MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Two: Delusions of Fantasy

Chapter Summary: Settling into the semester, you find yourself in an unsuspecting position with your professor, meetings that shouldn't feel so secret but do and an assignment that may change the course of things for the better...or much worse. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: 18+, fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), mentions of infidelity (not by joel), sarah doesn't exist here, background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, talks of literature and lots of random writing topics, more dream smut that translates into writing, gratuitous descriptions of mr. miller's body and personality, joel is conspicuously toeing the line of lusting after a student while reader is very obvious, some unspoken sexual tension

— AO3 | PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec

You weren’t sure when days would begin to blur, pulling all-nighters to finish assignments that you kept putting off until the absolute last minute. But, the small coffee shop on the edge of campus has become your pseudo-home, early mornings and occasional nights when you need the extra energy boost or focus.

There was a perfect little nook in the corner of the coffee shop that was hidden behind a wall. A small alcove that was usually empty—at least, it was when you tried to use it. And you find yourself there on a lonely night, crisp autumn air biting at your skin as you slip into the coffee shop. It’s mostly empty at this hour and you order your usual drink of choice before you’re slipping around the corner with your coffee in hand, startled by the sight before you.

“Oh, shit—Mr. Miller—” You stammer, stepping back awkwardly as you almost run into his arm that is flipping a pen between his fingers, his gaze flicking up to you curiously.

He’s just as surprised to see you here, but ultimately, it makes more sense in retrospect.

He had a house, an office (both here on campus and at home), but he preferred a place like this, surrounded by the smell of coffee and the gentle ambience. He could’ve gone home to Tess and gave up grading and preparing assignments, but that didn’t sound appealing either. He finds the more he’s in Tess’s presence, the worse his thoughts wonder.

That maybe escaping to the coffee shop would push you from his mind, but here you were, in the flesh, and Joel couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He offers a curt nod, polite. Part of him expects you to just…go away. But, he has the idea that he’s probably taking up your usual study spot. Before he entertains the idea of leaving, you take a seat silently in the chair across from him, holding up your hand.

“No, it’s fine—you don’t have to leave or anything.” You tell him assuredly, opening up your laptop as you settle into your spot, eyes connecting with his over the edges of your screen, his expression looking a little more jaded than your own.

You were exhausted, but he was exhausted and upset. You couldn’t be sure at what, but there was the glaring fact that he was here, nearing midnight, when he could easily be at home. You didn’t question it though, finding that if you wanted to, you could wear him down enough to talk.

“So,” After a long stretch of silence and his silent typing away at his keyboard and you still staring at a mostly blank screen, knowing you wouldn’t be able to get much work done with him around, thoughts and eyes wondering curiously, “I read those books you suggested.”

Ah, right. The email he’d sent on a whim. A lapse of judgment after the fact, seeing how it could be misconstrued, knowing it could be viewed as inappropriate.

The thoughts he was having were inappropriate, but even then, he knew he would never entertain it. And shit, you’re still looking at him, expecting some type of answer.

“Did you enjoy them?” He asks simply, no elaboration or asking for much.

Just a simple yes or no.

There’s an angst that settles in your gut over his acknowledgment of the email, nodding quietly.

You had, truthfully. It was a few poem books he said were his favorites, and you could see where your interests intertwined, finding that the tone in the poems he enjoys reading is what you also enjoy reading.

Angst, dread, intense feeling that was hard to ignore.

And truthfully, Mr. Miller was impossible to ignore.

“I read them the other night,” You add, pulling up a half-finished assignment from your English course, “you’ve got…good taste.”

Joel chuckles quietly at that, easing slightly in his seat. Part of him was worried, even if his intentions were in the right place, that things may be misconstrued. He breaths out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“I figured you’d enjoy them.” He smirks slightly.

You feel your cunt clenching at the subtlety, crossing one leg over the other as you find a hauty comparison to his words, thought flashing through your mind.

You’d gone to bed with the words of the poems on your mind that night, but the voice wasn’t lacking in tone or voiceless—in fact, it was his voice. His words as he pumped one, two, and then three fingers into you over his desk, hands clenched into his shirt as you held onto him like a lifeline, only surfacing back to reality just as you were about to come.

But, he didn’t need to know that.

And you didn’t need to know how desperate he fucked himself into a lonely fist when he was pent up from work (which was more often than not, lately) with the image of you on his mind.

He’s never had thoughts like this and he can’t comprehend why—part of him wants to blame Tess and her choices and the stress it has put on his marriage. But, Joel has been checked out for a while and this, even though only in the confines of his mind, feels like an even worse betrayal.

“You should send me more.” A soft sip on your coffee as you stare flirtatiously over the rim of your cup—cool it, you tell yourself. But, it doesn’t work.

There’s a small twitch in his face, the deepest hint of a smile saying—yeah, I’ll challenge that—but it quickly fades.

“Just…if you want to,” You add, playing things subtly, carefully, “if that’s okay?”

Joel knows he shouldn’t entertain the idea, but he sees the genuineness in your expression, beyond his attraction toward you. You had a desire to write and share and feel—he could respect that. He nods slightly, pressing his laptop closed and gathering his things slowly.

“Alright—give me a couple days,” Joel bargains, “Anything you prefer?”

You shake your head innocently, wishing he would recommend his own literature. You wanted to see how deep his ego ran, if he had the nerve to be so bold. “Anything you like, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it too.”

It was an understatement.

And the accidental coffee shop mishap doesn’t end there. In fact, it quickly grows out of control, beyond your own intention—this was natural, no coaxing needed.

–

Joel hated how much he craved your presence outside of work, in this stupid fucking coffee shop—but like his dependency to schedule and caffeine, he finds you become a normal occurrence and it throws him out of wack when you’re not around.

Luckily, you never strayed. You were there every night, even early mornings when he had to take a retirement for the night—you didn’t need to pry, you knew. He’d twist a nervous hand around his wrist that slowly trailed to his ring finger, fingers flexing anxiously. He had to be home, he didn’t want more problems. Even if this was somehow helping him work through his inhibitions, he still had a responsibility.

And Joel knows the time he’s spending with you could be misconstrued, but he does it out of a genuineness to further your interest and desire into literature if anything. He’s met with many students after hours—though, not to this extent. And always within the grounds of school, either in the classroom or his assigned office, nothing beyond the border of allowing a personal connection.

He was bending rules for you and he couldn’t help it.

