#Angle Stop Corks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

palmtreesx3 · 2 months ago

Text

Burning Through the Pages

Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he’s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.

Warnings: Eventual explicit smut (f/m), delayed gratification, academic banter-as-foreplay, enemies-to-lovers slow burn, emotionally repressed idiots, hallway tension, power dynamics (equal, but charged), inappropriate office behavior, emotionally competent aftercare.

Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here

Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard.

He did. He always does.

Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.

Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.

“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”

He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.

Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.

What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.

He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control.

He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.

You.

You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.

You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.

You don’t even look at him.

Steve stops mid-step.

Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”

New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.

But then you unlock a door.

And the office it reveals?

The office is a whole goddamn vibe.

The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:

“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”

A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.

Steve blinks.

Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.

He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.

And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.

---

The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.

You're muttering to yourself. Not softly.

“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”

“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”

You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar.

You're almost at your office when the air shifts.

It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.

You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology.

Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.

He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.

And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.

He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.

You… do not have time for that.

Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.

Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.

Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.

It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.

You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).

And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.

It’s him.

Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut. Let him wonder. Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”

But you? You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.

Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.

Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.

A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.

You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade”

He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”

He blinks.

You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.

“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”

He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)

“Steve. Yeah.”

“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.”

You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.

He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.

“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”

And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.

“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”

“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”

---

You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.

Okay, you do.

You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.

So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.

“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”

You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”

He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.

This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.

And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.

Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.

He’s ready.

He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.

This is his arena.

Then you walk in.

Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.

You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.

And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.

Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.

“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”

He glances at you. You don’t look back.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.

“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.

The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.

But today? Today, he’s watching you.

You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.

The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.

Then it’s his turn.

He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.

But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.

He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.

A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.

“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”

You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.

You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”

You don’t even look sorry.

And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

---

You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.

You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.

You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.

It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.

You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.

You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.

“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”

You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?

So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.

And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.

Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.

Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.

“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”

His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.

“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”

You smile. God, you love being right.

“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”

You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.

Not looking back. You don’t need to.

He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.

It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.

Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.

Okay. He was.

He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.

But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.

And there’s only one goddamn chair left.

Of course.

You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”

He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”

“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.

He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”

“That’s sacred, actually.”

“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”

You don’t blink. You just keep reading.

And Steve? Steve is falling apart.

---

He’s spiraling. Again.

You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.

He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”

“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”

“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.

You finally look up. Your eyes meet.

It’s electric.

“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.

He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”

Coward.

The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free.

You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.

You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.

The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.

And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.

Steve Harrington is watching you.

Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.

He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.

He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.

“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.

“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”

“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”

You sip. He fakes a laugh.

“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.

“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum. And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

Your smile is sweet. A weapon.

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

---

He is not okay.

He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.

Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.

He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.

Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.

He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?

You do.

“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.

He likes this.

He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.

Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.

You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.

You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.

You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.

“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.

He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.

You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”

He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”

Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”

You laugh, but it’s sharp.

Ugly.

Real.

And you hate how quiet he is.

You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.

But instead—

---

He’s never seen you like this.

Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.

You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”

He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”

He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”

You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.

“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”

“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”

“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.

He’s just here.

And that? That’s new

You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.

Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.

He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.

Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.

You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”

You don’t turn. “Fine.”

He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”

You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”

You wink. And just like that—you’re back.

Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.

He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”

You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”

He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.

You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.

He does anyway.

---

You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.

You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur.

“I’m helping.”

“Are you?”

You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first.

He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.

“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”

His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.

You could kiss him.

You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”

A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”

Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.

He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off. Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You’re all he can think about.

Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.

His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.

He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.

“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”

And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.

He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.

He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.

Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.

He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.

He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.

His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”

His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”

“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.

Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.

It never is.

It never will be.

---

On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.

You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides.

You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.

So…who really won?

You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.

You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.

But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.

You rub faster.

Deeper.

Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.

The thought makes your stomach flip.

You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.

“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”

You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.

Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.

You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.

You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.

“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”

You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.

Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.

You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.

Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.

Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

You nod. Don’t ask why.

“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”

You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.

“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”

You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.

“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”

He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”

He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”

And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.

He didn’t come here to cry.

He didn’t come here to beg.

But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.

He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.

Progress.

But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.

He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”

You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.

A peace offering.

He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.

---

You let him touch you.

Just barely. Just enough.

And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.

“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”

He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”

“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”

The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.

He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.

And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.

It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak.

“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.

He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”

He knocks before entering now.

Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.

Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.

You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.

You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.

Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.

“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.

He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.

Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.

He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—

But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.

---

He’s not saying anything.

And that, somehow, says everything.

You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.

You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.

You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.

It makes your chest feel tight.

You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”

His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”

You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”

“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”

“Nah. I think I like this version.”

His brows raise. “This version?”

“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”

You tilt your head.“Done what?”

“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”

“Oh. You mean restraint.”

“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.

You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”

You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”

But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.

He doesn’t touch himself tonight.

He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.

But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.

You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.

So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.

“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”

“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”

“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”

“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”

He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.

You don’t look. Except you do.

You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.

The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.

And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

---

He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.

He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.

He wants to touch you.

Not to fuck you. To feel you.

He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

His brows knit.“Say what?”

“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”

He swallows.

Hard.

“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.

“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”

---

The line stretches. Taut.

You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”

He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.

Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.

Because he listened. Because he meant it.

You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.

The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.

He’s soaked.

Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.

“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m a mentor.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.

And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”

“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.

You blink. Caught. “Steve—”

“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”

You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.

It’s not that you don’t want him.

God, you do.

But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.

He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.

Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”

He stops. “But you’re not ready.”

You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”

The silence between you is loud.

“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”

You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.

“So am I.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—

“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”

His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.

He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.

You almost don’t notice him.

In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care.

And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.

You glance up.

He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.

You freeze.

Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.

And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?

Your stomach turns.

You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.

You swallow your bitterness like bile.

He hasn’t even looked your way.

---

He sees you. Of course he does.

You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.

The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.

So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.

But when she touches his arm?

He hates it.

Because it’s not you.

And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.

Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.

Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”

But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.

You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.

All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.

The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.

He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.

He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”

You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.

You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”

He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.

He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.

Silence stretches. It screams.

And then— “You saw me at the café.”

The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”

“That what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“That’s not fair.”

You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.

He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”

You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”

The words sit between you like broken glass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”

His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”

He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”

Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”

And that—that cuts you clean open.

You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.

“You still have me.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I’ve only ever meant it.”

Your eyes meet.

And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.

But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”

You don’t notice it at first.

Not really.

It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.

Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”

Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.

💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.

You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.

He notices.

---

He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.

No lines. No games. He just shows up.

He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.

And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.

---

“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”

---

You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.

He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”

You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”

“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”

Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”

The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And maybe he has.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.

It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.

He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to pretend that means nothing.

“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.

“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”

Your breath catches.

He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.

You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”

“It was.”

Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”

He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”

Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done showing you.”

He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.

Just that.

You nod.

Once.

And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”

He whispers back, “You’re still here.”

And you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.

Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching? Gone.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Let it.”

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.

He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.

You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.

He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.

And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you.

His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.

You cry out. Loud. Needful.

He swallows it with a kiss.

His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.

“Keep going.”

“Say it again.”

“Keep going.”

He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger.

You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—

You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze.

“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”

Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.

You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”

He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”

The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.

You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away.

In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.

He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.

“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.

“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”

He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”

“You’re easy.”

He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”

“No promises.”

“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”

He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”

You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.

You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs.

Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.

His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy. Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.

One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.

Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.

You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”

He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer.

“There you go. That’s better.”

He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He’s taking his time.

He loves taking his time.

He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.

Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.

Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.

And God, is he good.

He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.

“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.

You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,”

“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”

You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.

And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.

He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.

You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.

“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”

“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.

“You said that twice ago.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.

You shatter.

You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.

When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.

You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.

“We are so late.”

“Worth it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love it.”

You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.

“You’re glowing,” he says.

“You’re a menace.”

“I told you, you love it.”

You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.

You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.

“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”

“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”

You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to God.”

“What? They’ve already started whispering.”

You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”

He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”

You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”

“You gonna behave?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.

And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock.

You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.

You flinch. He does not.

You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.

“I will end you,” you whisper.

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.

Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”

You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.

---

He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.

You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.

He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.

He grins wider.

Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?”

And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”

The room goes dead silent.

Your head turns. Slowly.

Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”

You choke on your coffee.

Half the room does too.

“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”

He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.

Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”

He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”

You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”

“You love it.”

And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.

You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.

Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.

“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”

“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”

You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.

“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”

You freeze.

Steve tenses beside you.

You both turn.

It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.

“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”

Your head snaps toward him.

What. You blink.

“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.” She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Steve—”

“What? Was I supposed to lie?”

“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”

“Because that’s what it is.” His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”

You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.

“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”

You don’t answer.You can’t.

Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.

It’s that a part of you needed him to.

---

💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that. 💬 But I meant it. 💬 So maybe that’s okay?

You tried.

God, you tried.

You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.

All you can think about is the way he said it.

We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.

And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.

You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.

He opens his mouth.

You grab his shirt.

And everything else disappears.

---

He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.

He knows this is the moment you stop running.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.

You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.

Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.

“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.

There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.

He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.

You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.

His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.

You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.

He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.

“Holy fuck,” he pants.

“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.

His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.

He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.

“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.

You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity

He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.

It’s hot.

It’s filthy.

It’s honest.

And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You’re both still breathing hard.

He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“That was—” You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.

“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.

You don’t. Because you can’t.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.

You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.

He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.

“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.

You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.

Just once. Just to taste it.

Your breath stutters.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.

He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.

You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”

“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.

You don’t do anything about it. Not yet.

“I want more,” you whisper.

“You can have it.”

“Later.”

“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”

You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.

💬 You guys. YOU GUYS. 💬 What. 💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed. 💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again??? 💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower. 💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy? 💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.

It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.

💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER 💬 they always do that tho?? 💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER. 💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE. 💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell. 💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY 💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension 💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do

You still fight.

Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.

The fire never died. It just evolved.

You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.

You're not the professors they expected.

You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.

You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.

You’re in his lap during planning meetings.

He keeps your nameplate on his desk.

He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.

He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.

The students ask when you're getting married.

He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.

“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”

And you? You never correct him.

#joe keery #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #king steve #professor!steve #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington au #steve harrington x reader smut #Spotify

338 notes · View notes

haymitchsbunny · 6 months ago

Text

Sob Story

haymitch abernathy x victor!reader

Series: Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x F!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (implied), porn with so much plot, smut, vaginal sex, ANGST, alcoholism, brat taming, regret, hair pulling, unspecified relationship, trauma.. stuff?, breath play (unintentional)

Summary: The games were over, everything was over. It's just the four of you in the pathetic remains of district 12 now. You never stop arguing, how could you? But god, Haymitch can be so mean sometimes. Maybe you are too. But the arguments never last too long, and it's always worth it with the way he makes it up to you.

A/N: Sorry I don't write much. Hope y'all can forgive me.. here's my apology piece <3

If you would like to be put on a taglist, reblog or comment <3

"Haymitch, you know how much of a fucking cunt you are?" you hissed at him as he watched Peeta stumble through the snow, yourself glancing back at Katniss storming off in the other direction towards her old house in the Seam.

"You have no room to talk," he practically spat, eyes ripping from Peeta's back to your enraged glare. "You're just as irreverent as she is, you brat."

You felt a twinge in your chest- taken aback by his diligence in simultaneously insulting you and his victor at once. Poor Katniss had recovered from her games, the war, her sisters death, all that trauma as much as could be hoped for and yet still picked fights. You were no better in that sense.

Years of living as a drunken survivor alongside Haymitch should've taught you to withstand his low blows- especially when he was a bottle deep, and yet he still manages to make you want to run off to that hole in the earth. Stare into its depths for hours as you had as a child, as you had for the 5 years after he had led you to victory up until the bombings.

"Fuck you," you managed, suddenly feeling entirely drained. These arguments were so frequent now, you could hardly keep up. Your singing quartet of a symbol, a painter, a drunkard and whatever the fuck you were at this point, all dumbed down to bumbling idiots at the slightest trigger. Setting off landmines so terribly similar to those you had all been surrounded by in your games.

You set off at a quick pace to his home, snatching a bottle of spirits from his counter and practically running towards what used to be the Seam. You heard him yell something that surely would've set you ablaze once more if you had listened, but you were too far enveloped in your thoughts to care.

By the time you reached the softly smoking chasm, you were completely out of breath and exhaling some mix between a wheeze and a cough and a pant. You collapsed on the snow soaked cushions on the black metal bench that you had dragged painstakingly from the square a week or so ago.

You half sat, half lay on your left side. Dry, trembling fingers attempting to open your bottle. Nearly failing but refusing to relent, you finally cracked the cork from the opening. A froth spilled from the top, landing on your hand and sleeve. You sighed, internally blaming Haymitch though he had nothing to do with this particular struggle.

You sit, sipping the vulgar liquid for hours. Til your knuckles were red and puffy and your nose was runny and you were sure your lips were some shade of blue. Every rustle of branches or shift in snow catching your eyes, from any angle or position. Every movement spiking some sort of anxious overflow, hoping that it was Haymitch.

Haymitch isn't the first person you see, though. It's Katniss, emerging from the woods through a decently sized opening in the fencing near your spot. She looks much cozier than you, bringing some minor comfort in knowing she's better off than you at the moment.

She quietly approaches, game bag in hand stuffed with something heavy. You nod to her but she doesn't reciprocate. She stands next to you, glaring down into the mines with you.

"Do you think they're- their spirits, or something- that they're still down there?" You try to speak strongly, but after hours of silence it comes out hoarse.

"No." She says after a few moments, turning on her heel and beginning towards the Victors Village. You sigh, regretting something, but not sure what. Maybe the fact that you stayed as separate as you could from her over the time you'd known her. Maybe the fact that you hadn't tried to relate to her greif from this pit of despair sooner. Maybe none of it mattered.

You wanted to get up- wanted to stumble away and trip through that fluffy, gorgeous snow and back to Haymitch. Beg for forgiveness and plead for him to hold you. But it took you thirty minutes to tear your eyes from the horrible comfort.

When you finally attempted to move, your muscles were so stiff it felt impossible. You flexed each joint independently, pain shooting through your ankles as you bore your weight into them. Still weak in your bearings from the spirits, you took slow, trembling steps in the possibly correct direction.

