#he studied literature and language i think

[angry-jelly-fish]

Dazai-sensei idea took my mind over and I can't stop thinking about how gorgeous is he

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ lolita ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ professor!cho sang-woo x student!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ you had never intended for everything to end up so terribly wrong.

˚ ༘♡ waking up in a stranger’s bed, tangled in a heap of disheveled silken sheets, the faint scent of unfamiliar cologne clinging to the room, you tried to piece together the night before. your best friend and roommate had dragged you out to a bar, insisting it was the perfect way to unwind before the chaos of the winter semester began. the memory was hazy at best, a blur of dim lights, laughter, and the taste of something sweet and burning on your tongue. but the details of the previous night? they evaded you, leaving behind a hollow, uneasy feeling at the hands of your recklessness.

˚ ༘♡ your body ached as you sat up, the strap of your ivory undershirt slipping off your shoulder, and your long hair falling in untamed waves around your face. you rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess. as your vision cleared, you noticed him, an older man standing at his dresser, his actions brisk and precise. his broad shoulders were hunched slightly as he buttoned a crisp, ironed shirt, the glint of square-rimmed glasses catching the morning light. he didn’t look at you immediately, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable.

˚ ༘♡ when he finally turned, his face bore an expression of thinly veiled frustration, a deep sigh escaping him as his eyes met yours.

˚ ༘♡ “good morning, sir,” you murmured, your voice raspy from sleep and the dryness in your throat. you adjusted your strap absentmindedly and glanced around the room, unfamiliar and impersonal. “do you know where i left my phone?”

˚ ༘♡ he moved quickly, striding over to the nightstand and retrieving your phone without a word. his hand was steady as he held it out to you, but there was something about the set of his jaw that made you feel as though your presence was an inconvenience.

˚ ༘♡ “here,” he said curtly, his voice composed yet devoid of warmth. “i’ll cover your taxi fare and give you some cash for breakfast.” he reached into his wallet, pulling out a few bills. “i have to leave for work soon, so i think it’d be best if you were on your way.”

˚ ༘♡ his words, though polite enough, carried a clear sense of urgency, as if he was eager to put the events of the night behind him. you nodded slowly, clutching your phone to your chest as you tried to suppress the creeping embarrassment crawling up your spine.

˚ ༘♡ “of course,” you said softly, your voice quiet as the creeping shame settled in your chest. you climbed out of his bed with hurried, clumsy footsteps, pulling on your clothes and avoiding his gaze entirely. as you fumbled to straighten yourself out, you pulled out your phone to text your friend, your thumbs shaky as you tried to gather some explanation, anything that could shed light on how the night had unraveled so disastrously.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t linger. without another glance at him or a word of goodbye, you left the room as quickly and quietly as you could. outside, the morning chill bit at your skin, but you ignored it, clutching the crisp bills he had handed you. with his money, you flagged a taxi and gave the driver directions back to your dormitory, sinking into the backseat with your mind clouded by shame and confusion.

˚ ༘♡ the ride felt endless, each turn of the wheel dragging you farther away from the faceless stranger’s home and closer to the reality you’d have to face. you were a foreign exchange student at seoul national university, studying korean language and literature. this was your second semester, and you’d come to south korea brimming with excitement about immersing yourself in its culture and language. yet here you were, starting this term with a hangover, an unfamiliar bed behind you, and a hazy recollection of the previous night.

˚ ༘♡ back in the dormitory, you dressed unhurriedly, slipping into a pale linen dress and fastening the delicate buckles of your black mary-janes. as you tried to piece together fragments of memory, your phone buzzed with a message from your friend, who had left for an early morning study session. she was quick to explain, filling in gaps you could barely grasp.

˚ ༘♡ “while i was chatting with some guy, you ended up talking to his friend,” her text read. “he was quieter, kind of cold, but professional-looking. anyway, i guess neither of you can handle your liquor because the two of you got drunk way too fast. you left before i could even say anything.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned at the screen, your lips pressing into a tight line as you typed out a vague response. when she asked you for details about the man, you shrugged it off, offering a clipped and noncommittal reply.

˚ ༘♡ later, as the two of you walked across campus toward the business administration building for your first class, she brought it up again. “whatever,” she said with a casual wave of her hand. “he was handsome though, right? i remember that much. very professional-looking.”

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated before nodding. “he was,” you admitted, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “but he didn’t seem too thrilled when i woke up. he looked… mortified.” you handed her a steaming hot latte you had picked up earlier, using the last of the money the man had given you for breakfast.

˚ ༘♡ “maybe he was married,” you continued, taking a sip of your own coffee. “or had a girlfriend. i don’t know. he probably just didn’t want anyone to know i was there.”

˚ ༘♡ she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “oh, forget it. at least you loosened up for once. you’re always so tense, so involved in your studies and so pious. it’s good to see you let go a little.”

˚ ༘♡ her words made you feel exposed, but you chose not to respond, instead focusing on the path ahead. as you neared the classroom for your financial accounting course, a class you dreaded but had to take to fulfill your arithmetic requirement, you pulled out your schedule for confirmation.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach sank at the sight of the name, professor cho sang-woo. he was notorious on campus, a man whose strictness in academics was matched only by his sharp critiques and grueling expectations. while you’d never met him personally, you’d heard enough horror stories to know that he had been your last choice for this class, but the other professor’s class had reached maximum occupancy, and so you were left with no other option.

˚ ༘♡ grimacing, you folded the schedule back into your leather bag, bracing yourself for what you already suspected would be an exhausting semester.

˚ ༘♡ your friend peeked through the narrow glass pane of the classroom door, her eyes widening as she turned back to you, her usual delighted expression replaced by sheer disbelief. her lips parted, but for a second, no sound came out. after a nerve-wracking minute, she managed to whisper, “oh my gosh.”

˚ ༘♡ “what?” you asked, your voice tinged with concern.

˚ ༘♡ she glanced back at the classroom and then at you, her voice dropping further as she leaned closer. “the professor… professor cho,” she stammered, her words stumbling over one another as if she couldn’t believe them herself. “he’s the guy. the guy you left the bar with last night.”

˚ ༘♡ you went still, staring at her in stunned silence. the idea seemed absurd, impossible even. “you’re joking,” you said, though the disbelief in your voice betrayed you.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m not.” her tone was insistent, her wide eyes locked onto yours.

˚ ༘♡ despite yourself, you leaned forward, inching toward the door. your heart pounded as you peered through the window, your eyes scanning the front of the lecture hall. and there he was. the same man you had woken up next to that morning, now seated at his desk, meticulously organizing his papers. his suit jacket was perfectly pressed, his square-rimmed spectacles, perched on the bridge of his nose as he prepared for the lecture.

˚ ༘♡ you stepped back quickly, your breath catching in your throat. “i don’t…” you started, struggling to form a coherent sentence. “i don’t know what to do. but we need this class. it’s a requirement, and… he probably doesn’t even remember me.”

˚ ༘♡ your friend didn’t look convinced, her lips pressing into a thin line as she studied you. but with a reluctant expression, she followed you inside.

˚ ༘♡ the lecture hall was magnificent and grand, rows of seats sloping down toward the front where professor cho stood at the podium. the two of you slipped into seats near the middle, hoping to blend into the hoarde of students. you tried to subdue your racing thoughts, convincing yourself that his focus would be on the lecture and not on you.

˚ ༘♡ as class began, he launched into the syllabus, his tone formal and precise. his expectations were, as you had feared, exacting to the following, no late work, no make-up exams, attendance mandatory without exception, or be at risk of failing. his voice was even, without much emotion, as though he were discussing a business transaction rather than a college course.

˚ ༘♡ for a while, you thought you’d gotten away with it. the size of the class worked in your favor, and he seemed too absorbed in his material to notice you. but then, his dark gaze drifted across the room, and his eyes landed on you.

˚ ༘♡ the shift in his expression was brief, so short-lived you almost doubted you’d seen it. but it was there. a faint, vanishing gleam of recognition, chased quickly by something else, disbelief, maybe even alarm. his composure returned almost instantly, and he turned his attention back to his notes, continuing as if nothing had happened.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach churned. he remembered. of course he recalled what had occurred hours earlier. but what now? you sat in misery, your pen resting limply in your hand as his voice droned on. beside you, your friend cast you a worried glance, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes. all you could do was sit there, heart pounding, pretending everything was fine when, deep down, you knew this semester had just become far more troublesome than you ever anticipated.

˚ ༘♡ when the class finally ended, most students filed out of the lecture hall, their chatter filling the air as they moved toward the exits. you had hoped to quietly follow, blending into the crowd, but just as you reached for your bag, professor cho’s voice cut through the noise, strained and undeniable. he called your name.

˚ ༘♡ your heart sank. there was no way to avoid this.

˚ ༘♡ your friend halted as she began to step away, casting you a worried glance over her shoulder. “i’ll wait for you outside,” she whispered, her voice filled with concern.

˚ ༘♡ with a slow, unwilling nod, you made your way down the steep steps toward the front of the room, each movement careful as you fought to keep your expression neutral. “professor cho,” you greeted dryly, your voice alludingt the sliver of the apprehension brewing inside you.

˚ ༘♡ he stood behind his desk, removing his glasses and placing them carefully atop a stack of papers. his face was as impassive as ever, but there was something in the way he cleared his throat that hinted at his discomfort.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m sure you understand how inappropriate this situation is,” he began, his tone clipped and formal. “given what… transpired between us, it is entirely unprofessional for you to remain in my course. neither of us could have predicted this arrangement, but the fact remains, it’s unacceptable. you need to speak with your counselor and drop this class.”

˚ ༘♡ his words hit you like a shock, and your mouth fell open slightly. “but you’re the only professor with openings for this course!” you protested, the panic in your voice rising despite your attempt to remain calm.

˚ ༘♡ he ran a hand through his neatly combed dark hair, his frustration evident in the rigidness of his motions. “i understand that, but i’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the next semester. it’s the only solution.”

˚ ༘♡ your frustration boiled over, and you shook your head, refusing to back down. “if i wait, i won’t graduate on time. how is this fair? we’re both equally responsible for what happened, so why should i be the one to pay the price?”

˚ ༘♡ his expression softened slightly, though his tone remained steady. “what do you want me to say?” he asked, almost resigned. “it’s unprofessional, plain and simple. no matter how we look at it, this arrangement isn’t appropriate.”

˚ ༘♡ you squared your shoulders, your voice sharpening with indignation. “you must have known something was wrong, or else why did you look so terrifed when you saw me wake up this morning?”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw clenched, and he rubbed his temple as if the thought of that realization pained him. “because i realized i’m twice your age,” he snapped, his voice filled with exasperation. “and now i find out you’re my student on top of that. don’t you see how disturbing this is? you must drop the course, or else my esteemed standing at this university is threatened.”

˚ ༘♡ crossing your arms, you stood your ground. “i’m not going to ruin my academic career just to make you feel better about your choices, professor,” you said firmly. “i’m staying in this class. i don’t expect any special treatment, and i’m willing to forget everything that happened. we can both move on, like adults.”

˚ ༘♡ he stared at you for a long moment, his expression obscure. the silence between you was nearly unbearable, but you refused to concede. finally, he exhaled sharply, relenting. “if you’re comfortable with that arrangement, then… very well.”

˚ ༘♡ a small smile tugged at the corners of your rosy lips, and you nodded. “thank you, professor. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

˚ ༘♡ he gave a slight nod, his gaze dropping to the papers on his desk as you turned to leave. your steps quickened as you exited the lecture hall, your mind racing with everything that had just unfolded.

˚ ༘♡ outside the classroom doors, your friend was waiting, her expression filled with a mix of interest and impatience. “well? what happened?” she asked, falling into step beside you as the two of you walked down the hallway.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, glancing back over your shoulder before turning forward again. “i’ll tell you later,” you said, though your mind was still reeling. no matter how much you tried to convince yourself it was behind you, you knew this was only the beginning of something complicated.

a/n: let me know your thoughts or if you have anymore requests! 🤍

[holybibly]

𝔗𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔭𝔢𝔱 | Mingi x reader

Pairing: Professor Mingi x cam girl | student reader Summary: You hated Professor Song Mingi wholeheartedly. He was young, successful, too handsome to benefit himself, and сonfident as the devil himself. The living embodiment of all your red flags - 10 out of 10 on the "rich, narcissist, idiot" list. At the same time, Song Mingi was the sexiest, most gorgeous man you'd ever seen. But what will you do when Professor Song discovers your dirty little secret? And that he might be too interested in giving you a private lesson in good manners? Genre / Au / Trope : Smut, University!AU, Sex Work!AU, Non-idol!AU, sugar daddy, student х teacher, forbidden relationships, cam girl. Rating: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI Word count: 10.3 k Warnings: Unprotected sex, stomach bulge, fingering, degrading, pet names, size kink, face fucking, dirty talk, explicit sexual content, explicit language, squirting, pussy slapping, oral, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, сreampie, rough sex, masturbation, humiliation, blow jobs, rough oral, power play, spanking, orgasm delay, sex toys (dildo, sex machine), sex work and more. net: @cultofdionysusnet A|N: This ff has been in my drafts for a very long time and was supposed to be a really sweet "gift" for my bunnies. But for various reasons, it didn't turn out the way I had planned, and I'm personally not entirely happy with what I've written. But I tried too hard, so I'm posting it. I hope that the bunnies will be pleased with the amount of debauchery and lust that I am about to offer you.

Bunnies, Professor Song is waiting for you in the lecture hall.

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 @tiny-apocalypse @captain-joongz @alicedawitchbish @woohwababes @wlv-asteria @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisprincesss @lavishloving @teagietots @spooo00oky @sousydive @hwapou @bunnliix @softwsan @mjyungi @fantasy2wonderland @noirsfantasy @cassies-cookies @renaholicss @luffypants @hyukssunflower @watermelon2319 @peachygiku @bunnyxoxodarling @stolasisyourparent @soranosnowbunny @certifiedmoa @sanglix @slvtiny @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @hecateslittlewitchling @xxawl @pastellbunno @starlletsblog @seonghwasstar @hwanring @vtyb23 @pearltinyy @minjaeum @chasevixx @bomi-ja @onedumbho3 @sanglix @cursedeastern @itza-meee @pinkies-things @atinism @mxnsxngie @nenefix-on @therealcuppicake @annafeebou @sharksandminhos @@lixies-pixieboy @@vampzity

The real life of a student is not always as fun and glamorous as it might seem at first glance. If you think university life is an endless whirlwind of parties and passionate romances, then I'm sorry to disappoint you. Student life is nothing more than tonnes of homework, endless stress, and litres of coffee, which you probably drink on an empty stomach because you've been up all night studying for the next 'ultra-important' lesson, and of course impossibly annoying and boring professors who seem to be just waiting for the moment to ruin your life. So when there was an announcement at the beginning of the new term that your group would have a new French literature professor, you were completely oblivious. Your previous professor had been a boring, retired man with an unhealthy obsession with young female students and cigarettes who always left his classroom reeking of tobacco, so you didn't expect much from another 'amazing' professor. But, God, you were wrong. Professor Song Mingi was maybe, just maybe, the most handsome and attractive man you had ever seen in your life. With his elegant and chiselled features, he could definitely pass for a haute couture model. His body was an art form in itself and the hottest topic of discussion in the entire university, not only among the crowd of blushing girls in love but also among the female faculty members. 

The way his perfectly pressed classic shirts fit his broad-shouldered, muscular body and the tight, expensive fabric of his pants tightened over his thick, juicy thighs, outlining every muscle, could leave no one indifferent, and even you gave in to the temptation of checking his Instagram profile, especially on lonely evenings. In your defence, you weren't the only one who started fondling herself when thinking of Professor Song Mingi. After all, how could you resist when the man was literally a walking list of the categories on Pornhub? But while Professor Song was a wet dream come to life, he was also the biggest jerk you've ever met. And there were more than a few of them. He was 10 out of 10 on your red flag list: arrogant, narcissistic, annoying, and impossibly self-centred. The world seemed to revolve around him as he looked down on everyone from his lofty perch. 

Seriously, every time you thought he couldn't be more handsome and sexy, Mingi would rush out to prove otherwise, driving everyone around him crazy, but in the process, you found even more horrible traits that both excited you and made you hate him with all your heart. 

And it seemed that you weren't the only one to feel hatred and resentment, as Professor Song, for reasons unknown to you, decided to make your life a living hell, infuriating you with his every word and action. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't live up to Mingi's high standards, and you always ended up at the very bottom of his class. In all seriousness, the man treated you as if he had the proverbial stick in his arse 24 hours a day. But God, that arse, if you had the chance, you would have loved to sink your teeth into it. It was juicy and firm, and it just created an irresistible urge to hold it in your palms and pull his body closer as Professor Song fucked you hard into the mattress. All in all, if Mingi had been able to hold his lectures standing with his back to the students all the time, as a good student, you would have wanted a seat in the front row, but hell, that was a pipe dream because Professor Song Mingi found a new way to drive you to hysteria every time. 

It was really fucked up; you were rewriting your report for the third time, and it looked like you were going to keep on doing it for an indefinite amount of time. It didn't matter to Professor Song that everyone who read your report praised what you said and thought or that you spent a lot of time writing it, sacrificing sleep and nerve cells. But it seemed that nothing could live up to Mingi's standards, which no mortal could ever hope to reach—except for himself, of course. 

"Your report lacks depth and understanding of the subject; I'm afraid you weren't paying enough attention while I lectured, Y/N. Did you have more important things to do than listen? Your report is not very good for a student in the third year. I am going to have to ask you to make significant changes; otherwise, you will not be able to pass in my class. Don't let me down this time, or I'll have to take even more serious measures against you."

As if all you ever thought about was being a good girl for him, slobbering all over him, and giving him obedient nods. He can go fuck himself. You hated Song Mingi so much. 

French literature was always the first class of the day on a Friday, and it was absolutely terrible. After listening to Professor Song lecture for two hours in his deep, pornographic voice, you usually spend the rest of the day looking grumpy and depressed. And to top it all off, Mingi decided to wear one of his most stunning black designer classic shirts today, in which he unbuttoned a few buttons so that everyone around him could admire his stunningly smooth skin, which you wanted to lick. You swear that this man is a true spawn of hell, sent to earth to be your tormentor and sexual frustration. Needless to say, as well as he ruining your mood, your panties were hopelessly ruined by the sticky juices that tickled your labia whenever you moved. 

"Good, at least this day is finally over."  You mutter tiredly to yourself as you enter the dormitory that you share with your best friend, who you can't seem to see anywhere at the moment, which is understandable since it's Friday.

Shit, it's Friday; how could you forget it? Damned Professor Song Mingi. You forgot you were supposed to be streaming tonight because you were so caught up in the whole situation. 

You hadn't planned to do this all along. It was just a one-time thing to pay off some debts, but money is a real drug that you get addicted to too quickly. But it wasn't just the money; it was the attention. The huge amount of attention you got from your followers was so sweet and exciting that it was impossible to refuse. So, like most other poor girls, it was no surprise that you got sucked into sex work and webcamming too quickly. It was good money that paid your way through university and your way of life without much thought for the future. You received thousands of comments from people who were desperate to fuck that pretty pink cunt of yours, as they had always told you, or to do many other lewd and horrible things to you. You weren't ashamed to admit that you had always been an attention whore, and their words and praise made you want more. It gave you confidence in your body and gave you immense power over those on the other side of the screen, just because of your well-groomed little cunt.

With an excited smile on your face, you walk to your room and remember the package that was delivered to you this morning. A very special gift that you are hoping will be the highlight of this evening's stream. You give a slight squeak as you see a beautiful black box made of heavy, expensive cardboard sitting in the middle of your bed, with a small envelope on top of it. You pick it up, sit down on the bed, and bite your plump lower lip in anticipation. The envelope looks like it came from one of those books of gothic literature that you love so much. It's as black as the box it came in, with a blood-red wax seal in the middle.

As you carefully remove the seal, revealing the small note inside, your whole body subconsciously warms.

"I hope this will make you think of me, doll." Le Maître 

The white ink on the black matte paper looks too formal, and you're a little disappointed that the note isn't handwritten. But just to be on the safe side, there's no hint as to who the mysterious sender of the parcel might be. After all, for your own safety, you had to accept the parcel under a made-up pseudonym. 

Le Maître. You practically squealed like a schoolgirl when this user first appeared in your paid private chatroom after one of your streams. There were a few other people there, but Le Maître was different; he was regal and bossy to you despite the fact that he paid to jerk off on your body. He was your number one viewer, attending every stream, sending you huge amounts of money, and complimenting and praising you. By now, you can definitely see that you've developed an unhealthy obsession with praise ever since the first time he referred to you as his "good girl."

Just a few days ago, he sent you a text message saying that he wanted to do something special for you—a little gift in celebration of the fact that your account now has over 25,000 subscribers. The gorgeous gift box on your lap is a special gift, and you have an inkling of what's inside the decadent scarlet corrugated paper. You impatiently rifle through the layers of wrapping paper and gasp when you see what you have received—a little sex machine. As you inspect the shiny, erotic pleasure device, you notice a small piece of paper attached to the sturdy, mechanical body of the machine.  "A special gift for my angel, who already has more than 25,000 subscriptions. You are such a sweet girl. Please use it in your next stream so your Maître can see it. P.S. I have a controller, Dolly."

You swallow loudly, feeling a nervous shiver run through your body and heat build in the pit of your stomach; you're sure your pussy is already wet with a strangely arousing anticipation, juices dripping down the quivering folds onto your lace panties. Fuck, he's really going to fuck you, thanks to this sex machine. Your attention will be drawn to the large dildo that is attached to the mechanism. It's thick and long, with lots of veins running down the shaft, mimicking the swollen veins on a real cock. It's cold and textured to the touch, and you can imagine how shiny and smooth it will be when your cum runs down it. You squeeze your thighs together in excitement, looking forward to using it tonight and putting on a show for your audience that they won't forget for a very long time. You put your 'gift' to one side and get out of bed to get ready for your weekly stream. 

"Hello, bunnies! Are you ready for this evening?" You chirp, your voice sweet and luscious with a slightly childish, innocent tone, as you shyly rub the strap of your sheer lace lingerie. "Tonight I'm going to show you something different from my usual show; as you all know, by now I've reached 25,000 followers." You fidget slightly on the bed, twirling a strand of your long hair around your finger. You purse your lips, knowing that the shimmering lip gloss makes your mouth look just fuckable. 

The mini-sex machine is standing on a pouffe out of the camera's view, and you take a deep breath to calm your excitement before you lean closer to the camera so that everyone can see your face and how plump and juicy your tits look in that bra. Luckily, this site doesn't allow screenshots and will quickly ban any user who dares to do so; otherwise, you could be in big trouble. 

"You're all so nice to me; you deserve to enjoy my face. Today,  I'd like to be a little closer to you. Don't I look especially pretty today?" 

One by one, the comments come in, and you giggle at everyone's excitement. 

"Goddamn, you're beautiful." "I want to cum on that pretty face of yours, baby."  "Your face is making me so horny, sweetie." "These lips are made to suck cock." "You're so pretty; are you going to be an obedient kitty for Daddy?"

We all have our own dirty little secret that we carefully hide, and it happened that the secret of the seemingly arrogant and fastidious Professor Song Mingi was that his regular nightly routine involved watching livestreams of pretty webcam girls with small, tight pussies. A man has needs; sue him for that, and being so busy with work and surrounded by a crowd of hormonal, giggling university students every day, he doesn't have the time or energy to find a connection. And Mingi doubted that anyone could satisfy his sexual appetite. He had always been overly demanding in everything he did, and sex was no exception. Mingi wanted to find a perfect little doll who he could fuck and spoil as much as he wanted; he needed a sweet mouth and free access to a tiny pussy, and in return, he would be happy to give the cute doll his black credit card.

One evening, he found one who immediately caught his attention, and not just because of her pretty, juicy tits and doll-like, shiny mouth, while he was browsing through the numerous profiles of various girls. You were so adorable and innocent-looking, but completely slutty. It was an instant match made in heaven for Mingi. Imagine his surprise when he saw you the first day he started working at the university. You were his student, his sweet little student, the girl he had shameless fantasies about all the time. He thought that he should feel disgusted with himself, or at least ashamed, but to be honest, Mingi didn't care; your cunt was pink and tight, and that was enough to make him forget all sense of decency.

Mingi doesn't know how he feels about it, but the way his cock gets hard just at the sight of you means he'll be getting his money's worth and enjoying the show. His classic black shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his embossed abs and golden, luscious skin dripping with sweat. He unzips his trousers and pulls out his big, throbbing cock, which jerks at the sight of you in the slutty lingerie you have bought with his money. He hisses softly, biting his plump lower lip, his eyes fixed on the cleft between your tits. Mingi desperately wants to fuck your breasts.

"Someone very special has sent me a beautiful gift, my darlings, and I am definitely going to make use of it today." Your cheeks are burning from all the lewd comments, but it is only turning you on more and more, making your pussy even wetter and more needy.

You sit down on the bed, bend down until you can't see the chatter, and pull the ottoman between your legs to the edge of the bed. The sound of the incoming tips becomes loud and constant as soon as the erotic device appears in the frame.

Mingi slowly strokes his thick, veiny member with his hand, clutching the small sex machine controller in his other large hand. He can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the one to destroy your pretty pussy with his cock. His dark eyes bore into yours as he bit down hard on his lower lip and used the pad of his thumb to circle the already-leaking red head of his cock. If only he were able to fuck you right now.

You take a bottle of vanilla lube and smear it on the dildo, moaning loudly as you run your hand from the base to the head several times, tracing the ridges with your fingers to simulate veins, imagining that this is the dick of a certain professor. God, you hate and adore Professor Song at the same time; he is the star of all your most depraved and vulgar fantasies, which is why you always cum so hard and profusely. Fortunately, when you collapse during your orgasm, you have enough control over your mouth to keep from moaning his name.

With your other hand, you pull your pretty panties aside and run your fingers through your wet folds, spreading them slightly and showing off your wetness.

"Fuck, your pussy is so nice." "You've played with yourself before; you're already so wet." "Give me a lick of your pussy, angel."

The comments go on and on, as do the messages about the tips while you are gently massaging your pussy. You close your eyes, bite your lip and let out a soft moan as the pad of your middle finger makes contact with your sensitive clit.

"Damn it, I wish I could have your fingers playing with my pussy right now," you whine. Your free hand pulls down your bra straps, exposing your breasts to the camera, your nipples hardening with growing pleasure. You take the nipple between your fingers and gently twist and pull at it. Your pussy is leaking, the transparent, viscous mucus enveloping your fingers, making them shiny and smooth, and running down your milky thighs, leaving a wet, cold trail.

You imagine Professor Song's long fingers penetrating you, stretching your tight hole, and preparing you for the insertion of his dick into your pussy. Mingi has breathtakingly beautiful hands—wide palms, thick, long fingers, always adorned with rings and bracelets. Fuck, just to feel those rings inside you, pressing against the silky hot walls of your pussy, you would do anything. You circle your fingers around the wet, quivering edge of your hole before you slip two fingers inside, your soft walls tightening around them in an instant. Your other hand stops playing with your nipples and reaches out for the toy that is about to fuck you to death.

Your breathing becomes uneven, your chest rising and falling with your moans and gasps. Your fingers run over the silky walls of your pussy a couple of times before you start to fuck yourself to death at a fast and furious pace. Your eyes roll back in pleasure as you stick out your tongue and let it drip onto your naked tits.

You know the effect you have on your audience; they love seeing someone so sweet and angelic looking like a slutty whore, and to get more praise and tips, you pull your fingers out of your cunt and slap your pussy with them. The loud signal of the incoming tip is echoed by the wet, disgusting sound of your hand touching your skin.

"Oh daddy, I want your cock so bad; my pussy is throbbing for you," you say. You hold your fingers up to the camera to show how wet they are with your slick. "I'm such a sweet Daddy; I want you to eat me up. I promise I'll come on your tongue like a good girl." You put your fingers in your mouth; you lick them, suck them, and slurp around them. The moans you make sound more like whimpering than something soft and melodic.

On the other side of the screen, Mingi is moaning in a guttural way as he leans back in the big leather chair in his home office, squeezing and massaging his balls as he enjoys the wet slurping sounds that you are making. His cock is pressed against his hard belly, the viscous pre-cum dripping from the head of it and flowing between the reliefs of his abs. His eyes roll back in his head as he imagines fucking your cunt with his nimble fingers, stretching your tight little hole in preparation for his hard fucking. You will be moaning loudly and writhing as your juices flood his hand and run down his sinewy forearm.

You get on your knees on the bed and adjust the toy so that it's right in front of your dripping hole, holding your knickers so that they don't block the view of your pussy. You are already looking so messed up. A long string of mucus is coming out of your hole, straight onto the toy, and the strokes are coming in at a crazy rate. You look straight into the camera with your big innocent eyes; your lips are pouting sweetly. Mingi hisses at this, grabs his dick, and squeezes it several times. The fingers of his other hand are flicking the switch on the controller of the sex machine.

"Please, sir, I've been such a good girl for you. Are you going to fuck me now?" You are licking your lips with the tip of your tongue, and you are lowering your pussy down onto the artificial dick. The silicone is cold and smooth, and the contrast in temperature between it and your hot pussy makes you moan loudly and for a long time.

Mingi growls, the desire coursing through him as he hears the respectful title that falls from your plump lips, in the same way that you address him as "Sir" in class when you turn up for his lecture, and it drives him mad. He turns the dial, and the car comes to life and begins to move. Your eyes lose their focus, and your mouth falls open as the toy begins to move inside of you. Your fingers spread your labia, and you show the audience how the dildo is slowly stretching your tight little hole. The size of the toy is huge, despite the artificial penis being cold and lifeless, but that doesn't change the fact that it is tearing you apart. Your legs tremble as you try to maintain a stable position on the bed. Your toes curl as you begin to play with your swollen, sensitive clit, stimulating yourself further and causing more of the sticky, slippery fluid to gush out of you.

Mingi watched intently through the screen as you writhed and moaned; the toy was finally buried completely inside you, and he could see its impressive size causing your belly to bulge. Damn it! He can bet his bottom dollar that the silicone head of the dick is in direct contact with your cervix. When he sees how greedily your cunt swallows the toy, his predatory dark eyes flash, and he swallows noisily. You can take his cock like a good girl, and he'll see to it that it happens soon. Even though this toy is much bigger than any you've fucked your cunt with in previous streams, Mingi doesn't give you time to get used to its size. But he knows that in reality, you are an absolute slut who lives for the cock and that you can easily take anything that is given to you.

The sex machine picks up speed, and you scream loudly as you feel the fake veins on the dildo drag along the walls of your body with every mechanical movement—your hands cupping and massaging your breasts, your fingers pinching your swollen nipples. The pleasure coursing through your veins, your moans growing louder by the minute, and your head falling back. Your thoughts turn to Professor Song, of course.

