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pucksandpower · 17 days ago

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Inserts Himself Where?

Day 22 → Bedding Ceremony 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The room is warm, the air thick with lavender and a nervous sort of energy that seems to cling to the walls. Your maids bustle about, fingers trailing over the lace of your gown, smoothing the fabric, tugging it tighter in places.

You can feel the weight of their glances, the words they’re holding back. There’s something they want to say, something that’s been dancing in the air all morning but hasn’t quite landed.

“Hold still, milady,” Jeanne says, her tone gentle, though there's an edge of anticipation to it. She pulls a comb through your hair, carefully teasing the strands into place.

You feel the weight of the occasion pressing down on you. You’ve been preparing for this day for months, and yet, something about it feels … off. There’s a knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel.

A maid at your feet tightens the laces on your shoes, while another adjusts the pearls around your neck. Everyone is fussing over every small detail, yet they keep exchanging looks �� nervous, knowing looks — that you can’t ignore much longer.

“What is it?” You finally ask, your voice breaking the silence. You glance at Jeanne, who’s avoiding your eyes, concentrating far too hard on an already perfect braid. “You’re all acting strange.”

Jeanne freezes for just a moment, the comb pausing mid-stroke. You see her exchange another glance with Marguerite, the older of your maids, who’s standing near the door, hands clasped in front of her apron. Marguerite clears her throat, steps forward, and it’s as if the entire room collectively holds its breath.

“There is … something we need to talk to you about,” Marguerite says, her voice careful, deliberate. You can sense her choosing each word like it’s something fragile, like she’s afraid it might break in her mouth. “About tonight.”

“Tonight?” You echo, confused. You already know about the feast, about the dancing and the endless stream of congratulations. It’s all been drilled into your head by your mother and your tutors. What else could there be?

Jeanne places the comb down, smoothing her hands over your shoulders, her touch soft but tense. “It’s about what happens after the wedding,” she says quietly. “After the ceremony … with Prince Charles.”

There’s a flicker of recognition somewhere deep inside you, a faint memory of hushed conversations you weren’t meant to overhear. You feel your heartbeat quicken, but you don’t understand why.

“What happens after?” You ask, genuinely lost.

The room falls into a silence that’s almost unbearable. Jeanne’s fingers tighten on your shoulder for a moment before she steps back, leaving Marguerite to speak.

Marguerite lets out a small sigh, one that seems to carry the weight of the world. “After the feast, after the guests have left … there’s the bedding ceremony,” she explains. Her words are slow, careful, as if she’s trying not to startle you. “It’s tradition. You and the prince will be led to your chambers to … consummate the marriage.”

You blink, consummate ringing in your ears. You’ve heard the term before, but only in passing, never with any real explanation attached to it. It’s something that’s been whispered about, something the older women in the court would smirk at when they thought you weren’t listening. You swallow, suddenly feeling like you’re on the edge of understanding something much larger than you’re ready for.

“And what does that mean exactly?” You ask, your voice quieter now. You know you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Marguerite glances at Jeanne, who looks like she would rather be anywhere else right now. Finally, Marguerite steps closer to you, lowering her voice as if that will somehow soften the blow. “It means that the prince will … well, he will lay with you.”

“Lay with me?” You repeat, still not grasping it fully.

Jeanne steps in again, her face a mixture of embarrassment and determination. “He will … be with you. As a husband is with his wife,” she tries, but it’s clear the words are slipping away from her.

You blink at them, frustration growing. “What does that mean?” You ask, more sharply than you intended.

Jeanne sighs, glancing at Marguerite as if pleading for help. Marguerite nods once, the movement almost imperceptible, before taking another small step toward you.

“Y/N,” Marguerite starts, and the use of your name makes you sit up a little straighter. “When a man and a woman are married, they … share a bed. And during that time, the man … inserts himself.”

The words hang in the air like a bad joke.

“Inserts himself?” You repeat, confusion evident in your voice. “Inserts himself where?”

Jeanne coughs, and Marguerite turns a shade of red you didn’t think possible.

“In you, milady,” Jeanne finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

It takes a moment for the meaning to settle in. And even then, it feels slippery, like something you’re not entirely ready to catch hold of. You stare at them both, waiting for them to laugh, to tell you it’s all some strange misunderstanding. But they don’t. They just stand there, looking at you with a mixture of pity and something else — concern, maybe?

Your heart is thumping loudly in your chest now, your hands clutching the arms of your chair. “That’s what’s going to happen?” You whisper, more to yourself than to them.

Marguerite nods slowly. “Yes, milady. It is … part of your duties as a wife.”

The word duties feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides. You’ve heard it a hundred times — duty to your family, to your country, to your future husband. But this? This is something else entirely.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” You ask, your voice small, almost breaking.

Jeanne steps forward, crouching down so she’s eye level with you. “We didn’t want to frighten you, milady,” she says softly. “But now … now you must be prepared.”

Prepared. The word feels hollow, like it could never be enough for whatever is coming. You stare at Jeanne, at her wide, honest eyes, and for a moment, you think about how easy it would be to just say no. To refuse. To walk away from all of it. But then you remember who you are, what’s expected of you, and that thought quickly fades.

“What if … what if I can’t?” You ask, voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady.

Jeanne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. “You can,” she says with more confidence than you feel. “Every woman goes through this. And you will, too.”

You glance at Marguerite, who nods solemnly. “It’s normal to feel this way,” she adds. “To be scared. But once it’s done … it becomes easier. You learn to live with it.”

The knot in your stomach tightens further at the thought of having to “learn to live” with something like this. You had always thought marriage would be a partnership, something beautiful. But now it seems like another duty, another burden placed upon you.

“What … what if I don’t want him to?” You ask quietly, barely audible.

Jeanne hesitates for a moment, her smile faltering. “It’s not about want, milady. It’s what must be done. For the marriage to be valid.”

You nod, though you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re suddenly floating above the room, watching yourself from a distance.

Jeanne’s hand squeezes yours again, as if trying to tether you back. “It will be all right,” she whispers, as if that could make it true.

But you’re not sure anything will be all right again after tonight.

***

The doors swing open with a creak, and the air shifts — heavy, thick with the weight of expectation. You take a step forward, your legs barely cooperating beneath the layers of your gown, and your maids gently guide you into the room. The space is dimly lit, candles flickering along the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance with the faint tremble in your chest.

A crowd lines the edges of the room, a sea of faces, each expression unreadable, their eyes fixed on you and Charles. They’re waiting. Watching. Witnessing. Your breath catches in your throat as the enormity of what’s happening presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You steal a glance at the bed — a massive, looming thing that takes up nearly half the room, its dark wooden posts adorned with silken drapes.

You can’t feel your hands anymore. Your fingers are numb as they clutch the folds of your gown, and your heart is pounding so loud in your ears that you can hardly hear anything else. The maids hover around you, their hands steady but their faces as tense as yours. Jeanne’s voice is low in your ear as she begins to untie the laces of your bodice, but the words barely register.

Your eyes drift toward Charles, standing across from you, surrounded by his own attendants. He’s calm — too calm. His posture is steady, his movements fluid as one of his men begins to undo the buttons on his doublet. His eyes meet yours for a moment, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical thing, grounding you and unsettling you all at once.

The room is suffocating, the walls closing in around you, and suddenly, your legs give a slight wobble. Jeanne catches you by the elbow, steadying you before anyone else can notice. She leans close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Breathe, milady.”

But breathing feels impossible.

The rustle of fabric fills the room as the maids continue to work, pulling at the ties of your gown, loosening it inch by inch. Your heart races faster as more of your skin is exposed, the cold air prickling against your back as they slide the heavy fabric off your shoulders. You feel the weight of every gaze in the room, the eyes of the witnesses burning into you, watching each movement, each breath.

Charles steps toward you, his attendants falling back, and in that moment, you realize that his chest is bare, his broad shoulders illuminated by the faint glow of the candlelight. He looks powerful, every inch of him radiating control, and the sight of him only makes the trembling worse.

You lower your gaze, staring at the floor, but his presence looms closer until he’s standing directly in front of you. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he watches you. Then, his hand reaches out — strong, firm — and he cups your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady.

You try to answer, but your throat feels tight, your mouth dry. Instead, you just nod, swallowing hard as his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek.

His touch is firm but not unkind, and for a brief moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. The witnesses, the maids, the ceremony itself — all of it fades into the background as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“They don’t matter,” he says, his tone calm, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He drops his hand from your face, letting it trail down your arm before resting it at your waist. “Forget them. This is about you and me.”

You blink up at him, unsure how you’re supposed to just forget the dozens of eyes burning into your skin. But there’s something in the way he speaks, the way he holds himself, that makes it sound almost possible.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, grounding you in the moment. “Look at me,” he says, and you do. His eyes are dark green, piercing, and for a moment, the noise in your head quiets, the panic subsides just enough for you to breathe.

The maids step back now, leaving you in only your shift, the thin fabric barely covering your trembling body. Your skin feels exposed, vulnerable, and the cold bites at you as the gown is carried away, leaving you standing in front of Charles in nothing but the flimsy fabric.

He nods to his attendants, and they move quickly, removing the last of his clothing. You can feel the shift in the room — the way the witnesses straighten, their attention sharpening as the final barrier between you and Charles is stripped away.

Your breath catches as you look at him. He’s … overwhelming. His body is all sharp lines and muscle, his skin bronzed by the sun, and he stands there, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. He’s everything you’re not — strong, powerful, certain. And yet, despite the fear twisting in your chest, you can’t help but be drawn to him.

Charles steps closer, his bare chest only inches from yours now, and you feel the heat radiating from his skin. He lifts a hand again, this time running his fingers lightly over your shoulder, down your arm, the touch both calming and terrifying at once.

“Look at me,” he repeats, his voice firmer now, but not unkind. His other hand comes up, cupping the side of your neck, and the warmth of his skin makes you shiver. “Focus on me. Only me.”

You nod, though your eyes flick nervously to the crowd.

“Don’t,” he says softly, but there’s an edge of command in his voice. “Pretend they’re not here. Pretend it’s just us.”

His hand moves to the ties of your shift, and you feel the world spin around you. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers work quickly, and the fabric falls away, leaving you utterly exposed. The cold air rushes over your skin, and for a moment, you think you might faint.

But then, his hands are on you — steady, firm, pulling you toward him. You gasp, but he holds you, one hand on the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair as he brings his face close to yours.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “Breathe.”

You force yourself to inhale, though the air feels thin and sharp in your lungs. His hand slides down your back, guiding you, and before you realize it, he’s leading you toward the bed, his steps slow but purposeful.

Your legs feel weak, but he keeps you upright, keeps you moving forward. The bed looms closer, and the witnesses fall away into shadows as you focus on the feel of his hands, his voice in your ear.

When you reach the edge of the bed, he turns you to face him again, his eyes searching yours. “Lie down,” he says, his voice still calm, still steady. It’s not a request — it’s an instruction, and there’s no room for hesitation.

You sink down onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and Charles stands over you, watching you with an intensity that makes your heart race. He’s so close, his body towering over yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the cold air around you.

He kneels beside you, his hands moving over your body in a way that’s both possessive and reassuring. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, and he leans down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Relax,” he whispers, though you’re not sure how that’s possible.

Your mind is a whirl of thoughts, your body trembling beneath him, but somehow, his presence — his control — anchors you. He’s dominant, powerful, every movement calculated, and though you’re terrified, there’s a strange sense of safety in his certainty.

He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the feel of him — his skin, his heat — sends a jolt through you. His lips find your collarbone, trailing soft, deliberate kisses along your skin, and his hand moves lower, his touch firm but not harsh.

“Focus on me,” he murmurs again, his lips brushing against your ear. “Only me.”

You close your eyes, willing yourself to block out the rest of the room — the witnesses, the maids, the ceremony. It’s just him. Just Charles. His hands, his voice, his body guiding you through the fear.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, his voice low, and despite everything, you believe him.

You have to.

The room feels like a furnace, despite the cool draft from the open windows. Every breath you take is shallow, every movement calculated, dictated by the presence of so many eyes around you. Charles hovers above you, his body a solid, commanding force. His hands, warm and firm, travel over your skin as if he owns it. And maybe he does — at least tonight.

He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear again, his breath hot against your skin. “They’re still here,” he whispers, and there’s a sharpness in his voice that sends a shiver down your spine. “Waiting. Watching. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your side, tracing lines that ignite something deep within you. You barely manage to whisper, “Why aren’t they leaving?”

Charles lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifts his weight, his body pressing into yours. “They’ll leave when they see what they came for,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. His fingers find the soft skin of your inner thigh, and your body tenses in response, your heart pounding in your chest.

Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the weight of what’s happening. But Charles — he’s steady, unshaken, like the eye of a storm. His hand moves with a deliberate slowness, sliding between your legs, and you gasp, your body arching involuntarily as his fingers brush against your most sensitive spot. He pauses for a moment, as if savoring the way your body reacts to his touch.

“They’re just waiting for a little blood,” he whispers against your skin, his tone mocking. “That’s all it takes to satisfy them. A few drops, and they’ll be convinced the marriage is … properly consummated.”

You try to focus, try to breathe, but the way his fingers move, the way his body presses against yours — it’s all too much. Your fingers dig into the sheets beneath you, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. Charles smirks, his lips trailing down your neck as he shifts his body, positioning himself between your legs.

“Are you ready?” He asks, his voice low, commanding.

You don’t know how to answer. Your heart is racing, your body trembling, but there’s something else beneath the fear now — something you don’t entirely understand. You nod, your throat tight, and Charles gives a satisfied hum in response.

He moves with purpose, and you feel the weight of him pressing against you. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else — the witnesses, the cold air, the fear — disappears. It’s just him, just you, and the heat that pulses between you.

“Stay with me,” he says, his voice firm but almost gentle. “Don’t think about them. Think about us.”

Then, with one powerful motion, he enters you, and the world narrows into a sharp, bright point of sensation. You gasp, your body tensing as the pain cuts through you, sudden and overwhelming. Tears sting your eyes, but before you can let them fall, Charles leans down, his lips grazing your ear.

“They’re still watching,” he murmurs, his voice dark, laced with a twisted sort of amusement. “Do you think they’re disappointed? Hoping for more drama? More blood?”

You let out a sharp, startled laugh — half from the absurdity of it, half from the overwhelming sensation of him inside you. The laugh turns into a gasp as Charles moves, slow but deliberate, his hips pressing firmly against yours. You feel everything — every inch, every movement, every breath he takes — and it’s all too much, too overwhelming. Yet, somehow, it’s not enough.

“Ignore them,” he whispers again, his lips brushing your neck, sending sparks down your spine. “Pretend we’re the only ones here.”

You try — God, you try — but it’s impossible to block out the weight of their stares, the silent judgment from the witnesses lining the walls. And yet, with each movement of Charles’ body, with every thrust that presses him deeper inside you, the world blurs at the edges. He’s taking over, filling every space, every thought, until nothing remains but him.

He groans softly, his breath hot against your skin, and you feel your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected. The pain begins to ebb, replaced by something else — a strange heat building inside you, coiling tight in your belly. You bite your lip, trying to keep the sounds inside, but Charles is relentless, his movements steady, controlled, each one drawing you closer to something you don’t quite understand.

His lips hover over your ear again, and his voice is a dark whisper. “Do you think they’re jealous? Do you think they wish they could be in my place?”

The thought is absurd, but another laugh escapes you — half gasp, half breathless amusement — and it startles you, the sound foreign and unfamiliar in the midst of everything happening. Charles grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself.

“See? It’s not so bad,” he says, his voice low, coaxing. “You’re doing beautifully.”

Your body is trembling beneath him, each movement sending jolts of sensation through you, and you can barely think, barely breathe. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the sharp contrast of his dominance, his control, with the tenderness in his touch.

“They’re waiting for the proof,” Charles whispers, his tone mocking again. “So eager to see it.”

You feel the heat in your face, the embarrassment rising, but before you can fully register it, Charles thrusts harder, his body pressing into yours with more force. You gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and your fingers grip the sheets tighter, knuckles white.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Let them hear you.”

You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress the sounds, but Charles isn’t having it. His hand slides up your thigh, gripping firmly as he moves faster, his body commanding yours, pulling you deeper into the sensations.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, his voice dark and intoxicating. “Let them know how good it feels.”

Your heart is racing, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and to your surprise, his words sink into you, fueling the heat growing inside. You can’t fight it anymore — not the sounds, not the way your body responds to his touch. You let out a soft whimper, and Charles grins, clearly satisfied with the effect he’s having on you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, and the words send a shiver down your spine. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His pace quickens, and with each thrust, the witnesses, the judgment, the fear — all of it fades into the background. It’s just him, just you, and the intoxicating rhythm of his body against yours. You feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter with every movement, every breath, until you’re on the edge of something you’ve never felt before.

You gasp, your body trembling beneath him, and Charles leans down, his lips brushing your ear once more.

“You’re going to come for me,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding. “Aren’t you?”

You can’t speak, can’t think, but your body answers for you, your hips bucking beneath him as the sensation builds to a fever pitch. You’re gasping now, your breath ragged, and Charles smirks against your skin.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “I want to feel you.”

And then, suddenly, everything snaps — the tension, the heat, the coiled tightness in your belly — and your body explodes with sensation, pleasure rolling through you in waves so intense you can’t breathe. You cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets, and Charles groans in response, his movements becoming harder, more erratic as he drives you through the climax.

Your body shudders beneath him, the pleasure overwhelming, and for a moment, everything else falls away. It’s just him, just you, and the raw, unfiltered sensation coursing through your veins.

When the waves finally subside, you’re left trembling, gasping for breath as Charles slows his movements, his body still pressed firmly against yours. He leans down, his lips brushing your temple, and you feel the faintest hint of tenderness in the gesture.

“There,” he murmurs softly, his voice still rough but with a new edge of satisfaction. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You can’t respond, your body too spent, too overwhelmed by everything that’s just happened. But in the silence, you realize something: the witnesses haven’t left. They’re still there, watching, waiting.

The room is suffocating in its silence. Your chest rises and falls, still trying to catch up with the intensity of what just happened. Your body hums with the aftershocks, your legs trembling, and all you want is to close your eyes and forget the weight of the gazes pressing in on you from the crowd of witnesses.

Charles is still above you, his body warm and heavy, grounding you in the moment. His breath slows, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow circles that should have soothed you, but all you can think about are the people watching — still there, still waiting, still leering.

And then, without warning, Charles drags the duvet up, uncovering you completely.

You gasp, your body jolting in shock as the cool air hits your bare skin. The sense of vulnerability swells in your chest, your hands instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it’s too late. Charles exposes the sheets beneath you, stained with the tell-tale sign of blood — the proof the witnesses had been waiting for.