You took the final swig from the bottle, gait faltering as your head tilted backwards. You flung the carcass of your comfort into a nearby mound of snow and it disappeared, leaving a concave in its wake.

It took you much longer than it had ever to return, at least if felt like it. When you reached the house, you turned the handle without knocking. You fully anticipated a blackout Haymitch, collapsed in a pile of clothes or hunched over his kitchen island. Instead, he sat on his stairs in a rather uncomfortable looking position.

"I'm sorry," you supplied without even a 'hello'. His bloodshot eyes flitted up to your diverted gaze and he stayed silent. An overwhelming feeling of rejection took you over, tears pooling across your waterline almost instantaneously. A stream of incoherent babbles took place of the distasteful silence and you fell to the floor in a heap.

Tears blocked your vision more than the view of your legs as you curled up in a ball on the floor, whispering the things you'd been thinking of saying aloud to Haymitch since you stormed off this morning. You thought he was still seated on the stairs, embarrassment rising to the forefront of your emotions along with regret and longing.

You were about to rise and stumble out of his home when you felt his strong, though shaking, hands on you. One on your back and the other coaxing between your calves and thighs up under your clenched knees. You relaxed ever so slightly and let him lift you.

You expected him to carry you to bed, as he had done so many times over the years, but instead he sat you on his counter in the only clear spot. You slouched, rubbing your eyes. He poured shots for the two of you as you pulled your legs up and rested your head on them. Your fingers toyed with the fluffy hem of your socks.

He threw his drink back without flinching and you attempted to do the same, but you winced as you swallowed, feeling bile rise to your throat then lower slowly. He took your glass and sat it on the counter next to you with his own.

You observed eachother for a moment, saying nothing. You waited. He watched. Your eyes flitted towards his hands, clenching into tight fists then relaxing over and over again. The silence was deafening.

"I was-"

"Do you-"

You brought your gaze back to his eyes, observing the same guilt and shame reflecting in your own. He sighed, stepping forward and pushing your legs apart to stand between them. His calloused hands found their way under your jacket and shirt, drawing patterns in the soft hair on your back. He pressed his lips to your forehead, trailing down until he was at the corner of your mouth.

"You aren't a brat," he whispered. You felt tears begin to well as you leaned up to meet his lips. The feeling was familiar and yet still felt uncertain from time to time. A rhythm always in sync with that of a decades long romance, and yet sensations still as new as young teens fawning over eachother. You loved him.

"You aren't a cunt," you pulled back slightly. Looking deep into his beautiful blue eyes. "Most of the time." You grinned. He chuckled and moved his hands from your back to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze.

"Most of the time?" He questioned, expression matching your own. "Sweetheart, remember who feeds you."

"Uhh, Katniss?" You giggled, snorting softly.

"Okay, well, remember who gets you drunk,"

"I do that all by myself." He scooped you from the counter, eliciting a soft squeal. You wrapped your legs tight around his hips, allowing him to carry you. He walked to the couch, letting his knees hit the cushion before dropping you and kneeling over you, elbows on either side of your head.

He gently stroked your hair from your face, observing you quietly. He pressed his lips to yours at last, setting a slow but intense pace, slipping his tongue between your lips and quickly dissapating your thoughts.

He pulled back slowly, looking at you with a ferver you hadn't noticed a few minutes ago. He pushed his knee between your legs, forcing them open as he stroked your jaw and throat.

"Remember who makes you feel better than anyone could." And with that, your body was heaved up, clothes being pulled and tugged and thrown into the piles of everything else he had no use for.

In no time, you were stripped and helping him remove his own garments, leaving you bare and him in his briefs. He slipped down to the ground, pulling you by your knees until you were slouched with your legs over his shoulders.

He wasted no time in eating you out, licking and sucking at your core until you were whining in less than a minute. Your hands found their way to the back of his head, forming tiny fists and pulling him into yourself deeper.

He was sucking at your clit, flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, doing everything he knew you couldn't stand. He held your thigh with one hand, grazing the underside of the other with his knuckles before reaching to tease your soaked slit.

"Please, please fi- oh my god, finger me already," you cried, and he almost immediately sunk a finger knuckle deep, curling upwards as he increased the intensity of his oral ministrations. "Ohh, don't stop, please." Your words were drawn out and slurred.

He slipped another finger in, setting a brutal pace, your hips rutting against his face. He was abusing that spongey spot inside of you, making you cry out obscenities.

"Haymitch, I'm gonna cu-" you were cut off by him completely withdrawling from your cunt. You gasped, trying to pull him back, but he stood over you, eyes trained hungrily on your figure as he yanked his undergarments from himself, hard cock slapping his stomach before he stepped towards you, bare for your enjoyment.

He grabbed your hair firmly, stroking his cock inches from your face as you tried to reach it, body begging to taste him as you salivated. He pushed your head towards him and you took him in your mouth, gagging hard as he forced it to the back of your throat.

He pulled you off, a string of thick saliva connecting you to his manhood still. He released your hair, leaning down and grabbing you by the hips, nearly throwing you over the armrest of the couch. He was directly behind you, one knee planted on the cushion behind you, one leg on the floor.

He leaned down, his cock aligning with your slit as he pressed his face to your neck, whispering gruffly into your ear.

"I'm gonna fuck the brat out of you if it's the last fucking thing I do, got that, sweetheart?" Butterflies flared in your stomach as you nodded as much as his grip in your hair would allow. He yanked your head back slightly, stubble tickling your throat now.

"I said, got that? Use your words."

"Yes, sir!" You cried, and with that, he straightened himself and thrusted into you. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a vicious pace immediately, causing the couch to shift with every slam of his hips into yours, the wood floor screeching in resistance to the friction.

You screamed, going limp beneath him as he fucked you senseless. He grabbed your hip with bruising force, dragging you back into him with every thrust. There was a puddle forming beneath your head, saliva and tears mixing into a salty mess on the dirty floor.

You were enveloped in pure bliss, barely able to moan due to breathlessness. He was genuinely winding you, lungs compressed between the couch and his chest. You were gasping for air and he was only fucking you harder and harder. The coil in your belly was becoming tighter, pleasure overwhelming your senses.

You were whimpering and he was groaning, he pulled his hand from your hair, leaning into you further as he reached beneath you, pinching your clit and rubbing, sending jolts through your body. You cried harder, pushing back into him as much as you could, you were so close.

"I'm gonna cum, Haymitch, please," it came out hoarse and whispery, throat dry and lungs on low capacity. Then, he rose from his position leaning on top of you, letting you take in your first full breath in ages. You gasped and couldnt stop yourself from coming undone around his fat cock, a scream escaping you.

Your vision went black, your back arched, and he didn't stop. Warmth spread through your body as he pounded you through your orgasm, his fingers never stopping their little pinches and rubs on your clit.

"I'm gonna cum inside of you, sweetheart." He growled, and your limp body shivered with anticipation. You were overwhelmed and fucked out, but you didn't want him to stop.

He grabbed your hips with both hands and pulled you back onto him completely, groaning deeply as he emptied his balls into your wet mound. You couldn't stop trembling, the feeling of being full, fucked out, and overstimulated all at the same time overwhelming your senses.

He groaned, keeping his cock lodged inside of you as he lifted you and lay down on the couch. He squished you between himself and the back cushions, yanking an askew blanket from the top of them and pulling it over the two of you. He wrapped his arms around you tightly and you sighed lovingly.

"Gonna start acting right." He said it like a statement.

"Maybe," you teased, and he squeezed your chest firmly, causing you to quietly gasp. "Yes, I meant yes." You corrected yourself.

"Good girl."

#fanfic #fanfiction #self insert fanfiction #x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch x reader #haymitch x you #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction

373 notes · View notes

solbaby7 · 2 years ago

Text

Rhysand x shy!reader

warnings: nothing really, maybe some swearing

summary: just you giving a massage to a tired Rhys and the usual sexual tension that comes with two best friends who definitely wanna fuck

—

Poor Illiryian baby, Rhys.

Sinking into the couch with a deep sigh, he beckons you over with two fingers. His exhaustion is evident, shoulders slumped and head thrown back into the thick couch pillows, fingers subconsciously toying with the soft fabric of one of the throw blankets you’d insisted on during a shopping trip a few weeks back. “Do me a favor, yeah?”

The way your head nods immediately in response is a little pathetic, borderline embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact that Rhys had barely looked up. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you go grab those little oil jars of yours and rub my back for me?” It’s not really a question judging by how he says it, voice low and breathy but still commanding—cocky almost like he was certain you’d do it either way.

You leave for a moment, rushing to your room to collect a few oils from the growing rack in your bathroom and head back before you can psyche yourself out of it. Your hands on his body—Rhysand’s shirt was off by time you’d set the bottles on the table and he’d laid out on the large couch, his stomach down and face stuffed in a pillow. “Long day?” You murmur, the casual conversation doing little to stave off the nerves, your hands shaking at the thought of being so close to him.

“Long week.”

You hum in sympathy, glass bottle clinking against one another as you popped their lids open, corks perched to the side and poured a few drops of the oil on his back, across broad shoulders and down his spine. “Poor thing,” His body responds to your words—or maybe it’s just the oil when he shifted slightly, muscles flexing slightly when you finally touch him.

You start at his shoulders, slick hands smoothing the scent of lavender and mint over tanned skin. The angle is a little awkward, your back aching from the strain and as if the High Lord had sensed the same thing, one of his hands lift from under the pillow, reaching behind to tap at your calf, fingers grazing the bare skin there. “Sit on me.”

“But what if—“

“Please,” It comes out gravely, voice muffled by the pillow and filled with exhaustion. “I really need you to do this for me.” A little smirk quirks on the side of his face that’s still visible, eyes still shut as he followed up with, “Your High Lord commands it.”

A blush burns at your cheeks, movements hesitant before complying. One bare leg wrapped around his waist, thighs caging him in on either side and you prayed he couldn’t smell the affect this was having on you. How casual he was being about such proximity. How compromising this looked if anyone walked in.

Relax.

Just breathe.

You’re just friends and if anyone walked in you’d tell them exactly what was happening. You were helping—just like friends did.

“You’d think for a High Lord who can command such things, you’d have already had a masseuse on your payroll.” The joke earns you a laugh, his body shaking under you slightly but you ignore it as you get back to work. Fingers kneading at the knots in his shoulders, forcing yourself to stop thinking so hard about the whimpers that sounded from him when you ran a firm thumb down the slope of his shoulder, squeezing and rubbing over and over until that area was completely relaxed.

Rhysand’s back was all hard muscles, his groans going more guttural when your touch grows firmer, working out knots and stretching sore muscles until all the oil had dried. “Don’t stop.” His hand clamps around your calf when you try to slide off and while the grip isn’t painful the way half-lidded violet eyes peer at you, lips a little pouty when he continues. “I haven’t felt that kind of relief in months—just please don’t stop.”

His hand doesn’t leave your calf when you continue and the little sigh of contentment he lets out when you continue is enough to have you clenching around nothing, praying that he couldn’t feel it.

You keep going until his breathing has evened out and his body has gone lax, soft huffs fanning out on his forearm as sleep finally took over, hand falling limp at his side.

That’s how they find you, still gently rubbing at Rhys’ back and Cassian immediately groans next to Azriel. It takes no more than a second before his shirt is tugged off and thrown to the side. “Me next.”

#rhysand x reader #acotar x you #cassian acotar #rhys acotar #acotar x reader #tension #massage #a court of thorns and roses #high lord rhysand #rhysand #rhysand x you #cassian

2K notes · View notes

hardly-an-escape · 4 months ago

Text

oh look it's an 8x11 coda. Tommy Kinard I want to crack you open like a nut and study your brain.

I should have kissed him again.

It beats in Tommy's head like the refrain of a bad song as he shoves his feet into his boots and walks out of the house, buttoning his shirt as he goes. It repeats, a masochistic mantra, as he stops a block away when he realizes his laces are undone and stoops to tie them.

He slouches in front of the corner store and calls an Uber. He hopes the lady behind the counter doesn't see him waiting. She'd smiled so knowingly at his purchases – eggs and bacon and champagne at 8 o'clock in the morning – and he doesn't want her to know that whatever he'd been trying to do had failed. The words circle his brain like a fucked up little merry-go-round.

I should have kissed him again.

What had he even been trying to do? What did he think was going to happen? The fucking champagne is probably still in the freezer; he doesn't think Evan had noticed him put it in. How long has it been – 20 minutes? 30? It'll probably freeze, and then the bottle will explode or the cork will get pushed out, and even if it doesn't then the wine will most likely be ruined. He should probably text Evan, let him know, but his phone is at like 10% and the idea of pulling up their text thread makes his stomach turn because all he's eaten this morning is half a cup of black coffee and a single bite of scrambled egg to make sure he'd salted them enough because – because –

I should have kissed him again.

Evan had so clearly been angling to be kissed, too, hopping up on the counter like that, looking all golden and scruffy and well-fucked in the morning light. His thigh had felt so good under Tommy's hand, warm from sleep, with the promise of muscle and strength underneath the softness. Tommy's favorite combination.

It would have been so easy to lean in, to kiss him again, to tease his tongue at the spot where Evan's tongue had been teasing at his own lip. It would have been so easy to pull him off the counter, to back him into the bedroom, to tumble him down again onto that stupid bare mattress they'd fucked on the night before.

It would have been too easy, Tommy told himself, and let himself get distracted by the eggs and the coffee. Let himself believe that they would eat, and flirt, and drink corner store champagne and maybe unpack a box or two, maybe find the bedsheets and then tumble each other down onto the bed and kiss and kiss and –

I should have kissed him again.

His Uber driver seems to sense the miasma of negativity rolling off of him and doesn't try to make conversation, thankfully. Tommy hunches in the back seat and looks out the window.

The really sad thing is that he knows this song. He's sung it before. It had echoed in his head when he walked out of Evan's loft after that excruciating conversation about moving in together, which wasn't really about moving in together. He'd ridden the elevator to his perfect parking spot and kicked himself the whole way down because the last time he touched Evan Buckley was going to be a dry, routine hello peck, when what he'd wanted to do was take Evan by the hips and back him against his own front door and lick into his mouth like a fucking animal while unbuttoning his pants.

Hell. He'd even heard this refrain when he'd left Evan standing outside the restaurant when their first date had gone to shit. He'd gotten in the back of an Uber much like the one he's sitting in now and thought, Damn. I really thought there was something there. I should have kissed him again.

