wish to relish in his warmth again.

“i couldn’t help but notice that lately, you seem to be…” choose your words carefully. 

unlike yourself  “unwell.” coward. 

despite your vague choice of words he is looking at you with wide eyes and you find yourself avoiding his gaze so you won’t back away from it. from saying what you have been wanting to say to him. 

“it’s springtime” you find yourself speaking again. maybe you’re talking too much. “the sakura trees look very pretty around this time of the year. but- you should know that already. i don’t think they’ll last much longer, maybe a week or so”

you look so meek fumbling with the loose threads on your shirt that it hurts him. here you stood, presenting your vulnerability to him and placing it in the palm of his hand yet he's just staring at you wondering what to do with it. he had been so quiet and you were starting to doubt yourself. it hits him that he has made you feel this way twice already, although unintentionally. you looked just as defenseless as the night he met you.

he nudges his knee with yours, its playful and emphasized with a smile that shows the crinkles on the corners of his eyes. he had taken what you had given him, he is clutching your gift close to his heart and begging for more. and it fills you with courage.

“i guess what im trying to say is. geto- oh!” you slap your hand over your mouth in a way that is seemingly too dramatic. in a way that is you, he guesses. amidst your outwardly timidness, you allow him a glimpse of you and he just wants more and more. he wants to tell you that you do not need to make yourself smaller to make room for him or his sorrow.

“suguru” you correct yourself. “would you like to go and see the sakura trees with me? maybe it will help you feel better. even if just for a moment” you’re smiling at him and this is the first time you’re looking him directly in the eye since you sat down next to him, there is hope gleaming in your irises and suguru never would’ve thought he could’ve been the one to incite such a beautiful sight.

“im good company and i usually don’t talk this much either so you should be alright.” you giggle showing him a little more of you. but its still not enough. it will never be enough for him.

he looks away from you with a breathy chuckle, closing his eyes as if trying to prevent the sheer adoration that he holds inside him from spilling though it inevitably overflows and manifests itself into a smile so earnest, it’d be the most genuine anyone has seen in a while.

“there has been a lot of silence going on between the two of us, don't you think?” he stares ahead at the empty wall. you had lost enough to it already. you nod from the corner of his eye. “id like to get to know you, if you let me.”

he looks back at you.  “i don't mind you talking. i'd like it if you did.”

your eyes are wide with wonder. those are the first few words he has ever spoken to you and he has rendered you speechless. they carry so much honesty, the expression on his face so sincere they’re quick to shut down any doubts or insecurities you might have had. 

you had dared to let him peak at the heart that you keep tucked under your sleeve and he wanted to cherish it. he thought he owed it to you to be equally as open, as honest.

“should we go now? he gets up with a hand on his pocket, the other extending itself towards you. "we have a lot to catch up on.”

in the perfect scenario you would’ve wanted to put a little effort into looking pretty. you would’ve put on a dress and maybe a little makeup to impress him. but would that really be the perfect scenario when, right now, he is looking at you with so much adoration that you feel like the prettiest girl he has ever laid eyes on? 

you take his hand - you think you might melt into it.

you grab popsicles on the way. strawberry for him. some over complicated combination of flavors that he had already managed to forget, for you. you had made some light hearted joke about his simplistic choice of flavour, however, as you sit under this cherry blossom he can see the grimace that grows on your face aggravate with each bite you take. he had seen it coming.

“do you want to try?” a knowing smile on his face, somewhat teasing when he offers his popsicle to you.

a few strands of hair get in the way when you lean down to lick at the top and his free hand moves to swipe them away from your face. he holds your hair in place to prevent it from escaping again and guides the popsicle to your mouth instead. feeding it to you.

“should’ve gone with strawberry.” you sound so heartbroken that he wants to giggle.

“here, have it” and he’s not teasing you. its genuine, like he’s whispering i love you, whatever’s mine is yours to take. 

he shuts down your protests by grabbing the popsicle from in between your pinched fingertips and replacing it with the strawberry one, immediately taking a bite from the popsicle that was once yours to claim it as his. it’s bitter, he thinks, it stings on his tongue. but he won’t tell you that. 

you’re picking up the petals that have fallen on the ground next to you and placing them on your lap when out of the corner of his eye, suguru notices a drop of juice that got caught on the corner of your lips and has started to run down your chin. he moves the back of his finger to collect it and then wraps his lips around his digit.

you’re left to stare because you’re dizzy. he makes you so dizzy. you don’t know what to do with yourself. to do with him. you glance towards anything other than him. anything that will ground you.

“you know,” you trail off after a while. your tone soft and eyes still trained somewhere else. he worries that he has come off too strong. “the first thing i noticed about you was your hair”

“yeah?” 

“hm, hm…” you look back at him and nod earnestly. he is glad to learn there is discomfort between you when you sit on your knees and reach forward with both hands to place the petals that you had picked up atop his head. arranging them in a circle, like a halo, you think. not a crown. “… it’s pretty. it suits you” 

pretty. it takes him a while to gather his words. you’re so close and smell so heavenly. “i thought you were pretty the first time i saw you” 

it takes you even longer to collect yourself. because once again, you're at a loss for words. you busy yourself with the task at hand. the halo. fit for someone with a heart as good as his. 

“i mean it.” you recoil for a moment to meet his eyes and get your message across. “dont ever cut it!” you sound so demanding. like it’d hurt your feelings if he were to contradict your wishes.

“i won’t. it helps me remember”

your smile morphs into a frown on your face and you bring your hands to your lap. he misses you on him already. 

“you’re holding on to grief, suguru.”

if he doesn't, who will? who will remember them? gojo has already seemed to move on from it, nanami is gone. his grief is the only thing keeping them alive. even if just in memory.

“i guess i am” 

he doesn’t miss the way you avoid looking at him. you’re looking at your hands folded on your lap and he wishes he knew what it is that you’re feeling. pity or concern? 

“maybe you could take a little of the weight off”

“thought you didn’t want me to cut it”

“and i didn’t. but surely carrying the weight of all those curses on you and then another must be exhausting, suguru.” your tone raises just slightly, barely enough to be noticeable.

however, suguru notices and he wants you to be mad at him. he wants you to scream if you will because he knows, that right now, he couldn’t love you the way he thinks you deserve to be loved. you deserve a love that is abudant, steady and kind and suguru, with all his troubles and a heart that has grown so terribly worn out, thinks he has barely any love left to give.

but there is something that stirs in his stomach at the thought of somebody else loving you. he wants to be the one to teach you what love feels like. what it should feel like. he wants to prove himself worthy of loving you. he'd love you better than anyone else ever could. he'd treat you so right. you wouldnt have to wake up a single day in your life and doubt whether he still loves you. because he does and he doesnt think he'll ever stop.

“i'll let you trim the ends”

you take him to your room. you’re pacing around tidying the place, moving objects from one place to another and apologizing for the mess but to him, the clutter isn’t just clutter it’s pieces of you scattered everywhere and when he finds himself amongst it, amongst your belongings in their disorderly disposition he, too, feels like he belongs here, belongs to you. he wants to tell you he doesn’t mind he wants to thank you instead for allowing him to see the most intimate parts of you. 

but before he can manifest himself, you hush him into your bathroom while you finish putting things away. you join him shortly after and he watches you, from the toilet seat, searching the cabinets for your scissors while mumbling about how he doesn’t have to be nervous, you have cut your hair by yourself many times before. that he could trust you. but he does, and it goes beyond just giving him a haircut. you’re still rummaging through the drawers and suguru smiles to himself. he pretends he didn’t just meet you today (technically) and that this is what it feels like to share a home with you. 

“found it!” he spreads his legs that are a bit too big to fit in your tiny bathroom so you can stand in between them. he takes up so much of the space and it's cramped enough that you have to scoot your way through. you laugh at it together. 