There’s so much you learn in the short month or so that this drags on—Joel likes black coffee, no add-ins or sweet touches. He fidgets a lot, fingers constantly twisting at the watch on his wrist or scratching at his slowly regrowing stubble when he had just shaven a day or two prior—you start to notice the small blank patches in his beard because of it.

He seems so unsuspecting and normal—maybe that was what drew you in. You couldn’t really pinpoint it anymore. There was a point where the secret admiring morphed into open admiration and maybe Joel should’ve stopped it there. But, it made him feel good.

It made him feel wanted. And that was his first real mistake he made with you.

Allowing it.

It never breached anything inappropriate, but he’d notice when you would track the movement of his hands, rubbing over his face or neck in exhaustion, arms stretching over the back of his head after a long period of sitting down, hunched over in the small sanctuary you two had constantly found yourself in.

Mr. Miller was fair in that he never helped you with his assignments. He wasn’t there to give you a leg up or help you out in that regard, he knew you were capable. Competent. But, he fed your desire for him and literature by asking about your own interests and melding them his own, curating your time together in the small cafe with topics you could both find yourself getting lost in.

It was easy to lose track of time with him. And very irresponsible.

Joel does notice your longing glances and subtle twitches in your face when he does certaIn things, moving his body in a way that accentuates his strong form—he wasn’t toned necessarily, but he was broad, large, and he wasn’t amiss to how his own shirt clung to his body or how well-tailored his slacks were. He liked things to fit well. And you appreciated that so much.

But, beyond your own disappointment, things never cross that line.

He never makes a comment or threads the line of touching you, his hands always aware of their placement around you—and maybe he was just being respectful and was terrified to lose his job, but you can see the flex of his fingers when you remove your sweater or lean in to close to him, his eyes dragging along the slope of your neck, nostrils flaring in response at how comfortable enough you feel to just lean in.

He’s foolish to think this wouldn’t mean anything to you, but he allows that thought to stray from his mind and continues, too attached to these meet-ups like they were his own form of free therapy, beyond the dreadful marriage counseling he was going through.

It wasn’t working, but this was.

And he thinks that it is partly because it’s you and not Tess.

In fact, he knows it’s you.

The emails continue for weeks, days upon days of trading back responses and links—and really, everything is telling him to stop. Everything.

The guilt. The fear. The anger.

Yet, he never tries.

Joel can feel you breaking out of your shell little by little, more engaged in the group setting of the classroom the more time he’s spent with you one on one. He doesn’t want to initiate a responsibility in it, but he can since the familiarity and comfort when you speak–even if it's mostly directed at him.

Truthfully, you didn’t have a problem speaking in front of the class, but if it filled Mr. Miller with a sort of pride, you weren’t going to deny that.

You try to ignore the way he speaks your name, calls on you and beckons you to speak with a raise of his eyebrows, arms crossed firmly over his chest–and your eyes draw to his stomach, following along the soft slope and over his groin and you see his thighs tense as he crosses his legs too, one gently over the other as he leaned against his desk.

You smirk slightly, feigning a look of innocence as your eyes drag to his face, answering his question mindlessly—something about how to capture dialogue properly and even Joel can see that you’re not fully there, mind elsewhere.

It wasn’t hard to surmise where, but he ignored it. For now.

But, it wasn’t until the day was nearing the end of your class, head buried in your laptop as you copied your handwritten notes down into a document for later, knowing absently that he was perusing around the room but trying to ignore his lingering presence every time he glanced over at you.

His hands surround your chair before he announces himself, flimsy plastic creaking underneath his grip.

“Mr. Miller.” You address pleasantly, typing idly away at your keyboard.

He speaks your name gently, a reverence in his tone that allures fondness, a smile creeping on his lips.

“Any questions?” He asks curiously, brow furrowing in confusion, “On the assignment—“

He points blindly to the board, eyes still locked on you as your head turns toward the board, down at your notes, then back at him.

“I mean—not really?” You sound unsure, “Write something fantasy, make it interesting—“

He can feel your interest waning, seeming rather nonchalant about the topic, like it would be an absolute breeze and wasn’t worth the wasted energy. But, he’s challenging you.

To what, you weren’t sure.

Joel clears his throat, grip tightening on the back of your chair as he leaned over subtly, chest crowding around the back of your head, examine the notes you did have type out before his eyes dragging back toward you, and you can’t ignore his gaze, chin turning up toward him and your eyes soften as they connect with his.

“But, specifically—dreams.” He clarifies, “Sometimes your best ideas can come to you in a dream—so think of it as journaling them but, expanding…bringing it to life.”

Dreams…

You’ve had enough of them in preceding weeks to last you a lifetime, all including him.

“Bringing it to life…” You echo his words, mincing the words on your tongue as the idea flusters your mind, a small nod from Joel in response.

Of course, he had no idea the extent of how deep your mind wandered, but his words were edging too close for comfort, like he had the faintest idea.

There’s a brief moment of self awareness as his eyes drag to your lips, tongue dampening them as you soothe the chapped skin, nodding absently.

“I think—I think I understand what you’re saying.”

Mr. Miller smiles then, whether fake or not you couldn’t tell, “Good—feel free to, uh—“

Email him.

You see him hesitate to force the words out, chuckle awkwardly as he leans away, breaking the built up tension between you both.

“Yeah, yep.” You laugh softly, infectiously as you turn your attention back toward your laptop, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He pats your shoulder softly and squeezes, the only point of contact he ever allows himself, never letting his touch linger or stray because he knows—if he broke that point of contact and wandered elsewhere, he wasn’t sure he could stop.

You tap mindlessly at the edge of your keyboard, laptop resting wobbly in your propped up legs, start to type a word before quick erasing. Mind flicking through baseless and boring ideas, wondering how easily you could muster up a fake dream and amaze Mr. Miller with your lackluster writing skills—just lie, it wasn’t that hard.

You feel your mind wandering then, head hung back against your pillow as you stare at your ceiling, his expression etched into the back of your mind, eyes wandering along the dip in your cupid’s bow and the less than subtle lick of your lips that you offered in return.

This couldn’t all be in your head.

You sigh, heavy and thick, but the soft ding of a notification on your laptop pulls your attention.

On the other end, Joel sits anxiously at his desk, foot tapping insistently against the hardwood floor, still fully dressed from work sans his tie that laid slack on his desk.

It wasn’t even a fully drafted email, rather a precursor to beginnings of an improper, but casual conversation. He tried to keep an open line of communication with all of his students, but when you don’t show up at the coffee shop that night, too burdened with the idea of just what you were going to write—he worries.