Should, should, should.

There's this poem that Tommy's mom used to recite to him when he was being a whiny little shit, which he often was when he was small.

All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas Layin' in the sun, Talkin' 'bout the things That they woulda-coulda-shoulda done... But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas All ran away and hid From one little did.

Tommy had hated that poem in the irrational way children often hate things they know to be true. Easy to do things when you're a grownup, he'd thought. Easy to do things when you have control over your own life instead of being dragged around by the whims of angry parents.

Well, Tommy was in control of his own life now. And he still kind of hated that poem, although he understood it better now that he wasn't six years old anymore. It just... it wasn't that easy. You couldn't wrap everything up in a pat little rhyme that explained why you should do the thing you can't do.

It just wasn't that easy. You can't always get what you want. Another song he'd hated. But true.

I should have kissed him again.

Oh well. All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas are lying in the sun. Tommy sits in the too-small back seat of his Uber and lets himself be driven away.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #my writing #911 abc #911 8x11

45 notes · View notes

da-shrimping-station · 8 months ago

Text

Feast

Beelzebub x Reader

minors DNI or im busting your kneecaps 💚

suggestive content | bondage | a bit of food play | inspired by that Beel art from the Komiket interactive display | honestly idk what else to add

bare minimum editing/proofreading | english is not my first language

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You felt like the luckiest bastard in Hell right now.

There was an entire buffet laid out in the room. Plates upon plates of mouth watering dishes that would make anyone stuff themselves full. Drinks of every kind in pretty bottles and glasses. Fine cutlery and dining ware laid out on white sheets, waiting for you to sit down and glut yourself until you burst. Despite the smells wafting into your nose and the generous portions catching your eye, you head straight to the main course.

It was a sight that made you drool the second you saw it. It wasn't just the bare torso or the ribbons or the bottle of expensive champagne tucked into his pants. It was the fact that the King of Gluttony was propped up on a pedestal, eyes blazing and teeth gnawing at the bit and squirming to be let free. Suddenly, the buffet might as well be bland gruel in comparison.

Bright green eyes zeroed in on you as you stepped closer. He struggled even more, muffled noises growing more insistent, but the ribbons held.

Your hand reached out to cup his cheek. You squished it a little then scratched at the strips of cloth that served as his gag.

"You look very delectable, your Highness."

"Mmhff-!"

He sounded mad. Or maybe excited. Either way, it didn't stop you from feeling him up.

You pinched and groped, tan skin soft and muscles firm. One hand scratched red lines into his side while the other thumbed at his pierced nipple. The bright pink strips of cloth was a nice contrast to his rich oche skin. Your nails dug deeper, your grip turned bruising.

Groaning, Beelzebub writhed, tugging at the restraints even more. His flushed cheeks gave away how he really felt. More muffled noises came from his throat and you think he was telling you something. You had stepped back to admire your work with a pleased smile.

You've only had your hands on him and he already looked winded. Your eyes landed on the bottle at his crotch.

You deliberately ignored the bulge in his pants as you gently pried the liquor from his waistband. Your hunch was right. It was a bottle of champagne from Tartaros. The foil on the label shone nicely under the lights.

Beelzebub glared at you as you popped the cork off. The flush on his face was dying down now that you've stopped your ministrations but his erection persisted still. You took a whiff of the drink. It smelled sweet and citrusy. You know this bottle costs more than your own soul given its origin and you wanted to enjoy it to the fullest.

Your eyes shifted from the bottle to the bound King beside you. An idea pops up and you smirk.

The king of gluttony watches you like a hawk as you step into his space again.

Without hesitation, you poured champagne on his lips. You watched, mesmerized as the golden liquid dribbled from his chin and down his neck. Smaller rivulets trailed down his pecs and abs, eventually soaking the waistband of his underwear. You had to stop yourself before wasting the entire bottle.

The pink ribbons over his mouth were soaked and you think he's trying to get a taste with how his throat bobbed. He glared at you. You can't pinpoint why he's upset so you laughed it off.

Your hands grabbed him by the jaw, tilting his head and kissing him. It was awkward with the gag and the angle but the taste of the champagne and the feel of his lips on yours egged you on. He groaned, trying to better reciprocate the act.

Breaking the kiss, you poured champagne over him again, this time onto his torso.

Beelzebub growled. The sound sent shivers down your spine and you licked and bit at his collarbone to appease him. He growled again, less aggravated this time. You took it as a sign.

You continued to appease him with your mouth and tongue, cleaning up the trail of liquor on his torso. From his chest, down towards his stomach. You even went so far as to kneel to nip at the V of his hips, toying with the pink bow right next to his bulging arousal.

You made sure to leave marks as you went, adding to the ones you made earlier. You left hickeys and bruises over his tattoos and bite marks over the bare patches of skin. All the while he bucked and groaned, hips jerking whenever you touched a sensitive spot.

During all of this, the delicate pink ribbons did their job of keeping him in place. A part of you was concerned that the binds would snap. Whatever magic they were imbued with was pretty damn strong.

His highness was looking down at you, eyes glowing with lust and frustration. You shuddered, enjoying the way he looked at you while you were on your knees.

You could suck him off. His cock was right there in front of you, just about ready to burst from the looks of it. The tempting thought made you lick your lips. With him tied up, you had free reign to do as you please without so much as a peep from him.

He must've sensed your lewd intention, swaying his hips towards you as some sort of invitation. An urgent moan rumbled from his throat.

You bit your lip, weighing your options for a moment.

"Thank you for the treat, your highness," you said with a smirk. Then you got up and walked away, half empty champagne bottle in hand.

Incensed noises followed after your footsteps as you left. You knew for a fact that you can't handle the king of Abyssos on your own. He was a force to be reckoned with, whether he's fighting or fucking. And you were someone simple who lived by the rule of not biting off more than you can chew.

The bottle of liquor was more than enough of a prize. There was still enough for a glass or two to indulge in.

You were close to the exit, oozing with satisfaction as you walked past the buffet tables. The door was just a few meters away when–

Snap!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A/N 🦐

eeyyyyy dont come after me i wrote this all in one sitting cuz that one Beel card wont get out of my head

i was gonna have the reader give him head but my skills aren't up to par so he gets blueballed instead lmaoooo i bet he would've wanted the reader to be a glutton and choke on his cock but where's the fun in that amirite

him bending the reader over one of the tables while he rails them and finishes the rest of the champagne is a nice image imo

thanks for reading!

#what in hell is bad #whb #prettybusy what in “hell” is bad?#what in “hell” is bad?#whb beelzebub #🦐:ramblings #🦐:drabble #local shrimp attempts writing smut once again #now i can sleep peacefully #how thte story ends is up to y'all

132 notes · View notes

catscidr · 2 years ago

Note

Can you make a scenario with obedient reader who is getting experimented on by Dottore please ☺️

nonnie i started writing this at 1 in the morning yesterday because i couldn't stop thinking about it and i may or may not have gone over my self imposed word limit. however....... hot doctor. so. hope u enjoy because ik i sure as hell did ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: dottore being just a biiit creepy, slightly suggestive (?), normal tension + sexual tension asgnfns includes: fem!reader, dottore wc: 1,9k

“Stick your tongue out.”

Dottore places his gloved thumb on your tongue, knocking you out of your daze.

As per your routine, the doctor performs a quick, partial check-up to assess your physical state before diving right into his scheduled experiments. What he had planned you never knew; such was the joy of being one of the second Harbinger’s playthings.

He gazes into your mouth with an almost bored expression as he looks for anything out of the ordinary. Being so close to his face, you could feel the warmth of his breath tickling your cheeks and the sharp point of his mask just barely grazing your jaw. When finally satisfied, Dottore mumbles something about nothing that’ll skew the test results and pulls his hand back, wiping your saliva off on his coat. You shut your jaw and look at him expectantly, waiting.

He turns his back to you and rummages through a drawer, taking out an assortment of what appears to be wires coming out of a small rectangular box with even more wires sticking out of that. You glance at the machine and then back up at Dottore, a question burning on your tongue that he answers before you get the chance to voice it out loud.

“This right here,” he sets the machine down on the table and plugs some cables into his laptop, “is a polygraph. Do you know what it is?” he asks with the ghost of a smile, hands buried in his pristine lab coat. You nod silently.

“A lie detector,” the doctor says, disregarding your answer. He takes out a vial from his pockets and brings it up to the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, observing how the liquid shone at the right angle. Letting his arm fall to his side, he takes a few steps around the table and towards the chair you’re sitting in, bending down to your height.

“Do you know what this is?”

He brings his hand up to show you the vial in question. A purple, slightly translucent solution that came halfway up the thin glass, shut tightly with the help of a small cork seal. You already knew what you had to do with it, but not what the liquid itself did. Slowly, you shake your head and tear your gaze away from the liquid, looking back up at the man in front of you. His expression doesn’t change for a second, observing your own carefully.

“Simply put, it’s a truth serum. Anyone that drinks this will find that they will be rendered unable to lie. Of course, the serum itself is still being tested, which is precisely why you’re here,” he says, his smile growing just slightly. You part your lips, hesitant to speak.

“So, you... want me to drink the potion and then take a lie detector test to verify whether it worked or not?” you ask with a small glimmer of hope in your eyes. The doctor nods curtly, his expression unwavering. You internalize a sigh; looks like you lucked out today and won’t have to endure any physical torture this time around.

“Now drink,” he says, emphasizing the order by taking out the cork top with a quiet pop, bringing the vial up to your lips. Your hand reaches up to grab the glass but right as you reach it, Dottore uses his free hand to swat your hand away. You tear your gaze away from the serum and look up at the doctor- his expression flat, lips devoid of the small smile that was previously on his face. He pushes the vial closer to you, the edge of the tube pressing against the plush of your lips, forcing you to tilt your head back ever so slightly.

“Drink,” he repeats, his deep voice rumbling your nerves.

You part your lips and tilt your head back even more, allowing the Harbinger the space to push the vial past your lips. Your throat bobbed as soon as the serum made its way down, Dottore’s stare unwavering from your face. The purple serum slid down smoothly; the lack of any discernable taste only being slightly unnerving, all things considered.

Dottore stares at you long enough for you to start becoming nervous by his presence. However, as soon as your pulse quickens, he leans back and puts an acceptable distance between the two of you as he puts away the, now empty, vial back in his coat pocket.

“How do you feel?”

That makes you pause. How did you feel? Nervous, anxious? Awkward, even? The answer was an obvious all of the above. However, this was in response to Dottore’s unusual closeness, not in result of the serum changing your body in any way, shape or form. In fact, you didn’t really feel anything other than your heart racing in your ribcage. You felt strangely normal, which only fueled the slight agitation boiling in the pit of your stomach; feeling anything less than discomfort when subjected to Dottore’s experiments was nothing short of unusual. But, knowing he couldn’t care less for an answer that doesn't regard the effects of the serum, you keep your thoughts to yourself.

“I feel fine,” you say as normally as you could. Dottore narrows his eyes, observing your behavior with interest, but doesn’t push further.

He directs his attention back to the polygraph on the table, wires hanging loosely off the side of the surface. Grabbing the four cables, he peels off the protective film off from the sticky sides and sticks two cables on your temples and one on your wrist. Holding the last cable, he looks down at you with an unreadable expression.

“Tilt your head back for me,” he says quietly, voice unassuming.

You do as he says and, as soon as your throat is revealed, Dottore plunges his hand into your shirt. He sticks the last cable to the top of your left breast, fingers grazing the plush skin for a moment before he retracts his hand and rounds the corner of the table. Your heart pounds in your ribcage, your poor, weak mind reeling at how physical he seemed to be getting despite the psychological nature of the experiment. He makes no further comment as he opens his laptop and does whatever it is he needs to do in order to start the test.

“Keep staring at the wall. I’m going to be asking you a series of questions. You are to answer with the first thing that comes to your mind, in the most natural way possible. Understood?” Dottore says rigidly. You nod quickly, replying with a quiet yes, sir.

“Then let’s begin. What is your name?” he asks, leaning his chin into his palm.

You tell him your name which, obviously, doesn’t make the lie detector go off. He nods and continues, asking questions that range from “where are you from”, “when is your birthday” and “how tall are you”.

However, the more he speaks, the more his questions become increasingly... risky to answer.

“What do you think of my experiments?”

Holding your tongue, you mull it over for a moment. Even though you knew that no matter what you intended to say wouldn’t matter, that you’d just tell the truth no matter what, you wanted to think carefully either way. After a moment you part your lips, still staring at the wall like he instructed at the start, and speak.

“Sometimes they can be painful, but I know you’re doing what’s best for me and... everyone else.” You felt the way your hands clammed up from sweat, the plastic chair becoming increasingly uncomfortable for you to sit in without shifting your weight. Dottore looks at the screen of his laptop and grins, his gaze finding your tense figure once again.

“What do you think of me?” he asks, and even though you can’t see his expression, you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You respond without allowing yourself to stress over what your truth is.

“I think you have a strong work ethic, and I... admire you for it.”

His lips stretch into a wide, uncharacteristic smile. Dottore stays quiet, stalling for the next question to let you simmer with what you just said. He shifts his position on the table, leaning forward over the computer with both hands clasped in front of him.

“And what do you think of me, not as a Harbinger but as a simple, regular man?” he asks coyly, his mask hiding the way his crimson eyes pierced a path into your side profile.

“That you’re attractive,” you blurt out, head tilting to the side away from him to hide the way your cheeks immediately warmed up. The doctor scoffs, amused by the sheepish display merely a few feet in front of him.

“Hm. Good,” he hums to himself, straightening his back to lean into the chair he sat on. “Look at me,” he orders firmly.

Not even giving yourself the time to process his words, you automatically turn your head to look at your captor. The sight of his pleased, seemingly innocent smile made your heart flutter. He grabs the side of his laptop and turns it around so you can look at the... blank screen?

Before you can question what exactly it is you were looking at, Dottore speaks up.

“I wasn’t tracking your answers. I lied to you. What did you say you felt after drinking the serum?” he asks with a tilt of his head, amusement clear on his face. You freeze, brows raising ever so slightly as the cogs turn in your head.

“Nothing...?” you murmur quietly, slowly understanding what he meant.

“Nothing, because you just drank water. With a dash of food coloring, sure, but water nonetheless.”