“ready?” you’re more serious now. you understand he is trusting you with a lot here — his heart.

suguru’s nod doesn’t carry much certainty but he is not nervous, maybe just nostalgic. but he doesn’t regret it, not when you’re so careful even when tearing him open to look at what’s inside, disposing of what is rotten and lodging yourself in the cavity of his chest where his heart dwells. your hands are so soft, so tender as they weave through his hair. you’re handling him with so much care, so much esteem. 

he should’ve felt guilty. he thought it’d feel wrong. but it didn’t. letting go of his past meant welcoming you into his future.

“done.” you finish and he expects you to move so he can look himself in the mirror but there is a certain hesitance in you, in the way in which you purse your lips into a tight line, contemplating something. maybe you messed up the haircut. then you bend down and kiss the corner of his lips, pulling away in a blink of an eye. “there.” thank you for letting me in, suguru.

you look at him apprehensively. you’re nervous wondering if you had stepped too far. but you didn’t step even close to where he wanted you. “come.” 

he weaves all of his ten fingers with yours, he pulls you down and he kisses you. it's warm and its gentle. it’s so very him. but it is also hungry. like hes trying to fit all the kisses of a lifetime into this one kiss right here. he’s greedy, he’d been a fair man once but then you came along and made him so greedy. like the hole in his stomach has no end and he’s insatiable. he’d take more and then some until he is so full of you he could burst — you can take as many space as you want, can make a home in him if you wish to. 

he takes and keeps on taking, until he has to pull away or he might devour you.

“was that okay?” he is cradling your face in the palms of his hands, was it too much?

“it was good” you’re breathless. “very good.”

“it was good for me too” he chuckles and brings your forehead to rest against his. to be close. you shut your eyes to try to come down from the high, focusing on breathing him in while he breathes you out. “so pretty.” he whispers agaisnt your lashes, his lips kissing your eyelids.

“god, what do i do with you” his hands move to hug your waist and he buries his face in your stomach. he needs to be closer, though being close isn’t enough when he just wants to merge into you. to make a dwelling place in your bones. you tangle your fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp and it feels like home already. 

“i want to be with you, suguru” you tug gently on the hair on the nape of his neck to make him look up at you. you then lower your tone, whispering your next words into the air as if you were too scared to say them. you belonged to him but was it too much to ask him to belong to you? “i want you.”

he kisses up the expanse of your forearm. “you have me, baby. you had me from the moment i saw you.”

not a want, a need

chicken noodle soup.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader

song inspiration: is it really so strange? by the smiths

author's note: just a soft fluffy comfort fic cause i've been thinking about matty lately and i needed cheering up after the end of kwaf. let's all laugh at the fact that i set a 1k limit on this fic only to fail miserably lmao 😭

Mattheo Riddle was not a fan of Mondays. 

Most of the time, Mattheo spent the first day of the week nursing a hangover and getting higher than a hippogriff at the Astronomy Tower with his friends to achieve equilibrium. The only thing he looked forward to every week was the prospect of riling you up in class. To be fair, it didn’t take much to get under your skin. Being himself seemed to do the trick. 

As he walked through the castle halls, Mattheo smiled to himself as he plotted out all the different ways he could provoke you on this dreadful day. For some sick and twisted reason, he reveled in the fact that only he could manage to rouse such a violent reaction out of you. There was something satisfying about the way your eyes blazed, your rosy cheeks tinged with heat as you told him off.

Maybe he'd flirt with you today. Tell you how good you looked in your short little skirt. Watch as you turned as red as the tie around your neck. His pretty little Gryffindor good girl. In Mattheo's mind, you were his to tease and taunt.

With his usual swagger, Mattheo sauntered into Advanced Transfiguration fully prepared to test out his new tactics on his nemesis, but you were nowhere to be found. 

At first, he figured that you were just running late. Throughout the duration of your rivalry, Mattheo had never once witnessed you skip class. He would’ve bet his entire cigarette supply that you’ve had perfect attendance since first year. When Professor McGonagall started the lesson and you were still missing in action, Mattheo was understandably concerned. 

The uneasy feeling in his stomach didn’t mean that he was worried about you though. This was purely about mutual benefit. Mattheo couldn’t very well have his Transfigurations partner skipping out on lessons. Even though he regularly did so himself. But still, that was different. Everyone knew he was a delinquent. You, on the other hand, were anything but. Until today, you’ve probably never missed a class in your life. 

Mattheo waited. Surprisingly, the two of you had the majority of your classes together. All of which dragged more than usual since you weren’t there to yell at him for dicking around. When you still hadn't turned up for Charms or Herbology, he became convinced that something was horribly wrong. Missing one lesson was alarming, but three in a row? That was entirely out of character for you. 

When Professor Sprout finally dismissed the class, Mattheo sauntered over to Granger’s desk. As always, she was surrounded by her two dimwit friends who immediately tensed the second he loomed near. Potter and Weasley shot him matching menacing glares, but Mattheo ignored them entirely. 

“Granger,” he drawled, leaning against the wooden desk. “Care to tell me where my partner’s been all day?” 

The Gryffindor girl appeared a bit perturbed by the question. “Why do you want to know where Y/N is?” 

Mattheo sighed in exasperation and produced the set of notes he’d taken during class. A first for him. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually listened to an entire lesson, let alone take notes, but he knew that you would have a million questions for him when you returned. The notes were his way of saving himself from your relentless interrogation. 

“Figured the little know-it-all would want my notes.” 

“Y/N is feeling a bit under the weather,” Hermione said cautiously. “I can take the notes to her if you’d like.” 

“No.” Mattheo declared rather suddenly. He cleared his throat and attempted to smooth over the sharp response. “No, McGonagall tasked me with it. I don’t want her docking points from my house when she finds out that you did my dirty work for me.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Sure.” The quirk of her mouth told Mattheo that she wasn’t convinced by his excuse. “Well, Y/N is resting up in the tower if you fancy a visit.” 

After a quick detour to the kitchens, Mattheo made his way over to Gryffindor tower. It was surprisingly easy to gain access to the lion’s den. He simply threatened a third year to let him in and got on with it. They truly needed to upgrade their security measures. One glare was all it took for Creevey to crumble and cave. 

With a satisfied smirk, Mattheo walked past the gaudy common room. For Salazar's sake, hadn't the Gryffindors ever heard of subtlety? The decor consisted solely of crimson and gold and the furnishings looked like something out of that muggle show his nan loved to watch—Antiques Roadshow. Antique was right. The worn out couch that he passed looked older than him.

Merlin, now he was starting to sound like Malfoy. Mattheo hurried along before he caught the urge to fold origami notes and chuck it at Potter's head. Fortunately for him, the place was devoid of the Chosen One or anyone for that matter.

By now, his fellow classmates were all in the Great Hall eating dinner, which he was thankful for. It was no secret that Mattheo’s presence wouldn’t be welcome here and he wasn’t really in the mood to fight his way through the Gryffindors just to deliver a note from the kindness of his black heart. Thank Salazar that there wasn’t a single soul in the tower to bicker with. Until he reached your dorm, of course. 

The relationship between the two of you was volatile to say the least. Despite Mattheo’s reputation, you weren’t shy about telling him off. When you were first assigned as partners, Mattheo had fully intended to let you do all the work while he skipped class to smoke, but he quickly realized that this would not be the case. You hunted him down at his hideout in the Astronomy Tower and discovered him blissfully sharing some premium grade mirthroot with Theo and Draco. When you found him, you were so angry that you dragged him by the ear all the way to the library, much to the amusement of his friends. Needless to say, Mattheo never missed a study session again. 

In a way, Mattheo admired you for it. Aside from his friends, everyone in the castle feared him. It was sort of refreshing to have someone call him out on his shit. Especially if that someone was a funny, feisty, ferocious Gryffindor who he enjoyed pestering every chance that he got. Mattheo always did have a penchant for girls with an attitude problem. 