Your cheeks burn, mortification flooding your body as you feel their eyes burning into you. You bite your lip, willing yourself to shrink, to disappear beneath the sheets. But Charles, in contrast, doesn’t flinch. His expression is calm, his body still and powerful as he scans the room, his gaze cold and sharp.

“Get a good look,” he says, his voice ringing out clear and firm in the stillness of the room. He gestures to the blood-stained sheet with a casual wave of his hand, as if this was nothing more than a trivial detail. “There’s your proof. Now leave.”

You hear the murmurs ripple through the crowd, hushed whispers that slither across the room like a serpent. But no one moves. They stay rooted to the spot, their eyes glued to the two of you, hungry and intrusive, unwilling to give up their position as witnesses to this private moment.

Your heart races, your pulse thundering in your ears as you look up at Charles. He’s tense now, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his body coiled with barely restrained frustration. He sits up slightly, still keeping you shielded beneath his frame, his hands never leaving your body.

“I said leave,” he repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone, like the low growl of a predator. His eyes flick from one face to another, daring any of them to defy him. But still, no one moves. The tension in the air thickens, suffocating, and you feel the weight of it bearing down on you, threatening to crush you.

Charles’ patience snaps.

“Get. Out.” His voice roars through the room, sudden and violent, like the crack of thunder in a storm. The force of it sends a jolt through your body, but more importantly, it makes the witnesses flinch. His eyes burn with fury, his body rigid as he glares at them, each word seething with barely-contained rage. “This is no longer your concern.”

The murmuring stops, and for a moment, no one dares to breathe. The power in Charles’ voice — his command, his authority — leaves no room for argument. Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to shuffle toward the exit, the room clearing bit by bit, though not quickly enough for your liking.

You can still feel the weight of their stares as they leave, lingering, prying. It makes your skin crawl, the discomfort settling deep in your bones. You can’t help but shudder, and Charles’ hand, large and warm, immediately rests on your back, steadying you.

“Don’t look at them,” he says, his voice softer now, but still firm. “They don’t matter anymore.”

But you can feel them. Even as the room starts to empty, their presence lingers like a foul stench in the air. The feeling of exposure gnaws at you, tearing at your insides, and you can’t stop the tears from welling up in your eyes.

You try to blink them away, but Charles notices immediately. His hand shifts, brushing your cheek, and when you meet his gaze, his expression softens slightly. “It’s over,” he murmurs, his voice low but sure. “They’re gone.”

Your lips part to respond, but no words come out. All you can do is nod, your throat tight, the humiliation still fresh in your mind. You feel Charles’ hand move again, this time slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

“Don’t let them see you like this,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re stronger than this.”

The words wash over you like a balm, and though the tightness in your chest doesn’t completely dissipate, there’s something in his voice — something steady and unshakable — that anchors you. You take a shaky breath, your gaze flicking down to the blood-stained sheet beneath you, and for the first time, you feel a strange sense of relief.

The worst is over. The witnesses are gone.

Charles pulls the duvet back over you, shielding your body from the cold air and the prying eyes that had only just left. His touch is still commanding, but there’s a tenderness to it now, a sense of care that surprises you. He leans down, his lips brushing your forehead, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything else that’s happened tonight.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body against yours settle into your bones, and for a brief moment, you feel safe. Protected. Charles’ presence, his power, has a way of making everything else seem small, insignificant. Even the lingering humiliation feels distant now, a shadow at the edge of your mind.

“I should’ve thrown them out sooner,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice dark with frustration.

You blink up at him, surprised by the hint of regret in his tone. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper, though the words feel strange on your tongue.

Charles’ eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze before it hardens again. “I won’t let them make you feel like that again,” he says, his voice firm, resolute. “Not ever.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. The vulnerability of the moment hangs between you, heavy and fragile, and you’re not sure if you should thank him or hide from the intensity of his gaze. Instead, you just nod, the weight of exhaustion finally settling over you.

Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, shifting to sit beside you on the bed. He’s still close, his presence filling the space around you, and though the room is quiet now, the tension hasn’t entirely lifted.

“They only stayed because they’re cowards,” he says, his voice low, as if continuing a conversation with himself. “Pathetic leeches, desperate for some form of power they’ll never have.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the night catching up to you. “You didn’t have to yell so loudly,” you murmur, your voice shaky but laced with a trace of amusement. “I thought they’d leave eventually.”

Charles turns toward you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though there’s a glint of humor behind them. “They deserved worse,” he says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Next time, I’ll throw them out myself.”

The image of Charles physically tossing a group of nobles out of the room makes you laugh again, this time more freely, though the sound is still tinged with disbelief. You never imagined you’d be laughing after a night like this. But somehow, here you are, with Charles beside you, his hand resting on your thigh, steadying you in ways you didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips before you even fully realize what you’re saying.

Charles’ gaze softens, just for a moment, before he nods. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says quietly. “This is my duty.”

But it doesn’t feel like duty anymore. Not entirely. There’s something more to the way he looks at you now, something that makes your heart beat a little faster despite everything that’s happened.

You glance down at the sheets again, the faint stain still visible beneath the duvet, and a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, heavier than before. Your body aches, your mind spinning with everything that’s transpired, and all you want now is for the night to end.

Charles seems to sense your weariness. He moves closer, pulling you gently into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You sink into him, your head resting against his chest, and for the first time all night, you feel a sense of peace.

“We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow,” he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “For now, rest.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, and slowly, the weight of the night begins to lift. You’re still raw, still vulnerable, but with Charles beside you, the darkness doesn’t seem so overwhelming.

***

The morning sun filters through the heavy drapes, casting a soft glow over the room. The air is cool, the bed warm, and you stir slightly, the weight of Charles’ arm still draped over your waist. You blink awake slowly, your face pressed into his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comforting rhythm against you. For a moment, you forget where you are, wrapped in the warmth of his body, the soft cocoon of blankets around you.

Then the sound of footsteps pulls you from your daze.

The door creaks open, followed by a collective gasp. Your body stiffens, and you can feel Charles tense beside you, though he doesn’t move just yet. His arm tightens slightly, as if to reassure you, before he finally shifts, lifting his head from the pillow.

Two of your maids stand at the foot of the bed, their eyes wide, shock etched across their faces as they take in the sight of you and Charles — still tangled together beneath the sheets, bodies pressed close, intimate. You can’t help but feel the heat rise to your cheeks, a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

You had expected to wake up alone, with Charles already gone to attend to his duties. Instead, here you are, cocooned in the aftermath of last night, and the sight is clearly not what anyone had anticipated.

“Good morning, milady,” one of the maids stammers, her eyes darting between you and Charles, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.

Charles sits up, propping himself against the headboard, but he doesn’t make any move to untangle himself from you. Instead, he casts a slow, measured look at the maids, his expression calm but commanding. “Her Highness,” he corrects them, his voice still gravelly from sleep, but carrying a distinct authority. “She is no longer ‘milady.’”

The maids exchange nervous glances, their cheeks coloring as they quickly curtsy. “Y-Your Highness,” they echo, clearly flustered by the correction.

You bite your lip, feeling the flush deepen at the reminder. It’s still strange to hear yourself referred to as “Your Highness.” The title feels foreign, like a borrowed gown that doesn’t quite fit, and yet there’s something about the way Charles says it that makes it feel … real.

Charles turns his attention back to you, his hand brushing against your waist as he leans down slightly, his voice low and intimate. “You should get dressed,” he says softly, though there’s a note of amusement in his tone. “We’ve scandalized them enough for one morning.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips, though your cheeks still burn. The fact that he’s still here, still close, feels … surprising, but in a way that warms your chest. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from him, and the maids rush forward, eager to help you from the bed.

As you stand, the cold air nips at your skin, and you suddenly feel exposed, despite the nightgown that clings to your body. You shiver slightly, and one of the maids, always attentive, quickly drapes a robe over your shoulders.

Charles watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering, before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. His servants enter the room then, bowing low as they approach, clearly hesitant to disturb the prince. But Charles merely waves them in with a flick of his hand, dismissing their cautiousness.

“Have her belongings brought to my chambers,” Charles says, his voice casual, as if he were giving the most mundane of instructions. He reaches for his own clothes, still laid out by the servants, pulling on his tunic with practiced ease.

Your heart skips a beat.

The maids freeze in place, their eyes wide, as if they’ve just heard something outrageous. You can feel their shock ripple through the room, though they try to mask it with a quick curtsy.

“Your Highness,” one of them stammers, clearly unsure of how to respond. “But — your quarters? Surely, you mean-”

“I mean what I said,” Charles interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t look at them as he speaks, busy fastening the leather straps of his tunic, but his voice carries the weight of authority that only someone like him can wield. “Her belongings will be moved to my chambers by midday. Is that understood?”

Your maids glance at each other again, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and dismay. The scandal of it is clear — they had expected you to maintain separate quarters, as was the custom for all noble marriages. The idea of sharing a bed — sharing quarters — on a permanent basis was practically unheard of.

“Y-Yes, Your Highness,” one of them finally manages to say, her voice small. They both curtsy again, though their faces are still flushed with surprise.

You can’t help but feel the weight of what this means — the implication of it — and your cheeks warm at the thought. Charles wants you in his chambers, in his space. It’s a decision that speaks volumes, one that suggests more than just a sense of duty or obligation. The intimacy of sharing quarters … it’s something deeper, something more personal.

Your gaze flickers toward him, but he’s already focused on his servants, giving them instructions as they help him with his attire. You feel a rush of emotions — nervousness, anticipation, and something you can’t quite name. It’s as if the ground beneath you has shifted, the reality of your marriage settling in ways you hadn’t expected.

The maids, clearly still rattled, help you into your gown, their hands quick and efficient but a little clumsy in their haste. You can sense their discomfort, though they don’t say anything directly. You remain silent as they lace up the back of your gown, your mind spinning with thoughts of what sharing chambers with Charles will mean.

Once you’re fully dressed, you turn to find Charles watching you, his eyes dark and unreadable as he takes in the sight of you. There’s something about his gaze that sends a shiver down your spine, something that reminds you of the intensity of last night, the way he had held you, commanded the room, and, ultimately, you.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, his hand brushing your waist as he leans in, his voice low. “Are you alright?”

The simple question makes your breath catch. It’s a small gesture, a quiet moment of concern, but it feels significant. You nod, offering him a small smile, though your heart still races.

“I am,” you say softly, though the truth is, you’re not entirely sure what you feel. There’s a whirlwind of emotions churning inside you, and you can barely make sense of them.

Charles studies you for a moment longer, his hand lingering at your waist before he finally pulls away. “Good,” he says simply, his voice firm. “You’ll get used to this. To all of it.”

There’s something comforting in his certainty, as if he’s made up his mind that you’ll both navigate this strange new reality together. You take a deep breath, the knot of tension in your chest loosening slightly.

The maids finish with your hair, pinning it up into an elegant style, and they step back, glancing nervously at Charles, as if still processing the scandal of his earlier command.

One of them finally speaks, her voice barely a whisper. “Milady, shall we prepare your things for-” She stops herself, catching Charles’ sharp gaze. “Your Highness,” she corrects hastily, “shall we prepare your things for the move?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. “Yes,” you say softly, though the idea still feels strange. You had grown accustomed to the idea of separate quarters, of having a space to retreat to, a sanctuary of your own. But now, you’d be sharing that space with him.

Charles gives a small nod of approval, his expression unreadable, though you can sense his satisfaction with the arrangement. He turns to his own servants, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “See to it that everything is ready,” he says. “I want no delays.”

The servants bow deeply and file out of the room, leaving you alone with Charles once more. The silence that follows is thick with unspoken tension, the weight of everything that has happened — and everything that is yet to come — hanging in the air.

Charles steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches for your hand. His grip is firm, steady, and you feel the familiar jolt of warmth spread through you at his touch.

“You belong with me,” he says quietly, his voice low and commanding, as if stating a simple fact. “That’s how it will be. From now on.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s no uncertainty in his tone, no room for negotiation. He’s made his decision, and you can feel the power of that decision pulsing through the air between you.

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Your Highness.”

He smiles then, a small, satisfied smile that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand tightens around yours for a moment before he releases you, stepping back.

“We have a long day ahead,” he says, his voice returning to its usual confident tone. “But we’ll face it together.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you nod in agreement. The future feels uncertain, but with Charles by your side, you feel a strange sense of reassurance.

***

The evening air in Charles’ chambers is cool, thick with the scent of freshly lit candles and the quiet hum of crackling fire. The servants had come and gone, preparing the room for the night, and now the two of you stand in a silence that’s more charged than it is peaceful. You’ve spent the day together, walking the halls of the palace, facing curious eyes and polite murmurs, yet now, here, in the privacy of the chambers you now share, everything feels more intimate.

You’re still getting used to the space, to the idea that this room is no longer just his — it’s yours too. The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window. It’s unsettling, in a way, this sudden intrusion into his world, and yet, it feels oddly right. Charles moves about the room with ease, as if he belongs here, as if he belongs with you, and there’s something comforting in that.

The evening had been quiet, the both of you falling into an easy rhythm of shared conversation and long, lingering looks that spoke more than words could. But now, standing at the foot of the large, canopied bed, you feel the weight of what comes next pressing in on you.

Charles steps closer, his eyes dark and steady, full of that quiet confidence that always seems to radiate off him. He doesn’t rush — there’s no hurry in the way he approaches you, but there’s a deliberateness in his movements that makes your heart race.

He stops just in front of you, close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you. “You look nervous,” he says softly, a hint of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I-I’m not,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, shaking just a little.

He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Liar,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, as he reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is light, gentle, but it sends a shiver down your spine all the same. “You forget, I know your body better than that by now.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite your nerves. His words are true, but it’s still strange to think that someone who was, just days ago, a stranger in many ways, could now know so much about you. And yet, here you are, bound together in ways you never imagined.

Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. He steps back slightly, his gaze holding yours as he speaks again. “It’s my duty as your husband to teach you what happens in the marriage bed.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you blink at him, confused. “Teach me?” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. “But … I thought-” You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I thought what happened yesterday was … all there is.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then Charles laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills the room and sends another shiver through you. His eyes gleam with amusement, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he looks at you, as if your innocence is both endearing and utterly baffling to him.

“Oh, ma chérie,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you look down, unable to meet his gaze. You had thought that after last night, you’d learned everything there was to know about what happens between a man and a woman. But now, faced with the way Charles is looking at you, you realize how naïve you must seem.

He steps closer again, his hand coming to rest lightly on your arm. “Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gentle but firm.

You do as he says, lifting your eyes to meet his, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch in your throat.

“There’s more,” he says quietly, his voice low and full of promise. “Much more.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air between you, before he continues. “And I’m going to teach you. I’m going to show you exactly what it means to be my wife.”

You feel your heart hammering in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation swirling inside you. There’s something in the way he speaks, in the way he looks at you, that makes your skin tingle, your body instinctively leaning into him despite your uncertainty.

Charles reaches for you then, his hands steady and sure as he guides you to the edge of the bed. You sit down, your legs trembling slightly as the reality of what’s happening begins to sink in.

He stands before you, his gaze never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, your voice shaky.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up in that confident, almost arrogant way that always makes your stomach flutter. “I’m going to demonstrate something for you,” he says, his voice calm and controlled, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “It’s called the lord’s kiss.”

You blink at him, confused. “The … the lord’s kiss?” The words sound strange to your ears, and you have no idea what he means.

Charles’ smirk deepens, and there’s a glint of something dark and heated in his eyes as he watches your confusion. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Before you can respond, he reaches for your legs, his hands firm but gentle as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. Your heart races, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as you try to process what’s happening.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Charles leans in, his hands sliding up your thighs as he positions himself between your legs. The fabric of your gown bunches around your hips, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes it aside.

Your pulse quickens, your body trembling with a mix of nerves and something else — something you don’t quite understand but can’t deny.

He pauses for a moment, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, as if giving you one last chance to stop him. But you don’t. You can’t. You’re too caught up in the moment, too overwhelmed by the intensity of his presence, the way he commands every inch of your attention.

Then, without another word, he lowers his head, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

You gasp, your body jolting at the unexpected sensation, but Charles doesn’t stop. His movements are slow, deliberate, his mouth tracing a path along the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your skin.

“Charles,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you.

He doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, he continues his slow, torturous exploration of your body, his lips and tongue moving with a precision that makes your head spin.

Your body reacts instinctively, your back arching slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he brings you to the edge of something you’ve never felt before.

You’ve never been touched like this, never even imagined that this was something a man could do. And yet, here you are, trembling beneath his touch, your mind a whirlwind of sensations that you can’t even begin to comprehend.

Charles pulls back slightly, his lips hovering just above your skin as he murmurs, “Do you see now?” His voice is low, rough, filled with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. “Do you understand?”

You can’t speak. You can barely think. All you can do is nod, your body trembling, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

He smiles then, a slow, satisfied smile, and before you can catch your breath, he lowers his head again, continuing his demonstration.

The sensations are overwhelming. You’re lost in the world Charles is creating for you, your body alive with a heat and need you never imagined could exist. His lips, his tongue, every movement is precise, deliberate, like he’s playing a well-rehearsed melody on your skin.

The sound that escapes your lips is beyond your control — a high-pitched moan, raw and unrestrained, tearing through the quiet chambers. Your hands twist in the sheets, and you arch into him, trembling beneath his touch.

Charles doesn’t falter. His grip tightens on your thighs, keeping you grounded even as you feel like you might fly apart. He’s relentless, each kiss deeper, more commanding, pulling you into a space where only the two of you exist.

Your moans grow louder, filling the room with a sound that feels almost foreign to your ears. You can’t help it — he’s drawing something out of you, something primal, something you didn’t even know was there.

“Charles,” you gasp, your voice thick with desire and desperation, barely a whisper in the storm of sensation. But he doesn’t stop. His focus remains unbroken, his mouth working you over with a precision that drives you wild.

The tension builds, like a coil tightening inside you, every nerve alight, ready to snap. And then, just as you feel yourself tipping over the edge, the door to the chambers slams open with a sudden, jarring force.

The sound startles you, and your eyes fly open in panic. For a moment, the world blurs around you, your mind struggling to grasp what’s happening, but then you see them — two palace guards, standing in the doorway, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.

“Oh my God!” You yelp, mortified beyond belief, scrambling to pull the covers over yourself, your heart racing for a different reason now.

Charles, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your thighs doesn’t loosen, and he doesn’t lift his face from between your legs. If anything, the intrusion seems to embolden him. His lips move with a newfound intensity, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you that makes your body jerk despite the embarrassment flooding your veins.

