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hyukalyptus · 2 months ago

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office hours — professor!soobin x gradstudent!reader

cw. chubby!reader, reader is an adult grad student, minimal age gap, clear consent, petnames (babe, baby, honey, darling, good boy), mommy kink, face sitting, unprotected penetration, creampie, cunnilingus, handjobs, ending is cheesy, "epilogue" of sorts involves christmas vibes, kissing, please lmk if i'm missing anything. NSFW/MDNI notes. i would feel irresponsible if i didn't acknowledge this is a romanticized portrayal of a professor-student relationship. while the relationship in this story has clear consent multiple times, irl relationships like this can be inappropriate and exploitative bc of the authority imbalance. you deserve a healthy, consensual relationship. prioritize ur well-being and autonomy. relationships should be built on mutual respect, equality and clear consent. this is a work of fiction and should be read as such. shoutout to @silvergyus for sending the prof!soob pic <3 wc. 11.6k

“Which brings us to Le Chatelier's Principle in real-world chemical reactions,” Professor Choi says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This will be review for most of you, so I won’t go into too much detail.”

Chemistry is your favorite thing in the world. It’s real-life magic. And Professor Choi sees it that way too. His olive green chinos are wrinkled from walking from his office. The sleeves of his white button-down are pushed up so he can write freely on the whiteboard while his burgundy tie sways with his scurries.

Sparks of passion fill his eyes as he lectures. And he never disappoints with his cheesy jokes. Although you seem to be the only one that laughs at them—maybe you’re the only one that gets them. Not many students in his class are the experts in chemistry you are. You took it as a break from your intense course load and the elective credits are a nice bonus.

Most of your professors are so old they barely know how to turn on their laptop and are so deep into their tenure they’ve given up. If you bothered showing up to their office hours, you’d be lucky to find a professor, let alone a helpful one. So you’ve become a frequent visitor in Professor Choi’s office hours, talking about advanced chemistry he can’t wait to teach but it’ll be at least five years before he can. In the meantime, he’ll settle for nerding out with you in his office for a few hours every week.

“Great class today, everyone,” he says. “Have a great weekend and don’t hesitate to visit me during my office hours with any questions!” That sentence started out as a normal speaking voice but ended up a shout over the shuffling of the desk chairs and backpacks. You’re typically the last one out, but you save your questions for his office hours tomorrow.

“Hi,” you say, lightly tapping your knuckle against his office door.

Turning around in his chair, his lips form a pout in surprise at seeing you. “Were you waiting outside? Sorry that meeting ran a little long—” He shuffles to organize his desk.

“That’s okay.” Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, he rests his hands on his thighs and looks up at you. Did he just look you up and down? Don’t be ridiculous.

“What can I do ya for?”

“Right,” you start. “Can I…?” You ask, motioning toward the spare chair, waiting for his nod before sitting. “You know Professor Vaughn’s class?” You barely catch it, but his eyes roll. Professor Vaughn is the worst professor you’ve had. Boring, harsh, impatient. It doesn’t help he teaches one of the most complex forms of chemistry. “I’m not really getting this week’s content and was wondering if you could help me.”

“Of course.” He smiles. And it’s devastating. The sparkle in his eyes and those dimples. Craning his neck to look at your notes riddled with red question marks, he nods. As soon as he sees the title of your notes, he says, “Let’s think about this from a quantum mechanical perspective. If we assume that the π-complex is forming, we’re talking about a stabilization due to delocalization π-electrons, right?”

In what feels like no time at all, an hour has passed and the conversation has been the complete opposite of Professor Vaughn’s lectures. Questions led down rabbit holes, leading to other theorems and more questions. As he glances up at you through his glasses, there is an undeniable tingle in your stomach.

It’s not like you haven’t noticed how attractive Professor Choi is. He’s tall, lean but undeniably strong, he has the most perfect silky black hair and the prettiest brown eyes, and his pout—indescribably cute. And again—those goddamn dimples. He’s the perfect mixture of sexy, handsome, and pretty. You’d never think of doing anything with a professor, but you can’t help your mind wanders during the slower lectures.

How long have you been staring at each other in silence? Too long probably. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, looking at his watch. “My office hours have been over for a few—”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” you say, stumbling as you stand, attempting to gather your things as quickly as possible. But he shakes his head, trying to shrug it off.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I, uh, I just have my emails waiting for me.”

You nod, shoving everything into your bag and heading out the door. What was that? You’re probably overreacting, you think to yourself. He’s charming because of his looks, there’s no way he’d— No. Don’t even finish that thought.

"How is it that someone who scored the highest in my theoretical chemistry exam is turning basic lab work into a spectacle of incompetence?" Professor Vaughn boasts over your right shoulder. No doubt his thick eyebrows are furrowed.

As your hands tighten around the test tube, you know exactly what to do—you always do—but everything slips through your fingers in his class.

"I’m trying to get the reaction to stabilize," you stammer, eyes darting between your hands, the chemical reagents lined up on the table, and your notebook.

Professor Vaugn’s expression hardens as he steps closer, looking down his nose at your station. "Trying is for high school sophomores. If you’re still trying, you’re behind."

Taking a deep breath, you carefully add three more drops to the mixture but the reaction goes wrong. Again. A plume of white smoke rises from the beaker, and the liquid turns an unexpected, muddy brown.

"Unbelievable," Vaughn mutters loud enough for everyone to hear. Everyone knows you’re the best student in your class. Well, everyone except Soren, who’s so jealous of your intelligence they can hardly stand it. They simply smirk. "I expected more from you."

Your heart sinks. You checked those calculations three times. Maybe it’s your shaky hands. Or the pressure of him looming over your shoulder. Or the other stuff on your mind.

"Are you going to sit there and guess again, or would you like to double down on failure with your next attempt?" Vaughn sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I’m not guessing, Professor. I—"

"Can’t manage a basic reaction?" Vaughn interrupts with his icy voice. "I’m beginning to wonder how you even made it into this program."

"I’m perfectly capable. The solution is just—"

"Wrong. Yes, we’ve established that." Vaughn’s lips curl into a patronizing sneer. "Maybe chemistry isn’t the field for you if this is the best you can manage." That got everyone’s attention—it would be an interesting sight to see you fail. It so rarely happens. Sure, you’ve been doubted before but have always proven yourself. Today would be no different.

You take a deep breath and count to yourself, One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

As you block out Vaughn’s piercing gaze and the weight of the other students’ eyes, you carefully remeasure the chemical, adjusting the proportions this time, methodically double-checking your work. You add the reagent once more, slowly, and watch as the solution begins to shift.

A moment passes. The reaction stabilizes and the solution turns a clear, pale blue.

"Finally," Vaughn mutters. You don’t even have to look at him to know he rolled his eyes. He turns to walk away but pauses. "Barely acceptable. Next time, you won’t be given the luxury of so many failures."

Bursting through the door upon dismissal, you can’t get to the restroom fast enough, barely making it to a stall before tears stream down your cheeks.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five,” you whisper to yourself.

Sometimes, chemical reactions need to be dealt with instantly, but that’s an overwhelming amount of pressure. You give yourself five seconds before you absolutely have to deal with it. Same thing here. Cry. Count to five. Wipe your tears and move on.

But it’s difficult to move on this time. You’ve counted to five a few too many times today. But the only person you want to talk about it with is—

Professor Choi, Are you available to meet me in Lab 270 tomorrow afternoon? I’ve been struggling with some reactions and could use some help. I’ll be there from 2:00—4:00. If not, no worries!

Sniffling, you hit send on your email app, shove your phone in your bag and head home.

The next day drags on and on. Did he even get your message? Expecting an empty lab, you’re surprised to find Professor Choi waiting for you behind a laptop wearing a cute tweed jacket with suede elbow patches. His eyebrows are furrowed as his focused eyes study the computer, but they brighten at the sight of you.

Initially surprised by your confusion, he squeezes his eyes shut and says, “I didn’t respond to your email, did I?” He’s already got the lab station set up. How long has he been waiting on you? “So, how’s Professor Vaughn’s class?” Did someone tell him about yesterday? God, you hope not.

“Fine,” you deadpan. Shaking your head, you say, “I’m sorry…I’m just kinda stressed.”

“I can go if you need some time by—”

“No,” you say, softening your tone. “I’d really appreciate your help.”

And he’s more than willing, letting you ask whatever you want, never interrupting or talking over you like most of the men in the program. He gives you space to explore ideas and theories, listening closely instead of answering everything for you.

And he’s so damn sexy when he’s the one doing the ranting. The way he talks with his hands, ones that are so big with fingers so long you wish he would wrap around your—

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” He asks.

Oh shit, did you say that out loud? What a fucking nightmare. “Uh, sorry, just…talking to myself. Too many thoughts racing around the ole dome.”