Even as he knocked on your door, the Slytherin boy couldn’t help but chuckle to himself when he heard you grumbling from the other side. 

“Oh, for Godric’s fucking sake, what is it now?” 

The door swung open, revealing a very pissed off Y/N. Clad in striped pajamas and fuzzy bunny slippers, you placed a hand on your hip and frowned. Even in the throes of sickness, you still somehow managed to inject venom in your glare. Mattheo grinned like an idiot. 

“Nice slippers, princess.” 

You huffed, crossing your arms. “What do you want, Riddle?” 

“To make sure my partner doesn’t slack.” He waved his set of notes around. “Don’t think your sickness excuses you from studying.”

“This is payback for making you revise with me after you fell off your broom and broke your arm, isn’t it?” 

Mattheo cringed as he recalled the quidditch accident that sent him to the infirmary for a week. In true Y/N fashion, you were sitting by his bedside with a stack of books in your lap the second he woke up. Madam Pomfrey hadn't even put his arm in a sling yet before you were drilling him on proper spell enunciation and wand movements.

“You terrorized the infirmary with your mnemonics,” Mattheo said with a dramatic sigh. “It’s my turn now. This is sweet revenge, Y/N.” 

You squinted at his barely legible handwriting. “I’m just surprised you took your head out of your arse long enough to take notes.” 

“Glad to see that illness hasn’t lessened your bite. If anything, those teeth seem a little sharper than usual.” He leaned against the doorframe and smiled down at you. “Feeling a bit feral, princess?” 

“Why don’t you come a little closer and find out?” you quipped, baring your teeth at the aggravating boy. 

The gesture appeared intimidating for a full second until you sniffled and launched into a coughing fit, which made Mattheo frown. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Of course I am. I regularly cough my lungs out on nosy Slytherins whose sole purpose of existence is to make my life a living hell.”

He pressed the back of his hand against your forehead. The way his brow furrowed strangely resembled concern. Mattheo trained his chocolate brown eyes on you, examining the rosiness of your cheeks and the slight pinch of discomfort in your features.

"You're burning up." Mattheo's hand dropped from your forehead to the side of your neck. He pressed his fingers against your pulse point, feeling the erratic beating of your heart underneath his touch. It was strangely intimate. "You have an elevated heart rate."

You flushed and swatted his hand away. "Well, yes. That usually happens when one is ill."

"Come on, you should sit down."

"Don't tell me what to do, Riddle."

Mattheo rolled his eyes before dragging you by the elbow. Your protests fell on deaf ears as he barged his way into your dorm and walked you over to the bed. You watched as he pulled up a chair next to you before rifling through the contents of his backpack. Out of the sordid mess of his belongings, Mattheo produced a small container of soup. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a spoon. 

“Here, have some of this. It should help.”

As soon as he pried the lid open, the heavenly smell of chicken noodle soup filled your senses. Mattheo scooped up an equal amount of soup and noodle and blew on it to cool it down before tilting it towards you. The sight of him offering you food like you were some helpless toddler was only slightly insulting. You swore to Godric that if Mattheo started making airplane sounds, you’d strangle the bloody twat.

 “I can feed myself, you know.” 

“Just eat the damn soup, Y/N.” 

You rolled your eyes in return, but obliged nonetheless. Despite the source, you could never resist comfort food.

“Chicken noodle soup?” 

As soon as you tasted it, you knew that it wasn’t just soup. It was your favorite soup. The very same one that Winky made every third Wednesday of the month. You knew because you looked forward to it every time. It was even marked on your calendar. That’s how much you liked it. 

Mattheo nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, I know it’s your favorite so I bribed Winky to make some.” 

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “How do you know it’s my favorite?” 

For once in his life, Mattheo looked utterly uncomfortable. He averted his gaze and busied himself by stirring through the carrots and celery. “You, uh, mentioned it in class once.” 

You couldn’t help but smile. Maybe it was the fever talking, but you thought that was sweet. “You remembered that?” 

Mattheo looked up, a stray curl kissing the tops of his cheekbones as he met your gaze. The shy smile on his face was alarmingly endearing. Sometimes when you looked at those angelic curls and stupid big, brown eyes, you forgot that you were supposed to loathe him. “Of course. It’s my favorite too.” 

You chuckled, sniffling a little. “It’s like a hug in a cup, right?” 

The curly headed boy nodded. “It totally is.” 

After you finished the soup, you expected Mattheo to take his leave. Instead, he inspected the vials of potions laying out on your night stand. He read through every label, frowning a little. 

“You should really have some pepperup potion in here.” Mattheo remarked as he arranged the vials one by one. “Are you sure this dose is potent enough? Maybe you should ask them to brew something stronger.” 

“Pomfrey prescribed them herself. No offense, but I think I’ll take her years of healing experience over your expert opinion.” Mattheo gasped rather dramatically, which made you chuckle. “As much as I appreciate the notes and the soup, I don't think it's wise for you to stick around. I’m feeling a bit better, but I might still be contagious.” 

Mattheo shrugged. “It’s alright, I’m not scared of a little cold. Besides, I still have to go over the Transfiguration assignment with you.” 

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll get you sick?” 

“Not really,” he said, waving off your concern. “I know you’re going to pester me about everything you missed in class, so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.” 

To your surprise, Mattheo’s notes were extremely detailed.  It was a bit hard to read given his boyish scrawl, but with a little help in translation, you were making great progress in becoming fluent in Riddle. The more Mattheo explained the concepts and ideas that were discussed in each class, the more baffled you were. You've always known that he was smarter than he let on, but this was borderline impressive.

“How do you know all of that?” 

“I asked.”

“You asked?” Mattheo stared blankly at your surprised expression. “You never ask questions in class.” 

“I never had to since you're always there interrogating the professor like the little know-it-all that you are. Thanks to your absence, I had to fill your role in class today.”

You grinned. It grew wider and wider, spreading until your cheeks hurt. Mattheo glared at your joyous expression. “What? What’s that shit eating little grin for?” 

“You missed me.”

Color flooded Mattheo’s cheeks. You were surprised to find how well crimson suited him. It was almost the exact shade of your house colors. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Riddle, you asked questions in class. You took notes for me. You brought me chicken noodle soup." Mattheo flushed as you pointed out the obvious. "You totally missed me.” 

“If you tell anyone, I’ll hex you.” 

“Admit it, Mattheo. Your day was utterly dull without me.” 

Mattheo rolled his eyes, sighing in defeat. “Fine, you’ve got me. I was bored out of my mind without you around. How else am I supposed to pass the time if you’re not there for me to argue with?” 

“There’s plenty of other people in the castle that you could bicker with.”

“Yeah, but they’re not you.” 

He seemed a little shocked by his own statement, but he didn't try to retract it. In fact, Mattheo almost seemed resigned to it.

“Careful, Riddle. It almost sounds like you have a crush on me.” 

“I’d have to be a bloody idiot to fall for a girl who absolutely despises me.” 

“That wasn’t a denial, you know.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose like the very idea of it vexed him, but you caught the little smile he hid beneath his fingers. Mattheo snatched the notes from your hands. “Focus on the lesson, will you?” He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that. Look at what you’re doing to me, Y/N.” 

“You’ll live, Riddle.” You poked a section of his notes that you hadn’t quite deciphered. “Now what in the bloody hell is the Gobstopper Ruffian?” 

“The Goblin Rebellion. Merlin, my handwriting isn't that bad.” 

“Are you kidding? A kindergartner writes more legibly than this.” 

The hours passed while you bickered and bantered. You hated to admit it, but you missed arguing with him too. Laying in bed all day had you positively bored, but yet time passed within the blink of an eye as you went back and forth with Mattheo. Somewhere between discussing the possibility of Longbottom running an underground exotic plant ring and arguing over the best Smiths song, the sun had set over the horizon. Mattheo rubbed his eyes and yawned. 

