#i could ask them to do things and be almost 100% sure they’d say yes and i wouldn’t care too much if they said no because i knew i wouldn’t | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whydoeseveryonewanttobangchan · 2 years ago

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🪢 You’re nothing more than our little plaything now, got it? 🪢

✎ Pairing: sexy ass!Bang Chan x intense!Lee Know x cocky!Han Jisung x fem!reader

✎ Genre: Smut (maybe fic?)

✎ Summary: Three mysterious men want to use you as a human pocket pussy for the night. Why the hell not?

✎ CW: ❗️Consensual nonconsent, a little blood❗️foursome, drinking, degradation, hand job, blow job, rough sex, face fucking, fingering, public fingering, general crassness

✎ Word count: 4,930

✩ A/N: I maaayyyy keep this one going as a chaptered fic?? Idk though. Lmk what you think! ✩

❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

Click

One handcuff latches around the bedpost. Its closely-linked twin is already snug around your right wrist.

Click, click

The man on your left encloses the bedpost first, then your wrist. You watch his skilled fingers work with bated breath.

“Comfortable?” the cocky blonde with the cute cheeks asks before shooting you a sly smile.

The dark-haired one scoffs.

“Like it matters,” he answers for you. “This isn’t about her comfort, is it now?”

“Quit bickering, you two,” says the third man — the amber-eyed, honey-tongued one. “We’re on the same team, here, yeah?”

The other two nod.

“Good. Now, grab her legs.”

They do as they’re told, pushing your ankles down into the bed. The leader unzips his jeans, pulls down his boxers, and slowly strokes his cock.

He hungrily examines your naked body, mapping out a course of action. You take the opportunity to study him, too, and deduce two things almost immediately:

1. His dick is probably the biggest you’ve ever seen, let alone taken.

2. That devilish grin on his face makes you nervous.

In one swift motion, he maneuvers the garments around his muscular legs and drops them to the ground. He crawls onto the bed, barking out one more order to his friends.

“Don’t let her go… even if she screams for help.”

Fuck, what did you get yourself into?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It didn’t take much to convince you at the time. Hot stranger approaches at the bar, buys you a drink. You chat, you flirt, you dance, you kiss. He asks if you wanna get out of here, of course you say yes. It was a typical pickup story — until it wasn’t.

You were already under his spell by the time he shared information about his friends: the brooder and the showboat. He pointed to a dimly lit corner where the two men watched you intently from afar, but you recognized those faces.

They had been hovering before. A hand on the small of your back as one walked past, eye contact held for just a second too long over your suitor’s shoulder. The three of them circled you like sharks, and you didn’t even notice.

But they were good dudes, he guaranteed it. Just some friends as close as brothers who wanted to try something, someone. Together.

You’d had a threesome before, so what’s one more? But not like that exactly, he clarified. Yes, four people, but more like 3 vs. 1. As in they can freely pinch and poke and prod, while you’re pinched and poked and prodded.

It could have been the alcohol or how his lips moved when he spoke in that Australian accent or the way the flecks of gold and copper and bronze swirled around his pupils, but you said yes.

Were you 100% sure? No, but why not? He said they’d give you a safe word and had absolutely no intention of hurting you (unless you wanted them to), but it could — and likely would — get rough. Fuck it, sure.

The first time you spoke to the other two was outside, and it was nothing more than simple hellos. Not even names. That was another part of the deal: anonymity. No personal details, no phone numbers, no emotional mess to deal with in the morning.

You stood on the sidewalk with the two strangers while the one who convinced you to do this tried to hail a cab. Eyes shamelessly traveled up and down each others’ bodies while you waited.

The blonde with the cute face and deep brown eyes stood — chest puffed out — next to the dark brown-haired one. His irises were darker than the blonde’s, and his energy much more intense. Arms crossed tightly across his chest, he squinted at you from the moment you said hello until the yellow car finally pulled up. Welp, here goes nothing.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The cheeky blonde slides in first, and the quiet one gestures for you to go next. Whether he was being chivalrous or just wanted a sneak peek under your skirt as you maneuvered into the car wasn’t clear. Either way, he got his wish.

Blondie waited only for the inside lights to dim before placing a hand on your knee. He slowly drags his fingertips up your thigh, zigging and zagging more toward the inside, then the outside. He pauses when he touches the hem of your skirt, then retraces his steps back down to your knee. His motions repeat, but his path inches closer and closer to your inner thigh each time.

The mysterious one on your right hungrily stares down at your legs and cracks his knuckles, and the Aussie glances in the rear-view mirror every now and then to monitor their actions and gauge your reaction. He keeps smirking — showing off those dreamy dimples that hooked you in the first place — and shaking his head at the eagerness of his friend.

Eventually, there’s no more accessible flesh for the bold one to traverse. His path has led him to the line where your thighs meet, and they’re pressed together firmly. You see this scenario playing out in one of two ways, but the man you can’t quite pin down surprises you with option number 3.

His hand lands on your leg with a loud clap, and he forces his way between your thighs. The two of them pry your legs apart and run their digits up and down the sensitive skin, putting your panties on full display for the driver.

Tingles immediately shoot up your spine. They inch closer and closer to your crotch, but never actually reach it. Fingertips always stop right at the edge of your panties before traveling back toward your knees, but you can’t help but hope that each time would be different… and they’d finally…

“We’re here.”

Your eyes shoot back open; you hadn’t even realized they closed. The cabbie is paid in cash, and the men open and exit through their respective doors. They gather on the sidewalk, holding out hands to help you to your feet.

You mumble a thanks and stride behind them to the entrance. They open double doors for you and lead the way to the elevators. The blonde presses the button and stands watch, glancing back and forth between the two numbers to guess like he’s trying to guess which would arrive first.

The other two stand at your sides. The quiet one extends his arm to brush knuckles against your hip, and the Aussie places an open palm on your lower back and quietly hums a tune you haven’t heard before.

Ding

“Ha! I called it!” the blonde exclaims, clenching his fist in a tiny celebration of winning whatever game he played in his head.

The left elevator’s doors open, and you file in, the hand on your back guiding you to the rear of the car. Once you turn to face the front, his long fingers curl around your waist and pull you into his body. In another context, this may have been comforting. But the quiet one surprises you again and slips a hand under your skirt — heading right for your crotch this time.

He applies pressure to get a feel for you over your underwear. Then his middle finger curls up, pushing in just enough to make you squirm before returning to its initial position. Your breath quickens right when the elevator stops and the doors slide open once again.

An older couple walks in, exchanging smiles with your group. The hand at your waist squeezes tightly, and you smile, too. But the hand on your pussy doesn’t leave. If anything, he pushes into you deeper. You try to angle your hips away from him, but his lips go to your ear.

“Stay still,” he breathes. “You’re nothing more than our little plaything now, got it?”

Your toes curl into the soles of your shoes. It’s the only thing you can think to do that won’t make what’s happening so incredibly obvious. And everyone’s still smiling, but are they just being polite? You don’t know and you don’t care. You just want him to stop teasing and push through the silk entirely.

The elevator finally comes to a stop, and the couple steps off. Before the doors meet again, the one who started it all spins into you, his arm still tightly wrapped around your waist.

You’re chest to chest for the second time tonight. Without sweat and alcohol overwhelming your nose, you can finally inhale the vanilla and citrus of his cologne. His pull is just as intoxicating as it was at the bar, and you think you may be about to kiss him when he slams his free hand into the wall next to your head and leers down at you.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, yeah?” he growls. “We make the rules. We tell you to shut up? You shut up. We tell you to spread your legs? You spread ‘em. We tell you to come? You come. Got it?”

You nod.

“Good. Safe word is… uh…”

“Onion!” the blonde blurts out.

Dimples furrows his brow and shoots his friend a confused glance before turning his attention back to you.

“Sure, whatever, onion. You good with that?” he asks in that sexy accent.

“She better be,” the quiet one says from the corner while staring intently at your thighs.

Dimples and the blonde exchange smirks just as you reach the top floor and the doors open again. The Aussie keeps one arm tight around your waist and guides you down the hall.

The other two skip ahead, giggling about something unspoken. It’s like the dark-haired one is two different people. His emotionless eyes glare at you one second, and he’s beaming at the blonde in the next. They reach the room first, and he quickly snaps back into intimidation mode the second his eyes meet yours.

“Welcome to our playground…” the blonde says after you pass through the doorway.

It’s a typical hotel room: bathroom by the door, dresser below the tv, desk by the window, couch in the corner. But the bed sandwiched between nightstands sticks out the most. There’s only one, and four of you.

“Interesting…” you muse, slowly making your way to the couch.

“What’s that?” the dark-haired one asks.

“Yeah, what’s interesting?” blondie jumps in.

“Just… one bed,” you explain. “Guess we won’t be spending the night?”

“What makes you think that?” the Aussie challenges from across the room. He just finished moving the do not disturb sign to the other side of the door and attaching the chain. Now, he’s leaning against the wall, thick arms crossed over his chest.

Something about him keeps rendering you speechless. Whatever witty comment that was brewing in your mind is long gone, so you just plop down on the couch and stare at the bed.

“I think you broke her, hyung,�� the blonde giggles and throws his body on the mattress. He’s enjoying the puzzled look on your face a little too much.

“So, who gets first go?” the quiet one asks from his position in the far corner.

Blondie is the first to offer his thoughts.

“He did most of the work so far, so I vote Ch-”

“SHHHHHH!” “Shut the fuck up!”

The other two cut him off almost in unison, but it’s a little too late. Ch-something. Noted.

“You’re a fucking idiot, but I agree,” Ch-something says, pushing off the wall and striding across the room toward you. He moves quickly, and he’s staring down at you again in mere seconds. “Stand up.”

You do as he asks, maintaining eye contact while you push up off the couch. Those beautiful eyes are a little cloudier now, and the sweet swirl from earlier looks more like a brewing thunderstorm.

He runs his fingers along the line where your top meets your skin. He drags his hands down your torso, feeling the lace on the bustier.

“Spin.”

You do as you’re told, and his hands get to work undoing the hooks along your spine.

“The second I saw you in this, I pictured what it would be like to take it off,” he admits. “Of course, there was a lot more ripping involved in my imagination.”

Your walls clench at the thought of someone like him wanting to rip your clothes off at first sight.

“But this is such a pretty top…” Ch-something continues. “And it would be a shame if we sent you home fucked and bruised and topless, too.”

One hand traces the exposed section of your spine before meeting the other and resuming their task.

“We’re nice boys, yeah? Just want you well-loved,” he says and presses his torso to your back, his silky lips to your ear. “And well-laid.”

The top releases its hold on your lower back and awkwardly hangs on your body. His big hands slide under the lace, around your waist, and up to your breasts. After a few squeezes, he slides the straps off your shoulders, and the top falls to the floor.

“I get first go, yeah?” he calls out to the others.

They echo in agreement from across the room. The Aussie circles your body before plopping down on the couch in front of you. He spreads his legs slightly and reaches for your hips.

“Come ’ere,” he commands, pulling you into his lap.

You straddle him and slide down onto his thighs, but not close enough, apparently. His hands firmly grip your ass and pull you into him. You can feel his hard cock press into your crotch while he wraps those big lips around one nipple.

He licks and nips and sucks at you, and you start to roll your hips into his lap. He gently guides you with palms on your ass, and for a minute you forget you’re not the only ones in the room. He has this way of making you dizzy with the warmth of his mouth and his hands and his chest and his...

“Ay, that’s enough,” one of the others says from behind you. “You’ll have plenty of time to mark her up later.”

Someone grabs your hair from behind and snaps your head back. Before you can register who it is, their lips are on yours and their nose presses into your chin. Hands go to your neck, alternating between caressing the skin and squeezing. Someone else is fiddling with your nipples, and Ch-whatever’s hands are still gripping your ass.

Whoever’s tongue it is forces its way into your mouth and flicks at your tongue, and both nipples are engulfed in wet warmth. A hand reaches under your skirt and pushes your silk panties to the side to stick a finger inside you. Then two. Then three.

The man above you squeezes your neck harder, and someone else rubs your lower stomach. There are arms and hands and mouths everywhere like some sick game of Twister.

One mouth leaves, then another, then the last. You can finally open your eyes and see thick eyelashes and dark hair above you. The quiet one is smiling down at you and stroking your cheek, making this the first time he looks at you endearingly. And, of course, it’s when he’s gripping your neck.

“Quit being soft, man,” the blonde says. He stands and grips your bicep to pull you up, too. Then his hand moves to your shoulder and pushes down.

“On your knees.”

You drop to the floor and stare up at him with wide eyes. From this angle, his tiny waist seems so small compared to his broad shoulders. His cock twitches in his pants, and you reach up to free it, but he smacks your hand away.

“I didn’t say you could touch me, slut,” he barks. “Keep your hands at your sides and open your fucking mouth.”

Your jaw drops and your tongue slides out over your bottom lip. The lean blonde unzips his pants, pulls out his thick cock and strokes it inches away from your face.

“You want this?” he asks, running its head back and forth over the tip of your tongue. “Want me to fuck your pretty mouth?”

You just stare up at him. He’s made it clear that it doesn’t matter what you think, so maybe not acknowledging his questions is what will really get him going.

And it works. His lips turn down in a scowl, and he roughly grips your hair and thrusts in hard, hitting the back of your throat right when his balls slap into your chin.

“Oh, that’s it,” he moans, picking up the pace. “Attagirl.”

You can’t see the other two, but you hear another zipper. Then your arm is lifted, and your hand is placed on another big, veiny cock. A quick glance to your right confirms it’s the dark-haired one, and his eyes tell you to stroke.

The way your head is bobbing back and forth makes it hard to concentrate on the movements of your hand, but you do your best. You keep waiting for Ch-something to join, but he just watches.

“I want her mouth now,” the dark-haired one says. “Why don’t you do the honors and get those panties off?”

Ch-something speaks up from the couch.

“Naur, her cunt is mine. Fuck her tits, they’re amazing.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Good call,” the blonde replies between deep breaths. “Let’s get her on the bed.”

They pull out of your grip and easily lift you, a pair of hands under your arms and another under your knees. They drop you on the bed on your back, and the quiet one straddles your head with his thick thighs. He positions himself to enter your mouth and checks behind him to see if his friend has enough room to work.

“I’m good,” the blonde assures, straddling your waist and squeezing your breasts together. He slides his dick between them just as the other presses into your mouth.

The quiet one stares at the wall as he thrusts, and you’re kind of grateful. Other than that one sweet moment, his gaze has been severe. You’re not sure how you’d react if he looks at you like that again, but part of you wants to find out.

You reach for his hips and grip gently, seeing if that can initiate eye contact. Nope, his head just falls back instead, and the blonde takes a second to ruffle his hair.

“I know, her mouth is fantastic,” he says before sharing a warning. “Save yourself, though, it’s gonna be a long night.”

“Yeah… I know…” he pants in reply, squeezing your head between his strong legs. “This is just… so… good…”

“You know…” Ch-something speaks up again, “I have an idea.”

“What’s that, hyung?” the blonde asks, still sliding his hips forward and back on your chest.

A bag is tossed onto the bed, and something metallic clangs inside. But you’re distracted by the man opening the duffel and the way his T-shirt hugs his biceps while he rummages through it. You can’t wait for him to use you like his friends are.

“These…” he says, holding up something he pulled from the bag, “should be fun.”

You can’t see what’s in his hand, but the way the other two are giggling probably means it’s something exciting — for them at least.

“Fuck yeah, Chan, good looking out,” the blonde cheers, and the other two freeze.

“Dude, really??”

The nameless ones climb off of you and meet Chan at the foot of the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch as they talk amongst themselves. Chan hands something to each of them, then places his hands on the bed when they go their separate ways.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Chan announces. “They’re gonna tie you up, and I’m gonna have my way with you.”

He reaches for your skirt and pulls at the zipper, loosening the waistband enough to slide it over your ass and down your legs. He presses his hand flat on the front of your panties, curling his fingers up and over the elastic at the top. He pushes his palm down into your folds, but he leaves the silk be. For now.

“Your body is mine,” he whispers into the skin just above your panty line.

The others have reached the top of the bed at this point, and Chan releases his hold on you. You’re pulled further up the bed and your arms extended so they can handcuff you to the bed posts.

The blonde checks to see if you’re comfortable, the dark-haired one doesn’t care, and Chan is annoyed by them both. The three men meet again at the foot of the bed, hungrily staring down at you.

Chan instructs them to hold your legs while he takes off his boxers and jeans. His large, throbbing cock scares the hell of out of you, but truly in the best possible way.

He crawls onto the bed and kneels between your spread-out legs. His fingertips tease the skin on your inner thighs, then your stomach, then your chest. He positions his hands on either side of your head and hovers above you.

“Don’t let her go… even if she screams for help,” he commands his friends before leaning down to press his lips to your neck. He speaks again, but his next words are for you alone.

“At least you know what name to scream now.”

He parts your lips with his tongue and dips in to explore the familiar landscape of your mouth. You probably spent more time kissing than speaking at the bar, now that you think of it, and that certainly worked in his favor when it came time to convince you to leave with them. He knows exactly what he’s doing with those plump lips.

His mouth goes to your neck next, and he sucks and bites your skin with every intention of leaving marks. He does the same on your chest, then your breasts, then your stomach — quick, painful bites followed by wet suction.

Forgetting your hands are useless to you now, you lightly pull at the headboard. The chain links jingle as you fight against them, but it’s pointless. You can’t push him away or pull him closer. You can only lie there and watch.

He glances up at you with those lustful eyes and a twisted grin, like he loves watching you squirm. He lowers himself to your crotch and runs the silk of your underwear between his fingers.

“These are cute, huh boys?” he calls out, and the others agree. “I wonder how they’ll look in pieces.”

“No-” you start, but Chan interrupts.

“No? I’m sorry, did you say no?” he thunders. “Shut her mouth.”

The blonde releases his hold on your leg and walks to the head of the bed. He closes his big hand over your lips, pushing your head down into the pillow and smugly staring at you with dark eyes.

“Better,” Chan says. “Now, where was I?”

He grips the top of your panties with both hands and pulls… but nothing happens. You giggle into the palm over your mouth. But he pulls harder and glares up at you, holding your gaze as the silk rips almost all the way down the front.

“Not so funny now, eh?” he quips, and the others smirk.

He adjusts his hold on the material and pulls again, tearing it the rest of the way. Four fingers roughly cram into you and curl up and down rapidly.

Your one free leg pulls up toward your chest, and Chan catches it with his idle hand and lifts it over his shoulder. He reaches back for the other and pinches your thigh as he hoists that one up, too.

He pulls his soaked fingers out and slides them in his mouth to taste you. Staring into your eyes, he spits on his hand, rubs it on his cock, and forces himself inside your cunt.

As expected, he’s too big. Your walls stretch around him, barely able to endure his width, and he fills you to the brim length-wise with inches to spare. Regardless of the strain he certainly feels, he doesn’t give you time to adjust. He closes his strong arms over your legs, pressing your skin to his as he pounds his cock into you over and over. You’re afraid something will rip with every thrust.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, and the other two can’t look away from your bouncing breasts. The blonde bites the inside of his cheek as he flicks one nipple and calls his friend over to join. They’re twisting and tweaking the sensitive nubs and there’s nothing you can do. Except…

“Ow! You bitch!”

The blonde lifts his hand from your mouth and slaps you across your cheek.

“She fucking bit me!” he yells.

Chan doesn’t seem to care; he keeps driving in and out of you at the same unrelenting pace. But the other two have rage in their eyes.

“You wanna play rough? We can play rough, sweetheart,” the formerly quiet one says.

He lowers his head to your chest and bites down hard — almost cruelly — on the skin of your breast. He pulls back to examine his work and appears unsatisfied. He goes in for another, and this time, he draws blood.

“Fuck you! What the fuck!” you cry out.

“Dude…” the blonde whispers.

“What?! She doesn’t get to bite you and…” the dark-haired one argues.

“No, I mean… that’s so hot,” his friend clarifies.

It’s the blonde’s turn, and he goes straight for your nipple. He closes his teeth roughly, though not as hard as the bite before, and you whine in pain again.

“Pieces of shit!” you yell. “Get the fuck off of me!”

“Yeah, get off her,” Chan pants. “I have more work to do here if you’re making her scream before I do.”

He releases his hold on your legs and grabs your hips, inclining your lower body up and off the bed. His first thrust at this new angle makes you shudder, and he knows he’s got you now.

He sinks into you again, and you can’t hold back the loud, breathy moan that escapes your lips. Your wrists are starting to feel raw from the handcuffs, and your chest is sore and bruised from all three of them.

You’re in so much pain, but drowning in pleasure, too. The hot tears on your cheeks could be from either or neither or both. Who fucking knows.

“That’s it, baby,” Chan moans. “Cry for me, scream my name.”

“Fuck… Chan,” you whine, getting closer and closer to your climax.

A triumphant smile on his face, Chan nods at the others to return to their positions. They each take a nipple in their mouths, sucking more gently this time — though their gentle is still enough to slurp up a whole drink in one go.

Chan’s thrusts are growing weaker and weaker now, his power draining. He presses a thumb down into your clit hoping it will finish the job.

“Oh my FUCKING… fuck… Chan… CHAN… I… aahh-”

You’re coming on his cock with a force that makes his head spin, and he can’t help but finish deep inside you, too.

There are moans all around — two in ecstasy, two in disappointment. The onlookers detach their lips from your chest and sit on the sides of the bed while the two of you ride out your orgasms.

“Are you fucking serious, Chan?” the blonde asks incredulously and throws his hands up. “You said we were gonna all get a turn before she was spent.”

The dark-haired one keeps his mouth shut, opting to cross his arms over his chest and brood silently once again instead.

Chan pulls out and topples down next to you on the bed. He’s turned to face you, but your eyes are trained on the light fixture above the bed, watching the way the bulb flickers and sparkles. Or is that just in your head?

“Don’t worry boys,” Chan speaks up. “We have all night, and she’s tight as fuck.”

“Yeah, but now you two are gonna nap and we’re still hard,” the blonde whimpers. His face looks so cute when he pouts.

“Then take a nap with us, or suck each other off, whatever,” Chan lazily replies.

The two glance at each other with raised brows, and there’s some other undertone there too. But you’re too lightheaded to care.

Their voices blur together as the room darkens, but you can feel a firm thigh and thick arm lay across your body. Whether you’re being cuddled or trapped isn’t important right now, and you let yourself drift off.

374 notes · View notes

figurativepieceoftrash · 1 year ago

Note

Avid supporter of avoiding your wips.

Not sure if you have something you specifically want to write but Fiend!Aki has been rotting in my own drafts with no where to go

There were so many ways I could've interpreted this prompt and I'm almost 100% certain I did it wrong but here's an Asa/War spin on the Aki and Gun Devil situation, for, y'know, funsies

Sorry it took so long, I ended up procrastinating on this just like I do my wips, so y'know, obviously this exercise worked out super well :P

Here you go regardless <33

---

Aki doesn’t remember much about the incident.

The sound of gunshots. Scattered screams. A stinging, smokey smell thick in the air, as dense and inescapable as the aftermath of Obon. Cold metal smattered across his taste buds, rife with the selfsame rust-touched exigency as blood.

He’d been dreaming, or so Denji relates from the bedside of a maximum security hospital room. A dream he’s certain he could recall, if he wished to. He doesn’t.

Makima had called him lucky, as she’d studied him with those hypnotic, unblinking eyes. Unharmed, save a few noncommittally lingering scars.

She’d dragged a slow, lazy finger across the red band of his upper arm, and his heart had raced thrice as swiftly in his chest. Said something about them having to reattach it in the ER, about Denji having done quite the number.

Aki hadn’t heard a thing. He’d been far too busy staring into those eyes. They’d lit something in the back of his brain, a sharp, nagging spark of recognition, persistent and enduring. It was only then he’d thought to ask after the Angel Devil, only then that he’d been certain the two were conversing, when it’d happened.

The spark in the barrel. The moment of ignition. The suckerpunch recoil.

Makima had just smiled. Pressed a smooth, gentle fingertip to Aki’s lips. Somehow, after that, the question didn't matter. It still doesn’t.

“You’re a very unique specimen, Aki,” Makima had noted, head cocked and eyes alight with dark curiosity, “can you tell me why the Gun Devil has taken such a keen interest in you?”

He’d tried not to flinch at the name. He’s still upset that he’d failed. “No. Just that I wish it hadn’t.”

The corners of her mouth had twitched at that. Such a minute movement, so human, but Aki had found an impression of intentionality in it, somehow. The careful, premeditated performance of organic vulnerability.

“You’d rather it left you to die?”

He’d thought of Power, then. Of Denji. No.

The death count still rolling across the wall-mounted hospital television, the footage of a gun barrel protruding from his forehead, his brother, his parents, his commitment. Yes.

What he says is “maybe.”

She’d laughed at that, high and clear as a bell, and Aki isn’t even angry for it. He can’t be. It’s Makima.

“I’m glad,” she’d said, “that you’re mine.”

Aki couldn’t agree more. He just wishes the back of his brain would too. It’s still sounding off even now, muted as it is. Still doesn’t like the look of Makima, of her eyes.

Still thinks of Angel, even when Aki finds he can’t.

“This sucks.” Power’s complaints had been predictably ineloquent. “The apartment is trashed so I can’t see Meowy, this hospital is super boring, and Denji doesn’t even have enough cash to buy me stuff from the vending machine. I’m hunggggryyyyy!”

She wasn’t trying to be insensitive, Aki knew. If things had been difficult for her after their run in with the Darkness Devil, they were even more difficult now that she’d seen one of the few enduring constants in her life behave unpredictably. Dangerously. Lethally.

He’d almost killed Denji. Several times he’d almost killed Denji. So he’d offered her an arm.

“Here. Only take a little. If you bite too hard I’ll knee you in the stomach.”