A slight pout forms on his lips as he continues his rant. Now, the only thing you can think of are his lips wrapped around your—

“Ah!” Your hand slips toward the Bunsen burner and, great, now you’ve got a nice burn on your thumb.

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” He stands quickly. “Let me see.” His fingers graze your palm, igniting a fiercer burn than the actual flame just did. “Run it under cold water, okay?”

In the meantime, he straightens up your station before meeting you at the sink. “Is something wrong?” His words make you jump. “You seem distracted.”

That’s all it takes. The floodgates open. You rant about the sexist piece of shit Professor Vaughn and his power moves to intimidate you when he knows you’re the best student in the program. About how embarrassed you were in lab yesterday. Last semester when you raised your hand to correct an equation on the board and he gave you a firm talking to about respect after class.

He watches you carefully, handing over a towel for your hands as you take a steadying breath, fighting back tears.

“Did I ever tell you why I started studying chemistry?” he asks. You sniffle, shaking your head. “My grandfather. He was a baker.” His voice softens, and you look up to find his eyes full of kindness. “Every Saturday, he’d make me work in his bakery. I didn’t mind—it felt like magic, you know? But really, it’s science. It’s all precision, measurements, timing.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Once, I tried baking a cake for my mom’s birthday, followed his recipe exactly. Measured the flour, the sugar, the cocoa. When I pulled it out of the oven, it was hard. Flat. I was sure he’d be disappointed, calling it a waste of time and ingredients. I was terrified. But he looked at it, smiled, and told me to try again the next day. When I asked why it didn’t work, he said I needed to ‘feel my way through it.’”

You sit there, the sting from your burn now fading, but your heart’s still aching, wanting something from him—a hug, a kiss, even just a pat on the shoulder.

“If I’d gotten it right the first time, I’d never know what overmixed batter looks like. Or that I like more cocoa than he did. Or that you should coat berries in flour.” His smile creeps up to his eyes. “Seeing how failure could make you better—it made me curious. I wanted to understand why some things worked and others didn’t, why I needed to feel my way through it, to get into the details.” He makes eye contact with you again. “That’s why I went into chemistry. Baking taught me the magic is in the little things—if you’re willing to screw up and keep going.”

Nodding, you smile back. His words hang in the air for a moment, like they’re meant to settle, but something’s missing.

“All I’m saying is, its okay to fuck things up, okay?” he says, his candidness drawing a chuckle from you. “How else would you learn?”

The world’s drained of color—only hazy shades of grey and beige are left. Your palms press against a cold marble countertop with the faint sound of running water echoing in the distance. The reflection of the mirror looks like you, but not quite. The woman in the mirror has her lips painted a dark, sultry brown, a shade you’d never choose. And the outfit is far too dressy for a lecture. Shadows fall where there shouldn’t be any.

The hallways are unfamiliar, yet you know it's the same building you visit almost every day. It's blurry, like you’re walking through a memory that isn’t yours.

You look down at the saddle shoes on your feet clicking against the tile floor, unnervingly filling the emptiness. It feels like someone else is controlling your body but you don’t question it. You can’t. Your hand raises, knuckles brushing a wooden door before it creaks open on its own.

On the other side of the door, Professor Choi faces a green chalkboard. Has that always been in his office? Hurriedly scribbling down equations, he glances between the board and the notebook in his hand. When he looks over his shoulder at you, his eyes soften and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Come in,” he says gently, setting his notebook aside. His voice wraps around you, making the room feel smaller, closer. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your spine tingles. “I know,” you reply, but the words sound hollow, like you’re speaking from somewhere else.

“Here,” he suggests, holding a piece of chalk out to you. The way he gestures toward the board is magnetic. As you take it from his hand, your fingers brush his. “What do you think of this?” An unfinished equation waits to be solved. His presence looms behind you, close but not quite touching as you reach up to solve it. Your heart pounds, every stroke of the chalk on the board heavier than it should.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough around the edges. You turn to face him and he’s closer than expected, his warmth radiating against your skin. The air is thick with something unspoken. You step closer, tentative at first, then quicker, more certain. Your lips almost brush his, but he pulls back, his breath catching.

He looks down, your name a whisper on his lips, soft and pained. “I—” His eyes flicker up to meet yours, then fall back down like the weight of your gaze is too much.

“What?” You ask, your voice barely more than a breath. Your eyes dart between his, lingering on his tempting mouth. He leans in again with desire in his eyes. He wants to kiss you. You can feel it. And for a moment you think he might.

But he pulls away, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “I don’t think we should be doing this,” he says, his voice strained, as if saying the words is physically painful for him.

“Why not?” The question slips from your lips before you can stop it, frustration and longing lacing your tone.

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, or—”

“Why would I feel like that?” you interrupt, your voice impatient. Your heart races, pounding in your ears, drowning out reason.

“I’m your professor,” he breathes out like it’s a curse. His words only fan the flames of the tension building between you. There’s nothing wrong with that, you think to yourself. It’s not like you’re fresh out of high school—you’re a grad student, close to starting the same PhD he earned barely three years ago. He’s no more than five years older.

“I don’t care,” you insist, stepping even closer, your lips a breath away from his. “I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes darken, his resolve faltering as his gaze drops to your lips. “It’s a mistake,” he whispers, but his voice trembles with indecision, trying to convince himself more than you.

“Make the mistake,” you urge, your voice soft but sure. Your hand reaches for his tie, tugging as light as you can just to bring him that much closer. “You said it yourself, it’s okay to fuck things up.”

There’s a beat of silence, so thick it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath, waiting. And in that moment, the space between you seems to collapse, the weight of everything unsaid pulling you closer.

The millisecond before your lips touch, you breathe awake.

You bolt straight up, feeling around your soft bed sheets, breathless as your heart pounds from the vividness of it all. For a moment, you linger in the feeling, brushing your fingers over your lips, feeling the warmth of the almost kiss. But reality sinks in and your stomach drops.

Reaching for your phone, you check the time. Great, it’s almost time for his class. But there’s no hazy world to hide in. Skipping class might be an option but an exam reminder drags you out of bed.

Trudging across campus, your stomach sinks lower with each step. How can you look him in the eye? Dropping your bag to the floor with a thud, you hang your head low. Let’s just get through this exam and get outta here.

“How’s your hand?” Professor Choi’s voice shakes you out of your thoughts. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding his hands up. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.” Looking at you like you’re the cutest puppy he’s ever seen, you can’t bring yourself to speak, but you hold out your hand. The second his fingertips touch yours, you flinch and jerk it back.

“Um—” you start. “Better, thanks.” Turning away from him, you distract yourself with a random notebook from your bag.

“...You okay? You shouldn’t be nervous about the exam.” When you look up, you’re met with eyes that appear…hurt?

“No, it’s not that.” That’s not a good answer. “Just…” What would you even say? I had an incredibly vivid—and delicious—dream about you last night and now I need to know how your lips feel in real life? “Cramps.”

“Ah.” He nods and leaves you alone, awkwardly walking to the front of the class to make some announcements and general good wishes before the exam. With your fist pressed to your chin, you refuse to look up, hanging your head low even as he slides you your copy.

There’s a bright green post-it stuck to it with a note, It’s okay to fuck it up! Your heart races as your eyes dart around searching for him. When you find him, he gives you a soft smile. You return the smile but rush to unstick it before anyone sees, storing it in your notebook for safe keeping.

As you return to your apartment, the post-it stares back at you like you’re the guiltiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. It’s practically calling you a whore. And you can hardly take it anymore. You can’t bring yourself to face him for class a few days later—although skipping feels like a cardinal sin. Soon enough, though, your email dings.

From: Choi Soobin, PhD I noticed you were absent from class today. I hope everything’s okay. The lecture notes are attached for your reference. Feel free to stop by my office hours with any questions. Professor Choi

Did your heart just flutter? Why are you walking toward his office? When you knock on the door, he stands—more like stumbles—to greet you, “Hi!”

“Hi, Professor Choi…” You linger in the doorway, clutching your notebook tight to your chest. “Sorry I missed class—”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah—”

“You’re not overwhelmed with coursework, are you?” His eyes search yours, and there’s a softness in his voice that makes it hard to look away.

“No, no, I’m alright. I just…had a migraine this morning,” you say, shrugging slightly. “It’s gone now, though.”

He nods, easing into a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His gaze doesn’t waver and the intensity makes your pulse quicken. “So, I’m guessing you’re here to go over questions from the lecture?”

“Actually, it’s Professor Vaughn’s class I’m struggling with. His lecture today was…brutal.”

“I’m shocked,” he says sarcastically. “The man’s got a gift for making simple concepts sound like Greek.”

