You lie back on his Egyptian cotton sheets and let him take you in, just as you’re about to ~take him in~. Oscar Isaac is standing over you, shirt gone and chest rising, his breathing a barely audible hiss.
But you know that sound. You’re attuned to Oscar’s sounds, his skin, his scent. When he said that his dinner finished early and asked you to come over, you were at the gym. You were on the treadmill, sweating and dripping. How embarrassing, you tell him, I’m so wet.
"You can work me up to a sweat, too," he texts back, but all in lowercase, with a winking emoji and no commas. It was because you told him you hate periods because they seem angry and he listened — Oscar listened — and now he texts you and buys you good bottles of wine and lets you nuzzle up into The Nook when you watch Quantico and now the man is about to fucking destroy you in the best way possible.
Oscar bites his lip. His breath escapes him like another hiss and you swear he’s a Parseltongue. But that’s actually perfect — because he’s about to Slytherin.
Yours in thirst,
Matt (@ortile)
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