She’d been quick to accept the offer and even quicker to disregard the warning, needle-sharp teeth breaking over his skin and digging straight into sensitive nerves. He’d forced himself to take his eyes off the river of stray blood that slid down his bicep. It resurfaced too many memories. Memories of gunshots and screams, smoke and metal.

“Yuck!” The exclamation had taken him completely by surprise. Doubly so when Power had withdrawn to spit the contents of her mouth down the front of his hospital gown. “Fiend blood can be so gross. This stuff tastes like steel.”

“Thanks,” he’d muttered darkly, thoughts turning over the heart of her complaint as he’d risen to visit the bathroom.

Fiend blood.

It was the first time anyone had said it aloud, in those terms. He's fine with amalgam. With anomaly. Even threat is alright, considering that it is, for all intents and purposes, accurate.

And the fact that it, like its equally vague, shapeless peers, places distance between Aki and the thing he's become. A thin wall of uncertainty to shield the was from the is. The familiar from the unthinkable.

Aki always thought he hated false comforts. Now, he's beginning to suspect he'd just never been introduced to a truth worthy of delusion.

It visits him sometimes, the Gun Devil, always in the dead of night and always terribly, gut-wrenchingly accusatory. Vaguely translucent, it positions itself in the corner of his room and stays there. Mute. Gleaming. Inhumanely still.

Power and Denji can't see it, of course, which means that one way or another, it resides in Aki’s head. This should be comforting, according to Makima, the fact that the Gun Devil is contained, and better, under control of the Japanese government.

There's no real control to this though, Aki thinks, the strange pseudo-peace between himself and the time bomb ticking within the fragile confines of his skull. Just the illusion of it.

He doesn't recall anything leading up to the inciting incident. Doesn't know how he died or what allowed the devil to take control. Why it lost it, following his concussion. When it might try its luck again.

This is why Aki has been forced to reside in the Commission’s headquarters, subject to intrusive levels of surveillance and constant physical surveys. Partial host autonomy isn't unheard of, in the case of fiends, but it is exceedingly rare, especially regarding beings of the Gun Devil's caliber.

Aki imagines he can't be as singular as Denji, but then again, Denji isn't quite so unpredictable. The Gun Devil can't be sated by the promise of simple pleasure, can't be reasoned with, or even communicated with, to Aki’s most meticulous observation.

It's as thoughtless as it is brutal, the epitome of action without thought. Maybe this is because it's technically incomplete, or maybe it's because the concept it represents is ultimately more tool than perpetrator. Aki can't say.

Can't force himself to care, either.

He glares at the thing when it shows its presence, hurling the occasional obscenity in the case that he's certain of his own seclusion. Nothing impacts it though, not really. It just stares, and stares, and stares.

Makima’s visits are sporadic at first, cursory and seemingly meaningless, but they grow with time, both in consistency and purpose. Oddly enough, most of her inquiries don't relate to Aki’s condition. They relate to Denji.

“Is he progressing socially with the staff?”

“How attached would you say he is to his new accommodations?”

“Is he happy?”

Aki doesn't question Makima's seeming obsession–in all honesty, he suspects he couldn't if he wanted to. He just nods along or shakes his head as required, answering swiftly and candidly as he's able.

Giving Makima the things she wants is second nature, simpler and more automatic than breathing. He never thinks to question it, if he even thinks at all.

The Gun Devil appears sometimes, just after she leaves the room. These are the only occasions in which it seems to display agency, or at the very least, some degree of behavioral variation. Because then, it doesn't stare at Aki. It stares at the door.

It stares after Makima.

“Does the Chainsaw Devil ever do that?” He can't help but ask over a tray of bland hospital food. Power and Denji already swiped up everything with flavor. “Manifest visually?”

“Like, can I see him? Nah.” Denji frowns, the expression oddly melancholic. “Wish I could, though.”

And Aki is just as lost as ever.

The doctors tell him his vitals are normal. That his brainwaves are consistent. Obviously his head isn't a gun.

“You can't transform at will?” One asks, eyebrow raised. “That's unusual, based on what we've observed.”

Aki just shrugs. What about his situation isn't?

He gets the impression that the commission is dissatisfied with his lack of control over the Gun Devil, presumably because it means they can't effectively employ it.

“We've lost more than we've gained here,” one surveyor whispers to another when they think he's asleep, though he isn't quite lucid enough to catch the rest of it. He does think on though, at least until Makima returns and his mind, once again, goes numb.

Things are consistent, for a good while. Predictable. Almost comfortable, if he ignores his midnight visitor. Power finds a hobby in harassing the hallway guards. Aki learns the weekly rotation schedule of his doctors. Denji is relaxed again. Contented, just like Makima seems to desire.

And Aki, too, is happy. Until one night, without warning or prior fanfare, something changes.

It's dark outside, far past one in the morning, and silent for it. Nothing distracts Aki from his mute, late night musings aside from Power and Denji’s soft, even breathing and the familiar background whirr of facility electronics.

And then, something speaks.

“You should run.”

Aki jolts up, ramrod straight, in bed, stirring, but not waking, Denji and Power with the motion. The voice is foreign, deep and grating like rebar dragging across concrete, and it sets every nerve in his body immediately on edge.

His gaze lands, immediately, on the figure in the corner of the room. His body with a full pistol for a head. The thing is stone-still. Expressionless, insofar as a gun can be.

But somehow, he's absolutely certain he heard it talk.

He wraps a protective arm around each form at his side, trying to ignore the persistent shaking that's overtaken his hands. “Are you threatening me?”

It cocks its head to the side, as if in contemplation. Waits for a moment. Makes an odd noise somewhere between a click and a whirr.

“She's coming. You should run.”

Aki blinks, perturbed. “She?”

“She.” It nods, slow and self-assured. “You won't like what happens after.”

“I– what the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

As if in explanation, the thing raises a hand, ring and pinky finger pressed to the palm, and points purposefully at first Power, then Denji, performing short, jolting upwards motions towards each. A firing fingergun.

Aki's blood runs icecold.

“You're going to make me hurt them again, aren't you?”

“No.” It somehow has the gall to sound offended. “She is.”

“She? Who the fuck is she? I don't–”

“Control.” It says the word with such fearful, adorant gravity. As if it's speaking of a superior. As if it's speaking of a god. “She approaches.” Then, in a sharp, purposeful whisper, a bullet from a barrel, it utters the word again. “Run.”

Aki doesn't trust the thing. Not even moderately. But hearing this thing, this vast, limitless, horrible, inhuman thing, express terror, of all emotions, is enough to light a fire under his ass. To force adrenaline through his veins. To break him from his odd, trancelike haze.

He shakes Power with one hand and Denji with the other.

“How dare you wake the great, indomitable Power while she's resting, you absolute–”

“Hey, what the hell, man? I was dreamin’ about tits–”

“Shut up.” And like dogs at a whistle, they do. “We're going out for a run. Get your shoes, we can't take anything else.”

There must be something in his tone, because neither protest. Just nod with varying degrees of enthusiasm and run to the mat at the doorside to retrieve their sneakers.

The halls are labyrinthine, and Aki doesn't know them well. Navigating them is a guessing game in broad daylight; after dark, it's an impossibility.

But Power seems to know where she's going, either by smell or by sound, and when she decides to lead the way through the Commission facility's winding corridors, Aki makes the bold decision to follow her lead.

Usually the place never sleeps, constantly outfitted and operated by federal pencil-pushers and devil-hunters alike, but tonight, it's completely and utterly empty. Even the guards outside of Aki’s room are absent.

“Somethin's off,” Denji voices Aki’s concerns between hastened breaths, “like, really off. This place feels… weird.”

It would be impossible to disagree. The difference may be strange and implacable, aside from the lack of personal, but it does.

“How'd you know?”

Aki tried to shrug. Tries not to look at the thing keeping pace besides him. It may look calm, but he knows that the truth is anything but. Fear is radiating off it in waves, fear and a cold, overpowering desire for liberation.

“Just did.”

The thing at his side offers updates, as they run.

“She knows you've left the room.”

“She follows, close behind.”

“It is likely she will catch you.”

They aren't particularly helpful.

Not until, the trio turn a corner, exit suddenly in sight, to hear a fourth tactile presence enter the hallway.

“She's here.”

And she is. The approaching clack of heeled footfalls confirms it. The sense of oppressive calm that washes over Aki, a blanket. The familiar voice that wraps around the walls to reach his ears.

“Stop running.”

And he does. How couldn't he? It's Makima.

Denji stops too, turning on his heel with a massive, world-spanning grin, but Power doesn't. She keeps running until she hits the doors, only turning to cast a terrified scowl over her shoulder.

“Not safe!” She growls, animalistic, “keep running! Keep running!”

“It's just Makima.” Denji sounds so sure of himself. And he should. All is right in the world. All is calm. Makima will fix things. She always does.

And then, she's in sight, cheerful and unblinking, and Aki can't help but grin in turn.

“Come here,” she orders him, arms outstretched. And the order is for him, he knows, he can feel it. “Not you,” she adds, likely to Denji, “just him, for now.”

So instead, Denji speaks. “Makima, something weird’s going on, the place is totally empty and–”

“Shhh.” Soft and gentle, that's how the sound escapes her lips. Like silk Like a sigh.

“You walk to your death.” The Gun Devil, again. Only this time, its words mean nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. “You readily embrace it. Do not be so foolish.”

As Aki draws near, her arms wrap around him like a cradle, head resting against her shoulder. The low, warning roar grinding through his mind fades to nonexistence.

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this,” she breathes in the crux of his neck, “so suddenly. You were meant to die then, you know. Now, I don't think I'll let you die at all. That might be more effective, hm? At least as a failsafe.”

Aki nods. Of course Makima is right. She always is.

“Makima?” Denji doesn't sound scared. Not yet. Just confused. “What's going on? Is this–”

“Denji?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Shut up.”

They're odd words, coming from Makima’s lips. Odd, and callous, and just upsetting enough that the Gun Devil's words are able to find an opening, one last time.

“Run.”

Aki would like to say he tries. But he doesn't.

“Transform.”

And then, Aki's world goes black.

#csm #my writing #ask tag #et tu Cyber #I'm sorry if this is like. really bad hchffhjvjg #I've never written for csm before so uh. fingers crossed #didn't want to disappoint you so I sorta just went for it lol

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percontaion-points · 1 year ago

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The Chemist chapter 5

Chapter 5

Even if they’d clocked her getting on and off the last train, they’d be hard-pressed to keep track of one cab in a sea of identical cabs twisting together through rush hour.

I’ve seen enough crime dramas to 100% tell you that they watched as Julie helped Daniel into the cab. They made note of the taxi number, and then called up the taxi dispatcher to find out who owned that cab. They’ll then asked the cabbie where they dropped the man and woman off. And the cabbie wouldn’t have any reason to NOT tell them.

Literally anywhere that Julie takes Daniel is likely going to have security cameras, and they can watch as they get onto a bus or into a car Julie has waiting or whatever’s going to happen next.

“Sure. This is the airport.”

“Yes, that’s where my car is.”

WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU GO TO THE AIRPORT?! Holy shit, there are so many security cameras there.

It’s like this is Julie’s first day of being a spy.

“No, just born this way.” She got her coloring from her absentee father. Genetic testing had informed her that he was a mix of many things, predominantly Korean, Hispanic, and Welsh. She’d always wondered what he’d looked like. The combination with her mother’s Scottish background had created in her an oddly ordinary face—she could have been from almost anywhere.

NOBODY FUCKING CARES. STOP INTERRUPTING THE PLOT FOR THIS!!

She just had time to slip on her own gas mask before she was totally unconscious.

Chapter 5 summary: Julie and Daniel ride in a taxi, where he will not shut up about the girl’s volleyball team he coaches. Julie asks why he gave her his number, and he says he doesn’t know, but that he liked her face. That he usually doesn’t do stuff like giving random women his number… Or confessing to a near stranger that he thinks that she’s pretty.

They take the taxi to the airport, where she has a car waiting. She tells Daniel to lie down in the back, but then she injects him with something to get him to go to sleep for hours and hours. An hour outside of the city, she pulls off into the woods and starts inspecting him for a tracking device, but fails to find one. She then pulls off all of his clothes, because they might have external trackers in them. And she also ditches his laptop. This takes up so much page time while somehow barely going anywhere at all. I never imagined that the taxi scene would be the most interesting part of the chapter.

She then drives out to the safe house she’s renting for this. Although there is a house, she’s wired it up with light timers to make it look like somebody’s home. And meanwhile, she’s set up her workstation in the barn. Which we get to read ALL about, yet somehow literally not one single bit of it is important. She sticks a bunch of medical stuff onto/into Daniel before going to sleep herself.

#The Chemist #chapter 05 #Daniel Beach #Julie Fortis #headdesking #i can't deal with this #what is happening #shitty writing is shitty #plot what plot

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queerofthedagger · 3 years ago

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So while one could definitely say that I might be biased when it comes to @atlantablack's writing because she's one of my best friends, let me start this by saying that 1) yes, but I'm also right, and 2) I loved her writing before we ever talked to each other; there's proof in the form of a horribly awkward comment on a fic that wasn't even for the Merlin fandom. Anyway, they're one of the most talented writers across all of their fandoms, and so I thought a list of my personal faves from their Merlin fics was in order - and what better time to post that than on her birthday?

It was honestly almost impossible to pick, but I've gone with a bit of variety so here's six fics - two Merthur, two Morgwen, and two Gen - that live rent free in my brain at any given time.

To Atlanta: I love you (to the moon and to saturn) and I'm so glad that I can call you my friend. Your writing is an absolute gift to this world, and I hope you never stop having marvellous ideas, and causing me great emotional harm with them. Happiest of Birthdays! <3

this raging sea, these summer storms

[Merlin/Arthur, G, 4,2k]

Summary:

“I have magic,” he whispers, turning to face Arthur. “I have magic, and I use it for you. Always for you.” He keeps his chin tilted up, his spine straight, and a storm stares back. Arthur’s eyes as dark and wild as the sea.

Why I rec this: Okay so this fic was a gift for me, but that only makes it even more perfect than it already is on its own. I absolutely adore magic reveals where Merlin gets to be unapologetic, and where Arthur gets to have some time to think things through and be (mostly) reasonable about it, and this fic is just so careful and gentle about it without making it unrealistic. The entire mood of the fic is like rain after a hot summer day, and every time I re-read it, it reminds me of why I love those idiots so much. <3

Quotes:

He’s not sure he could pinpoint when that look changed: when they’d stopped looking through each other and started looking at each other instead. He’s not sure when he started silently collecting the pieces of Merlin’s secret as if they were a treasure to be hidden carefully beneath his ribs until the time was right.

---

this graveyard of forgotten love

[Morgana/Gwen, M, 11,8k]

Summary:

Gwen has never fully managed to shake her love for the lady who had once sworn to keep her safe. Now locked in a tower by that same lady, she must face a truth she's long kept buried (even from herself).

An exploration of grief, anger, and the inability to let go of someone you once loved (even when you should).

Why I rec this: So, funny story - Atlanta is the one who dragged me kicking and screaming into the post-season 2 Morgwen brainrot, and this fic is a study in all the reasons of why she was successful. There are no excuses made or actions played down, Gwen gets to have agency and be furious and bitter and grieving (also as a side-note, Atlanta writes the best Gwen in this fandom. Seriously, all her Gwen-centric fics are an absolute blessing), and the way this fic ties all the people who are important to Gwen together and gives them their due weight is so, so perfect. It is fairly heavy (mind the tags), but it's 100% worth the angst, and the ending is definitely hopeful.

Quote:

Morgana snarls, moving forward until her face is so close to Gwen’s that she can feel the heat coming from her. The irony of the position, of Morgana mirroring the specter’s actions, does not escape her. (The heat of Morgana’s body straining towards her does not escape her.) “What would you have done?” Morgana asks again, low and furious, eyes boring into Gwen’s. Gwen swallows roughly, leaning back as far as she can. “I would have left you there,” she spits, the lie slipping out of her, bitter and furious. “I would have done nothing at all.”

---

the weight of one man's grief

[Lancelot & Merlin, G, MCD, 2,5k]

Summary:

He arrives too late to stop Arthur from doing what he’s always said he was willing to do, but arrives just in time to catch the last glimpse of golden hair disappearing into the veil and it feels for a moment as if the world has stopped existing. The entirety of his existence narrowed down to nothing but the veil slowly slipping closed and the after image of sunlight licking at golden hair. Feels as if there is nothing but his own thundering pulse and the earth beneath his feet screaming, screaming, screaming. Or perhaps that is his own voice being torn from his throat, the sound of his own magic ripping through the trees, racing toward the veil that is nearly closed. They would not take him. They would not. They do.

Why I rec this: If you want to cry, this is your fic. It's no secret that I love angst (and dealing each other massive emotional damage is the bedrock of Atlanta's and my friendship) but huh boy, this fic really takes it to another level in just about 2,5k words. I think if Arthur had actually walked through the veil, this is about what would have happened, and as usual, Atlanta's exploration and description of grief is the most flawless thing I've ever read. It's ugly, it's violent, and it hurts, and then there's a little special something that twists the knife when you're already bleeding out. It's one of my alltime Merlin-faves, and I don't think I'll ever get over it.

Quote:

The ground creaks and Merlin stares at Lancelot, the never-ending sky in his eyes, and he wants to laugh. Wants to laugh and laugh until his heart gives up from the force of his grief, his relief, that same question, repeating on a loop. If Arthur is the hero (dead and gone and irrelevant except for all the ways in which he is not), and Merlin the unbeatable, raging storm (one word away from wiping this city from the map), then what does that make Lancelot? What does that make him in this story?

---

a god at an altar, a beggar full of faith

[Merlin/Arthur, M, 4,9k]

Summary:

For every person that sinks magic beneath Arthur's skin like an offering, another tries to murder him, always furious when the magic harmlessly bounces off, Arthur held safe by the sacrifices of those who have died for him. He wonders if they knew that he was aware of what they were doing. He spends a lot of time wondering why they would protect him. His father has them murdered and still more come, always in disguise, sometimes only brushing past him in the marketplace, a finger to his wrist, a hand to his back, the sweet rush of protection burrowing beneath his skin and promising safety. He wonders how long it is until they decide to stop protecting the son of their butcher?

Why I rec this: Atlanta's prose in general is on its own level, but this fic? Oh my god this fic; it has such a specific vibe between Merlin and Arthur that I love to pieces, and that doesn't even start on how utterly perfect Arthur is in this. The premise is so, so good, and explores so well what would have happened if Arthur had reason to move away from Uther's influence much earlier. As if that wasn't already amazing on its own, I also love the relationship between Arthur & Morgana in this, and the way Uther gets his due. But also, the tension between Arthur and Merlin, man; Atlanta said 'Arthur has a competency kink rights' and then they fucking delivered.

Quote:

He hums, digs his fingers into Merlin’s waist. “Can’t see a damn thing but your magic,” he says and it’s so freeing, finally getting to admit this, to admit what he can do, that he laughs. “Haven’t been able to see a damn thing but your magic since the day you showed up, sweetheart.”

---

forging a path

[Morgana/Gwen, G, 3k]

Summary:

“You took my will from me,” She slowly swipes her thumb across Morgana’s cheek. “So now I will take what you love from you.” “I do not love anything,” Morgana spits, trying to pull her face from Gwen’s grasp and snarling when Gwen only tightens her grip. “You love your magic,” she whispers gently. - The White Goddess may have released Gwen from Morgana's hold, but it does well to remember that even the kindest of deities are fickle creatures.

Why I rec this: So, Gwen with magic has - also thanks to Atlanta - a special place in my heart. A vindictive, unforgiving Gwen does, too, but what I love most about this fic is the relationship between Merlin & Gwen; it's not a huge part, but in a way, that makes it even better, the absolute naturalness with which it takes place. That aside, though, the entire premise is just utterly brilliant, and pulling it off satisfyingly in 3k words is like a masterclass in writing. Again.

Quote:

“If you missed me so much, Morgana, all you had to do was come home.” Gwen continues walking forward until Arthur grabs her arm, preventing her from going any farther. Her eyes never leave Morgana’s, and there is something bright and furious sparking to life in her veins, begging to be let free. “Camelot was never my home,” Morgana spits, lip curling in disgust. “And I was not referring to Camelot,” she counters lowly, viciously pleased when Morgana’s nose flares wide, eyes lighting up with a shocked understanding.

---

from blood and bone (to earth and sea)

[Arthur & Morgana, G, 2k]

Summary:

Every time Morgana believes she’s rid herself of affection for Gwen and Arthur, that same traitorous part of her heart roars back to life, threatening to strangle her with guilt. She was done with feeling guilty, this is what she had told herself, and yet Arthur is screaming at his father as if he would give the kingdom up now all for one serving girl. That is to say nothing of the look on Gwen’s face when she’d met Morgana’s eyes. The betrayal shining in her eyes had cut deeper than any knife ever could. She had said she was done with this. The throne was hers, Uther corrupt, and she could not trust Arthur with it. She could not but— . . . “You won’t kill her,” she says calmly, voice ringing through the room. “You won’t banish her either.”

Why I rec this: So first of all, I'm cheating a bit because this is the first fic in a series, and you should definitely read the following three stories in it as well. The way Atlanta writes Morgana and Arthur is phenomenal, as are Morgana's relationships with Gwen and Merlin. It digs a lot into the betrayal that came with this episode, the one from the poisoning incident, and a lot of the grief and broken pieces between all of them that have been building for a while now. Not to mention that, once again, the writing is utterly mind-blowing, I don't know how she keeps doing that. This can technically be read as a standalone, but why would you?

Quote:

He meets her eyes evenly, sword still held between them, blue eyes clear and vast as the sea. They’ve always been polar opposites, the sea and the earth, always fighting for purchase as to who gets a claim of the land they both inhabit. She takes the sword.

---

Enjoy reading! And if you want to check out more of her brilliant works, here's their AO3 profile! ❤️

#merthur #morgwen #fic rec #merlin fics #rec list #atlanta tag #happy birthdayyyyy i love you goose <3

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imagine-a-life-like-this · 3 years ago

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All My Firsts Were With You (K.SM)

Warnings : suggestive, swearing

Word Count : 2487

Synopsis : they grew up together, practically attached at the hip. they were each other’s first kiss, first time, first love, and if it was up to seungmin, she would be his last as well.

“I think the only thing I’ll miss is you.” She smiled at her best friend, holding back the tears that wanted to fall so desperately.

“Don’t be so cheesy.” He replied, lightly poking her shoulder. She let out a laugh that almost made Seungmin’s heart stop beating. He studied her upturned smile and sparkling eyes, wondering why he suddenly felt warm.

“I should board now. Don’t want to miss my flight. I’ll call you later!” She hugged him quickly, and in the next moment she was gone. And that’s when he realized; he’s in love with his best friend.

She was standing in front of him, the same smile she always had adorning her face, the same face he fell in love with. He had to pinch himself to check if it was a dream, having her right in front of him, close enough to touch. “I missed you.” He was silent, studying just how much she’s changed in the three years she was gone. Her hair was longer, and she seemed to have lost a bit of weight, but she was still the girl he loved.

“Seungmin!” Jisung called, throwing his arm across Seungmin’s shoulders. “Who’s this?” He smiled at the beautiful girl in front of them, holding out his hand for her to shake.

“Y/N.” She smiled, sliding her hand into his.

“Jisung. How do you two know each other?” Jisung looked between the two of them, wondering exactly how Seungmin, the same guy who never looked at a girl, knew this absolute goddess.

“We grew up together.” Seungmin said before she could say anything. “Nothing special. Let’s go before we’re late.” He shrugged Jisung’s arm off his shoulders and took off in the opposite direction of her, leaving her standing there absolutely bewildered. She thought they’d always be best friends, but it seems like Seungmin had other plans.

“How did you nail that choreography that quickly?” Felix exclaimed; his eyes widened in amazement at the new girls talent. “I’ve been practicing that routine for weeks now.” He added, walking over to her with a water bottle for her to drink from.

“It’s not that hard when you break it down. Here, let me help you.” She handed the bottle back to him after taking a sip before immediately jumping into the routine, taking it slower to help Felix.

“I did it!” Felix yelled in excitement, catching the attention of other students using the same studio. The two spent the last hour working out the kinks of the routine before Felix finally nailed it. “Oh shit, I gotta go meet my friends for lunch.” He said as he looked at his phone. “Why don’t you come with? Unless you already have lunch plans.” He smiled his infectious smile at her, and she couldn’t help but agree, grabbing her things and following him out of the room.

“Hey Y/N!” Jisung beamed as he saw her walk up to the table he was sitting at, Felix looking between them wondering how they already knew each other. “I’m guessing you’re a dance major.” She smiled as she took the seat across from him, Felix sitting next to her.

“Yeah. Dance has always been my passion.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about Seungmin earlier. He’s not good around girls.” She giggled, telling Jisung it was okay.

“I disappeared for three years, I can’t just expect to come back and everything is normal.”

“I swear Professor Park has it out for me.” Seungmin cut off their conversation, slamming his lunch on the table, collapsing in the seat beside Jisung. “I studied my ass off and I only got a 92.” She smiled to herself while listening to her old friend rant, happy to know that some things do stay the same. “Y/N, what are you doing here?” He asked when he finally met her eyes. His voice was cold, so different than the way he used to talk to her. It was as if they didn’t spend everyday together, experiencing all their firsts with each other, and it broke her heart more than she’d like to admit.

“What’s wrong?” Seungmin asked her, cupping her face, and wiping her tears away. “Who made you cry?” His heart broke more and more with each tear that fell down her cheeks.

“The girls in my class. They keep making fun of me for being 16 and not having my first kiss. It’s so dumb, but their words really hurt.”

“Hey, look at me.” With his hands still on her cheeks, he angled her face to meet his eyes. “It’s not dumb it if hurt you.” He gave her a soft smile, wiping away another tear. “If it makes you feel better, I also haven’t had my first kiss.” He chuckled when her eyes widened in surprise. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s true.”