‘Are things coming along? Didn’t catch you at the cafe tonight.’

You stare blankly, unsure how to respond.

It felt…odd, starting a conversation over email.

Of course, you didn’t have any other means of communication, so this is what Joel was forced to devolve too, tapping nervously as he awaited your response.

‘Having trouble actually—any suggestions?’

Part of you craves to hear his voice—and selfishly, he does too. And Joel knows the moment he offers the information up, he’s going to regret it. But, he does.

The house was empty, thankfully. Tess was working later than usual and Joel couldn’t be bothered with the semantics, finding himself straying further and further from this bed every night. His office was his new sanctuary, bad back be damned—he would choose the couch over a bed with her, knowing she still judged him for the choices she made.

A phone number is attached to the email that follows, ‘I’m free, if you want to talk through it.’

Your heart desynced from its usual rhythm for a brief moment, nearly fleeing your body if you hadn’t felt it so deeply in your chest. You couldn’t—this…it couldn’t be all in your head.

You quickly type the number into your contacts, hovering for far too many minutes over the call button, wondering if it mattered how you looked—if he would judge. You didn’t appear much different, but you were in your own comforts, vulnerable. And as much as he appeared here in your dreams, the reality of him being this close was startling.

You bite thoughtfully at your bottom lip as you prop your phone against the screen of your laptop, a blank document open behind the calling screen as you went through with your hesitation and attempt to connect the call, chin resting against your fist as you waited, eyes wandering aimlessly around the room.

When the familiar tone blares of the call going through and Joel is suddenly appearing on screen, you’re not sure why you followed through with this in the first place—even if he was the one who insisted it by offering up the information.

He looks slightly more disheveled across the screen, still dressed in the outfit you saw him in earlier, his tie gone, a button or two undone, and he’s definitely allowed his fingers to run through his usually quaffed hair, a curl falling freely over his forehead, his phone seemingly propped up in a similar manner as you can see most his upper body that wasn’t hidden by his desk.

“So, what’s the issue?”

He jumps right in, which isn’t surprising.

You feel the sense of familiarity in your usual conversations, like you were almost there in the room with him—you couldn’t imagine how exhausted you looked or seem currently, but you push the thought from your mind and hoped it didn’t cross his, that he wasn’t harping on your similarly disheveled appearance in his mind.

He seemed as if he genuinely wanted to help.

You hated it, wishing he wouldn’t drag things out.

If he wanted you, he could have you.

Instead, it felt like he wanted to—or rather needed to keep you at a distance, just out of reach for his own good rather than yours.

“Just…wondering, I guess.” You look down briefly, feeling his curiosity through the screen as you pick at a frayed thread in your blanket. “How—how detailed are you asking?”

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be so loud that it feels like…too much?” Joel feels like he may not be making complete sense, but he tries. “Do you have a few dreams you remember well that you feel the need to jot down, that you can morph it into something tangible?”

The way he speaks so eloquently, even beyond the guise of his profession, never gets old. Maybe it is a habit he’s formed, speaking and teaching for so many years that he can’t force himself out of that mode—but maybe he was also allowing it to be a barrier, that if he let his guard down too much that you might sneak in and find a way to pick at him and allow yourself to get comfortable.

He couldn’t do…comfortable. But, this—this he could manage. It allowed for a clear divide between student and teacher. Professional and casual, even if he didn’t hand out his phone number to people so willingly.

“Um…yeah,” You nod slightly, mind filtering through the filthy thoughts of him over you, breathing a deep satiating desire for relief into your body, lips on your body, fingers buried deep inside of you, bringing you right near the precipice before you’re being ripped away from the glorious fantasy, “there’s a few, I guess.”

“Do you wanna share?” His eyebrows raise inquisitively, his hand disappearing off screen to bring a clear glass to his lips, half-filled with a dark brown liquid.

Tequila, maybe? Whiskey?

His lips curl around the edge of the and he sips, ice clanking inside of the glass as he awaits your response.

You shake your head hesitantly, smiling slightly, “I think the whole point is to surprise you, right?”

He chuckles softly, “I suppose.”

“Maybe…some vague advice, if you have any?”

Joel sets the glass against the desk a few inches off screen, thinking quietly. Eyebrows furrowing deep as he contemplates. Hard.

“Don’t hold back,” He starts, staring mindlessly off into the distance as he speaks, “be—be authentic and try not to limit yourself.”

“So, no sparing any details?” You ask teasingly and he smirks at your playful tone.

“Why would you do that?” He asks unknowingly of the thoughts on your mind, “You’re a beautiful writer, don’t discredit yourself.”

It tugs at something deep inside of you, a subtle frown forming on your face as you nod in response. “Thank you…”

“Hey,” There’s a gentle utterance of your name that has your eyes connecting fiercely across the screen, “I mean that.”

You’re silent, at a loss for words. It wasn’t for lack of knowing what to say, but how to say something—how to extend your appreciation. But, you figure that may translate better through writing, brewing over the idea in your head.

“Mr. Miller—“ Your mind lingers on unspoken words and thoughts, begging to be spoken, but the faint creak of a door in the background on his end has you both shooting to attention, a shared understanding as he scrambles slightly.

“If you run into any road blocks, just send me a message, okay?”

You nod, cut off by his sudden eagerness to end the call—feeling you just got caught doing something horrible, a shunning on the horizon.

You sleep that night with a fresh revelation on your mind, smothered by the feeling of special treatment that Mr. Miller was offering, wholly committed to your own delusion and it fuels and stokes that fire effortlessly. And the vivid scenes of your dream flow onto the page the following morning in perfect detail:

It starts off innocent, a bland tale of forbidden love or…something thereof, playing at the idea that this wasn’t supposed to be. Two parrying forces that yearn for the other but can’t find the courage to jump or take that leap—full of dread and hesitance and intensifying that idea.

Until, there’s a major implode of tension.

A sudden snap on the male character that resembles Joel so much it is unsettling, down to the subtle mannerisms as he takes in the characters appearance and words throughout, slowly describing yourself in a way that isn’t…obvious. But, it is heavily implied.

There’s a sudden confession of desire, not love, but a definite yearning that is mostly mutual, leading into a fantasy of filth. Debauchery personified in a way that feels inappropriate to write for a college assignment but is therapeutic for your mind.

His hands wander with a restrain that reads as worried—unsure of what the other character expects, but the moment your lips connect all bets are off, clothes rapidly disappearing amongst the confines of the male’s vaguely described quarters, laid over a flat surface. His bed or his desk, the detail is omitted, but he crowds dream you in and devours, capturing your mouth in another heated kiss, hands wasting no time as they slip over your cunt, beyond the sacred barrier of your underwear and inside of you like he’s done this a million times before.

