#Political science class 9 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

holdinggrudges · 8 months ago

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what's my flavor? - sam winchester

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, oral (fem!receiving), vampire!sam, blood drinking, bloodplay (surprisingly little though tbh), fem!reader (afab anatomy + the word girl used in reference like three times or so), feeding being explicitly referred to as similar to drugs/getting high, mentions of serious illness (made up for plot reasons but still)

word count: 10.5K

summary: Working your way through college, you find a secretary job with great pay and more than enough downtime on the clock to get your coursework done. The only downside is that it leaves you with no choice but to attend night classes. But it's not so bad, especially with Mysterious Hot Guy attending them as well. Oh, and there's been blood bags going missing, but you're pretty sure that's not going to be relevant to your life any time soon.

notes: this was supposed to be pwp. it was also supposed to be posted on halloween. clearly, neither of those things happened. but fuck it, we ball. @cafekitsune for dividers <3

crossposted on ao3

You don’t understand how anyone could get through college without a job. You hear about people surviving off scholarships all the time, and you try your first year, you really do. But, God, something has to change. You can’t imagine working your way through school could be any more stressful than the budgeting, and the skipping meals, and the cards declining at the grocery store.

So you get a job. A good one, too; a secretary job at an office ten minutes away from your apartment, and only twenty minutes away from campus. The job is easy, with plenty of downtime for you to work on your coursework, and the pay is good. Better than good, even. The only problem is the hours; 9-5 is great, generally, but not very convenient when setting up a college schedule. You’re relegated almost exclusively to night classes. Which is fine. Not ideal, but fine.

You take four classes, two a night, and it leaves your Fridays wide open after work. It would truly be a perfect schedule if it didn’t mean you were on campus until 11 o’clock most nights. But the classes are relatively empty and none of your professors are total hardasses, so it’s not so bad. Actually, you start to really enjoy it.

You make a little game out of studying the other students, trying to figure them out. The woman who sits in front of you in your statistics class is a stay-at-home mom, you think. The older man a few rows down in english is retired military. It’s interesting, and it gives you a reason to actually make it to class everyday. Well, that and Mysterious Hot Guy.

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance.

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score.

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where.

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?”

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.”

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.”

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?”

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over.

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.”

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.”

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’

‘see you then :)�� You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow.

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he’s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you.

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless.

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month.

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant.

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.”

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.”

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.”

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious.

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library.

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.”

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.”

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time.

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too.

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up. He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?”

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense.

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly.

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.”

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.”

“I’ll text you,” he agrees.

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life.

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags.

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut.

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before.

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response.

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway.

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing.

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too.

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised.

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car.

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers.

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is.

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage.

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door.

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?”

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?”

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?”

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?”

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out.

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.”

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further.

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that.

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?”

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help.

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.”

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?”

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?”

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before.

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again.

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?”

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like…food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.”

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?”

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.”

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?”

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.”

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.”

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know��I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.”

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?”

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.”

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.”

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door.

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit.

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?”

You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general.

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight.

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately.

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him.

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.”

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.”

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw.

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.”

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.”

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!”

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that.

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.”

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.”

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.”

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.”

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss.

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing.

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.”

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?”

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.”

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that.

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are.

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.”

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry.

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up.

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips.

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.”

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you.

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.”

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?”

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.”

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?”

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.”

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t.

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond.

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed.

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw.

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.”

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought.

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now.

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his.

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease.

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there.

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that.

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?”

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated.

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down.

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.”

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen.

“Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again.

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?”

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.”

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go.

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.”

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.”

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory.

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.”

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm.

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?”

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already.

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?”

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…”

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said.

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?”

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.”

He rolls his eyes, but the way he kisses you, fangs and all, tells you he gets it.

#sammy !!#grudges writes ;#sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #x reader #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #vampire smut #sam munchester love of my life #smut #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 link #alternate universe #vampires

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hivemuthur · 6 months ago

Text

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 9.

viktorxfemale!reader explict! (we got there)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 7,2K!

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: spoiler: In the timeline of my writing, this is the first sex scene I've ever written on my own. So, what can I say? This is an imperfect story about imperfect people, but I can assure you it has an eventual happy ending.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

The absolute chaos of Christmas looming spread across the campus like an infectious frenzy. The corridors were decked with the most absurd ornaments the students could scavenge—Santa Claus figurines strung up and dangling upside down from the ceiling of the canteen, Christmas trees adorned with laboratory glassware and angel hair, and a mockery of carols blaring on repeat from the school radio. It was a bizarre fusion of science and art, a perfect encapsulation of the university’s peculiar spirit.

Every student seemed to be racing against time, scrambling to finish their projects and papers before the holidays, determined to return prepared for the looming finals. The labs and library remained open around the clock for anyone desperate enough to study or practise at odd hours.

You and Sue spent every spare moment in the lab classroom, tinkering with projects that needed to be submitted by the semester’s end. Meanwhile, Jayce and Viktor made themselves available to assist and guide anyone who might need their expertise, and the group crossed paths periodically, exchanging polite gestures and jokes to keep up the holiday spirit. Viktor had made a few attempts to talk to you after his mortifying text message, but you did your best to ignore him.

Which made your current situation, to say the least, far from ideal. Sue was rushing you to jot down all the points before she had to dash off and tend to a project for another class. The two of you huffed at each other, frustration starting to take its toll, until you sighed and said, “Sue, how about I finish this, and you go do your thing? I really don’t mind.” You offered your friend a reassuring smile.

Sue hesitated, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sick of me or something?”

“I’m never sick of you,” you said, placing your hand on Sue’s knee and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “I just think this needs a bit more work, and I can see you’re in a hurry. Honestly, I really don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Okay, I admit my mind is elsewhere. Fine,” Sue sighed in mock defeat. “I’ll do something for you in return, I promise.” She started packing up her things and leaned over to place a hand on your shoulder.

“Just get me a cookie or something,” you replied with a tired smile, gently brushing Sue’s hand away. You figured you’d probably finish the work faster on your own, and you were running out of time anyway. The lab was already emptying, darkness had fallen outside, your eyes burned from staring at the chemicals for so long, and you’d had more than enough for one day.

After Sue left, you resumed your work, determined to finish everything in one evening. The promise of rest and the satisfaction of completion fuelled you. You were so focused on jotting down your thoughts that you didn’t notice when Viktor sat beside you and leaned over your notes.

“Do you... need help?” His voice was unsure, as if he were asking about something else as well.

You hesitated. Help would certainly be welcome, but Viktor’s presence would also make it harder for you to focus. The final equation seemed to balance out the odds. You looked at him—he looked tired yet sharp. He wore the same green jumper he’d had on that night, with a crisp white shirt collar peeking out from underneath it. His scent was fresh and comforting, and his eyes, full of quiet anticipation, were fixed on you as you calculated your decision. You sighed. Yes, you needed help.

“Alright. Shoot me.”

For a split second, Viktor’s face lit up before he leaned in closer. “You’re pretty far along,” he said, his expression thoughtful, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You can dictate, and I’ll translate it into Heimerdinger’s language?”

“That would honestly be perfect,” you admitted, letting out a huff of relief as you turned your attention back to the chaotic scrawl of notes Sue had left behind. Terrible handwriting.

The two of you worked together in near silence, the hum of the lab equipment and the faint scratching of Viktor’s pen the only sounds between you. You found yourself occasionally distracted by the way Viktor’s long fingers moved as he pointed to your results, his low voice guiding you through adjustments. You tried to stay focused, but every now and then, you’d catch yourself glancing at him, his concentration a tether pulling your attention away from your notes.

Viktor, for his part, couldn’t help but steal glances at you. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the sterile air of the lab, and it made something in his chest feel warm, almost achingly so. He bit his lip nervously whenever he realised he’d been staring too long, forcing his attention back to writing.

It took the two of you longer than either of you had expected, but when you finally wrapped up, the lab was completely empty. You stretched your arms over your head, letting out a soft groan of relief.

“That’s it, then,” you said, your voice tired but satisfied. “Thank you, Viktor. Honestly, I’d still be drowning in that mess if you hadn’t—”

“It’s nothing,” he cut you off gently, placing the pen down and leaning back slightly. He watched as you began gathering your things, clearly ready to leave. But before you could stand, he cleared his throat, his voice softer now. “Hey.”

You paused, looking at him.

“Did you…” He hesitated, the words suddenly harder to push out. He fidgeted with the edge of his notebook. “Did you get my text message?”

Of course, you did. You’d seen his stupid, childish message. The ‘I like you,’ had screamed at you from your phone screen for two weeks now, and you’d both loved it and hated it. Who writes ‘I like you’ like a five-year-old? And not only that, who needs to down an entire bottle of whisky to muster the courage to write ‘I like you’?

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. You hadn’t expected this. You shifted awkwardly in your chair, avoiding his gaze. “I did,” you said finally, your voice measured, careful.

Viktor’s expression remained unreadable, but his hands tightened around the notebook in front of him. “And?”

You let out a breath, your lips pressing into a thin line. “And… if I’m to rely on you saying or doing something from the heart only when you get yourself blind drunk, that wouldn’t be the best choice for your health, Viktor,” your voice was quiet, your eyes fixed on the workbench in front of you. “And I don’t want to be bad for your health.” You offered him a faint smile and looked down again. “If it was from the heart, in the first place.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. “It was.” It was. And it shamed him deeply that, indeed, he’d needed liquid courage to admit it. Only now did it strike him how awful it must have made you feel. “But I have a… rabbit heart.”

“Am I so terrifying?” you felt mockery twisting itself inside you with anger. Why were you so angry, though? You also had a rabbit heart. You often caught yourself knowing exactly what Viktor was going to say because you used the same words in your history of backing out. Was this the universe having a go at you?

“Yes, you scare the living shit out of me,” he huffed out a shaky laugh, lowering his voice. It was probably the biggest truth he’d told you in all this time.

“Well, this can’t be good for your health either, then, no?” Deflect, deflect, deflect, hide yourself behind that joke. Very well done, you.

“I—” Viktor paused, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Look, I lied. I’m not good with any setup—casual or not. I—” He stopped himself, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before looking away again. He was torn, visibly at war with his own feelings.

You didn’t want to hear him stumble over words again. “Viktor, I get it. It’s fine. We can still be friends?” You tried to search your mind for what you’d want to hear all those times when you told someone politely the relationship wasn’t working for you.

You thought this was it—an offer of friendship. Most people got hurt or annoyed with you, and it made you feel guilty. So, you tried to say something that wouldn’t make him feel guilty. As soon as you said it, you realised that what you actually wanted was for someone not to let you retreat—but it was too late for that.

Viktor took in a shaky breath, his gaze returning to yours, but he still looked uncertain. “I can’t do that,” he said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. “I can’t be just your friend.” His hands clenched into fists on the table. “I... I’ve tried to be fine with it, but I’m not. I can’t pretend.”

“But I don’t know how to be anything else,” he added after a beat, his mind flicking back to all the times he’d snuck out of someone’s bedroom or when he found himself alone in the morning, in his own cold, sweaty bed. After some time, it became a habit, a quiet indulgence that carried no consequences, and it aligned very well with his main goal: to make his life more than it was meant to be. No distractions, only his goal. Some distractions, but not too many. Only friendships, and here as well, only the stimulating ones. To keep his brain fed, so his soul could starve.

“I have worked… so hard,” he brushed his hand through his hair. “To get where I am. I was meant to fail, and I haven’t failed once. I haven’t failed a single time, aside from some tiny, insignificant stumbles that eventually lead me to answers anyway. So many times I haven’t failed that I don’t think I know how to,” his voice was quiet, as if admitting something shameful. He said it as though any slip-up could cost him everything he’s worked for.

“I… understand,” you said slowly, piecing together the crumbs of information. Viktor didn’t come from a place of love, like you did. He didn’t come from a place of opportunity. He probably had to claw his way through pompous academics who didn’t take him seriously. You understood that part. But what was your part in turning it all to dust—that eluded you. So you didn’t understand, not entirely.

“Do you?” he looked at you longingly, expectantly, and it made your heart ache. What was it that you were supposed to give him now? A promise you would never hurt him? That you would never distract him or drag his mind away from what’s important?

“Viktor, this shouldn’t be so hard, I’m not some mythical creature,” you said, trying to inject a touch of humour into your voice, but it came out thin, brittle.

Viktor’s gaze softened, but the intensity in his eyes remained. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady. “No, you’re not,” he murmured, as if trying to reconcile something inside himself. “But you’re not like anyone else either.”

Your chest tightened at the words, but you quickly pushed it aside, unwilling to let yourself feel vulnerable. You folded your arms across your chest, as if protecting yourself from something you couldn’t name. “I don’t want to be a puzzle for you to solve, Viktor. I don’t want to be some challenge you feel like you need to conquer. That’s not what I’m here for.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he processed your words. He wanted to argue, to convince you that it wasn’t about conquest, that it was about something deeper, but he could tell it wasn’t the right time. Not yet. “I don’t… I don’t think of you like that,” he said, his voice almost too soft, as if afraid to break the fragile moment between you. “I think of you as someone I want to understand, someone who...” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence, the words feeling too heavy in the air.

You shifted in your seat, your eyes narrowing slightly as you considered his words. There was a vulnerability in his voice, a quiet sincerity that you weren’t used to hearing. You almost wanted to reach out, to ease the tension that hung between you, but you held yourself back.

There was a long, aching pause between you before Viktor cleared his throat and leaned back, trying to break the silence. “So,” he said, the words coming out in a lighter tone, “how many do-overs do you think we can have?”

You rolled your eyes at him, a small, rueful smile tugging at your lips. “I find myself hoping that each one is the last one,” you replied dryly, though your heart wasn’t fully in the jest. “Thank you for all the help.”

Viktor smiled, a faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “Oh, no worries. I’ll see you at the Christmas party?” he asked, his voice a little uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure how you’d respond.

You nodded, your expression softening just slightly. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” you said, your tone neutral, but not dismissive. “Take care, Viktor.”

With that, you parted ways, the lingering tension still hanging between you, neither fully satisfied with the conversation, but both with the understanding that you were somehow still connected—however uncertain that connection was.

You found an unbearable thought gnawing at you—that in this state, the only ‘do-over’ you could count on was friendship, and Viktor couldn’t afford that. Inevitably, it would end with nothing.

***

It wasn’t exactly a party, but the pub was completely packed with people—students, assistants, and random individuals who wandered around campus, their roles in it a complete mystery. Everything was bathed in the warm glow of Christmas decorations, making the space feel even more cramped.

You sat at a small round table with Sue, some familiar faces scattered around, including Jayce and Viktor, who had joined after their TA duties. Sue was mid-sentence when you leaned back in your chair, your eyes wandering. You weren’t in the mood for all the noise tonight. The words blurred around you as you half-listened, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of your glass—a quiet distraction. Viktor was talking to Jayce, his sharp voice cutting through the noise every now and then. His dry wit was always on full display, the kind that kept people around him in that odd mix of awe and wariness.

“You okay?” Sue’s voice brought you back. You blinked, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, just... tired, I guess,” you said, forcing a polite smile as you took a sip of your drink.