God, that man—the way your body has reacted to him has been completely abnormal. Professor Song Mingi is an absolute asshole, and all he does is bully you and ruin your grades. But fuck, you wanted it so much—to destroy your pussy with his dick. You hate every part of his gorgeous appearance—that stupid long hair, a weird shade of orange that looks damn good on him, those sharp fox eyes that always look at you with judgement. There's such disgust and contempt in his eyes; it's like he's saying, "You're a worthless whore," and God, you really want him to address you like that, especially in that porn voice that makes your pussy leak.

Under your fingers, what will his hair feel like? Will it be as soft to the touch as it is to the eye? What will his eyes be like? Will they be filled with unbridled hunger as his long, slick tongue flicks across your clit? Will his deep voice vibrate against your skin as he moans softly and tastes you in his mouth? Will his big, rough hands be gripping your hips, digging their fingers into the soft flesh until you're bruised and scratched, holding you still as he buries his face in your cunt as if he couldn't live without it for a single day? All these vivid erotic images flash through your brain, the constant beeping of the donors just background noise as you imagine your professor's deep, velvety voice commanding you to cum.

"Wish you could fuck me now. Oh fuck! Please, sir, fuck your pretty little doll properly." You moan loudly as the speed of the sex machine increases, all the words blending together. The whirring sound of the machine synchronises with the rapid beating of your heart as the silicone cock thrusts into you, lewd squelching fills the room, and your moans and cries become longer and more pitiful, like a cat in heat, as your orgasm begins to build rapidly.

"Oh sir, I'm thinking about the way your dick is sliding between my legs. Is it as thick and as big as this toy? Are you going to feed your doll with your cum?"

There are few things in this world that can make Professor Song Mingi lose his balance, but the sight of his cute little student fucking her dripping, plump cunt with the toy he has given her is definitely the one thing that makes his jaw drop. You are fucking beautiful, a real doll that Mingi would like to sit on a velvet cushion in his house and admire like a work of art. He knows you're about to come—your cheeks are flushed, your lips are parted in a perfect orgasmic "oh,"  your trembling little hand reaches for your clit to rub the throbbing bundle of nerves and bring you to the desired climax, and your eyes are so closed you can hardly see.

Mingi's hand glides a little faster over his dick; it's slippery and shiny with the sperm that leaks out of it. At the same pace as you rub your aching clit, Mingi makes sharp, quick circles with his palm around his cock.

"Fuck!" Mingi growls as he grips the arm of the chair and pushes his hips into his hand, the massive bracelets around his wrist clanking as his hand comes down hard on his cock. As the sex machine fucks you hard and fast at top speed, the controller is forgotten on the table next to his laptop. Your piercing moans are music to his ears, and the way your thighs subtly tremble shows the immense pleasure he is indirectly giving you. Your head is thrown back, exposing your neck, and your hips roll on the toy, the juices from your vagina running down your ass and soaking the sheets beneath you, your juicy, plump tits bouncing with the movement of the sex machine.

"Sir, Daddy, please! Can I cum for you? Please let me come for you! I've been such a good girl for you!" You are shaking all over, your orgasm is growing stronger with each passing second, and you know that it is going to be amazing. The palm of your hand is slapping your pussy again, and the sounds of tipping over are coming with renewed force. What fucking perverts!

When he realises the effect he is having on you without even touching you, a tingle runs down Mingi's spine. He has complete control over your orgasm, and you will do whatever he wants without him interfering in your real life.

"Come for me, my doll." His voice is dark and deep, despite the force with which he fucks his hand, the leather chair creaking from the powerful thrusts of his thick, meaty thighs. As if you can hear him, you pinch your clit sharply and squeal deafeningly, your body shaking in small convulsions as you cum on a toy you imagine is Professor Song's dick. The walls of your pussy contract as you try to hold the fake cock inside you as you ride out your orgasm.

Mingi cum right after you, moaning gutturally, his eyes rolling back in his head as streams of cum spray onto his thighs and abs, his mind clouded by the orgasm, and he completely forgets that he hasn't turned off the toy that continues to mercilessly stuff your cunt. His attention is drawn back to you when he hears you squealing pitifully, the tears rolling down your face and smearing your make-up, and Mingi finds himself thinking that he would like to see the same look on your face when his dick is deep down in your throat.

"Oh my God, s-sir, turn it off! Please, I can't... Oh, bloody hell! Sir, I beg you..." You scream, the tears streaming freely down your face as the sex machine continues to fill your pussy with cock like there is no tomorrow, your hands gripping the sheets as the sensory overload washes over your body like a tidal wave.

Mingi looks at you with hunger and animal lust as he watches the toy abuse your used, dripping cunt. Of course, he could turn it off if he wanted to, but he doesn't because he knows that you could just lie back on the bed and put an end to your supposed agony, but you don't want to.

He gives you a devilish grin and licks his lips as he watches the fat tears roll down your flushed cheeks as you beg him to make it stop. Your whole body glistens with a subtle sheen of sweat, and as Mingi has watched your body countless times, he knows every reaction of yours—you will cum for him; he is sure of it.

"Oh god, damn, damn! I'm going to cum again, Daddy." You let out another loud squeal, your back arching as you come for the second time that night, and this time a clear stream of liquid shoots out of your pussy, soaking the sheets even more. The tipping sounds are louder than they were before, and if there was an audience in your room, they would definitely enjoy watching you squirt over and over again. Damn, you really put on a show for them that they won't forget in a hurry.

Mingi smiles with satisfaction and strokes his cock once more, this time prolonging his pleasure with lazy strokes as he watches you whimpering and twitching with the overwhelming pleasure of your orgasm. He is kind enough to put an end to your torment by picking up the controller unit from the table and turning off the sex machine. The loud mechanical whirring ceases as the toy stops fucking you. You slowly rise from your seat, the thick dildo sliding out of your pussy—glossy and wet with your essence. You whimper quietly, still too sensitive, your chest heaving with heavy, ragged breaths. The next thing you do is make Mingi sink teeth into his lower lip until it starts to bleed.

"Let me clean you, Daddy; you have been so good to me today. My cunt feels so warm and full." Your pretty, plump lips wrap around the fake cock's head, smacking sweetly before shoving the larger half of the toy into your mouth, sucking and licking with your tongue like a real cock. After tasting the juices running down the length of the silicone, you close your eyes and moan.

Your brain forms images of how you would do this to Mingi, choking on his cock, swallowing it to the base, tickling his balls with the tip of your tongue; sucking him like a good girl, licking every swollen vein along its huge velvety length, and you know Professor Song has a big, thick dick. You think about how he will grab your hips, slap your butt cheeks hard, and penetrate your needy, horny cunt with one hard thrust until his balls are slapping against your ass. Fuck, you really want Professor Song to destroy you, and this desire almost overshadows the hatred you feel for this man.

Snap back to reality, and you're practically crawling over to your laptop with innocent, tear-stained eyes before pulling the toy out of your mouth with a wet pop and smiling brightly at the camera as if you hadn't just been ruined by a silicone dick. Your mouth is shiny and wet from a mixture of saliva, sticky pink lip gloss, and your juices.

"Fuck, that was so hot."

"I'd like you to splash on my cock as well, honey."

"Wow, baby, I didn't know you could do that. Will you squirt on my face if I pay you?"

"I want to cum in your cunt so bad, sweet cheeks, daddy must keep you full and pretty with his cum."

"You're so fucking beautiful, angel, I'll jerk off on your face every night."

"That was your best stream ever, princess."

All these comments are making you giggle. Men are really just horny animals; show them a nice pussy and they will be at your feet.

You spend some time interacting with the public, reading comments, and showing off your new toys and lingerie that you bought with the money you made from streaming. The cursor hovers over the bright red button, and before you press it to end the broadcast, you look straight into the camera, first slowly licking your lips, then slightly tilting your head to the side with the sweetest expression on your cute little face. It may seem that you are talking to all the viewers, but in fact you are talking to just one man, Le Maître.

"I hope you have enjoyed today's show, sir, and that you have had a lot of fun. But I really want you to use your real dick to make me cum and squirt so hard. I really, really want you to fuck me in real life, Daddy." You kissed and winked at everyone, and you finally finished your show.

Mingi couldn't sleep at all that night; after the show, he jerked off two or three more times, even using an artificial pussy, imagining he was fucking you instead of a cold silicone toy. He came so much that his cum was everywhere, even landing on his luxurious diamond-encrusted Rolex.

In contrast to your restless, overheated professor, you fell asleep almost immediately—tired and satisfied—from an amazing orgasm and from a huge amount of money that fell into your bank account after the stream had ended. Of course, your Le Maître was the biggest donor of all.

Next Friday

"I expect all of you to take this course more seriously and to have your homework done by Monday. From next week, there will be three more lectures on French literature in your course, so don't be a disappointment to me. The class is dismissed."

You sigh heavily, already anticipating the torment the extra pairings with Professor Song will bring you. Fuck, you hate him so much, but the sight of his thighs in those tight trousers should be illegal. That's a real crime against humanity. You gather your things and hope to get out of the stuffy lecture hall, which now always has the smell of pure sex—Professor Song's perfume. If you didn't know any better, you'd be thinking that the man was literally bathing in an aphrodisiac, because it's just not real to smell like that. You never thought you'd be turned on by someone else's perfume, but here we are, drooling on the floor at the incredibly sexy scent that Professor Song Mingi wears like a second skin. Sometimes you wonder: Does the bitch know how attractive he is? But he does, and he uses it to his advantage, judging by that smug, arrogant grin that always sits on those plump, sensual lips. 

You are just about to leave when you hear his deep, husky voice calling out your name. Oh no, not now. 

"I'd like to talk to you about your performance, Y/N." Mingi begins to speak slowly, stretching out the letters and putting emphasis on the last word. There is definitely a certain ambiguity in all this, which you can't quite make out. "What can you tell me about it?" He walks around his desk, leans his gorgeous butt against it, and crosses his arms over his chest. His poor shirt buttons try harder than the devil on a good day.

You tilt your head to the side in confusion and walk down the stairs, authematic, to be closer to him. Why is he asking you that now? Damn, he always finds the perfect time to throw you off balance. Your heart races, and you try to ground yourself, thinking about what an idiot he is and what strange things could be going on in that beautiful head of his. You struggled to read him; his stunning model face always had this arrogant royal expression that completely failed to convey his true feelings, so every time you talked to him, it was like playing with a big cat. 

"I think I'm all right, Sir. Why are you asking?" You stammer slightly, but when you hear Mingi's deep moaning, all your mental scolding about your nervousness quickly fades away. You stare at him with your eyes wide open in an attempt to comprehend what the hell is going on. Your eyes focus on Professor Song. The way your narcissistic jerk of a professor shamelessly adjusts his trousers, which now show a very noticeable bulge in his crotch.

Before you know it, you're standing right in front of him, and your nervousness has returned with a vengeance. He's even more handsome up close—classic glasses perched on the bridge of his perfect nose, his long fingers reaching up to remove them and place them on the table. He stares at you with his dark fox eyes, towering over your petite frame, as he carefully pulls the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows, revealing the massive bracelets around his wrists and the bulging veins on his forearms. God, does he have any idea of the effect this has on you? Too afraid to look him in the eye, you cast a glance at the small cross around his neck.

"Yes, you're doing very well. Too well, actually, aren't you, Y/N?" As his thumb runs down your soft cheek, tracing the outline of your mouth lower until he slides it between your parted lips, you almost gasp and feel like you're going to faint. You don't hear anything but your heart pounding in your ears. It feels like it's about to burst out of your chest. You stare at him helplessly as he presses the pad of his finger against your tongue, stroking it lightly. A devilish grin appears on his plump lips, replacing his usual bitchy expression with something more sinister and dangerous. "Such a beautiful little dolly, aren't you? So skilled with your fingers, so good with that pretty little doll mouth of yours, and you definitely know how to serve that little cunt of yours perfectly." Mingi whispers as he leans closer to you, his other hand reaching under your skirt and squeezing your bare bottom. Fuck, you definitely shouldn't have worn a thong today. "I'm sure you're playing with your sweet bottom, too, bunny." He continues to rub his thumb over your tongue for a few more moments, while his other hand gives your arse a hard massage that makes you squeal with pleasure. You're quite sure that the skin on your bottom is already red from his aggressive touch. As soon as Mingi stops touching you and pulls his hands away from you, crossing them over his broad chest, the situation comes back to you.

You are watching his every move, breathing heavily, letting your eyes glide over every pulsing vein on his forearms, and praying to God that you will have enough strength not to lean over and run the tip of your tongue over them. 

"P-Professor, I don't have a clue what you're talkin' about."

"Oh, darling, don't play innocent; you have a very clear idea of what I'm talking about. I'm really glad you found a good use for the gift I gave you last night, my angel." Professor Song's voice is a velvety whisper, and considering how quiet it is in the lecture theatre, he might as well have shouted, the meaning of his words ringing loudly in your ears. He's like a predator, slowly circling around you, the soles of his designer shoes clicking on the parquet floor. Your feet feel as if they are glued to the floor, and you don't know what to do. When you try to speak again, your voice sounds broken, and you are on the verge of tears. 

"Will there be a report against me, Professor Song? Or what? You haven't got any hard evidence that it's me." You say it with conviction, and hope springs, but unfortunately, it dies as soon as Mingi opens his mouth.

"That may be true, my dear. But you wouldn't want such terrible accusations to be made against you, would you? Mingi taunts you; his deep voice suddenly comes very close to your ear. You feel so unprotected in his presence, so tiny in comparison to his huge, tall body. Why does this man have to be so bloody big?

"They'll never know it was me who found your profile on the porn site; I could easily pass it off as an anonymous tip." You catch your breath as you feel his rough, hot hand slide under your skirt and up your thigh. Mingi smiles at your reaction and leans in closer to you, biting the lobe of your ear. "Besides, this is going to get rumoured around the university. People will be tempted to do a check on your account—people you know, people you might be close to." He goes on, the heat of his breath making you shiver. 

His broad palm grips your mound in a possessive way, the heat from your pretty pussy causing his cock to twitch in his trousers. You try to stifle a shameful moan, but the sound escapes you, and you unconsciously lean forward, pressing your breasts against him. Mingi wraps his other arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his body as he does so. Oh shit, your head is spinning from the smell of his perfume so close, and on top of everything else, you're ashamed to admit it, but your pussy is terribly wet, and you're pretty sure Professor Song can feel your wetness in the palm of his hand. 

"It may be illegal to screenshot, and your streamers will disappear, but what about the pictures and videos you've posted? Of course, everyone will be able to see your sexy little body all over the place. And don't you dare argue about it. You always look like a thirsty slut, wearing those tiny skirts and shoving your tits in everyone's face. You are a worthless little bitch." Professor Song hisses and presses the palm of his hand harder against your pussy, and you want to rub it against it so badly that it's almost pathetic.

Your tongue doesn't turn into an object; it's as if it were glued to the roof of your mouth. Mingi was right; you've always dressed rather provocatively, and it's never bothered you, but it seemed to bother him. 

"Either way, your name will still be in tatters, and my reputation will be perfect and clean, as it should be. I'm a respected professor with a model student. I'm not someone who watches a cam-girl stream every Friday night and watches how she stuffs a fake cock into her luscious little cunt." Wiping away a tear that has accidentally escaped your eye, Mingi's thumb runs down your cheek. Your vision is blurred by the tears, and the dark, lustful eyes of Professor Song are the only thing you can see clearly.

"Please tell me... What can I do to stop you from saying anything about me?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, and your words are a useless string of letters. Mingi's eyes flash angrily at your whimpering plea.

"Ah angel, you sound even better in real life when you're begging." Mingi moans as his middle finger slowly rubs the folds of your folds through your panties, which are more like a tiny piece of lace and do very little to cover the plumpness of your cunt. You whimper softly as you lean back against his shoulder. You've always been easy to arouse, and the wet sound you make when Mingi's fingers tease your pussy makes it clear that you're absolutely flowing for him right now. You can be sure that as soon as he pulls your panties off to the side, your viscous slime will be dripping freely out of your hole and onto the polished parquet floor. "I think you know very well what it is I want from you. I pay you good money all the time; don't you think I deserve the real thing, my doll?" You let out a loud whimper as his big hand pressed down hard on your shoulder. "On your knees, little one; don't keep your sir waiting."

As you kneel before your professor, facing the growing bulge in his trousers, your lower lip trembles. Professor Song is leaning against the desk, his hands on either side of his body, gazing up at you from under the lashes of his eyes. Your trembling hands are fumbling with his belt, and the sound of the metal echoes through the empty room.

"Oh, now you're embarrassin' yourself, darlin'? Where's that slutty bitch who was squirting all over yesterday because she let her pussy get stretched by a big dildo?" Mingi says it arrogantly, tilting his head to the side and tapping his fingers on his desk in disappointment. You flinch at his words like a slap in the face, but don't bother to reply as you pull down his trousers and underwear, the sight of his thick, wiry cock making your mouth dry as you try to swallow the lump in your throat. Like everything else about Professor Song, his cock is amazing—a drop of pre-ejaculate glistening on the flushed head, a thick vein swollen and throbbing just waiting for you to run your soft tongue over it, and its size—he's got a huge cock with a massive girth that you can barely wrap your palm around. Mingi wraps his hand around the cock, his thumb smearing the wetness over the head before he brings it to your lips and runs his whole length over it, leaving a wet sheen, and slaps your mouth a couple of times. 

"Open your mouth, dolly."

Mingi's other hand tangles in your hair, pulling hard on the long strands as you obediently open your mouth for him. His thick cock enters your mouth slowly, your jaw tensing as you try to get used to the size of it. You choke as the blunt head of his cock hits the back of your throat and the balls rest against the side of your chin. Mingi's thumb caressed your tear-stained cheek, and he cooed sweetly as he watched you gurgle around his cock, drool bubbling at the corners of your lips and dripping down your chin. His cock is hot and heavy in your mouth, the veins stretching across the sensitive, velvety skin. Professor Song doesn't give you enough time to get used to the size of his cock and pulls your head back until the only thing left in your mouth is his head.

"Don't you think you should lick me before I fuck you in the mouth, doll? You were very eloquent about wanting me to do it yesterday." You obediently run your tongue around the head of his cock, feeling more pre-cum pouring from his slit onto your tongue. It has a sweetly bitter taste, and you think that it is very suitable for Mingi. "Well done." Professor Song hisses at you before he pushes his cock all the way back into your mouth. You gasp as your hands fly to his strong, muscular thighs in an attempt to push him away as his hips thrust sharply forward, mindlessly using your mouth as his personal cock sleeve. The thick length of it presses down on your throat, and the bulge of his cock is perfectly visible against the back of your neck with each powerful thrust. 

"I have been waiting for such a long time to fuck that slutty mouth. Darling, I can see that you have nothing more to say to me, do you? That's how it's supposed to be; whores don't get to talk." Mingi lets out a deep moan and throws her head back as she pushes you down on his cock. Your saliva mixes with his pre-cum and sticky lip gloss, coating the length of thickly dick, making it shiny and smooth so it slides easily over your tongue and deeper into your throat. As you reflexively try to swallow, your jaw aches, your lips stretch around the thick circumference, and the walls of your throat contract. Never in your life have you sucked such a big, long cock, yet here you are, fulfilling the role of a pretty sex toy for your professor to enjoy. At least, unlike some lifeless silicone, no matter how expensive, your cunt and mouth are warm and moist. 

As he mercilessly fucks you in the mouth, Professor Song is not shy about his volume, emitting hoarse, prolonged moans and growls. Anyone could walk into the lecture hall at any moment and see your compromising position, but for some reason it turns you on. Maybe you really are a slut, although as long as you get paid enough, you don't mind being one, especially when Mingi is the one scolding you daily until you pass out. 

"Fuck, I'll cum." Mingi gasps as he wraps both of his large arms around your head, trying to hold it in place. You moan around his cock, the vibrations making Professor Song growl ducky as he presses harder into your slluty mouth and your grip on his hips tightens, your nails digging into the juicy flesh, leaving vicious marks, but Mingy doesn't give a shit; you could rip his skin off if he keeps fucking you like a personal doll. His dark, foxy eyes find yours, his beautiful, plump lips are slightly parted, and his balls are clenched, slapping you on the chin. Now you don't even know what to call him. If you thought Song Mingi looked like a wet dream before, then now he's sex itself. 

"Damn, damn, damn, doll!" He moans loudly, jerking his hips as his sperm pours into your mouth. As you forcefully swallow the viscous liquid that seems to have no end, your prolonged whimper is distorted. There's so much of his cum that some of it seeps through the corners of your mouth. He continues to slowly fuck your mouth. "Don't waste it, slut." He says it in a threatening voice, and you whimper at the venom in his tone. Mingi uses his long fingers to push his cum between your lips and roughly wipes the wet mess around your mouth. All of his rings are covered in a thin layer of cum and saliva, but you think it's hot.

You blink twice, catch your breath, and the next thing you know, your knees are no longer touching the cold floor, and your face, wet with tears and sperm, is pressed against Professor Song's spotless, cold desk; he has thrown you on the desk like a fucking doll. Fucking hell, that wasn't supposed to turn you on, but God, this man is just driving you crazy. You're too preoccupied with your thoughts to notice that Mingi has lifted your skirt, exposing your wet thong to his gaze. The cold air in the audience causes your hole to clench in reflex and the liquid to squirt out. 

You have to clench your fist to keep from squealing as the tight, expensive leather of his belt lands on your bottom with a loud crack. Oh my God, he has just hit you with his belt. Oh shit. Mingi doesn't let you recover; he holds your head against the table with one hand while he slaps your bottom again with the other. The sting of the contact between your soft flesh and the belt makes you squirm and writhe. 

"You just sucking my cock, and you're already so wet? You really are a slut. Aren't you?" He smirks as he leans down and sinks his teeth into the flushed skin of your arse before giving you another good spanking. You whimper as Mingi pulls your thong down your trembling legs, long strands of your own slime tugging at the insignificant piece of fabric as he does so. He pushes your buttocks apart so that your plump, flowing pussy is exposed to his hungry eyes.

Mingi picks up your leg, which is bent at the knee, and puts it down on the table. You whimper and grab hold of the edge of the table, embarrassed at how open you are to him at this moment. To be honest, it's the most disgusting feeling—you're embarrassed, but at the same time, you want him to do even more disgusting and humiliating things with you. Professor Song crouches down in front of you and spits into your cunt before licking a long, sloppy strip between your folds. Mingi uses his fingers to push your folds apart and then slides the tip of his tongue into your tight hole, tracing the edge of it. 

"Oh, God, sir..." As Mingi eagerly licks your cunt, avoiding your throbbing clit, you let out a long moan and arch your hips towards his tongue. He pulls back abruptly, his heavy hand coming down on your bruised arse to spank you hard before you can get the stimulation you need. 

"Did I tell you you could move, huh? You impatient bitch." You whimper at his reproachful tone. You scratch the wood with your fingernails as he spanks you again. "A good student answers the question, Dolly." Mingi hisses, mixing the scalding pain with the pleasure of the spanking, as his hand touches your bottom again.  "N-no, sir! You didn't tell me to move! I'm so sorry."

"That's right, doll, but I have a feeling the games are over for today." Professor Song says as he finally gets up to his full height and puts his arm around your neck.

Breathing heavily and hoarsely, Mingi feels the heat emanating from you as he guides his thick cock into your little hole. You let out a loud breath and wonder if his cock will feel like the toy he has given you. Probably not; however much you like it, nothing compares to the warmth and throbbing of a real cock, especially Song Mingi's cock.  You squirm as you feel the head of his cock pass slowly between your muscles, a soft howl escaping from your lips. The dildo you used yesterday is nothing compared to Mingi's dick; it feels bigger and thicker, the swollen veins of his cock stretching deliciously along your silky, trembling walls. The urge to hold him inside you is almost irresistible, and you can't help but clench around him. Fuck, and here you thought Mingi couldn't be more slutty and godlike, and you were wondering if his cock had been given special attention during his creation? You let out a loud moan, your tongue flicking out of your mouth, and right now you definitely fit the definition of 'well fucked'. Drops of sweat roll down Mingi's neck, disappearing beneath the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, exposing his hot golden skin and sculpted breasts. Heavy breathing replaces what he's saying, and you feel partly grateful for that. When he finally enters you at the base, the head of his cock touching your cervix and his forehead pressing against your shoulder, you both moan loudly.

"S-Sir, y-you're too big."

Ignoring your whimpering, Mingi grabs you by the hips and immediately sets a brutal but rhythmic pace with you. The objects on his desk shake and fall, shattering on the parquet floor as he fucks you, pressing your body against the desk with the full weight of his body. The fabric rubbing against your hardened nipples sends a pleasant tingle down your spine and makes you shiver from the added stimulation. Your moans grow louder and louder, your cheeks burning, and you can hear his heavy balls slapping against your clit as he thrusts your tight pussy back and forth along the length of his throbbing cock. The humiliation of pouring cream around Professor Song's cock brings tears to your eyes, but at the same time, you come to an almost orgasmic pleasure as he slaps your arse again. The sting stings like a bitch, but it feels fucking unbelievably good.

"That's it, goddamn it. I've been thinking about fucking that tight little cunt for ages. You really are the perfect doll to fuck."

It all makes you dizzy, and you moan "sir" and "daddy" as your pussy sucks him up greedily. You're getting so excited; you don't want to admit it, but you can't help yourself. You can't get enough of Mingi's cock. It feels so good inside you. 

"That's my good little girl. You're definitely worth what I've paid for you." Mingi growls in your ear as he pushes harder and harder into your used cunt. He presses down hard on your neck, pinning you to the table, not letting you move, and fucking you relentlessly, his hips moving hard and fast as he takes complete control of your body. Your orgasm starts to form, an intoxicating sensation of rapture coursing through your veins like lava. 

"Sir, please! Harder!" You need to cum so badly that you beg him to go harder.

Mingi's eyes were narrow—dark and cruel—and his muscles were quivering and tense from your pathetic begging. He's a professor, and professors always want the best for their students, especially the ones they like best.

"Look at you, begging for my cock like a good little bitch," he says. He accentuates the last word with a strong thrust and plunges so deep into your cunt that you can almost feel the head of his cock entering your cervix. A mixture of incoherent words and intermittent moans escape your lips. Your head falls forward as Professor Song releases your neck to grab your thighs again, leaving more bruises on them. 

"Will you cum for me, bitch?" He leans down to your ear and nibbles on your lobe, the slapping of your skin and squishing of your pussy echoing through the empty hall.

"Hell yeah! I'm going to cum for you! I'm going to cum for you, Daddy; I'm going to cum on your cock!" You scream, the knot in your stomach gets tighter and tighter, and Professor Song fucks your flowing cunt faster and harder.

"Then cum, bunny." He growls, his hips losing their rhythm and jerking, his cock throbbing as thick, hot jets of cum coat the walls of your cunt. He moans your name quietly while your voice is barely audible—a weak, panting whisper, 'Mingi'. Both of your bodies are slowly at rest, revelling in the haze of your orgasms. Soft cries and whimpers escape from your lips, and you shudder as you feel your mixed juices pour out of you, staining the floor that was once so clean. You collapse helplessly on the table, your body going limp, a puddle of saliva pooling under your cheek, and your breathing heavy as you try to clear your mind.

Mingi moans. He bites his plump lip as he comes out of you. You whimper, squirming awkwardly as more cum pours from your pussy. You turn back to look at Professor Song, and your eyes almost pop out of your head as you see him pressing your panties to his nose and moaning loudly and satisfied. He smirks at you vulgarly, licks his lips, and wipes his cock with your underwear before tucking his dick into his trousers, the zip jangling loudly. He dismissively tosses your thong aside and presses against you again, pinning you between the desk and his big muscular body, his hot breath touching your earlobe, before whispering in his deep porn voice.

"Don't think that this is just a one-time thing, doll. I have paid for you, and now you belong to me. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, Professor Song. I understand you perfectly."

"That's good. You're a real teacher's pet. On Monday evening, I will be expecting you for an extra lesson. Don't you dare disappoint me, doll." He slaps your butt once more before he pulls himself away completely and walks out of the classroom. 

Oh, this is really fucked up. 

[nebulousmoon3990]

GHOSTS OF THE PAST (Batfam x neglected hero reader)

II𓂃› POISON

Warning: Negligence (unintentional), Damian being Damian, violence, swearing, sensitive topics,bad things, spelling mistakes (English is not my first language) and reader has black hair and blue eyes (sorry), Fem reader!, use of (M/n) for his mother's name, I accept criticism but please don't be rude, everything is fictional!

Two weeks.It had been two weeks since you disappeared, two weeks in which Bruce did and still does everything he can to find you (as the millionaire Bruce Wayne or as Batman), two weeks in which he and possibly no one in the mansion slept properly, two weeks in which guilt gnawed at him in the worst possible way. But even so, Bruce is ashamed to say that in these two weeks he has only been going to his room now.

Could you blame him? Bruce didn't want to go to his room because that would be a way of saying that you died. He refuses to think that way, you are alive, he is sure of it, and he will find you.

However, Bruce's thesis was shattered by his anxiety.

That's why he goes to your room for the first time.

Bruce remembers going there only once, you must have been seven years old, what saddens him the most is that he only went there because there was a problem with the ceiling and that's why you had to change rooms. Your room was on the second floor, a little further away from the others, possibly the room closest to yours was Tim's.

Alfred had to show him where his room was, which made Bruce feel even worse. He didn't know where his own room was! Was he so negligent to that point?

Your room was at the end of the hallway, the only thing that identified it was a guitar sticker on the door, it was faded and dented, possibly having been there for years, wood splinters were visible on the door and the metals on it were very rusty.

Grabbing the doorknob, Bruce hesitated to open it, the logical part of his brain warning that you might feel uncomfortable with him invading your room like that, but his desire spoke louder, gathering courage Bruce opened the door slowly and faced the environment. He was greeted with a sweet smell that reminded him of artificial strawberries, coming from the entire room and Bruce thought that maybe this was the smell you had passed many times.

The first thing he noticed was the appearance of your room, it was smaller than most of the rooms in the mansion. Your bed was next to the window, giving you a view of the mansion's garden, next to the small bed was a nearly empty study table, on it papers and colored pencils were in the corner organized so as not to have a mess, a small swivel chair was there, there were tears and poorly washed stains, but it seemed like you used it a lot. Above the table on the wall were posters of bands and other things, but what caught Bruce's attention was not that, no, it wasn't.

There were trophies, certificates and awards on top of his shelves.

There were so many, so many, that Bruce thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, but it soon proved to be true when he approached the said shelves. There were trophies for gymnastics, literature, computing, swimming, there were awards for drawing, music, and even jiu-jitsu.

Each one was accompanied by a photo of you, photos that were supposed to be taken with your family but most of them were with your instructors, it was possible to see that with each photo that there was your face changed from false joy to not even bothering to smile.

