#I never had that impressive of a collection | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reverieblondie · 3 days ago

Text

The Dark Prince: Chapter 3, The Morning After

Paring- Dark Prince Rolan x Blessed Princess F!Tav

Warnings- 18+ MDNI, will include violence and smut, and two pinning idiots.

Summary: Tavs first night in Waldemar is not like she expected... So the next day she's not in the best of moods when it comes to her new husband. maybe they should talk about it...or not.

A/N: Its here!! I hope you are as excited as me and Sweet anon are! (huge shout out for them for helping me with the editing and helping me with parts I just could not get right! they are a life saver!) I hope you enjoy!

<- Chapter 2

Vignette 1: Retribution (Do you want a short read about the others exploring Waldermar? Well here you go!)

He never came...

Tav slumps her head within her hands and groans.

She had been agonizing over making the right first impression ever since Sivailon had agreed to the Dark Prince's proposal. She had forgone sleep and leisure, even during what would be the final days she had left to spend in her home and among familiar faces, to instead learn more about the kingdom she was to help rule. She had sat and smiled and held her tongue all evening in the face of his blatant indifference and disregard towards her and now he hadn’t even bothered showing up to consummate the marriage he had wanted!

Is this to be a sexless marriage? Was the Dark King just shy? Did he maybe want to take things slow?

She is certain they could figure out something to make this work if only he would just talk to her!

An explanation, an agreement to discuss matters at a later time, she'd even take a note under the door if it meant getting so much as an inkling on what to expect.

Three sharp knocks interrupt roiling thoughts. A part of her wonders if it is the Dark King but...

"My Lady? May we come in?” Shadowheart's voice chimes through the door.

There is the sound of movement quickly followed by three more knocks,

—though it would be more accurate to call it bangs—on the door.

"Make yourself decent, dark usurper!" Lae'zel demanded, "I have no qualms wrenching this door from its frame!”

As Tav hurriedly wrapped one of the blankets around herself, she could hear what sounded like Wyll's voice trying to calm down his fellow knight. Rising to her feet and not sparing another thought towards how she might appear, she opened the door to be greeted by each of her friends wearing their own faces of concern.

Shadowheart attempted to school her expression as she gave her fellow selûnite a once over, “It seems you had a restless night…"

"He didn’t show." Tav blurted out curtly, her fingers burying themselves further into the blanket she clutched around her.

Her court exchanged looks of collective confusion before Shadowheart tried to tactfully voice it, “You didn't see him after we left?"

"No, I didn't see him." Tav snapped, turning on her heels and striding back into her room as she felt her frustration about to spill over, "The Dark Prick never came!”

Shadowheart immediately rushed over to her friend, equal parts surprised and concerned. Lae’zel smirked at seeing a glimpse of Tav's fierceness again before the githyanki pulled Wyll into the room with them when her fellow knight hesitated between entering or waiting outside the room. Wyll began to bring up concerns about propriety and decorum, causing a humorless laugh to rip from Tav's throat before she could stop it. Shooting him an apologetic glance, she made her way behind the changing screen as Shadowheart began gathering clothing and various other supplies to help the new Queen get ready.

"You two can wait outside if you want. Though I doubt it would make much difference to him either way." Tav called to her knights, dropping her blanket and kicking it to the side with lingering irritation before yanking off her slip, "And if he doesn't like it, then he can march his tail down here and talk to me about it himself."

There was a moment of silence before she heard the door click shut.

"That he can." came Wyll's soft spoken reply, the faint smile audible in his words as was Lae'zel's noise of agreement.

Tav couldn't help but smile lightly herself, once again grateful to have such loyal friends with her now. Just knowing that they were here with her, here for her, helped ease the storm of her emotions to a more manageable level.

It was replaced with a momentary flash of frantic embarrassment when she rushed to change her ruined underwear. The evidence of that damned haunting, irritating, delicious dream is swapped out and thrown in the hamper before Shadowheart joins her behind the changing screen. They'd had a dress made of the two kingdoms' colors for Tav's first day in Waldemar... but maybe that one would have to wait for a different time. A dress of soft blue with lilac flowers ebroed on the skirt was selected instead.

Shadowheart helps pull the dress over Tav's head before the lady-in-waiting started to lace it up. There is a comfortable silence in the room as Tav grabs a brush, running it through her hair as she begins to get her thoughts back in order. After finish with the dress, Shadowheart teasingly swats the Queen's hands aside to take over. Eventually, they both exited from behind the changing screen as the Queen placed the royal circlet upon her brow with a determined smile. "Shall we head to breakfast?” Tav proposed before pulling a somewhat exaggerated face, "Well... Assuming we can find our way there after last night..."

Lae'zel began listing off the most efficient routes she'd found to reach the locations where a meal would likely be served while Wyll tried to give Tav a chiding look for her comment despite clearly trying to fight back his amused smile. Shadowheart bumped the two knights away from the door before opening it to allow them through. As they exit the grand room, the door across from them on the opposite side of the hall is gently creaked open.

Tav paused thinking it could be Alfira or perhaps one of the other tieflings they'd seen last night, but what she sees makes her blood run cold. A woman with firey orange hair that contrasts her gray skin, which her dark dress showed a generous amount of, slinks out of the room, a spaded tail curling gracefully behind her as she stretched her vast wings and turned her horned head to regard the small audience. The woman—no, the fiend—smirked, looking Tav up and down then her dark eyes seem to move past Tav and that smile grows wider.

"My, I didn’t expect he would put you so close to his room.” The fiend says in an almost sing-song voice, wiping the corner of her mouth with a thumb as she approaches.

"His room... ?" Tav tries to ignore the cold, sinking feeling in her chest.

"Why, the King's room, of course." the fiend answered with barely veiled condescension, "Whose else would it be? Surely his wife should know that."

It was no secret that the usurper of Waldemar had devils in his court but this... In his room?

"Quite bold of you to have such a parade leave your private chambers in the morning." the devil continued, "It could cause a rather... scandalous impression should the wrong person catch wind of it."

"Enough!” Wyll snapped, inserting himself between them, "If you have something to tell the Queen, then speak plainly and with respect."

"At ease, loyal pup,” She smirked, briefly revealing her pointed teeth. “I’m only teasing.”

Lae'zel made a point to place herself in such a way that the fiend could see the githyanki's blade that was being partially drawn from its sheath. However, the devil didn't seem to react to this; instead letting her eyes slide back to Tav.

"I am Mizora—one of the King's personal advisors." the stranger introduced herself, "Forgive any impoliteness you perceived on my behalf. It feels as though I already know you all so well."

Mizora slowly inched closer. Tav's eyes never left the fiend, but she could still feel as Shadowheart further tensed beside her.

"Of course, everyone knows you, Tav. Then her little handmaiden Shadowheart and your novel gith knight Lae’zel." Mizora listed, the saccharine sweetness oozing from her words belied by the uncomfortably sharp anticipation in her eyes, "And lastly Wyll Ravenguard, a knight of noble blood and even more noble spirit. Quite intriguing, I must say.”

The fiend leans in closer towards him and Tav is struck by the overwhelming need to get this devil's attention away from her friend.

"Is the King in his room?” she blurts out, drawing Mizora's focus from the knight.

"Not currently." the devil hummed, "I had been hoping to have a... private meeting with him about some things."

"Oh?" Tav asked, fighting to keep her voice level and to not get caught on what this fiend might be implying—that could be dealt with later when there wasn't a devil far too close to herself and her friends.

"The King is quite the avid study, even among wizards. He likes to know things and encourages his court to do the same. He is a very busy man. No time or patience for interruptions or those who can't contribute." Mizora continued, "But listen to me prattle on. What was it that you needed from him, hm? I'm sure I could pass along the message for you."

I don't trust you to pass me in the hallway, much less to pass along a message.

Tav swallowed, praying silently to Selûne that she did not reveal her disquieted agitation in front of this devil, "I was hoping to have breakfast with him. Share our first meal together.”

Mizora made a show of trying to stifle her laughter before a more familiar voice cut in from down the hall.

"Mizora!" They all turned to see Alfira walking towards them with haste, her posture and polite smile as tight and strained as the enthusiasm in her voice, "I see you've met the new Queen!"

The male tiefling the King had hugged last night followed close behind Alfira's heels. Unlike the bard he stood beside, his anxious, searching gaze silently jumped between them all.

“Alfira, how good of you to finally arrive." Mizora barely even spared the two tieflings a glance, suddenly seeming far less interested in the conversation, "We were just discussing what the Queen plans to do this day. I felt it only appropriate that I take the opportunity to properly introduce myself and offer my assistance, seeing as you were running late."

"How thoughtful of you..." the bard replied, expression still tight as her eyes darted between Tav and the fiend.

"Of course! And I couldn’t help but get so… enthralled with the conversation. Newlyweds are so precious with their little ideas, after all. She was telling me of her hope to share a meal with the King when you joined us.” The devil hummed, a small smirk returning to her lips as she looked Alfira up and down. "But, now that you're here, I suppose I'd best leave your job to you and attend to my own. Ta-ta!"

With a coy wave of her hand, a darkness rippled across Mizora's form, quickly enveloping her before she vanished with a small burst of sparks and embers. The two tieflings didn't so much as flinch—though Alfira continued to stare silently at where the fiend had been even after the ciders disappeared. The male teifling looks between the bard and Tav.

He eventually let out a slightly nervous chuckle and gave Tav a weak but warm smile, “Devils, right?"

“It's... definitely company we're unaccustomed to." Tav admitted.

"I guess I should finally make my introduction since everyone else seems to keep beating me to it. I’m Cal," he walked forward with his hand outstretched, "Rolan's brother."

Wait, brother?

Tav resist the urge for her jaw to drop as she looks at the tiefling—his square jaw, dark dusty colored hair, and fiery orange eyes.

Cal gives a much more genuine smile and light hearted chuckle, “Judging from your expression, I’m guessing Rolan hasn't mentioned us.”

Us?

Before Tav can ask Cal for clarification, Alfria cleared her throat and bowed before Tav and her court, “I'm so sorry for being late, your Majesty. Please, forgive me.”

"There's nothing to forgive. I'm sure you were simply busy with other matters." Tav answered, though the bard didn't seem entirely reassured.

"Thank you, your Majesty." Alfira straightened, her hands clasped behind her back, “I had meant to ask if there was anything you may need. I know the majority of your belongings have yet to arrive, so I would be happy to find suitable replacements for you until then.”

Tav tilted her head, considering for a moment. The room she had been gifted was well supplied with various amenities. Even if it still didn't quite feel like her own space just yet, most of what she really needed was already there except for her personal shrine to Selûne.

“I suppose... Are there any silver vessels I could keep in my room for a time? Cups, chalices, goblets, and such." Tav eventually asked, before adding on, "And perhaps a jug of milk, if there is a way to keep it from spoiling."

Alfira blinks in confusion before hastily dipping into another bow, “Of course, your Majesty! Right away!”

With that, the bard was off with surprising speed. Soon she had disappeared around the corner in a rush of color and jingles, leaving Cal, Tav, and her court alone in the hallway.

After a moment, Tav felt a light tap on her shoulder. Looking towards it, she found Shadowheart regarding her with a slightly pinched expression.

"My Lady, we still don’t know how to reach the dining hall from here... or even if that is where we are to go."

Tav looked from her, then back down the hallway where the closest thing they'd had to a guide was now long gone, before finally looking towards Lae'zel in hopes that the knight had found some indication of where they should go. The githyanki approached Cal, her very presence seeming to command his attention.

"You, one who stares," she demanded, "You will escort us where we must go."

“Ha, right of course! It's this way.” he says a bit shyly before waving for the group to follow him, still laughing slightly to himself, "I'm just glad you didn't want to kick my tail again. It's too early for that."

Tav feels her eyes widen slightly as she looks from her new brother-in-law to Lae’zel, neither of whom seemed too thrown off by the statement. She was clearly missing something here but Tav just shook her head; the Queen still needed to worry about getting a handle on her own relationships here—especially that between her and her new husband. So long as nobody seemed distressed or perturbed, concerning herself with the relationships of others would have to wait.

Turns out that the dining hall was not as nearly confusing to get to as Tav had dreaded. The route Cal brought them down was mildly lengthy but still relatively straightforward—at least compared to the tour they'd been given last night.

Like everything else, it would take time to grow accustomed to, but their walk allowed Tav to begin learning more about Cal. Apparently he was a chancellor in his brother's court. Though Cal admitted he didn’t exactly get to help Rolan handle matters of politics or the whole kingdom, the younger tiefling was in charge of the various day-to-day operations around the castle and making sure those could be carried out smoothly.

"I basically handle the smaller scale things Rolan doesn't want to be bothered with." Cal says, fondly rolling his eyes, "I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Even if it can keep me pretty busy."

This was proven when, right as their group arrived at the dining hall, Cal ended up being pulled away by a few servants who needed him.

With an apology and a bow he promised he would have to join them for breakfast at a different time.

"I don’t remember the last time we all had a meal together, but it's something we should definitely try now that you're here.” the tiefling smiled, "I’m sure we'll have plenty of time to chat, considering you're family now.”

Those words left Tav with her own smile. Cal had been so warm and welcoming, and when he spoke of his brother it was with such fondness. It was apparent how much he truly loves his brother. While Tav doubts any affection will ever bloom between herself and her husband, she is now slightly more hopeful for building mutual respect in their marriage. If Cal can speak of his brother in such high regard, then the Dark King certainly couldn't be all bad.

As Tav pauses before the two dark colored doors, she feels her heart thumping in her chest. Despite last night, she still wants this to go well. Taking a steadying breath, she reminds herself that this could still be the start of prosperous partnership... sneering vampire spawn and devils aside...

Just be open-minded and polite.

Shadowheart waits until Tav gives her a nod before opening the doors. The Queen keeps a smile on her face as the room is revealed to her. That smile falters when she sees that the seats lining the long dining table are all empty. Her brows furrowed as she walked in further, eyes glancing about the space.

There is food, lit chandeliers and candelabras, a few guards, and various decorations.

Yet there is no sign of her husband.

"Ah, your Majesty!” an enthusiastic voice called from the far side of the room.

Coming in through the servants' entrance, Tav sees a man with longish brown hair and a single earring in his left ear. In his hand, he holds a plate of food that he quickly places down as he approaches.

"The moon-blessed, divine soul sorcerer! Tav of Sivailon! Queen of Waldemar! A true pleasure to at last make your acquaintance." he began, reaching out and shaking Tav's hand, "You have already become a popular topic in the castle, I will have you know. Honestly can’t go anywhere without overhearing some discussion or other about you. I, for one, am happy to have you here.”

Tav listens as carefully as she can to the man and his rambling. It seems like everyone but the Dark King is friendly here.

The man's eager smile is framed by a short beard, a smile that takes on a hint of embarrassment when the human's dark eyes glance at the faces of Tav and her court to see their lost expressions, “Oh! Right, I suppose I skipped a few steps in making introductions. Apologies, I'm usually better at this. I'm Gale, magister of Waldemar and, if I dare say, a trusted member of the King's court. Us wizards like to keep close, you know.”

Gale gives Tav a bow that she welcomes with a smile and a curtsy of her own, “It's a pleasure to meet you. I do not intend to be dismissive, but..."

"Where is the Dark King?” Shadowheart finished for her bluntly, sparing Tav from having to ask after her husband, again.

Gale looks a bit surprised at the lady-in-waiting's curt interjection, but only for a moment, “Ah, yes! King Rolan has already gotten his breakfast and begun to go about his duties. He was rather eager to resume after returning last night—wanted to be filled in on every little thing that happened while he was away—so I can hardly say it's a surprise that mindset carried over to this morning."

Tav once again feels her heart sink in disappointment.

"Ah- However, I was asked to join you, lest you be left to believe you've married into a most ill-mannered kingdom. I, for one, happen to be very grateful for this chance to make you and your court's acquaintance." Gale quickly pressed on, his words slightly rushed as he attempted to keep the air positive, "I've even asked Tara to join us, if she can spare the time. But, should she decide to grace us with her presence, I can assure you this... ah... hiccup in your day will be swiftly forgotten."

"It's not the kingdom that is ill-mannered." Tav heard Shadowheart grumble under her breath as she pulled out a chair for her Lady.

As Tav sat, a small handful of servants wasted no time in placing various foods and dishes before the Queen—not even giving her a chance to examine the options herself before setting her plate. Tav did her best to remain unbothered at yet another choice seemingly being made for her, even one as simple as this; the servants were likely just following instructions anyway.

"So what duties is the King seeing to this morning?" Tav began, plucking an orange slice from a small artfully arranged fruit platter, "I would very much like to know if it's something I could be invited to accompany him with. Or are there other matters that I could instead attend to?"

Though Tav believes she had chosen her words with the utmost of care, Gale appears to nearly choke on his food, much to the Queen's surprise and mild alarm.

"Urm- Right. Your duties... Well, you see... um..." Gale adjusted in his chair, probably trying to get his thoughts in order and regain his composure, but Tav could recognize the expression of someone mulling over how to deliver information they worried would be poorly received. The interaction leaves Lae'zel and Shadowheart to share a questioning glance before the lady-in-waiting pours a goblet of water for the wizard upon noticing the Queen's look of concern. Gale gratefully accepted the goblet with a quick nod of thanks, downing the water before clearing his throat.

However, Gale's chance to speak was promptly cut off with the sound of an exasperated sigh from Shadowheart. “If you say that the King decided she needs more time to adjust, then you will be the first to learn I do not share my Lady's patiences.”

Gale simply stared at Shadowheart with surprise for a moment before his expression fell into a somewhat pensive smile, his eyes not stern but with a certain warmth, "If I may be honest, I personally believe it is the King who needs the time to adjust. He is... Well, to say it plainly, the man can be a bit of a control freak—finds it difficult to delegate tasks rather than trying to take care of it all himself."

He should have thought of that before proposing marriage and co-rulership...

Tav's thoughts must have shown on her face, as the wizard gave her a sympathetic yet knowing half smile, “Grace him with your patience, your Majesty. Besides, with no duties, you are free to explore to your heart's content! I heard you had... an interesting tour of the castle last night, but we have a vast library, the gardens and the palace grounds are rather beautiful to behold this time of year, and then there are the training grounds where you can watch Zevlor and Karlach train our soldiers into top shape-"

“You will tell us more about these training grounds, wizard." Lae'zel declared, the mention of them having instantly caught the githyanki's attention and interest.

"You will find it on the far right of the castle grounds a little ways off from the gardens. Needless to say, you're all welcomed to use and practice there as you like." Gale answered, appearing mostly unfazed by Lae'zel's interjections and instead seeming pleased with having caught at least one person's interest, "If you're ever having trouble finding suitable sparring partners, then I could always see about conjuring up a few opponents. Alternatively, if I happen to be unavailable, you could ask Leon for the same—assuming you're able to find where the sorcerer is lurking about.”

A fellow sorcerer?!

Tav tried to contain her excitement at the news, as she had rarely gotten the chance to meet other sorcerers in the past. Though she had always wanted to become better practiced with her magic, she could only teach herself so much—even with all the resources at her disposal in Sivailon. Perhaps she could learn from Leon? Or at the very least she might meet someone else who shares some of her experiences.

Trying not to appear overeager, Tav softly cleared her throat, “I look forward to meeting Leon; I feel we would have much to discuss.”

"Well, I'd be more than happy to give you two a proper introduction. At this time of day, he's probably tucked himself away in our shared study, in his quarters, or somewhere among the shelves of the castle's library. I'll warn that we might have a hard time finding him in that last one, as it is quite vast." Gale smiled, "Though there is also a chance we'll cross paths with Rolan while there. The King is quite the avid reader. Always so eager to learn.”

Unless it's about his wife.

The bitter thought rose unbidden and unwelcome in Tav's mind as she fought to keep her expression and voice from betraying her, "I think we walked past the library a few times last night while Alfira was giving us our tour, though we never actually entered it.”

Gale let out another small chuckle, though the Queen couldn't tell if it was forced, nervous, or genuine, "While I admit I'm somewhat guilty of losing track of time there myself, that place might as well be an extension to Rolan's study."

Tav lifted a cup to her mouth, stalling and hoping to hide her disquiet from the wizard who was clearly trying to be nothing but kind and didn't deserve to deal with her frustration. It was almost a relief when a refined voice cut through the air, pulling away everyone’s attention.

"His Majesty's study?" the new voice asked, somewhat incredulously, "More like a second bedroom, though you're hardly much better, Mr. Dekarios, with how often I've caught you asleep there.”

While Tav and her court looked around for the owner of this new voice, Gale's expression lit up as he looked down at something just behind his chair.

"Tara! You made it!"

Everyone turned back in time to see a green-eyed calico cat leaping upon the backrest of Gale's chair, a pair of feathered wings lightly fluttering to steady the landing before folding neatly against the creature's back.

If she hadn't known her fellow selûnite so well, Tav would have been startled when Shadowheart excitedly grasped her hand at the sight.

"A tressym..." the cleric eagerly began to explain, "Brilliant creatures with magical abilities to match.”

"Brilliant? Oh, my!" the tressym—Tara—perked up, that refined voice evidently coming from her and now sounding pleasantly surprised, "How delightful to meet someone else with such fine taste. Mr. Dekarios, she has such an astute sense for character. You know what I say about a woman who can sense character!"

At that Gale's eyes widened slightly, flicking from the tressym to Shadowheart before he somewhat ducked his head, “Yes, Tara, you've mentioned it… Multiple times, might I add."

“Well, if you actually listened more often, then I would have no need to remind you so often.”

