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s0dium · 8 months ago

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Douchebag

A/n: This is honestly the BEST fic I've ever written! I took a lot from prompts I found on this site and the smut scene is inspired from a book called "The Kiss Quotient." (It was just so damn good). This fanfic is also inspired by my original fanfic, "Douchebag" Tengen x Reader. ALSO, I AM WORKING ON YUTA FICS, SO DON'T WORRY! Word count: 3.5k

Synopsis: Gojo Satrou was a man of many things. It would be hard to find anyone in the jujutsu world who hadn’t heard of his name before, whether that be through his many wins in battle or his reputation as an A-class player. Some describe him as eccentric, and others (mostly girls) describe him as irresistible. You? Well, you on the other hand would describe him as nothing else than an utter, complete, douchebag. Warnings: Enemies to lovers, teasing, fingering, intense kissing for a sec, squirting, use of pet names, belly bulge, cervix fucking, breeding kink, virgin!reader, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, choking ~

You scoffed, watching through the classroom window as a clearly frustrated old man stormed out of the building, no doubt a higher up. No doubt the work of Gojo Satoru. "God I hate him." You hissed, turning to face a dozing-off Shoko and your other friend Haibara. The classroom you sat in was almost empty, bathed in the soft light of midday filtering through large windows. Sparse shadows stretch across the well-worn wooden floor. Rows of desks, mostly unoccupied, face a dusty chalkboard at the front. "Who Satoru?" Shoko yawned, leaning into the palm of her hand to face you. Haibara lets out a loud chuckle. "Why? Because he's an ass to higher-ups?" He nods to the window and you click your tongue against the rough of your mouth. "No, it's because he is an ass in general. His whole 'holier than thou' attitude, and don't get me started on the way he treats girls." You practically shiver as you remember the time you saw some poor girl from Kyoto Jujutsu High profess her love to the white hair man, only to run away sobbing. "I swear to god it's like he expects us to kiss the floor that he walks on, he's.... infuriating" "Who's infuriating?" Oh god, you knew that stupidly deep voice anywhere. You whipped around to find yourself face to face with the very tall white-haired man you were talking about; a shit-eating grin spread across his infuriatingly handsome face.

“You couldn't be talking about me, could you?” Satoru's voice dripped faux shock and you rolled your eyes.

“Well you know what they say, speak of the devil and he shall appear.” You spat.

“That must be why you love using that pretty mouth of yours to talk about me so much.” Satoru lowered himself to close the provoking height difference between the two of you until your noses were inches away from touching. “Cause ya love having me around doncha.”

In that moment you have to conjure up every ounce of self-restraint to not spit in his face there and then, and luckily your friends catch the drift. "Hey Satoru! What are you doing here?" Perked up Haibara who reached out his hand to dap Gojo up. "Well, Suguru and I are heading for a night out today, small club, and I thought, out of the kindness of my heart," You scoff and Gojo merely grins and continues, "I'd invite you all. Drink on me of course." As Satrou's invitation lingered in the air, you noticed Shoko's ears perk up. Her curiosity was piqued, a subtle lift of her eyebrows betraying her interest. You bit your tongue, the taste of reluctance sharp against your teeth. The idea of going anywhere with Satrou was far from appealing, but knowing your friends might join made it harder to outright refuse.

You crossed your arms defensively, leaning back slightly as you fixed Satrou with a skeptical look. "And why would you want me there?"

Satrou's lips curled into a half-smirk, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint."You're annoying, I'll give you that," He took a casual step closer, and leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "but I never said you weren't fun."

His words, intended to irk you, did their job well. You glared at him sharply, the frustration evident in your furrowed brows and the hard set of your jaw.

Satrou chuckled.

“Great, I’ll take that as a yes then, I'll text you guys the details.” He turns around to walk out of the classroom. “See you guys there!”

There was a silence as you all watched Satrou walk away before Haibara turns to look at you. “So are you going to go y/n? Come on it will be so much fun!”

“Yeah no way in hell.”

~ You were a liar. You were a liar because here you were, leaning over the counter of a bar in a club that was far from "small." The nightclub was a pulsing, chaotic hive of activity. Neon lights flashed in syncopation with the deafening throb of electronic dance music that shook the very air. The club was jam-packed with bodies moving rhythmically, the heat from the mass of humanity palpable as the scent of sweat and sweet perfumes mingled. The bar surface was sticky under your arms, and the occasional spill from a too-hastily poured drink added to the chaos of sounds and smells around you. You lazily stirred the thin red straw into your drink, trying to politely ignore the creep who wouldn't stop talking to you.

Somehow, in the maze of gyrating bodies and blinding strobe lights, you had lost both Shoko and Haibara, leaving you stranded at the mercy of this clueless conversationalist. Despite the roar of bass and the chatter of dozens of conversations, his words seemed to bore into your ears, relentless and unyielding. He leaned in closer than necessary, trying to make himself heard over the club's cacophony, not realizing or perhaps not caring, that you were more interested in plotting an escape than in anything he had to say. "And might I say you look gorgeous tonight." It took everything you had not to scoff at this creep's words, but before you should shut the man down, you felt an arm wrap around you. "Everything alright love?" Oh god. You knew that voice anywhere. As you turned, you were met by Satrou's piercing blue eyes, their color vivid even behind stylish rectangular sunglasses. The multicolor flashing lights overhead caught in the threads of Satrou’s light blue button-up, making it shimmer subtly, and the fabric clung just right to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, hinting at the well-defined physique beneath. You hated the fact that your brain immediately noted how damn good he looked. His arm was wrapped around your waist drawing you close and you had to bite your tongue from frowning at the pet name he had given you As he leaned in, his voice was low, a soft murmur over the noise of the club, "This guy bothering you baby?" His tone was teasing, and you could detect the challenge in it, as if daring you to admit that his closeness and pet names affected you just as much as he knew it did. "Of course I'm fine baby!" You smile brightly and for a second you think Satrou looked a bit taken aback. If playing along got you out of this situation so be it. "This guy, I'm sorry, what's your name?" You glance back at the creep who had turned bright red. "I'm sorry, excuse me." You watched as the man disappeared into the throng of the bustling crowd, your attention fixed until he was well out of sight. Only then did you turn back to Satrou, the false warmth on your face instantly transforming into a cold, hard glare.

"Thanks for that, but you can get your hand off me now," you said, your voice icy as you tried to wriggle out of his hold. Despite your efforts, Satrou’s grip on your waist remained firm, unyielding.

"And why should I? I think we made a fantastic couple," Satrou cooed, a teasing lilt in his voice. His eyes sparkled with amusement, clearly enjoying the moment far more than you.

You rolled your eyes, exasperation seeping through. "You really think I would fall for something like that?"

"Why? Did you?" he probed further, his smile widening, eyes searching yours for any sign of genuine affect. Anger started to boil up inside you as your attempts to escape his grasp remained futile.

"I don't think you understand the dynamic here very well, Satoru," you began, your voice low and deliberate, each word punctuated for emphasis. You stepped closer, invading his space as much as he had invaded yours, your eyes never leaving his. "Let me make this crystal clear, I'm not someone you can just fucking conquer, and I'm certainly not one of those girls who's gonna kiss the ground you walk on with your whole 'I'm the strongest' act," you seethed.

Your face was mere inches from his now, your breath mingling, the tension palpable. "Because I know what you really are, Satrou," you hissed, the anger in your voice barely contained. "You're a fucking douche bag." "Oh? Is that so."

Satrou's expression shifted subtly, the amusement fading into something more measured, more cautious. He studied you for a moment and you took the chance to wiggle out of his grasp and make your way through the crowd on the dance floor toward the door. The beat of the music pounds in your ears and throughout your body making your synapses jump like beans in a tin can. You can barely see the floor, only flashes of bodies you frantically tried to push past. Before you can make it to the back door, a hand grips your wrist tightly enough to halt your forward rush. Above the din of the pulsating music and amidst the strobe-lit shadows of dancing figures, Satoru's face comes into view. You feel your breath catch in your throat. God his is beautiful. Strobe lights catch and accent every one of his sharp features alighting them in a multicolor color hue. He pulls your wrist to him so you're close, too close. You can smell the old spice shampoo from his hair mixed in with some sort of sweet cologne. It's a smell that makes you want to bury your nose into him over and over again. "Jesus fucking Christ y/n" he breathed his eyes searching yours. "How long are we going to keep this thing of ours going?" You furrowed your eyebrows. “Our thing? What thing?”

“The thing where we act like we hate each other but actually want to fuck the brains out of each other.” Your eyes widen and you feel your face grow deathly hot. You try to step back, get some space, some room to breathe, but the hand on your wrist keeps you from doing so

“I-fuck you” the words come out of your mouth more soft and meager than you intended to, and you find yourself locked into his blue gaze.

“Believe me, I've thought about it.” His voice is low, and his face isn't painted with a shit-eating grin like it so usually is, he's serious and his eyes are soft. Fuck it. You can no longer hear the lyrics to whatever song was playing, only a soft dull hum of the beat in your ears. Immediately your lips are on his. The kiss is frantic, hot, messy. The club's pulse thrummed through you like a second heartbeat, the noise and chaos all but forgotten in the singular focus of his presence. You could feel one of his large hands on the small of your back, drawing you in until there was no space left between the both of you. Your mouths clashed against each other as if you were both seeking something vital, something long-denied. Satoru's lips were insistent against yours, moving with a fervor that matched the pounding bass surrounding you. You whined as his tongue slipped into your mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the firm press of his chest against yours. The scent of his cologne mixed with the smoky air around us, intoxicating and heady.

Your mouths separated with a soft pop, and Satoru is grinning while you're left dazed, breath heavy and chests rising and falling after it. "How bout you say we get out of here Princess."Gojo's voice was a low murmur, his breath warm against your ear as you broke from the intense kiss.

Before you could even respond, a dizzying rush enveloped you. The loud club vanished in an instant, replaced by the quiet, dimly lit ambiance of his bedroom. You were suddenly on his bed, the soft duvet beneath you a stark contrast to the hard dance floor we'd just left. Right, he can teleport. You forgot about that. Wait was he... where are you going to... Before you can get a word in, he’s once again engulfing your lips with his and pulling you into a feverish kiss in which the two of you can’t seem to get enough of each other. The moment one pulls away to breathe, the other is immediately searching for their lips again; intertwining tongues and teeth clashing together recklessly.

Your hot, everything is hot, your body is burning up by the second and there’s a sickly sweet feeling in your stomach that keeps on expanding as time passes. You whine into his mouth when you feel a hand slip under your skirt and lightly trace the outline of your slit with his index finger. You're painfully wet; your arousal has made a large spot on your underwear translucent. “Just touch me,’ you whined, arching impatiently against his hand. He couldn’t make either of you wait any longer. Slowly, he brought his middle finger down and slid it gently over her folds. You threw your head back. "Ahhhh, more please." He did it again, this time his fingertip slipping between and gathering your wetness. He parted you with two fingers. You let out a gasp when he hit your clit and started to rub it in small circles. You tried to say something, anything to explain how hot you were feeling right now, but your words were lost against his soft lips. The taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him so close against you, skin to skin. Time and space had no meaning anymore. There was only you and Satrou.

“You feeling good baby? Satrou speaks slowly, breath on your neck and voice in your ear making you shiver. You bite your lip and nod like any words that came from you would ruin it. You almost wince when you feel two fingers slip into your tight hole. "Jesus, fuck. You gotta relax princesses." He chuckled, knowing far to well that the tightness was going to feel delicious around him. Two fingers worked into you, and your eyes rolled back into your head. He began a steady rhythm as his tongue nipped and sucked the tender skin of your neck. You couldn’t prevent her hips from rising to meet his thrusts. Oh God, you were riding his hand. That had to be bad. You told herself to stop. You couldn’t. Somehow, you found your hands tangled in his short white hair. Your body was coiled tighter, grasping at his fingers, so wet now you could hear the slippery sounds every time he drove back into you. "Hnghhh.... so good." You squeezed your eyes type, becoming focused on the tightening feeling of your core and the blossoming warm pleasure. Your legs started to tremble under the unbearable pleasure and your back arched against the bed as if your body was trying to escape the euphoric feeling that coursed through your skin. "That’s it, fuck, beautiful girl... such a natural submissive...." You want to tell him he's wrong, all this pleasure wasn't because of his egotistic ass, but it'd be a lie. And as if on command, all feelings come to a heightened crescendo; explosions of euphoria clouding your brain causing your toes to curl from pleasure and your body to shake like a leaf.

It takes a couple seconds after you calmed down to realize you squirted all over Satoru's hand and all blood rushes to your face turning you a bright red.

“Oh my god in so sorry I didn’t-”

Your voice dies out as you watch Satrou pull off his shirt, revealing his extremely built body and toned muscles, to wipe the liquid off his hand. You don’t even notice that he had pulled out his dick until you feel something pressing against your entrance, making you look down and your eyes widen as you do so. Your stomach inwardly twisted, filled with the sickly excitement and your breathing started to quicken. "Shhhhh baby," Satoru cups your cheek and kisses your forehead. It was a sweet gesture despite everything happening right now, a gesture that made your heart swell and your mind yearn for Satoru. The stretch of his dick spreading your walls is insane. No amount of preparation could've prepared you for the length of Satoru's dick. You feel it heavy inside you and Satrou pushes into you until he can't push anymore, until his hips are flush against you and the tip of his length is smushed against your cervix. The pleasure of that alone felt numb, unbearable, you needed friction, you needed him to move. You practically faint when he first thrusts into you in earnest. It's euphoric; the curvature of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up. His cock pulsed inside of your silky walls, stretching you to the fullest capacity as he bottomed out again and again. "Oh fuck." Satrou groaned. He was no longer grinning, Satoru's playful resolves vanished and his smile quickly dropped. He knew you'd feel good, but he didn't expect how good you'd feel. The feeling of his hand he had fucked himself to the thought of you for so many nights was nothing compared to the real thing. It was too much, the feeling of your wet soft walls gripping him so tightly. How was he able to live without your pussy in the first place? The pleasure built rapidly, too potent, too insistent. He kneeled over you, a groan escaping his lips—a raw, primal sound that vibrated through the charged air between you. Satorus thrust your quick and hard, a clear display of strength and endurance he had gained from years of jujutsu training. "Been thinking about this, so long, bet you have to have ya~"

As Satrou's long, deliberate fingers encircle your neck, a thrilling chill races down your spine. He applies pressure gently at first, then with a firmer, insistent grip that gradually restricts your airflow, sending a wave of exhilaration through your senses. The world around you narrows, focusing intently on the point where his skin contacts yours, heightening every other sensation that courses through you. His other hand slips under your bra bra to grab and massage your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipples.

"Satoru..! Ahhhh..! I..I, fuckkkkk can't handle this.." You had no strength to answer him, only offering wanton moans in retort as he continued to wreck your body with his completely brutal thrusts. The pain of him hitting the tip of your cervix nearly every time mixed with his hand squeezing your throat it was just all too much.

Satoru. Satoru. Satoru

"Slow down.. please im gonna ahhhh~" Drool slipped passed your lips and you writhed and squirmed at the feeling of hot euphoria passed over your body in flesh arrow. "Gonna cum? Fuck baby, let's... let's come together m'kay?" Satrou almost stuttered. His body had kicked into autopilot, and a deep primal need for you settled in as he thrust in and out, creating a methodical rhythm that echoed in your ears. Your ankles lock around his lower back and you cry out when the head of his cock kisses your womb, your legs shaking as you feel yourself start to be thrown into an intense orgasm. You want to say something about the weird feeling in your stomach, how your skin is buzzing but it's all too much, and before you know it your tumbling toward the edge. It feels like your whole body was shot with electricity and color dances in your eyes as you float in ecstasy.

"Sh-Shit, shit, fuuuuck~" He chuckles into your ear, choking over his words as his hips sputter inside of you, hot cum fills you as much as you can hold inside of your stuffed cunny. Satoru doesn't pull out as you both come down from your high, instead watching you intently as you ride through the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Wanna do this again?" He chuckles.

"Fuck, yes, please."

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojou satoru x reader

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sunflowerwinds · 12 days ago

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sugar, sugar | v.a

summary: on a slow day at your grandmother’s bakery, a customer captures your attention. as the weeks pass, you see her pop up more and more. a gentle friendship ignites between the two of you. the only issue was the undeniable attraction to her and it didn’t help now having to do her a kind favor. it would go away…. right?

pairing: fem!reader x vi arcane

contains: modern!au, kick-boxer!vi, reader is described to have long enough hair to tie up, reader has a sister named mila, we love gram, vander, isha and jinx mentions <3, nothing but fluff, strangers to friends to lovers:)

word count: 3.5K

a/n: i seriously had so much fun writing this and i am excited to dig into a mini-series with vi. i hope everyone enjoys this as much as i do </3

— ONE

Running your grandmother’s bakery wasn’t easy but it was a light in your life. She taught you tips and tricks of working the large industrial oven, every single one of her recipes, and wiping down the chalkboard to write the specials for the delicious treats.

She was charm personified; somehow able to convince pretty much every person that walked to the pastry shop to try at least one item. You were on the more quiet side, not insanely secluded but you weren’t extroverted. Nice people cracked you open and next thing you knew it, you were shoving a donut into their palms to take home.

It was a bad habit.

It was a slow Thursday in November. You were sweeping the small area of seating, softly asking one of the usual college students that came if they needed anything else. You were just a few streets down from the community college so many people your age would come in for coffee and furiously type on their laptops.

Once you were told they were good for now, you excuse yourself back to behind the counter to adjust the display desserts. You were bent over when you heard the bell over the door echo within the space, shouting ‘welcome in’.

“If you have any questions, just let me know. We have a daily special which is on the blackboard,” you stood back up with a slight grunt from the rush, brushing a few flyaways to kindly smile at the new customer. “Today we have buy one, get one donut free.”

Your eyes slightly widen at the… attractiveness of the customer. You adjust the neckline of your soft brown cable knit sweater to tug out your necklaces, plastering on a friendly smile.

“I actually came in because I was curious about the sign,” she trails off, tilting her head as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Do you actually just let people smell the food?”

You let out a soft chuckle as you nod. Your grandfather, one of the only men who had ever tolerated, made the sign for your grandmother the second she mentioned it to him. Now, in all its carved glory ‘Free Smells!’ is hanging underneath the shop's main sign: Sweet Tooth Bakery + Cafe.

“Yeah, my grandma thought it’d be a funny sign to draw people in. Obviously, we don’t let them shove their nose into it or anything,” you shake your head, holding your hand out to the stranger. “Because that’s… unsanitary.”

The pink haired stranger nods with a soft chuckle, stepping back to check out the arrangement of treats in the display case. In that moment of silence, you, as discreetly as possible, check her out. She had on a navy blue cut off sleeve zip-up, a soft white tank top underneath and a pair of grey sweatpants hugging her lower half. Very simplistic outfit but she made it look good.

You think she just naturally looked good. If you stared for long enough, which you embarrassingly did so, you could see markings of ink on the side of her neck and following down the backs of her arms and the smallest etching on her cheek.

“Any suggestions on what to smell first?” She questions, curious eyes bouncing back up to you.

You hum to yourself as you, too, stagger your eyes from pastry to pastry to carefully choose which one you could have her smell.

“Are you a fan of blueberries?” You question with a beaming grin.

“Uh, sure, yeah. Blueberries are good.”

“Then you have to take a whiff of the blueberry danish. It’s one of my favorites.” You offer, pointing to the sweet treat.

The pink haired stranger leans forward, folding her bare arms across her chest. You, again, can’t help your stares as you try to figure out what was exactly dotted into her pale skin. She nods with a shrug, looking at you with a kind smile.

“I’ll give it a whiff, yeah,” she stepped forward so that the glass of the display case was the only obstacle between the two of you.

You can feel your face getting hot as you mutter a bright ‘okay’ to yourself. You bend over once again grab the metal tongs to pick out the danish to place on a ceramic plate. You place it on top of the display case, motioning for the stranger to give it a smell.

Still seeming a bit hesitant that you were playing a joke on her, she leans her face forward so that she is mere centimeters away from the pastry. She inhales a bit, letting out a long sigh as she leans back to look at you.

“Shit, that smells amazing,” she praises the sweet aroma, nodding in satisfaction. “I’ll take it.”

You blink at her before chuckling awkwardly.

“You don’t have to buy the ones you smell. I promise.” You reassure her as you attempt to put the danish back so that you can shove the cranberry-orange muffin in her face.

She’s quick to hold a palm out to stop you, shaking her head. A beautiful smile spreads on her lips, temporarily forgetting how eager you were to show her every single pastry on display.

“I want that one. I swear. Plus, my sister’s going to rush me out of here if I take too long.”

A part of you was disappointed that she was so quick to purchase the first, yet incredibly delicious, treat. You selfishly wanted her to stay for as long as possible. Your grandmother would be on your ass for being so distracted by an attractive customer.

She would give you a clap on the back for making a sale, though.

“Oh, okay. Did your sister want anything?” You offer, itching to find any way possible for her to stay just a bit longer.

The stranger hums to herself for a moment as she examines the rest of the delicious treats. You tilt your head as you grab a small brown paper bag to place the danish into, waiting patiently to see if she was going to pick another item.

To your delighted surprise, she nods as she points to a more simplistic pastry.

“I think this pink donut should be good,” she nods to show certainty.

You grasp onto the sweet treat to slide it into the bag with her danish, trying not to spill a lot of the sprinkles. You seal it closed with a custom sticker with the logo of the shop, typing up her total into the register. The stranger reaches into her sweatpants pocket to pull out her wallet.

“Your total is gonna be $7.89. Cash or card?” You question.

“Card.”

You watch her hand you a simple light blue credit card, grinning as you not-so-discreetly check out her full name on it. Her first name caught your attention. Violet. As you swipe her card, you clear your throat to work up the courage to give her a compliment.

“I love your name. It’s pretty,” you say as you hand her back the card.

The stranger, now known as Violet, smiles small at your words. Her long fingers take the card from you as she slides it back into her wallet.

“Thank you. My, uh, dad named me,” she grins at you.

“Well, he made a very good choice,” you hand her the bag as well, nodding as you try not to appear awkward. “Anything else I can get for you?”

Were you being weird?

“No, no, I’m good,” she chuckles as she crinkles the bag in her palms. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

You nod as you hand her own copy of the receipt, holding onto the half second of the tip of her fingers brushing against yours. You watch her turn her back and leave the shop, eyes never leaving her sculpted back profile. You huff at your behavior once the bell from above the door snaps you out of your small trance, shoving your copy of the receipt into its designated spot.

“She’s cute,” you hear from behind you, causing you to jump and whip your head around.

You’re met with your grandma grinning evilly at you, a little bit of flour smudged on her cheek from her baking in the back.

“Gram,” you sigh as you shake your head, brushing away your loose hairs.