“Exactly,” you laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing. “I thought it was me, but he seems to take pride in making everything harder than it needs to be.”

“Trust me, it’s not you,” he says, a glint of warmth in his eyes. “He’s terrible. And annoying. And boring. And I’d tell him that.”

You raise a brow, skeptical. “You wouldn’t.”

“Well…” He breaks into a grin. “Maybe after I reach tenure. Though he may be retired by then.”

“Or dead,” you say matter-of-factly. He looks at you awkwardly then you both laugh, genuinely. There’s an ease to it.

He gestures to your notebook. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“I can’t believe I’m laughing at that,” you say, a giggle escaping your lips.

“You always laugh at my bad jokes,” he replies, staring at your face a little too longingly. If you were anyone else, he might find some excuse to touch you. Maybe brush a piece of lint off your shoulder, lightly touch your arm while he laughed at something you said, or something as casual as a fist bump.

If he were any other guy, you’d be much more obvious, making it crystal clear you want him to kiss you right now. But you can’t. You don’t even know how he thinks about you. You’re probably just another student to him.

“Well, those are all my questions,” you say, awkwardly packing your bag.

“Yeah, you can, uh…head out…” he trails off as you start to rise from your seat.

You’re searching for something to say, something to let you stay just a little longer. But nothing comes. He watches you walk toward the door, the silence hanging in the space between you.

“Pens!” His voice suddenly burst out, loud enough to make you stop mid-step. “They, uh—I went to a conference last week and they gave me a ton,” he says, scrambling to gather a handful from his desk.

You take them, your fingers brushing against his in a way that feels far too intimate. His eyes lock with yours, the touch sending a ripple of tension through you. “But you’re, uh…picky about your pens, aren’t you?” He asks, his voice softer now, almost unsure.

Laughing quietly, you say, “Yeah, but…that’s okay.” Your words are heavy with subtext you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. “Well, goodbye.” You offer him a smile, stepping back toward the door. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah. Goodbye,” he says, but his feet shuffle forward as if he’s moving without thinking. Awkwardly reaching for a handshake, he realizes your hands are occupied. Instead, he reaches around you for the door handle, but he gets a tad too close and your brain scrambles.

Before you can hold yourself back, you drop the pens, letting them clatter to the floor as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips meet his in a rush, warm and soft. While your eyes close to savor the feeling, his widen in shock before he relaxes into your touch and wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer.

It’s everything you’ve been holding back—unspoken feelings unraveling in a heartbeat. His lips move against yours with a hunger that surprises you, the world melting away as you lose yourself in the moment. You feel weightless, your pulse racing as his hands grip your waist a little tighter, as though he’s afraid to let you go.

When you finally break apart, breathless and dazed, he presses his forehead to yours, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re never gonna use those pens, are you?” he asks, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to anchor himself in humor, trying to bring himself back down to earth.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you admit, your heart still pounding. “They’re garbage.”

Before you can think, you kiss him again and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His mouth crashes into yours with an urgency, like he’s wanted to kiss you since the second he laid eyes on you. His lips are soft, but his kiss is demanding, making up for all the lost moments between you. For those few minutes, nothing else matters—you bask in one of the greatest kisses either of you have ever had. But not for long.

Reality catches up too quickly. You pull away suddenly, breathless and wide-eyed. “Oh my god—” you gasp, backing up, your fingers graze your lips trying to make sense of what just happened. “I’m so sorry—”

“No,” he interrupts quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t be. I—” He’s stumbling through his words, just as lost as you are but neither of you regret it. “I wanted—”

“That was…” You can’t even finish your sentence. It was everything. Too much, too fast, too real. But you can’t take it back.

“I—” He’s trying to find the right words, to reassure you, to tell you he felt it too, that he wanted it just as badly. But he’s as flustered as you are, his voice rough and unsure.

“I’ll just…go throw myself off a bridge now,” you mumble. You can’t even look at him as you make a beeline for the door, your face burning with embarrassment. You think you hear him say something, but the blood rushing in your ears drowns it out.

You leave the room quickly, your heart about to burst through your chest, trying to process what just happened. The kiss lingers on your lips, a mix of exhilaration and terror swirling inside you. It’s too much to handle.

But, hey, there’s one bit of good news. At least he kissed you back.

What the fuck are you supposed to do now? Drop his class? It’s too late in the semester for that. And you need those credits. Wait until the end of the semester to talk to him again? Can you go that long without his lips on yours again?

Back at your apartment, you rummage through your books to find the university’s code of conduct, hurriedly searching for anything related to “appropriate relationships,” “faculty-student relationships,” “consensual,” blah blah blah, whatever the university has coded sleeping with a professor.

The University strongly urges those individuals in positions of authority not to engage in conduct of an amorous or sexual nature with a person they are, or are likely in the future to be, in a position of evaluating.

Your eyes read over the words, “strongly urges” once more. Not totally against the rules, you suppose. Even if you did wait until the semester was over, you’d need to report it. You wish you could talk with him about it, but bringing this up is tricky. Is it moving too fast? You can’t text him, you don’t have his number. And using your student email to send a message to his faculty email that says, “Oh, by the way, I checked the rules and we’re in the clear to have sex!” is a terrible idea.

Maybe one kiss in his office doesn’t mean anything. Oh, but it was everything.

After much deliberation, you convince yourself to attend his class a few days later. You’ve brought the code of conduct along, as well as a bright pink post-it sticking out of the book. To avoid any form of small talk with him, you wait outside right until the start of class.

Along the way to your desk, you silently plop the code of conduct on his desk and scurry away. When you work up the courage to look up at him, he’s flipped to the marked page. Highlighted on the page is the paragraph that “strongly urges” people in positions of authority not to sleep with students.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. The message couldn’t be clearer, he thought. You’re practically telling him to leave you alone. But when he finally reads the post-it, his heart flutters. Written in your handwriting, it says, It’s okay to fuck it up! complete with a smiley face.

As much as he tries to fight it, he glances up at you to catch your gaze. And just as the slightest smile appears on his face, a big one appears on yours. You hide it with your palm as you start at the blank page of your notebook. Blinking, he shakes his head and begins his lecture. But how can you concentrate now?

You’ve gotta give it to him, he delivers his lecture perfectly. If it were you, you’d barely be able to think. Hell, you barely can throughout the whole thing.

Now that you’ve gotten that smile of permission, you finally let yourself daydream.

Has his ass always been that cute? Has he always been that tall? Has his voice always been that deep and sexy?

You don’t even know what he’s talking about, but that’s okay, you can always stop by his office hours. “What do you think?” He asks.

Oh shit, he’s looking at you for an answer. He can always rely on you to keep class moving along when everybody else is dead silent. You shake out of your thoughts, panic-reading the board to come up with something. It's similar to your discussion you had the last time you went to his office hours. The time that ended in that gorgeous kiss. Throwing together an answer, his eyes brighten as he cheers, “Exactly!”

Oh my god. He’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You could just gobble him up.

“So, I suppose we should talk about…” Professor Choi trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like it’s obvious what he’s getting at. And it is. But you stay quiet. You wanna hear him admit it. You raise an eyebrow, playing coy.

You decided to press your luck by visiting his office outside scheduled office hours—right after class—to simply test the waters and gauge his reaction to the code of conduct and that kiss…that incredible kiss.

“You know…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you, sighing like okay, fine, I guess I’ll say it. “I like you and you like me, right?” His voice dips just slightly, enough for you to notice the hesitation. “Unless I’m totally misreading—”

“No! You’re not…misreading anything,” you’re quick to say, along with a chuckle. Phew—he was worried there for a second. So goddamn cute. “What do you wanna talk about?”

He exhales a small laugh, but his smile is strained, cautious. “I want to make sure you don’t feel…weird about this.” Hand sliding nervously along the edge of his desk, he traces the wood grain before his eyes flick up to meet yours. Truth be told, he’d never do something like this with a student. Never want to make anyone feel pressured. But he never thought he’d feel like this. Giddy and blushy like you’re his first crush.

“Why would I feel weird?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious. You’ve thought about this—about him—far too much for any of it to feel weird.

“I’m just terrified you feel like you need to do something about this.” You’re taken aback, confusion visibly etched across your face. “You know, because I’m your professor or because I’m in the department and I know your plans for a PhD here.” His voice softens, vulnerability creeping in. “I don’t want it to feel like I’m pushing you into anything.”

“I don’t,” you say gently. “It’s not like that.”

He nods, though the tightness in his jaw doesn’t disappear. “Because if you ever even remotely feel like I’m pressuring you, I want you to tell me. Immediately. I mean it.”