The room was hazy with cigarette smoke, the heat becoming unbearable. The whole scene was so unbearably sweet and cozy that it made you flinch. Your eyes kept glancing over to Viktor, who would immediately look away as soon as your gazes met. You kept thinking about what another do-over could look like and felt yourself growing more and more frustrated with the space between you, even though you were sitting so close to each other. You could feel Sue's eyes on you but couldn’t quite explain why you felt this way.

Sue raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, if you need to bail early, I totally get it.”

You hesitated, then gave a half shrug. “I think I’ll head out. Just... not feeling it, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Sue replied, offering a quick nod. “See you later?”

“Yeah.” You stood, grabbing your coat from the back of your chair. As you made your way through the maze of tables, you could hear Viktor's voice in the background—just enough to make you pause. You could feel his gaze on you, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the exit.

Viktor watched as you stood and walked away, a wave of frustration rising within him, forming itself into a long sigh. He had tried, hadn’t he? He had said things—things he never said to anyone—but now you were leaving, retreating like always. His jaw tightened, and he felt his fingers curl into fists on the table. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not after everything. He should’ve known better, but still, your departure stung.

He couldn’t place why, but it felt like you were slipping away just as he was beginning to reach out. You were both so fucking terrible at talking, at letting yourselves feel anything real. Why did it have to be so difficult?

The cold air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, and for a moment, it felt like a relief. The street was quiet, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath your boots. You slid your headphones on and started walking toward the dorms, matching your steps to the rhythm of the song.

You awaited rest and home and being far away from here with utter impatience. Just one more evening of this. Just one more evening of thinking and biting at your own lips, glancing at your phone, and then it would only be your parents, and Hale, and the quiet evenings at Sheffield, for a week.

Against reason, Viktor followed you, his footsteps soft but steady as he stepped out of the pub moments later. His eyes caught sight of your retreating figure, and a small, amused smile played at the corner of his lips. He’d almost not been surprised—almost expected it.

He called out your name, his voice lost to the wind and muffled by the sounds of the night. But you didn’t hear him. Quickening his pace, his breath misted in the cold air. He called again, louder this time, but still, you didn’t turn.

A small part of him considered letting you go, letting you stew in your thoughts, just leaving it for after the break. But the rest of him felt pulled, like a dog on a leash in front of a vet’s door.

You were nearing the entrance to the dorms when you finally paused, taking a deep breath, and tugging your headphones off with a slight wince. The moment you heard your name, you froze, your heart skipping in your chest.

“Hey you!” Viktor’s voice was closer now, cutting through the night. When you turned, you saw him standing at the edge of the walkway, just outside the dorm. His breath came in visible puffs, his chest heaving as if he’d run after you.

“You walk... so fucking fast,” he said, still catching his breath. “I never figured you for the type to run off so bluntly. But I suppose that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” Yes, just laugh it out. Viktor took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Are you fucking drunk again?” you blinked, your mind racing. You had to admit to yourself that Viktor drunkenly following you from the bar was a coin toss you wouldn’t have bet on. Especially after your last talk. Funny.

“Are you not?” he countered, his words smoother than you expected.

“No. Go back to your pub, Viktor.” Your voice was flat now, each word carefully measured. You exhaled sharply, your shoulders sinking as if the weight of the evening had finally caught up with you. You were so tired of this.

Viktor tilted his head, his smile barely visible in the shadows as he took a step closer. “Eh, make me,” he said softly, though it wasn’t a challenge—not really.

Another step.

“I am so not in the mood for you now,” you muttered, your hands dropping limply by your sides as you turned away, dragging yourself down the corridor toward the elevators. Your voice lacked its usual bite, tinged instead with exhaustion.

“Alright, alright, I’m not drunk, just had one pint. Oh, come on,” Viktor mock-pleaded, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as he quickened his pace to catch up with you. “You won’t see me the entire holiday break.”

“And I will savour every single day of this glorious relief from your constant nagging, poking, your sweet side and your dick side, and having fun at my expense,” you snapped, jabbing the elevator button with increasing impatience, your words punctuated by each press.

You were expecting another joke, but Viktor’s hands gripped your waist firmly, twisting you around. Your breath caught as he pulled you flush against him, the heat of his body sharp against the cold you’d carried in from outside.

“Shut up,” he breathed, his voice raw and ragged as his lips found yours. The kiss was unsteady, heated, and messy, tasting faintly of sweet beer and a frustration that mirrored your own. He panted into your mouth, his lips parting just enough to nip at yours.

“Just… shut up, for once,” he murmured, crowding you against the elevator door. It slid open behind you with a soft chime, and you stumbled inside, Viktor’s cane clattering to the floor as he steadied you against the wall. He pulled your turtleneck down to lick your neck greedily over the bite mark he had left there. His hands quickly found their way under your sweater, and he gasped, bemused by your lack of underwear. “No bra?” Again. A low chuckle rumbled against your skin. “Is that your idea of a Christmas present?”

“Fuck off,” you scoffed, your voice still sharp with lingering anger. Your hands pressed against his chest in an attempt to push him away, but the lack of real force and your hands still gripping his coat tightly betrayed you.

“Are you sure?” Viktor smirked, his grip firm as he tilted your chin up, pressing a lingering, deceptively sweet kiss to your lips. “This is your floor,” he said, his voice agonizingly calm as he stepped back, gesturing toward the elevator doors sliding open.

“Or…” His tone shifted, almost teasing, as he pressed the button to close the doors and send them up to his floor instead. “You could come with me. For real, this time.”

You pulled him wordlessly toward you, offering no resistance—nothing more, nothing less. Words had failed you, but your actions were clear. It was enough. Viktor wanted to say, That’s what I thought, the words teasing the edge of his tongue, but he held them back. Instead, he captured your lips again, kissing frantically. He explored your mouth, swallowing the small sounds you made, the elevator a blur as it carried you upward.

By the time you reached his room, Viktor managed to open the door without breaking the kiss, his cane hanging hooked over his arm. You stumbled inside together, the heat between you growing unbearable, and he pressed you firmly against the door, his hands bracing your hips as his lips moved over yours with unrelenting zeal. You pulled him closer, your breath catching as you managed to rasp, “Bed?”

Viktor chuckled softly against your lips; his tone laced with teasing. “Impatient, are we?” But there was no mistaking the heat in his gaze, the way his hands tightened on your hips as he broke the kiss just long enough to guide you further into the room.

“Fuck you,” you muttered, your voice raw as your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him with you.

“Yes. Please, fuck me,” Viktor murmured, sweeping you into another fervent kiss as you stumbled toward the bed. “I’m so tired of you not fucking me.”

You scoffed into his mouth. And who is to blame for that? You sunk into the mattress, pulling Viktor with you by his belt, the cane poking your leg.

“Why are you wearing so many clothes?” he whined, his voice laced with frustration as his clumsy hands fumbled with your coat. His hasty movements betrayed him, and in the rush, his knee accidentally pressed against your arm.

“Ow!” you winced, your sharp tone softening as you glanced at his face. The irritation melted away when you saw the unabashed eagerness in his expression, the way his brow furrowed in determination despite his lack of grace. “Is this going to be painful?” you asked, your lips quirking in a faint, teasing smile, though your voice still held a trace of genuine concern.

Viktor froze, blinking down at you like a scolded child. “Only if you want it to be,” he muttered, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back to regroup. His fingers moved more carefully now, peeling the coat off from underneath you with exaggerated precision. “Better?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Viktor granted you a low chuckle, his lips quirking in that familiar, lopsided smirk. “Ridiculous, perhaps, but effective,” he murmured as he continued with his careful work, peeling away the layers of your clothing like unwrapping a particularly stubborn present.

His own clothes, however, didn’t receive the same treatment. He shed them with reckless abandon, tossing each piece into an ever-growing messy pile near the bed, his leg brace a crown on top of it. His cane clattered softly to the floor as he leaned back for balance, the faintest flush spreading across his cheeks.

Once you were both were bare, he ran his palms gently along your sides and pressed his face to your hip, your belly, your neck, inhaling your skin. “God, you are so infuriating,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your body.

He glued himself to you, his hands roaming wherever they could reach, as if this were the moment he’d been waiting to happen for the longest time. And it was, of course. The decision to toss everything aside and just jump in might have been reckless, but he had no capacity to decide otherwise.

“Infuriating?” you laughed, feigning offense. “Is that the way you treat all of your conquests? Make them follow you around by the nose for months, until your resolve finally breaks after one pint?”

“No, only you,” he replied smoothly, his lips brushing against your collarbone. He added with a sly smirk, “It’s my love language with you.”

“Love?” you repeated, voice laced with teasing incredulity, but the hesitation in your tone betrayed how the word caught you off guard.

“Shut up,” Viktor muttered, his hand gliding up your side as he kissed you, silencing your laughter before you could push further. “Attraction,” he murmured against your neck, his lips pressing a lingering kiss there. “Want,” he added, his teeth grazing your breast, earning a sharp gasp from your mouth. “Admiration,” he said, coming back up to meet your eyes and give you a slow, steady kiss. He took your fingers into his mouth and watched your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting.

His voice dipped lower, teasing, and dangerous. “Anyway, is that not what we have been doing?” His hands explored the meat of your ass with a firm grip, his touch both intoxicating and commanding as he pressed himself flush against your core. He shifted against you with a kind of intimacy that had your breath hitching.

“Have you not been loving me all this time?” His words, soft and taunting, carried a heat that matched the tension thrumming between you. His hand moved down between your thighs to scoop your wetness and lick it off his fingers, as he made sure you were watching. “Ah, it seems,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, “you’ve been loving me back all along.”

You trembled under him, your breath catching as your hands gripped his shoulders. A quiet plea escaped your lips, barely audible but filled with vulnerability. “Don’t be mean, Viktor.”

For a moment, he stilled, his expression softening as he pulled back to look at you. His golden eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, held a flicker of something warmer, deeper. “Mean?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “No. Not with you.”

The teasing edge in his voice melted away as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, slow and deliberate, as though trying to convey what words couldn’t. He was so bad at talking if you thought he was being mean. His hands cradled your face, and his next words came as a low promise against your skin. “I could never be mean to you.”

You huffed softly, a half-laugh escaping you as memories of all the times he’d actually been mean flitted through your mind. “Liar,” you muttered against his lips, though there was no venom in your tone. Instead, you kissed him back longingly, your fingers threading into his hair as your thighs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer.

Viktor exhaled a shaky breath, his control fraying under your touch. “Perhaps,” he admitted with a faint, self-deprecating smile, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. “But you give as good as you get, don’t you?” he said playfully, reaching over to pull a condom out of his bedside drawer and put it on swiftly. Then, he grabbed a spare pillow to prop his leg. His belly was tied into a knot, teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure, as he placed one hand between where your bodies were going to meet to align himself at the entrance.

He studied your face, as if to check if there was any resistance left. But you only looked at him with wide eyes, your hands fisting the bed sheet. He swept through his body in a final calculation of what could go wrong—he wasn’t drunk, that was a good start. His leg, eh, not perfect, but he should be able to pull this off. Did he want to love you or tease you? He had forgotten which one it was. A shuddery breath escaped him when your bodies finally connected—he entered you slowly, holding back to lay on top of you.

The first thrust was so deliberate, so slow, so overwhelming that you both moaned into each other's mouths. Your brows tied themselves together, your palms stiff in hesitation over his shoulders, as the feeling of relief surged through you. A relief of finally not being empty.

The only movement Viktor allowed himself was the roll of his hips as he sunk inside you, beat after beat. His arms caged you in, one of his hands gripping your shoulder, the other cradling the base of your skull, as he kept your faces close so he could study you, watch you. He stared at you obscenely, taking in your expressions, disbelief wrenching breath out of his lungs. You really wanted him. You were holding him in a vacuous trap, making it hard to pull out and push back in.

And this wasn’t new. People wanted him, he knew that. They wanted him for this—for a fun fuck—and when they continued to want him afterward, it felt like a fluke. So he shut it down. And it made him feel powerful. No, it made him feel weak. It made his weakness powerful. It gave him the power to disappear from it, from himself, to not be present.

The fact that he was present now, attentive, was rather new for him. Not entirely—he’d had a glimpse of what it could be that night when you were high together, but he hadn’t dared breach the boundary of clothing then. This, though, was entirely different. He watched you so carefully, studying every reaction to his touch. He pushed where you gasped and retreated where you winced. Your kisses were as hungry as his, and it made him feel so full. The fuck was more than fun. It made him feel powerful in a way that didn’t make him feel weak.

He tightened his grip, his forehead resting on yours as he buried himself deep inside, thrust after thrust. His mouth open against you, breathing in every gasp, every whimper you were willing to give him. His pace was even, unwavering, as he murmured against your lips, “You’ve been giving me so much grief.”

He locked eyes with you, a hint of vulnerability in his gaze as he added, “But it really feels like you’ve been loving me back. Haven’t you?” His voice was soft, as though waiting for you to answer not just with words, but with the quiet truth in your eyes.

You slid your fingers into his hair, pulling him in for another desperate kiss, and Viktor caught a faint, barely audible ‘yes,’ offered to drown deep in his throat, traveling straight to his heart, as if you were offering him a secret you hadn’t meant to give away. The sound stirred something deep within him, and as you arched against him, your breath catching, he deepened the kiss and quickened his pace. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck, murmuring quiet praises, each word filled with reverence as you moved together toward completion.

He slid one hand to the nape of your neck, another snaked itself between your bodies, his fingers parting you as he whispered softly, “Oh, my girl.” Your eyes fluttered shut, arms wrapping around his shoulders and you muffled your own moan against his mouth, lips and noses brushing against each other. He rubbed lazy circles on your clit, a smile blooming on his face when he felt your back arching beneath him, hips pressing upward to meet his, your cunt clenching around his cock in a tight, needy hug.

He felt your thighs squeezing his hips, your walls fluttering, pulling him deeper inside you, with you. You dug your nails into his shoulders, lips parted pressed against his, foreheads pressed together mingling droplets of sweat into one.

You felt a sudden urge to say, “Thank you,” distorted by a loud moan as you came on his cock, on his fingers, your body tensing up and bending to the sound of his name falling from her lips. It took a long time, and you thought it would never stop, your climax blinding, contorting your body around him with a force to bend and crush.

Viktor’s mind got invaded by a thought of how great it felt to make a girl such as yourself lose control over her own muscles. How it had made him grow taller and bigger, his heart swollen with your grace, his lips bruised from your teeth. Slowly, he worked you through each spasm, and when you were ready, he retreated his hand to wrap both arms around you and buried his face in your neck. His breathing jagged, teeth sinking into your shoulder to not say too much at the sudden tightness around his cock.

His rhythm began to stutter, movements growing urgent by the minute as he buried himself within you up to the hilt. His breath was uneven, his muscles flexing and twisting. He felt your core hugging his cock so tight, he couldn’t hold back his own panting, as if he were a teenager all over again. He moved his face to brush against yours, whispered your name again, voice trembling, and he came with one thick, everlasting pang, whimpering weakly into your mouth.