“W-we heard shouting, Your Highness!” One of the guards stammers, his face flushed as he averts his eyes. “We thought-”

The other guard clears his throat, equally uncomfortable. “We thought someone was hurt or … or being … shamed.”

You feel your face go up in flames, utterly humiliated. Your hands clutch the sheets to your chest, trying to cover as much of yourself as possible, but Charles … Charles remains exactly where he is, completely unfazed by the situation.

“Charles!” You hiss, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes darting between the guards and him. “Please stop-” But even as you plead, your body betrays you. A fresh wave of pleasure washes over you, and another moan slips from your lips, softer this time, but no less damning.

The guards exchange a look, clearly unsure what to do, their faces red with embarrassment. “Should we — should we call for help?” One of them asks, his voice almost panicked, still refusing to look in your direction.

“No,” Charles growls, finally lifting his head just enough to speak, his voice dark and commanding, but his face remains close to your skin, his breath hot against your thigh. “Leave.”

“But … Your Highness-”

“I said leave,” Charles snaps, his voice low but laced with enough authority to make both guards jump.

They hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether they should follow his command or call for reinforcements. But the look on Charles’ face — sharp, predatory, completely in control — leaves no room for doubt. They turn on their heels and practically stumble over each other as they rush out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Your heart is still racing, your face burning with humiliation. “Charles …” you begin, but your words dissolve into a gasp as his mouth moves against you once again.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice muffled against your skin, his lips brushing your most sensitive spot with a devastating precision. “Don’t think about them. Don’t think about anything but me.” His fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he continues his slow, torturous assault on your senses.

You can’t help it — the moment takes you over again, your body responding to his touch in ways you don’t fully understand. Despite the lingering embarrassment, despite the guards and the intrusion, your body betrays you. You sink back into the pleasure he’s offering, every nerve in your body alive, on fire, as he drives you higher and higher.

“You feel incredible,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and full of that commanding confidence. He’s barely paused, barely stopped his ministrations, but he’s still somehow able to speak to you in that dark, soothing tone that makes your pulse race. “Do you know that? How good you taste … how perfect you are for me?”

His words send another wave of heat rushing through you, your breath catching in your throat. You can feel yourself unraveling, your body trembling beneath his hands as he works you over with a mastery that leaves you gasping for air.

You try to form words, to say something, anything, but all that escapes your lips is a soft, breathless moan. Your hands fist in the sheets, your back arching as you teeter on the edge of something vast and overwhelming.

Charles notices, of course. He always notices. His lips curl into a faint smile against your skin, and he hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I can feel it,” he says, his voice a growl now, low and full of promise. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you trembling for me.”

You nod, unable to speak, unable to think of anything but the pleasure coursing through your veins, the way your body feels like it’s about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his breath hot against you. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You fall, hard and fast, your body shaking as the tension finally snaps, sending you spiraling into a release so intense it leaves you breathless, gasping for air.

Charles doesn’t stop, his mouth moving against you with slow, deliberate strokes, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re trembling and spent, your body weak and boneless beneath him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls back, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watches you, his hands still resting lightly on your thighs.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he says softly, his voice full of that same commanding power that always makes your heart race. “Completely undone … because of me.”

You can’t find the words to respond. All you can do is lie there, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what just happened.

Charles rises to his feet with a grace that seems unfair, considering how your own limbs feel like jelly. He looks down at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that makes your stomach flip.

“You see?” He says softly, his voice smug but also warm, affectionate even. “There’s much more to being a wife than what you knew.”

You can only nod, still too breathless to speak, as you collapse back against the pillows, completely spent.

Charles leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur as he says, “And there’s still so much more to learn.”

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febuwhump · 10 months ago

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FEBUWHUMP 2024 PROMPT LIST

this year's prompts were chosen through a suggestion poll (in which we recevied 2,281 prompts) and a subsequent vote, where over 1,000 people voted for their favourites. the top 29 make up the core prompts, and a mixture of the next most popular - and this blog's personal favourites - have become the alternates

i’m so excited to see what you all create with these prompts, and hope they’re inspiring enough to trigger a whole month’s worth of creativity for you! if you have any questions, please check out the blog's faq before sending an ask, or check out the previously asked questions on the blog!

please note: this year, notifying the blog of completionist status will happen through a google form that will be released closer to the end of febuwhump.

full write-up of prompts and rules under the cut:

FEBUWHUMP 2024 PROMPTS:

DAY 1: helpless

DAY 2: solitary confinement

DAY 3: "bite down on this"

DAY 4: obedience

DAY 5: rope burns

DAY 6: "you lied to me"

DAY 7: suffering in silence

DAY 8: "why won't it stop?"

DAY 9: bees

DAY 10: killing in self defence

DAY 11: time loop

DAY 12: semi-conscious

DAY 13: "you weren't supposed to get hurt"

DAY 14: blood-stained tiles

DAY 15: "who did this to you?"

DAY 16: came back wrong

DAY 17: hostage situation

DAY 18: too weak to move

DAY 19: "please don't"

DAY 20: truth serum

DAY 21: unresponsive

DAY 22: "you weren't meant to be there"

DAY 23: presumed dead

DAY 24: "i'm doing this because i care about you"

DAY 25: waterboarding

DAY 26: "help them"

DAY 27: left for dead

DAY 28: "no... not like this"

DAY 29: not allowed to die

ALTERNATE PROMPTS:

is there a specific day’s prompt you don’t want to fill? here are ten alternatives you can switch them out for!

ALT 1: human shield

ALT 2: "i love you"

ALT 3: found footage

ALT 4: human weapon

ALT 5: cpr

ALT 6: immortality

ALT 7: last words

ALT 8: killing game

ALT 9: lightning strike

ALT 10: last man standing

RULES:

SOFT RULES:

prompts should be answered in the form of whump

creators can produce whatever kind of media they want

you don’t have to complete all the prompts! you can create however much you want to

you can use the prompts after the event ends and can complete them in tandem with any other event

you can post on any platform you want, however this blog will only be sharing those posted on tumblr

if you want to be featured on the hall of fame then you have until the 3rd of March to inform this blog that you completed all the days

if you have questions consult the faq before asking

HARD RULES: (specifically for being featured on the blog)

when uploading febuwhump content to tumblr, please use the tags:

febuwhump (i’ll also be checking febuwhump2024)

the relevant day’s tag e.g. febuwhumpday1, febuwhumpday2…

nsfw (if relevant)

and any trigger warnings that may be important!

you can also tag the blog, @febuwhump

i cannot guarantee your work will be archived on the blog because I have no idea how many participants there will be. a random selection of works tagged in accordance to the rules above will be reblogged every day of february.

#febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump2024 #prompts #whump #whump prompts

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peachsayshi · 1 year ago

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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ dirty diaries

minors / ageless / blank blogs dni - gif by @sleepygetou 💓 (used with permission)

ೃ⁀➷ notes: @sleepygetou im blaming you for this quick drabble

ೃ⁀➷ tags: toji x reader; you convince toji to participate in no nut november; suggestive; mentions of groping; fluff - wc: 539

nov. 1 - 9:22 am

"hold on a second - we aren't allowed to have sex and I can't take care of myself either?!"

you smirk with amusement, scooping another spoonful of creamy ice cream from the tub. you're sitting on the kitchen counter, kicking your legs with intrigue while watching your husband place the last clean dinner dish in the cupboard.

"that's why they call it no nut novemeber," you explain, "you're supposed to be abstaining from sex and any sexual relief. oh, and you can't watch porn. that counts as part of the challenge..."

toji turns on his heel to take a step closer. he presses his body against your legs, dark eyes flickering to the spoon in your hand that you're slowly drawing it to his lips in order to feed him some of your ice cream.

he hums, "and the videos and pictures of you that I have on my phone..." he quips, both hands finding the meat of your thighs as he gives you a gentle squeeze. "does that count too?"

you tap the back of the spoon playfully against his nose, watching him scrunch it like a little kitten in response. "yes, they count..." you lecture, despite your cheeks growing unnervingly hot.

"can I still touch you?"

"you can but...like I said, it can't lead to us having sex or any sexual relief. these same rules will apply to me as well-"

"fuck that," toji scoffs, moving his hands further up until they are resting against your hips.

you stick the spoon back into the ice cream, keeping it place as you use your free hand to trail your finger along his jaw. "why not? you think you're going to lose that easily?"

he pouts; the front of his brows pinching together in annoyance.

if there is one thing about your husband that you know for certain, it's that he won't walk away from a challenge.

"what about kissing?" he grumbles, his cheeks turning pink. "because I'm not starting my day without my good morning kiss..."

you giggle, placing the tub absentmindedly by your side so you can wrap your arms around his neck. "kissing is fine," you sweetly assure him, and follow up by placing a gentle peck on his slightly blushing cheek.

he considers it for a minute before huffing in defeat. "alright, I'll guess give it a go..."

you can't stop smiling over the fact that he looks like a child who just had his favorite toy taken away from him and the expression is far too adorable for you to even handle.

"it'll be an interesting challenge," you prompt, already making bets that the man wouldn't last a week. "I promise I won't push your buttons..."

toji arches his brow, picking up on your playfully condescending tone. the hands against your hips snake their way up underneath his old tee that you're wearing, gliding carefully up along your soft tummy. he holds your gaze, can feel the change in your breath underneath his palms. "looks like we're both in it to win it," he murmurs, the scar at the corner of his uplifting into a sinister grin. he cups your breasts in his hands as he grazes over the buds of your nipples delicately. "I promise I'll be on my best behavior as well then, sweetheart. let's see which one of us caves first."

#toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fluff #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fanfic #toji x female reader #toji fushiguro x female reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfics #jjk fanfics

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lilghostiequinni · 3 months ago

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Cuddles?

Main Masterlist Lando Masterlist

Pairing: Girlfriend!female reader x Lando Norris

Warnings: Fluffy, Established relationship,

Summary: All your boyfriend seems to want is cuddles, even when he's supposed to be working.

Requested: NO / yes

Lando was obsessed with you, with your boobs. He loved using them as pillows but still loved and was obsessed with you.

He loved cuddling you and just having his arms around you because you're always cold, and he's always way too hot.

There was just something about you that he couldn't get enough of.

To find him, people just had to find you because he didn't go very far from your side.

Fans absolutely adored the relationship you had with Lando.

They loved seeing the light in his eyes when he talked about you, or when you were mentioned in a conversation. That light in Lando's eyes was brighter when you were near.

They loved that light even more when Lando was disappointed with race results after his Miami win, because let's be honest it got brighter than any star in the sky when he won with you there to celebrate.

It was never a question on if you were going to be at a GP because it was mentioned many times that Lando hated being parted from you and you hated it just as much.

So when you were unable to attend the Belgium GP through the Azerbaijan GP it was concerning to fans because you never missed a race, but then you did, four in a row.

When Lando was asked about you disappearance from the Belgium and Dutch GPs, he said that you had something to do for work, which no one knew what it was and that you were with him over break so it was okay.

But in Azerbaijan when questioned about your absence he said that you were seriously only working because you had a real job that was relatively demanding.

When a cake was posted on Lando's Instagram account reading "Big Boobs, Big Heart," with the next photo being you at his hotel in Singapore, fans couldn't have been more over joyed.

On media day, Lando was asked about the cake and he explained that it was something you said and the team wanted to get you a cake for being back for the first time in months and he got to pick out the cake because he knew you the best.

It was like you were his lucky charm because he won the Singapore GP, dedicating it to you.

He pulled you over the barrier and it was the first time in months that people had seen your hands, because when the camera caught the moment, you showed your engagement ring to the whole world on international television.

A/N: A poll one-shot, it was tied for second/third with Oscar

Tags: @poppyflower-22 @samantha-chicago @barcelonaloverf1life @tallrock35 @ellen3101 @llando4norris @mcmuppet @issi-loves-dannyric @hellothere9597

If you want to be removed from a tag list, let me know so I don't keep tagging you. If you are striked through, I don't know if you want to be tagged, but just let me know if you want me to continue or stop

#f1 #formula 1 #ln4 #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #mclaren #lando imagine #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x oc #lando norris x you #lando x reader

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inkskinned · 2 years ago

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i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i'm in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.

i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i'm 30, and i'm having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.

what they don't tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don't know what i'm fucking doing, because i always assumed i'd just go ahead and die. i didn't die, and i'm grateful for that, and i'm very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that's my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that's ocd.

so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you're, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don't have any sick days left, and a job's not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it's also like - it's yours, so you're fond of it.

and it's like - you're real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you're not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you're not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you've learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and yeah sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you're trying. even if you're never gonna be normal, you have something... close enough.

and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it's saying i trust you now. you won't give me up.

#does this even MAKE SENSE!!!!!#writeblr #btw what im trying to express in that first sentence is EXPLICITLY the feeling of logging off therapy to immediately go back to work #like :) haha!

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mothandpidgeon · 6 months ago

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Unrequited (bfd! pre-outbreak!/Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader)

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

pairing: bfd! pre-outbreak!/Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

rating: E 18+MDNI

summary: You arrive in Jackson 22 years after the outbreak only to be reunited with your best friend’s dad, the man that stole your heart and broke it when you were fourteen– Joel Miller.

contents: best friend's dad, age gap, outbreak night (nothing that isnt in ep 1), big angst, abandonment issues, brief suicidal ideation, daddy issues, grief, Joel guilt, unprotected p in v sex, reader doesn't know where Jakarta is, reader is not described physically but Joel picks (adult) reader up, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 9k

a/n: This has been a bitch to finish but I'm quite proud of where it ended up. It's the longest os I've written which makes me nervous nobody will want to read it but I hope you do.

Thank you a million times to @ezrasbirdie for making me finish this and betaing. Also thank you @lowlights for listening to me ramble on this! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Old man, take a look at your life. I’m a lot like you. Neil Young

You’re waiting for Sarah on the front steps when she gets home. School ended nearly two hours ago and you’ve been sitting here a ball of nerves. The whole world seems to be uneasy this afternoon. You notice sirens, a team of fighter jets scrambling above. It's like your anxiety has spilled out of your chest and it’s taken life all around you.

You finger the corner of your notebook. On the inside are doodles— hearts and bubble letters. Juvenile daydreams put to paper. Your first name and after it his last, testing out the sound of who you would be if only you’d been born in a different decade. Mrs. Miller.

Sarah doesn’t look very happy to see you. It’s been two weeks since you’ve talked to her and you’ve never felt more lonely.

Her words still ring in your ears.

“It’s like you’re in love with my dad.”

“No I'm not!” you said, your whole body tingling with the heat of embarrassment. You’d never felt so exposed in your life.

“Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you’re even friends with me,” she said.

You've been ruminating on that accusation ever since. You pine for Mr. Miller the way only a fourteen year old can. It’s the kind of infatuation that makes you understand how Romeo and Juliet ended in tragedy. All-consuming, unrequited, so in love it hurts.

So maybe Sarah’s right. Your heart flutters every time Mr Miller appears in the kitchen, wearing a dark t-shirt that hugs his biceps. You try not to stare at his aquiline nose when he drives you home from Sarah’s soccer games. Sleep overs at the Miller’s house mean more opportunities to be around him, learn the little details that make him him. And there were plenty of sleep overs because your parents are always so busy fighting, they never bother to keep track of you.

But you’ve been in agony without your friend. It’s a pain sharper and more present than the yearning you’ve felt for Mr. Miller. You’ve talked to her every day since you moved to Austin in fourth grade and since this fight, there’s been an empty space in your heart.

“Hi.” You stand up, hoisting your backpack awkwardly over your shoulder.

“I’m supposed to go next door,” Sarah says.

“Can I just talk to you for a minute?” you ask.

She sighs but opens the front door with her key and lets you follow her into the living room.

“I’m sorry,” you say before you lose your nerve. “You’re right. I like your dad.”

It’s probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever owned up to. You wish you could explain to her that you know how silly it is to be in love with a full grown man, your best friend’s dad. It’s not like he’ll ever see you as anything other than a kid.

You can’t put into words how he makes you feel. It’s not just his broad shoulders or chocolate eyes, though it’s undeniable that he’s gorgeous. He asks about school and comes to see you in the musical. Joel is an adult that actually gives a crap about you.

You want to tell Sarah that one of the reasons you love her father so much is because of her. Because he’s such a good dad, because he raised such a cool, funny, smart daughter. That Sarah makes him better.

It’ll take years for you to find words for all of that. So you just do your best right now.

“I can’t help it. I wish I could,” you say.

That’s true. And not just because your crush has made you lose your only friend. It’s exhausting to feel such a powerful longing, to want something you know you’ll never have. It’s torture.

“But you’re my best friend. And that’s not why. I promise,” you say.

Sarah sighs heavily, her pretty hazel eyes full of remorse.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just get jealous sometimes.”

“I promise I won’t make you feel that way ever again. I could never like him more than you,” you tell her, sitting beside her on the couch and looking her in the eye so she knows you mean it. “He’s…old.”

You both laugh.

“He’s so lame. This morning he said that Jakarta is in the Middle East,” she giggles.

You don’t know where the hell Jakarta is but of course Sarah does. You throw your arms around her. You’ve missed her so damn much. The past two weeks have felt like two decades.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her.

“Me too.” She returns your embrace. “Do you have to go home? You can sleep over if you want. It’s my dad’s birthday but I don’t think he’s going to be home until late.”

Your heart twinges at the offer and not because it means you might see Mr. Miller at breakfast. You won’t even look at him again. Tonight is about your friend.

You end up watching some corny action movies and gorging yourselves on microwave popcorn. Everything feels right again. You don’t think about Mr. Miller. In fact, you’re grateful that his double has gone over into a late night so you don’t have to be in the same room. You’ve sworn to yourself that you’ll act normal around him but you’re not sure that sheer willpower can stop you from getting butterflies when he’s right there.

At some point, you pass out in front of the tv, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

Sarah nudges you awake sometime after midnight, concern all over her face.

“Was I snoring?” you ask, groggy.

She’s looking out the window. Helicopters fly so low overhead, the whole house rattles. It’s a wonder you slept through all of this noise— the choppers are joined by the wail of a car alarm, pops like fireworks. The TV is playing a high-pitched tone and when you peer at it, you see a test pattern on the screen.

Dread settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Something’s going on,” Sarah says almost to herself.

A sudden thud against the back door makes you both jump. You swear, shaken out of your sleepy haze.

“Mercy?” Sarah asks.

You’ve spent enough time with Sarah to become acquainted with their neighbors The Adlers and their border collie Mercy. Mr Adler used to pay you each a dollar to walk him. Mercy’s frantically pawing at the glass.

Sarah goes to the door and steps into the yard. You follow, unsure you want to leave the familiar safety of the house but unwilling to be alone with such an eerie feeling in the air.

“What’re you doing out here, boy?” Sarah says, crouching down to pet the whimpering animal.