“I’m just saying, bug,” she walks up next to you to rub up and down your arm.

You blush at what she was insinuating. As much as you love your grandmother, she attempted to be your match maker like you were an introverted middle schooler. You were 22 for God's sake. You would make moves and flirt when you felt like it.

“Don’t you have something in the oven?” You raise your eyebrows at her, hoping she’d leave it alone.

“Hey. I could fire you, you know,” your grandma pointed a finger in your face accusingly but her tone was light and a cheeky grin was on her face.

You roll your eyes playfully as you softly bump your hip with hers.

Everyday since Violet came in, you perk at the sound of the bell hoping to see that head of pink hair waltzing in again. Two excruciatingly long weeks pass before you see Violet again.

What was disappointing about seeing her today of all days was that you were working this shift with your 17 year old sister who was… less than thrilled to be working now; especially with you being her superior in a workplace. She, like most teenagers, was yearning to be more independent which meant constantly disregarding your instructions on what to do at work.

You were irritated beyond belief with her constantly arguing with you. You couldn’t even really fully pay attention as Mila smacked your arm with the rag. When you saw her from outside the shop, this time around she came with company. You were in the midst of a bicker with her because she didn’t wipe down a table like you had told her to when you saw Violet coming in with a little girl walking beside her.

You gasp at her childish antics, pinching her arm but then shushing her as you tight-lipped smile at Violet as she approaches the familiar display case. You try not to frown at the sight of her bandaged nose and small bruise sitting right on the apple of her cheek. Her outfit is similar from the last time you saw her except a simple oil-black hoodie with those same joggers. You even saw a bit of wrapped bandages on her hands peeking out from the sleeves.

Was she jumped or something?

“There are only, like, two people here and they’re sitting outside,” your sister whisper-shouts at you, plastering on a fake smile at the new customers. “Hi! Welcome in.”

Violet glances at Mila when she straightens her back, placing a gentle hand on the back of the child’s back to guide her to the display of new and fresh treats for the day. She places her little hands on the glass as she very eagerly bounces on the soles of her worn in dark blue tennis shoes.

“Hi! Violet, you’re back.” You turn to your sister and sneer quietly. “Clean the tables. Now, please.”

Mila gives Violet a once-over and you a narrow glare as she grumbles a ‘fine’ as she rounds the corner to go and wipe down the crumb and dust filled tables.

“Hey. You can call me Vi, by the way. I, uh, was with my sister for the day and she wanted to try this place. I gave her some of my danish and she went crazy.” Violet motioned to the child just a few feet below her, chuckling at her gazing hungrily at the sweets.

“Well, Vi, I’m glad to hear,” you lean your head to the side to get a good look at her sister.

She had a wild head of short waves, a small gap in between her two front teeth. Her outfit made her ten times more adorable; a plain white Henley long sleeve with a pair of overalls. Her big hazel eyes stared at you patiently.

“Hi, cutie. Do you see one that you like?” You question her with a friendly smile.

Her adorable face scrunches up in thought, stepping back to look at her choices. She turns her head to her older sister before pointing at a strawberry muffin and raising her hands to sign what you believe is ASL. You curse yourself for not knowing what she was telling the pink haired stranger.

“She wants to smell the strawberry muffin,” Vi chuckles. “I told her about how you let me smell my danish first before buying it.”

“Okay, I can do that for you. What’s her name?” You question, hoping it didn’t come off as offensive.

“Isha. She doesn’t talk much,” Vi raised a bandaged hand to settle on her light brown waves on her head, ruffling the strands.

“Well, Miss Isha,” you focus your attention on her once again, watching her bounce on the balls on her feet with excitement. You grab your trusty metal tongs to grab the muffin and place it on a soft blue ceramic plate to set it down on the counter area of your register set-up for her to smell. “Here you go. Let me know if you want to smell anything else.”

Your heart grows tenfold as Vi quietly tells Isha to not shove her nose into the muffin, smiling at her sister as she hovers close to the pastry.

“Is she the one who ate the pink donut?” You turn your attention to Vi, raising your brows as you adjust your flyaways from your bubble braid.

Pretty blue eyes flickering to yours, her brows twitch as if she was shocked that you remembered such a minuscule detail.

“No, that was my other sister,” she shakes her head. “Isha was actually very angry with me when I came home with no cupcakes or muffins for her so I’m making it up to her.”

You watch her scrunch up her bruised bridge of her nose for a second as Isha signs something else to her. Vi playfully rolls her eyes with a sigh as she turns to you with another wince.

“Can she eat this now? She has an impatient appetite.”

You chuckle with a nod as you hand the plate to her, muttering a ‘careful, sweetie’ to Isha who beams up at you. She scurries over to a small round table to hop up on the seat to divulge. Now that it was just you and Vi standing in front of each other.

“Hey, are you okay?” You ask softly, eyes flicking to each injury on her gorgeous face.

Confused about your concern for her, her brows furrow for a moment. You watch her turn around to make sure Isha was all good, hounding down the muffin with crumbs falling from her mouth to the ground.

“Oh, yeah,” Vi shook her head, waving at you off as she grins sweetly. “I work at a kick-boxing studio and some of the kids can get aggressive. I’m okay, though, trust me. I’ve taken more than a few hits to the head.”

That explains the injuries and the bandaged hands. Of course, she was a kick-boxer. Her physique gave that away but what did you know? Isha was distracted with her muffin so you were able to converse with her, get to know her a little more so your gram would stop asking you if that cute pink haired girl came in again.

“Really? Where at?” You hum.

“It’s like fifteen minutes from here. Why? You want to come see kids beat me up?” She teases, folding her arms over her chest.

You hum with a nod, walking around the counter to place a napkin on the table so Isha could wipe her face to be rid of the sticky crumbs on her face. “Yeah, that’s exactly why. Because I’m a masochist.”

An actual laugh left her plush lips as she shook her head, eyes following you as you face her now. If Gram could see you now. Well, she was probably watching you from the security cameras in the back room with an evil smile.

“You know, I meant to ask. Do you make custom cakes?” Vi leans back to rest her lower back on the countertop where your register was, crossing her legs and shoving her hands into the pocket of her hoodie.

She really just looks like that, you thought to yourself.

“We do, yeah. Is your birthday coming up?” You look at her with raised brows.

Vi shakes her head, pointing to the little girl behind you. “No. Her birthday is next week and my family is throwing her a zoo themed birthday party.”

You awe out loud at the thought.

“That’s so cute. Yeah, I can— I mean, we can do that,” you shake your head as you correct yourself, hoping she didn’t catch your desperate slip-up.

Isha stands up from her table, dusting off the crumbs from her overalls. She walks over to you to hand you the plate, signing ‘thank you’ to you. You pause for a moment before hesitantly signing back ‘you’re welcome’ slowly, not sure if you were doing it right. You knew the basics but weren’t extremely educated on ASL. After today, though, you were determined to brush up on it.

Isha eyes brighten at you signing back to her. She turns to Vi with a smile so wide, you swore her cheeks would split open. She nods down at Isha, ruffling her hair once again as she reaches for her pocket to retrieve her wallet.

“Shit, sorry, how much do I owe you for the muffin?” Vi shuffles through the bills in her wallet.

“No, no. You’re… good. Don’t worry about it.” You wave her off, shaking your head.

Vi pauses before scoffing, attempting to shove the money into your palms. “I’m paying for the muffin.”

“Seriously. It’s one muffin, Vi. Plus, a little early birthday present for Isha.” You shove the bills into her hands once again, gripping onto her hands to make sure she doesn’t try to give them back.

Vi glances down at your gentle hands around hers. Reluctantly taking the money back, she takes the bills before shoving them back into the crease of her wallet. You try not to focus on how slightly bigger her hands were from yours; how surprisingly soft her knuckles were.

Isha seems to become impatient now with her elder sister, reaching up to tug on two of her fingers. Vi nods down to her, muttering a soft ‘okay, okay’.

“Thank you for that, by the way. And if it's not too much trouble for you, cupcake, can I get your number?” Vi questions as she takes Isha’s hand in hers. “You know, for any questions about what the cake should look like and what flavor it could be.”

Your brows furrow at her words before nodding, pursing your lips to repress the smile creeping onto your face. Cupcake. You like that nickname coming from her lips.

“Right! Yes, um,” you walk over to the counter to grab a sticky note and a pen to scribble down your personal number. “Here. Call or text me with all the information.”

You place the small yellow piece of paper into her palm that wasn’t holding Isha’s. She takes it in between her pointer and middle fingers, nodding with a confident smile.

“I will. See you, cupcake.”

“See you, Vi. Bye, sweetheart,” you bend down ever so slightly to wave at Isha.

The adorable girl waves her free hand at you with a just as cute toothy smile on her face. You excused it as a sugar rush as they walk away from you, hand in hand as they leave the store. Vi turns her head to give you one more glance before Isha is tugging her down the sidewalk.

Mila angrily stormed up to you the second they left and raised her hand with the rag to smack you on the forearm. You gasp and snatch the weapon away from her, pointing a finger in her face.

“What the hell? Stop hitting me with this,” you sneer.

“I’m wiping down tables and you’re flirting? How the hell is that fair?” Mila quips back as she folds her arms in front of her chest.

“I wasn’t flirting. I was taking a cake order, by the way, so you can stop whining.” You roll your eyes as you walk back around to the counter.

Mila sucks in a deep breath before shaking her head.

“Really? So what was that whole,” your sister cleared her throat, sucking in a deep breath. “Giving her your personal number when you could’ve just given her the store's number?”

You pause your movements of wiping down the counter from behind the register, thinking about it for a moment. You knew why. You just hated your sister being all in your business.

“Okay, what is it to you?” You get defensive. “I can’t… make new friends?”

Mila merely snorts before rolling her eyes.

“Sure. You definitely only want to be friends with her.”

TAGLIST: @strawberrykidneystone @lovinglynny @kylorey25

#wlw #sapphic #lesbian #vi x you #vi fluff #vi arcane #arcane vi x reader #arcane vi #vi fanfic #arcane show #arcane league of legends #arcane league of lesbians

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sahkuna · 1 month ago

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TO YOU SOMEDAY — GOJO SATORU

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

synopsis: time makes the heart grow fonder... you think. from your early childhood years to navigating life as adults, there are key moments that gojo satoru holds near and dear. there are so many things he wants and hopes to say to you, someday. but for now, the memories and things he keeps will suffice.

series content warning(s): afab reader, 18+ so mdni, modern au/canon divergence, childhood friends, frienemies to lovers, slow-ish burn, flashback(s) used a lil to drive plot, fluff & domestic fluff, pining, small angst if you squint sorry, eventual smut/smut → resolved sexual tension, #MMC BEING SO IN 🤍 WITH FMC IT'S PATHETIC (WE ALL CHEERED).

word count: 3k :3 | series masterlist

THEN

You were about eight years old on the wet, gloomy April morning you first met him.

His arrival was unexpected, especially considering he entered the school year about two weeks after it had started.

“Everyone,” your third-grade teacher, Ms. Ayase, stood at the front of the classroom with her hands clasped together. Beside her was a child, a boy, no taller than the middle half of her torso. “Today we have a new student joining our class!”

This news sparked excited whispers and chatter that floated through the rows of desks and chairs in the room. You sat a little taller in your seat, your eyes zeroed in on the new kid who stood motionless beside your teacher.

Ms. Ayase thumped her palm loudly against the chalkboard— twice, then three times— to regain her class’s attention. Pleased once everyone had fallen silent, she opened her mouth to speak again. “I’d like you all to meet Gojo. Gojo Satoru.”

Young, curious eyes around the room took turns peeking at their new classmate with prolonged stares. Sharp blue eyes matched their curiosity with an uninterested gaze. His little fists jammed tight into his pockets as he stared straight toward the back of the room as if he’d rather be elsewhere.

“I trust that you all will make him feel welcome today and going forward,” Ms. Ayase continued.

You’d seen most kids cry and buckle under the sudden weight of attention thrown onto them while being introduced to 20-something pairs of eyes staring right back at them. In contrast, other kids basked in the spotlight with glee, quick to spew fun facts about themselves or whatever cool interests they were dying to share with the class.

But this kid? Gojo?

He didn’t even crack the smallest of smiles. Not even when your fellow classmate and friend, Momo, waved a cheerful hand at him.

For a split second, large, bright blue eyes landed on you and settled there for a fleeting moment before he shifted his attention away.

The harsh, bright light from the class’s luminescent bulbs glinted against the rims of Ms. Ayase’s red rectangular glasses when she glanced down at her new student. “We’re having one of our custodians bring you a new desk, Gojo. So for the time being I’ll have you sit tight right next to…”

Your teacher’s warm brown eyes scanned the room of third graders as many enthusiastic arms shot up in the air paired with piercing “Me!”s and “Choose me!”s chorused all around you.

You felt relieved when you saw everyone throwing their hat into the ring to have Gojo Satoru sit beside them because now you wouldn’t have to worry about making small talk, especially with a boy.

Content with the many options Ms. Ayase now had to choose from, you drifted your attention outside the window toward the school campus courtyard. With all the commotion now drowned out, you took the time to ponder about what games you’d play with your friends during the next recess.

Seconds slipped by with you lost in your thoughts, oblivious to how classmates' antics had stopped and the sudden hush that blanketed the classroom. It was so unnatural and it dawned on you that Ms. Ayase must have already made her choice. So, when you snap your focus back to the front of the room, you’re jolted at the fact that everyone is now looking at you.

It took a moment for reality to sink in that your teacher had called your name until she repeated it, shaking you from your daze. A few more students turned in their seats and cast mixed looks of envy and surprise.

Out of everyone who had raised their hands, of course, she had to have chosen you to be Gojo’s temporary seatmate. Of. Course.

“Huh?” you squawked in bewilderment, taken aback by her impromptu choice. “Me!?” Suddenly nervous under the scrutiny of your classmates, you shrunk into your seat in a weak attempt to lessen the heat of their stares.

Judging by the looks of it, he doesn’t look all too thrilled about her decision either. As if he were sizing you up, Gojo gives you a jaded once-over before hauling his navy blue backpack from the floor with a quipped, “Sure.”

Fortunately enough for Ms. Ayase, your desk wasn’t far from the front, so it took her only a minute or so to take an extra chair from the corner of her room and drag it aaall the way over to you.

Once at your desk, she plopped the chair beside you with a resounding thud. She flapped her hand a few times as if to signal you to scooch over and make some room. So, you did. And not far behind her, Gojo walked over to your desk and dropped into the chair next to you, without sparing you a glance.

Great!

You hadn’t even spoken a word to the boy and he was already giving you the cold shoulder.

Either oblivious to Gojo’s distant nature or blatantly choosing to overlook it, Ms. Ayase—pleased with her seating arrangements—gave you an approving nod before she walked back to the front of the classroom to begin her lesson.

Amid her teaching, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Gojo inconspicuously. He was an odd case, and you wanted to take a crack at breaking down his stony exterior. You don’t mind being the first to extend an olive branch to kickstart the beginning of a hopefully new friendship.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper so you wouldn’t disturb the flow of other students who tried to learn. First-day jitters get the best of everyone and you had wanted to give this Gojo Satoru kid a chance to at least be acquainted with you before you start to form your own opinions on him.

You were doing a good thing. You were being a friend, a great one at that. That’s what any new transfer would want on their first day at a new school, right?

Well...

It came as a shock to you that upon hearing your voice, you caught how Gojo’s gaze slowly shifted from his scattered notes and childish cartoon-like sketches to forcefully land on you as if you were doing him a disservice at trying to be friendly.

The kind smile that had graced your lips before his unrelenting stare now turned sour and awkward.

His expression wasn’t mean, but it certainly wasn’t friendly either. Just… blank. And the more he stared, surveying you, probably looking down on you and your attempts to befriend him, the more annoyed you became.

Yeah, never mind.

What was his damage?!

Never have you ever met a child so strange.

With your lips twisted into a faint sneer and your brows bunched tightly together, you exhaled a vexed hmph at Gojo’s less-than-pleasant attitude and shot your eyes back to Ms. Ayase— who was now scribbling a bunch of numbers and diagrams onto the blackboard. You even shunt your seat a few spaces away from him to show your disfavour.

You simply concluded that getting to know let alone, befriending Gojo Satoru may not be in the cards for you… ever.

Every day you thanked your lucky stars for the handy dandy custodian, Mr. Taro, who had fast-tracked the delivery of your sworn enemy’s (which was one-sided) desk within the next few days after his arrival.

You no longer had to worry yourself sick every morning on the walk to school about brushing shoulders and sharing textbooks with your classmate, Gojo Satoru.

That had been a whole five months ago, though, and you now only had a week left of your summer break before your second semester would begin. Since the very first day you met him, you’ve watched Gojo grow into the role of your class’s star student.

He was everyone’s first choice for P.E. if there were teams for the games you’d play, and he was invited to everyone’s birthday party. Anyone who managed to prompt a conversation that lasted more than a few minutes with Gojo was determined to be one of the lucky ones. It was a known fact that everyone at school wanted to be his friend.

Well… almost everyone.

Tired of swinging on the swings, you launched yourself off the play set and into a pile of woodchips that cushioned the land onto your feet. The sun crept lower on the horizon, painting the sky with warm oranges and blues. You remembered your mom having told you that you were expected to come home before dinner.

Your buddy, Momo, had walked home from the neighbourhood park long before you, and seeing that you had nothing else to do, you decided to start your short trek home.

“Time to go,” you said to no one in particular. You walked over to your bag that was thrown haphazardly on one of the picnic tables and swung it over to slink your arms through each strap.

Unbeknownst to you, you must’ve forgotten to zip up your backpack completely earlier, prompting most of your bag’s contents to spill across the pavement.

You grunted in aggravation. “Jeez,” you growled to yourself, as you scooped up the scattered pencils and trading cards you had packed into your hands in a crabby fashion. There must’ve been at least 15 of these cards that you needed to gather.

After spending maybe a good two minutes picking up your things and wiping the dirt off them, right as you reached for your last trading card a huge gust of wind accosted you and blew the cards up and into the air.

“Hey!” you exclaimed in shock. With great dread and an air of urgency, you shoved the rest of your belongings into your bag and chased after your runaway card.

You yelled and hollered down the sidewalks of your quiet neighbourhood thankful for the most part that it was vacant. God forbid if someone you knew from school saw you running and screaming bloody murder over a damn trading card. “Stop!”

This was the kind of chase scene you’d seen play out in a children’s TV show with the obnoxious laugh track faintly playing in the back. To say you were mortified at your predicament would be an understatement.

The card having a mind of its own took a sharp turn around a corner, and you not far behind followed it. Unfortunately, unaware that there could be another being behind that very corner, your sharp turn wound you to bump into someone’s back. Hard.

You let out an audible oomph right as you tumbled onto the ground.

Well, there goes one of your most prized possessions. You knew it was a bad idea to bring your high-ranking cards to the park, but nooo, Momo wanted to see them before her family trip to Hakone before school started.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

You groaned and swiped a frustrated hand against your eyes as that nipping, uncomfortable feeling that you just lost your favourite card.

Do not cry. You scolded yourself, as you pressed your fist harder against your eyes as the familiar heat of tears began to prick at your waterline. Not over a card. Especially in front of a stranger.

Reminded that you had company, you quickly rose to your feet again and dusted yourself off as if nothing had happened. “Sorry,” you said with your head down.

You sidestepped around the person, ready to make your dejected walk home with now 14 cards in tow.

Things couldn’t have gotten any worse is what you thought until you heard the “stranger” behind you make their presence known.

“You like Digimon?”

Oh God.

When you turned to see your worst-case scenario personified, there in his hand, was your only Skullgreymon Digimon collector’s edition card in all its glory.

You’re half happy— because your card managed to be saved— and half-mortified— because your card managed to be saved by public enemy number one, Gojo Satoru.

Immediately, you decided to skip the formalities and extended your arm to snatch your card away from your hero-turned-villain. But you’re not quick enough.

“You like Digimon?” Gojo repeated, this time with more volume in his voice. The hand that held your dear Skullgreymon swivelled behind his back to keep it far from your range.

This was the most you’ve heard him speak (to you, that is). You tried not to let the wonderment of this event cloud over the fact that Gojo had something that belonged to you and kept you from taking it.

“Yes,” you grunted and took one step forward in an attempt to grab your card again to no avail. “I do.”

Gojo blinked at you, his snowy white lashes fluttered with thoughtful consideration. When Gojo isn’t giving you blank stares or expressions that practically screamed he was judging you, you think he could be quite nice. You think.

“Me too,” he finally said.

“... Okay.” Was all you said, because what else is there to say!?

Gauging that Gojo was in no hurry to give you back Skullgreymon anytime soon, your arm fell limp at your side and you huffed in defeat.

You expected him to follow his confession with something else, but instead, the two of you stood on the side of the sidewalk in silence. This went on far longer than you would have liked for it to have gone.

Gojo’s blue eyes bore into your soul with a look of expectation that stretched across his features, as he thumbed the back of your sparkly card behind him.

Your gaze diverted away from him and glanced at the slow start of a darkening sky, which was your indicator that you really needed to get home soon. But you’d be damned if you left without your limited edition Skullgreymon card!

Chancing a glimpse back at Gojo, his face is unreadable and serious in all its intensity. His eyebrows that you were so used to seeing in straight impassive lines were now creased tight with confusion and… annoyance?

That’s when it struck you that he was waiting for you to say something. So now he wanted you to extend the olive branch? Funny! Hilarious, even!

No shot.

You snorted and answered his unspoken open invitation and question to play with a curt shake of your head. “Give me back my—”

“I don’t have any training lessons with my tutor tomorrow,” Gojo replied, cutting you off. You watched with horror as he tucked your card into the front pocket of his black khakis. He even placed his hands into them to intercede any chance of you swiping it back from him. “Bring more of your cards here in the afternoon and I’ll show you some of mine.”

Without even bothering to wait for your response, let alone agreement, Gojo Satoru turned on his heel and walked his merry self home.

And that very next day you waited at the park, just like he had ordered you to do, brewed to the brim with indignation that Gojo managed to swindle you into leaving your house to meet/play/...whatever it was that he wanted to see you for… with him.

Arms crossed tightly against your chest as you pressed yourself against the swingset beam, you waited for Gojo to make his arrival. Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long.

“You’re here.”

Behind you, you spotted Gojo. Today he wore a different set of khakis, all-too-expensive sneakers that were not park material and… a dark blue Digimon tee. Stowed between his arm and side, he carried a black binder, probably decked out with all his Digimon cards.

Just as he had said.

Oh.

There’s a creeping sensation of guilt that bullies your conscience. Maybe you were a tad bit mean yesterday in not being open to meeting up with Gojo because today it seemed like he wanted to make a fair impression on you.

Maybe today would be the one shot for you guys to get to know each other better.