In your mind, he had. But, that was beyond the point.

His fingers work you over expertly, your own hands wandering over his strong frame, biceps flexing underneath your touch as you describe a distinct feeling of stubble as he decends and you feel the texture against the inside of your thighs, underwear disappearing at some point you can’t remember before his mouth is latching into your cunt without hesitation, feeling the warmth of his mouth so vividly it almost startled you awake at the time, the distinctness of his voice echoing in your mind, biting your lip to stifle your desperate moans.

“Don’t hold back.” He echoes, a distinct line of dialogue that sticks out in your mind as you type it into the document, feeling your inside twist and clench at the fleeting memory of his voice.

You come against his mouth with a shout, fingers twisting into his horrible disheveled hair, just long enough that you can secure a good grip before you’re pulling him upright, tasting the slick of yourself on your tongue as you kiss him.

It’s all a dream, after all.

You take your own liberties, playing up the descriptions in a way that feels sinful, but you do it anyway. You finished the assignment in a few hours despite the ability to extend it over a few days, not bothering to wait as the idea was still fresh in your mind as you typed it out.

You don’t even hesitate to send the assignment once it is finished, fully confident in your abilities and Joel’s echoing encouragement.

It may have been the best thing you’ve ever written.

Joel is blissfully unaware of the debauchery awaiting him in his inbox, busying himself with the endless list of divorce attorneys in the state, wondering if he should really go through with this—ending his marriage, starting anew and cutting ties with Tess. He isn’t sure, really.

He isn’t positive about anything in his life anymore.

He sips gingerly at the steaming cup of coffee, his second of the night as he switches between his browser and a separate page of assignments he was concocting for the rest of the semester, specifically tailoring some around your own interests. He couldn’t explain why he was putting the effort in, why there was genuine concern—but he wanted you to succeed, if anything.

You don’t see him at first, he wasn’t hidden away in your usual spot, but he’s tucked away in a quiet corner near the back of the cafe, and you almost decide to ignore him and give him the space he seems like he craved, wondering if he had already read through your essay, but he nods at you subtly when he catches your gaze, a quick look up from his computer as you grabbed your coffee order from the barista.

Come here, he beckons silently.

You cross a single arm over your chest and press the lid of the cup to your lips and sip, gentle are careful steps progressing his way as you stop, hip pressing against the edge of the table. He looks at you, friendly and innocent, like he hadn’t offered up his phone number without precautions or asking, handing out the final line of connection that sealed the deal for you. This wasn’t just…help. It had to be more.

“J–Mr. Miller,” You catch yourself, finding his first name almost slipping from your lips, too close for comfort but he doesn’t seem to catch it, “reading through the assignments?”

You’re curious, but silently hoping he hasn’t crossed yours yet. Or, if he had, wondering if he was calling you over for that very reason—he wouldn’t express his thoughts in the coffee shop though, he couldn’t. If he lies, you can’t see through it.

“Uh, not yet, giving that a couple days,” He shakes his head, closing out of the browsers and shutting his laptop, “sit?”

He’s extending the invitation, hand gesturing toward the empty seat.

You bite back the smile that creeps on your face and take a seat, pulling at the sweater that covers your body, the cold chill creeping into the cafe as the bells to the entrance ring.

“Did you ever figure out what you were struggling with?” Joel asks curiously, still painfully in teacher mode, much to your dismay, “I didn’t hear from you, so…”

“Oh, um,” There’s an excited fluttering in your tummy, hesitant to debrief him on the details, but you nod, “yeah—just took a little bit of thought and the words started flowing.”

“Well, that’s good,” He offers politely, “I’m glad I could help—if…if I did.”

“Of course,” You smile more confidently, “You always do.”

If he only knew.

His eyebrows furrowing subconsciously, staring at his watch as the numbers creeped closer to midnight, his mind heavy with thought he wouldn’t speak out loud. So, you ask.

“Are you okay?” You utter softly, knowing it was the instance either of you have ever made the effort to ask—through countless meet-ups and secret conversation, feeling a need to keep it all hushed—it never occurred to you until you’re saying the words out loud. “You seem…irritated.”

Joel laughs bitterly, a soft chuckle that radiates in his chest. “Who isn’t?” He challenges, seeing the familiar look cross your own face, “Sorry—that’s—”

Joel looks away briefly, feeling that confiding you was a line he couldn’t cross, even though he’s blurred just about every other one in existence.

“I don’t mean to pry,” You shrug, “but I figure—it doesn’t hurt to ask?”

He’s withholding and you can see it, clock it in the way he checks his phone screen—a few missed calls and a text but you can’t read out anything other than the name. Tess.

Tess Miller. Got it.

“Did you get your assignment turned in then?” He asks curiously.

You nod shyly, twirling the cup slowly on the table, eyes drawn away from him despite how starkly he glared at you, hands cupped in his lap underneath the table. If you scooted closer your knees would knock together and you fight the urge to do so.

Joel notices the way you curl inward, a subconscious act that always denotes something simmering beneath the surface with you. He was used to your forwardness, your inability to respect personal space to a degree that…didn’t necessarily bother him in the way that it should. And he hates how his cock twitches at the sight of you glancing away, intimidated by his eye contact for once in the few months he’s gotten to know you.

There’s a creeping thought edging its way into his mind, an urge to force your wandering gaze on him, coax you into trusting him, wondering just how easy it would be for you to comply with his will, if it would take any fight on your part at all.

“Good, I’m excited to read it.” Joel replies honestly, a genuine smile finding its way onto his face, “I’m always lookin’ forward to what your mind thinks up.”

He may be asking for more than he bargains for with that.

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday then?” You confirm, feeling the need for a quick escape, things getting entirely too close for comfort, “Hopefully with a perfect score?”

Joel smirks knowingly, “Don’t get ahead of yourself now.” He teases.

Unfortunately, you were yards if not miles ahead.

Beyond saving.

And Joel had no idea.

A trip to 12 Grimmauld Place

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Request: I saw the trip to diagon alley fic I love the idea of Remus and reader adopting Harry and not telling anyone and also them having their own biological children I was wondering if you could make more like this maybe where their kids are older

Maybe even include some uncle Sirius when he escapes from Azkaban and they visit him at grimmauld place

Warnings: Pregnancy

A/N: Part of the Domestic Bliss universe but can be read alone!