The sight of you in the photos made Bruce's heart break, the worst one of all was one that looked like you were from gymnastics, but in this one you were really exhausted. Sweat was all over your forehead, making your hair stick to it, your eyes were a little red and there was a bruise on your arm, you tried to smile but it was noticeable that the smile was fake and to top it off, to break Bruce's heart? You were holding back tears, tears shining in the corners of your eyes so intensely, but you held it tight, so as not to cry in front of the camera.

Bruce felt horrible, really awful in fact.

He carefully picked up the photo and sat down on the chair, watching you. You must have been eight or nine years old? He didn't know, but you looked so young, so helpless, but you already looked so... broken. As if you knew the weight of the world, the weight that life brought.

He straightened up in the chair and looked at the room again, seeing the back of his room where the wardrobe was. Bruce noticed that next to the large piece of furniture there was a box, almost as worn as the sticker on the door, he got up from the chair leaving the photo on the table next to him, walking over to the box and picking it up with ease. Preferring to sit on the bed instead of the chair he opened the cardboard box to find a computer and a pen drive.

Bruce, so immersed in his thoughts, barely noticed that while he was turning on the old device, someone else was entering the room.

“Bruce?” The aforementioned looked up to see Dick. Looking at his son, he realized how worn out Dick was, whether it was the deep bags under his eyes or the messy hair from so much grabbing and pulling. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” came to see my daughter’s room? Came to try to feel less guilty? Came to try to comfort myself in my pain of not having protected my own daughter? Bruce didn’t know what to answer, fortunately, Dick understood this and decided to see for himself. Carefully, Grayson entered the room and observed with interest, his gaze stopping at the same shelves of trophies that Bruce was interested in, the small smile on Grayson’s face disappeared when he discovered the real reason for the trophies being there.

“W-wait, is that from gymnastics?” Dick looked closer, seeing on the table the same photo Bruce had taken, his anxious eyes roaming the entire shelf, observing his every victory in detail. “Is that all of…(name)?”

“Yeah, and all of hers, all the effort we never saw.” Bruce turned his focus back to the computer, the anguish in his words reminding him of his mistake, while Dick sank in guilt as Bruce himself decided to look at the computer’s contents.

It looked like it hadn't been used for a while, there was dust on the computer and the screen was broken, putting the pen drive in the device a folder appeared on the screen, Bruce clicked and the loading screen appeared on the screen, while it was loading Bruce felt his oldest son sitting next to him, watching the computer next to him and as soon as the loading was finished the two men came across photos.

Very, very old photos of you.

Photos of you as a baby at various points in your childhood outside the mansion, there was a photo of you walking while smiling at the camera, a photo of you sleeping on the couch drooling all over it, a photo of you drinking while wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, and many others.

Bruce heard Dick sigh when he saw you, he had to hold himself back from melting right there, you looked so cute with your chubby cheeks and bright eyes. He wished he could be there at that moment, seeing you so cute, taking care of you, being the father he never was.

But time has passed, you've grown up and are gone now.

Bruce shook off his thoughts when he saw a different photo, in it you had the corners of your mouth covered in what he assumed was chocolate, your hands were covered in the same candy, but what caught Bruce's attention wasn't that, but the woman behind you holding you while laughing at your lameness.

your mother

(M/n) (Last name)

He remembers the woman, kind and caring, a writer from outside Gotham, and although it is strange that she preferred Gotham to live in (with so many other cities more protected than it is), she reached her peak of fame, which made them meet. Just one night with her, nothing more, an affair that didn't go ahead and in which he thought he would forget about her, only for a year later she sends him a letter, talking about you, his daughter.

She didn't ask for anything, not even alimony for herself, she just asked him not to interfere in her daughter's life, although Bruce found the request strange he accepted, being too busy with work to care, he didn't give it due importance at the time.

That was until (M/n) died, her sudden death made him bring you to his house, he fought for custody of you with your aunt, but since he was the one best able to raise you, your custody was given to him.

That was many years ago, he doesn't remember you bringing this computer.

Oh.

Do you keep the computer to remember your mother?

The articles were old, wouldn't it be better to transfer the photos to your cell phone? Or didn't you want to? Maybe you would prefer to keep the computer to remember your memories.

Dick shifted beside him, looking again at the immense trophies on his shelf. “We had her here, and we just ignored her.”

“Dick—”

“We had a diamond in the rough, shining brightly for us, and we just ignored it, and now that she’s gone…” Bruce said nothing, there was nothing to say.

Dick was right.

They had lost a precious stone.

And there was no way to get her back.

Three months.

Nothing about you, no clues, no trails, nothing made it even more difficult because the bus you were on was burned, even if it was left there were no fingerprints, DNA or anything else that would lead them to you.

Dick had to go back to Blüdhaven, continuing his own investigation there. Bruce, knowing that he couldn't do it alone (not this time), put his pride aside and warned the members of the league about your disappearance.

Clark, in an effort to find you, published an article in the Daily Planet about your disappearance, but not even that helped in his search.

The members of the League were alert in each of their cities, looking for clues about you, but nothing came to them, not the organization that kidnapped you or your possible whereabouts.

It was as if you had disappeared from the earth.

Six months.

The police were getting sloppy, probably already giving up on the case. Bruce was still investigating, but how was he going to get deeper into the case if the clues that led to you had disappeared into the wind like dust on the ground?

All he had were your desperate calls for help, your messages, but they led nowhere, your device destroyed without its location.

The family had become more depressed, as if something was missing for everyone present, the immense loneliness in the mansion showing who was missing.

You.

One year.

The case was closed, with nothing to investigate, the Gotham police had more problems to deal with than a missing and possibly dead teenager.

There was… nothing. 

Nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing to look for.You were gone.

A long time ago.

What they didn't know was that you weren't gone, but you were there.

“Alright, alright, I think we’re done for today, right?”

The iron-tasting liquid once again rose up in her bile, making the blood in her throat gush out of her mouth, choking her.

The room they were in, previously white, was now stained crimson, clinging deep into the walls as it reflected the light from the lamp.

In the corner of the room stood you, chained up like a beast (which technically wasn’t a lie now). You lay still as the toxic green liquid entered your veins, the acidity still biting your skin.

Doctor Magnus was the one in front of you, the man with long black hair and golden eyes was watching you dangerously, the loving attitude that many could see as a father educating his son was nothing more than a facade of sadistic malice from the man.

He disgusted you.

They all did.

All of them, all of them, all of them, ALL OF THEM-

Magnus watched as the syringe that connected the tube in your neck finished injecting the toxin into your veins, with the process finished, Magnus approached you and pulled it from your neck.

With the brutality with which he pulled the syringe, you hissed in pain, your abnormally large fangs showing themselves to the doctor, the protective instinct emerging in your brain. Despite the offense, Magnus just smiled at you.

Stepping away from you, he lowered your restraints making you feel a little comfortable. With his fingerprint, the doctor opened the automatic door, before leaving he stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder, his gaze meeting yours.

“Get plenty of rest (Name)…” the man’s smirk widened, the evil coursing through him making her stomach churn with fear.

"Tomorrow your experiments will intensify.”

Okay, I'm a little disappointed (I was hoping to write one more, but I couldn't add anything without it affecting the next chapter), well I'll make up for it in the next chapter.

Here's the tag list \(•◡•)/:

@daiyanomochi - @amber-content - @wizzerreblogs - @foggyv-oid - @kore-of-the-underworld - @theunknowntravel3r - @space1crow - @shortnsweetsposts - @popursocks - @sugasweettea - @salfishers - @itachisank - @jsprien213 - @infirebaby - @yhin-gg -@h-ib

@bunbunboysworld - @h-ib - @sheep-from-rad - @tatsuri-zomushiki - @the-holy-pigeon - @geminis93

sorry for any mistakes.

Bye

[notlongtolove]

time present and time past

spencer tried to explain einstein’s theory of relativity once. and now, with spencer beside you in bed, you think you finally understand what he was on about. because time is relative. and if he doesn’t wake up, this moment will never end, and maybe you can slow down time itself. this work is part of the burnt norton series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst

content: situationship core. they argue. avoidant!-ish.

word count: 3.4k

note: i have a final in 3 days and thought now would be the perfect time to write and post my first fic. yay! anyways this is inspired by an old literature text i studied, einstein's theory of relativity and what not. a line: I’ll come to you before you call—Just to prove that I don’t come to you every time you call.

time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future, and time future contained in time past. if all time is eternally present all time is unredeemable. - t.s. eliot

You've never been one for physics, the numbers, the theories, the science of it all. But that’s never stopped Spencer from launching into explanations like a rocket whenever the chance presents itself. You would nod along, a smile on your face though whatever he's saying might as well be in a foreign language. 

He tried to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity once. Something about clocks, something about a kind of gravitational field. 

“Think of it like this,” he started, and you could almost picture him gesturing animatedly on the other end of the line. “I’m on the jet, and I run down the aisle in five seconds. From my perspective, that’s it—five seconds, straight forward, simple.”

“Hotch would kill you,” you cut in, biting back a grin at the thought.

“Just imagine it,” Spencer laughed.

“Okay, okay.”

“So, if you time me, and I make it down the aisle in five seconds—”

“Highly unlikely, but sure.”

“Angel,” he warned, but there was no real bite in it. He waited for your giggles to subside before pressing on, “but for you, watching me from outside as the jet moves, it’s not so simple. You’d see me running, sure, but you’d also have to factor in the jet’s movement. To you, I’m covering more distance because the jet is moving too, right?”

“If you say so...”

“Just focus,” he laughed. “Now, here’s where it gets interesting. The faster the jet goes, the bigger this effect becomes. If it were moving close to the speed of light, something wild happens—time for me, inside the jet, starts to move at a slower rate compared to your time outside.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I do. I do.”

“Okay, so explain it.”

You paused, your lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “Uh… You can run faster than a jet?”

Spencer groaned, but he was laughing too. “Time moves slower for those in the jet because space and time are connected,” he said, his voice warming with excitement. "They stretch and bend depending on speed. It’s called time dilation. The faster you move through space, the slower time moves for you relative to someone standing still."

“...I think I get it?”

“Not yet, but you will.”

He promised to explain it more when he got back. But he never did. And so you never really understood it—at least, not until now.

Not until he’s lying in your bed again, your sheets tangled around him like they’ve claimed him as their own.

Einstein says that time is relative. He says that the rate at which time passes depends on an observer's frame of reference. 

The observer in this case—You. 

And if one observer moves at the speed of light, time will slow down for them. 

Spencer’s asleep beside you. His face is soft in the flickers of streetlight creeping through the blinds. They give you just enough visibility to watch the rise and fall of his chest and you wonder if he's dreaming. The sound of his breathing, steady, is the only thing keeping you tethered.

If you squint hard enough, there’s almost something domestic about the scene. You ignore the fact that this is the nth time you’ve done this because ignoring is easier. It’s easier to think about how he smells like his shampoo, and how his shirt is thrown haphazardly over your nightstand. A sight you missed more than you would admit. You think about reaching for it, but your hand stays where it is. You stay where you are—just watching, observing. Because Einstein said the rate at which time passes depends on the observer’s frame of reference. And if you stay still enough, maybe you can slow down time itself. 

You like moments like these. The simplicity of it. You tell your friends the same thing when they ask, their voices thick with judgment, their eyes too knowing. “We don’t do anything” you insist to the room of raised eyebrows. “We’re just hanging out, you know, as friends” you say, as if saying it enough times will make it true.

“Just hanging out?” “Yup.” 

“As friends?” “Yup.”

You know you’ve hit a new low when you have to pull the ‘hanging out’ card, but you take a sort of comfort in that fact. Because at least he’s not like those other guys, right? That’s your silver lining. That it’s not like that. He’s not like that. But in the quiet after, when his breathing is the only sound and you feel walls closing in you, you can't help but wonder which is worse: the thing that he is, or the thing you’re letting yourself become.

You reached out first this time. A small victory in the game you’ve been playing against yourself. There’s some semblance of control in it, you rationalize. If you’re bound to fall, tethered to this fate of always crawling back, at least let it be on your terms.

I’ll come to you before you call—Just to prove that I don’t come to you every time you call.

Come over. Made too much pasta. You texted. It’s an olive branch, a peace offering after a fight that had left you both frayed at the edges. A throw of the same old ball back to his side of the court where the game has dragged on far too long. Proof to him that you didn’t mean what you’d said, that you’re not done yet. That you’re still okay with this.

You can take it. 

The fight had been about work—or at least, that’s how it started. He’d mentioned a new trainee in passing, his voice light, almost too casual, as he spooned rice out of the takeout box. “She’s new,” he said, with a shrug. “Eager, maybe too eager. Emily says she’s a bit of a people pleaser.”

She. You watched him carefully, trying to read between the lines. 

“Oh?” you replied, keeping your voice as even as you could manage. Muscle memory. You’ve been here before. Just because Spencer wasn't one of those guys didn't mean you haven't had your fair share of them. 

You smile as you meet his eyes asking all the right questions. Where’s she from? How’s she doing?

He glanced up at you, surprised by your interest. Light work you thought. “Somewhere out West, I think. She’s doing fine—rookie mistakes, you know. She had a bad day last week, though. Got rattled on a case. Garcia said Hotch was too hard on her.”

“Poor thing,” you murmured, “Hope she’s feeling better.”

“Garcia thought I… thought she was pretty,” he added laughing, the words tumbling out like an afterthought. Like the words don’t hold the weight that he knows it does. 

Ah. There it is.

“Well, did you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, casual.

“She’s… alright,” he said, his tone too high, too quick. You didn’t miss the way he swallowed hard afterward.

“You’re avoiding the question,” you teased lightly, smiling even though your stomach was beginning to twist itself into knots.

“I’m not,” he countered, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. “You asked if she’s pretty, and I said she’s alright.”

“You’re totally avoiding it,” you said, laughing to keep the air light even as the knot pulled tighter. “Spence, you can just say it.”

“Say what?” he asked, eyes darting up to meet yours, then back to his plate.

“Just say it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Admit that she’s pretty.”

“Okay.” He exhaled sharply, like the word had been dragged out of him. “I think she’s pretty.”

Oh.

There was something in the way he said that made your chest constrict. 

I think she’s pretty.

He thinks she’s pretty. Not like it was some objective fact, not something calculated or reasoned. Not that she was statistically pretty, backed up by some symmetry or math behind it. He just… thought so—No, he thinks so. Thinks. Present tense. Meaning as he’s sitting here, across from you, eating the takeout you suspected he’d purposefully ordered too much of, he thinks she’s pretty.

You stared down at your plate, your appetite long gone. The silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable. You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of voices from the apartment next door.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, his voice softer now, hesitant.

“I’m fine,” you replied too quickly, a smile pasted on your face as you looked up. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shook your head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Pass the soy sauce?” He passed it without another word, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you finally said, your voice sharper than you intended.

“I’m not,” Spencer replied defensively, though his eyes stayed trained on you. “You’re just… quiet. It’s not like you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve run out of things to say.”

“Is this because I said she’s pretty? Because I didn’t want—”

“Spencer stop,” you interrupted, setting your fork down with a deliberate clink against your plate.

“I wasn’t going to say it. You asked me to say it.” he countered. “And the term pretty is subjective anyway, I think you’re pretty too.” You stayed silent, not meeting his eyes. “Don’t be like that. You know I care about you.”

“It sure doesn’t feel like it.”

You knew you were being petty. Acting like a child who didn’t get their way, grasping at anything to make the hurt feel justified. But you couldn’t help it.

“You just—you talk about work, about—god, about pretty girls and I—”, You stopped, swallowing hard, trying to tamp down the words you weren’t ready to say. “I feel like I’m just… here. Someone you call when you’re bored or when you’ve ordered too much food or when—”

“That’s not true,” he argued, his tone sharp now, “You’re twisting it—”

“Am I?” you snapped, your eyes finally meeting his. They were wide, startled, but it didn’t stop you. “Because I’m starting to think this is exactly what it is.”

“Well, what do you think this is?” Spencer’s jaw tightened as his hands gripped the edge of the table.

“I don’t know,” you said bitterly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“We’ve talked about this,” Spencer said, each word cutting deeper than the last. “You said you wanted to be friends. Friends do this. Friends have dinner. Friends don’t force someone to admit someone else is pretty and then make it all—I don't know, all weird after.”

You winced, his phrasing like a mirror reflecting every misstep, every conversation where you’d backed yourself into this corner. He’s not wrong—you had said you wanted to be friends. But he didn’t know the weight behind that concession.

You’d thought back to those late-night conversations. The ones where he’d laid out his reasons like a clinical diagnosis: I don’t have the time. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m not ready. So, you’d waited, convincing yourself that 'not now' meant 'not yet'. But eventually, you’d called it yourself, told him you should just be friends. A sad attempt at controlling a situation you were only ever destined to be hurt by. Because your own destruction should only ever be yours to wield—and you have to claim it before it can claim you.

He’d agreed it was better this way and you’d nodded along. Not because you believed it, but because it was a way to keep him in your life. A lifeline you clung to no matter how much it cut into your hands. But labels don’t erase what’s already happened. They don’t undo the stolen glances, the kisses in the quiet moments, the nights where you felt like the only two people in the world. They just build a fragile scaffold over it all, a flimsy way of holding up what’s already crumbling. Dating. On a break. Dating again. Friends. They pile on top of one another like a pathetic plaster over the hurt of what you wished things could be. 

“Right,” you said finally, the word brittle and sharp as it escapes your lips. Your voice was hollow as your eyes met his, daring him to flinch. “So I guess that means I can’t expect anything from you, right? No decency, no consideration, no�� nothing. Because we’re not in a relationship. We’ve never been in a relationship. Right?”

“Don’t,” Spencer said quietly, almost pleading now. “That’s not fair. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear what this is,” you said, standing from the table, your hands trembling as you gathered your things. 

“Wait,” he said, standing too, “You don’t have to—”

“And by the way, Spence,” you cut him off, reaching into your bag and slamming the extra key he’d given you months ago onto the table. It clattered louder than you expected, echoing in the tense silence between you. “You can have this back. Because last I checked, friends don’t have keys to each other’s apartments.” You were acutely aware of the venom dripping in your voice but you pressed on, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “And thanks for the flowers, but I don’t think friends go out of their way to buy a bouquet to make up for every friendly dinner they miss.” You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t look at his face, didn’t want to see whatever expression he was wearing. 

But the satisfaction of that slam felt distant now. You think back fondly of the girl who had made her point so clear, so definitive. A line drawn in the sand. But winds blow and sand moves. That girl seems like a lifetime away from the girl you are now—the one lying here, beside him, again.

Spencer stirs beside you, a quiet sigh escaping his lips, and your breath hitches. You don’t want him to wake up. Because if—when he does, you know he’ll leave. But until then, in this moment of temporary serenity, you can pretend it doesn’t matter. You can pretend it’s okay. You can pretend you’re okay. 

After all, Einstein said that time is relative. If he doesn’t wake up, the moment will never end, and maybe—just maybe—you can slow down time itself. You stare at the ceiling, letting the minutes tick past, each one stretching longer than the last.

Your thoughts drift back to what Spencer had said. Time moves slower for those in the jet.

Well, if your apartment is the sky, then this bed is the jet. In the quiet of this moment, his warmth beside you, the faint smell of him lingering on the pillow—this is where time bends. The rate at which time passes depends on the observer’s frame of reference. Maybe you can trick the universe, make these seconds stretch into hours. Maybe, if you stay still enough, think hard enough, the world outside won’t come knocking. You can freeze this bubble of peace.

But the illusion is tenuous, and reality looms like turbulence on the horizon. Time doesn’t truly stop, you know that, we’re all forced to move on along with it. They say time waits for no man—least of all a broken-hearted girl. The clock keeps ticking, indifferent to your longing. Sooner or later, he’ll wake, and the bubble will burst.

You wonder how long you can keep this up. You’d just been talking earlier tonight, telling each other what had happened in the days you hadn’t spoken since the argument. The words had come easier than you expected, though none of them seemed to solve anything. Spencer had fallen asleep mid-sentence, right as you were recounting something trivial about your day. His exhaustion was written all over his face—the heavy pull of his eyelids, the way his head tilted slightly toward you before finally giving in. You’d paused, watching him, and the words you were about to say dissolved into silence. You hadn’t wanted to wake him.

The old you would’ve been angry, the frustration bubbling up into sharp words and accusations. The fight was always the same, well-rehearsed and raw: You always do this. I’m sorry. When are you not? I missed you. Then why won’t you stay? You know I can’t. You can. I can’t. It was less of a conversation and more of a script. It had long since stopped being about what either of you said; it was about how you said it and where it always led. It would’ve ended in a fight, Spencer’s guilt countered by your hurt, spiralling into a familiar standoff with no real resolution. 

But that was the old you. She’d had more fight in her, more fire to demand the things she felt she deserved. That fire has dimmed now, not extinguished, but banked low and steady, like you’ve learned to ration it. It’s not that the frustration has disappeared—it lingers, an ache beneath the surface—but you’ve stopped letting it boil over. Deep down, you know the real reason you didn’t start a fight tonight. It’s not just that you’re tired of fighting, though you are. It’s that you don’t know how much fight he still has in him. You don’t know if one more argument, one more crack in this fragile thing between you, will be the thing that makes him walk away for good.

And you’re not ready to find out.

So you let it slide. Not because you want to, but because you can. You’ve told yourself you’re strong enough to carry it—to make up the weight of his distance, his exhaustion, his inability to give you what you need. You let him sleep, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and you tell yourself it’s enough. 

But Spencer shifts again, and this time his eyes flutter open. You freeze, your body tense, as if staying perfectly still might undo his wakefulness. 

“Hey,” he murmurs groggily, his voice thick with sleep. His arm snakes over your waist, pulling you closer. For a brief, fleeting second, you allow yourself to relish the warmth of his touch, the illusion of intimacy.

Then his hand moves. He’s reaching—not for you, but for his watch on the bedside table.

He checks the time, squinting in the dim light filtering through the blinds. And you know. You know what’s coming next. 

“I should go.” he says softly, his arm already retreating from where it had rested over your waist. He pushes himself up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

You sit up slightly, the sheets pooling around you, and force a small smile. “Okay” you murmur, the words feeling hollow even as they leave your lips.

Spencer’s already out of bed, reaching for his shirt and bag. The routine feels mechanical, practiced—a series of motions he’s repeated so many times it barely registers as something that could hurt you. He pulls the shirt over his head, adjusts the strap on his bag, and leans down to kiss your forehead. Friends, as if. You think.

It’s a fleeting gesture, a touch that’s supposed to mean something but feels more like a formality now. More perfunctory than tender.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” he says as he straightens, glancing at his watch like he’s late for something more important. “You should’ve woken me up.”

You shake your head silently, not trusting that your thoughts won’t betray you. Don’t wake up. Don’t leave me. Don’t go. Instead you settle for, “You were tired. You should get some rest.” The weight in your chest feels unbearable but you press your lips into a tight, strained smile anyways. A silent permission for him to leave.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Drive safe,” you say quietly as you walk him to the door.

“I’ll text you?” he offers, already halfway out.

“Okay,” you reply, the word barely audible.

And then he’s gone.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoes in the quiet of your apartment, final and unrelenting. You stand there for a moment, staring at the door as if willing it to open again, as if hoping he might turn around and come back. You know he won’t. 

You turn and lean against the wall, the cool surface grounding you, a poor substitute for the warmth that was just beside you. The apartment feels colder, emptier now, the silence deafening. The clock on the wall ticks forward, oblivious to your grief, dragging you further away from the moment he was just here. You feel stuck in place, a reluctant passenger watching the world rush forward while you’re left behind, stranded.

You think back to what Einstein had said and you think he’s got it all wrong. How if one observer moves at the speed of light, time will slow down for them. Because no matter how tightly you try to hold on, the jet doesn’t slow down. It won’t wait for you. The jet will keep moving forward, unrelenting, and him along with it. With or without you.

And as you stand alone in the stillness he’s left behind, you realize it’s always been without you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[teaboot]

How do Canadian schools teach about indigenous Canadian history and culture? -a curious USAmerican

In my experience we learned about colonization at the same time as we learned about the formation of Canada. At first it was "European settlers came and pushed out the indigenous population", then in the higher grades we learned more about the how and the why.

For example, how carts full of men with rifles would ride around shooting Buffalo, then leaving the meat on the ground to rot, because "a dead Buffalo is a dead indian", which was so fanatical it almost wiped out wild Buffalo entirely

Also how Canadian settlers were lured in with beautiful hand-painted advertisements for cheap, beautiful, fertile land that was unpopulated and perfect, if only you'd sail over with your entire family and a pocket full of seeds- only to be met with scared, confused, and angry lawful inhabitants already run out of ten other places, and frigid winters, and rocky, forested, undeveloped dirt.

also, smallpox blankets, where "gifts" of blankets infected with smallpox were intentionally given out

And treaty violations- Either ignoring written agreements entirely, or buying them out at insanely low prices and lying about the value, or trading for farming equipment that they couldn't use because they weren't farmers.

Then in the first world war, where they told indigenous peoples here that they'd be granted Canadian citizenship if they enlisted

To Residential schools, which was straight up stealing kids for slavery, indoctrination, and medical experiments

But we also covered the building of the Canadian Railway in which Chinese immigrants were lowered into ravines with dynamite to blow out paths through the mountain for pennies on the dollar

And the Alberta Sterilization Act, where it was lawful and routine procedure to sterilize women of colour and neurodivergent people without their awareness or consent after giving birth or undergoing unrelated surgeries

But I'm rambling.

We kind of learned Aboriginal history at the same time as everything else? Like. This is when Canada was made, and this is how it was done. Now we'll read a book about someone who lived through it, and we'll write a book report. And now a documentary, and now a paper about the documentary. Onto the next unit.

And starting I think in grade 10 our English track was split between English and Aboriginals English, where you could choose to do the standard curriculum or do the same basic knowledge stuff with a focus on Aboriginal perspectives and literature. (I did that one, we read Three Day's Road and Diary Of A Part-Time Indian, and a few other titles I don't remember.)

There was also a lunch room for the Aboriginal Culture Studies where Aboriginal kids could hang out at lunch time if they wanted, full of art and projects and stuff. They'd play music or videos sometimes, that was cool

And one elective I took (not mandatory cirriculum) was a Kwakiutl course for basic Kwakwakaʼwakw language. Greetings, counting to a hundred, learning the modified alphabet, animals, etc. Still comes in handy sometimes at large gatherings cause they usually start with a land recognition thanking whoever's land we're on, with a few thanks and welcomes in their language.

And like- when I was in the US it was so weird, cause here we have Totem poles and longhouses and murals all over and yall... don't? Like there is a very distinct lack of Aboriginal art in your public spaces, at least in the areas I've been

My ex-stepfather, who was American, brought his son out once, and he was so excited to "see real indians" and was legitimately shocked to learn that there weren't many teepees to be found on the northwest coast, and was even *more* shocked when we told him that you have Aboriginal people back home too, bud. Your Aboriginal people are also named "Mike" snd "Vicky" and work as assistant manager at best buy.

If you'd ask me, I'd say that the primary difference is that USAmerica (from what I've seen, and ALSO in entirely too much of Canada) treats our European and Aboriginal conflicts as history, something that's tragic but over, like the extinction of the mammoths, instead of like. An ongoing thing involving people who are alive and numerous and right fucking here

But at the end of the day, I'm white, and there are plenty of actual Aboriginal people who are speaking out and saying much more meaningful things than I can

So I'm just gonna pass on a quote from my Stepmum, who's Cree, that's stuck with me since she said it:

"You see how they treat Mexicans in America? That's how they treat us here. Indians are the Mexicans of Canada."

[dr3amfyr-e]

crybaby - j.v. ( w. 5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. again. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ childhood-friends-to-lovers. someone said idiots in love, and yes! modern au. everyone lives au. liberal usage of the em-dash. foul language. pushing the rhaenicent agenda. an incredible amount of yearning and pining. mention of reader's hair. mentions of anxiety. reader has a breakdown in semi-public. subplot where reader is sick. reader is so down bad its crazy. targ-tower cameo! aemond bitter af and for no reason. wrote a bit of dialogue that is so foul but i only realized it after i typed it and its not being taken out. luke is so little brother coded. i directly quote a serial romance novel thats so cringe. part one here. ⎯ ୧

can be read stand-alone, but theres a lot of context in part one !! thank u all for being patient :3

“It's called Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature.”

Looking up from your twelve-page study guide, you meet Jace’s bright gaze where he sits at the foot of your bed, “That sounds… complicated.”

He shrugs, long fingers brushing up through his thick curls, “I need to take it, it's cross-listed for literature and political science so I’ll get credit for both. I think it’ll be interesting, plus if you take it too…” He leans a little closer, grinning in your face. 

“Send it to me,” You reply, highlighting a section in the packet about climate change and its impact on migratory birds in pretty pink ink.

You promise to look it up, to get back to him later, but it's hollow and you know it. He's already given you that pretty smile, flashed his dimples and stared down at you with his dark eyes — your grave has been dug. You will take  Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature and read pages of boring political theory because Jace asked and Jace has you wrapped around his finger.

He shifts on the mattress, lying down on his front and scooting decidedly closer to you. His laptop is open in front of him, eyes trained on the screen through his glasses, perusing the course catalogue for the spring semester. 

“Isn’t it a bit late to pick classes?” You ask, stretching your legs out in front of you, “It's December, next semester is in, like, four weeks.” 

Jace is a perfectionist, a pre-planning freak who has three calendars: a planner that he carries everywhere, a big desk calendar at his apartment for easy access while studying, and his digital calendar. Its colour coded — he has a browser extension that allows him to make events on his Google Calendar any colour. So, it's very unlike Jace, who does his schoolwork the night it's assigned, to pick classes two months after registration opened. 

“I just like to look,” He replies, “This class is Wednesday and Friday, from ten to eleven o’clock. Does that work for you?” 

You nod, because it will work. You’ll rearrange your schedule if need be. It's pathetic, really, how easily he gets you to do things.

It's quiet for a while, Jace scrolling on his computer while you fill in your study packet. 

“When is your last final?” He asks. 

“Next Friday.”

“So you’re leaving Friday?”

“No, my train ticket is for Saturday.”

“Damn, I’m leaving Tuesday,” A lull, “When do you come back.”

“The Sunday before classes start. You?”

“That Friday.”

The conversation continues like that, mindless and short but so very comfortable. It's often like that anymore, with little eye contact and no real attention paid to each other besides the brief words — and, not in the way that feels awkward or tense, but in the way that old married couples chat over morning coffee and the paper. Maybe it's the lifetime of friendship that does it, or that you spend more nights in his apartment than your dorm.

You see each other twice more before the holiday. 

The Monday that exams start you meet at the coffee shop that became yours in the first two weeks of school. The middle table by the bay window is where you always sit, and the barista has Jace’s order memorised — because he gets the same drink every time you come, a caramel macchiato. 

He groans into his hands, ignoring both his coffee and his half of the cheese danish that you’d split, “I feel like I did poorly.”