Noticing your silence that drawled on for too long, you quickly countered with a clipped, “Of course I am!” You nodded your chin at him. “You stole my card!”

You thought you spotted a ghost of a smile dancing across his lips, but it disappeared as quickly as you must have imagined it.

Gojo flung his binder—you swallowed the urge to tell him to be careful— and sat on the ground.

When you hadn’t immediately followed his lead, Gojo looked up at you incredulously. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

So, you do.

You would have been silly to pass up the rare opportunity of talking to Gojo like a normal human being rather than sworn enemies (once again, one-sided on your part).

From that day onward, there was a miraculous shift in the way you interact with your classmates. The shell of the bratty, blunt, and sometimes abrasive nature of Gojo Satoru you once knew him to have was no more.

After summer break when school was back and in session, when Ms. Ayase revealed the new seating chart for the classroom and you discovered you’d only be a desk away from Gojo, you caught the white tuft of his hair whirl to find across the class before he shot you a thumbs up.

But it didn’t stop there.

No longer did Gojo roll his eyes when you were picked to be on the same team as him during P.E. Instead, if he were captain for one of the games, much to the class’s (and your) surprise, you were almost always chosen first.

He also intruded on the many recess sessions you’d have to play with your friends to urge you to ditch them and start a match of DCG with him.

This spurred you to learn that Gojo had a grand fixation and bountiful admiration for Digimon— he was (and still) is a class-A nerd when it comes to all things in the Digimon franchise, more so than you.

Things had changed from where it all started in April of 1997. Gojo had changed, and you’d like to say you had to.

Satoru never wound up giving you that card back. But you no longer seemed to care about that, nor his antics.

Not anymore.

OKAYYYY SHE (me) FINALLY DELIVERED. thank you for reading until the end! if you liked it, please yell at me about it will yell (/pos) right back <333 I HOPE YOU GUYS WILL STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT PARTS OF THIS MINI-SERIES! as it will come soon :) until then DUECES STINKIES!

*EDIT: you know, i think this will be more so a prologue/chapter "0" rather than it being chapter 1...? this is just the bones of this series. nonetheless eeeee, childhood friends to lover trope on TOP. WHO ELSE CHEERED

#sahkuna!#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #eventual smut #later on... OBVIOUSLY.#to you someday

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aemondsbabe · 1 year ago

Text

Taunt

obviously, i feel very normal and chill about ewan's new performance in saltburn. anyways lmao this is my version of michael gavey from the vibes i got from him in the 5 seconds he's in the trailer! i have no idea if this is accurate to how he is truly portrayed in the movie! if the movie comes out and i'm totally wrong, then i don't care bc i got to have fun writing about a cheeky lil oxford student!!

summary: you're nearly failing statistics and the student your professor asks to tutor you seems to gain a sick satisfaction from seeing you squirm; he hates you...or so think.

pairing: michael gavey x reader

warnings: mature, 18+ (minors, do not enter!!!) no use of Y/N, afab reader, profanity, smut, piv smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dom/sub, brief daddy kink (literally one mention), dirty talk, dumbification, humiliation (only a bit), size kink if you squint, mild angst but happy ending, choking i guess (barely), public sex (they're alone but like it's still public lmao), brief discussions of math -- please let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 10.5k (dear lord)

a/n: baby's first fic omg! if you enjoy this one and want to see more from me, please feel free to send in requests! (GoT, HoTD, Stranger Things, Marvel, etc!)

PRAISE | Taunt Part 2

MAKING AMENDS | Bonus

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!🌟

“Right, so,” Professor Davies began, pulling a thick textbook off the shelf next to his desk, “Since we’ve only just returned from Easter holiday, I thought I’d go easy on you today.”

A few quiet groans could be heard around the room, a couple students turning to look at one another with grimaces; in the few weeks you’ve been in Professor Davies’s class, he’s never once gone easy on you. With a small sigh, you shuffle through your spiral notebook until you come to a blank page.

“D’you think you’ll go to the party this weekend?” Louise whispers, leaning over closer to you as she twirls a pen around in her fingers, “I heard this one is supposed to be fucking insane.”

“Like any of Felix’s parties aren’t insane?” You whisper back, smirking as you doodle a small flower on the corner of a page of paper, “Of course I’ll be there,” you murmur, watching as Professor Davies writes an intricate formula on the chalkboard, “I could really use a break, anyway…I’ve been so stressed recently.”

“Christ…” A boy, in the row of desks in front of you scoffs, just barely shaking his head as he copies down the formula, his handwriting sharp and choppy. You feel blood rush to your cheeks as you narrow your eyes, staring intently at his sandy hair. You didn’t really know him, this being your only class with him, but you’d seen him around campus, regularly passing by him in the halls. Oxford may be a large university, but when you’re on campus everyday, you begin recognizing familiar faces.

He didn’t run in the same crowds as you at all, and you got the distinct impression that he looked down on you and the rest of your friends, but you knew his name – Michael and that he was incredibly smart, his hand promptly shooting into the air anytime Professor Davies asked a question. In the few weeks you’d been in the same statistics class, you had yet to see him get a question wrong, watching as he grinned, cocky, everytime he was praised for correctly solving even the most intricate of formulas.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be more the opposite, always shying away and praying not to hear Professor Davies call your name in his deep, baritone voice every time his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a volunteer, or victim, more like. While Michael clearly enjoyed the class, practically glowing with an arrogant confidence as soon as he walked into the wood paneled lecture hall, you were simply here to check it off as a requirement of your major, hoping to survive the class with a C and nothing more.

It was annoying, you wouldn’t deny that, the way that smug smirk seemed to be permanently etched onto his face, how that stupid taunting glimmer was an ever-present fixture of his blue eyes — blue eyes which, seemingly, always managed to find their way to you, one way or another.

His attention was intimidating at first, his cold stare leaving you unsure of what exactly his intention was. Was he trying to challenge you? Trying to determine if he knew you from somewhere else? A small part of you, a naive part, hoped that his staring was meant to be affectionate; he was cute, you’d admit it! Always showing up to class in cozy knit sweaters, his wavy hair still ruffled and untidy as if he’d just gotten out of bed, gold rimmed glasses perched atop a strong nose.

You quickly tear your gaze away from the back of Michael’s head, biting your bottom lip as you begin copying down the problem on the chalkboard, pausing briefly when you see, from the corner of your eye, his head turn as he glances at you over his shoulder. You felt your cheeks flush despite yourself, that small, sanguine voice in the back of your head cheering.

“Now, then,” Professor Davies booms, dropping the textbook down on his desk with a cacophonous thud before sweeping his eyes across the classroom, “A bit of review before we really dive in…” He continues, pacing around the front of the room as he explains the various parts and pieces of the equation on the board.

“What do you think you’ll wear?” Louise asks, leaning over once more to whisper in your ear, you can smell her signature floral perfume on her hair, “I was thinking I’d do that new blue-ish dress I got, you know, the strappy one?”

“Might still be too cold for strappy,” you whisper back, half listening to the professor drone on as you continue doodling on your paper, pausing every few minutes to jot down a few haphazard notes, “I was just thinking I’d do a jumper, probably a skirt and tights–”

Suddenly, you hear Professor Davies call your name, your cheeks practically stinging as blood rushes to your face. Sitting up straighter, you finally find the courage to meet his stern gaze, “Since you seem all too eager to share your thoughts,” He continues slowly stalking towards you across wooden floorboards that softly creak beneath his feet, “Would you care to enlighten us with the solution to the quadratic equation on the board?” He comes to a stop, hands clasped behind his back as he patiently waits for you to answer, a small, knowing smile poised on his lips.

“I– uhm, well,” you stutter, glancing back and forth between your barely there notes and the chalkboard, throat growing tighter as you feel everyone's eyes on you, “Don’t you need to solve for G first?”

“And how would you go about doing that?”

“Well, you would…” You trail off, desperately trying to remember the lessons you’d had before Easter holiday, absentmindedly picking at your cuticle as you pray to be anywhere but here or for a hole to open in the floor and swallow you whole, “I…I don’t recall, professor. I’m sorry.” You finally say, not being able to meet his gaze as you stare intently at your lap, desperately willing yourself not to cry, even as you feel your eyes stinging.

“Perhaps, in the future, it would be of benefit to socialize with your friends outside of my classroom.” Professor Davies admonishes, giving a sharp glare to Louise as well, who manages an apologetic smile. “Yes, Professor.” You whisper, keeping your eyes downturned.

Finally, you hear the floorboards softly creaking once more as Professor Davies makes his way back up to the podium at the front of the room and once again resumes his lecture. You can’t help but pause for a second when you hear a small snicker from the tall boy in front of you, sensing as he peers at you over his shoulder once again.

“Would anyone else like to take a crack at the problem on the board?” Professor Davies asks, leaning against the old, worn podium at the front of the room. Like clockwork, Michael’s hand shoots into the air. Somehow, that makes you blush even harder.

Eventually, Professor Davies finishes his lecture and retrieves his dark leather briefcase from under the desk, pulling a thick stack of papers out and sitting them on the podium, leaning over it with a sigh, “I have your tests graded. Most of you did very well, you should be pleased with yourselves. Some of you, however,” He says pointedly, “Could benefit greatly from a closer study of the material.”

Slowly, he walks around the room passing back tests, throwing out a comment here and there as he did so. You already know you hadn't done well on that particular test and dread getting it back and confirming your suspicions, so you keep yourself busy, choosing to meticulously pack up your things instead.

“Mr. Gavey,” he said a few feet away from you, papers rustling as he slid the test across the wooden surface of the long bench desks, “Once more, an outstanding job! Top of the class, keep it up.”

“Thank you, Professor,” you glance up, watching as he takes the paper with a humble nod, that same, oh-so pleased smile gracing his angular face. He must sense you looking at him and quickly shifts his gaze in your direction, eyes glimmering with self-satisfaction behind his gold-rimmed glasses as his smile quickly turns into a smirk. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his with a small, bewildered huff. Why did he seem to get so much satisfaction from besting you, of all people? It’s not like you were exactly an academic threat.

“Ms. Bickerstaff,” Professor Davies says, finally appearing next to the table you and Louise sat at, “Not bad, a bit more effort next time and you’re sure to be on track,” he remarks, sliding her paper across the desk. Louise thanks him with a small smile as she flips through her test, eyes scanning over his marks.

Finally, Professor Davies stands before you once again, your paper the very last in his hands. You hear him mutter your last name before he slides the paper across the desk to you, and you can’t help but deflate as you see your grade; you knew it would be bad, but that? How on Earth were you going to recover your average? What if you had to retake the whole course? What if you failed out of Oxford entirely? Your parents had sacrificed so much to help you get here, spending years and untold amounts of money on private tutors and extracurricular materials, all to help you have an impressive application! Not to mention the money just for the course fees! Unlike most of your friends, you didn’t come from piles and piles of money and status – your family was alright, sure, but you were definitely several tax brackets below them.

As your thoughts spiraled, you felt Louise elbow you in the side at the same time you heard Professor Davies address you again. Shaking your head to clear your scattered thoughts, you clear your throat and finally turn to look up at him, “Sorry, yes, Professor?”

“As I was saying,” Professor Davies continues, tapping the papers in front of you, “I would like to discuss your performance with you today, after class. Please meet me at the front of the room before you go.”

“Yes, sir.” you mumble dejectedly, nodding as you quickly flip the test over, embarrassed at the thought of anyone else seeing your grade.

“I’ll see you later, babes,” Louise says a few minutes later as everyone is clearing out of the room, “Good luck!” She whispers, giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making her way to the door.

“Thanks!” you smile weakly, swallowing the lump in your throat before picking up your things and heading to the front of the room. The afternoon sun is already getting lower in the sky, beams of light shining into the room, bathing rectangular swaths of the floor in bright, golden light and highlighting motes of dust as they scatter in the air. Only a few students are left in the classroom, some of them finishing up notes while others type out quick texts. As you walk by his desk, you notice Michael scribbling down notes in his planner.

You shuffle your feet nervously as you stand in front of the sizable oak desk that your professor sits at, watching as he adds a sticky note to the top of another stack of papers, “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“Ah, yes!” He says, looking up at you over his glasses. He quickly caps his pen and stands, walking around the desk to stand in front of you, “I know this class has been quite the challenge,” he begins, leaning against the desk, “But, I think I’ve found a solution for you.”

“You have?” You ask, tilting your head in confusion.

“I think you could benefit greatly from a tutor, perhaps a peer who could explain the material to you in a different way,” he continues, “And I have just the student in mind.” Instantly, you feel a pit beginning to form in your stomach, biting your bottom lip as you watch Professor Davies motion for someone behind you to come up to the desk, “Mr. Gavey, if you could join us up here, please.”

You freeze when you feel him saunter up beside you, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye. He was so much taller than you, your head barely grazing his shoulder, as he came to a stop next to you, standing casually with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Professor Davies once again turns his attention to you, motioning to Michael as he speaks, “Mr. Gavey here is one of my most capable students,” you can’t help but notice him stand up straighter at the comment, growing somehow even taller, “I’ve taken the liberty of asking him if he would be so kind as to assist you with some of the course work and he agreed.” You freeze a little at that, stunned that he would be so quick to help you when he seems to relish any opportunity to make you squirm. “I’ve given it some thought,” the professor continues, fixing you with a stern gaze, “And I’m willing to let you make corrections to your test and resubmit it for half credit.”

“Oh, thank you so much, prof–”

“However,” he adds, crossing his arms over his chest, “This will be the only time I do so. From now on, I suggest you see Mr. Gavey here on a regular basis; the material is only going to get more challenging as we begin this next unit.”

“Of course, professor. Thank you again.” You respond quietly, shifting uneasily as you stand between the two men.

“Right, well, now that’s sorted,” Professor Davies says, clapping his hands together once as he turns and makes his way back over to the desk chair, sitting down with a tired sigh, “I trust the two of you can come to an agreement upon when and where to meet. I’ll see you again Monday, have a pleasant weekend.” He says, waving his hand dismissively as he goes back to organizing his papers.

The two of you murmur your goodbyes before making your way into the hall, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as he follows you out of the classroom. Eventually, you come across a small alcove in the hallway; finally turning to face him, you let your eyes sweep up his body, finally coming to meet his blue eyes, slightly hidden behind the glare of the hallway lights on his glasses.

“So,” you clear your throat and shift on your feet awkwardly, “Uh, what time works for you? I really can’t do Saturdays–” you begin, only to be cut off.

“Shame,” Michael sighs dismissively, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, “Saturday is the only day that works for me.”

The tone of his voice and the mirthful glint in his eyes makes you very much doubt that, your gaze narrowing, “Okay, well Saturday’s are the only day I have off,” you huff, only growing more annoyed as the stupid smirk on his face grows with satisfaction, no doubt pleased that he’s being a nuisance, “Besides, I super can’t tomorrow, anyway. I already promised my friends I’d come with them to this party tha–”

“Oh, I know about your little party,” Michael scoffs, “Trust me, love, the whole damn class heard about that stupid fucking party with the way you lot were running your mouths earlier,” he chuckles coldly, continuing in an exaggerated high-pitched voice, one hand coming up to mime twirling a lock of hair, “Oooooh, it’s so cold, can’t wear the fuckin’ strappy dress, gotta wear me jumper and little slutty skirt, la-dee-dah.” He finishes with a final huff of laughter.

“What is your deal with me?!” You finally snap, glaring at him, even as you feel your face redden, “You’ve been a dick all semester and I haven’t done anything to you! I’ve never even talked to you!” Glancing around the empty hallway, you cross your arms over your chest, praying no one’s in earshot to hear your hissed tirade.

“I might not know you but I know plenty about your little friends,” he sneers, shaking his head like a disappointed father; the sight makes your blood boil.

“What does that even mean?” You demand, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What did your friends have to do with any of this? None of them ever spoke about Michael, none of them even knew him as far as you were aware.

His face softens, if only for a moment, as he registers the genuine confusion on your face, smirk faltering as his eyes narrow. He leans in closer to you as he begins speaking again and you can’t help but get a brief smell of the cologne he wears, something warm and woodsy that makes you think of a bookshop and the smell of the forest after it rains, “Come on,” he starts, blue eyes flitting between both of yours as he looks at you intently, “Felix Catton? You and your little friend, the one from class, you go around with him, yeah?”

You nod, giving him another puzzled look, confused as to what the hell Felix has to do with any of his disdain, “Yeah,” you say slowly, drawing out the word, “But, what does he have to do with anything?”

Michael huffs once more, almost laughing to himself as he shakes his head, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “See, we went to school together, him and I – some of primary, all of secondary,” he shrugs, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he traps you in his gaze once again, “And I just don’t fucking like the guy. Can’t stand him, never could’ve.”

You’re silent for a second, and now it’s your turn to flick your eyes back and forth, searching each of his for some sort of coherent answer and yet you come up empty. “But, what does that have to do with me?” You ask slowly, making sure to carefully enunciate each word.

“Don’t trust the people around him either,” he mutters, gazing down at his shoe, “Weirdos, the whole lot. There’s something…off about the guy. Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something dark there, all around him. Like he’s putting on one big show. All his little gremlins do too, they all act the same.”

The two of you are silent for a moment, neither knowing quite what to say next. You chance a glance up at him, nearly gasping when you find him already gazing at you – an unreadable expression on his face. Yet a light blush still blooms on your cheeks as you quickly look away once again, your heart thudding so loudly you’re wondering if he can hear it – hell, you’re wondering why you’re reacting this way at all, why you’re so shy and skittish around him.

“M’not like that,” you very nearly whisper, finally seeming to regain your voice. Only to lose it once again when he takes a half step toward you, suddenly crowding you further into the small alcove.

He makes a small noise, damn near cooing at you, tilting his head to the side when he notices you flinch as he raises an arm, gently raising your chin with one hand, angling your head up to meet his gaze, that signature smirk once again taking hold on his face as he looks at you curiously, “You’re not like that, are you?” He asks, his voice low and raspy.

You quickly shake your head, blinking up at him, unsure of what exactly he wants from you. You feel your cheeks stinging for the umpteenth time today with how hard you’re blushing, a strange feeling taking root in your stomach the longer you stare at him, that small voice in your head positively cheering.

But, as quickly as whatever spell he seems to have on you takes hold, it’s broken as he suddenly lets go of your chin and steps back, casually pursing his lips and nodding to himself, coming to some unknown decision in his head, “Meet me in Bodleian, tomorrow at five. There’s hardly anyone up on the third floor on the weekends, so we'll be able to focus.” He says simply, turning on his heel to leave without even giving you a second to answer.

“But I’m bus–”

“D’you want a good grade or do you want to go get drunk with your creepy gremlin friends?” He asks, peering over his shoulder as he saunters down the hallway, raising an eyebrow at you over the shiny gold rim of his glasses, “S’your call, love.” He finishes with a shrug, disappearing as he turns a corner and leaves you standing there alone, frowning and dumbstruck.

“Bodleian at five it is,” you mutter to yourself, sighing as you turn and walk the opposite way, desperately trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and the fog in your brain.

Your shoes tap against the stone pavement as you walk up to the old library, backpack slung over one shoulder; reaching into a pocket of your backpack, you blindly grab for your phone as you pull open one of the heavy, old wooden doors and step into the atrium. Out of all of Oxford’s libraries, you had to admit that Bodleian was one of your favorites; it had such a soothing atmosphere – from the way the evening light trickled in through the old glass windows, to the intricate wooden decor, and the way the entire place smelled of the old, well-loved books that lined the countless rows of shelves.

Stepping to the side of the entryway, you check the time, your hand shaking a bit as you unlock your phone – 4:53pm, a little early, still. Sighing, you crane your head, nervously looking for Michael. Not seeing him, you decide to bide your time examining one of the tall bookshelves near the entrance, eyes skimming over their titles as you fiddle with the strings of the hoodie you’d decided to wear. Smiling, you lean up on your tiptoes to grab a copy of The Two Towers, happy to see a familiar book. Just as your fingers graze over the embossed gold lettering on the spine of the book, a large pair of hands grab you by the shoulders.

“Boo!” Someone whispers, close enough that you feel the warmth of their breath on the side of your neck.

You spin around with a small shriek, jerking your head to the side when a hand is suddenly clasped over your mouth.

“Shh! Hey, relax!” Finally managing to focus on the face in front of you, your breathing slows as your gaze meets a pair of round blue eyes. Michael’s face is only inches from yours, concern evident, even behind the mask of a smirk he wears. “It’s only me.” He says softly, smirk softening into a genuine smile that sends a frantic tingle down your spine, which you desperately try to ignore as you nod against his hand, gasping in a small breath as it lowers once again to rest on your shoulder.

“Hi.” Blinking up at him, you breathe the word more so than say it as you settle back on your feet, cheeks flushing as you realize he has his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you forward ever so slightly, like he wanted to make sure your head didn’t hit the sharp edge of one of the shelves; the voice in your head purrs as the butterflies in your stomach summersalt.

“Hi.” He answers and you feel the hand on your shoulder twitch, the ghost of a comforting squeeze or rub causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end as some strange, warm weight settles in the pit of your stomach.

Suddenly, whatever spell the two of you seemed to be under broke and you quickly clambered away from one another. Michael cleared his throat, running a hand through his wheat colored hair as you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, trying to look anywhere but in his direction. “Should we–” He starts suddenly, nodding his head to a staircase at the other end of the room, “It’ll be quieter up there.”

“Sure!” You chirp, giving him a curt nod, “Lead the way, you seem to know the place better than I do.”

“Well,” he chuckles, keeping his voice low as he moves past you, “S’what happens when you don’t spend all your damn time at weirdo parties.”

You roll your eyes behind him, huffing as you start following him up the staircase, one of your hands gliding across the smooth, polished wood of the bannister.

“Sorry.” He says suddenly as you reach the third floor of the library, running a hand through his hair once again as he stands at the top of the staircase.

“What?” You ask, coming to a stop on the last step and looking up at him, tilting your head to the side as you lean against the handrail.

“For earlier,” he explains, gesturing for you to follow him as he starts making his way to the back corner of the large, open space, the one furthest from the stairs, “Scaring you, I mean. Didn’t mean to.”

You’re quiet for a moment, following him as the two of you walk past aisle after aisle of towering bookshelves. The area is definitely quieter than the main floor, nearly vacant aside from one or two lone students sitting at the long wooden study tables. It’s calm up here, evening light filtering in through large windows on either end of the long room, casting large shadows on the floor and vaulted ceilings.

Eventually, the two of you come to a stop at a table, the very last in its row, tucked away in a corner. “It’s alright,” you shrug, trying to keep your voice soft in the quiet space as you sit your backpack on the edge of the table, “I don’t know why I’m so jumpy today, maybe the tea from earlier.” You lie, hopefully smoothly, and quickly grab a pen and notebook as well, before sitting down.