“You look knackered, Riddle,” you teased, patting the spot beside you. “Do you want to lie down for a bit?”

Chocolate brown eyes widened at you. “Lie down? With you? On your bed?” 

“Yes, that’s typically how people do it.” You smirked as he shot you an apprehensive look. “Unless you’re too scared.”’

Never one to back down from a challenge, Mattheo lifted the covers and gestured for you to make room. “Scoot over, then.” 

The jest seemed to have backfired on you because now Mattheo was crawling into bed and making himself completely at home. All the apprehension from earlier melted as he pulled you against him, his chest pressed against your back as he nuzzled into the crook of your shoulder. You stifled a giggle as Mattheo released a satisfied little sigh. 

Mattheo wrapped his arms around you until you were covered in the scent of amber, cinnamon, and leather. You never expected to unearth the fact that Mattheo Riddle was a great cuddler, but yet here you were, reaping the benefits of this newfound revelation. He slipped his fingers through yours and nuzzled closer. 

"Who would've known that Mattheo Riddle was such a great cuddler?"

"If you tell anyone—"

"You'll hex me. Put a curse on my family. Set my possessions on fire. Yes, I know, Riddle. You keep threatening me, but you never follow through. I'm starting to think that you're losing your touch."

Mattheo squeezed your hip before twining your legs together. "I wouldn't test me, Y/N. You're in a very vulnerable position right now."

You chuckled as he scooted even closer. "Maybe, but you won't do anything."

"Why's that, princess?"

"You like me too much," you retorted, chuckling as Mattheo buried his face in your hair. "One day without me and you're already a needy mess."

"You infuriate me," Mattheo whispered against your ear. "But you're also the best part of my day. I couldn't imagine fighting with anyone else but you, my dear nemesis."

"I totally loathe you, Mattheo Riddle."

He chuckled as you snuggled into him. "I loathe you too, Y/N Y/L/N."

The irony of the statement contrasted with how tangled up you were wasn't lost on you. For two people who supposedly hated each other, cuddling with your enemy had never felt so right. The steady beat of Mattheo's heart lulled you towards sleep. You were slowly succumbing to its hypnotic lullaby until Mattheo's voice broke through the silence.

“Y/N?” He murmured against your hair.

You shifted, your eyes feeling heavy as his warmth enveloped you. “Hmm?” 

Mattheo’s voice was low and gravelly, flowing like honey in your ears. “This is nice.” 

You smiled against the pillow, staring at your intertwined fingers. “Better than chicken noodle soup?” 

You felt him grin against your skin before he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on your temple. “Way better than soup.” 

TAGLIST

@annaisabookworm @bubybubsters @criesinlies @niktwazny303 @therealallisonspear @athenalikethegoddess @clairesjointshurt @vixzwrites @elle4404

A dream come true

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!artist reader

Warnings: Anxiety, shakiness, slight blood, bad parenting(?). Tell me if I’ve missed anything.

Summary: The reader paints an unknown man from her dream, and Bucky sees his face on a painting during the exhibition.

Word count: A little over 1.7k

Your hands were clammy, nails digging into the soft flesh of your palms, nibbling on your bottom lip, you opened the curtains slightly, gazing at the growing crowd right outside of the building you were in. It was the day. Your art exhibition, for which you had prepared your whole life. Pursuing the career you wanted was harder than you imagined, your parents not being too supportive of your choice, reasoning their pure disappointment with “The job of an artists does NOT get paid well, and you will no be able to survive for long, you should get a degree in medicine, instead, like your cousin”. 

Screw that, you thought, before taking the call from the small studio apartment’s owner. Soon you found yourself moving out of your parents’ house and settling in the small studio, you now, called home. Of course, it wasn’t easy at first, but you made a living by initially working at a local bookstore, painting and selling pictures. The money was enough to feed you and your fellow feline, Louie. Living alone, you missed company, which led you to adopting a ginger cat, who was just the perfect companion for you. 


“Oh come on, Bucky, you’ve been a couch potato for already three weeks, it’s time to see some new people, hang around, get drunk, you know, what we used to back then” the blond man elbowed the brunette next to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Rogers, exactly, back then, not NOW, leave me alon-“ he got cut off by someone clearing their throat, glancing at the girl in front of him, he looked at Steve whose smile was already beyond his ears. 

“Linda, dear” Steve chirped like a lovesick teenager, throwing his muscular arms around the girl, giving her a sweet kiss on the lips, to which Bucky glared, his nose scrunching in annoyance. “This grump here is my friend, James, just call him Bucky.” The girl laughed, putting her hand out for a handshake. 

“I’m Linda, Bucky” the girl smiled, to which Bucky just hummed and shook her hand for less than a second. 

“Well, we’re getting late, let’s hurry” Steve interrupted the awkward silence, taking his girlfriend, holding her hand, he shoved Bucky to his other side, as not to let him run away. 

“Would be better to be late” Bucky replied under his breath, putting his hands into his black jeans’ pockets. 

It took less than 10 minutes for them to arrive at the hall, for which Steve had got tickets. 


——————————————————————————

“This is a picture from Montenegro” you answered the elderly woman who was standing next to one of the many canvases. 

So far so good, the visitors were mainly either artists like yourself, or elderly people like the woman before you. 

“Drinks anyone?” Thomas announced stepping away from the small table, revealing the pomegranate lemonade, which you had made as a treat for your guests. 

Bucky had parted ways from the couple almost at the exact moment they had set their foot in the studio. Wandering around, he had his gloved metal hand in his pocket, the other one holding the blue glass full of the lemonade. Roaming around a bit more, he was about to start searching for Steve to announce that he was finally leaving, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Am I getting old, am I delusional or is that…?” He squinted, his feet moving themselves, leading him closer to a certain painted canvas. The blue eyes, stared back at him calmly. “What the hell is my face doing here?” He turned around glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to him. 



He spotted a man helping some others, he raised his index for finger as a sign for him to come over. 

“Thomas” Bucky read from the name tag on the boy’s collar, and cleared his throat 

“Yes, Sir? How may I help you?-“ he stopped talking as Bucky moved a little making Thomas’s eyes grow wide like plates “..Oh” came the answer with slight shakiness. 

“Looks very much like you.. Sir” Thomas joked, trying to ease the tension, which was in complete vain as Bucky’s staring was blowing holes in Thomas’s head. 

You were walking around, smiling and thanking the guests who complimented the art, when you spotted Thomas opening and closing his mouth like a fish, looking quite uncomfortable and in need of help. You fastened your pace to Thomas. 

“Hey are you alright?” you then spotted the man in front of Thomas, making your heart jump into your throat and down to your knees. “G-good day” you blinked at the pure muscle of a man standing next to what looked like a mirror copy of his face, just not real and 2D. 

“What is my face doing here?” Bucky spoke up, in a harsh voice and immediately realised the angry tone of his voice, his gloved hand already rubbing his neck in nervousness “I’m sorry, it’s just-“ he was about to explain himself when you nervously laughed.

“This is one of the pictures I have drown about a month ago, I saw this man” you pointed at the man in the picture “in my, um, in my dream” you finished off your fingers nervously fidgeting, your toes curling in your shoes, as you nervously went up and down on your feet. “I’m sorry, I think-“

“Your dream?” Bucky asked surprised as he glanced at the picture then at you, neither of you noticing Thomas slipping away awkwardly. 

“I don’t always remember my dreams or have any dreams in general, so when I saw this man, I guess, you, in my dream, the image was stuck in my mind so here it is” you chuckled once more, motioning the picture. “They say that you dream only of the people you’ve met in real life” you continued. 

“I’m just stunned to see myself here” he laughed pursing his lips afterwards. 

“Hey man! I’ve been searching for- Oh?” another male voice startled you, your head turning to the blond coming from your right, arm in arm with a shorter girl. 