He’d suffered through days upon days of studying for the political science exam that had plagued him all semester, to be taken today at noon. It was a three-hour exam, mostly multiple choice with two essay questions. You’d been with him through the worst of the studying: in total, forty-seven pages of research papers and scholarly articles printed at the library, and six books varying from fifty to five-hundred pages. He had filled up a plethora of pages in his notebook, and at least three in a word document. There was no study guide, just a list of broad topics. He was facing the consequences of taking a 300-level class in his first semester. 

“Jace, darling,” You reply, reaching out to press a reassuring hand to his arm, “You studied for that test more than I think anyone in the history of this school has studied for anything ever. If you didn’t do well, that's a reflection of the professor, not you.”

He doesn’t seem to want much to do with that rationale, sliding his hands down to rest his chin in them. He's pouting, glasses sliding down his nose as he looks at you through his lashes, “What if I failed?”

“Then… I don’t know,” You reach up to pull one of his hands down to the table, twining your fingers, “Then you failed, and that sucks. But you’re sporting a solid one-hundred in the class now, you could get a fifty on that exam and still end with…” Quick mental math. If the exam is weighted at twenty percent, then, “- a ninety percent.”

“An A-minus,” He whines. 

“Jace,” You chastise sweetly. 

He huffs, his pouty stare turning into a glare with no heat behind it. He wants to whine and mope about exams. What harm does it truly do?

You push his half of the danish towards him, “It's over now. You studied hard, you did your best. There's nothing you can do right now to change your grade. You can’t control it, so there is no point in trying to.”

Jace likes control, he likes to be in control. A psychological idiosyncrasy plaguing many eldest children and children of divorce. The quintessential therapist's advice about what you can control and what you can’t control had been revolutionary for him during one of his bi-weekly appointments — the whole family had them, Rhaenyra and Alicent were big proponents. 

Regurgitating that to him, no matter how much it makes you feel like you’re giving unsolicited advice, always works wonders to ground him when he's disproportionately anxious over something out of his control.

He deposits you at your dorm with a kiss on the cheek that evening.

On the Friday you leave school, Jace drives you to the train station. He packs your bags into the backseat of his hoity-toity hybrid Porsche Panamera and lets you play with his radio all the way there.

You’re an hour early to the station — Jace is early everywhere. He sets his paper copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings on his lap in the little lobby, slipping his finger into the book where it is dogeared. Yet, he makes no effort to read, his attention solely on you. 

“A month is ages to be apart,” He says, voice soft and thoughtful.

You scoot a little closer, elbows knocking, “It won’t be so bad. We can talk.”

His watch glimmers in the overhead light of the train station when one of his hands settles safely on your knee. Small white face, silver hands and framing, thin black band — it's Gucci, something his mother wore in the nineties. His fingers trace the edge of your skirt, and in the silence begin to smooth down your kneecap to your shin. 

“You must be cold,” He murmurs, thumbing the material of your nylons. 

“I’m alright.”

Your train is called before he can shed his coat and drape it over your lap, as he so desperately wishes to do. 

He hugs you, tightly, before you board. He's so warm, his black jumper is soft against your cheek, and you can smell his cologne where your nose lands in the crook of his neck — patchouli and something earthy and fresh, Brutus Oroto Parisi. 

“God, I’ll miss you.”

One morning, a week into the holiday, a letter shows up. It’s written in the black pen he’s so fond of, and you admire his neat penmanship as you read the detailed account of his holiday celebration. You smell the expensive cologne he wears and recognize Helaena’s handmade stationery. He gives you a sheepish smile over a FaceTime call when you bring it up. 

When you see him on campus again in January, not much has changed. You're both in your respective majors, he lives in the nicest building on campus, and he hates your roommate. She’s taken to referring to him as your boyfriend; you correct her the first two times and then give up. 

Classes are harder with the emotional slump attached to winter. You talk to Jace often, but don’t see much of each other outside of class. And then you get sick. 

Banging. Loud banging. It wakes you up from your fever-and-Doxylamine induced sleep. Per college dorms, your first assumption is that it's your loud-ass fucking neighbor! Again! Having bunk-bed-breaking sex like she does every Thursday night with her ugly ass boyfriend who radiates such a strong odor of weed and computer science that you can get a noseful of him a meter down the hall. Doxylamine tends to make people agitated.

Before you can weakly pound on the cinderblock wall, there's a muffled call of your name. It comes from the hallway, and it's followed by another bang — which you begin to realize is knocking. 

Crawling out of bed, you blearily pad to the door. You don’t have to peer through the peephole to see who it is. The voice is soft, low, and endearingly posh. Clearly, it’s- 

“Jace?” You grumble when you open the door, mind foggy from the cold medicine.

It's early January in London, and the beige cashmere jumper he wears isn’t warm enough — it's a woman’s cut, but it fits him like Loro Piana himself measured the fabric to Jace’s body. The cold weather is visible in the flush of his face, the snowflakes that linger in his hair.

“I’ve been calling you for hours, darling,” He speaks gently, voice heavy with concern. 

You blink at him, not responding with anything more than a little, oh.

His hand finds your upper arm, leaning closer to hone your attention, “You look awful,” He guides the both of you back into your dorm room, “Are you unwell?” 

You nod, “My roommate brought it back from holiday break.”

Jace huffs sharply, mumbling something to himself, no doubt about your roommate. He walks you back towards your bed, gently pushing you to sit.

“Have you been to the clinic?” He asks, one hand coming to cup your cheek.

“Twice.”

His hand slides up, finers gracing your temple to push some stray hair behind your ear, and then landing upon your brow bone, “You’re burning up.”

It's quiet for a few moments, hands retracing back down to cradle your face as he inspects you. He's focused, calculating and planning in his head — it's an energy you’ve seen him embody countless times, assessing the scraped knees, bruised foreheads, and aching tummies of his younger siblings. 

“What time is it?” You ask, after watching him bustle about your room for about thirty minutes. He's such a mother hen: making tea, procuring medication you didn’t know you had, wetting flannels, adjusting your blankets.

“Ten,” He replies, settling into your twin-size bed next to you and pressing a mug of piping hot tea into your waiting hands, “It's peppermint. I wish you kept chamomile, or really anything herbal.”

You disregard his latter comment, resting your head on his shoulder. Soft. As an eighteen-hundred pound jumper should be, “You came here in the dead of night? In the snow?”

He slides his legs under the blankets, sinking down into your pile of pillows and stuffed animals and pulling you closer, “I took the bus part of the way. Plus-” His hand drags across your shoulders, “I needed to see you. You missed class today, and I haven’t heard from you since Monday. I had nearly driven myself to the brink of madness with worry.”

You groan, turning your head to bump your forehead into the jut of his shoulder, “I hadn’t thought about class,” Bump, bump, bump goes your head, “Did I miss anything important?”

He hums, looking down at you, “We had to turn in a paragraph detailing our preliminary ideas for that big Arthashastra comparison essay. Doctor Dunlavey loved your connections to the political system in The Silmarillion.”

What? You lift your head to look up at him, “I didn’t do the assignment.” You had been too sick to think about school-work.

“Well,” He shrugs, lightly enough that it doesn’t disturb you, “Who's to say? He doesn’t have your handwriting memorized, he has hundreds of students.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, “Thank you, Jace.”

He sleeps in your bed that night, insisting that you’re sick enough that someone needs to keep an eye on you. Dressed in a loose pair of your pajamas, he curls around you in the tiny bed. His body spills warmth through both of your sleepwear, and maybe it's the fever or the cold cinderblock of your dorm but there is no physical proximity that quantifies as close enough to him. 

He's gone by the time you wake up, late into the morning. Naught of him but a text.

i had to go to class and i didn’t want to wake you up, sorry

be back later x 

And true to his word, he arrives that evening with a travel mug of lavender chamomile tea and the cough medicine he makes Luke take when he’s sick. It’s so bad that you nearly choke at the taste, but he leaves the bottle and you’re better by the end of the week. 

You’re both more diligent in seeing each other going forwards.

Your phone rings one day in mid-February — a silly picture of Jace in a bright red hat, one of Helaena’s, pops up on your screen, followed by the affectionate nickname he’s saved as in your phone. 

You even get a chance to say hello, his voice immediately bursting through the speaker, “Do you have plans for the third weekend of February?” 

You think through your mental calendar, “I don’t believe so, nothing that takes priority over you at least. Why do you ask?”

You can hear him fiddling with something on the other line, the clicking of a pen echoing from his bedroom to your ear. Every year his family hosts a gala, raising an ungodly amount of money for their charitable cause by selling high-priced tickets. And everyone comes, because the Targaryens are the royalty of the one percent. 

“Come?” He asks, “Please, I think you’ll enjoy it. Plus, it’ll be like a little holiday for us.”

And again — you’re wrapped so tightly around Jace’s finger that you don’t even think before saying yes. You don’t think through many things regarding this, which lands you in a guest bedroom in Rhaenyra and Alicent’s massive London estate.

In truth, it's not a guest bedroom, but rather Daeron’s old room. It is decorated with posters of classical musicians and string instrument charts; vinyls line his bookshelf, alphabetized and all orchestral. Daeron stays with Alicent’s brother in Paris during the academic year, attending a private secondary school with a music-based curriculum. He had been practically a prodigy at the violin. 

The room is sandwiched between Luke and Aemond, directly across the hall from Jace. There are a number of guest rooms in the house, but they’re all the next floor up and Jace had insisted that you stay across the hall from him. It does feel a bit odd to change into your pretty black dress while staring down a battalion of Daeron’s music awards and a very large framed photo of Otto Hightower. 

“I don’t mean to be judgemental, but who keeps a photo like this of their grandfather in their bedroom?” You ask, adjusting the straps of the dress, “I would understand if he was dead, but Otto is… not.”

Jace laughs from where he lounges on the bed, scrolling through something on his phone. After nearly two decades of friendship, there's little that hasn’t been seen and very lax boundaries. He had watched you change innumerable times before, but today his eyes are decidedly diverted onto his phone. 

“Good?” You ask, turning from the mirror, and giving him a spin. 

Jace stares, uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes are trained on you, scanning the dress, mouth closed and brows drawn so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well. He's a bit rigid where he’s propped up on the bed, clearly contemplating. 

After an unnerving amount of time, really only five seconds, he speaks, “You look nice.”

It's… odd. Measured and closed off, a complex thought that you don’t have the context from his internal monologue to understand. Did he not like it? Or was he stunned into silence by your sheer, Goddess-like beauty?

“We match,” You offer meekly, gesturing between your dress and his black suit jacket and slacks. A lame comparison. Nearly everyone at these events wore black.

But he smiles nonetheless, a genuine smile that shows off his pretty dimples, “We do.” 

Jacaerys drives to the event, and you’re squished in the too-small backseat of his car, between Lucerys and Aemond. Aegon is in the passenger seat, talking incessantly, and Jace wishes he would shut up so he can think about the silky material of your dress in peace. 

It's a precarious set-up, truly. Jace drives a four-door, but it isn’t meant for six adolescents in formal attire. Aemond is stiff as a rod next to you, pointedly staring out the window and only interacting to bite back at anything Aegon says. Occasionally his bony elbow will bump your side or his knee will knock into yours, and he’ll pull away as if you’re red hot, shooting you a glanced glare. 

The radio is its own battle. Upon entering the car it had connected automatically to Jace’s phone, playing a few seconds of the theory podcast he had been listening to and earning a collective groan. Luke was quick to sync his phone instead, the Ramones brash drums blaring from the speakers. Aegon changed it to chav rap. It ensued like that for the whole car ride — punk rock to rap, volume up and down and up and down. 

The ballroom is glorious. All high domed ceilings and white crown moulding and gold leaf details. There’s a massive chandelier in the centre of the room that drips with perfect crystals. An astonishing world it was that Jacaerys grew up in. Overwhelming 

“Are you alright?” Jace murmurs, hooking his arm into yours as your shoes click against the marble floor. He can sense your unease, feel it in the way your forearm tenses at any particularly fast movement or loud aristocratic laugh. 

“Fine,” You assure, shooting him a smile.

Of course, Jace doesn’t buy it. Your pretty smile doesn’t reach your eyes, it's tighter than normal. He knows things like that — he’ll never admit it, but every one of your microexpressions are programmed into his brain. 

Arm-in-arm the pair of you reach a semi-circle near the bar. Rhaenyra, Corlys, Luke, and Helaena. The boring financial drivel meets your ears from several paces away, and it's mind-numbing up close. 

‘I don’t think you can quantify the inherent need for biodegradable fuel in those metrics.’ 

‘Well, I would argue that you can. In such a high output industry you have to calculate the necessity for every pence.’ 

You nod along, putting up a convincing facade of business intellect while Jace adds in expertly to the dull conversation. Helaena, to Rhaenyra’s left, is about as interested as you.

It's only when Otto breaks into the group, and the conversation shifts from the most cost effective biofuel to is shipping on a mass scale a pertinent trade in post-Brexit England that you’re pulled away. Though not by Jace, who has become more engrossed in the conversation than he is in you, but by Luke. 

“You seemed to be drowning,” He smiles up at you, offering his arm. 

You take it gladly, “Thank you for saving me.”

“Don’t worry, I was drowning too.”

Activity on the balcony is scant; one lady sits in a metal chair sipping a glass of champagne, an elderly man stands at the far end of the railing peering at the London cityscape down below. Luke leans his elbows against the rail, propping his head up in one hand. 

“How's college?” He asks, looking up at you.

You hum, leaning down to mimic his posture, “Oh, it's fine. It's a lot of work,” There's a lull in the conversation as the two of you bask in the lack of hustle and bustle, “Have you started thinking about college yet?”

He shrugs noncommittal, picking at the nails of his free hand. He's very quiet for a while, and you allow him that because every life decision feels massive and dire at fifteen. When he does speak, his voice is soft, “Grandfather said that he wanted me to inherit his business after my dad, but now mum is talking about me being her successor.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“Jace doesn’t want to inherit.”

“I know.”

“He wants to be a lawyer, like Alicent. And I don’t blame him, but that puts a lot of pressure on me. Because now it's like I have mum and grandpa expecting me to be great, and I stand in their conversations and I don’t understand half of what they’re saying-”

“Luke,” You softly interject in his rushed rant, running a careful hand down his arm, “No one expects you to be perfect. You’re still a child, you’ve not even taken your A-Levels yet.

He nods solemnly.

“I know that it feels like the weight of your family legacy rests on your shoulders, but if you also defer inheritance it will be just fine. You have, what — like, ten siblings?” He gives a little laugh at your reasoning, “Plus, Laena and Baela, and Rhaena who could take over after your father.”

Luke nods, “I suppose you’re right,” He elbows you gently in the ribs, “You’re pretty wise, you know?”

It's your turn to laugh, nudging him back, “So, what do you want to do after school?”

He traces mindless little stars into the railing, “I’d really like to study music. Some of my friends and I have been playing together, and we’re talking about starting a band.”

“That's really cool, Luke!” You beam.

He smiles sheepishly, “I mean, it's nothing grand yet. We haven’t decided a name, and we’re a bit at odds about a genre.”

“Well,” You smile, “When you lot play, let me know. I’ll be in the front row!”

The calm quiet is broken when the door to the balcony opens, “Luke, darling. Mummy needs you.”

You both turn to see Alicent peering out of the doorway, body still inside the ballroom. Her arm slips around your waist in an endearingly maternal way as the three of you make your way back towards Rhaenyra.

“How are you, lovely?” She asks, rubbing between your shoulder blades. Her pear and saffron perfume, Guidance Amouage, floods your olfactory senses.

“Well!” You reply, leaning into her warm touch, “This is all so wonderful. I’m very glad Jace invited me.”

She smiles back, “Me too.”

Being a guest of the host by extension, you’re required to stay for the duration. So, you watch people dissipate as your energy dwindles. By the end of the night, nearly eleven, your upright position relies heavily on the support of Jace’s arm around your waist as he chats with his grandmother, Rhaenys. Politics, environmentalism, blah blah, drivel, drivel. You might do more to participate if the five hours of nonstop interaction and three glasses of champagne weren’t pulling your body towards the ground, but you settle for little engaged nods. 

The car is less crowded on the way back — much to everyone's chagrin, Aegon called an Uber halfway through the gala. You’re allowed the front seat, and spend most of the ride dozing off to the tune of The Velvet Underground & Nico, 1967.

You sleep in Jace’s bed that night, despite your own quarters being directly across the hall.

When Jacaerys realises he’s in love with you, you’re crying in the library stairwell. 

“I’m fucked,” You sob into your hands, shoulders shaking with the force of your misery. 

You had been studying together, preparing for the rest of your midterms when a notification came through your school email with an updated exam grade. 

Sheer terror, cold unyielding panic that starts just below your throat and twists its way down your spine and back into your lower intestine. The grade was a forty-two, which brought your total grade down to a fifty-eight. 

In the least melodramatic way possible you’d shut your laptop and told Jace you were going to the bathroom. But the bathroom was at the back of the room, and you had gone to the hallway — plus, he just knew better.

Gentle footsteps, you see his Sambas first and hear the crack of his knees as he sits next to you on the stair step. 

“You’re not fucked,” He murmurs back, his voice low and soft. One arm comes around your stooped shoulders, the soft fabric of his cardigan brushing the back of your neck, “It's only midterms, angel. This is nothing that you can’t reverse.”

The first thought in your head is easy for perpetual straight-A student Jacaerys to say, the next thought is much more self-pitying. You don't voice either, head falling to your knees.

You aren’t allowed to stay like that for long, firm hands come to your arms and pull you up. From there, they run slowly up and down — from your scapula to your bicep, over and over. And his chest blooms with warmth when you respond well, calming down. He runs his thumb over the soft skin underneath your eyes — first the left eye, and then the right — brushing away tears. 

Jace’s typical form of comfort plays on his lifelong role as eldest sibling; it's usually coddling, while he mothers you and tries to problem solve. This is not that. It's something deeper, more genuinely concerned. He isn’t trying to solve your ailment, he just wants to make you feel better. 

“It's just a grade,” He soothes, “It's just an exam, a midterm. This makes up maybe ten percent of your overall grade, and I know that you do well on everything else,” His head is cocked, looking at you so sweetly, “I bet it only looks this bad because it's mid-semester, your score will go up in a few weeks.”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut as the last stray tears fall. 

“You’re alright,” He whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek, “Hm?”

Jace is alone that night, Montblanc pen held in perfect writing posture as he journals — an exercise recommended by his mother. The highlights include:

It was gutting. I just wanted to make it better & I didn’t know how. 

Inappropriate time to kiss her face, I couldn’t think of anything else.

I’m usually so good at comfort and reassurance, I don’t know what's wrong with me. 

Fuck, I’m hopeless. 

Things feel different to me now. Not in a particularly bad sense, just different. Maybe it's the transition from childhood friendship to adult friendship. 

I read that god awful serial romance novel last holiday because grandma left it sitting out – A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kelypas. And I remember this passage like ‘I want you under me. I know you deserve more respect than that.’

I found it, “I want you under me. On your back. / I’m sorry. You deserve more respect than that. But I can’t stop thinking of it. Your arms and legs around me. Your mouth, open for my kisses. I need too much of you. A lifetime of nights spent between your thighs wouldn't be enough. / I want to talk with you forever. I remember every word you’ve ever said to me. / If only I could visit you as a foreigner goes into a new country, learn the language of you, wander past all borders into every private and secret place. I would stay forever. I would become a citizen of you.”

I’ve been thinking of that passage, like it's playing aloud in my head. What does that mean? 

I don’t particularly feel that for her. 

I get some of it, like ‘I want to talk with you forever, I remember every word you say.’ Anything else though, the romantic bits, I don’t. 

Though, the kissing her face was new. It was compulsive almost, like I had to do it. 

Need to call mum. 

“Is it fair to you?” Rhaenyra asks through the phone. It's late, past the time she puts the little kids to bed, but she's never not answered a phone call from one of her children. 

Jace sighs, worrying one of the buttons on his cardigan, “What if it ruins everything?” He asks, “What if I tell her, and she never speaks to me again and then I lose my best friend?”

“But is that fair, Jace?” She reasons, “To go about a lifetime of friendship keeping this massive secret from her? It won’t go away, my love. It will fester and fester and eat at you for as long as you know her.”

He doesn’t have a good reply to that.

“Jacaerys, I spent twenty years pining after my best friend — so long that I had time to marry, have three children, and divorce. I spent years and years suffocating in regret, because I missed my chance to tell her and build a life. I got another chance, which is very rare, and it was no less scary that time. But, I knew that if I didn’t go for it then I would never have the opportunity to live the life I had spent my entire adolescence dreaming of,” Rhaenyra sighs, “My sweet boy, don’t let this slip away because you’re afraid.” 

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, he thinks. 

When you accompany him home for summer break, hand in hand, it's with a new depth to your relationship. ‘Tis better to have loved.

tags<3 @one-big-fangirl

check out my event ! ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮

[yua0ra]

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐲

WARNINGS: theatrelover!theo x cinemalover!fem!reader, sex, porn with plot, semi-public sex, p in v, raw, cursing, hot, fingering, NSFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | minors please dni. smut 🂡

SUMMARY: In the cool of the evening, when everything is getting kind of groovy, you call me up and ask me: would I like to go with you and see a movie? First I say "No, Ive got some plans for tonight." But then I stop and say "All right".

WC: 6.3K AN: HAHAHAH finally, after what it seemed like a fucking eternity, I bring you... Theodore SMUT. Everyone say thank you! JK, enjoy it, you whore. <3

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

Theodore Nott had an insufferable, borderline pretentious love for contemporary theatre. He would wax poetic about the brilliance of Jez Butterworth, the raw grit of Simon Stephens, and the immersive absurdity of Caryl Churchill. You, on the other hand, were a cinephile at heart—Tarantino’s razor-sharp dialogue, Scorsese’s masterful character studies, Nolan’s intricate narratives. You could analyze Pulp Fiction’s non-linear structure just as easily as you could tear apart The Wolf of Wall Street’s moral ambiguity.

Despite your differences, you both had an undeniable appreciation for storytelling—whether on stage or on screen. And naturally, that appreciation often turned into petty arguments.

"You can’t tell me The Ferryman isn’t one of the best pieces of theatre in the last decade," Theo scoffed one day, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please. Jez is just doing modern-day Greek tragedy with a sprinkle of Irish drama. It’s compelling, sure, but it’s not reinventing the wheel."

Theo narrowed his eyes. "And what, you think Tarantino’s constant foot fetish and non-linear storytelling is revolutionary?"

"At least Tarantino has mastered the art of tension," you shot back. "The Sicilian scene in True Romance? The diner scene in Reservoir Dogs? You don’t need an elaborate set change or monologues drenched in metaphor—you just need two people in a room and a damn good script."

"That’s rich coming from someone who praises Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller—two of the most dialogue-heavy playwrights in existence."

Your friends groaned. They were used to this. You and Theo could argue for hours over narrative devices, symbolism, and whether theatre or cinema was the superior storytelling medium.

But one afternoon, during an extracurricular drama lesson, the argument escalated to a level that left everyone in the room speechless.

The class was discussing adaptations—how literature, theatre, and film intertwined.

Theo, ever the theatrical purist, argued, “Plays allow for the rawest human emotion. There are no camera tricks, no fancy editing—just an actor on stage, exposed. That’s why theatre will always have a deeper emotional impact than cinema.”

You weren’t about to let that slide. “That’s a wildly limited way of thinking. Film is just as much a visual art as it is a narrative one. Sure, theatre relies on the performer’s ability to hold an audience, but film can show a character’s internal struggle without a single word of dialogue. A glance, a shift in lighting—those subtle details can hit just as hard as a monologue.”

Theo tilted his head, amused. “Alright, then. A Streetcar Named Desire—would you rather see it on stage or in Elia Kazan’s adaptation?”

You smirked. “Kazan’s adaptation is brilliant, but you’re proving my point. The film version utilizes Marlon Brando’s raw, visceral performance while also using close-ups, sound design, and visual metaphors to enhance it. Theatre is powerful, but it’s limited by its medium. Film has more tools.”

The tension in the room thickened as you both volleyed back and forth—citing everything from Angels in America to Taxi Driver, from Arthur Miller’s The Crucible to Nolan’s Memento.

By the time you both stopped to take a breath, the rest of the class was staring at you like they had just witnessed an academic duel to the death.

Blaise, looking mildly concerned, muttered, “I think you two just argued in a language no one else speaks.” Pansy blinked and slowly nodded her head, “did you just name-drop fifteen different playwrights and directors in the span of five minutes?”

Draco, unimpressed, simply said, “I came here to watch people pretend to be trees, not to witness whatever that was.”

You and Theo exchanged a look. And, despite everything, a slow grin spread across both your faces. Because for all the arguing, all the differences, and all the passionate debates—you loved every second of it.

- ★、

The weekend had finally arrived, and with it, your much-anticipated cinema trip. It wasn’t every day you got to slip away from the castle, apparate to London, and immerse yourself in the warm glow of a dimly lit theatre, the smell of buttered popcorn thick in the air. Tonight’s screening? A Tarantino classic—Inglourious Basterds. You were practically buzzing with excitement as you stepped into the theatre, savoring the moment before the film began.

And then you saw him.

Theodore. Bloody. Nott.

Leaning against the concession stand, hands in his pockets, looking as if he belonged in some noir film with his perfectly tailored coat and unimpressed expression. His sharp gaze flicked over to you, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping closer. “Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak off to London alone for a late-night film screening. How rebellious.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t strike me as the type to appreciate Tarantino. What are you doing here, Theo?”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “What, am I not allowed to expand my horizons? Maybe I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. You’ve spent weeks slandering film in favor of theatre, and now you suddenly show up to a Tarantino movie of all things?”

Theo hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer, so close that the scent of his cologne—expensive and frustratingly good—filled your senses. “Maybe,” he mused, “I just enjoy riling you up.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was betraying you with its traitorous thump against your ribs. “Right. So you apparated to London, found this exact cinema, and happened to pick the same showing as me? Coincidence?”

His smirk deepened. “Perhaps.”

Before you could interrogate him further, the theatre doors opened, and people started filing inside. You exhaled, shaking your head. “You know what? I don’t care why you’re here. Just—don’t ruin the film for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, trailing after you.

You found your seat, sinking into the plush velvet, determined to ignore the fact that Theodore Nott had somehow ended up in the seat directly beside you. He stretched out, looking infuriatingly at ease, as if this hadn’t been some grand invasion of your sacred cinema time.

And then, as the lights dimmed and the first scene flickered onto the screen, Theo leaned in—just enough for his breath to ghost against your ear.

“If this film doesn’t impress me,” he whispered, “you owe me a ticket to the next play I pick.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze, and smirked. “Fine. But when you inevitably love it, you’re admitting I was right.”

Theodore just chuckled, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. “We’ll see.”

As the film unfolded on the screen, you found yourself hyperaware of Theodore’s presence beside you. It was ridiculous, really—how could one person occupy so much space without actually moving? 

His elbow rested dangerously close to yours on the armrest, his long legs stretched out in that careless way he always sat, as if the entire world was his to lounge in. 

You tried to focus on the movie, on the tense exchange between Landa and Perrier LaPadite, but Theo shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours, and suddenly, every bit of dialogue seemed to drown beneath the sound of your own heartbeat.

You weren’t sure when it happened—when the push and pull of your debates, the sharp edge of your banter, had morphed into something more charged, something that left a static hum in the air between you. 

Maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath every eye roll, every challenge, every smirk that lasted a second too long. And now, sitting here in the dim glow of the theatre, with flickering light casting shadows across his annoyingly perfect features, it was impossible to ignore.

Halfway through the film, Theo leaned in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Alright, I’ll admit it. The dialogue is brilliant.”

You smirked, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. “Told you.”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, a steady, maddening rhythm. “Still doesn’t mean it’s better than theatre.”

You turned your head slightly, lips curving in amusement. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Theo tilted his face toward you, his voice dropping lower, smoother. “Because film lets you hide. Close-ups, cuts, music—it manipulates how you feel. Theatre? It’s raw. No second takes. No distractions.” His eyes flickered over your face, lingering just a moment too long on your lips. “You can’t escape it.”

A shiver ran down your spine, though whether it was from his words or the way his voice curled around them, you weren’t entirely sure. You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus. “You call it hiding. I call it perspective. The camera lets you see things no audience member ever could—something intimate, something only you get to witness.”

Theo hummed, considering that. The tension between you had shifted into something heavier, something that pressed into the space between breaths. He was still close, close enough that you could catch the faintest scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from where his arm rested near yours. It would be so easy to lean in just a little more, to close that final inch between you.

And then, just as you were about to force yourself to sit back, to pretend none of this was affecting you, he moved.

Slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed against the back of your hand, the touch featherlight, testing. Your breath hitched, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you didn’t pull away. Theo, ever perceptive, took that as permission, his fingers shifting, tracing the delicate curve of your wrist.

“You’re… mad, Theo. You’re out of your mind,” you murmured, barely aware you had spoken the words aloud.

His lips quirked, but there was something darker in his gaze now, something that sent heat curling low in your stomach. “That’s right…,” he murmured, his fingers sliding between yours, “but you’re too, you haven’t moved.”

You knew you should say something—should tease him, should act unaffected—but all logic had abandoned you the moment his hand fully curled around yours. The room around you had disappeared, the film reduced to a distant hum in the background.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Theo lifted your intertwined hands, brushing his lips against the inside of your wrist. It was barely a kiss—more of a ghost of one—but it sent a shiver straight down your spine, igniting something electric in your veins.

Your breath hitched. “Theo—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice impossibly low, as if he was reading every thought racing through your mind. His thumb traced slow, teasing circles over your palm, his lips still hovering dangerously close to your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head slightly toward him, meeting his gaze through the dim flicker of the screen. “What if I don’t want to?”

His smirk deepened, but there was something softer there, something almost unreadable. For a moment, he just looked at you, as if memorizing every detail, before he finally whispered, “Then we might have a problem.”

And the worst part?

You wanted to find out just how much of a problem it could be.

The world outside of your little bubble had disappeared completely—the film playing on the screen, the murmur of the other audience members, the distant rustling of popcorn bags—it all faded into nothing. All that remained was Theodore, his touch burning into your skin, the weight of his gaze heavy as it flickered down to your lips.

His hand tightened ever so slightly around yours, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of your wrist, and you swore you felt your heartbeat stutter. There was something unbearably patient about the way he was looking at you, like he was waiting—waiting for you to pull away, to scoff and shove him off, to turn this into just another one of your never-ending debates. But you didn’t move.

Instead, you found yourself leaning in, the warmth between you growing thick, heavy. Your noses brushed—barely, just a whisper of contact—but it sent something electric crackling through your veins.

Theo exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. His voice was nothing more than a murmur, just for you. “You’re really not stopping me.”

You smirked, fingers tightening slightly around his. “I thought you liked risks.”

His lips caught yours in the next breath, slow at first—just a soft, testing press, as if he wasn’t entirely sure this was real. But then you sighed against his mouth, tilting your head slightly, and finally leaned in.