A/N2: How much do you guys want me to mess with canon? I feel that growing up in a loving home (but specifically with Remus) means that Harry would probably be a different person and make different decisions.

Masterlist

"Hurry up, boys." You called up the stairs. "Or your father and I will leave with ought you."

A series of thuds and crashes met your words. But you just fondly rolled your eyes as you got back to packing your bag, ready to go.

"First." A voice shouted before you felt a hand land on your shoulder.

"Oh, come on!" Another voice shouted. "That's not fair."

"You snooze, you lose." The voice closest to you called out.

"Hello, my dear." You laughed. Pressing a kiss to the top of Harry's head.

Then, only a moment later, you heard the sound of thundering feet as your other son, Teddy came charging down the stairs. Hurtling towards you.

Crashing into you, Teddy wrapped his arms around you.

"Hello, my love." you greeted. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, too.

"Are you two muppets ready to leave now?" You questioned them as you picked up your bag.

"Yeah." Harry grinned. Tugging at your arm as, he pulled you into the living room where Remus was waiting.

Sat in his favourite armchair with a newspaper open on his lap.

When he heard the three of you enter the room, he folded the newspaper. Standing up, he deposited it back on his seat as he walked towards you and the boys.

"Shall we, my lady." Remus teased. Bowing to you in an overexaggerated way.

Laughing, you swatted at his arm as you led your boys out of the house. Make sure to lock the door behind you.

When you got out into the garden you grabbed a hold of Teddy as Remus took Harry.

"Everyone ready?" You called out.

When all your boys replied with sounds of agreement, you and Remus both disappeared with a pop.

Reappearing in a narrow alleyway just down from Grimuld place.

Momenterly fussing over your boys, you made sure that no one had been spliced before you all walked out of the alleyway.

Harry and Teddy leapt ahead, teasing each other as they ran ahead. Rasing up to number 12. With his longer legs, Teddy ended up making it first. His hand reached for the knocker as he stuck his tongue out at Harry.

The door flew open not even a moment later as Sirues towering frame took over the doorway.

"Well, if it isn't the lupins," Sirius beamed as he took in the sight of your little family. "Come in, come in." He waved as she stepped to the side, allowing you all to come.

The moment the door was safely shut behind the five of you, and you were out of the foyer, Harry and Teddy threw themselves at Sirus.

Who only laughed. Wrapping them up in a great big hug.

"How are my favourite troublemakers?" Sirues questioned them.

Causing them to chatter on to him about there exploits as he momentarily comes over to you and Remus.

"And how are the pair of you?" Sirues questions quickly as he pulls you into a hug. Pressing a kiss to both your cheeks.

"We are good." Remus assured him. As he got pulled into his own hug by Sirues.

"How are you?" You asked Sirues softly.

"Oh I'm good." Sirues waved off your concern. "Same old, same old."

You only fondly smiled at him as Harry and Teddy came up to Sirues. Each grabbing him by an arm as together they pulled him off so they could carry on chatting his ear off about something.

You couldn't quite make out what they were saying, and quite frankly, you weren't sure if you wanted to.

Also, watching the scene from behind you, Remus snorted.

"if we left now, how long do you think it would take for them to notice?" He asked you teasingly.

"Don't say that." You laughed. Gently hitting him in the chest.

Laughing, Remus grabbed the offending hand and brought it to his lips. Dropping a delicate kiss to your knuckles you and Remus finally followed after the chaos that was your children and a certain Sirues black.

You followed the three of them into the living room, where Sirues was sitting in the middle of the sofa. One of your boys on either side as Harry, seemed to be narrating an exciting tale. His hands waving as Teddy and Sires just watched on. Occasionly nodding.

Smiling at the scene, you and Remus sat in the nearby Love seat. Your bodies pressed together as you fondly watched the scene in front of you.

You didn't know what you would do with ought your boys. They really were your whole world.

112 notes View Post

d1lf-loverrr

3 months ago

TOO GOOD TO BE FAKE: CHAPTER 4

JAMES POTTER X F!READER

hello hello again!! this is part 4 (!!) of my james potter fake dating series. oh my wordddd do these two have it bad 🥹 i'm having sooooo much fun writing this, it's mostly done by now i'm just refining little bits and pieces. i'm also aware i can use a lot of the same words again so i apologize for that. anyways i hope you enjoy!!! xoxo sunny ☀️🌻

wc: 2012

prev in series:

1: This Is Going to Be a Problem

2: That Wasn't a No

3: Fake It 'Til You Make It

4: That’s New

— 1 —

I should have known this would happen.

A week—or maybe two—has passed, and somehow, this strange, impossible arrangement has settled into something almost routine. People still notice. They still watch. But the whispers have changed. Less sharp, less scandalized. Now, they sound more like admiration, laced with something close to adoration.

"They’re actually kind of cute." "Did you see how he looked at her yesterday?" "Merlin, I think I believe it."

I don’t scan the room like I used to, searching for stray glances or hushed gossip. My eyes naturally glide to the Gryffindor table, the usual spot where four boys are chatting raucously. And, unable to focus on anything else, I focus on James.

He’s already there, draped across his usual spot like he owns the very air around him, a laugh spilling from his lips at something Sirius just said. There’s a looseness to him, a careless sprawl that makes my fingers twitch with irritation. Because of course he isn’t fazed. He was built for this—the way people track his every movement, drawn in without even meaning to be. He soaks it up like it’s his birthright, as if the entire room is simply bending to accommodate him, orbiting around his gravity.

Meanwhile, I’m fighting to keep planting one foot in front of the other.

And yet, as if feeling my eyes on him, James turns—and the second he sees me, his entire demeanor shifts.

The dazzling grin stretches wider. His eyes brighten in delight, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. And then, because he’s insufferable, he lifts his hand in greeting—fingers wiggling, smirk widening.

“Morning, baby!”

It’s loud enough for people to hear.

I swear I hear someone gasp.

Alice, walking beside me, chokes back a laugh. Jade just mutters, “Unbelievable.”

But then I spot Simon, sitting just a few tables away. His posture is stiff, his hands clenching his goblet a little too tightly. He’s looking at me. Or rather—at James.

And suddenly, I don’t care anymore.

Before I can think better of it, I move toward James, and the smile on my face doesn’t feel so forced.

— 2 —

I sit down, and James immediately moves closer. He doesn’t hesitate. He throws an arm over my shoulders, the weight of it easy, natural, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

I don’t know why that makes my stomach flip.