“Ah.”

Looking at his intricate mask then back down at the blank laptop screen, you felt yourself become increasingly embarrassed the longer the silence between you two stretched out. Dottore chuckles heartily, the sound revibrating in the small room as he stood up to loom over your figure.

“Technically, you could still call this an experiment. What if you did lie? There’s a possibility you did since nothing forced you to tell the truth. However, I know you wouldn’t.”

He leans down to your height, a gloved hand coming up to tilt your head back, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re always so good to me, you know. So obedient, compliant and malleable,” he sighs, a soft and eerie smile on his face. “My favorite test subject,” he whispers.

Glued in place, you do nothing aside from staring up at him with wide doe eyes, your cheeks flushed as a result from the attention he gave you.

“What a good girl you are,” he mumbles to himself, but still loud enough that you can hear. The doctor was so close that you could just barely feel the warmth of his body against you aside from his hand holding you still, his lips ghosting over your own.

With a chuckle, Dottore straightens his back and looks down at you with a knowing smirk, acutely aware of the effect he had on you. He hums, faking being lost in his thoughts, conscious that you sat there, waiting, silently begging for more.

“How about a reward, then?” he suggests in a low voice. “Prove yourself to me, prove that you spoke nothing but the truth, and I’ll reward you handsomely.” Dottore tilts his head in a way that can only be described as condescending, smiling at your bashfulness. Slowly, he takes off the wire stuck to your body, his hand lingering beneath your shirt, over the cable stuck to your chest.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy that, my pretty test subject.”

#୧ ‧₊˚orderup!#dottore x reader #dottore x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #dottore x fem!reader #dottore x afab reader

231 notes · View notes

arduousflame · 6 months ago

Text

Ok, reworked that previous story to fit a bit better in Gwynn's story.

A bit on her background with Viago, and a bit on how messed up the Crows are.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucanis meticulously inspected and replaced the small vials he carried, each one as vital as a blade to an assassin like him. The glass was opaque, cork stoppers sealed with dark red wax to keep their deadly contents secure. His movements were methodical as he separated recently used vials from those that had expired. Only one or two were good enough to return, unaltered. The rest would need to be disposed of—safely.

Across the table, Davrin cleaned his gear with the steady hands of a seasoned soldier, though his eyes kept darting toward Lucanis.

“Careful with those,” Davrin warned, his tone light but edged with caution. “I wouldn’t want Assan getting into them. And you’d better wash your hands before you start on dinner tonight. Got it?”

Lucanis opened his mouth, a sharp retort ready to fire, but stopped short when he caught Rook’s gaze from the fireplace. Her single raised eyebrow said, Don’t you dare.

“Bellara’s cooking,” Lucanis muttered instead.

The elf snorted. “Thank the gods for small mercies.”

“How do you even keep them straight?” Davrin asked after a few minutes of working in silence, nodding at the vials.

Lucanis held one up, angling it toward the light. The faint, otherworldly glow of the Fade caught on tiny raised bumps on the glass surface. He ran his fingers over them, his touch precise and sure.

“By feel,” he replied. “Each vial is marked differently. Even in the dark, I know exactly which one to take.”

“Oh, oh!” Bellara leaned across the table, her curiosity lighting up her face. “Are the marks unique for each assassin, so no one else can use your poisons? I read a story about that once! Two assassins sent to kill each other fell in love, but the woman got wounded protecting her lover. When he tried to give her the antidote, he accidentally gave her another poison because their labels were different. She died in his arms.”

Davrin chuckled and shook his head.

“The poisoners and glassmakers would riot if that were true,” Lucanis said, laughing. “No, the vials are standardized. It’s the poison makers who set the marks.”

“In this case, Viago,” Rook said, stepping closer. She reached for one of the expired vials, her movements unhurried but deliberate. “Oh, he’s given you the good stuff.” She turned the vial over, examining it like an appraiser judging a rare gem. “This one’s a doozy.”

Lucanis plucked the vial from her hand, his eyes narrowing. “Careful with that.”

Bellara cocked her head. “I didn’t know you used poison. Doesn’t it burn off with spells?”

Rook’s smirk was slow and sly. “Oh, Viago never told you?”

Lucanis frowned. “Told me what?”

“That he used me as a test subject when developing new poisons.” Rook reached for another vial, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

Bellara and Davrin froze, staring at her in wide-eyed disbelief.

Lucanis, however, remained still, his grip tightening on the vial he’d reclaimed. “I’d remember if he had.”

Rook glanced up, the corners of her mouth quirking in amusement. “Would you, though?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, it’s a story,” she said, leaning one hip against the table. She pointed at the vial in his hand, her expression almost mischievous. “Want to hear what that one did to me?”

----

Viago slid the key into the lock, the faint click echoing in the stillness. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing silently for Gwynn to enter.

She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. This room was familiar —but not for happy reasons. The shelves lined with bottles and vials, their contents shimmering in the dim light, bore the telltale marks of her Talon’s trade. The faint, acrid tang of herbs and chemicals hung in the air, sharp enough to catch in her throat.

The lab was sparsely lit. Two sconces on either side of the door cast a flickering glow, their flames shivering in the draft. Across the room, the fireplace smoldered weakly, its embers barely holding on. The light was insufficient, more for warmth than visibility, and the shadows cast by the low fire made the room feel smaller than it was.

Shelves crammed with potions, poisons, and the raw ingredients of both loomed around her. The bottles were meticulously labeled in Viago’s neat, angular handwriting, and though she knew there was an order to it all, the system remained a mystery. Like many fledglings before her, Gwynn had spent long nights pondering the riddle. Her best guess was a cipher, but she had no intention of asking Viago about his favorite book or an old love letter to confirm it. Some things were better left unsaid.

Behind her, Viago stepped into the room, the door shutting with a soft click. The sound seemed louder than it should have been.

He moved purposefully, turning the chair by the desk, the only table in the room, its surface cluttered with vials, burners, alembics, and a neat stack of labeled notebooks. With a faint scrape, he set a small stool in front of the chair, the one he used to reach the higher shelves.

"Sit," he said, his voice left no room for negotiation. He gestured to the chair. "And roll up your sleeve. Left arm. To the elbow."

Gwynn hesitated. She stood motionless in the center of the room, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The silence pressed in on her as she drew a deep breath, steeling herself. There were no pleasant memories here, there never would be. But the sooner they started, the sooner it would be over.

Finally, she moved, sliding into the chair and rolling up her sleeve. The cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps. Viago, unfazed by her reluctance, was already moving about the room.

He crossed to the shelves with precise, practiced motions, selecting a small scalpel from the knife rack. A collection of hourglasses of varying sizes waited on the edge of the table, their glassy surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight. He placed them carefully within reach before pulling down two vials from a shelf: one filled with a milky white liquid, the other slightly hazy.

The soft clink of glass against the table broke the silence as he set them down. Gwynn’s heart thudded in her chest, but she kept her face still, her breathing even. She knew better than to let her nerves show here.

One of the smaller hourglasses had already been turned, its sand cascading in a lazy spiral. The faint hiss of the grains marked the passage of time. Viago sat down on the stool in front of her, reaching for one of his well-worn notebooks. With a piece of charcoal in hand, he jotted down a few quick notes as the last grains fell, the sound of the charcoal scratching softly in the stillness.

When the sand ran out, he flipped the hourglass without hesitation, watching intently as the process repeated. Another series of marks filled the notebook. His movements were practiced, mechanical. Gwynn’s eyes flitted between the hourglass and his hand, her curiosity quietly bubbling to the surface. The steady rhythm of his work, combined with the solemn quiet of the room, felt both hypnotic and oppressive. Viago really was in his element here and whatever his intents, Gwynn knew a master of his trade when she saw one.

Perhaps it was her lingering gaze or the familiarity forged through countless hours in this room, but Viago noticed. When he finally looked up from his notes, his eyes met hers, and he offered an explanation unprompted.

“I need a baseline of your vitals,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Breathing, heart rate...”

As he spoke, his gloved fingers encircled her wrist with clinical precision, pressing firmly against the pulse point. His touch was cool, the leather a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin. The hourglass was turned again, the sand flowing smoothly into the lower chamber. He kept his eyes fixed on the glass, his movements deliberate and measured.

For a moment, Gwynn’s heart seemed louder than the hourglass itself, each beat thudding in her chest as if trying to escape his scrutiny. But Viago remained detached, focused, as though nothing in the world existed beyond the falling sand and the faint rhythm beneath his fingers.

“What’s this one supposed to do?” Gwynn finally asked, her voice breaking the silence just as the last grain of sand slipped through the hourglass.

“Incapacitate. But not kill.” Viago’s tone was calm, almost clinical, as he uncorked the vial of milky liquid. The sharp tang of its contents joined the cocktail of smells in the room. With his left hand, he pressed her arm flat against the table, reaching for the scalpel with his right.

“It’s designed to induce panic,” he continued. “Overwhelm the target. Make them feel like death is creeping closer. That kind of fear loosens lips. Makes them spill secrets.”

The scalpel gleamed as he held it to the soft skin near the crook of her elbow. The blade was steady in his hands, far steadier than her racing heart. His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Ready?”

“You have the antidote, right?” Her voice wavered despite her efforts to sound composed.

“Have I ever let you down, Gwynn?”

“Everything has a first time...”

He didn’t reply. The blade pressed down, slicing a clean line through her skin. A sharp sting bloomed as a bead of blood welled up. Viago worked swiftly, turning to the vial. He let a single drop of the milky liquid fall onto the wound.

Gwynn hissed sharply as the poison seeped in. The pain was immediate, sharp, and fiery. “Is it supposed to burn like this?”

Viago didn’t answer. Instead, he turned two hourglasses at once, their sands beginning a synchronized countdown. His left hand returned to her wrist, his fingers firm against her pulse, and his eyes stayed locked on her—not with concern, but with unshakable focus.

The burning in her arm spread quickly, radiating out like wildfire. It seeped into her chest, her limbs, until her entire body ached as if it had been lit from within. Her breathing quickened, ragged and shallow. Instinct took over, and she started to pull her arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

“Fuck, Vi—” she gasped, her words hitching as the pain surged. “My heart... Are you sure this won’t kill me?”

“Your heart’s fast, but steady,” he said, his voice calm despite her panic. “It’s still beating, Gwynn. Take a deep breath.”

Viago’s charcoal scratched across the page in precise strokes, his notes growing longer as he worked. His focus never wavered, moving between her pulse, the hourglasses, and the faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow. Each detail seemed to matter to him, though he said nothing for a long while.

The silence stretched, broken only by the steady hiss of falling sand and Gwynn’s ragged breathing. He adjusted his grip on her wrist, his gloved fingers shifting slightly as though recalibrating. “Pulse is still strong,” he murmured, almost to himself, his tone clinical. “Faster than before, but steady. Good. That’s good.”

The burning in Gwynn’s arm had spread to her chest, and she clenched her jaw to suppress a groan. Her vision blurred at the edges, dark shadows creeping in with each uneven breath. “Viago,” she gasped, “I... I can’t— my heart..”

“You can,” he interrupted. He tilted his head toward the hourglass. “You’re still well within safe limits. Your heart’s working harder, but it’s not failing.”

Her free hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “It doesn’t feel safe,” she ground out.

“I know,” he replied, his voice maddeningly even. He reached for her wrist again, pressing his thumb against the pulse point while his eyes flicked back to the hourglass. The sand was running low. “You’re breathing shallow. Deep breaths, Gwynn.”

She tried, forcing herself to inhale deeply, but it felt like dragging air through fire. “It’s—too much,” she wheezed, her chest rising and falling in uneven jerks.

Viago’s gaze narrowed, his hand moving from her wrist to the base of her throat. His fingers rested there lightly, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse beneath her skin. “Still consistent,” he muttered, turning the hourglass again. He leaned back, his sharp eyes darting over her face, her trembling limbs, the tension in her jaw. “Adrenaline’s spiking. No arrhythmias. You’re not crashing, Gwynn. Keep breathing.”

His detached tone should have been infuriating, but it was oddly grounding. She focused on the methodical way he turned the hourglasses, the practiced ease with which he made his notes. His presence, though cold and analytical, was unshakable.

“Burning subsiding?” he asked, his gaze flicking back to her.

“No,” she hissed. “It’s—getting worse. Vi, my chest—”

“I’m monitoring it,” he said, his tone sharper now. His hand returned to her wrist, holding her steady as she tried to pull away. “Your heart rate’s up, but it’s still strong. You’re not going to die.”

“How can you be so sure?” she snapped, tears stinging her eyes.

“I’m holding your pulse,” he said simply, his eyes meeting hers. “I’d know.”

The burning began to creep into her throat, and her breathing quickened again. “Viago, I swear—”

“Listen to me.” His tone was suddenly commanding, cutting through the fog of her panic. “You’re feeling the poison’s effects exactly as intended. It’s meant to mimic the symptoms of dying—tight chest, rapid pulse, burning in the veins. But it’s not killing you. Your vitals are telling me that your body is handling it. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and she tried to mimic him, though her breath hitched midway. His fingers remained firm on her wrist, anchoring her. “That’s better,” he said quietly.

The minutes dragged on, and she lost track of how many times the hourglass had been turned. Each time it emptied, he recorded something new, his notes growing denser with every pass. He shifted her wrist slightly, checking the veins along her forearm, and pressed his free hand to her clammy forehead.

“You’re peaking now,” he said after a moment. “The burning will start to ease soon. Keep breathing, Gwynn. You’re doing fine.”

Her limbs trembled, but the fire in her veins finally began to flicker and fade, leaving behind a heavy ache. She sagged in the chair, her head tilting back as she gulped in air. Viago’s hand lingered on her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse as if confirming its consistency one last time.

“It’s passing,” he said, his voice softer now. “Your vitals are stabilizing.”

She blinked up at him, exhausted. “You were watching me like a damn lab rat,” she muttered, though her voice lacked venom.

“I was keeping you alive,” he countered, his expression unreadable. “If I didn’t track every detail, I wouldn’t know how far I could push the dose. Or you.”

“Push me? I felt like I was dying, Viago.”

“And you didn’t,” he replied, his eyes locking on hers. “That’s what matters.”

Her breath hitched, and she shook her head faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re resilient,” he said, turning to his notebook to scrawl one last note, before closing it. “We’re done for today.”