"Tara, must we do this now?" Gale lightly chuckled, dragging a hand down his face, which now seemed to be a tad flushed, "Surely it can wait until after our new friends here-"

"Oh, don't delay on our behalf." Shadowheart smirked, voice tinted with mirth and the smallest amount of mischief, "Besides, it sounds like you wouldn’t have to do this now if you just listened to her, Gale.”

Tav felt bad for wanting to laugh at the poor wizard's predicament. It seemed her lady-in-waiting was already finding a new furry friend in Tara, but the Queen still didn't miss the way Shadowheart's hand twitched as the cleric restrained herself from reaching out to pet the tressym from across the table.

"Tara," Gale tried again, awkwardly gesturing toward Tav, "We are in front of the Queen.”

Fur fluffing out, Tara stretched to see around the wizard's head and her eyes widened as they found Tav. Unsure what else to do, the Queen offered her a small wave.

"You let me prattle on like this in front of the Queen?!" Tara hissed, taking flight in a flurry of motion as she bapped a paw against the side of Gale's head, "Had you not thought to give us a proper introduction?! Have you no manners, Mr. Dekarios?!"

The wizard only laughed and, by Selûne's light, Tav was fighting hard to hide her own amusement at the scene playing out before her. While poor Tara clearly seemed mortified, seeing the banter was honestly a breath of fresh air compared to the rehearsed lines Tav had been learning to expect thus far and the Queen couldn't help but steal a glance at her friends to gauge if they were as amused as herself.

Lae’zel stared at the tressym in narrow-eyed confusion. It reminded Tav of when the githyanki had met Scratch. Shadowheart was probably the only one of them to have already known what a tressym is, but even she seemed to have been surprised that Tara could speak; Tav could only guess how surprised Lae'zel must be to see a cat with wings. The Queen's face fell when she turned her attention to Wyll. His expression seemed oddly grim and Tav realized how quiet her friend had been this whole meal.

"It’s quite alright." Tav spoke up, making a note to check in on her knight when they had a moment alone, "Give it enough time and I'm sure you will eventually overhear my court and I sharing a bit of verbal jousting ourselves."

Tara eventually settled once again and the rest of the meal passed relatively peacefully. By the end of it, Lae'zel had left to continue her exploration of the palace and Tara had ended up on Shadowheart's lap, much to the cleric's delight.

As a small handful of servants began clear the table, Tav excused herself, trying to not be too hasty when she explained her departure with wanting to clear a space in her quarters for keeping the silver and milk Alfira was gathering. Ever observant, Shadowheart shot her fellow selûnite a glance that silently asked several questions before nodding in understanding when the Queen inquired if her friend would mind staying back with Gale and Tara to see if they knew of any magic that could help prevent the milk from spoiling. Thankfully, both wizard and tressym seemed eager to be of assistance, not even stumbling at what must have sounded like an odd request when divorce from the context, and the two were already rattling off potential solutions as Tav and Wyll exited the dining hall.

While Tav had no reason to distrust the pair, she still wanted at least some degree of privacy for the conversation she and her knight were about to have. Tav maintained a slow pace as she tried to remember the way back to her parlor with Wyll at her side.

"So, what's on your mind?" She eventually murmured once the voices from the dining hall had faded.

"Ah... Well... Shadowheart seemed rather pleased about Tara." Wyll began, his eyes not being able to hold Tav's gaze for long, "We all know she already misses Scratch. Perhaps we could write to Jaheira about getting the furry fellow here."

“Wyll, we both know that is not what I'm asking." Tav raised her hand before her friend could try to protest, "I've known you since we were children, Wyll. We're practically siblings. After all these years, after growing up together, I can tell when something is weighing on you."

The pair fell silent for a moment, the only sounds between them being that of their footsteps on the stone floors faintly echoing through the hallways.

"It was worth a shot..." Her knight sighed, a weak smile lifting the corner of his lips before his expression grew grim again, “I- That fiend from before… I didn’t like how she spoke to you, to us. For the King to work with one..."

Tav nodded as Wyll fell silent again, “I was never thrilled about the idea of the vampire spawn and fiends in his court, but I admit that actually seeing them in person is... I suppose that just makes it all feel more real. We can't even pretend that they're just rumors now."

Wyll let out a hum of agreement. They lapsed into silence again as Tav steadied herself for what she was about to say next.

"If staying here is no longer something you are comfortable with-"

"No." her friend's answer was firm and unwavering, "I said I'd be here for you and I meant it. We all did."

She let out a sigh of relief and flashed Wyll a grateful smile, "It is a little jarring though, given how the King has otherwise surrounded himself with rather kind people, at least from what I’ve seen so far."

"We'll just need to keep our distance from her and any other darkness that lingers within these halls.” Wyll replied, their paces slowing to a stop as the pair glanced around the unfamiliar hallway, "Well, once we figure out how to navigate them first."

With an irritated groan, Rolan pushed aside the pages he had been futilely trying to read for a third time now and dragged a hand down his face, as if he could simply wipe the exhaustion off himself. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night, having spent most of it ensuring that word of his union with the princess of Sivailon would reach all corners of Waldemar by morning. Then the newly made King had turned his attention towards catching up on and resuming the countless other tasks that came with being a King, consulting the notes his court made during his absence and reading through the missives that never seemed to stop coming, before eventually falling asleep in his study.

He had woken up hours ago, his neck sore as he lifted his head from where it rested upon a missive from Thuria, a mining settlement on the outskirts of the kingdom. After checking to make sure that he hadn't damaged the parchment or the important information written upon it, the Dark King stood and began his day.

Tired as he was, Rolan was grateful that Gale let his fellow wizard lead the conversation when they crossed paths on the tiefling's way to the castle library. The normally verbose human only nodded as Rolan ordered that a tray of food be brought to his study, as had become the ruler's habit in the years since assuming power. The King was further relieved when Gale accepted the instruction to entertain their new Sivailon residents at breakfast—or whenever their moon-blessed royal would wake; perhaps Rolan would be lucky and she would only be awake at night.

Rolan shook his head in frustration as he recalled glimpsing how the people lining the streets of the capital had watched in awe at their new Queen's display of magic. The Dark King didn't have time to get hung up over his bride's subpar spellcraft, no matter how much the wizard in him bristled at the divine soul sorcerer's lack of skill and discipline, no matter how much it burned seeing the near reverence upon the people's faces—even as he saw how her cantrip flickered and wavered while his spells had steadily coiled through the air.

It didn't help that he is finding it rather difficult to keep his eyes open. Hells, Cal and Lia were probably correct about him not resting enough. He made another noise of bitter frustration as that text started to blur on the page… again.

As Rolan feels his eyes begin to grow heavy he shakes his head and jerks himself to his feet before dragging himself to the study's large window. Gripping the stone window frame, the Dark King allowed the sun to warm his face as he watched Waldemar's capital city bustling beyond the gates separating it from the palace grounds. It was still hard to believe that three years ago this kingdom was threatening to expel him and all others like him from their borders. Now he, one of the very "monsters" that was to be driven out, stands as its King.

Rolan's grip on the stone window frame tightens, as if the tiefling were trying to wring something out of the smoothly carved rock. He should never have hesitated all those years ago. It shouldn't have taken what happened to Lia for him to take action.

The Dark King shoved those thoughts aside, striding back to his elaborately engraved wooden desk, snatching up the missive from Thuria and one of the books he'd retrieved earlier from the library. His work is far from done and he would not make the mistake of hesitating again.

Three years later and there was still so much to do and more to prove. His marriage to a more palatable and noble-born figurehead was just the first step of that. Now, he needed to find where to direct his focus to next.

Absent-mindedly straightening his black jacket, Rolan opened a heavy door and stepped out into the hallway as he began to run through where he would most likely find Minthara about this time. In the back of his mind, the Dark King once again hoped he would be fortunate enough to not run into his new Queen while he looked for his spymaster. Perhaps he should ask Minthara to learn the schedules of their Sivailon residents so that he would know how to avoid them? Then again, the spymaster was likely already planning to do so anyway. Besides, the worst his new Queen would probably do is demand tea parties or for a tailor to make her dresses. Poor Kanon will be worked to the bone if that ends up being the case, but the wizard supposed he could pay his fellow tiefling extra for the work—especially if it meant keeping the royal sorcerer out of his hair.

Deciding he was thinking too much about his wife, Rolan turned his attention back to tracking down Minthara and back to the situation he wished to speak with his spymaster about. Summoning a mage hand to flip through the book he now balanced open with one of his real hands, Rolan's gaze alternated between trying to skim the pages for what he was looking for and taking brief glances around himself as he walked down the halls.

Perhaps Rolan shouldn't have been surprised when he collided with someone as he rounded a corner to the main hallway, the loud clattering and sloshing sounds which followed making him flinch back more than the initial impact had. Instinctively, he held the book away from himself even after he had already felt liquid splash against its cover and onto his hand, as if holding it away from him would somehow spare the book of further damage.

Rolan glared ahead of himself, irritation flaring and ready to snap at whoever he ran into, only to see a startled Alfira and a frowning Lakrissa. The wizard looked at what the two tiefling women were holding; Alfira was balancing a set of trays that had evidently been piled with silver objects while Lakrissa was hefting along a pair of jugs filled with... milk?

"What the Hells are you two doing?!" he demanded, confusion lessening the otherwise harsh bite of his words, "What is all this crap?!"

"Take it up with your wife." Lakrissa snapped back at her King, clearly not appreciating his tone, "Alfira had to fetch 'all this crap' at her request!"

"What does she even need it for?” Rolan pressed, his temper threatening to rise again as he racked his mind for any sort of explanation, "Material components for some kind of spell?"

"No clue." Lakrissa scoffed, placing the two milk jugs on the floor so she could help Alfira in gathering up the fallen silver, “We've just been bringing silver vessels and milk to her room and leaving them there.”

"Bringing it to- Oh, this is ridiculous!" the wizard sputtered in mounting frustration before he stormed down the halls towards his Queen's chambers. "Do not bring her anymore until I figure out what the Hells she is up to!”

If his anger upsets or alarms the servants, none of them show it. Instead, his fellow tieflings merely move aside as they see Rolan marching down the halls and around corners until he finally reaches the Queen's chambers. Through the heavy wood of the closed door, he can hear at least two muffled voices from within the room.

Not wasting any time on trying to deduce the owner of the voices or what they are saying, Rolan delivered two hard knocks that silenced whoever was on the other side. He doesn't have to wait long before the door opens to reveal his wife, though her expression hardens into a mask of neutrality when she sees who is standing in the hall. Whoever she'd been expecting, it clearly hadn't been the Dark King she was married to.

"Yes?” the sorcerer prompted him expectantly after a moment, not opening the door any further than she already had even as Rolan saw her human knight come up behind her.

"I demand entry.” Rolan stated curtly, his tail quietly lashing behind him as he waited for her to acquiesce in the face of the fiendish usurper and he tries to ignore the bitterness at the thought-

"No."

He barely has enough time to process her single syllable response before the door has already clicked shut.

Surprise gave way to burning frustration as the wizard loudly knocked his fist against the door, "I demand entry at once!”

The only response he receives is the sound of the door being locked.

Rolan dragged his hands down his face as he glared at the dark wood. As irritating as it is when people would flinch or fawn over the Dark King when in his presence, at least they would still be cooperating with him.

This woman is infuriating…

"Rolan?"

He turns his attention to see Gale and the Queen's lady-in-waiting, the two carrying various odds and ends including more silver. Even Tara was there with a few items held delicately in her jaws.

"You're in on this as well?" Rolan asked, doing his best to ignore the half-elf silently glaring at him, "What is going on?”

Before Gale can respond they all hear the door unlock and open again. The Queen's face is stern as she looks at her husband but brightens upon seeing the others. Murmuring a brief thank you to the human wizard and tressym, she pushes the door open a little further to let her lady-in-waiting inside. Before Gale can move to follow, Rolan blocked his fellow wizard's path with an arm while his glowing eyes remained fixed to his wife.

"Explain yourself." he bit out, his blood nearly boiling, "What are you up to?"

The Queen's knight positioned himself behind her, ready to bar anyone else from trying to slip through the doorway. The sorcerer briefly placed a comforting hand on the human's shoulder before turning to face the tiefling with narrowed eyes.

"Rather presumptuous of you to demand entry into my chambers like this." the Queen replied, her voice level but firm, "I must admit I'm also a tad surprised by your sudden insistence, considering you didn’t even bother to visit me last night.”

"What?" Rolan straightened his posture, bristling at her tone even as he stared her down with growing confusion, “Why the /Hells/ would I have come to see you last night?!"

Had he looked away, Rolan would have missed how the sorcerer's jaw had clenched and how her brow twitched as if struggling to maintain her composure. Closing her eyes for a moment, she slowly dragged in a harsh breath while her knight and lady-and-waiting shot each other a knowing look.

“Right. Of course." the Queen finally answered coldly, like she had to pry each word from her own mouth as she tossed him a parting glare before turning back into her room, "Now, excuse me, but I need to resume... adjusting.”

Rolan had barely begun taking a step to follow before her lady-in-waiting was there, pushing the King aside with a hand as if rebuffing an unruly apprentice, "Apologies, your Highness, the Queen will not be seeing anyone now. Goodbye.”

Then the half-elf slammed the door in his face, leaving Rolan tongue tied and seething. For a moment he contemplated banging on the door again and demanding an explanation.

What do they mean she would not be seeing anyone?! She had just been accepting silver and milk and whatever else it was Gale and Tara were bringing her, all with a smile on that pretty face of hers!

Feeling his tail erratically whip back and forth in response to his simmering temper, Rolan turned and stormed away. The Dark King refused to let their Sivailon residents see how much they had gotten under his skin. It wasn't long before the tiefling heard Gale following close behind. As soon as they were several halls away, Rolan's temper finally snapped and he began ranting at his fellow wizard.

Angry words spilled from Rolan like floodwaters from a shattered dam. The Dark King could hardly keep up with his own indignant tirade as it went from questioning why the Hells the Queen was having people running around gathering milk and silver for her bloody room to her refusal to answer him to the other confounding nonsense she had said to him as if he was the one who needed to explain himself to her!

"Visit her? Why would I have visited her last night?! Does she mistake me for one of her servants, there to be at her beck-and-call?!"

Gale, who had been following and waiting for his own opportunity to speak, made a hum of polite disagreement. Rolan looked back at his fellow wizard to see his friend clearly mulling over how to explain something.

Letting out a small huff, Rolan stopped to turn his full attention to the man beside him, “What?”

"Well, I must argue that you are being... rather uncharitable towards your new wife. Tara and I both thought she was quite polite while we shared breakfast, if a bit tense and reserved." Gale began, not even acknowledging when the Dark King rolled his eyes, "The Queen is clearly frustrated and, to be quite honest, I find it hard to fault her for that, especially the more I learn about your wedding night. Did you truly not even think to visit her?"

"What about it?" Rolan snapped, tired of everyone dancing around whatever this point was supposed to be.

"You know that newly weds... Well, it's not part of all unions but...” Gale tried to continue, suddenly seeming a bit awkward and self-conscious, “Most newly wed couples spend their first night together to… consummate the marriage..."

It was as if Rolan's whole body froze the moment it all finally clicked together. He began to replay his new Queen's words in his head, about him not seeing her last night, about him suddenly wanting to be in her room.

Had she been expecting me to-

"She- Help her with whatever she needs. See if you and Alfira can figure out what she's doing." the Dark King managed to get out between his now racing thoughts and waving the other wizard away, "I need to... Ugh, goodbye.”

And with that, Rolan was off. Even through the burning storm of his thoughts, he knew he couldn't go back to his own chambers—his chambers that her chambers were now directly across from. The tiefling doubted he would be able to endure facing her with his mind now kicked up into such frenzy. Beyond that, the Dark King hardly paid attention to where his feet were taking him, perhaps to his study were he could dump himself onto one of the decorative fainting couches lining the wall or perhaps to Cal's room to borrow his brother's bathing chamber so the wizard could dunk himself in cold water.

Zurgan. What is wrong with me?

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 rolan #baldurs gate 3 #rolan bg3 #rolan #rolan x reader #bg3 fanfiction #holy rolan empire #rolan x tav #rolan nation #bg3 rolan x tav #dark rolan au #dark prince rolan

23 notes · View notes

haechansunshineboy · 3 days ago

Text

*:・ﾟ✧. *:・ﾟ✧.

“The cute girl is back.” Haechan thinks to himself. He’d noticed you pass by the flower shop everyday during his shift on your walk over to…wherever it is you went to on the weekdays.

Sometimes you’d pause on your walk to admire the flowers on display outside and even bend down to smell them before leaving. Haechan liked these days in particular when you’d smile brightly at an arrangement. Sometimes it makes him wish he worked the morning shifts so it would be bouquets he arranged himself on display for you.

The chimes on the flower shop door jingle, interrupting Haechan’s work flow, shouting a quick “Be right there!” before adding the final touches to a pick up order.

He wipes his hands on his apron while heading over to the customer that walked in, praying they wouldn’t be too upset about the wait.

Haechan’s breath catches in his throat when you turn around, reflecting the sunshine when you beamed at him. His lips part almost in awe that it’s actually you inside the store looking at him, when he’s spent who knows how long daydreaming about this exact moment.

All those imaginary scenarios when he’d say something cool to impress you were now out the window as he froze in place at the reality.

In this exact moment, he felt like a sunflower, helpless to turn and stare at the bright sunlight you radiated as you offered your name.

“Haechan, nice to meet you,” he blurted out, remembering only now that he was working. “What can I help you with? He replies, hoping his customer service skills will just work on autopilot to save him from the humiliation.

“I was wondering if you could possibly make a bouquet with just yellow flowers?”

“Just yellow?” You nod in response, giving Haechan the go ahead to get started on your bouquet.

The flower shop is relatively small so you watch Haechan move around the shop, his hands delicately plucking out the prettiest flowers and resting them against his forearm.

You notice the thoughtful look on his face as he decides which flowers to add or omit from what he’s collected so far. He’s pretty cute? How come you’ve never noticed him before?

After wrapping up the assorted flowers with yellow film paper to add the final touch, Haechan brings the bouquet over to the register.

“Your total is $25 miss.” He reads the number off the machine. You nod and begin digging through your bag for your wallet.

This is Haechan’s last chance to get your attention in some way and he’s mentally scrambling, when a particular bucket of flowers catches his eye.

He moves away from the register to the bucket and delicately plucks one out. Shaking the water off the stem, he carries the solitary flower back to the desk, laying it next to the bouquet on the table. You’ve already tapped your card on the machine reader when you notice the new pretty flower.

“Um…for you..Miss.” Haechan’s not even sure what to say at this point. He’s definitely not supposed to be giving away flowers from work for free. He’s so going to get in trouble with his boss later.

“Oh! Sorry I already tapped. Should I put my card in again?” You automatically pull out your card again when he raises a hand, preventing you from paying again.

“No-no Miss, um, it’s a…a sale we’re having!”He’s stammering, not sure if you even believe him, he can already feel his face getting hot. “Yeah, uh buy a bouquet get a flower for free!”

“Oh! Um, thank you! It’s beautiful!”

The flower Haechan had picked out really was beautiful, and you couldn’t help but pick it up to admire it. Surprised at the kind gesture (and trying to tell yourself that him cutely telling you about the sale was just for promotion ONLY) you briefly scan yourself to see where you can put it. Haechan notices this as well.

“If you’ll allow me Miss.” Haechan opens his hand to take the flower back from you, resting his other hand flat over his chest. You chuckle and pass the flower to him, seeing his lips curl into a smile.

He takes a pair of scissors from inside the desk and trims the stem of the flower shorter. He admires the flower for a second before moving around the desk to approach you. You take in the height difference between you and Haechan when you realize he’s only inches away from you.

He’s so close to you now and you try not to flush at the thought of imagining him closing the distance.

Haechan sucked in a breath and carefully tucked the flower in your hair behind your ear. The tips of his finger brushed against your face as he pulled away.

“Beautiful.” Haechan muttered under his breath.

Your cheeks turn pink and you look down at the ground to hide your face. Haechan finally remembered where he was and takes a step back.

“If-if you need anything else, Miss…”

You blink back into reality, looking back up to see Haechan’s ears turning red. You shake your head and thank him again for the flowers before stepping out of the store. Haechan watches you go, running a hand through his hair.

He notices you looking outside at the signs for the sales, until it hits him:

There’s no sign out there saying anything about giving out a free flower.

“You fucking idiot.” He’d been caught in his lie and he face-palmed himself. “How could you forget the sales signs are outside?”

He turned away to seat himself behind the desk again and calm his racing heart.

If Haechan hadn’t turned around, he might have seen the smile bloom on your face as you gently touch the flower in your hair, before walking away.

Haechan thinks he’s screwed until the next day when he sees you wave at him on your walk over to wherever.

*:・ﾟ✧. *:・ﾟ✧.

#nct #nct dream #nct x reader #crush au #writing #let me know if this is too long #semi unrelated but we had a huge fire in my neighborhood a few months back and they’re slowly doing repairs #so the flower shop on that street is reopening next month #guess that’s where I got the inspo #haechan #haechan x reader #nct haechan #idk why I’m so good at writing when I sit in a theater for a movie I don’t want to see

50 notes · View notes

starmatzz · 1 day ago

Text

Howls And Hops

In a snowstorm, Seonghwa, a naive bunny hybrid, seeks refuge in a cozy cottage, unaware he’s fallen into the trap of Mingi, a cunning wolf hybrid in rut. Despite his fear, Seonghwa finds himself unable to resist the wolf’s dominance, his body betraying him even as his mind screams to run.

mingi x seonghwa | hybrids, abo, smut, 3.4k

read on ao3

A/N: as i promised, here's my little gift from me to you! wish you all happy christmas and happy new year💋🎄

It was a serene, snowy afternoon, the kind that painted the world in soft white hues. Seonghwa, a gentle white bunny hybrid, hopped lightly through the forest. His ears, long and downy, twitched at the faint sounds of snowflakes landing on the branches above. The cold didn’t bother him; his fluffy tail and soft coat kept him warm, and his heart loved the quiet beauty of winter.