Theo let go of whatever restraint he had left. His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers pressing gently beneath your ear as he deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second.

He tasted faintly of Italian summer and something richer, something entirely him. His touch was both careful and possessive, like he was memorizing the shape of you beneath his fingertips. You felt yourself melt into it, the heat between you intensifying, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You barely noticed the way his thumb brushed over your cheek, the way he tilted your chin just slightly to kiss you deeper. Everything about it was intoxicating—the way he moved, the way he swallowed the quiet little sigh that escaped you, the way his fingers flexed against your skin like he didn’t want to let go.

Somewhere in the background, the movie continued playing—gunfire, sharp dialogue, the rise of a dramatic score—but it all blurred into nothing. All you could focus on was Theo, on the way he was kissing you like he’d been waiting for this, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulled away, his lips barely ghosting over yours, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, his fingers still cupping your jaw, his thumb tracing absent patterns over your skin.

You opened your eyes slowly, meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown, his lips slightly parted, and for the first time, Theodore Nott looked entirely, devastatingly undone.

A slow, lazy smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “Well,” he murmured, voice slightly rough. “I suppose I owe Tarantino some credit after all.”

You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes. “Unbelievable.”

He chuckled, fingers trailing down the side of your throat, as if he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you yet. “Admit it,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You liked that more than the film.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Jury’s still out.”

Theo smirked, his lips brushing yours again in a featherlight kiss, like a silent promise. “Then I guess I’ll just have to convince you.”

And as he pulls you back into another kiss, slow and deep and utterly devastating, you realise with absolute certainty—you were in trouble.

Theodore's hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, his lips moving with an urgency that steals your breath. He pulls you closer, eliminating any remaining distance between your bodies, his heart hammering against his ribs. 

His other hand splays across your lower back, pressing you flush against him as the kiss grows more heated, more demanding. He nips at your lower lip, his tongue soothing the sting before delving back into your mouth, stroking along yours in a dance that leaves you breathless. The cinema, the other people, the movie - it all disappears. There is only the two of you, lost in the passion of this stolen moment. 

When Theodore finally breaks the kiss, you're both left panting, your chests heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering open to gaze into yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. “Fuck..." he breathes, his voice ragged with desire.

And then, an act on impulse, a surge of primal instinct driving him. In one swift, fluid motion, he reaches under your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, settling you straddled on his lap. The sudden change in position startles you both, but the shock quickly melts into a shiver of pleasure as you feel the hard, muscular length of his thighs beneath you. 

The cinema has long since faded from your awareness; now there is only the two of you, the heat building between your bodies, the electricity crackling in the air. 

Theodore's hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh almost hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place. Your chest is pressed against his, and you can feel the pounding of his heart, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. 

His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light, blazing into yours with an intensity that makes your own pulse race. "Darling," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble. His hands move again up your back, one tangling in your hair while the other cups the back of your neck, pulling you into a searing, desperate kiss. 

The kiss is a clash of lips and tongues, a dance of passion and pent-up longing. It's a kiss that speaks of a hunger, a need, a desperation that can no longer be contained. Theodore kisses you like a man starved, like he is trying to devour you, to consume you, to make you a part of him.

Red faced, messy hair, you look up at him. “Sh-shit Theo, we shouldn’t be doing this here.” You quietly giggled.

Theodore chuckles softly at your giggle, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't stop his ministrations, his hands still roaming your curves with a familiar confidence. 

But he does lean back slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"Shh, shh, bella, what's the matter? Don't tell me you're getting shy on me now..." he teases, his voice a low murmur meant only for your ears. 

"We're just two lovers, lost in the moment. Surely there's no harm in that?" His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, his fingers tracing maddeningly slow circles on your skin. Your breath hitches at the touch, a fresh wave of goosebumps erupting across your flesh.

Theodore's eyes darken with lust as he feels your hips squirming against him, your plush rear rubbing against his hardening cock through the fabric of his trousers. 

A low, guttural groan escapes his lips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. His other hand slides up your side, his fingertips skimming the side of your breast, teasing you with the promise of his touch. 

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your flesh. "Gorgeous, you feel what you do to me, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice a low, husky growl. 

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach as your grip tightened on his coat. The way he spoke, all dark velvet and wicked amusement, made your head spin. You did feel it—the tension thrumming between you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way his fingers ghosted over your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. And Merlin, it was driving you insane.

Your breath hitched as you shifted against him, creating more friction, desperate for anything to relieve the ache building inside you. His sharp inhale, the barely restrained groan against your throat, sent a rush of satisfaction through you.

"Fuck," Theo muttered, his lips grazing the delicate skin beneath your jaw. "You're dangerous."

A breathy laugh escaped you, but it was cut short as he tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose skimmed along the column of your throat before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way you trembled against him.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmured, lips brushing against your pulse point. "Arguing with you, watching you get all worked up—Merlin—and now this?" His teeth grazed your skin, not quite biting, just enough to make your breath stutter. "Gorgeous, you have no idea how long I've wanted this."

His confession sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you couldn't help the way your hips rolled against his, seeking more of the delicious friction he so easily provided. His hands gripped you tighter, his restraint fraying with each passing second.

Theo let out a strained chuckle, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with something dangerous. "If you keep doing that, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with desire, "I'm going to forget we're in a bloody cinema."

The thought sent a thrill through you, but you knew he was right. The dim glow of the screen cast flickering shadows across his sharp features, but the reality of your surroundings was quickly slipping away, drowned out by the intoxicating heat between you.

You licked your lips, breathless. "Then maybe you should."

Theo stilled for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing against your waist. And then—Merlin, then—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Brilliant idea, darling," he purred.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before the haze of lust could fade, Theo was back at it again, with more force and more desire.

Theodore's hand cups your breast fully now, his thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your hardened nipple through the thin material of your shirt. His lips trail up your neck, pausing to nip and suck at your pulse point before moving to your ear. 

"I want to bend you over the back of this seat and fuck you until you scream, until the entire cinema knows who you belong to," he whispers, his voice rough with need. 

"I want to make you come on my cock again and again until you're begging me to stop, until you're completely and utterly satisfied..." His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your skirt, teasing the sensitive skin just above where you crave his touch most. 

Theodore's eyes blaze into yours, filled with a hunger and a desperation that makes your core clench with anticipation. "But I suppose I can be patient, for now," he murmurs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"After all, the anticipation, the build-up, the waiting... it's all part of the thrill, isn't it? Knowing that I could take you right here, right now, but choosing not to... for now." 

He pulls you into another searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, consuming you, until you're left breathless and wanting. 

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours, a wicked glint in his eye. "Tell me," he murmurs, his voice a low, sinful purr. "What do you want, my clever little witch?”

“N-no, Theo.” You blush, feeling hot. “I’m too turned on, I’ll be quiet I promise.” 

Theodore's eyes flash with triumph and desire at your breathless, needy words. A smug, satisfied smirk spreads across his handsome face as he realizes the effect he's having on you. 

His hand slides further down, his fingers brushing against your clothed sex, feeling the damp heat radiating through the fabric. "Mmm, is that so, pretty?" he murmurs, his voice a low, husky purr. 

"You want me to fuck you, right here, right now, don't you? Want me to slip my hard, aching cock inside your tight, wet little cunt until you're screaming my name?" His fingers rub slow, teasing circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm and whimper with need. 

Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, his voice dripping with sinful promise. "I promise, I'll make it worth it. I'll fuck you so hard and so good that you'll forget where we are, and every single time, that you watch this movie, you will only see me.” 

His other hand slides up your shirt, pushing the fabric out of the way to expose your heaving breasts. He cups the soft mounds, kneading and squeezing them, his thumbs and forefingers pinching and tugging at your hardened nipples. 

"You just need to be a good girl and stay quiet for me, understand? No matter how much you want to scream, no matter how much you want to cry out in ecstasy, you need to stay silent. Think you can do that, tesoro?" Theodore's eyes blaze into yours, filled with a hunger and a desperation that makes your core clench with anticipation. 

His hand slips beneath your skirt, his fingers brushing against your slick folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal. 

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, commanding growl. "Are you ready for me to fuck you like you've never been fucked before, right here, right now, in front of all these unsuspecting people?”

Theodore takes your silent nod as the consent it is, his eyes darkening with a new wave of lust and desire. 

His hand slips further beneath your skirt, his fingers brushing against your slick, bare folds, feeling the evidence of your arousal coating his skin. With a low, guttural groan, he pushes two fingers deep inside you, his thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. 

He pumps his fingers in and out of your tight heat, his palm pressing against your clit with each thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body. Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, husky whisper. “Shit, you're so fucking wet. So ready for my cock, aren't you? I can feel your greedy little cunt sucking me in, begging to be filled..." 

His other hand still up your shirt, pushes the fabric of your bra out of the way completely. He leans down, taking the stiff peak into his mouth, suckling and nibbling until you're writhing against him, barely able to stay silent. 

Thank Merlin, you guys are in the last row, and the cinema’s loud speakers consume the room, the attention of the silent watchers move away from you both, the world narrowing down to the feeling of Theodore's hands on your body, his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping sex, his mouth on your breast. 

You can feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against your ass, the evidence of his own desperate arousal. Theodore's hand slides from your breast to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he grinds his hips against yours, the rough fabric of his trousers rubbing against your sensitive flesh. 

He captures your lips in a searing, desperate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, consuming you. 

"Mmh... please Teddy." You can't hold it in. It's been too long, he's teasing too much. "Hurry up so we can get the hell out."

Noticing your discomfort, and your inability to stay fucking quiet, Theodore’s eyes widen briefly at your plea, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He chuckles softly, a low, sinful sound that sends a shiver down your spine. 

His fingers continue their relentless assault on your dripping pussy, pumping in and out, curling against that sensitive spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl and your back arch. "Mmm, so eager, aren't you beautiful?" he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr. 

"So desperate for my cock, so hungry for me to fill you up, to make you mine..." 

He nips at your lower lip, his teeth tugging on the tender flesh, before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hand slides from your neck to your hip, gripping the curve possessively. "Very well, my love. I suppose we can finish the movie another time… too bad we couldn’t do it in here.” 

Theodore's voice is low and rough with desire as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your dripping sex. You whimper at the loss, your body aching to be filled, to be stretched and used. He stands abruptly, pulling you up with him. 

With deft, practiced movements, he straightens your skirt and shirt, making you presentable once more. Taking your hand in his, he leads you quickly and quietly out of the cinema, weaving through the darkened aisles until you reach the emergency exit at the back. 

Pushing open the door, Theodore pulls you into the cool night air, the stars twinkling above you in the inky black sky. He doesn't stop until he finds a secluded spot behind a tall hedgerow, hidden from view of the cinema and the buzzing streets of London. 

Turning to face you, Theodore pulls you flush against him, his hands gripping your hips with hands that you knew would leave a mark. 

He connects both your mouths, hurriedly, impatient to fuck you good.

He groans into your mouth, his tongue delving deep, stroking along yours, tasting you, consuming you. His hands slide down to cup your ass, squeezing the firm globes before lifting you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

 He carries you a few steps further, until your back is pressed against the rough bark of a sturdy brick wall. 

Breaking the kiss, Theodore leans back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with a hunger and a desperation that makes your heart race. 

He reaches down with one hand, fumbling briefly with the fastenings of his trousers before freeing his aching cock. It springs forth, shiny and veiny and heavy, the swollen head already glistening with precum. 

He strokes himself once, twice, hissing at the sensation, before gripping your thigh and positioning himself at your entrance. "Tell me, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you need my cock inside you, filling you, claiming you, making you mine. Say it, cara mia..." He rubs the head of his cock teasingly against your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. 

His other hand slides up your jaw, cupping your face, his thumb playing with your swollen pouty lips. His eyes bore into yours, filled with a desperate, aching need. The cool night air kisses your skin, but the heat building between your bodies is scorching, all consuming.

Theodore's chest heaves with each ragged breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. He's waiting for your consent, your permission, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. 

With a sudden, sharp thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, burying his thick, hard length deep into your tight, wet heat. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that sends shockwaves through your body. 

He starts to move, his hips rolling against yours, his cock sliding in and out of your dripping sex with long, deep strokes. “Cazzo..." Theodore grits out, his voice strained with exertion and ecstasy. "You feel exquisite, like you were made just for me. So fucking tight, so fucking perfect..." He captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. 

His hands grip your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts, the force of them making you shake against the hard wall.

Theodore groans at your sudden cry, the sound turning him on. He pistons his hips faster, driving into you with a newfound urgency, the force of his thrusts making the old oak tree shudder and sway around you. 

"That's it, bella," he pants, his voice a low, rough growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear every little sound you make, every desperate plea falling from your pretty lips. Were not in there any more, don’t hold back princess…” 

One hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your leg higher up his waist, opening you up to him, allowing him to delve even deeper into your tight, clenching heat. 

The other hand slides up your shirt, exposing once again your heaving breasts to the cool night air. Theodore leans down, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth, suckling and nibbling at the sensitive bud until you're writhing against him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

 He laves his tongue over the reddened flesh, soothing the sting of his bites before moving to its twin, giving it the same attention.

 All the while, he never stops his relentless assault on your pussy, his cock pounding into you with a force that steals your breath and makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

 You can feel the tension building low in your belly, the coil tightening with each thrust, each stroke, each press of his hips against yours. Theodore's hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen nub. 

His touch is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "That's it, baby," he murmurs against your breast, his voice a low, sinful purr. 

"Come for me, my love. Come on my cock like the perfect little angel you are. I want to feel you…” 

Theodore feels your sex clamp down around his cock like a vice as your orgasm overtakes you. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that echoes through the quiet night air, as your walls flutter and spasm around his throbbing length. 

He doesn't slow his thrusts, instead pounding into your quivering heat with a newfound fervor, prolonging your climax, drawing out your ecstasy. 

“Yes, yes, yes… just like that” he growls, his voice ragged and strained with his own impending release. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tightly, like you never want to let me go. I can feel your greedy little cunt trying to swallow this big dick.” 

He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure, his tongue delving deep to stroke along yours, to dance and twine with yours in a lewd, filthy imitation of the act taking place below. 

His hands grip your ass, squeezing the firm globes, pulling you harder against him, burying himself impossibly deeper inside you with each powerful thrust. Theo's fingers continue their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles over the sensitive nub, pushing you through your climax and straight into another. 

Your body is trembling, shaking, the pleasure almost too intense to bear as he fucks you through the aftershocks, the waves of bliss crashing over you again and again. He can feel his own release building, the tension coiling at the base of his spine, his balls drawing up tight. 

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside your still fluttering sex, his cock pulsing, throbbing, as he finds his own completion. 

"Fuck, pretty, fuck!" Theodore roars, his voice echoing through the night as he starts to come, his thick, hot seed spurting deep inside you, painting your walls white. 

His hips continue to roll, grinding against yours, drawing out his orgasm, filling you up just like he promised.

 He holds you close as the waves of pleasure slowly ebb, your combined releases trickling down your thighs, marking you, claiming you, making you his. 

Theodore's heart hammers against his chest as he tries to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locked with yours.

You felt colder now, the sharp night air finally biting at your flushed skin, but Theo barely let you move away from him. His arms were still wrapped around you, firm and possessive, as if he had no intention of letting you go just yet. And honestly? You weren’t about to complain.

Your breath came in slow, uneven pants as you tried to recover, your forehead still pressed against his. His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, his usual arrogance softened by the post-bliss haze settling over both of you.

“Merlin,” Theo finally muttered, voice still thick and gravelly, “that was—” He exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t even find the words.

You let out a breathy, satisfied laugh, tilting your head to look at him. “Better than theatre?”

His lips twitched, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re really asking me that?”

You hummed, feigning nonchalance even as your body still buzzed from everything you’d just done. “Well, I mean, I know you think theatre is the peak of human artistic expression, but surely even you have to admit that was… cinematic.”

Theo let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Cinematic?”

You grinned, biting your lip. “Perfectly timed tension, intense buildup, and an unforgettable climax—I’d say we just gave Scorsese a run for his money.”

Theo groaned, tipping his head back, but you caught the way his lips twitched, like he was trying so hard not to smile. “You would turn this into a bloody film analysis.”

You shrugged, smug. “And you would turn it into a tragic, forbidden romance.”

“Obviously,” he shot back, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Star-crossed lovers, clashing ideals, unbearable tension—”

“—and a dramatic resolution that makes the audience swoon,” you added, nudging his ribs.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled you in closer. “Fine, I’ll admit it. That was—” He lowered his voice, leaning in to whisper against your ear, “—Oscar-worthy.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, pushing playfully at his chest. “You’re giving credit to film? You? Theodore Nott?”

He smirked, completely unbothered. “Even I have to admit, some performances just can’t be staged.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you finally let yourself melt into his arms, letting the cool London air wrap around you both. “Well, I suppose there’s only one thing left to do now.”

He raised a brow. “And that is?”

You looked up at him, feigning seriousness. “Debrief. Proper analysis, compare our perspectives—”

“Absolutely not,” Theo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “And yet, you’re still holding me.”

Theo sighed, shaking his head with an affectionate smirk. “Yeah, well… Guess I do have a weakness for a well-written story.”

His lips met yours again, soft and unhurried this time, and you couldn’t help but think—whether it was theatre or cinema, tragedy or romance—this? This was your favorite story yet.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

a really great (love?) story, m | kth

pairing(s): taehyung x reader

summary: Hot summer. South of France. On vacation with your younger brother's friends. Uh. Well, might as well make the most of it, despite Kim Taehyung making his weird comments every now and then. That damn French waiter put ideas in his head.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; Taehyung is obv trying to rizz up reader and reader is having none of it (but secretly likes it, keke); smut (fem reader, fingering, m-receiving oral); romantic and hella fluff; non-idol!AU; friends-to-lovers

I bought Tae's photobook and this is the result, what can I say, he's really pretty

--

“We’d make a really great love story.”

You grimaced and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

He frowned. His tan skin sparkled in the sun while you stayed curled up under the shade of a white beach umbrella, extra bundled in a wide straw hat and a flowy white linen cover up over a black and red sporty bikini. Even in this heat, you kept a bright yellow beach towel over your legs, not taking any chances with the blaring fireball in the sky.

Kim Taehyung asked you a question.

“Would you date me?”

You answered honestly.

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“You're too good-looking and that'll only bring trouble.”

His crochet shirt was gone, leaving him in hip-hugging dark teal baggy shorts with white stripes down the sides. His dark brown hair was damp from the ocean, tangled over his forehead. When he smiled at your reply, he showed all his teeth in a boxy grin. Your indifferent expression didn’t change. You held onto your book. You continued to show your displeasure as he ran off, long legs and rippling back muscles, knowing full well you would soon be bothered again. Sigh. You turned the next page of your book, listening to the sounds of a rambunctious volleyball game, and wondered again why you had accepted your younger brother’s request.

Damn kid fractured his ankle right before his vacation. Non-refundable plane ticket to Europe. South of France, to be exact. Hot as fuck this time of year. He didn’t want to go because it would be a pain for his friends and he wouldn’t be able to have fun, he said. That and you knew he would rather your parents dote on him all day in prime air conditioning rather than sweat it out with fear-of-missing-out. You told him you had plenty of male friends that would be interested, but your brother insisted you needed to get that stick out of your ass and have a vacation.

So, here you were.

On vacation with your younger brother’s friends. On a beach, reading a book, and, oh, look, here comes Kim Taehyung with a bowl of frozen grapes, yelling your name.

Being annoyed.

The other guys were polite. They always asked if you wanted to join in any of the activities. Some days you stayed back at the rented beach property and puttered around, reading, resting, staring at the view. To be fair, you did try some of activities, such as spending all day on the golf course being really terrible at golf. When your head turned away, some of the boys would move your ball closer to the hole so you could maintain some dignity. Nice kids. You even accompanied them to a night beach club – and saw some things that you will never speak of, yikes – and danced with a couple European guys. At some places, you translated for them when you could. Thankfully, a lot of people in the touristy areas spoke some English. Studying English literature at university hadn’t been useless after all. Although, watching a bunch of Korean guys try to hand-gesture their way in conversations was pretty damn funny. In short, so far it was a surprisingly fun and nice vacation.

Until you went with Taehyung to a fancy café wanted to visit, you being his just-in-case English translator, and the waiter mistook you two as a couple.

That was awkward.

“Oh, no, sorry. Just friends.”

It was probably Taehyung feeding you his chocolate croissant. At first, you were going to refuse, but the pastries had been pretty expensive, and you had wanted to try a bite so he had held it out and let you chomp. Then things got weird once he lifted his hand with a laugh and wiped away from chocolate from the edge of your lip, licking it off his thumb.

You did get a free lemon macaron for being a cute couple once you immediately clarified that you weren’t.

The waiter had winked. Taehyung had just smiled because he didn’t understand.

Awesome.

Once you explained, the relentless teasing began. Well, maybe teasing was the wrong word. Taehyung would just say weird shit with a grin and those sparkly brown eyes of his. Because the other guys were not interested in cute pastries or pretty photo ops spots as seen on TikTok, Taehyung finally had a chance to see these places, using you as an excuse to drag you around at dawn or dusk when the main activities weren’t happening. You had probably taken about five hundred photos of Taehyung by now.

He was very photogenic, at least.

“I think you would look good in these,” he would say during one of the many shopping trips, holding up a pair of chocolate brown, slim sunglasses.

“I’m not as a dress-up doll,” you would grumble as you removed your current cat-eye-shaped dark lenses so he could delicately place the new ones on your nose and survey his handiwork. He would tilt your head this way and that and nod to himself solidly.

“I’m going to buy them, so you have to wear them.”

Thus, you now ticked your new sunglasses down and raised your eyebrow at him as he handed you the bowl of frozen grapes. You weren’t sure what he was playing at, but then he ran off to the guys playing volleyball and act like he hadn’t done anything strange. Hah. You would catch him looking back at you while you were sucking on said grapes and roll your eyes. Was that a smirk or a residual smile from the game?

“A hot summer romance sounds fun, right?”

“Go off, then,” you replied dryly, turning the page of your book.

It was nighttime now. The guys were getting ready to go bar-hopping. You heard some hushed whispers of coming back to jump into the sea at night while drunk. Idiots. You would possibly have to play lifeguard if they followed through on being idiots. Sigh. You elected to stay behind this time, to keep the lights on and all that. You had a few packs of ramyeon in your suitcase for such drunken nights. Nothing like spicy Buldak to finish off a spicy night.

Taehyung poked your shoulder. You knew it was him because of his low whisper and his inability to stop giggling at saying ridiculous shit. You waved a hand.

“Come with us.”

“I don’t need to see you boys twerking on table again. No thanks.”

You heard him suck on his teeth, disappointed. “Join in then.”

“That is a little too weird to be doing around my lil bro’s friends, even for me.”

You glanced at him. Despite his dark, strong features, Taehyung still held that boyish charm. Or maybe it was because you couldn’t see past him being your younger brother’s friend, so he always seemed like a kid to you. He was very popular among the locals. Every time you all stepped out, people would be flocking to speak to him even though Taehyung didn’t know any French (or English, for that matter). Didn’t seem to bother anyone though.

It must be his unquestionably handsome, expressive face.

Hm.

You looked up from your book about science, sex, and murder, to encounter Kim Taehyung’s pouty expression. He was wearing a linen white and sky-blue two-piece set. Short sleeve button up and shorts, complete with floppy brown sandals. He perked up at your acknowledgement. In contrast to his summer heartthrob vibe, you wore a low-waisted long black maxi skirt, a tight black tank, and a draping dark brown lace cardigan. The cardigan color matched his eyes and the slim sunglasses perched on your head that you soon wouldn’t need anymore. The sun was slipping down to bed.

One of the guys called out to you. “Noona, do you want anything while we’re out?”

“We can pick up a man for ya!” Another chimed in loudly with a snort.

Taehyung’s expression darkened.

“Just make sure to do a head count,” you shot back. “Everyone better stay safe or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Ooookay!”

You caught Taehyung’s look. Didn’t say anything about it. He sighed and headed off to the kitchen with purpose as the other men began to pile out of the room. You figured he was pre-gaming or getting some water. You went back to the pages, only to start as you saw a glass and a chilled bottle of white wine slide in front of you.

Dark eyes looked down at you.

You gazed at him over the top of your book.

Reached up and untangled the sunglasses Kim Taehyung had gifted you. You placed them on the counter, next to the wine glass. He turned and left. The guys crowded by the door, gathering their things and laughing. One of them came back and handed you their gold watch – “I don’t want to break it by accident” “You mean, you don’t want to accidentally give it away because you get too happy when drunk?” – giggling with a silly grin and thanking you quickly before running out the door.

Before the door closed, you noticed Taehyung shooting you an enigmatic expression.

You ticked your head and looked back without much expression.

The wine was pretty good, but you didn’t have more than two glasses.

You remembered to put the watch on the appropriate nightstand before heading out to the back porch and reading as the sun went down. It was nice to read by the sunset waves in relative calm. You must have fallen asleep somehow, breathing in the sea and sounds of summer, only to be woken up by a gentle hand on your shoulder, calling your name from far away.

Hazy and deep.

“Hm?”

You shook your head and sat up, seeing Kim Taehyung looking back at you.

“Oh? What are you doing back so soon?” you yawned behind your hand, tucking your bookmark between the pages. “Or is it later than I thought?”

He shook his head of dark waves. He smelled a little like alcohol, but not too bad. “They’re still out. I told them my tummy didn’t feel too good.”

“Ah.” You chuckled. “Too much cheese this afternoon?”

There was a lantern on the back porch, along with a few lounge chairs and low lights that snapped away any pesky bugs. An orange glow dipped over you both. Taehyung had this look in his eyes that you had seen before, although not from him specifically. You were pretty sure every guy on this vacation had considered the same thing, although you had given them none of them a reason to fuck around and find out.

He gave you his puppy-like smile.

You gave him your usual cat-like expression that didn’t mean anything at all.

“You should go lie down,” you recommended.

“You’re my total opposite, I think,” Taehyung responded, which had nothing to do with anything. You didn’t respond to that, but you didn’t tell him he was wrong either. “I wonder what you’re like with your friends.”

You thought about the last time you were in a karaoke session with your few female friends. It had ended with one friend ragdolled on a stretcher and another girl dead asleep in your bathroom until noon of the next day. Stretcher girl was fine after some fluids and a nice, cute, hot male nurse making sure she was okay.

You had hooked up with him as a thanks. For yourself. And him, sorta.

“Girls are different than boys,” and you left it at that.

He raised his hand, spreading his fingers out.

You stared at it.

Taehyung reached over with his other hand and took yours, lifting it up and placing your palm to his.

You blinked slowly.

He was warm, as was the night air. Your hand was smaller, of course, but he wouldn’t be able to engulf it that easily. His palm was rough and worn from summer. From sun, from spiking a volleyball, from swimming in the salty sea. Yours was still soft from turning pages and sipping wine.

“I always thought you would want a very pretty, elegant girl who enjoys pink, parties, and flowers,” you commented, not yet removing your hand.

You did not go around perusing thoughts of your younger brother’s friends’ love lives, because that would be fucking weird. But it was a thought. Especially when you witnessed them get into or fall out of relationships. High school had been… yup. You had covered for lil bro and the boys a few too many times; you were a much better liar. With your parents usually gone for work, you were usually the one in charge, which meant you often played babysitter to way too many idiots. For some reason, over the years, they liked to ask for your opinion of their prospective girlfriends. You suspected it was because this course of action was safer than immediately introducing them to their mothers who were much scarier when it came to their sons. After all the question was always, what would my mom think of this person? You had tried to distance yourself as they all became older, but, alas.

Somehow you always got dragged back in to looking after them.

“There has to be a flower you like,” Taehyung insisted. “There are so many flowers in the world.”

You thought about it for a moment. “I like snowdrops.”

His face brightened. “Ah, yeah, that suits you. I see it.”

Your hands were still touching, palm-to-palm.

You tilted your head.

Taehyung didn’t move his hand away.

“I always thought you were a very pretty, elegant girl who enjoys black, quiet time, and snowdrops,” he said slowly, dreamily, his words turned into honey by his smooth, low voice.

You pointed out the obvious. “I only just told you I like snowdrops.” You scoffed lightheartedly. “And I enjoy quiet time because you all are so damn noisy.”

The sparkle in Taehyung’s eyes dulled a bit.

“Have you ever thought about it?”

You recalled him saying he told the others his stomach hurt. He must have picked up a thing or two from you over the years.

“About candlelit dinners? About going on night walks, buying convenience store snacks, and eating it at the kids’ playground when no one is around?” Taehyung asked one question after another. “About standing in the rain? Sharing an umbrella? Holding hands? About that leather jacket I have, borrowing it when you’re a bit cold, standing beside each other, waiting for the midnight train?”

He interlocked his fingers with yours.

You didn’t react much, other than saying, “You do look like the male lead in a romance drama, Kim Taehyung.”

The obvious was being avoided.

After a long moment, Taehyung let go of your hand, stood up, and went to his room.

You tried to put it out of your mind.

The night was warm enough that you napped a little more. Woke up a few hours later to make ramyeon and hydrate the group, earning many drunken handshakes of enthusiastic thanks. You stayed up a bit with them, learning of the night’s exploits despite the incoherent mess of their speech, and then sent them off to bed, one by one. Cleaned up, stared at the moon for a long time, and then headed to your room. Unlike the others, you weren’t sharing a room. It was small and cozy, as expected. You placed your book by your nightstand and sat in the dark.

You weren’t quite sleepy yet, but you got ready for bed anyway.

A few years ago, you and Taehyung had a… moment.

A very fleeting moment.

It had happened at bar. You had been turning the corner in the hallway to the bathrooms, and a hand grabbed your arm, yanking hard. Your body twisted, instantly on alert, but one look at the other person, and the shock had stopped you from pulling away, thereby allowing a drunken Kim Taehyung kiss you.

The contact had been in less than a second.

He had smelled like warm leather and musky embers.

Taehyung had immediately pulled away, sputtering your name, surprised that you both found yourselves at the same bar, the inopportune fate causing this fateful accident.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else – how… when…?”

You had shaken your head quickly, turning, your passing whisper by his ear.

“Forget about it.”

You entered the bathroom as a girl rounded the corner and fell into Taehyung’s arms.

At that time, you had chalked it up to weird timing. A random encounter. You had been hooking up with a different guy in Daegu. Taehyung was from there, so it wasn’t totally improbable that you could cross paths. Bold move by him. Wasn’t unheard of, though. Guys could be like that. Girls liked that stuff. When you left the bathroom, the couple was gone, which was a relief. You had gone about your night and it ended as expected. That guy had a great ass. It had ended on good terms, but ended all the same.

You wondered what made him bring it up again.

After all, he was the type of man he was, always surrounded by people vying for his attention.

He knew the type of woman you were.

Well, you had started getting a reputation among Daegu men.