“No,” You shake your head, almost too fast. “I mean, it doesn’t feel like that. Not at all. I’ve thought about this…about us, a lot.” Your voice falters for a moment as his eyes widen, softening in a way that makes your stomach flutter. You weren’t expecting him to look at you like that—so open, so relieved.

His fingers twitch as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out to you. “Yeah?”

You nod again, more confidently this time. “But I think we should wait until the semester’s over. Before we…you know…do anything.”

He smiles gently and leans back, visibly more at ease. “I think so too.”

But you didn’t realize how fucking difficult it would be to get through the last six weeks of the semester. Every class you sit there, thighs pressed together thinking about the dirtiest things you want him to do to you. Every office hour you went to, you could practically swim through the thickness of the tension between you two.

It didn’t help how cute he was being. Post-its he’d leave on every exam of yours—You’re gonna do great! You’ve got this. Trust your instincts.—encouragement no other student got. You kept every one of them in your bedside table drawer.

When finals week finally arrives, it wasn’t just about exams; it was about counting the hours until you could finally be with him. Or at least talk to him like he wasn’t your professor. As he handed over your final exam, the familiar green post-it note was stuck to it: Happy Finals Week!

Your internal scream was so loud, you’re worried your classmates heard it. You’d pre-written a post-it to stick to it once you returned the exam. It had your phone number, a smiley face, and the words: Since you’re not my professor anymore.

After a full day of checking your phone every twenty seconds, you started to give up. Was he just playing you? Did someone else see the note? Did he change his mind? But finally, you receive a text.

hi! this is soobin (professor choi lol). i was wondering if you wanted to get dinner or something?

soobin!! omg yes i would love to get dinner with you :) how’s tomorrow?

how about right now? if you want, of course! no pressure we can totally wait until tomorrow it’s up to you

You squealed into your pillow, kicking and giggling like an idiot. Should you be flirty back?

i can be ready in 30 min. 364 oakridge drive. it’s an apartment building- i’ll meet you downstairs.

be there in 45 :)

Like a perfect gentleman, Soobin meets you at the passenger door, swinging it open with a charming smile before gently closing it behind you. The slow walk up to his front door makes your stomach stir. He has to fumble through his keys to unlock it.

Once inside, he slips his shoes off quietly, revealing cozy patterned socks that make you smile. Meticulously, he hangs his jacket on a coat tree and places his keys in a speckled clay catch-all that rests on a table next to a houseplant. As he walks toward the kitchen, he glances over his shoulder, his voice low and inviting. “Do you want a drink or something?” The warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat.

You’re drawn to this softer side of him. In class, his tone is bright and dorky. In his office, it’s casual and laid-back. At dinner, it was sweet and charming. But now? Now it’s sultry, almost sexy. Like he can’t wait to be with you but would never, ever pressure you.

“Hot tea?” You suggest with a steady voice, despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, switching on his tea kettle. In the meantime, you take a look around his much neater than expected apartment.

The mid-century modern furniture is impeccably arranged—a sleek sofa, a low coffee table, and a stylish armchair with an even more stylish decorative pillow. Perfectly nurtured plants thrive around the room, adding a green vibrancy to the minimalist backdrop, breathing life into the space. A gallery wall above his expensive-looking couch features travel photos, beautiful art, and a few subtly science-inspired pieces. In the corner across the couch is a sleek electric fireplace underneath a huge TV.

“Who’s this?” you ask, your heart swelling as a fluffy gray cat glares at you through one half-open eye. Her perfectly groomed fur and regal posture make her look like she owns the place. Just then, Soobin steps into the living room, holding two steaming mugs of tea, filling the air with a warm spice.

“That’s Molly…short for Molecule,” he says. “Don’t worry, she’s sweet.”

Extending your hand toward the cat, he starts to sniff you. “Hi, M—wait,” you pause, looking up at Soobin with a teasing smile. “Molly, short for Molecule?” He nods, his grin widening. “You’re adorable,” you tell him. Has anyone ever blushed quite like he did just now?

He stares down at his feet, clearly caught off guard. “You’re,” he starts. “Well, you’re cute too.” His sincerity makes your smile grow even stronger.

“Can I sit?” you ask, nodding toward the couch.

“Oh,” his smile falters for a moment. “Yes, of course. Make yourself at home.” You plop down on his couch, settling into the surprisingly soft cushions. Molly clearly doesn’t think the couch is big enough for the two of you, so she strides over to probably the nicest cat tree you’ve ever seen.

You sip your hot tea and your body finally relaxes. As you reach to sit it on the coffee table, he politely asks, “I don’t mean to be a square, but can you use a coaster?”

“Of course,” you say, complying with the request. “So, tell me,” you begin, clearing your throat. “How’d I do on my final?” Humming, he stands to rummage through his messenger bag slumped over a dining chair. You gasp, “A ninety-seven?” Thumbing through the pages, you find a single red X on possibly the easiest question you’ve had on an exam since high school: What is the atomic number of oxygen? “Are you kidding me?”

Any attempt to mask your embarrassment is impossible. It only deepens when you look up and catch him already watching you—lips pressed tight, failing miserably to hide a smug, amused smile.

“I, uh…” You scratch the back of your neck. “I got that one wrong on purpose. You know, so as to not raise any suspicion.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, did you now?” You nod. “That was on the exam just so Toby wouldn’t get a zero.” You nod begrudgingly. “And you put 10! That’s not even close. That’s—”

“Neon,” you grumble. “Yeah I know…” you say, avoiding his eyes as he laughs playfully.

“Neon’s a noble gas and oxygen is a—”

“Reactive nonmetal,” you cut him off. “I know, okay?” You shove his shoulder playfully, but your grin betrays you. “It was a high-pressure environment. Sitting in an exam room with your professor watching you."

"I barely looked up from my laptop,” he reminds you.

"Your presence is distracting enough," you shoot back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Ah, so my intellectual aura threw you off?”

“I dunno…is that what you think, professor?” You ask cheekily. “Maybe it was something else.” You’ve tossed the exam onto the coffee table, moving closer.

“Like what?”

“Just…you. You’re distracting.” You smirk, the words slipping out almost involuntarily, like they’ve been waiting on the tip of your tongue.

Intrigued, he tilts his head and asks, “What about me?” There’s something magnetic in the way he looks at you—like he knows the answer but wants to hear you say it, to savor the way it sounds coming from your lips.

You hum, tracing the lines of his body with your eyes, mapping out uncharted territory before exploring it. You don’t want to move too fast, but every fiber of your being screams for more. He’s not lighting a fire inside you—he’s setting the whole forest ablaze. Sure, your imagination has been running rampant since he returned your feelings six weeks ago, but now that you’re here, he scrambles every thought.

“Your eyes…” you say while yours flick over his face, taking in every curve, every freckle, every lash. “They’re so pretty.”

A smile—small but real—tugs at the corners of his lips. The kind that’s private, meant just for you. His eyes darken as he leans in, the space between you shrinking. You glance down, noticing the way his long fingers curl around the mug handle. There’s something almost hesitant in the way he holds it. You take it from him gently, setting it atop a coaster as quietly as you can.

“Your hands…” you whisper, fingers barely brushing his knuckles, tension coiled under his skin. They’re hands that have worked, experimented, written things down—hands you want on you. Guiding one to your thigh, the squeeze he returns sends a shudder through you.

Everything between you is electric. Your breaths come faster now, more desperate. Every inch you move toward him is a test, a slow-motion collapse of restraint.

“Your legs…” A soft breathless chuckle escapes as you glance down. His lips part like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. Boldness surges through you like a current and you hike one leg over both of his, straddling him. The shift is seismic. His hands move to your hips, gripping you, afraid to let go. The heat of his touch spreads through you, anchoring you in place, though it feels like everything around you is spinning.

“And your lips…” you murmur, leaning closer, your breath mingling with his. “Oh my god, those fucking lips.” You can’t stop staring at them, just a breath away now, soft and wet. Your pulse races.

You cup his face, lifting his chin until his eyes meet yours again. His pupils are blown wide, the desire in them unmistakable. Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, and the moment stretches, suspended. You lean in just enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

And he does.

It isn’t tentative—it’s dam-breaking. Like he’s been starving for it, holding back for years. His lips are soft but urgent as his hands tighten around your hips to pull you closer. You taste jasmine tea on his lips, a subtle sweetness mingling with the spice of his cologne—clove, pepper, something dark and addictive.

“Holy shit,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t believe I had to wait so long to kiss you again.” You kiss him again and he moans sweetly into your mouth. Just as the kiss deepens, he retreats, his breath ragged. “You okay?”

Nervously nodding, he says, “Yeah,” but his eyes flicker away. He tries to kiss you again, but you place your hand on his chest, gently stopping him.