That was her cue to leave. This time, she practically fled the room, slamming the door closed on her way out.

----

Davrin’s gaze shifted between Lucanis and Rook as the story concluded. Rook stared into the fire, her face illuminated by its flickering glow. Whatever memories the tale had stirred, she seemed lost in them now.

“I can’t believe you’d call the Crows normal,” Davrin finally said, his voice sharp with incredulity. “You two do realize none of this is normal, right?”

Lucanis set the vials back down, his fingers lingering on the wax seals. He’d need a word with Viago when he returned. The older man had always preached reforming the Crows, making them something more than tools. But now? Learning this—knowing Viago had counted Rook -Gwynn-among his closest confidants, it painted a darker picture. Lucanis had spoken of a cruel childhood to the others, but Rook’s? Rook’s had been worse.

“That’s rich coming from a Grey Warden,” She muttered.

Davrin’s response came swift and sharp. “We drink from the poisoned chalice once, Rook. After that, my sergeant didn’t keep poisoning me to prove I deserved my place.” He tossed his cleaning rag aside and pushed back from the table, rising abruptly. “I need a minute to process this.”

Bellara, who had been unusually quiet, jumped up as if startled. “I’ll… I’ll get started on dinner.” Her voice was bright but forced, and she darted from the room before anyone could reply.

That left only Rook and Lucanis at the table. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.

“I— I didn’t know,” Lucanis began, his voice low. “If—”

Rook cut him off, her tone sharp. “If what, Lucanis? If you’d known, then what?” She leaned forward, her blue eyes boring into his. “What would you have done? Grandson of the First Talon or not, you’d have had no right to challenge another Talon. No say in how he governed his House, or how he used his Crows.”

Lucanis opened his mouth to argue but found no words.

Rook leaned back, exhaling a long sigh as she raked a hand through her hair. Her voice softened, though the weight of her words remained. “But it’s done now. And… in his way, Viago did it out of care.”

Her gaze drifted back to the fire, her features shadowed by the glow. The faintest trace of a bitter smile crossed her lips. “His way. Always his way.”

#lucanis dellamorte #viago de riva #davrin #bellara lutare #oc: gwynn de riva #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age veilguard #datv

23 notes · View notes

zhendi1031 · 1 year ago

Text

Significance of Angle Stop Corks

In the intricate world of plumbing, every component plays a crucial role in ensuring the smooth flow of water and the prevention of leaks. Among these components, the angle stop cork stands out as a versatile and essential piece of hardware.

An angle stop cork, commonly referred to as an angle stop valve, is a small, angled valve that controls the flow of water to a specific fixture or appliance. Unlike traditional straight valves, angle stop corks are installed at a 90-degree angle, making them ideal for tight spaces and areas where a straight valve would not fit.

Angle stop corks are typically made from brass or plastic, with brass being the more durable and long-lasting option. They consist of a valve body, a handle or knob, and a stem that connects to the water supply line. The handle can be turned to open or close the valve, allowing for precise control over the water flow.

Advantages of Using Angle Stop Corks:

1. Space Efficiency: Due to their angled design, angle stop corks are good for areas with limited space, such as under sinks or behind toilets.

2. Ease of Use: The handle or knob on an angle stop cork is easy to operate, allowing users to quickly turn the water on or off.

3. Leak Prevention: By providing an easily accessible point to shut off the water supply, angle stop corks help prevent leaks and water damage.

4. Durability: High-quality angle stop corks are built to last, with brass models being particularly resistant to corrosion and wear.

5. Versatility: They can be used in a variety of applications, including residential, commercial, and industrial settings.

#Angle Stop Corks

0 notes

mysteriouslyjovialcolor · 2 days ago

Text

Imola 2022

Sprint

-Sprint results still determine the grid for the race this year

-Max angled towards Charles>> (and he lost p1)

-Oh no! Zhou!

-Why does nobody talk about Kevin’s 2022 run? Cause so far it been so good

-MV: “Lovely gear sync that”

-“Bit of sarcasm that”

-How is Hamilton stuck behind Stroll?

-Lovely moves there from Checo and Daniel

-Yessss Max!!! That was wonderful!!

-Oh wet race?

-“It’s the blues against the reds”

-Yess good start from Max!

-And Checo too!!

-Holy shit, Lando got past Charles there too

-Oh no! Carlos and Daniel collided! Carlos out.

-Racing incident?

-We have a green flag and Max has checked out

-Aii Fernando has damage

-He’s retiring :(

-And Charles is back onto the podium

-The tifosi roaring in the distance

-Hehe Lewis stuck behind Lance again

-To MV: “Max what do you think on conditions? If the safety car comes out?”

-MV: “Not dry enough, it’s drying very slow”

-Yes Kevin Magnussen! Hold that Merc back

-Wow those were good moves

-To LN: “There’s possibly Class 0-1 rain” McLaren has just never changed with their strange radios

-Kevin losing places :((

-MV: “I’m definitely sliding more”

-There’s no way Lewis is still stuck behind Lance. What is going on?

-To MV: “Just need an update for a possible safety car Max”

-The more times you ask that, the more times you’re inviting the safety car coming for yourself

-Did Daniel pit for slicks?

-Okay everyone pitting now for slicks

-I hope this doesn’t come back to bite them in the back

-Checo and George coming in

-Oh Lewis too? Oh and Max!

-There was contact in the pit lane

-ohmygod the chaos

-That did not go well for Merc and also Valterri

-That undercut on Charles didn’t work

-Oooh but Checo made that move up so so quickly

-Daniel fastest lap after fastest lap

-How on earth did Valterri come back out in sixth after that stop?

-5s penalty for Ocon after an unsafe release

-Oh good, Seb still in points

-Yuki being cork in the bottle (all the way from p9 to p15) even without DRS

-The commentators cursing out the racing directors on the DRS not being enabled is a mood

-Daniel pitting again- hard tires

-And DRS is enabled

-I wonder if these guys (especially when leading the race) ever zone out

-Don’t really know if the DRS is going to help, this is going to just form a train

-Max lapping Lewis. Lewis probably thinking ‘what is life?’

-“Could potentially, Ferrari bring in Charles Leclerc, put him on soft and push the Red Bull in the closing stages?” Honestly, that would be such an unnecessary gamble

-CL: “Plan D. How does it look?”

-Oh wow he called it himself

-Ferrari, like me, thinking it’s not worse the risk

-Pierre has been doing crazy work out there, defending from Lewis

-Ohmygod Pierre, genuinely howww??

-Go Yuki go!

-Lewis and Pierre have been going at this for like 10 laps now- they have got to be exhausted

-And now Checo’s coming to lap them

-Oh wow Charles really took that gamble

-“This is not about second place. This is purely about that one point”

-Hello? Red Bull coming in too?

-We’re all fighting for the fastest lap now

-That was so well executed from Red Bull there

-CL: “I think we should’ve gone for mediums”

-Oh no come on Checo, don’t lose p2

-Charles has got the fastest lap now

-Charles spun! I just gasped out loud. How did that happen??

-Oh he’s lost places now! He’s had to pit

-God I knew that was a risky gamble

-Yuki past Seb!

-Charles coming out right behind Magnussen

-Lando surprise podium!

-And Max has fastest lap now

-“As we see Lewis trying for the 20th time to get past Gasly” Nico Rosberg out there keeping count

-CL: “Doesn’t feel great”

-The car or emotionally?

-“And wouldn’t Valterri Bottas like to send a message to Toto Wolff and say ‘don’t forget about me’ 🎶don’t you, forget about me🎶

-Come on Valterri I’m rooting for youuu

-“Ohh this is getting fruity” Sir?

-You know what, it makes sense that Valterri couldn’t make a move. Lewis has been suffering for the past 20 laps, so so will he.

-“When he’s finishing a race, he’s winning a race” What a stat (so far)

-“As Red Bull come to Ferrari’s backyard and make it a 1-2” cold

-Is this a grand slam for Max too??? Cause that’s awesome!

-Red Bull formation flying >>

-Lando’s post race hair is killing me

-“And Sergio Perez and Max Verstappen decide that we’re going to come out, after a 1-2 finish, together” 😭🥺

8 notes · View notes

lyrabythelake · 2 years ago

Text

LU-tober Prompt Day 3: Ring

“Stop!”

Sky froze, one foot hovering over the ground mid-step. If there was one thing he knew it was that if one of the other heroes shouted a command, you followed it, as swiftly and proficiently as possible. It could save you from an arrow to the head or the otherwise inescapable blast of a hidden bomb.

This time, though, Sky could see no discernable threat in their vicinity, just peaceful, rolling fields and the smoke from their campfire on the crest of the hill trailing a lazy, arrow-straight line towards the sky. He looked at Hyrule curiously.

“What is it?”

Hyrule had turned beet red.

“Ah–sorry Sky, it’s just that you’re about to step on a fairy circle.”

Sky’s gaze drifted to the ground below his looming foot and, sure enough, there was a ring of tufted grass there interspersed with the occasional burgeoning grey mushroom.

He stepped back, lowering his foot to the ground a safe distance from the circle.

He was confused. Not about the fairy circle itself–he had heard the stories when he was young, about how fairies gathered in these little mushroom circles and how they contained magic unknown to mere Hylians–it was a common fairytale told to children in Skyloft.

No, he was confused because Hyrule was perhaps the least superstitious person he knew (no doubt a result of the severe lack of companionship growing up. Sky supposed he had little in the way of stories and superstitions passed to him like he did).

“It’s funny how some myths transcend even the borders of our separate dimensions,” Sky muttered absentmindedly. “I was told those stories too when I was young.”

“They’re not just stories.” Hyrule no longer looked embarrassed; his brows arched in surprise.

“So fairies really do gather in them?” Sky asked with a small smile. He was only half humouring him; who knew how things worked in Hyrule’s world, it was infinitely different to Skyloft.

Hyrule squinted and angled his head to the side.

“Not so much anymore. There aren’t enough fairies left in the world for them to be used as meeting points like they used to, but there is a tradition among the fae that you leave an offering in every fairy circle you pass.”

“Truly?” Sky asked, not entirely sure what to think.

Hyrule nodded and began searching through his leather satchel, digging deep until he found what he was looking for. He smiled and opened his fist for Sky to see. In his palm lay a miniscule bottle of blood-red potion, glass and stoppered with the smallest cork Sky had ever seen.

Sky shoots him an amused look.

“Do you always keep fairy-sized gear with you?”

“You never know when you might need it,” Hyrule smiled.

“The Veteran must be rubbing off on you.”

But as Hyrule continued to clamber up the hill, Sky looked back at the ring of mushrooms. He couldn’t help but imagine Hyrule travelling alone in his world leaving small pieces of his depressingly meagre worldly possessions in each fairy circle he passed.

When he turned to follow his friend, it was with a growing fondness in his heart.

#lu-tober #lyra writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #lu hyrule #lu sky

114 notes · View notes

ultimateaclrecovery · 5 months ago

Text

Portugal day 2!

My first full day in Porto. Started with walking tour (very small, just me and another couple). Where we got to see the avenue of allies, the street called the galleries of Paris where they party for St. John in June, views over the city, see old trolleys (that still work), and learn about the weird trees in the park (they had a disease so grew weird and fat and then got better and grew normally)

After the walking tour I saw the sao bento train station and it’s pretty interior ( the outside was full of construction and then went to chapel de souls which turned out to just be a photo op outside and intense silent praying inside. Saw the clock display at 12. The whole thing was 2.5 mins long.

Train station and Chapel de souls

For lunch I got a Francesinha, a ham, steak,pork ect sandwich wrapped in cheese in tomato gravy topped with a fried egg. Then went to the Porto cathedral where I took even more pictures with blue tiles

I walked across the bridge to Gaia on the other side of the river and saw cool street art. I would see many more large animal sculptures made out of trash in Lisbon too

I went to the rose museum where I enjoyed my five rose samples and took ridiculous selfies with the fun pink things including playing in the pink ball pit. It was empty except for two guys and was basically designed to be an insta spot but was still fun. Though a little small for the amount of wine they gave you

I then went to taylor’s port where I did a self guided tour of their port caves and learned about their terracing techniques and how fortified wine or port is made. At the end I got two samples and found a wonderful spot overlooking the city to enjoy them. And took a couple pictures of course

Walked back across the river at night and enjoyed seeing the most ridiculous Portugal sardine store with a Ferris wheel of tinned fish and a wonderfully purple lit clerigios church. I then went to the dogma wine bar across the street from my hotel to round out the night.

This is really my first time doing full solo travel and I think I like it. It’s nice to be able to fully do my own thing but I do wish I had a friend when eating and sitting and waiting for things. But lots of time for writing my travel diary!

Overly long travel diary below the cut

Portugal day 2

Day 2

Slow gentle wake up with just the last hints of pink in my view. Quick walk to manteigaria for pastel de natas and hot chocolate. It is drizzling out boo. But the counter lady compliments my new earrings and says they’re her favorite flower yay!

Walk back to the hotel for breakfast and see the reception lady and ask for more shampoo success! And then head to the walking tour. My ability to navigate the streets is not quite as good as I would want but they all bend so much and have crazy angles that’s it’s hard to figure out which one google said to take.

Walking tour!

It is just me and one other couple, from New Jersey but originally Belarus, which is nice. Gave ten euros in the end for tip.

We started with avenue for allies which refers to the English. Just up the street is a park for the English princess and the other side the Portuguese king who got married to cement the allyship. The vine was built recently, 200 years and Paris inspired.

Then we go to the galleries of Paris which is now a nightlight area and still had streamers up from the celebration of St. John in June.

We then see the twin churches with tiny house in between. The first was originally just for monks and then they added the church for regular people next door. Also learn that Porto is one of the world’s largest producers of cork.

We see a hospiyal and the park, jardin da cordaria with its weird trees. They also got a disea so grew fat and mound like before the disease resolved and now they grow normally from these weird bases.

Stopped by the clerigios tower and then went to another viewpoint. And then wrapped back around. Went thru rua de Flores which was designed for commercial use and had jewelers on side and clothing on the other due to sun. (Want sparkly sun on jewelry don’t want it to bleach all your clothes

Over all I liked it and a good way to start the day.

I then stopped I. Sao bento station and then up to the chapel of souls feels a bit like I am collecting blue tile pics but so it goes.