“Where’s your dad?” you ask her.

You hope the question doesn’t make Sarah think you’ve already forgotten your promise. Everything’s just so wrong. You’d feel a lot better with an adult around.

“Don’t think he came home yet,” she says. You can hear the concern in her voice. “Let’s take Mercy back. The Alder’s will be home.”

Mercy puts up a fight as Sarah pulls him across the lawn. It’s late and dark save the street lamp and a few porch lights that have been left on. You shiver despite the fact that it’s a warm southern night.

The front door to the Adler’s house stands open and inside is black. No. Bad. You want to run back to the Miller’s house and lock the door behind you but the promise of Mr. And Mrs. Adler inside keeps you moving towards the darkened entrance. Maybe Mrs. Adler will give you some cookies while you wait for Mr. Miller.

Sarah steps in first. The dog bucks and strains against her grip on his collar. Sarah fights to keep hold of him but Mercy’s thrashing makes him hard to pin down. He pulls free from Sarah’s grasp and darts away.

You have half a mind to do the same but Sarah keeps going forward. She’s scared, too, her breaths shallow as she tip toes down the hall.

“Mrs. Adler?” Sarah asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You reach for each other without even realizing it and you enter the kitchen holding hands.

What you see there is beyond your wildest imaginings. There’s blood, a lot of it. Sarah’s shoe slides in the stuff and you grab her before she loses her balance. The room is cast in shadows but a street light streams through the window in the side door. Its beam falls over the form of Mr. Adler, limp on the floor. His back is against the door and a gush of dark blood sparkles in the sodium vapor.

You’ve never seen so much blood, never seen anyone injured so brutally. It looks like he’s been attacked by some wild animal. Mercy was acting strange but the dog couldn’t do that.

“Help me,” he rasps.

He’s speaking to you. You’re actually here. This is happening and you need to do something.

But before you can form a coherent thought, your eyes travel deeper into the kitchen. Beside the island is more blood…and more bodies.

As if seeing Sarah’s neighbor with his neck ripped open wasn’t enough of a horror, you’re now watching Nana hunched over Mrs. Adler’s corpse, her face buried in the younger woman’s neck. The scene before you makes no sense. Most of the time the old woman is barely conscious, hasn’t left her wheelchair in years and yet she’s on all fours before you looking feral.

Sarah squeezes your hand so tight you’re afraid your knuckles will break.

Nana slowly raises her face to you. Her eyes are pitch black and her mouth teems with twitching tendrils. You are staring at a living, breathing monster.

When she leaps at you, you and Sarah bolt for the door. Your heart hammers against your ribs. Sarah makes it out first and races towards the sidewalk.

Once you’ve gotten onto the front step, you slam the storm door shut behind you to trap whatever that thing is inside. SLAM. Nana collides with the door and it rattles violently. You hold it closed with every ounce of strength in you, listening to the creature behind it scratch and wail and willing yourself not to look through the glass to see its horrible face. Terror holds your muscles taught. You’re not sure how long you can stay like this, your sneakers skidding across the ground.

With a roar, Uncle Tommy’s truck pulls up at that very moment and Mr. Miller hops out of the passenger seat before its even come to a full stop. He’s a fearsome sight, broad and rippling with untamed energy, his muscular arms outlined by the headlights of the car. You’ve never been more grateful for his presence.

This nightmare is almost over. Joel’s come to save you.

“Girls get in the car!” he bellows. His voice is raw and ragged.

Just as you’re ready to make a run for it, The door flings out towards you, and you’re thrown aside as if you weigh nothing. You hit the driveway hard, your head connecting with concrete.

For a moment, you can’t hear anything but the gush of blood pumping in your ears. You’re dizzy. Suffocating. There’s a warm trickle at your temple. Sarah calls your name. Your vision is blurred but you can make out the ghoulish form of the creature barreling towards her.

“What’re we doing, Joel?” you hear Tommy ask.

There’s a thud and then quiet.

You gasp again and again but your lungs won’t fill.

Are you dying? Help. You need help. The monster lays lifeless at Joel’s feet and you pray that he’ll scoop you up and take you away from this. Your eyes finally come into focus to see Mr. Miller comforting Sarah, holding her face in his big palms, so fixated on her that he doesn’t notice that Mr. Adler has appeared in the doorway.

Mr. Adler is still covered in so much blood and his gait has become twitchy as if his legs are on backwards. He moves towards them and you want to call out a warning but you’re still choking for air. Luckily he hasn’t noticed you but he soon stands between you and the Millers.

“We’ve got to move,” Tommy says.

“Get in the car,” Mr. Miller says to Sarah, throwing a protective arm in front of her.

“But she’s hurt!”

She steps towards you. You’d cry her name but you’ve still got the wind knocked out of you and you’re too terrified to make a noise. Mr. Adler makes an inhuman sound as he advances, a croaking, growling gurgle.

Mr. Miller pushes Sarah towards the truck.

“Leave her!” he barks. “Get in the car!”

You sputter and choke as you watch Sarah, Joel, and Tommy drive away.

You wait for a long time.

As the truck pulls off of the curb, Mr. Adler is joined by his wife in the street, making chase. You’re finally able to draw breath and rouse your body off of the ground. You scramble back across the lawn to the Miller’s house and lock yourself inside. There’s enough adrenaline coursing through you that you’re able to push the sofa to barricade the front door. You draw all of the curtains and grab the biggest knife you can find in the kitchen. It’s ridiculous, something you’ve seen in scary movies, but you’re living in one right now.

You hide yourself away. Sarah’s bedroom seems like the obvious place to do it. Familiar and safe. You curl yourself into a ball in the corner, clutching your knife and staring at the closed door with wild eyes.

Sirens go through the night. Gunshots. At one point even the roar of a jet engine.

For hours your body quivers as you try to make sense of what you’ve just witnessed. Flesh-eating mutants. Gore. Death. You keep waiting to wake up from a bad dream but you don’t. They left you. They abandoned you in a nightmare.

No. That’s impossible. You can accept that a comatose elderly woman made supper out of her son in law but you refuse to believe that Joel would desert you.

He’ll come back for you. Sarah will convince him. There’s always been room for you in their family.

But as the sun begins to peek through the blinds and the noises outside fade away, you begin to lose hope.

The muscles in your body go slack, exhausted from hours of uncontrollable shaking. Your instinct for survival and your need for sleep war with each other. Exhaustion is winning.

You cautiously open the door to Sarah’s room. The house is still, more quiet than you’ve ever experienced. You creep into the room at the end of the hall. The olive green sheets on Joel’s bed are still messy from when he woke up here the day before. A normal morning. His birthday.

You rest the knife on the night stand amongst the things he emptied from his pockets— coins, receipts, a stray nail. You slip into the bed and wrap yourself up. It smells like him— spicy deodorant and sweat, fresh cut lumber like the hardware store. The scent reminds you of all those times he was close, when your heart leapt.

They’ll come back. Mr. Miller wouldn’t leave you.

He left you to die but you just go on living.

It takes some time before you’re brave enough to leave the Miller’s house and see what’s left of the world. Your parents are nowhere to be found. It’s safe to assume they were infected that first night.

You’re on your own.

A QZ is set up outside of San Antonio. They assign you to housing for separated minors. An orphanage. You never make friends, not really. Trust is too fickle.

At night you lay in your bunk and wonder what life would be like if anybody gave a shit about you. Maybe you would have been with your parents when it all went down. You’d be a snarling monster but at least you wouldn’t be alone.

On the worst nights, when you like yourself the least, Mr. Miller’s words echo around your skull. “Leave her.” She's not worth it. Forget her.

You don’t imagine yourself in his arms anymore. Instead you picture him and Sarah and Uncle Tommy, all happy and safe hiding out somewhere idyllic. A sweet little cabin with a stream nearby, surrounded by peaceful woods. You’ve heard some people live like that.

Some days you wish you were with them. Others you wish they were all dead.

When you turn 18, you age out of your living situation. It couldn’t come soon enough. Things are changing and it seems like all the kids that stay in FEDRA school are being groomed to go straight into uniform. You dodged that bullet but life’s not easy. Now you’re well and truly alone, scraping by to keep food in your mouth and a roof over your head.

It only lasts a few years, though. By the time you’re 21, there’s an emergency evacuation. Outbreaks are happening within the walls and with so many people living on top of each other, it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan. They send swaths of people to Dallas but word is, there’s no room for such numbers and they consider everyone from San Antonio an infection risk.

You’ve heard enough stories to know what that means. There won’t be a warm welcome when you reach the next QZ. So you ditch the convoy and head north.

You bounce around for years, sometimes with others, a lot of time solo. Doing what you have to. It’s not a life, just survival.

By the time you reach the wilds of Wyoming, you’ve had enough. You break off from the group you’re traveling with. You leave them this time, just decide to walk into the forest and let the earth swallow you up. You’re exhausted, sick of hanging on by a thread. Too much of a coward to kill yourself, you wander around waiting for the cold or your hunger or a bear to do it for you.

They find you. Some scouts that look mean and tough take pity on you and offer you a place with them in a commune where things are half normal.

It’s the first time being alone has worked to your advantage.

Jackson is a strange place. It has walls like the QZ but it’s quaint. There’s laughter and evergreen wreaths, happy children that build snowmen in the center of town. Some of these kids have no idea how fucked up the world has become. All they know is this charming little haven.

You spend the first few days in the infirmary, getting patched up, regaining your strength. You feel like an animal compared to the people in your new community. It’s hard to accept that they’re willing to help you, no strings attached.

Eventually you’re well enough to have your own place. They set you up with a little apartment over one of the stores in town. You’re invited to take your meals in the dining hall.

It takes you back to those first days at your new middle school after you came to Austin. Unfortunately, this time Sarah’s not there to offer you a seat at her lunch table.

You keep to yourself, overwhelmed by all of the strange new faces. Head down, you eat your breakfast. It’s the best food you’ve had in years. As your belly fills, you start to relax and try to get used to the idea of this being home.

Then you hear a familiar voice say your name. You wonder if you’re hallucinating when you see him standing in front of you.

He’s gained a few decades but he looks good. His hair is nearly shoulder length and there’s a mustache on his upper lip but that’s him alright.

“Uncle Tommy?” you manage.

“That really you?” he asks.

Tommy puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. His smile wrinkles the corners of his eyes. You nod and you’re smiling too.

You expect to be upset. Tommy was there when you were abandoned after all. But you’re flooded with relief and a small flame of hope.

“Shit. What’re the chances?” he asks, studying your face. “C’mere.”

He pulls you through the lines of tables. Your head spins with questions. How did he end up in Wyoming of all places? How long has he been here? Did you actually die out there only to be sent to this strange afterlife?

“You remember this old son of a bitch?” Tommy asks with a chuckle when he stops at the table in a far corner.

And suddenly you’re face to face with Mr. Miller.

He’s old. Grey hairs run through his stubble and curl from his temple. There are deep lines in his face. He’s still good looking despite how weathered his features have become, still broad, still with that wonderful silhouette.

It’s funny. In your mind’s eye, you’ve never imagined Joel aging. He stayed the same while you grew up.

He looks at you for a long moment and then his thick bottom lip falls agape. His eyes glitter and his dimple appears as he recognizes the woman that you’ve become.

“Kiddo,” he whispers as he stands up.

He pulls you into a hug and his wide palm smooths down your back. He still smells just how you remember and without warning you’re sobbing into the front of his flannel.

You spent hours upon hours imagining what you might say if you ever saw him again. Sometimes it was a speech biting with venom, others a confession, a question. Now, though, your mind is blank, overwhelmed that fate has brought you back together. A testament to your survival.

“It’s alright, babygirl. You’re okay,” he says into your hair. Words you needed to hear all those years ago.

You stay like this for a long time, surrounded by him. He holds you the way you wished he had as you cried into his pillow in that empty house. Eventually you pull yourself together with a shaking breath.

“Where’s Sarah?” you ask, casting your eyes around the crowd in the mess hall.

There’s a girl sitting beside Joel, her curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, watching this scene unfold. Everyone else is polite enough to pretend you’re not bawling in the middle of lunch. Can’t be the first time it’s happened.

At your question, Tommy goes stone faced. The muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Infected?” you squeak out.

“It wasn’t like that,” Joel chokes.

“She didn’t make it through that first night,” Tommy says.

It’s a punch in the gut, the air’s knocked out of your chest all over again. While it had crushed you to be abandoned, part of you understood. Joel had to choose and he picked his daughter. Even if he’d been in love with you the way you used to dream about, he always would have chosen Sarah. You couldn’t hold that against him, no matter how much it hurt. There just wasn’t anyone in the world that would have saved you.

But knowing that he failed her, that he failed you both, makes you sick. All those years of bitterness come flooding back to you and your tears turn hot and furious.

“You let her die?” you demand. “You told her to leave me behind and you didn’t even save her?” You push Joel, your hands against the wet spots you left on his shirt. It’s ineffectual. He barely moves against your pathetic shove but his face crumples. You know he hates himself as much as you do in that moment but that’s not enough. You hit him as hard as you can and he does nothing to defend himself.

“Hey, hey,” Tommy says, trying a hand on your shoulder.

“You should’ve saved her,” you bark.

Heads have turned now as Tommy holds you back.

“I hoped you were dead every day since you left me,” you say.

You can see on his face that Joel’s definitely wished the same thing.

You go on berating him, your tears mixing with spit as you snarl and shout, until Tommy’s able to wrestle you out of the dining hall.

The summer comes. After a long, cold winter, everyone in Jackson welcomes the change of seasons with open arms. Everyone but Joel.

Ellie was a salve for the deep wounds on his heart. They’ll never fully heal but at least they stopped overwhelming him for some time. Since your dramatic reunion, though, those scars have been torn open once more. Especially today.

It’s warm and there’s barely a cloud in the sky. The July weather is mild compared to summers in Texas. Fresh air blows in through the open windows of the house, beckoning Joel outside but he has no desire to be in the sunshine.

“You okay?” Ellie asks.

She’s just come down the stairs. It’s early and Joel’s already at the kitchen table. Didn’t sleep much.

He and Ellie have been together long enough that she understands the wordless shifts in his moods. They’ve gotten worse since you arrived in Jackson. He does his work and patrols, sometimes he nurses a whiskey alone at the bar. The rest of the time he keeps to himself. He’s sliding back towards the man she met back in Boston. Joel’s rebuilt the walls that surrounded him, brick by brick since that afternoon in the dining hall.

“I was going to meet Dina at the mess. Want to come? Or I could stick around?” she offers.

It’s going to be one of those dark days, the kind that makes him question why he’s been hanging on for so long, and Ellie knows it. She’s giving him a lifeline, offering to be with him so he doesn’t have to ask. He should accept it, but he doesn’t want to waste his energy putting on a brave face for her when he feels so broken.

“That’s alright, Ellie. Go on,” he says.

She doesn’t push him. She never does. She just gives a sympathetic smile before she slips out.

Once seems gone, his heart begins to ache.

Sometime later, there’s a knock at the door. The last person he expects to see on the porch is you. You look a little nervous, like if he’d taken longer to come to the door you might’ve bolted.

He hasn’t spoken to you since that day that you came back into his life but the words you said play relentlessly on loop in his mind. He should have made amends by now. You were his daughter’s best friend and of all the places at the end of the world, you’ve ended up in the same town. He passes by the old pharmacy you live above just about every day, thinks about seeing if you’re in so you can have a conversation. He even knows what he’d say, but he can’t work up the courage. There aren’t any words that can make right what he did to you.

The guilt metastasized deep in his gut. His failure compounded.

So he doesn’t blame you for keeping your distance, avoiding him when your paths cross. He lets you be angry with him, as he deserves.

“Want some company?” you ask.

He recognizes the look on your face and it dawns on him that he might not be the only person struggling today. He steps aside to let you in.

Joel sets a cup of tea down in front of you. It’s not the real thing. Dried herbs from the garden Maria keeps. You’ve taken a seat across from him at the table, glancing around the kitchen so you don’t have to look at him.

“Surprised you remember,” he says.

“My best friend’s birthday?”

He shrugs as he pulls up a chair across from you. “Was a long time ago.”

“I think you underestimate the power of female friendships.”

You wear a soft smile that makes Joel’s heart ache a little harder. He takes a good look at you, seeing you up close for the first time. There are hints of the girl he knew back in Austin but she’s buried under years of hard living.

You’re the same age Sarah would have been today. The same age he was when he lost everything.

You sigh and scratch awkwardly at your neck.

“Listen, I’m sorry about…all that shit I said. It’s…” you trail off and he’s sure you’re still mad at him, deep down.

“I reckon I’m the one that owes an apology. I shouldn’t’ve left you back there. Sarah begged me not to,” he admits. “I was trying to keep her safe. But I fucked that up, too.”

“That’s not true. I was just angry,” you tell him.

“I was always so pissed at your parents for not caring enough about you. Turns out I was just as bad,” he says.

He hadn’t given any thought to the choice he made all those years ago. His priority was his family and he had no room for the rest of humanity. Joel didn’t realize until he saw your face again just how selfish that had made him. The past months he’s been haunted by the thought of it, a young thing all alone in the chaos. If Sarah’s watching over him, which sometimes he hopes she is, she’d be ashamed.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think since I got here and…I don’t blame you. I’m not your kid. It just—“ You laugh without humor. “God, it’s so stupid but I had a huge crush on you.”

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up. You fiddle with the chipped handle on your mug.

“I know. I was just a kid but I was head over heels for you,” you say.

Joel can feel himself blushing. It’s a sweet thought. He’s honored in a strange way. He remembers the gravity of Sarah’s crushes– Leonardo DiCaprio, Usher, some guy with a lip ring from one of those punk bands she listened to.

“So when you left me…I was a little heart broken.”

“Shit,” Joel says.

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. I just wanted you to know why I was so hurt,” you tell him, leaning forward in your seat. “You didn’t know any of that. And it’s not fair to hang that over your head. It wasn’t your job to rescue me.”

“Course it was,” Joel responds. “You were just a kid. I let you down.”

You look at him gratefully and a tear slips down your cheek. It takes a minute for you to fully take that in and it seems like something you’ve needed to hear.

“Joel. I forgive you,” you tell him.

A thick knot forms in his throat.

There’s a litany of names in his mind, so many people he’s failed. Henry and Sam. Tess. Sarah. He’s never expected to be absolved of any of his sins, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven. But those three words make him feel lighter, like he can stop beating himself up. At least for a moment.

He tucks his chin into his chest trying to keep his own tears from spilling over. Your hand slips over his, a gentle, reassuring touch.