I expect him to say something smug, something loud and theatrical to make the whispers grow, but instead—he lowers his voice.

“Was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

I freeze for half a second—just long enough for him to notice.

It’s different. The teasing intonation is still there, but his timbre is quieter, softer, meant just for me. Not for the show, not for the audience. Just for me.

I recover quickly, reaching for my goblet. “I almost didn’t.”

James hums, fingers drumming idly against my shoulder. He glances at Lily—just for a moment, just long enough to see if she’s looking. I should feel triumphant. The plan is working. But the moment stretches too long, his gaze lingering, and something distasteful coils in my stomach when I glance at Lily, too.

He’s still looking at her, but when he speaks, he’s only talking to me.

“That would’ve been a shame.”

I don’t respond immediately. I can’t.

Because he leans in, just slightly, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he finishes—"I would’ve missed you."

I don’t stiffen. I don’t freeze. Instead, I react exactly the way I’m supposed to—like this is normal, like we do this all the time. A slow, easy smile tugs at my lips, and I let out a breathy little laugh, tipping my head just enough to brush against his.

"Good thing I showed up, then," I murmur, voice smooth, effortless, the perfect counter to his. Commitment to the bit.

It’s a performance, it has to be. But it’s too easy, too natural, the kind of rhythm we shouldn’t have mastered so quickly. It doesn’t feel like a role. It feels real. And judging by the way James’ fingers falter slightly against my shoulder, he feels it too.

Across the table, Sirius’ smirk falters.

"Well," he says, tilting his head, too perceptive for my liking. "That’s new."

James leans back, grinning again, too quick, too easy. “Nothing new about it, mate. Just talking to my girl.”

His girl.

I force a laugh, I force myself to look away, to refocus. But the damage is already done.

Because for the first time, Simon isn’t even in my mind, and James’ flirting feels like it’s not just part of the plan.

And worst of all—for the first time, I think he felt it too.

— 3 —

The corridors are crowded between classes, students weaving between one another, voices overlapping as they rush to their next destinations. I should be doing the same—moving, blending in, not lingering long enough to be noticed.

But then, a body steps into my path, not unlike the feeling when I first collided with James. Only looking up, I see Simon.

I halt, too fast, too obvious.

He smiles, but it’s different. Not amused. Not easy. Just… considering.

“Didn’t think he was your type,” he says slowly.

It takes me a second too long to respond. I blink, my brain working to catch up. "What?"

Simon gestures vaguely, but I already know what he means. James.

I could laugh it off, make some snarky comment, dismiss the way Simon is watching me like he’s actually trying to figure something out.

Instead, my fingers tighten around my books.

"I didn’t think you cared," I reply coolly.

Simon huffs out a short laugh, tilting his head slightly. "I don’t."

Liar.

But before I can push, before I can say anything else, a familiar voice cuts in.

"Alright, sweetheart?"

And just like that, James is there. Not from around the corner. Not catching up. Just… there. Like he knew I’d be standing here, like this is just another part of the routine.

Except it isn’t. We never made walking to class together a rule. And yet—here he is, standing beside me, slipping into the moment effortlessly, like he was always meant to be there.

His arm doesn’t come around my shoulders this time, but his presence is heavy enough to feel. His gaze flickers to Simon, just for a second, assessing.

Simon shifts, just slightly. "We were just talking."

James smiles, too tight, too sharp. "Yeah? About what?"

Simon doesn’t answer, because he knows.

James knows too. His presence is imposing—he knows he’s interrupting, I know it, and Simon definitely knows it. It’s strangely… protective.

I exhale slowly, turning my main attention to James. "Nothing important."

James turns to me then, ignoring Simon entirely, his eyes softening just slightly. "Walk you to class?"

My heart stumbles.

It’s not in the rules. It’s not for an audience. It’s just… him. Asking, sweetly and kindly. I should overthink it. I should question it.

But instead, I only nod, unaware that I’m smiling.

And just like that, I walk away with him.

— 4 —

The library is quiet at this hour.

It’s always quiet, but now it’s the kind of silence that settles into your bones, the kind that makes every movement feel heavier, every breath feel louder than it should. The lanterns flicker, casting long, stretching shadows across the towering shelves. The whole place smells like fresh bundles of parchment and half-empty pots of ink, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe.

Except… I can’t. Not really. Not when I know exactly why I’m here.

I told myself I was coming to study. To clear my head. To force myself back into something normal after a day that has been anything but. I told myself it had nothing to do with him. That it wasn’t about the way my pulse jumped when he showed up beside me earlier, that I wasn’t still thinking about the way Simon looked at us, or the way I had felt when I chose to walk away with James instead.

But lying to myself is getting harder.

The chair across from me scrapes against the floor. I don’t have to look up to know who it is.

James doesn’t belong in the library at this hour—or any hour, really. The last time I saw him with a book in front of him, he was using it as a makeshift pillow. But I feel him settle into the chair, his presence too tangible, too heavy, and just like that, the air shifts.

I should ask him why he’s here. I should question it, tease him, brush it off. But I don’t.

Instead, I just turn the page in front of me and keep my voice steady, even. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you here voluntarily.”

James doesn’t respond right away. I can feel him watching me, the weight of it pressing against my skin, penetrating into all my nerves as if they’re exposed. Then, finally— “I was looking for you.”

I falter.

It’s not what I expected. Not the easy banter, not the teasing. It’s quieter. Too honest.

I turn the page again, even though I haven’t actually read a single word. “Why?”

James leans back slightly, like he’s considering it. “Not sure.”

I finally glance up, and that’s a mistake.

Because the way he’s looking at me—it’s different.

Not smug, not amused, not like he’s trying to prove a point. It’s like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s looking for an answer in my face that I don’t even have yet. He steps closer, approaching my seat slowly.

There’s a pull—deep, insistent, like gravity shifting just for him.

“You’re staring,” I say lightly, tilting my head. I mean it to be teasing, something to break the tension that’s building too fast, too thick. But my voice isn’t as steady as I want it to be.

James doesn’t look away. “So are you.”

I don’t have a response to that.

Silence stretches between us, thick and humming. The lanterns flicker again, casting shadows that move over the sharp angles of his face, and Merlin, I should say something. I should look away.

But I don’t.

Because he’s leaning in. Not much. Just enough.

Just enough that I can feel the space between us getting smaller, smaller, smaller. Just enough that I can see the flicker of something hesitant in his expression, something unsure, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll stop him.

I should.