Stopped really quickly at Mercado do bolsa which was fun and then to see the clock! The bells played and at first I thought that was it but then doors opened below it and little came out and turned and did little poses. It was fun. I tried to get the whole thing on video while watching myself

And then to lado b for a franscinca. I know I’m old because I also got a salad with it and it was great. The sandwhich was good but overwhelming. Very very fatty and rich but delicious and I am glad I got one.

After lunch I walk by the clock and it’s almost one so stop and wait for another clock display. And it’s just bells?? So weird. Guess I got super lucky with the 12 display.

Onward to the Porto cathedral. Drop my phone on the cobblestone trying to use my selfie stick in front of it and scratch the screen protector….. oops. Pay 3 euros cash to go inside. There are so many blue tiles! Head up to the balcony of the courtyard with even more blue tiles! Ask people taking of selfie if they want a picture together and then have them take mine #shameless but also mutually beneficial and easier and less obnoxious that the selfie stick so feels great. Head up to the tower which honestly anticlimactic after the clerigios tower and all the viewpoints this morning. Back down and employ same technique to get fun bench pictures with the blue tiles. Head into the chapel and just sit for a moment taking it in. Everything is so gilded it’s crazy. Realize when I leave that I should turned around to look at the stained glass but I didn’t alas. I do wander all of the smaller chambers tho.

And then it’s off to Gaia!

The bridge is a delight and what fun views! Head to park and sit on the bench admiring the river. Head to pink palace atopping at the half rabbit art sculpture. I expected it to be free standing but it’s actually on the corner of a building. I take like four wrong turns and get turned about trying to find it. But finally but following signs into a weirdly empty building I find it. And it’s on to pink and selfies!

The wine tasting are all so close together and I have no idea how to manage the pacing of walking thru this fairly small muesuem with five wine tastings. I guess you are expected to take a lot of time taking selfies. The ball pit is super fun but honestly hurts a little. There’s only like two other guys in the muesuem which is nice because I can just take my time taking pictures but is not great because no one to ask to take mine. Although it is empty enough that I straight up set up my selfie tripod at one of the photo spots haha. Although some of the wall areas actually have kind of bad lighting for picture taking. And the better lit “photo spots” are kind of dumb…

But I get some fun ball pit pics, learn a bunch about rose, drink a bunch of delicious rose… maybe a little too much too fast but otherwise solid 8/10 time and I’m glad I do it. Then I head over to taylor’s port because they have a self guided port cellar tour that you don’t need reservations for and is right next door. I take my time with the beginning of the tour, reading all the signs and taking advantage of the benches for the audio. But boy am I tired. I skip thru the end of the tour which all about taylor’s history and current times because I just really do not care about who was in charge when or about their fancy limited editions. The first part is really interesting. I liked the bit about terracing and how they went from traditional stone terraces to paracartes which are dirt mound terraces that turned out to be bad for the environment and then their new modern terraces. Which are narrow and work with run off patterns. The grape varieties and the pruning growing cycles. And how they still stop the wine with your feet and how it’s all about keeping the skins mixed in well enough to give the wine its flavor so they have special plungers to push the skins back down. Fortifiying the wine is then when they add grape spirits that are clear flavorless and like 77% alcohol and it stops the fermentation process which is how port wines keep more of their sugar. Learned about how the wine gets more aged in smaller casks than in the giant vats. The evaporation is known as angels share which I found cute

Luckily learning about terracing and the aging process took long enough that I felt sober enough to have my port tasting. They had a beautiful balcony with views of the river and bridge and it was magical. It did start drizzling a little but not too bad so I was able to pretend it was romantic.

And then I had a way too long walk across the river and back up the hill in the dark empty streets with a dying phone. Should’ve tried to take the funicular but I survived. And got my fancy hot dog from gazels and it was in fact delicious and what I needed.

Go back to the hotel to recharge (my phone but also me) motivate to go back for a wee bit of shopping but am unprepared to make descions so Wednesday will be shopping day. Gay more Patel de natas for now and breakfast tomorrow. Somehow rally to go to the wine bar across the streeet. Mostly I want to wear my new sweater.

The rose is perfection and the cheese platter solid and I feel precious and European and am having a wonderful time. And I will not be doing the math on what I spent today haha. But I like to enjoy my vacations so here we are. I am looking forward to making fewer decisions tomorrow

#Porto #Portugal #travel diary #day 2 #overly long travel diary #late on posting but not as late as I could be!#adding photos in a browser in order to add 30 #too much power

7 notes · View notes

benilos · 26 days ago

Text

TATA Ch. 5: Achievement Get

The House was alight with activity. Our little ghost hung to the bannister of the stairs, crouched on the first few steps before the landing. She peeked her head between the wooden bars, watching the hubbub taking place in the foyer. Her heel tapped anxiously against the wood of the step below her, voidful eyes trailing along Jeff's form as he was dragged by Jane towards the giant front doors. A sense of anticipation lingered in the air, making Twitch oddly nervous. In the foyer, Jane tightened the straps across Jeff's chest, securing the bulletproof vest and various other tactical gear Twitch had no idea the name of. He was the only one dressed to the nines, as if he were about to enter a warzone. A gun hung from a strap slung across his shoulder, the uniform covered compartments that hit various extra weapons, ammo, what have you. He was nothing of the image of a slit-mouthed teenage boy in a white hoodie. He was dressed like a soldier, someone prepared for government-sanctioned murder. Which is exactly what he was.

"He's our frontliner. He might not be affected by bullets much, but it's just easier to not have to repair his clothes every time he comes back from a mission." EJ had explained earlier. But what she didn't get was why no one else was dressed like that.

Tim was sporting his usual heavy jacket, though the bulge under his shirt indicated he had a bulletproof vest as well. It was hard to tell with Brian, he was too damn big, which made it hard to tell if the bulging under his hoodie and overjacket was a vest or his tits. Toby wore his own denim jacket over a hi-vis orange shirt, sturdy cargo pants and heavy steel-toed boots. His iconic goggles and mask were hanging from his swinging hands, haphazardly flailing through the air and knocking Brian's arm a few times, though Brian didn't seem to care much. He was a beacon amongst them, but that was probably the point. From this angle, she noticed the back pockets of his jeans had bright pink hearts on them.

Cute.

Jane herself wore a very simple but sleek black, long-sleeved dress, with black leggings and simple boots beneath it. She'd foregone the furred coat she usually was seen in when in the House, her long black hair worn loose aside from two bright pink barrettes keeping it out of her face. After she had finished tightening the straps of Jeff's attire, she went to work tying his locs into a very tight bun at the back of his head, allowing his hair to be shoved into the black hood of his clothes beneath the gear.

All five of them bore bright white signs of the Operator on their backs, almost like a target, marking their dangerous nature.

Why would they mark who they were? Seems counterintuitive…

Jack leaned against the doors, reading off something from his clipboard that Twitch couldn't quite make out. He wore a bright green microphone attached to his left ear, and every time he stopped talking, Twitch could feel the fuzz of static in the air, pulsing in a pattern that almost felt like someone was talking.

Must be someone speaking through the headpiece. I can feel that? That's new.

I guess radio waves, Bay says I'm sensitive to them as a poltergeist.

Twitch swung from the corner rail to descend the landing and down a few steps of the lower half of the stairs, remaining in a crouch the whole way. She climbed down the stairs like this, perched on her toes. She sat halfway down the steps, still attached to the railing. While the others continued whatever preparations they had, she peeked between the bars into the alcove next to the stairs, into what looked almost like a hotel's key board. A multitude of hooks hung from cork, some adorned with numbered keys. A bar counter was a few feet in front of it, allowing the space for no more than a chair and a person's legs between the wall and the slab of wood, with a few shelves on the back end of it. In those shelves, a baby blue box peeked out of the darkness. She turned her head back to the group, who seemed to have mostly finished their debriefing. Toby swings around to wave at Twitch, before bouncing forward to shove Jack out of his way and tug the massive doors open.

He made a show of pretending it was difficult for him, slowly leaning into a stance to tug the tough rope tied to the doors, leaning all the way forward and dramatically slipping his feet under him as if he were struggling to keep his footing. A loud bell suddenly rang, bringing Twitch's attention to a large, old rusted bell hanging from the beam above the doors. Tim snatched Toby's collar, tugging him off the rope, flicking him on the head.

"Stop doing that, dipshit." Toby only giggled in response, shoving Tim for good measure after his shirt was let go. Jack only laughs as he watches them, easily shoving the door open with his back against it, walking backwards to open it fully.

Oh, that's gross, how are you able to open it like a fuckin' normal door? That shits gotta be from like, the Hercynian Forest. Ew.

Twitch used the distraction to crawl over the bannister, mumbling to herself how weird it was that Jack could so easily show such a heinous display of strength like it was nothing, and dropped herself over the edge of the stairs into the small alcove. With no hesitation she snatches the box from its spot, shaking it a bit as she turns it about in her hands. It rattled, and she easily found the lip of the lid as she passed her fingers over the side. Inside the box, she found three rusty room keys. Two of them were tagged, worn yellow-dyed leather bearing illegible script. The third only bore the room number, 1a, with a Roman numeral V, for five, next to it.

The four visible hallways from the parlor that had rooms only went up to four, even on the east, odd on the west, the fourth floor being inaccessible from the foyer. She knew where a couple staircases were that led up from the third floor, but most were blocked off, not even by a sign or board. Each of them, halfway up, the stairs were rotten and falling into the floor, creating too far a hole for her to comfortably jump over without falling. Though she didn't need to worry about injuries, she did worry if she phased through the wall she'd just keep falling, so she avoided them. Curiosity wasn't worth living through what she assumed would be a real life version of that feeling of falling in your dreams.

Twitch was rather caught up in her own thoughts, so much so that she didn't notice the eerily quiet but not silent approach of Jack. He softly leaned against the counter, trying not to reveal he was there too soon. He was big enough that it was easy for him to brace his arm on the floor behind her, keeping from bearing his weight too much on the wood and causing it to creak, revealing his approach. Twitch ran her fingers over the worn leather of the other two keys, trying to see the names better, none the wiser.

By the time he was close enough, he was having trouble keeping his laugh back, and while Twitch was engrossed in her snooping, he suddenly asked, in a very neutral tone-

"What are you doing?"

Twitch screamed, swinging the blue box towards the source of the noise, and smacked Jack across the face with it. The keys fell out of the box with a clatter, followed by Jack's rough cackle, clearly unbothered by getting a plastic box to the eyeball. He stood back up straight again, rubbing his nose a little, then looked back down at her.

"No for real, what are you doing back here? Ow, you did actually kinda get me." Jack snickered under his breath as he rubbed the side of his nose again, checking his fingers for blood after. Twitch scoffed, curling her lip at him.

"Snooping. Are these keys to the rooms past the rotten stairs? What's up there?"

"Don't know. Never been over there." He held his hand out, gesturing for her to hand over the keys. She dropped them in his hands, crawling over the counter to sit criss-cross on the top, watching him turn the rusted hunks of metal and leather in his hands every which way. "The House is older, older than me. Bay said it was owned by some cult from a couple centuries ago. Apparently they were all killed in some huge massacre."

"A cult? What kind of cult would exist here? Isn't this place like, some weird liminal space?"

Jack laughs, shaking his head. "Some areas, yes, but Home is a much bigger place than just the woods. Rednels is the southern end of it. There's another barrier forest up north, in the middle is all the settlements. Main one is Pulsar."

"The fuck is Pulsar?"

"Pulsar Queendom, it's this massive city smack dab in the center of this place. We're in the southeastern corner of Rednels Woods. We're one of the smaller settlements, most people in Home avoid this area so it seems deserted a lot of the time. Once you go past Kratus Lake it's a lot more populated." Jack puts the keys back in the box, clicking the lid in place. He knocks the edge of it gently on the counter repeatedly, looking down at Twitch. She stared back up at him, nose scrunched in annoyance.

"What's that face for?"

"I really fucking hate this place."

That got a heartier laugh out of him. "Why? Not the Creepypasta Slender Mansion AU of your dreams?"

"More like my nightmare."

"Why's that?"

"I hate all of you."

He laughed again, chucking the box over to the alcove in the wall behind them, wedging it underneath the board holding all of the hooks. "What'd we do to you, huh?" Jack made his way to the stairs, hopping over the bannister, with Twitch following suit. She tiptoed along the rail, balancing herself with her arms out.

"A lot more than you realize."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

He sighed, leaning on the corner post of the landing, Twitch crouching to keep her balance when he stops. She gripped the carved wood of the post, bringing herself almost nose to nose with Jack. The hollow tensed, eyebrows furrowing at her proximity, but he didn't move. "What's the place for the little ghost today, huh? Sorry there isn't much to entertain you with in our little prison."

"Probably going to try to stab Bay in the face again."

"What exactly is your problem with him, specifically? You have a special type of violent reaction to him but you're always on his tail."

Twitch only stared at him, resting her chin on her hands as she did so. Her finger tapped against the wood, steady and rhythmic. "Have you met the bitch?"

"Fair enough. Well, if you decide trying to mutilate him is too boring, you're welcome to the commons room. It's got a few game systems and a couple bookshelves wwwhhhhyyyy do you have to stank face me at every single thing I say?"

Twitch's face was, in fact, scrunched into a particularly stinky face, but she didn't respond, jumping from her spot on the bannister down to the landing, and bouncing her way up the stairs towards her own hallway. Jack watched her skitter off, running a nail across his lower lip in thought. The earpiece crackled to life.

She's certainly odd.

"Yeah….That's one word to describe her." Jack continued up the opposite side of the stairs, clearing them in two steps. He weaved his way through the dilapidated hallway marked III. This western half of the House was mostly broken past hallway V, which usually led upstairs, but III and I were walkable at the least, though you had to know how to get around various hazardous areas that had been covered in debris. This hallway was mostly covered in split wood and chunks of stone from the inner foundation of the wall. He managed to weave his way through the area with only a few erred turns, making it into the hallway marked I, which had been blocked off from the parlor months ago.

You really think bringing her to us will help you understand her? Do you not feel the air around her? She is dangerous, you know.

"She's a kid."

She is most definitely not. That is a demon.