The two of you stay like that for a little while, crying together, then becoming reacquainted. You talk for a long time. There’s a lot of catching up to do but the conversation keeps coming back to Sarah. It’s a gift to share memories of her, to hear stories that he’s never heard. You knew Sarah better than anyone in the world— her favorite store in the mall, what she wanted for her birthday. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears. No fourteen year old goes to her daddy with her problems. You were there for her, though. Right up until the end.

“I, um, you should have this,” you say. “Well, it’s yours.”

You and Joel have migrated to the couch in the living room as the afternoon has crept on. You reach into your back pocket, a little reluctant, and pull something out.

It’s a photograph, dog eared and creased from years of being carried with you. Joel recognizes the picture— you and him and Sarah, all three of you donning life jackets, smiling as you float on a calm river. He and Tommy took Sarah kayaking and she asked if you could tag along. It was a wonderful day. Blue, cloudless sky.

The last time he saw the photo it was hanging under a magnet on the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“How’d…”

“I stayed in your house for a while. After. Just kind of hoping you might come back. I took that when I left. And I ate all your food,” you say with a little chuckle. You wipe some snot from your nose. “I guess…well, you probably don’t have a lot of pictures of her.”

You’re right. There was an outdated school photograph in his wallet when they left that night and it had been too painful to look at for years. It still stings a little but it feels easier to share with someone, someone that knew her so well.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod. “I know where to find it.”

He props the picture up on the coffee table so you can both look at it and meditate on that day when everything felt so perfect.

“Remember we made you play “Crazy in Love” on on repeat the whole way there?” you ask.

“I still get that goddamn song stuck in my head,” he complains.

You laugh and rest your head on his shoulder. The familiar gesture cracks something open inside of him. He’s taken back to his favorite nights when he’d watch a movie with Sarah and she’d cuddle against him. Somehow the memory doesn’t hurt as much as he anticipates.

You sit like that, looking at the picture, both quiet, your smiles fading as you remember what’s happened since.

“Sometimes I think I see her,” he chokes.

He’s never told anyone that. But it seems like you might understand, He trusts you won’t meet his admission with a pitying smile.

“How’s she look?” you ask.

He can’t help but chuckle. He nods.

You don’t say anything, you just burrow your head a little deeper into him. Joel puts a gentle kiss in your hair.

You’re a fixture in the Miller house once again, part of the family. You babysit for Maria and tell her embarrassing stories about Tommy. You and Ellie tease Joel relentlessly. You sit with him in the evenings, sometimes singing along when he pulls out his guitar, other nights neither of you speak at all.

Slowly, you find yourself falling in love with him all over again. It’s not the same infatuation you harbored when you were young. You’re both different people. And you hardly knew him back then. Not really. What did a fourteen year old know about grown men?

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm. After being alone for such a long time, it’s magical to have a companion. Joel seems grateful for the company, too. He’s there whenever you turn around, like a promise. He’s not leaving you behind even if you’re just going from the stables to the library.

Neither of you acknowledge it, this easy rapport. A light squeeze on your shoulder, holding your hand when you get misty eyed. He probably doesn’t mean anything by it but you’re pretty sure you can’t live without it. You bask in the sweetness of these exchanges, trying not to think too hard about the fact that you used to spend Saturday nights giggling on his daughter’s bedroom floor.

He’s still Mr. Miller, after all.

Autumn comes and you’re inseparable. You realize just how much when you convince him to attend the children’s choir performance in town. You expect him to demure. Watching kids being kids must be painful. But he’s by your side in the dining hall as the little ones sing “Clementine” and “Oh Susanna”.

He puts his arm around your shoulder so you can lean into him. It might just be a paternal gesture, maybe you’re still a little girl in his eyes. That’s ok with you if he keeps absentmindedly massaging your upper arm. You can’t remember the last time you felt so safe, so loved.

Afterwards, he walks you home and you’re in such a good mood, you start singing to yourself.

“Johnny Cash,” he says approvingly.

You laugh to yourself. “You know, I started listening to him ‘cause of you. You had his CD in your truck,” you admit.

You wanted to like all of the things Joel liked. He would think you were so interesting and grown up because you knew all the words to “Riders in the Sky.”

“Least I was a good influence,” Joel says, shaking his head, his cheeks turning pink.

He’s so handsome when he blushes, you feel a little giddy when you come to stop in front of the old pharmacy.

“G’night, darlin’,” he says, giving your hand one last squeeze.

He waits. He’ll stand here and watch you get inside like he always does. He doesn’t need to— it’s not like people even lock their doors in Jackson— but he’s insisted on it so fervently that you stopped arguing.

You shouldn’t do it. It’s so silly. But there’s a softness in his eyes and his gentle touch still tingles on your arm. His salt and pepper hair is caught in the string lights that line the empty street. You can’t help yourself.

You kiss him, smoothing your palms up the front of his flannel until you sink your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck. The tip of his nose is cold from the chill in the evening air but his lips are warm and sweet.

You haven’t had a whole lot of experience kissing. You’d just started doing it when the outbreak happened and things haven’t been very romantic since. This is one of the better ones. Relatively chaste but unbearably tender. Certainly better than you could have imagined all those years ago.

It lasts longer than you expect. Joel kisses you back. He rests his hand on your waist and the way it covers so much of your back makes you swoon. Soon, though, he’s pulling away, cradling your cheek.

“We shouldn’t do that,” he says.

“I know,” you sigh. You’re reluctant to break away, savoring the brush of his nose against yours.

It’s all wrong but you’re not ashamed for trying it.

“Just once. I’ve always wanted to,” you say.

He presses his lips into your forehead. It feels bittersweet. A kiss you longed for for twenty years came and went.

You wave to him from the door before you go in for the night.

That kiss confirms Joel’s fears.

He’s spent months convincing himself that this is completely platonic. He would never have feelings for his daughter’s best friend. Even if he always wants to be around you.

He’s looking after you, comforting you, protecting you. He’s making up for those years that he made you suffer through. You forgave him but he’ll never stop atoning.

And then you kissed him.

Suddenly, he’s buried in an avalanche of thoughts he’s been disavowing.

You’re pretty and soft. You're strong and you ease the pain of his memories. You make him feel a little less alone.

The warmth of your lips, your body pressed to his. He was ready to lose himself in you.

That’s when he heard it.

It was Sarah’s voice chiding him with all the reasons why this is wrong.

She’s been in his head, his inner critic since the day she died, pointing out every failure and weakness in him. He could picture her looking down on him with disgust. She’s the same age as your daughter. She was just a kid when you met her. She deserves better than you.

He’s making the same mistake as before, letting his instinct get the better of him. The responsible part of him takes control. He can’t give you any more reasons to try and kiss him again.

If Joel is good at one thing it’s denying himself.

He backs off and you can sense it, he knows you do. Sometimes he catches you looking at him and there’s a longing in your eye. It fucking kills him but it’s just another reason why he’s no good for you.

Despite whatever it does to you, you haven’t got anybody else in Jackson so you stick around. He can only imagine how much it hurts you.

“Why did I go north?” you complain when Joel opens the front door. You’re holding a scarf tight around your neck, shivering against the cold. The sky is a dismal shade of gray, snowfall on the horizon.

Joel gets you in the house with a chuckle. He starts a fire, a luxury you little apartment doesn’t afford. You shiver in front of the hearth.

“Traded for this,” you say, pulling a thick book out of your coat and tossing it onto the coffee table.

“Oh good. I was looking for some light reading material,” Ellie quips from her spot on the couch.

“It’s a dictionary,” you explain, “so you’ll quit cheating at Boggle.”

“You're in trouble now,” Joel laughs.

“I don’t cheat. I just know more words than you guys,” she says.

“Dentment is not a word,” you reply.

“Neither is thoard,” Joel says.

“Sure it is. I’m about to thoard the two of you in this game,” she says.

This should be enough. A winter day by the fire. The simple joy of a board game. Laughter. This is practically a normal life.

But each time Joel’s eyes fall on you, there’s a pang in his chest. You’re just close enough that he could reach out and touch you but he won’t. He can’t.

When the sun sets, Ellie retreats to her room. Eventually, you fall asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a quilt as the fire dies down. You look even younger, curled up serenely. There’s no worry on your brow. Usually your face is in a perpetual frown even when you’re not in a mood.

The snow is already knee deep with no signs of slowing. There’s no sense in sending you back out there.

Joel scoops you up as gently as he can. He feels his age, back straining, but he doesn’t mind. He enjoys how you nestle your face into his chest as he mounts the stairs, warm and snug in his arms. A smile pulls at his lips.

He sets you down carefully on his bed and you whimper groggily at the loss of his touch. Your eyes crack open.

“Snowing pretty bad. Sleep here. I’ll be on the couch,” he whispers.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He hesitates. Carrying you to bed was already crossing a line. He’s not worried about keeping his hands to himself. He’s been able to control himself for this long. If he lays down next to you, feeling you warming his sheets, smelling the peppermint soap on your skin, he’ll be so far gone for you, there’ll be no coming back.

But denying you this simple request feels cruel. He imagines you waking up here all alone. You’re half asleep but what if you remember asking him to remain only to be abandoned again?

He gets into bed, still fully clothed and careful to stay on his side. His jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. You give a satisfied hum and sink back into sleep, your body melting into the mattress.

Joel watches you for a moment, fights the urge to put a kiss on your forehead. He crosses his arms and stares at the ceiling, beginning to tangle with the web of emotions that accompany you. Once it gets too confusing, he drifts off as well.

When you reach out for him in your sleep, he can’t deny you. Joel tries his hardest to pretend it doesn’t feel good, that this isn’t something he’s wanted to do. So he imagines the nightmares that come to you. Reminds himself that you wouldn’t have seen any of that shit if he hadn’t left you for dead. Now that you're in his arms, he’ll make sure nothing touches you ever again. The least he can do is hold you and make sure it goes no further.

You both find reasons that you should stay the night. Neither of you acknowledge it. Joel just hands you one of his t-shirts and busies himself as you slip out of your clothes and get under the covers. It’s all rather innocent, Joel does more than rub your back even though you sometimes feel his morning wood through his sweatpants. If he wants you, he doesn’t let himself have you. And he could.

It’s fine with you if cuddling is all this is. You don’t try to do anything more than that, unwilling to upset the unspoken agreement between you. You can be satisfied with a broad, firm chest to rest your back against. Sleep is better beside him, his heart beats guiding your own. The weight of his arm draped across you makes your body feel deliciously heavy.

After a while, though, it happens.

Joel’s having a nightmare. His murmurs and restless movements wake you. His mouth twitches and his brow is creased. You smooth circles into his shoulder until his eyes open. Even in the darkness you can see the despair in them.

He blinks, coming back to reality, remembering he’s not wherever his dreams took him. You brush your fingers through his hair, gazing at one another as his breaths even out. Normally, his age is obvious– the lines in his forehead, the sun spots on his cheek– yet right now he looks young. Like a boy that needs to sleep with a night light.

You’re not sure who initiates but you find each other in the dark. At first he’s not kissing you at all, his lips are just brushing your cheek or your nose. It’s sweet and gentle. You try to hold in a moan, worried that any noise might shatter this moment.

The kisses are timid as if you’re both waiting for someone to stop this. Joel lets out a shuddering breath against you. This is a bad idea, you’re both thinking it. After you kissed him the last time, he held you at arms length. When this blows up, you’ll lose him entirely. But you need to be closer to him.

You open your mouth to him, tangle your legs between his. His hand slides under your shirt, roaming your bare skin. You thought that snuggling under the blanket was enough but now you realize just how hungry you’ve been to be touched. Really touched. He needs it too. Joel leans into your hand on his jaw with a whimper.

You don’t open your eyes. You might be the one dreaming and you don’t want to wake up.

It’s quiet, just the sound of hot breaths and desperate kisses, the swish of the sheets as you shift your hips to meet his. You keep yourself from rocking against him, try to enjoy the feeling of him without crossing yet another line, but you’re aching. His shirt has ridden up so you feel the softness of his middle, the light hairs on his chest. Your fingers intertwine with his as his mouth trails down the column of your neck and. Joel buries his face there.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for. This? Then? The years in between? None of it matters because you want to live in this moment forever.

You shush him, pull him back to your mouth. You’re ready to lose yourself, to forget, to ignore the storm of thoughts constantly plaguing your mind. This is all you want.

You peel off your clothing, helping him slide out of his sweatpants until there’s nothing between you. Joel’s skin is warm and soft against you and you realize you’ve never been this close to another soul.

When Joel settles over you and you feel him throbbing between his legs, you shiver with nervous anticipation. You expect him to say something, to warn you that this is a bad idea, to promise this won’t change anything. But his brown eyes look as confused with need as you feel. There’s no room for thinking or it will crush this fragile moment like glass.

You tilt your hips to allow him in, already slick from being so close to him.

Slowly, he enters you, kissing you all the while. He makes a choked sound, wincing as his body stills. The noise makes you clench around him.

Together you take a moment to get your bearings and you adjust to the fullness of him. Joel’s eyes are pressed shut, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

Before he begins to move, his thumb finds your clit, grazing it lightly. After years of solitude and now months being just out of reach of him, the sensation makes you gasp sharply.

You’ve had sex a handful of times. They had been more about fulfilling a self destructive urge than a desire for pleasure. It’s never been like this.

You start to lose sense of everything but the feelings of your body. Your core tenses and your breaths go short and you start to forget that it’s Joel whose hips are stuttering into you. It’s as if this euphoria can erase some of those awful memories.

Soon you’re shattering beneath him, a crescendo that has you tugging on his hair and gasping for air. Joel grunts into your ear. He follows after you, hissing as he pulls out of you. He pulses into his hand, his release dripping from his fist onto your sweat damp skin. Then he collapses onto you. You run your fingers through his long curls and he kisses your forehead. There might be tears in your eyes– maybe his too. It’s too dark to be sure– but when his breath evens out, it still sounds ragged against you.

Eventually he gets out of bed and leaves the room and, in that moment, you can feel everything hanging over your head again– what you’ve just done, the horrors of the world. Perhaps even more intense than before.

But Joel returns quickly. He flicks on the light on his bed side table and cleans you with a damp rag. His touch is gentle, reverent, and his dark eyes travel over your naked skin to yours. There’s a question in them, guilt, but you have no regrets. You smooth your hand out on the sheets beside you and he lays back on his pillow. He surrounds you with his massive arms and you fall asleep grateful that you don’t feel abandoned anymore.

You worry that it was just a one time thing, try to accept that it might never happen again. But the next time you share Joel’s bed, he’s pulling you into him, pressing kisses into your shoulder, nuzzling at the spot behind your ear. His hard length prods at the small of your back.

It starts like that every time. Intimate, sensual, quiet. It’s never tearing his clothes off or pushing you up against a wall. You just stay close, breath each other in, trail fingertips across skin. Neither of you ever speak above a whisper.

Joel barely talks at all except to ask, “That too much?” and “Feel good?”

You live for the moments when his hand skates over your hip, his dark eyes soft.

“Pretty,” he says almost to himself.

He’s such a beautiful man. Your fingers trace the smooth plane of his chest, dusted lightly with hair and a few stray freckles. Age has only improved him. The greys in his stubble catch the glow from the lamp on the nightstand. You study him with the same attention to detail you used in your youth. The cleft in his bottom lip, the dimples on his lower back, the scar on his temple. You’ve memorized it all.

Joel breaks open for you. He lets you see him vulnerable. He’ll fuck you with thrusts that shake loose deep emotions. Just as quickly, he’ll hold you together when it feels like you’re falling apart.

You lay with him after, sticky with the shared heat of your bodies but reluctant to roll away and break the connection.

Whatever this is, you don’t speak its name. There are too many questions and conflicts that it might not withstand. It exists only for you and him. A safe haven in the chaos, a bit of respite at the end of long years.

In his arms, you’re not his dead daughter’s best friend. He’s not the man that left you when you needed him most. You’re just two people that need to not be alone. Each time, it’s the same. The overwhelming bliss of Joel making love to you is second only to the understanding that he’s finally come back for you.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you. Comments and reblogs always appreciated.

#joel miller #tlou #joel miller fic #bfd!joel miller #jackson!joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic

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pellucid-constellations · 1 year ago

Text

Are You Bored Yet?

Pairing: College!Bucky x Tutor!Reader

Summary: God, you hated Bucky. Bucky probably hated you, too. Maybe. It was hard to tell when he was drunk and calling you pretty at a party you shouldn't have gone to.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Alcohol, annoyance to lovers, a bit of angst, a scary man in a parking lot, frat!bucky c:

a/n: I am so excited to finally post something!! It only took me four months 😅 If you enjoy it please please let me know ❤️❤️

Masterlist

12:59 pm.

The birchwood table nestled in the back of the library was long but otherwise empty, the only thing occupying it being your laptop and quite a few books. He wasn’t late. Yet. You weren’t going to hold onto that hope, however.

Tutoring Bucky Barnes was not what you had in mind when you volunteered for the peer assistance program at your university. It was true you were only using the club to boost your resume, but you had assumed the only people reaching out for help would be those that actually wanted it. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Sure, Bucky wanted help. Just not with anything that actually warranted the word. He wanted help sweet talking the cops so they wouldn't shut down his parties. He wanted help recruiting girls to show up to his parties. And—the one thing you could actually do—he wanted help passing his classes with the minimum GPA required to not get kicked out of his frat. So he could continue to throw parties.

Everything in his life revolved around his fraternity, which made you very important to him. When he wanted you to be.

With your apparently astounding knowledge of biology (you took notes during lectures), you became the star in Bucky’s life every Monday and Wednesday from 1:00 pm (give or take ten minutes) to 2:00 pm. He was also very attentive during the thirty minute phone calls he initiated prior to tests, and always looked happy to see you when he passed you devouring a bagel at the crack of dawn in the dining hall.

Every situation in which you had come in contact with Bucky was isolated and purposeful (minus the bagel). You didn’t hang out or invite each other places, and you were almost positive that if you were to see him in his natural habitat, you would want to tutor him even less than you did now, and that was saying something. So you were important to Bucky during the times you were supposed to be important, and he was important to you in the sense that he was a job.

But as your laptop blinked the numbers 1:22 pm back at your unimpressed expression, Bucky became much less important today. You took in a long, tortured breath before sending your gaze up to the ceiling, giving it another three minutes before you truly gave up on him for the day.

One minute.

Two minutes.

The library really needed new ceiling tiles.

1:25 pm and you snapped your laptop shut. Your fingers itched to send yet another complaint about this whole ordeal Natasha’s way, but you stopped yourself. She had already heard plenty about Barnes at this point, plus she always gave you a weird look every time you came stomping into the apartment, grumbling about something else he had done.

You hated her weird looks, all raised eyebrows and stiff lips.