“Wait,” you say, eyes searching his face. “What’s going on? Am I being too—”

“No,” he says, almost a little too urgently. “It’s not that. It’s just…” His hands fall to the couch. Bracing to tell the truth, he squeezes his eyes shut before adding, “I need to tell you something.” You sit back on your heels, still in his lap but giving him room to speak.

“What is it?” You ask softly.

“There’s this thing… I haven’t—uh…” He stumbles over the words, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Soobin?” you ask, your voice gentle but steady. That’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name. It feels utterly…vulnerable. “Are you a virgin?” The question is delicate. Shutting his eyes again, he takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says. “Well, not exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. What is that even supposed to mean? “It’s just…it’s been a while. And before then, I hadn’t had a lot of sex. And I haven’t had any…recently.”

“How long?” you encourage, your eyes softening.

“A year.”

You hum softly in acknowledgement, watching his confidence falter. Instead of pulling back, you lean forward, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along his neck. He trembles under your touch, a soft gasp escaping his lips, your hands moving all over his body, claiming him.

“Oh, Professor Choi,” you whisper, your voice dripping with heat and promise. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

As your breath slows, you sit up and let your hand linger over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. “Tell me,” you start. “What do you like?”

“Um,” he swallows, trying to force the lump down his throat. He’s so hesitant but he finally says, “Touching.”

“You touching my body or me touching yours?”

He exhales shakily. “The first,” he says, confirming with a squeeze to your hips.

You hum against his ear. What are you gonna do with him? Tease him forever? Let him have his way with you? You ask, “Why don’t you take my shirt off for me?”

Gracing his hands over your arms, he grounds himself again before asking, “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” You nod, guiding his hands to the top button of your blouse, letting him slip it through the buttonhole. One by one, he exposes more of your skin, his heart thumping harder with each passing second. Pushing the silky fabric past your shoulders until your top half is only covered by a bubblegum pink mesh bra, leaving almost nothing to the imagination—except for the red embroidered hearts over your nipples.

After easing the shirt out from your trousers, you reach back to pull at the sleeves, letting the shirt fall to the floor. He slips his finger under one of your bra straps, pulling it to the side, but you stop him. “Wait. It’s your turn.”

Tugging on his tie, you slip it through the collar and unbutton his dress shirt. Seeing his body bare in front of you for the first time, you’re practically drooling. You indulge in running your hands all over his body, lean with subtle muscles, from his chest to the bottom of his abs.

“How come you got to touch me if I didn’t get to touch you?” He asks innocently.

“You’re right,” you chuckle. “I’m sorry.” You smile and sit up to press your palms against his and let your fingers intertwine. Your heart melts and you fear you may throw up. “Did you want to take my bra off first?” He nods. Fumbling fingers reach behind you to snap it off, letting it fall to the couch. As he sees your bare tits, his eyes widen and he lets out the cutest little Oh.

He’s hesitant to do anything. You have to guide his hands to massage your tits—and they’re the perfect size for you.

“You’re so…soft,” he says, looking up at your eyes, like he’s not sure if that was okay to say.

“You like them?” He nods eagerly. Experimentally swiping a thumb across a nipple, it hardens at his touch while you let out a sharp gasp.

“You like that,” he says matter-of-factly. “Can I taste?” Nodding, you lean forward, welcoming his lips. His body finally relaxes as he moans against your skin. Circling the tip of his tongue around your nipple, he’s teasing you. And oh my god do you love it.

One of your hands threads through his hair and you stuff the other down your pants, but he grabs your wrist softly.

“That’s not fair,” he whispers and you concede, keeping your hands to yourself. With one hand, he stuffs your tit back in his mouth while the other plays with your other nipple. His hot, wet mouth on one nipple and his teasing fingers playing with the other sends waves of pleasure through you that may send you over the edge.

If you don’t do something to ease your need, you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to take this. You resort to grinding against his hard cock, making his hips buck.

Lifting your legs off his, you swing around to sit next to him, palming his cock over his trousers. Desperately clawing at the waistband, you unbutton and unzip his pants, encouraging him to kick them off. He stands to slip them off and as you reach for the band of his boxers, he stops you.

“Your turn,” he whispers. And you comply. But not without a show. Standing slowly, you push him to the couch and turn your back to him. As you push your pants down, your ass looks delicious in your thong that matches your bra—mesh bubblegum pink with red trim. When you turn back, he’s fisting himself over his underwear.

“Nuh-uh, that’s not fair,” you say. Returning next to him on the couch, you feel him over his boxers and your mouth waters. Goddamn you can’t wait for him to be inside you. “Do you have any lube?” He nods and shortly returns with a barely used tube.

While he stays standing, you sit up on the couch, running your hands across his muscular thighs and perfect pelvis. Looking up at him, his eyes are bright, darting all over your body like he’s afraid to miss something. He fiddles with his waistband, flipping the elastic over softly. A small smile flicks across your lips before you tug his boxers down his legs, leaving trails of kisses along the way.

Encouraging him to sit down, you look down at his cock, long and hard and dripping with precum. Finally, you drag your fingertips up and down his cock before squeezing him. He moans like you’ve never heard a man moan before. Laying your head on his shoulder, you sprinkle kisses all over his skin, finding a spot behind his ear that makes him squirm.

He hisses and—almost involuntarily—wraps one of his hands around yours to use his long fingers to guide your hand up and down. There’s something magical about someone with so little experience telling—no, showing—you what to do with his body. It’s electrifying. He hasn’t been touched in so long that he’s desperate to get off and can’t waste time with words. But no words need to be shared. His movements tell you what speed he likes.

Snaking his other arm around you, he stuffs his fingers in your hair and clenches his fist, subconsciously tugging the strands. His lips are right against your ear, breathing rapidly and heavily and he can hardly take it anymore. You watch his chest rise and fall as he clenches your hair, moaning getting quicker, he squeaks and whines.

Hurriedly pressing his lips to your temple, you can’t take your eyes off his cock as he shoots short spurts of cum all over his stomach. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath before he gives you a sweet smile.

You don’t let up with kisses all over his body. Sprinkling kisses here and there while he cleans himself up with a hand towel he’d brought with him when he got the lube from his bedroom. Once he’s clean, he slouches down the couch.

“Will you sit on my face?” His eyes are ever so sweet and innocent, like he’s finally able to test all his fantasies. “Please…” You hum like you’re only considering it, but we all know you’ll say yes. “Please, mommy?” Everything halts.

“Mommy?”

“F-fuck—” he sits up, ears turning redder than you’ve ever seen them—anyone’s ears for that matter. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first—”

“No, no…” you say gently, cupping his jaw to make him look at you. You can’t help yourself—you press your lips to his again and you lose yourself in his intoxicating kiss. But you break it and say, “Keep calling me that.”

“M-mommy?” You hum. Before you give him what he asked for, you shove your tit in front of his lips. He doesn’t need to be told what to do. His plush lips wrap around your hard nipple while he thumbs the other. It feels like fucking heaven.

“That’s my good boy.” He lets out the most pathetic whimper you’ve ever heard in your goddamn life. His eyebrows furrow, looking up at you through his lashes. “Are you my good boy?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly. “Yes, mommy. Of course.”

“Soobin,” you breathe in disbelief, dropping your head back. “You’re so sexy, I swear to god.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. “That’s you.” He smiles. “Will you please sit on my face now?” He slouches down again without waiting for an answer. “Please.” You hike your leg up to rest your foot against the back of the couch, gently hovering over him. But he wraps his hands around your hips to yank you down. As he flicks his tongue over your clit, you might be embarrassed by the volume of your moan, but there’d be no reason to.

“I thought you said you didn’t do this a lot?”

“Well,” he takes a deep breath. “This was always what I was best at.” You chuckle. “Wait, no—” he shakes his head. “I’m good at the other stuff too. I hope.” Returning his tongue to your clit, you gasp and fall forward, bracing yourself against the back of the couch. He seizes the opportunity to get fully entranced in your taste.

There's an impossible contrast—your body melts, muscles soft and pliant as you surrender to the pleasure but, at the same time, goosebumps prickle along your skin, sharp and electric. Warmth and vulnerability layered with a thrill that leaves you shivering, somehow both at ease and on edge.

But then he snakes his hand behind your ass to tease your asshole with his pinky. And it's overwhelming. Your knees are so weak you can hardly hold yourself up. The way his hands feel on your body, touching you in all the right places, flicking his tongue perfectly, moaning so temptingly along with the built up tension—it is so much. So. Fucking. Much.

It builds in your stomach—teetering on the edge and god you only hope he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. But you can’t form words to tell him that. But he knows.

And then it happens.