His body melted into yours with a long, contented sigh, his arms wrapped tightly around you, stomachs and chests pressed, rising and falling together. You stayed like that in silence for a few moments, not moving, just touching, just breathing, just being.

Finally, Viktor rolled you both to the side, his leg hooked over your hip, fingers threading through your hair, and gave you an almost solemn look.

“What is this face?” you asked softly, cupping his cheek and brushing your thumb across his lip.

He sucked on it slowly, not breaking eye contact. “I never thought you would be so…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and just as you braced yourself for another joke, he finished, “wonderful.”

You managed only to whisper a quiet “Viktor—,” your grip tightening around him as the weight of this little praise crushed you. As his eyes crushed you, his warmth crushed you, as you crushed yourself with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.

Viktor pulled back just a few inches, his gaze searching yours. “Are you going away for Christmas tomorrow?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tentative. Normal.

You nodded slowly, your fingers still tangled in his hair as you answered, “Yeah.”

“Will you stay?” Please, stay. Please don’t have me wake up alone tomorrow. A weakness crept back in.

You nodded against his neck. A quiet breath escaped Viktor’s lips as he leaned in to kiss your forehead, pulling you back against him. He sighed softly, the sound almost like a weight lifting. He didn’t speak for a few moments, just holding you as if afraid you might disappear if he let go.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice quieter now. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain my absence to Sue though.”

Viktor’s lips curled into a playful smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice teasing. “I’ll just tell her you got really into the holiday spirit and had to spend the night with your favourite TA.”

You chuckled softly, the tension between you easing just a little. “I’m sure she’ll believe that,” you replied, though the words felt lighter now, softer.

Viktor’s expression shifted to one of mock seriousness as he pulled you a little closer. “But tomorrow, when the morning comes,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, “I’ll have to call it in. You caught me drunk, used me for your advantage,” he paused, his eyes glinting with mischief, “and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”

You let out a small laugh, your face flushing slightly at the absurdity of the situation. “Selling me out already, I see how this will go,” you said, teasing him back. “I’m sure you won’t mind telling them how you practically begged me to stay the night and cuddle you.”

Viktor smiled, but his eyes softened. “I won’t,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple again, holding you in the quiet aftermath. The moment felt almost unreal—so intimate, so fragile—and yet, there you were. He wouldn’t dare break it by asking for more. And even though Viktor’s chest was still swollen with fear, his mind drifted to sleep in your arms.

Your own mind, however, was restless. As the high of your connection faded, you woke up early, your thoughts gnawing at you. Viktor was fast asleep, his expression so peaceful that you couldn’t believe he had a bad bone in his body. Yet, you had been stabbed so many times. It wasn’t real, was it? It couldn’t be over, just like that. What if he was right, and you weren’t meant to share the awkwardness of the morning? What if he tried to shrug it off once he woke up? Would you survive if he did?

No. You wouldn’t.

Cursing yourself, you slid out of bed, put your clothes back on, and gave Viktor, who was sleeping soundly, one last glance that tore through your soul. And left.

***

The morning light crept through the gaps in the blinds, painting pale stripes across the sheets. Viktor stirred, his body heavy and warm, though there was an odd hollowness in the bed. He reached out instinctively, the fog of sleep not yet cleared, his fingers brushing against nothing but the cold fabric of the mattress. His eyes blinked open.

The room was silent.

He sat up slowly, scanning the space, the sense of emptiness clawing at him as the realisation began to take shape. You were gone.

The sheets beside him were rumpled, but the space was cold, long abandoned. For a moment, he stared at the spot you’d occupied, trying to convince himself you might still be here. Perhaps you were in the bathroom, or in his tiny kitchen searching for tea—but no sound of movement met his ears.

A chill crept through his chest, spreading outwards, a tight knot forming in his stomach. You left.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements clumsy, hurried, his leg straining without the brace. There had to be something—a note, a message, anything that might explain. The bedside table was empty. The dresser? Nothing. Viktor opened a drawer, then another, rifling through with increasing desperation, though he knew even as he searched how ridiculous it was. You wouldn’t leave a note in a drawer.

His gaze snapped to his phone. He lunged for it, unlocking the screen with trembling fingers. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts.

He stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the empty screen. His chest tightened, his breaths coming faster, each one shallower than the last. Of course.

What had he been thinking? That after all his fumbling, after all his glaring flaws, you would stay? That someone like you, bright and untamed, would want someone like him—a man who could barely navigate his own feelings without tripping over them?

Right. His fingers clenched around the phone, the pressure digging into his palm. How stupid. How painfully, pathetically stupid. How weak.

He sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. The weight of the silence pressed down on him. Every echo in the room seemed to mock him. The bed felt too big now, the walls closing in too fast. His mind replayed your smile, your laugh, the warmth in your eyes last night, and it made his chest ache. How could you think you’d earned something like this?

And yet, beneath the sinking despair, anger simmered. At himself. At you. At the cruel absurdity of it all. You’d kissed him, held him, and for a brief moment, he’d thought you were standing on equal ground. But the truth was stark now, laid bare in her absence: you’d left. Or maybe that was an equal ground, after all. Now, you were truly even.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his spiralling thoughts. He didn’t answer immediately, hoping whoever it was would go away, but the knock came again, louder this time.

“Viktor?” Jayce’s familiar voice called from the other side. “You ready? We’ve got to leave in half an hour, mate.”

Viktor swallowed hard; his throat dry. His hands slowly dropped from his face as he stared at the door. Jayce’s voice was too cheerful, too ordinary, too far removed from the storm brewing inside him. He wanted to shout at him, to tell him to go away, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I’ll be ready,” he croaked after a pause, his voice hoarse and thin.

There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment, then the sound of Jayce’s footsteps retreating down the hall. Viktor exhaled shakily, his gaze drifting back to the rumpled sheets beside him. Forcing himself to move, he stood and began to gather his things. Each motion felt mechanical, hollow. The knot in his chest didn’t loosen, but he pushed it down, swallowing it whole. It was almost Christmas. He had to pretend. At least for a little while longer.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #the game of teaching body

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cosmerelists · 7 months ago

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Cosmere Characters as Teachers

As requested by @little-cute-pink-horrible-being :)

If Cosmere characters were teachers, what would they teach & what would it be like?

1. Jasnah: History teacher

Let's just say that she has, uh, high expectations of her students.

Jasnah: Anyone can memorize facts and dates. Jasnah: You all will do that, of course, but you will also learn to draw conclusions from those facts, track historical trends, and maybe, if you work hard, you can come up with a theory of your very own. Bravest student: Uh, miss? We are seven. Jasnah: I do not tolerate excuses.

2. Hammond: Philosophy Professor

He has a hardcore group of students who are huge fans of his.

Student 1: Hey, you're in Professor Hammond's class? Student 2: Yeah. Student 1: Isn't he the guy who wrote that book So What if the Poor are Genetically Destined to be Poor? Revolution is Still the Answer? Student 2: That's him. Student 1: And that's why your an anarchist now, huh? Student 2: Listen, he's pretty persuasive.

3. Elend: Political Science Professor

Elend, a Political Science professor at a university, is the sort of teacher who assigns a LOT of reading.

Elend: Remember: politics is for people. Even when the people you serve suck. A lot. Student: You...sound like you're talking from experience? Elend: You have no idea.

4. Shallan: Art Professor

She mainly teaches drawing and painting classes.

Shallan: You all need to decide what your art means to you. Shallan: Whether it be capturing a moment or representing a person's essence or seeing into realms not normally discernable to human eyes--as long as it's art from your soul, it will be right. Student: What, uh, was that last part? Shallan: Art should be from your soul? Student: N-No, the part before that? Shallan: Anyway, everyone start drawing!

5. Painter: Also an Art Professor

I mean, it's literally his name.

Painter: The key to art is repetition. Painter: When a Nightmare is staring down at you, you don't want to be hesitating over what to draw! Student: Professor Nikaro, please, we've been drawing bamboo for a week! Painter: ...I'm not sure what the issue is?

6. Sigzil: Science teacher

Sigzil is one of those general science teachers you get in middle school.

Sigzil: Remember: the key to science is...? Students, as a chorus: Writing things down! Sigzil: That's right! Sigzil: Now let's see what's the heaviest thing we can stick to the wall using glue--last year we managed to stick me to the wall for a couple seconds! Students: [cheering] Sigzil: ...I'm better at this than I would have expected.

7. Wayne: Theater Teacher

Wayne teaches theatre at a high school.

Wayne: Acting is all about not acting. Wayne: You gotta just be the person. Wayne: Understand their past, embody their present... Student: ...wear their hat? Wayne: Exactly!

8. Kaladin: Also a Theatre Teacher

Look me in the eyes and tell me that Kaladin doesn't understand drama.

Kaladin: [talking to an school administrator off to the side while the class watches] And you can tell the school board that the next time they want to cut funding to the arts, I will be there. Kaladin: I will be there at every meeting where even a word of funding reduction is breathed. Kaladin: I will haunt those meetings, carrying pictures of my kids doing their plays and being happy. Kaladin: And I will make them look me in the eyes if they dare to vote to take that away! New student, hesitantly: Performance art? Student: Nah, he always talks that way.

9. Sarene: English teacher

If only because I don't think they have dedicated fencing professors at most places.

Sarene: English is not simply about reading books--it is about learning to think and interpret information. Sarene: You can take the skills you learn in this class and apply them very widely: to understand the news, to read between the lines of what a person says to you, to craft effective rhetoric to get your own way. Sarene: Read everything. Sarene: Remember: you cannot defeat an enemy unless you understand your enemy. Student: ...enemy? Sarene: Don't worry: you'll have enemies when you're older. Student: Yay?

10. Navani: Engineering

Navani would be an engineering professor at a college.

Navani: Your job, students, is to get this ball through that window high up on the wall. You can do it any way you want. Student: I'm immediately seeing: trebuchet. Navani [nodding sagely]: Go with your heart.

11. Pattern: Math teacher

...Listen, I'm not saying he's a good math teacher.

Student: [staring gloomily at their test] Friend: That bad, huh? Student: Mr. Pattern wrote "Mmmm delicious lies" all over it! Friend: So...you failed? Student: Yeah...

12. Raboniel: Chemistry Teacher

She may seem strict, but she actually quite likes kids.

Raboniel: ...And that, students, is how you build a very effective chemical bomb. Students: ... Raboniel: Any questions? Bravest student: Uh, miss? We are seven. Raboniel: So...basically adults, right? Wait, how fast do humans age again? Teacher's aide: [whispering frantically] Raboniel: ...I may have made an error.

#cosmere #cosmerelists #Jasnah #Hammon #Elend #Navani #Raboniel #Shallan #Wayne #Sarene #Sigzil #Kaladin #Painter

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recklessandsweet · 1 month ago

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good and plenty ｡𖦹°‧ r.c

pairing: rafe cameron x oc (kendall abbott)

summary: kendall's dream class that she's a TA for this semester is crashed by her one night stand from the summer that was almost too good to try to forget. but maybe she shouldn't forget, because rafe surely hasn't.

word count: 8.5k

warnings: language, mentions of sex, flittery attitudes, that's about it for now!

lily said: this is the establishing fic for the ficlets that may follow, I hope you love kenny and her little life as much as I do <3

g&p masterlist

Hughes hall had become a second home to Kendall. Home to most of the political science and sociology classes she had taken during her time in college, as well as most of the professor’s offices she frequented. Sometimes, she got so sick of the route to the building that she tried other ways to get there, just to break up the monotony. Don’t take the back entrance way or ride in on a lime scooter, take it from her.

Professor Eleanor Spaulding had quickly become the apple of Kendall’s eye. A freshman year seminar on critical studies had her hooked, staying after class to learn anything she could from the accomplished woman. Spaulding was a lawyer, a retired judge, and a tenured professor that had been published 40 times over. Not to mention, she was one of the few professors that looked like her. A badass, unapologetically herself, woman of color. How could Kendall not be obsessed?

Walking through the marble halls, Kendall took a deep breath, centering herself before entering Spaulding’s office. With a gentle knock, she opens the door ever so slightly.

“Not expecting anyone else, you can come in,” Her voice flows through the crack in the door, making Kendall jump into overdrive.

“Good morning,” She says brightly, spine straight and laptop clutched to her chest. “I’m a bit early.”

Spaulding shrugs. “10 minutes. Not anything crazy. Make it a habit, because to be on time is to be late.”

Kendall nods quickly. Her parents always told her that too, it wasn’t harsh or stressful. She knew she was going to have to work harder just to get the same things as others, that’s unfortunately how the world worked. She was prepared, she was hungry for it.

Spaulding looks up with an amused smile from the paperwork in front of her.

“You nervous?”

Kendall wants to lie. She wants to present confidence, she always did. But this was a big deal to her, so she doesn’t. “Yes.”

Spaulding nods. “I remember my first time being a TA. I was a junior though, scrawny too.”

“I’m just grateful you trust me with this,” Kendall breathes, “Ethics in Modern Media was my favorite class last year.”

“How could I not trust you? Best exam I’ve seen. I might be your mentor, but it’s good to have an impressive mentee as well. Give yourself credit, Kendall. These kids smell fear.”

She finally smiles, maybe laughs a little. “I really appreciate it, Eleanor.”

Eleanor. First name basis. Unlocked that over the summer. Kendall could die happy.

“Grade some papers for me, lead a lesson or two, and trust me, I’ll write any letter you want.” That was the point of all this, after all. Yes, Kendall loved having this legend as a mentor, but also, she had asked Spaulding to write a recommendation letter for her. She was applying to law school, to Harvard Law. Spaulding was Valedictorian of her class at HLS, and a very generous alumni donor. This was major, on all levels. A semester as a TA, and a career path in front of her she’s desired since she could talk. Things couldn’t be better.

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Rafe woke up late. So late, stupidly so. He was up so late on the phone with his youngest sister the night before he forgot to set his alarm, meaning he was looking at his clock that said 9:21, and his calendar definitely said he had a class at 9:30. Shit.

He practically flies out of his bed, cursing under his breath as he pulls on sweatpants and a hoodie. Doesn’t even brush his teeth, just uses mouthwash and considers the rest of his morning routine to be done later. He couldn’t be skipping the first day, it already took him double the effort to focus and the stigma that he didn’t even have to because of his background. Too bad that couldn’t be farther from the truth, he actually was carrying the Economics department’s GPA. Sure, he had a promising job in New York lined up for him after completing a successful summer internship, but Rafe knew there was life beyond clocking in and crunching numbers. The silver spoon was in his mouth, he knew that, and knew having purpose beyond that mattered.

The house is silent, his housemates probably still asleep or already about their days. If they’re asleep, he’s not sure how long they’d stay that way, seeing as though he was bumbling down the staircase, searching for his keys in the bowl at the front entry. 9:27, he’s fucked. Class was across campus from his house, he’d be lucky if walking there got him to Hughes at 9:50. Driving it is.