I should pull away, laugh it off, remind him of what this is supposed to be. But his eyes drop to my mouth and I forget how to breathe.

A heartbeat passes. Two. The air is thick, crackling, waiting.

I blink, snap back to reality, shift slightly in my seat like I just remembered where we are, like I just remembered what we’re doing. My chin drops, I pull back.

James exhales, the spell breaking, the moment slipping through my fingers before I can fully grasp what it was.

He leans back, just enough to make it seem like it never happened at all.

And then—the smile is back. The effortless, easy, practiced one. The one that puts the distance back between us.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, amused. “You almost looked like you wanted to kiss me. ‘S against the rules, y’know.”

So were feelings.

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head, forcing myself to roll my eyes even though my heart is still pounding against my ribs. “In your dreams, Potter.”

His teeth show. “Every night.”

I shove my book at him, because it’s the only thing I can think to do. He laughs, catching it easily, the moment slipping into something safer, something familiar.

Tomorrow, we’ll pretend this didn’t happen. Tomorrow, I’ll tell myself it was nothing.

But right now, I can still feel the ghost of his breath on my lips.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Next in series: 5: Too Good To Be Fake (UPCOMING)

series page linked HERE

68 notes View Post

d1lf-loverrr

5 months ago

Flirting with Disaster pt. 2

Paring: TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: You make your way over to Peter's apartment and an onslaught of memories hits you again. What starts as playful banter turns into a charged moment; it leaves you questioning if the chemistry between you two was always one-sided or if you were delusional and seeing things that couldn't be possible.

Word Count: Roughly 2.4k

Warnings: Fluff, teasing, light sexual tension, playful banter, suggestive and mild language, power dynamics, mentions of past embarrassing childhood memories

Author's Note: There's like one (or maybe more) grammar error that I can't seem to find ://

And I'm sorry for the delay on this one <3

Part 1

Navigation

Divider by @strangergraphics

Thirty minutes later, you stood in front of Peter’s apartment door.

You purposely tried to make yourself late. You walked instead of driving, stopped at the deli to get juice, and helped an elderly lady cross the street.

You did every single thing fucking imaginable.

You hesitated, fist hovering just inches from the door. You contemplated running back home or throwing yourself down some stairs so you had a legitimate excuse for missing your date and not having to see Peter.

But before you could talk yourself out of it, the door swung open with a creak, and there he was.

Peter Parker.

He was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a smirk that could only mean one thing: he was about to have way too much fun with you. He was looking at you like he’d just caught his favorite target.

Well, he had.

And he had been doing that since you were kids, so what was one more round? But you'd prefer several rounds.

You glanced up at him before looking away.

Peter had changed.

He was still Peter, but the years had definitely worked in his favor. His shoulders were broader, his jawline sharper, and those reading glasses, those glasses, gave him this nerdy charm that reminded you of when he was younger. But that somehow made you want to both roll your eyes and blush at the same time. And don’t even get started on the muscles. His biceps were practically screaming to be noticed under his T-shirt.

You had to resist the urge to salivate.

It took you a second to pull your thoughts together.

You hadn’t seen him since high school graduation, five years ago, but who was counting? You were.

“Well, well, well,” Peter drawled, his voice smooth as honey and laced with that signature mischievous tone. “Look who finally decided to show up.” He gave you a once-over, eyes lingering just long enough to remind you why you used to dread him. “I was starting to think you were too chicken to face the music, peach.”

Peach. Of course, he had to use that.

Your face instantly flared with heat, and the flood of mortifying memories hit you like a tidal wave. The peach nickname came from that god-awful summer barbecue when you bit into a juicy peach, only to choke on it and turn into a red-faced mess in front of everyone, including Peter.

You could almost hear his smug chuckle from all the way back then.

You forced yourself to stand tall.

“I didn’t exactly have much of a choice,” you shot back, but even to your ears, your voice cracked a little. Damn it. “Not like I could’ve canceled now.”

Peter’s grin deepened, almost impossibly wide. “Yeah, you’re pretty much stuck with me.” He took a slow step forward, eyes glinting with something far too playful. “Like that time you tried to impress me by climbing that tree. You remember? Arms scratched up, hair all over the place, and then that pout you had when you couldn’t get down? Classic move.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you seriously bringing that up again?”

Peter shrugged, unrepentant. “What can I say? It’s a core memory from your childhood.” Peter leaned closer. “Your mom sent me a picture, you know. Framed it. Right next to my bed.”

You blinked rapidly as your face turned completely red. “You’re an ass,” you muttered.

“You love it.” His smirk never faded.

Your retort caught in your throat when his hand curled around yours. “Come on,” he said, his tone softer now, almost coaxing. “This is supposed to be fun.”

Before you could protest, not that you wanted to, he'd tugged you into his apartment, closing the door behind you with a soft woosh and a click of the lock.

You took a quick glimpse around his apartment. It was cozy and very much Peter, an organized chaos in the way only he could pull off. Books, tools, gadgets, and half-finished projects are across the floor like a mad scientist’s lair. And then there was the smell: it was him. A blend of cologne, something faintly smoky and sweet, and something warm and earthy that made your pulse skip a little. It was almost unfair how well it suited him.

When he turned to face you, he hadn't let go of your hand. His thumb rubbed slow circles on the back of your hand, his touch warm and inviting.

“Hello, peaches,” he murmured, his voice a teasing caress.

“Hi, Peter,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you avoided his gaze.

He chuckled, the sound wrapping around you like a warm hug, as he lifted your hand and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles. The rasp of his stubble against your skin sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t be shy. It’s just us.”

Your cheeks flushed as you huffed and pulled your hand back, ignoring the way his lips curved into another smirk. “This is torture,” you grumbled.

“Sweetest kind,” he shot back, leaning against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “So, who’s the guy? The one you’re trying to impress?”

You fidgeted under his gaze. “Just…someone I met through friends.”

“Ah, the mysterious friend’s friend,” he mused, his tone laced with amusement. “All right, let’s start with the basics. Confidence. You need to feel comfortable in your own skin.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “But you’re still shy, aren’t you? Just like when we first met.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” Peter said, clearly enjoying himself. “You know, I still remember the first time we met,” Peter added playfully. “You were so shy and quiet, hiding behind your brother's leg. And I was your brother's best friend, who decided to befriend the sweet little girl too.”

“No, asshole. You roll your eyes. “You decided that you would make fun of me from that day forward.”

Peter shrugged, his grin unrepentant. “I was just poking fun. You always blushed so easily. But I never did it in a mean way. Well, not too mean,” he amended with a chuckle.