"She was barely 18 when she died. She's just oddly powerful, most young poltergeists are, Admin." Jack sighed, shoving his way past a fallen metal shelf. This part of the House was weird to him, the rich dark red woods giving way to clinical white tile as he ventured into the seemingly endless section, all surfaces stained with all manner of colors, from red to blue to brown to black. The walls transitioning to broken stone peeking out underneath fallen tiling, the ceiling bearing broken fluorescent bulbs and hanging wires. It was almost like the remnants of a hospital, or a prison, metal doors and bars blocking certain areas off. This hallway was marked by no numeral like the others, and oftentimes it made Jack nauseous coming through here, the walls made him feel like the space was closing in, giving a feeling like the floor would open up and swallow him. This roundabout way of getting into hallway I always fucking sucked.

I don't understand why you let that thing in the House. Didn't you hear what Toby told you? Touching her made him feel pain. That should not happen, especially given he is not human. Nothing should make him feel pain except for the Operator, and even then, the Operator does not hold that kind of control over him like she does. She doesn't even have to try-

"Are you going to give us advice on how to figure her out or are you going to keep lecturing me on how bad a decision this is?"

I'd rather keep lecturing you, because this is fucking stupid, Hemmersen. Stop moving, you're going to make yourself sick.

Jack sighed, bracing himself on the wall for a moment to catch his breath. This area was disorienting as all hell, a seemingly endless expanse but it was the only area he could fit through that would lead him to the control room where he could actually monitor the movements of the Residents that had been sent on missions. This entire area was like a trap, only Toby and Bay were ever able to navigate without getting lost or sick from it.

Turn right at the next split.

Jack nodded, breathing out heavily before pushing off of the wall, staggering to the right as he came to the next split off in the hallway. A metal door marred by massive claw marks greeted him, a small glass window granting him the view of a particularly annoying head of platinum blonde hair. He almost fell into the room, the heavy air lifting from around him as he shoved the door shut. Ben's slightly muffled voice called to him, actively shoving a handful of sour Skittles into his mouth.

"Get lost on your way up here?" The amusement was clear in his voice, earning a huff from the hollow that made him grin. Ben sat in one of the rolling chairs, leaned back with his bare feet hitched up on the counter.

"Get your bright pink toes off my fucking keyboard, dickhead."

Ben's toenails were in fact painted a very bright pink for some reason, and, surely just to be a shithead, he swiped his feet over the keys on the counter, before actually putting them down on the ground. Jack grimaced, grabbing a spray bottle of disinfectant from nearby to spray over the keyboard, and into Ben's face, earning a finger jab into his side. Jack used his shin to shove Ben's chair out of his way, grabbing a heavy chunk of wood that sat nearby to act as his own seat. The computer monitors on the wall currently showed various views of the House and the surrounding woods, some focused directly on the House, others on a few other cabins. He clicked a key a few times, before finally landing on the POVs of the current active Residents.

Jeff's bodycam was currently trained on Tim's back as the group made their way towards the other end of the forest. For now, it was a waiting game until they made it to their destination. Jack rubbed his face, trying to stave off the growing migraine. Unfortunately, said migraine decided to start talking again.

"Question~"

"No."

"I didn't even ask yet!"

"Don't care, shut up."

"Ooooohhhh, you gonna make me?"

"I wish I could cut your tongue out sometimes."

"Hot, what would you use it for?"

"Oh my god, shut up."

"Anyways…What's the job this time?"

"I'd think you'd know given how much you eavesdrop on every single thing that doesn't involve you in this House."

"Oh my god, gag on me, answer the question."

"It's just a popcorn job, nothing different than usual."

"Where at?"

"Fort Wayne, Indiana."

"Twitch is from Indiana."

"I'm aware."

Ben dipped his head to look at Jack, who was still rubbing his head. "Maybe you should find a different way to get over here. Or we should move the monitor room."

"Like you care."

"Which tentacle did Charlie shove up your ass this time?"

Jack sighed again, ignoring him. Ben clicked his tongue, eyeing the monitors. The group had made it to the edge of the woods, the shiny, rippling texture in the air signaling the presence of a Gate. This Gate was one of the few stable ones in the Woods, the only one the Residents had managed to gain control of, using it to enter whatever area they wanted. Jeff's voice crackled over the speakers.

Entering on point 86, south of the Children's Zoo. We good to go?

"Yeah, you're good." Ben responded before Jack, earning another annoyed huff from Jack.

Wasn't asking you, douchebag.

"Yes, you're good to go. It's 10 pm there, shouldn't be anyone nearby but be mindful of guards or patrols. You know the drill." Jack's words were affirmed by a series of beeps from each person's earpieces, and the group went silent as they passed through. The city was quiet, it being a muggy Sunday night in the middle of May. Toby skipped along in front of them, making Tim have to chase him down whenever he'd try to veer off and "escape" into random parks or other peoples' houses. Every so often he repeat this, bolting randomly, Jeff advising Tim to just let him run after the third instance. Tim acquiesced, grumbling to himself as he fumbled through his pockets. Brian's microphone picked up his quiet snicker as he visibly waved the cigarettes at him in view of the cameras.

"Good lord will they ever be able to start a mission without something making them late?" Ben bitched from his seat, earning another spray on the ear in response.

"If you think you can do better, you're welcome to sign up for a job. Maybe actually provide something for the household for once instead of freeloading."

"I own the House dickhead."

"You don't own shit, actually. There's no leasing office in this fucking world and we ain't in Pulsar."

"You're supremely beetchy today."

"It's bitchy, for one. For two, you are the personification of a migraine and I don't like you. That's why I'm being bitchy."

"What crawled up your ass today? Like, damn, yeah I know you don't like me but this outta character, EJ." Ben grinned as he said this, clearly not anything more than amused, but there was a slight flicker of confusion in his eye.

He was right though, Jack took a moment to think. He was being a bit more rude than usual, but maybe it was just what Bay brought out in people. But this felt different than general irritation from having to be forced to remain in Ben's presence. The headache was usual when he trekked through the west wing of the House, but it'd usually go away after just a short while once he was in the monitor room. But he still felt it, pulse pounding behind his eyes.

"Fuck, actually I don't know. Something is really wrong with those hallways, anytime I go in there I feel like I'm walking for hours and my brain is getting scooped out of my skull…" Jack rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying to work some kind of positive feeling back into his face.

"Yeah, there's some kind of spirit in there, but I can't ever find it."

"Charlie mentioned he found some kind of presence. Is it a poltergeist like Twitch?"

"Couldn't tell, it's really hidden. But I guess that's its shtick, turning the hallways into a liminal space."

"Well, tell it to get the fuck out. Ghosts are your wheelhouse."

Ben laughs a little. "Yeah for sure. We'll see if that works."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Toby was finally convinced to stay with the group as they traveled on foot between allies, attached to Jane now by way of his wrist being tied up in the tail of her coat. Jane tapped away on her little blue tablet, her wide black eyes reflecting the light back like her own personal galaxy. She walked the most confidently of all of them, Jeff on guard while Brian and Tim just followed casually. She was the one with all the knowledge of where to go, who to target. She'd be their blanket too, using her weird little power to obscure them from anyone that might hear what hell is brought down upon the unsuspecting fodder…I mean, people.

She finally stopped in front of a building painted a sweet baby blue, and Jane tiptoed her way up the front steps, gliding her fingers over the wrought iron railing. She booped the tiny wrought iron bird sculpture at the top on its little black beak, and sighed wistfully.

"Okay! This one." She perched herself on the railing, refocusing on her tablet. A low hum radiated from it that all of them except Jeff could feel, causing him to eyeball them when all except Jane shivered in disgust. Jeff stood facing the door, counting down on his fingers to himself. The others stood idly, awaiting the cue Jane would give them. A beep sounded from her tablet, and she hummed, dipping back to hand upside down on the rail she sat on, hair barely brushing the dirt on the other side. The door was opened quietly and softly, and the group filed in. Jeff shut the door as quietly as he could, still counting down on his fingers. It was completely silent, the air itself vibrating as the world around the apartment building blurred.

The barrier Jane could make was an odd unique ability of hers, something apparently specific to whatever she was. It blurred the air from inside, and to the outside world not a single thing had changed. It was as if no one could look in, no one could tell that anything was wrong. Even if no one entered or exited for weeks, no one would be able to tell, like it was being ignored by space. Jeff tapped his pointer finger for the last time, and it began.

Whatever Jane does, its effect also makes things inside freakishly quiet, so much so you'd think you could hear your organs. It was too much for Brian and Toby, both of which wore earbuds that would double as microphones to connect them to the others. When not connected, they'd usually play music, making Brian and Toby the more rhythmic killers on a mission.

Those two were the heavy hitters as well, able to take the most damage without balking, Toby the most, for obvious reasons.

Brian and Toby both took the rickety elevator, Tim sat in the lobby, getting comfortable on the rolling chair behind the doorman's desk, while Jeff ascended the stairs. Tim quirked a brow at the small desktop computer, a bit confused at the setup.

"What kind of apartment has a reception desk?" He muttered to the others through his mic.

"Have you not played That's Not My Neighbor? The doorman area? You're literally in a security room." Toby snickered back, the telltale sound of his boot connecting with a door following just after. The reverberation rang outside the earpiece as well, the silence from the weird Jane-veil allowing it to echo.

"I don't play your weird Gen Z games, Toby."

"What the fuck is Gen Z?!"

"People born after like, 2000 I think."

"It's 1997 to 2012. You're always on the internet more than the others, how do you not know what Gen Z means?" Brian's voice was next to respond.

"It doesn't matter! This just looks weird, like what real apartment building has this?"

"Oh my god, you guys are annoying." Jeff barked into his own mic.

"I'm just saying, it makes it look more like a hotel than an apartment."

"Jesus christ."

Despite the annoying banter, the group was good at their job, each with their own, all in perfect placement; Jane was their eyes and ears on the outside, keeping them from being visible with her weird ability; Tim made sure no one could get out the front door, Jane's barrier ensuring no one could get out through the windows, emergency exits or any doors except their own front ones and the elevators to the lobby.

Jeff preferred to scope out the area, taking note how many people were in each unit. He was surprisingly the most graceful of the group despite being the overall largest, able to flit between shadows of the hallway without being seen. An errant tenant had noticed the eerie silence, probably someone who had a bit higher sensitivity than the supernatural, which was a common enough occurance on popcorn jobs. She was taken out with a quiet bullet to the side of the head.

The others often teased Jeff for how extravagant his gear tended to be, despite the reasoning for it being solid enough, they knew it was just because it looked cool. He had a grand collection of weapons on his person, including the semi-automatic engraved with his chosen surname along the body of the rifle, a machete at his back that found a lover in the base of another too-curious tenant's neck, and a classic kitchen cleaver twirled between fingers before it sliced through the air and through some teenager's skull.

Toby was much messier, and much more playful. While Jeff refused to enter the units, Toby made a game of trying to get in. He'd knock a few times, face unobscured and with a sweet, charming smile plastered on it. But those eyes were usually what got people. The unnatural orange-yellow was too obvious, and once in a while someone would be stupid enough to ask if they were contacts, and they'd let their guard down enough to open the door. Which usually was met by a passing bullet in the face from Jeff walking behind Toby as he trailed over to the next unit. Then would follow Toby's bouncing gait into the apartment, and the haunting screams of whoever he found still present. If anyone ran, he was usually the one to chase the fastest, leaving the leftovers for Brian.

Now, Brian… Brian was the worst of them. Even over Toby's playful sadism, of which the two shared, but with Brian it was just creepier. With the pure silence, you could barely tell if the man was breathing. He liked to lock himself into the units with people, usually with more women present, using his size and intimidation factor to his advantage quite often. If there was at least one older man who tried to play hero? Oh, that was a good day for him. A shotgun blast to the face of the man they'd thought would be their savior, and now the barrel, still wet with the man's brains, gliding over the sweet flushed face. What a terror~

Jeff didn't take the same pleasure as the others did, but he hadn't been doing this as long as they had either, so maybe the sadism would creep in the longer they went. Now, it was clear to the majority of the building something bad was happening, and the panic set in. The apartment lit up in noise, echoing clangs and bangs and gunshots. Tim raised a brow towards the elevator, tilting his head a bit to listen. Sure enough, a sweet distant ding greeted him, and he shoved a hand into his pocket. The parade would start soon.

As the elevator opens, he leans and throws a small metal ball under the table, a soft ticking telling him how much time he had to move. As the unnamed tenants pressed out, Tim swung his feet over, propping them up on the table with his back to them. A pop, a sizzle, screams, and a blue laser grid slicing through the table, just barely missing the edge of Tim's elbow and shoe. He waited patiently until the laser's turned off, then stood to regard the damage.

It was fucking disgusting. Burnt skin and viscera stained the floor and the back of the panelling that cut the desk off from the rest of the lobby. Only one of the people was still alive, having managed to throw theirself back enough to only lose a foot to the grid. The rest had all fallen on top of each other, the desperation to move making them all continue to push forward when the others had stopped, not realizing they were pushing each other to their deaths. Tim whistled in admiration at the little metal ball, tossing it up into the air before catching it again.

"Now that, is fucking cool. You see this thing?" He regarded the survivor casually, as if he weren't the devil to them and just another passerby, just another neighbor. "Cutting edge shit right here. Something you'd see in a sci-fi movie or something. That was some Resident Evil shit right there, I'm surprised you managed to avoid it."

"What the fuck is going on? Who are you people?! Why are you doing this?" The usual spiel. Tim chuckled quietly, shoving the ball into his pocket again, before reaching a bit farther back, to pull a heavy metal pipe out from his belt. He tapped the end on the floor idly, seemingly thinking to himself.

"Ya know? It really isn't personal. Just business, kid, sorry. Trust me, I wouldn't be here if I had a choice." He laughed, swinging his hands up in the air, then letting them drop again with a sigh. "Pretty bad career path, huh?"

"Yeah, I'd say so. Why don't you wear a mask like the other ones?"

"I'd rather be held accountable for the things I've done, then hide behind another face."

"Oh." The person shook slightly, finally going into shock from the blood loss caused by their foot being disintegrated. They leaned their head back against the door of the elevator. Tim didn't feel up for much more conversation, and the pipe found its home in the person's skull, letting them go home as well. From the monitor room, Jack shook his head.

"I'm going to be honest, I never understand why people decide to have conversations with their killers."