“Is that..you?” the girl pointed at the picture and then looked at you “Oh wait! You’re the painter right? You’re Y/N” she exclaimed with a smile.

“Miss Y/N, you made him look much younger than he already is” the blond man laughed, nudging Bucky who rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. 


“Oh God” you replied with a laugh, covering your face that was heating up with embarrassment. 

“Shut it, Steve” Bucky grunted stepping in front of his picture. “Never told you, but Miss Y/N and I had met in a park where she asked me to model for her, to which I agreed” he lied, looking at you with a small smile. 

“Oh yeah, it was autumn, right?” You continued, thanking gods that Bucky didn’t tell the real backstory of the painting. Bucky just nodded. 

“Well well, your paintings are amazing, Miss” the blond, Steve, replied “But unfortunately, Linda and I have some plans, so we are abandoning you, Bucky” Steve lied, kissing the girl on the cheek and turned to Bucky for a quick side hug “Don’t come home without her number and a date” he secretly muttered.

Bucky rolled his eyes once more, slightly pushing his friend away “Yeah yeah, see you.“ him and you waved at the leaving couple and turned to each other. 

“You owe me something, Miss Y/N” he mused with a playful teasing smirk. “A date perhaps? Besides, I’m sure you need new paintings paintings for your upcoming exhibitions.”

“That’s true, but you’d have to wait for a little, we still have some time till we finish the event” you replied cheekily, glancing at Bucky’s hand that was placed on the wall, as he leaned onto it. “Plus, I see a very interesting something, right there, which would be just perfect for my art” you motioned at the metal peeking through the gap of his gloves and leather jacket. 

“Indeed, you have so much more to see, sweetheart.”


——————————————————————————

You waved at Thomas and stepped out of the hall, after your guests had left, Bucky’s metal hand, at the small of your back, leading you out of the crowd. The sun was already setting, the city was slowly preparing to sleep, yet your day had just begun, as you and Bucky walked next to each other, you glanced at him, his arm occasionally brushing against yours. Just then your eyes widened, and you gasped and stopped in your tracks “Aren’t you the guy who caught my cat from running away in this same park?”

Okay so, back from a long break with this.

Hope you like it. Tell me what you think :]

PS. This is inspired by a post I saw on TikTok. Will link the video down below.

https://www.tiktok.com/@hotdognijaxon03/video/7108692230432460058?_t=8UCIy2Z7fF4&_r=1

tags: @veroriddle @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds

Tiktok

she's not aware that her man in her dreams is just behind her watching the painting, madly. #wattpad #warranj #wattpadrekomendasi

she's not aware that her man in her dreams is just behind her watching the painting, madly. #wattpad #warranj #wattpadrekomendasi

live laugh love professor bucky

dr. barnes

pair: fbi instructor!professor!bucky barnes x fem!student!reader

word count: ~6.5k

summary: you ask for some advice from your reclusive and very attractive professor.

warnings: teacher student relationship so slight age gap but i had pictured it being less than 10 years, super soft bucky, smut at the end (~1.3k), fingering (f rec) but not super descriptive, crime scene descriptions, descriptions of blood, some christian/religious references at the crime scenes, (let me know if i missed any !!)

a/n: this one held me hostage for weeks. i literally could not stop thinking about it. do i have uni exams this week? yes. but did i spend my time writing this? also yes. i hope you guys like it !!

“Explain the killer. What does he do? What motivates him? How would you catch him? A thousand words printed by the next class. Have a good weekend,” your professor, Dr. Barnes, announces with a nod, cueing the shuffling of laptops and bags belonging to FBI trainees eager to get home on a Friday afternoon.

You load up your things, your mind still thinking about the brutal crime scene photos shown on the slides of the lecture today that made your stomach turn over. While you know you have chosen to be at the FBI, you can’t help but wonder sometimes what you are doing there. Your degree in psychology and doctorate in criminology has led you to the FBI Academy, but your mind still swirls when the most horrible acts of violence are placed in front of you. You chalk it up to you retaining your humanity and sanity, so you are not exactly upset over the fact. It just makes your job more difficult.

Dr. Barnes’ class is always the most brutal, but it is by far the most fascinating class you have. It does help that your professor is the most fascinating part, being very good looking and extremely private. He shares very little personal information, telling you only that he used to work homicide at the police department before beginning teaching. You notice that he does not talk to students often, simply giving his lectures, packing up and leaving after the sea of students flood into the hallways.

You are curious about him, about what he is like when he is not lecturing, and figuring that you have little to lose, you decide to come back after your classes to ask for some help. 

…

“Dr. Barnes?” you call out as you step into the lecture hall that is still lit, leaving you to believe that someone is there. You take a few more steps and find your professor sitting at his desk, photos piled around, staring intently at the laptop in front of him. He makes no movement to acknowledge you, his focus completely locked onto his work.

You walk all the way up to his desk, repeating his name which does little to deter him. You reach a hand out and give his shoulder a slight squeeze, causing him to jump in his seat and look up at you, eyes wide. 

“Sorry, Dr. Barnes. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

At your words, he scans your face, recognition dawning on his features. 

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says quietly, his eyes focusing on the books you are holding in your hands. 

“It’s okay, Dr. Barnes,” you assure him.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he trails off a bit at the end of his question, asking for your name in its absence.

You fill in your name and explain, “I just have a question. I’m writing a paper for another class and was hoping that you could give me some insight on the topic. I’m really just looking for another perspective.”

“Of course,” he says as he leans back in his chair. There is not another chair, so you take to sitting on the edge of his desk.

“The paper is about female serial killers, and I was wondering what you think the most common traits and motives are. We have discussed some examples in class, but I wanted to ask what your experience has been.”

He thinks for a moment, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “They usually work in health care professions. They’ll, um, they will be married or have been married before. They usually kill to improve their situation, so they’ll target people they know, usually men. But not all women,” he stops and looks up at you before continuing to explain a case he had while working homicide where they investigated a series of killings that followed the signs of a male killer but ended up being a woman. 

Dr. Barnes runs a hand through his hair when he finishes, leaning back in his chair. You can’t help but notice how good he looks in this position and at this angle. His dark hair tousled and glasses twirling between his thumbs, you think about how it would feel to reach out and feel his hair between your fingers. You school yourself, your face becoming hot at the idea. He is your professor, and you would do well to remember that. 

You continue the conversation, asking him questions and prodding for more insight. When you figure you have taken up enough of his time, you bow your head a bit and begin getting up from your place on the desk.

“Thank you for your help, Dr. Barnes. I really appreciate you taking the time.”

He nods in acknowledgment, a small smile adorning his lips which you watch perhaps a little too intently as he says. “It was nothing. I’m glad I could help.”

You begin walking toward the door of the lecture hall but are stopped by your name being called out.

“Would you actually mind taking a look at these pictures? I’d like to know what you see.”

You turn back around. The look on his face is one of curiosity. You wonder why he would want to ask you, and part of you wants to believe that it is because he wants you to stay, but you know better. 

“Sure,” you shrug, making your way back to his desk. “I’m not sure I’ll be of much help, though”

“Just take a look. It’s not a test, if that’s what you’re worried about,” your professor says, standing up to hand you the crime scene photos.

They are gruesome, but you don’t know what else you could have expected with Dr. Barnes. You examine them all the while trying to ignore the way he leans over your shoulder as you fail to concentrate. You are so close that if you took a single step back, you would be flush to him. 

Pushing those thoughts away, you focus your attention on the photos, flipping through them, noticing the odd blood splatter near the baseboard that doesn’t have a body laying anywhere near it. 

“What would make the killer climb on top of the counter to shoot someone, get down, and move the body?” you think out loud as you turn your head to look at Dr. Barnes. You notice how close your faces are and let out a breath at the discovery. “Dominance?” your voice is more shaky than you wanted it to sound.