She sat there, studying her best friend’s handsome face, coming to a conclusion she was too afraid to say out loud. She knew why she hadn’t had her first kiss, and it’s not because guys didn’t like her like the girls assumed. It’s because of all the guys who confessed to her, none of them were Kim Seungmin. “Would you be my first kiss, Minnie?” She pouted, looking up at him.

“You want me to be your first kiss?” She wanted him to be her first everything, and if she was lucky enough, her last as well.

“Only if you want. I’d be your first kiss as well, so if you wanted to save it for-“ She was cut off by his soft lips pressed to hers. The shock quickly wore off and she kissed him back, taking in the feeling best she could, not knowing if she’d ever feel it again.

“First kiss completed.” He whispered, his forehead pressed against hers, his hand still on the back of her head. And in that moment, he not only became her first kiss, but her first love.

“So you and Seungmin grew up together?” Felix asked her the next day. They agreed to meet up at a café just off campus and walk to class together. “What was he like as a kid?”

“Pretty much the same way he is now, but he was nicer.” She giggled. “He’s always been worried about his grades. If it’s not 100% then what’s the point.” She quoted words he told her many times throughout high school. She remembered sitting with him while he studied, amazed at just how smart and organized he was.

“Was he always this cute?” Felix chuckled. She quickly pulled out her phone, showing Felix pictures of the two of them she had saved; some of the pictures taken from a photo album, whereas some she transferred from her old phone.

“He’s always been handsome, yes.” She answered, heat rising to her cheeks when she realized what she had said. Three years was not nearly long enough to get over him.

“Are you sure about this?” Seungmin asked as he hovered over her. Both of them were breathing heavy from the heated make out session they just shared, that slowly led them to the bed they were on now.

“You’re the only one I trust enough.” She answered. Her arms were lazily wrapped around his neck, and she looked up at him with stars in her eyes. Seungmin could get lost in the galaxy she held in her eyes, and if he’s honest, he has many times.

“It’s my first time too, so we’ll figure this out together.” He smiled before pressing his lips to hers again, melting into the kiss while he reached under her shirt.

The next morning, she woke up wrapped in Seungmin’s arms, a feeling she could get used to. She smiled at his sleeping figure, tracing over his face with her finger, studying each part in detail. She wasn’t sure if she’d get to see him this close again, so she was going to take in as much as she could. “You’re tickling me.” Seungmin mumbled with his eyes still closed.

“If you’re awake, we should get breakfast.” She laughed, trying to move from his arms, but his grip only tightened, bringing her closer to him.

“Ten more minutes. Just give me ten more minutes like this.” The feelings he thought he got over in high school were slowly returning, and he just wanted to hold her close a little longer. Mornings didn’t seem so bad when he woke up next to her. He hoped for many more just like this.

But it was at that breakfast that she told him she was leaving. And within that moment, she was his first time, and his first heartbreak.

She started spending more time with Felix, meeting him at the café every morning before class, and joining him for lunch, where Seungmin would ignore her existence as if she wasn’t there at all. She knew that the friendship she once shared with Seungmin was completely gone, and she knew it was her fault. If only she didn’t leave, then maybe Seungmin would still be hers.

“Hey, Y/N, right?” She turned to face the stranger asking for her and was met with a handsome man from her dance class, the same one she shared with Felix. He brushed his long, black hair out of his eyes before introducing himself as Hyunjin. “I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me today? I really want to get to know you better.”

“Oh, uh.” Before she could say anything, Felix was jumping in.

“That’s perfect! I was just going to tell you I couldn’t do lunch today!” He winked at her. “Take good care of her, Hyunjin.” And with that, he left the room, leaving Hyunjin standing there awkwardly.

“Looks like my lunch is clear,” She giggled. “Let’s go then.” Hyunjin picked up her bag from the ground before she could, and the two headed for a diner on campus.

After getting passed the cliché questions, both of them started to open up more, and the conversation flowed better. She found herself enjoying his company, laughing at the stories he told her, and watching as he laughed at the ones she shared. “You and Seungmin seemed to have quite the adventures with each other.” He chuckled, taking a sip of the drink he ordered. “You talk about him a lot.”

She blushed at the realization that every story she told Hyunjin included Seungmin. “Sorry.” She giggled, tucking hair behind her ear. “It’s just, we spent every day together growing up so all my stories include him.” Hyunjin smiled, shaking his head, and telling her it was okay.

He walked her to her next class when they were finished eating. “I enjoyed getting to know you. Hopefully we can do this again.” He told her before she could walk into her class.

“I’d like that, Hyunjin.” She smiled up at him. There was no doubt that Hyunjin was an attractive man, every girl at the school seemed to fawn over him, and maybe if her heart hadn’t been stolen years before, she would too. But unfortunately for her, her heart only beats for Kim Seungmin, even if he hated her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She just wished she could move on.

“Where’s Y/N?” Jisung asked when Felix approached their table alone. A wide smile took over his face as he told Jisung about Hyunjin asking her out. “No way!”

“She was going to say no, so I told her I couldn’t do lunch with her today.” Felix shrugged. “Her and Hyunjin would make such a cute couple.”

“Talented too! They’d be the talk of the school.” Felix agreed as Seungmin sat down, asking what they were talking about. “Hyunjin and Y/N.” Seungmin couldn’t help but scoff.

“As if that would happen.” He chuckled before realizing that she was missing from the table. Though he ignored her when she was around, he had gotten used to having her around again. And honestly, he couldn’t explain why he ignored her. He knew it wouldn’t help rid the feelings he’s had for her for years. They spent three years apart, and he was still just as in love with her.

“It could. Hyunjin asked her out after class today.” Seungmin froze, his appetite completely gone. “You okay, Seungmin?” Felix asked as Seungmin threw his food back down, packing up his lunch and leaving. “You don’t think Y/N is the first love he told us about, do you?”

“If she is, why is he so cold towards her?” The two boys sat there, staring in the direction Seungmin walked in, coming to the same conclusion in their minds; Kim Seungmin was an idiot in love with his childhood best friend.

“Minnie, what are you doing here?” She asked when she opened the door, surprised to see Seungmin standing there. His hair was messy, like he couldn’t stop running his fingers through it, a habit he has when he’s anxious.

“Please tell me you’re not dating him.” Before she could say anything, he was speaking again. “Please just tell me you aren’t dating Hyunjin.” A scoff came from her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“What does that have to do with you?” She asked, annoyed that her best friend has been ignoring her for months, but now he’s standing on her doorstep, begging her not to date someone else. Not that she could with how in love with him she was, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Because I don’t want you to be with someone that isn’t me.” She could see him blink back tears. She could see how distressed he truly was over the idea of losing her to someone else. “I don’t have a right to say this, but I couldn’t hold back anymore! I have no excuses for how I’ve treated you these last couple months, but I’m in love with you.” The tears could no longer be stopped and flowed down his cheeks as he continued to speak. “I’ve had all my firsts with you; my first kiss, my first time, my first love, and even my first heartbreak! It’s all been you! And I want to continue having all my firsts with you. I want to have my lasts with you. I want you to be my only because I’m only ever going to want you!”

She stepped forward, cupping his face with her hands, wiping away his tears with her thumbs before calmly speaking. “I’m not dating Hyunjin.” Relief flooded over Seungmin knowing he hasn’t lost her. “It’s always been you, Minnie. You stole my heart years ago, and no one else has had a chance since.” He wasted no time in crashing his lips to hers, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her as close to him as he could. This time, he wasn’t going to let her go.

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astaroth1357 · 4 years ago

Text

Demigod MC Series: Athena

So. I have to deal with the virgin goddesses… By mythos, there really shouldn't ever be children of Artemis, Hestia, or Athena (yes, Athena was a virgin goddess). PJ got past that by making it canon that Annabeth and her siblings were born from cracking open Athena's skull (yes, that's also more or less the canon explanation). They gloss over it real quick but I remember, Rick. I've always remembered and that mental image has haunted me for years...

I can't, in good conscience, ignore the history around Athena's worship (call it an academic restraint) but I REFUSE to do the skull thing. So, since I make the rules here, I'm going with magic adoption. They still get magic powers, they're just more human than demigod. Cool? Cool.

Demigod MC Series: Intro, Aphrodite, Hermes, Hades, Dionysus, Demeter, Athena

Lucifer

The human that popped out of the portal seemed to have enough sense not to attack everyone in the room for a change, but even Lucifer could tell that was more of a strategic choice than for lack of ability...

Their very existence was highly unusual… and quite worrisome. He wasn't even aware Athena could have "children" of her own, but apparently she had been taking in some particularly bright humans to raise and train like her own...

Unbeknownst to him, a surprising amount of human scholars, diplomats, and generals have her to thank for their trade… and that alone should speak to the level of intrigue at play here.

Was this an accident or Athena's attempt to plant an Olympian spy in the Devildom too…? Either way, he didn't trust them from the get go…

Look, Lucifer isn’t stupid. Athena is a goddess of Wisdom and War and war happens on more than just the battlefield…

Since they've shown up records have been going missing, official documents keep getting misplaced, and he swears that there's some kind of bug in the student council room...!

It's infuriating watching the MC suck up to Diavolo when he's almost certain that they're running their own agenda behind the scenes! And he can't prove any of it!! They cover their tracks too well!

Lucifer has one of those corkboards covered in newspapers and string in a secret wing of the Castle - 100% dedicated to just tracking the MC's activities…. The longer they're there, the more obsessed he becomes...

He swears between Simeon, Solomon, and MC he feels like a shepherd wondering why the sheep are growling… The Devildom has never been in more danger than it is right now... Send help.

Mammon

To be honest, he kind of thought that they were just going to be Satan 2.0 but that's not really true.

They're more than just a book sponge! Though they do read, like a lot. Let’s just say from one schemer to another… Game recognizes Game.

They come up with plans and ideas soooo fast, it’s insane! Honestly, there are times where he has a new money-making plot and he just brings it to the MC first to run it over.

Nine times out of ten, not only do they sniff out any problems but they have a solution for him in a matter of minutes! His scheme game has been on point since they’ve shown up!!

They’re also even better tutoring than Satan is, so he’s even managed to get a couple A’s for the first time in his life! Lucifer actually told him he was proud (which he secretly recorded and now uses as a ringtone much to his brother’s regret...)

So yeah, he likes them... buuut that doesn’t keep him from thinking they act a little weird sometimes...

Mammon: *points to a unused tower close to the RAD building* Over there is the Tower of Sorrow. We use it for storage.

MC: Ah. Interesting… *starts writing in a notebook, muttering* It may need a few minor tweaks but the location is defensible...

Mammon: *stops* Ya say somethin’?

MC: *looks back up* Nope! Say, you’ve been to the Castle a lot haven’t you? Do you know any good ways in?

Mammon: Uhm… Why do ya want to know that…? *starts looking around for Lucifer*

MC: In case of emergencies. I like being prepared. 🙂

Mammon: Look, I don’t know what Lucifer might’a told ya…

MC: I’ll pay you a thousand Grimm for it.

Mammon: Well shit, ya want those maps with or without color?

... Yeeeah, that’s pretty weird… But it’s probably fine. I mean, as long as they keep giving him money, who’s he to complain? 🤷‍♀️

Leviathan

Also thought that they’d be a lot more like Satan but was pleasantly surprised that they were into more than books.

What else did they like exactly? Military strategy!!

It’s been a looong time since he’s been able to talk to someone who’s actually interested in all the battles he’s fought, both in the Celestial Realm and the Devildom, and their curiosity is kind of flattering...! Not a lot of people take his strategic prowess all that seriously anymore...

Plus, they are the BEST partner to have any turn-based strategy game. Hands down. He once got stuck on a level of D-COM for weeks until the MC walked in and mopped the floor with the AI!! They have a serious head for probability and tactics.

The House once made the mistake of letting these two be on the same team during a Hell Game and they absolutely demolished the competition. Mammon didn’t even get a single shot off before half his team was lost to a rigged paint grenade… It took a whole day to clean up…

However, Levi’s also noticed some odd things about the human… He likes that they’re interested in his past but maybe they’re a little… too interested?

Levi: -and that’s how we defeated the Four Horsemen before they escaped from Purgatory.

MC: Wow, Levi that’s seriously impressive!! *furiously scribbling on a notebook*

Levi: Well t-thanks… 😅 But, uhm... are you writing that down…?

MC: Hm? Oh no, just doodling. *they lift up the notebook to show a bunch of cute little sketches on the page… and not the magic-based invisible ink all over them…*

Levi: Oh you draw too? Can you do fanart???

MC: Eh, sometimes. But say Levi, can you tell me about your naval ranks again? I’m still really curious… *gets the pen ready again with a smile*

Satan

Oh, it's been a long game of cat-and-mouse between these two… and unfortunately, it’s been pretty addicting too.

He honestly had every intention of tricking the human into making a huge mess do he could bother Lucifer, but at every turn they proved just a hair too clever for him...

He once gave them a cursed book to “lend” to Lucifer, but they saw through it the moment they touched it and lifted the spell before handing it over.

He rigged a podium to spray glitter during one of Lucifer's speeches but the MC disconnected the trigger mic before he even got on stage. It was pretty dang frustrating...

At one point he got so desperate that, just as a test, he tried to trap them in the House's Music Room. Fortunately for them, it only took a few minutes to work out an escape. They even passed by him in the hallway with a wink!

It's confounding! It's infuriating!!

...and it's so damn sexy... He should be furious but he’s just in awe!!

Add on that they know their art, literature, and multiple different crafts thanks to the tutelage of their adopted mother and that’s it. He’s finished. This boy is in love.

Truthfully though, a part of him is 90% sure that they’re also gathering state secrets… Like, they’re watching Barbs and Diavolo far too close for comfort - but he just can't bring himself to care. 🤷‍♀️

The MC could walk into his room one day and say, "Hey, do you want to help overthrow the monarchy with me?" and he dreads it because deep down he knows that he wouldn’t say no…

Take some notes, kids. Some bad influences get you to drink or do drugs. Others pull you into a centuries long conspiracy to destabilize and topple rival realms from within… But he has fallen for their brain hard. Devil help them all…

Asmodeus

They’re pretty clever, he’ll give them that, but uh… Are they a little off to anybody else?

Asmo is a charmer by birthright so he has a bit of nose for when someone’s just a liiittttle too nice… Not much of a nose mind you, because he can be thrown off by compliments himself, but enough to think that the MC might be a little too… “kind” for their own good...

First off, who wants to spend that much time with Levi?? They don’t even seem that interested in anime! They just keeping asking him for old war stories…

Then all the sucking up they do to Diavolo and Barbatos? Look, he gets it. Diavolo is a delicious piece of man-hunk and his butler could give him a lesson or two in sweet-talk (and he has), but they seem to be just a little too… nosy.

Of course, Asmo’s suspicions disappear pretty quickly after they start to spoil him with spa nights and beauty secrets they picked up from “casual research” into the subject.

And you know, get a little Demonus in Asmo and start massaging his back? Oh, sweetie he’ll sing like a bird!! … with gossip. Singing with gossip.

Asmo: So I’ve heard that Lucifer has been spending more time at RAD than usual… His whole club is talking about it, they think he’s meeting with some witch!

MC: Hm, is that so? *works on a knot near his shoulder blades* What do you think?

Asmo: Ooh~! Right there, MC! *purrs and lays his head on his arms* Well come on, this is Lucifer we’re talking about! I’m sure he’s just working.

Asmo: Hmm... though come to think of it, I think I heard him asking Barbatos for the spare keys to the Tower of Sorrow…

MC: Oh really? Huh. *works out the knot and gets up* I just remembered that I left some papers with Satan... I’ll be right back.

Asmo: You’re going already??

MC: *waves him off quickly* I’ll be right back, Asmo. *hurries out the door to do totally on-the-up-and-up things… surely*

Beelzebub

Honestly he doesn't like this one… But not for the reasons you'd expect.

He agrees with everyone else that they seem a little shady, but Solomon and Simeon are too so it's not like that's anything new... 🤷‍♀️

No, no. He dislikes them because they're the person who FINALLY figured out how to keep him from eating all the food in the kitchen!!

Turns out that the trick was to put a teleportation charm on the fridge door that would send all the food away if it’s opened after a certain time of night…

And where does it go? The Purgatory Hall fridge. And where does the Purgatory Hall food go…? The HoL fridge…

It doesn’t sound so bad until you remember that it means half of their fridge is now Solomon’s leftovers…. 🤢

After they put the same kind of spell on the pantry, it was all over… He couldn't get midnight snacks from the House anymore… Everything was contaminated by Solomon…

The MC is a nice enough person, he doesn’t have a lot of complaints about them, but he wants them to leave. Now. This is inexcusable… He’s so hungry… and he doesn’t want to die by “goulash” or whatever Solomon calls his latest culinary catastrophe… He’s still too young for death… 😓

Belphegor

In a way, he absolutely could not have asked for a better person to help him get out of that attic.

… In another way, he got one of the worst possible people to try and kill... Like. They saw through his scheme sooo fast…

How was he supposed to know that the human had training in body language and sniffing out lies???

Getting the door open was a piece of cake for them. They knew enough magic to undo the seals and just rummaged around Lucifer's stuff long enough to find the key to the door. He could not have found a more competent individual for a break out, really.

It’s just… well he didn’t expect to go from locked in a room like a prisoner to tied up in enchanted rope, still like a prisoner but now mobile. 😑

They even used his own hug ruse against him! They caught his wrists when they got close and tied him up before he could shake them off...

Admittedly, it wasn't exactly the best look for them either - what with walking Belphegor downstairs to the others like a one-man-prison-caravan but they're as silver-tongued as they are sly so they talked their way out of it beautifully…

And like hell was he going to trust them after that!! And not even Beel liked them so something had to be up...

Well, you want a detective? Look no farther than Belphie (no seriously, it’s in the canon). He can put things together pretty fast when he puts his mind to it and watching the MC for a while gave him enough proof to work off of...

He always knew that, humans were bad news and the MC just proved it to him all over again. They are bad news, bad bad news and they’re going to-!

Overthrow… Diavolo…? Is that what he is getting from them…? Huh…

Wait a second, MC. You might just have him interested… 😏

#you say athena mc is smart #i say athena mc is spy #because where better to use your smarts #in war #obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me demigods

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innytoes · 2 years ago

Note

Hi Inny. I'm procrastinating some work by asking for some Foster AU head canons, preferibly centered around the boys of SS.

Happy Tuesday!

Some headcanons from the Foster Care AU, where I am almost 50k in. Some will make it into the fic and some probably will not.

-Okay first Carlos 100% calls them Sunset Swerve to annoy them, as is his duty of being a little brother.

-Reggie and Willie's social worker is Maxine Gray from Judging Amy because that show is part of my DNA.

-Bobby goes to Los Feliz but isn't in the music program. He only knew Julie as 'that weirdo girl with the amazing voice who sometimes dances in the halls like she's the main character'. He likes her though, and always admired how she did shit like that without feeling self-conscious.

-Eventually, Bobby's grandparents get so sick that he can't keep being in the band. He actually flunks senior year and quits the band, telling them they'll do fine without him now that they have Julie, but he does have First Dibs on being their roadie once they make it big.

-After the lady selling tickets to Prom makes a big deal about how Alex can't take Willie (and Reggie is like: uh yeah he can, Luke got tickets for Julie just fine), they ditch prom. Because yeah, they could go to the principal, but the lady is threatening to tell everyone at Alex' parents' church about their sinner son and Alex just... can't. He's already scared about being kicked out the second he turns 18, he doesn't want to expedite the process.

-So of course Luke makes a giant speech about FUCK PROM and they all decide to ditch prom. Except Alex is sad because he really wanted the whole Prom Experience with Willie: the goofy pictures, the corsage, the slow dancing.

-And Reggie is all: um excuse we live with a photographer. We can make cliché prom pictures happen. Within like half an hour they have roped in Flynn and Julie and are planning the best Not Prom ever.

-Yes of course Tía and Ray help and probably even Emily because she was Sad to miss out on her baby going to prom and then so Proud when she learned why.

-Tía Victoria 100% took Alex and Willie shopping. (Separately, because she insists that seeing your date for the first time in their outfit on prom is A Thing.) She makes sure their outfits match.

-Luke kindly keeps his suit jacket and tie on until Bobby has picked him up and they're out of sight of his mom.

-Okay but do Ray and Emily maybe have a little text thread where they basically find creative ways to say 'fuck the Mercers' perhaps they do shhhh don't tell the kids.

-It might not make it into the fic but Reggie is studying to be a dog groomer until the band makes it big. Like, college isn't for him even with the Foster Kid Scholarship and Ray's support. And they promised No Record Contracts until Julie graduates high school so he needs something to do until they make it big.

-Bobby keeps saying he should practice on Luke because that's basically the same as a golden retriever, wriggles and bad breath and all.

-Alex does get kicked out of the house at 18 but the guys were on standby and basically came and picked him up, cheerfully barged their way inside by threatening to make a scene otherwise, cleared out everything that belonged to Alex (not much, they’d been quietly moving things out already over the past few weeks), stole all the toilet paper (thanks Bobby), and drove him straight to Ray’s house.

-Ray of course had already told Alex he was more than welcome to stay.

#julie and the phantoms #foster care au #not!fic #I wrote a thing #reggie peters #bobby shaw #luke patterson #alex mercer #willex #willie throckmorton #best dad ray molina #can you imagine dog groomer Reggie though #singing to his puppers as he bathes them #trying to harmonize with the husky singing the song of 'I did not want bathtime'#you know flynn was like: I get to DJ a Prom hell yes I'm coming #Julie: it's a prom for like five people #Flynn: yeah but the snacks are gonna be way better than actual prom

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inlustrissss · 4 years ago

Note

What about a fluff one shot of L falling in love with his friend and work partner... but he has no idea how to declare his love for reader so L decides to ask for misa's help.

Also, can i get a Goth and Gender Neutral reader? 👉👈

you asked, you got it! Although I am just a little bit late, I hope you won't be mad at me for this 🥺💕 I tried my utmost best with keeping it respectfully gender neutral so I hope you like it!!! Love, Inlustris

Monitor

L Lawliet x GN! Reader

warnings: none!

summary: After solving one case after the other, in the most dangerous moment the famous detective known as L finally starts to realize what is most dear to him. Though never being involved with feelings or touchy subjects, L asks an outsider for help.

My requests are open! Submit here!

Throughout the big room no light shone through the thick curtains which had separated the working place from the window that lead to the outside world.

As the busy streets in the afternoon spring sun, came to an end, only the tired clicking and ticking could be heard. The static of the TV wired to one of the main bodies of the computers flickered and played over the loud chirping of the long-billed plovers. As the rainy days came to an end, the smell of fresh gras was almost visible, though the headquarters seemed to only know serious work.

The (H/C) haired only sighed, noticing their long friend and colleague working on a file absentmindedly. Normally, a person who didn’t know the infamous detective L, they’d always find his behavior questioning, but would never interfere- thinking the male would work that way. Though (Y/N) knew, this wasn’t his 100%, something must be on his mind.

Glancing, almost stalking him for a while, they thought the genius would notice their stares, which he usually does, but for some reason his nail biting only intensified. Having talked to Watari, L’s personal butler, both of them ad agreed on trying to remind the man to stop his habit. Even this genius is human and gets trapped by simple anxious habits.

“Ryuzaki-”, calling him with his alias during working time and while on the open, he tensed up, “Stop your nail biting.”.

Even with their soft tone escaping their rosy but now colored in a beautiful darker shade he seemed to grow more nervous. “Besides, isn’t it time for a break? I’ve noticed the past couple of hours you’re not acting like yourself.”, looking around, the noticed they were alone. “Are you okay?”, they asked in a hushed tone.

Looking around, L noticed the big, round and innocent looking (E/C) orbs, staring back into his dark irises, worry etched on their face. Their make-up and unique style fitting and contradicting to their profession as always, L rushed his thought that they’d probably make a better model than Misa-Misa. But it would be a waste to their current investigation and future cases, due to their outstanding performance as his right hand.

Inching closer to L their (E/C) eyes narrowed, squinting ever so slightly. L didn’t make any movement, not a flinch. Their eyes would notice everything, even the slightest squirm. Quickly turning around though, L shrugged “Whatever you are talking about-”, taking a hold of his sugary cup of tea, the male stood up to leave, ”You’re right, it is indeed time for a break.”, opening the door, he left the dazzled one behind: “Monitor each fottage I left please, thanks (Y/N)”

Taking a long sip out of his plain white cup filled with a half of tea and the other half of sugar, L placed down the now empty cup on to a silver tray, that mostly Watari used to transport little sandwiches for each hard working inspector and treats for the detective. Taking some time to think about the events, L let his hands slide into his pockets, though stopped mid way as he had noticed that certain ping sound coming from the elevator.

Looking up, it was the said model: Misa-Misa, with her blond hair swaysing each step she too and the extraordinary Lolita-Goth look he oh so liked on his partner. Meeting her sea blue eyes, her facial expression lit up and her friendly and happy go lucky demeanor showed: “Ryuuakiii!”, waving her hand at him while dragging the letter “i” into an annoying laughing fit, she revealed a fashion magazine in her left.

“Good afternoon, Misa.”, waving back to the blonde, though with less enthusiasm, he asked, “Were you on your way to see (Y/N)?”, mentioning the magazine in Misas hand. “Oh yes!”, holding the magalogue into view, showing proudly the front page which contained the last few shootings the model mentioned the week before her last visit, “I wanted to show them the new copy we’ve been waiting for and--”, L cut her off by raising his hand, “Sorry, you can’t see them right now, it’s still working time, Misa.”

“Aww, seriously? You probably just want them all for yourself!”, pouting, Misa just crosse3d her arms before her chest, but L remained silent, softly repeating her words to himself “All for myself?”. The blonde looked up, a curious gaze meeting the raven haired, “So you do want her all to yourself!”, giggling, the model covered up her red lips with her free hand. “I’m not quite sure what you mean by that, they are a person on their own, I can’t simply restrict and own them.”