Except, now, he can’t find a parking spot. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he seethes, seeing every space taken. He could just double park someone and hope they don’t have a class before his is over. Maybe someone with a student placard so he doesn’t piss off a professor by accident. Finally saying to hell with it, he swings his BMW in front of a Jeep that had a student placard hanging from the rear view mirror. He’s only in this class for the next 35 minutes, plus groveling to the professor about how sorry he is to be late, so this would have to do.

He bursts through the front doors of the building, practically running to the lecture hall. Rafe slows down before opening, not wanting it to be any more of a spectacle, or for someone to acknowledge who he was and somehow make this even worse. He even holds his breath as the door opens, praying it doesn’t creak. It does.

His professor, Professor Spaulding, as seen on the presentation projected above her, turns her head toward the door. With a smirk, she decides to fulfill his greatest fear. “Late on the first day, and you pick the creaking door?”

Rafe flounders. Of course, because she was the only person talking at the moment, all attention was now on him. He opens his mouth to profusely apologize, but nothing comes out. She fills the air for him, anyway.

“Just sit down.”

He plops into the first seat, the one closest to the door. Some stares linger, more girls than guys. It’s not a huge class, maybe 60 students. Could be worse. He tries to take it in stride, opening up his notebook to write down any important notes from the syllabus being projected. He still wrote everything by hand, whether it be notes, outlines, anything of the sort. It helped better than being distracted by anything on his laptop.

“Going back to the grading aspects of this class, much of your grades will come from seminars, participation in recitations, and a final paper. That’s right, you’re gonna need to start engaging in class for once. How terrible!” Dejected murmurs and some forced laughs from kiss ups trying to gain favor follow. “The recitational discussions will be led by either me or my wonderful TA, Kendall Abbott. Get used to her lovely face, you’ll see her a lot. And need her on your side, too, because that final paper of yours might end up in her hands instead.”

In quite possibly the worst aspect of this entire situation, Rafe doesn’t have to get used to that face. He already knows the face, and had been thinking about it consistently for the last 3 weeks. The girl he hooked up with, and then never heard from again, was his TA. And she was refusing to look in his direction.

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“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Definitely can, should, must, even.” Samira adds to Malia’s rebuttal.

Kendall’s friends were urging her to speak to the boy that had eyes on her the entire time they’ve been in the party,

He wasn’t like her exes or situationships, he was tall, blonde, and had blue eyes she could even see from this far. Wasn’t really her type, but he had something about him that was attracting her just from his energy, and the confidence he carried himself in.

“You ever been with a white boy?”

“Malia,” Kendall scolds.

“So, that’s a no?”

“And that’s a fine white boy,” Samira says with a small laugh. “I’d do it.”

“Then do it.”

“Bitch, he’s not staring at me, he’s staring at you!” Kendall rolls her eyes. When she looks back at him, he’s glancing over, meeting her eyes with a slight smirk. The party was being thrown by one of Malia’s fellow interns, some girl from Chicago whose parents had swung her an apartment with a rooftop for the summer. As the summer wound down, the girl invited the entire cohort to the rooftop, urging everyone to bring a friend or two. It was hot out, liquor was abundant, it was a perfect end to New York summer.

“He’s tall too,” Malia shrugs. “We’re only in New York for one more week, come on.”

They were right, this party definitively ended their junior year corporate summer internship, sure, but still corporate. It wasn’t everyday that all three friends swung great jobs in the big city, and the summer had been both challenging and amazing. Kendall takes another big swig from her drink, trying to earn some more confidence. And when their eyes meet again, she doesn’t look away.

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There was a line to speak with Professor Spaulding. People introduced themselves, asked clarifying questions about the syllabus, and then there was Rafe, who was about to apologize like never before.

“Professor Spaulding,” he begins. “I’m Rafe Cameron. I just want to apologize for coming in late, no excuses for that. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, it’ll never happen again.”

Spaulding quirks her mouth in clear amusement. “Don’t promise things you can’t keep, who knows if you’ll get a flat tire or something next week?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. She’s fucking with him, right?

She lets out a gut laugh. “Oh, you’re a jumpy one aren’t you?” He thinks he’s sweating through his sweatshirt. “Just set an earlier alarm or something, alright? And seriously, use the other door. That creaking sound pisses me off.”

He nods profusely, stepping out the way so that the next person can begin speaking to her. However, when he steps out of the way, he realizes he’s now in front of Kendall.

She’s making herself busy with papers that have no writing on them, but her eyes are on them like they hold the Rosetta Stone. Rafe chuckles.

“So much for not seeing each other again, huh?”

Kendall’s mouth is running as soon as she walks through the front door and sees Malia on the couch. “I’m fucked.”

“Getting fucked?” Kendall looks at Malia with pure exasperation. “Sorry. I’ll try again. What’s wrong, pookie?”

“Rafe is in my Spaulding class.”

Perhaps Kendall should have had a camera on her best friend’s face. Her jaw drops and eyes bulge, a true gasp leaving her. “Wait. Rafe?”

“Yes.”

“New York white boy?”

“How many Rafe’s do you know?”

Malia ignores the sass. “He’s in the class?”

“Yes, and came late so now Spaulding uses him as her little punching bag running joke. I know her, it’s endearing to her and she’s going to end up fucking loving him and I’ll be-”

“Slow down,” Malia stops her, “Did you speak to him at all?”

“He did, I just kinda froze.” So much for not seeing each other again, huh?

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“You’ve got a staring problem.”

He smirks. “Definitely do, can’t seem to take my eyes off of you. Think there’s a song that goes like that, right?”

Kendall can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her at that. Fuck, this dude is perfect. A Ms. Lauryn Hill reference? Fuck. His teeth are white and shiny, his mouth had that delicious smirk that made her know just how smug he probably was. She could see his build through his shirt, and he looked quite familiar with the gym. Not to mention the glistening watch on his arm, one of the ones in her dad’s catalogues. “‘M Rafe.”

“Kendall.”

“Pretty name. You named after Roy or Jenner?” Oh, he’s funny. She likes this.

“Jenner lifestyle, Roy mentality.”

She gets him to laugh at that, and when he throws his head back slightly, she gets a good look at his next. Fuck, even his neck was sexy.

Rafe’s not faring any better though, not at all. He did have a staring problem, contracted it when Kendall walked in the room. She had walked in already laughing at something her friends had said, face bright and eyes glowing. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, precise, ponytail, but he could tell she had so much of it. He was taller than her, he was taller than most people, but she wasn’t even that much shorter than him. Maybe it was the skirt she was wearing that made him a bit stupid. Her legs looked great in it, that much he could say.

Kelce had teased him for it. “If you don’t talk to her, we’re gonna be entering Joe Goldberg territory.”

“Can’t just walk up on someone like her,” Rafe argues back. “She’d laugh right in my face.”

“She might,” he shrugs. “Totally possible.”

“Not helpful.”

“Well what do you want me to say when you say that?”

He decides to use that prior conversation as ammo now with Kendall.

“You know,” he starts,“my friends over there totally thought you’d laugh in my face when I came up to you.”

Kendall’s eyes flick to where he’s pointing, to two boys who are trying not to act like they’re watching them.

“Them?” Rafe nods. “Well, I think I would have laughed at the striped one.”

Topper’s sporting a pink and orange striped button up.

“Everyone does.”

Throughout the course of their conversation, they moved from the corner of the room to the back patio, where they’re both comfortably sitting on chaise lounges. This was a nice apartment in the city, definitely the girl’s dad’s property she was staying in for the summer. That’s how parties went here, you hear from a friend of a friend where it’s happening and show up. Well, that’s at least how these two understand it, seeing as though neither of them knew who the host was, both invited on behalf of someone else. It’s from this that they realize both of their invites came from friends from university. And what they also realize is that they are enrolled in the same university, in the same year.

“I’ve never seen you around.”

“Rafe, our school has like 40,000 undergrads.”

“But, still. You’d think we'd cross paths?”

Kendall frowns. “Probably not, I mean, you’re a money guy, I’m pre-law. Haven’t taken a math class since freshman year. Honestly, I bet we’ll never even see each other after this.”

He rears his head back. “Well that’s up to us to decide, isn’t it?”

He’s looking deep in her eyes when he says it, which maybe he shouldn’t be, because it clearly spooked her a little bit. Not in a coming on too strong kind of way, but more of the realization that he just met her, keep it fun why don’t you?

Rafe decides to redirect. “So you’re doing a public relations internship, but you want to be a lawyer.”

She shrugs. “Well, it’s not like they’re hiring people who haven’t been to law school to litigate, now are they?” She’s so sure of herself, so witty and quick. She’s perfect, if you ask him. “And if Goldman likes you, you’ll be coming back here next year?”

“Maybe not New York, could be Chicago, maybe Charlotte. I like New York, though. Different vibe from home and I like that.”

“Where’s home?”

“The Carolinas, ever been?”

She smiles. “My grandparents vacation on Hilton Head.”

“Timeshare?” “They own, thanks for the supposition.”

Rafe’s cheeks redden. “Oh, well I didn’t mean it like-”

She cuts him off with a big laugh. “Oh, you’re so easy to freak out. Relax, Rafey.”

“Rafey?”

She shrugs again. “Sounds cute, no?”

“We’re at the level we have nicknames?”

She looks at him in a way that makes his stomach turn with nerves of excitement, her eyes low and smirk growing. “And what level is that?”

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“You’re never gonna believe who my TA is.”

“I don’t even know how I’d begin to guess that.”

Kelce laughs from the kitchen island, and Rafe rolls his eyes at his other roommate, Alex. “It’s Kendall. New York Kendall.”

Kelce coughs through the sip of orange juice. “Oh shit.”

Rafe scrubs tired hands over his face, not in the mood to be dealing with this extra level of predicament. It hurts someone’s pride to wake up to an empty bed, absolutely. It hurts more when you were thinking something more could have happened between you two, most definitely. Definitely hurts the most when realizing your grade is in her hands.

“Wait, this is the one from that rooftop party?” Alex hadn’t been in New York for the summer, nor did he grow up in the Carolinas like Rafe and Kelce did. It was more of a stroke of luck that the three of them became friends, chance meetings in a business calc class their first year that bonded them by struggling through exams together.

Kelce hums affirmatively through another swallow of juice. “Yeah, it is. She still hot?”

“Are you-yes!” Rafe incredulously shouts. “It’s been like 3 weeks, you don’t just become attractive like that.”

“Uh, yes you do. Seen it with my own eyes.”

Disregarding his point, Rafe moves forward. “I hate awkward shit.”

“It’s only awkward if you make it that,” Alex offers. “Just be cool.”

“Exactly, just gonna be a little weird. But like, it’s college, what’s not weird and awkward? Everyone’s got something.”

Rafe stops pacing. “True.”

Alex shrugs. “Not everyone’s slept with their TA, but-”

“How’d you turn this back into a terrible conversation that quickly?”

Kelce laughs at that, unable to not poke fun at his friend’s misfortune. “Serious question though, you think it’ll happen again?”

Rafe’s face is one of confusion. “What, me and Kendall?”

Kelce gives him a look. “You said it was good. Great even. She kinda rocked your world.”

“She’s my TA.”

Alex scoffs. “And?”

Exasperation probably best fits Rafe’s mood at this point, but truly, what did he expect to come out of asking these two for advice? He might as well ask Topper next. Well, he didn’t even really ask, he was just ranting. But it did beg the question, what would happen between them now? It’s not like he wanted a relationship, but they both had chemistry, that much was evident, and were more proximal to each other than originally thought. But she also ran out on him that morning, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t hurt his pride. And he wasn’t in the market to get it hurt again, especially by the same girl. He knew when to hold things, but absolutely when to fold.

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It wasn’t often that Kendall woke up in a bed that wasn’t hers. She actually preferred going back to a guy’s place anyway, because it was easier to leave quickly than to try to get them out in the morning. When she and her friends went to the party last night, she had no idea she’d meet Rafe, hit it off with him so well, kiss him for God’s sake, and let it escalate to this. One night stands? How sophomore year of her.

He had a strong arm over her body, warm and smelling like cedar. His breath was tickling her ear, slow and deep, he was still totally knocked out. But what would happen when he woke up? Would he regret it? Look at her differently after having sex on the first meeting? Guys were awful like that sometimes, as if they weren’t ½ of the guilty party. Or would he be on the other end of the spectrum, wanting her to stay and have breakfast? Oh goodness, would she meet the roommates?

When it comes to fight or flight, she’s a flight risk every time. Not that it would even be a fight, maybe that metaphor doesn’t even apply to her, she considers. Regardless, she’s leaving.

Shifting Rafe’s arm, she switches her body with the pillow that was once under her head. Luckily for her, Rafe’s the heaviest sleeper in New York City, and he only shuffles to hold the pillow tighter with a snort and a sigh. With a breath of relief, she hops around his room, finding her clothing from the night before. Oh God, she’s gonna be on the subway in a mini skirt at 9:30 AM.

When she finally gets all her things together and her second shoe on her foot, she looks back at him, sprawled across his large bed. This apartment was ridiculously nice, he easily came from money. Or was making a shit ton of it already at Goldman. Probably both. She winces looking back, but shakes off the remorse and heads toward the door. She gives him the courtesy of closing his bedroom door once again, heart beating a bit faster at the sight of new pairs of shoes on the rack in the front entryway. Other people were home, it was absolutely best she got the hell out now.

Praying the door locks behind her, she exits out the front, cascading down the walkup stairway like the future of her freedom depends on it. Once on the sidewalk, she squares her shoulders once again, and joins the pacing of the other people on the sidewalk. This is just a fun story to tell, she thinks to herself. Don’t feel bad, you won’t ever see him again.

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Samira had come through the front door complaining about her day, stating she was in dire need of a drink. “That weird girl they just hired is even weirder now, left me all the stuff in the back to unbox. Like, 50 boxes of sweaters and coats. Unreal.”

“Perfect, Kenny needs a drink even worse than you do,” Malia chuckles from the stove, as Friday was her day for dinner duty.

“Oh? What’s wrong?”

“Rafe is in Spaulding’s class this semester.”

Samira looks at Kendall when she says this, head in her hands as she stares at something on her laptop. She did that a lot, talked to the two of them without looking up from her device. She was probably looking at a document or application or something neither of them would be able to understand, she buried herself in work when she got stressed. Malia and Samira share a look, one that reads, ‘this is not good.’

“Oh,” Samira can’t think of much to say, because what do you even come up with for something as awkward as this?

“Well, luckily as a TA you’re just reading assignments and stuff, right? Unless, oh no, is this a recitation class?”

“He’s in my section.”

“Oh.” once again.

“Yeah.”

Kendall continued to type whatever, and work on whatever on her computer, making Malia huff. “Close her laptop, Samira.”

“No, Malia, I'm working on something,” Kendall protests.

“Sami, close it.”

Ignoring Kendall’s whines, Samira shuts the device, moving it to the coffee table instead of their dinner table, where they’d soon be eating.

Malia wanted Fridays for cooking, against what everyone else would have expected, because she liked the idea of everyone getting a good meal in them before going out for the night. She was pre-med, she’d know best what the best thing was before hitting the bars.

She makes them burrito bowls, all the toppings laid out in front of them to pick and choose what they’d like to add to their respective bowls. “Kenny,” Samira starts out lightly as they all settle into eating.