You feel like you’re floating—or falling may be more accurate—as your orgasm washes over you, thighs quite literally quivering around his face as you come undone on top of him. For him. Unable to hold yourself up any longer, you roll and plop to the couch and he sloppily replaces his tongue with his fingers. You make a mental note to show him exactly where your clit is later. How is it that he found it so easily with his tongue but missed it with his hand? You guess he was right—oral is what he’s best at. Your chest heaves with your deep breaths as you come down from your high, watching him smirk at you.

“Oh my god,” you say breathlessly. There’s a beat of silence. “What the fuck?”

“What?” He chuckles.

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I told you I’m good at it.”

“Where’s your bedroom? This couch is too small for what we’re about to do.”

Once he shuts his bedroom door to keep Molly out, he pulls you by your waist to press his bare body to yours and kisses you again so romantically it takes your breath away.

“Wow,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You go straight back in for more kisses. But you break it— “But not literally, though. Please keep saying stuff like that.” You giggle together, slowly falling toward the bed until you’re gently laid on your back and he’s over top of you.

“Can I, like, kiss all over your body?”

“Of course,” you say. “You don’t need to ask.”

And then he does exactly what he wants. Starting at your lips, he moves to the corner of your mouth, trailing behind your ear and down your neck. The way his breath tickles your neck sends shivers down your spine and you need more, more, more.

As you lay there, simply basking in the feeling of him taking his time exploring every inch of you with the softest lips you’ve ever felt, you can’t help but be giddy. He’s tentative in some areas and eager in others. After he kisses the sensitive skin under your breast, he carefully observes your reaction. When he delicately presses his lips to your pelvis, his eyes flutter up to yours nervously.

“Soobin,” you say breathlessly. He hums against your tummy, shaky hands running up your thighs. “I need you please.”

“You need me?” You nod. “Where do you need me, mommy?” You groan, arching your back, not even knowing where to start. You need him everywhere.

“Inside me,” you say. “Please, I’ve been thinking about it for so long.”

“Have you?” He asks innocently, using his fingers to play with the folds of your pussy so casually, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I should be the impatient one.” But you know why he’s taking it so slow. He’s nervous as hell right now.

Aligning his cock with your entrance, he slowly pushes himself inside you. And it's utterly exhilarating. For both of you. He falls forward, framing your face with his forearms, digging his nose into your neck.

“Fuck…” He whispers shakily. Your nails drag down his back at his inexperienced hip rolls. “Oh my god, what are you doing to me?” Despite his inevitable desperation, his thrusts are controlled. He’s trying his very best at least. But his cock is so fucking perfect, you figure he’d make you feel good no matter what he does. Although, a little part of you thinks about how good he’ll be at fucking you in a few months after a little practice. Or lots of practice.

He whispers swears, your name, and mommy…over and over again. Then he sits up, looking down at your body. Awkwardly fumbling as if he wants to say something, his mouth isn’t cooperating with his brain. He slowly comes to a stop, sliding out of you and barely touches your calf.

“Can you, uh…would you mind, um—”

"Do you wish to see me on my knees? Is that it, darling?"

“Yes, mommy…please, I’ve never—”

“You’ve never had someone on their knees for you?” You ask and he silently shakes his head. “You’ve been such a good boy for me. Of course I’ll get on my knees for you.” You oblige to his request, turning yourself around and arching your back to give him a perfect view of your ass. He groans at the simple sight of your body. He swipes his hands over the swell of your ass, squeezing here and there.

He clears his throat and asks, “What do I do?”

“Oh,” you chuckle lightly. “Just get on your knees and guide yourself in. Make sure it’s the right hole,” you say light-heartedly, trying to ease the tension a bit.

But when he’s finally inside you again, it’s heaven. And he indulges in himself a bit—thrusting faster, harder, making your ass jiggle. The lewd sounds of his cock in your wetness and his hips smacking your skin makes it all the more erotic. But it doesn’t take long before—

“I like it better the other way, I think,” he says matter-of-factly. “Is that okay?”

“Of course that’s okay, babe,” you say, flipping back over and spreading your legs. And he slides right back inside you, letting his head fall back. But your tits bouncing are simply too tempting not to look at. They’re why he prefers it this way, so why not look at them as much as he can? He retreats a bit, opening his mouth like he wants to ask you something but he’s too shy.

“What is it, baby?”

“I was just wondering if you…if you could—would you want to be on top?” His tone is genuinely sweet. “Like what position do you like?”

“Missionary’s my favorite too,” you say. “But I would, hm, I would really like to be on top for a bit.” Switching quickly, you align yourself over his cock and sink down on him so, so, so slowly, letting out a big sigh of relief. “Oh my god, Soobin. Are you fucking kidding me?” You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full before. The feeling stretches all the way to your toes. “I need to hump you like crazy for a bit,” you say with a chuckle. He nods like that’s perfectly fine with me, mommy.

And you do exactly that—bounce on his cock as fast as your body lets you, relieving that built-up tension. Over the last few months, you wanted to jump his bones every time you were in the same room and that feeling never let up, like there was a tension thermometer in your body that was constantly stuck at boiling.

But perhaps it was a bit more painful for him because an occasional rut up into you isn’t enough anymore. He holds your hips to keep you in place, fucking up into you as fast as he can. Head dropping back, he groans, your name leaving his lips.

“Mommy?” His eyebrows furrow, looking utterly pathetic. “Let’s switch back. Please.” Hiking your leg over his hips, you land roughly on your back. Gently grabbing your hands, he pins them above your head, aligns his cock at your entrance, and slides inside you, rolling his hips so deliciously. As he kisses you, he swallows your moans. Trailing down your neck, he whispers, “Please tell me I’m making you feel good, Mommy.”

Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you say, “Fuck, you’re making me feel so good.”

Slowing his thrusts, he asks, “What else would you like me to do?” Smiling up at him, you rub his thighs. Waiting for an answer, he covers your collarbone in kisses, making his way back to your ear. After nibbling gently on your earlobe, he whispers, “Tell me how to make you feel even better.” Oof. Shivers.

“Rub my clit,” you say. He sits up, fumbling with his fingers. “Use your thumb,” you giggle. “Wait.” Reaching for his hand, you let spit pool in your mouth before wrapping your lips around his thumb. Sucking on it, he looks at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then he follows your instructions, rubbing your clit with his thumb while he fucks you, listening intently to every instruction, every a little to the lefts, up a little bit mores, and he never gets impatient.

Your back arches impossibly high and you say, “I’m close, babe. Don’t stop.” You rub your own nipple, but he moves your hand out of the way, wetting his thumb with his own spit before circling it for you.

Everything has been building to this moment. Staring at him in every lecture, longing for his touch. That kiss in his office was just the start of your addiction. Attending his office hours didn’t help, but you couldn’t stay away. You needed to be closer to him. To feel heat radiating off his body. To smell his spicy cologne. To watch his fingers wrap around his pen and wish they were wrapped around something else.

All of it was for this moment right here. Cumming around his cock for the first time. You can’t wait any longer. There’s a white hot burning in your belly that’s getting more furious by the second. His name leaves your mouth in a yelp before fireworks explode inside you.

Your legs shake around his waist as he fucks you through it, not changing a single thing. Overwhelmed with pleasure, you grab his wrist to stop him from rubbing your nipple to make sure it’s the most perfect orgasm you’ve ever had—not too much and not too little.

And it’s neither. Instead, it’s perfection. You knew it would be. It seems to last forever but somehow not long enough. As soon as you finish, you miss it.

Catching your breath, your vision clears up as you look up at him with a smile. He shyly asks, “How was that?”

You take a deep breath and say, “Oh my god, that was so good.” Rubbing soothing strokes up and down your thighs, you can tell he’s getting impatient. But still—he’d never pressure you in a million years.

Bending to kiss your neck again, he whispers, “Can I cum inside you?” You nod frantically.

“Please.”

“I have condoms if you want.” You think about it for a second. Really. You would love nothing more than to feel him fill you up. But it’s risky. “Mommy…” His hips slowly start moving again, encouraging a decision from you. “What are you thinking?”

“Cum inside me, please. Wanna feel all of you,” you say, rubbing his back. He smiles, pressing his lips to yours in a passionate kiss that sends your head reeling. He sits up and squeezes your thighs over and over, adoring the way your body feels in his hands. Soft and squishy and intoxicating. Licking your own thumb, you pinch and rub one of his nipples, making his mouth drop open. He didn’t even think of having his own nipples played with.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps. You praise him, Cum inside me, baby. You’ve been such a good boy for me. I want you to feel so good for me, okay? And he’s rutting his hips into you roughly, using your body for his own pleasure. You simply can’t get enough. You want him inside you forever and ever. “You’re…” he trails off. “You’re gonna make me cum, Mommy.”