Seonghwa’s pale hair blended almost perfectly with the snowy landscape. Only the delicate pink flush of his cheeks and nose gave him away. He carried a small basket with him, woven with care, filled with winter herbs and berries he’d collected along the way. His footsteps were almost invisible in the thick snow, leaving only faint impressions that trailed behind him like whispers.

As he walked, the forest seemed alive in its stillness. The tall evergreens stood as silent sentinels, their branches heavy with snow. A soft breeze played with the loose strands of Seonghwa’s hair, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the crisp, fresh air. He loved days like this—days when the world felt untouched, peaceful.

As Seonghwa hopped along, he came to a frozen river, its surface glistening under the pale winter sun. The thick layer of ice looked smooth and inviting, so he couldn’t resist stepping onto it. Tentatively, he placed one foot forward, then the other, and soon he was sliding across the icy surface with quiet laughter, his fluffy tail bouncing as he moved.

But as he glided further, a soft cracking sound echoed beneath him. His ears twitched in alarm, but before he could react, the ice gave way. With a sharp crack, his foot plunged into the freezing water. The shock of the cold sent a shiver through him, and Seonghwa quickly hopped back, scrambling to the safety of the snowy bank.

Standing there and trembling, he glanced down at his soaked boots.

Seonghwa pouted, his lips forming a small, frustrated curve as the icy water seeped into his shoes, making his feet uncomfortably cold. He wiggled his toes, but it didn’t help much. His long, fluffy ears drooped low, a clear sign of his dismay. “Why did I even think that was a good idea?” he muttered, kicking at the snow in a half-hearted attempt to dry off.

“It was obvious it’s gonna crack,” a deep voice suddenly cut through the quiet, making Seonghwa flinch. His ears shot up in surprise as he turned toward the sound. From behind the trees emerged a tall wolf hybrid, his sharp features framed by unruly dark hair. His piercing eyes watched Seonghwa with a mix of amusement and mild disapproval, arms crossed over his chest.

Seonghwa blinked up at the wolf, his nose twitching nervously. He had never encountered a wolf hybrid before; his village was far from their territory, and this was the first time he had wandered so far from home. Instinctively, his bunny senses screamed at him to flee—run as fast as his legs could carry him. Wolves were supposed to be dangerous, weren’t they?

Yet, as he stood there, shivering in his soaked shoes, his heart whispered a quieter thought: What if he’s not like the stories? What if he’s… nice?

His large eyes flicked between the wolf’s piercing gaze and his confident stance, unsure if he should trust him or turn tail and hop away as fast as possible. For now, he stayed rooted to the spot, his ears half-drooped and trembling slightly.

The wolf raised an eyebrow, noticing the way Seonghwa’s ears trembled and how his small frame seemed to shrink under the cold. “You look freezing,” he said, his voice softer this time, though still carrying a hint of that natural gruffness. “There’s no point standing out here shivering.”

“I live nearby,” the wolf continued, nodding toward the trees behind him. “You can warm up at my place. It’s not far.”

The bunny hybrid hesitated, his instincts tugging him in two directions. The wolf’s words sounded genuine, but his heart pounded in his chest, and his toes, still soaking wet, felt like they were freezing solid. “I-I don’t know…” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Seonghwa hesitated for only a moment longer before his teeth started to chatter. He hated being cold—it made his fur feel damp and his body stiff. His shivering legs wobbled as he glanced back at the icy river, then up at the wolf.

“Okay,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. His ears twitched as he added, “Just for a little while.”

He hated how easily he gave in, but the promise of warmth was too tempting. Seonghwa wasn’t used to meeting strangers, let alone wolves, but his naive and trusting nature pushed his doubts aside. He followed the wolf toward the trees, clutching his soaked basket tightly in his hands, his small footsteps leaving faint trails in the snow behind them.

The wolf smirked, a flicker of amusement in his sharp eyes. This bunny was almost too easy to sway, falling for a few kind-sounding words without much hesitation. Mingi glanced back at Seonghwa, who trailed behind him, clutching his basket with trembling hands.

“I’m Mingi, by the way,” he said casually, his deep voice cutting through the cold air as they walked.

Seonghwa blinked at the introduction, his large eyes briefly meeting Mingi’s. “S-Seonghwa,” he replied softly, his breath visible in the icy air. His ears twitched nervously, but he kept following, trying to convince himself that this stranger might actually be kind despite the sharpness in his smirk.

When they arrived, Seonghwa stepped inside the snow-covered cottage. It looked cozy, with a small fireplace crackling softly, its warmth immediately wrapping around him. The scent of pine and burning wood filled the air, and the soft glow of the fire made the room feel inviting. Snowflakes continued to fall gently outside, adding to the serene atmosphere. A woolen throw was draped over a chair by the fire, and a small wooden table sat in the corner, set for a quiet meal. The perfect retreat from the cold, Seonghwa couldn’t help but smile, feeling the stress of the world melt away.

Seonghwa took off his soaked shoes and placed them near the fireplace, the heat from the flames gradually warming his cold, wet feet. His gaze lingered on the crackling fire for a moment, but the unease in his chest hadn’t fully dissipated. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Mingi stood behind him, his dark eyes gleaming in the flickering light. The door had shut with an eerie finality, sealing them inside. His posture was tense, predatory, and his playful demeanor was replaced by something colder. The room, which had initially seemed cozy, now felt a little too silent, too still.

“Feeling better?” Mingi’s voice was low, almost too sweet. It didn’t match the calculating glint in his eyes. He had lured Seonghwa in, knowing that the snowstorm outside would leave him vulnerable, desperate for warmth. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched Seonghwa’s every move, waiting for him to realize that this was no ordinary refuge.

Seonghwa suddenly stood up, his eyes widening with a hint of panic as he glanced toward the door. “I need to get home soon,” he murmured, more to himself than to Mingi, but the urgency was clear in his voice. His heart raced, a growing sense of dread gnawing at him as he realized how isolated he was in this place. The snowstorm outside seemed harsher now, as though it was warning him to leave before things got worse.

Before he could take a step toward the door, Mingi’s low, smooth voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “You’ve just come, and you already wanna leave, bunny? That’s not very polite, is it?” Mingi’s words were soft, but there was an edge to them—an unmistakable authority that made Seonghwa hesitate.

Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat, his pulse quickening as Mingi slowly closed the distance between them. The warmth of the fire behind him contrasted sharply with the chill that spread through his body at Mingi’s presence. He had hoped to escape, to leave the cottage behind, but now Mingi was blocking the way, his figure towering and imposing.

“I—” Seonghwa started, but his voice faltered. The tension in the room felt suffocating, and a deep, unsettling feeling settled in his gut.

Seonghwa’s heart skipped a beat as he realized the truth. He had fallen right into Mingi’s trap. His gaze darted to the door, then to the window, but the storm outside seemed even more relentless now, like it was keeping him here.

Mingi’s smirk deepened, sensing Seonghwa’s growing unease. “You thought you could escape so easily, bunny?” he taunted, his voice smooth and dangerous.

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted with dread as the weight of the situation settled on him. He had been lured in, fooled by the warmth, by the promise of safety. But now, the air felt heavier, and he understood—he wasn’t here by accident. He was exactly where Mingi wanted him.

As soon as Mingi stepped closer, Seonghwa froze, a shiver running down his spine. The scent hit him then, thick and undeniable—the musk of the wolf’s rut. His stomach twisted in horror as the realization crashed over him. He had walked right into this trap, blind to the signs.

Cursing himself internally, Seonghwa clenched his fists, his breath quickening. How had he not noticed it sooner? The tension in the air, the intensity in Mingi’s eyes, it all made sense now. He had been lured in under the guise of warmth, but the truth was far more dangerous.

Seonghwa's breath caught as he felt Mingi's large hands, claws grazing his skin, wrap around his waist. The sudden touch was almost too much to process. Before he could react, Mingi easily pulled his coat off, the movement smooth and calculated.

Seonghwa stood frozen, unable to move or even think clearly. His body was tense, trapped in shock, his mind racing as he realized just how vulnerable he was. The air between them crackled with an intensity that made it impossible to ignore the predator behind him.

As he held him, he sniffed at his neck, sharp canines grazing over the bunny's soft and milky skin. The poor animal shivered, his tail swaying nervously.

But the wolf found it adorable, sneaking his hand between their bodies to gently tug on the white fluffy tail. Seonghwa squeaked, nose twitching in distress.

"Dumb little bunny.." he spoke in a low tone, slowly undressing the smaller one, "they didn't teach you not to trust us wolves?" he raised an eyebrow.

Seonghwa stood like a statue, the fear not allowing him to move. And even if he tried to leave, he was sure the wolf would get him in a second.

Seonghwa’s voice trembled as he whispered, “I’m scared…” His breath came in shallow gasps, and his body remained rigid, caught in the grip of both fear and disbelief. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected to feel so powerless, so exposed.

Mingi’s grip tightened slightly, his presence looming over Seonghwa like an inevitable force. The roughness of his touch was both comforting and terrifying at the same time. Seonghwa’s heart pounded in his chest, but all he could do was stand there, his body frozen in place as the reality of the situation closed in.

Despite the fear racing through his mind, Seonghwa’s body betrayed him. As much as his head screamed for him to move, to escape, his body reacted in a way he couldn’t control. His skin tingled where Mingi’s claws brushed, and the warmth of the touch seemed to seep into him, confusing his senses.

He felt an unsettling heat spreading through him, his heart pounding not just from fear, but from a response he didn’t want, didn’t understand. His body, despite his protests, was betraying him in the most vulnerable of ways. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore the conflicting emotions swirling inside him, but the pull of Mingi’s presence was undeniable.

Mingi’s sharp eyes caught the subtle shift in Seonghwa’s posture, the way his body reacted despite the fear in his gaze. A smirk tugged at the corner of Mingi’s lips as he sensed the tension, the conflict running through Seonghwa.

“Don’t try to hide it, bunny,” Mingi whispered, his voice low and knowing. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Seonghwa’s ear. “Your body’s telling me everything I need to know.”

Seonghwa’s face flushed with a mix of shame and confusion, the panic inside him only growing stronger. His mind screamed for him to push Mingi away, but every instinct seemed to pull him further into this dangerous situation. Mingi could feel it—the pull, the change—and he reveled in it, his grip tightening just enough to make Seonghwa’s breath catch.

Mingi's big hands grabbed Seonghwa's small shoulders, guiding him towards the bed.

He wrapped one arm around his waist tightly, while the other hand sneaked between his legs, his warm palm pressing against the bunny's mound.

Seonghwa gasped, pressing his legs together. As much as he wanted to push the wolf away, he could feel the wetness in his private area.

Mingi placed butterfly kisses along his jaw and wildly pulsating vein on his neck. "If you wanna fight back, remember I could kill you in one swift motion. I could probably swallow you in one bite too." he growled near his ear while his other hand tried to find the bunny's little clit over his pants.

He moved his finger slightly to the right and Seonghwa suddenly gasped, his knees almost collapsing. He was too overwhelmed, his cheeks were red and hot, his ears twitching.

"Aha~" the wolf smirked, applying more pressure to the same spot. Seonghwa bit down on his bottom lip, covering his face with his long fluffy ears.

Mingi quickly pushed Seonghwa onto the bed, the sound of cloth ripping cut through the air as the wolf used his sharp claws to open the other's clothes in few swift motions.

It didn't take long and Seonghwa was in front of Mingi naked, shivering and blushing.

"Oh look at you, you're so adorable I almost feel bad to ruin you." Mingi cooed. He observed the bunny's body, and how pink he was everywhere; nose, cheeks, lips, knuckles and the tips of his fingers.

Seonghwa's chest rose and fell with shaky breaths, his wide eyes locked onto Mingi’s intense gaze. Every rational thought in his mind screamed at him to run, to escape while he still could, but his body refused to obey.

He shouldn’t feel like this—shouldn’t feel this warmth pooling in his stomach, shouldn’t be drawn in by the wolf’s predatory stare. Yet here he was, frozen in place, his fingers clutching at the fabric of the blanket beneath him as if it could anchor him.

Mingi stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over Seonghwa. “Good bunny,” he said softly, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. Seonghwa’s breath hitched, his heart hammering in his chest as he realized he was completely at the mercy of the wolf before him.

He kneeled on the bed, grabbing Seonghwa and turning him around effortlessly as if he weighed nothing. Seonghwa gasped, finding himself on all fours, all exposed to the predator in front of him.

Mingi positioned himself behind the bunny and his large hands shot forward, grabbing Seonghwa’s delicate wrists with ease. In one swift motion, he pulled them behind Seonghwa’s back, holding them firmly in place with a single hand. Seonghwa gasped, his body tensing as he felt the strength in Mingi’s grip—it was unyielding, impossible to break free from.

As Mingi tightened his grip on Seonghwa’s wrists, the smaller man lost his balance, his knees slipping against the soft mattress. His body gave way, and he collapsed forward, his head burying into the plush pillows beneath him. His breath came in shaky gasps, muffled by the fabric, as he tried to process the position he was now in.

Mingi’s hold didn’t falter, his claws lightly grazing Seonghwa’s skin as he kept his wrists pinned firmly behind his back. The weight of the moment settled heavily over Seonghwa, his body trembling slightly under the wolf’s dominance.

“Careful, bunny,” Mingi said in a low, gravelly voice, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “You’re making this too easy for me.”

Seonghwa’s chest heaved as he squeezed his eyes shut, trapped between the overwhelming heat coursing through his body and the instinctual fear keeping him frozen in place.

"Since you wanted to go home so quickly before, I won't waste my time." he teased, grabbing his aching cock and stroking it a few times.

Seonghwa's fluffy tail wiggled, and suddenly he was overwhelmed by an intense pain; something he had never felt before.

"Oh bunny..you're so tight. Tighter than I expected." the wolf groaned, grabbing the hybrid's hips with almost bruising force.

Seonghwa squeaked, arching his back to somehow avoiding the burning sensation.

However, it allowed the wolf to push in deeper and Seonghwa's fluffy tail pressed against Mingi's pelvis. Mingi reached his hand to squeeze it, tugging slightly at it which made the bunny gasp.

He pulls back slightly before slamming back in, making Seonghwa's body jolt forward. The bunny whimpered, curling his fingers into the sheets.

Mingi was blinded by the pleasure, grabbing Seonghwa by his shoulders and thrusting deeply into him. Sweat dripped down his temples and his brownish hair stuck to his forehead. He growled lowly in his ear as his whole body was able to easily cover the smaller bunny under him.

"Ah— Ah.." Seonghwa choked on his tears, knees sliding against the mattress as the wolf continued to pound into him.

Mingi huffed, burying his face in the crook of the bunny's neck. He let out little whimpers, his thrusts becoming jerky and uncoordinated as he started to chase his climax.

"Fuck, I am gonna fill you up, okay? Gonna make you..carry my pups.." he growled, sniffing near Seonghwa's scant gland.

Seonghwa whined, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pushed back against him. He was drooling, making a small poodle of saliva on the sheets under him. But it wasn't the only poodle he was making, as his bunny pussy was leaking too.

Suddenly Mingi tensed, growling and whimpering like a puppy against Seonghwa's neck. His hips twitched and with one final thrust he came into the bunny.

Seonghwa felt it, he felt the warmth which caused him to roll his eyes, reaching his climax right after Mingi.

"You too, huh?" the wolf mumbled, catching his breath as he proceeded to stay inside the bunny. "You're mine now, you're carrying my pups." he whispered, kissing the bunny's head.

Seonghwa's pink nose twitched as he let out a small whimper. He felt Mingi collapsing next to him, pulling him close. Wrapping his claws around the small animal, he growled possessively and kissed his head, right between his fluffy ears.

Seonghwa lied next to Mingi, his body heavy with exhaustion. The warmth of the fireplace crackled softly in the background, its soothing heat wrapping around him like a blanket. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, and despite the tension lingering in the air, the fatigue in his body was impossible to ignore.

Mingi’s presence beside him was undeniable—large, steady, and impossibly warm. Seonghwa’s breath slowed, his body giving in to the lull of the flames and the rhythmic sound of Mingi’s breathing. He tried to stay alert, but the pull of sleep was too strong, his mind slipping into a haze as his muscles relaxed.

For a brief moment, everything felt still, the crackling fire and the soft rise and fall of Mingi’s chest lulling Seonghwa into an uneasy peace.

Mingi watched Seonghwa as he drifted off, his delicate features soft in the warm glow of the fire. He knew the bunnies from Seonghwa’s village were likely searching for him, desperate to bring him back. But Mingi didn’t care. The thought of letting Seonghwa go now was unthinkable.

Seonghwa was his. Completely.

Mingi’s gaze dropped to Seonghwa’s stomach, his smirk growing as the realization sank in again. Seonghwa wasn’t just his to keep; he was carrying Mingi’s pups now. The idea filled him with a possessive satisfaction that made his chest swell.

“Don’t worry, bunny,” Mingi murmured softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Seonghwa’s face. “You’re mine now. No one’s taking you away.”

He settled beside Seonghwa, wrapping an arm protectively around him. The world outside could wait—this moment, with his bunny and their future growing inside him, was all Mingi needed.

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez smut #minhwa #seonghwa #mingi smut #seonghwa smut #alpha omega #mpreg

23 notes · View notes

keicordelle · 7 months ago

Text

Momo confirmed: there can never be a Banri-centric three:vale

And actually, his logic behind this is really interesting. Because at it's heart, the difference is that with Banri, Momo could never have formed the same sort of codependent relationship that he does with Yuki. Banri is capable of taking charge and taking care of himself, and so Momo wouldn't feel the need to step forward and try to help him.

Hell, it's only after he realizes that no one's taking care of Yuki that he reaches out to him in the first place. Momo establishes very well in Re:member that he needs to feel needed and useful to feel loved, or to express his love, and Yuki lets him do that in spades. Banri, though. Banri doesn't need someone to dote on him (or at least so judges Momo) and therefore Momo's acts of service (his declarations of love) are unwarranted at best and unnoticed at worst.

Whether or not this is actually true is a whole separate question. Banri does seem to rely on Momo when he's helping them out backstage (Momo valiantly kills the dreaded spider for him) -- but he does it in a moderate sort of way, taking the time to make sure Momo's not overexerting himself (ie, when he's lugging around more equipment in one trip than he probably ought to be) and that he is generally taking care of himself as much as he's taking care of others.

But Momo seems to want someone who relies on him too heavily. He needs to devote himself fully and completely to another person (perhaps because he feels he can no longer fully devote himself to his own dreams, so he seeks some other outlet, someone else's dream to latch onto to replace that). He gets drawn in by Yuki's sopping wet meow meow nature and the fact that Yuki so clearly needs someone to take care of him, because Yuki is the only one who enables him to express his love in the way he wants to. Needs to, perhaps. Regardless of how (un)healthy that expression and the resulting relationship is.

That's why MomoBan won't work with just each other. That's why they need Yuki to draw them together: Momo needs someone who he can devote his everything to, and Banri can never be that person for him.

#I forgot he says this #I was looking for this panel earlier when I was gathering examples of their assigned sides but I forgot he just. says it openly like this #it is really interesting that we never really get to see Ban's impression of Momo tho #obviously everything we see of their early relationship in re:member is heavily colored by it being in Momo's POV #so we see Ban as Momo sees ban : cool. collected. suave and hunky. and most of all independent #bug killing aside -- which sort of teases the idea that maybe if it weren't for yuki Momo might be able to see more of how #Banri COULD fulfill that need for him to be useful to someone #but he's so besotted with Yuki (even before he realizes it)#(because despite his claims that he likes them both equally it's pretty clear here that he's already picked his favorite)#but he's so besotted with Yuki that Ban's needy moments don't even register to him #maybe if everything had been different #and Yuki had never been in the picture #the two of them could have meshed well together #But as it stands Yuki fulfills everything Momo wants in a partner - someone to devote himself fully. who always needs him and relies on him #someone who can give him purpose and direction -- not by guiding him but by needing guidance #man I really need to learn to not dump whole paragraphs of analysis in the tags huh #idolish7 #i7 #re:vale #yukito orikasa #momose sunohara #banri ogami

37 notes · View notes

pyrriax · 1 year ago

Text

hey guys im back at it again with the horrible levels of s4 zam brainrot. um.

did i manage to somehow make this song about him in my head? yes! yes i did. and i cannot be normal about it.