Michael huffs to himself as he sits his things out on the table as well, like he’s laughing at a joke you can’t hear, “Maybe it’s all that tension.”

“Wh– tension?” You question, cringing at the urgency in your voice as you pray that he doesn’t pick up on it, shifting in your seat as he pulls out the chair next to you and plops down, completely relaxed as if he owns the place.

“The stress? That you were meant to be working out at Catton’s?” He gives you an odd look, resting his head against his hand as he leans his elbow on the table, “Couldn’t help but overhear your little conversation yesterday.”

“Oh…” You breathe, a pink haze settling over your cheeks once more as you fidget with your pen, acutely aware of how easily he seems to be able to make you blush.

The smirk on his face widens as he narrows his eyes, studying you in a way that makes your heart squeeze, your thighs clenching together as that heady weight from earlier makes itself known again in your stomach, “You can’t keep one thought in that head, can you, love?”

You blink, unsure of what to say, as two halves of your brain argue with one another. Why is he so mean? You wonder to yourself, eyes searching his, as you frown, And…God, why do I like it?

“Why don’t you like me?” You ask, finally breaking the silence with your small voice.

He scoffs again, shaking his head as if the answer should be obvious to you, “You don’t take it seriously. You come to class and whisper and gossip with your damn friend or doodle in your little notebook, but you don’t fucking listen.” He sits back up, frowning, “I work hard every fucking day in there, for fuck’s sake, I only agreed to help you because I want to be Davies’s teaching assistant next year! Yet you and Catton and everyone like you can just pay their way in here, collecting a little diploma from Oxford just so their parents can brag about it with their stupid fucking rich friends.” He finally finishes, turning his head to stare out the window.

“Told you, I’m not like that,” you whisper after a moment, voice wavering from the tightness in the back of your throat, “I’m here on scholarship, same as you.”

His eyes flit back to you, his frown deepening, “How did you know ab–”

“Like I’m not going to ask around about the guy tutoring me?”

“Fair enough.” He concedes after a minute.

Silence settles over the two of you again, like a stalemate, waiting to see who would crack first. Finally, you turn to him with a sigh, nodding to your test paper on the desk, “Can we just get this done? I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“Ah, of course,” he nods as he picks up your test, looking over the first incorrect problem, “Catton’s big important party. And you’re stuck here with a loser like me; must really be doing your head in, huh?”

You want so badly to correct him, to tell him that no, actually, for once, you were kind of excited to not be at one of Felix’s parties. You wanted to tell him that you’d hoped things would be different, maybe if it was just the two of you he would drop the arrogant asshole bit, that you stupidly hoped it was just an act.

Instead, you bite your lip, determined not to lash out and give him another reason to dislike you, “I don’t think you’re a loser, Michael,” you say, tiredly meeting his gaze, “Can we just focus on this now, please?”

He’s quiet for a moment, frozen like you’d said something groundbreaking. Finally, he nods his head, almost imperceptibly like he’d come to a decision you weren’t privy to, “Sure,” he says gruffly, grabbing your test and reading over the first incorrect problem, “S’not like I’m the one failing.” He finishes, his voice tight and determined, like he knew it was something he’d regret saying even as the words left his mouth.

See? You think silently, pointed words aimed at that stupid voice in your head, Told you so.

It’s barely an hour later and you already feel cross-eyed, groaning as Michael flips your test over to the next page and you see you’re only just now halfway done correcting the ones you’d gotten wrong. You hate to admit it to yourself, but his tutoring was helping — problems that you’d hardly been able to finish the first time seem far less daunting as he explains them to you. Even he seems less daunting as the hour goes on; shockingly, he doesn’t make anymore snide comments and you can tell that he genuinely enjoys talking about the subject, patiently helping you through each problem.

“Can we take a break?” You grumble, laying your head down on top of your textbook.

“What?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he checks his watch, “It’s hardly been an hour and you’re ready to give up?”

“‘M not giving up,” you mumble, “I just think we could use a little break…” You say hopefully, looking at him with a small smile. When he doesn’t break, holding your gaze with a frown, you sigh, “Just, like, ten minutes, please?”

You want to groan again when you see that formidable smirk make its home on his lips again, “Say please again.” He commands, his voice low.

“Huh?” You balk, nearly dropping your phone as you retrieve it from your pocket.

“Say please again,” he says slowly, his smirk only growing wider as he watches your cheeks redden, “Beg.”

“W-why?” You question, face burning as you try your damndest to look unbothered by his request.

He shrugs dismissively, “Makes you squirm,” he answers finally, leaning back in his chair, “I like that.”

“Why?” Your voice is so small you doubt he’d even know you spoke if his eyes weren’t fixed on you.

He hums, a satisfied noise, like you’ve finally managed to meander into a trap he’d set ages ago, “S’fucking cute,” he huffs out a laugh when he sees your eyes widen, “Makes you blush and act all dumb.”

You know you should be offended, but you can’t find it within yourself to care, “You think I’m cute?”

He chuckles, sighing, “That’s what you choose to focus on?”

“Do you?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Please, Michael,” you say suddenly, the words feeling practically punched from your throat, “Please, please can we have a break? Please, only ten minutes?” You beg, breathing hard as you quickly scan the room, shoulders relaxing when you don’t see anyone else sitting at the study tables.

You see the way his eyes widen behind his glasses, like he can’t believe you actually did it, before they narrow once more, overtaken by a satisfied gleam, “Ten minutes.” He says simply, leaning back in his chair yet again, letting his head flop back, relaxed, and closes his eyes.

You don’t move for a second, letting your eyes study the side of his face, looking over his sharp jawline and the curve of his nose. After a moment, you look away, deciding to pull out your phone.

A few minutes go by as you answer a few texts from Louise, telling her that you miss her too and how you wish you were at the party — a lie, though you can’t find it within yourself to care. You busy yourself for a while longer, watching a few people's Instagram stories, the volume on your phone muted as you watch your friends dance under colorful strobe lights, blowing smoke at the camera and clinking drinks together.

“I meant what I said.” You say finally, laying your phone on the table and picking at one of your cuticles.

“Hm?” Michael questions, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re a loser,” you answer, fidgeting, “I never have. I think you’re…intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” He asks, finally sitting up and looking at you with a questioning stare, “How so?”

You swallow, tucking your hair behind your ear with a shrug, “You’re smart…you know you’re smart,” you start, voice small and shaky, “I like that.”

“You like that or you like me?” He’s looking at you like a cat playing with a helpless mouse, looking at you like he knows he’s already won a game you don’t even know the two of you are playing.

“You.” It comes out as a breath.

He doesn’t answer and eventually you look away from him, choosing to stare out the window at the streetlights outside, the sky dark.

Finally, the silence becomes overbearing and you break first again, “Thank you,” you smile at him, keeping your voice low even though you know the rest of the floor is vacant, even though the noise of the floors below has drastically faded over the last hour, “For helping me, I mean. You probably have a dozen things you’d rather do on a Saturday.”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, “I didn’t really have anything better to do,” he smirks, “No parties.”

“None?”

“Never,” he shakes his head, shrugging, “Don’t get invited.”

“Oh,” you answer simply, “Well, still, either way, thank you.” You smile again, but it falters when he leans forward suddenly, crowding into your space with a sly grin, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck.

“I know a way you could repay me, love,” he whispers lowly into your ear, your hair standing on end, “Only if you want to, of course.” He adds, his long fingers toying with a strand of your hair.

Your eyes grow comically wide as you process what he just said, “H-how do you want me to repay you?” You whisper, your eyes finally meeting his.

He laughs softly, letting go of the strand of your hair to rest his hand lightly against the side of your face, his thumb skimming over your cheek as he watches a rosy hue settle across it, “I can think,” he starts, thumb moving lower to skate across your bottom lip, slightly tugging the skin with it, “Of one very fucking good way to put this mouth to use, love.”

You part your lips slightly, letting the tip of his thumb into your mouth, just barely holding it between your teeth as you lightly run your tongue over it, heart skipping a beat at the way his lips just barely part in shock as you do. The voice in your head purrs again, roaring back to life, and you nod, smiling around his finger.

“Yeah?” He questions, smirking as he watches your lips twitch around his thumb, “”Y’wanna?”

“Yes.” You reply around his thumb, your hands coming up to hold onto his forearm, the fabric of his rust colored sweater soft under your hands.

“Beg.” He commands again, eyes twinkling.

You take in a breath, eyes slipping shut as your thighs clench around nothing – missing the way Michael glances down at the movement, a knowing grin forming on his face, “Please, Michael.” You practically whine.

“Ooh,” he coos, finally moving his thumb from your mouth, only to trail his hand down your neck, lightly resting it against your throat, “I think you can do better than that, pretty. Open your eyes and damn beg.”

You follow his orders, a small whimper skirting past your lips at the new pet name as you open your eyes, “Please, Michael, please let me repay you, let me thank you, please.” The words tumble out, your eyes wide and pleading.

“How’re you planning on doing that, empty headed little thing?” He taunts, the hand around your throat just barely tightening but it’s enough to make you let out a small, desperate whine. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, moving close enough to you that the front of his chest is plastered to your side, his heart beating against your shoulder, “Ask for what you want, beg properly.” His breath fans across the side of your face again, the feeling of his lips brushing over the side of your jaw making you jump.

“Please, God, Michael,” you whine, squeezing your legs together so hard you’re surprised they haven’t fused together, “P-please let me suck your cock — to thank you, thank you for helping me.” You add quickly, breath shaky as you turn your head to look at him imploringly.

He chuckles, but he looks pleased as he leans back momentarily, craning his neck to make sure there isn’t anyone around, “Alright, alright, love,” he soothes, coming back to face you, nodding his head to the empty space in front of his hair, below the table, “Not God, but I’ll give you what you want.” He teases.

Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at the floor beneath the desk, then back up at him before nodding, “Yes, sir.” You push yourself off your chair, sliding down beneath the desk.

“Goddammit,” you hear him groan above you, running his palms over his thighs as he parts them, making room for you, “Keep that up, love, might even give you extra credit.”

You rest your palms against the tops of his thighs as you move between his legs, getting comfortable on your knees, the old wooden floor cool against your skin, even through your black leggings. Finally, your eyes settle on the sizable bulge, covered by his dark jeans, and you can’t help the small whine that leaves your lips. Slowly, you move your hands up to the button of his pants, quickly popping it open and dragging the zipper down, smiling when Michael sighs above you as he pulls his sweater up out of the way, exposing the pale skin of his stomach. You let your eyes roam over him, warmth settling between your legs as you spot the dusting of light hair that starts beneath his belly button and leads downwards, disappearing under his plaid boxers.

You move closer to him, crowding in between his long legs, as you hook your fingers over the tops of his boxers, before finally looking up at him, “Can I…?” You ask, nodding to where his cock is straining against the fabric.

“Don’t be shy now, princess,” he groans, running a hand through your hair as he stares down at you, “Get on with it.”

You keep your eyes on his as you pull his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, watching the way his chest heaves as he lets out another relieved sigh. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his as you look at his cock, gasping in a breath as you do. As far as dicks go, Michaels is impressive, beautiful even – long and thick with veins running up the underside, leading up to a flushed, leaking tip.

You take him in your hand tentatively, squeezing him lightly around the base, your confidence growing when he grunts, breathing heavier. Finally, you lightly lick the tip, eyes sliding closed at the pleasant, salty taste of his pre-cum. You take the tip of him in your mouth, humming around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, lightly pushing on the back of your head, silently urging you to take more of him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he roughly groans, managing to keep his voice low, “Knew that pretty fucking mouth was good for something.” He moves his hips, impatiently thrusting his cock an inch deeper into your mouth, breathily cursing under his breath.

You start bobbing your head up and down over his length, taking more and more of him into your mouth, more of his pre-cum leaking onto your tongue as you feel his dick throb and twitch in your hand. After a moment, you take a deep breath through your nose and remove your hand, resting it on his thigh, as you take him all the way to the base, your nose nestled in the short patch of hair there as you breathe in his heady scent, your eyes glazing over as you savor the feeling of him at the back of your throat.

“Jesus!” He grunts, louder than he meant to, keeping your head in place as he thrusts his hips up again, keeping you in place at the base of his cock, “Fuck, that’s it,” he praised lowly, your center throbbing, no doubt leaking onto the fabric of your leggings, “Look at me, wanna see your eyes while I fuck your throat.”

You whine, desperately blinking back tears as you look up at him, trying to keep your breathing even. You hold his gaze as you stick your tongue out, licking lower, down toward his balls, relishing the way his eyes roll back as you do, stomach muscles twitching as he continues thrusting his hips up into your mouth, soaking his boxers and jeans with your spit.

“Oh, fuck, that’s it,” he groans, looking down at you, his eyelids heavy, “God, yeah, cry on my cock love. Fuck, you look so pretty crying on my cock.” He mumbles, talking to himself more so than you.

His words send a shiver down your spine, adding to the heat in your center, and you whimper when he finally moves his hand from the back of your head, allowing you to come up for air. You do, with a gasp, thin strings of spit connecting your reddened lips with the flushed head of his cock. You keep your eyes on his as you wrap your lips around him once more, running your tongue along the thick vein on the underside before sucking at the swollen tip, relishing the way it makes him clench his jaw and gasp through his teeth as you stroke the rest of him with your hand.

Above you, he smirks again, gently running his hand through your hair but making no move to press your head down again. He cocks his head to the side, studying you, grinning at the far-off, foggy look in your eyes, “Not a thought in that pretty head, is there?” He asks, bringing his hand down and gently patting your cheek; the ghost of a slap making your thighs clench, making your head dizzy with need.

You nod around him, moving your head up and down along his length. You feel yourself throbbing with need, pulsing with heat; almost automatically, your hand starts to wander, a small sigh escaping you as your hand presses against your center through your leggings. You feel a warmth settle across your cheeks again as you feel your own wetness, leaking through the fabric just as you’d suspected. You whimper as you press down again, your eyes falling shut as you let your hips grind against your fingers, the wet fabric creating a delicious friction against your clit.

Which you get to feel for all of five seconds before Michael is suddenly yanking your head from his length, causing you to yelp as he tugs your hair. “Did I say you could touch your cunt?”

“N-no,” you whine pathetically, eyes watering from the harsh hold he has on your hair, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t think—“ You try to explain, only for him to cut you off with another harsh tug, making you mewl.

“That’s a pattern with you, isn’t it?” He asks, looking at you with a condescending smirk, studying you again, “You were being such a good girl earlier, what happened? Hm?” He questions, pushing his chair back enough to pull you out from under the table.

You get to your feet, suddenly feeling shy in front of him once again despite having his cock in your mouth mere moments ago. “I…got distracted.” You answer finally.

“I got distracted….who?” He asks, looking up at you expectantly over the rims of his glasses.

“I got distracted, sir,” you quickly correct yourself, eyes frantically scanning the still vacant floor of the library, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s much better, love,” he drawls, placing his hands on your hips, “Now, what could’ve been so fucking distracting, huh?” He starts moving his hands, slowly, toward your center, still looking up at you, his eyes questioning. You nod your head, just barely but enough for him to understand, and any hesitancy from him quickly disappeared. “Could it be this, I wonder?” He questions sardonically, suddenly cupping your heat in his large hand, the warmth of it nearly making your knees buckle, even through the thin fabric of your leggings. He hums, the sound low in his chest, when he feels how much you’ve soaked the fabric,

“Oh,” you whimper, grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself balanced as his fingers continue to tease you, rubbing circles into your clit, “Oh my God, fuck.”

“Christ,” he breathes, staring up at you with dark eyes, “So fucking wet, love, holy hell. Did you get this way just from sucking my cock?”

“Yeah,” you whine, nodding your head desperately as you try to swallow all the small noises you want to make in your throat, your hips rutting against his hand, “Please, sir!”

“Oh, so now that dumb brain has no trouble remembering damn instructions, huh?” He taunts, a wicked grin on his face as his fingers rub your clit in smaller, harsher circles, making you see stars, “Need your wet little cunt played with to be able to do as you're told?”

You nod your head frantically, tears nearly spilling from your eyes at the zaps of pleasure radiating from you, your walls clenching around nothing. Just as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge, he stops, jerking his hand away from you with a knowing chuckle, “W-what?” You question, eyes blinking open, “I was so close!” You whine, nearly stamping your foot on the floor like a petulant child.

“Told you,” Michael shrugs, pulling you to sit in his lap, your back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His breath tickles the side of your neck and face when he speaks again, “You’re so fun to tease, love, can’t help myself.”

You wiggle in his grasp, making him groan as your ass grinds against his hard length, desperately trying to get your hands free to touch your pussy again, nearly out of your mind with need. “P-please, sir, please touch me!” You finally gasp out, knowing he won’t give in until you do.

“Now there’s a good girl,” he says, voice pleased and cocky as he plants kisses along the side of your neck, “Since you asked so nicely…” He says, letting go of one of your arms, letting you grasp the arm still wrapped around you with your hands, as his free hand skirts down your stomach to the top of your leggings, pausing long enough for you to nod again, before he finally touches you.

You whimper, jerking in his lap at the feel of his warm fingers directly on your heat for the first time, spreading your wet folds with a satisfied hum. His long fingers move down to your entrance, gathering some of the wetness there, “You’re so fucking wet,” he marvels, dragging his fingers up to your aching clit, “Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He murmurs in your ear, nipping at the side of your neck and sending tingles down your spine as he starts rubbing tight, wet circles against your bud.

You tilt your head back, resting it against his shoulder as your chest heaves. A moan leaves your mouth, louder than it should be, and Michaels free hand shoots up, wrapping around your mouth. “Gotta be quiet, love,” he whispers, not slowing down the movement of his fingers in the slightest, “Wouldn’t want someone to interrupt, hm? Make me stop again?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, whining desperately against his hand as he moves his fingers against you, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. Your whole body lurches atop his, making him suck a breath in through his teeth as you move against his cock, still hard and hot as it presses against your lower back, when he moves his hand lower, plunging two fingers into your tight heat with no warning. “Fuck!” You yelp, muffled against his hand; tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he moves his fingers, scissoring them into you relentlessly as his thumb circles your clit.

“S’fucking tight,” he mumbles lowly, voice vibrating his chest against your back, “God, you’re tight.” He grunts between clenched teeth, repeatedly crooking his fingers inside you as he fucks his fingers in and out of your heat, letting out small, barely there groans every time your pussy squelches around his fingers as he punches muffled whines and whimpers from you. He crooks his fingers up suddenly in a way that makes you see stars as you writhe on his lap, your knees shooting up off the floor as you attempt to curl up on yourself, “That the spot?” He teases, relentlessly rubbing his fingers against it as his thumb quickens against your clit. He adds a third finger without warning, curling them up against that rough patch inside you as he bites down on your shoulder, muffling his own groan as he feels you clench down on his fingers.

“You gonna come?” He mumbles, grinning like a cheshire cat when you frantically nod your head, tears leaking onto the hand still wrapped tightly around your mouth. “Open your eyes,” he commands, not stopping his movements, “Want you to watch what I’m doing to you when you fucking cum.”

At the promise of finally getting to come, your eyes shoot open as you pick your head up off his shoulder, looking down the length of your body to where his hand disappears under your leggings. You practically come undone at the sight, watching as his hand moves against you through the dark fabric, maintaining a careful rhythm. “Michael, please!” You whine against his hand, desperately trying to keep your eyes open.

He chuckles lowly, clearly proud of how quickly he’s been able to reduce you into a begging mess, the sound reverberating off your back. “Fucking come,” he commands, doubling his efforts, “Soak my fucking hand, love.”

The coil in your stomach finally snaps and you sob, eyes snapping shut as your whole body clenches, shaking in his lap, as fireworks burst behind your eyelids. Your entire core clamps down so tight he has to fight to keep his fingers within you, muting the sounds of his groans against your neck and shoulder as he feels your cunt pulse against his fingers. He doesn’t let up, pressing incessantly against that spot within you as you come, until he finally gets what he wants – both of you groaning together, noises muffled, as a stream of fluid seems to erupt from your center, soaking his hand and the inside of your leggings, though you can’t think enough to care at the moment.

“Goddammit,” he grunts, finally removing his hand from your leggings, running his fingers through your folds one last time just to make you squirm. Suddenly, he’s lifting you off his lap enough to turn you around, maneuvering you to face him. You’re practically boneless in his lap as he lifts you just enough to pull your leggings down over your ass, pressing his bare cock against your still throbbing center when he sets you back down, “Gonna let me fuck you, love? Hm? Want me to make you go dumb around my cock?”

You nod your head weakly, not bothering to lift it from his shoulder as you straddle his lap. He doesn’t make you beg this time, too desperate to feel your wet heat around him, as he swiftly lifts you up again, just enough to align his length with your entrance.

Both of you moan as he lets you sit back down, his hard length disappearing into your warmth. He holds the back of your head, pressing your mouth against his neck to muffle your cries; you can feel his jaw clench with the effort of keeping his own muted. He fills you deliciously, thick cock pressed against every part of you, as your clit presses against the small thatch of hair above his length.

“Fuck,” he huffs, the word hissed between his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut, savoring the way your pussy pulses around his length, the way you desperately mouth and lick at his neck, “God, knew you’d feel good.”

Somehow, that remark works it’s way through the fog in your brain, “Hm?” you hum against his neck, your hands coming up to tangle in his golden hair, “You thought about me?” You whimper, words whiny and breathy as he rocks you against him, spearing you on his length again and again, head kissing your cervix just enough to knock the air from your lungs every time he lowers you back down.

He sighs, as if just now realizing what he’d said, and nods, swallowing down a moan before he speaks, “‘Course I did,” he admits, grinding you down against him, his hips pressed against yours. “Looked so damn pretty in class,” he continues, “So cute all, fuck, all flushed and embarrassed every time you got asked a question.”

His admission makes you clench around him, heat flooding through your system as you process what he’d said. Your clit grinds against his body again, just as the head of his cock brushes against that spot in your center, and it’s like your brain has been whited out, all you can do is mewl against his neck as he rocks you up and down along his cock.

“Fuck, I feel this sweet cunt getting tight, love,” he says, breathing heavily as he gets closer to his own release, “Y’gonna come?”

“Yes!” You whimper, voice high-pitched and broken as you nod frantically against the skin of his neck, now wet with your spit and tears as you rock yourself against him, moving your clit against the hair at the base of his cock.

“Hold it,” he commands softly, more breathing than speaking. He chuckles when he hears you whine, loving the way you mewl for him like a soft little kitten, and the hand still holding your head against him strokes your hair, soothing you. “Want us to come together,” he huffs, cursing under his breath as he feels you grow somehow tighter around him, “Fuck, I’m close just hold on.” The hand on your hip tightens, grinding you tightly against him, groaning as he feels your center milking his cock, your walls clenching around him desperately.