“Go ahead. Cum for me.” Like it’s a command, his hips stutter and his cum fills you up, warm and sweet and heavenly. Swears and other inaudible words you hope are compliments spill out of his mouth. Falling forward, he digs his face into your neck once more, twitching until he comes to a stop, taking deep breaths.

You expect a warm smile to echo his warm cum filling you up but he stays put. In fact, he doesn’t move or say anything for quite some time. So much time passes that his cock has slipped out of you on its own, his cum leaking down the swell of your ass.

You finally break the silence, “Are you okay?” He nods awkwardly. “Look at me.” He shakes his head. “What’s wrong?” He still won’t budge. “Soobin, what’s going on?”

“I’m embarrassed,” he whines.

“Huh? About what?”

“Calling you mommy,” he finally sits up. “I was just caught up in the moment—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“Honey,” you giggle, sitting up with him. “I told you I liked it.”

“You weren’t just saying that?”

“I don’t think I would’ve came that hard if I didn’t like it.”

His eyes brighten before adding, “I guess so.” It genuinely was one of the strongest orgasms you’ve ever had. Surely, he has to know that, right? But wait—

“Was it good for you?”

“Oh my god,” he’s finally relaxed a little, peppering your face with kisses. “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had, I swear.” He stands, walking into his en-suite to get you a towel, damp with warm water. “So…” he starts awkwardly. “Should we, like, report this to the dean?”

“Is that your way of asking me to be exclusive?” He blushes as you brush some of his hair behind his ear. “Because my answer is absolutely.” You press your lips together. “Although, can we hold off for a while? Just until next semester starts?”

“Be in our own little world for a bit?” He smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re taking a break until next semester, right? Are you working right now?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I got a bunch of scholarships to pay for school,” you say proudly.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Because I’m the smartest person you know,” you say cheekily.

“No lectures until next semester, so I’m pretty much free.” He smiles, clearly wanting to say something more, but bites his tongue. “Can I ask you something?” You nod. “This may be moving way too fast, but do you maybe wanna spend the holidays here? With me?”

The next few weeks are a whirlwind. Both of you admit it’s too fast. But neither of you care. The fireplace roars as you decorate his Christmas tree together, wrapped presents, baked cookies, everything you could think of that ooey-gooey couples do.

And of course, nightly sex is a bonus. You simply can’t get enough of each other. And you just about lose it when you walk into the kitchen on Christmas morning. He’s standing at the counter wearing a Santa hat, flannel pajama pants, and a black tank top making your favorite tea.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning,” he says with a smile. You take a plate full of chocolate chip waffles from him. But not before he kisses you. Cupping your cheek, he pulls you into perhaps the sweetest kiss you’ve ever had. You can feel his smile on your lips.

And everything feels absolutely perfect. You think you may be dreaming, but he feels so very real at this moment. And his voice is clear as day, “Merry Christmas.”

#hp's writing 🪲#soobin smut #soobin hard thoughts #soobin hard hours #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #choi soobin #chubby reader #soobin x reader #soobin ff #soobin fic #soobin fanfic #soobin x chubby reader #kpop ff #kpop fanfic #kpop fic #kpop smut

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autisticshadowthehedgehog · 5 months ago

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OK Guys. I get the skepticism esp after the Knuckles disaster, but we also need to keep in mind "this is a trailer that won't spoil literally everything about the movie." ESPECIALLY in regards to GUN. They're not gonna put in the trailer "the military shot a little girl and that's why Shadow is mad so Sonic is going to never work with them ever." That's a great way to get parents to bring their kids to the theater, especially in America. (/s)

It's WAY more effective as a plot twist halfway through, where Sonic thinks that he's finally being accepted onto Earth via working with the government only to find out that they're exploiting him and Shadow the same. I can't guarantee this is gonna happen obviously but it's like a 90% chance just knowing how, like. writing works.

Esp considering the government has not had a good track record in the last two movies, I dunno if they'd do a heel-face turn into "actually they were always right" in the movie where a little girl needs to get shot by the government.

And I'm not gonna say "trust and form a parasocial relationship with a film director" but we should keep in mind that Jeff Fowler got his start working on Shadow's title game and has stated in interviews that he understands how important Shadow's backstory is to his character. Not to mention how the internet has been exploding the last two years with enthusiasm over this story actually getting shown onscreen, enough that a studio would fucking notice at the very least that this is what the people want. I can't guarantee they'll actually listen, but saying that they're absolutely not because "Sonic was in a GUN helicopter in the trailer" is insane. Especially with the fact that GUN is not with Sonic when he goes to Eggman. We just see Team Sonic alone meeting with Stone, and I will bet you it's because there's no way in hell GUN would let them near him, what with the Robotnik connections to the ARK.

Also the Gerald thing is rather worrying, esp with the lack of shit they gave Pachacamac in the miniseries, but honestly I think that was just a marketing push of "Jim Carrey will be playing TWO characters!!!" Considering he's only seen in one trailer scene AT the ARK (where all of Gerald's technology was and, more importantly, where the Eclipse cannon he needs someone to set off is) AND we know from movie 2's credits scene that there was a fifty-year timeskip, I severely doubt that's the real Gerald who's just completely unaffected by his granddaughter being murdered.

And ofc there's things to be concerned about in the trailer. The lack of Rouge for instance– I obviously keep posting my theory that Krysten Ritter's character will be her undercover but the fact we don't know how much time she'd actually have with Shadow, if at ALL, is worrying. The fact that Rouge might not be here period. The weird pacing of the Knuckles show and the fear that could bleed over into the movie. But there's also stuff to get excited about– the epic fight scene choreography, the brief glimpse we got of Maria and Shadow's bond. Reeves's voice actually fits Shadow and at least from what the trailer showed us it looks like the Green Hills storyline is taking a backseat to the action and mystery of Project Shadow.

tl;dr guys calm down for like five minutes. if the movie sucks in december we can riot then. right now let's just band together against mufasa

#sonic movie 3 #sonic the hedgehog 3 #sonic 3 #sonic cinematic universe #sonic the hedgehog #scu #sth #shadow the hedgehog #mine

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amywritesthings · 6 months ago

Text

press four for more options. | part three.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - smut, alternate universe (modern), sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub, guided masturbation, edging, pet names, sex toys, multiple orgasms, mentions of body image Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part two. / part four. | masterlist

“Hel-lo, is the idiot in the room still with us?”

A slender hand waves back and forth, back and forth, until you awake from your everlasting daydream.

Annie Leonhart sits across from you at your favorite coffee shop looking like the cat that caught the canary.

That knowing smirk hasn’t left her face since she sat down.

Curling her fingers, she pulls her arm and returns her hand to join the other under her chin once she’s finally caught your attention.

The small blonde squints her icy blue eyes, observing, deciding on what you’ll say before you launch your defense.

“That good, huh?”

Embarrassment is your first folly.

"I— What?!”

“I know a blissful climax cloud when I see one.”

“Annie.”

Sometimes Annie could be an ass, too smug for her own good, but she was a fiercely loyal friend and colleague.

Everything is meant in jest — at least, to you. Not many others got to avoid her wrath.

You lean over the table, reaching your hand out to cover her mouth.

She manages to duck your advances, expertly so, and rears her head with a small chuckle.

“Relax, no one’s listening,” she chides.

“That’s not true,” you argue under your breath. “It's a small shop. You know the vultures circle this place.”

“Not since the old thirsties got busted for their smutty book club — which, quite frankly, I resent losing.”

"You resent?" you repeat, mirroring her squint. “But you never ended up joining the old lady book club.”

“Mm, I didn’t,” Annie agrees, picking up her coffee cup to sip leisurely. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t listen. I looked up a couple of those titles for myself. In retrospect, they had good taste.”

“Seriously?”

“Dead.”

She pauses, setting the cup back on the table.

“So… are you going to make me work for the details, or what?” she finally leads, getting to the point while you skate around it with imaginary triple axels. “Did you call again after Friday?”

You did.

In fact, you've called several times — almost every night since last Friday with the exception of Tuesday, since you’d fallen asleep as soon as you hit the couch after working overtime.

It’s now another Friday afternoon, one week from the first time you’d called the hotline, and you’re wondering what constitutes bordering on addiction.

“I have,” you confirm.

“That’s all you’re going to say?” she chastises with a grimace. “Boo — tomato, tomato.”

“What?! What did you want me to say?”

“For starters, who the guy is.”

“Not happening.”

“Loser.” A beat passes. “But it’s not Bert?”

You shake your head vehemently.

“Definitely not Bert.”

“Thank god,” she exhales. “I like you, but I don’t know if I like you enough to be calling up the same dude to get our rocks off.”

“Jesus, Annie.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a prude.”

You pick up your own tea, sliding it across the table before taking a tentative sip.

“I don’t know how you freely talk about this like we’re trying out restaurants.”