#haunted ecosystem #genuinely when youre insane enough about your blorbos everything is about them. this is one of those cases #also i might be writing some more things. and probably watching some vods.#im writing something to post as a general christmas gift fic (as i've done for the last like. two years? in my heart at least) alongside #the two event fics i have in the works PLUS the twb flash prompt event im participating in :)#expect some more bizarre concept fics soon i think! i might also pick up some older threads that i havent touched #i think it'll be fun since my muse is definitely leaning toward writing zam. i love writing him honestly #i have a thing for distinctly pathetic and paranoid characters (see: my adoration for outsiders!apo & pandora [oc])#who knew i'd enjoy writing characters i relate to #is it weird to say that the general concept of asomatous and the stuff i want to write related to it is very near to my heart. and like #its very personal. its inspired by my experiences you see. the concept of losing sight of reality in isolation and also just #the bugs. i never had a moment with bug pinning but i did have a problem with collecting the corpses of animals i found dead #once spring rolls around im going to work on processing them and giving them proper display and love #AAANYWAYS #ohhhh my god i should finish up bedrock shards and bloody garden #those two are my og fics for this fandom. i want to complete them and share them even if they arent fully how i view the characters now #i think its interesting to share and show initial impressions and also show how i wasn't fully sure about these guys #(also i love how i didnt understand the concept and mechanics of the cleansing but its still Present because it was before s5 so like #it was either s3 or abandon canon and i was sooooo afraid of leaving canon behind in favor of exploring)#my talking in tags habit is showing again.... woops #does anybody even read these? i have no clue #if you do i am so sorry for my habit of talking about dead animals. good lord. it happens so often #i forget it isnt normal until people point it out. having to explain that *yes* i collect dead things is. fun #oh man i have some coyote skulls i really need to clean at some point. its just a pain since i need to get the cage out again and prep them #since the method that got recommended to me is actually bad for the bones (since it involves essentially cooking them which softens #the bones and makes them a lot more likely to break or splinter. so i need to leave them out or bury them and im still not sure which wil #work better. it really depends on if spring is going to be dry as hell again or not. im rambling AND off topic. woops)#Spotify

2 notes · View notes

jadedbirch · 1 month ago

Text

Gather around, my young friends and fellow dinosaurs, let me tell you about some BULLSHIT no one ever tells you about. I'm talking about menopause and perimenopause. Now, menopause has a very stringent medical definition. You have to not have had a period for exactly 12 months and a day to be considered in menopause. All the bullshit before that day once you start going through The Change is considered perimenopause. Here's some bullshit you might experience that people actually talk about when you're in perimenopause:

- shorter time between periods

- irregular periods

- hot flashes and/or cold flashes

- fucked up sleep

- OMG NIGHT SWEATS

- Vagina as dry as the Sahara desert

- lighter periods and/or endless bleeding like it's The Flood but it's in your pants

- lack of interest in Adult Fun Times

This time of joy can last anywhere from a couple of years to a god damn decade and there's no medical way right now to predict it.

Here's some of the REAL bullshit they don't tell you about but your dinosaur aunt is here to let you know:

- You can start perimenopause in your 30s, don't listen to idiot doctors who tell you you're "too young" because they don't know your body like you do.

- Perimenopause will make you HELLA DUMB. Seriously, I'm talking Bigly broken brain. Brain fog? Check. Short term memory? Wave goodbye to it. Ability to make words form out of thoughts? Yeah, good luck to you.

- Perimenopause can cause horrible fatigue because in addition to losing estrogen, you're also losing testosterone. Oh and that also leads to muscle wasting, cool cool.

- Things might suddenly hurt more because estrogen is known to be neuroprotective.

- If you're super lucky like I am, and like to collect rare illnesses, you might even get Burning Mouth Syndrome 💀

- And meanwhile, while you're going through this bullshit, you'll be getting gaslit by doctors who are operating based on 30 year old debunked data about how HRT causes breast cancer (not really) and that they shouldn't put you on it until you're in actual menopause. (Data shows starting HRT early can potentially prevent Alzheimer's in later years.)

- There are entire online clinics right now (I use Midi Health) focused on providing care for peri and menopausal patients and they will happily prescribe you HRT even if your regular PCP or OBGYN do not (if you meet the criteria). I've been pretty impressed with how holistically they view the patient. For full disclosure, I learned about them from my integrative health doctor and they do not accept Medicare (yet).

I'm 46 years old right now and I've been symptomatic for perimenopause for the last 8 years, although it's gotten the most dramatic in the past 2 years or so, which I hope means I'm almost done, holy hell. Yeah I was on the early side, but if it can happen to me, it can happen to you, so it's never too early to think about these things. And I hope to at least spare some of you the mind-fuckery I've been through because no one told me about most of this stuff, including my own mother who just DOESN'T REMEMBER what happened to her and now I completely understand why. And because I also have a connective tissue disease, I used to just dismiss my pain and fatigue as being caused by that illness rather than the loss of hormones.

Anyways, this is why we need Elders in our lives, so they can do Grandma Story Hour like I just did and validate you when the entire medical field tries to gaslight you. I hope you've found some or all of this educational/useful. Please share with your friends because we really do NOT talk about this stuff enough. (Ewwww Moon Blood!)

Stay well, and don't let the bastards grind you down!

#perimenopause #menopause #hrt #reproductive health #burning mouth syndrome #rare disease #about me #1K #5K

9K notes · View notes

binch-i-might-be · 4 months ago

Text

the way I just almost wept while opening up my new fma manga box set

#SHE'S BEAUTIFUL. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I'VE EVER SEEN #there's a light novel in there too because the 27 volumes would have left an empty space otherwise lol #and a poster!!!! tbh i might frame that poster #i will never be as happy as when i'm having an autistic hyperfixation moment #immediately had to show my brother the set who was appropriately impressed by it #i can't wait to crack into her (The Collection)#Ed's little face...... he is making me Weep #really wanna get to that light novel too. the font is super big so i could probably knock that thang out in like an hour #rayrambles

0 notes

yamujiburo · 5 months ago

Text

A few months ago, some of you might know if you keep up with this blog, I went to Collect-A-Con LA. It was truly on a whim. Literally the day before my girlfriend and I had just come back from our Europe trip. Normally I'd be so tired and jetlagged but for some reason I was feeling really antsy and energized and just needed to go somewhere and get out of the house.

I found out that Collect-A-Con LA was happening the following day and that a lot of the original Pokemon voice cast would be there. So I bought a ticket, drew/printed up a picture that I wanted to get signed and got up early to drive to the convention center (you have to understand that I hate driving in town and also very much never wake up early). I don't know what possessed me to do this but I'm so glad I did.

I ended up having the privilege of meeting Eric Stuart, Veronica Taylor and of course, Rachael Lillis.

She was masked up, looked tired, and a bit sick. And at the time, I assumed she might've caught a cold over the weekend of the con. I went to her table and she still smiled and gave me all of her attention and time. I paid her assistant for an autograph, gave Rachael the drawing I'd done and she got to signing it. Her assistant said the print I had was cute and asked where I got it. I told her that I drew it myself and that I spent a LOT of my time drawing Team Rocket and other various Pokemon fanart. When I said that, Rachel stopped mid-sign and looked up and squinted at me and asked "are you Kiana Mai"? My heart skipped. I had no idea she knew who I was and was surprised that, given how many Pokemon fanartists there are in the world, she was able to pick me out. I left that interaction so happy and felt so seen. Soon after, I went to get my print signed by Veronica Taylor and while in her line, noticed Rachael had left her table; presumably not feeling well and had to leave the con early. I remember thinking how lucky I was to catch her before she left.

A couple months later, I saw the gofundme that her sister posted, detailing what Rachel was going through for the past few years and her battle with cancer. It put that convention day in such a different perspective for me.

All I could think about was how much she cared about her fans and how in touch with her community she was to go to a convention while being in so much pain and suffering in silence. I obviously don't know her personally, but based on how other fans who've met her, as well as her colleagues have spoken about her, I got the impression that she was an amazing, thoughtful person who cared about the people around her. That was only solidified for me based on this singular interaction a few months ago.

Rest in Peace Rachael Lillis. You've touched so many lives with your voice and so much of us grew up listening you. Thank you for everything!

#rachael lillis

9K notes · View notes

gojonanami · 1 year ago

Text

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,”

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness.

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks.

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there.

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall.

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large.

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture.

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt.

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out.

You got a B.

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88.

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds.

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare.

Academia was truly hell.

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,”

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly.

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—”

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?”

“I am, I wanted to—”

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—”

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?”

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze, “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,”

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—”

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,”

“I wasn’t—”

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,”

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—”

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.”

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease.

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist.

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin.

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?).

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do.

“See you soon.”

Oh, he would.

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours.

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to.

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it.

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?”

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip.

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal.

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside.

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—”

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,”

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,”

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—”

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,”

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle.

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall.

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,”

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips.

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,”

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,”

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs.

“You learn fast.”

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism.

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again.

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it.

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top.

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck—

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good.

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought.

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss—

And you clearly needed sleep.

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it).

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’”

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action.

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you.

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you.

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—”

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?”

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—”

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch.

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—”

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?”

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck.

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—”

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,”

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.”

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm.

What the fuck was that?

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up.

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working.

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you—

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you?

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade.

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory—

And then you heard him say your name—

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?”

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together.

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him.

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall.

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream.

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—”

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today — and a deep royal purple one no less, “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here.

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head.

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed.

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,”

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,”

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together.

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment.

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,”

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom.

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves—

What the fuck were you doing?

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor.

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—).

You needed to stop doing that.

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right?

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment.

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he.

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back—

But why did his smile look so strained?

There must be something wrong with him.

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you.

Why had he stopped you?

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands.

But this, this felt different.

You were different.

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism.

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile.

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm — but not the one he was looking for.

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you—

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?”

And it was you.

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips.

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?”

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,”

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease, “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?”

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

“I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,”

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?”

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?”

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,”

“No, but—”

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it.

And he didn’t want to pull away.

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—”

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?”

“But—”

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,”

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire.

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?”

And there’s only one answer — you.

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours—

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there.

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together.

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager?

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you.

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM.

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you.

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him.

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind.

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better.

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face.

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you.

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,”

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip.

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard.

Fuck.

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office.

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms.

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped.

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings.

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to?

It was that time again.

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart.

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board — his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name.

God. Fuck.

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes.

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear?

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes.

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?”

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,”

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips.

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—”

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,”

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high.

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up.

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture.

Double fuck.

Why was this so difficult?

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore.

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting.

But you didn’t know how to go in.

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him.

Or wouldn’t.

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it.

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?”

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?”

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?”

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?”

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword.

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross.

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there.

“But?” You wait for it.

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,”

You pause a moment, “Really?”

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,”

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his?

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,”

Your breath catches, “Really?”

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,”

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take.

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,”

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises.

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—”

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,”

He stares, “What do you—”

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,”

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?”

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,”

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,”

“I would say it depends,”

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk.

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?”

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—”

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,”

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours.

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips.

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more.

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?”

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again.