“Of course you know what I mean, you’re a genius, you should know!”, sighing, the blonde twirled a lose strand of hair between her middle and pointy finger: “Maybe all of that sugar did get to you..”,mocking the male, L just shrugged, “I don’t think so.”

But this did got him thinking: Does he truly want them all to himself? It indeed has been now quite the long time he was restless while working, not entirely there. His mind wandering off into an imaginative world or worrisome state whenever (Y/N) wouldn’t be around- no, scratch that, it didn’t matter, he quickly noticed.

Wether they’d be there or not, his mind was partly fixated on their well being. Though wasn’t it always like that? They’ve been partners for a really long time, longer than his knowledge of Naomi Misora for sure, and friends too.

He read a lot of things during his early days, a lot about solving different puzzles and games, but he could never wrap his hand around when they came.

His experimental time with how feelings would work while (Y/N) were partners were over, he saw himself to them as an equal by now, but what if- “Helloo, earth to Ryuzaki!”, waving the magazine in front of the famous detective, Misa huffed, “Man, bet you’re thinking about (Y/N) if it takes you that long to get out of your dreamy thoughts”, gifting him a look of her tongue, she mocked him again, “You should try that brain-work on finding Kira! I wanna go on a date with Light already again, he promised!”, a date?

Maybe a little trip, spending the day with his friend would make the situation a bi8t lighter- finding out about his true thoughts and feelings that hid in his clouded mind. “Can’t believe I’m saying this-”, he murmured, “But: Misa, I might or might not need your help with something.”, he bluntly responded, ignoring her witty comments., “Help? With what?”, again, her airy head. Sighing, L explained another time, “You see, you’re such an emotional person, where I’m more technical.”, shoving his hands into his pockets, in a hunched position he began to walk, motioning her to follow him into a room across the hall, “The past few days I might’ve felt a little bit under the weather and I do have my suspicion, but to be honest, even as a detective, I can’t help but not be able to solve this mystery on my own, Misa.”

Opening the door, he held it open for the young woman to step inside. “What do you mean under the weather? Are you sick?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it sick, when it’s just a feeling, I believe, and not just a condition.”, he stated, scratching his had as he continued to stay while Misa took the opportunity to relax her legs and sit down on to a couch. “Wait, was I maybe right when I said you might have a thing for (Y/N)?”, noticing how L had perked up by hearing their name, Misas sea blue eyes seemed to sparkle a few shades lighter, already rosy cheeks deepening. “Awww~ Ryuzaki, really?”, she cooed at the usually emotionless acting detective.

Like previously mentioned, he’s also just a human.

“For a long time now, I want to find out about these thoughts that were kept in the back of my head.”, especially now the most dangerous case since Beyond Birthday, everyday might as well be the last day that he would glance at their beautiful eyes, and their wonderful perfume reaching his nose. “I’m just not sure how”

Eyes softening along with her features, Misas excitement toned down and switched with a warm smile, noticing how lost the male was when it came to the most basic human needs, “It’s fairly easy on finding out how you feel about them, Ryuzaki.”

“If it would be that easy, I wonder why I can’t put my finger on it”, lifting his thumb to his mouth he began biting down on his nail, eyes following the trail of the skyline, visible due to the opened window.

Standing up and entrusting her weight back to her feet, Misas smile never wavered, “Why don’t you just ask them out?”

Dark eyes wandering back to the model, he raised a brow: “I work with them every day, I see (Y/N) every day.”

“I don’t mean as a colleague or as a friend, Ryuzaki. I’m sure they’ll say yes regardless and besides, spending a day with (Y/N) will give you surely an idea if not a start of your thesis on how to feel about them!”, looking up at the taller male with a determined look, Misa Amane was more than sure: “And if the firt time won’t be enough, the ask them out again and again and again, until you got your answer.”, making her way to the door, she stepped out. “It’s not too late and not too cold to go yet.”, winking to the male she laughed one last time

“Take them out-”, she waved, “There is this pretty nice café down the block! I’ll come around another time!”, with that, she had left.

Thinking over the blondes words, she must be right. Besides, some time off shouldn’t hurt, it never does. Slow steps were heard as L Lawliet made his way towards the ain investiation room, where he had left (Y/N) to continue his work, so none of the progress was lost.

Not forgetting any manners, he knocked, signaling that someone would come in and not startle them. “Oh, you’re back.”, their angelic like voice greeted the male. “Yeah, though it’s now you’re turn for a break, it’s time to wrap things up.”

Swallowing his build up lumb which seemed to sit tight above his adams apple, he stood straight, expression not changing: “Would you want to go out with me?”

Turning around swiftly, (H/C) hair danced around their pretty head in the process as their eyes widened and cheeks reddened.

“There is this pretty nice café down the block.”, he said.

Seeing them smile set her at ease, nodding (Y/N) only laughed, “Sure, L. Let’s go.”

Turning off the computers, (Y/N) stood up to join L’s side and walk down the hall towards the elevator. Smiling the whole way towards the Café and while being with him, (Y/N) couldn’t be happier.

Happy that Misa had come with her obnoxiously loud voice, gaining (Y/N)’s attention on the other side of the door and happy that the whole building is bugged.

No, they didn’t neglect their work- (Y/N) did monitor the fottage, though L did not necessarily mention which one.

Just like spring had brought the most wonderful flowers, a relationship blossoming would soon follow up.

#l lawliet x reader #l x reader #L Lawliet #misa amane #death note x reader #gender neutral s/o #death note L #death note #death note l x reader #L lawliet oneshot #oneshot

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oumaheroes · 3 years ago

Note

Congrats on 100+ followers, you deserve it! I love your blog and writing! For the writing-promp, how about some outsider pov fruk?

Reflections

Word Count: 1690

Characters: England, France - FrUK, America, Canada

----

‘It’ll be fun!’

‘No, it won’t.’

‘Yes it will,’ America insists, leaning forward to get a better look at the screen. England’s face through the webcam is decidedly unimpressed.

‘I don’t like house parties,’ he says, but America can hear slight resignation already there in his voice and so pushes again to seal the deal.

‘Please? Come on man, it’ll be great. Right after the G20 meeting in Texas too so there’s no work to worry about; just stay one more day for it. And hey, if you don’t like it you can leave.’

England raises an eyebrow, ‘You invited me to stay withyou.’

America shrugs, unbothered, ‘Then don’t! Or, do- whatever. It’s up to you.’

England sighs and looks conflicted. America seizes the opportunity and goes in for the kill, ‘Everyone else will be there too; you don’t wanna get FOMO.’

‘I don’t get FOMO,’ England snaps, looking affronted, and America instantly knows he’s won, ‘But fine, if it means that much to you, I’ll come.’

America tries to school his face into something that doesn’t look too triumphant, ‘Awesome! Kay, so it’ll be casual, no need to dress up or be all fancy or anything.’

‘Yes yes,’ England waves a hand dismissively and shifts in his chair, ‘I know how a house party works. I do go to some, you know.’

‘Cool cool cool, just making sure.’ America can’t really picture England at the sort of house party he is thinking of, people lounging about on furniture and playing silly drinking games. But it must happen, he supposes- he’s seen England drunk in pubs before and he’s boisterous so it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine him in an even more casual setting.

Suddenly, America notes the darkness of England’s surroundings and checks the clock in the bottom corner of his screen, ‘Hey, it’s getting pretty late for you over there, isn’t it? I should let you go.’

England glances at his wrist, entirely ignoring the PC he’s using, ‘Yes, I suppose so. Okay, likely I’ll see you next month then.’

‘No backsies, you said yes,’ America reminds him.

England rolls his eyes, ‘I meant that I won’t see you until then, I already said I was coming; I’ll come.’

‘Good!’ America moves his mouse to end the call, ‘See you there, old man. Try to be fun.’

‘What is that supposed to-‘

‘Bye!’

----

Canada glances about the room and nods, ‘It’s not bad.’

America reels back, ‘Not bad? Dude-‘ he gestures to the living room they’re in the doorway of and then to the pool outside, both places spilling over with nations chatting and enjoying themselves under the beat of the music, ‘-it’s more than not bad!’

It really was, in his humble opinion, probably one of his best in recent years. Nearly everyone had turned up who said they were going to and there had been a steady flow of conversation and dancing all night. America had scoped the place out every now and again, making rounds through the house to make sure there were no stragglers sitting somewhere on their own but there wasn’t a need for it- things had run smoothly without him needing to intervene and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. This is why he liked house parties, more than any other type of ‘function’. House parties had a more relaxed vibe, where no one felt the need to impress or do themselves up too much (unless you were one of the older ones, that is; it seemed that no matter what you told them they’d still arrive a bit more formally dressed than everyone else, as if they had some sort of inbuilt compulsion).

Things going so well was probably helped, too, by the fact that America had only invited friends and family. One, because inviting the entire world and putting them in one place anywhere would always result in some form of argument, but also because this was his house and he didn’t want it to get trashed, (regardless of what England had groused when he first arrived and had seen the condition of the place).

Canada shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, ‘I’ve been to better.’

America frowns, disappointed, before jostling his arm playfully when he notices the small, guilty shift of Canada’s eye, ‘Stop messing with me.’

Canada grins behind his cup and nudges him back, ‘Well, no one’s dead yet. That’s always good.’

‘Amen to that,’ America raises his glass in a toast which Canada meets and downs the rest of his drink, ‘Want a refill?’

‘Sure.’

‘Come on then, I ain’t your servant.’

Canada gives him a flat look but wordlessly follows America out of the living room and through to the kitchen. Australia’s there with Mexico, digging about in the lower cupboards for something and Denmark is showing Japan a video on his phone that’s making Japan’s eyes go almost unnaturally wide.

‘Alfred mate, what happened to those Tim Tams you promised me?’ Australia stands up from his crouch on the floor and looks at America reproachfully, ‘I feel swindled.’

America opens his mouth to speak but Canada cuts in first, ‘I hid them.’

America turns to him in confusion, ‘Why?’

‘Zea asked me to, seeing as they couldn’t come. Something about what you did to them at Christmas?’

Australia throws up his hands and scoffs, ‘Jesus fuck, when will they get over that. Where are did you put them? Come on, don’t be a dick, I promised Mexico some.’

Mexico shrugs delicately, ‘I don’t really care, to be honest. I just heard they were bad and wanted to see how bad.’

Australia looks down at her scandalised, ‘Who told you that?!’

She readjusts to sit properly on the floor, ‘People.’

‘Yeah, sorry, I’ll get them.’ Canada’s job has been carried out to the minimum requirement and America knows that he’s happy that he can now take himself out of the silly argument New Zealand and Australia have slyly pulled him into. He goes out of the kitchen, leaving his empty cup behind, and America follows him curiously through the hallway in the direction of the study.

‘What did Australia do to Zea at Christmas?’ America has missed out on England’s most recent yearly family function; he’d wanted to go surfing with Hawaii instead.

‘Don’t ask,’ Canada says tiredly, the air of an older sibling who had seen far too much. America is offended Canada hasn’t told him already. He opens his mouth to say as much when Canada goes to open the slightly ajar study door before stopping abruptly in the doorway, causing America to almost crash into him.

‘Hey, what-‘ Canada hurriedly squeezes America’s arm and tugs him sharply away in a warning for quiet, catching his eye before glancing into the room meaningfully. America peers around him into the study, wondering what he’s seen.

At first, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be looking at; it looks empty. The main study light is off, leaving the room lit only by one table lamp by the sofa that casts a warm, buttery glow about the place, softening the corners with shadows. He looks to Canada for help and Canada tilts his head in the direction of the French doors, eyebrows raised.

America follows his gaze and understands. The darkness outside has turned the glass to mirrors, reflecting the front of the old sofa that America could previously only see the back of. On it are England and France, curled up together with France’s head on England’s chest and England propped against the armrest, one knee brought up high for him to rest an elbow on. He has his other hand in France’s hair and is gently running his fingers through it, long languid strokes that feel entirely too intimate for America to process.

It’s a strange thing for him to see. He has accidentally caught England and France doing other things throughout his life but intimacy isn’t really something they display. They argue. They bicker. They fight and scream and laugh, sometimes, but they do not do this in front of other people, this gentleness. Neither of the two are what anyone could ever consider gentle, even France, for all his intentional touches and flirtations -the soft ghost of his hand on a shoulder or resting warm around a waist- are not this, not personal. France is very free with his physical affections but they are shallow things, meaningless and ordinary. There is something removed and detached about how he moves amongst crowds, gathering himself close about someone to brush against them as he stands that speaks of friendliness yes, but not closeness. Nothing special to note.

But here, curled on a sofa and unaware they are being watched, there are no guards up or cold pretences between them, just a natural, domestic openness that America finds oddly normal, for how little he has seen glimpses of it. England and France together are many things, have experienced every extreme and mundane state possible for two people to experience, and this side of them is just another shade, as hard as it is to find.

France tips his head back more and opens his eyes, crinkling their corners as he murmurs something low under the muted music that causes England’s lips to twitch into a rare, open smile. They could be anyone then, just two people on a sofa, young and mellow, and for a split-second America can’t see them as anything else. The warm mood hides their identity and blurs their age- familiar strangers tucked away on their own.

America jumps, startled, when Canada nudges him, an elbow into his side and he turns to find his brother gesturing with his head back into the hallway.

He agrees. America knows both England and France would be mortified to be caught like this, boneless and out of character around the person they often so openly despise, so it’s best to leave them as they are undisturbed.

Australia can wait, America will squeeze the truth out of Canada about Christmas and maybe take Zea’s side just for fun.

----

AN:

Sorry for the wait anon, but I hope you see this and I hope that you like! Thanks for the ask and for your kind words, this was a lovely prompt and I really liked thinking about how I could do this justice ;u;

#fruk #aph england #aph france #aph america #aph canada #hws england #hws france #hws america #hws canada #aph #hws #heroes answers #my writing #hetalia #hetalia fanfiction

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songbirdstyles · 5 years ago

Text

when i kissed the teacher.

summary: the one man you want more than anything is the one man you can’t have - your english professor.

warnings: teacher/student relationship, age gap (implied), f receiving oral, whole lotta smut, whole lotta feelings, whole lotta angst

word count: 14.7k (strap in)

song inspo.: when i kissed the teacher - abba

There was something special about Professor Styles.

You knew it, and so did every other girl who took his class. Your less-than-appropriate feelings about him were shared and that should’ve made you feel better about having them - at least you weren’t as obvious as some of the other girls who obviously took a fancy to your English professor. You applauded their efforts, showing up to classes in short skirts and low cut tops in the hopes that they’d catch his eyes drifting down to their chests while he passed out your essays -

But they hadn’t had any luck yet. He was a very respectable man, and more than his looks, that was what you appreciated about him. He was passionate about English, with a curriculum that appealed to you from the very first day and essay topics that forced you to look deeper into every book that the class read. He was one of the youngest professors on campus and you could tell something about that seemed to motivate him - to not be seen as a joke by the older professors, to be taken seriously by the students, some of which weren't much younger than him.

You decided, after your very first class with him, that, in any other universe, you’d have fallen in love with him. Or perhaps tried to jump his bones immediately.

Something of that sort.

As classes progressed you found yourself only liking him more. His classes were as difficult as you’d anticipated and you should have hated it, hated how much work and effort you had to put into every assignment but you absolutely adored it. You loved doing his essays, loved the novels he picked, loved the look on his face when he handed back your assignments with a 100% scribbled on top.

Most of your assignments, at least.

It didn’t really make sense to you, why your 1984 analysis should have gotten a 71%. Truthfully, you’d felt confident while writing it - it was such an easy analysis that you’d decided to go a little deeper, spending more time on it than was necessary, because you were sure he’d be tired of reading the same essay from everybody over and over again. So you gave him something different and maybe you should have stuck to analyzing the same themes that everyone else did.

“If any of you are confused about your grade,” Professor Styles announces to the class when everyone has gotten their essays back, time left in class slowly ticking down, “please feel free to see me after class. M’happy to discuss any concerns with you.”

Perhaps you’re being paranoid, but you could’ve sworn you felt his eyes land on you.

Class ends within a few minutes and you take your time packing your things back into your bag, waiting until the last kid has trickled from the lecture hall before swinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way down to his office. The door is cracked open and he’s barely sat down at his desk when you knock, flashing him a smile before pushing the door open a bit more.

You clear your throat before saying, “Hey, um, sorry to bother you - ” he interrupts you, telling you that it’s no bother at all “ - I’m just kind of confused on why I did badly on this essay.”

He nods, motioning for you to come in, and you step inside before shutting the door behind you. His office is small and cramped, with bookshelves lining the walls and a couch pressed into the corner. It’s a good vibe, you have to admit, although slightly messy. Perhaps you’d describe it as cozy, and it seems to fit him well.

There’s an empty seat in front of his desk and you sit down in it awkwardly, placing your essay in front of him. His eyes skim the first page before he tells you, “You usually do really well on essays, and this was … a really easy one.”

“I know,” you tell him, leaning forward to try and read what he’s reading. “I just thought you might be looking for something more complex. It seemed too simple.” When you look up, he’s staring at you, and you feel heat flood to your cheeks. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

“It really is that simple, I promise,” Professor Styles informs you, and he pushes your essay back to you. “But you’re one of my best students, and I don’t want to let this bring down your grade. So, I have an idea for how you can make it up.”

Your mind runs through all the ways you’d want to make it up to him - most of them involve you being on your knees, and you cough into your elbow. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling embarrassed about it. Fantasizing about your professor from across the lecture hall is one thing, but you’re barely a foot apart from him now and you’re almost nervous he can hear your thoughts.

“I’ll do anything.” And you don’t care about the ways he could interpret it. He drums his fingers on his desk, and when you look down at his hand, you notice with a start that his nails are painted - you’d never seen that before, but you’d also never been this close to him, you suppose. You wonder if he gets them done or if he does them himself - you can’t picture him going to a salon, and the thought of him painting his own nails could make you cum on its own.

You don’t realize he’s been speaking until you zone back in, and when you look back up at him, he furrows his brows at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” You shake your head. “Just - um - could you repeat that?” His eyes linger on you for just a beat too long, and your face flushes again. “So distracted,” he murmurs in a faux chastising tone, and your stomach flips. “What I said was that I’m willing to put this essay in as a 97 - your average for the class - if you would help me with grading some things. Not too heavy, maybe an hour or two after class. I’ve been falling behind with a lot of my classes and I’ve been looking for help, anyway, so it works out for both of us.”

Jesus Christ. Spending an extra hour every day with Professor Styles sounds like a recipe for disaster, and yet it also sounds completely perfect at the same time, and you’re nodding before you can fully process the pros and cons of the situation. “That sounds great. I mean, really - thank you so much.”

“S’my pleasure,” he informs you, giving you a large, dimpled smile. “So, after class, tomorrow - when I’m caught up and don’t need your help anymore, you’re off the hook.”

“Got it.” you stand, grabbing your essay and your bag and making your way towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” he echoes, and the last thing you see before you shut the door is him, bringing his hand up to wave you off.

---

When class concludes the next day you maintain the same habit as you did the day prior - watching every student trickle out the door before swinging your bag over your shoulders, grabbing the two cups of tea that you’d made before class and making your way down to the front of the lecture hall.

Professor Styles stands in the doorway of his office, holding the door open for you - you make your way inside with a tight, only slightly awkward smile. His eyes roll over the two cups that you’re holding and he asks, with a mildly amused inflection in his voice, “I guess you like tea quite a bit, then?”

You smile, looking down at your cups, and when he shuts the door you hold one out to him. “I do like it a lot, but this one’s for you. You know, to say thank you for giving me a freebie, and also because you look like the kind of guy who loves tea.”

He laughs and your grin widens at the noise - god, it’s like music to your ears, and you would do anything to keep hearing it from him. He reaches out to take the cup from you and brings it up to his mouth, taking a small sip - when he’s done his tongue pokes out to lap up a bit of tea from his lip, and you try to ignore how much the minuscule motion affects you. “This is perfect, Y/N. Just the way I like it. You’re an angel.” Your cheeks heat up, and then he says, “But you don’t need to thank me. I’m probably gaining more from this arrangement than you are, truthfully. People are starting to get annoyed with how I’ve been falling behind grading, which is where you come in.”

Yes, you’d heard the girls next to you whispering about how bothersome it was that they’d submitted three essays in the past month and had only gotten one back. Why does he give out so much work if he’s never gonna hand it back?

It didn’t bother you too much.

“Well - alright, then. You’re welcome for helping you grade,” you tell him, pulling out the chair in front of his desk and settling in, dropping your bag beside you. You take another brief moment to glance around his office, as though expecting something to change, but it’s the same distinctly messy, cramped office that it had been yesterday. At some point, you should tell him that he ought to clean out his space, but that’s not what you’re here for - yet.

Professor Styles nods, making his way to the other side of his desk and plopping down in his spinning chair - it was quite nice, and made you wonder why the one you sat in seemed to be falling apart at the seams. But, then, you supposed teacher salary didn’t leave room for spectacular seating. “See, that’s the spirit.” All at once, the casual discussion between the pair of you died as he dug in the drawers of his desk for something - and then he plopped a large stack of papers on the table between you both. “This isn’t all of them - not even close. You’re very smart, so this should be pretty easy for you. Just read through them, add any notes, things they need to work on, and look at the rubric for a final grade.”

You nod, picking the first essay off the top of the pile and reaching for a pen from the cup on his desk - it’s a coffee mug with the Rumours by Fleetwood Mac album cover on it, and you take a moment to marvel at it briefly. “You like Fleetwood?” you question, voice seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet of his office. “Didn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”

He looks up, then, from where he’d already begun scribbling bright red notes into the margin of someone’s essay. His eyes trail down to the mug full of pens, and then back up to meet yours. “You seem to make a lot of assumptions about the kind of guy I am. What’s that all about?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, your voice faux sweet and innocent, and he smiles slightly. “But I’m glad you have an appreciation for really good music. I was worried your music taste would be terrible, and then I’d have to live with the knowledge that Professor Styles exclusively listens to Justin Bieber.”

Your professor rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips. “You know,” he begins, “you don’t have to call me Professor Styles. Not outside of class, at least. It sounds weird when it’s just the pair of us here.”

“Oh.” You pause. “What should I call you, then?”

“Harry’s fine.”

Harry Styles. The name flows easily off the tongue as you test it out in a teasing tone, your eyes meeting his as you do, and your cheeks flush. You don’t know if it's commonplace for professors to allow random students to drop formalities and call them by their first names but you’ll accept it anyway - all you know is that, when you go home tonight, the thought of calling him Harry will fill your mind until you can’t stand it anymore.

Harry as he buries his face between your thighs.

Harry as he pounds you into the mattress.

Harry as he bends you over his desk - this desk - the one you’re sitting at right now.

You cough into your arm and pick up your pen, pressing your thighs together to try and alleviate the throbbing that’s now affecting your body. You should’ve known not to let your mind wander because you’ve barely been here for 15 minutes and you already feel like you need to go rub one out in the bathroom. But you pause - take a sip of your tea, though it’s nearly gone from drinking it so much in class - and get to work grading Brianna Valeria’s essay on Death Comes to the Archbishop. The rubric sits on the desk next to you and you bury yourself in your work - if Harry notices the sudden silence that’s overtaken you, he doesn’t mention it.

For the rest of the hour, the pair of you work in silence. It’s comforting and surprisingly not awkward, and occasionally you ask his opinion on something one of his students wrote in their essays, but the playful banter you’d had before has dissipated. You’ve finished your tea and you suspect he has, as well, with the way he’s been feverishly drinking it.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly, and you glance up from where you’re in the middle of scribbling red notes into the margins of Alexander Simmons’ essay. “You should probably get going.”

One quick glance down at your phone proves that he’s right, and you rise from the extremely uncomfortable seat you’ve been perched in for the hour - you can practically hear your butt crying in relief. “Thank you so much for the tea,” Harry tells you, handing back his cup, and it’s empty, like you expected. “And - um. You don’t have to call me Harry if it makes you uncomfortable. Just thought it would be less formal, but if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

Ah. He took your silence as you being uncomfortable calling him Harry. Well, it’s better than him knowing just how wet the sentiment made you, but you shake your head immediately. “No. No, I prefer calling you Harry. You’re right - it’s weird when it’s just us.”

He grins at you, then, standing up from his seat and stretching his arms over his head. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Ms. Y/L/N.”

“You know, if I’m calling you Harry now, I think you should drop formalities too. Make it equal.”

“Okay … Y/N. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Harry,” you tell him, turning and walking out of his office with your phone in your pocket and two cups in your hands, blissfully unaware of your abandoned bag still sitting next to the terribly uncomfortable chair you’d been all too quick to leave.

It’s only when you’ve finished the trek back to your dorm, the sun beginning to lower down into the horizon, that the absence of your bag on your shoulder becomes prominent.

You can’t get into your building without your key and your key is in your bag and your bag is … back in Harry’s office, where you nearly made yourself cum just thinking about him. And the thought of having to go back across campus, back to his office, when he might not even be there, is not favorable, but you need your key and you need to bang out homework tonight, so with a soft groan you spin on your heel, walking away from the warm comfort of your building and making your way back to his.

As summer bled into fall and fall begins to bleed into winter, the weather has changed so drastically in just the past week or so that you tug your cardigan closer to your body, but the air that seeps through the holes in the crocheted sweater send goosebumps trailing up and down your body. The wind whips your face and brings tears to your eyes that run down your cheeks, and when you’re finally at the door of Harry’s building it’s a welcome surprise to walk inside, allowing the warmth to embrace you - even if the shock of the changing temperatures causes your eyes to water again.

His office is on the 2nd floor, so you pull open the door to the staircase and make your way up the two flights. Most professors have gone home for the day, classrooms dark as you speed past them to where you know his office is.