"Some kind of desire to know why the shit is happening to 'em? Humanize the killer? Who knows?" Bay flicked a Skittle at Jack's head every couple of seconds, Jack completely ignoring him and allowing the Skittles to fall to the floor. "It's a bit dumb, but so are humans, so…"

"Mm…"

The mission was quick enough, nothing to write Home about. But Toby was ecstatic as he bounced out of the elevator doors, absolutely covered in blood and other materials.

"OOOOONNNNEEEE HUNNNNNDDDDRRRREEEEEDDDDDDD!" He shouted, enthusiastically riffing an air guitar in excitement over his new record. "WE GOT ONE HUNDRED PEOPPPLLLLLEEEEE!!!"

"Yeah, 104 is the total. This place was packed, even at the stadium we only got 75." Jeff pulled his mask down to fan his face with a manila folder.

"What's that?" Brian snatched the folder from him, sifting through it. Almost instantaneously he ripped his mask off to stare wide-eyed at what was in his hands. "Dude, these are nudes."

"Oh my god, close that! I didn't fucking know!" Jeff fails to swipe the folder from Brian's hands, who had immediately given them to Toby, who jumped over the blood covered barrier to the desk, perching on the table like a bird.

"Looks like a boudoir shoot!"

"Dude I literally just grabbed it to fucking fan myself, I didn't even look inside!"

"Bullshiiiittttt, you're a perverrrrtttttttt!" Toby pointed and laughed, earning a chase in which Jeff attempted to jump over the table to get at him, but the gore and viscera on the floor made it a bit difficult. Toby giggled in glee as he pushed out of the front door, Jeff quickly regaining his footing to follow.

Brian and Tim walked out much more calmly, Jane humming softly to herself.

"Nobody left! We can go Home." The tablet in her hands chirped, and from Jack's end, his phone lit up with a notification that read "Job Complete."

"Well then. Hopefully after the New York jobs we can have the summer off for once. I'd like us to not have to do this shit all fucking year again." Jack stood, bending back and groaning in pointed satisfaction at the cracking his spine rewarded him with.

"Yeah, maybe the government should start culling their people on their own instead of sending ghosts and inhuman freaks." Bay giggled from his seat.

"Says an inhuman freak?"

"God, keep talking dirty to me."

"Please die."

Bay cackled, swiveling the chair around so he could stand. "Keep an eye on Twitch, she's snooping around the third floor."

"Why is she on the third floor?"

"Those keys she found. You didn't exactly put them away."

"God fucking damnit."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tiny feet pattered quickly through the hall, tiptoeing over the debris and dust. In her hands, Twitch clutched the worn keys, searching for the door to go with them. Resonating clicks made her flinch as she shoved the keys without a legible number into each door on her way to the westernmost side of the building, barreling her way through the I hallway with no care to the noise she was making. Even as she slammed against the door that led to the monitor room, she continued on her loud search for the doors these magic keys could open. The door to the monitor room swings open after her assault on the handle, the household headache leaning out of it to bark at her.

"What the fuck are you doing, Twitch?!"

Twitch swings her head back to regard the beast with disgust.

"Snooping through your shit, slut."

Bay giggles at her, kicking his foot out to the side in a stupid pose. "Kay! Don't fall through the floor!" The door slams shut behind him.

"God I hope he dies."

She continues on her little adventure. This time, with no interruptions this far into the more dangerous parts of the House, she is free to stick her little hands where they should not go, even managing to pry a few of the doors open without a key. Though, that resulted in her coming across a room filled with marble statues that were facing directly towards one dark corner of the room.

Yeah, not going into that shitshow.

She shut the door much tighter behind her.

She finally meets the stone hallways at the very side of the House, which looked much more akin to something you'd see in a medieval castle than a wooden mansion. Though, most of this house looked like Cabin in the Woods vomited on Game of Thrones in a drunken brawl, so that wasn't too surprising. She rose on her toes to look out the large stained glass window.

Why does this look like High Hrothgar?

I have no clue what that is, but with a name like that it's probably rather similar. She waits a moment, staring out a clear pane onto the extending forest. The Matheson House itself apparently sat at an angle, facing southwest to the center of Rednels, the Woods itself being the southernmost end of this patch of land. She did not know if there was anything else past the continent they were on, but she didn't really care. Now, her eyes stood fixated on a massive lake to the north, somehow visible to her despite only being on the first floor. It was like that on the other floors, no matter the window you looked out of, unless you were on the bottom floor you'd be able to see for miles in whatever direction you were looking. Charlie mentioned something about "a great vantage point no matter where you are", but it was just confusing to the little ghost.

She hopped down, pattering her way towards the back end of the house, northeast. The stone portions of the house were much more stable than the wooden, despite looking much older. From here, she could actually reach the stairway labeled V, which would hopefully reach far enough up for her to get up to the third floor. She crawled her way up slowly, testing each step. This hallway was jarringly wooden, a few pieces of errant metal railing jutting out of the wall where they'd try to build it over, to make what was there more safe. In some spots, the old worn stone was visible, chipped and disintegrating in the darkness. She was lucky enough, it was not a long staircase, spiraling up to the third floor in a dizzying turn.

She only trips once, earning the empty air a shriek and the smack of both her knee and palms on the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut, ready to fall through the floor, but as her hands and kneecap throbbed she sighed in relief, as well as confusion as to why her body would still be feeling that.

None of this ghost shit makes sense. One minute I have a hatchet phasing through my neck, the next my knee hurts cause I slammed it into the ground. What the fuck…fuck this…fuck-FUCK!

She yells, smacking her hands against the ground over and over. Something is wanting to snap, but it doesn't. She sighs, pushing herself up onto her feet again. She stares down the hall, eyeballing a few large doors that would permit her access into the third floor's living quarters. Most of these rooms were blocked off due to the decrepit state of this side of the House, but the hallway closest to the door seemed wellkept enough that it wasn't boarded up.

She slides her hands in a line through the dust along the wall, flicking it off her finger as she reaches the first door. This one was 4b, so she continued trailing along, skipping diagonally over to the other side after she reached 2b, making the next door the sought-after 1a. She jammed the key marked by the same number into the door's keyhole, hesitating a moment before she turned it, slowly creaking the door open.

It made her feel as if she were in her own horror movie, like she wasn't already. The creak in the stale air, how it echoed on the walls. The stained wood was the same dark cherry as the rest of the House, and the entire room was completely empty, only a single brazier on the right side. Two windows sat on the back wall from the door, nestled in their own alcoves on either side of the wall that jutted out closer to where she now stood. On it, was a large mirror with deep reddish-golden filigree, the mirror itself a deep black.

Oooohhh, obsidian mirror… That's fucking creepy.

Twitch slowly crept towards the mirror, eyeing the sun and moon motif that sat in a large circle at the bottom of the mirror. It was vaguely familiar, but she wasn't sure where she saw it before. The mirror was reflective, but barely, the dim lighting and dark material of the mirror making it hard for her to see her own silhouette. All it came out to be was a black blob. She huffed, swiping her arm over the glassy surface, trying to rub away any dust with her sleeve.

As she did so, a weird feeling crept over her. Something like anxiety, something she was well familiar with, but hadn't felt in the same capacity since she died. Ever since coming here, all her feelings were muted, despite her dramatic reactions to each one, and she could never feel anything more than blank anger for very long periods of time. Now this, this felt real. This felt like home to her. The fear and nausea creeping up through her throat, now she could only feel this when Ben laid on her, for short spurts. This wouldn't leave, it burnt her esophagus, it made her belly hurt in the core. She stared at the mirror, into it, through it.

The room lurched, and it took her a second to realize what she was looking at. Now, she could see her reflection, at least she thought it was hers. The room around her wavered again, and it felt like her head had turned into her own personal movie. Her eyes hurt, muscle at the back straining as they rolled into her head, then suddenly focused forward again, only to repeat that movement again and again until it all came into focus.

Now she was locked in place. She felt the glass against her fingers, until suddenly it was gone, only open air. A hand inches from a head of unfamiliar hair. She could surely reach, but she felt the glass stop her again. Faces she didn't know moved, muted words not yet reaching her ears. She still couldn't fully focus, the faces not slotting together the way they should. She gripped the rim of the mirror, and the world slowed again.

A head of black hair leaned close to where she stood, elbow perched on a dresser. Sleek and long, if she were a little closer Twitch could grab it and bash her face into the glass. But the glass itself was the problem, not letting her get any closer. There were three people all sitting around a ouija board, the fourth standing obliviously in front of Twitch. How could none of them see her when they were all looking right at this lady?

The majority of the group was the kind of goth you saw in movies about goth people who did witchcraft. Complete with a ouija board between them, Twitch really felt like she was the villain of her own horror movie. One of the people sitting stood out though, with strawberry blonde hair and closer to the definition of the preps who would bully kids like this. But nothing about her felt mean. She drew Twitch's eye the most, dressed in only a sweatshirt and pajama shorts and animatedly arguing with the person next to her, some brunette facing away from Twitch, so she couldn't see their face. Finally, the girl in front of the dresser moved, sitting down in the free spot around the ouija board.

Twitch tried to turn her head, looking more around the room, and caught sight of a mirror. In its reflection, she saw the dresser that was in front of her, but couldn't see herself. Instead, there was the dresser mirror on the wall behind it, completely blank of her image at first. When she moved again, she could see a vague wisp of herself, but it wasn't clear. Suddenly, she felt her body get forced forward, and now, she was looking out at the dresser itself, no longer confined to the view of the dresser. From this new vantage point, she could see the brunette's face.

She still couldn't hear them, but she did watch as the brunette continued to speak. After a few moments, a very very familiar little girl appeared next to them, complete with sweet pink dress and haunted green eyes. Twitch had yet to see her own Sally; she wondered if that was the one from here. It didn't seem like these people could see her, which was likely the reason for the ouija board. The sweet-faced blonde seemed to be aware of her though, her head tilted in the direction of Sally's voice any time her mouth moved, but the other three focused heavily on the ouija board.

Twitch watched breathlessly, desperately wanting to hear what they were saying. She pressed her face against the glass, fingers clawing into the surface as much as she could manage. What was this? Some kind of portal into another world? Why could she see this?

It bothered her greatly, especially when she couldn't hear what was going on. She couldn't tell where this was, obviously it was back in the normal people world, or worlds, but she didn't know if this was hers. The others had said there are multiple worlds accessible from here. But where is this? Let her in. Let her hear.

Let me in, let me hear-

As if to answer her prayers, something clicked in her head, and a din broke through to her ears. The ambient air of the room buzzed through as if clogged ears had been cleared. Now she could hear the voices. Sweet and soft, like a bell on air, was the voice that came from Sally. She sounded as ghostly as you'd expect, barely audible under the shrieky din from the two girls who were currently freaking out at the connection to the ghost.

The blonde and brunette shared a look, and before Twitch can understand what's being said, the blonde and two black-haired girls leave the room, leaving just the brunette alone with the board.

Aren't you not surprised to talk with a ouija board alone?

Sally's image wavered, but she remained close to the brunette as something in the room shifted. Twitch's breath hitched as the new voice trickled through. It was a low voice, smoother than the raspy bark that spit its way out of the brunette's throat half the time. But it trickled on the air the same way Sally's did, like if you breathed too loudly you wouldn't be able to hear it. She heard its words before she saw it, pressing her face harder to the glass as she tried to focus her eyes.

It was an intense sight, something that made her nauseous. At first glance it was some lithe body crawling its way into the space, sliding into a seat across from the brunette. A head of emerald green hair, she couldn't see its face, but all around it the air looked like it was tearing itself apart. Blue and green bled into itself, what looked like a bunch of eyes hovered around the air of whoever the new arrival was. Phantom arms stuck out from its back, connected by draping wires that sparked violently, and she pressed harder into the glass as that perfect anxiety creeped back in.

She leaned, trying to chase the sudden splatter of intense green and blue, and she tripped back onto the dresser, and for a second she thought she could feel the wood of the dresser under her hands, and she thought those hundreds of eyes laid their gaze upon her. But it was the glass, and she was still ignored.

It was a religious experience for her, the desperation she felt, something she thought she'd left behind. She knew it in the back of her mind but she tried so hard to ignore it. Its face was a memory only, but now it was alive again. She dug her nails into the smooth surface of the mirror, grinding her teeth wildly as she pushed her forehead forward again to stare. She didn't care what conversation they were having, nothing really mattered right now, it had spoken once and she needed to hear it again. Then she heard the name that confirmed it for her, tripping nervously from the brunette's lips, and her fist collided with the glass.

Another one. Another BEN. Another one, another one another one another one another one anotheroneanotheroneonnanotheranotheranotheranother-

Her head cracked against the floor with an unceremonious thud. Her chest had lit up in that coveted fear, the nausea finally winning as she quickly turned on her side to violently vomit out the watery tar that was the only liquid that ever left her body anymore. She laid on her side, barely holding her body up slightly with one arm as she continued to wretch what felt like a neverending deluge of muck.

It was really only a few minutes, but it was certainly exhausting. Twitch barely managed to shove over to the other side, pushing herself away from the pile of viscera enough to not lay in it as she curled up on the ground in a fetal position. Everything in her head fought itself, conflicting thoughts and confusion and pure fucking anger.

Another one. Another BEN. So not this place. Not my place. Right? Or is he mine? He should be mine, he's mine right? Not this BEN. Not the BEN here. I need…What do I need? He is not here why is he not here I am right here he should be here not there where is he…

She blinked a few times, trying to focus on one thing at a time. The thought of his face was easiest, remember every little detail you can. Green hair, wide eyes glaring at the person across from him. Chin propped on his hand which rested on his knee, what color were his eyes?

She couldn't remember now. But now it was easier, she definitely saw the eyes around him look at her. Like he reacted to her, he must have known she was there.

Right? He knew I was there. He knows me, he supposed to know me. Yes, he saw me he knows I was there. He'ssupposedtobeherewhyishenothereIknowhewantstobehereIamhereHeshouldbehere-

"Told you she needed to be watched."

Achievement Get: Mandated Massacre

Kill over 100 people in one mission.

Achievement Get: Cornfield Cullings

Complete 10 missions in Indiana, USA, without leaving any survivors.

Achievement Get: Distorted Dreamer

Fail to fight the childhood delusions triggered by the mirror.

#creepypasta #creepypasta au #creepypasta oc #masky #hoodie #ticci toby #jane the killer #jeff the killer #slenderman #eyeless jack #ben drowned #twitch circuit #lillian harris #writing #original characters #tcu #three circuits unending

3 notes · View notes