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.”

~~~~

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore.

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks?

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations.

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head.

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you.

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.”

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples.

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave.

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good.

Maybe it was for the best.

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with.

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all?

Oh, great, you were becoming existential.

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best.

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike.

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile.

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn.

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?”

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?”

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’”

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,”

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,”

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?”

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page:

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this.

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction.

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?”

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,”

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin.

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow.

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,”

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,”

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again.

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,”

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly.

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,”

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips.

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,”

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?”

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?”

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned.

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—”

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested —

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in.

Fuck, indeed.

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto suguru imagines #geto x reader #geto smut #geto x you #geto suguru fanfiction #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #dividers by @/saradika

17K notes · View notes

cherienymphe · 3 months ago

Text

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of prostitution, mentions of infidelity

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies

summary: turning your life around is easier said than done when you tempt the very man meant to lead you to salvation.

♱

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”

The familiar words tumbled from your lips, and your gaze remained on your lap, eyes following your finger as you traced patterns into the solid black skirt on your frame. It kissed your ankle as you shifted your feet, and the reminder of the long fabric had you swallowing down less than gentle thoughts. You slowly reached up to touch the collar of your shirt, eyes briefly falling closed as you cleared your throat.

You’d spent hours agonizing over how you’d leave the house…

“It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Like clockwork, you listed the time you cursed for some accident or another and the time you took the Lord’s name in vain and the brief impure thought about that attractive man you’d seen in the grocery store. Every week, it was the same. Sins that you yourself would never have considered as such months ago that you were now hyper aware of. They climbed out of your throat seamlessly, remembering every single one until only one was left.

The silence between you and the man just on the other side of that wall stretched—a familiar occurrence—and you took your lip between your teeth. You could taste blood as you worried it, swallowing it down before clearing your throat again. You smoothed your hand over your skirt, and you furiously blinked, struggling to blink away the tears that had started to collect. As you sat in silence, you wondered why you were trying so hard to impress people that had already written you off?

“I’ve had…some hateful thoughts as well.”

You struggled to get the words out, always struck by just how emotional this made you. You looked up towards the ceiling, eyes roaming, and you hadn’t even realized that your breathing had started to pick up until he spoke.

Father Mayhew.

“Take your time,” he gently encouraged. “Speak when you are ready.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words, recalling your first ever confessional and how you’d cried. It was as embarrassing now as it was then, but it was necessary. You were determined to live differently now—to be different, now.

“Although I have abandoned my former life and…occupation…” you thought you heard him shift. “...I feel as if I will never truly be forgiven for it.”

You swiped your tongue between your lips.

“...will never be accepted.”

You recalled the eyes that often found their way to you during mass—the judgment, the disdain, the way in which some stared at you as if they didn’t know how to place you.

Every sunday it was the same. You’d wake up and agonize over how to present yourself in a place as holy as this. You’d fret that this skirt was too short and that dress was too tight. You’d fiddle with your hair for far too long and every lipstick you wiped off would stain your lips a little more than the last. You were constantly at a crossroad, torn between wanting to look nice for church and concerned about looking like…well…a whore.

You struggled to swallow.

“I see the way they look at me,” you eventually whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t hear what they whisper, but I know it’s about me.”

You touched your throat, hating how tight it felt.

“It’s…discouraging.”

You didn’t want to use that word, but it was the only word that was appropriate. It made you sad, and you often wondered why you kept returning to a place that made you sad. Surely a church wasn’t necessary to ‘find God’...right? You didn’t think so, but you had wanted to start somewhere, and considering that none of your friends even owned a bible, they had been of no help. Stepping foot into a place that had only ever served to be ominous and oppressive in your eyes was the most terrifying thing you’d ever done.

…but then you had laid eyes on Father Mayhew.

He’d been the only one in the church at the time, and you would never forget the curious glint in his dark gaze. You’d had no doubt that he could see you were scared and unsure and in an environment you were wholly unused to. You’d appreciated the gentle way in which he talked to you, guiding you towards a pew in the front as you asked him questions that some people had answers to their entire lives. He hadn’t treated you like you were stupid, but more importantly, he hadn’t treated you like you didn’t belong.

You were willing to bet that he hadn’t even known about you then.

Although, months later, you were willing to bet that he did now…even though you’d never told him.

“Humans are flawed,” his smooth voice reached your ears through the wall. “We all fall short—even the most devout of us—and we find ourselves falling prey to the temptation of judgment…pride…lust…”

You intently listened. After all, he’d never said these words to you before, always giving you some speech about God’s love trumping all.

“I have no doubt that it is trying, but I am sure you will come to give them grace for their sins just as they will give you grace for yours. We are all God’s children striving to lead a life in his image…”

His voice lowered at that, and you frowned slightly, looking towards the wall and thinking to yourself that he almost seemed to be talking to himself now.

“He wants his children to love one another, a feat that is not without difficulty I’m sure you know…” that actually made you hold back a chuckle. “...but God’s love is powerful and he always grants forgiveness to those who genuinely yearn and ask for it.”

At that, you did smile.

You told him that you were truly sorry for your sins, and he told you to say ten Hail Mary’s, and you stepped out of the confessional feeling better than you did thirty minutes ago. You didn’t know how long the feeling would last though, and so you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could, but you knew from experience that was easier said than done.

You touched the crucifix around your neck as you stepped out of your building.

It had once belonged to your mother, and despite how long she’d been gone and how down on your luck you’d been ever since, you could never quite find it in you to pawn it. It was real gold—probably the only real piece of jewelry you ever owned—but you just couldn’t do it, and you supposed that you were never meant to. Despite the many years you’d lived life as the complete opposite of a God fearing woman…it felt right sitting just below your collarbone.

Even if many would not agree.

You were no stranger to several men in this town—and the ones who often passed through on their truck routes—but that had not stopped you from seeking solace and guidance from a place you’d never stepped foot into in your life. You couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel…strange to be in the same building as some of the men you’d serviced before, their wives and children at their side as they furiously avoided making eye contact with you. It felt even worse to watch the way the women would congregate together after church, excluding you all the while talking about you.

It felt somewhat pathetic for your only ally in the place to be the priest.

Although you sometimes wondered how true that was these days. You’d never once confessed that you used to be a prostitute—although the kids called it sex work these days—but you weren’t stupid. As godly and devout as they claimed to be, you knew that the church was filled with gossip and there was no telling who’d let it slip to the dark haired man. You knew when he knew though…

…because he looked at you different.

It wasn’t a bad different—thank God for that—but just…different, and while it wasn’t necessarily bad, you still didn’t think you liked it. Confession—being anonymous—never allowed for you to tell him your name, and considering you’d only ever spoken to him once outside of confession months ago, you didn’t know if he ever knew it was you he was talking to. You didn’t know if he knew that the woman he spoke so gently with each week and listened to cry on the other side of some window was the same woman who often shrunk under his heavy gaze as he looked down on his congregation.

You never felt like he was judging you, no, but you also never felt like he was looking at you as he did that first day, a gentle curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t your friend—far from it in fact—but he felt like the closest thing you had to one in this church, and so you often forced yourself to find excuses for it. He watches you because he wants to make sure you’re settling in okay. He watches you to observe how other members of the church are treating you. He watches you because he’s wondering if you’ll ever come to confession, convincing yourself that he’s never recognized your voice all this time.

That is why he watches you, you told yourself.

No other reason.

“You always come to pray at least three times a week…”

The familiar voice startled you as you stood, hand lowering as you’d just finished signing the cross. Your hand was still on your chest as you turned to face him, a small smile on your lips as he stood directly in the center of the aisle. You hadn’t even heard him make a single sound, and you wondered how long he’d been standing there.

He slowly returned your smile with one of his own, although it was smaller, and the silent way in which he stared at you reminded you that he’d said something to you.

“Yes,” you finally said, moving away from the altar. “It helps with…um…really everything.”

He blinked at you, and you noticed that a strand of his hair was threatening to go rogue. He always looked so neat and perfect that it was hard to miss. Father Mayhew was handsome—if anyone had seen enough men to know it was you—but he was handsome in a way that you would categorize as flawless. Divine even. In a way that was untouchable and only meant to be admired in the most innocent of appreciation.

He slowly nodded at your response, and you didn’t miss the way he studied you—dark eyes drinking you in and taking note of every stylistic choice you’d made today.

“You know, I think I might see your face far more than those who have been coming here for years,” he lightly told you, a slight laugh on his lips.

You laughed with him, only offering him a shrug.

“I’m still new. I’m sure it just seems that way because you aren’t used to seeing me.”

He started to shake his head before you could even finish talking, and you watched him move closer.

“No,” he murmured—so low you almost didn't hear him. “I think you are perhaps my most…devout congregant.”

He touched your crucifix as he said this, dark eyes tracing the shape of it, and he was so close that you could smell his cologne. You blinked at the scent, finding it strange to know that he wore cologne. It shouldn’t be strange, you supposed, but you realized then that you didn’t quite view priests—view him—as human. As normal…

His eyes lifted then to finally connect with yours, and a crooked smile danced along his pink lips.

“It’s admirable,” he whispered. “More of my congregation could stand to follow your lead.”

You couldn’t ignore the way your chest bloomed at those words, almost hating how much validation you wanted from this place. Validation that you were a good person…you weren’t who you used to be…that you were worthy of something more, you didn’t know. It just felt relieving to hear such a compliment from Father Mayhew when no one else in the church would even give you a chance.

“Thank you, Father,” you quietly replied to him. “That means a lot to me.”

You watched him slowly inhale as he dropped his hand, and he seemed even slower to step out of your way. When you walked past him, you could feel his gaze on you—always watching—and you smiled when he called out to you, telling you that he looked forward to seeing you on Sunday.

No one was more sad than you when you had to disappoint him.

An unexpected cold had you bedridden for days, and while you knew that an illness was a perfectly valid excuse to miss church, you couldn’t swallow down the disappointment. You hadn’t missed a single Sunday since you first started going, and you thought to yourself that the first thing you’d do when you returned was explain your absence to Father Mayhew.

You had never anticipated him showing up at your door to get it himself.

No one ever knocked on your door these days, so the sound had taken you by surprise. Your friends—while supportive of the direction your life had taken—didn’t quite understand it and so you didn’t see them as often, and as for anyone else… Well, there wasn’t anyone else who would come knocking on your door. You didn’t do that anymore so no customers were going to be greeting you on the other side with their money in their hand and an eager grin on their lips, and you doubted any of the women in town would want to sit down for a chat anytime soon.

Your shock at Father Mayhew’s presence was all over your face.

“Father,” you stated, the lilt in your voice hinting at your surprise.

He looked just as you were used to seeing him—clerical collar still on, not a hair out of place, and a hint of a smile on those pink lips. You stood there gaping at him for all of five seconds before it struck you how rude you were probably being.

“I…I’m so sorry. Um…come in,” you told him, stepping out of the way and widening the gap in the doorway.

He didn’t respond nor move right away, looking past you into your small house with a look in his gaze that you couldn’t name. If he were anyone else, you might worry that he was judging where you lived. You watched his jaw briefly tighten, a noticeable strain in his face, and it only just occurred to you that maybe this wasn’t appropriate? Although you were positive you’d heard of priests and pastors visiting the sick before, and while you certainly weren’t on your deathbed, you didn’t see why this would be different.

Before you could say another word though, his foot crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him.

“I do apologize for the unexpected visit,” he said to you, gazing around before his eyes landed on you again. “...but when I noticed that mass was absent of a face I’d grown to look forward to, I became concerned.”

You couldn’t stop your smile at his words

“Oh,” you softly said. “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. It’s just a small cold that will be gone in a day or two.”

You watched him exhale at that, nodding to himself, and you studied him, surprised to see that he looked genuinely relieved at that.

“I’m glad to hear that’s all it is…”

At that, your brows furrowed, and you watched him slowly walk about your living room.

“I had feared that some of your fellow church goers had scared you off.”

Your lips parted at his words, and he turned and looked at you.

“They often fall into the temptation of judgment, after all…”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know how to react with the knowledge that he knew it was you who came to see him once a week. You’d only spoken to him face to face twice, and you swallowed, looking away.

“I thought it would be a shame if they scared you off,” he confessed, and you noted that he was closer now. “I wondered what I would have to do to convince you to come back. Drag you, perhaps.”

You gave a soft laugh at that, although he didn’t join you, and it awkwardly faded. He stared at you in silence for what felt like a long time, and just when you were considering asking him if he wanted anything to drink, he reached out to touch the crucifix around your neck again.

“So devout,” he quietly said to himself. “It almost makes me ashamed…”

At that, you gave a heavy laugh, wondering how you could ever shame a priest.

“Why?”

“...because I see why they flocked to your door…money in hand.”

His gaze lifted as he said that, and you were still as you both just stared at each other. His words made you blink, and you were suddenly very aware of his hand practically on you. You couldn’t stop the slight frown that fell over your face, and for the first time in months—since you first stepped foot into that church—you felt…wrong.

“I see why their eyes trace every inch of you when you’re not looking…as if to relive the memory of what you felt like—tasted like.”

You finally took a step back, hand coming up to cover your necklace as if protecting it from his touch.

“What memories they must have of you…”

You wrapped your other arm around yourself, mind whirling to reconcile the man before you with the same man who’d always been so welcoming and gentle. Not once did you ever think he judged you for your past, and you supposed that you were right, but not once did you ever think he also might…

You hadn’t done that in over a year, but had it really escaped you so quickly that a seemingly devout man was still…a man?

“Father, I think you should-.”

“I don’t say any of this to offend you,” he interrupted, tilting his head. “I say it because I fight the urge to touch you every time you’re in my presence.”

You moved by him to make your way to the door, but like an ever present shadow you only just noticed, he was close behind.

“You can cover up as much as you’d like—wear skirts down to your ankle and shirts up to your chin…” his hand on the door halted your movements.

You felt his chest just barely grazing your back, and his lips followed suit, the softness of them brushing against your ear as he spoke. That familiar cologne invaded your senses.

“...but none of it can hide the temptation you pose by merely existing.”

You shrunk away from him at that, tears in your eyes as he verbalized the same fears you had every time you walked into the building. You flinched when his lips touched the back of your neck, heart dropping to your stomach, but you reached for the door handle anyway.

“Father, I’d like you to leave-.”

Your words were cut off by your own sharp scream, taken aback by the feel of his fingers harshly pressing into the skin of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your neck, and you pressed your hand to the door when his lips grazed your cheek.

“They’re all like rabid dogs…just waiting to pounce,” he mused against your skin, sliding between you and the door and forcing you further into your house with every step. “Just waiting for you to give up this charade and go back to taking their money for a quick fuck.”

You blinked, and a few tears escaped.

“...but they don’t know you like I know you.”

He grinned against your cheek, and you winced as he lightly nipped at the skin there.

“They don’t know that you come to church at least thrice a week to light candles and pray…”

You were full on sobbing now, and you could feel the cool metal of his ring against the back of your neck.

“They don’t know that you never miss your weekly confession, telling me every time you so much as say the Lord’s name in vain.”

His free hand was reaching for the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, and you gasped when his fingers finally met skin. He dipped his head, mouth finding the skin of your shoulder and collarbone interesting before his hand searched for your wrist.

“They don’t know that you are the most pious woman to walk through those doors,” he purred, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of your wrist. “...and that I just want to ruin you for it.”

When his hand dipped between your legs, you were quick to try and stop him, still wincing at the tight grip on the back of your neck. Father Mayhew made a noise of disapproval, and your hand faltered when he harshly bit your shoulder.

“We are…and always will be…sinners…”

Once his fingers were inside of you, it was like the point of no return. You found it funny that he likened the men in church to that of rabid dogs when he himself was behaving like the very thing he used to insult them. When your knees buckled, he followed—one arm around you and holding you in place while the fingers on his other hand curved into you.

Every thrust of his fingers made you wetter—embarrassingly so—and when he pulled your head back, he forced a kiss onto your lips. He swallowed down your whimpers and noises of protest, a moan escaping him as he tasted the inside of your mouth. With him so close to you, you could feel the muscles and contours of his frame beneath his clothes, and you were forced to recognize your predicament and his strength and what that meant for you.

When you were face to face with him again, his hair was nowhere near as neat as it was when he first walked through your door. His pink lips were swollen and reddened from kissing you and dragging over your skin. Your pajama top had long been discarded, the bottoms long ripped and pulled off of you. Father Mayhew’s—Charlie—clerical collar was long gone, his shirt pulled open and hanging off of him.

You recalled the way your mouth had parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock finally dipped into you, stretching you with every inch and making your heart momentarily stop. His hand covered a breast, the feel of his ring cooling that singular part of your skin, the rest of you so overheated. His other hand was wrapped around your throat, and you clawed at his hand as he fucked you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in your tiny home, the only sound to rival it being his harsh grunts and your strained voice. Any fight that you’d put up had been quickly squashed down, shown in the harshest manner just how strong your priest was. You hated how good it felt, hated that you didn’t want this but was now forced to enjoy it. Nevermind the fact that you hadn’t enjoyed sex for the act itself in years…

…but of all people to find yourself in this predicament with.

Father Mayhew’s hands never stayed in one place for long. He seemed determined to touch every part of you he could get his hands on, lips tasting the saltiness of your skin. Sweat clung to your frame and his, his fingers sliding over you as he kneaded your thighs and your waist and your chest. Every time you reminded yourself how wrong this was, he’d push his cock into you to the hilt, and you’d involuntarily throw your head back.

You could feel your crucifix pressing into your skin, and your eyes watered.

“I must admit that I was—am—jealous,” he dragged out, voice hoarse and throaty and wholly unlike how you were used to hearing him. “Your devotion to God inspires an envy within me that I never knew existed.”

You took note of the scars on his back underneath your fingers.

“...a desire to have you completely devoted to me,” he bit out, covering your lips with his own. “You so desperately desire forgiveness and acceptance…and all the things you didn’t think you were worthy of having.”

He harshly thrust into you, making you gasp.

“...and I can give that to you,” he whispered into the kiss.

The power behind his thrusts had you scratching at both his back and the floor, eyes squeezing shut at the way his fingers dug into your skin. It was like he was both holding you to him and trying to prevent you from ever walking away. Your chest arched up into his as you gasped, choked whimpers climbing out of your throat with every push of his hips. He growled against your skin as his lips traveled to your neck, the sound almost demonic to your ears.

When you came around him—your first orgasm in over a year—you couldn’t swallow down the noise it forced out of you. You could feel blood beneath your nails and a slickness on the inside of your thighs, but all the while Father Mayhew didn’t stop.

With one hand pressed against the floor, he pushed himself up to look down at you. His free hand slid up your sweaty frame, coming up to wrap around the crucifix that rested against your skin. He tightened his hold around it, and he pulled on it, forcing you to lift your head and meet him halfway for a kiss.

“I want you just as eager to get on your knees for me…”

#charlie mayhew #father charlie mayhew #charlie mayhew x reader #father Charlie mayhew x reader #nicholas alexander chavez #grotesquerie #nicholas chavez

5K notes · View notes

lqvesoph · 18 days ago

Text

Two red lines || LN4

lando norris x fwb!fem!reader

summary: it was (mostly) a normal friends with benefits situation until the stick showed two red lines

warnings: 18+, fwb, pregnancy plot (i feel like this is obvious) smut, spitting, begging, unprotected p in v (wrap it pls), miscommunication, angst, fluffy ending

Part two

6.3k words

masterlist

It was never meant to be serious. And it wasn’t. It was meaningless sex whenever one of you needed it. He would fly you out to Monaco or wherever he currently was racing, or he’d come over to you when he was at the MTC in England. Both of you leaving the morning after, at latest.

So, it was never serious. Until you held a small stick that clearly showed two red lines…

"Fuck!!", you yelled for the third time, flopping your head down on your arms that laid on the bathroom counter.

You had no idea how this could happen, you were careful all the freaking time. You were on the pill, he wore condoms (most of the time anyway) but you always had at least one layer of protection to avoid this situation.

Your phone buzzed next to you and you lifted your head to check the message.

Lando: I’m done at work, I can be there in 20

You sunk your head back down and sighed.

Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. You had hidden the pregnancy test behind your books, some place you were sure Lando would never look, and opened the door with your best impression of a smile.

"Hi", his smile brightened and he immediately reached his hands out for you, pulling you into a hot kiss, while throwing the door close behind him.

"How was work?", you tried to get some words between his kisses. "Mmh", he only muttered, clearly not being in the mood to talk when he came here for one thing only. You buried your finger in his curls. "Everything ready for the final triple header?", you asked as he moved his kisses down your neck. "Y/n?", he asked pulling back shortly, putting his index finger over your mouth. "Shh!"

Then he went back to sucking the delicate skin on your neck, pushing you backwards into your bedroom.

Lando pulled his own shirt over his head, making your hands instinctively wander from his curls to his broad tan shoulders. He shivered when he felt the touch of your cold fingers, hoisting you up in his arms to lay you down on the covers. His hands wandering under your oversized shirt, up to your breasts, tugging at it to signal you to lift your back so he could pull it over your head. And you let him.

"Am I imagining things or have they grown?", Lando giggled, sucking your right nipple while massaging your other breast.

Your heartbeat quickend for a hot second, hot blood shooting through your veins and up to your head but you managed to chuckle.

"C’mon, let’s get these off, I need to be inside of you", Lando muttered, tugging on your panties. You lifted your hips obediently, allowing him to strip the piece of clothing off you. His pointer finger running through your already wet folds, making you squirm.

"You’re so quiet tonight, love", he whispered, kissing over your breasts and stomach, down to your clit. A light poke of his tongue on your most sensitive part had you hissing. "Mmh, tell me, what’s on your pretty little mind", he hummed, taking lazy licks over your pussy, never dipping in tho.

I think I’m pregnant with your child, which will either ruin this arrangement or your career, didn’t seem like the most sensitive thing to say in this situation. So you settled for a headshake. "Nothing, just a bit tired."

"Maybe this will wake you up", he grinned, dipping his tongue between your folds. Your hands tugged at his curls, enjoying the feeling of his mouth basically sending you to heaven. It truly wasn’t fair HOW good this man was with his mouth. And hands. And dick.

He pulled your folds apart with two fingers, giving him a perfect view of your hole. "So perfect", he purred, collecting a little bit of spit, and spitting right into your opening. You moaned while your eyes rolled back.

Damn him for knowing your biggest weak spot.