“Yes?”

“You know Rafe being in your class isn’t, like, the end of the world, right?”

Kendall looks up from her tortilla chip pile she was forming on the edge of her side plate. Malia looks on with a small bit of fear, hoping this conversation went across well. This is how it always was, kind of the beauty of a three person friend group. A triangle is the strongest and sturdiest shape, after all. There was a good level of checks and balances, and a mediator if needed. Not for arguments, they hardly argued, because they kept open communication in times like this and situations like this. It worked, they were lucky, and that’s why they held onto each other so tight. Best friends that truly knew you inside and out were special, and the girls were grateful for it.

“Well I never said it was,” Kendall refutes, a bit defensive.

“Sure you didn’t, but you’ve been in a way since you found out. Which, I’m not saying isn’t allowed, it is a weird situation.”

“But it’s only as weird as you make it,” Malia supplements. “Just don’t give it air time or energy and it won’t be a thing. You give things power, just don’t give him any.”

Kendall takes in their words, then sighs deeply. “It’s not even him that’s the problem, I think it’s me.” Her friends look perplexed. Rightfully so. “I left the apartment and didn’t say anything to him or even give him my socials, completely ghosted. The next time we see each other, he’s in the class I’ve been waiting to be a part of ever since I got the acceptance email. I think I feel bad?”

“Guilty?”

“Guilty,” she repeats, a sign of agreement with the emotion. “But I don’t even know why, guys do this all the time with no issue.”

Malia swallows a spoonful of rice. “You’re better than a man.”

“Truth,” Samira agrees.

“Do I apologize?” Kendall’s friends share a look across the table.

“Like, to Rafe?”

Kendall shrugs. “Yeah? Just to make sure there’s no animosity or anything?”

Samira chuckles a little before crunching through a chip and some salsa. “You’re such a little goodie good when you want to be.”

“Enough, Sami,” Kendall groans. They always teased her that she was the nicest one of the three of them, the other two being a barbie and bratz to Kendall’s fairy. It was true, it just didn’t need to be repeated so often.

“Ignoring her,” Malia jumps back in, “not a bad idea at all, Kenny. Do what you need to so you stop buffering like this. It’s freaky, totally not like you. And I want you to have a good time at the bar tonight! We’re seniors, it’s time to have fun.”

She’s right, Kendall knows she is. So she puts herself in a cute little skirt and an even smaller top, doing her makeup to the tune of Latto and SZA and everyone else on her i’m outside playlist.

Their school is big, the surrounding city built around the institution. Living in a college town felt like a snow globe to Kendall sometimes, the way that everything in the town was centered around the university, and every single resident was either a student, alumni that never moved away, or people employed or being benefited by the university. It was a weird little slice of life, especially for her big city self (A Los Angeles girl, born and raised,) but it was fun, and she was happy with the little life that she’d cultivated in town.

A part of this little life was the premiere bar for students that were actually 21, a dive bar called Scooter’s that had a bouncer in the front that used to work in the counterfeit industry. Ben the Bouncer, or rather BB, as the girls affectionately called him, was anything but affectionate when a fake came across his path. He was strict, but was a big softy, the girls found out once they were finally on the right side of legal.

“BB, please tell me you guys restocked the gummy bear snacks,” Sami whines as they finally make it to the front of the line to enter.

“Just got a new box in the back, not that I should even let you know that. You’re the main reason why we have to order a new bulk box every other month.”

Sami gives him a saccharine smile, dimples deep. “Then don’t offer free snacks if you’re not gonna let me eat them!” It was a small dish they gave to each group of patrons that landed at each standing table, they were only supposed to have one dish full for each group of people anyway. Sami usually cleared the dish three or four times.

BB rolls his eyes and motions for the girls to go inside, and more importantly out of his sight.

Scooter’s was the definition of a dive bar. Old decorations that looked like you’d better wash your hands after touching, bathrooms that clogged at the hands of less than three squares of toilet paper. The music was controlled by a modern version of a jukebox near the bathrooms, a preordained catalogue of music scrollable on the machine’s screen.

“Play that one Kehlani song you put on yesterday, Kenny,” Malia says over Kendall’s shoulder as she eyes the options. The two girls were on music duty while Samira broke the seal, which was definitely debunked and unrealistic. Not that it changes how it feels to have to constantly pee when going out, it was probably more mental than anything.

Kendall searches meticulously through the computer’s library, attention focused on the task ahead until feels a poke at her back. “I’m going as fast as I can Lia! This thing is old.”

“No, no look,” she says, poking harder. Kendall turns to where her friend directs, stomach jumping when she realizes Rafe has just walked inside the bar. He’s flanked by the two boys you remember seeing in New York, of course he’d be the one to stand in the middle.

“Shit,” she hisses, heart beating a tad faster than it was a second ago. “Since when does he come here?”

“We’d have seen him before, we’re here every weekend.”

“Exactly! Did I mention this place to him in New York? I compromised Scooter’s. I ruined the oasis!”

The girls are dramatic, if you can’t tell.

“What’s the problem?” Samira says concernedly upon seeing their faces. “I didn’t think I took that long.”

“Rafe’s here,” Malia supplies, making Samira’s mouth turn into an “O.”

Samira quickly takes both of their hands, the trio disappearing deeper into the bar. Scooter’s was like one long hall, the bathroom connecting the front end to the back. It was silly, Kendall supposes, that she’s hiding from him, but all of this happened today, can you blame her? It’s been 12 hours since the plot twisted in a way not so much in her favor, the dramatics are probably going to continue.

“Gin and tonic, please. And maybe double it?” She bats her eyes at their favorite bartender.

“Bombay or Beefeater?”

Kendall scoffs. “Am I made of money, Carlos?”

Rafe sees her instantly. Of course he does. Well, he sees a flip of a ponytail, but it was the same ponytail that began haunting him this morning. Hm, haunting was a strong word. He enjoyed seeing this ponytail immensely, and the girl connected to it. Maybe it was haunting, since it was the only thing he’s seemed to think about today.

He moves on autopilot. Topper and Kelce don’t follow closely, honestly not interested in getting involved in antics. They couldn’t convince Alex to come out, he was seeing some girl and in that honeymoon phase of preferring whatever she wanted to anything he could think of. But Topper didn’t need to live with them, or be there for prior conversation, for him to easily put two and two together what had Rafe moving without explanation. Rafe had spent the whole afternoon finding ways to bring her up without trying to sound bothered. Kelce had snapped when Rafe asked for the third time what he thought would happen if he dropped the class, Alex had given up when he said for the 5th time, “this is all crazy coincidence, right?”

Although, in his defense, he had no idea that she’d be at Scooter’s. They didn’t come here much, a lot of the times on a night out they’d go to a club or a party. With Topper being a year younger, this place was basically off limits until this year anyway, unless they abandoned him or he had his own plans.

“Okay, don’t be her shadow, man.” Kelce says, very much not wanting his friend to go out sad tonight.

“‘m not,” Rafe says, a bit embarrassed. Fuck, is that what this looked like? He just wanted to be in her orbit, is that crazy? Oh God, it probably was, seeing as though she was the one who left him. Oh no, he was being creepy, wasn’t he. “Fuck, maybe I should leave.”

“Woah, that’s not what he meant,” Topper stops him.

“Like at all,” Kelce laughs, “I meant just play it cool.”

Rafe squints in internal turmoil. “She probably doesn’t even want to speak to me, being realistic.”

The boys share a look. What the hell just happened to Rafe Cameron?

He was nothing like he was in high school, and even then, he wasn’t that bad. He was respectful, the Carolinas seeping out of him with every ma’am and thank you that left him. He had his fair share of female attention too, and he was never one to kick people out the morning after, always one to hold doors and buy flowers. But above all of this, he had charisma. Charm, aura, whatever you want to call it, he had it. His friends envied it, really. Maybe it was due to being raised with two sisters, maybe it was in protest of how rotten Ward could be when he felt like it. But questioning himself was something he never did.

Kelce dares a look back, in which he catches Samira’s eyes. She looks away quickly, whispering something to Malia. Kelce smirks.

“She wants to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Trust me, she does.” Rafe’s not sure what to think, or if he believes him. “Just play it cool. Get a beer in you, queue a song or two.”

He’s right on that, he does need a beer.

“I’m biting the bullet.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m gonna talk to him.”

“You and these metaphors,” Samira mutters, “but good girl. This is good, get it out the way! There’s totally worse bodies to have.”

“Exactly! He’s fine. Sexy even. Honestly, why not spin back?” Malia’s not wrong, not in the slightest. Truthfully, Kendall hasn’t thought too deeply about that yet. Her brain went into panic mode, afraid of awkwardness or tension in the class and opportunity that she had nearly mythologized in her head. But this was college. Her (not so) fake little degree, in her fake little college town, with fake little problems. She never wants to be the wound up girl that’s wound up tighter by school or her career, so she’s going to have some fun. Tipping her head back and finishing the G&T, she turns on her heel and makes her way over.

Rafe grips the neck of his beer bottle tighter ever so slightly when he realizes she’s walking up to him. It brings a smile to his face, a bit of relief that his spiraling thoughts were just that. “Wow, running into you all the time now, proving you wrong is kinda fun.”

Kendall’s face feels a bit hot. If she knew their paths would cross this much out of nowhere, maybe she would have woken him up before she left. She just didn’t like the awkward cutoffs and aftermaths, she truly thought she was doing good by both of them. In reality, it was more of a moment of a woman being in men’s fields.

“Definitely was wrong,” she concedes. “Hi Rafe.”

“Hi Kendall.” Pearly whites on full display, he’s so fucking cute. Sexy. Malia’s right to use that word. She feels bad.

“Look,” she starts, fidgeting with a belt loop on her skirt, “I’m really sorry.”

He looks a bit surprised. “Sorry?”

“I definitely could have done things better in New York, I feel really bad about it and for not explaining myself.”

He’s caught on now, as is visible by the clarity in his current expression, a polite smile. “You don’t have to apologize, Kendall.”

“I do, at least for my own sake if not yours.”

“I’m not mad or sad or anything.”

“I’m your TA, Rafe.”

“I’m not gonna report you for workplace misconduct.”

She huffs. “Stop. Seriously, I am sorry. You’re a cool person, I just, I don’t know. Don’t do well with hookups and the aftermath.”

Don’t do them then, he thinks in his head. Just in his head though. In reality, he says, “We’re all good, promise.”

“Great,” she breathes, seemingly to calm herself down.

“Amazing.” A beat or two passes of them just standing, looking at each other. “So, how was the end of your internship?”

She flinches with a bit of a laugh. “Okay, I’m not doing small talk with you.”

“Why? Thought I was a good conversationalist. Think you said that, actually.”

“This isn’t really a conversation.” Well, it is.

“Hm, I think it is,” he fake ponders. “But you are my TA after all, so you probably know a thing or two more than me.”

“Are you just trying to be contradictory?”

“If I am, it’s working. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be this easy to rile up. Also something you’ve previously said to me. Hey uh, nice poker face, by the way.”

“I’m not riled up, don’t get excited. And, speaking of being your TA, do you always come to class late? Would be good to know when considering your participation grade.”

He cocks his head. “Not your jurisdiction, pretty girl. I actually read the syllabus, you’re only responsible for my submissions and recitations. Which, am I in your section?”

“You think I know that?”

“I’m sure you looked.”

She sucks her teeth. She did look. He’s in her Wednesday section.

“Anyway,” she pivots, making him smirk. I won. For once. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

He laughs a bit in his chest. “You own the place?”

“Practically,” she sasses, looking around. “BB loves me.”

“BB?”

“Ben. The bouncer outside. Which, me knowing his name and you not proving my point clearly.”

He fakes an eye roll. “I forgot, you’re pre-law.” She preens a bit, both in comedic fashion and in true blushing of the reminder that he also has memories and a point of view from that night. As much as he shared, she did too. Ugh, she can’t imagine the things he must have felt, and probably talked about with her friends. He has sisters, she knows how girls can get, and she knows that he’s probably well equipped in the art of the groupchat, most likely composed of the two boys he was with more often than not. “Hey uh, Kendall?”

Hearing him say her name both snaps her out of her thoughts and sends a chill up her spine, and other sensations down into other places. “Yeah?”

“I think your friends want something.”

She looks over to Malia and Samira, who are doing an uncharacteristically bad job of eavesdropping. Sami’s phone camera was angled undoubtedly, and Malia was leaning earfirst in their direction. “Unbelievable. Come on,” She mutters, grabbing his hand. Oh, he’s gone, he’s certain.

Seeing the pair walk up, Malia and Samira make themselves look deep into conversation. Attempt to, really. “Kenny you’re back!” Malia says, fake shocked.

“Say hi to Rafe,” Kendall ignores their terrible facade, willingly plunging into awkward introductions.

“Right, from New York!”

“North Carolina, but I get what you mean.”

“Oh,” Sami’s eyes light up. “I’m from Charlotte.”

Rafe’s head tilts with interest, peering at Kendall. “Didn’t know that.” He’s teasing her. This was a bad idea, she’s willing to call this whole “be fun and flirty” thing off again.

“Not you’re gatekeeping our lore, Kenny,” Sami scolds. “Isn’t she selfish?”

“Answer that and perish.” She looks at him definitively, the implications of the look being something he could already understand.

It’s sick how easily he flows into conversation with her two best friends. He keeps up with the jabs, knows enough humor and running jokes from social media to follow Malia’s references. Him and Sami bond over their undying love for Rod Brind’Amour, and all Kendall can think about is how easy this could be if she let it. It doesn’t have to even be anything, actually. She can just have fun. What a mantra this is becoming.

And maybe that’s why she begins to lean into him ever so slightly. Rafe noticed when she seemed to be closer to him than she was before, and knew he wasn’t losing his mind when he felt her arm graze his finally. It’s certainly why he leaned right back into it, the two of them eventually establishing a position where she stood slightly in front of him, his hand near her waist.

Thankfully regaining a semblance of home training, Samira and Malia gradually fall into their own conversation, leaving Kendall to turn into Rafe.

“Not sure how you drink beer. It’s bread water to me.”

“You just haven’t had a good one.”

She looks down at the bottle. “At least it’s a corona.”

Rafe tilts the bottle toward her in an offering manner. “Have a sip.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “Bread water.”

“Don’t yuck my yum, pretty girl.” Pretty girl. He’s insane.

“‘Yuck your yum.’ Where’d you learn that phrase?”

“My sister is 16, remember? Wouldn’t be hurt if you didn’t.”

“I do,” she fights back. “And your other sister is 20. I know a thing or two.”

He gives a look of respect. “I underestimated you, something I’ll never do again.”

“Glad you’re a fast learner,” Kendall grins, biting her lip ever so slightly. Her chest was nearly in contact with his, peering up at him with gorgeous eyes highlighted by the slightest bit of glitter and mascara amplified her lashes to the perfect flutter. It made him all a bit stupid, really, as shown by the way his hand barely kept strong when she plucked the beer bottle out of it. Taking a sip of his beer, she swallows before wincing. “Just like putting dough in a blender with a gallon of old water.”

“Ouch,” he recovers. “You didn’t have to get so creative, you know.”