“F-fuck, Michael,” you whine, breath hot against the column of his throat as you feel yourself tipping over, “Please! Please I can’t hold it, please!” You beg beautifully, weeping against his skin, trying so hard to keep it down to a whisper so you don’t draw attention, not this close to your release.

“Where, fuck,” he curses, pulling your head up to look in your eyes, the blue in his nearly swallowed by blackness, “Tell me where.” He pants, his voice urgent.

“Inside me!” You breathe, cunt clenching around him as you feel him twitch inside you.

He groans, forehead resting against your shoulder for a second as he tries to maintain control, both of his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave bruises, “Are you s–”

“Yes!” You nod, resting your forehead against his when he picks his head back up, “‘M on the pill.” You reassure him as you keep nodding. The two of you move together for a few more seconds, wildly grinding together, before the coil in your stomach is finally wound too tight, “Michael, oh, fuck!”

“Fuck,” he gasps, seeming to get somehow thicker inside you, “Come for daddy, fuck, be good and come.” He commands, his own voice low and frenzied.

Hearing him call himself that does you in, and you shatter around him, walls gripping him tightly. You open your mouth, unable to control a loud moan, which he quickly hushes by pressing his lips against yours, licking into your mouth as he thrusts up into your center harshly a few times, each rise of his hips accompanied by a grunt into your waiting mouth as you mewl at the heat of his cum filling you up, extending your own release.

The two of you stay quiet for a moment, breathing heavily as you sweetly kiss, tiredly pressing your lips together. Finally, you pull away from him giggling shyly when you meet his eyes, blushing as you feel his length slowly softening inside you. “Getting shy on me now?” He teases, smiling at you as he gently plays with your hair.

You smile back at him for a second before suddenly coming to your senses and remembering where you are, “Shit,” you whisper, hopping up off his lap, “I cannot believe we just did that!” You quickly scan the floor with wide eyes, shoulders visibly relaxing when you still don’t see anyone.

“Wasn’t in my plan,” Michael starts, tucking his member back into his boxers and zipping up his jeans, “But I’m certainly not complaining.” He finishes, smirking at you before standing. He leans down, helping you pull up your leggings. He doesn’t miss the way you grimace when the damp, now unpleasantly cool, fabric presses against you. “Sorry,” he apologizes, gesturing to them, “I should’ve…controlled myself better with that one.” He finishes, awkwardly scratching at his chin.

You laugh quietly, trying to play it off although you’re dreading the half hour train ride back to your flat. That feeling doubles when you look down, eyes widening as you see the dark patch around your crotch, hardly visible on the dark fabric but enough that it makes you nervous, “Getting home is gonna be fun.” You joke, turning to begin gathering your things.

You’ve gotten your textbook put back into your backpack when you feel a tap on your shoulder; turning your head, you look wide-eyed when you see him sheepishly smiling at you, holding his red sweater out as he stands in a band t-shirt, “Here,” he says softly, waving the sweater at you, “You need it more than I do and it’s my fucking fault anyway.”

You blush, taking the sweater from him with a small thank you, tying it around your waist as he busies himself with picking up his things, before putting the rest of yours into your backpack as well, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” You tell him as you finish situating his sweater around you, satisfied that the stain is covered.

He huffs out a laugh, “You sucked my cock on the floor of a library,” he jokes, eyes sparkling with mischief yet again, “S’the least I could do.”

You laugh, playfully shoving at his shoulder as you put your backpack on. The floor is truly, blessedly, empty as the two of you leave and walk downstairs, not seeing anyone on the second floor either and only a few stragglers on the main floor at this hour on a Saturday evening. He pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors at the entrance, holding it open for you as you duck under his arm. The door thuds closed behind you as you both stand outside the library, the air cold now that the sun’s gone down.

“I really like them, that band,” you say, nodding to his shirt, “Their last album’s really good.”

“Oh!” He says, eyebrows raising in surprise, “You know them?” He asks, smiling when you nod again, “Their new album is probably my favorite too, actually.” The two of you stand in a comfortable silence for a second later before he notices you shiver as a breeze blows through the stoney courtyard. “D’you live close to campus?”

“Half hour on the train,” you shrug, pulling your phone out to check the time, “I should probably go soon if I’m gonna catch the next one…”

“You could come to mine?” He asks, his voice hopeful, “It’s only a walk from here, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes?”

Your eyes widen, having not expected his invitation, but you nod nonetheless, “If you’re sure,” he nods, “Then, yeah! That would be great.” You smile, walking beside him as you start heading in the direction of his flat.

“Would you maybe want to get lunch sometime?” He asks, glancing down at you.

“I would love that,” you smile, your hand brushing against his as you continue down the sidewalk, “I think I might need more tutoring, too…”

His hand catches yours, your fingers intertwining as he smirks, “Will you suck my cock every time?” He teases, grinning as you laugh, the sound echoing off the buildings and filtering into the night air.

Told you so. The voice in the back of your mind echos as you lean your head on Michael’s shoulder.

tagged lovelies: @schniiipsel @arcielee @darlingofvalyria @aemshaircare @imaegontatgaryenwife0 @valeskafics @beautbuck @watercolorskyy @marysucks-blog @fan-goddess @drakonflames @helloworldiamnotarobot

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

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heroicfictions · 2 years ago

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Living Room Formal

#Photo of a large #enclosed #transitional living room with a media wall #multicolored walls #and a light wood floor but no fireplace. chalkboard wall playroom #tv with sound bar #kids playroom #built in tv unit #chalkboard wall

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xofacafe · 2 years ago

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Single Wall Home Bar (Chicago)

#Design ideas for a large #modern #single-wall #light-wood floor wet bar renovation with shaker cabinets #distressed cabinets #quartzite countertops #black backsplash #and white countertops. wine bar #tall wine refrigerator #chalkboard wall #modern light fixture #cabinet wire mesh

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mayugene · 2 years ago

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Enclosed (San Francisco)

#a medium-sized #modern dining room with a hanging fireplace #a concrete fireplace #a brown floor #and white walls. cow skull #slanted ceiling #black hanging fireplace #purple dining rug #chalkboard #long dining table #large purple rug

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neotattooart · 2 years ago

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Enclosed (Portland)

#Enclosed dining room - large modern medium tone wood floor and brown floor enclosed dining room idea stainless steel countertop #industrial lighting #stainless steel backsplash #semi professional kitchen faucet #industrial #built in kitchen seating #chalkboard paint

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casscaincampaign · 2 years ago

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Lookout Basement (DC Metro)

#Example of a large eclectic look-out basement design with blue walls #a beige floor #and no fireplace magnetic chalkboard wall #exposed red brick wall #chalkboard paint #wine storage #exposed brick #chalkboard wall #brick wall in basement

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megamindsecretlair · 2 months ago

Text

Sweet Escape, Part 1

Pairing: Bodyguard!Terry Richmond x Singer!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Cursing, trying out some angst, teasing, mentions of loneliness, suicide, depression, power imbalance. Mentions of blood, knife, and violence, all consensual. Sorry if I missed some.

Summary: You are on top of the world as one of the world’s most popular R&B singers. But behind the glitz and glam, you were unmoored, lonely, and aching for something you couldn’t put a name to. With freakish threats escalating, you turn to your stoic bodyguard, Terry, in hopes that you’ll finally feel safe and like you belong.

Word Count: 5,102k

AO3 Link | Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: I know we all have bodyguard Terry on our brains so here's my contribution! I'd love to know your thoughts on the angst, I wanna get better at it. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.

You felt like a damn doll. You’d been plucked, prodded, lifted, and separated so many times, you felt like you were melting beneath the studio lights. This was the last interview of the morning and you were ready to slip back into your slippers and call it a fucking day.

As production assistants flittered around like chickens with their heads cut off, you scanned the room. The lights prevented you from seeing much, but you were able to make out your best friend and manager, Mirage, and your personal assistant, Joya standing by the monitors. Mirage gave you a thumbs up and you sighed.

Mirage knew you inside and out. She giggled, knowing that you wanted to turn all this shit over by now. They wanted you to be here on time but the messy host, A’Kierra West, was nowhere to be found. And if there was one thing you hated, it was to be kept waiting.

A makeup assistant came up to you and blotted you with a napkin. You smiled at her. “Thank you,” you said.

The assistant blinked and got startled and you lifted an eyebrow at her. You’d been nothing but nice so you didn’t know where that reaction was coming from. The assistant fled from the stage and you put it out of your mind.

You bit the corners of your cheeks to keep from exploding. Right as you were about to call out to Mirage, A’Kierra waltzed into the room in a cloud of hairspray and her defining feature, her big ass boobs. The boobs preceded her into the room, tucked into a too small red dress that was better suited for clubbing than a talk show.

A’Kierra took her sweet, precious, slow time making her way to the stage, stopping to talk to the directors and producers, before finally gracing the stage with her presence. You stood up, since it was technically polite, and gave her the fake Hollywood kiss to both cheeks.

She smelled like an old white lady at Macy’s. The cloying, flowery scent tickled your nose. You wrinkled your nose and sniffed.

“It’s new! I’m so glad you love it. I’ll send your assistant a bottle!” A’Kierra said. She grinned, showing a row of veneers too large for her face. You smiled to keep your face from showing your true emotions. This bitch was nuts.

“Thank you! I can’t wait!” You said and sat back down in your seat. “So we did the promo and the commercial, now we just do the whole intro and get into it,” A’Kierra explained.

“I’ve done a few of these,” you said.

A’Kierra laughed, the shrill sound like nails on a chalkboard. Her deep brown skin glowed with shimmery lotion but it only served to make her look washed out in the dress. Whoever was dressing her must hate her.

“Yes, but you’ve never done my show before,” she sniffed. A makeup assistant floated onto the stage out of the shadows and touched up A’Kierra’s lipstick. “Thank you, darling. Make sure my coffee is nice and hot when we’re done?”

The director emerged between the cameras giving his final notes on the taping. He instructed you to be natural and relaxed. You glance slid towards Mirage who hid a grin behind her hand. The phone that was permanently glued to her hand hid most of her face, but you already knew what she was laughing at.

Optics…Optics…

The director counted down and then the popular theme song of the show played. The audience you couldn’t see began clapping loudly, wildly, as if you were on stage for a concert rather than an interview taping.

A’Kierra cued up the questions Mirage had you go over earlier. You handled each question well, playing to the crowd, and leaning into the persona you crafted for the world. The carefree, girl power, rah-rah, confident diva with strong knees and an even stronger pair of lungs.

“But what do you say to all of these mommy coalitions calling for your head, saying you’re a bad influence on their children? Saying you’re over-sexed, lewd, and not lady like at all?”

It was only your media training that kept you from unleashing your pent up fury. You giggled and shook your head. This was not in the script. “What do you mean?” You asked, giving yourself time to answer.

“Some may say that the rise in your career also gave rise to all these conservative groups, using you to fund their message of protecting their children from your explicit lyrics and lifestyle. It’s no secret that girls and young women look up to you. Is this really the message you want to send out?” A’Kierra smirked, leaning back in her seat. She crossed her legs, and tapped her notecards against her knee.

You smiled and chuckled. “I’d say…I’m not responsible for your kids. Maybe if they spent more time paying attention to what their kids are listening to than up my perfect ass, there wouldn’t be an issue. I promote self-confidence for adults. I make grown music for adults. At no point have I ever claimed to be a role model for young girls and I’m not responsible for what these mommy coalitions think of me,” you said with a sweet, saccharine grin.

A’Kierra kept a smile plastered to her face but there was more than enough ooh’s and aww’s coming from the audience. You stared A’Kierra down, communicating with just looks. She blinked first, clearing her throat and organizing her cards. “Well, that’s certainly a take!” A’Kierra said and laughed along with the audience.

You giggled with her, feeding into all the fake bullshit. This was the last show you wanted to be on. But the optics. Fuck the fucking optics. This show trafficked in gossip and rumors, more focused on catching people on lies and half-truths than speaking about something normal.

Once the cameras stopped rolling, you waved to the audience and then removed the mic pack from your hip. You passed it to the nearest production assistant, wanting to be free of wires for a long, long time. Well, at least until your next city stop.

Mirage and Joya fell in step beside you, going over the next few items on your list today. When you were done here, you had a small promo shoot for the next city you were going to be in. It’d been a while since you were in LA and you were looking forward to the In and Out burger you were going to inhale at the first chance you got.

By the door to the studio, your heart skipped a beat looking over the scrumptious, delectable piece of meat you had for a bodyguard. Terry Richmond came highly recommended through the agency you typically used. You ran through their sorry excuse for bodyguards like a kid went through candy.

But Terry was different. From the first meeting, he was completely professional, calm, and courteous. He didn’t bullshit you with flattery, he didn’t flirt to get with his dream girl, and he treated you like a normal person. That alone had you saying yes before the ink could dry on the contract.

Add in the fact that he was a former Marine and prepared for…just about everything, you’d felt safe in his presence in a way that you hadn’t with other bodyguards. You didn’t know what led him to this position, but you were glad fate was looking out for you.

“Careful Mr. Terry, stand any straighter, and your back might hurt,” you said.

Terry stood ready with his hands in front of him, one hand holding the other wrist. He dressed plainly in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, showing off huge, bulging muscles. He slanted his ever-changing eyes towards you but there was no other sign that he heard you.

He went through the door first, taking his job a smidgen too seriously. “Would it kill you to talk, Mr. Terry?” You asked.

Joya handed you your phone and you absently went through your texts as you walked. “No, ma’am,” he said.

You nearly faltered in your steps. He actually answered. You shook your head in amazement, feeling a thrill that he was in a chatty mood today. You glanced up from your phone to watch his ass move in his jeans.

He was unreal. A fantasy in a male body that he honed to perfection. Bless his genes, seriously, because there wasn’t a single flaw on the man.

“See, we’re almost having a conversation,” you said. You handed Joya back your phone with your thanks and followed Terry to the greenroom. You couldn’t wait to take off the fugly silver outfit. Why were you so damn shiny?

“We have plenty of conversations, princess,” he said. You giggled and rolled your eyes at his back. He called you that when he thought you were being a little shit. He approached your dressing room and entered first, doing a quick scan for any potential threats. You waited in the cramped hallway for his inspection to get done. He emerged back out turned those sinful eyes on you.

“It’s safe to go in,” he said.

You smirked at him. “Try not to miss me for the thirty minutes it’ll take to get all of this off,” you said. You tilted your head at him. Terry blinked at you. You sighed. “You’re no fun!”

Terry’s lips lifted in the corners. “I’m plenty of fun. Thirty minutes,” he said, his rich, deep voice soothing.

“Yes, sir,” you said. You gave him a stern, no-nonsense nod and grinned at him. He did the little smirking thing of his and let you walk into the room with Joya and Mirage hot on your heels.

Once the door closed, Joya collapsed against the door frame with a wistful sigh. “I wanna pass out every time I get near that man,” she said, fanning herself with the planner she always carried around. It suited her more to write all of your appointments down rather than inputting it into a digital calendar anyone could hack. She never put the thing down. You half suspected that she slept with it under her pillow.

All of the safety measures were sweet, but after a month of no contact from your supposed stalker, you were starting to feel out of sorts. Like this life wasn’t real and you were watching your life pass by on a television set somewhere in a white room.

The first thing you did was take off your platform heels, sighing as your feet sank into the plush paisley rug. “Zip, please,” you said to Mirage.

Mirage chuckled at Joya and helped unzip the tight dress you wore. Air returned to your lungs with every inch gained and you sighed again. “He really is too pretty,” Mirage said quietly.

“Too damn pretty!” You agreed. That was definitely a concern for you when you met up with him. But after twenty minutes of conversation, you were able to glean two things from the mysterious Mr. Richmond. For one, he didn’t play, ever. He was as stoic as any soldier you’d ever run across. And two, something happened to him. Something…soul changing.

Maybe it was a lost love, maybe it was a personal tragedy. Whatever it was, it made him immune to you. You flirted, you teased, you harassed the man. And he kept his attention on guarding your body. Like you hired him to do.

You pouted as you approached a cabinet in the room that stored your real clothes. Next to it, there was a clothing rack with outfit choices that you had discarded. Thoughts of how you could get under Terry’s skin kept you occupied as you opened the cabinet doors and shrieked at the gruesome sight before you.

Your clothes were cut up to shreds, a confetti of fabric at the bottom of the cabinet. Joya and Mirage joined you and shrieked in their own horror. There was a replica mask of your own face staring back at you pinned to the door with a large, very illegal knife. Blood – or god, what you hoped wasn’t real blood – dripped from the mask and down the cabinet door.

The mask was uncanny. One of the most realistic ones you’d ever seen. Terry rushed into the room, gun in his hand but pointed towards the floor. He scanned the room with a flick of his eyes, immediately moving in front of you, and shielding you from the mask.

It was too late. The image was already burned into your retinas. His massive back took up your field of vision, but due to the black t-shirt, it only let your mind drift. Your mind’s eye recalled the mask in every finite detail and your stomach turned with churning bile.

“I’m gonna be sick,” you whispered.

Terry closed the cabinet with his elbow, turning around to you. You looked at him, just in time to feel dizzy. Your knees buckled and Terry caught you, yelling to Mirage and Joya for a doctor.

Terry hefted you into his arms and left the room. Outside, the cold blast of air in the hallway shocked you enough to not slip into unconsciousness. Terry positioned you on the nearest crate.

The air in your chest began to boil, clawing its way through your clogged throat. Distantly, you knew that you were hyperventilating. But all you saw was your own face. Your own soulless slouched face, rubbery, with makeup stains on the teeth, and a giant knife through the forehead.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Terry said. He grabbed both sides of your face. You grunted, trying to shake your head. Trying to shake him off of you. His foreboding presence was screaming for you to run.

“Breathe. Breathe, princess,” he said.

You groaned, turning your head away. You couldn’t stop seeing it. Your face. Your face. Your face.

“Count with me. Six, two, four, nine, one, five,” Terry counted.

“What?” You whispered. Terry tightened his grip on your face and forced you to look at him. His startling light eyes bore into yours.

“Count. Six,” he said. He was so close that you could count every single one of his long, pretty eyelashes.

Your body shook uncontrollably. A lone tear dripped from your eye and you rubbed it away. “Don’t do that. Let yourself feel it,” he coached.

You shook your head. “Never cry,” you whispered. You narrowed your eyes at him. Whatever he saw in your eyes, he backed off. He nodded.

“Count then. Six, two, four, nine, one, five,” he said.

“Six…four…”

“Start again,” he said.

He repeated the numbers easily, remembering whatever asinine digits he wanted you to repeat. You needed away. You needed to be free. You groaned and jerked in his hold. The image of your face twisted and melted in your eyes. Turning your memory into slush. What was even real anymore?

“If you can’t do it, I’ll start with three numbers,” he said.

You huffed as you turned your attention back to him, repeating his damn numbers. You had to slow down, had to think about which number came next. Nine and one were the easiest to remember. For some reason, you kept wanting to throw a seven in there.

When you were able to repeat it three times without stopping to think, Terry lowered his hands from your face. You shivered at the lack of contact. His big paws covered your entire face, generating heat. Now that you no longer had it, you felt colder than ever.

Another tear threatened to fall but you were much calmer now. Better able to hold back the raging tempest inside. Later. Later you could break down. But it wouldn’t be here.

“Who would do…”

“Someone who doesn’t know the difference between a fantasy and a reality,” he said.

It was quiet in the hallway. The studio was on the other side, down the hall. At the T-instersection where you were, there weren’t even assistants carrying things. It was just the two of you.

Terry stood directly in front of you, pushed in between your legs so that he could bend and cup your face. Now, you were acutely aware of how close he was. How his chest rose and fell as if he were the one calming down from the scariest shit of his life. And you were the one who found a fan had attempted to kill himself in your swimming pool a month ago. This far surpassed that harrowing night.

“I just wanted to sing. I wanted to stop being invisible. I never asked for this,” you said, the back of your eyes burning with the need to cry. You hadn’t cried in years. The well had long dried. And now twice within Terry’s presence, you wanted to break down and lay it all at his feet.

“You were never invisible,” he said softly.

Terry gave you a look you couldn’t quite describe but knew instantly. Almost like for a brief moment, he knew you inside and out and didn’t flinch. You cleared your throat and straightened up a little. You grabbed the front of your dress and crossed your arms. The air from the closest vent blew across your back and made you shiver.

Mirage jogged down the hallway with a paramedic close on her heels. She was scrambling, practically in tears, as she ran down. Terry cleared his throat and stepped back, finally turning those crystal eyes away from you. The spell he’d woven broke, stealing your breath.

You took a deep breath to get it back and fended off Mirage after she clung to you, telling you how worried she was. “I’m fine, babe, I promise,” you said. You waved off the EMT and Terry pushed the EMT forward.

“Let him do his job,” Terry ordered. And for some reason, that didn’t bother you a bit. You shut your mouth and stared at Terry while the EMT went through his preliminary workup. He shined light in your eyes, asking you basic questions like your name, age, and where you were.

You answered all of his questions, without attitude. For once feeling like you didn’t have to come out swinging first. The EMT cleared you for shock, telling you to get some rest. “I have a photo shoot to keep,” you said, shaking your head.

“Not anymore,” Terry said.

“You don’t get to make that call,” you shot back. The EMT looked between the both of you, the subtle daggers you were throwing each other. The EMT quickly put up his supplies and slipped from between you and Terry.

“I’m tasked with protecting you. Let me,” he said.

You hopped off of the crate and watched two officers arrive, stepping into your dressing room with security guards from the studio. You stood up straight and pulled on that bitchy persona you were known for. You wore it like a well-used coat, broken in and comfortable.

“Your job is to guard me wherever I may be. I only have a few more stops on this tour and this incel isn’t going to ruin my dream. If that’s going to be a problem for you, I can call your agency,” you said. You looked at him from beneath your eyelashes. Wondered if you were able to fool him after he’d gotten a peek behind your four inch thick walls.

Terry leaned back, his stare turning hard. Judging. Your lips parted on a silent gasp. “No need. We’re clear,” he said, his voice just as hard as his eyes. Cold like diamonds. His jaw flexed and he stared straight ahead, giving you a blank, thousand yard stare.

Joya ran into the hallway, pushing past looky-loos and producers. Everybody had a phone out. It’d only be a matter of time before the press caught wind and accosted you outside. You couldn’t leave in this stupid dress.

Joya finally poked her tiny head up from between the gathering crowd. She held a bag in her hand and handed it to Mirage, leaning over to grab her knees and huff. “Emergency stash,” she huffed.

“You’re a genius, Joya,” Mirage said.

You avoided Terry’s gaze as you walked further down the hall to a different dressing room. Terry cleared this one first, moving about the room more thoroughly than he did the last. He opened the cabinet and you flinched, half expecting another doppelganger staring at you.

Nothing jumped out so Terry brushed past. “All clear,” he said.