With your backpack heaved onto the table and your things slowly funneling in, you figured a nap was the best reward for sitting in the library for an unnecessary twenty-five minutes. Your last prickle of irritation was stifled at the prospect of a warm bed as you stood, only to find that irritation had returned to you tenfold. In the form of Bucky Barnes.

“You going somewhere?” he seemed to taunt, his bag slung casually over one shoulder.

Your jaw ticked. “Home.”

His mouth turned up at one side, an expression you had learned meant he found you amusing. He never seemed to outright laugh at your annoyance, but apparently, it was hard to tamp down all of the joy he got out of it. Bucky took two long strides to meet the table you were attempting to abandon.

“But I still got about—” he checked his watch “—thirty-three minutes? And an arsenal of questions about amino acids. Help a guy out.”

“And I still got—” you checked the nonexistent watch on your wrist “—no patience for this today. You’re over twenty minutes late, Barnes. Use that watch to set an alarm on Wednesday and I’ll tell you everything you’ll inevitably forget about amino acids then.”

He groaned, rounding the table to set firm hands on your shoulders as he hovered behind you. “Sit. I’ll buy you a coffee and I promise I won’t be late on Wednesday, okay? I was dealing with something before this and lost track of time.”

“Were you dealing with another sorority girl in your bed? Who was it last week? Amber? No, Michelle?”

“It’s a Monday, y/n. Cut me some slack.”

“You came to me on a Wednesday with a hangover,” you deadpanned.

Bucky grimaced, the expression visible to you as he managed to guide you back into your chair. “Oat milk, right? A double?”

You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest as he tossed his bag by your feet and jogged over to the coffee cart just outside the library. He fumbled with his wallet when he went to pay, and you watched him point to the carton of oat milk the barista had yet to reach for. His greek letters were printed on the gray hoodie he had haphazardly thrown over his shoulders, and you held the reprimand on your tongue when you saw the matching sweatpants he donned.

The last time he had shown up in his pajamas—late—you’d had some choice words for him. Bucky turned around with your coffee then, poking the straw through the lid and sending you a sheepish smile through the window.

He was lucky you accepted bribes.

“Please,” the boy across from you continued to beg, a pen held loosely between pliant fingers. “Just ask her, that’s all I want. You can even come too.”

“Oh, wow, the great frat president letting me come to his stupid toga party? How could I ever thank you enough?”

It was Wednesday now, and Bucky was surprisingly on time to the tutoring session. You’d gotten through about half of the last bio lecture before he started asking you ridiculous questions that had nothing to do with the content. Today, he was dead set on getting your lab partner from chemistry to go to his party this weekend.

“Okay, yeah, you could come to whatever party you want, you know? I put you on the list—but this one will be even better if you’d just do this one thing for me.”

You finally tore your eyes from your laptop, glancing lazily at him. “And what would make this one so—wait, what list?”

He waved you off. “The one at the door. Did it like… the second week we started this? Anyways, Wanda?”

You let this new information settle and tried to ignore whatever implications came with being on some frat list thanks to Bucky. He had never explicitly invited you to any of his parties over the past few months and you had never asked to come. Apparently, you could have shown up whenever you wanted to and had a grand old time.

Not that that sounded the least bit grand.

Bucky was looking at you still, all pleading features and a soft, infuriating smile on his lips. When he wasn’t talking to random girls in the library or taking annoying phone calls in the middle of your sessions, he was sort of endearing. In a terrible, awful sense.

You groaned, throwing yourself back against your chair in begrudging defeat. “I don’t even talk to her outside of chem. Don’t you think it’d be a little weird to invite her to a party that I’m not even going to?”

“So come,” he answered simply, as if that was in the realm of possibilities.

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Sure, I’ll come to your party, Barnes.”

“Great,” he grinned. “Vision’s gonna be so hyped.”

You watched as he pulled his phone from his pocket and kept your lie to yourself. He wouldn’t notice that you didn’t show up on Friday, and likely wouldn’t even bring it up the following Monday. He always had such vibrant, headache-inducing stories that you were sure your absence would be nothing more than a fleeting footnote.

“You have a toga, right?” he mumbled, face still screwed up in concentration as he continued his text.

“Isn’t it just a sheet all twisted up?” you asked, shutting your computer. Tutoring was obviously over.

Bucky pocketed his phone again, brows raised in amusement. “Depends on your motives for the night.”

“And my motives wouldn’t be to… wear a toga?”

He chuckled and huffed out your name, resting an arm along the back of the chair to his right—your chair. “Other motives. Like if you’re trying to get someone’s attention.”

You blinked at the warmth along your back. “Oh, of course. Then I would twist up a pillowcase instead, right?”

“Something like that.”

He smelled like coconut. Like a day at the beach but afterwards, when the sunscreen still lingered in the air but fresh clothes covered skin that had been warmed by the sun. You could usually ignore whatever expensive combination he had on his skin, but when he got close like this it was almost impossible.

Part of you always wanted to chuck his arm away when he leaned over you, but another part of you liked that he kept it there. It was a strange part of you, the same one that relished the looks you got from sorority girls in the library and harbored a sense of pride each time he made a blatant attempt to touch you.

You had spent fleeting moments analyzing these emotions and chalked them up to some internalized desire for validation. Nothing else. Bucky was a hot guy and everyone knew that, so having his attention—in any capacity—felt nice. Sometimes. Meaning right now it was nice that he was looking at you with his arm practically glued to your back, but next week when he showed up late with a hangover and tried to steal the jacket off your body it would be not so nice.

The duality of man.

It helped your partial insanity that Bucky would never actually be interested in you. You weren’t in a sorority or interested to his parent’s money, and, worst of all, you didn’t know how to maneuver a sheet into a toga. When he put his arm around you or moved your hair from your eyes as you leaned over a book, it was probably out of habit. It felt nice, but you knew reality. This was a passing phase, and by the summer you wouldn’t even speak to him anymore.

“I’ll text you more info about everything,” Bucky called, pulling you from your thoughts. “You can come early and I’ll help you with that pillowcase.”

You froze, the book you were shoving into your bag pausing in your hands. “Uh, maybe.”

“No, seriously, it’d be better if you came early. I was kidding about the pillowcase but if you come on time it’ll be too crazy for me to show you around.”

“You don’t have to show me around, Bucky. I’ve been to a house party before.”

“Y/n, are you not coming to this thing?” Bucky accused, swiping the book from your hands and softly tossing it on the table. It still made a loud thud that had a few bitter looks thrown your way.

“Dude!” you whispered, meeting each mean gaze with your apologetic one. “Why does it matter if I come? You just wanted Wanda anyway.”

He knocked your hand away when you went to reach for the book again, encircling your wrist with his fingers. “You just lied to me. Straight to my face. You said you’d come and now you gotta.”

You gave his fingers an experimental tug, but he was unrelenting in his soft grip. You glared at him through your lashes, meeting his uncharacteristically stern gaze that contrasted the humor on his lips.

“You ever hear of sarcasm?” you whispered with a half-hearted bite.

“Unfortunately, that’s about all I hear outta you,” he smirked back.

You rolled your eyes, finally yanking hard enough to free yourself from him. “Then you should have known I wasn’t going to come. No matter what ‘list’ you put me on.”

“What else could you possibly have going on on a Friday night?”

Ouch. You felt your brows furrow even though you didn’t will them to, and even worse, you felt a rash defensiveness lodge itself in your throat. You hated the heat that now prickled along the skin of your neck, and you hated even more how it extinguished all of the good warmth you had felt from him earlier.

This was humiliation, surely—the kind that only came from feeling small.

“You don’t have to be a dick,” you seethed, snapping up the remainder of your belongings. “Just because I don’t want to go to your stupid frat doesn't mean I have nothing to do. I don’t spend all of my time hoping to get invited to ridiculous parties.”

Bucky shifted up in his seat, eyes blown just a fraction wider. “Whoa, I didn’t mean—hey, stop a sec, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever, Bucky,” you droned, as a new temperature seeped into the skin of your palms and made them clammy. Any semblance of delusion you’d fallen into earlier was long gone now, but you knew to expect that. He wasn’t interested in you and you weren’t interested in him. But embarrassment wasn’t a good feeling, regardless of a multitude of reality checks.

Bucky got up when you did, his clothes looking creased and lived in. “We still have time in our session,” he defended, arm jutting out to the table. “C’mon, I didn’t mean you don’t have friends.”

Your glare sharpened. “Great, another insinuation.”

Bucky sputtered out incoherent words as you continued your trek outside, resorting to grabbing your wrist again, this time with more urgency. You felt the heat in you simmer down to a dull throb as he made contact, mostly out of respect for your future self. If you made this a huge deal it would only embarrass you more.

“Look, it doesn’t even matter, okay?” you huffed, but he just tugged you forward. It was then that you realized you were in the doorway of the library, effectively blocking it off from anyone trying to leave. Bucky pulled you close enough to his chest that you weren’t in the way anymore. His cologne was back with a vengeance, your nose just inches from his collar.

You took a steadying breath, blinking away the remnants of shame. “It doesn’t matter, I overreacted.”

He clicked his tongue. “I’m still apologizing. I didn’t mean any of that stuff you were talking about.”

Of course he did. You were sure he thought it all the time. He just didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“It’s fine,” you rushed. “I have to go, anyway. Office hours.”

“Okay,” he nodded, soft and low, like he just remembered he was in a library. “You’ll still come this weekend, right? Even if Wanda can’t?”

“You have some kind of girl quota you need to meet?” you pressed.

Bucky smiled, still so close to you that you could feel the small breath that accompanied the expression. “And she’s back.”

You left without promising anything, and Bucky left feeling like you had.

Sometime between Wednesday and Friday, your detestment for frat parties had snowballed into determination. You were going to go and you were going to look like you were having so much fun it was ridiculous. Then, on Monday, when Bucky would usually poke and prod about what you’d gotten up to over the past few days, you were going to pretend that it was nothing for you. That you did that every weekend.

Of course, you didn’t. Your weekends typically consisted of calm nights with friends or dinners near campus. You’d been to a party before, sure, but you didn’t exactly frequent those kinds of scenes.

Bucky had continued to make it clear that you were invited. He had texted you a few times, prompting you to come and thanking you for getting Wanda to agree. The messages looked strange under the plethora of biology related questions, but that just spurred you further into action. You weren’t just a tutor with no social life, and Bucky was going to see that tonight. You couldn’t remember doing something out of pure spite before, but you figured having fun to prove a point wasn’t the worst thing.

Wanda pulled you out of your thoughts as the Uber rounded the last dark corner and revealed an overcrowded house with too many lights on. She rambled on about some guy she couldn’t wait to see and confirmed that she would likely be spending the night. You expected as much; it hadn’t taken much convincing to get her to come. If this night resulted in anything good it was apparently the blossoming relationship between your new friend and a man you’d never met.

Wanda continued to chat as she yanked you out of the car and past the yard littered with sparse grass. The music was loud already—the type of loud that you needed to be at least a little drunk to enjoy. And that was the plan.

“Okay, if I start dancing on a table you pull me down. And if you start dancing on a table I support you, right?” Wanda giggled, her voice now raised as you walked past the threshold of the house.

“Exactly,” you yelled back. A guy nodded to you as he leaned against the front door, his eyes glancing up from his phone and then returning. It seemed Bucky’s ‘list’ was a page on some guy’s notes app. How luxurious. “Let’s drink.”

The next hour was a blur. You tried your hardest to get as drunk as possible and Wanda tried her hardest to find the British man she was enamored with. You hadn’t seen Bucky, but you figured he wasn’t looking for you too hard since you hadn’t responded to any of his texts. Not out of anger, but because you didn’t know what to say. Somehow, with alcohol warming your blood and music vibrating your skin, none of that mattered anymore.

You: Your house is soooo dirty

Your phone jostled in your grip, people bumping into you from every side. When he didn’t answer in the thirty seconds you spent staring at the screen, you locked it and continued on with your mission.

After a few too many shots of hard liquor, you switched to beer. Gross, but decidedly less likely to make you pass out on the staircase of this house. Because you weren’t lying in your text—it was slightly disgusting. You figured you should clarify that with Bucky. You reached for your phone once again, knocking your head against the wall in the process and giggling to yourself. You had no idea where Wanda went.

The device was snatched from your hands just as quickly as the screen had lit up your face.

“You ever answer this thing?” an accusing voice called out. “Or do you just insult people and put it on do not disturb?”

The look on Bucky’s face would have made you roll your eyes in any other circumstance. Right now, however, it had a startled laugh bursting past your lips. You clutched at your stomach as the laugh grew and you found yourself tipping forward until your forehead met his chest. You felt delirious, almost silly. A hand came around to rest on the back of your neck.

“Alright, alright.” Bucky’s words rumbled against your face. “I get it, this is hilarious.”

“Your… your face,” you breathed out, catching your breath enough to part from him. “It was all—” you mimicked the straight line of his eyebrows, voice raising in a mocking tone. “—You don’t ever answer your phone. You’re so boring, y/n, answer your phone.”

“I didn’t call you boring. Hey—hey,” Bucky stressed, reaching for you as you leaned too far to the side, a smile still lingering on your face. “Jesus, y/n, how much did you have to drink?”

You went to mock him again, but his fingers on your jaw stopped you. He tilted your head up and to the left, and although he was much more composed than you were, you could still smell the alcohol on his breath. You scrunched up your nose as he continued his inspection.

“Why’re you being so uptight?” you slurred, trying and failing to push away from him. “I thought you were all like, ‘I’m Bucky and I party and get drunk and have sex with girls.’”

Bucky pulled you forward as you laughed at your impression of him, his shaking head making you blink away a bout of dizziness. You toppled over a set of stairs as he threaded his fingers through yours, and then you stumbled through a doorway and onto carpeted floors. Being pressed into an uncomfortable chair was the most jarring action, the world still spinning as you sat.

“You’re even more mean when you're drunk,” you heard Bucky mumble. You couldn’t quite catch him as he moved around whatever room you were in. “And I don’t talk like that.”

You let out a careless sigh and leaned back. “You soooo talk like that.”

Something cold pressed to your hand, followed by another touch to the back of your neck. You gazed down at the water bottle being guided up to your lips and couldn’t find it in you to fight against it, despite the small spark of defiance on the tip of your tongue. After about four large swallows, Bucky was satisfied.

He asked again how much you’d had to drink.

You answered that you didn’t know—that it didn’t matter because he wasn’t your dad and you were having fun like you always did. He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for the next few moments.

And then, “Thought you weren’t gonna come tonight.”

You hummed, rolling your head against the chair to look up at his standing form. “Of course I was going to come. I love parties. Love drinking alcohol.”

His expression twisted into something you couldn’t recognize. “God, you’re so drunk.”

“M’not even that drunk!”

“You’re willingly in my room right now. You’re plastered.”

“Maybe I want to be in your room.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

You chuckled breathily, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see the pretty flush of Bucky’s face. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Don’t know much about me though. Or biology.”

Bucky kneeled down to the height of the chair. “And what do I not know about you?”

“So much.”

“How much?”

You bit into your lip and cracked an eye open, catching the amusement that had slipped past the strange mask of his emotions. With blissful ignorance, you heaved yourself forward on the chair, your nose a few inches from Bucky’s. His eyes didn’t waver from yours as you swayed.

“You don’t know that I’m the most interesting person on Earth,” you boasted, fingers gripping the upholstery of your seat.

“That right?” Bucky probed, his voice a melodic hum.

“Yup, I’m always really busy and even though you think I’m some boring biology tutor I’m actually super cool and, like, go to raves and stuff.”

His brow twitched but his mouth stayed soft. “I’ve never said you were boring. And I don’t think you’ve ever been to a rave.”

You groaned loudly and flopped against the backrest of the chair. “See! I’m telling you I do all this cool stuff and I’m so drunk my fingers are buzzing and you still don’t believe me.”

You crossed your arms with a huff, a small pout forming on your lips. In any other context, this behavior would probably embarrass you to no end. In the dim light of Bucky’s room where you felt the feeling leave your fingers and the care leave your mind, you were just disgruntled, not embarrassed. If you remembered this tomorrow the latter would surely catch up to you.

Bucky stared at you from his spot on the ground, his gaze a bit foggy and unfocused. He was clearly intoxicated, as you deduced earlier, and it made him look more wild. Mused hair and pink cheeks, he looked like he’d been having plenty of fun before he found you. It was distracting. He was distracting you from proving that you were having a blast.

“What?” you snapped, the tone a testament to the drunken fit you were throwing.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

He must be really, really drunk. Despite your clouded mind, you knew that, but the words affected you just the same. Your lips parted as a new lightness both lit up and compressed your chest, and Bucky watched the movement.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, but it was hardly a scoff. “Sure, Bucky. How much did you have to drink—”

“I’m not lying. I’ve thought about you in my room for weeks and now you’re here and you’re so pretty. Even when you’re yelling at me.”

“You’ve… thought about me in your room?”

Bucky shuffled forward and you subconsciously parted your legs to allow the space for him. “I think about you everywhere.”

This was crazy. It was certifiably insane. A voice in the back of your head—Natasha’s voice, it sounded like—was screaming at you to stop and think about the situation at hand. He was drunk, you were even more drunk, and he was far too close to you. He had ushered you in here with good intentions and had sobered you up a fraction, but things had taken a turn and this was a sensitive situation. The kind of sensitive that altered your reality and his and probably a bunch of other people’s you’d never met.

Or it could be nothing and you were over exaggerating.

But then Bucky’s hand was warming your thigh. You’d felt the press of it on your back and your shoulder and your head before, but it had never been on your thigh. It felt heavy there, hot. His other hand moved to touch your face and he propped himself up on one knee. His thumb brushed your cheek. Words tumbled from your mouth before you registered that you were speaking.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Why would you ask that? Who asks Bucky Barnes if he’s going to kiss them?

“Would you let me?” he responds.

“Yes.”

He didn’t waste any time, his mouth hot against yours. He tasted like mint and vodka and his lips moved so slowly it ached. You had expected a fervor behind his lips, but instead you got a build up, an orchestra reaching its crescendo. He was kissing you like you were important, like this wasn’t some random hookup in his bedroom at 1 o’clock in the morning, and you had to catch your breath when he parted from you.

But he moved back in so quickly after your brief respite, and you were eager to give him more. This was crazy, insane. This was the best kiss you’d ever have and also the worst. This was months of staring at his stupid lips when he tried explaining concepts back to you, but this was also weeks of feeling small in his presence. Bucky slid his hand back to press against your hair and you didn’t feel small anymore.

A loud thud from the hallway interrupted the silence you’d created, and Bucky pulled back, keeping his hands on you as he craned his neck around to stare at the door. He waited a beat, and then two, and then he turned back to you. The moment was gone, but he was still touching you. You weren’t sure what you wanted—if you wanted him to kiss you again or run out the door—but when he slid his hands from your body and rubbed them down his jeans, it became clear that was not what you wanted.