“Right, sorry, your yum won’t be yucked any further.” She must be delusional already, because his smile makes her feel like this is their first inside joke. She wouldn’t know now, but his mind is reciprocating that very thought.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he starts before leaning in, the bar around them getting a bit louder. “Thought you hated seeing me today in class.”

Ugh, her face is hot again. And not even in the good way. “No, it wasn’t like that,” she’s quick to say. “Just, definitely was not expecting it."

“Me neither,” he shrugs. The hand that graced her hip twitched a bit with his words, then sat firmer on her hip. She decides she likes the feeling. She can feel his breath on her neck as he speaks into her ear, “but I’m happy it did.”

Her grin is wolfish at his openness to express continued interest in her. If it was the other way around, she’d probably have told him off 6 different ways by now, so she’s at least grateful that he’s not as stubborn as she is.

Then, her alarm goes off. The stupid fucking alarm, aptly named ‘Go home, sleep, and dream of a 170.’

She had LSAT class in the morning, something that her and her family had invested a pretty penny into, with hopes that she’d get that 170 she dreams of. It was sacrifice on a Saturday morning, but it was necessary evil. And, it was only for another month.

“Getting a call?”

“No, it’s an alarm,” Kendall mutters, shutting it off. “I have to go.”

Rafe’s eyebrows furrow. “Go? Are you Cinderella?”

“LSAT class in the morning. Pre-law, remember?” She grimaces sarcastically.

“Oh. Shit,” he winces at the thought of the exam. Shit is right, she thinks. But it’s worth it, the alternative of doing badly on the exam is something she’d never want.

“Yeah so I uh, have to go home now. And go to sleep.”

Kendall’s charming like this. She’ll be flirtatious, those eyes vixen-like and words sweetly saccharine, but at the next moment, she’s giggly and awkward. He met her and fell under a trance quickly in the summer, and then sees her in a classroom as a determined TA come a few weeks later. It makes it apparent to Rafe that she’s got levels, layers, a personality he wants to get to know better. If she’ll let him, that is.

“Guys,” Kendall calls to her friends, to which they look away from their own conversations, “LSAT.”

Malia groans. “Bedtime for Kenny.” It’s a fake groan, she doesn’t actually feel dejected, but Kendall still feels bad. Well, not bad, but it’s just a moment of noticing how much her friends attend to her, and how grateful she is for their support.

“Stay,” she says without a second thought. “It’s just bedtime for Kenny. Not for y’all.”

“You’re not walking home alone, don’t play.”

“I’ll walk her,” Rafe offers.

Samira and Malia look at him with surprised eyes, and so does Kendall.

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“It’s 12:30 am.”

“It’s a 5 minute walk.”

Kendall purses her lips. “Fine, can’t argue too hard on safety.” She bids the girls goodbye with a hug each, choosing to ignore the smirks on their lips.

Upon walking out, she turns back to Rafe before they hit the doorway. “You don’t need to say bye to your friends?”

“No,” he says quickly with a bit of a laugh. “They’re busy.”

“Ew.”

He winces. “Not like that,” he opens the door for her as they keep going, how chivalrous. “Kelce’s got this back and forth thing going on and Topper most likely left by now.”

“Hm, so a situationship and a loser.”

He stops walking, down the sidewalk, looking at her with a hint of incredulousness. “You always this mean, Kenny?”

“Kenny is crazy.”

He shrugs. “That’s all I’ve heard you be called tonight.”

“You’re not my best friends.”

“Nicknames have to be unlocked now?”

“Sure they do, Rafey.” He opens his mouth and she beats him to it. “Only your sisters call you that. See what I mean? Now, will you actually walk, please?”

He proceeds forward, and they continue their strides toward her house.

It’s a nice house, it fits the girls that live in it. Small, but not inhabitable. Cozy looking. There are flower beds on the porch, visibly tended to. “Who’s the gardener of the house?”

“Sami,” Kendall answers. “I’m more of a spring flower girl, easier to take care of than the fall and winter. Samira’s got a green thumb though, it’s amazing.”

“I like your friends,” Rafe says cooly, stopping at the last step before the doorway.

“I’m sure you do,” Kendall laughs while turning to face him, “They’re chaotic.”

“They care about you a lot.”

Kendall smiles warmly. “Definitely real friends, I know I’m lucky to have them.”

The porch light that flicked on at the sensing of someone walking up the steps halos her frame, casting a warm light around her hair and the figure of her body. He liked her outfit today, a small top with some well fitting jeans and a pair of boots that looked like they cost something substantial. Her purse was expensive too, Rafe didn’t know much, but he knew the word jacquemus couldn’t be cheap. The boots did something for his height advantage on her, she was maybe only a head and a half taller than her now. But he liked it, but then again, he liked her.

“Thanks for the walk home, Rafey.” She’s a bit coy now, hands in her back pockets, hip cocked slightly. “‘M all safe now, worries are over.”

“Glad to see it,” he says, equally coy. Does he give a hug? Woah, a kiss? He’s a step below her, but still close enough to touch if he wanted to.

“All things aside, I am happy to see you again.”

“Good, I’m pretty sensitive, you know.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I remember. You cried when I bit your shoulder.”

“I did not cry,” He quickly retorts, feeling cheeks blazing. He’d rather not delve into memories of the two of them that night, kinda reserved those for the spank bank only.

Kendall snorts. “Water in your eyes was coming from the sky or what?”

Rafe scoffs, looking away from her playful eyes. His own eyes dart back in front of him when he hears the heels of her boots descending down the staircase one more time, now directly in front of him.

“Look,” Kendall starts, hands still in her back pockets, rocking back on the backs of her heels as much as these Steve Maddens allowed. “I’m not gonna make this weird.”

“Us?”

“Us, me being your TA, it’s chill, you know. Well, can be chill. I want it to be chill. Need it to be.” Her turn for her eyes to look away, brain visibly spiraling.

“Right, it’s chill,” Rafe repeats. “We’re good.”

She gives him a grateful smile, lingering in his direction before clearing her throat. “Awesome. Now, bed.” Kendall’s eyes widen when his eyebrows raise teasingly. “Bed for me,” she clarifies.

She climbs the steps, pulling her keys out the zipper of the purse and lodging them in the door. “Goodnight Rafey.”

He grins, eyes catching their own whispers of sleep in the corners. “Night, Kenny.”

When she closes the door, her mind is a bit blank until she makes it into her room. As she washes the makeup off her face, the night flitters through her mind, ticking at the kind looks Rafe sent her, the boyish grin with the playful eyes. She wouldn’t mind being looked at by him, and walked home a few more times as well. Maybe he’d be let in one day, maybe the whole excursion would be him inside from the beginning.

Rafe tries not to think about it, not letting himself dwell in fear of fixation. But Kendall was going to be firm in his head for a long time, he could feel it. It was in the way she walked, talked, and held her own, something that felt like if he wasn’t on his A Game at all times, he’d be out of her world quickly. But he didn’t want to be gone anytime soon, plus, he had some homework to turn in for her on Monday.

#hope u likeeeeeeeeee!#I had fun with this :)#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe x reader #x black fem reader #x black reader #outer banks imagine #outer banks x reader #oc #x oc #black writer #black reader #rafe cameron x oc

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vintagerpg · 5 months ago

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Back in the ’90s, a big part of the local punk scene in North Jersey that I bounced around in was centered around street punk and oi bands like Headwound, Niblick Henbane and The Wretched Ones. Their music was stripped down, catchy and their lyrics reflected a mix of working-class life, light hooliganism and, in the case of Those Unknown, grassroots leftist politics. One thing that none of them struck me as? Nerdy.

Fast-forward to 2023 when I stumbled across Harvest, by Philly’s Poison Ruin. Self-described peace punks, the album is a leftist working-class manifesto filtered through the aesthetics of medieval peasantry. It gets weirder! The tunes are gruff head-kickers with a strong sense of ’90s-era production, but there are all these clearly dungeonsynth-influenced interludes and, well, come on, look at that cover. Spooky chainmail guy with a sickle, black on yellow — it’s basically a MÖRK BORG zine. Can’t help but notice that flail is real similar to the one in the Gnoll logo, too…

Poison Ruin reminded me how much I liked aggro-infused music, so I went hunting for more. Most of the stuff I dug up hewed to the ’90s standard of slice-of-life working class lyrics and aesthetics, though many have a strong mix of post-punk and new wave influences, a la later-era Blitz, which is also surprising and intriguing. But some bands have decided to explore even stranger trails.

Enemic Interior, out of Barcelona, mixes oi and post-punk, and their album art, by David Soto, clearly evokes the look of old school RPGs — that ghost on II (2022) is very reminiscent of the ghost from the original Monster Manual — and could easily front dungeonsynth albums. Same for Castillo but more so — the sleeve of their self-titled EP (2020) boasts Sutherland’s green dragon and frost giant from the MM, and the Paladin in Hell from the Players Handbook (I can’t place the wizard). And for Pete’s sake, just look at that cover for Lost Legion’s Beyond the Concrete Veil (2024). It’s not explicitly tied to RPGs, but it could totally be an illustration in Realm of Chaos. And in a million years, I’d never have expected to hear oi this catchy and stompy to also be so entangled with science fiction, psychedelia and Aleister Crowley, but here we are. And, mind-blowingly, when I ordered the Mutant Genes 7-inch, Derek Atkinson at the label was already following my Instagram and popped the vinyl in a custom hand-stenciled sleeve featuring the text of the gelatinous cube entry from the Monster Manual. Fuckin’ wild.

Does this mean anything? I dunno! Medieval fantasy, and the notion of the fantasy dungeon in particular, can be a pretty handy visual shorthand for brutality, whether physical or metaphorical. Just look at all those poor adventurers getting eaten by monsters in the original Monster Manual! Does the frost giant and his huge ax on the Castillo sleeve represent the oppressive, exploitative forces of capitalism? Are frost giants with huge axes just cool now? Two things can be true simultaneously. And, regardless of intent, it’s interesting how the aesthetics have shifted in 30 years. Maybe fantasy is having a moment of broad appeal reminiscent of the last golden era in the ’70s.

P.S.: And, yes, true, the Misfits were into nerd shit way before any of this stuff, but I think horror nerd shit has always had more cachet than fantasy nerd shit? Perhaps because it maps more readily to established masculine norms; there was a big gulf in 198X between Danzig watching Plan 9 from Outer Space and Danzig copping to running a weekly D&D game).

#roleplaying game #dungeons & dragons #tabletop rpg #rpg #d&d #ttrpg #Poison Ruin #Lost Legion #Enemic Interior #Castillo #Mutant Genes #Records

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tomionefinds · 7 months ago

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Abandoned but Worth It

What does this mean? We have an Abandoned tag. We've decided to compile a list of fairly popular, now some obscure, fics that are abandoned, but worth reading. Our criteria for this title is thus:

It has not been updated within the last 2 years, has been orphaned, or has been given a fast summary at the end by the author

Presents a unique take on the relationship or a new dynamic to the ship

Advances world-building, or posits its own magical theory, in the HP world

Length (we avoided those with only a few chapters)

Here are some of the fics that met the criteria for abandoned but worth it. We will continue to add to this list as the year goes on. And never say never. Fics left alone for years can suddenly come back and finish.

Authors; If you see your fic on this list and its not abandoned, please DM us.

-TF Team

This Tangle of Thorns by theriskybusinessofwriting

M | 39k Her mother had gotten herself a new lover. His name was Tom. Modern AU. No magic. Slightly inspired by Lolita.

The Orphanage by Xylosaurus

M | 66k

She was only 8 and had already lost her parents and memories all in one tragic night. Forced to live in Wool's Orphanage, Hermione finds friendship with a 9-year-old Tom Riddle but is soon ripped from him by a prophecy. Six years have passed and he still looks for her. AU Tomione

Bodyswitch by Winterblume

T | 50k

Hermione's in hell and all her nightmares have come true. She's turned into a brainless bimbo and is failing all her classes quite spectacularly. Her teachers have, in fact, already given up on her and just sit back and watch her flunk all her NEWTs. Yes, it's nothing but hell for Hermione. On the upside, things can hardly get any worse. Right?

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang by LovelyVillain

E | 300k

Hermione hasn’t seen Tom since he disappeared from Wool’s Orphanage eight years ago, taking her heart with him. But now, he’s returned, a string of bodies at his feet and a league of assassins at his back. British Intelligence Officer Harry Potter leads the investigation to catch a highly skilled killer wreaking havoc across Europe, while Hermione struggles between what is right and the man she loves. Killing Eve inspired AU

More beneath the cut!

Orphea by SallyJAvery

M | 48k

"You could not believe I was more than your echo." A spell to sing the dead to life, when the living are lost. Tomione, post-war, dystopian AU.

The Pendulum of the Mind by AvaJune

M | 118k

Tom's fingers slid across her skin as he pulled up her sleeve, feeling irregular bumps and scarring as he watched in fascination as instead of a dark mark, he steadily revealed rune carvings. His eyes flicked back to hers, watching her reaction to his touch. "I will give you this, witch. You are unbearably intriguing," he murmured. Madness flies in the face of logic, and if there is one thing Hermione Granger cannot abide, it's things that defy logic. There is always something against her, this time the very laws of time and space. There is, however, a truth she now knows about herself; she isn't quite the rule girl she once thought she was. *Hermione - Tom Riddle. AU, Post Battle of Hogwarts*

Ad Infinitum by Speechwriter

T | 77k

As he forges inexorably toward the end of time, he may come to wonder if this is a world worth ruling. Science fantasy. [summary in final chapter]

Nothing Like the Sun by Orphan_account

E | 118k

There’s something unnerving about Tom Riddle. Hermione’s never quite been able to articulate just what it is about him that unsettles her so: after all, Riddle’s popular and charming and adored by Hogwarts staff and students alike. Still, she’d swear that there’s something lurking beneath that warmly polite veneer of his, something that lies in wait like a serpent in the dark. But it’s not until her sixth year at Hogwarts, when she rashly confronts him over an unprecedented act of violence, that the full force of Riddle’s chilling regard is abruptly and wholly turned on her.

Blood is Thicker by AbsintheDreams

M | 75k

A/U: Still Hogwarts Universe, but I play with the timeline alot. Hermione is just twelve when she meets Riddle. Just a child when she witnesses a sadistic murder in the halls of her sacred school. Popular, humble, well mannered, Riddle always gets what he wants. Victims, admirers, enemies, followers…they all fall in line. Except the defiant girl with his mark on her skin. She only wants his downfall, and he will only settle for her total submission.

The Anti-Heroine by cheshire_carroll

M | 641k

Hermione Granger knows she's not a good person. Disillusioned with life at only twelve years old; she is cynical, manipulative, ruthless and, above all else, a survivor. For six years she has lived on the streets of London with only her sharp mind and her sharper knives to keep her alive, but a letter from an owl changes everything for Hermione, and the bond she forms on the Hogwarts Express with a timid boy with broken glasses, skinny wrists and a lightning-shaped scar will change the whole of Wizarding Britain. Main Pairing: Harry Potter/Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle

Handling a Dark Lord Wannabe by cleighc

E | 89k

Hermione was not amused. Not. At. All. They had defeated Lord Voldemort after years of struggle. Witnessed the end. She had thought, with relief and without an ounce of charity, that she never had to deal with that pretentious, presumptuous, melodramatic, homicidal son of a bitch ever again. Apparently the castle had other ideas.