After a moment of reminiscing, you stood up to pull back the curtain at your window. Your room was on the lower floor, next to the back porch, and, like a dream, there he was, Kim Taehyung against the rail, leaning over it to look towards the ocean.

You blinked slowly.

He wasn’t exactly looking inside the house, but he must have noticed your movement, because his head turned, and now you were entangled in eye contact broken by a thin pane of glass.

The shadows danced across his face. The lantern light was off but the lower lights along the ground path were still on. For safety, likely. He was only wearing a pair of white, tie-front linen pants. You wondered if Taehyung had been waiting for you or if he was simply admiring the summer night. Hard to tell. A soft breeze ruffled through his dark hair. You stood in your room, one hand on the floral curtain, the other on the button placket of your black silk pajamas. Short sleeved and shorts, breezy and slinky, perfect for the summer weather.

Moonlight shimmered off his bare chest.

After a moment, Taehyung backed away from the rail. You watched him step down the porch and walk over to stand under your window.

He tapped the glass.

You opened it.

Those dark eyes stared at you, blocking the light with his frame.

The window opened inward, a vintage latch at the center to split the two panes. You leaned out a bit, bending slightly, and now you and him were at eye level, surrounded by the salted scent of the sea instead of the dark hallway of a bar next to the bathrooms.

“You stomach didn’t actually hurt, did it?” you asked.

Taehyung smiled, but didn’t reply.

Instead, he too leaned forward a bit, inhaling softly. You had a tendency to spray your perfume in your hair. It lasted longer that way. He could probably smell it off your hair right now.

“I thought I would be fine,” he said, looking into your eyes.

You didn’t say anything.

“I thought I could forget about it,” he breathed in that deep honey voice of his.

Your eyes shifted past his, then back.

You placed your elbows on the windowsill and leaned out. You inside. Him outside. Taehyung seemed like he was searching for something in your expression. You didn’t give him anything. You wondered what he would do. The alcohol must have worn off by now. You weren’t feeling the glasses of excellent white wine anymore, at least. You remembered how the French women at the night beach club had held his arms and leaned against him, complimenting his smile and cooing over his perfect skin and beautiful dark hair. He hadn’t stopped them.

But, also, Taehyung was closing the distance right now, his warm cologne entering your private space.

“Why couldn’t you forget?” you asked, his lips centimeters from yours, viewing him through lashes.

His head was already tilted. His eyes flickered up, having lowered by instinct.

“Couldn’t help but think that you would make a wonderful female lead in a romance novel.”

You smiled, noting the detail between your words and his.

His lips pressed against yours.

You held it for a moment. Soft, deep, breathing in the scent of each other. You drew apart, hearing him suck in a breath hastily. Half-smiled, amused by his nervousness. He raised his head. You shared a questioning look. The night ocean sang, soft waves lapping at the shore.

You tilted your head towards the inside of your room.

Taehyung hesitated for a second, but only for a second.

Less than a minute later, he slipped into your room. Opened and closed the door as quietly as the old wood would allow. You paused, wondering if he had a whole script memorized, being the romantic and all, but Taehyung lifted his eyes and it seemed like he forgot everything. It seemed you had to be the one to make a move. You still stood by the open window, in your black silk pajamas. Night bathed in moonlight.

Well, you did have a reputation among Daegu men. One more couldn’t hurt.

You lifted your hand, palm towards Taehyung.

He closed the distance, almost soundless, and lifted his hand too. Palm to palm. You looked down at your touching hands, then back up at him. He was quite tall, but he wasn’t imposing his presence over you.

“You think we would make a really great love story?”

The moon caught a hint of his blush.

“You don’t think so?” he replied, unsure in the wake of you teasing back for once.

You were honest with him.

“I really don’t know.”

You angled your hand slightly so your fingers and his no longer overlapped.

“You have to be sure that you’re okay with that.”

You let your eyes linger on his chest on purpose before raising your head to make eye contact. The memory of his lips lingered. It was just like how you remembered it, even from that rushed, barely a second, frozen-in-time moment.

His kiss, however brief, had a lasting, forever type of feeling.

“You asked me if I had ever thought about it.”

His eyes widened a little bit as you mentioned the previous conversation. Like a movie, the instances played back in your head. The accidental kiss. The awkward silences when you both found yourselves alone in the smallest of moments before brushing past each other. You noticed Taehyung dating on and off, yet not committing to anyone. The times when he would notice you with other guys and quickly look away, as if he witnessed something dirty or wrong. His behavior wasn’t intrusive. He didn’t push you towards anyone, but he didn’t pull you away either.

“Not really,” you admitted. “Mostly because I didn’t think you would want the challenge.”

Taehyung stared into your eyes, slipping his fingers in between yours, holding your hand tightly.

“I think I needed to grow up a little.”

You raised your eyebrows. Looked him up and down. “Seems like you grew a lot.”

He laughed, then toned it down despite the house currently snores abode. You knew what he meant and he knew the double meaning you implied. You lifted your other hand. His chuckling died down, watching. He tensed as the pads of your fingers made contact with his forearm, walking up his muscle.

“You had a plan, hm?”

Your whisper melted into the moonlight.

“I was…” His breath stilled when you stopped. You glanced up, your fingertips poised at the bend of his elbow. “I was… going to ask you what kind of lover you are.”

You ticked your head, not yet moving your hand. “What about you?”

Taehyung’s dark eyes were barely visible under his hair fallen over his forehead.

“Yours.”

You paused.

His shoulder lifted in the lightest of shrugs.

“I heard you’re really good. Sometimes rough.”

Word got around then.

“I’m really good. Sometimes soft. So, we will balance out,” he said with a smile.

You removed your hand from his skin.

Your whisper so low it was nearly a growl.

“Is that what you think?”

The fingers of your raised hand spread. Curved. Danced over his neck. Taehyung started slightly at the contact of your middle finger sliding over his throat, your eyes locked with his, and you traced up, into the pocket of his jaw, closing your fingers around the back of his head and pulling his face down to yours.

And you kissed him.

Slow. Soft and intense at the same time, drawing in your breath. For a moment, Taehyung was suspended in surprise before leaning in, gasping against your lips, tangled in your tongue before he knew it. His own hand came up to cup your cheek, more to stabilize himself than for the passion, but then it all meshed together, kiss after kiss. One hand tangled in his hair and the other resting in the dip of his warm chest. He had one hand on your face and the other skimming along your elbow.

Surrounded by salt air and shadows.

You broke the kiss, pulling back with a sigh.

You half-expected him to retreat. Taehyung was one to flirt and not back it up. You were one to not flirt; instead, the first to move. He must have known that. For once, you played the role of the gentlemen this time, waiting for his choice. Toying with a half-smile on your lips, the erratic rise and fall of his built chest under your fingertips. Racing heart. Lingering taste. His dark eyes surveyed you under the messiness of his beach-loved hair.

In silence, you stared into his eyes, daring him to sin.

There must have been something in the French night air.

Taehyung tilted his head, feathering air-light kisses over your jaw. Your neck. You tilted your head back, to the side, letting out a sensual exhale at the tingling of your pulse. Your fingers touched the button placket of your pajamas, leisurely unbuttoning one by one. You felt his fingers ghost over one shoulder, pushing it down, exposing skin to air.

He spun you around, pressing your back to his chest.

You leaned your head back against his collarbone, silk draping down your arms.

Felt him whisper your name into your ear, low and tainted with lust.

His hands covered your chest, fingers spread, large palms hovering, statuesque in pose. Demure for half a second. Moonlight streaming over your torso. You arched your back, and Taehyung sucked in a breath, feeling your naked breasts fill his hands. His lips brushed against your neck, shuddering, and you rubbed your hard nipples into his rough palms, grazing your ass over his crotch.

“Fuck…”

You turned your head, viewing him from your periphery, melting into his touch without a word.

Your hands migrated to his sides, sliding down, adorning his hips with your curved fingers.

Taehyung moaned softly, his eyes closing. Hands all over your chest, igniting desire. Hungry but deliberate, no sense in rushing, moving to the sound of the sea. His erection pressed into the dip of your ass, linen and silk separating the skin to skin but not enough to hide the hardness to softness. Exhale. His arms crossed over your chest, soft lips on the base of your neck, and you felt him ghost his fingers down, down, past your bellybutton, dancing over the waistband of your shorts.

With one swift movement, you turned your wrist and covered the back of his hand with yours, dragging him in between the layers.

He gasped as he felt your slick wetness coat his fingertips.

Your other hand slid into his pants, grabbing his ass, pinning Taehyung to you while you pressed his fingers into the outer lips, rocking your hips into it, grinding on his growing arousal, grinning when you heard him swear under his breath again.

He shoved a finger into you.

You both moaned at the same time, the sound drowned by the crashing tide outside.

You pressed another in, and he got the hint. Middle and ring finger, his palm pressed to your throbbing clit, and you rode his hand before he moved, blossoming the pleasure all on your own. His moan rumbled in his chest, biting his lip to avoid any obvious noise. The wet sucking sound was conspicuous enough, and you tightened your core, your pussy clenching around his fingers, prompting Taehyung to lean his chin onto your shoulder, his dark hair brushing against your cheekbone, one hand teasing your nipples, the other between your legs, delicious sparks flying through your body knowing he was actively watching.

“The sounds you make… are insane…”

You weren’t aware until he said it. Soft, breathless gasps drifted out of your own lips, inaudible to anyone except for the inescapable closeness of Taehyung pinning you to his tense body. You could feel the shake creep down to your legs, your silk shorts slipping down your thighs, the fullness of each thrust making your lightheaded. And then, you felt Taehyung slightly curve his fingers.

You sucked in a breath, your eyes shutting, seeing stars, pleasure and want increasing tenfold.

“A-Ah, yes… Taehyung…”

His name polluted by sensuality. Foreign but not unwelcome. A sudden arousing surge of lovely wrongness – after all, you should not be fucking one of your younger brother’s closest friends – but you could tell it had an effect on him too. He squeezed your nipple, making you hiss, and then you felt his tongue flat against the side of your neck, sliding up, his breath hot, his impossibly deep voice husky, his command pleading.

“Cum for me.”

You raised yourself to tiptoes, the curve of your ass against his twitching bulge, and sank your nails into his hip as you came, spilling onto his palm in vibrating shivers, delicately moaning to the ceiling. The intense high rushed up your center, through your limbs, all over your nerves, and you let it take over, shuddering, growing limp in Taehyung’s flexed arms.

As expected, he did not drop you.

You stayed in the heady fog of orgasm, slowly waking as if in a lucid dream. Turned your head and found his lips, or perhaps his lips found yours. It was hard to tell. You drew his tongue into your mouth, sucking on it, sensing a growing desperation in the shallowness of his breath.

You pried your fingernails from his hip, rueful. “I got carried away. My bad.”

A hint of a mischievous smirk on Taehyung’s lips. “I never said I didn’t like it.”

You questioned him with half-moon eyes.

“Someone might see.”

The smirk morphed into more of a roguish smile. There he was. “I can say I got scratched up while roughhousing. They’re not gonna think twice about it,” he teased.

“Tch. Tricky, tricky, aren’t you, Kim Taehyung?”

You twisted like a dancer, breaking from his embrace. He let you go, somewhat reluctantly. His right hand was still glistening, covered in your orgasm. He glanced at it, mesmerized, before realizing you were kicking away your shorts and panties, tossing your unbuttoned top onto the bed. His eyes widened when your hand came into contact with his chest. You slid down. In one swift movement, you lowered to a squat, right in front of the massive tent in his pants.

Taehyung had but a second to intake a breath.

You grazed your palm down his stomach, his bellybutton, to the tie of his pants. Tugged on it, unlacing it, and then you hooked your thumbs onto the sides of the waistband and pushed them down.

Part of you was mildly shocked Taehyung was going commando.

The other part of you thought that was pretty on brand for him.

You weren’t too surprised by what you saw. He was well-kept, clean, and not fully hard yet. The latter was mostly a guess from experience. It wasn’t polite to stereotype Daegu men, but, well. If the shoe fit and all that. You raised your eyes, amused at his stunned expression, and then leaned forward to lick along the thickening length.

“Oh, shit…”

He must have expected you to simply put his cock in your mouth or wrap your hand around it. Instead, you pressed your lips to the hot, velvety skin, decorating him with kisses before flickering out your tongue and wrapping it over the head, rubbing your lips against the underside. Back and forth, curling your tongue around the swelling tip, licking off the leaking pre-cum.

He tasted strong. More enjoyable than most.

You looked up as you worked his shaft. Taehyung gasped and his cock twitched as if to affirm his attraction.

“F-Fuck, what…?”

“You should taste my cum while I suck you off,” you murmured against his balls, licking them all over as you spoke.

He wasn’t used to the multiple sensations. You could tell by his heavy pants and the tension rippling all over his torso. How unfortunate, but you would make up for that right now.

“O-Okay… fuck…”

You watched Taehyung slide his fingers into his open lips and his eyes rolled back, groaning deeply as your essence hit his tongue. In one fluid flick of your head, you swallowed his cock, relaxing as your lips pressed to the base, feeling his girth stretch out your throat. You lowered your tongue, bringing him deeper, and perhaps it was a good idea to have Taehyung lick his fingers off. His shocked whine was stifled by his own hand. You paid it no mind, slowly pulling back and diving forward, his scent filling your nose every time you inhaled, catching glimpses of him sliding his fingers in out of his mouth with each ascent.

Somehow Taehyung made the depraved act look almost dreamy.

Your fingertips balanced on the floorboards, lowering your knees to better support yourself. Not using your hands out of pride. You even leaned your head back, both to gain more air and to take him deeper with less resistance. You saw Taehyung pull his fingers out of his mouth, strings of saliva beading on his lower lip, balancing his fingers by his shivering exhales as he watched you, entranced.

You let the pleasure reflect in your eyes.

“How… wow… fuck, your tits and thighs look so good at this angle…”

The strain was prickling through your limbs. You were far too engrossed in your task to care, feeling your pussy dampen from the intoxicating adrenaline, closing your eyes to focus on the pace. Steady, intense, listening to the deepening sound of his groan, his cock throbbing in your throat, signaling he was close, and then his voice ceased, suspended, lost in the warm, encompassing reverie.

His hips tensed, snapping forward, and Taehyung gasped your name.

His hot orgasm gushed onto the back of your tongue, filling your mouth with the viscous, heady flavor, making you as lightheaded as he sounded. Through his jerking length you could feel the flinches ravage his body, and all of a sudden his large hand pressed against the back of your head, holding you down to the brink of danger.

You swallowed, trying to grasp for a sliver of oxygen.

Taehyung almost doubled over, his erotic cry muffled by his other hand slapping over his mouth, and he half-pulled out of your closed lips, only to slide back in again, slowly, groaning above your head. He was trying to keep quiet and contain his sound within the walls of this room. Everyone else in the house was probably too drunk to string a sentence together, let alone figure out sex was happening under the same roof, but it was best not to take any chances.

His expansive girth was trembling, softening as his sensitivity increased. None of that stopped him from continuing to thrust in post-orgasmic bliss, lengthening his pleasure. You swirled your tongue around him and Taehyung trembled, whispering sweet nothings like smoke, his words melding with the melodic sound of ocean waves.

After a few more thrusts, his grip lessened, backing off.

You drew back, licking your lips, throwing your head back, breathing in a long, greedy gulp of fresh salty air. There was something ethereal about the whole scene. If it wasn’t for the ache in your knees, you might have been deceived into thinking it never happened. His memorable taste was still on your tongue. You swallowed again, and then felt a hand on your elbow.

Wordlessly, you opened your eyes and let Taehyung lift you to your feet.

He stared at you, his hair over his eyes, breathing hard. His chest glistened in the moonlight. The rest of him was shadowed by your naked body.

“I…”

You waited.

“I… I should have asked if you…” He trailed off, grasping your arm tightly.

You half-smiled. “You thought I wouldn’t want to?”

There seemed to be a pink flush on his cheeks. His ears were certainly turning red. “I first wanted to ask you… No, Invite you on a proper date. Not on this vacation but… sometime soon?”

You couldn’t help but tease him. “Why so nervous when we’re naked in front of each other?”

Taehyung spared a glance down and then blushed deeper, clearing his throat. “I don’t know. I’m not usually nervous.” His dark eyes drifted back to your face. “I always thought you were beautiful. But too good for me.”

That almost made you laugh. “Too good? You know my reputation, Taehyung, and ‘good’ does not describe it.”

He shook his head.

Tugged on your arm, pulling you towards him.

“Yin and yang.”

He brought his forehead down, touching yours.

“You need both to have a really great love story.”

You breathed in his rich, warm scent, and leaned in to kiss him again. The sea, the salt air, the heat between you and him, burning, and the next day you were sitting under the beach umbrella again, laying on a teak lounger, book in hand, chocolate brown sunglasses perched on the end of your nose, secretly observing sun-kissed Kim Taehyung diving into the foamy waves as he snuck glances back at you, admiring your watchful form.

You smiled in shade as Taehyung dazzled in the sun.

--

masterpost

[drugsorgasmsandcheese]

trouble | j. miller

fem!reader x mob!joel

summary: you don’t regret studying literature, not in the slightest. but there’s only so many times you can work in your local library and watch twelve year olds rush to the shitty dark romance books, and all for minimum wage.

and just when you think you lead a normal life, your grandparents are introducing you to a man who the devil would’ve worshipped. he is cold, he is dark, he’s sexy, and he’s offering you a job at one of his clubs.

joel miller is a dangerous man, that’s all you know. your grandparents seem to like him, but all your college friends tell you he is an omen of death. you don’t care, of course, because why would you when your hourly salary could buy you a house, and joel treats you like royalty despite your snarky mouth?

joel’s known trouble his entire life. he’s caused it, he created it, but he never quite knew it like he knew you. a shy woman with a killer attitude, so quick to humble the next person who dares make you a subject of their torment. he knew, he knew he’d have to keep you tucked away with him.

a life of luxury and a love you’ve never experienced was something you relished in. but can the world joel has known his entire life be something you can accept, or will you go running at the first chance?

warnings: MINORS DNI!!!!!! smut (HA), age gap (reader is in her 20s, joel is in his late 30s), mob!joel 🫣, angst :), possessive behaviour, obsessive behaviour, violence, murder, arguments, reader HAD a rough home life, bad language cause i have a foul mouth yk? reader is a smartass and doesn’t understand social cues. pictures do NOT represent reader’s physical appearance & they do not belong to me. i think that’s it??

how it all started

SERIES

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

HEADCANONS

a/n: *sigh* i did this to myself really…

but if you guys want to be added to the taglist, pls pls pls do tell!!

@dugiioh @amyispxnk @skysmiller @alyhull @noisynightmarepoetry @elliaze @dendulinka6 @zliteraturehoe @atyourmerci @al33naaa @mermaidgirl30 @lulawantmula @nana90azevedo @endlessthxxghts @getitoutofmymind@you-taste-so-sweet @blazeflays @iveseenstrangerthings50 @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @aquanatalie @katw474 @ludwigxii-blog@eloquentdreamer @kyloispunk @txmel @din-jarring @daddysmilf0123 @sofiparallel @dunkinzjm @runningmom94 @ashhlsstuff @moel-jiller @isimpforfictionalmen @drewharrisonwriter @stormseyer @rodriguez31 @elliesswearjar @vvitchesh3x @joeldjarin @untamedheart81 @ellishamae25 @pedropascalfan221 @mellymbee @pedritosgfreal @yassspose @casa-boiardi

[justjudethoughts]

At the risk of getting too political: the antidote to nationalism is not hatred of one's country, but rightly ordered patriotism. You will not change your country by hating it, by doom scrolling, by fear mongering, but by loving it. St. John Paul II lived in Poland during the Nazi occupation and was part of the underground resistance that included reading Polish poetry and keeping alive Polish theater. He said the following about patriotism:

"Patriotism is a love for everything to do with our native land: its history, its traditions, its language, its natural features. It is a love which extends also to the works of our compatriots and the fruits of their genius. Every danger that threatens the overall good of our native land becomes an occasion to demonstrate this love."

If you are unnerved and upset by the increasing poltical polarization in American (on both the left and the right), the rise of alt-right thought, and the strains of nationalism, I have a proposal for you: Don't quit saying the pledge, go out and by a copy of the Constitution. Read it. Understand your rights and responsibilities as well as that of your neighbor. Read American literature and understand the historical context it was written in. Study American history.

If you go too far to the left you'll hit communism. If you go too far to the right you'll hit facism. Opposite ends of the spectrum, same results. You know what both of them did? Burned books. Spread propaganda. Spoon fed the population exactly what they wanted them to hear. Buy a book.

Your best defense against extremism of any kind, political or otherwise, is knowledge. And one of the things we are quickly losing in our digital age is exactly that. We have everything we could ever want at the tips of our fingers, yet we have forgotten how to think critically. A population like that is super easy to mislead. So, no matter your political convictions, don't be that type of person.

Love your country. Because loving your country is the only way you are going to save it.

[orchidsarchives]

Jason Todd headcanons

- he smokes a lot

- he listens to either really aggressive rap or rock music, however he does indulge in “softer” music here and there

- he’s pretty soft spoken except for when he’s angry. he has a short temper, so he gets annoyed really fast, but it takes a lot to actually make him angry

- he has all of his weapons on display in big ass frames and he’s named them all

- he’s a really good fighter - muay thai boy for sure

- speaking of which, i think if he had a day job, he’d probably coach some sort of martial arts or maybe be a gym instructor

- if he went to uni he would’ve studied english literature and would’ve have minored in a foreign language

- he has a scar on his lip (like toji from jjk) idk why tho (it’s just hot lol)

- uses humour to cope

- so so many death jokes

- he does not like coffee, he drinks tea

- definitely knows latin

- he wears jewelry, a thin silver chain and maybe a couple of rings

- he’s pretty handy… he can fix a lot of stuff. literally anything from cars to laptops to ikea furniture

- he has that white steak in his hair and he has a huge atopsy scar on his chest, he also has a faint scar on his neck

- roy calls him the walking dead

- he struggles with nightmares and they’re frequent. he needs a smoke break after

- he also has panic attacks and he doesn’t like being touched when he’s going through them, but he doesn’t like being alone. he needs to be reminded that he’s home, he’s alive, he’s okay and he’s safe

- he has blue light reading glasses but he only wears them at home when no one is there to judge him

- he likes cat videos

- he also sends cat memes in the family group chat

- OH and he definitely has a cat with a either a really dumb name or it’s named after his fav book character (cough cough mr darcy cough)

- he picks up damian from school sometimes, he complains, but in reality he really doesn’t mind. they talk about the books damian is reading in his english class

- he’s tall but he’s not 6’4 tall he’s more like 6ft or 6’1

- he’s a good cook definitely better than the other boys

- him and alfred cook together. this one time they cooked a really big batch of pasta and he took it to his old neighbourhood to feed the kids

- he’s pretty reckless and does not care about his safety at all, so he ends up pretty bruised up

- will ALWAYS try to one up dick. dick did a back flip? guess what jason did 20 back flips! dick took down two guys during patrol? yeah jason took down the whole damn team

[fwanxi]

Nerd Reader x Nerd Nanami = smart power couple

you and kento were sitting at a corner table on a café, your eyes glued on your notebook, fingers fiddling with your pen.

“you’re so focused, working on how to divide zero now?” kento chuckles as he leans back.

“haha, very funny. if could divide zero, i’d be solving the world’s fundamental problems, not this stupid equation.” you huff.

you were preparing for an upcoming exam and you thought about inviting kento to study with you.

because why not, right?

“there’s beauty in the paradox of diving by zero, maybe you should just stop looking for the answer and let the question be.” he shruggs.

“so, you’re saying that i should just stop solving and just appreciate it? will that get me a passing grade?” you look at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“pretty much. though, to be fair, i get it. numbers don’t offer room for interpretation. but language—language is fluid. it can mean whatever you want it to mean... have you thought about math as a language?” kento suggests taking his drink and sipping a little.

“sure, math is a language. but it’s a language about rules. it’s all about structure and logic.” you refute, looking back at your messy math notes.

“if you look at it this way, math is a kind of poetry. just like a metaphor works in finding the unexpected connection between two things—math finds connections between numbers. patterns show up and suddenly something new appears where there was nothing before.” setting his cup down as he looked at you.

“you’re starting to sound like those motivational quotes that you find imprinted on the side of a coffee cup. you have a point, though i don’t think i’m gonna start writing sonnets about theorems anytime soon...” you laugh softly, scribbling nonsense on your notebook.

“i’ll take that as a win. i think you could give shakespeare a run for his money if you ever wrote a poem about prime numbers.”

“‘shall i compare thee to an irrational number? thou art infinite and never repeating…’” you say sarcastically.

“hey, don’t knock it until you try it. you could write a whole epic poem on pythagoras and his theorem, i guarantee it would have a bigger following than every other poems.” kento leans back on the chair again.

“yeah, yeah. you’re distracting me! go read whatever shenanigans you’re reading, you’re making me lose focus!” you lightly slap his shoulders.

nothing could beat moments like this, just you and him—throwing playful banters against one another.

and you did end up passing your test! but you’re not sure if you’re still gonna invite kento anytime soon knowing that he’s just gonna go off and talk about things that you really can’t comprehend...

who are you kidding? of course you’d invite him either way...

an: english isn’t my first language so this made my head hurt, i think i drained my brain juice and idrk how i’d portray this type of trope so i just went w it 😿 + i believe that kento is a english literature poem stuff kind of guy and becomes a yapper when that’s the topic, you can’t change my mind .

[redflagshipwriter]

Hot Ghouls in your area 7

masterpost

Chapter 7 

…Jason slowly put down the book and turned it cover up, shell-shocked from that interaction. He lifted his phone and took a photo. He sent it to Roy. 

“What do you see?” He typed. Jason bit his lower lip and tried not to scowl while he waited for a response. 

It wasn’t that Jason was unused to conflict. Jason was great at conflict. He won every conflict! (Almost.) But what the hell had this shit been? Why had that guy been so pissy about the book? What the hell was wrong with the book that Jason didn’t see?

“Gibberish?” Roy texted back a few minutes later. “It gives the impression of wonky Cyrillic to me. But it's got a terrible energy to it. The hell is that?”

Jason looked at the cover. To his eyes, there was a serif font declaring it Sense and Sensibility Universe D version 5. 

“Thanks,” he sent, ignoring the question and then the barrage of heart emojis. Shit, okay. 

That answered one question. But it didn't answer enough. What the fuck had that college kid been seeing that was so offensive? 

‘And why'd he think we would meet again?’ 

Jason pushed deep, deep down any awareness that he hoped it was true. That had been weird enough that it would bother him forever if he didn’t get answers.

He sort of hated the idea of getting his nosy family involved, but they would ask different and in some ways, less annoying questions than other groups he could poll. They'd know not to lie to him, at least. So he sent the picture on to the family group chat with the same question and grimly finished his tea. 

The elderly proprietor came out then and noticed that her other customer was gone. She looked confused for a moment, scanning the seat to see if his book bag was still there. She picked up the cash he'd left on the table and then started stacking dishes.

‘He’s a regular,’ Jason guessed, honing in on the opportunity to learn more. He flipped the book open but held the apparently offensive cover down towards the table, out of her line of sight. He needed to know what had gone so wrong. Jason wasn’t normally the kind of person that cute college kids had beef with.

He'd never been in this café before, his intuition had just told him to duck inside.

“I think he forgot something,” Jason offered casually, pretending to just look up from his book. “Ran out real quick in a panic.” 

The lady let out a soft “Ahhh,” of comprehension. “Something for his afternoon class, perhaps,” she agreed, looking a little happier. 

“Yeah, it looked like he was getting ready to settle in for a long study session and then he bolted,” Jason lied, watching her underneath his lashes. He had been paying a little more attention than he ought to when the guy came in. He was Jason’s type, aside from the thing where he’d hated Jason’s face for no apparent reason-

‘No, actually, everyone I’ve ever been into hated me on sight.’

Ouch. As Jason digested that embarrassing truth, the owner continued talking.

“He does that,” she agreed, apparently not thinking it was odd at all for them to talk about the habits of another customer. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. He's a sharp cookie, did you know that?” She continued, and oh, she had halfway adopted this college kid, huh? There was warmth and a hint of pride in her tone.

Jason valiantly swallowed the snort. “He looks familiar, but I don't think we have classes together,” he fished. 

“Mm, he's doing some kind of math and engineering,” the lady helpfully supplied. She gave Jason her full attention as she stood up from the table. “And you?”

“Modern language and literature,” Jason said, and sort of wished it was true. He didn't really have the time. Did he? Spoiler was a full-time student, wasn't she? …Huh.

While he chewed that over, the lady had drifted a couple steps closer.

“...Those are two meaningfully different courses?” 

“Modern language is learning additional languages, I'm doing Russian and Greek right now,” Jason lied easily. He was fluent in both already. “Literature is mostly classics, for my purposes. I'm focusing on Regency Lit.” 

She looked very interested, but she detoured away to deposit the dirty dishes behind the counter. They kept up a light conversation about books as she wiped off the table and reset for the next customer. 

When she left, he finally had the chance to check his messages. There was a full-on fight in the group chat. The last message was from Stephanie. She had tagged him and asked, “Is this an optical illusion??? Like that dress?”

Ah, fuck. Jason felt a rock settle in his stomach at the confirmation that something hinky was going on.

‘I can’t read this in public if it’s saying something I can’t control or even know.’

Fucking hell. Jason scrolled back up and checked. Damian listed the correct title. Dick saw what, ‘I thought was Greek at first.’ Stephanie might have been joking but she argued vigorously that it was pictographs that started with a bird. Drake had sent “You rediscovered Minoan Linear A? Cool.” and then not participated in any follow-up discussions. Duke had sent only a stream of confused and tearful emojis.

Cass had marked it read.

“Fair enough, I guess,” Jason muttered to himself. Resentfully he put the book back in his bag. 

What had that guy seen? If he’d just seen something foreign but illegible he wouldn’t have gotten so pissy about it. And who the hell had he been, anyway? Why was he so special?

Well. That was something to do with his afternoon. Jason paid up his bill and gave Phyllis his well-wishes for her doctor’s appointment tomorrow on the way out. Phyllis was a good contact, he would definitely come back for more of her jasmine tea no matter how mad that guy got at him.

…Jason really needed a name.

And found…

He headed to Gotham University and used the student computers to look up departments and then hack into the registrar. Jason flipped through photos until he found his guy: Danny Fenton, 19, sophomore double-major in the Engineering department. Good grades, no notes on his account about academic dishonesty or conflict.

'Little weird to meet two Dannys in a 24 hour period.'

Jason searched the guy online and found…

He let his mouth drop open in disbelief at the batshit insane website design he had stumbled into. The Fenton family had a website, apparently, and they had maybe let a 7 year old design it in 2008. The colors… The lack of centering… The.. the neon choices.

His eyes watered. It took a while to fight down his aesthetic grief and actually start comprehending the text.