A knot formed in your stomach when he met your gaze again, and you tried blinking the feeling away. It didn’t work.

“Um,” Bucky began, his voice sounding more clear, his tone not holding the weight it had.

Your plan had backfired. Severely. This was a mess and you needed to save yourself before you ended this night even more humiliated.

You were still drunk. Pretend you were still plastered.

You giggled airily, the sound burning your throat. “That was loud.”

Bucky blinked at you in what you assumed was disbelief. “Probably just someone trying to find the bathroom,” he clarified.

You shrugged, nudging him back with your knee as you stood from the chair. “I’m bored now.” You took fast steps to the door, your words foreign to you. “Thanks for the water,” you all but gritted out.

You expected him to get up. Not to run after you or proclaim his love or even say anything. But you expected him to get up.

He didn’t, and you couldn’t understand how the knot in your stomach had moved to your throat. Or how it made tears spring to your eyes when your feet hit the sidewalk outside. Your Uber came and you couldn’t understand how you felt hot and cold at the same time. How it was freezing outside but you were sweating.

You couldn’t understand why you were crying over a boy that so often infuriated you, or why he kissed you in his bedroom. The reasonable side of you sent gentle reminders that he was in a frat and kissing people is just what he did. All the time. But the unreasonable side of you won out tonight, and it was telling you that this felt different.

That you should be different, somehow.

Bucky: You’re here???

Bucky: Where are you?

Bucky: Y/n answer your damn phone

Bucky: This place is fucking packed tonight I thought you weren’t coming

You stared at the text messages you hadn’t read last night, the bright light of your phone burning into your retinas. You had a brutal hangover, and the memory of the disaster in Bucky’s room felt like an even bigger one.

You’d gone through a myriad of emotions the night before, tossing around excuses and speeches in your head until you were so exhausted you let the alcohol in your system lull you to sleep. With all of that delirious thinking, you’d landed on blacking out. You were going to tell Bucky you blacked out last night and couldn’t remember a thing. He obviously wouldn’t care and would probably appreciate it.

Saturday was slow-moving. Reruns of television shows and bags of popcorn and overthinking. Natasha was at her parent’s house in the city, so you had no one to bounce your racing thoughts off of. You certainly weren’t going to text her about it.

When the evening finally rolled around and your attempts at distracting yourself with mind-numbing movies failed, you checked your email. You always tried not to on the weekends, but doing anything else sounded much less appealing.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get past the first one.

From: University Peer Assistance Program

Dear Y/n Y/l/n,

This is an automated message from the campus peer assistance program. We thank you for your continued devotion to the betterment of students at this school. At this time, your tutoring placement with James Barnes has ended. We will search for a new placement to fill your current hours.

Thank you,

University Peer Assistance

You blinked at the email, then blinked again. The breath left your chest and the muscles on your face twitched, but you were otherwise frozen.

This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be free from the haughty frat boy that didn’t even listen to you when you tried to help him raise his grades. You wanted someone nice, someone that had the same goals as you and appreciated the color-coded notes you took for them. Bucky only tried to get a rise out of you. He sat too close and made fun of you and put you on lists you didn’t ask to be on.

But he had kissed you. He had kissed you and then tutor-dumped you.

You knew you weren’t his type, but were you really that bad? Was the kiss so terrible?

Every inferiority complex you had developed exploded. You over-analyzed things that had already happened, things you had said. Not just at the party, but in the library, the coffee shops, the lecture halls.

Was he really willing to risk his position in the frat just to avoid you?

The strangle tickle of tears itched to be released from your eyes again, but you pressed it down. No, this wasn’t on you. He had kissed you. He had dragged you into his room and stumbled on pretty words. If he didn’t want you to tutor him anymore because of his stupid mistake, fine.

His mistake.

That word felt wrong.

You tossed your phone on the couch with vigor. The clock above the television read out 10 pm, but that meant little to you as you slid on your shoes at the front door. You were wearing sweatpants and a jacket that was far too big on you, sadness and frustration and raw confusion propelling you down your apartment stairs.

Ice cream would fix this.

The only place open at this time was the gas station at the edge of campus. It wasn’t university affiliated and was usually overrun with belligerent greek life trying to buy alcohol, but the decision-making part of your brain was currently shut off.

Ice cream, anger, probably watching tiktoks until your eyes were too heavy to keep open—those were the only things rattling in your head.

You yanked open the gas station door after your short walk, the glass smudged and fogged from the cold night. The fluorescent lights aggravated the headache you’d been sporting all day and the floor made sticking noises with each step you took. To add insult to injury, there were only three cartons of ice cream left, and they weren’t even the good flavors. Grabbing the least offensive one, you made your way to the small line of people by the register.

“Nice outfit.”

Too enthralled by the disappointing ingredient list on the side of your ice cream, you had missed the tall man now looming at your shoulder. You whipped your head around with a start, taking a step back, smelling menthol and asphalt and nothing good.

“Thanks,” you quietly replied.

He waited until you turned back around to continue. “You go to school over here?”

You kept your gaze forward. “Um, yeah.”

“Nice. I graduated a few years back. Marketing.”

“Cool,” you replied. What had compelled you to leave your phone on the couch? This night sucked.

You found reprieve in the line moving, the employee calling you over to check out. As soon as you paid—a few dollar bills funneled out of your pocket with shaky hands—you booked it. Your ice cream burned in your palm but you didn’t care, feet carrying you out the door and into the dimly lit parking lot. You fisted your keys in your fingers; pointless, you knew, but a small comfort.

The man’s voice returned with the chime of the bell over the gas station door. “Wait! Wait, I’m Beck. I own a business nearby.”

You should have kept walking, but one of your fatal flaws was, apparently, people pleasing. You turned to him. He smiled at you but it made your stomach twist.

“Oh, nice,” you responded, rocking back on your heels.

“We should connect. Maybe go for coffee or something?” He took a step forward. You fought the urge to take one back. His beard was unkempt and he held a six pack in his white-knuckled grip.

“Um, I don’t know. I’m pretty busy with finals coming up. Plus, I’m not really in the business field.”

“Not for business then,” he smiled again, teeth dull in the streetlight.

Just agree. If you agreed you could block him soon after and everything would be fine.

You took too long to answer. He took the final step forward to arrive in your space and wrapped his fingers around your bicep. “C’mon, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything.”

Frozen by fear, you let out a weak laugh. The pint in your hand was sticking to your skin now in a way that would be painful when you tried to let go of it later. Your breath rattled in your chest when you laughed again.

“Sure, okay.” But he didn’t let go of your arm, instead sliding it down to the bone of your wrist.

“What about now?” he posed. “You don’t look too busy. I can make you something at my place.”

He was at least ten years older than you. You attempted to pull yourself from his grasp to no avail. Maybe reasoning would work.

“My roommate's waiting for me,” you lied. “Could you let go? I sprained my wrist at the gym last week,” you lied again.

He refused with a shake of his head. You took a panicked glance inside the gas station to your right. No one was looking.

“Please let go of me.”

The call of your name from the other side of the parking lot initially sent more unbearable fear down your spine. But then the owner of that voice registered in your brain, and although it had been the cause of your recent internal strife, you couldn't be more grateful to hear it.

He said your name again, closer now and questioning. Bucky jogged up to the pair of you, saw your wrist and the man holding it hostage, and looked back up at you with confused, wild eyes.

“You know this guy?” he asked, jutting his thumb out at Beck.

“No,” you whispered. The word was short but the syllable still trembled.

Bucky didn’t look confused anymore. He looked pissed. “Wanna take your fucking hands off her?”

Beck was tall, but Bucky was taller. And angry. Beck released your wrist and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa, man, no need for the theatrics. I’m guessing you’re here to stock up for a party? I used to be in Sigma Nu.”

When Bucky’s silent glare failed to dampen, Beck continued with, “We were just planning a night at my place, right?”

His nod in your direction made your breath catch. Bucky took his piercing gaze off of Beck and softened it as it fell on you. You wanted to respond, but words were gone. They were impossible. Your ice cream was melting.

“Yeah, I think we’re done here,” Bucky scoffed, placing his arm around your shoulder. He guided you past the wall of a man, making sure to drive his shoulder into his chest as he went. Beck went to say more, to protest or whine, but Bucky shot him such a scathing look it almost made you wither.

The smell of coconut and spices and a hint of whisky met your nose, and it was familiar. It was safe. You fumbled with the keys in your hands as your feet guided you wherever Bucky was going, and then you fumbled even more, soft jingling disrupting the softness of footfall. God, why wouldn’t you stop shaking?

A hand fell atop yours, crunching the keys to a halt. You stared down at them, unsteady breath hitting the tanned fingers that served as your current anchor.

“Look at me, y/n.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything.

“Sweetheart, eyes up. All you gotta do.” Bucky’s voice was as soft as it was last night. That was the only reason you were able to follow his request. “There she is,” he hummed.

He removed his arm from your shoulders and shifted in front of you, placing his hand on your cheek. You ignored that it felt the same as it had last night. You ignored that you wanted it to feel the same for him, too.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his neck down to better see your face. His thumb brushed under your eye. “He hurt you?”

You shook your head, whispering no, whispering that you were fine.

Bucky nodded to himself, eyes tracking down to your toes and then back up again. He must have mistaken your shaking for coldness because the next thing he did was guide you into the car behind him. You didn’t know it was his.

He blasted the heat the second he got in. He had shuffled you into your seat with his hands before that, smoothed your hair down and closed the door after you were settled and not shaking as hard. The heat dried out your eyes. It distracted you enough to let words form.

“Thank you,” you said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t bring my phone with me. I should’ve.”

“Of course.”

There was a beat of silence. The relief you had felt earlier had been muddled down to an awkward pit in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if Bucky felt it too or if he was still riding a testosterone-fueled adrenaline high.

You wanted to go home now; this was uncomfortable and you had felt Bucky’s lips on yours less than twenty-four hours ago with no closure. He obviously didn’t want to be around you. This was probably a responsibility thing for him.

“I can… I can walk home now. The guy left. I’m just a quarter mile away and you probably have to stock up or whatever.”

He looked at you with a pinched expression. “I’m not letting you walk home after that. You kiddin’ me?”

“I’ll be fine, really. I walk over here all the time.”

“You get harassed all the time too?”

“No…”

“Exactly. So you’re not walking home.”

“Bucky—”

“Look I’m not gonna kiss you again, alright? So you don’t have to turn down a ride because of that.”

Your ice cream was soup at this point. You let it roll into your lap as you clamped your mouth shut just to open it again. Bucky ran a rough hand through his hair before dropping it on the steering wheel, clutching at it with no place to go.

“I’m not following,” you finally relented.

A loud sigh released from his nose. “You don’t have to worry about me kissing you again. I just want to make sure you get home safe and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Worry about—you’re the one trying to avoid me,” you snapped, frozen fingers pointing to your chest. “You tutor-dumped me.”

“Tutor-dumped? How do you…” he trailed off.

“I get an email when you make a change request, Bucky.”

He stared at you for a moment, lips parted and unmoving. He clenched his jaw a moment later, a red tint adorning his cheeks.

“Well, you—you—look, I know you don’t like me, y/n. You’ve made that clear,” he stuttered, words getting louder as he moved his hands around with each one. “But I like you. I like when you get mad at me and when you yell at me for not listening and when you get all embarrassed when I play with your hair. And I’ve been trying to get you to come to one of my parties since we started this whole thing, but every time I talk about them you seem to like me even less.

“If I had known insulting you would get your attention, I woulda done that week one,” he exasperated. You sat up in your seat but he continued. “I didn’t mean any of that shit you thought I did. You’re not boring. And I didn’t mean to kiss you, but you looked—well, I already told you.”

“So you don’t want me to be your tutor anymore because you like me?” You spoke slowly, each word careful.

“No,” he sighed, frustrated. “I can’t be around you because I kissed you and you didn’t care. Because I’ll want to kiss you all the time and you didn’t even wanna kiss me once. I know we were drunk, I get that, but I’ve wanted that for a long time and I need to move on. It’s nothing against your… tutoring skills. If that’s what you’re worried about”

“But you talk about hooking up with other girls all the time, Bucky. To me.”

“You ever hear of lying?”

“Why would you—”

“You really gonna make me live out all of my failures with you?”

You’d read so many things wrong. Taken so many things the wrong way. You figured the email earlier was the final nail in the coffin, but this was something else entirely. This was Bucky, sitting next to you in his car looking distressed and frazzled with his hair six different directions, telling you that he’s been trying to get your attention since he met you. That you weren’t small or insignificant or boring.

It was probably a terrible idea to follow through with your next thought. You’d probably get hurt in the long run. But you did it anyway.

“I wanted you to kiss me.” Bucky’s head whipped towards you. You bit the inside of your cheek and said, “I want you to kiss me all the time.”

He whispered your name. It sounded like the air had left every corner of his body. But he didn’t move, and you needed to rectify that.

“You’re infuriating,” you began. Bucky cringed, but you needed to explain as he had. “You’re like the antithesis of everything I want out of college. You don’t care about classes. You’re always late. You talk too loud in the library.”

You took a deep breath, fiddling with the loose thread of your pants. You couldn’t make eye contact with anything but the ground.

“But then you know my coffee order when I’ve never told it to you. You save me from losers in parking lots and make sure I’m not drunk out of my mind at your obscene party. You make me feel… you make me feel stupid sometimes. And I thought it was because you’re everything I’m not, but I really think it’s because you’re everything I told myself I should stay away from. But I don’t want to.

“I wanted you to kiss me at that party and I want you to kiss me now.”

“Then get over here. I’m not kissing you over some bullshit center console.”

You twisted to follow his directions, gasping as his hands clasped around your waist to tug you into his lap. It wasn’t seamless—there was laughing and your head briefly connected with the roof of the car—but Bucky’s touch was everywhere, soothing the uncertainty and fear and slight headache.

His forehead connected with yours when you felt secure in his arms. His fingers slid down from your waist over the material of your sweatpants and when he spoke next you felt the words on your own lips.

“You’re wearing sweatpants. You get so mad when I wear sweatpants.”

You laughed. “I get mad because it usually means you just rolled out of bed, and you’re usually. late.”

“I got a secret,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “I’m never late. And I only wear those sweatpants around you. You get cute when you’re pissed at me.”

“Well, I’m about to be really cute—”

He kissed you. You’d have plenty of time to argue later.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #college!bucky #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #college AU #frat!bucky #marvel imagine

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hemlock-dreams · 27 days ago

Note

Not me absolutely frothing at the mouth about this AU. Can we get an info dump on the Lore? It's making me want to abandon my current Spideypool WIP for this. Absolutely terminal brainrot for this boy

BEHOLD: MASSIVE LORE DUMP!

Peter B. Parker is a young troublemaker who has a problem with authority. He also has a knack for picking tech apart and putting it back together, which puts him on the radar for a small-time gang that needs someone to act as their alarm system breaker for a big score.

Unfortunately, said score had bad intel and what was supposed to be a simple robbery turns out to be manslaughter when the resulting fire that was supposed to cover up their tracks ends up killing two guards.

Peter is tried as an adult with the rest of the gang and sentenced to Rykers for 5 years.

Check out the full page HERE.

At Rykers, Peter meets Marko Flint, who takes Peter under his wing. and teaches him how to survive and thrive when wearing the orange.

Life goes on for 5 years. He learns the trade, gets some tats, learns how to make some great shivs, and becomes a better criminal all around. Yay prison!

Peter gets out at 21, and reunites with Uncle Ben and Aunt May. He does his best to clean up his act, but normal life is hard for someone who spent their formative years in prison.

(He also makes questionable hair and fashion choices. What can I say, he's catching up!)

He goes from job to job, trying to pay back his aunt and uncle for all their support but is completely unequipped for the 'real world.' After a few months working/getting fired from soul-crushing menial jobs (HS dropout!), he agrees to take 'one last job' with Marko that is 'guaranteed to set them up for life'.

*cough*

This robbery goes off without a hitch! No one is hurt and they make off after hitting a heavily armored Oscorp Transport with a ton of documents/tech that they aim to sell to the highest bidder.

The biggest mystery is that one glowing vial of untested, experimental serum they found...

Unfortunately, Oscorp doesn't take robbery lightly. Marko finds out through contacts that the serum (whatever it is) is too hot to sell on the market, so he instructs Peter to get rid of it so it can't be traced back to them.

Peter, a rational 22-year-old ex-con, 'gets rid of it' by mixing the serum into ink and tattooing it onto his wrist, triggering the start of his mutations.

It takes a bit, but Peter get's all the regular spiderman benefits (webs are organic), plus one more. The serum was created from the venom of the Portia Spider, a hunting/jumping spider known to be uniquely intelligent among arachnids.

Alongside the speed/strength/spideysense, Peter also grows some fangs that secrete a powerful venom.

The venom speeds up the body's processes, working almost like an insane performance booster and enhancing an injected person's strength, speed, and senses for a few hours.

Unfortunately, repeated doses also eventually induce shock, paralysis, and, later, death.

He gives a few samples of it to Marko as an exit fee.

Uncle Ben was suspicious of how Peter suddenly got so much money, but took him on good faith. But, while he was watching the news that covered the Oscorp robbery, connected the dots and had a blowout fight with Peter that ended with him having a cardiac event.

Unfortunately, he did not survive.

Aunt May and Peter were estranged over this for several years.

This event crushes Peter, sobering him up immediately. He goes back and gets his HS diploma, and works on night courses in college.

However, he spends much of his days wandering, angry at himself and what he did. He beats up a mugger one day and realizes that he could be using his powers to back up the faith Ben had in him.

Spiderman is born!

Eventually, he and Aunt May reunite, and their relationship is slowly healing.

A few years later, Peter is on the up. He and Aunt May are close again! He's got a bachelor's in computer science, has a (semi) steady job, and is well-liked as Spiderman by the populace at large. His rogue's gallery is roguing- etc.

Unfortunately, a variant of his venom (developed by Kingpin) hits the streets as a drug. It's favored by both criminals for its performance-enhancing strength, as well as civilians, for the time-slowing sensation/high it gives them.

His girlfriend, Mary Jane, who has been sober for a few years, relapses. Peter, knowing that he can't stop her from getting it on her own, reveals his identity and becomes her main source.

At least, this way, he can control the dosage.

Marko (who sold Peter's venom to Kingpin) manages to fire off his only two brain cells and realizes that Spiderman IS Peter Parker.

Then he outs him to the world because Spiderman made it personal.

Peter's life catches on fire. The entire world is after him. His loved ones have to go into hiding because there's no shortage of criminals and psychopaths who want to get their hands on MJ and Aunt May to get to Spiderman.