Lando watched as your hole tightened around nothing. "Want my fingers, love?", he hummed between kisses on your inner thigh and you nodded frantically, slowly getting impatient with need.

"Words, my love, words", his deep voice sounded from between your thighs. "Yes, Lan, please!", you obeyed his request. "Already begging, I like it", Lando chuckled, inserting two fingers into your tight hole. You gasped at the stretch, not expecting him to go in with two. He felt you squeeze around him as he explored your insides, slowly hitting deeper.

"Lando", you squirmed, impatiently asking him to finally give you all of him. "Shhhh", he soothed you, beginning to scissor his fingers inside of you, causing you to let out a few high pitched moans.

"Lan, please, I need you!", you managed to gasp between moans. "You have me, baby", he pretended to not now what you were asking. "All of you- need all of you… need your dick inside", you begged, knowing yourself how pathetically you sounded as you said it but not caring in the slightest.

Lando chuckled and pushed his own pants down, his hard dick springing free and slapping against his stomach. You whined when he pulled his fingers out of you.

He grabbed his length and brought it down to your dripping cunt, sliding the tip through your folds before slowly dipping in.

The stretch hurt in the best way possible and you had to close your eyes while adjusting to the feeling of him pushing deeper into you.

"You good?", Lando groaned, holding himself back not to just push himself as deep as he can. You nodded, eyes still closed. "Keep going", you panted, feeling him slip into you completely, hitting your g-spot.

Both of you stayed still and breathed for a few seconds until you nodded. "Move, please", you whispered. Lando groaned starting to move his hips, pulling out a little only to thrust hard and deep into you.

Your hands clamped over his back as Lando kept slamming into you at a brutal pace. Your body rocked over your sheets, your legs wrapping around his hips.

He moved his hand between your bodies, circling his fingers over your clit to stimulate you even more.

Lando’s hand moved up to your lower stomach. "Can you feel how deep I am?", he muttered im your ear, pressing down on your stomach.

This pulled you back into reality. You pushed him back, panicking slightly over the fact of having his hand that close to where you were carrying a tiny part of him.

Lando stilled inside of you and pushed himself up on his arms. "You okay?", he asked with a frown.

You nodded hastily, trying to hide your expression. "Yeah, yeah, keep going please", you panted. "Just been having a few cramps lately, I think I’m getting my period."

You were in fact having cramps lately, tho it hadn’t been because of your period…

Lando scanned your face, sensing that you were hiding something.

But it wasn’t his place to ask. You were fuck buddies, nothing more. Meaningless sex, nothing more.

Still, he continued to thrust his hips, feeling you squeeze around him. Your moans got louder as you felt the knot in your lower stomach tightening. He could feel you were close, he knew your body better than his own, but he held himself back, wanting to make you finish before him.

His hand went back to rub circles on your clit, this being the added sensation you needed to push you over the edge. Your pussy tightened around him as you came, his name spilling in moans from your lips.

Lando continue to slam into you at a brutal pace, the overstimulation hitting you like a brick. A few more thrust before Lando pulled out and finished on your lower stomach, a deep moan leaving his lips.

He saw you eying his cum on your stomach, grinning at your expression. "What? We wouldn’t want a Max and Kelly situation, right?", he laughed, referring to the fact the couple had told Lando that they were pregnant last week.

You swallowed hard at his words, allowing him to grab some tissue and cleaning you up before you turned your back to him.

Lando was more confused than ever. He felt your mind wasn’t here, he felt when your mind was drifting off while he was hitting your deepest spots and now you turned away without a word. He couldn’t help but feel like she was mad at him, like he had said something he shouldn’t have.

"You okay?", he dared to ask, putting a comforting hand on your bare shoulder. "Yeah", you muttered. "But I think it’s best if you leave now."

That hit him like a brick.

Yes, this wasn’t anything serious, just a simple friends either benefits situation but still, you always at least stayed the night, especially in the recent months.

"Oh. Uh, sure. I gotta head back to Monaco to pack before Vegas", he made up a lie, trying to play it cool, trying to hide the hurt in his voice but you noticed nonetheless. Your heart stung as you nodded.

"I’ll text you tomorrow", Lando whispered. "Bye."

{~}

You couldn’t close one eye last night. The way Lando had sounded so hurt after you told him to leave, keeping you up the whole night. Oh, and then there obviously was that other thing.

At around 9am you had managed to pull yourself out of bed, deciding the best thing would be to go to a doctor to get clarity of the situation, maybe you were worrying without a reason to.

But sitting in the office of your doctor, you were sure. The ultrasound confirming your feeling.

"Congratulations, Miss", she smiled. "As far as I can see, you are 8 weeks along." You nodded numb, silently calculating back about eight weeks and landing on one specific weekend at the end of September, on one specific hot and sweaty night after the Singapore Grand Prix.

"I- can I ask a question?", you stuttered, the woman giving you a heartfelt smile. "Of course!" "I’m on the pill, and have been taking it without exception, every day at the same hour, so- I’m just- I am wondering how this-", you gestured around the room.

The doctor smiled. "No contraception is 100% effective. Different reasons for the pill maybe not working could be the temperature. You should always have the pills at about room temperature, anything above that might cancel out their effect", she explained.

Great, so now you’re telling me I’m pregnant because of the temperatures in Singapore…

You nodded and thanked the woman who gave you your next check up date at the reception.

Back outside you took a deep breath.

How on earth are you going to tell Lando about this?

{~}

"No, Max, I’m just saying she acted weird", Lando groaned, dropping his head on Max’s table. "I don’t know what to tell you, brother. Maybe it’s that time of the month", Max called out, saying the first phrase for the at least fifth time today.

Lando lifted his head, unimpressed with the last sentence. "Don’t you think I would’ve notice that?", he asked, rolling his eyes.

Max shrugged. "Maybe that whole friends with benefits situation isn’t how you should keep going", Lando’s best friend said, causing a deep silence between the pair. He met Lando’s eyes and could tell he was in deep thoughts about that statement.

"Maybe you need to figure out if this is anything more or not, and if not you should end it soon, because you cannot keep going on like this for the rest of your life. I’m sure it was fun, but these situations are never meant for over three months. And it’s been almost six", Max spoke into the silence.

Lando’s head hurt at his words. But deep down he knew Max was right. But the thing is, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want this to end, he didn’t want to let her go but at the same time he wasn’t sure if he was ready for a relationship.

His phone buzzed on the table next to him.

Y/n: We need to talk. Are you still in London?

A cold shower went down his back. Nothing ever good started with those words.

We need to talk.

He quickly grabbed his phone and texted you back.

"I’ll go over to hers, she wants to talk", he revealed to his best friend. Max’s eyes widden for a second but he tried to hide it behind a quick nod. "Uhm, okay. I’ll head to the airport, text me when you’re done."

Lando nodded, silently cursing the fact he actually had no time for this as his plane to Vegas was leaving in a few hours. He grabbed his car keys and closed the door behind him. The whole ride he kept thinking about your message.

We need to talk.

You were going to end this arrangement, he was sure of it. What he wasn’t sure of was if he wanted to end it as well.

Standing in front of your apartment door now, the nerves were running strong. He pressed the bell, waiting for a few seconds before she opened the door.

"Hi", you said. Lando’s heart dropped when there wasn’t your usual greeting smile. He cleared his throat. "Uh, hi."

"Thanks for coming over", you said, nodding over to the couch, gesturing him to sit down. "No problem, I was staying at Max’s", Lando replied. The air thick with tension. You sat down next to him, crossing your legs.

"Sooo, what did you want to talk about?", he dared to ask, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. You cleared your throat. "Uhm, so- I… I wanna start by saying, I’m sorry. I didn’t plan for this to happen and you have to believe that", you spoke.

Lando frowned, not quite knowing where you were going with this. You fiddled with your fingers in your lap. "I’m sure you’re not even ready for this, hell I don’t even know if I’m ready for this. But it happened and like I already said, I’m sorry."

"Y/n, what’s going on?", he asked, still confused. You leaned forward to the glass table. He only now noticed the small box on it. It was a simple white box, which you handed to him.

Carefully he pulled the lid off, his eyes going wide as he started taking in the content of the box. "I’m so sorry, Lando", you muttered, as he pulled out a copy of the ultrasound.

If the two red lines on the pregnancy test inside the box didn’t give it away, this sure did.

You sat in defeating silence, tension running high. The longer he didn’t say anything, the more you started to worry.

"Lan-", you whispered but he interrupted you, standing up hastily. "I’m sorry, Y/n!", he muttered, backing up a few steps.

Hurt shot through your body and tears started to form when he turned around without another word and hurried out of your apartment.

Looking for a safe place he shut the door to his car, sinking back into the leather seat and trying to control his breathing.

He quickly turned on the engine and drove out onto the street. He had to get to Max. He had to tell his best friend.

Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have been driving in that state of mind but apart from almost running a red light, he got through safely.

He slammed the car door and hurried inside the airport. His breathing slowly calming down but his pulse staying high all through security. Thank God, Max had already taken care of his baggage.

He hurried through the private part of the airport, catching the security guard at the glass door that led out to the planes.

"Sorry I’m late", he apologized to him who only nodded and led him towards his ride.

His best friend looked up from his seat, when Lando entered the plane, immediately catching on to the disturbed state he was in. "What hap-"

"Y/n is pregnant!"

Max quickly sat up straight. "She’s what?", he called, shock laced his voice. Lando nodded, handing him the ultrasound picture he had taken with him.

While Max inspected the blurry picture, Lando paced around the small space, hands in his hair, breathing quickening.

"O-okay, calm down a little first", Max tried to sooth his best friend who only started laughing hysterically. "Calm down?? How? Max, how am I supposed to be calm right now?", he called. "Y/n is pregnant, the woman I’ve been casually screwing around with is carrying my child. I have no idea if she even wants this baby, if this is going to ruin her chances of a career. If the story gets out, Zak will burn me alive. We’re not even in a relationship. I don’t even know her parents. God, what will they say? What will my parents say? What-" "Have you talked to her?", Max interrupted Lando’s rant.

His head shot up and he slowly shook it. He could tell Max was waiting for an explanation of what exactly happened so he sighed and started talking.

"We sat down on the couch, she started talking about how sorry she is, I had no clue what she was on about. Then she handed me this small box with the test and the picture." Max nodded. "Then?"

"I got up and ran out", Lando confessed, groaning at his own actions. "You got up and left? Lando, damn it! She’s probably racked with guilt right now. The father of her baby ran out on her after she told him she was pregnant. Lando, she isn’t only the woman you’ve been ‘casually screwing around with’ and we both know that. Especially recently or do you want to tell me, her dropping everything and coming to South America immediately after you asked her to, is casual? Or how you’ve spent more nights at hers than here whenever you are in England. Or how you smile whenever she is around, whenever you spot her in the crowd under the podium? And don’t deny that, I know that you do", he added the last part after seeing how Lando wanted to deny it.

He hung his head like a scolded puppy and nodded.

"What do I do now?", he whispered.

{~}

You sat on your couch. Frozen. He really got up and left. You felt numb, your hands instinctively going towards your stomach, placing them above the skin.

You felt helpless. Twenty-two, graduating in two months, no real life plan and pregnant while the father of your baby is a multimillion dollar celebrity who drives fast cars for a living and ran out on you almost as quickly.

Almost nine hours passed, which you had spent sitting on your couch and binge watching your favorite show until your phone buzzed.

Lando: I’m sorry. Just landed in Vegas, there are flight tickets attached. Please come.

You checked the times on the tickets. 9am tomorrow. You didn’t reply to his message, leaving him on read while standing up and grabbing a glass of water.

Part of you wanted to pack up and get enough sleep before the long flight, but another part of you was scared. What if he only wanted you to come to end it? Then again, the way he left earlier probably would’ve been the way he ended it. But then he texted. It gave your stupid heart a tiny bit of hope.

You let out a groan.

Approximately 18 hours later, you let out another groan as you pulled down your cabin bag and left the airplane. You knew Lando was most likely staying at the Hilton, closest to the track, so you called a taxi to take you there. Standing in the lobby, you wanted to slap yourself.

What were you doing here? You had no idea which room Lando was in, and the receptionist would sure as hell not give it up.

Your right hand went over your stomach, a habit you have been quickly developing since yesterday. There was no other option than to just wait here until a familiar face entered the building so you sat down on one of the cozy couches.

Forty minutes later you heard cheers outside the door and a few spots of papaya shirts glistening through the mass of people. A few team members you didn’t know passed through the lobby until you spotted Oscar. You jumped up.

"Oscar!", you called, hurrying over to him. The security guard took a step in front of the Mclaren driver, blocking you from getting to him. "Y/n? What are you doing here?", Oscar called confused, signaling the guard that it was okay. "I know her."

"Thanks. I gotta talk to Lando", you quickly told him. "He’ll be here in about five minutes, he’s probably still signing some stuff", the boy told you. You nodded

Oscar put his hand on your upper arm. "You okay?", he questioned, worry lacing his expression after taking in your state. "Y/n?", a voice, you knew all too well, asked behind you. You whipped around, spotting Lando a few meters behind you.

"Thanks, Oscar", you muttered towards the Australian again as Lando came closer. "You came. I didn’t know if you are going to. You didn’t reply to my message", Lando spoke carefully.

Oscar sensed that this was a conversation, he shouldn’t be part of, so he nodded. "I’ll see you guys tomorrow", he bid his goodbye.

"We should head upstairs", Lando said, nodding towards the crowd outside the glass doors. You nodded and turned around, feeling Lando’s hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards the elevator. His other hand grabbed your small suitcase.

He opened the door to his suite, letting you in first. If you hadn’t spent a good amount of time in these suites it would’e taken your breath away. Huge king sized bed, a glass front with view over the city, a giant TV and a big balcony. Nevertheless the hot tub in the bathroom.

"Thanks for coming", he spoke, unsure what to say and gesture towards the bed. You sat down in silence, noticing the ultrasound picture lying on his nightstand. "I- uh-" "If you wanted to end it, you didn’t need to get me to Vegas to do that", you interrupted him. Shock spread on his face.

"No!", he quickly called. "No, I don’t. I wanted to say, I’m sorry for running out like that. I shouldn’t have."

He awaited your reaction but your face stayed neutral. "I should’ve stayed to talk to you about it. It’s not your fault, it always takes two. I don’t want to excuse my actions with what I am about to say but I feel like I need you to hear it. I was scared as shit, still am to be honest. A million things ran through my head, like what about your degree and career, what about the team, the media, our parents. What about us? And I didn’t handle it right, I know that and I’m sorry. Max… knocked some sense into me. Anyway, I want you to know, that if you want this baby and me, I’m all in. Or if you only want the baby and not me, I’m still going to be there for the two of you", Lando took a deep breath after he finished talking.

"I felt so scared and helpless when you ran out", you dared to speak for the first time. Lando slowly reached out to touch your thigh, relaxing little when you didn’t pull back. "I am so sorry for how I reacted", he whispered.

"I want this baby, Lando. I was so scared when I held that stupid positive test but when I saw her on the screen at the doctor’s office, I knew I wanted her. Your reaction scared me because I have no idea what I would do with my life with a baby in it while on my own", you told him. "I’m scared, too, Lando. Scared about my parents reaction and your world, but I know I would rather go through it with you by my side."

Lando cracked a smile. "And you will. I’m not letting go of you, or little us", he said, nodding towards your stomach. A small smile crept its way on your face and Lando closed the gap between you, taking you into his arms. He pressed a delicate kiss to the side of your head.

"Her?", he asked, referring to the fact you had talked about the baby as if it was a girl. "I have a feeling it’s going to be a girl", you chuckled.

Both of you giggled and you had a warmth spread around your body that told you, you were going to be okay.

masterlist

#lando norris #f1 #mclaren #lando norris fluff #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris angst #lando norris smut #lando norris x fwb!reader #lando norris x female reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n

3K notes · View notes

ifonlyyuweremine · 3 months ago

Text

Captain’s Girl. [Part I]

John Price x Reader (Call of Duty)

Synopsis: After Laswell pitches you a favor to join 141, you're left with no choice but to accept. The only problem arises when you and the Captain start to butt heads, but if the two of you hate each other as much as you say, then why is the rest of the team calling you his girl?

Tags: Enemies to lovers, tension, military romance, forbidden love, smut, fighting, secret feelings, slow burn.

Word count? You know the drill, it’s long.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

‘Captain John Price.’ You skimmed the document again, his name catching your eye for the third or fourth time. The black ink seemed to bleed together against the crisp paper of your enrollment documents into Special Forces Task Force 141. It was a promotion, and an honor at that, special forces to begin with were selective.

But 141 was almost unheard of, a combination of British special forces and American special forces. They were one of the best, and you were about to become a part of it. You read the documents again.

‘All personnel will be working under John Price and answering to Kate Laswell, respectively-’ Your eyes trailed further along the mess of columned words, making sense of the legality aspects of transferring to a new team. You hadn't expected to be transferred over, not until Kate had contacted you with an offer. You could tell she was put under pressure by the way her voice strained against the receiver…

“Look, I need you here. Ever since Shepard went rogue, we've been a bit tight over here. John has stepped in as commanding officer; technically, we already have a sharpshooter on 141. But we could use a hand, just until we sort out our bearings. Then, if you'd like, I can transfer you back to your current team…”

You'd raised an eyebrow, “Laswell, you're acting like I'm the only one who can fill these shoes. Why don't you hire a private contractor from KorTac? I'm sure they have more experience anyway.” You heard her blow out air from her nose, amused. “[Name], I don't think I have to tell you how much these guys hate private contractors. We need someone who can work as a collective team, you know… integrate themselves for the time being.”

You pursed your lips together, weighing out the pros and cons. However, Laswell was one of the best people you had ever met, a long-time friend since the baby days of your recruitment. She was a woman of her word, and she had your back. And if she said this team needed someone, she was being serious. You sighed, leaning back, “Okay, send me the details, Laswell. I'll think about it.”

…You read the contract one last time; it was simple enough. You would be transferred to 141 at the end of the month; it was a year-long contract. Which, in a way, made you a private contractor, too. The rest of 141 was under the impression that you were there to stay, everyone except the Captain and, of course, Laswell, not that she was on 141. If they decided they didn't need you before the contract ended, you could pick to stay for the remainder of the year or transfer back to your original task force.

A sigh left your mouth; you picked up your pen and flipped to the last page. Etching your signature into the blank line. You had till the end of the month; as of that moment, you were officially a member of 141.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Well, you had to give Laswell credit where credit was due. It had been a few weeks since your arrival and you fit in quite smoothly into 141; you believe she called it “integrating.” To nobody's surprise, the team was almost entirely men, aside from Ferrah, who was stationed elsewhere. It hadn't been long since your arrival until you were bound to run into someone; Jhonny was the first…

It was later in the day and you were wandering about; transferring to a new location was something you never got used to, so you tried to get a head start on mapping out the place. Everything was similar to your last base, but you still felt a bit alien. A small room tucked off to the side caught your eye, and you followed in that direction. It was a small break room, a kitchen, and a fridge tucked away in the side; there were a few cupboards and a single run-down couch.

You mosied over to the kitchen, opening cupboards and looking inside drawers. You found the usual silverware, mugs, napkins, junk, and tea bags. You stopped; tea actually sounded pretty good. Sitting on the counter was one of those electric tea kettles; you reached for it.

Waiting until the water was boiling, you grabbed the first mug you saw in the cupboard. As you dipped one of the tea bags into the scalding liquid, the door handle jostled across the room. You heard him before you saw him; his voice was deep, a bit raspy, with a thick Scottish accent. Walking through the door came a man dressed in sweatpants and a military-issued shirt. His head was shaved aside from a cropped mohawk of brown hair. His face was pulled into a subtle frown with his eyebrows furrowed. A phone pressed against his head by his shoulder.

You locked eyes with him, the pale spheres of his eyes boring into yours. You could tell he was studying you, maybe trying to deduce if he had seen you before or if you were a stranger. Suddenly, you heard muffled talking coming from the receiver of his phone. You looked down at your tea, not wanting to be considered rude for staring.

The man's voice came again, but it was almost unreadable. It was like a different language, probably Scottish, and then it stopped. When you looked back up, he was standing a few feet away from you, reaching into one of the cupboards.

“Sisters.”

You blinked; it took you a moment to understand he was talking to you. “I-What?” You asked, caught off guard by his comment. He looked back at you, holding up his phone. “S’who I was talking to.” Your eyebrows furrowed, and you nodded slowly; it was an odd way of making conversation. “Oh, okay…You uh- don't look too happy about it, family troubles?” You asked, his lips cracked into a soft smile, and he shook his head. “Nah, she's just a bit dafty. She's auld, so she feels the need to boss me around from time to time.”

You nodded along, trying to use context clues to understand some of his choice words. You watched him fill his mug with some water you had just boiled. “Ah, I see. I'm not sure I can relate; I'm the oldest sibling, so maybe I do all the bossing around.” He nodded, one of his thick eyebrows rasing, “How many siblings?”

You smiled, “Just two, a brother and sister.” The man hummed, looking down at his tea. “Gotcha…” A silence enveloped the room, and after another agonizing moment, he spoke up again. “You a new hire around here? Can't say I would forget a face like yours, lass.” You nodded, glad that the silence had been put to rest, a smile growing on your face at his comment. “Yeah, new transfer to 141.” Suddenly, his eyes grew more comprehensive, “You're the newbie?” He said, astonished.

You chuckled softly, “I wouldn't say newbie; I'm just a transfer from another unit.” His face cracked into a grin, “No kidding, apologies, didn't mean to come off as rude.” He held his hand out to you, “Johnny McTavish, team calls me Soap.”

Your eyebrows raised, “You're a part of 141?” His smile didn't fade as he nodded, “Aye, sharpshooter and sniper.” You felt a grin creeping up on your face; this Soap guy was friendly. Way friendlier than you thought the people on 141 would be. “I’m [Name]. I'm also a sharpshooter, but I also work with mechanics and firearms. Soap is…uh pretty interesting call sign, any meaning behind it?” You saw something in his eye; maybe it was pride, or perhaps something more sinister, “Well, when you clean out a room as fast as I do, people notice. You ain't got a callsign, Bonnie?”

You shook your head, “No, I guess my name has always just done the job.” Soap pat you on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you one.” You and Soap just talked for the next few minutes; it was nice. The conversation ebbed and flowed without problem; he nodded to the door after your tea was nearly empty. “Aye, Bonnie, why don’t I take you to meet the rest of the team? Give you a head start on the meet and greet.”

You smiled, “Yeah, why not?”

…The more time you spent with the team, the easier it got; it helped that they made good conversation. Jhonny was…well, Johnny, good sense of humor but never knew when to quit. Ghost was quieter; he didn't trust you immediately, but you'd managed to pull a few chuckles from him and the occasional polite conversation.

Kyle Garrick, or ‘Gaz,’ was an all-around good guy, funny, polite, and incredibly talented. You could never get over the time that you had gotten drunk off your ass, and Ghost told you a story of when Gaz fell out from a helicopter and was shooting at people while he was swinging from the airborne vehicle.

And then there was Price. Captain John Price, you'd met Price a day after Soap introduced you to the rest of the boys. To say the atmosphere was tense between you would be an understatement. From the minute he laid his eyes on you, they went stiff. His whole demeanor around you reminded you of a rock; it was like he didn't even want you on the team. His voice went curt, and whenever you spoke, his eyes bore holes into your head like he wanted to shoot lasers into your brain by just staring.

You'd talk about it to the rest of the team, but they shrugged it off. “Maybe he ain't used to you yet; it takes a while for the lad to trust anyone. He usually puts on the tough guy act for new recruits.” Ghost had said; Jhonny snorted at that. “Tough guy act? Dinnae, nothing bout that; when I first joined, the man made me want to pull out my hair. Think that's more than a tough guy act L.T.”

Usually, this wouldn't have bothered you as much as it did. But for some odd reason, he got under your skin like nobody else could. And believe, you were no stranger to difficult co-workers and bosses. Even worse, your first interaction with him was incredibly awkward, and you couldn't have left a good impression even if you had tried. It was almost etched into your mind like a stone tablet…

It was your last day to set up, get used to the team and your surroundings before you started working. The three days you had to relax were mostly spent either in the base gym, or eating in the cafeteria. What could you say, you were a creature of habit.

Until this point, you had met almost the entire team besides the captain. Technically, you weren’t required to meet him until you started working, but you'd already met everyone else. So, you figured it wouldn't hurt to get acquainted. You pried the information about Price’s whereabouts from Gaz: “I haven't seen him up and about today; usually, he's around. It probably means he's hauled up in his piss-poor office. The guy hates it there but usually locks himself up there when he's in a bad mood or has paperwork.”

Despite his warning, you went ahead and searched for Price’s office. That was mistake number one. After a minute or two of searching, you came across a door with the engraving “Price” carved into the wood in neat lettering. You reached for the door and tried to turn the handle, but nothing. It was locked; you frowned and tried again. But to nobody's surprise, the door remained shut.

So, you resorted to the next best thing. You knocked a few times but were met with radio silence. Maybe he wasn't in there, you chewed on your lip, thinking. There was a small window in the door, but it was covered by blinds. You squinted, pressing your hands to the wood and moving your face inches from the glass; you tried to peer inside despite the closed blinds. That was mistake number two.