His office is dark and your heart sinks at the sight - there are a few posters pinned to the small window, but you can see the lack of light clear as day. Your hand grasps the doorknob anyway, turning it without any hope that it would open - but then it was, giving you access to his dark office, and by the seat you’d occupied later you can make out your bag.

A breath of relief escapes your throat as you take a step inside, reaching down to swing it over your shoulder before turning to leave. And then you hear it - a small breath, an indicator of someone else in the room, and you whip around to look back around at the office.

Oh.

Harry sits in his chair, face buried in his arms, fast asleep. His hair is messy and in front of him sits the stack of essays you’d been working at early, hardly any smaller than when you’d left. It would nearly be an adorable sight - your professor, passed out at his desk - but it just seems concerning, and without thinking you’ve leaned over the desk, placing your hand on his shoulder and shaking him slightly.

“Professor?” your voice is soft, barely audible, and you speak louder when you say, “Harry?”

He doesn’t respond, so you say, louder still, “Harry?”

Then he stirs slightly under your touch, and you drop your hand from his shoulder as he lifts his head from where it had been resting on his arms, looking up at you with messy eyebrows and a thoroughly confused expression on his face. “What - what are you doing here?” Jesus. His voice is deep and raspy, sounding as though he’d been sleeping for ages instead of merely less than an hour, and if his present state wasn’t slightly concerning to you, you know that you’d feel the effects of his words between your thighs. But you pause, staring down at him, before asking, “What are you still doing here?”

“Just working on some grading.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking around the darkened office with an air of distinct confusion.

“With all due respect, Harry,” you tell him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I think you’re burning yourself out. You should go home.”

He hesitates, and then questions, “Why are you here? I thought you left -”

“I forgot my bag,” and you hold it up to demonstrate it to him. “Are you going to go home? I’m serious - you need a break. And to sleep on a bed.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, and he stands up from his chair. It moves back and hits the wall with a soft thud that goes unnoticed by both of you. “You should go home, too. I need to finish some stuff up. I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

To neither of your surprise, you don’t move from your spot standing before his desk. You cross your arms over your chest, digging your sneakered toe into the plush rug on the floor of his office - you hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s pale blue and bright against the mahogany floors. The brief silence between you two, daring either of you to speak, fills the confined space and all you can hear is the ticking of the clock behind you, and finally you say, “You’re not going to get anything done when you’re exhausted. I mean, you fell asleep on the essays. How are you going to explain why there’s drool on their assignments?”

He gives you a tight lipped smile in response, looking down at the essay he’d been working on as if to check that no saliva had landed on the words. “You caught me at a bad time. I don’t usually fall asleep on top of student essays, I promise - but you should be heading out now. It’s getting dark.”

It is getting dark, he’s right - the window behind his desk shows the darkness that newly falls over the campus. And the thought of walking home in the dark scares you just a bit, but you’ll suck it up if it gets him to go home too. “Harry.”

“Y/N.”

“I’ll help you grade tomorrow. But you’re fucking yourself here -”

(Harry laughs at your choice of words internally, but it comes out as a small release of air and a soft grin.)

“ - so come on. Walk out with me so I can make sure you’re actually going home.”

Perhaps he’s realized he’s fighting a losing battle here, because finally he looks back down at the stack of ungraded essays with a small sigh and then says, “Fine.”

“Great.” Your grin widens across your face, and for a moment you make to hold out your hand to him, to drag him along like you would to any of your friends - but the second your hand raises you drop it down to your side, and heat burns your cheeks. He’s not one of your other friends, you tell yourself, stepping out of his office, hearing him walk behind you. And you can’t hold his hand, even as a joke.

“Where’s your dorm?” Harry asks you as he locks the door to his office and jiggles the handle to check it, and you jump at the chance to forget about what happened - you don’t want to dwell on it. “Is it far?”

“Across campus.” You raise your arm and point in the distinct direction of where your building is. “Closer to the cafeteria, I guess.”

“Christ, you have a trek, then, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” The pair of you make your way to the staircase, and from the corner of the eye you can see his head turning left and right down the hallway, as if scanning to see if there’s anyone coming - you can imagine it wouldn’t be great for him to be seen with a student long after classes ended. “I had to haul ass there and back to get my bag.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, not until you’ve left the warm building and made your way into the cold air, the sun now having retreated for the night, and immediately you wrap your sweater tighter around yourself to try and provide some semblance of warmth. Harry glances down at you with a bemused smile, and you hoist your bag further up your shoulder.

“Well,” you sigh, breath coming out in white puffs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t burn yourself out, professor. And get a good night’s rest.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”

“Maybe.” You grin, feeling goosebumps sprout on your skin, and you shiver before turning in the direction of your dorm - the thought of walking home in the dark and cold doesn’t sound too great, but you’ve become good at dealing with it. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He doesn’t respond, and you’ve taken a few steps away when he calls out, “D’you want a ride?”

What?

“Y’know, like a ride back to your dorm. I can drop you off in the back - it’s just really cold and I’m sure you don’t want to walk so far in the dark.”

You turn back around to look at him, his cheeks a light shade of pink - whether from the cold or his offer, you can’t tell. And you’d love to jump in his car, accept his offer without a shadow of hesitation, but - “Is that allowed?”

Harry shrugs, and you know that’s code for absolutely not. “No one has to find out.”

(Your stomach drops, then.)

“Sure.” You take a few steps back towards him, and he spins on his heel, leading you to his car, and you walk in silence until you reach it. By the time you’re both safely in his car - his head turning every so often to check if there was anyone watching the pair of you - you’re shivering desperately, and you know you would have been positively miserable walking back to your dorm in these temperatures. “Thank you so much, Harry.”

“S’no problem, really.” His hand goes behind your seat as he turns to look behind him, and you hate the way the simple action makes you feel. “I’d rather know you get home safe than have you walk so far in the dark. Pretty girl like you, can never be too careful.”

You pause, cheek pressed against the cold window, and turn to look at him with a small smile. “Ooh, I’m a pretty girl now?”

“Wasn’t the point, Y/N,” Harry mutters, dropping his hand onto the center console, and if it were anyone else driving you like this, you’d rest your hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers and pressing your palms together. But he’s your professor, as much as you’re beginning to wish he weren’t, so you slide your hands beneath your thighs. “Which building, again?”

“McKinley,” you respond, voice barely louder than the sound of the heat blasting into his car.

His car smells like eucalyptus and mint, and it’s surprisingly clean compared to his office - you wonder if his house is messy or clean, or a balanced mix, because you can’t quite catch a vibe for whether he’s organized or not. But, no - you’ll never see his house, surely. You can’t.

“I used to date a girl who lived at McKinley,” he tells you, and you exhale slowly. You can tell he’s merely trying to make conversation but the sentiment isn’t making your internal conflicts any easier to manage. “Real nice dorms.”

“They’re alright.” In fact, you’ve been at university for 3 years and resided in 3 different dormitories and they’re your least favourite, with furniture that’s too big for rooms that are too small and bathrooms that can hardly fit more than 5 people, but you don’t tell him that. “Not the greatest.”

“S’what she told me, too,” Harry says, and you smile down at your lap, but you can’t find anything else to respond to that, so you take to gazing out the window.

Within a few seconds he’s slowing down, and you can recognize the back entrance to your building. You reach down and pick your bag off the ground, digging through it to find your key.

When you have it clutched in your hand, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to look at him - to your surprise his eyes are already on you, and you swallow thickly. “Um - thanks for driving me.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You hesitate a moment before turning and swinging open the car door. You hop out and, just before you can shut it, he says, “Y/N.” And when you duck your head back into his car, raising your eyebrows, he adds, “Please don’t tell anyone I drove you home. You’re right - s’not allowed.”

“Alright.” Then, before you can help yourself, you flash him a wide grin and say, “Thanks for letting me be the exception, then.”

With that, you shut the door of his car, bounding up to the door of your building, and you swear you can feel his gaze remaining on you before his car drives off, and when you turn back around, it’s gone.

(In the back of your mind, you’re entirely too aware of the fact that merely sitting in his car crossed some sort of line that you didn’t know existed until now, but you don’t really know how far past it you are - not yet.)

“I have a question.”

You look up from the rubric you’d been working at - the student whose essay you’re grading hadn’t done too well on it, but you were trying to give them the most points you could, anyway. Harry’s looking down at his essay like he hadn’t spoken, but when he feels your gaze on him, he continues. “Why did you care so much? Yesterday. Me grading more s’less work for you to do. I feel like you should be loving that shit.”

It’s a reasonable question but, for a moment, you struggle thinking of how to answer it without exposing yourself to him. Finally, you give him a grin and say, “Well, if you were sleep deprived, it would make you mean.” He chuckles softly, and you can tell that’s not the answer he wanted, and it couldn’t have been further from the truth. So you add, “I guess I’m used to being the mom friend. Making sure all of my friends get a good night’s sleep and whatever.”

Harry pauses. “So we’re friends, then.”

You shrug, trying to stop the smile from peeking through onto your face. Being friends with Harry sounds positively dreamy and if it could segue into something else - whichitcan’t - you’d be the happiest girl alive.

You nod. “Yeah, aren’t we.” But it isn’t a question, and you can see the way his eyes twinkle at your response.

After a moment, you shift in your entirely entirely entirely too bloody uncomfortable chair, the wood making your butt ache. “I have a question, now.”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you pick the most uncomfortable chair you possibly could for your guests to sit in?”

“Gets ‘em out of my office quicker.” Harry glances up and meets your glare with a laugh. “But I don’t want you to leave, so you can move to the couch, if you’d like.”

You hop out of the chair without a second’s hesitation, clutching your essay and your pen, flopping down on the couch and feeling your body weight sink into it. God, it’s so soft and your body relaxes into it, the relief of not being confined to the small, wooden chair so magnificent you could scream. Harry watches you with an amused grin, and says, “I feel like you’re being just a bit dramatic here.”

“Me? Dramatic? Never.” You sprawl yourself across the couch, head atop of the armrest, staring up at the white ceiling tiles above you. “I’m telling you, Harry, that chair is terrible. You should burn it.”

“So dramatic.”

You roll your eyes, sitting up slightly so you can rest your paper on your lap and still manage to scrawl semi-legible notes on this person’s piss poor essay. You wonder, briefly, if this is how Harry felt when he’d graded your 1984 essay, but - well - doesn’t matter now. And you’d fail that essay a thousand times over to get to this point, a point of companionship with your professor that you’re not sure any other student has felt with him before. At least, none that he’s told you about. It makes you feel special, and spectacular, and also the tiniest bit confused.

Why are you so special?

Maybe he’s lonely, or he’s merely entertaining your presence because you’re helping him grade, but you swear you can feel something more hidden within the lines of your relationship.

It doesn’t really matter, though, even if it is just a tad confusing.

“You should get going,” Harry tells you after another 15 minutes of you working at grading the essay. “You’ve been here for nearly two hours, bloody hell, wasn’t watching the time at all.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, though, in truth, you do have quite a bit of homework to work on later. “Don’t really have anything else to do.”

You sit up anyway, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch and stretching your arms above your head. Tiredness is beginning to affect you but you try not to let it.

“Well, in any case, you should be heading out now.” Harry nods his head towards the window behind him, the blinds pulled up so you can see the sun, nearly completely sunk below the horizon, the sky fading from reds and oranges to a dark shade of blue.

“What about you, professor?”

“What about me?” “You’re going home now too - right?”

He looks at you with a faux annoyed glare, but he can’t help the amusement from seeping through his features, and finally he breaks your stare with an exhale of breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever win this against you, will I?”

And you shake your head in response. “Never. So let’s go. Get your things.”

You take the next five minutes to gather all your stuff - resting the essay on top of his desk, sliding your phone and water bottle into your backpack, and zipping your bag shut - as Harry grabs his computer bag and his key. The two of you move surprisingly in sync with each other, sorting all of your stuff from around his small office, before making your way outside with him locking the door behind him.

It’s nearly completely dark, even colder than it had been the day prior. You reach behind you and pull the hood of your sweatshirt over your hair, protecting your ears, at least, from the chill.

You turn and face him, giving him a wide smile. The air is silent around you, surprisingly empty though the bitterness of the cold must be a contributing factor to that. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor. Make sure you get a good night’s rest -”

“Don’t want a ride?”

Your grin widens, and his eyes sparkle, even in the darkness, at your expression. “Well, of course I do, but it’s rude to invite myself into your car.”

“You’re not inviting yourself - I’m inviting you. Or, rather, demanding you. C’mon.”

Harry walks fast and you have to speed up your pace to keep up with him, though you suspect that has something to do with wanting to be free of any wandering eyes as quickly as possible. You recognize his car in the parking lot and bound ahead of him, standing by the passenger side door and wrapping your arms around yourself to try and warm yourself up, and for a moment his pace slows as he stares and looks at you. Standing by his car, holding an incredibly oversized hoodie tight to your body, a wide smile gracing your face.

“Staring is rude, professor,” you inform him as he shakes his head, unlocking his car and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

Your lilt is teasing but you can tell it makes him slightly defensive either way.

“S’hard not to sometimes,” Harry tells you, and you giggle softly.

“So first, I’m a pretty girl, and now I’m hard not to stare at?” You drop your head back against the headrest, blowing air softly out of your mouth as you reach to buckle your seatbelt. “Keep this up, Harry, and my ego’s gonna be too big to even fit in your car.”

Harry laughs at that, resting his hand on your seat to back out of his parking spot. The radio softly plays some pop song that had been overtaking the charts recently, and you hum softly to it before turning your head to look at him. You examine his side profile - perfect, like every other angle of him - as he pulls out of the parking lot, making a left out of it.

He turns to see you watching him, and you watch redness bloom over his cheeks. “Staring is rude, Y/N.”

You smile, about to parrot his previous words back at him - it’s hard not to - but you bite your tongue, gazing at the road in front of you. A light drizzle is beginning to fall, a barely audible pitterpatter on the windshield, and that’s the only noise, for a moment - that and the radio playing, like a thought in the back of your mind.

The drive to your dorm seems to be taking longer than it had been yesterday and you can’t imagine why, but you appreciate just sitting in the car with him. Even if you’re not saying much, listening to his even breathing calms you.

You want to break the silence, though it’s comfortable rather than awkward. You like talking to him, like hearing everything he has to say, but you have no idea what you can possibly tell him that wouldn’t seem forced and awkward. So you sit, curling your legs up to your chest as you stare at the streets, and entirely too soon, the back of the McKinley building becomes apparent.

You want to stay in his car forever. Want to stay with him forever.

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him, your voice sounding uncomfortably loud in the soft car. He nods in response, but for a moment neither of you move. You can’t bring yourself to leave yet, even if you know you have to, that he might have someone waiting for him at home.

“Y/N.” You turn and look at him, your eyes meeting his with your brows furrowed. “Uh - if you ever want a ride home, or to class, you can just let me know. Text me.”

“I don’t have your number.”

Harry’s cheeks are bright pink and there’s too much tension in the car, so thick you feel like you could cut it with a knife, and you lean down, unzipping your bag and pulling your phone out.

He takes it from you once you unlock it, going into your contacts and you watch as he types his phone number in, adding the contact name as Harry S. and you think you’ll be changing that later. He leaves the contact photo blank, which you expected - if anyone saw the name Harry S. in your phone, the contact photo would give it away.

He hands your phone back to you when he’s done, and your fingers graze his when you take it. “Just text me, then. If you need a ride.”

“Alright.” you give him a smile, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing open the car door. “Thank you, Harry. Really.”

“My pleasure,” he says, and you grab your bag, hooking your arm underneath the strap and racing up to the back entrance of your building. It’s only when you get inside, the door firmly shut behind you, that you turn around again, and his car is gone.

10:52 PM

Y/N: hey professor...it’s y/n. just wanna make sure u have my number saved in case of emergencies

Harry S.: How is it you can have the highest grade of any student in my class and use improper grammar while texting?

Y/N: it’s a talent i guess

Y/N: texting like you’re writing an essay makes ppl v uncomfortable, and i speak from personal experience

Harry S.: So you’re uncomfortable right now, then?

Y/N: nooo, ur different

Harry S.: To quote this girl I know, ‘thanks for letting me be the exception, then.’

Y/N: how did u remember that? that makes me uncomfortable

Harry S.: Haha.

Harry S.: You should be sleeping right now. Students need their full 8 hours, don’t they?

Y/N: so do professors, as i keep telling u, but…

Y/N: i had hw to do, also had to make mac n cheese for dinner

Harry S.: You can do your homework in my office, you know. And then you can probably make it to the refectory for dinner.

Y/N: the food at the refectory sucks

Harry S.: Yeah, you’re right.

Harry S.: But I do feel bad that staying to help me grade made you have to stay up until 11 doing homework.

Y/N: well honestly i’d rather be sitting in ur office talking to u than in my dorm doing american lit work

Harry S.: Why’s that?

Y/N: ig i like hanging out with u

Y/N: u should feel honored btw

Harry S.: Believe me, I do. And now you should get to bed so you’re not grumpy tomorrow morning.

Y/N: ig i deserved that… and i’ll only go to bed if u do too

Harry S.: I will.

Y/N: promise??

Harry S.: I promise.

Harry S.: Goodnight.

Y/N: goodnight, professor

After a week, your arrangement has changed slightly.

Every day, you spend just a bit more time in his office. Then he drives you home, in comfortable silence, and from the minute you step into your dorm, you’re fishing your phone out of your bag to text him. Every night that you lie awake, texting him until you physically can’t keep your eyes open, the line that you’ve been dipping your toe across falls back even more.

The stack of assignments that need to be graded are beginning to dwindle, and you hate it. Hate to see the pile of ungraded work getting smaller and smaller, because when it’s gone, you probably won’t step foot in his office again.

Truthfully, and as embarrassing as it may be, Harry has become one of your closest friends at school. He’s funny and nice, and he brought you hot chocolate with powder left unmixed at the bottom after you mentioned that’s how you used to like it when you were younger, and he plays music on his phone at a low volume while you work on grading.

Of course, as your friendship with Harry grows, so does the burning feelings for him that reside in the pit of your stomach day after day. And you know he doesn’t feel the same - he can’t - and maybe that’s painful for you, only slightly, but you’ve become rather talented at hiding those emotions. He can’t know that, everytime he laughs at one of your jokes, your heart swells - and everytime he reads a sentence from one of the essays out loud, using a mocking, deep voice, it makes your stomach flip.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so passionately about anyone, and that’s scary. Scary to think that the one man you want more than anyone else is the only person you can’t have.

“Y/N,” he says, and when you look up at him from your spot sprawled on the couch, he’s nibbling at the tip of his pen. “D’you think this makes sense?”

And he reads you a few lines written by one of his students - a name you recognize from being in your class, you think, but you’ve been paying attention less and less to other students during lectures. All you focus on is Harry, his booming voice projecting through the hall as he talks about the stories you’re reading, and every so often his eyes meet yours and the smile that spreads across his face could bring tears to your eyes, if you let it.

“Um - I guess. It’s worded kind of strangely, don’t you think? But I’d cut them some slack on it.” Harry nods and scribbles something in the margins of Nathalie Carron’s essay before flipping the page. “Can I put in a song request?”

He nods, then, picking up his phone from where it sits on his desk. The Chain plays softly, not too loud to interrupt your train of thought, but not too soft that you can’t hear it. “‘Course.”

“Heroes by David Bowie.” You glance back up at him, dropping Hannah Joseph’s essay on your stomach. “You like Bowie, right?”

“Who doesn’t, is the real question.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” You grin, glancing up at the white tiled ceiling as the song fills the hair, replacing Fleetwood. “You know, we should make a playlist for grading.”

Harry laughs. “A playlist of just Fleetwood and a dash of Bowie?”

“No, no. It can have other stuff, too. I mean, we know what we like.”

“Alright, alright.” He picks up his phone again, and you see his thumbs moving feverishly on the screen. “Y’know what, I’ll make it right now and show it to you for approval.”

“Make it good.” You pause, picking your essay up again. “No Justin Bieber.”

He snorts, and you relish in the noise.

The next ten minutes passes in mainly silence - when Heroes ends, Fleetwood continues, playing Secondhand News, and you hum to the tune. Harry’s ringer is on and you can hear it, the sound of the keyboard on his phone as he searches up song titles, and you rest the essay back on your stomach, writing messy notes with the pen you snatched from the mug on his desk again.

You sit up, suddenly, leaning over to rest Hannah’s fully graded essay on his desk, and instead of reaching for a new one to work on, you push yourself to your knees, resting your palms on his desk and attempting to lean over and peek at the playlist. But he anticipates that - he knows you’re nosy - and tilts his phone towards him, intercepting your attempts to eavesdrop.

“Don’t be impatient,” he murmurs, a smile tugging across his lips as he scrolls through something. “I’m almost done.”

You hum in response, dropping back down onto the couch, stretching your entire body across it, head resting on the armrest. The two of you settle back into a comfortable silence - he’s paused the music, by now - lasting only a moment or two before he stands up from his insanely comfortable chair, maneuvering his way around to the couch where you’re lying. He crouches down next to you, handing you his phone, opened to a Spotify playlist, and you greedily snatch the device from him, flicking through the songs.

Your eyes scan every song, absorbing every song title.

I Walk The Line by Johnny Cash - My Eyes Adored You by the Four Seasons - Your Song by Elton John?

Love songs. Every single one of them.

You push yourself up, sitting leaning against the armrest, as your eyes fall on the last song of the playlist - When I Kissed The Teacher by Abba. You lower his phone to your lap, looking at him with a slightly confused smile adorning your face.

He watches you intently, your heads a mere few inches apart, then reaches down to grab his phone off your lap, and you laugh lightly before saying, “it’s a lot of love songs.”

“They reminded me of you,” he tells you, voice quiet, testing the waters.

“They - they did?” It doesn’t make sense to you - doesn’t make sense that 45 love songs should bring you to the forefront of his mind, that every single time he hears Fooled Around And Fell In Love he should think of you.

They make you think of him, though.

And without thinking - of what you’re doing or of the consequences - you lean in, closing the short distance between your faces, pressing your lips against his so softly that it feels like it’s a mere breath on your mouth.

Harry pulls back, lips barely a centimeter from yours, exhaling softly. “We shouldn’t.”

You hum in agreement, already leaning back in. “No, we really shouldn’t.”

Your lips meet again and his hand goes to your face, cupping your jaw, and when he deepens the kiss you whimper into his mouth, bringing both of your hands to the back of his head. Your fingers bury themselves in his curls, tugging on the chocolate brown strands, and he groans softly into your mouth.

It’s everything you’d imagined and more, as the hand not on your cheek drops down to your waist, pulling your body closer to his. The angle is awkward - you sitting on the couch and him kneeling before it - so you unattach your lips, much to your dismay, and swing your legs around the edge of the couch so he’s situated between them. Harry’s eyes are wide, his hair mussed up, and you lean back in without a moment’s hesitation to resume the kiss. His tongue brushes against yours, and he tastes like mint tea and fucking heaven.

Both of his hands go down to your waist, tugging you to the very edge of the couch so your bodies are as close as they can be, and yours go to the back of his neck, dipping underneath the collar of his button down shirt to scratch at his back. It feels muscular, more toned than you were expecting, and feeling the skin underneath your nails makes you moan into his mouth.

“Fuck -” you groan softly as he moves his lips down your chin and to your jaw, nibbling softly at your skin, as if experimenting to see what you like - your reaction prompts him to move further down, licking a stripe down your neck and to the base of your collarbone. One of his hands - very large hands - slide up to cup one of your breasts, squeezing the mound of flesh through your tight shirt. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Harry hums against your collarbone, pressing open mouthed kisses across your skin. Your nails dragging down his back causes him to bite down gently to stifle the moan rising from his throat, but you hear it and Goditspursyouonsofuckingmuch. “God, Y/N -”

His praise is cut short by the sound of three swift knocks on the door - he pulls back from you, nearly falling back on his ass with the speed at which he stands, and your eyes flash to the door. Your heart is pounding desperately in your chest - are the doors soundproof? Did someone outside hear you? The thought makes you sick to your stomach, and your eyes meet Harry’s to find the same worry in his orbs.

Within moments he’s back behind his desk, running a hand through his hair to try and smooth it out, and you’ve reached to grab Hannah Joseph’s essay off his desk just as he calls, “come in!” in a voice that’s far too cheery for the panic that had just overtaken the both of you.

The door opens and from the corner of your eye you can recognize the girl who walks in - she lives across the hall from you, and her name is … Anna or Emma or something similar. She’s nice, and you should remember her name, but your brain is so scrambled that you can’t think of it.

Harry kissing you. Harry making you a playlist. Harry’s hands on your waist, pulling your body into his.

It’s everything you’ve dreamt of since the beginning of the semester, feeling his touch on you. And when you close your eyes, you try to imagine what would have happened if nobody knocked on the door, and it sends a shiver down your spine that doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, sitting at his desk as he looks over Anna-or-Emma’s essay.

You can’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. The girl (who, now that you think of it, may be named Alana) is asking Harry a million bogus questions about the essay requirements he’d just given out and her shirt is so low cut that you’re surprised her boobs haven’t fallen out. Whether that was intentional or not isn’t something you dwell on, but something about sitting on the couch, trying to steady your breathing while your clit throbs violently feels wrong.

“I’m gonna go, professor,” you say, interrupting her question, and she looks at you like you just told her you’re going to give her a million dollars. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Y/N,” Harry calls as you grab your bag and shut the door behind you. His voice sounds pained, almost, as though he doesn’t want you to leave him alone with a girl whose only goal is clearly to fuck his brains out. You practically run down the hall, which isn’t close to being as empty as it usually is when you and Harry leave at the end of the day.

Your shirt is tight and short sleeved and you can picture your jacket, up in his office, thrown over the back of the couch. You’d been in such a rush to leave that you’d left it, and you’re beginning to truly feel the consequences of it as the cold corners you, attacking your skin, and you could go back up to his office and get it but you just want to go home. The sun is setting, and it’s earlier than when you usually leave.