“I was hoping you could tell me. My guess is they were waiting there, but it still doesn’t make sense,” he says, looking past you and to the picture you are holding. You look back down as well, grateful you did not make eye contact, the idea of the intimacy of it alarming.

“If they were standing on it, that would make sense, but the angle doesn’t really fit. It seems as if they were waiting for them to get home, and they sat, swinging their legs, completely calm and casual about shooting this person,” you pause, mulling over your words before saying, “Maybe they even knew this person. The proximity to the counter could mean that the victim was comfortable enough to approach them, and that the victim was unaware of what was going to happen.”

He hums in agreement in your ear, and a feeling of satisfaction washes over you. Turning back around, you hand the photos to your professor and take a step back. 

“I think you may be right,” he says with a nod, a small smile again creeping onto his features. You make eye contact and keep it, somewhat entranced by it.

“I’m glad I was able to help,” you smile. “Thanks again, Dr. Barnes. Have a good night.”

…

You anticipate going back to classes on Monday, knowing that you have to attend Dr. Barnes’ lecture. You don’t know if anything will be different after the night you spent talking to your professor. Part of you knows that nothing should be different. While there are only a few years between you, you are still his student.

But part of you wants things to be different. The entire weekend, you could not get out of your head the image of his face so close to yours or the sight of him as he leaned back in his chair, legs casually falling open. 

Dr. Barnes is not in the lecture hall when you arrive for which you are grateful. You settle into your seat and wait for the lecture to begin by fiddling with your laptop. When your professor does come in, you notice that he combed his hair today, letting it fall neatly over his forehead. The plaid shirt he wears still doesn’t match his suit, but you find it charming. He slips his glasses on and begins teaching.

The whole lecture you try valiantly to focus on the subject, but you fail rather miserably, unable to think of anything but how you stood right where he is, your back a foot away from his chest with him humming in your ear. It is going to be a long term if this is how every lecture is going to go.

You are brought back to reality when Dr. Barnes makes eye contact with you. He smiles which you quickly reciprocate, then he turns around, gesturing to the screen before anyone notices.

It is definitely going to be a long semester.

…

Weeks go on with you and Dr. Barnes smiling at each other from afar, both of you knowing that you would be playing with fire if you do anything more than smile. But the longer you go simply smiling, the more you want to do something about it.

And one day, he does something about it. On your way out of the lecture hall, Dr. Barnes stops you, calling out your name. You walk over, anticipation coiling in your stomach.

“I’ve another case I’d like your opinion on. Do you have time tonight to take a look?” he asks you quietly so as to not draw the attention of the students still exiting the room.

“Yes. Here at 7:30?”

He nods, making a flash of eye contact which you return with a smile. 

…

You make your way to Dr. Barnes’ lecture hall, your stomach roiling with nerves. You have thought too much about him, fantasized a little often for you to not think about it when you talk to him. The soles of your shoes click on the tile as you walk the hallway. You take a deep breath and open the door.

Dr. Barnes is reclined behind his desk, crime scene photos in his hand as he flips through them intently. At your entrance, his head flicks up to find your figure approaching his desk.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” he says as he stands up. 

“Hi, yeah. It’s – yeah it’s no problem, Dr. Barnes,” you manage to get out, tripping over your words more than you would have liked. Another deep breath to collect yourself. “What can I do to help?”

He leans against the front of his desk and reaches behind him to grab the photos he was examining before. You take a few steps closer to grab them from his outstretched hand.

“A recent set of murders. It’s odd to say the least,” he starts, watching you intently as you study the photos. 

The scene is horrifying, blood smeared across the walls, not as blood spray or splatter, but in an image. A lamb. Your mind spins as you look through more of the pictures, each of them showing blood splashed on the walls. You wonder what the killer did in order to get that much blood. There is too much for it to have come from just one body.

“How many people were found dead?”

“Only one,” he answers, leaning in to help you find the image of the body heaped over the table. You can’t help but notice everywhere his body touches yours, how his breath flutters against your neck, but you cast those thoughts away to focus on the case at hand.

“There had to have been more. There’s too much blood,” you mumble as you cart through the images again, counting as you go. A beat passes as you take in the scene, contemplating before constructing ideas.

“What do you see?”

“In ancient religious practices, a lamb would be sacrificed and the blood would be sprinkled around seven times. There are seven places where the blood was thrown on the wall,” you pause to show him each one. You glance up at your professor who is looking on intently, urging you to continue. “Then you have the body placed on the table. It could be sacrificial. The lamb was supposed to be perfect. Without blemish. Maybe – maybe the killer saw this person as their perfect – their perfect lamb, as someone who would put them in favor with God. The sacrificial lamb is sacramental. Symbolic. Messianic. It’s an act of repentance. So what was the killer repenting from?”

A hum from Dr. Barnes pulls you out of your reverie and breaks your focus from the crime scene photos. You lean around his form to place the pictures back on his desk, your shoulder brushing against his arm. His eyes follow you before he brings a hand up to rub his eyes, almost like he is physically rubbing away the images.

“Do you think the killer knew the victim?” he asks quietly, bringing his hands down to meet your eyes.

“I think they could be family. Family or close friends. They were their savior,” you answer, matching his tone.

Dr. Barnes nods in agreement and in that moment, you can see that he looks like a man who is carrying the world on his shoulders. He slouches forward slightly, his hair strewn around his ears with bags under his eyes. It takes everything in you to not reach out a hand to touch his cheek, to rub a thumb across his lips as you have in your dreams.

Appalled by your own thoughts, you take a step back to give yourself space to halt that train of thought. The movement makes him stand, subconsciously trying to keep the close proximity between you. You don’t break eye contact, making the moment intimate. Intense.

“This case has been keeping me up at night,” he confesses as he brings a hand to run through his hair with a sigh, breaking eye contact. “I wonder where the other bodies are. I can’t seem to get my mind around it.” 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” you say in nearly a whisper. “You’re good at what you do.”

“Thank you for your help. It’s some really great insight you had.”

“It’s no problem, Dr. Barnes.”

“Bucky,” he says quickly, rushing it out like he knows he shouldn’t let it pass his lips.

“Bucky,” you repeat, trying the name out on your tongue. 

You then fall into easy conversation, learning more about each other. You discover that Bucky has a PhD in criminology as well, and that he used to be a field agent but decided to leave it to become a teacher at the academy. Part of you wants to ask why, but you figure that it isn’t a conversation he wants to have while still getting to know you. He asks about your life, your family, your education. He is interested in why and how you landed at the academy. You answer him honestly, not inclined to hide away as you normally do when people ask those questions.

Bucky is surprisingly sociable. Based on his reclusiveness when it comes to students, you were not expecting to hold such easy and fun conversation. It makes you want to spend the whole night chatting, joking, exploring. But you know you should not stay. 

When the conversation lulls, you glance at your watch and ask, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Bucky? I think I might head home.”

Before you can even register what is happening, he takes a singular step forward and leans in to meet his lips to yours. In shock, you stand limply, not sure how to respond. You can’t deny that you have thought about this moment for weeks, dreaming about it, imagining what it would be like to kiss him. Bucky. But you hadn’t expected it to happen tonight.

And before you have time to respond, he pulls away, opening his eyes to look at you with wide ones of his own.

“I’m sorry, I–”

You don’t acknowledge his apology, instead leaning in to kiss him again, only you are prepared for it this time. He responds immediately as his lips move slowly over yours, testing the waters. Your hands are still by your sides, but his come to settle in your hair and over your arm. His kisses are controlled and soft, not pressing for more than what you are willing to give. A sigh flutters from your nose which ghosts over his cheeks.

Breaking away for a second, you open your eyes and find his already looking at you. The both of you know that you are playing with fire. You are still his student, and he is your professor, but the feeling of his lips on yours overrules any rational thought at the moment.