He closed the door and you sighed, closing your eyes for a brief moment. That was bitchy of you. Hella bitchy and he didn’t deserve it. You paid him to worry about your safety. You snorted. You were paying people to care about you now. That’s how far you’d fallen.

“Dare we ask?” Joya asked.

Mirage turned to her, making a cut it out gesture. “You can say it. I was mean for no reason,” you said. You peeled the silver dress off of your body and shivered. Felt like shedding snake skin. That was the last thing you needed to visualize.

“It wasn’t…not..for a good reason,” Mirage said.

“It was out of line,” you said. You didn’t typically feel guilty this soon after pulling the diva card. It usually took a few days. After you were half deep into your favorite bottle of wine with only Mirage and Joya as your company.

Joya handed you a pair of leggings, an oversized orange sweater, and a pair of socks. You quickly got dressed, pulling your hair into the best ponytail you could manage. She handed you a hat and a pair of sunglasses. You sighed, feeling more like yourself. You liked dressing up in your costumes for the tour, liked getting pretty like the dolls you used to play with. But there came a time when you just wanted to pig out in a pair of sweats or shorts.

You slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and Joya draped the silver dress over the back of the couch. She took out her planner, flipping to a sticky pad that she scribbled a note on. She stuck the paper to the door of the dressing room.

Terry looked you up and down, noting your wardrobe change. He looked at Joya and nodded and she giggled breathlessly.

“Look, Terry,” you began, ready to own up to what you did.

“We’re good. Stay on me, okay?” He asked.

You nodded. Terry used his full height to stalk down the hallway. You avoided looking at your dressing room. At the…you were going to be sick. Your stomach twisted as you passed the room, passed the police.

“I already talked to them. They know about the, um, you know. They won’t need to question you,” Mirage said.

“Thank God,” you said.

Terry pushed and ordered people to move as he led you out of the studio and to the black truck parked in the connected parking lot. He opened the door for you and you paused before climbing in.

“I’m sorry about what I said. Truly,” you said. Terry’s eyes defrosted a fraction. He glanced at you and nodded.

“We’re good,” he said.

You nodded and hopped in the car. Mirage and Joya hopped in on the other side. Terry walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in, pulling out of the driveway just as the first news cameras were arriving.

You sighed and leaned against the backseat. “Great thinking, Joya,” you commended.

“Thanks, but it was Mirage. She made the point that the press was going to have a field day and I took off,” she said. She had her pen and phone out, staring down at your calendar.

“I called ahead and told them that we were going to be late because of what happened. They said they can move the shoot if you–”

“No. I can’t slow down,” you said. Your schedule was held together by glue, paperclips, and chewing gum. Together with Mirage, you managed to carve out true rest periods. Slots of entire hours where you didn’t have to go anywhere, didn’t have to smile at this, or endorse that.

Your mind drifted back to what you told Terry in the studio. All you ever wanted to do was sing. You watched countless videos of your favorite singers, sung your heart out whenever you had the chance, snuck and took singing lessons because you knew that this was where you wanted to be.

Hollywood never showed the uglier parts. The parts where it felt like there would always be a thousand hands crawling all over your skin. Thousands of fans taking it too far. Sending you disturbing videos of either their tiny dicks, feet, moles, chest hairs, or telling you how much you sucked at singing. They said you were overrated. Mannish. Too full of yourself. Every one of them had a different fantasy of you in their heads. Every one of them wanted a piece of you. And whoever this maniac was, they weren’t going to stop until they succeeded in killing you.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. It might be time to step down from singing for a while,” you said.

“What! Noooo. Why? Because of this loser?” Mirage asked.

“It’s everything. I’m just so tired,” you whispered. Terry’s eyes flicked to yours in the rearview mirror. Your eyes burned again and you looked away from him. Curse him and his damn hypnotizing eyes.

Terry got you to the photoshoot without breaking any traffic laws. But he was close. He escorted you to the door, a steady presence the entire way. No one was getting through Terry. That thought put you at ease as you turned your mind off and went back to the doll everyone wanted you to be.

Hours later, Terry was at the receptionist’s desk at the hotel coordinating your move. You were switching hotel rooms, again. You were packed up and loaded up into the truck, again. You were checking into a different hotel, classier than the last, under a different name and was once again in the elevator with Terry by your side.

He hardly carried a duffle bag. A small thing that looked silly bouncing against his big ass. Terry escorted you to the room, dropping his bag to the floor. He unsheathed his gun and pressed it close to his body.

“Wait here,” he said. He opened the door with the keycard and let himself in first. He turned on the light and swept through the entire suite, checking behind every nook and cranny. You followed behind him anyway. Even if your stalker did manage to find the place, there was no way he had enough time to set a trap.

Terry came back into the foyer and stopped up short when he saw you looking at the complimentary wine bottle. You read over the standard hotel note. “I told you to wait outside,” he said and put up his gun.

“I’m tired and I want to lay down.” You waved him off. What you really wanted to do was take a hot fucking bath and bawl your eyes out. The “later” had finally come and you wanted to break down in peace.

Terry moved to the door and grabbed his duffle, bringing it inside. He closed and locked the door, putting on the safety latch for good measure. He slung the duffle over his shoulder and walked to the adjoining suite door. He opened it and then stopped across to his side of it.

“I’ll be right on the other side if you need anything,” he said. You leaned against the open door and gave him a small smile.

“Thanks, Terry. For today,” you said.

“It’s my job right?” He asked.

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?” You asked.

Terry smiled tightly, like he wasn’t quite used to it anymore. “Not a chance, princess,” he said.

You rolled your eyes again, pinching your lips together to keep from smiling. All it did was bunch up your cheeks and give away the rising heat in your cheeks. “Goodnight, Mr. Terry,” you said.

“Goodnight,” he said. He closed the door and you stood on the other side of it. Wondering what it must be like to know him intimately. To know what made him smile or laugh. What made his eyes light up with joy. Or what brought such sadness to his eyes.

You wondered what it would be like to fall into his arms, easily, readily, and have him embrace you like you were the most precious thing in the world. For a brief moment, you let yourself daydream. Let the fantasy take shape in your mind.

That was a much more comforting image to hold onto than the crushing weight of the day. You turned away from the door, heading to your side of the suite. You entered your room and ran yourself a bath.

The room steamed up with heat from the bath you ran. The clawfoot tub was pristine, with an ornate faucet. The rug underneath felt like clouds. You focused on the strangeness around you.

The few trips you did take were nothing like this. You stayed in nice hotels, hotels your family was able to afford, but not like this. It didn’t stink like mold. The opposite. There was some kind of subtle, expensive perfume in the air.

The bathroom was so spacious, you could fit three clawfoot bathtubs in it and still have room left over. You were in the lap of luxury and it felt like a gilded cage, designed to keep you in a perpetual state of “other”. Temporary. In the world but never of it.

You turned off the hot water and swirled your hands through the foamy bubbles. It was the perfect temperature so you took off your clothes, threw on a bonnet, and sank in. The heated water was a welcome balm, soothing the tension you carried in your body.

The tears came too easily, just under the surface. It slipped down your cheeks and you finally let yourself break down. Allowed yourself to feel the stress and loneliness of the day. You had one of the most horrific days of your life and everybody who mattered already knew about it.

There was no one to vent to. No one who wasn’t already on your payroll. And to be honest, that hurt most of all.

Ya'll know what I'm about. The Secret Terry Richmond Files | Part 2 | Part 3

Taglist: This skyrocketed LOL. I love ya'll, so so much!

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seonghwaddict · 6 months ago

Text

not just a distraction — park seonghwa

in which it’s too easy for the new literature professor to pick a favourite.

literature professor!park seonghwa x fem!reader. genre. fluff, angst. warnings. LEGAL teacher-student relationship, implies age-gap, an argument, suggestive, nickname (baby, angel, doll, princess). wc. 10.4k. rating. pg-13.

lilo’s notes. this is my comeback yessss~ anyways, this is part 1 of 2 because the next part will have some… fun activities >:) i hope you guys enjoy this, i’m sorry for being so inactive for the past month but i have lots for you guys to look forward to! excuse any errors i did not proofread this.

listening to. training wheels, melanie martinez / angel, kali uchis.

masterlist.

the first class of the new literature course at your campus garnered the attention of quite a few of the students from the arts department.

there was, of course, a literature class that existed before that one, though a few students had been unhappy with it since the introduction of more contemporary works. the classic masterpieces, they thought (including you), should not be bunched together with colleen hoover.

with enough pressure, the faculty were able to introduce a new course; classic literature. the few students unhappy with the initial course switched into this course instead, delighted by the fact they were allowed to keep their previous credits. a completely new teacher had been hired too, stirring anticipation. all you knew of him was his name, given in the description of the course when you signed up.

so you found yourself in one of the many lecture halls, around fifty others surrounding you. when you walked in, the new professor was at the long chalk board at the front, looking down at a book in his hand while the other wrote something down. you tried catching a glimpse of him, but his positioning faced him away.

but from what you could see, he was quite slender. his grey slacks, neatly ironed, were secured around his hips by a thin black leather belt. his white button up seemed a little large, though it complimented him well, tucked into his trousers with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms elegantly—his blazer, a grey matching his slacks, shucked off and placed around the back of the chair at his desk. you could also see his hair was dark, a slight waviness to it, a little longer in the back.

finding the most convenient seat, you chose to sit in the left-most seat on the second row, next to a girl you recognised but couldn’t remember the name of even if you tried.

you catch a glimpse of professor park glancing down at his watch, prompting you to do the same. nine in the morning, on the dot.

“literature,” he starts, underlining the bold word on the chalkboard before turning around. and you nearly choke at the sight of his face.

he’s handsome, almost impossibly so, and a lot younger than all your other professores. dainty glasses sit atop the bridge of his nose, carefully placed strands of his hair framining his face as he begins pacing in front of the seats, making sure to look at each students individually.

“it’s many things, but at its core, it’s all about the manipulation of language. language, simply put, is food, nourishing literature. and so, with the intricacies of the art, literature becomes one of the sweetest passions known to man. because what is it if not love and hatred and disgust and every indescribable feeling thrown into a melting pot of prose.”

his voice is captivating, making you feel just a little lightheaded as you listen to his passion intently, all precise words and confidence as he paces, his hands clasped behind his back. you’re hanging off his every word, watching as he stops by his desk to place down the chalk.

it isn’t after a few moments that you realise you were admiring his hand, how it moves to elegantly. the way his fingers gently curl around the little white stick is almost artistic in itself.

he turns around, resting his hips against the edge of the mahogany desk behind him, legs crossed at his ankles and arms crossed over his chest. his eyes scan the room as he continues speaking, occasionally locking with yours. “is it not poetic? how morphemes, for example, or adjectives or conjunctions are the morsels of literature, small parts that are put together to create meaning? of course, something may be described in one word, but there’s something quite magical about being more metaphorical, more intimate.”

he catches you leaning forward in your chair slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips at how captivated you look before he schools his expression. but his focus is quickly redirected when another student raises his hand.

“yes?” professor park pushes himself off the desk, clasping his hands behind his back.

“professor,” he begins—you recognise him as a jock that calls himself dylan, but you know it’s not his real name and he’s probably here to fulfil a requirement to keep him on the volleyball team—his tone incredulous, “don’t you think all this romanticisation of literature is a bit dramatic? we don’t need fancy words to describe everything.”

professor park arches his eyebrow, a soft huff escaping his nose as he took steps in the direction of dyland’s seat. “dramatic? perhaps,” he nodded, eyes fixed on him, “however, as a literature professor, i enjoy the romanticisation of it. my job is to introduce others to the passion that is literature, and therefore i will romanticise it all i wish… what is your name?”

“it’s, uh, dylan?”

his eyebrow quirked once more as he gave the jock a once over, evaluating him. “i see… well, dylan, have you ever felt the rush of emotion when reading something truly spectacular? have you ever read a sentence and felt it like a punch in your chest or a sudden breath of fresh air?”

dylan’s opens his mouth to respond before he is interrupted with a raise if professor park’s palm. “think before you answer, please.”

you nearly laughed at his baffled look, never having seen him so silent, pondering the question for a moment before answering. “well, yes i have.” he answers honestly, earning a nod of approval.

“describe that feeling for me. can you find the correct words to explain the way you felt in that moment?”

dylan tries to explain it the best he can, but your teacher only shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “close, but no. see, it’s difficult putting into words such strong emotions no matter how many synonyms of ‘joyful’ you use.”

he turns away from him to address the rest of the class. “and that is the beauty of literature—it can be used to describe the most indescribable feeling, stringing together individually meaningless words to create something so much more.”

you smile at that, enjoying the link he made. your eyes meet for another moment, a split second that made heat rise to your cheeks under his perceptive gaze. but you blink and his pretty brown eyes are gone.

he takes a moment’s pause, glancing over at the clock in the room before finally addressing the rest of the class again. “i want an assignment from each of you by next class that demonstrates the true beauty of the language we know. it can be anything you feel like writing. a short story, a narrative, an essay, a poem,” his eyes flick over to land on you once again, “i want to see the feeling you want to convey in this written form. and i don’t just mean the happy feelings—get raw and descriptive. write something from the heart.”

the class is dismissed and you pack up your things, heading out but not before trying to catch another glimpse of him in the moving horde of students.

though you hadn’t noticed it, throughout the lecture his eyes lingered on you as well. of course, there were so many students for him to focus on, but none of them seemed quite as captivated as you. judging by the evident fascination on your face as he spoke, he knew you understood every word he said. unlike dylan, apparently.

the next class is on friday, four days away. you take that time or write the assignment. instead of writing a story or a poem, you decide on writing an essay. something where you can really write without the constraints of sticking to a plot. when you’re not in any of your other classes, you’re at your shared house, writing. and if your roommate is being too loud, you take the short bike ride to campus, sitting in your usual corner in the library, also writing.

by the time friday comes around, it’s ready and you’re happy with it, confident in your works as you walk into the lecture hall between some other students. you follow them as they stop at his desk, placing their papers on a stack of other turned in assignments, following suit before sitting at the same seat as last time; far left, second row. this time there’s more people sat at the front, whispering and giggling as they gaze at the professor.

he’s sat at his desk, a similar suit to last like on except a beige colour. his glasses are off and placed on the wooden desk, a book partially obscuring his face as he reads and waits for it to be nine on the dot.

he can vaguely hear the students talking amongst themselves as he reads, but he doesn’t pay it too much mind. it was normal. a lot of his students found him attractive, and that was clear just by the way they talked while he was around. after a while, he glances up at the time, noting it was almost time for class to begin.

he closes his book, setting it off to the side before standing up behind the desk. his hands clasp behind his back.

he glances around the room as more students trickle in and take their seats. he notices you at the second row almost immediately, and he can’t help the small smile that crosses his face. he lets his eyes roam over you for a second before he looks away, noticing the other students chattering in their seats. he clears his throat, loud enough to make them stop and look at him.

“good morning, class.” he says loudly, glancing around once more before resuming, “i’ll be looking over your assignments after class, but for today i’d alike to talk about some literary devices. i know this is classic literature and you’re all expecting to be reading classics, but some groundwork should be set before we jump into analyses. for example, can anyone tell me what a hyperbole is? any guesses?”

he scans the room, as if challenging one of the students to answer. the students in the class are quiet, no one wanting to take the challenge. he hums after a couple minutes and walks around to the front of the desk to lean against the edge of it.

“no one? how about you,” he suddenly says, nodding to you.

you blink, taken aback by the fact he chose you in the sea of fifty-something students. after clearing your throat, you simply say, “an exaggeration, sir.”

he gives a small nod of approval, a smile accompanying it. he expected you to know it, one of the most basic terms in the subject, but could he really be blamed if he just wanted to hear your lovely voice?

“that’s correct. a hyperbole is an exaggeration. it’s also a useful tool in literature to convey specific emotions. i’m sure you’ve come across sentences such as... ‘i could kill him’ or ‘i can’t believe it. this assignment was a literal death sentence.’” he adds the last part in a joking manner, and the few students in the room who were paying attention let out a quiet bout of snickers. he gives you one last small smile before moving on.

he spends the rest of the lesson talking about all sorts of techniques used to enhance literature and the effects they have on the readers. sibilance creates a smooth flow and double entendres are often used to amuse the reader.

nearing the end of the class, he instructs everyone to start on their reading of “the picture of dorian gray” by oscar wilde while he starts going through the turned in assignments. you pull out the book, having borrowed it from the library the other day. you’ve read it before, but it was entertaining enough for you to be willing to read it again, leaning back in your seat comfortably as you flip to the first page.

professor park gets through the first couple of assignments, grading them and adding comments here and there. he finds your essay on the third assignment, and glances up to look at you sitting at your seat, reading so serenely. he takes the time to look you over for a moment before his focus turns to your paper in his hand. he can’t help the slight curiosity as to what you have written, so he begins reading.

he can tell from the quality of the writing alone what kind of writer you were. not like the others, you weren’t rushing with each sentence. no, each word was well thought out, each word placed delicately in the paragraph. it was obvious you had taken the time to write it, and it was obvious that you enjoyed writing even before he finishes reading the introduction. there is passion in the way you laid out your paragraphs. the way it seems so effortless for such words to spill onto your pages.

he finds himself rereading some of the sentences and paragraphs, just to see the way you had worded things. the way you describe how literature can make a person feel could be compared to a piece of art itself. a smile tugs at his lips as he finished reading, having become completely entranced in what you had written. he wanted more, he wanted to read even more of your writing, see more of your passion, more of you. he had expected to have to read through mindless writing but instead he had been surprised by something actually worthwhile.

at the end, he writes a decently-sized comment, a perfect grade circled in his black ink right below.

as he dismisses the class, it takes you a moment to register his words and the people filing out of the hall around you. but once you do, you fold over the corner of the page you’re on and start packing away your items.

as the class is now empty, the only person left in the room besides himself is you. he watches from behind the desk as you pack up your things, noticing the slight hesitation in your movements when you glance towards him. he takes a moment to just watch you before speaking up, his voice firm and clear.

“stay a moment, if you don’t mind.”

you glance up at him before looking around, making sure he was speaking to you before you nod, taking the steps down from the second row to the first, standing at the end of the seats expectantly.

he picks up something from his desk before making his way over to you, his long legs carrying him effortlessly.

he studies your face for a moment, holding up the stapled stack of papers that were your essay. he takes in your features as he speaks, his tone softer now that you’re alone, “you enjoy literature, i take it?”

you glance at the papers before meeting his eyes again, heat rising to your face at the realisation that his full attention was on you. that he was standing so close, just a step away, looking down at you ever so slightly. you give him a nod.

he hums softly in acknowledgement, his eyes looking at your face curiously. he can see the flush of your cheeks clearly, the way you’re keeping your gaze averted from his for the most part.

he glances down at the paper in his hand, tapping it against his fingers gently before looking back at you.

“your assignment. i read it,” he starts, flipping through the pages absentmindedly to keep him from staring at you too long, “it’s quite well written, and i can see the care you put into the language of it. i enjoyed reading it.”

he watches as your eyes queen ever so slightly, a certain sparkle that does not go unnoticed by him; can see the gears turning in your head as you take in his words, your face growing to an endearing mix of shy and embarrassed. he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what he was feeling, couldn’t describe it in any way other than a bloom of warmth in his chest, akin to familiarity.

“oh, thank you, sir.” you smile at him lightly, having been worried you were in trouble and about to be in the receiving end of his scolding.

he hums again, still looking at your face. he can’t help the slight grin that forms on his face as he hears you call him ‘sir.’ he liked the sound of it coming from you. he glances down at the paper again before speaking again, holding the stack out to you.

“i should be thanking you, really. you seem to be the only one to have put some effort into it,” he gave you a soft smile before nodding towards the door, “you may go now, i’ll see you next class.”

you smile and nod, giving him a slight bow before straightening up again. “have a nice day, sir.” and with that you leave, making a beeline to leave campus since you didn’t have anything else to do for the day.

the next time you see him is on monday, in class. he teaches as usual, introducing some context for the book you’re all supposed to be reading. he doesn’t talk to you during the class, though occasionally his eyes find yours and you can’t help but think they soften ever so slightly.

soon enough, you pick up on the fact that you have a similar routine on wednesday evenings. usually, you stay in the campus library for a little longer on those days, whether it’s to read or to work. you like it then because there’s usually barely anyone there, the library big enough for the students that are there to disperse out of each other’s views.

you notice him on your way in, talking to the librarian with a stack of three or four books on the counter. but sometimes you’d see him at a table or couch, or browsing through the shelves. and each time you smile at the sight of him before making your way straight to the second floor, ducking between some bookshelves on the far end to sit in your usual seat.

this may be your favourite spot on campus, maybe the whole city. a little sofa tucked against a big window, two bookshelves—historical fiction—on either side hiding you from the prying eyes of your peers. at this time, the sunlight is just right, a copper glow feeding the two little plants on the windowsill and providing a warmth that felt like a blanket on a cold winter day. it wasn’t too bright, able to look outside without squinting your eyes, enough light to read comfortably. there’s also a little round table that you use to place your laptop on if you need to work, though often you push it aside, favouring to relax on the plush sofa against the soft pillow and get lost in the pages of whatever book you got your hands on.

he’s noticed you there before, on his way to pick up a book from the bibliography section, right next to the historical fiction section where you resided. he soon comes to notice your form among the bookshelves that he passes by, doing a double take before he forces himself to continue along his way. when he finishes the bibliography exactly a week later, he offers to bring it back to its previous spot; in reality, he just wanted to see whether or not you’d be there again.

and sure enough, you were. and he slows down in his movements, looking at the way you’re curled up comfortably in the sofa.

he finds himself watching you silently from a distance for a while, just watching you flip to the next page in your book as you lay comfortably against the pillow, to absorbed in the story to notice him. you look completely at ease there, he finds himself thinking. the sunlight from the window seems to caress your features softly, and a part of him wondered what it would be like to be the sunlight for once, to touch your skin so softly and admire the details of it.

he watches you for a while, taking in your expressions as you turn the pages, before deciding to make his presence known. he takes a step, his leather shoes clunking against the polished wooden floors, “mind if i join you?”

your eyes dart up at the sound of his voice, flinching as you were caught off guard. once his words process, you offer him a smile, nodding as you retract your feet from the sofa to make some space for him. “yeah, of course, professor.”

he smiles warmly at your reply, settling into the newly available space on the sofa. now sitting, he realizes just how small the space is. it’s a two seater, so he ends up sitting very close to you, his side pressed right up to the armrest to prevent from being pressed against you. he glances at your face, noting the small reaction you had when you weren’t expecting him to approach. cute.

he leans back a little to get comfortable on the sofa. it’s quiet between them for a moment, both of them looking outside or at their books. the silence isn’t awkward, he finds. in fact, he quite enjoyed it in such proximity to you. he turns his gaze to watch your face, studying you; the curve of your nose, your lips that are pulled into a frown ever so slightly as you concentrate. his gaze then flicks down, to your sweatpants-clad legs tucked under you on the sofa, and lower to the hand holding the book.

you sit together in silence for a while, reading your respective books. you can’t stop yourself from glancing up at him occasionally, however, just wanting to catch a glimpse of his soft hair or perfect plump lips or the slope of his neck.

but when the sun go too low and the lights too dim and you could barely keep your eyes open, you let out a soft yawn, stretching. he glances up, opening his mouth to say something before his throat suddenly feel to dry to produce any words, distracted by the arch of your back and the curves of your hips. you look so inviting.