He had expected this to be like, an online family newsletter. And it was! The link he had followed detailed “Danno going to college in the big city!!!” The boy himself looked extremely resigned in the attached photo. Seriously, Jason had seen much less mortified mugshots. The thing was, that on the same page, alongside posts about other kids going college (Jazzypants!) and someone called Alicia recovering from “supergout!” with "her eight favorite toes remaining!!!", there was also a lot of mention of ghosts.

Like, a lot.

Jason scrolled in pained disbelief. There were photos that showed extremely weird and dismayed green people obviously flinching away from a camera. A beautiful green woman with her hair halfway over her face snarled through a flood of smoke under the title “Wishywish Ghostie Interviewed: Learn what drives her generous heart!” and an ugly robot motherfucker was seen fleeing under the caption, “Skalker indicates that spook is a GHOST SLUR!”

….Was it a shit post? Just one long shitpost? It had to be a joke site.

Well. No. Jason buried his face in his hands and came to terms with the horrible fact that not only were ghosts real, he was accidentally married to one and this bombastic midwestern family already knew about it. This was his best lead for getting that 'beyond death do you part' separation.

They had been blasting the existence of ghosts for all the world to read, and it hadn’t been news. The Justice League didn’t know about this whole society. The journalism done by– Jason lifted his head to check– Jack Fenton interviewing clearly very unwilling ghosts was the only primary source that he knew of. 

He took a few deep breaths. He came to terms with grief. He decided to block his family from any further involvement in this shitshow, for what remained of his dignity. And he grimly noted down Jack Fenton’s email.

Jason cleared this history and closed down his tabs, feeling a decade older than he had when he had entered the library. He ignored the sultry ‘come talk to me’ eye contact that the student worker was shooting him from behind the counter as he slouched out. 

He stopped for a moment on top of the stairs to watch campus move. He saw the theatre building and the modern language headquarters from his vantage point, along with about half of the student center. There was just a trickle of foot traffic between buildings along paved paths. A few people were hanging out on blankets in the grass. An old man in a suit was taking a phone call next to a crawling rose garden. 

‘Maybe I should go to school.’

Well. After this shit was sorted out. Obviously he could not go to school before he got divorced. It would be torturous to hang out with cute boys his age and be committed to some hot dead mermaid who didn’t even wanna make out with him sloppy. Loser shit on absolutely every level, goddamn.

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and jogged down the stairs. He kept an eye out for Danny, but had no luck.  

Not that he cared. It was interesting that he had a lead: Danny clearly had some connection to ghosts, and he had been able to read… 

‘Maybe he realized it was a ghost’s property and he thought I stole it?’ Jason realized in a stroke of inspiration. That made more sense. If he knew enough to recognize it as ghost language or whatever, then he might have felt affronted about Jason having it.

He went through his mental checklist to pick out what he did and didn’t know. Once he felt he had a hang on his priorities, he beelined to his own laptop in his favorite safehouse and started looking into the Fentons in more depth.

It was a great lead. It was suspiciously good, in fact, he thought as he found Jack Fenton’s online family newsletter again. What were the odds that he would run into Danny Fenton in a cafe that Jason had never even been in before? It had been a total fluke that he’d entered. He’d been walking past to a favorite place and then just had the urge to try the dark little family cafe.

‘…Ah, fuck’, Jason sighed. More ghost shit. It had to be. Something about Danny Fenton’s ghost shit had registered to him now that he’d been exposed to ghost central.

[roosterforme]

Covering the Classics Part 5 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: Bob was willing to try to be friends with Anna, but he knew his feelings wouldn't go away overnight. The more time he spent around her, the harder it seemed to make that happen. When Bradley and Jake make a suggestion about Bob's dating agenda, Anna doesn't seem crazy about it. And Bob ends up even more confused by her actions than her words. 

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, mentions of cheating, eventually 18+

Length: 5700 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more! Thank you to @mak-32 for the beautiful banner!

Being friends with Anna was one of the worst things Bob had ever had to do. But being around her while still keeping his distance was better than the alternative, so he had to do it. When she texted him, he responded immediately, and he couldn't stop thinking about how much he'd like to hold her hand.

She was all smiles when he saw her again a few days later. This time, she was the one who invited him out for a cup of coffee on Saturday morning, and he jumped at the chance to go. After cancelling his breakfast plans with Mickey with the promise that he'd be at the bar before Dungeons & Dragons, he hopped in his truck and drove off to meet Anna.

He was early, but she was already there. "Hey, Bob," she said, waving to him from a small table near the back as he approached. She already had two drinks in front of her, and Bob's brow creased in something like annoyance as he made his way to her.

"I was going to pay for your coffee," he said, meeting her brown eyes as he dropped slowly into the empty seat. 

"You paid the other day," she replied, sliding the hot tea a little closer to him. "Plus, you bought me two books."

All Bob could think about as he looked at her tentative smile was the fact that he wanted nothing more than to buy Anna every book she wanted for the rest of her life. Massive anthologies and slim romance novels and poetry collections and autobiographies... he wanted to get her every single one that sparked her interest. He wanted to catch her attention in just the same way literature did. He wanted to be what she curled up in bed with after a long day.

Bob cleared his throat. "Thanks for the tea, but next time I'm paying."

"Deal," she said softly before blowing on her hot coffee with another smile. 

"Great. In that case, we can go out for an expensive lobster dinner," he told her with a little grin. "You already agreed."

Anna looked at him as she took a sip. "Is an expensive lobster dinner something friends would enjoy together?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

Bob's heart started beating a little faster. "I think friends can do whatever they want."

She studied him for a moment before reaching into her tote bag and pulling out a book. "This is for you. It's from my own personal stash, so it's a little worn out, but I thought you might like to borrow it."

When he accepted the dog eared paperback copy of The Remains of the Day, her fingers brushed against his. "Thank you. I'll add it to my list of Dr. Webber recommendations."

She blushed slightly, and her hand went to her cheek as she said, "Dr. Webber. Sometimes I still can't believe I finished my doctorate after putting it on hold for so long."

Bob sipped his tea. "Why did you put it on hold? It's easy to see how much it means to you."

Anna chewed on her lip before she softly said, "I made some bad decisions, but I won't be doing that again. Do you want to split a croissant?" 

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

"So," Jessica said, heaving a deep sigh at lunchtime on Monday. She looked like she had just received some devastating news, and when Anna glanced toward her other friend holding her tie dyed lunchbox, she found a similar expression on her face as well. "It's true? You and Bob are friends?"

"You don't have to say it like that," Anna replied, dropping down onto the bench between the two of them with the weird looking tree behind her. "You were the ones who encouraged me to make a new friend in the first place!"

"We thought you'd snap out of it after like ten minutes alone with him again," Advanced Calculus said as she bit into the pretty lunch that Bradley had clearly packed for her. "Poor Bob."

Anna scuffed the toe of her old, beat up shoe along the concrete in front of her as she sipped her can of ginger ale. "It's not like I'm some amazing option or something," she muttered, remembering how adorable he looked when she handed him her own book for him to borrow. "Bob could do better."

"Anna!" Jessica gasped. "Don't say that about yourself! It's simply not true! You're the best!"

Anna swallowed hard, embarrassment starting to fill her up as tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She wasn't used to being around anyone who said kind words to or about her. The fact that she almost couldn't handle hearing them was making her feel vulnerable. "I just mean... I'm not really emotionally available, so it would be in his best interest to stop returning my crush on him." She was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to stop her own feelings at this point.

The other two women were quiet for a beat, and Anna started to get nervous, but then there was a fancy container of veggies and some sort of dip being held out in front of her. She helped herself to a carrot stick as her friend finally asked, "Are you ready to talk about Kevin?"

She crunched hard into the carrot before saying, "I don't like to talk about cheaters."

Jessica made a disgusted sound and said, "That's probably half of the male population. But... I think it's safe to talk about Bob." Anna groaned, and Jessica quickly added, "Okay, fine, I'll stop now!"

"Kevin cheated on you?" Advanced Calculus said, cutting right to the chase. "What a fucking dick."

"Yeah," Anna whispered, wondering why this lunch meetup was becoming so emotional. "It went on for years, as far as I can tell. I was just too busy working and trying to stay above water to notice at first. He's... still with her. I think." But Anna knew the truth; all Kevin really did was find an upgrade and stick with her. He found another medical doctor with a thriving career, just like himself.

"Men are disgusting," Jessica said ferociously. "I was going through a bit of a rough patch when I met Jake, so keep your head up, okay? There are some good ones out there."

Anna snorted. "I think the two of you found the only good ones left."

"Nah. But I do think they might all be in the Navy."

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

Bob was surprised on Friday night when he got to the Hard Deck a little later than usual and found Anna there. The deep copper of her hair was illuminated by the lights above the pool table as she stood next to Jake, sipping a glass of ginger ale. She looked like she belonged here now, even though it was just her second visit, and when Bob got closer, he could hear her asking Jake about him.

"So everyone has a call sign? In the entirety of the United States Navy?"

"No," Jake replied with a chuckle. "Not everyone."

"And your call sign is Hangman? And Bradley's is Rooster?"

"That's right."

"What's Bob's?"

Bob smiled softly, enjoying the fact that she was asking about him without realizing he was standing right there. "It's just Bob," he said, making her jump a bit in surprise as she looked up and found him immediately with her dark eyes.

She examined him with a soft smile on her lips. "Just Bob. I think I like that better. I'd probably want to be just Anna if I had a call sign. Do you want to play pool with me? We can lose to Jessica together."

It took Bob a second to put everything together in his mind. Anna wasn't making fun of his call sign where everyone else usually would have been. And now she was holding out a pool cue toward him with a hopeful look on her face that was slowly starting to fade away as he stood motionless. "Yes," he finally said, reaching out to take it from her. Just like at the coffee shop, their fingers met briefly, and Bob just wanted to hold her hand in the worst way. And maybe try to count her freckles. And maybe kiss her. He cleared his throat. "I'd love to play. Losing to Jessica is so much fun."

"It's everyone's favorite way to spend a Friday night!" Jessica replied, brandishing a Sam Adams in one hand and a blue chalk cube in the other.

"No way, Smart Girl. I like what comes later even better," Jake replied, wrapping his arm around her waist, and Bob had to look away as he kissed his girlfriend. Jake had been talking about engagement rings in the locker room the other day, and Bob was sworn to secrecy. 

He promised not to say anything. He wouldn't. The two of them belonged together, and Bob could tell how happy they would be, but he still felt nauseatingly jealous of their love. Especially when Jessica kissed Jake and whispered, "Save the dirty talk for later."

Bob's eyes found Anna's as she got the table set up. He was going to work really hard at this friendship thing, but someday when he inevitably saw her with another guy's arms wrapped around her, hugging her, he was certain he was going to have to excuse himself from her presence. But for now, all he could do was look at her.

"Do I have something on my face?" she asked, touching her cheek after she set the eight ball in place.

"Just a cute smile," Bob replied, and then he had the distinct desire to disappear as said smile grew a little bigger before she pressed her lips together. Clearly he couldn't be trusted not to make things weird. "Let's play."

They were about five minutes into the game when Bradley and his wife walked over, and Bob was really enjoying the way Anna accidentally bumped into him. Twice. But then he was reminded of the other topic of conversation that had been brought up in the locker room at work.

"Hey Bob, you still thinking about downloading a dating app?" Bradley asked him casually. Anna fumbled and dropped the blue chalk that she was holding. Bob picked it up and handed it to her, but she didn't even meet his eyes when she took it.

"Uh, I might," he replied, watching Anna miss her shot at the nine ball by a mile. Bradley and Jake were the ones who mentioned the app to begin with, and when Bob showed the slightest bit of interest, they ran with the idea. "Still undecided."

"I can help you make a profile," Bradley said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You'll just have to let me know if you'd rather find your soulmate or be knee deep in as much pussy as you can handle."

Bob felt his cheeks warm up as Bradley's wife smacked him on the chest and told him to be quiet. When he chanced a glance at Anna, she was already looking at him with wide, brown eyes. Truthfully, Bob kind of wanted to find his soulmate and be getting a lot of pussy, but just from that one person. 

"Can we talk about this later?" he muttered, sinking the nine ball for his team when it was finally his turn.

"Sure. We can download it later," Bradley said with a smirk that didn't quite sit well with Bob. That wasn't what he meant at all, and now Anna wasn't even looking at him. It took him bringing her another glass of ginger ale for her to even acknowledge he was still there.

"Thanks," she said softly as she took it from him. They'd been trounced by Jess and Jake, and now they were standing off to the side together. "You know," she added, "if you download a dating app, you'd probably get a lot more attention if you put up a photo of you in your uniform. Or one of those jumpsuit things."

Bob shook his head and looked at his feet. "You'd swipe right?" he asked before he could think better of it.

Anna laughed and said, "Honestly? I'd swipe right if you were wearing your Dungeons & Dragons shirt."

Once again, he didn't know what to say. She only wanted to be friends with him, but this was the second time she told him she found him attractive. "It's called a flight suit," he said, waiting for her to meet his eyes. When she did, she looked confused. "Not a jumpsuit."

She smiled again at the clarification. "Well, whatever they are, I like them. And the call signs. Especially yours. You seem like you don't need a lot of fancy stuff. Just Bob."

"Just Bob," he whispered. He didn't need anything fancy, but right now he sure wanted Anna.

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

On Tuesday at lunchtime, Anna was the first one to the bench, and she had to sit there awkwardly and hope that her friends showed up. She could be back in her office, alone, thinking about what she wanted to do in her next Feminist Literature lecture. She was about to text them when she glanced up as Jessica's glasses reflected the bright sunlight, and both women were heading her way. Then she saw her beat up copy of The Remains of the Day held in the same hand that was holding the tie dye lunchbox.

"This is from Bob. He gave it to Bradley to give to me, and I had to promise to give it to you."

Anna took the book from her and whispered, "Thank you." Had Bob already finished reading another of her recommended books? Was he really this perfect? That's when she noticed there was a slip of paper peeking out between the pages, and she barely heard her two friends talking as she pulled it out.

Anna,

You really need a bookmark. All of the dog eared pages made me feel terrible for this poor book as I read it. I enjoyed the story immensely, but seriously, you need to stop folding the pages over to save your spot. Unless it was your intention to bring an element of horror into the tale? If so, well done. Also, now that I have your attention, do you feel like grabbing a drink on Thursday evening? We could go to Chippy's and eat some of the best peanuts in the world. Just text me and let me know.

Bob

She whimpered softly. Everything this man did delighted her. She wanted to recommend a dozen more books to him if it meant she could have one more little handwritten note to tuck away. Or to use as the bookmark that would keep him from stressing out about the pages.

"Earth to Anna," Jessica said, waving a hand in front of her face and making her finally look up. 

"Bob asked me to go to Chippy's with him," she blurted out, holding the note tight in her hand. 

"Oh!" Advanced Calculus gasped. "You should go!"

"No," Advanced Physics whined. "That was supposed to be a girls' night outing!"

"I want her to go. It's the only thing that will get Bob off the dating app. I can't believe Bradley brought that up in the first place. He doesn't know a damn thing about it."

"I want her to go with us for the first time!"

Anna looked back and forth between the two of them, that familiar whiplash feeling returning as they argued with her in the middle. But in the meantime, she got her phone out and texted Bob.

If we go to Chippy's without Jessica, I think she might have a fit.

Bob must have been on his lunch break as well, because he wrote back a minute later while the two of them were still arguing. 

Bob Floyd: All the more reason to do it, really.

Anna laughed quietly as she told him about her office hours on Thursday, promising to meet him for some life changing peanuts at 7:15. Then she put her phone away and announced, "I'm going with Bob. The three of us can go to Chippy's on a different night."

Jessica looked mildly annoyed while her other friend looked smug and said, "Get him off the dating app. Those women will eat that sweet man alive."

But Anna knew she couldn't and shouldn't even try to do anything about that. Friends were supposed to be supportive of each other, and Bob was her friend. Just her friend. But when she thought about how much attention he was probably getting, it just made her so sad. She could have had that. She could have been the one with his beautiful eyes focused on her while she inhaled his delicious scent.

Maybe she'd just make one quick comment about the app when they were together. "I'll see what I can do."

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

Of course Bob would get dismissed early on Thursday when he had nothing better to do than wait around until it was time to go to Chippy's with Anna. He skipped the locker room shower, opting to head home to get ready instead, and it looked like Jake and Bradley were of a similar mind as they walked out to the parking lot at the same time as him.

"You said you'd share your lasagna recipe," Bradley said, annoyance laced in his voice. "Sugar really likes it."

"I said I would think about it," Jake replied smoothly. "It's not like you need help getting laid. It's not like you're Bob. No offense, Bob."

He just sighed and glared at the blonde. "I don't need help getting laid."

"Sure, pal," Jake replied as he approached his truck. "But I'll give you a free tip anyway. I'm going to go home and shower and pack up dinner. Then I'm going to stop and get some flowers for Jess, because girls like that shit. Then I'm going to her office hours where the combination of a homemade meal and pretty flowers will have her pulling her panties off as soon as I walk in."

"Please," Bob moaned. His stomach turned at the thought of Jessica, who made up a ridiculous voice for her D&D character, removing any article of her clothing. "Please stop. She's my friend."

"So is Anna," Bradley said with a smirk. "Did you download Tinder yet? Or are you going to stop and get some flowers and man up before you go to Chippy's?"

He didn't know how to explain to them that the last thing he wanted to do was push her away, and he was almost certain that a romantic gesture like giving her flowers would do just that. He also wished he hadn't even told them that he and Anna were going to Chippy's together. It was another excuse to see her, sure, but he was convinced she'd really like the peanuts.

"I have it under control," Bob muttered, passing Bradley's Bronco and heading for his own truck. Anna told him she'd made some bad decisions in her life, and he wanted to know more. Maybe going out tonight would be a way for her to open up to him a little bit. He knew from real life as well as some of the books he read that love could be built on solid friendships, but he tried not to tell himself that something like that could work out for him. Friendship was enough. 

"Robert!" Suzanne called from her open front door as he walked up the path. "You're home early."

"Hey, Suzanne. Yeah, got out early today."

"You know what you should do, Robert? You should spend this extra time getting on a dating app."

He paused with his key in the lock of his own front door and listened to the game show that she was watching as the sound filtered outside. "Thanks so much for that amazing idea, Suzanne. Have a great night."

It didn't take him too long to get ready, and while he definitely didn't want to show up at Chippy's with a bouquet of flowers, he came up with another idea. A better idea. And if he could manage to locate Anna's office in the English building, he would meet her there.

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

Anna had one student show up to her office hours, and even then, it was just so he could complain about how they were only reading 'books by girls' in English 522.

"It's Feminist Literature," she explained slowly. "The main themes and topics revolve around equality of the sexes and advocacy for women's rights. The female point of voice is what we are exploring this semester."

"But why is it all chicks? I don't really like these books."

She sighed and said, "Everything has been on the syllabus since the first lecture, and I haven't deviated from it. If you don't think you can handle it, then I suggest your drop the class."

When he finally left, she groaned and put her head down on her desk. Just a few more minutes, and she could go meet Bob. Bob Floyd. The man who read books by authors of every kind. The man who would probably enjoy sitting in one of her lectures. The man of her dreams.

"Fuck you, Kevin," she whispered before picking her head up and fixing her braid. When there was another knock on her door, she jumped in her seat. "Come in!"

And then there he was, pushing the door open and filling up her tiny office with his broad shoulders and handsome features. Bob smiled at her, and she immediately believed everything would be okay forever. "Hi," she whispered, standing up behind her desk, the large piece of furniture the only thing between them now. "Bob."

Then her eyes dipped down as he held out his hand. "These are for you." He was holding a six pack of ginger ale cans, and it was then that the smell of clean soap and hot tea invaded her senses. "An office warming gift."

"You're sweet," she said softly, and he smiled as she accepted the treat from him. "Thanks."

He just shrugged and looked around the room. "Nice place you got here."

Anna laughed. "You don't have to lie about it. You're tall enough that you could touch that wall with your hand and the opposite wall with your foot at the same time," she said, pointing from one side of the space to the other.

"It's still nice," he told her as he adjusted his glasses. "You must have two hundred books in here. And it smells like a library. And bread?"

She nodded and said, "That's because I'm near the cafeteria. You get used to it."

Bob's laughter and genuine smile had her whole body clenching. "Smells better than jet fuel. You ready to go to Chippy's?"

"Yeah." It came out like a whine. This felt like a date. She wanted it to be a date. She wanted to live in an alternate universe where she could feasibly date someone. As she set her ginger ale cans down and picked up her office key and tote bag, she started to make her way to the door. When she stopped, Bob bumped into her, his hands landing on her waist.

"Sorry," he muttered, and he put some space between their bodies immediately.

"It's okay," she replied, pulling the door closed and locking it. Anna couldn't control the thundering of her heart as they walked side by side down the hallway and stepped outside into the cool, evening air. What was she supposed to talk about with her friend Bob when she just kept thinking about his hands on her body? She cleared her throat as they walked quietly down the sidewalk toward the bar. "Did you wear your jumpsuit at work today?"

Bob's smirk made her giggle. "Flight suit, Anna. For someone who has a bunch of friends in the Navy, you could really use a tutorial. And yes, I did wear my flight suit."

She bit her lip and tried to picture him in it. "I liked your khaki uniform with all the pins on it."

His brow scrunched up as he looked at her, leading the way toward Chippy's. "When did you see my service khakis?"

Oh shit. She'd been staring at the selfie he sent from the bookstore so frequently, she just outed herself. "Um. You sent a picture to me. A while ago."

His features smoothed out as he held the bar door open for her to walk past him. "Right." His voice sounded a little deeper as she passed him. "Forgot about that."

She sure hadn't, and she never ever would. Scrambling for something to say as she walked across the sticky floor littered with peanut shells toward a group of students drinking beers, she blurted out, "I thought all Naval uniforms were navy blue."

When he pulled out a stool for her at a high top table, she took a seat. His voice was close to her ear as he said, "Your tutorial begins now. Can't have you embarrassing yourself like this next time you come to the Hard Deck. You want a beer?"

She wasn't much of a drinker, and the last thing she needed was something that would amplify the way her heart felt like it was beating erratically right now, but she simply nodded. Then Bob disappeared, leaving her really wondering what this tutorial might include. She tracked his movements back toward the bar where an older man with a deep scowl on his face started to reach for two pint glasses. Bob pulled his wallet out of his snug pocket, and Anna was too distracted to realize that he was paying for something for her. Again. 

"Damn it," she groaned, realizing how quickly she was slipping tonight. She wanted Bob to explain in great detail everything about the United States Navy while she ate peanuts. She wanted to feed him some and let her fingertips brush his lips. "Stop it." He was returning to the table now, and she watched as two women at another table pointed at him subtly. He was so attractive, and the way he was carrying two full glasses cupped in one big palm left her dizzy.

"Here you go," he said, handing her one of the beers along with a big dish of peanuts. "Best peanuts in San Diego. I swear."

Anna took one and smashed it open as she said, "I'll be the judge of such things." Bob looked really sure of himself as he sat down opposite her, and as soon as she tasted it, she knew he was right. It was roasted to perfection with just the perfect amount of salt. "Oh, god."

"Told you," he replied, reaching into the dish for a few. "But don't tell Penny I said that. I don't want to break her heart."

And that was just thing about Bob. Anna would have believed him if he said he never wanted to break anyone's heart. His fingers brushed against her as they both reached for more peanuts at the same time, but he ended up scooting them a little closer to her. 

"There are some that are navy blue," he said, his eyes bright behind his glasses. "Uniforms, that is."

"I knew it!"

"But we hardly ever wear them," he added with a soft smile. "We wear the white ones even less frequently."

"White ones?" Anna asked as she took a sip of her beer, eyes fixed on Bob's fingers as he worked a peanut out of the shell. She could write poetry about his hands, they were just that graceful and strong looking. He was talking, but she could barely keep up with the conversation, and when she set her beer down, it was half empty. 

"But that's just when I fly with Phoenix," he was saying. "I've been getting tossed around from pilot to pilot recently, which I hate. But my flight suits are what I wear the most, followed by my khaki uniform."

"It looked nice on you," Anna whispered loudly, surprised that she said it out loud. Again. 

"You said that before," Bob replied, his cheeks flushed a delicious shade of pink. Would he feel warm to the touch? Why was it so hot inside Chippy's? Why did Anna agree to come here without the girls?

She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants, wishing she wasn't so awkward. "Why did you study aviation? You seem like you'd have been a spectacular English major."

Bob shrugged. "A free ride to the Naval Academy is prestigious enough that you just don't turn that down. Where did you get your PhD?"

Anna hated answering this question, but she'd be honest with Bob. "I started out at Princeton, but it was expensive, and I decided to use my money for... other things. I finished at a state school. A New Jersey state school."

"But you finished," he said with a smile as she gulped down the rest of her beer in one go. "You've got more letters after your name than I do."

Anna laughed, because he wasn't wrong. "But you've got more letters before your name than I do. Lieutenant Floyd."

"No, I don't," he said easily. "Dr. Webber."

"Shit," she croaked, really feeling the beer now. "You're right. That sounds so badass."

"It is badass," he promised as Anna's head swam with warmth and desire and contentment. He cracked open another peanut, slipping it between his parted lips. She leaned in a little closer, and his eyes went wide at what she said. 

"Did you download a dating app? I don't think you should. The guys don't know what they're talking about, and you don't really need it. You could get anyone."

Bob studied her as she tried to keep her expression neutral, fingers spinning her empty glass around nervously in front of her. "No," he said slowly. "I didn't download an app. If I'm being honest, I think I'm still hung up on the idea of meeting someone and falling for them naturally. Like accidentally bumping into them in a bookstore." Her mouth went dry as he softly said, "That's kind of what I always wanted."

It was her. She was the one he bumped into before they even knew they had mutual friends. She was that girl from the bookstore. Why couldn't she have this? She wanted it, too! And now he thought she didn't. 

"It's okay," he said before finishing off his beer. "We can be friends." He set the glass down, and Anna felt his gaze move from her lips up to her eyes. "You ready to go?"

"Yes," she whispered, slowly reaching for her things. "Thanks for the beer."

Bob shrugged as he helped her down from the stool. "Any excuse to come to Chippy's."

As they walked past the clusters of students on their way toward the door, Anna waved to the bartender. "Does he always look that cranky?"

"Ol' Chippy? Yes. Always."

She made a point to wave a little more vigorously as Bob's hand found her side and guided her outside while she laughed. "Sorry, I'm a bit of a lightweight, and now it's my goal to get him to laugh."

"I have a feeling you'll be working on that mission for a while," Bob said close to her ear. "Are you drunk?"

"No," she whispered. "Just silly."

Bob couldn't seem to help himself as he chuckled and led her along the sidewalk with one hand resting softly between her shoulder blades. "I don't really know what that means yet when it comes to you, Anna. Let me drive you home."

"Okay. It's not far," she replied, trying to imagine what it would be like if Bob ever saw the inside of her tiny apartment as she rattled off her street address. She climbed into his truck with a little bit of help, and then he reached for her seatbelt before pausing and placing it in her hand. 

"Buckle up," he told her as she stared down into his face.

"I will," she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. "If you promise not to download that app."

His lips twitched into a smile. "You have my word."

Bob walked around the front of his truck before climbing in and starting up the engine. He played with the radio dials while he drove as Anna breathed in her surroundings. Everything smelled good in here where Bob's fresh soap scent seemed to blend with the tang of jet fuel. She had to press her thighs together as she imagined running her nose along the front of his flight suit before he got himself cleaned up after a shift at work. 

"Oh no," she whispered as Bob pulled up to a red light a few streets from where she lived. Sky Writing's poetry swirled around in her mind, and she was afraid she might have whispered the words out loud when Bob turned and looked at her in surprise. 

"What did you just say?" he asked, eyeing her closely.

She thought about the words she had memorized once again. Passion pulses through my veins like a wild river. Binding me to you in a dance of fire.

"Nothing," she told him as the car behind his truck honked, still sitting after the light turned green.

When he parked at the curb in front of her building, he turned toward her with curious eyes and whispered, "I thought you said-"

But Anna had reached her limit with Bob. She released her seatbelt and leaned toward him, feeling more and more sure of herself the closer she got to his mouth. Then she pressed her lips gently to his and whimpered as she kissed him. Bob reached out and ran his graceful fingers along her cheek, and Anna melted into him before he abruptly pulled away. 

"Anna. I don't think this is something friends do," he croaked, voice raspy enough that she was forced to consider that she just kissed him.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, hauling herself back across the seat and throwing the door open. "I'm so sorry, Bob."

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

I can't decide if that was a mistake or not on Anna's part. But the longing got to be too much for her. She wants him badly. I hope she doesn't go into hiding. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 6

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[georgiapeach30513]

How I'm Looking at You, Part 3

Summary: it's becoming too much, and you're learning so much.

Pairings: Ari Levinson X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, first orgasm, jealousy, fingering, dry humping, mild imagines of breeding kink, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 7.8K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Taking a deep breath, you lift another spoonful of the coffee soup to your lips before letting the spoon fall back in the glass with a clash. Eyes going wide as you read through the words quickly, and turn the page. The English are a different breed of people, but you have found yourself more and more immersed in their literature. Getting to a better stopping point, you dip a piece of the bread in the soup, and look towards Ari.

He’s staring directly at you. Those crystal blue eyes of his rakes over your face curiously as if he’s studying you. As if you are the most interesting thing in the world. An abandoned newspaper beside his breakfast, but how could you be more interesting than whatever was in that?

Clearing your throat, you turn your gaze back to the book, and read nothing. You can still feel his warm and curious eyes as you try to breathe. Just breathe. Going to the swimming hole has lit something in you. Something deep within your body, and it is purely physical. You want him. You want him like the characters in your books, and that just brings on even more questions.

Questions that have you fearing their answers. Was Ari even aware of the books he had given you to read? Was that his plan all along? Because there is something stirring, and you don’t know how to deal with it. Between him and what you’re reading it’s becoming too much. It fizzles lower than your belly, and you have a feeling that Ari is the only one that can fix it.

Ari shifts in his chair, and you look over towards him. If he wants your attention, he can have a bit of it. You’re almost too embarrassed and scared to give him your full attention. “I want to apologize for the other day?”

“Apologize?” You ask a bit confused. What exactly is he apologizing for? And why was the fact that he was apologizing and admitting he did something wrong — desirable? Men around here were right, and you were just to accept it.

“For the swimming hole,” you nod once, your vision turning to an odd scratch in his table. Your father would have already had that buffed out. “I think things got a bit heated, and if I crossed the line, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t. Not really,” you gulp as you try and find the words. These books have been giving you so many new words that you aren’t sure if you can or should put them into a sentence. But there is one thing that seems to be common amongst the women, “It’s just so fast. And it’s overwhelming and I don’t know how to deal with what I’m feeling,” that didn’t sound too bad.