You give a slight nod and he takes that as a green light to kiss you again. Bucky pulls you closer, and your hands find their way around his torso, snaking up into his hair. It is his turn to sigh at the action which causes satisfaction to roll down your back in waves that has you leaning further into the kiss, opening your mouth ever so slightly. He takes advantage and kisses you deeper. A soft moan escapes you at the feeling, followed by a shaky breath.

He pulls away, a triumphant smile playing at his mouth. 

“I’m not sorry,” he whispers.

“Me neither.”

He kisses you once more, chaste and short, but it carries more meaning than any of the other kisses. It tells you that he has thought about this, too. It wasn’t a spur of the moment, impulsive decision. And it tells you that he plans on doing it again.

…

You settle into a routine with Bucky. After class on Fridays, he stops you on your way out and quietly asks you to come back to look over a case or his lectures. You always nod and come back at 7:30. 

The unspoken truth of the need for secrecy looms over your blooming relationship, but you are almost spurred on by the illicitness of it all. You haven’t done anything more than kiss. You haven’t even interacted beyond the walls of the lecture hall. You both know that it is safest that way. 

The more time you spend together, the more you find yourself falling in love with Bucky. His quirks make you smile. The way he perks up when you walk through the door makes your heart flutter in your chest. You have never felt so valued by anyone before. He trusts your opinions. He respects your honesty. You admire his dedication to what he does. You find his quiet nature calming. 

The list of things you love about Bucky keeps you up at night as you replay scenes of kissing at his desk behind your eyes as you fall asleep. Bucky kisses you like you are ice cream on a sunny day, slow and hungry like he savors every second of your mouth on his. He never presses you for more, only going so far as to set you up on his desk, pulling your hips to his, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as you wind your fingers in his hair. He always sighs when you tug at it which gives you the opportunity to kiss at his neck, your chin always getting scratched by his stubble. 

You love the routine. However, it makes it hard to concentrate during the lectures since all you can think about when you look at his desk is how good his hands felt on your hips and how his lips were pressed to yours when you were propped up on the wood yourself.

The semester continues on following your routine. If anyone suspects anything, they don’t say. You can’t imagine that someone hasn’t picked up on the soft smiles he sends your direction during lectures, and stragglers leaving class late on Fridays must hear his whispers for you to come back. 

Steadily approaching the end of the term, you begin to question how long your routine will continue. You will no longer be Bucky’s student. Could you actually date? Would he want to? Is that what you want?

…

The familiar tug of nerves settles in the pit of your stomach as you walk to class with Bucky — Dr. Barnes if you were still professional, but you figure that his lips have kissed you a few too many times and in a few too many places for you to call him that. It is your last class in his lecture hall, meaning that beyond today, you are free to make a decision as to whether this is serious or not.

In your heart of hearts, you want this to keep going. You love how you feel around Bucky. While you have not said it out loud, you love him. You feel yourself aching to hear him say it, too. 

When you arrive in the room, Bucky is already there, nervously flipping through crime scene photos while running his hands through his hair, creating a rather haphazard mess on his head. He looks more anxious than usual, and it takes everything in you to not to stride to his desk and ask him what’s wrong. 

Instead, you brush past him, trailing a quick hand over his arm, hoping that it has a calming effect over him. His eyes flash to yours as you cast a look over your shoulder, smiling at him. He sends you a tight lipped smile back as his shoulders shrug down from their place beside his ears. 

From your seat, you watch Bucky pace around a bit, obviously concerned about something. You rub your palms over your thighs when you discover them clenched in worry. You wonder if his stress has anything to do with the reason you were nervous coming to class today — the talk you know is coming tonight. You figure it does when his eyes glance over at you every few minutes before beginning the lecture.

You find yourself becoming sentimental about the semester as you look around the room, taking in the feeling for the last time. If you and Bucky do decide to continue your relationship, you can never take one of his classes again. If you don’t continue to see Bucky, you doubt you will want to take one of his classes again. You will miss his funny side comments that come out of left field. You will miss his mismatched suits and disheveled hair. 

The sound of Bucky announcing the end of class breaks you out of your thoughts, and the shuffling of backpacks and feet brings you back to reality. A stream of students thank Bucky as they flow out of the classroom for the final time. You stall a minute, waiting for the throng to exit out the doors before approaching your professor.

“Hey, Bucky,” you say quietly, clutching your laptop to your chest. 

“Hey.”

You watch him lean against his desk, hands pressed to the edge of the wood. 

“How are you doing?” you ask the question that has been waiting to erupt since you entered the lecture hall an hour previous. “You seem nervous.”

A chuckle that comes out more as a sigh escapes him. “Yeah. I’m fine. I, uh, I just didn’t get much sleep last night. How are…how are you?”

“Wistfully contemplating the end of my time in your class,” you reply playfully, hoping that the happy tone will hide the melancholy you really feel about the idea.

This elicits a laugh from Bucky as he looks at you through his lashes — a look that always has your knees threatening to come out from under you. You take steps closer and set your laptop down on his desk, then place your hands on his shoulders, running them down his arms to settle in his hands.

“Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?” you ask, the words barely more than a whisper. You want to catch them in the air, afraid that your proposal to disrupt the routine will be rejected.

But Bucky smiles immediately, thinking for a moment before saying, “Why don’t I cook dinner?”

Your stomach flutters at the thought of watching him in the kitchen. You nod in response.

“7:30?”

“7:30,” you repeat before letting go of his hands to walk out the doors, throwing a smile over your shoulder as you go.

…

The drive to Bucky’s house is quiet but comfortable. About halfway through the trip, your hands link together, resting on your thigh. You talk lazily, asking questions about each others’ days since your morning lecture. There is something so calming about Bucky. You trust him. You love him.

Every once in a while, your eyes flick over to watch him drive, eyes intently focused on the road ahead. He can feel your gaze, so he sends a glance over to you with a soft smile playing on his lips. 

“What?” he asks when you don’t shy away from his eyes.

“Nothing, Buck. I just like being with you.”

“I do, too.”

The sweetness of his simple confession does more to your confidence than you ever thought possible. You feel comfortable around Bucky. You need only be yourself when you are with him, and hearing that same sentiment from him gives you hope that he wants this to continue just as much as you do.

You squeeze his hand, at which he laughs softly, squeezing yours back, brushing his thumb over the knuckles on the back of your hand.

Gravel crunching under tires and the faint sound of dogs barking indicates that you have arrived at your destination. You open the car door and follow Bucky to the front steps of a small house on the edge of town. A large open field is situated behind his house, neighbors nonexistent. Given Bucky’s personality, you are not surprised to discover that he lives alone, away from people, away from the city. 

A flash of nervousness pricks at your mind, as no one would be around if Bucky shows you that isn’t the guy you think he is. But you trust him, and you trust him enough to accept your fate if it does prove to be your downfall.

The door creaks open, and Bucky flicks on the light. Two big dogs come bounding to greet you both, circling his feet until he crouches down to give them the attention they are begging for. To see Bucky with his dogs makes your mind go fuzzy and warm, the tenderness of the scene eradicating your doubts from before.

“Charlie and Duke,” Bucky says, showing you which dog belongs to which name, rubbing each of them affectionately before standing and grabbing your hand.

“They’re adorable.”

“They’re good dogs.”

He leans in for a quick kiss, the domesticity of it causing your breath to catch in your throat. He pulls away smiling, then tugs you into the kitchen where he drags a chair out from the table for you to sit on.

“Sit,” Bucky says with mirth in his voice.

You laugh but do as you are told. 

“I was thinking of making steaks. Is that okay with you?”

“Sounds great.”

You watch Bucky make his way around the kitchen, obviously having done this a lot. He looks comfortable. He catches you staring, meeting your gaze head on, an easy smile adorning his mouth before asking, “What are you smiling at?”

“You. I like seeing you here,” you say quietly. 