“tired?” he manages to force out with a slight chuckle, watching you slump back into your seat. he has the urge to brush away the stray hairs that fall over your cheeks.

you glance at him, nodding as you pull yourself off the couch for one last stretch before gathering your stuff and facing him. “i should probably head home,” you mutter.

“alright,” he pushes himself off the couch, closing his book, “i’ll walk you out.”

too tired to argue and insist he didn’t have to, you just nod, turning on your heels to walk out of the shelves, waiting at the end for him. the walk is silent, holding your breath and heart thumping in your chest each time his fingers brush against the back of your hand as you walk side by side.

this became a new routine. every wednesday, you’d find him or he’d find you, sitting in the little brown leather couch. and you’d stay there together for a while, talking or laughing or working or reading. there was no longer an awkward space separating the two of you, happily resting against each other, far from worried that anyone would see.

neither of you mentioned it, but it was the elephant in the room. you didn’t know what to call it, whatever was happening between you. but it felt good, it made you want to cling to his shirt and bury your face into the warm curve of his neck and never let go. but you couldn’t, no matter how much either of you wanted to.

and as the lines between professor and student blurred, you found yourself looking forward to your wednesdays with him.

and so did he. still, he often thought about how he behaved around you, like it was a secret meant for him and you and you and him.

the way he would find himself sitting closer and closer to you. the way he’d find his gaze lingering on you for too long. the way his mind would wander on how it would feel to run his fingers through your hair, trails them along your thighs. oh, how badly he wants to feel your skin against his own. the idea of what he was doing was dangerous, foolish for someone of his position.

but it’s hard to care when you’re right there next to him, in the soft light that makes your skin glow, your face relaxed and content as you read beside him.

one particular friday evening, it’s pouring, and you’re standing outside under where the roof of the humanities building entrance protruded, protecting me from the rain. this morning you had decided to walk to school instead taking the bike, though you suppose it wouldn’t have been much better with a bike.

your shoes are already wet from the puddle you had accidentally stepped into on your way out, your clothes soaked from having walked into the rain for a minutes as you hug your messenger bag close to your chest.

he’s on his way to his car when he spots you standing by the doorway, and he frowns as he notices you, soaked from the rain that pours mercilessly. he glances around, noticing the lack of anyone nearby thanks to the weather, before making his way towards you.

he stops a few steps in front of you, opening his umbrella to block the rain above both of you. "what are you doing standing out in the rain?"

“i walked to school this morning,” you look from him to the pouring rain, just a step away, “didn’t check the weather.”

he takes you in for a moment, taking in the way your clothes are sticking to you, your hair slightly damp. a small part of him found it quite adorable to see you like this.

"you’re soaked," he says, his voice firm and concerned, "you’re going to get sick like this." as if on cue, a shiver racks through your body. he notices, his expression softening as he takes a step closer, offering his free hand. “come on, i’ll drive you home.”

“oh, you really don’t have to,” you smile at him, grateful at his offer, worried about getting his car wet with your clothes, “i can just wait here until the rain stops.”

his eyes narrow slightly, taking your wrist lightly. "don’t be ridiculous," he scolds, "you’ll freeze to death if i leave you here."

you blink at him, not used to being on the receiving end of his firm tone. his concern making the corners of your lips tug up, you sighed softly, nodding, “alright, lead the way.”

a small smirk pulls at his lips as he watches you relent, giving in to his words. he steps to your side, releasing your wrist and putting a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the parking lot.

he pulls a tissue from his pocket, unfolding it and using it to gently pat your face. you giggle softly at his attempts to dry your face, reaching one of your hands up to take the handkerchief, your fingers brushing against each other before you dry your face yourself, your other hand helping him hold the umbrella in the strong wind, hand a little lower than his on the handle.

he looks at you with a small smile as his hand rests on the umbrella’s handle, moving to cover yours. his hand is a little bigger and warmer than yours. but as he guides you further towards the parking lot, he notices you shivering again, the cold air starting to get to you.

"if you get a cold, it’s your fault." he teases slightly, pulling you closer to his side, making you stumble a little before you regain your footing.

“oh no, i won’t be able to attend your 9 am lecture on monday, whatever will i do?” you gasp dramatically, holding back a laugh as you joke around, instinctively glancing around in case anyone saw. but everyone was gone, rushing home in the midst of the downpour.

he lets out a low laugh at your dramatic response, rolling his eyes playfully at you.

"stop that," he chastises, his hand on your waist keeping you from falling. it was hard to miss the nervous looks your threw around, and he knew exactly why.

“hm?” you glance up at him as he stops in front of what you assume is his car. it’s a black mercedes, sleek and modern. you clasp your hands behind your back, tilting your head, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

he pushes open the passenger door of his car, gesturing for you to get in. he shakes his head slightly with a scoff, his gaze raking down your figure for just a moment.

“sure you don’t,” he says in a slightly teasing tone, “just get in the car, angel.”

you blush lightly at the nickname but shake your thoughts away, looking down at the leather passengers seat before looking up at him again “but i’ll get your seat wet and mess it up.”

it takes him a moment to process your words, distracted by how the flush of your cheeks makes you look even lovelier. the thought that he was able to make you blush like that because of a simple nickname makes him bite back a giddy smile.

he shakes his head. “i’ll take my chances. just get in, you’re shivering.”

you don’t move for a moment, weighing your options; get his seat a little wet, or walk in the rain. deciding the former is obviously the better choice, you thank him silently as you slip into the passenger seat, securing your seatbelt after resting your bag in your lap

he shuts the door behind you and circles the car, walking to the driver’s side. his steps are a little rushed, eager to get out of the rain and into the warmth of the car.

he gets in the car, pulling the door shut behind him before he looks over at you. you sit quietly, your head down and hands in your lap.

it’s silent for a brief moment before he speaks up. “i’m gonna need your address, you know.”

“oh, right.” you hum, leaning forward to the screen on the dashboard to type in your address. it takes some effort, your muscles mostly focused on your legs as you try not to seat my full weight in an attempt to not ruin his seat despite what he said earlier.

he says absolutely nothing, his gaze glued to the arch of your back. he swallows hard, clenching his jaw as he keeps his eyes trained on you, fighting the urge to reach a hand and touch you.

he clears his throat, “just lean back into the seat.”

before you can protest, he’s pushing down on your thigh until you’re fully seated. you give him a playful glare as you finish typing the address. it’s just over a five-minute drive, while walking in this weather would’ve taken you nearly twenty.

he looks at you with a chuckle, his hand still on your thigh, giving it a slight squeeze.

“now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he jokes, giving your thigh a tap before pulling his hand away, turning the ignition on and pulling out of the parking space.

the drive to your place is quiet except for the sound of the rain outside. he has the heat on full blast to keep you warm. every now and then he glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

the heat makes you shudder, holding your fingers up to the air to warm them up a bit.

he can’t help as his mind thinks of how cute you look, all bundled up with your bag in your lap. and the urge to touch you, god, the urge to run his fingers through your hair.

“we’re almost there, don’t worry,” he mutters as he tears his gaze away from you.

“hey, um,” you start after a few moments of silence, glancing at him, “if you want, you can come up and we could have some coffee or tea or something together. if my roommate doesn’t mind, which she probably won’t, she’s really nice so i wouldn’t worry. but you don’t have to if you don’t want to! i just, uh, wanna thank you properly… for this.”

he watches with a fond smile as you ramble, stopping at a red light. he’s about to accept the offer, tell you that he’d love to, but the realisation of your roommate being there changes things, his expression turning solemn.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea…” he mumbles, avoiding your piercing eyes.

your brows furrow ever so slightly, a frown threatening to override your features. “why not?”

he swallows, pulling over in front of the address you had typed into the gps.

“i’m your professor,” he starts, his tone firm, “it would be unprofessional if we’re caught.”

he hopes you can’t notice the way he’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.

“that hasn’t stopped you so far, though,” you muse, chuckling lightly despite your confusion of his suddenly change in sentiments, trying to ease the tension.

“but don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that we’ve been sitting together in the library every week, completely hidden away?” he mutters, “if someone saw us, someone who didn’t know, it would look bad. this could be worse.”

“i thought you liked being there with me…” his words get to you this time, actually frowning as you turn to look out the window instead of at him, noticing you were in front of your house.

shit.

he mentally berates himself upon noticing the slight change in your expression, realizing with a pang of guilt that his words bothered you, having come out the wrong way.

“oh, angel,” he starts, letting go of the steering wheel. his hand reaches for you, and before he can stop himself, it’s cradling your face.

“i do. i like being with you there,” he sighs, gently pulling your face to make you look at him, his thumb caressing your cheek. “you have no idea how much i enjoy it.”

his touch on your face feels warm, and his words even warmer as his directs you to look at him. you don’t say anything.

he’s not used to this, to you being quiet and still. he’s too used to your carefree self being full of jokes and laughter. he doesn’t like you like this, looking at him with disappointment written on your face.

“what i meant is,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb moving across your cheek to your chin, tilting your head up so your eyes meet his, “i’m just worried about your roommate.”

“i like spending time with you, princess,” he continues, his tone firmer this time, “i like it a lot, alright?”

your frown eases at his words, nodding as you answer in a whisper, “okay.”

he lets out a small sigh of relief, his fingers tracing down from your chin to the side of your neck, and then your collarbone. he gently caresses your skin with the lightest of touch, letting the pad of his fingertip graze your skin.

he tries to ignore the voice in the back of his mind telling him to tug you across the console and kiss you. he shouldn’t.

he shakes himself out of his thoughts, pulling his hand away reluctantly. glancing out the window, he sees your place right in front of him.

“we’re here,” he murmurs, looking back at you. his gaze softens when he sees the remnants of the frown still on your face, and his hand gently reaches out to give your thigh a light squeeze.

“come on,” he says quietly, “let’s go.”

you look out the window before nodding, unbuckling and stepping out, walking to your front door as he accompanies you with an umbrella. you rummage around in your bag, trying to find the keys. groaning as you realise you were in such a rush this morning you must’ve forgotten them in the bowl where you and your roommate place your keys so you don’t lose them. with a sigh, you ring the doorbell, waiting for her to answer.

but she never comes. and that’s when you realise she had the late shift at work today. you groan, frustrated as you thump your forehead against the wooden door.

great, he thinks to himself as he watches you struggle trying to get inside. and then you turn around, with a frustrated sigh, and a thump of the door.

he can’t help but feel like the world is against him. the universe wants to punish him, to test his limits.

he bites the inside of his cheek, watching you and listening to you as you mutter about your locked door.

“i don’t have my keys, my roommate isn’t home,” you explain, kicking the door light before burying your face in your hands, your voice a little muffled, “oh, i’m so sorry, hwa.”

he stands there, watching you explain your situation, and he fights back a smile at your last sentence.

hwa*.*

he likes it when you call him that. spending three months growing closer, you’ve evidently given each other little nicknames.

he glances over at the parked car behind him, before back at you. “do you need a place to stay?” he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral again.

“i don’t wanna bother you too much,” you shake your head, running your hands over your face “please, i can just wait here for her to get back.”

he doesn’t like how you’re trying to push him away. frowning, watching you as you shake your head and run your hands over your face in defeat. he closes the distance between you, taking hold of your wrists and pulling your hand away from your face gently.

“it’s pouring,” he reminds you, “your clothes are soaking wet. and you think you can just sit here on the front porch until your roommate comes back?”

“i don’t want to inconvenience you any more,” you murmur, your hands relaxing as he pulls your wrists away from your face.

his chest tightens at your words, at how stubborn you’re being. he sighs.

“you’re not inconveniencing me,” he insists, “i’d feel better knowing you’re inside with dry clothes and a warm drink than out here soaked to the bone.”

you contemplate his offer for a moment before sighing, nodding, “okay, if you insist.”

his heart nearly skips a beat at your agreement, and it takes all his willpower not to visibly show the relief that washes over him.

he tightens his hold on your wrist for a moment, before gently guiding you back to his car. he opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you get in before he shuts the door and circles around to the driver’s side.

he starts the ignition again, the warm air blasting through the vents yet again. you hold your hands in front of the hot air again, glancing over as you hear his door open and close as he slips. “in is it a long drive?”

he lets out a scoff, looking over to you with a teasing smile. “it’s a whole two minute drive. i’ll try not to bore you too much.”

he turns back to the window, pulling out of the parking spot. the rain starts again, and the sound of it pounds against window before he turns on the wipers.

“oh dear me, i can already feel myself falling asleep,” you slump your head back and pretend to snore, back to being playful.

he turns to look at you, watching your dramatics with a fond grin. “shut up, you,” he says, reaching out to pinch your side gently.

you giggle as he pinches your side, opening your eyes again to look out the window, watching buildings and cars glide past as he drives smoothly. true to his word, just a few minutes later he’s pulling into the underground parking lot of an apartment building.

he parks in front of a spot numbered ‘407’, cutting the ignition as soon as he does.

he glances at you briefly before nodding almost to himself.

“come on,” he says with a jerk of his chin, gesturing for you to follow as he gets out of the car.

his longer strides have him walking faster than usual, and it takes him a conscious effort to slow down for you to keep up.

he presses the ‘up’ button and the elevator doors part within seconds. he steps into the elevator, holding the door open for you to enter.

it’s a silent ride up. his mind is racing, though he doesn’t show it outwardly. his hands are in his pocket, and he keeps his eyes trained on the blinking numbers signifying each floor.

the elevator dings and the doors open and he steps out without looking back to see if you’re following, striding down the hallway, making a turn to a door marked ‘407’.

he fishes for his keys in his pocket, pulling them out before unlocking and opening the door as you look around the empty hallway, your gaze lingering on the mass-produced paintings hanging on the wall that he knows can be seen on every other floor of this building.

the apartment is spacious, with plenty of open floor space for the front room. the color scheme is simple and neat, with a large armchair and a small couch that sits in front of a flat screen tv, as well as a wooden coffee table.

he steps in, taking a moment to kick his shoes off and set his stuff down. he looks over his shoulder, watching you step into the apartment as he places his umbrella in the umbrella rack and hangs up his coat.

you grimace as your shoes squelch when you step in, muttering apologies as you take them off and leave them outside of the door in the hallway instead, not wanting to mess up his flooring.

he raises an eyebrow, watching you as you leave your wet shoes in the hall. he’s about to say something when he’s interrupted by the sound of a small meow.

a ball of black fur appears at his feet, nuzzling against his ankle, and he smiles, scooping the cat into his arms without a word.

he scratches behind the cat's ears as it purrs in his arms, the sound of its soft mews filling the room. he can see a hint of confusion on your face, watching the cat with interest as he holds it, its front paws resting on his chest.

"his name is kuma," he explains, bringing the cat up to his face and letting it rub against his cheek.

you nearly melt at the sight, stepping into the house with wet socks as you coo at the cat, the front door falling shut behind you automatically. “i didn’t know you have a cat.”

he has to physically stop himself from grinning as you nearly swoon at the sight of his cat, covering up his smile with a cough. he shakes his head, lowering the cat gently to the floor. it runs over in your direction, nuzzling against your ankles much like it did to him moments ago, before disappearing down the hallway into the heart of the apartment.

"i got him a couple months back," he says, taking in the sight of your soaked clothes once more. he lets out a sigh, tilting his head toward the hall.

he glances down at your feet, eyeing your soaked socks, before looking back up to your face.

"you can shower if you'd like. I can lend you some clothes to change into," he says, pointing down the hall toward the bedroom.

“oh, yes please,” you nod, relieved that he offered instead of you having to ask.

he nods and starts down the hallway, motioning for you to follow him. as you follow, you look around. just like his car, the design of his apartment is sleek and modern, glowing in warmth as he uses a variety of floor lamps and shelf lamps to light up the interior instead of headache-inducing overhead lights. the furniture and walls are light in colour, a variety of whites and beiges.

it’s an open floor plan, the kitchen and living grouped together, separated by a counter island and some stools. the countertops of the kitchen have a glossy white finish, everything clean. a narrow hallway leads to some three doors, which you assume are his bedroom, a bathroom, and guest bedroom or office.

he stops first in front of a door, where the cat lies on the floor, tail flicking back and forth. he bends down to pet the cat briefly.

"that's the bathroom. the towels are in there. I'm just going to grab some clothes for you," he says, giving you a quick glance before striding away toward the bedroom.

your eyes follow him as he walks away, before letting out a soft yelp at the feeling of something furry wrapping around your ankle. looking down, you realise it’s kuma, giggling as you crouch down to pet him.

he returns a few moments later, taking a moment to watch as you play with his cat so nicely before clearing his throat, making you stand back up as he hands you the stack of clothes.

“feel free to use whatever you need in there,” he nods towards the bathroom door, “you can leave your clothes in the basket, i’ll put them in the laundry later.”

“thank you, hwa.” you grin at him, accepting the clothing before disappearing into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

you shower with warm water, relaxing every muscle in your body as you wash off the rain. without any other choices, you’re left to use his shampoo. it smells of him, a deep vanilla. when you finish, you dry off and change into the clothes he brought, using your own previous undergarments as he obviously didn’t have those on hand.

the clothes are quite large on you, hanging off your body as you tighten the string of the sweatpants. you pat your hair partially dry with the towel before tossing everything in the laundry basket, stepping out to go to the living room.

only to see he wasn’t there. shrugging, you figure he’ll return soon as you flop onto the couch, kuma coming to sit with you after a moment. you sprawl out a bit as you realise just how spacious the couch is, the cat padding all over your body, playing with the drawstrings of the hoodie he gave you before curling up on your stomach.

meanwhile, he’s in the shower of his bedroom’s en-suite bathroom attempting to get himself together, both physically and mentally. the water feels amazing on his skin as it beats down on him, and he tries to relax his muscles as he lathers shampoo in his hair.

but his mind keeps going back to you, and how you’re probably already in his living room.

wearing his clothes.

he sighs, leaning his head against the shower wall as he tries to push those thoughts out of his mind. he stands there for what feels like hours, letting the hot water hit his skin before shutting off the shower and stepping out. he dries himself off, quickly drying his hair enough so that it’s not dripping all over his floor before he getting in record time, pulling on an old pair of sweats and a loose black shirt.

he takes another deep breath, opening the bathroom door as he ruffles his damp hair. he starts to make his way toward the living room, hoping that you’re just as nervous as he is.

he turns the corner and enters the living room, nearly freezing in his place at the sight of you sitting on the couch with kuma. you look good. comfortable.

by the time he makes it back, you’d be kuma are no longer sitting calmly, practically rolling around on the couch as you try to get away from the playful punches of his paws. he feels his heart flutter at the sight and the sound of your laughter.

there’s just something about seeing you getting along with his cat that makes his heart nearly skip a beat. he silently watches from the hall for a moment, just gazing at the two of you playing together before clearing his throat to make his presence known.

you look up at the sound, grinning at him stupidly. you glance at his clothes, noting that he’s wearing comfortable clothes now rather than his usual suits. “oh, hey,” you say between giggles as kuma continues to jump all over you.

his heart stutters at the sight of your grins and the sound of your giggles, at the joyful look on your face. he swallows, forcing his arms to cross over his chest to keep himself from reaching out and pulling you against him.

trying to appear nonchalant even though he’s having a hard time doing so, he walks over to the couch, standing at the end of the coffee table and looking down at you.

“seems like you’re having fun together,” he remarks with a slight nod towards kuma.

“uh huh,” you nod before squealing, covering your face as kuma’s paws swat against your cheek, attacking you, your stomach hurting from laughing.

he lets out a scoff, watching kuma pawing at you and your failed attempts to shield your face from the attacks. he can’t help but let a small smile settle on his face, his heart fluttering again at the sight of you two.

“he’s playing rough,” he comments with a smile, walking to the couch and plopping down beside you.

you crawl over to his other side, hiding your face under his arms as kuma chases, “help me, hwa.”

his heart skips a beat as you hide under his arm, ducking away from the harmless kitten. he can’t help but laugh, finding the situation both endearing and adorable.

“I think you can handle kuma, doll,” he teases, grinning down at you as you continue to use him as a human shield.

“he’s a beast,” you try to sound serious, your voice muffled against his sleeve as kuma starts attacking him instead.

“he’s not that bad,” he teases, grabbing the cat by his little body and lifting him up in front of his face, “see? look at this face. he’s not even one bit menacing.”

“that’s the face of evil!” you exclaim, sitting up and placing the back of your hand on your forehead to fall into his lap dramatically, feigning death, my body draped over his thighs faced down.

he looks down at you as you go limp against him, and he can’t help but laugh at your antics.

“don’t be so dramatic,” he grins. he lets kuma go, watching as he climbs down your combined bodies to muzzle against your cheek before moving away to curl up in his usual spot in the corner of the couch. “i think he’s gonna end up liking you more than me.”

“good,” you hum, closing your eyes and relaxing in his lap, forearm under your chin so it doesn’t dig into his legs.

he rolls his eyes jokingly, resting his hand on your back and tracing down your spine, “very funny.”

you chuckle at his response, sighing softly, content where you are. in the privacy of his home, you’re not scared of being affectionate, especially not as his hand traces down to rest against the small of your back, eliciting a faint shudder.

his heart hammers in his chest as his hand trails further down to the back of your thigh, the feeling of your plump flesh beneath the fabric, under his touch igniting something in him. he has to remind himself to breathe, trying to control the rush of blood that is steadily flowing downward.

enjoying the feeling of his hand kneading the back of your thigh, you go a little silent before turning to look up at him, a question that’s been balancing on the top of my tongue for three months finally spilling out.

“hwa… what exactly are we? what is this?” you point between the two of you as you mutter the question.

his hand freezes the second he hears it. he’s been avoiding that question since the two of your really started seeing each other every wednesday months ago, but he knows he can’t anymore. not when it’s thrown straight at his face.

he takes a deep breath, avoiding your gaze for a moment. he lets the silence sit for a few more seconds as he considers his answer, then looks down at you.

“i don’t know,” he mutters, his hand moving to rest on your waist, “i’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“well, what is this to you then?” you ask softly, sitting up to be eye level with him, kneeling beside him.

the question sounds more demanding coming from you face to face, eye to eye, and his heart is beating fast enough that he fears you can hear it. he swallows, looking into your eyes.