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. The voice came from behind you. It was deep with a smooth British accent; you whirled around to face the person. Your eyes met what was possibly, in your opinion, sex on two legs. The man was tall and built like a tank, judging from how his biceps and chest filled out his cotton shirt. His face was stern, with short-cropped brown hair and a muttonchop beard. His eyes a deep shade of blue, you swallowed.

Damn.

You didn't believe you had a type, but this guy probably would've checked off all the boxes if you did. You stood there like a gaping fish for a moment; when he raised his eyebrow, you snapped out of your trance-like state. “I’m-uh looking for Captain Price. I thought I'd check his office, but I don't think he's there.” You cringed; your voice was rushed, a pitch higher, too.

The man crossed his arms; god, he could probably pop your head like a balloon with those things alone. “Well, you found him.” He said plainly. You stared at him briefly; of course, he was the captain. Why else would he be here? You wanted to punch yourself in the gut. “Oh,” you breathed, “great then. I wanted to introduce myself; I'm the new transfer.” You tried to muster up a confident smile, which most likely had the opposite effect, given he was looking at you like you'd grown a second head.

“[Name], I know. I read your file.” He deadpanned. His voice caught you a little off guard; he wasn't irritated per se, but he didn't seem happy about this introduction. You cleared your throat, “Great then, I'm sure Laswell told you I was coming?” You were grasping at strings here, trying to prolong the conversation.

“Yes. I'm well aware you are here. Laswell has a way of inserting help into my team.” You paused; well, that wasn't meant to be a compliment. Your smile faltered, and you looked around the room like this was some prank. “She said you guys needed someone…?”

Price nodded, his demeanor unsettlingly calm, “That’s her opinion. Now, I respect Laswell; she knows what she's doing. That doesn't mean I always agree with her; 141 was just fine, this is just a precaution on her part.”

You felt your eye twitch a little; you transferred from your other unit, the unit you were extremely close to, mind you… for this? You joined out of the kindness of your heart, only for this jackass to say you were ‘just a precaution.’ “Well, I hope you won't hold a grudge.” You said a bit curtly. Price pursed his lips together in a tight line.

“Wouldn't dream of it; a year is an awful long time to hold a grudge.” He said, the malice and ego coming off his tongue so strong you could almost taste it. What was this guy's problem with you? You did the nice thing and took time out of your day to introduce yourself to him. And he was treating you like you'd personally wronged him. “Good, then I won't either.” You breathed, frustrated. Price looked down at you, his eyes devoid of any emotion. “Well, that's good to hear; now, are you going to let me into my own office or keep standing there like a human blockade?”

This guy.

Your palms squeezed into fists, shooting him a nasty glare. You forgot you were standing right in front of the door, the embarrassment making the tips of your ears heat up. You pushed yourself to walk away, “It was nice meeting you, Captain.” You spit, venom in your tone, walking away like a wounded animal.

Suddenly, you somehow forgot about how hot he was; at that moment, you wanted to smash his gorgeous face into a wall. You liked your new Captain a lot more when he didn't speak. But the reality set in: John Price hated you for some unknown reason, and you were starting to hate him back.

…You had calmed down since that first encounter. Maybe it was a one-off thing; after all, you did go when Gaz warned you that he may already be in a bad mood. Maybe you had jumped the gun? and Price didn't hate you.

News flash: He hated you, and it was not a one-off encounter.

You were now a month into your new job, and if it weren't for Price, you would've actually been enjoying your time with 141. Everyone else was great; they were warming up to the idea of having you as a teammate. The training was hard on you, but you expected that, you were improving day to day. But no matter how well you did, you always had Price’s voice in your ear telling you that you could've done better. The man was running circles around you.

Slowly, you started to lose patience with him; when he laid out the bait, you bit. It was getting easier to react instead of keeping calm and passive-aggressively telling him you were grateful for the friendly criticism.

Even the team started to watch every interaction you had with the Captain keenly. They would tease you ruthlessly, saying his name while your back was turned just to laugh at the way your whole body seemed to go as stiff as a board.

“I swear the two of ya seem to bicker like an auld married couple. It's like watching my parents fight.” Soap had said to you once after an agitated conversation you'd had with Price moments before.

Was it your fault for causing some of the arguments between you two? Possibly. But he instigated just as much as you did; it was like a competition of who could get under the other's skin the most. And you couldn't even avoid him; Gaz wasn't kidding when he said he was out and about when Price wasn't in his office. He was like your shadow.

You were in the cafeteria? Oh, so was Price. You were in the gym? That's funny; Price was just about to do his workout. Training? He was practically glued to you and nitpicking everything you did. You were trying to go for a fucking walk around base past lights out? Price couldn't sleep, and as your captain, it was his obligation to make sure you didn't do anything stupid.

Intrusively, you wondered if he had implanted a tracker into you while you were sleeping. That had to be it; there was no way you just happened to experience so many ‘coincidences’ back to back.

Eleven more months, you had eleven more months stuck with him. Maybe in that time, you could come up with a detailed plan on how you would murder, hide, and successfully get away with killing your Captain.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

It was one of those off days where you didn’t have much to do. Like the calm before the storm, 141 had an incoming operation; plans were laid out, and everyone knew what to do. All that was left was playing the waiting game before you loaded into the helicopter and landed in a checkpoint base in Urzikstan.

With nothing to do, you figured it wouldn't hurt to hide away in the break room with some tea and scroll on your phone. You rarely had time to yourself, so you might as well make the best of it. You peeked into the break room and smiled when you found it was empty. You made a beeline to the small kitchen counter; you'd managed to snag some different types of tea for yourself over the few weeks you had been at base. It was the floral and sweet kind that nobody touched, despite Ghost's comment that: “It's not real tea.” You found it incredibly enjoyable.

As you turned on the electric kettle, the doorknob jostled. You looked up, and your eyes met Price. Well, shit. He made eye contact with you. Obviously, the feeling between you two was mutual based on how his lips dropped into a frown when he saw you. You stared at each other for a beat before you turned your head away.

You weren't doing this today; you were too tired to bicker with your captain over something useless. You stared at the counter, waiting for him to leave or speak. But he did neither. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed a mug. The silence between you was so loud that the room might've been quieter if you were arguing.

He was close, not enough that you were touching, but enough that his presence almost tickled your skin.

You just continued to watch the counter and your mug. Glancing at the kettle, you almost grimaced; it was barely bubbling. When did boiling water take so long? The tension was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife. But, Price was the first to crack.

“Interesting mug,” he commented, his voice as it always was when he spoke to you. Dry. You debated not responding, but the silence was killing you just as much. “It's my favorite.” You said back, matching his tone. However, your eyes were soft as you looked at the mug before you. It was ceramic, with hand-painted fish drawn onto it. Cod, salmon, tuna, and swordfish, too, their colors vibrant compared to the barren beige of the rest of the cup.

He made a low hum sound, almost like he didn't believe you. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and you finally turned to look at him. You stopped briefly; his eyes had heavier bags than the last time you'd seen him. He didn't look as stern or unshakeable as usual; rather, he looked more weary, human. You forgot you were going to say something to him, “What?” You said, suspicious.

His eyes broke away from yours, looking down at his hands as they tore away the top of an instant coffee packet. Price emptied its contents into his plain white mug and cleared his throat. “Nothing, s’just that's my mug.” He said; his voice wasn't mad or accusatory. Instead, it was just like he was stating a fact.

You frowned, your eyebrows sinking further down your face. What was he talking about? You'd been using this mug for weeks; in fact, this was the first mug you'd used here, back when you first met Jhonny and the rest of the team. “That's not true; all the mugs in the cupboard are communal.” You pointed out, looking at him like you'd caught him in a bad lie.

He looked back at you, an almost smugness to his gaze. “Look at the bottom of the cup.” He said plainly. Your frown deepened, but you grabbed the mug and turned it over in your hands out of curiosity.

JP. It was painted in small lettering in the middle of the circular bottom. Your face dropped. Oh. JP, standing for John Price. It was his mug. Your face reddened as you realized you had been drinking out of his cup for the past month. Why hadn’t he said anything about it to you before now? He obviously knew, considering he'd seen you drink from it before.

You opened your mouth, trying to come up with a good defense. “But- Jhonny told me all the mugs in the break room were for everyone. Including this one.” You said, pointing at the mug in your hands.

Price raised one eyebrow, “And you believed him?” He said. The gears in your head started to turn; the guy had a point. Why had you trusted him of all people? You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, “fucking christ Soap.” You muttered, primarily to yourself.

The steaming whistle of the kettle broke your train of thought, and your head snapped in its direction. You looked from the boiling kettle to the mug in your hand, a sigh exiting your chest. You held out the mug to him, “Here. It's yours, I'll get another one.”

Price looked surprised for a beat before his face went neutral again. He shook his head, pushing the mug back towards you. “No need; I've already got this one.” He grunted, nodding to the plain white mug sitting on his side of the counter. Before you could protest, he grabbed the kettle, pouring the hot water into his mug. Your nose scrunched as the aroma of instant coffee hit you.

He raised an eyebrow at your visceral reaction, “Not a fan of coffee now, are we?”

You cleared your throat, looking away from the blackening devil concoction. “I like coffee-” You clarified, “-just not that instant crap; it tastes like sewer water.” The curve of his lip twitched into a half-amused smile. Bringing the mug to his lips and taking a hearty sip, “noted.” Price hummed. You reached out to grab the kettle, but he handed it over to you before you could.

You raised your eyebrow; this was the closest thing you'd ever had to a friendly conversation with your Captain. You skeptically took it, breathing a ‘thanks’ to him. A comfortable silence fell on the both of you; Price could drink his coffee while you waited for your tea to brew.

Your eyes seemed to pull towards his direction as you waited, observing the curve of his lips, his nose that was just a bit crooked, and the coarse hair of his beard that thinned into stubble the further down his neck it went. You watched his adams apple bob as he swallowed his drink and how his large hand seemed to make the mug seem small. He somehow pulled off looking like he hadn't slept in weeks, which ticked you off somewhat.

He shot you a sideways glance, “You're staring.” Price said flatly; you looked like a deer caught in headlights. “I was…zoning out. And for the record, I was looking at the-uh wall behind you.” You cringed at yourself; the long pauses and uhs weren't adding to your credibility.

Price gave you a funny look, turning to look at the refrigerator behind him, which was most definitely not a wall. He turned back to you, “The wall you said?”

Well, shit, thanks, captain obvious. You frowned, giving up, “It doesn't matter-” you huffed, “Point is, I was zoned out.”

That answer seemed to satisfy him or at least force him to drop the subject; Price shrugged and took another sip from his mug. “Let's hope you don't make a habit out of it. Wouldn't want to add that to the other list of…qualities you have.” Here we go again. You raised an eyebrow, the edge in his tone all too familiar. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, “Which are?”

Price cleared his throat, gesturing his mug to you and your tea. “Theavory, for one.” Well, he got you there. You blew out air from your nose, the closest thing to a laugh you'd let him pull from you.

“Funny.” You said sarcastically.

A small smile tugged at his lips, “Yeah, well, just trying to lighten the mood between us.”

There was a pause.

The way he said ‘between us’ didn't sit right with you; what he said had undertones of bitterness, almost similar to the layers of an onion. Now, was it possible that you were reading too much into this? Yes. Was it also a tone-deaf thing to say, considering he was the primary reason you two didn't like each other in the first place? Also yes.

Don't bite the bait; don't bite the bait, “The mood you created?” You bit the bait.

He glanced at you, one of his eyebrows arching. For a second, it was silent, like he was mulling over whether it was worth it to engage. Price sighed, setting his drink down. “Look… [Name], if this is about that time when we first met, I was in a bad mood. I wasn't trying to be harsh; I'd just had a shit day. Nothing personal on you.” He craned his neck to the side, sliding a hand over his nape.

You crossed your arms. “You could've apologized,” you pointed out. Price paused, staring at you quizzically, “Why would I need to apologize?”

You almost gaped at him; his ego seemed to know no bounds. If it wasn't so irritating, it might have been comical, “You called my job a ‘precaution,’ and me, a ‘human blockade-’” You deadpanned, “-I don't like when someone downplays my whole career.” Price just stared at you blankly, his face morphing into more confusion.

“But you are a precaution.” He said, “That's the whole reason why Laswell put you here.” It was like he was explaining something to a child.

You huffed, “Captain. With all due respect, I'm a part of this team whether we like it or not. I don't want to be treated like an outsider- everyone else here seems to treat me like I belong here so why don't you? What's not to trust?” You questioned, your eyebrows pinched together and your lips pressed into a not-so-subtle frown.

“You don't belong here, though,” Price said frostily. “You're here for a year [Name], no more, no less. You belong to a different task force, so excuse me if I treat you as such.”

You stood there, stunned for a moment. A familiar feeling of resentment bubbling up inside you like the electric tea kettle. Your hands squeezed the ceramic of your mug, “Just because I'm not here to stay doesn't mean I'm any less committed to my job. I work my ass off every day to show you that I belong here. I just don’t understand why you’re too stubborn to even see that.” You huffed.

Price pursed his lips into a tight line, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer. “I don't have time to micro-manage everything you do. That's not stubborn; it's having other responsibilities besides making you feel included.”

Well, if he hadn't made you feel like a toddler before, he definitely was now. “Well, that's funny because you seem to do a perfectly good job at micromanaging everything I do despite your ‘lack of free time.’ And- I’m not asking you to make me feel included; I’m not an infant. I’m asking you to treat me with the same respect you treat everyone else with.” You hissed.

It didn’t surprise you how quickly the polite interaction with him turned into another bitter argument. When it came to Price, emotions ran high. Higher than you would like to admit.

“Maybe if you stopped acting like a child, I would respect you more.” He bit back, and you groaned, throwing your hands up in the air.

“I’m not though- I’m clearly telling you the problem between us. But since you have this…this grudge against me you won’t even listen to me.” You huffed.

Price shot you a look that said, ' I'm winning this argument, and there is nothing you can say to stop that.’

Internally, you wondered if getting dishonorably discharged was worth throwing hot tea into your captain's stupid face. Instead, you decided to look away, setting your mug on the counter with a sharp ‘clank.’ “Fine then, don't listen to me. That works, too.” You breathed through your teeth.

Price downed the rest of his coffee, throwing his head back and then setting his mug upside down in the small sink. He turned his whole body to you, crossing his arms. His blue eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows pinched together in scrutiny. “You want me to listen? Go ahead. Say what you want; I'm all ears.”

Your voice died in your throat. As much as you wanted to give him a piece of your mind, you didn't put up much of a fight against him, especially not with his ‘I'm the Captain, and you are one word away from cleaning toilets’ voice.

You pressed your lips together in a tight line, and the silence between you hung dangerously quiet for another moment. “Nothing, Captain.” You said through your teeth.

Price nodded, his eyes drilling holes into you, “That's what I thought. Now, it better stay that way for the duration of the next week or so help me; I will take away every privilege you have.” With that, he promptly turned on his heel and stormed out. Leaving you, a seething statue.

You looked down at his mug, still held tightly in your hand. You glared at the painted fish, “Fuck you.” You whispered to the watercolor salmon. Your frown deepened, substantially disappointed that whispering ‘fuck you’ to your Captain's mug didn't carry the same satisfaction you'd feel if you said it straight to his face.

Arguing with him was like arguing with a brick wall. Scratch that. Arguing with Price was worse than arguing a brick wall, a brick wall wouldn't intimidate you and then storm off.

You didn't feel like finishing your tea anymore. You grit your teeth together, dumping the liquid into the sink and watching as it slides down the drain. You had a few days before the mission, and you were going to make sure that you didn't fuck anything up. Lest you suffer the wrath of Price and your own self-doubt.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Shit!”

Your head snapped toward the voice, even with the night vision gear you had everything was difficult to identify. It was safe to say you weren't a fan.

It had been 72 hours since you landed in Urzikstan, and 4 hours since you left the checkpoint base. If you had to guess, it was most likely around 0300 standard military time. Which meant you and the rest of 141 only had another two hours before you had to evacuate and hop on the trucks back to the checkpoint.

Your orders were simple enough, break into the compound and locate the underground terror group that was allegedly creating a bio-warfare laboratory. While it wasn't concreated information British and American SAS couldn't risk not sending a team to see if the tip was accurate. Being the genuine pigs of the situation didn't sit right with you but you weren't employed for your opinion on what the government chose to do and not do.

Still, being sent on a wild goose chase or worse into a trap made you more on edge. Everyone had paired up in case this was a setup and because the universe could never let you win you were grouped with Price. Which brought you back to the present moment.

“Price whats going on? talk to me.” You said in response to his curse. Trying to keep your voice as low as you could while still being audible. You weren't an expert but typically someone hissing ‘shit!’ wasn't a good sign.

In the split second before he could respond you heard the click. Along with the sound of Price’s footsteps trying to get out of the way, then came the sharp boom of a gun being fired. Only after the sound had left the barrel of the gun did you see it. The building wasn't finished, half of the construction was halted, leaving rooms unfinished, walk-offs, and random piles of rubble. Hidden behind a cement pillar a floor above, looking down at you was a person. More importantly a person behind a giant ass gun.

Shit!

You immediately threw yourself out of the way, ducking yourself behind a large amount of rubble. Your eyes scanned for Price in the darkness, frantically making sense of the objects around you. Another fire. Followed by another one. You didn't have time to look for Price. You turned your body, shielded by the debris, and pointed your gun up. It didn't take long before you locked onto the figure, you drew your breath in and pulled the trigger. The firing stopped.

You peered up over the rubble just in time to see the limp body flop over the drop-off and slam into the concrete. You were met with a deafening silence, “Price you copy?”

After a moment you heard someone move, “Yeah-” Your shoulders dropped, a breath you didn't realize you were holding escaped. You never thought hearing that deep British voice would ever make you this relieved. “Yeah, I copy.” He breathed. You stood, carefully making your way over to the corpse of your attacker. Looking down at the body, their face hidden by a cloth and glazed-over eyes looking up at the ceiling.

You grimaced, it was like looking at a dead fish. You looked up, nobody else was above. The only thing remaining was the unaccompanied sniper.

“This guy was alone.” You said, eyebrows furrowing. “And his aim was shit.” You deadpanned. Your head turned, expecting to meet Price. But were only greeted by an empty space, “Price?” You asked looking around.

“Over here.” He gruffed, you turned around. Price was standing next to a wall, his palm flat against its surface. It was like he was leaning against it, your eyes narrowed. His left leg was slightly raised off the ground, something wasn't right.

You jogged over to him, “What's the matter?” you asked, because of the night vision goggles coupled with the amount of gear he was wearing you couldn't see his face well. However, you didn't miss the way his jaw flexed. Before he could respond you pinpointed the issue. The leg that was raised had a small bullet-sized hole in his boot.

“Shit.” You breathed.

This really wasn't what you needed. You and Price had to be out of the compound in the next hour and a half, being shot in the foot was a major problem. At least it wasn't an organ, you thought. “Can you still walk?” You asked.

Price put his foot on the ground, putting his weight on it. You cringed as he let out a quiet hiss, “Yeah just fuckin’ hurts like hell.” He took a step, he was limping but he could walk. Which was a small win for both of you. Just as you opened your mouth someone spoke in your ear piece.

“[Name], Price, you copy? We heard shots.” The voice was grave, deep, with a thick British accent. Ghost.

Price answered, “We’re fine. Bastard with a sniper nicked my foot. Did any of you find the lab yet?” He said through clenched teeth, despite your dislike of your captain you felt a little guilty. If you'd seen the shooter before Price would probably be fine.

“We just found it, nobody’s here. S’a fuckin’ ghost town… no pun intended.” Ghost’s staticky voice rang in your ear, if you were in a better situation you might have laughed. Your eyebrows furrowed and you frowned.

“That makes no sense.” You chimed in, “If this guy was here there should be more people. It doesn't make sense for only one person to be set up here.” You looked at Price. His head was already turned to look at you. It was a beat before anyone spoke again.

“Price.” A raspy Scottish accent this time. Soap. “The labs empty, no inventory at all. Everything is sterile.” You felt your throat run dry, the silence on the radio spoke louder than anything you or anyone else could say. Either they evacuated before the team had gotten there or the whole building was a ruse.

You looked back at the corpse lying a few feet away from you and Price. “They knew we were coming.” You breathed. The weight of your words seemed to carry for miles, but the implications might have been worse. You looked at Price, the same thoughts you had probably already running through his head. “We need to fucking leave, right now.”

Price gave a small nod, “Everyone get out. Gaz, call for emergency evac now. Leave the same way we came do not under any circumstances go further into this building.” Price demanded. Which was followed by a series of ‘copies.’ You started for the way you entered, just as you reached the empty doorframe you heard a grunt behind you. You looked back, fuck. You forgot Price was hurt, fuck, fuck, fuck. He could walk but there was no way he could run with his foot.

You doubled back, and as you ran to him Price raised his hands. Almost in protest, “I can keep up, I'm not immobile.” He exhaled, and you shot him an unimpressed look. The situation was bad enough, you weren't going to deal with this. You couldn't waste time and walking on a bad foot would only worsen it for Price in the long run.

You grabbed his arm and slung it over your shoulder, one arm grabbed the back of his vest, holding his side up so his injured foot didn't hit the floor. It wasn't the most comfortable but it worked.

Price opened his mouth but you spoke before he could get a word in. “You can't keep up and you know it. Whatever problems we have don't matter right now, we've got to get out of here. God knows what the people who were here before us did to this place. But we don't have time to think about that-” Your eyes met his, the red hue of the night vision goggles making his navy eyes seem black. “-I’d much rather keep you alive but I would gladly die with you than have it be my fault that you die. So shut the fuck up and move.”

That seemed to do the trick because Price did in fact, shut the fuck up. You quickly exited with Price. It wasn't as fast as you would've liked to leave but it was the best you could do with a six-foot tank of a man leaning against you.

A few minutes later you and Price successfully made it out. The rest of the team was already waiting a ways away from the building, you let out a relieved sigh. Just being out of the compound seemed to lift a weight off your chest and calm your racing heart. Price seemed to feel the same way judging by his taunt muscles relaxing slightly.

You made your way over to the team, Ghost was the first to notice you. He did a slight double-take as he saw Price, “Thought you said the bloke nicked you?” He commented, you gently released Price letting him lean against the outside wall of an abandoned house.

Price grunted, “Yeah well he nicked me good.” He said back, Ghost nodded. Soap and Gaz peered at the bloody hole in his boot, “That’s gonna be a pain to heal I’ll tell you that.” Soap commented, and Gaz nodded along. “No kidding.”

Price’s frown deepened, and he let out a breath. “Gaz how long till evac trucks pick us up?” Gaz looked out at the open area then looked back, “I’d say twenty minutes give or take.” That answer seemed to give Price a little peace.

A few minutes had gone by, and Soap, Ghost, and Gaz were all talking with you while Price leaned against the wall silently. You glanced at your Captain, gingerly making your way over you leaned against the wall a few inches away from him. You didn't know what to say if you should say anything for that matter. Making conversation with Price wasn't your strong suit, but you felt bad.

“So…you okay?” You asked dumbly, Price gave you a look that made you want to go right back to the others. He was silent for a beat before speaking. “I got shot in the foot [Name], you tell me.” He deadpanned.

You swallowed, nodding. Asshole. No matter, you decided to take it in stride, “Right.” You breathed, “I just… wanted to check.” On second thought maybe you really should leave, it was like you were communicating with an alien. And after your last argument with Price, you walked on eggshells whenever you were around him.

The stretch of silence between the two of you lasted longer than you would've liked. But after a moment Price cleared his throat and nodded, “Thank you.” He said.

You did a bit of a double-take, thank you? Price never thanked you. It was like he was allergic to congratulating or acknowledging you in any form that wasn't to reprimand you. You must've looked as confused as you felt by the way he glanced at you and then went on. “For helping me out of there, you were prepared for the worst back there and you still had my back. I appreciate that-”

“-you uh, you did good.” He clarified.

Your mouth was probably hanging open at this point, ‘you did good.’ The words hung in the air around you, filling your ears with cotton. Price your captain, Price your mortal enemy had praised you. He gave you a sideways glance, “Don't look so shocked [Name], you're still on thin ice.”

Ah, there it was, your shoulders slumped. It was better than nothing though, “Right, uhm thank you.” You said a bit awkwardly, Price gave you a small nod in return. It wasn't much, but it was acknowledgment.

After some time passed by you and the rest of 141 loaded into the trucks, starting the long drive to the checkpoint base. You tried to lean your head back and get just a little bit of rest, but after thirty minutes of failing to do so, you gave up. There was just too much in your head, too many unanswered questions. You thought about the man you'd killed, why was he there? What was the use of evacuating a building if you just left a single sniper with terrible aim lying in wait for someone to come looking around?

Did that mean they didn't know 141 specifically was coming? The question that worried you the most was the fact that if they did plan for you to raid the lab, who on the inside was feeding these people your team's operations? You shuddered. It was bad enough that commanding officer Shepard went rogue a few months prior. The SAS really didn't need another mole. Especially considering the amount of enemies the American and British military had made.