The walk home is decidedly miserable, the wind sending tears streaking down your cheeks, and your mind is practically going into overdrive. Jesus Christ. You kissed your professor, and he kissed you back. And then you left, like a fucking idiot. He probably feels terrible - feels like he violated you, or ruined his career. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. If you were more respectable you’d go back to his building and apologize for running out, wrap your arms around him and kiss him like you fucking mean it, but all you do is scan your card to get into McKinley and walk down the hall to your dorm.

Your roommate is out - at her boyfriend’s, as per usual, but you appreciate it. Truth be told, you haven’t seen her much since the first few weeks of the semester, but she seemed nice enough. You drop your bag onto your bed and collapse on top of the covers, gazing up at the ceiling.

You bring your hand up to your mouth, brushing your fingertips over your lips with the same feather light touch that the first press of Harry’s lips to yours had felt like. You can still feel it - feel him - if you close your eyes, his hands grasping your hips and his lips trailing down your collarbone.

Slowly, you press your palm to your stomach, trailing it down your torso until you reach the button of your jeans. You undo it with shaky fingers and push them lower down, beneath the hem of your cotton thong, and the first brush of your fingertips against your clit sends a shiver down your spine and a whine falling off your lips.

Harry’s hand on your chest, squeezing your breast through your shirt as he kisses down your neck - oh my god, licking down your neck, biting your skin, his eyes are so wide, his hair is messy from where you grabbed it, and you hadn’t been interrupted he would’ve climbed on top of you, pressing you into the couch, tugging your jeans down your thighs and -

Maybe he would’ve done what you’re doing now, sliding his digits into your heat, fingers longer than yours, hitting every spot that you need him to. Or maybe he would’ve slid down your body, lifting your shirt to suck a deep purple mark into your chest, before burying his face in your cunt -

A very loud moan falls from your lips as you push a finger inside of yourself, curling them immediately to hit the spot inside of you that makes your tummy flip.

But maybe - just maybe - Harry wouldn’t have bothered with that. Would’ve watched, breathing so heavy as you unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his nice dress pants to wrap your hand around his cock, throwing his head back and moaning as you swiped your thumb over the tip of him.

You’re so close so fast you can practically taste the orgasm creeping up on you, your hips bucking up to meet where your fingers are feverishly rubbing circles on your clit.

And he would’ve slid into you, and he’s so big that he’s stretching you out more than any of your fingers or the guy you’ve been with, and he’d grab your chin and force your head up and kiss you so fucking hard, his hips flush against yours -

With a strangled cry, you curl your fingers once more and then you’re cumming, release coating your fingers as your hips roll into your hand. All you can think about is him and what could have happened, and the fact that you may have ruined the start of something magnificent, but God if the orgasm wasn’t good.

You pull your hand out of your panties, wiping your dripping fingers on the denim of your jeans. For a moment, you merely stare back up at the ceiling, focusing on steadying your breathing, and then you stand up, kicking your jeans off your legs and tossing them onto your dresser. You have a pair of plaid pajama pants crumbled in a pile at the bottom of your bed from the morning, and you pull them over your legs with a sigh. Perhaps it’s not the height of cleanliness, but they’re soft and comfortable, and you lie back down on your bed once they’re on.

After nearly an hour, you still haven’t done anything but sit and do nothing, occasionally flicking through your phone. You wish you could fall asleep but your brain is working far too fast to even think about resting, and -

The sound of your phone getting a notification startles you, and you groan, grabbing your phone to look at whoever disturbed your panic.

Harry S.: I’m behind your building. I have your jacket.

He’s here? Jesus Christ, you just came over him and damn near cried over him and now you have to see him.

Perfect.

Your heart skips a beat, and you jump up without a second thought. You look an absolute fool, stuffing your feet into the first pair of shoes you can find - a pair of slip on Vans that are so dirty they can barely constitute as white - before you’re running out the door, your phone tucked in the waistband of your pants, heading down the hall and out the back entrance where Harry’s black car sits, waiting.

You walk up to his car, pathetically out of breath, and lower your head so you can see him through the window as he rolls it down.

“Hi.” Your tone is quiet, and you clear your throat. “Um, I’m sorry about running off like that. I just got overwhelmed and that girl showing up made me - um - nervous.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, though he’s very pointedly not making eye contact. “M’sorry if I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, or -”

“No, I kissed you first -”

“But I’m your professor.” He says the word with an odd inflection, nearly pained. “I shouldn’t have let it escalate. I’m sorry.”

You dig the toe of your shoe into the road, looking down at the passenger seat where your jacket sits, waiting. The tension is palpable and you swallow thickly, then grab the car handle, forcing the door open so you can grab your jacket. You wrap the fabric around your shoulders - the seat heaters made it warm and you could nearly cry at the way it embraces you.

Harry watches you - you can see him from the corner of your eye - and then he looks down at your body, your shirt and your pajama pants with no pockets, and asks, “D’you have your key to go back in your dorm? S’just, you don’t have any pockets … I can’t see it.”

Shit. No, you don’t. You hadn’t thought about that when you were running out to see him. Perhaps he can decide the answer from the way your face drops, because he exhales with a small smile, barely perceptible, and nods his head. “Get in.”

You grab the door handle again, pulling the door open and climbing inside. The seat is toasty and warm and the car is toasty and warm and altogether you feel like both of those adjectives combined. The radio plays softly - or maybe it’s his phone, hooked up to the aux cord, because Maybe I’m Amazed by Paul McCartney is a song you recognize reading on the playlist he’d made. You slam the door shut and wrap your arms around yourself, holding your jacket closer to your body, before turning your head to glance at him. He still hasn’t started driving, merely gazing at you, and you feel your skin heat under his eyes. “Where are we going, professor?” It’s a stupid question, because you aren’t going anywhere yet, and he doesn’t look like he plans to start driving anytime soon.

“I’ll take you back to my apartment.” HIs eyes haven’t left yours, and your stomach turns. “How does that sound?”

You exhale softly. “Sounds perfect,” and then you’re leaning in, pressing your cold palms to the side of his cheeks and bringing his face into yours.

Your lips meet and it’s more desperate than it was in his office - teeth clashing and your tongues brushing against each other, as if he’s trying to devour you. His hand rests atop of yours, dwarfing you pathetically, before dragging his fingertips down your arm and up to your shoulder, fingers dipping beneath the sleeve of your shirt.

Where you’re cold from the air outside, Harry is so warm and toasty, his breath hot against your face when you pull away briefly. He presses his forehead to yours and then leans up, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose and smirking at the whimper you let out.

“Wait,” he tells you, voice low and quiet, and you nod slowly. “When we get to my apartment - but not now.”

You nod feverishly and sit back in your seat obediently, desperate for him to finally start driving. His hand rests on top of the center console and you stare at it for a moment - you can do it, do what you’ve wanted to do every single time he’s driven you home - and you place your palm overtop of his. He turns it over so your palms are pressed together, fingers intertwining, and you’re sure he can hear your heartbeat with how loudly it’s beating in your chest.

The line that you’ve crossed is so far behind you that it’s a mere dot in the distance.

The car ride to his apartment is short - only 2 full songs play during it, and you recognize My Girl and I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight from the playlist. Truth be told, it feels as though you’d been in the car for hours and hours, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of your hand. You want nothing more than to crawl across the center console and straddle him, kiss him until you’re both breathless and go as far as you’d fantasized about but you have to wait.

Harry’s unlocking the door of his apartment entirely too slow for your liking. It’s as though he’s trying to tease you, make you antsy, when all you want is for him to press you against the wall and kiss you silly.

He lives in a large brick apartment building - one of the newer ones, you know - in an apartment on the third floor. You’ve passed his building so many times driving through town and you never even knew it - didn’t know the man who lived there was someone you’d be so desperate for.

“Come on,” he whispers, though there’s no real reason for the two of you to be quiet - perhaps it just fits the mood. Harry’s hand wraps around your wrist as he tugs you into the now-open door of his apartment, flicking on the light switch residing beside the door.

As light floods the apartment you’re somehow both surprised and also not at all. It’s surprisingly tidy, resembling more of his car than his office, and - to your relief - it’s quite obvious he’s the only one who lives here. You slip out of your Vans and take a moment to look around. A cat sits on top of the couch (her name is Marie, named after Aristocats, you learned from class) and you can’t stop yourself from gravitating towards her, using two fingers to stroke down her back as you peek around the apartment.

Yes, it is quite clean, and surprisingly colorful - there’s a striped rug and red couches and your eyes fly a bookshelf filled with picture frames against the wall. One is him with four other guys, arms wrapped around each other - one of him and Marie - one of him, significantly younger, hugging a girl who looks extremely similar to him.

“Is this your sister?” you ask, unaware of where he is in the apartment but trusting he hasn’t strayed too far from you.

“Yeah,” he responds, and you jump slightly. Harry stands just behind you, and when you turn to face him he’s fighting back a grin. “So nosy, aren’t you?”

You raise your arms to wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to yours as his hands gravitate down towards your lower back where your shirt rises just a couple inches from your pants, exposing a strip of skin, and his touch sends a shiver down your spine. “I guess I am nosy. Can’t help it.”

Harry leans down, then, pressing a kiss to your forehead and down the bridge of your nose before landing on your lips - you whine into his mouth, pushing yourself onto your toes to try and deepen it, swiping your tongue into his mouth. It’s so different than before - heavier, deeper, and you can’t get enough of it.

“Please,” you whimper against his lips as his hands creep farther down your back, landing on the globes of your ass through your soft pajama pants. “I need you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You can hear a sense of cockiness working its way into his voice and you groan softly as he pulls away from you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

You need everything. You need everything he can possibly give you and more - you need wish fulfillment of everything you’ve dreamt of since the start of the semester and that includes every single goddamn appendage on his body put to use somehow.

But you can’t possibly begin to tell him that, not yet. His fingers are already trailing down to the waistband of your pants, tugging at the tie that holds them up when you breathe, “Your mouth. Please, I need - I need your mouth.”

It’s not enough for him, you can tell, as he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your throat, sucking softly. “M’using my mouth.”

“H - Harry …”

“Where d’you want my mouth?”

You curse beneath your breath, and he pulls his head back to raise his eyebrows at the sound. You bury your hand in his hair, tugging lightly on his curls, before squeezing your eyes shut and muttering, “Want your mouth … down there.”

As much as you want it - and Godyouwantitsofuckingmuch - it makes it no less awkward to say it out loud.

“Down where, baby?” Harry asks, voice teasing and so fucking smug. “Down here?” His hand sprawls across your stomach, pressing down on your abdomen and you moan softly. “No … down here, s’that right?”

His hand slides down to your cunt, pressing his palm overtop of you through your pajama pants and you’re so wet you’re sure he can feel it even through two layers of fabric. Your throaty cry in response and the feverish nod of your head confirms what he’d been teasing you about, and Harry delivers one last soft kiss to your lips before dropping to his knees before you.

Fuck. You never thought you’d see Professor Harry Styles, the man of your dreams and the one person you considered to be entirely unattainable, kneeling in front of you with his nice dress pants on and a crisp button up shirt. He looks entirely normal, save for his messy hair and lust blown pupils, and you’re sure you look a bloody mess but his eyes still devour you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You drop your shaky hands down to the tie of your pants, undoing it at record speed, and he hooks his fingers in your waistband. Slowly - so slowly - Harry tugs them down and his eyes remain on you as though expecting you to stop him, but you can’t. Finally they pool by your feet and you lift your legs to kick them off, sending them flying near the couch where Marie resides.

Had you known this would be happening perhaps you would have opted for racier panties - your cotton thong isn’t terrible but it certainly isn’t doing you any favours, and you have so many lace ones at home that would have been perfect for the opportunity - but Harry still looks at you like you created the world. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh and then the other, leaning in to suck a dark purple hickey into your skin.

You suppose he has a thing for hickeys.

Your fingers twist in his curls, trying to direct his head up to where you truly need him, and he chuckles softly - the soft exhalation of air makes you whine as it hits your cunt, even through your panties. A soft kiss is what he lands on your clothed clit, and your hips buck up into his mouth. You’d forgotten, perhaps, that you’d had an orgasm less than an hour prior but you’re very swiftly reminded, and he looks up at you with a smirk.

“So reactive,” he murmurs, wrapping his lips around your clit through your underwear and sucking softly. “Just the way I like.”

A shaky breath escapes your mouth as you toss your head back, legs shaking and you can’t expect them to hold you up much longer. One of his hands moves to the back of your thigh, kneading your skin softly, and the other dips into the hem of your panties and slowly tugs them down. You’re so wet that the fabric is desperate to stick to your dripping cunt but he manages to roll them down your legs, face to face with your pussy and -

Heat floods through your body and up to your face as you look down and make eye contact with Harry. Now that he’s down there, gazing at your bare pussy, you feel oddly compelled to protect whatever modesty you have left and shut your legs but then he grabs one of your legs and throws it over his shoulder, pushing you back just a bit until your back smacks into the wall, and leans in.

The first stripe he licks up your core sends a choked cry from the back of your throat and then a long whine as Harry focuses his attention on your clit. His tongue flicks the swollen bud, still rubbing circles into the back of your thigh. Your heel digs into his back as he moves one hand up to your cunt, running his finger through your soaked folds before pushing it inside of you.

He curls his finger, mimicking a come hither motion until he brushes against the spot that makes your hips jerk against his face. Harry’s lips wrap around your clit and when your eyes roll back into your head, he takes his hand off your thigh and snaps his fingers.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled against your cunt, and the vibrations roll through your body like an earthquake. “I wanna watch you fall apart. Look at me.”

Slowly you lower your eyes back down to him, meeting his gaze as he pulls his mouth away briefly - smacks his lips - and pushes a second finger into your dripping heat. As he thrusts them in and out, hitting that sweet spot in your velvet walls, you can feel your orgasm building in the pit of your tummy embarrassingly fast, but you want to hold out for him. Want to prolong this as long as you can.

Harry’s teeth brush against your clit and you cry out, barely hearing the way he groans, “So fucking reactive for me, yeah?” but you can hear it and it only makes you moan louder. His tongue draws patterns over your clit and he’s so determined to maintain eye contact but you can tell it’s a struggle for both of you.

He pulls his fingers out of you, licking a thin stripe up one of them as if he can’t get enough of your taste before reaching his arm up so his fingers rest on your bottom lip. Obediently you open your mouth, accepting his digits and swirling your tongue around them, tasting yourself on his skin, as he leans back, glancing up at you with heat blazing in his eyes.

“You’re close,” he tells you, his voice deep and throaty. “Can feel it - feel how you’re clenching around my fingers, baby. D’you wanna cum? Tell me how fucking bad you want it.”

Harry pulls his fingers from your mouth and presses them to your clit, rubbing a slow circle as you struggle to find your voice before gasping, “Fuck - need to cum so fucking bad Harry - Harry, oh my god -”

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

“Yes! Oh my god, H - Harry -”

“Cum for me, baby.”

He leans in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking and that’s all you need to topple over the edge, the orgasm that had been building in the pit of your tummy finally exploding. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud that’s hardly audible over your loud shrieks and moans, your leg finally giving out and you damn near slide to the ground before Harry hooks an arm around your thigh to keep you upright.

His tongue flicks at your clit gently, riding you through your orgasm, and when you’re coming down from your high it’s all you can focus on. There’s a high pitched ringing in your ears and you don’t think you’ve ever - ever - cum that hard in your life. You’d only been with one guy before who didn’t even know women could orgasm and your fingers never gave you anything so earth shattering.

Your breathing comes out in desperate pants as Harry rises from his knees, moving both hands to your hips as your legs nearly collapse again. Your clit is throbbing and when you press your body to his, leaning up to kiss him so desperately, you can feel his boner, hard against your thigh.

“Holy shit, professor.” It’s all you can manage, pulling away to drop your head against his chest, using the moment to try and steady your breaths. “W - who knew you were so good at that.”

His fingers brush through the ends of your hair, a gesture so sweet and innocent that it could make you forget what just occurred. “A hidden talent, I guess,” he mutters, gripping your chin to kiss you again.

You drop your hands to his waist, gripping his nice button down shirt in your tight grasp, surely wrinkling the fabric as you roll your hips against his. Even through his pants his hard on feels fucking huge and you’ve only been with one guy before and suddenly you’re wondering if he’ll even fit inside of you.

But you’ll try. By god, you’ll try. And you press your head to the wall, looking up at him with lust dilated pupils. “Harry.”

“Tell me what you need, baby.” But he already knows, and you can tell he needs the same thing.

You swallow, bucking your hips forward against his boner, and he groans. “I want you to fuck me. Please. I - I need you to fuck me, professor.”

The word makes him moan aloud, and within barely a second he’s grabbing your wrist, tugging you away from the wall and across the apartment until he’s swinging open a door and pulling you inside.

Something about being in his bedroom is entirely different than being in his living room, the carpet beneath your bare feet plush and soft. There’s a large television in front of his bed and the bed is made beautifully, a flannel blanket tossed over the end, and you can’t fucking wait to mess it up.

Harry spins you around to face him, attaching your lips once more as he shuts the door. You whimper into his mouth as his hand drops down to your bare bum, squeezing the flesh in his large palm. “Sorry,” you murmur, voice high pitched and breathy, “was nosing again -”

He groans as you drop your hand to the front of his fancy dress pants, trying desperately to undo the button with one shaking hand. It’s a struggle and finally he chuckles breathlessly, dropping both hands down to help you with the task, and finally you reach your hand into his trousers and press your palm against his cock, hot and heavy even through his boxers.

“Bed,” he grunts, backing you up until the back of your knees hit a hard edge and you fall backwards onto his plush duvet. He stands above you, breathing heavily, and for a moment you stare at each other, as though processing that this is happening - and the moment picks up again. Harry reaches down and tugs at the bottom hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off your body and sending it into the corner of the room. Your bra is lace, at least, and decidedly prettier than your panties, and for a moment he stares down at your chest with a look of pure lust adorning his face.

“You look a bit flushed, professor,” you tell him, voice faux innocent and sounding entirely more confident than you feel. “Are you feeling okay?”

Harry chuckles through gritted teeth, and you push yourself onto your elbows so you can work at the buttons of his shirt as he tugs his pants down his legs. “I’ve never been better, in fact.” His boxers are flannel and you can see the bulge in his boxers, and it’s even bigger than what you’d expected.

Your work at undoing his buttons slows down as your mind suddenly flips into overdrive - you must wear the worry that suddenly overtakes you because Harry leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“When’s the last time you’ve done this?” he questions, voice soft and spun sugar sweet.

“Um -” you try and think. The last time you’d done this you’d lost your virginity and that was - “A year ago. Maybe longer.”

Harry nods, nudging your nose with his and giving you one final kiss before rising back up. His hands replace yours as he works on unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to go slow, baby. I promise.”

In every fantasy you’ve had about him, he’s not slow - he’s fast, pounding you so hard the bed is nearly louder than the noises you make - but now that you’re here with him? Maybe you need slow.

You nod, and he smiles down at you. He presses his hands onto the mattress and then snakes them beneath you, fingers working at the clasp of your bra, and you lift yourself up slightly so he can undo it and slide your last piece of clothing off of you. He sends it into another part of the room and you can’t be bothered to focus on it because - Christ! - all of a sudden Harry lowers his mouth to your breast, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples and sucking.

“Fuck!” you gasp, fingers working themselves into his curls. Your fingernails scratch at his scalp and he moans lowly against your skin. Harry lifts his head off of you, pinching one of your nipples so you cry out.

He lifts one leg to rest on the bed and then grips your hips, pulling you closer to the edge. Your legs instinctively spread and he watches you, breathing heavily. “Baby,” he mutters, hands slipping his boxers down his thighs. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Heat burns your cheeks and you shut your eyes.

“Look at me,” Harry tells you, and it’s all you can do to obey. “Want you looking at me while I fuck you. Can you do that?”

You nod, swallowing as he grips one of your calves and hikes it onto the bed, exposing your sensitive, dripping cunt to him. You look down your body, where he’s grasping his achingly fucking hard cock in his hand, and then he drags the tip down your slit with a low hiss.

“Are you ready, baby?” he asks, voice soft and strained, as if he’s holding back and you know he is. But he needs this to be a good experience for you so it can be good for him and that’s what you appreciate.

“Y - yeah.” you push yourself onto your elbows and your eyes meet, maintaining perfect eye contact as he pushes himself inside of you. He’s going achingly slow and -

The stretch aches and you drop your head onto the mattress with a groan, Harry’s hand immediately finding your hand where you’re grasping the duvet feverishly. He bottoms out, fully sheathed in your warm cunt, a low groan piercing the air at the feeling of your walls, tight around him. It hurts - not as much as you’d expected, and the pain that quite literally fills you overtakes the burn.

You squeeze his hand, feeling his other run up and down the inside of your thigh as you adjust to him. “Oh - my god - wait - just - just one second wait one second -”

“Of course,” he breathes, and his voice is shaky with an emotion you can’t quite decipher. “T - take your time, babygirl.”

After a few seconds you push your head up to look at him, nodding slightly. “Okay. I need more, p - professor.”

You can tell he likes when you call him that and in some weird way you love it too - love knowing that the professor everyone lusts for is fucking you, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in, squeezing your hand when you cry out at the feeling. Maybe you’re not the first student to experience him like this but based on his demeanor you think you are - there’s something about him in this moment that feels like a secret you’ve discovered.

“Oh - fuck -” Harry grunts as he moves his hand from your thigh to your hip, pressing your body down with just enough force to limit your movements. It’s paining him, going so slow, you can tell - and you’re already starting to need more from him. You need him to go faster, and with a breathy moan you tell him.

Slowly his pace picks up, his grip on your hip tightening until you’re sure there’ll be fingerprint shaped bruises on your skin by tomorrow morning. With every thrust he fills you up so completely that every perfect spot inside of you is hit just right, and you never knew it could feel this good.

Every noise of his that tears through the bedroom spurs you on, pushing your hips into his to deepen every thrust. And every time you whine or whimper or cry or anything Harry delivers a harder thrust, fucking you so deep that you can feel it in the pit of your tummy.

“God, p - professor,” you moan, the word falling entirely too naturally off your lips even in your heightened state. Harry throws his head back with a high pitched whine, speeding up his pace until the loudest noise in the room is skin hitting skin. “Holy shit - fuck - I’m gonna - gonna -”

“Gonna cum around my cock, baby?” He hisses, pressing the hand that had once resided on your hip into the mattress, gripping the covers tighter so he can rail his hips into yours desperately. “So fucking tight around me, can’t even fucking stand it -”

Your hand, shaking beyond belief, slides down to rub hard circles into your clit. The sensations on your clit and his cock, rutting against your G spot with every thrust, sends you over the edge again - already so overstimulated from the rather intense orgasm you’d had before - and with a loud cry-bordering-on-scream you’re cumming again.

“Fuck!” you moan, hips bucking up against his as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Fuck, Harry, oh my god -”

He’s not far behind you, hips stuttering ever so slightly but he wants to bring you to one more orgasm, securing this day as the best fuck of your (admittedly limited) sex life and he can’t cum yet. Your hand falls back onto the mattress and Harry pulls his clammy hand from yours, bringing it down to replace your fingers on your clit, and immediately you clench around his cock, begging incoherently for something - you’re not sure what - as he presses down on your clit hard.

Your eyes roll back into your head as his cock twitches inside of you, and grunts and moans are flying from Harry’s mouth faster than he can control it. Your walls flutter around his dick, his thrusts slowing to lazy pumps in and out. He’s so fucking close, he just needs one more push and then -

Your fingers wrap around his wrist and he looks down at you, your eyes nearly black with desire, tears streaking down your cheeks. “C - cum in me, professor.”

It’s the final straw for Harry, and with a nearly animalistic cry he sheathes himself fully inside of you and cums so hard so fast, it’s nearly violent, and the feeling of warmth that explodes in your cunt sends you into your fourth orgasm of the night -

It’s less intense than the others but still entirely too prominent and when you’ve finally rode out the last wave you collapse against the bed, your head spinning and your legs aching as Harry presses it back down from where it had been perched up.

Harry collapses on top of you, his body suffocating and hot and sweaty and you wrap your arms around him, your desperate attempts at steadying your breathing filling the room. You’ve never cum so hard and so much and you’re fucking exhausted, truthfully.

He lifts his head, gazing down at you as you run your fingers through his tangled, sweat soaked curls. “How was that?”

You exhale with a smile upturning your lips, beginning to feel his cum dripping out of your pussy and down your thighs. “Jesus Christ,” you murmur, and a grin breaks onto his face as he drops his forehead against your shoulder.

The two of you lie in silence for a moment - no words need to be spoken. Harry shifts the pair of you further up the bed, your head crashing onto one of his pillows as he remains, firmly on top of you, like he never wants to leave.

But you can’t stop yourself from asking the question burning through your mind, and you swallow thickly before mumbling, “Harry -”

He hums softly.

“Is this like - a one time thing?”

His head lifts again, chin pressed to your shoulder blade, eyebrows furrowed. Harry takes a moment to respond, though, lifting his hand to trace a line across your jawline to your lips, and you press a soft kiss to the tips of his fingers when he arrives at his destination. “I don’t think so,” he tells you, and his voice is quiet and vulnerable, as if waiting for you to deny him. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

You smile softly, leaning in to press a kiss against his soft lips. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“‘Course, baby.”

The name makes your tummy flutter, and you think you could listen to him call you baby for the rest of your life. “I’ve dreamt of this,” you tell him, lips merely a centimeter from his. “Since the beginning of the semester, every night.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at you, and you giggle at his expression. “Glad to know I’m not the only one.”

You shut your eyes, then. Rest your head on his pillow, feeling warm with the man you adore pressed on top of you, his arms firmly and protectively wrapped around you. Nothing has ever felt more right to you, and you drift off to sleep with a soft smile still gracing your lips.

#harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #yall i am rlly proud of this but yes im sorry it took so long to come out #i had so much fun writing it and im so happy w it #please leave feedback!!! id appreciate it so much

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pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

Note

(For next time you’re looking for prompts) I really like your writing, and when I thought of this I wondered what you’d do with it: Geralt and Jaskier are together, but agree to pretend not to be for their next stop. Maybe one of them wants to win an old bet, or Jaskier’s not 100% sure his betrothal to a local noble has been officially dissolved, whatever, (not homophobia), fluff and high jinx ensue. Anyway I hope something unexpectedly nice happens to you today.

Hi Dahliavandare! Thanks for the blessing in my inbox 🥰

This ran away from me, tons of backstory about Jaskier’s family. Just, way too much.

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“Geralt, darling,” Jaskier said hesitantly. “I have an errand we need to run, and I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

Geralt hummed noncommittally. They were resting at their camp outside of Hagge and the warm summer air and the feeling of Jaskier curled against him had lulled him into a warm, fuzzy stupor.

“You see,” Jaskier continued, fiddling with the buttons at his cuffs. “I’m a noble, and you know that of course.” He laughed awkwardly. “And I’ve been lucky enough to pawn most of those responsibilities off onto my much savvier sister, but there are certain niceties that landed families observe that--”

“Spit it out,” Geralt grumbled, although not bad naturedly.

“I’m betrothed,” Jaskier said. “And we need to go to Gwendeith to break it off.”

Geralt turned to look at his beloved. “You’re engaged?”

“Betrothed!” Jaskier yelped, then saw Geralt’s expression. “Oh, dear heart, there’s a slight difference in meaning, especially to nobles. Engaged implies an intent to marry--”

“And betrothed doesn’t?”

“Well, sort of, but I’ve been betrothed practically since I was born, engaged would imply I’m sort of planning the wedding. It’s a contract, a social contract. My family and my betrothed’s are pretty minor nobles, so really it’s just a way of saying ‘maybe someday our kids could marry’. It isn’t the hard and fast marriage it might be if I were, say, a prince.”

“Then why do it?” Geralt asked. Most of the time he was happy to understand as little of the lives of the gentry as possible, but Jaskier was important.

“Honestly,” Jaskier sighed. “I think Papa arranged it because he cared for me, Mama too.”

“It takes away your choice,” Geralt began.

“It doesn’t. A betrothal like mine and... Iliana, that’s her name, only met her twice, it’s sort of social insurance. Especially for her, but for me as well. Nobles are supposed to marry, so, if at some point neither of us had found love we could marry one another. For Iliana there’s the security of having a husband, although from what I’ve heard she can handle herself fine, and for me its assurance of heirs if that sort of thing concerned me, and companionship for us both.”

It sounded...mostly sort of logical to Geralt.

“But I love you,” Jaskier said. “And I don’t want to be betrothed to anyone because I love you and, someday, whenever you get over you allergy to the concept of commitment, I’m going to put a ring on you.”

Geralt hummed gruffly but said nothing. There was a slim golden band hidden away in his bags and he be damned if Jaskier got to propose first.

“I will. Anyway, I need to tell Iliana. I’m sure she won’t mind. I met her once when I was seven and again when I was nineteen.”

“Nineteen, when?” Geralt asked. Most of Jaskier’s nineteenth year had been spent at Geralt’s side. Most of every year after that too.

“Just before I met you. I had travelled east to meet her originally, and was going back west when we met.”

“Tell me about her?”

“Illiana? Oh, well, she told me that she was fine leaving the betrothal in place because it’s standard, but that she doesn’t care for men in that way so she’d never give me heirs and would have my balls nailed above her door if I ever told her she had to.”

“Sounds like she’d get along with Yen.”

“I fear they’d take over the world,” Jaskier said. “Anyway, I told her no worries since, honestly, heirs just aren’t important to me. Then we agreed that when either of us found love we’d break the betrothal and that would be that.”

“Hmmm.”

“No, Geralt, tell me what that means. Is that a ‘okay, let’s go to Gwendeith’ hum? A ‘I’m angry that you’re betrothed’ hum?”

Geralt shifted to poke the fire. “It’s a ‘I think there’s more you need to tell me’ hum.”

“Ah,” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s the thing. We have to go in person because a letter would be rude, but also...we have to pretend not to be together, while we’re in Gwedeith.”

“Why?”

“It’s politics, dear heart. It would be shaming to Iliana, socially. Personally, I don’t think she’d care, but it’s a courtesy thing.”

“I don’t do a lot of lovey stuff anyway,” Geralt said.

“You think you don’t,” Jaskier said. He began to unroll their bedroll.

“What do you mean, Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned to him, smiling indulgently and gilded in the firelight. “Our lives have molded around one another, my love. When I stand beside you your hand goes to my back or my shoulder. You order dinner for me because you know just what food I like. When I’m tired you don’t have to ask what’s wrong, you just lift me onto Roach behind you.”

Geralt hadn’t even realized he did, but he knew it was true. Jaskier leaned over and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s slightly furrowed brow.

“When my boots are wearing thin you buy me new ones before I even notice. When I’m cold you give me your cloak. If I fall asleep with my head on your shoulder you’d rather sit like that all night than disturb me.”

Geralt shrugged awkwardly. “You buy me beeswax,” he said. It seemed a fair retort. Jaskier bought him beeswax to put in his ears when cities or sometimes monsters were too loud for Geralt’s senses. “You only buy light scents, even though I know you like bolder perfumes.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, taking one of Geralt’s large, scarred hands. “We love eachother very much, and it’s obvious to people who care to look.”

“That could be dangerous,” Geralt began, his head spiralling towards worry for Jaskier’s safety, but Jaskier cut him off.

“No, dear heart. It’s obvious to those who care to look. The sort of people who would hurt me for loving you, well, most of them think you can’t love, so they don’t look for love, and they don’t see.”

Geralt sat back. People saw what they expected to see, it was true.

“We’ll travel to Gwendeith,” he said. “And unbetroth you.”

Jaskier kissed him and his lips tasted like the jerky they’d eaten for supper.

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

The trip to Gwendeith was long. It was at the very edge of any map, past Posada to the east, tucked into the Blue mountains. They traveled along the Dyfne river, taking the occasional contract but making good time. This far from anything, there were few people to be troubled by monsters.

They stopped in Posada one night, eating dinner in the corner of a familiar tavern. This time, however, Jaskier was much better received and the bread ended up on the table rather than down his trousers.

Past Posada, and almost to the end of the Dyfne river, Geralt asked, “Why did your parents pick Iliana? How did they know of her?” Lettenhove was entirely the other side of the continent, a tiny island off the coast of Poviss with two villages and a couple flocks of sheep.

Geralt only knew of it from Jaskier’s descriptions, which were mostly stories of the ice cold sea and rocky cliffs. He tended toward calling it ‘idyllic’ and ‘picturesque’ altough occassionally ‘the arse end of the world’ and ‘colder than an ice giant’s ballsack.’ The first time Geralt had taken Jaskier to Kaer Morhen he’d feared for his bard’s safety in the cold of the mountains, but Jaskier hadn’t even blinked an eye, merely bundling up in a hugely wooly cloak and mittens.

“Ah, well,” Jaskier said. “Long story, but Papa was in Temeria, see, since nothing ever happens in Lettenhove, because we have more people than sheep, he get’s sent on diplomatic missions a lot. He’s good at it, and he can be spared. He loves it too, even though he’s sort of retired he still does them. Takes Ma, calls the trips his little “sunshine vacations”.

“You get your personality from your father, then?” Geralt asked. Jaskier didn’t talk about his family much, and Geralt got the sense that, rather than this being because they were horrible, Jaskier simply missed them too much.

“Definitely. Ma’s lovely, and brilliant with just everything to do with her hands, but she’s not good with people. I got her looks, though.”

“I should thank her, then,” Geralt said, smiling.

Jaskier chuckled. “Yes, she’s the reason for the long lives, too, fantastic story.”

“Finish the one about your father and Gwendeith first.”

“Right, so Papa was in Temeria, and so was Iliana’s father, sort of the mayor of Gwendeith, as I understand, although not back then. He’d gotten robbed, though, and Papa had won a horse and quite a lot of gold in a card game. It might have been Gwent, I can’t remember. If you ever meet Papa you should ask him. Anyway, he gave the extra horse and gold to Iliana’s father.”

“So your betrothal was a debt?”

“Goodness, no. This was years before I was born, Papa hadn’t even met Ma yet. No, they struck up a friendship, because when Iliana’s father got home he had a mage send a message to Papa to thank him and they struck up a friendship.”

“Sending messages by mage? That’s expensive for a penpal.”

“Ah well, that actually ties in to the story about Ma. Ma’s got magic, just a little, she’s a hedge witch of a sort. The issue is, hedge witches mostly use plants, and Ma couldn’t grow grass, so she mostly works with wood. Anyway, she has a friend, her very best friend, is a mage. They grew up together, and my Auntie Szarlotta sent my Papa’s first few messages back to Iliana’s father.”

Geralt smiled atop Roach. Jaskier’s storytelling pace was as familiar as Roach’s saddle, and it was calming in a way.

“So, Auntie was sending Papa’s message when Ma came in to visit. That’s how she met Papa, because she’d only just moved to Lettenhove. Auntie says it was love at first sight, but Papa insists that Ma turned up her nose and ignored him for months.”

“Which one is it?”

“Knowing Ma, probably both. She’s a little like you, so the second she realized she liked Papa she ignored him so she wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

Geralt huffed good-naturedly.

“Anyway, Auntie Szarlotta agreed to send Papa’s messages for free, and she even included a way for Iliana’s father to send them back, so long as he wrote his response on the back of the same paper. She always timed it though, so that Ma was over when Papa was there. And I guess the rest is history.”

“Except the immortality.”

“Right, well, Ma got really sick when she was pregnant with my sister, I was little so I barely remember but Papa was so worried, and Ma looked really pale. Well, Auntie got really worried, freaked out a little, and she found all these old spells to try to make Ma well again. I remeber the light, she was working in a room of the old lighthouse and I could see the light of her spells from my window. Anyway, eventually she tries some on Ma, but they don’t work, and she just keeps trying.”

Geralt had an image of a frantic sorceress being watched by a young Jaskier through a crack in a door.

“But I suppose some of those old spells need a little time to work because nothing at all worked and then they all sort of worked at once. There was this big, bright light and then Ma was well, and she and Papa haven’t aged a day since then.”

Geralt glanced at his lover, who looked the same at fifty as he had at twenty. “And you don’t age? What about your sister?”

“Ksenia hasn’t aged either. She looks like Papa, just so you know, grey eyes, blonde hair. She’s got two kids, now, but I haven’t met them.”

“Do the kids age?”

“Right now they’re very young,” Jaskier said. “I didn’t stop aging until nineteen or twenty, so I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

“How do you know she has kids?”

“Oh, well, Auntie Szarlotta sends letters to me, but we travel and it’s hard to send them right to me, so I just pick them up at Oxenfurt.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. He needed to go to Lettenhove. Jaskier had met his sort-of-family, he should meet Jaskier’s.

“I’d love to go see them...” Jaskier said, wistfully.

“Who?”

“My niece and nephew, they’re almost two and three years old now.”

Geralt picked Jaskier up by the collar of his doublet and placed him onto the back of Roach.

“We’ll spend the winter in Lettenhove this year,” he said as Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist.

“Really?”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt needed to ask Jaskier’s father for his hand in marriage, anyway.

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

They made it to Gwendeith just after mid summer, riding into the little town at noon. Despite the season, the little mountain valley was shaded and cool. Jaskier shivered slightly and Geralt had to resist the urge to pull his cloak from his pack. From that point forth, they weren’t supposed to be in love.

Fuck.

They had to request a meeting with the mayor, which didn’t surprise Geralt. In a town such as this, logging and mining were the main industries. Trading for food to last over the winter began early and was of the utmost importance. That left Geralt and Jaskier, unfortunately, sitting with a man who introduced himself as Sir Boris.

Apparently he was a retired knight who acted as a sort of captain of the guard, except there wasn’t much of a guard. His wife Lady Olenka joined them and the two of them talked about their grandchildren until Geralt could feel his eyes rolling back in his head.

At any other time, Jaskier would have placed one gentle hand on his wrist, which would have fortified Geralt, but they couldn’t.

“But you’re here for Iliana,” Sir Boris was saying. “Dreadfully sorry you can’t see her today, I’m afraid there’s been an issue with the lumber trade to sort out. You’ll just have to have my darling Lenka and I as company until that’s done.”

He sent a huge wink to his wife, a slim, elegant woman, who chuckled and playfully hit him on the shoulder, to which Sir Boris pretended to be wounded before throwing back his head and laughing hugely. Everything the old knight did was huge, he was a large man with a round, red face and large belly and a laugh that could shake walls.

“It’s no trouble,” Jaskier said. “I’m sure preparing for winter is a year round project here.”

“Oh of course,” Lady Olenka said. “But once it’s here we can all relax, and spend time with family.” She leaned forward as if imparting a delightful secret and said in a stage-whisper, “Boris has been our town’s Father Winter for the last four years.”

Jaskier made impressed ‘ooh’ noises and Geralt tried to at least look like he understood that.

Boris laughed again. “It’s this lot,” he said, slapping his round stomach. “Better than some old geezer with a pillow down his shirt, eh?”

Geralt hummed in agreement.

“And you must make a lovely Mother Winter, Lady Olenka,” Jaskier said politely.

She smiled, lines crinkling around her eyes as if drawing a road map. “It’s not as important as Father Winter, of course, but I rather pride myself that I plan a very good Midwinter festival.” Geralt got the sense that behind the modesty she was quite proud, and, he suspected, with good reason.

“But, you must tell me,” she said, modestly changing the subject. “Is there to be a missus Pankratz, now that you’ve come to see Lady Iliana?”

“I am a man in love,” Jaskier said. “And I am hopeful that an engagement will come soon, yes.”

“Oh dearie that’s just lovely,” Lady Olenka said, patting Jaskier’s cheek. “And you’re such a nice boy too, little young looking to be betrothed to our Lady Iliana anyway, although she’s a very dear woman.”

“We just love her,” Sir Boris said. “She’s a great mayor, not keen on marriage, but nobody minds, she just seems to have adopted the whole town as family.”

Lady Olenka patted her husband’s broad shoulder. “It was smart of you not to bring your love here, though. There’s some nobles here from Lyria, that’s who she’s been trading with, and I think they’d like any excuse to disparage here.” She lowered her voice again. “You know how those lot are about having women in charge.”

“I can’t relate,” Sir Boris laughed. “Lenka’s the ruler in our house.” That got a laugh because it had to, and because Sir Boris’s laugh was surprisingly infectious.

“Good on you bringing a bodyguard too,” he said once the laughter had abated. He slapped Geralt companionably on the back, which was like being hit by a friendly battering ram. “Witcher too, don’t get many up here, but I bet you’re the safest man in a hundred miles.”

“Oh, dear, don’t you know?” Lady Olenka said. “Lord Julian here is a bard as well, he goes by Jaskier and sings all about witchers.”

“Really?” Sir Boris said, looking at Jaskier. “Blimey, imagine that. Good on you, finding a niche in the market.”

Geralt’s ears were beginning to ache. Friendly though Sir Boris might be, he didn’t seem to have a volume level below ‘deafening’. He was tired and overwrought and he just wanted to cuddle up with Jaskier in a bed. It wasn’t even suppertime, though.

They sat through another hour of hearing about Boris and Olenka’s eighteen grandchildren.

“And three great-grandchildren,” Boris added proudly.

Geralt was thankful Jaskier could carry the conversation. He longed for a kiss, though. Now that he knew he couldn’t have one, his lips fairly ached for one.

Supper was a large affair, with one of Boris and Olenka’s children’s family over for dinner as well. Geralt was seated across from Jaskier between two small children who, apparently, needed to be separated at dinertimes to prevent bickering. They contented themselves instead by asking Geralt every question they could think of, often making him wrack his brain for child appropriate answers.

It wasn’t just witchering questions, either. He answered such questions as “Why is the sky blue?” (Because it’s Melitele’s favorite color). Immediately before answering “How big are dragon scales?” (The small ones are like pebbles and the big ones are like shields.)

Jaskier smiled at him over his bowl of stew, eyes sparkling. Geralt loved children, and Jaskier loved seeing them adore Geralt.

“So, Lord Julian,” Boris and Olenka’s daughter began. “Your lady love, tell us about her?” She smiled Lady Olenka’s warm smile and Jaskier did a good show of seeming bashful.

“My love is unlike any other,” he began. “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, I’m a poet, and so must wax poetic.”

“Wouldn’t settle for anything less, lad!” Boris bellowed cheefully.

“My darling has fair hair, like moonlight,” Jaskier said, and the table oohed appreciatively. Geralt felt his ears get hot.

“And eyes like summer,” the bard continued. “I could get lost in them. No eyes could compare.” Geralt kicked him under the table, but Olenka was sighing sympathetically.

“But of course,” Jaskier said slyly, my heart is best held by my love’s lips.”

Boris chuckled knowingly. “I’ll bet it is, my boy,” he said, winking. Olenka slapped his arm, but she was smiling. Geralt felt hot.

“I’m afraid, however that my lover is quite modest, and won’t appreciate me extolling too many virtues,” Jaskier finished. “So I must finish with, I love them very much, and it is for them alone that my heart beats.”

Therewith leaving every person at the table (those above the age of twelve, at least) with misty eyes, Jaskier helped Lady Olenka clean up supper. Geralt helped put the dishes away.

After dinner they were led back to the mayor’s house. “I’m afraid the negotiations don’t seem to be finished,” Lady Olenka said. “I had hoped they would be quick, but it seems not. If the issue wasn’t resolved today, I wouldn’t bet on them being resolved too early tomorrow, either. You two don’t have pressing business elsewhere?”

“No, my lady,” Jaskier said, although if they lingered too long they wouldn’t make it to Lettenhove for the winter, as it was, it would be close.

“I’m sure she’ll be able to see you soon,” the lady said. “Here’s your room, and Master Witcher, your room is just at the far end of the hall.”

She said goodnight and Geralt hoped she couldn’t see the slump of his shoulders.

Separate rooms.

Jaskier smiled ruefully at him and they parted for the night. Geralt’s bed was large and comfortable, with clean linens and feather pillows, but he barely got a wink of sleep.

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

The next morning found Jaskier and Geralt breakfasting in the tavern, owned, apparently, by another of Boris and Olenka’s grown children.

“Did you sleep well?” Jaskier whispered over a plate of sausage and eggs.

“Fine,” Geralt grunted.

“I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Jaskier said. “Want my last piece of bacon? I’m stuffed.”

Geralt took it gratefully, slipping Jaskier his fried slice as a trade. No matter how Jaskier protested that he was stuffed, he always had room for a fried slice.”

“Terrible woman,” said a nasal voice at the next table. “Just impossible to do business with.”

“I agree, overemotional, you know how they get,” agreed another voice. Jaskier made eye contact with Geralt. The accent was Lyrian.

“Not even married,” said the first speaker. “What a disgrace. If my daughter got to her age without children I’d just die of shame.”

Geralt pitied his daughter.

“Oh of course,” said the second man. “Attractive, though, for an old maid.”

The first man snickered cruelly. “Thinking a little wooing might soften her up?”

“It always does, women like that, they’re just angry because they haven’t found a man.”

“Won’t your wife mind?”

“Are you going to tell her?” Both men laughed unpleasantly.

A serving girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, came around the tables, presumably one of Sir Boris’ many granddaughters. She took their plates onto a tray and smiled when Jaskier slipped a few coins onto the tray as a tip.

At the next table one of the Lyrian’s snapped their fingers impatiently. The girl rolled her eyes. Geralt was pleased to see that, although she served him professionally, as she walked away she ‘accidentally’ tread on his foot.

“What pathetic pieces of shit, the pair of them,” Jaskier said as they stepped out into the sunlight.

“Hmmm,” Geralt agreed. Then he looked around quickly and pulled Jaskier into an alleyway, urging the bard deeper into the shadows.

“What? Geralt di-”

Geralt smushed his lips gracelessly to Jaskier’s, crowding him up against the wall. Jaskier’s hair between his fingers was so familiar and comforting, as was the little sigh Jaskier let out.

They pulled apart and Geralt rested his forehead against Jaskier’s. “That’ll tide me over for a while,” he whispered. Jaskier smiled.

“Are you master Julian?”

The pair sprang apart, looking in alarm at the red headed boy at the far end of the alley.

“Yes...?” Jaskier said.

“Only, Pa said to come find you, and he said you’d be with a big man dressed all in black.”

“And you found us here?” Jaskier asked.

“Didn’t know you’d be here, did I?” Said the boy, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s the shortcut through to the tavern, but then, I figured he’s the only big man in black around.”

Geralt inclined his head, feeling his ears go hot.

“Lady Iliana has time to see you now,” the boy continued, oblivious to the awkwardness.

“By all means...lead the way,” said Jaskier.

They were led out of the alley and back to the mayor’s house by the messenger boy.

“Out of curiosity,” Jaskier asked. “Is your grandad Sir Boris?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” said the lad. “He made me a toy sword for my tenth birthday too.” He pointed proudly to the wooden sword tied at his hip with some string.

“It makes you look a proper hero,” Jaskier said. Then he pulled out his coin purse. “A copper for bringing us the message and...another to not tell anyone what you saw.”

The boy looked between the two of them shrewdly.

“Not even my best friend? I tell Mikhail everything.”

“Not until Geralt and I have left.”

“Three coppers total,” the boy said promptly. Jaskier handed them over good naturedly and the boy flashed a gap toothed grin before taking off.

Geralt and Jaskier shrugged at each other, before finding their way to the main room of the mayor’s house. A broad shouldered woman of about fifty poked her head out of a door.

“Julian?”

Geralt and Jaskier went inside.

“You look well,” Iliana said, sitting behind a large desk and gesturing to a couple chairs. “You havent’ aged a day.”

“And you look as lovely as I remember,” Jaskier said.

“Flirt. Come to ask me for heirs?”

Jaskier shuddered. “No, my lady. I remember your threat well. I think you know why I’m here.”

The two Lyrians barged through the door.

“Did I ask you to enter?” Iliana said, coldly. Geralt felt an unusual curl of fear set up in his stomach, she was a distinctly fearsome woman.

“Well,” said the first Lyrian.

“You were so beautiful, I couldn’t wait on seeing you again,” said the second, slimily.

“Oh I say!,” Iliana said, standing. She placed her hand over her chest in a delicately offended way, which was ill suited to her. “You sir are too bold, and in front of my betrothed too!”

The Lyrians looked, panicked, at the people sat in the chairs. As Geralt was seated in the chair nearest the door, and therefore nearest them, they came to the wrong conclusion. The blood drained from both their faces.

“What an insult!” Iliana continued. “You should be ashamed! What a lack of diplomacy!”

Beside Geralt, Jaskier snickered. She was laying it on a little thick.

“Why,” she continued. “I ought to write to your king! I’ve never been so insulted. And I’m sure my beloved will want to sort out this insult too.” She fluttered her lashes at Geralt.

Geralt nearly jumped out of his seat, but thankfully his brain caught up. He stood, growling a little theatrically and placed one hand on the hilt of his steel sword.

“Our apologies my lady,” the first man said hurriedly.

“Our mistake, we’ll just--” they dissappeared out the door.

“What a fearsome couple,” Geralt heard whispered as the door swung shut.

Iliana sighed satisfactedly and kicked her feet up on her desk. “It seems I should thank you,” she said. “That is going to make negotiations much easier.”

“I’m sure you always get good deals,” Jaskier said.

“Yes. I get the deals I want.”

“You know why I’m here,” Jaskier said.

“Yes.”

“Do you agree?”

“To disolve the betrothal? Of course. Never found a lover for myself so I never bothered but, well, I just don’t do romance.”

“Some people don’t,” Geralt said, thinking of Eskel.”

“Indeed,” Iliana said, smiling warmly at him. “Not all of us have a soulmate to sing us songs.” She laughed at their surprised faces.

“Oh you fooled them, and you may have fooled Boris and Olenka, but I’ve heard your songs, Julian. It’s written right into everything you do.”

She began rummaging in one of the drawers in the desk. “I don’t mind, of course. So few people know we’re actually betrothed...there it is.” She pulled out an old piece of paper. “I’ll just rip it up if that’s fine by you. You’ll have to do the same to yours of course.”

“We’re going to Lettenhove this winter,” Jaskier said. “I’ll do it as soon as I find it.”

Iliana smiled again. “Father always did say that your dad had a horrible filing system.”

“He filed all his papers on the floor, yes, although I imagine my sister is neater.”

Iliana tore the paper in half without ceremony and placed the contract in the waste paper bin. “Lettenhove is very far away, Julian, will you get there in time?”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt.

“I don’t know,” Geralt said.

“No matter,” said Iliana. She began writing something on a new sheet of paper. “Our logging teams float lumber all down the Dyfne and Pontar rivers. Show this to the dockmaster at the tip of the Dyfne and our riverboat captains can get you to Novigrad.”

She pulled out another sheet of paper. “Once you’re in Novigrad, show this to the harbormaster and he’ll get you to Lettenhove.” She looked at their shocked faces and smiled. “Our lumber is the best, and it’s used in everything, including ships. I’m willing to cash in a favor in order to get rid of a useless betrothal.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Jaskier said bowing deeply. “I’ll have my Aunt Szarlotta send a message once our betrothal is fully extant.”

Iliana stood and shook his hand. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Our fathers were penpals,” Jaskier said. “Perhaps we should keep up the tradition?”

The mayor inclined her head. “I’d like that. I may be too busy to write often.”

Jaskier waved a hand. “I can only pick up messages when I pass through Oxenfurt, but I like to make friends with powerful people.”

The two of them shared a smile.

“Not to rush you out my door,” Iliana said. “But I do have a lot to do, winter comes early up here, and I know it does as well in Lettenhove. even with my help, you two should leave soon.”