Peter ceases to exist. It's not safe anymore. He spends days (weeks? months?) in the suit. Eventually, on the run and burnt out, he pleads his case to Dr. Strange in desperation. (Ala No Way Home)

"Everyone deserves a clean start."

Dr. Strange agrees, but the spell can't work with Peter still existing as part of the equation. So it fires him off into a reality where Peter B. Parker, and by extension Spiderman, never existed.

So how's an ex-con/ex-superhero (for now) supposed to carve a space in a world that never knew him? By finding somewhere that doesn't ask any questions.

And it just so happens, that St. Margaret's School for Wayward Children has a reputation for both being a bar of questionable repute and looking the other way.

Might as well start there.

~~~~~~~~~

Thank you so much for this lovely, lovely ask! I hope this massive lore dump wasn't overkill, but I'm having a lot of fun with this world and wanted to share.

And I offer this lore dump ONLY on the condition that you do not drop whatever you're working on. There is always space for more spideypool in the world, don't deprive us!!!

#spiderman #peter parker #hunting!spider #spiderman au #super duper messy lore but whose gonna stop me? the lore police?!#new reality is like...right before the superhero boom #so there's no 'heroes' because I wanted a totally clean slate #also i headcanon that deadpool didn't exist in this peter's OG universe either #asks #thank you so much anon #Be feral with me

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airprime7 · 11 months ago

Text

Why am I seeing so many fake posts on my dash? Like, there's ones from all sorts of made up realities, I'm surprised I haven't seen ones set in webcomics or whatever.

0 notes

♊️ twinarmageddons reblogged

♊️ twinarmageddons

all of you iidiiot2 need two 2hut up about computer2 unle22 you know what you're talkiing about. ii 2wear ii 2aw 2ome guy telliing people two pour water on theiir keyboard2 two clean them.

♉️ adiostoreador

uH,,,

iS THAT NOT HOW YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO, uH, dO IT,

♊️ twinarmageddons

oh my fuckiing god 2ome people are actual iidiiot2

#ii mean come on you actually beliieved that

22 notes

♑️ terminallycapricious

wAsSuP mOtHeRfUcKeRs???

#HoNk

420 notes

♌️ arseniccatnip reblogged

♌️ arseniccatnip

:33 < hiii!!!

:33 < my name is nepeta leijon, and this is my furst post!

:33 < i like shipping, and rolepurrlaying, and hunting

:33 < i have troll pawtism, so i might not be the best at understanding things. sorry if i get confused!

:33 < i also do art, and my commissions are open! purrlease don't ask me to draw trolls pailing, i'm only 6

:33 < bye! :33

♋️ carcinogeneticist

HOW STUPID DO YOU HAVE TO BE TO PUT YOUR FULL NAME IN YOUR PINNED POST.

DON'T YOU KNOW THE FIRST RULE OF GRUMBLR IS NEVER USE YOUR REAL NAME, YOU IDIOTIC EXCUSE FOR A PERSON.

♒️ caligulasaquarium Follow

wwhy is your text grey

♋️ carcinogeneticist

I DON'T KNOW, WHY ARE YOU SUCH A PRETENTIOUS ASSHOLE, FISH FACE.

🤡 i-say-honk Follow

hOnK!

♋️ carcinogeneticist

FUCK OFF, TC, WE ALL KNOW IT'S YOU.

THIS STUPID "GIMMICK BLOG" ISN'T EVEN FUNNY.

♌️ arseniccatnip

:33 < @carcinogeneticist @caligulasaquarium @i-say-honk kill yourselves

#:33 < :33

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♍️ grimauxiliatrix reblogged

♈️ apocalypsearisen Follow

im dead n0w

♍️ grimauxiliatrix

Mood

#Honestly I Cant Believe I Made It Through This Week Alone

60 notes

♋️ carcinogeneticist reblogged

👻 ectobiologist Follow

hi! how do i use this app?

♋️ carcinogeneticist

HUMAN ALERT.

@human-alarm

👤 human-alarm Follow

BEEP

612 notes

♋️ carcinogeneticist reblogged

♐️ centaurstesticle Follow

D -> The day we stop valuing horses is the day society collapses

♐️ centaurstesticle

D -> @cuttlefishculler Perhaps I do share some interests with the protagonist of the new popular movie starring Troll Ryan Gosling

D -> If anything that would be a compliment

D -> Not that that's something a f001 such as yourself would understand

♓️ cuttlefishculler Follow

)(-EY, I was just joking around. No need to start being c-rude!!! 380

♏️ arachnidsgrip Follow

Protagonist!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

What movie did you watch? 8ecause 8ar8ie is defin8ly the hero of the one I saw, hooves-for-8rains.

♈️ apocalypsearisen Follow

i liked the 0ne with the b0mb m0re

♒️ caligulasaquarium Follow

rustblood, opinion disregarded

♋️ carcinogeneticist

BLATANT HEMOPHOBIA ASSIDE, ARE WE JUST GOING TO IGNORE OP'S URL?

♊️ twinarmageddons

forget that, cc ii2 the ACTUAL HEIIRE22

♋️ carcinogeneticist

HOLY SHIT, WHO CARES.

1380 notes

♏️ arachnidsgrip reblogged

♏️ arachnidsgrip

You know, I think the murders were good for me.

♎️ gallowscalibrator Follow

VR1SK4, YOU K1LL3D 31GHTY-31GHT P3OPL3.

♏️ arachnidsgrip

Yeah, 8ut I'm over it now. It doesn't effect me anymore.

#I've moved on.

413 notes

♉️ adiostoreador reblogged

💽 turntechgodhead Follow

man i cant believe troll steve jobs died of ligma

♉️ adiostoreador

wHO, uM, wHO'S TROLL STEVE JOBS?

#homestuck #unreality #fake posts #sollux captor #tavros nitram #gamzee makara #nepeta leijon #karkat vantas #eridan ampora #aradia medigo #kanaya maryam #john egbert #equius zahhak #feferi peixes #vriska serket #terezi pyrope #dave strider #grumblr

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hearts4hughes · 2 days ago

Text

oh, professor - professor!rafe x student!fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut ; mdni ; p in v ; oral (f receiving) ; degradation ; unprotected sex ; age gap (reader is 22 & rafe is 29)

A/N: i started this writing for someone else, but changed it because it gave off so much rafe energy. all im needing rn is to get attention from professor!rafe

you sit in the dimly lit library. your leg bouncing up and down under the wooden table. it was late— too late for a tutoring lesson, especially one with your professor.

rafe, your professor, sat across from you. his presence was both distracting and irritating. you hate the way his eyes pierce through you, reading every thought you tried to conceal. he is only seven years older, but he wore his authority with a confidence that made your blood boil.

“if you actually paid attention, you would understand the material, y/n.” rafe says, his voice teasing and raspy. you shoot him a glare, your arms crossed over your body.

“i am paying attention,” you retort with a tight lipped smile. the lie leaked from the sides of your lips. how could you focus when every fiber of your being is aware of him?

he leans closer, his scent intoxicating as it fills your nostrils. your heart races in your chest. “then prove it.” he challenges, leaning back with a smirk.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. your mind is blank. rafe grins with pride, his cheekbones highlighted by the lightning in the room.

“it’s hard to think when you’re putting me on the spot.” you roll your eyes.

he stifles out a laugh in response.

at the start of your sophomore year at the university of north carolina, you were assigned to professor rafe cameron’s class. he was new to the college, and his arrival spread like a wildfire. he was tall with piercing blue eyes and a muscular body that was evident even under his formal clothes.

from the moment he walked into the classroom, he wore a confident strut in his steps. the girls practically swooned at him. as the semester went on, the outfits the students wore got smaller— each girl trying to catch his attention. however, he kept it professional, not looking lower than he needed to.

it all made you scoff. professors were supposed to be older and wiser than their students. but he was only twenty-nine! how could you truly respect him when he was barely older than you?

you couldn’t, and it didn’t go unnoticed. rafe had noticed you ever since you stumbled into class. his eyes followed you day after day, week after week, but you never shared that interest. you didn’t attempt to flirt with him or invite him to a party, you were totally indifferent. it enticed him.

however, ignoring your professor wasn’t the smartest idea. as a former straight a student, you were failing one class only— his. even though it was unusual for a professor to directly tutor a student, rafe offered to, leaving you no choice if you wanted to keep up your grades.

the tension between you and rafe was palpable. every week the fog surrounding the two became thicker.

“you’re not concentrating.” rafe spoke, breaking the silence. his voice was softer now, almost gentle.

“i’m trying.” your words were dismissive.

he sighs, closing his notebook. “maybe we should take a break.”

you nod in response.

as he stretched his arms above his head, his shirt pulled taut against his abdomen, revealing the outline of his abs. you looked away quickly, a red flush rising to your cheeks.

“why do you do that?”

“do what?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“act like you hate me,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “i know you don’t.”

you scoff. “why should it matter if i like you or not? you're my professor, not my roommate.”

“it begins to matter when your grades plummet.” he says plainly, tilting his head to the side with a smug expression.

you clench your fists by your side. frustration coursed through your veins like a wildfire. “you think you’re so smart, don’t you? you’re only a few years older than me!”

he chuckles, the sound so entrancing it made you gulp. “i’m smart enough to know that you’re scared to admit that you like me. that maybe, just maybe, you find this as intoxicating as i do.”

your heart pounded in your chest. “this is ridiculous.” you mutter under your breath. “i don’t need this, i’ll figure this class out myself.”

his smirk only grew deeper as you rushed out of the door. as the north carolina air hit your skin, it was hard to ignore the pulsating between your legs. looking back towards the library, you scoffed.

the next morning you find yourself back in rafe’s lecture hall. the room is filled with the scent of coffee and the rustle of college students.

you take your usual spot in the middle of the class. as you unpack your books and laptop, a figure sits besides you. you glance at the boy as he smiles, mirroring your action of setting up his academic station.

“hey,” he greeted. “you always sit in these seats, don’t you?” he smirks. “i’m gavin by the way.” you can’t help but blush as he holds out his hand.

you shake his hand, “hi, i’m y/n.” you reply, your hand still lingering in his. “and what can i say, i like routine.” he chuckles at your cheeky comment.

he’s cute with a dirty blonde mop of curls on his head. his eyes brown eyes are doe and kind. his jaw is sharp and his dimples pop when he smiles. he’s the all american perfect boy. the rest of the lecture is harder to focus on as he sits besides you. every so often, he steals glances at you and whispers jokes into your ear.

rafe notices the second the male student sits besides you. he notices how the boy’s gaze lingers on you and your cleavage, and how he’s so desperate for an ounce of attention from you. it makes his body tense and his lungs tight. it’s unbelievably hard to stay on track during the lesson which causes him to end the class fifteen minutes early.

“we’ll pick this up next class. see you all next week.” he clasps his hands together, signaling the end of period.

you stand up, slinging your bag over your shoulder as gavin follows you like a loyal puppy. within steps of the exit, your professor calls out to you.

“y/n, can you stay after class, please?” rafe calls out towards you. his body was stiff and jaw tense. the usual glimmer in his eyes was replaced with a greenish tinge.

girls besides you sneered as you nodded your head, waiting until the rest of the students filtered out before you walked towards him.

“yes, professor?” you said, your voice bitingly sharp.

“we didn’t get to finish our conversation from last night.” he tisked, his eyes raking up and down your body. “you left so abruptly.”

“well, we were done tutoring, so i had no other reason to stay.” the words are sharp off your tongue, only encouraging him more.

he stared deeply into your eyes. his eyes held an ocean filled with lust and secrets. it was as if there was a siren in the waters, singing and drawing you in.

you broke eye contact, allowing your gaze to fall onto the ground. he chuckled as if he had won a bet. your cheeks blushed something fierce.

“make a new friend today?” he asks as he moved his body around his desk. he was now standing directly in front of you, leaning on his desk. his dress shirt pulled against his body, emphasizing his impressively muscular arms.

he is a work of art.

you turn your head, “i’m not sure what you mean.” your voice was shaky and you weren’t sure if it was because of the tension in the atmosphere or the tension between your legs.

“really?” he challenges. “i could have sworn you were talking to that boy during my lecture.”

“it was just a conversation, rafe.” you reply, trying to keep your tone casual. however, your heart rate increased under the confines of your clothing.

he took a step closer, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine. “oh, i’m rafe now? what happened to professor? and it seemed like more than a conversation.” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “i don’t like seeing you flirt with other students.”

you swallow harshly. “yeah? and why’s that?” your words were an attempt to maintain steady, but you knew who was controlling the conversation.

his lips curved into a smirk, his eyes darkening with desire. “you don’t have to pretend with me, y/n.” his voice was soft. he reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “i know you want this just as badly as i do.”

the fire burning in your core intensified.

“we can’t do this.” your mind was telling you no, but your heart was screaming yes. “y-you’re my professor, and i’m a student.”

“i know.” his voice was sultry. chills traveled along your skin as his finger traced your arm. “i’m no good for you, but doesn’t that make this all so much better?” he leans in, whispering into your ear.

his lips dropped from your earlobe onto the skin of your neck. he sucks along the sensitive skin, biting ever so gently.

“rafe,” you breathe out. he hums in response, his arms wrapping around your body as he pulled you close. “kiss me.”

without any hesitation, his lips landed on yours. his lips were soft, yet demanding, moving against yours in a fiery rhythm. your hands instinctively found their way to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. his hands roamed your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between. the bulge beneath his dress pants began to grow.

you could feel the heat radiating from him, mixing with your own. the kiss depend, his tongue teasing your mouth. a moan escaped you, echoing around the empty classroom. he flipped you around, lifting you up, and sitting you on his desk. your legs separated as he stood in between them.

breaking the kiss, he gazed into your eyes, his lips still a shadow on yours. “do you know how long i’ve wanted to do that?” he whispered, his voice dripping with pure desire.

you were breathless in a haze of pleasure and desire. “what else have you wanted to do?” you look at him through your lashes. your doe, sweet eyes flicking a switch inside of him as he growls in response.

his hands traveled to the hem of your shirt before swiftly ripping it off. you sat clad in a black, lace bra, leaving little to the imagination.

“you’re ethereal.” his words painted a pink flush on your cheeks.

one hand reaches behind your back, unclasping your bra and revealing your perky tits. you gasp as his mouth attaches onto one of your nipples, sucking voraciously.

your legs wrap around his waist as you melt into his touch. every rational thought fled your mind, replaced by a primal need to feel pleasure; to feel him.

“rafe,” your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling every time his tongue swirls around your sensitive nipple. he responded with a moan, dropping to his knees in front of you.

you took in the sight as he unclasped your jeans. his hair was a tousled mess, his lips swollen, face flushed, and eyes hungry with desire.

he pulled the material down your legs, discarding it elsewhere in the room. your matching lace panties made his mouth hang agape.

he looked up at you, “are you sure about this?” you nod, your body squirming in need of touch. he tisked with a grin, “i need words, sweetheart.”

“yes.” the words couldn’t have left your lips faster.

the second he heard your consent, he dropped his head down to your lower body. he began at the edge of your thighs, licking a trail up to your inner thighs. his hands moved with purpose, swirling circles around your legs, but never in the one spot you desperately wanted.

he took his time, savoring each moment as he licked, kissed, and sucked the skin along your thighs and waist.

you wiggled as you grew impatient. he chuckled, taking a hint and suddenly pressing his tongue flat against the thin material of your black panties. your head fell back in pleasure.

he made quick work of pulling your panties to the side and licking a long stripe up your folds. your fingers find their way to his hair, where you tug and pull. that only encourages him more as he begins to lap up your core like a man starved. his nose pushes against your clit as his tongue penetrates deep inside you.

the sight of his handsome face buried between your legs made you whimper, clenching around nothing but his muscle. your juices covered the lower half of his face as he continued to please you.

“taste so much better than i imagined.” he coos, shifting his focus from your hole to your bundle of nerves. you whimpered when his tongue circled around the little nub. he smirked against you.

“i’m gonna-” you interrupted yourself with a gasp as his ring and middle finger entered you. you stretched around his digits, leaving your mouth agape. he pulls away from your legs to look at you as he curls his fingers just the right way.

it wasn’t long before he began pumping his fingers in and out of you at a merciless pace. you felt the knot in your stomach tightening as he continued his assault on your pussy.

and just as you were about to come undone on his fingers, he pulled them out. your eyes shot open and you opened your mouth to argue, but his lips crashed against yours in a hungry battle between tongues. he pulled away with a tisk.

“think i was just going to reward you for being a brat?” he shook his head. “after you flirted with that ass in front of everyone? gotta teach you a lesson, honey.” he undid his buckle and dress pants before allowing them to drop to the ground.

your eyes widened as he freed his thick length from the confines of his boxers. his tip was painfully throbbing, in need of release. he ran his finger over his tip, collecting precum and spreading it across his cock. he hisses at the feeling, only causing the ache between your legs to intensify.

he scoffs as you spread your legs wider for him. “such a needy little slut, huh? need your professors dick that bad? so pathetic.” his words send a shock straight to your core, making your legs twitch. he smirks as he steps between your legs. he grabs himself and teases your entrance. when his tip knocks at your clit that’s when you turn into a cock drunk mess.

“please, rafe. i need you so bad that it hurts.” his smirk widens as you beg. while keeping eye contact, he bottoms out completely in you. you want to scream at the pleasure, but all that falls from your mouth are whiney, pathetic whimpers.

he doesn’t give you time to adjust before thrusting ruthlessly into your sopping cunt. his thick length stretches you out deliciously. his hand drops to your clit, rubbing in circular motions to ease the pain into pleasure.

his hand claps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head feel hazy. he continuously pounds into you. his tip kisses your cervix causing you to yell out in pure ecstasy. he smirks as he looks down at your stomach. with each thrust his cock bulges against your skin.

“rafe, it’s too much.” you breathe out, squirming around. his hand tightens around your throat and his other clings to your hips, holding you down as he fucks you.

“you can fucking take it.” he spat, his lips connecting with yours. it’s a clash between teeth and tongues as the knot in your stomach intensifies.

he leans back in his heels, hitting a new angle. his dick hits your g-spot continuously, bringing you to your climax. you cream around his length and it spills onto the floor below you as he doesn’t slow up on his thrusts.

you lay limp, clinging to his biceps as he spills inside of you. you’re thankful that you’re on the pill because nothing ever beat the feeling of his sperm painting your walls. breathlessly, he slows down his strokes. he pulls out, kneeling down and watching your mixed juices spill out of your worn-out core. using his fingers, he pushes his release back into you, marking you as his.

“i think you just earned some extra credit.”

#hearts4hughes #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey #drew starkey smut #obx season 4 #obx #outer banks

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