“We teased each other, remember? That was our thing,” he said, tapping the tip of your nose with his finger.

“No, it wasn't.” You grumble.

“Was too,” he teased, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You'd challenge me to a video game, get all pouty when you lost, and I'd tease you for it.”

He paused, watching you closely. “Come on, peach. You loved it as much as I did. All our inside jokes, the nicknames, the way we teased each other…”

His voice dropped. "And now, he said, his gaze dropping to your lips, making the heat in your cheeks flare, “I get to teach you how to flirt.”

You roll your eyes.

Peter was way too close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. You quickly took a step back, but it didn’t help much. Peter smirked, eyes narrowing just enough to let you know that he could read you like an open book.

The sincerity in his tone made your breath hitch, but before you could respond, his teasing grin returned. “Now,” he said, straightening up, “let’s see if I can teach you how to stop blushing every time I say your name. What do you think, baby?”

Your stomach flipped at the nickname, but you rolled your eyes, refusing to let him win this round. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable,” he shot back, grinning as you sputtered.

“Fuck you,” you muttered.

“Still got that attitude, huh?” he teased, his voice a little quieter now, almost like a challenge. “Hard to believe you’ve grown up. Wasn’t it just six years ago when you told me to ‘fall in a ditch and die’?”

You blinked, the blush creeping up your neck again. “Shut up, Parker,” you muttered, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest. “You and my brother basically stalked me on my first date. I was a disaster. You guys made me cry.”

Peter chuckled that deep, rumbling sound that made your insides do something weird. “Oh, come on. It was hilarious! You were so flustered, like a deer in headlights. You couldn’t even speak! And then your face-” He paused, dramatically pouting. “I mean, seriously. Who else trips and falls into a pile of mud on their first date?”

You wished for the ground to swallow you whole. “You guys were awful.”

"Awful?" Peter echoed. "I wouldn't have had to do that if you hadn't snuck out without telling anyone."

Peter shrugged, but there was that familiar gleam in his eyes. “But, I did pay for your dry cleaning and bought you ice cream, so I don't have remorse.”

He leaned a little closer, almost like he was enjoying this more than he should be.

“I was just looking out for you, baby. You know that.”

Baby. That damn nickname. You tried to stay mad at him, but he knew exactly how to melt that armor.

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Peter’s voice softened, and when you peeked through your fingers, he was closer, his expression more serious now. “I was just looking out for you. Always have.”

Peter’s smirk deepened as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his entire presence screaming arrogance and charm.

"Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly make me feel protected when you were laughing at me," you shot back, trying to regain some ground. Your voice wavered, though, betraying your confidence.

His cocky demeanor softened slightly, just enough to throw you off. “That guy you were with? He was a total creep. And you? You’re too sweet to be rude. But me?” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his voice dropping low enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I’m going to beat someone’s ass if they deserve it.”

You froze as his eyes locked onto yours, the intensity of his gaze almost too much. Then, his smirk returned, softer now, but no less disarming. “And you…” His voice was practically a murmur now. “You’re my favorite little peach, and peaches? They need protection, don’t they?”

Your cheeks burned. You crossed your arms, a weak attempt at a barrier between you and the way he made your pulse race. “Yeah, well, I’m grown now. A big girl. I can take care of myself,” you retorted quickly, too quickly.

Peter’s eyebrow arched, his expression smug as if daring you to believe your own words. “Oh, is that right?” He tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you, lingering just enough to make you squirm. “Then why are your arms crossed like you’re holding yourself together?”

Peter raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge. You could feel his eyes on you, the way they looked at you like you were something worth being seen.

It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.

Your breath hitched. He was too observant, too good at peeling back your defenses with a single question. “I’m fine,” you insisted, but your voice lacked conviction.

Peter took a slow step forward, closing the distance between you. His scent hit you first: spicy, earthy, and undeniably him. It was a heady mix, and you found yourself shifting closer to him.

“Tell you what,” he said, his voice smooth and warm, dripping with challenge. “Why don’t you show me how a big girl flirts? Think of it as a trial run before your date.”

“I-I…” You faltered, your mind scrambling for words as he moved closer, the heat of his body radiating against yours.

“What’s the matter?” he teased, his lips twitching into a smirk that made your knees weak. “I thought you were a big girl now.”

You swallowed hard, the heat in your stomach pooling as his words wrapped around you like a velvet rope. He was too close, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

“C'mon,” he coaxed, his voice a whisper near your ear, and you shivered despite yourself. “A big girl knows how to flirt.”

You could feel his breath tickle your neck, his hand resting on your waist like he always did when he was teasing you. And for a brief moment, you were that awkward teenager again, and he was the older boy next door with all the arrogance and charm.

“It's just you and me here, peach.” His voice was low, his thumb drawing idle circles on your hip, making it damn near impossible to think straight. “Show me what you've got.”

“Fine,” you said, trying to maintain some semblance of cool, giving him what he wanted to hear. “I can't flirt to save my life. Show me how to.”

Peter’s smirk widened, his eyes lighting up like he’d just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. “That much I already knew,” he murmured, his hand moving to your waist with an ease that made your pulse stutter. He pulled you closer, your bodies mere inches apart.

His thumb began trailing under your shirt, tracing lazy circles on your hip, and your breath caught. The deliberate touch sent a delicious thrill through you, making it impossible to focus. You tilted your face up to meet his gaze, catching the flicker of victory in his eyes. He knew what he was doing to you. He knew, and he was reveling in it.

“What’s wrong, peach?” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but even you could hear the waver in your tone.

“And yet,” Peter replied, his smirk softening into something more dangerous. “You’re still here. Inches away from me. Looking at me like you’re waiting for something.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. He wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction. You straightened your shoulders, trying to regain control. “I didn’t come here for your games, Peter,” you said, though your voice trembled slightly. “I came here because you owe me for all the humiliations you’ve put me through over the years.”

Peter chuckled, the sound low and rich, sending another shiver through you. “You’re right,” he said, stepping even closer until there was barely any space left between you. “I do owe you.”

His eyes dipped to your lips, and your breath hitched. “And don’t worry,” he murmured, his tone full of promise. “I’ve got plenty of ways to make it up to you.”

Your heart stuttered as the air between you grew thick, heavy with tension and something you weren’t sure you were ready for. You tried to speak, to push back, but the words caught in your throat.

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @laaundromat @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @bethies-world @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @ficcharsimp

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

215 notes View Post

d1lf-loverrr

4 years ago