Geralt and Jaskier left that afternoon, just after a hearty meal at the tavern.

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

Across the continent and some weeks later, Jaskier and Geralt stepped onto the docks in Novigrad.

“I don’t think Roach liked the river boats,” Jaskier said as Geralt led her off. Roach whinnied and shook her mane emphatically.

“Sorry, girl,” Geralt said. “You’ll have another long boat journey, and this time I doubt we’ll stop so you can run about on land.”

“Nah,” Jaskier said, as they walked toward a tavern for supper. “Boats from Novigrad to Lettenhove stop around the coast on the way, she’ll get plenty of exercise. It’s something to do with the currents.”

He petted Roach’s muzzle softly as they stabled her at the inn beside the tavern and Geralt felt his heart go out to his bard. Jaskier cared so much for Roach. Geralt thought again of the gold band in his pack.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

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

Slightly more than a month later, after a slow, coastal boat journey, and then another between Inis Porhoest and Lettenhove, Geralt, Jaskier, and their faithful horse, stepped off the final boat.

“Welcome home, Master Julian,” said a fisherman on the dock.

“Does everyone here know you?” Geralt asked.

“Pretty much, there’s only about three hundred people here.”

News spread fast among three hundred people and Jaskier and Geralt were greeted enthusiastically at the door to the very small castle. A blonde woman who could only be Ksenia, Jaskier’s sister, flung her arms around him, and withing a moment Geralt was being gathered into the hug by a slightly older looking couple.

“Julek,” said the blonde man, pulling back. “My boy, you’re home, and you brought this stunning man, wow, what a looker.”

“Papa, don’t be embarrassing,” Jaskier said. Geralt flushed clear to the roots of his hair. Apparently when Jaskier said he had his father’s personality he meant all of his father’s personality.

They had dinner as a family, including Jaskier’s niece and nephew, Cecylia and Prot. They had questions for Geralt, and he was grateful for the practice he’d had in Gwendeith. It was an enjoyable meal over all, and afterward Jaskier was distracted by his Aunt Szarlotta while Geralt slipped away to ask Mr. Pankratz a very important question.

The two of them returned to the main hall to see Jaskier pretending to be a dragon, while Cecylia and Prot bravely fought him with butterknives, but he straightened up when he saw the look on Geralt’s face.

Geralt took his hand and Jaskier squeezed it three times, it was their code, asking if Geralt needed to go somewhere that wasn’t so hard on his senses. Geralt smiled and shook his head, swallowing nervously around the lump in his throat.

He got down on one knee and pulled out the gold band. “I’m...I’m not good with words.” Geralt swallowed again, wishing he could borrow Jaskier’s eloquence for five minutes or so. “Marry me?”

The words were barely out from his mouth before Jaskier was tackling him to the ground, pressing kisses all over his face.

“Oh Geralt!” he said. “Wait--”

Jaskier looked up at his mother, who smiled and was handed a paper by his Aunt Szarlotta. Mrs. Pankratz ripped the betrothal contract in half.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, laughing. “I will marry you!”

Then they kissed on the chilly stone floor.

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

Dear Lady Iliana, Mayor of Gwendeith

The former contract has been voided.

Szarlotta of Lettenhove

P.S. Geralt and Jaskier are engaged and send their love.

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

Holy Cow. 5603 words. I...I don’t even know what to say. I hope you like it.

#the witcher #geraskier #reverse fake dating #fluff #geralt #jaskier #ask box answers

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baka-writings · 4 years ago

Text

𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

Warnings: A tiny (Subin) bit of nsfw

YAY MY 1ST VICTON REQUEST

Also I went kinda overboard with Hanse, cuz I'm a biased bitch 😅

𝐒𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐨

the sweetest bf ever, no kidding

honestly he'd do anything for you, anytime

like you wanna go on a date at midnight? you got it

he'd take care of you

lowkey forcing you eat your meals

and of course checking out if you eat your meals properly

he'd be the gentleman he is almost always whether he's tired or not

very affectionate

pda in front of other members? oh yEs

gives you random kisses 24/7

he'd be really quick to notice if there's something bothering you

he'd ask you about it and try his best to solve your problem

would listen to everything you're saying, nodding here and there

he's very serious when needed so if you were telling him something really serious/bad he'd be in the top 3 of the most understanding members in Victon

but he'd be also annoying like

challenging you in everything

he'd let you win tho, ngl

unless it was in bed😌

he's a strong man and fairly tall so no escaping

but even then he'd be such a gentleman

at first

later he wouldn't be that gentleman sorry not sorry

(later in the relationship/when you already did the deed etc)

he's a dom obviously

and very vocal if you ask me

i feel like he'd lOve to use his tongue anYwhere on you

would be rough most of the time but at the same time be careful not to hurt you

he'd love to pull your hair

and you better pull his too

also kinda kinky imo

he can go from 0 to 100 real quick, in bed as well

so you better watch out 😌

𝐒𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐢𝐤

the sweetest bf ever no 2

he'd sing for you anytime you wanted

he'd be so happy if you compliment his singing

cooks for you

wouldn't let you cook so you'd have to plead him

he'd like nicknames you'd give him unless they are dumb 😂

my personal favorite for him is angel, cuz he sings like one and looks like one

he'd same as Seungwoo take care of you

like a true mom

eye smiles 24/7

unlike Seungwoo, he wouldn't show that much pda in front of the members cuz they'd tease him for that too

but would always stay close to you whenever you all hangout

he'd sing you before sleep and would get flustered if you actually didn't fall asleep and only listened to his singing

he'd like to have you close to him

especially when you sleep

WHICH REMINDS ME

😈

he's not as kinky as Seungwoo

but i think his biggest turn on would be your face while he's slamming himself inside of you

i can also lowkey see him liking to be slightly choked, but not too much

which reminds me

switch

i don't see him that vocal honestly

but would like you being vocal

yes he likes to keep you close during these times too sO he'd probably go too deep just to be close don't @ me

when you are done i see him switching to his momma self again and clean ya'll up

unless you want another round 😌

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧

aka my side hoe

clown 1/3

he'd talk the shit outta you

annoying

but cute

too much pda in front of others

unless someone teases him about it

then he'd add even more

pda with some inappropriate touches, always a yes for him

he wouldn't even try to hide it tbh

pls touch his dimples

he'd crack jokes whenever you're sad, mad, stressed etc

so honestly there would be NO time for such negative emotions ✨

but he'd also tease you sometimes so you better prepare some comebacks

when you two are already dating he might get a bit possessive i feel like

but not the jealous possessive

more like he'd be lowkey worried you'd leave him or something

mention his brother and he'll gladly introduce you, but would be protective af

talking about his bro, if you want to tease him or want him to make love to you, just say his bro was your bias in madtown and he'll show you why he should be the only one you look at ;)

but he wouldn't really show it unless needed

great kisser

like have you seen those lips?

delicious

cuddles every day, anytime and anywhere

he looks cute and innocent, but we know he ain't

call him byunchan (pervert + Chan in korean)

we all know what I'm talking about 😉

you should probably watch what you're saying cuz he will make double meanings and pervert things from anything

unless you want that

in that case get ready for some fun

kinda kinky tbh

a switch

those hips 🥵

he'd be slightly on the rougher side tbh

if his hips do the same thing as when he's dancing then well rip you

bitting kink

would maybe like to choke you while he overstimulates you 💀

𝐒𝐞𝐣𝐮𝐧

clown 2/3

another annoying one

would talk the shit out of you as well

every date is eating somewhere

him eating your food

eating competitions between you two

PDA!! Like he'd even show you off

compliments won't work on him cuz he knows he's all that

you'd like to scare him sometimes even with the help of his members

he'd cry

he'd let you borrow his hoodies

"it looks better on me tho"

he'd be happy if you jammed to his songs and sang his parts

wouldn't let you touch his dimples or kiss them for fREE

which means he has to have something in it to let you touch 'em

probably a kiss or something

such a tease

and a brat

he's a switch, nothing else

praising kink (recieving)

he'd be very confident in himself during these times too

would like his hair to be pulled

i can also see him liking mirror sex??

i mean seeing him fucking you from behind in the mirror sounds kinda hot if you ask me 🥵

also he is kinky too, but keeps his kinks a bit lowkey.. at first

would high-key love being tamed like a brat he is

oh and also i see him being vOcal, same like Seungwoo

not that rough, but deep thrusts making you lose it pretty soon ;) aka ego boost

𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐞

my main hOe

clown 3/3

loud af

pda in front of members

always

but for him I feel like it'd also be some kind of flirting and inappropriate touches so someone, probably Sejun would "get a room" y'all

tattoos, pls touch them

or lick them-

honestly, biased or not he'd be one of the best bfs from this group

he seems like he could kill a bitch, but we know he's a soft boy

sometimes

he'd be all giggly around you during your 1st days/weeks of dating

but then..ooof

a real clownery tbh

he'd like to be taken care of, like cooking for him, checking up on him and so on

that would make him so so so happy and happy Hanse is what we want

always.

he'd love you two have matching accessories like earrings or chokers! (so he could choke you later)

everytime he smiles, you smile and then he smiles when you smile and-

okay but then he'd also be a pervert and sometimes you'd have to go 'eH?' when he talks shit to check if you heard correctly or not

you'll always hear correctly

ya'll would paint each other's nails

everytime he makes a new song, he'd ask you what do you think because your opinion is important to him

he'd be a lil happy puppy when you compliment his songs (either solos or group songs since he co-writes the lyrics)

I'd like to think he wouldn't wake you up anNoYinGly as he did to Seungsik, but- uhh he would

you might challenge him in freestyle, he'd let you win and compliment your skills even If you were nOt as good as him (i mean is that possible?)

but also would be highkey shook If you did very good, he'd even forget his lyrics so you'd win

then he'd whine

anyway...a switch (dom lean)

his usual flirty line or when he's in the mood would be "mind tasting my piercing?"

and If you're in the mood just say "Sure If I can Do you as well"

honestly use the "Do Hanse" joke anytime and he's yours, truly..

i feel like he'd say something like "I'll Do you now" while he enters you and fucks you senseless (like he will dO you while hAnse is in you-)

vocal in bed, but mostly like high grunts

chOking both recieving and giving as well as bitting and all of these kinks

also..his tongue..with a rap like that I can't imagine how good he'd be eating you out ;)

rough thrusts all the way

keeps going when he hears your moans

𝐁𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧

big baby

back hugs or any kind of hugs

lowkey a brat too tbh

dimples show off™

he'd be actually vEry happy if you touched his dimples lmao

that would make him kInda cocky

would sing for you randomly and also teach you some dances

he'd actually enjoy dancing and/or singing together

a great cuddle buddy tbh

he'd be very clingy

to impress you he'd act manly and just hOt (see gif)

but would sometimes fail, because you'd start laughing 💀

borrowing his hoodies and shirts

but never giving them back-

if you're a lot shorter than him, he'd for example help you reach high places

if you're not that short well

he'd put things even higher so you'd ask for his help

kinda petty imo

anYway not really kinky, but on the more vocal side in bed

don't @ me but a sub

i think his most visible kink would be you doming him 💀 honestly

also some dirty talk (recieving) while you bounce on him

i can also see him mAybe being into some ice play tbh

just think about it😈

he's not rough, not vanilla either...perfect middle path

𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐧

a baby™

cuddles! always, whether you like it or not

i think he'd be teased by his hyungs

and told to use a protection

he'd just nervously laugh like ugH yeah sure

he'd be jelly if his pets greeted you before him or payed more attention to you

he'd pout

he can be very shy sometimes, so it'd take him ages to ask you out

he'd probably be accompanied by Seungwoo if you guys met 💀

if you by any chance go drinking, you should probably stop him tbh

he'd also pout if you called him cute

"I'm not cute *pout*"

which is cute

he maybe wouldn't necessarily sing for you as he'd be shy and not very confident

but would LOVE if you sang for him, it would make him fall in love with you more... especially if it was either his song or a song he loves

he'd never interrupt you, just listen to your voice

he'd love if he brought food to him when he practices (other members would be jelly and steal his food so you better bring them too then)

sometimes he'd tell you some weird/dirty jokes without thinking about them first

his excuse would be "Hanse said-"

now all jokes aside, he is a babie but when you two are alone he'd have those dirty times

however he'd be shy to ask for what he wants, like he'd never or rarely ask for it

but you'd see it on him anyway

like he'd be unfocused and talk less

a sub(in)

you could have so much fun with him honestly 😈

tsundere (Seungwoo said it, not me🤷🏻‍♀️)

his hidden kinky

would love bitting, both recieving and giving

for some reason i also see him liking having a collar with a chain so you can pull him whenever and wherever you like?😌

he would be vanilla of course but not that rough either, however his secret dream is to go rough tbh

also he is young so he might want to try many kinks as long as both of you want that

572 notes · View notes

shslfanficreader · 4 years ago

Text

Submissive Rantaro x afab Reader

NS//FW Alphabet

Requests are open!

Word Count: 3000+

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Rantaro would want to take care of you so bad, but at the same time he’s a babey and would also love for you to take care of him.

If he’s taking care of you he’d clean you up, maybe even lick you clean before getting a washcloth and wiping you over, and then he’d get water for both of you.

If you’re taking care of him he’d be so out of it and relaxed, just letting you do what you need and watching while you did all of it. He might whine as you wipe him over if he’s really sensitive or overstimulated, and it would be adorable. He’d thank you for every little thing and just act so in love in general.

Either way, he will want cuddles and will be so happy and relaxed if you give them to him. He’d love to rest his head on your chest or be the little spoon.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves your thighs so much, loves to kiss and bite at them, but loves having them wrapped around his head even more.

He would be enthralled with your body so much, and he’d love it no matter what size or shape you are, and if you were insecure he’d make sure to show that he loves you and what you look like no matter what.

He likes his hands. They’ve always been useful to him on his adventures and he’s found that they’re even more useful at pleasuring you. The best thing about them is that he can feel you all over with them, he just glides his hands over your skin and grasps you and it’s all so amazing. You taking his hand and putting his fingers in your mouth makes him so turned on and he’d be in awe of you. Not to mention he can rub at your clit, feel how wet you are and feel you clench and your muscles spasm when he crooks them inside of you.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He 100% has a breeding kink. Not as in “you must be pregnant and have my children” type of kink, but he just. Loves the concept. There’s some risk in it but you’re always careful, and he loves coming in you, marking you as his from the inside out. And he can’t help but want to watch it leak out of you, maybe even eat it out of you. He loves when you ask him to come inside of you, and it’s not like he can say no to you anyway. That being said, you want him to use a condom? That’s not an issue at all!

He’d also love to cum on you. Anywhere. Your tummy, back, ass, boobs, face, even over your pussy. Anywhere you’ll let him. He just thinks it looks so pretty.

Oh, and if you're blowing him and you swallow? Holy fuccccck.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

If he’s going to be away from you for a long period of time, say on an adventure of something, he might steal a pair of your underwear to take with him so he can think about you even more when he’s having “alone time.”

He’d whine and moan so prettily as he holds them and jerks himself off, maybe even accidentally coming on them, and he feels so guilty about it, so dirty, but he just wants you so bad.

He’d wash them a couple of times and try to sneakily place them back in your drawer, hoping you didn’t notice.

He accidentally lost a pair once too. He never told you. He hoped you just thought they’d been misplaced.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Rantaro had experience, but not a massive amount. Like, he knew what he was doing, but he was also always learning and trying new things, and that was definitely not a bad thing in his book.

He looks much more like a playboy than he actually is.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Missionary and riding. Yes.

Missionary because he can look at you and put his face right next to yours, have his ear close to your lips and listen to you moan for him. Missionary is his favourite position if you’re pegging him too.

He likes riding because you can set the pace and take control, use him how you want to. The view is a nice added bonus.

He’s a fan of any position that gets your thighs wrapped around his head too.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

He’s very sweet in the moment, probably on the more serious side, but not against being goofy and having fun with you. When he’s feeling subby he usually just feels like being intimate with you and is a bit more romantic than normal. He’s just a needy boy.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

I’m not going to say whether I think it’s green or not, okay? (But probably, yeah.)

But!

He keeps things relatively natural. He doesn’t shave or anything like that, but he might trim a bit to keep things neat.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Oh, sub Rantaro is most definitely romantic. He likes to be sweet towards you and keep things nice and intimate. He definitely feels a lot more like you’re making love instead of fucking when he’s submitting to you sometimes.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Sometimes when you’re not around and he really needs you he’ll hump and rub against your pillow until he comes. He feels bad about it after. He always washes it before you need to use it again and usually pretends he spilled something on it. Hmmm, something…

He’s really sensitive on the underside of the head of his dick, so he pays special attention to that area when he jacks off, twisting his wrist as it reaches his tip with each stroke.

He also likes fucking himself, with his fingers and with toys, but he much prefers it when you do it. When he fingers himself he likes crooking his fingers and massaging his prostate. Pre-cum leach’s out of his cock almost the entire time he does it, it feels so good.

He likes fleshlights, dildos, butt plugs, vibrators, all that good stuff, but one toy he didn’t think he’d like as much as he does is wand vibrators. Like. Good god. That sensitive spot on the underside of his tip? Yeah, he just holds a wand vibrator there and it’s so good and makes him come so hard and so fast that it drives him crazy.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Bondage, praise, overstimulation, and edging, all the way.

He loves both tying you up and being tied up, but has a slight preference for being tied up when he’s feeling submissive. You being in control is so hot to him, and if he’s tied up you can do whatever you want. He’d never admit it but he loves it when you tease him when he’s bound. It just makes everything feel so much more intense. He loves being teased by having your fingers inside him, his cock in your mouth, a toy against or inside him, and especially by you fucking yourself onto him but just not giving him quite enough. He sometimes likes to be blindfolded too.

Does he like praising you or being praised himself more? The world may never know.

He wants to do everything he possibly can to make you feel good and loved, but tell him he’s doing good and he’s gone.

When it comes to you he much prefers overstimulation than edging. He wants to pleasure you over and over until you can’t take anymore, and then he’ll still keep going if you’ll let him.

He loves both overstim and edging when it comes to himself. He'll get so overwhelmed if you overstimulate him, sometimes he'd start crying, not because he wanted you to stop or it hurt, but because it was just so much, his face would be flushed red and wet with tears and sweat. He'd look like a wreck in the best way.

When you edge him he begs a lot. His pleas of "please, please, please, I need it," would be so pretty and he would buck his hips up trying to get any friction and stimulation. He loves being edged and teased but he'll get desperate and needy faster than he likes. He wants to hold out and be good for you but once he's been edged a few times he just feels like he needs to come, so he can't help but beg.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

The best place is always a bed. You have privacy, can lock the doors, feel safe, and have everything you could possibly need.

But Rantaro does love sex in a lot of places. He loves sex on the couch, especially when you ride him, and in the shower or up against a wall. Anywhere you need him, he'll be there.

He isn't the biggest fan of public sex, just because trying to hide can be a bit of an inconvenience. Not that the risk isn't hot. But there's also still like. The actual risk aspect, and he'd rather not get arrested. He's more inclined to want public sex if he's in a more neutral or dominant mood. There's something about being submissive that makes him want to be alone, in the privacy of his own home, secure.

He doesn't mind car sex, as long as it isn't like, on a freeway or anywhere crowded. He actually loves when you're together and suddenly you want to pull over because you want him and you just can't wait.

One place he's learned to love having sex is in tents. He has to stay in tents a lot when he's adventuring, so they've become a sort of second home to him. It gives the illusion of privacy being alone and intimate and still feels comfortable and homey but there's still a little bit of risk when it comes to getting caught because tents don't have locks or soundproofing. He loves having you alone with him in a tent.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Oh, the most mundane things turn him on. You could be reaching up and your shirt could ride up, or you could compliment him and it would go straight to his pants.

And you wearing his clothes? No matter how poorly they fit, you're wearing. His. Clothes. How was the poor boy expected to see that and go on unaffected?

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Rantaro would be down to try most things, but wouldn't be into hurting you or having you hurt him too much. Like, spanking? Fine! Biting? Yes, please! Scratches and bruises? God, they look so pretty. But he'd never want to do something too intense or violent. He wanted to turn pain to pleasure, not seriously injure you for the sake of sex.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Hoo, boy, Rantaro loves getting oral. He loves having your mouth on his cock or your tongue in his ass. You look so pretty and feel so good with your mouth around him, and when you eat him out he's putty in your hands. He loves that you feel safe enough with him to do something considered so dirty.

But what he loves even more is giving you oral.

This boy is a giver, especially when he feels submissive. He wants to make you feel as good as possible, and he has a wicked mouth that he knows how to use. He licks around and into you but makes sure to suck at and play with your clit more so, because that’s when your hips buck into his mouth and your hands find his hair.

He loves eating ass. This is a fact. He loves feeling your muscle contract around his tongue, and he loves being used in any dirty way you want.

What better way to submit to someone than to have them ride your face?

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Rantaro prefers being slow when he's subby and emotional, because in that case he wants to be intimate with you, and he likes being slow and sensual for that type of thing. Of course, the closer either of you get to coming the faster and harder he'll go.

But when he's feeling subby purely for the sake of submitting? Ride that boy fast and rough until he cries. Better yet, order him to fuck you hard until you come. If he comes before you? Oh well...

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He prefers sex, especially if he's subbing. It's hard for him to deal with being in that headspace for a quick fuck, for you to just go about your days after. No, he wants to take his time with you.

That being said, if you're both in the mood and don't have much time. A quickie's better than nothing. Hell, it's still a magical experience, he'd just like that magic to last a little longer.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Oh yeah, Rantaro is absolutely game to experiment and take risks. He’ll try most things, but most definitely has hard limits that he doesn’t want to cross.

Let’s just say road head sounds like a great idea until you come and almost crash into a pole with your pants down.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

It depends. If you’re overstimming him every round, then he can’t go for as many. It gets really overwhelming for him.

Oh, he can last, but not if you’re purposefully doing everything you can to make him come fast and over and over.

If he’s setting the pace and fucking you though, he can keep going for a long time. Of course, if you want him to go harder, faster, he will, but he might come a bit faster too, as anyone would.

But even if he’s overstimulated and can’t take any more that doesn’t mean his mouth and hands don’t still work, and that boy will do whatever you need until you’re satisfied. Say you have trouble coming from penetration, or coming in general. He will do everything in his power to get you there. If you can’t, he’ll be disappointed, but only because he thinks you deserve all the pleasure he can give you.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He most definitely owns toys, both for himself and for you.

He likes using them on himself when he’s all alone and when he’s with you. If you want him to put on a show, of course he will. If you’re the one to use the toys on him it always feels so much more intense for him, probably because he’s not expecting what you do and just because it’s you in general.

He likes watching you use toys on yourself too, or using them on you himself. One of his favourite things to do is to fuck you with a vibrator whilst he sucks on your clit.

He owns both the basics and a few other bits and pieces that don’t get used as often but are still a lot of fun.

A few of the things he has are vibrators and dildos and butt plugs of all different sizes and colours, even a fleshlight. He has some rope and handcuffs and a paddle too.

A couple of his favourites are a prostate massager and a remote control vibrator that was a lot of fun if not a little bit embarrassing.

He also just had. So much lube. It’s everywhere. In the bedroom, the bathroom, his car, his travel bags, your car, the living room, even the kitchen. Who keeps lube in the kitchen? It’s bound to lead to something disastrous some day.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

When he’s feeling submissive he doesn’t tease as much as usual. Hell, he doesn’t really tease at all, he wants to be a good boy and do everything you could possibly want. He’s a service sub.

He loves being teased himself though. Make him use that pretty voice to beg you to give him “just a little more please.”

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’s not overly loud but he does whine and moan a lot. He whimpers and begs a lot too, especially when you edge him.

He talks a lot too, but not necessarily dirty talk. It’s more like he doesn’t even know he’s speaking and incoherent babbling starts coming out of his mouth, but you can always hear a lot of things like “you feel so good,” “please,” and “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Two words: morning sex. Just imagine it. Rantaro wakes up first. He cuddles into you and he’s already half hard from a dream he was having. He still feels sleep soft and he has an insane case of bed head. He’s snuggled up to your back and slowly starts to grind up against you, he knows you wouldn’t mind. Once you wake up he doesn’t stop. As he gets closer he asks if he can fuck you. If you let him he’ll gently slide inside of you and fuck you slow and deep until he’s moaning and groaning at your ear.

If you say no, he’ll ask if he can fuck your thighs. He’d thrust back and forth, loving the pressure and wrapping a hand around you and holding on to your tummy or rubbing your clit, until he comes in between your legs and you come too, if you’ll let him make you.

If you say no to that too, he’ll take care of himself, fucking up into his own hand until he comes over his tummy.

He also loves waking you up by eating you out. His head under the covers, mouth gliding over and sucking on you. He loves when you wake up and you finally put your hands in his hair.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He’s about average girth and slightly above average in length. Honestly, he has such a nice cock, and he definitely knows how to use it. It isn’t massive, which he actually likes. He wouldn’t want to hurt you or intimidate you too much.

His cock always turns a pretty red when he’s close, and he doesn’t really like that, but the colour does look so pretty when it’s against your skin.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive in general is a bit higher than average. When he’s submissive he always wants sex more because it’s a way for him to let go and feel intimate with you. You can tell he wants sex if he wants to cuddle and he puts his head in the crook of your neck to nuzzle there and moans fall from his lips. He also pushes his body against yours and just wants to be as close to you as possible.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn’t always fall asleep, sometimes he’s content to just lay with you and maybe watch some tv. If he does fall asleep, it’s always after you’re both done with your aftercare and he knows you’ve been well taken care of.

Tags: @mius-imagination

#danganronpa smut #rantaro amami smut #rantaro amami x reader #rantaro x reader #rantaro amami x reader smut #rantaro amami imagines #rantaro amami fanfic #rantaro amami headcanons #smut

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