Bitter Almonds by orphan_account

E | 63k

What would happen if the Mauraders, the Golden Trio, and the Knights of Walpurgis all went to school together? Also, what if Tom Riddle developed a strange obsession with Hermione Granger?

Et in Arcadia ego by muggleriddle

T | 55k

When Hermione found that little spell hidden in between the complicated illustrations of a book, she imagined she would get a destroyed horcrux with it, not a brand new Tom Riddle.

Journey of the Soul by Queen_Medieva E | 197k

A decade spent as the Undesirable Number One under the Dark Lord's tyrannical regime would challenge anyone's perception of "right" and "wrong". What lengths would YOU go to for a chance at a new life? In the early morning hours of May 2nd 2008, exactly ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger ceased to exist.

Addendum: He is also a liar by ergott

Not Rated | 158k

Despite his impoverished circumstances, Tom Riddle always knew he was destined for great things. The ability to travel back and forth through time was a bit of a surprise, though. Also a surprise: the bushy-haired little girl he meets in the future who possesses powers to match his own. Eventual Tomione; starts pre-Hogwarts

#tomione #abandoned #possibly abandoned #abandoned but worth it #incomplete #rated ma/e #TF curated list

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fuqnia · 7 months ago

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SP Main Four + butters !College AU Headcanons

[☆] A/N | hii guys! i recently hit 500 likes on tumblr and i'm like so speechless... i never wouldve thought people would be interested in reading my stupid little writing hehe, so tysm! my long fic, most wanted, is coming to a close soon, and I have been working on another longfic that's a fem!reader insert x main 4 boys in college!

[☆] C/W | slight nsfw in kenny's

[☆] check out my relationship college au headcanons for the boys + butters here! it's sfw and nsfw <3

☆ stan marsh

environmental science major

i think he would have like around a 2.5 - 2.9 gpa

uses a laptop to take notes

surprisingly has decent notes

gets on wordle, geo guesser, quordle, WAFFLE, during lectures if he gets bored

struggles with hangovers, yet still goes to classes sometimes

i don't think he truly notices how much he drinks... it kinda just happens ?

doesn't mind college parties, will go if his friends want to

kyle usually has to carry him back to their shared dorm when he does go tho LOL

volunteers at the town's animal shelter !!

sometimes eric and butters tag along

visits home like once a month, mostly to see his mom and dog

crimson dawn is still a thing, and stan is sooo dedicated

matches band tees with kenny sometimes <3

keeps up with his college football team religiously

way too emotional about college sports

joins some intramural sports tho!

butters and wendy would come to his games and cheer him on

definitely has late night talks with kyle about "deep" stuff... and kyle is like

"dude, shut the fuck up and go to bed," and throws a pillow at him

i think he would start a vinyl collection

also has succulents, but he forgets to water them hehe

doesn't really use social media

so he gets kyle to send him songs from tiktok for his workout routine LMFAO

sucks at cooking

best procrastinator around

his drunken rendition of mr. brightside went viral after kenny secretly posted it online

"IT WAS ONLYYY A KISS, IT WAS ONLY A KISSSSSS"

very political

argues with the tik tok interviewers on campus

gets kenny to help him bleach his hair

eric bullys tf out of him for it

☆ kyle broflovski

political science major and on a premed track

4.0 gpa idc this man is a tryhard and fueled on spite

uses an ipad and apple pencil to take notes, uses goodnotes

definitely color codes his notes

i don't think he would actually ask questions in class

but goes to office hours... and that's how professors know his name

obsessed with email etiquette

will actually facetime sharon to show how messy stan's side of the dorm is

will spray stan with a waterbottle to wake him up

"dude... are you serious right now?" "it's 2pm stan."

has a mini ironboard and iron

wears his ushanka on bad hair days

refuses to join study groups

but is butters study buddy

visits home every 2 weeks

and comes back with a ton of leftovers from his mom's cooking

he also mealpreps

whenever his mom calls him, eric takes kyle's phone and starts talking to sheila himself

in bed by 9pm most days

kenny comes knocking on the doors at 9:01 to bug kyle

definitely a coffee snob, and grinds his own beans

has a small box of keepstakes under his bed

also has a small medkit in his dorm, backpack, and gave one to kenny, eric, and butters

jogs every morning before class

terrible at small talk

prolly makes underclassmen cry

sends venmo requests for every shared expense

participates in model un

falls for ragebait online

also chronically online

waters stan's succulents for him

☆ kenny mccormick

physics major with a minor in women's and gender studies

3.5 gpa

milked the fuck out of his home situation to get a full ride scholarship

uses an old fashion notebook to take notes

sometimes comes to class faded

tries not to make it a habit

also smells like cigarettes, but everyone still wants to sit next to him ?

butters offers him alternatives like gum or lollipops

adrenaline junkie

his favorite class he took is water skiing

but also really likes his minor classes!

volunteers at local events, like community cleanup

thrifted flannels

shares them with stan

the most well known on campus out of the four + butters

loves late night drives

knows all the scenic spots around campus

has a bunch of tattoos littered on his body

kyle definitely mothers him, taking care of his scratch and bruises

horrible sleep schedule thanks to eric screaming in their dorm at 2am

makes quick god-like meals

the underclassmen idolize him for some reason ?

diy king

was hired to be the campus mascot

but was fired for bringing pyrotechnics on the football field

do not ask this man his bodycount

decorated his ottoman, to make it look less suspicious

definitely hides his drugs and alcohol in it

locks out eric from their dorm room and puts a sock on the door handle when he's getting sum

☆ eric cartman

business administration major with a minor in psychology

2.0 gpa

does not rlly give a fuck abt his classes

gets caught for cheating/plagiarism but somehow manages to never get expelled ?!

runs for his class student body president position, but his campaign is just memes

always scheming for free food, all the clubs know him

doesn't have anything school related in his backpack

loud as fuck in his dorm

"Dude. You’re at, like, an 11 right now. I need you at a 3." "Uh, excuse me? I’m multitasking. This is called strategy, Kenneth. I’m practicing for when I go pro, unlike you and your stupid—whatever it is you’re doing—'The Patriarchy 101' or some crap."

unironically loves the dining hall food

networks on linkedin for some reason ?

listed kyle as a reference on linkedin to piss him off

tiktok famous

atrocious dorm decor

has a cardboard cutout of andrew tate that he loves

runs the school barstool instagram account

reddit mod on the school's subreddit

every few weeks, stan convinces him to set a fitness goal

always fails...

has convinced the entire dorm there’s a ghost, and charged people $10 for ghost hunting tours

once organized a charity on campus to help pregnant students, but pocketed all the money

also ropped butters into it somehow

stole one of stan's succulents

believes he's a karaoke god

records the main four + butters at parties

spends at least an hour in the dorm's bathroom, causing kyle to geek tf out

works as a guide tour for the school, so he could spread misinformation to the tour groups

☆ leopold 'butters' stotch

either an education, psychology, or business major... i can't decide

3.8 gpa

active in the student government

sometimes reviews eric's cheating cases... way too lenient

accidentally started a cult on campus

started as a wholesome self help club

his advice was so endearing people started treating him like a guru

kenny thinks this is hilarious... kyle tried to stage an intervention but failed

becomes an RA

takes it way too seriously, best informative bulletin boards and door decorations

gets really sad whenever no one shows up to game night

so the main four and craig's gang show up out of pity

sometimes the girls come too!

did study aboard for a semester

returned with an inflated sense of cultural superiority

eric mocks the fuck out of him for it LOL

says howdy! to everyone every morning

academic overachiever

too polite to call out slackers in group projects so he just does most of the work

studies at the campus library at a specific spot next to a window

chews grape flavored gum while studying

started cleaning up trash at parties

color coded planner with stickers and motivational quotes

best hugs... stan is like the only person who hugs him back

sneaks into the football stadium at night to just stand on the grass

goes out for every holiday

plans secret santa for his dorm, makes cookies for finals, decorates his dorm room

his dorm door is always open!

☆ Group Dyanmics

always does group costumes for halloween

teletubbies one year, fnaf the next

bad movie nights everyweek

annual camping trips

kyle cries about the lack of phone signal

stan always forgets something important, like his tent or sleeping bag

kenny loves telling scary stories, especially to freak out butters

cartman only packs junk food

butters always burns his smores

every year when the snow falls, the go out in the quad to have a snowball fight and random people join in

kenny somehow manages to get the group to join him for his midnight drives

every semester they crash the weekly campus trivia at least once

can you guess who my favorite is tehehe...

#south park x reader #south park x y/n #sp headcanons #south park headcanons #south park college au #eric cartman #kenny mccormick #stan marsh #kyle broflovski #butters stotch #sp

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theeggoman · 23 days ago

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Things I did on my date today that might explain why I am still single:

-Was HALF AN HOUR LATE because I got distracted by my guinea pigs napping (I thought they were dead) and then couldn't find one of my boots (it was in the bathtub?)

-Called him "Bro" and "Dude" (he has been calling me sweetheart and honey in our messages)

-Went on a rant about the history of Asian American fusion food being a triumph of immigrant cultural preservation and how it is only looked down on in favor of "authentic" asian food due to classism and racial purity eugenics (In response to him saying he loves authentic asian food.)

-Used about 15 napkins and had to keep asking for more

-Complained about the outrageous prices in piercing studios in our city and compared it to the popularization of alternative fashion being commodified, watered down, and repackaged to be sold as an aesthetic rather than a subculture built on political dissent and freedom for marginalized communities (He said he liked my earrings.)

-Said "We're all faggots in the eyes of the state."

-Talked about studying abroad in Singapore for 20 minutes

-Talked about my trip to Japan for 20 minutes

-Said that the bible was the best science fiction period piece I've ever read

-Admitted to reading the bible

-Made a joke about Ford Pines aborting Bill Cipher's baby (He does not watch Gravity Falls)

-Compared the male cast of Love Island to the Lollypop Guild

-Gave him the entire history of Ariana Grande cheating on her husband with Spongebob's broadway actor

-Made a joke about Ariana Grande cosplaying different races

-Made a joke about Ariana Grande cosplaying a lesbian so people would stop being mad at her for sleeping with Spongebob when his wife was 6 weeks postpartum

-Explained how celebrity culture is American propoganda to keep the working class distracted from the 1% crowning themselves as modern aristocracy

-Made a joke about Stanley Pines tricking Bill Cipher into getting him pregnant by pretending to be Ford (He does not watch Gravity Falls)

-Ate a strawberry ice cream in silence bc I was the only one to order desert

-Kept making eye contact with my roommate who came with me and sat at a different table bc they wanted hot pot too (and I can't drive)

-Didn't tell him that I can't drive

-Went on a rant about the post 9/11 propoganda that targeted middle american blue collar workers (because we all know the rich start wars, they don't fight in them) through the historically progressive, anti war, class solidarity genre that is Country Music, and turned it into a pop-country racist machine that sucked the dick of the American government and cosplayed the working class while the fake country musicians performing the songs written for them to continue the war effort got mega wealthy and profited off of the idea of hard work while having never been farmers, never been cowboys, never worked the once public land they bought up in spades, and never got dirt on their perfect white stetsons. (This was in response to him saying he didn't like country music.)

-Compared Monsters vs. Aliens to the bible

-Tried to kiss him on the cheek but missed and hit his EAR

Long story short he asked me on a second date bc my ass is fat as fuck.

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coochiequeens · 4 months ago

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Unlike Maine’s female governor and 52-percent-female Democrat legislative contingent, all of whom benefited from Title IX recognizing and protecting them as women, they would have Maine girls be second-class citizens — forced to compete with males in sports, lose rights, and suffer injuries." - Robert Charles

There it is. A man, who is a father with a daughter, is calling out the women who benefited from Title IX throughout their education and now want to remove it from today's girls to toe the party line.

By Robert "Bobby" Charles March 9, 2025

Democrat-controlled states, from Maine to California, are becoming more extreme, not less. For the most part, they have learned nothing. From Title IX to higher taxes, they hurt their people. This just has to stop. Title IX provides an excellent example of Democratic extremism. On June 23, 1972, President Nixon signed Title IX, a civil rights law opening educational, sports, scholarship, and wider opportunities to girls and women. Why it took so long is another story, but suffice it to say, it was overdue. Prior to Title IX, discrimination against girls and women in education and elsewhere was defended on biology. It was rampant. Girls and women were disallowed from classes, majors, sports, learning, and hiring, forced to take certain classes and perform tasks not asked of boys. The notion that females might equal—or exceed—males in math, science, engineering, reading, writing, linguistics, law, or medicine was radical. Giving them a fair chance to try was, too. Over the next 50 years, Title IX protected biological girls and women, for the very reason that they are biologically different. Genetically, in bone, joint, muscle, respiratory structure, and dozens of other verifiable, unchangeable ways, from pre-birth to death, women are different. Just writing those words, realizing there is a need to write them, seems utterly silly. But that is the state of our political dialogue, the low bar or ridiculous nature of this debate, set by Democrats.

The main point remains: Biological girls and women — the only kind there are — deserve “equal protection,” benefits, opportunities, dignity, privacy, safety, and chances to realize their life dreams. They deserve — in society’s educational, employment, athletic, and other venues — the chance not to be intimidated, threatened, hurt, or overrun by males, dishonored, displaced, or pushed to sacrifice their God-given identity, dignity, privacy, safety, or opportunities by misapplied laws. Politics, pride, prejudice, and left-wing ideology will never redefine humanity, despite the Marxist hope to do so. They cannot redefine what is undefinable, like math, physics, chemistry, biology, the universe, and nature. They cannot redefine timeless constitutional principles or natural law.

So, where does that leave us? In places like Maine, it leaves the Democrat-controlled legislature, female governor, secretary of state, and attorney general looking silly, denying facts and law.

With girls and women succeeding under Title IX, experiencing equal treatment, accommodation, admissions, scholarships, and participation in education, from elementary to graduate schools, they are turning back the clock and disadvantaging biological women.

This crazy specter — in Maine and other states pushing ideological extremism, determined to “resist” President Trump — is a bad comedy, fast becoming a tragedy. It will end poorly, as bad policy always does. Trying to reverse Title IX’s protections is like trying to disown the Constitution.

Beyond a sweeping electoral reaction in 2026, what else might happen? Failing one-party states, like Maine under Democrat misrule, are hurting their people badly, measurably. It may get worse.

It is really, even in political terms, rather incredible. Missing is hard-won equal treatment, appreciation for biological uniqueness. Lost is the chance to shine, participate without fear of injury or injustice, scholarships, life-changing recognition, and privacy in bathrooms and locker rooms.

The brazen way this is done by Maine’s arrogant Democrat leaders is breathtaking and stirs anger. It should. As the father of a girl, Title IX and our Constitution must be honored, not lawlessly denied. Even far left California’s Governor Gavin Newsom has finally succumbed to logic and called biological males competing in female sports “deeply unfair.”