“What exactly are you feeling?” He adjusts his seat. Putting his forearms onto the table, while he leans forward. Giving you more attention than anyone else ever has, “If you’re comfortable,” you shake your head quickly, and he smiles. He has a pretty smile. A smile that you can feel radiate all the way to your toes, and that makes no sense at all.

“We should go swimming again,” you look at him, a smile creeping up on your face. “If-if you want to, that is. I can get you a bathing suit, and you can feel free to ask me anything. I could be like an open book, if you will.”

“Anything?” He whispers out, yes, and you let those words sink a moment before nodding, and picking your book back up. You read a paragraph about fifteen times without even absorbing what the words mean. But you have to quit looking at him. You have to keep him off your mind, while you try not to explode.

Anything. Anything that you can come up with, he’s willing to answer. You need to gather your thoughts, and think about what you would like to ask him. What if you irritated him to the point that he didn’t want to answer questions anymore? You had to make these questions count for something.

Ari is a strange character. He’s intense in ways that your community isn’t. Here the men just had a stern hand. They walked around being able to do what they wanted to because they were men. They just had to stick to the Amish ways, or at least not get caught. Judging by the church service over the weekend, people are having the same thoughts about you.

You could hear the whispers, and the backwards glances. Gossiping is a sin. Ari is your friend though. He doesn’t talk about you, he talks with you. A worldly man, and he gave you his undivided attention, and even his touches.

And why shouldn’t you be friends with Ari? It’s not like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be. You’re enjoying time with him, and learning from him. That’s more like a teacher. Except — Ari doesn’t look anything like the teachers you grew up with. He’s tall, large, and thick, and he makes your body ache in weird ways. You’re sure he’s not feeling the same way as you, so it’s best to keep these feelings suppressed.

But these stupid books are not helping. There’s something within them that just makes sense. They’re answering and describing a lot of things you’ve been feeling, but how does one know if your teacher is feeling the same way? How do you know if Ari is just as much of a knotted up mess as you are?

“So,” Ari starts, whatever his train of thought was, depleting. He’s not usually one to be shy, that’s typically you.

“What?” Laying your book down, you smile up at him. “Ari, what is it?”

“If I ask, you have to promise to not get mad,” now what is he up to that would make you get mad?

“I thought we were friends?”

“Yes!” His shout makes you flinch, and you giggle at your silly reaction. “I’m sorry, but yes, we’re friends. And I’m only trying to help you out. I took a guess at…your size of bra.”

“Oh,” your eyes fall back to the table. You had read about bras. There’s no way that the scratch on the table are as exciting as you’re making it. But looking at Ari is almost painful, “You know everything I wear, I’ve made myself, right?”

Ari inhales deeply, his own eyes looking at the odd mark on the table now. He actually didn’t know that, and now he fears he’s overstepped his boundaries. You like to think the scratch resembles an upside down J, but more rounded instead of a straight like. “Do you know what a bra is?”

“Essentially, yes. But,” your cheeks flare up with embarrassment, but you refuse to let this be another moment of trying to run away from him. It’s all you feel you’re doing, running away. You stand your ground of being present with him. “I don’t wear one.”

“Do you want to? Or have I gone too far??”

The women in the books all wear bras, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to experience some of the moments in the books. Unable to answer, you just nod your head. “Do you know how to put one on?”

“I think I can figure it out. Were you about to offer to help me?” This is very much the flirting that the books talk about. His crooked little grin goes wider across his face, and his cheeks flame up. Turning rosy while you can’t stop smiling. It feels good not to be the only one that has this rumbling in your stomach.

“I may have,” his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “I got you some panties, and they had a matching set with the bras, and…I don’t know, I figured you might like them? They’d be pretty on you,” He’s thoughtful, if not a shameless flirt. But still it feels nice to be seen, and thought of. “I’ve heard that it can make a woman feel sexy even if nobody sees it.”

Ugh, that gross feeling settles in your craw. Anger is not becoming of an Amish woman, but this doesn't feel like anger. It feels disgusting, and it hurts. You can nearly feel it blooming outwardly in your body, and you only want him to see you in your underwear. Nobody else. You want him to stop talking about other women, even if he’s had them. You want to be the only woman on his mind.

“Maybe they can show you what it looks like then?” His brow cocks up, and you push your chair back with a loud squeak. “I think it’s time for you to get to work.”

“Are you — jealous?” His words halt you in your tracks as you purse your lips. “Darling, there is no other woman in my life but you.”

“But there was, and I don’t much like hearing about them,” of course he couldn’t understand the feeling. You are pure, while he has had others.

“They were in the past, and…”

“And did they show you their panties as well?” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Contemplating the best way to proceed. “I see. I’m assuming they also have mated with you.”

“You are jealous,” his words are flat, and if they were mocking you, you might not feel as angry as you do right now. “There’s nothing to be jealous about.”

“How can I be something I don’t even understand what it means? Ari, you should really go outside, and start your chores for today, while I start mine,” what you really want is for him to leave you alone while you’re left with the debilitating thoughts that won’t stop pounding through your mind.

He sighs, pushing his chair back as he goes to stand. Staring at you while you look at anything that isn’t him. The burning sting that you feel oozes into you, and makes you feel weak and filthy. You hate it, and you hate when he does that to you.

“You’re right, Darling. I’m sorry,” what he’s apologizing for, you aren’t sure, but it doesn’t fully quell the sludge bubbling in your stomach. “I figured the bedroom upstairs could be yours,” that came from nowhere. You study him as he fights for the words to say next.

“Maybe you should look in the drawers. You’re doing a great job here, and I can’t thank you enough. Take some time off today,” you start to object. Blubbering through words, but his calloused finger presses up against your pouty lips, and you’re stunned into submission.

You look up at him through your lashes, feeling smaller than you actually are. He’s massive. His size always seems to make you feel like a child. “There’s less to do here because it’s just me. As your employer, I am telling you to take it easy today. Do I make myself clear?” Your throat is dry, almost on the verge of hurting as you nod your head. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so what are you supposed to do? Continue to argue and lose? No. You’ll just accept his warning.

“Everything in that room is yours,” he says with finality as he stalks to the door, and out for the day.

You’re left reeling. Playing over every word said this morning while you try and figure out all that is happening. Big strong Ari makes you very weak in the knees, and wet. That’s what the books say, and that is what you feel. The books have a perfect way of explaining the things that are going on in your hidden areas.

These feelings you can’t explain, but the books do. But what they suggest to take care of those feelings seems forbidden. Gathering up your current book, you lift your skirts a bit as you walk up the stairs. Counting each one on the way up. Fifteen. Fifteen steps until you reach the top landing.

Journeying down the hallway, you stop and take a peek in the first room. Ari’s. He actually made the bed today, but didn’t close his drawers all the way. He told you not to work today, but you can’t let those drawers stay open, so you take a few steps to it, and close them. Looking out the window you see him squinting up at the house before he smiles, and looks back at Jacob and the other two boys.

He saw you in his room. You had no business being in here, and you wonder if he’s going to punish you for not listening to him. It didn’t matter. What’s done is done, and you’ll accept whatever punishment he deems fit. You’ll just go to your room, as Ari called it.

It’s prettier than his. Showing oddly feminine furniture that are a bit too decorative to be Amish, but you like them. Love them actually. Love the way the intricate golden vines sprawl out over the sturdy wood, but it’s inside that has got you curious. You walk over to the window, and see Ari smiling at you again. Tipping his hat before you close the curtains.

Is he watching you? Waiting to see what you think of this bedroom? Or even what’s in the closet and drawers? Which makes you wonder, what exactly is in there. Opening the door to the closet, you take a step back as your eyes flick over the frocks. So many colors. And fabrics. Tags on them let you know that they weren’t made by someone, but you adore them all the same.

Pulling out on dress, you flatten it over your body, and turn to look at a floor length mirror, that definitely isn’t Amish. Vanity is a sin. But peering into the looking glass you get the appeal. You run your fingers over the lavender material as you swish around. Trying to get a feel of what it would look like on your body before you lay it on the bed.

You should try it on. But first where are the bras, those sets, that Ari spoke about. You go to the dresser, and open up a drawer. Smiling when you see the multitude of colors and materials in there. They were beautiful. It’s one thing that truly bothered you about your community, they want to praise God because of the beauty he created, while you are left to mope around in drab tones.

Don’t bring attention to oneself. But this would be under your clothes and only you and Ari would know. These are things you would be proud to show him, and even tell him how pretty they make you feel. You choose a pretty pale pink set. The bottoms have a bit less material than what you have been wearing. But the top looks so fresh and light that you need it on your skin. And then you can try on the dress.

Maybe even show Ari, and ask what he thinks. You stare at yourself in the mirror as you put the pieces on. Spinning and turning to admire the way they fit on your body. How they hug your curves, and lift your breasts. Your fingers tickle over the cups, and your body jerks back at the sensation. That…that was a lot for very little effort. It’s only partially of how Ari makes you feel. He has you wound so tight that it’s sometimes difficult to breathe.

He makes you feel like your skin is on fire. That your blood is so hot and boiling that it physically turns your body into a furnace. Every time. The serious tone, and the way he looks at you with those pouting eyes. The intensity you feel between the two of you swells, and you need something. The books make that something seem easy, but the way you feel, and what you have been taught is anything but simple. It’s a sin. A loathsome and filthy sin. But why does his smile and touch make you feel good?

It’s something that could get you shunned out of your community. Something that nobody even talked about. It’s to be had, but kept secret. You’ve read enough in the books to know it’s not just breeding, although that seems to be a colorful time. But a pleasure that takes you out of your body and puts you into an out of body experience. You just had to ask Ari a few things about parts, and what they actually mean, and do. Maybe you’d ask him to go back to the swimming hole. You could have a picnic dinner planned, and you are not going to run away. You’re going to force yourself to stay, and learn.

“Fuck,” you hear an angry growl coming from the front door, and make your way down the stairs. His arms flail around on the porch as he removes his shirt. Legs dancing around and stomping on the shirt before he comes inside.

Welts form on his body as he starts swatting his thick chest, and you rush to him, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” his words stop immediately when he sees you. Sorrowful for saying that word in front of you, but the pain overtakes him as he groans, swatting at his chest again.

“Your hurt,” that much is obvious as you look over his skin. “Let me wash my hands. Yellow jackets?”

“Yeah,” his voice is strained as he follows you into the kitchen. “What do I need to do?” You give him a point to the chair, and he follows your lead. Mixing up a little concoction, you grab a towel, and kneel between his legs.

Your soft and delicate hands move over his ample chest. Stopping on each welt to make sure you remove every stinger. You can’t look up at him, but feel his eyes never leave yours, “What happened?”

“I was actually plowing, and ran right into a nest. There’s none on my back. They got in the front of my shirt, Darling,” he wants to plead to you not to get off your knees. To stay there while he has the most intrusive impure thoughts about you. You gulp, reaching up to the table, and grab your little bowl.

“It may sting a bit,” whispering as you press a hand on his broad chest. His heart is beating just as fast as yours, an he leans back, so you can lift up off your haunches. Forgetting what it is you’re supposed to be doing as you watch the rise and fall of his body. He’s beautiful, and it’s suffocating to think about how close you are. How you can still feel the heat of the sun on his skin.

“What is that?” He asks with a smile, and you remember what it is you’re supposed to be doing. Gathering up a little bit of the paste, you smooth it over the first sting, and he hisses. Everything in your body buzzes as you rub it into another sting. “Darling? You okay?”

No, you’re not, but you nod because it’s the safest thing as you spread out the salve right beside his nipple. Your eyes roll up to meet him, and you freeze. The way he is staring at you seems just right. Your body is on fire, but it doesn’t feel sinful. “I-i-i-it’s meat tenderizer,” you sound like the girls who have a boy courting them, and you can’t make the silliness stop.

“What?” The rumble of his chuckle vibrates straight to your core, and you clench your thighs together trying to make it stop. How does a laugh send sensations there? Everything Ari does makes the central area of your body fill with need. Feel the need for him to do something. Anything.

“It works, doesn’t it?” There’s heat coursing through you to Ari. Spreading between the two of you, and you can’t make things move. Your hands fall to his thighs, and you whimper at the feeling of the cords of muscle that make up the majority of him. He’s big everywhere. You just know it. The books said as much, but you don’t dare ask a question about those areas.

His mouth turns up into a soft grin as he leans forward. Inching closer and closer to you, and you’re immobilized, but not by fear. Whatever is happening you pray that it happens faster. The way that your body bends into his, curving at your back, and you look up at him.

Ari licks his lips, and lifts a hand under your chin. Holding you in place, and placing you how he wants you. His lashes splay over his cheeks as he takes a quick glance to your lips before closing his eyes, and you copy his movements. Primed and ready for his lips to brush softly against yours, and he intakes a long breath before you pucker out your own, and he gently and tenderly presses against your plump lips.

His tongue tickles on the pillows of your mouth, and they part on their own accord. Your taste buds are assaulted with the tangy taste of tea. Trying to taste more, your tongue darts out, tasting his tongue, and those thick arms wrap around your body, lifting you higher up. Swallowing every shallow breath, and every whimper that escapes you.

The two of you melt into one another. Nothing has ever felt like this, and that fuzzy feeling spreads in your belly. No lower. “Ari,” you say his name breathlessly as he gulp for air. Your lungs pain with the wide spread of oxygen, and you still hunger for Ari. He pulls you up into his lap. Refusing to remove his mouth from you, and his hands explore the curves that your dress always hides.

Kissing from your lips, down to your jaw as your body starts to rock into him. Movements you’ve never made before, and you want more. He takes his mouth to your neck, giving the sensitive column a little nibble, and you yip. Mewling out his name, and he smiles on your skin, “You like that?”

You don’t have time to ask him to make the buildup inside of you stop because the front door slings open, and booming steps walk towards the kitchen, “Ari, you…” you stand up quickly from his lap, and smooth down your skirts, shamefully looking away from Jacob. Your whole body spinning around while Ari sits in the chair nonchalantly with his legs spread wide. Both arms rest on his legs, while his hands hang over his crotch. Hiding the effect you had on him.

“Are you okay?” Jacob looks between the two of you, and you walk over to the empty sink. Staring into the porcelain like your vision can manifest dirty dishes. Don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. He is Amish, and you’re now alone with two men. “I came to check on you. Jedidiah said you came in here cursing up a storm. We don’t like to hear such things, but for the women, especially.”

“Jacob, I’m fine. Um…meat tenderizer, does the trick every time,” Jacob looks between the two of you as Ari stands from the chair. Towering over Jacob, “Don’t barge into my house. Okay?”

“Was she…?”

“She was tending to my stings, and now I feel brand new. I’ll meet you back outside,” Jacob’s dark green eyes look over to your back, and you keep staring at the overly clean sink. Why did you have to be so sufficient? “I’ll be out shortly, Jacob.”

The boy gives a nod to Ari, and reluctantly walks away. Trying to think of any kind of scenario that could explain the quick movement that he witnessed. But Ari can only think of you. Slowly he walks over to your side, and his hand rests under chin, and he turns you to look at him, while his thumb grazes over your kiss-swollen lips.

His thoughts are only on your embarrassment and questions you have to be having right now. “Darling, what happened isn’t wrong.”

“I know, it doesn't feel wrong, it feels forbidden, and private,” he wishes there was a way to make you not feel so much guilt, but you are hardwired that way. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but he doesn’t know the words to say to reassure you of that. He wants you to know that what he feels for you is beyond just the physical part. That he has a need to take care of you.

The only reason he’s even entertaining this place still is because of you. He can’t say all that. Can’t say that he wants to pick you up, and set you on the counter while he lifts up your skirts, and worships you between your thighs. Fuck everyone’s small minded thoughts in this community because you deserved to be respected, loved, and cherished. And above all feel pleasure without shame.

“Ari, I can’t stop feeling funny around you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know?” How does one explain that you what you want with him is what is going on in the books? You didn’t even know what was going on in the books. You know there are wifely duties to her husband, but you didn’t know if that’s how a wife surrendered to her husband. The women in the books receive pleasure and compliments beyond your wildest imaginations. The women here bore children. There seems to be a difference there.

“Try to explain it?”

“It feels fuzzy, and I want something that I don’t even know what it is. And I want,” you bite your lip, and Ari wants to drop to his knees. He knows that would be too much right now. But you need the edge to be taken off of you.

“Did — did you enjoy the kiss?”

“Maybe too much.”

“Why do you say that?”

You stare up at him, eyes darting all around his ridiculously handsome face, and try to think of the words that won’t embarrass you. No one has ever talked to you about kissing, or even how it would make you feel. All you know is from the books. The men in those books seem to understand, and like it.

“It’s just that arousal has pooled in my core,” his eyes go wide, and he looks towards your belly. He’s speechless. His hand grips onto the counter, knuckles whitening, and his hip juts out. You hear him audibly counting, although it’s barely spoken. “You should go back outside.”

“I should take you swimming, and have some privacy with you,” he wants to take his time with you. Lavish you with so much attention that you can’t even think straight. The way he wants to spoil you with pleasures beyond your wildest imagination.

“It’s not an actual pool,” he blows out a slow bit of air, while you try to understand what he’s thinking. It isn’t about where he takes you, it’s just about being alone and uninterrupted.

“I know exactly what is happening to your body,” of course he does because he’s made other women feel like this. You want to scream, and tell him to leave you alone.

“Because there are other women who understood these feelings, and they were more appealing to you. You don’t have to tell me about them every chance you get. Please, Ari, go finish your chores, and I will see you at dinner,” you need to end the conversation, and you begin to spin around, but he grabs ahold of your wrist, “Ari?”

“I’m not walking out that door with you feeling jealous,” you aren’t jealous. You are angry. “There might have been other women, because I wasn’t shunned into thinking that it was a sin, but no woman has ever appealed to me the way you have. No other woman has made me feel as hard as you do,” that phrase. It meant something important. That’s what the books stated. “We’re continuing this conversation at the swimming hole tonight. Don’t worry about dinner. You’re eating English pizza.”

He drops your wrist, and marches out the front door. Picking up his shirt, he shakes it out, making sure the hideous creatures that marred his skin were no longer there. He should have got another one. What did he even mean? Harder — that could only describe one thing. But you’d have to ask Ari exactly what it all meant.

You wring your hands together as you pace around his living room. You had already watched the hired hands leave, and Ari picked up his phone, and dialed a number and was gone. He told you the conversation would continue, and you want it to, but you’re nervous. Nervous about him, or what he thinks. Nervous about you and whatever your body is doing. But you like it. Really like it.

And that kiss, you are swooning so hard. He put his tongue in your mouth just like the books said. And of all the books you read, you couldn’t have been prepared for the actual alarms that went off in your body. How perfect it felt, and just how sparks flew through every limb and ligament, and you felt as if you could fly.

The books didn’t fully prepare or warn you of that. How it felt like there’s fish in your stomach swimming around. Or how you ached, and throbbed in ways you couldn’t explain, so he had to do it. He had to come clean and tell you everything, but how do you start that conversation? You know what you have to do, but you aren’t sure if you have the guts to actually do it.

Could you go through with it? Ari isn’t the average man, and you know he’s not going to fall for your — is this what games are? One book mentioned the games women played. Are you playing games with him? No. You’ve made it clear, you told him what you were feeling, and he wants to continue the conversation. And there are — things that happen in the books. Where the men put their hands, and other things, and they have opened up so many possibilities, and you want to explore them all. You think. So many questions that you need answered.

You jump back a step, and put your hands behind your back as Ari walks in through the door with a box of pizza, his bright eyes looking you up and down before motioning to the kitchen, “Do you want to eat here, or do you want to have a picnic?”

“Picnic. I think you need to cool down, and get the dirt off you,” he nods, and grabs a few sodas from the fridge, and a blanket. He starts to walk out the back door, and you skip off after him. There is a tension in the air that can physically seep through your bones, and you want it smoothed away. You know that he’s not angry with you, he’s just lacking the words to say to you.

Stopping at the swimming hole, you grab the blanket from him, and lay it out on the ground, and he places the drinks and pizza down. He tugs at his shirt, until it’s thrown onto the blanket, and you watch his muscles ripple, and he’s kicking off his boots, and yanking his pants down. Standing in front of you like the giant he is. “Are you going to join me?”

“Nobody comes out here?” He shakes his head no, starting to walk backwards to the river, and you gulp. Reaching towards your buttons, before dropping your hands. Your eyes scan over the location before you tell yourself this is what they do in the books, and you like Ari, and want to feel the way those women did.

Your fingers tremble as they undo each button one at a time, and you let your dress fall to the ground. Ari’s boxer briefs tighten instantly as he stares at your backside. The cute bikini cut of your panties having a bit of your asscheeks hanging out. The soft pink color sitting on your skin like it was painted on there.

And then you turn around with your arms covering your top. You are wearing one of the matching sets he got you. “I can’t see anything you don’t want me to see,” timidly you peel your arms away, and walk towards the river. He stands up, walking closer, and you yip. He’s bigger, like he was before. He holds up his hand and you take it, so he can assist you in the water, and get a bit more coverage than before.

“You look beautiful,” he can’t help the way his eyes move all over every bit of exposed skin.

“Vanity is a sin,” keeping you covered was the sin.

“And I’m no angel,” you knew that to be true. He was both holy and unholy. A twinge of guilt pangs in your chest, as you glance between the two of you.

“How do they fit?”

“Hmm?” He shakes his head, meeting your eyes again. He has to focus if he wants this conversation to go anywhere. But the way your nipples are pressing against that thin material has him ready to blow a loud immediately. The fabric already see through with the moisture, and it’s pointless now. You should just remove it.

“My panties. Did they fit well?”

“Yeah,” he answers dopely, and you glance away with your cheeks setting on fire. The heat spreads throughout your body, as you stare at him through the crystal clear water. He’s even bigger. And your body longs to feel him against you again.

“Remember when you told me if ever I have any questions, you’d answer?” He gives you a nod. Letting his mouth sink below water, he swims and floats all around you like a shark with his meal for the night. Circling you like his prey, while you try to find a less blatant way to ask a question.

Him surrounding you just lights everything on fire. Like your blood is lava, and even the cold river isn’t stopping it. Things are happening to you that you didn’t understand, and even if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t hate it. You want to understand it, and want to know how to quell it.

“I guess first things first,” you inhale deeply, looking at him, and unable to take your eyes away. It’s like he needs you as much as you need him, and that doesn’t even make sense. “What’s a cock?”

So much happens in such a short time. Ari inhales before his mouth can get out of the water. Choking and sputtering on the water that he sucked into his lungs, and you’re able to maneuver yourself in front of him, and you grab his face, trying to get him to calm before you sink under water. Forgetting that you can’t swim because Ari is in trouble.

He lifts you up, bringing you straight onto his body, and his eyes capture yours. You feel both of your heartbeats in the most bizarre places as he clings to you. Those thick hands splay a bit too low on your back, to the point it isn’t really just your back. He’s so big. “What did you say?”

“A cock. What is it? It’s not like a rooster, obviously.”

“I think it’s better for me to show you,” you asked the question, and he couldn’t help his slimy little comment to come out. He’d show you his cock whenever you want him to. He wants to make an offer if you see it, you have to taste it.

“What does that mean?” Holding you with one arm, he pulls your hand, placing it on his swollen underwear. You whimper as you look into his eyes, and his hand flattens on yours, guiding you to massage his bulge. “And that’s — what goes in me?” How is that ever going to fit anywhere on you?

“What?”

“And that’s where the cum is from. Mmm,” your eyes look through the water, watching your hands as it palms his cock. “Can I see it? Is this how fucking works? Your cock goes into my cunt, and you shoot your cum into my belly. Would you want to see the cum leak out of me? I have so many questions, and you’re not answering, you’re just moaning. What do you taste like?”

“You’re killing me,” no you weren’t. In the books, this is what the men wanted the women to do. They wanted to fuck them deep and hard, and fuck their mouth. This is what men want. “Where are you getting all these words from?”

“The books. So, if you’re not in your underwear, how big is your cock. And what’s my cunt…oh my,” your eyes roll into the back of your head as his hand cups your covered mound, and you bite at your lip. Both of you rubbing each other, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Like something is missing. “What is fucking then?”

“You probably shouldn’t say that around your community. That’s a very bad word, and you’re such a naughty girl. But if you really want to know what fucking is, we got to start by stretching. Can I touch you under the panties?” He’s never prayed before this moment, but he prays you say yes. All this conversation has done is create a need to feel you from the inside.

“What?”

“It’s easier for me to show the true function of your cunt, if I can go inside of you,” you moan. Your body curves more into him, bringing your core right to his cock. Your body needs to be fucked, but you deserve to have someone make passionate love with you.

“Like finger fucking? Fingering, right? You’ll scissor your fingers inside of me, so you can stretch me out? Yes, can you show me?” His pinky moves aside your panties, and when his bare hands touch you, the moan you let out doesn’t even sound human.

“Shh, you’ve got so much repressed sexual energy, you’re about to blow before I even touch you. This right here, is your pussy, or as you like to call it your cunt,” you didn’t quite understand. His fingers roam over your split, but they were nothing compared to what you held in your hand. His fingers feel baby like. His cock that you try to wrap your hands around feel otherworldly.

“But this,” his fingers push past through your body, and you feel him in your throat. Pressing your forehead against his, and you can no longer hold his cock as you let his fingers roam around inside of you. It didn’t make any sense, and even though you know it will be frowned upon, this pleasure is too good to give up. “This beautiful hole, is your pussy. But…”

Ari’s mouth falls open as you succumb to the pleasure. Your mouth agape, and brows furrowed as you just feel him. “If I can make you come, are you going to give your pussy to me?”

“What’s coming?” he adds a second finger, and you raise your body off him a bit. The stretch is much more intense, and the fullness is mind-blowing. This is what going dumb means. There’s no thoughts, just the way that Ari is making you feel, but also how he feels inside of you. Like he belongs there. A thumb presses down on your entrance, and the sounds that flow out of your mouth make Ari moan.

“I can’t explain coming, you’ll just know. This is your clit,” his thumb circles around the little bean, and your body jumps around. You didn’t believe in magic, but if you did, it belonged in Ari’s fingertips. Your body starts rolling into him, lifting your drenched tits out of the water.

The fabric of your bra is too thin, and your nipples protrude out. If you think you’re overwhelmed, he’s a dead man. His eyes don't know what to look at. He wishes he could see his fingers dragging in and out of your heavenly pussy. Desires nothing more than to see your tits free and bouncing around as he fucks his fingers into you. But it isn’t until he feels your walls flutter, around that he just stops and enjoys what he sees.

Eyes closing tightly as he drives in harder. Faster. Curling his fingers, he hits a tender spot that takes all thoughts away. Tight circles on your clit. Everything working in harmony. Until the dam breaks, and you are gasping and panting for air. Unable to open your eyes, he lets your cunt relax around him before he pulls out his fingers, placing them directly into his mouth where he can suck off your diluted juices.

“That’s coming,” he’s so proud at how well you took him. How beautiful and perfect you looked as you came undone, and he wants to see it again. And again.

“So different from cum. Will you show me your cum?” You are trying to murder him. There’s no other way around this. You are saying all the innocent and filthy things that come to your mind, and he wants you to partake in everything. Whatever books you’re reading, he’ll buy you five thousand more, just so you continue to stay curious for him.

“I’ll paint you with my cum if that’s what you need. But, you just had your first orgasm. I think it’s time for us to eat. Maybe you can show me your pussy outside of the water,” you take some staggered breaths before you open your eyes, looking at him confused.

“But it’s your pussy now,” fuck, he says in his head, and your staring at him seriously. “But how does a cock feel going inside?”

“Not a cock,” you don’t understand. That’s what the books say. “My cock. But not today. I bet that was your first kiss today wasn’t it?” You nod your head. It’s not something that’s done. Things like that are for marriage. And you’d assume whatever his fingers were doing earlier is as well.

“And there’s other lips I can kiss that’ll make you feel even better,” Ari gives your sweet little cunt a few taps with his palm, and the way you look at him so sweetly and whisper please has things on overdrive. He maneuvers you to his front. Coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist as he grinds you on him. “Just like this. You feel how hard you made me?”

“Yeah,” you struggle to get out. “You’re so — big.”

“And you’ll learn to take every inch of me. I’ll have you stretched out so wide around my cock, and you’re going to beg for me to go harder. You’re such a sweet girl, but you want to be my filthy little slut, huh?” In the past you’ve heard those words in such negative terms. But when Ari calls you his, it has you melting into him. Arching your back, you see his eyes go to your breasts.

“You’ll suck on my pebbled peaks, too?”

“Darling, I’ll suck on every part of your body,” whimpering out his name he moves you over him harder. Grunting, growling, and deep breathing. He watches you. You’re about to get off again, and it’s a shame he can’t see your body glistening with his cum that’s about to blow all over your virgin pussy.

“Darling, I’m a sucker for you. You ready?” You nod your head excitedly as he crashes his lips into yours. He devours your moans, gifting you with his own. Creating waves in an otherwise steady river with your movements, until you feel the most beautiful warmth spurt against your skin. “That’s what you fucking do to me. I’ve never came like that before.”

He pants as he looks over your face. Your eyes are wide as they watch him. “It may be a sin, Darling, but you’re worth it,” and you think he’s worth it, too. There’s no way these Amish men could ever be so vulgar with you. It’s depraved, and you sink even further into his hell with him. Your purity be damned because you know it belongs to him.

“I think the books my sister suggested for me to get are complete and utter trash. But you keep reading, and figure out what you like. Write it down. Maybe one day I’ll not only fuck you, but fuck my cum inside of your cunt so deep, that…” he stops, what the fuck was he saying? He’s never desired for children. But the thought of you filled to the brim with his cum, and watching it drip out of you has him reeling. The thought of fucking you everyday before you go home thrills him. Have you walking around with a used pussy, and nobody knows that he took your virtue. They didn’t deserve you.

He has visions of you taking him every way possible. Sobbing out his name while he has his seed dripping out of you. But it isn’t enough. That is just for him. The lips of your pussy swollen from how hard he fucks you will be just for him. But your belly swollen and full of him, nobody could deny. He would have you and nobody else could. He’d have to save you and take you away from this disgusting place. And this is just crazy.

“But, refrain from talking about fucking, and my cock and that beautiful little pussy. Let’s keep it to just us. If you do, I’ll make sure you get to come on my cock.”

“Do I get to taste it?”

“Fuck,” he sighs. You want to try it all, and are eager, and scared, and timid, and it makes it that much more satisfying. Your little bit of jealousy ignited something inside of him. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you, and the thought of him fucking some other woman made you angry. No, it pissed you off. Made you all bratty and snippy. He wanted to push you to your knees, and shove his cock past those pouty lips to remind you the only person that is making his dick wet is you.

“Darling, the first time I come inside of you, I’ll gather the leaking cum with my cock, and let you suck it off. Two holes will be filled with me,” it sounds so — you can’t even think of words. You just know that the books and Ari are your undoing. But once that door is opened, can it fully be closed?

You had Ari inside of you, and you craved more. Addiction is a sin, but Ari was worth sinning for.

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