“a distraction,” he mutters, his gaze flitting to your lips for a moment before going back to your eyes, preparing his next words.

but before he can continue, you visibly deflate at his answer, sitting back as i nod. a distraction. “i see,” you tear your gaze away from him, getting up, making his hand drop from you, “i’m gonna go to bed, wheres the guest room?”

he feels his heart twist at the sight of you leaving his touch, a dejected look on your face.

he’s never seen you back off so quickly before. not like this. he watches you get up and stand over him, a step too far for him to reach for you agajn, his heart tightening in his chest.

“wait, doll-“ he starts, reaching out to take your hand.

“what? you said what you said.”

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, his tone firmer. he stands up from the couch, towering over you. he holds a hand out to you. “come here, please.”

“then how else could you possibly mean it,” you scoff lightly, eying his hand but not taking it.

“listen, doll,” he mutters, holding back a huff of frustration. “you can’t seriously think that I would call this a distraction,” he gestures between the two of you. “a distraction. you really think that you are just a distraction to me?”

“well is that not what you said?” you mutter, trying to prevent your lips from trembling as a lump latches itself onto your throat.

he lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you closer to him. he can feel the tension in your body, and he hates it. he hates himself for causing it.

“you didn’t let me finish. i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, looking directly into your eyes, resting your hands in his chest. “you’re not just some random, meaningless distraction to me.”

your fingers flex slightly as he holds them up to his chest, right over his heart, “then tell me how you really feel about me if i’m not a distraction”

he looks into your eyes, holding onto your wrists firmly but gently, his thumbs rubbing against your skin, the inside of your wrists.

he’s never seen you like this before. this vulnerable and open in front of him. he can feel the tension in your body, the stiffness in your shoulders and the tightness in your jaw.

he wants to smooth out those frowning lines on your face, erase that look of uncertainty in your eyes.

“you’re more than just a distraction to me,” he mutters. “you’re an obsession. you’re all i think about, doll. i think about you constantly. i don’t know how else to describe it other than an obsession,” he continues, his voice getting softer as he speaks. “i can’t shake you. you’ve gotten in my head and you’ve been living in there rent free for months and you refuse to get out. even when i try to ignore you,” he lets out a scoff, looking into your eyes, “even when i pretend to ignore you, you’re still there. you don’t leave my mind.”

his heart races as the words spill out of his mouth, like there’s a dam bursting inside of him. the feelings that he’s been bottling up for months finally coming out, and he doesn’t want to stop, letting those words tumble out and onto you. he can see that you’re listening intently, that you’re listening intently as his grip on your wrists tightens, almost as if he’s scared that you’re going to run away from him.

“you’ve got me so distracted i can barely focus on anything that doesn’t involve you,” he admits in a low voice, glancing down at your wrists. “i can’t even teach my own goddamn class without thinking about you.”

you’re speechless, even as he finishes, staring up at him with wide dumbfounded eyes, feeling his hammering heart beneath your fingertips just as how he feels yours under his as his thumbs continue to rub the inside of your wrists.

you suppose you can always rely on a literature professor for an extravagant, dramatic confession.

he continues to hold onto you. he’s never seen you this speechless and dumbfounded before, and he’s torn between how good it feels to see you like this and how bad it things could go now that his feelings were out.

he swallows, looking down at your wrists. he can feel your pulse point under his thumb. “say something, angel,” he murmurs, a pleading tone in his voice.

instead, you pull your hands out of his grip to wrap them around his neck, pulling him down, placing your lips against his urgently, your eyes falling shut.

his heart hammers in his chest as he kisses you back, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you against him, his fingers curling into your hoodie. he wants to kiss you forever, wants to make up for all those months of holding back, but his lungs are burning from the lack of air and he’s forced to pull away to breathe.

he lets out a sigh, his forehead falling to the crown of your head. his hands stay on you, still holding you against him. he can still feel your heart racing against his chest.

“that was your idea of saying something?”

“uh huh,” you hum, chuckling softly as you thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, mind full of him. seonghwa, seonghwa, seonghwa.

he closes his eyes as he feels your fingers, enjoying the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp. he still has his arms around you, unwilling to let go yet. he leans down just enough to press a kiss to your temple, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

“but seriously,” you snicker, pulling away from him a little “i am kinda tired, wheres the guest bed?”

he almost lets out a whine when you pull away from him, opening his eyes reluctantly. he looks down at you, a frown on his face.

“you’re really gonna go sleep by yourself?” he mutters, an almost petulant tone in his voice as he quirks his brow.

“is that not what i’m supposed to do?“

“you really think i’m going to let you sleep alone after… that? come on now, you’re not that dense.”

“i know, i just wanted you to say it,” you giggle after a moment, grinning up at him as you lean down to scoop up kuma from the couch.

he lets out a scoff, rolling his eyes, but he’s unable to hide the small smile of his own. he reaches out and ruffles your hair, letting out a scoff. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you just said you’re obsessed with me,” you shrug, kissing his cheek as his hand find the small of your back, leading you don’t the hallway, “where does the kitty sleep?”

he looks down at kuma, still curled up in your arms, practically purring himself to death. “baby, he’s a cat. he’ll sleep wherever he wants.”

you snort, setting him down on a little armchair in the corner of his room, next to some bookshelves stacked with books upon books, and more books. you lean down to pet him a few more times as seonghwa watches you with a fond smile.

he watches you as he sits on the bed, his heart clenching at how good you look in his bedroom. it feels almost surreal, having you here in his home. he pats the spot next to him.

“get over here, baby.”

networks. @cromernet @cultofdionysusnet @wonderlandnet @atzhouse

permanent taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl

@likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo @yalyallic @yunhoswrldddd

@coffee-addict-kitten @thunderous-wolf @chngbnwf @okdudeiime

#cromernet #wonderlandnet #cultofdionysusnet #pirateeznet #atzhouse #ateez x reader #ateez #park seonghwa smut #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa headcanons #seonghwa angst #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa imagines #ateez reactions #ateez smut #ateez fluff

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escapisttt · 11 days ago

Text

make up sex

porter runs. he always runs, but he never comes back. what will happen now that he finally has?

cw: nsfw! smut with plot read the title lol, mentions of a previous argument, some hostile dialogue

authors note: was interesting writing gender neutral smut for the first time but it’s literally not hard so anyone who tells you it is is either selfish, lazy, or uncreative.

word count: 3.6k (also the exact length of my only other redacted fic okay)

steam billowed all around the bathroom, penetrating every surface with moisture and sticking to the large rectangular mirror. treasure began undressing themself with lumbering movements, constantly tipping over left and right. after trying to take their slippers off while standing up, they again became unsteady and caught themself on the sink basin. they chuffed. when was the last time they drank like this? every time they went to a bar, they had their friends to look after. nothing’s quite as lame as being the designated driver, they thought. to them, that was another indication of their plainness; they weren’t fun enough to party with. instead, they were left to scroll on their phone while sitting on a barstool, catching themself gazing wistfully up at the chalkboard drink menu. but tonight they had indulged. not at a bar, but alone on their armchair, sipping wine and watching their ceiling go in and out of focus. they knew they’d had enough when they watched the ceiling slowly bend, rise, and fall as if there were a pair of lungs under the plaster.

once they were fully bare, they carefully stepped under the scalding water. they flinched and then froze, willing themself to not back away. they weren’t the one to run. they wouldn’t run.

they closed their eyes and let the burning water hit their front. they could already feel their chest turning a darker, uglier color. but they wouldn’t step back. they wouldn’t turn the temperature down. it felt good, the heat. images of him flashed through their mind, causing their brow to furrow in helpless frustration. his hands, his fingertips, his breath, it was all so hot. they had never felt so much heat before him. now though, they had been left cold for days. just like the outings with their ‘friends.’ after he slammed the door and ran, they were back on a lonely barstool. cold. freezing. they’d never felt so much ice before him, either.

a figure hovered in front of the bathroom door. the smell of hair conditioner wafted to the creature’s senses, his red irises eclipsed by black need. the smell called to him, screamed his name. but he shouldn’t even be there in the first place. the instinct, the guilt, the aroma—what was the matter with him? he’d fed on some poor soul minutes ago and still couldn’t focus? he wrapped his hand around the doorknob and squeezed. they weren’t singing like they usually do. was that his fault? he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the door, focusing harder. a foul, shocking odor struck him. alcohol in their blood? was that his fault?

treasure heard the door creak open and yelped. before they could peek around the curtain…. “it’s me, darling. are you drunk?” they stayed silent and felt their fear morph into a melancholic frustration. any other well adjusted member of society would be full of terror and adrenaline if someone suddenly appeared in their home, but porter ripped away that sense of normalcy long ago. the mere sound of his voice caused an irritation, never mind him calling them ‘darling’ again. they rolled their eyes.

“what on earth are you doing here?! i thought you’d at least have the sense to throw away the key,” they spat coldly. porter’s shoulders shrank a little and he looked down at the tile. usually he would remark that he didn’t need a key anyway, but that attitude was exactly what had earned him this mess. his voice was low and small.

“you want rid of me that much?”

the rushing water dampened his sound a bit, but treasure could easily tell he was being wary and... something else. they pulled the curtain back just enough to reveal their head and took in the sight of him. a black blazer with a scarf, as usual, except his slacks were wrinkled. and his hair wasn’t even gelled. odd. they leaned against the shower wall as to not lose their footing and played off their disorientation by scoffing at him, ignoring his question. “did your king take away your wares too? you look shitty.” porter didn’t laugh, and he certainly didn’t miss the indignation behind the word ‘king.’ he approached and loomed over them, masking his annoyance.

“please, enough about him. you’re drunk.”

they scoffed again and went back to their shower routine, rinsing the rest of their hair. they didn’t close the curtain though. porter took the subtle invitation and leaned against the drywall, watching them through the gap in the curtain. he widened it a bit with his hand and started again. “i can fix that for you. give me your hand and you’ll be sober.” porter never knew them as one to indulge so heavily. he didn’t want to push as to why they had drank because he had a feeling it would only make them blow up at him, but he couldn’t deny there was a part of him that wanted to prod. the way they prodded him. but not this time.

treasure mulled over his words and extended their hand without looking back at him. they of all people knew how senseless drunk conversations can be. porter gently took their hand and tried not to linger on how whole it made him feel. using magic, he traced the excess amounts of alcohol in their bloodstream and dissipated it. he stood watchfully, trying not to overstep but wanting desperately to keep hold of them during the jarring sobering. they wobbled on their feet with their eyes closed for a moment before opening and snapping their gaze back at him. there was the alertness they were lacking. “clearer?” he asked, to which they gave him a curt nod.

now that they were in their right mind, they scanned over his form once more: he wasn't a drunken illusion. an awkward silence fell over the pair. treasure's eyes flitted back and forth between porter and the shower wall. when porter didn't take the hint, they eventually spoke up. “get in if you want. you just look stupid standing there,” they mumbled, yanking the curtain shut.

porter’s clothes instantly phased away as he yielded to the insult and stepped into the enclosed space. he stayed opposite of treasure and kept his back pressed against the wet tile, his arms wrapped around his middle. treasure threw him a look over their shoulder, snickering dryly. “you only have good manners after we fight?” the vampire let out an amused huff from his nostrils and hung his head.

“it seems it always takes something drastic to make me learn, yes.”

treasure turned around fully and reached for their body scrub, looking up at him as they bent down. their gaze was steely but their lips were tempting. “well i haven’t heard a ‘sorry,’ so do i have to beat one out of you?” they joked humorlessly.

those words caused the flame of guilt to lick at porter’s skin once more. ‘beat one out of him’—were they being sarcastic at their own expense? the inhuman strength in every muscle fiber in his body told him yes. god, he used that against them in their argument. he talked down to them, using ‘human’ as an insult, shoving in their face how much power he held over them. he didn’t start the fight, but he didn’t have to finish it like that. he’d never harm them, but he gave them such a strong implication that he could and made them feel bad about it. he called them stupid for even being with him, made himself out to be a monster they needed to run from. but they both knew porter was the one who was running. even so, in all of porter’s long existence, treasure was the first thing he’d ever ran back to. he could lose everything, but not them.

porter took a small step forward with his head still hanging and motioned for the container of body scrub. treasure gave him a puzzled look. the vampire sighed and took another step, gently taking the container from their hand and setting it down. “treasure, i….” he considered their choice of words again. he finally raised his head and looked into their eyes. “you can—you can do anything you want to me. i’m very sorry for what i said, but… whatever satisfies you. whatever gives you power.”

the vampire in front of treasure was not one they easily recognized. his eyes were nearly-black orbs and shone with desperate longing. porter solaire was a slighting creature, who was this? it was porter, just porter. treasure gave him a slow nod. “make it up to me.”

the vampire’s eyes lit up and he swiftly made his move. his lips attached to treasure’s neck, fangs firmly retracted. this wasn’t about him, nothing tonight was about him. his hands slid up the wet slopes of their hips and waist. a trapped moan escaped him when he felt them like that. he was touching god and it was burning, but he loved it. his kisses trailed across their neck and up their chin, aiming for their perfect lips. but when he tried to reach them, a resounding smack echoed in their steamy enclosure. porter blinked and his head was whipped around to the right, a red hot sting on his cheek. treasure’s hand returned to grip his jaw and pointed his head forward at them.

“i didn’t give you permission to kiss me. you think you deserve my lips?” porter could’ve cum right there. he shook his head.

“no, no i don’t. can i earn it?” his voice was like nothing they had heard before.

“you can. do what i said and make it up to me. you know what i like.”

porter nodded once more before sinking to his knees, his hands slipping down their body reverently. he groaned at the smell of their arousal, his eyes rolling back and then locking back onto theirs. he briefly recalled the night they first met. if only he had known how mad he would go for the taste of what was in front of him.

the vampire pressed light kisses around their groin with his eyes remaining trained on theirs. just how they like it. “i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry,” he repeated in between kisses. treasure's hand came down to muss up his hair and his erection twitched. they nodded at him with a pleased grin and gave him a tug as a reward. his precum dribbled onto the grout.

shortly, porter's efforts made it so treasure leaked more of their own arousal; that was porter’s cue. he licked a long stripe upward, collecting their slick on his flattened tongue and letting out a whine at their salty taste. he quickly dove in for more, moaning louder than treasure. his hands were planted firmly in his lap, not touching himself or the beauty before him; he knew he wasn’t deserving of doing either. treasure smiled and leaned their head back, their hips bucking in a smooth rhythm against his mouth. porter could cry at their movement—the gorgeous fluidity and the signal that he was giving it to them right.

nothing ever felt as right as when he was giving them pleasure. he couldn’t count how many nights he would spend god knows where, making god knows who disappear; it wasn’t in his nature to bring anything but pain. he was a sinner through and through, but that first night with treasure at skyside, he thinks, he began repenting. he found religion in every breath they took, every twitch of ecstasy he fed them. he felt holy at their feet.

“porter, i’m so close,” they gasped, causing the vampire’s dead heart to pound. he nodded emphatically, shaking his head side to side just to give them that extra stimulation. his desperate moans also sent vibrations to their sensitive flesh, setting their nerves alight. their grip on his hair was lethal and porter’s arousal was reaching a tipping point. he no longer had control over himself; treasure was pushing and pulling and holding his face flush against them until any normal human would’ve suffocated. porter’s mind was going hazy as if he was, his true feelings emerging from thoughtless bliss.

“i could die,” he panted as he gazed up at them, “let me die like this.” they climaxed only a second later.

ambrosia seeped onto porter’s tongue and he drank piously, catching every drop. treasure’s wanton whimpers and breaths filled the vampire’s ears and he couldn’t have been happier. he knew this is where he belonged, and he wouldn’t ever forgive himself for nearly forsaking it.

treasure finally let go of porter’s hair and he whined at the loss. they chuckled breathlessly and patted their chest, signaling that they wanted to be eye to eye. the vampire quickly stood, hissing quietly when his painful erection brushed up against their stomach. he swallowed at the closeup view of their blissed-out face; their eyes were in a lazy, seductive droop, but their grin was what ensnared him. he hadn’t seen one in days and now he’d earned one back, no matter the sadistic undertones behind it. they reached a hand out and cupped his cheek, smiling wider when his eyelids fluttered at the touch. porter didn’t notice their hand sneaking down to grip his base and his eyes shot open once he felt it.

“i’m assuming you want this taken care of?” they teased, tapping his cock against their stomach. he groaned pathetically, putting his hands on the wall behind them. he gripped at nothing, fingers clenching and unclenching around nothing and trying not to crack the tile. hovering over treasure was a beast of incomprehensible strength, holding himself back for one reason: forgiveness.

“treasure… i’m begging you.”

their wolfish grin slowly faded as they leaned in closer, squeezing his cock harshly. “and you’ll keep begging until i forgive you.” with that, they released him and shut off the water, promptly snatching their towel and stepping onto the floor mat without him. they left the bathroom before he could even process what they said.

the vampire blinked and hurried after them, bare and dripping wet. treasure was already laying on their back in bed, equally naked and damp. their towel was beneath them and they gazed at him expectantly. porter’s eyes widened as he realized what they wanted. he could hardly believe it. with vampiric speed, he was on his knees over them in a split second. their legs were spread and knees bent up, the sight making him look away and curse. god, he couldn’t take it. but treasure wasn’t having that. a smack to the thigh and his eyes were snapped open.

“you’ll look at me when you fuck me, or i’ll make you stop. don’t even fucking blink,” they threatened lowly. porter moaned but nodded, leaning down to be closer to them. without breaking eye contact, he spat on his fingers and rubbed it on their entrance, hoping to please them again. they sighed airily and reached down for his cock, unexpectedly prodding themself with it. porter gasped and almost lost his balance, catching himself on the pillow next to their head. they snickered and rolled their eyes, easing his length inside of them. it was still faster than porter ever started off, and he showed his unpreparedness by cursing and gripping their sheets. they swiftly got him fully seated and let them both settle into it, their gummy walls hugging porter’s cock snugly. he looked as if he was containing a scream.

“t-treasure you—gods, you could’ve hurt yourself doing that,” he heaved, his chest rising and falling as he tried not to cum. in response, they dug their nails into the small of his back and raked down to his ass, watching his head roll back and his mouth gape. always a sucker for pain, scratches were his favorite kryptonite. treasure had an unreadable look and gave the command he had been yearning for.

“i’m fine, just fuck me. don’t you dare go slow.”

porter was mildly concerned by their order, but he had to give them what they wanted. he would rather die than not. his hips pulled back until just his tip was inside before coming back down, thrusting smoothly into them. the sinful sound of his hips smacking into the back of their thighs drove them both wild. treasure’s nails only sank deeper into his skin, causing porter’s own wobbly grin to emerge. he fucked them faster, egged on by the delicious sting. he lowered himself more so their bodies were flush. their nipples rubbed against his chest and he panted in their ear, “like this, my love? tell me, please tell me i’m giving you what you want. fuck….”

in their own rapture, they nodded and turned their head to smile back at him. their words were mere breathy puffs of air. “uh-huh… yes, god yes. don’t stop ‘til i cum.” as if porter would’ve done otherwise.

treasure was making such a mess of themself it was audible. the vampire looked down and saw the telltale shiny slick, whining in their ear at the sight. they were so turned on for him. he put his weight on his left forearm which rested above their head and used his free hand to snake down their stomach, reaching their leaking essence. he put the pad of his thumb on their most sensitive spot and stroked up and down, up and down, earning strangled, surprised moans. his eyes bore into theirs as he continued his ministrations while fucking them, his expression one of a dog that just performed a trick for its owner: hopeful, eager, and aching for approval. “fuck, that’s how you like it…. i’ll make you cum, i’ll make you cum so fucking hard, treasure.”

the vampire was reaching speeds only his kind are able to, making treasure’s thighs ripple in ways they hadn’t felt before. porter never had a reason to fuck them this good before, and now that he was, they didn’t think they could ever go back. their body was bouncing as they lay down, mouth agape with licentious sounds pouring out. they hated that their hostility had crumbled under his hips, but they knew they’d have hated themself more if they pushed him away. right then, they just wanted to cum on his cock.

the bed frame squeaked and slid against the floor, banging against the wall. porter’s tempo was perfect, so fucking good against that sweet spongy spot inside them, his tip kissing it over and over. he didn’t know how he was holding it together. “i’m getting close, treasure. fuck, you have to cum, you have to,” he choked out in a frenzy. his thumb rubbed and stroked them faster, his hips losing rhythm but gaining speed. somehow through their pleasure-blinded haze, treasure looked porter in the eyes and raked their nails once more down his back. fuck, he wished he could scar.

“mm, beg me. beg for my cum,” they demanded with a groan. porter felt himself instantly melt under their authority and he whined in frustration, his knees almost buckling at their words. he fucked them faster and complied.

“fuck, please treasure! i need your cum, i fucking need it! i can’t—i can’t cum before you, i don’t deserve it. you have to cum for me, m-my love. i’ll never fucking raise my voice at you again, never. gods, oh my gods, please please please cum!”

he looked in their eyes the whole time, beggarly and despairing. treasure couldn’t help but succumb to all of the pleasure he was throwing at them. a few deep, swift thrusts later and they were creaming all over him. they went stiff and their mouth dropped open in a silent scream. porter felt their hole clench and pulse around him, effortlessly sending him down the same path. his cum pumped inside of them in thick ropes of ivory. he buried his head in their neck and let out a continuous string of groans and whimpers, hips shallowly bucking with each spurt of cum. his thumb never stopped stroking even as treasure reached the end of their climax. they enjoyed that slight bit of overstimulation, so they didn’t stop him. it was endearing how focused he was on making them feel good even in the throes of his own ecstasy.

porter eventually finished and collapsed beside them, eyes shut and breaths heavy. treasure remained on their back and stared up at the ceiling just as they were before he arrived. though, they were now drunk on him instead of wine. his cum steadily oozed out of them and they briefly thanked themself for having the foresight to put the towel underneath them.

“you’re cleaning this up,” they mumbled, breaking the silence. porter had practically rendered their shower useless, after all. the vampire cracked an eye open and wore a neutral expression.

“of course i am, my sweet, but in a moment. i missed this,” he replied evenly. treasure simply nodded and went back to staring upward. their gaze shifted to the ceiling fan and focused on a single fan blade, following it through each slow revolution. they felt a hand cautiously slide across their stomach, ending up cupping their side. porter scooted closer to them and held them like that, almost balling himself up in the fetal position beside them. they didn’t look over at him. they were afraid if they did, they would break. a part of them was still upset at him and knew they would confront him again, but the larger part told them that now was not the time. if they looked over at him now, they knew they would forget why they were even mad at him in the first place. for now, in this moment, they would let sleeping dogs lie and bask in the arms of a creature who would do anything for them, knowingly or not.

@vind3miat0r :)))

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted porter #redacted fanfic #redactedverse #redacted treasure #redacted fandom #smut

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