The final act, unless Maine Democrats find humility, will again slam Mainers. The Department of Justice will lawfully withhold education funds, conditioned on a governor violating established law. The same would be true, by the way, under any president and for any governor who knowingly violated civil rights. Here, the prejudice is not against a race, but against girls and women.

Bottom line: Maine Democrats — and others nationwide — need to pause, think, look at facts, and abide by the law. Otherwise, Maine families will be financially hammered. Democrats seem to care more about ideology than people. In truth, nutrition, special education, and other programs will continue — but with higher taxes. In places like Maine, already transparently mismanaged, facing a $450 million deficit, then new taxes for $120 million in Democrat overspending, taxpayers may face another $360 million in state taxes. All this was avoidable. Budgets and taxes must be cut, and girls protected. Does it get any simpler?

Robert Charles is a former Assistant Secretary of State under Colin Powell, former Reagan and Bush 41 White House staffer, attorney, and naval intelligence officer (USNR). He wrote “Narcotics and Terrorism” (2003), “Eagles and Evergreens” (2018), and is National Spokesman for the Association of Mature American Citizens (AMAC).

#usa #Maine #Title IX #Democrats who benefited from Title IX are trying to undermine it for today's girls

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france-the-third · 5 months ago

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Guys if I disappear in like... May, this fucking thing will be why

That monstrosity is a list of all the tests I have to pass to get the baccalaureate, and I need that to ... basically to get pretty much any job I'd like to do

I had to create that thing myself, using multiple government website pages about the bac(calaureat, we're lazy) because comprehensible information is apparently not a thing

close-ups/explanations under the cut

blue= explanation of an abbreviation

green= explanation of an abbreviation but it's a list that you don't need to read to understand this

italics= word(s) in french

note: i haven't reread this super carefully, so if I say oral on its own, i do mean oral exam, in french we just say un oral so my brain may forget the word exam lol

BFI: Baccalauréat Français International, basically I have 8 hours of English a week instead of the normal 3 (although with LLCE and/or AMC you get 9 or 15 hours but i'll get to that in a minute) and I have a bilingual level of English [technically I already had that but most of my friends didn't]

Coef(ficient) [x]: ...ok so i have no idea how this works really but it's basically how much is this grade worth. If you get 19/20 coefficient 1 then you got 19/20. If you get it coef 2, I think that means you got 38/40 etc. So coef 20 is huge.

DBQ: Document Based Question

Durée: length of time, how long does this test take

ACL: Anglais C? Litérature, literature basically (shakespeare and gothic make sense, O'Brien is the name of my teacher and hopefully it's a common enough name that it doesn't matter that I just realized his name's still on here oops; he's my poetry and drama?? teacher but since we don't really know what to call his class, we just call it by his name. He teaches about poetry yes but also we're also studying Beckett's Happy Days which is a play, not poetry)

CDM: Connaissances du "Monde", lit. Knowledge of the (British) World, we have to do some research projects which we will present in an oral at the end of the year

There's about 50 kids in my school who will have to do all that this year, about 50 who will have to do that next year, etc.

There's about 1500 students in my school, there's 3 years so only about 500 students passing the bac at my school this year, and only 10% of us have to do this many exams.

The international section doesn't really exist in other schools however, so there's a really small percentage of french kids total who have to do all this.

All that stuff is admittedly my "fault" for choosing to do the international section.

Everything else is mandatory(-ish)

Tronc commun: Everyone has to do this

(notice how the coefficients are at like 8, not frickin 20)

Philosophy: we have to either write for 4 hours about a single sentence they'll give us as a subject (and it can be about practically anything) (that's a "dissertation", or 'dissert' because we have really long names for stuff but then we don't bother saying the full name) OR write a "explanation of the text" which i have no idea how that works bc my teacher's a bit incompetent

N/A: Not applicable, that's for the time the exam takes, we get tested in class so there's not really a set time for stuff

(I know that's ridiculously small sorry)

Ok so now we're getting to the fun little french thing that no one who's not french ever seems to know

In 11th grade (1ère) we have to choose 3 areas to specialize in out of the following (can vary slightly based on schools):

HGGSP: Histoire-géographie, géopolitique et sciences politiques, aka political science and social studies

HLP: Humanités, littérature et philosophie, aka humanities, literature and philosophy (oo it's almost the same words in both languages)

LLCE: Langues, littératures et cultures étrangères, aka English (lit. languages, literatures and foreign cultures but it's really just English class)

AMC: Anglais monde contemporain, aka English again (lit. English contemporary world and again it's just English class)

Mathématiques - transparent

Physique-chimie: Physics and chemistry. No those aren't the same, but yes I only figured that out bc someone explained that to me, bc those two are always taught in the same classroom and with the same teacher for some reason

SVT: Sciences de la vie et de la Terre, aka "Sciences of life and the earth" (you know, bc that's specific), aka Biology + Geology

SES: Sciences économiques et sociales, aka economics and social sciences

NSI: Numériques et sciences informatiques, aka computer science

Arts (arts plastiques, cinéma-audiovisuel, histoire des arts): The list I found with all the names of these spécialités (bc they're only ever referred to by their acronyms) has art be split up like that [technically there were more but i cut them lol] which is weird bc I've never seen art history be separated from actually-making-art (arts plastiques-- Why are they plastic I have no idea) and I didn't think cinema had art history

In 11th as I said you choose 3, and you have 4 hours of each per week.

In 12th grade (terminale), you drop one of the 3 subjects you chose so that you can concentrate more on the other two, with 6 hours of each per week.

The most common combination is math, physics, biology and then one of them gets dropped.

This is just a zoom on the two I kept, I had computer science as my third spé last year.

This combination is extremely uncommon, I only know 1 other person who did those 3 subjects lol.

SVT (biology/geology): Ecrit: I have to write stuff; I wrote either or but it turns out it's both, anyways I have to do a DBQ (see above) and answer a question based on knowledge. TP aka Travaux pratiques: uhhh idk how to explain this other than actually doing science instead of just talking about it.

Art: Ecrit: Analyse du corpus d'oeuvres: we have to analyze a collection of works of art based on a question we're given, and then we can do either a note d'intention pour un projet d'exposition, lit. a note of intentions for an exhibition project; basically we have to take one (or two) of the works of art we saw in the first part and say how we'd put it in a museum. or we do the analyse de corpus + a commentaire critique, where you have to answer a question, for example on a mock we had a question about whether or not AI counts as art; and we had a text and a new work of art An oral is the same word in both; a lot of subjects don't have orals (svt for example) and basically we have to talk about the project we worked on for the whole year. I think. Pratique: actually getting to work on creating something. I'm doing an animation, my friends are doing a frieze that's themed on marine life, something to do with leaves, a crochet project that's also marine life themed, something space themed?, and a mini forest in a suitcase. Some of our classmates are doing sculptures (there's a sculpture of a female bust with holes in it and handprints all over it), someone is - i think - making a musical instrument from scratch, someone else does a lot of paintings that are humongous with lots of bold colors... This is the best part about art as a subject because you get to choose what you do.

Next up, another thing that all french people know and no one outside of france knows; contrôle continu

That is basically classes where we don't have a big test at the end of the year, which is nice, but we still have tests and at the end of the year the average of all of the tests done in these subjects counts as a percentage of the grade you get for the bac.

Maths comp(lémentaires -- we love shortening words lol) aka complementary math?: you can choose to abandon math as a spécialité but still keep some math classes in 12th. There's also something called maths expertes, lit. expert math, which is the same thing but with harder classes; but given that i only know one person who does that, i completely forgot to include it here lol

Both math classes here are optional, everything else till LV3 is mandatory.

Coef 3 en 1ère, 3 en terminale: the averages of both 12th grade and 11th grade are counted

Histoire-géo(graphy): social studies (lit. history and geography)

Enseignement scientifique: so. this thing. Despite the fact that you can take biology and physics as spé, everyone has to do this "scientific education" where the kids who took biology are bored in biology classes, the kids who took physics are bored in physics classes, the kids who took both waste two hours per week listening to stuff they already know, and the people who took neither physics nor biology are also usually pretty bored because even if there's one or two students who are interested by science but were more tempted by other things, most of them didn't take science as spés because they don't like science.

It's a great system /s.

In fairness, we are doing more or less useful things; in biology we're talking about evolution and we mentioned how - especially in France - antibiotics are being used too much and so are becoming less effective. For the people who don't do science, I suppose that's important to know, for me at least the effect was ruined by the fact that I had done that in spés like a week earlier.

In physics, we've been working on energy consumption and kind of how it works, but there's too much math in physics for me to be super interested lol.

LV2 aka Langue vivante 2, aka "living language 2": As I'm writing this I just realized that I forgot to include the LV1 in this pdf lol.

In 7th grade (or 6th if you're an overambitious nerd like me), you have to choose a "second" language, that you'll keep till at least 12th grade, and then afterwards idk how it works. The first language is English by default, you *can* make english your 2nd language but that's complex and Idk enough about how that works. French is taught from 1rst to 11th but doesn't count as a living language for some reason.

Most schools offer Spanish and another language, my middle school had Spanish + German, a friend of mine does Chinese as a 2nd language and there's probably other options depending on the school. Oddly enough, despite the fact that Belgium is at the closest about 20 minutes away from my house by car and the Netherlands are at the closest 1h30 away, Dutch is not a commonly taught language I think. Spain is at the closest about 10 hours away by car, and yet it's far more taught.

(The reason I forgot the LV1 is that in the international section, we automatically get the highest grade possible, 20/20, bc they're grading us based on British standards so they're basically saying that we speak English)

EMC, Education Morale et Civique: I'm going to be honest and say that I have no idea what this class is for or how to translate it lol, desoite having had this since 6th grade. Literally the words mean civic and moral education and if that sounds like propaganda, well, it sort of is. We've had many classes on how to be a good citizen, and how democracy works I think, but we've also had classes on other completely unrelated stuff.

Most of the grades in EMC are group presentations, and so I could not tell you about a single thing I got graded on lol

Spé abandonnée en 1ère: lit. spé abandoned in 11th. Yes we use the word abandoned for this lol, other than that I think I covered it earlier

LV3: So following the logic from LV1/LV2, I think you can guess what this is. This is a third, optional language you can take, most people don't bother because we already have too many classes.

I however am not most people lol, but I'll be adding my friend as an example here because the language I chose could be confusing given what I said earlier about LV2s. Antony [not their real name] is in the international section so has English as the default LV1, they took German as an LV2 and they took Japanese as their LV3. Based off of this logic, I have the same thing except I have Spanish as my LV3 and not Japanese. (I'm not sure how clear this would be on it's own because as I said most schools offer Spanish as an LV2 and most people choose that as their LV2. Since I did German as my LV2, I only started taking Spanish classes in 10th grade)

My school, being an international school, offers an extremely large range of third language possibilities: As I've mentioned, there's Japanese and Spanish, but also Italian, Chinese, Portugese, Polish, maybe German, possibly Dutch and possibly/probably others but I don't know for sure. (I just checked and they don't actually offer German as a 3rd language, but they do offer Dutch, and that's it. "Only" 7 languages, I kinda thought there were more [i think most schools have like one or two. A quick google search for the other school I could have gone to tells me that that school offers Spanish and Arabic as 3rd languages and that's it])

Oh and there's often Latin or Ancient Greek offered at the same time as the LV3 I think, but as they're dead languages they don't count as langues vivantes lol

And we reach the end, with these two.

Français (1ère): As 12th graders, we've already done this part of the bac, last year. The French exam used to be the same year as all the rest but if you've read this far, I think you see the problem with that lol

The grade counts as a percentage of the total bac

And last and certainly worst; the Grand Oral: Lit. the big oral, we have absolutely no preparations for this at school and need to research stuff on our own, in our "free time", whatever that is /j. (... well actually /hj)

I've had 1 teacher talk to me about this, it was my biology teacher, and so depending on the teachers you have for spés, I wouldn't be surprised if some of my classmates hadn't been told the specifics of this sucker at all.

What we have to do is prepare not 1 but 2 possible questions, either 1 per spécialité or a mix between the two subjects (there may be other possibilities but as I said almost no one has told anything about this so this is based off of my recollections of what my biology teacher said and what i found on two government websites.). The reason you prepare two subjects is so that the examinators can choose which one they want you to talk about. Twice the work, twice the stress, for a 20 minute thing.

You have to present your topic for about 10-15 minutes iirc, and then answer some questions.

In biology, my teacher gave us a few vague topics we could use as starting points for our grand oraux (yes the plural of 'oral' is 'oraux', the french language is weird), and basically it's a whole ass reasearch project that we don't get any dedicated hours to in our schedule, that no one has told us about/reminded us of and we have to do that on top of everything else here.

In case my tone isn't clear, I find this ridiculously stupid. I don't like oral exams in the first place, but usually when we have to do some in subjects such as EMC, they don't give us any other work to do while we research our oral, at least in that subject. Another reason I really dislike this is because of CDM (see the first pic, about the international section exams).

CdM is 2 hours a week where we do some research for our research projects. Again, we have 2 hours every single week, with a teacher present, to do nothing but research (and send emails to potential research partners technically), for an exam at the end of the year. This is an international section thing, so the research is in English.

There was the option of adding 2 hours a week for a very small percentage of people to learn how to research in English, and despite the fact that most people would complain if they had more hours of school, the 2 hours a week of research are genuinely useful. I've gotten a lot done since September, and I'm pretty confident about the oral.

For the grand oral, I need to come up with 2 subjects by the end of vacation (we have a 2 week break starting today because it's France and also my class at least already has terrible mental health, if we had to keep this schedule up every single week till May we'd be reduced to like 5 students per class because everyone would be having breakdowns or burnout [Antony is technically not slowing their schedule down over this break (or really any of the other breaks we had), but they're insane /aff /hj. more on that in the tags lol]) not because the school finally realized they should probably remind us of this, but because my biology teacher's a very competant and organized woman who wants to know our subjects so she can help us. (I've had teachers I've liked more or where I've been more interested in their class, but man do I love her for this, other than 2 of my international teachers, she feels like the only competant adult in this school)

#no tags leave me alone #in better news my aunt got me one of paul castle's pengrooms and it is ADORABLE I LOVE IT #french education system #international baccalaureate #baccalauréat #right so as I promised: Antony #Antony is doing and has been doing a “prépa médecine” which means that they're taking extra classes outside of school - I think only during #vacation but I wouldn't put it past them to work on that during the school period- to prepare them to med school. I already dunno how med #school works here so I can't compare to other systems but it sounds hard as fuck to even just GET IN to med school and- knowing them they'l #do amazingly-but the amount of extra work they have to put in just to be able to try to do the first year of med school is absolutely insan #Anyways they're doing that the first week of vacation and then the second week + the first week after they're in Japan on a school trip #That sounds fun but they'll come back having to deal with jetlag + catching up on an entire week's worth of classes #if you read all this for some reason then say good luck to antony lol #i am NOT rereading all that so if anything's incomprehensible feel free to ask for a clarification but i'll answer later bc it is 2am oops #i am going to bed now lol

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