“Not as much as I like seeing you sit at my table. I’ve thought about this a lot,” he admits with his back to you as he throws the steaks in the pan. “I like being around you. I’m more comfortable with you than anyone else. You make me feel — you make me feel normal. Most people don’t do that. They don’t — they don’t want to understand me. My old friends can only think about who I was before I quit the force. They don’t — they don’t want to like who I am now.”

The words spill out of Bucky before he can stop them, opening up to you in a way that he has not before. He has let you in here and there over the months you have been spending together in the lecture hall, but he has stayed rather private even then. Not sure what to say in response, you simply move from your place at the table to stand behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso, resting your cheek on his back. You can feel him relax into your touch, and it is a comfort to you both.

“Bucky, I think I am in love with you,” you whisper into his shirt. His body tenses, the sizzling of the meat in the pan filling the silence. Your heart pounds in your chest as you wait for him to say something. Burying your face further into him, disappointment and embarrassment creeping in your stomach, settling heavily when he doesn’t say anything. When a minute that feels like an eternity passes in silence, you mutter a quiet, “I’m sorry.” 

You let go of Bucky and take a step back. He quickly takes the pan off the heat and whips around to face you, pulling you back to him, whispering your name. 

“I love you,” the words are sure and confident coming from his lips. “I know I do.”

He looks at you intently, not shying away from your eyes before leaning in and kissing you softly. You get lost in his kisses, the pounding of your heart racing at a steady quick beat. Bucky backs you into the counter where he cages you with his hands as you weave one of your hands into his hair, the other running up his spine.

“Stay the night,” he mumbles between kisses.

You pull away and nod, meeting his eyes again, kissing him once without breaking the contact.

…

Settling on his couch after laughing yourselves silly over the dinner table, Bucky is close behind you with bowls of ice cream in hand. He hands you a spoon before sitting down right beside you, pulling your legs to stretch over his lap. He runs a hand absentmindedly over your shins as the two of you eat your ice cream. 

“Why did you come talk to me that night?,” he asks between spoonfuls. “You didn’t really need my help. You knew everything I was telling you.”

You smile like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I did need your help,” you assert before admitting, “but I also just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

The sound of his laugh makes your heart flutter the same way it does when he looks up at you from behind his desk. 

“Hey, not all my professors are attractive recluses who deserve a starring role in my nightly fantasies.”

“Oh, so you fantasize about me,” he presses, the smirk on his face unlike any expression you have ever seen on him. He looks smug, proud, teasing. It makes heat flash to your core.

You hum but it comes out more as a squeak, your focus turning intently on the ice cream melting in your bowl.

“Do you want to know what I’ve fantasized about you?” Bucky asks lowly, grabbing the bowl from your hands, causing your eyes to lift to his. You watch him set it on the floor. Your heart begins pounding again as he moves to climb over you, settling between your open legs.

“What have you fantasized about, Bucky?” you ask quietly, voice shaky.

You take a breath when he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You open your mouth to deepen it, and he takes advantage, his tongue pressing to your upper lip. The feeling has your hips rolling and sighs falling from your throat.

He pulls away to murmur into your neck, “Every time I would sit on my couch, I thought about laying you down and kissing you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your eyes are screwed shut as you tug at his hair, his words forming pools of heat between your hips where his own apply pressure. Your words fail you, only a whimper escaping you. His lips move along your neck, working their way back to your mouth, giving due attention to the places on the way that have you squirming beneath him. You hands tug at his shirt to slip your fingers beneath the fabric, skimming up his back, scratching lightly.

His kisses become feverish at the feeling of your nails down his back. One hand hooks your knee to pull your form even closer to his, hips slipping into place. You can feel yourself becoming wetter by the second, the slow circling of his hips against yours creating friction that has you moaning.

In one swift motion, his hands are gliding up your sides, taking your shirt with you. You lean up to help him before settling back down against the pillows. He sits on his heels to take his own shirt off which allows you to see him in the faint light casted by the lamp in the corner.

You notice a shining scar that extends from one hip to the other below his navel. Fingertips reach out to touch it, barely making contact before his own hand stills your movements. 

“Is this why you quit the force?” you ask barely above a whisper.

He only nods, his feelings of vulnerability silencing him. You aren’t disgusted by it. It doesn’t change how you see him. You don’t pity him. You are simply curious. And amazed at his strength. He survived whatever left him this scar.

“Can I see it?”

Bucky takes a fluttering breath through his nose then nods again. You climb to the floor, resting on your knees between his legs. You glance up at him and see his head lolling to the side as he looks down at you, eyes hazy and soft. His eyebrows are scrunched, letting you know that he is concentrated, but the dam of secrecy surrounding Bucky is breaking with every passing second.

Tentatively, you stretch a hand forward, your fingertips grazing the scar. His stomach flexes beneath your touch. 

No one has seen his scar since the doctor sewed him back up. He has a fear of pity. He knows that people won’t see him the same when they see the effects of what happened to him — of what was done to him. But he doesn’t see pity in your eyes. He sees awe and amazement. 

Without warning, you press your lips to his stomach, the intimacy of it rendering his mind blank. You hear him swear quietly which urges you to keep going. You kiss all along the scar, his hips, then upwards before you climb into his lap. You find his lips again and kiss slowly, surely, passionately.

“I love you, Bucky.”

“I love you, too.”

You share a few more kisses before he stands up, pulling you with him to his room. He fumbles through his dressers to find a shirt and pair of shorts for you to wear. He hands them to you, then rummages through the bathroom cabinets to find a new toothbrush for you to use.

You thank him after he says that he will meet you back at the bed. The calm and comfort of being with Bucky is undeniable. The domesticity of the night has your heart skipping beats. You quickly change and brush your teeth before making your way to his bed. Noticing books stacked on the nightstand on one side, you slip under the covers of the other, sighing contently when you settle in.

Bucky comes in a moment later with only sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He decided to not put a shirt back on, relishing in the freedom that being with you gives him. He doesn’t climb into bed immediately, but rather stands and looks at you for a moment, curled up in his sheets.

“What have you fantasized about here?” you ask teasingly, but your voice comes out thinner than you had intended. 

At your words, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. He approaches the bed slowly, kneeling down beside you. 

“I want to know yours,” he says, his voice husky and low. You bite your lip, your eyes widening. A shaky inhale.

Soft kisses line the inside of your knee, trailing a path up your thighs. You let out a hitched moan when he places a kiss to your clothed core, your hands winding themselves in his hair. You tug slightly, inviting him to come up to the bed with you.

When he climbs up, you lean back, your shirt riding up over your stomach. Wordlessly, you pull his hands to your body, his calloused palms caressing the exposed skin. He runs his thumbs under your breasts, causing you to arch into his touch. Bucky can’t believe that you respond to him so keenly. He barely touches you and you are curving beneath him, aching for more. 

His lips find your neck, behind your ear, sucking gently. Your hands pull his hips to yours, rocking steadily into him. You suck in a breath, gathering the courage to grab one of his hands to lead it to where you want to feel him the most.

Bucky follows your lead without resistance, kissing you softly in an expression of consent. He helps you pull your shorts off, then presses two fingers to the wet patch on your panties. The pressure has your hips jutting into his touch, overwhelmed by the sensation when his fingers push the fabric to the side.

Your hips move in circles with his movements, his lips kissing you through it all. Moans slip and tumble from your mouth, leaving you hiccupping in pleasure. The cords in your stomach begin snapping when he speeds up his ministrations, your body contracting through your release.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers to you as he helps you come down from your high. 

Your eyes are crimped shut, but after a moment’s respite and a few encouraging kisses from Bucky, you come back to yourself. You open your eyes to find him watching you intently. You smile lazily then breathe, “Your turn.”

a/n: yayayay !! thanks for reading this !! let me know if you want to be on my taglist :):) and here is my masterlist if you want to check out my other work ! and check out MY SLEEPOVER going on right now !!

I LOVE YOU

The sweetest. I love you too. <3