Your shoulders slumped, it didn’t really matter, what mattered was that everyone made it out. You didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if the previous occupants had left explosives inside the building. It was better to just be thankful that nothing happened.

Your first operation with 141 had been a bust, but considering the circumstances you thought it went as well as it could’ve. Not counting Price’s foot.

Subconsciously your eyes drifted over to Price, his boot had been taken off and his foot was wrapped in white garb. Just until someone could look at it properly, everyone had taken their night visions and helmets off to get some shut-eye. Your gaze drifted up until they met his face, navy eyes met yours. You froze, you hadn't realized Price was awake. The two of you didn't break eye contact for a minute, almost like a challenge of who would be the first to look away.

“You make a habit of staring at people or is it just me?” He deadpanned. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, he could never let you catch a break, could he?

“I wasn't staring, and you were looking at me too.” You defended, it didn't matter if you were staring, he wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing you confess that. One of his thick eyebrows raised, “I glanced at you. There's a difference, you just happened to look up at the same time.” He said back, calm as ever.

You half rolled your eyes, he could word it however he wanted to, but in the end, it was pretty much the same thing. “Okay, keep telling yourself that.” You hummed, matching his nonchalance. Your gaze dropped back down to his bandaged foot, “How’s the foot?” You asked, hoping he wouldn't catch you changing the subject.

Price grunted, his head lulling back onto the seat. You shot a glance at his adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down before averting your eyes. “Feels like I got shot in the foot, so…not great. It's better than an organ so I won't complain that much.” He breathed.

You nodded, “You ever been shot before?” you asked, what could you say? You were curious. He nodded, clearing his throat he cast his head down to look at his chest. One of his hands pulled up his bullet vest and shirt revealing the beginnings of his abdomen, right above his hip bone there was a small scar. “Two years ago, caught me while I was down. Took forever to heal, fuckin’ hurt like hell too.”

You zeroed in on the exposed skin, it was all muscle, no surprises there. The man was built like a 4x6 brick, his skin was shiny with sweat, and from what you could see his bullet scar wasn't the only one that littered his skin. Just below the dipped fabric of his shirt was the start of a happy trail. You swallowed.

What the fuck was wrong with you? A few days ago you were plotting how you could murder him and now you're ogling a sliver of his stomach like a horny teen girl.

You absolutely did not find a single part of your boss attractive. Forget your first interaction with him when you were practically gaping over him like a fish. That didn't count. This was Price you were talking about. Sure, he was conventionally attractive with just the right amount of ruggish charm to make him mysterious. And yeah, he was built like a tank, so what? And you couldn't forget about his stupid fucking British accent, who the hell was into British accents anyways? (You were. Embarrassingly so.)

Price looked up at you, the silence making you raise an eyebrow. “See something you like aye?” He said, amusement dripping from his voice. Your eyes immediately snapped back to his face, embarrassment churning away at your insides.

“You wish,” You said back. So maybe you found some parts of your Captain hot, that didn't matter. In the end, it was still Price. And the flames of hatred don't die out just because one's enemy is a little (a lot) attractive.

Price breathed out what sounded like a laugh, he dropped the shirt. “Keep telling yourself that [Name].” Your fists squeezed together as he threw your words back at you.

You glared at him, “You're so full of it you know that?” You breathed, which only seemed to pique his interest further. You were glad the rest of the team was either sleeping or so used to your fighting that at this point they tuned you out. Jumping off a cliff seemed nice in comparison to the ruthless teasing that Soap and Ghost would enact if they found out you'd been caught ogling Price.

“Didn't realize this would strike a nerve, any particular reason why?” He said, you grimaced. You could almost taste the smugness from his tongue like syrup, “It didn't.” You said through your teeth, “Then again, egotistical men are a pain to be around. Especially ones that think everyone around them wants them.” You grumbled.

Your words seemed to have the opposite effect, Price straightened. A small tug at his lip made you want to slap that smirk right off. “I never said you wanted me, but liars always do have a way of telling on themselves don't they?” He grinned.

Something flashed in his eyes, you didn't have time to see what it was. But right now, all your willpower was devoted to not picking up your gun and giving him a matching hole in his right foot. “I think I'd rather shoot myself than be anything but professional with you.” You said frostily.

Price hummed, the smirk never leaving his face and he leaned back. “Glad the feeling is mutual.” He spoke calmly.

Your eye twitched, he was pulling that card now. Reverse physiology or whatever it was, the ‘I don't have to want you but you have to want me.’ Well too bad you didn't care, you couldn't care less. If Price didn't want you that was great-better even.

“Yeah,” You huffed, “Super glad.” You turned your head away so you didn't have to look in his direction. Maybe you should've left him in that building, it was a tempting thought. The rest of the drive back to the checkpoint was spent in silence.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The base felt dreary, everyone was still in a funk from the previous night. Everything felt just a bit more surreal, nobody was talking about what happened either. Not that there really was anything to discuss.

The checkpoint base wasn't as nice as your previous base. It wasn't even a full building, there were a few small ones but those were mostly used to store weapons. Everything else was industrial-sized tents, making privacy a luxury. It didn't even have a proper barracks, just a large tent with several stretcher-like beds placed in rows. To be completely honest the entire thing was a pile of shit. But it was a roof over your head so there was that.

You sat at a bench in the ‘commons,’ a poor excuse for food sitting in front of you. Gaz sat next to you while Ghost and Jhonny sat across from you. They all had similar grimaces plastered on their faces as they ate their protein paste.

“If I have to eat this shite for another day I'm going to go into that food storage room and light the thing up. They got us eating like dogs.” Ghost said after draining the last of his rations. You half-heartedly agreed, humming a sound of approval that was accompanied by Gaz’s small chuckle.

Soap grinned, “Don't get yer panties in a twist just yet L.T, heard they're serving dessert paste too. Courtesy of Price’s injury.”

You shivered, it sounded just as bad if not worse. Then a thought popped up, you looked around the common space. “Hey, you guys seen Price? Isn't he eating?” You hadn't seen him for almost the entire day, which was a blessing for you but it did strike you as odd when normally you couldn't get rid of him.

Gaz shrugged, “He was in the medical tent last time I saw him. The guy was getting his foot looked at, he’ll probably show up soon.”

Ghost turned his head to face you, while it was a little hard to tell with his balaclava, one of his eyebrows raised. “Awful concerned about Price aren't you? Thought you hated the man.” Your lips curled into an exasperated frown.

“I'm not. And I do hate him. I was just curious.” You brushed him off, trying to avoid his stony gaze. Soap and Gaz exchanged looks that made your eyebrows furrow.

Gaz looked at you, “What about the other day when you helped him out of the building?” Soap was next to chime in, “Or that you use his mug all the time and he lets you?”

You shot Gaz a glare, “First, he's still my Captain I'm not going to leave him in a building where I think he's going to die.” Then you directed a similar glare at Soap, “Second, I didn't know it was his mug because you tricked me into thinking the mugs were communal.” You said through your teeth.

Ghost smirked, “Sounds like you care.”

Your hands gripped the table with unnecessary force. “I do not.” You defended, the looks exchanged between them made you want to crawl into a hole. Suddenly you weren't as inclined to finish your meal. You stood, grabbing your tray of half-eaten food and trash. “I'm not hungry anymore.” You said dryly.

Soap laughed, faking a disappointed frown. “Come on lass we were just getting started with ya. Where's the fun in leaving before the real jokes start?” You rolled your eyes, stepping out of the bench and walking towards the trash.

“Jokes are supposed to be funny,” you replied as you dumped the remanence of your ‘lunch’ in the trash. Just as you were exiting the tent Soap's voice called out to you.

“Oh, if you see the old fart, tell him his dessert paste is waiting for him!” That earned an amused tug at the corner of your lips, shaking your head in exasperation as you pushed past the floppy tent entrance.

You didn't even make it a foot outside before your momentum was halted by a larger mass. Your face met something hard, but also somehow soft at the same time. You stumbled back, gaining back your balance from the force of running into something. Or more specifically, someone. You looked up in dismay to see what kind of idiot ran into you.

It was Price, because of fucking course it was.

But it was Price with the addition of a single crutch and a newly wrapped foot. Your eyes slowly crept up to his face, the mortifying reality that you slammed right into his chest setting in. What’s worse was that the previous conversation with the guys was still very fresh in your mind.

‘Sounds like you do care,’ Ghost’s words echoed in your mind, haunting you like a…well a ghost. Ironic.

“Do you mind?” Price's words snapped you out of your trance. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was silent for a moment before your vocal cords decided to actually comply and let you speak.

“You ran into me.” You said lamely, the tips of your ears felt hot. Like lava was slowly being poured onto your head. Price’s eyebrows furrowed, his navy eyes studying you. Even on one crutch, he seemed to tower over you in a way that made you antsy.

“Why are you red?” He asked, the question caught you off guard. Making you falter for a second time, “I-What?”

Price’s eyes narrowed a bit, a finger pointed directly at you. “Your face. It's red,” It wasn't a jab, more like he was observing a simple fact. Suddenly you became hyper-aware of the heat spreading across your face. You touched your cheek, and the pads of your fingers burned at the touch.

Oh my god.

Your face was hot, it was flushed. You were blushing. Blushing. In front of Price.

You swallowed, feeling a bob in your throat. It was like you were in one of those dreams where you showed up to school naked. “I'm allergic-” You blurted out.

A beat of silence ensued, and Price raised a single brow. “Allergic?” He said, to which you responded with a hard nod. Think, think- what was a believable lie? “Yes… to the dessert paste.”

Price didn't look skeptical now, he just looked downright confused. “What the hell is dessert paste?” He questioned, while a good question, you didn't want to stand around to explain it to him while your face looked like the cover of a period ad. You shook your head, steering around him like a robot.

“Ask soap.” You said as you made your escape, “I'm going to the med tent so I don't go into anaphylactic shock.”

That was a lie, you were going to the bathroom to rethink your career and splash cold water on your face. Leaving Price a standing statue, a perplexed look on his face.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

A pack of 8 beers was slammed down onto the small table in front of where you were sitting. The bottles lightly clanked together, you looked up. “What’s this?” You asked, Soap stood in front of you with a confident grin.

“This is how we’re going to make it through our last 10 hours in this shit hole.” He proclaimed, his hands on his hips.

It was late, everyone but Price was in the sleeping tent. True to Soap’s words, in 10 hours you and the rest of 141 were finally going to load up into the heli and return to the original base. Thank goodness too, you didn't think you could stomach another meal here. Ghost looked over from his cott, “The hell did you get that from?”

Soap waved him off, smoothing over his poor example of a mohawk. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” He fished into his pant pocket and pulled out a pocket knife, grabbing one of the bottles he flicked the cap off with a soft pop’ “Since it is our last night, why not celebrate?” He went on.

You eyed the pack suspiciously, if it came from here it was probably shit beer. But it was still something, you shrugged. You reached for one, “I'll take what I can get.” You sighed.

Grabbing a bottle you snatched Soap’s knife to knock off the cap. Throwing your head back as you took a generous swig, it burned down your throat. The pungent flavor making your nose scrunch and your mouth curl. Soap did the same, smacking his lips as he swallowed. “Well…It could be worse.” He muttered.

Ghost and Gaz followed suit, walking over to your space and grabbing two bottles. After some time had passed the four of you had settled into a sort of circle, you were two beers in and things were already getting fuzzy. You didn't normally drink, mostly because you were a lightweight. But when you did drink, you got drunk. You were tipping your head back with laughter at every story, the warmth in your stomach making the tent somehow feel cozy.

Soap reached for his third bottle but Gaz swatted his hand away, “Leave some for Price Jhonny.” He scolded, Soap simply rolled his eyes and groaned. “The old man won't care, he only drinks at those shitty pubs. He's a stickler bout not drinkin’ on base, something about ‘not mixing business with pleasure’” He mocked, doing in your opinion, a decent Price impression. You chucked.

“I don't think Price takes ‘pleasure’ in anything, he's such a stick up the ass he wouldn't know fun if it hit him in the face.” You breathed, and while not the most articulate thing to say, your tongue and thoughts were loose enough that you didn't care.

Ghost’s mouth curled into a knowing smirk, “For someone who hates Price, you sure do love to talk about him any chance someone brings him up.” He said smugly, earning snickers from both Soap and Gaz.

“Oh fuck off will you?” You grumbled to Ghost, this whole teasing you about Price thing was getting old fast. “I say one thing and you guys act like I have some schoolgirl crush on him.”

Soap grinned, “You said it lass, not us.” He coughed abruptly when you smacked him in the stomach, making him lean forward to catch his breath. You glanced at Ghost who’s hands were now raised in surrender.

“Come off it [Name], we’re just teasing, you're not doing yourself any favors by acting with him the way you do.” He commented, which only confused you. All you did was argue with him, where was there room for speculation? The look on your face must've told them everything they needed to know.

“What do I do that gives off that impression even remotely?” You said defensively, they all exchanged looks.

Soap spoke up, “It's not just you bonnie, Price acts differently around you too. It just gives off a certain impression. Some people just take it the wrong way.” There was an underlying uncomfortableness to his words that you didn't miss. And who were ‘some people??’

Ghost smacked him upside the head, earning a startled grunt. “Fuckin’ twat, Soap doesn't know what he's saying.” Ghost said facing you. “He's already tipsy, don't take what he's saying to heart.” Soap was holding his head, shooting a glare at the lieutenant.

You shook your head, not ready to let it go. “No, who's some people? And what did you mean when you said ‘taking it the wrong way?’” Your eyes narrowed in on all three of them, waiting for someone to speak first. Gaz looked away, immediately giving him away as the weakest link. “Gaz what's he talking about?” You asked firmly.

He tensed up, glancing at Ghost and then back to you. “It's really nothing, it's just a silly rumor.” Ghost shot him a firm look, “Kyle-” He warned.

A rumor? What the hell was there to talk about? The last time you'd heard of a rumor going around about yourself was in high school, it wasn't a pleasant experience, to say the least. Your lips pursed into a tight line, something about how secretive they were being set you off. “What rumor?” You said, after a minute of silence, you slowly got more frustrated. “If it's about me I deserve to know.”

Ghost didn't speak, neither did Gaz, but Soap did. He blew out a sigh, glancing back at Ghost who was maintaining strict eye contact with you. “There is a bit of a widespread rumor back at base that you've been shaggin’ the boss. People started calling you Captain’s Girl.”

The pit of your stomach dropped.

You felt dizzy, looking between the three of them. Waiting for one of them to break, to smile and say ‘got you!’ but it never came. “You're joking right?” You said, laughing nervously, the longer the silence the more nauseous you became.

Ghost shook his head, his eyes hard but his demeanor a bit solemn. “We didn't want you to know for obvious reasons. Thought it would make things worse between the two of ya’ and it was just too far.” You swallowed, this was a joke. This was a joke and they were just teasing. When nobody spoke after the reality set in.

Of course, this would happen to you, you worked your ass off just to be respected in a field dominated by men. You were asked to be a part of 141. But all people saw was a slut who worked her way up the ladder by playing Miss ‘Hard to Get.’

“We tried to stop it as best we could trust us, it's just a little hard to keep quiet when word spreads fast,” Gaz interjected, his eyebrows scrunched in…guilt? Second-hand embarrassment? Sadness? You couldn't tell.

You sat there in silence, processing everything. “But- but I'm not. I'm not sleeping with him.” You sputtered.

Soap placed a hand on your shoulder, “We know you ain't. You don't need to listen to those people anyways, it's just barrack talk, people needing a story to make their lives more interesting.” A well of emotions started to flood your senses, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the gravity of the situation hitting you.

Captain’s girl.

What. The. Fuck.

This was Price’s fault. It had to have been, Soap said he was acting weird. Maybe this was all his elaborate plan to destroy your career and kick you off 141 for fraternization. It had to have been him, right? You weren't thinking as clearly as you would have liked considering you were borderline drunk, but that didn't matter. You shot up from where you were sitting, making Soap jump.

Stumbling you started to make a beeline for the entrance, Gaz also got up and followed you, much to your chagrin. “[Name]? Where are you going??” He called after you.

“To find Price!” (And kill him.) You shouted back angrily, storming outside before Gaz had the chance to stop you. Obviously, you didn't think this through enough because it was pitch dark outside. And Price was nowhere in sight, fuck.

Whatever, you could search this place for hours if you had to. He was bound to pop up somewhere, like how the tide is drawn to the moon you and Price always had a way of being pulled into each other. You stormed through the dark, almost tripping on your own feet once or twice in the process.

You'd been there long enough that you could tell what area was what. Even in the pitch-black cloak of the dark, you could feel your heartbeat in your head. It was like your body was pulsing with the rhythm of your anger. Just as you were about to start shouting his name a light caught your eye. You swiveled your neck so fast it burned the muscles in your nape. Low and behold it was Price walking out of the medical tent with his single crutch.

He stopped when he noticed you, his face a mix of confusion. “What are you doing? I thought I told you guys not to go outside after lights out?”

You felt every emotion rush back to you at the sound of his voice, the sight of his face, the fucking absurdity of the whole situation. Your hands clenched into fists, “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I thought you sucked before but I underestimated how much of a jackass you could be!”

Price stood there like a deer caught in headlights, so baffled he couldn't even speak. “Excuse me?”

You marched straight up to him, “You heard me. Apparently making my life a living hell wasn't enough for you was it? You sadistic fuck. Do you get off on torturing me? Is that it?” You spat. The heat in your face rising with each word.

He didn't say anything, his navy eyes looking at you like you belonged in an insane asylum. After a minute of silence, he breathed, “[Name]. Realistically I should be laying into you right now and giving you every single punishment there is for the rest of your stay here for cursing me out after lights out with no provocation on my end. But, I'm going to give you one chance to explain why you're acting like a screaming banshee before I send your ass straight to the bins.”

His words only ticked you off further, well two could play dumb. “You know exactly why I'm angry! No provocation is such bullshit. You- You just think I'm so stupid don't you?!” You were stumbling, your mouth felt heavy. It was like your mind was moving faster than your body could keep up with.

“Are you drunk?” He asked incredulously. You shook your head, “No! I mean yes I had a few drinks but I'm not drunk. Stop deflecting-” You rambled on.

His eyes turned to narrow slits, “I don't even know what I'm deflecting- you can't just start making a scene and expect me to know why you're angry. I'm not a mind reader.” He groaned.

“The name! The rumor- whatever you call it. You spread a rumor about me to the entire base that I'm sleeping with you! People are calling me your girl! The guys told me, everyone thinks I'm some slut because of you!” Everything in your body was burning, it felt good to finally yell at him but the words hit you hard.

You were labeled as the slut. No matter what you did there was always going to be a man overshadowing you just because of a preemptive notion that you were weaker. Something you'd spent your life fighting was now your reality.

Price’s eyes went wide, he almost resembled a wooden board. For a moment his eyes softened, like he was taking pity on you. “That's what this is about.” He breathed, “Look, I’m just as upset about that rumor and the name as you are. I don't know who started it but I can give you my word it wasn't me. You can ask any one of the guys and they will tell you the same thing.”

You started to speak but he raised a hand to stop you, “-I know it's not fair. But the damage has already been done, the thing about rumors is that they pass. And nobody thinks you're a slut. You're just as capable as anyone else on this team.” He said calmly.

It was silent for a moment. You didn't really know what to do or what to believe. All you had to go on was his word, which wouldn't normally hold much weight but something about him seemed so genuine. “I- how do I know you're not lying to my face? You hate me. And I’m just supposed to believe a random person made this rumor up when you've been trying to kick me off the team from the start.”

Price halted for a moment, his face reflecting a series of conflicting emotions. “I don't hate you, and I am not trying to kick you off.”

“Well, it sure as hell doesn't seem that way, even Soap said you act differently around me. I don't understand why you fucking hate me so much when almost all I ever do is try and suck up to you!” You shouted, your voice slightly slurring with how fast the words escaped your lips.

A vein bulged in Price’s temple, his jaw working with his growing temperament. “I don't know how often we have to go through this same conversation before you get it through your thick head. I don't hate you, I'm hard on you. There's a difference.”

“Well, that's not what it looks like to me. Especially not to the mystery person who just conjured a rumor that we’re sleeping together out of thin air.” You seethed, until now you'd been standing a few feet away from him. But somehow, amid the argument, you found yourself now uncomfortably close.

Price scowled down at you, “What do you want me to say to you?! That I'm sorry I also got caught up in some dumb rumor. That I'm sorry you got your feelings hurt because I was a little harsh.”

Your mind was telling you to communicate your feelings like a normal person. The alcohol and your heart told you your fist connecting with his face was the better option. And right now, your heart (plus the alcohol) was winning.

“I want you to fucking show me you don't hate me! You can say all you want that I'm just being dramatic but there's obviously a reason why I think you hate me.” You fired back.

The two of you stood there for a moment, his eyes drilling into yours. A scowl on Price’s lips and his eyebrows pinched together, there was something about the heat of the moment that made you more on edge. You were hyperaware of everything around you, most importantly you were hyperaware of your proximity to him. The night air was cold but you were on fire.

“You want me to show you? Fine.” He grit out, and before you had time to react he was on you.

His hand was on your neck, thick and warm. Pulling you close so that his lips captured yours in what you could only describe as ‘a hungry kiss.’ The coarse hair of his beard tickled your skin and before you even knew what you were doing, you started kissing him back.

Fuck. He tasted like smoke and whiskey, a woody smell clung to him like sap. Greedily your hands pulled at him, your fingers bunching the cotton of his shirt like he'd disappear. You'd kissed men before but never in your life had anyone kissed you like this. The kiss was hot, desperate, almost angry. His tongue slid along yours, you felt the drag of his teeth nip at your bottom lip and his throaty groan when you only pulled him closer.

You couldn't remember why he was kissing you, or why you started kissing him back. You didn't know why you were so angry, nor did you pay mind to the chance that anyone could walk outside and see the two of you.

You heard his crutch absentmindedly fall to the ground, clattering against the hard dirt. Price's other hand snaked to the back of your head, curling his thick digits into the locks of your hair. His nose brushed against yours, he felt so warm. Asshole or not this man knew how to kiss.

“[Name]!”

Gaz’s voice broke you out of the trance you seemed to have been under. Immediately you and Price tore apart, your heart jackhammered in your ribcage. You looked at Price, he looked at you.

His blue eyes were blown wide, his lips parted and shiny with the reminisce of your spit. A reddish tinge colored his ears and cheeks. He looked horrified.

You didn't fair much better. You probably looked like a gaping fish. You'd just kissed Price. Price had kissed you. You two had been kissing. Holy shit.

Footsteps snapped your attention away from him, Gaz ran to meet you. His breath heavy like he’d been running around for a good amount of time. “[Name] Price didn’t start the rumor- you left before I could tell you. I-” He stopped, his eyes darting between both you and Price. You probably looked as guilty as you felt. “I…uhm I guess you two worked it out?”

There was an awkward silence before anyone spoke, Price cleared his throat, quickly wiping his lips. “She’s aware… You two go back to the tent, it’s late. We leave early tomorrow so get a good sleep.”

You were still in shock, could you even move your limbs? Another silence hovered over the three of you like a looming dust cloud. Gaz awkwardly shuffled to you, patting your shoulder as if to say ‘party's over, let’s go.’ He nodded at Price, “Right, see you in the morning Cap.”

Before you knew it, your legs were moving as Gaz led you back to the tent. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, “You alright?” He said hesitantly. You didn't know what to say to him, you didn't even know what you were feeling. And you doubted saying, ‘Honestly I don't know because two seconds ago Price's tongue was down my throat and I can't tell if I'm turned on or horrified,’ was appropriate.

So, you settled for a simple: “I’m fine.” Gaz gave you a skeptical look, but he chose not to comment on it. Once you got back to the tent Soap and Ghost had already started to get into their respective cots. Soap gave you a funny look over his shoulder, “What happened to you? You look shell-shocked.” He laughed.

You didn't even have the energy to respond, giving him a disgruntled grimace in return. You fell into your cot, burying your face into the thick sleeping bag. Your cheeks burned, and the taste of Price still lingered on your lips.

Apart of you wished that you were blackout drunk, then maybe it would be easier knowing whatever happened would disappear by the morning. But his groans, his hands in your hair, his lips, they were carved into your brain. And they weren't leaving.

You had to grapple with the reality that Price had kissed you. And you had kissed him back.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Hey, wait! Don't go!

Well… hello there. It's me again! To those of you who aren't familiar, you can call me Baebae. And to those who are welcome back! I've written fanfiction a bit before (check out my other stuff on my home page) but nothing like this. So that makes this special, and I'm happy you can join me while I embark on this new journey.

There is no spice in this chapter but it is coming in the next part. There are only two parts to this so you won’t have to wait that long. Trust me I am trying my best to crank out the next one so I’ll try my best to be quick!!

I would be so, so, so, soooo grateful if you would like, follow, or repost. Don't feel any pressure but I love hearing any feedback you can provide as I am relatively new to this and it spurs me on to know people enjoy what I put out. If you so choose you can message me or comment if you'd like me to @ you in the next part so you're notified. <3

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and I'll see you in the next part. Toodles! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Part II of Captains Girl!

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

2K notes · View notes