“Because it’s not real?” she suggests, and your stomach flip-flops.

You know it isn’t.

It’s a job.

It’s his job.

“I don’t know,” Annie continues, sitting back against her chair with her arm draped across the curve. “It’s no strings attached and hot. I’ll never meet Bert, and he’ll never meet me, and it isn’t like he’s going to ask to hold my hand and beg me to meet his mom.”

“You’re such a commitment-phobe,” you comment with the roll of your eyes. “You won’t ever meet anyone’s mom.”

“Yeah, because I’m not a psycho,” she replies with a snort. “I take it you went premium?”

You nod once. “Levi suggested it.”

Her eyes widen, delighted, and you scowl at your own stupidity.

“Levi?”

Ah.

Fuck.

"Wait." You sit up taller. “Don’t—”

“Oh, that’s a hot name.”

“Annie, I swear to—”

She sours to herself. “Damn, that’s so much hotter than moaning Bert.”

The tea in your cup bubbles from your chortled breath.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, not my favorite name ever, but that’s fine — because it’s more like he’s moaning Annie.”

Paired with a wicked grin, your friend winks at you.

“We have two very different wants.”

You squint, and her grin widens. “Wait, do you—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh my god, Annie.”

“What?!” she chirps with a chuckle. “You like the bossy ones, I like being the boss. You’re not allowed to kink shame me. We’re in this shit together.”

“Who said I like being bossed around?!”

She points her finger at your facedown phone.

“Porco Galliard bosses people around. I’m not stupid. And you scream ‘I don’t like being assertive’.”

Great.

The same observation Levi made over the phone without ever meeting you in person.

“Whatever, that isn’t the point,” you wave off, deciding to try and swerve the subject. “I wanted to ask: how many times do you call a week?”

Annie presses the tip of her tongue against her cheek as she considers.

“A week? Maybe two, three at most. It used to be a hell of a lot more, but I’m working a lot of late nights.”

“When you say ‘a hell of a lot more’, do you mean—?”

“Daily?” she finishes for you then tries to recall. “Why? Are you daily right now?”

You hate yourself for a second.

“Sort of? It’s only been a few days, but—”

“Hey, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She reassures in that randomly serious way Annie can pull on a rare occasion.

Making fun of people might be her favorite pastime, but if she can sense true withdrawal from her friends, then she’s quick to stop.

The blonde reaches over the table to pat your hand, but it’s hardly a comfort.

Annie is about as comforting as raw-dog wearing a hand-knitted sweater by an amateur: it's itchy, too tight, and you want it to stop immediately.

“You’re a grown woman with grown woman money. If guys can go get blue balled at the strip club, then why can’t we call a hot guy over the phone?”

Again: not comforting at all.

With reluctance, you nod.

“You have a point.”

“I know I have a point.”

“Then again, I don’t know how long term this fix can be,” you reason. “It’s very expensive.”

“Yeah, but you know what’s more expensive?” Annie retorts. “Hooking up with a stranger at a bar who’s abysmal in bed. Maybe not so much for your wallet, but definitely for your ego.”

“And your sanity,” you agree, “if they’re weird.”

“Or a creep.”

“Or a serial killer.”

“A weird creep that happens to be a serial killer.”

You both give each other a look, an unspoken conversation of two delusional women saying ‘exactly’ in a singular gesture, as you sync the sips of your drinks.

— —

“Do you ever — ha — use to — oh — ys?”

You’re not sure why you’re so chatty with your rabbit vibrator barely hovering over the hood of your clit.

A week ago, you would've been trying to smother yourself with a pillow for talking.

However, with each night you’ve called Levi, the more comfortable you’ve become.

More bold, if openly using toys tells him anything.

The avalanche that brought you here was quite swift.

Traffic lights no longer remind you of the cars on the road but the man waiting for you on this hotline.

A willing striptease; a compliance to do what you wish but let him take the lead.

All you had to say was ‘my hand’s getting tired’ during an edging session.

All Levi had to reply with was ‘if you had a toy, I’d allow you to tag it in’.

Allow.

Like you’re completely under his spell.

Like you couldn’t have been using one from the get-go, but you listened.

You said you did.

He said grab it.

(God, you always listen.)

Now you’re here, legs spread in the center of your bed with your phone sitting between the valley of your breasts as you talk to him through the speaker.

“I am right now,” Levi replies in that diplomatic way of his, the lift of his voice telling: he’s amused by the way you try to speak to him, even when you’re ready to scream with impatience.

“I meant on yourself,” you exhale shakily.

“On myself?”

“Like on c-calls,” you stammer, forcing yourself to focus.

He loves when you lose your mind.

You refuse to cave so fast tonight.

“A mystery for another day,” he teases, before adding in a firmer tone: “You earned it. Touch it to your clit, but don’t go inside yet. I want you wet and ready for me, understand?”

“You’re so mean.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he softens for just a moment. “And don’t talk back.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” you joke, before pressing the device against your clit.

The vibrations surge pleasure down your legs, causing your toes to curl.

You’re not sure if it’s the ‘sir’ or the moan you emit that makes him groan in return.

“The answer is no,” he finally states.

For a second, you think you did something wrong.

Then you circle back, remembering what you asked in the first place.

Right.

The toys question.

“You don’t?”

“Not on me, no.” He exhales, slow and steady. “Too busy making sure I’m hitting the script.”

That’s the funny thing about these calls:

The fourth wall?

Broken.

He doesn’t pretend to be your boyfriend for the night, just as you don’t pretend he’s only yours.

You’re aware he’s a sex worker, just as he seems to open up about his profession when speaking to you.

At first Levi wouldn’t — it was meant to be a fantasy — but each night he’s divulged more.

Like how he used to be in the military. (Unrelated to sex.)

Like how he has an affinity for tea, going so far as to have a mild cup with you after a session in lieu of a cigarette. (Unrelated to sex.)

Like how he’s a Capricorn. (Unrelated to sex — kind of.)

In the midst of learning about him, you’ve learned about yourself.

You’re less vanilla than you originally thought.

With Porco, things felt regimented.

Scheduled.

You weren’t willing to open up your heart, much less your legs, because he was too cold behind closed doors.

Focused.

Driven to his work and passions.

Levi, on the other hand, will suggest leaning against the wall with your hand in your underwear, eyes forced to watch yourself in your full-length mirror.

To worship yourself, when he can’t.

To pump your fingers into your weeping core, when he can’t.

To give over complete and utter control with the promise that you’ll come as many times as he asks you to, because if he could be in this very room — this very apartment — he’d easily do it himself.

With Levi, you’re bold.

With Levi, you’re in.

So you’re not shy to arch your back, moaning into the receiver when you feel your first orgasm approaching you like the incoming tide.

“Levi,” you whimper his name, “can I—”

“Shit, baby, you know you can,” he practically purrs, already knowing what you’re going to ask. “C’mon. Let me hear that pretty little voice of yours, huh? Just for me?”

“Just for—”

The last word is garbled by the way your teeth clench, legs snapping together as the first climax hits after a relentless twenty-minute edging session.

It’s unreal.

It’s pain.

It’s bliss.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

(Freedom.)

You pant, pulling the vibrator away from your body for a moment to catch your breath.

You hear him hum with approval on the other end, a low rumble against your chest.

“That’s a good girl,” he says after a beat. “Feeling better?”

“So much,” you confess breathlessly.

“You sound better.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Didn’t do much.”

“Oh shut up,” you scowl before laughing.

Turning off the toy for a momentary reprieve, you allow yourself to catch your breath as you grin up at the ceiling.

“Always so goddamn modest.”

“You’re one to talk,” he scoffs, shifting on the other end of the line. “Can’t take a damn compliment to save your life.”

You make a face like he can see you in the dark, but you decide to continue the conversation.

That’s a new thing the two of you have picked up — talking.

Lots of talking.

You get off, sure, but he knows your work drama, your chore schedule — your mailmen even have the same first name, funnily enough.

“I’m serious, though,” you exhale. “Do you ever like… get off? Without toys, obviously.”

“During a call?” he clarifies, and you nod. He answers like he can see it. “No, not — not typically.”

“Wow, so you’ve faked an orgasm with me,” you tease with a blissed out snort. “Shame, shame, I know your name.”

“I what?”

“Faked it,” you clarify, fluffing your pillows behind your head as you situate yourself on your bed. “As if I don’t hear you breathing all heavy and shit over there.”

Then something unusual happens.

The man grows quiet on the other side.

Nothing shuffles.

No huffs or ‘tchs’.

Just… silence.

“Levi?” you ask, brows knit.

A beat passes, but he answers.

“Yeah?”

“Are you good over there?”

“I— yeah, fine,” he clears his throat.

Uh-oh.

You frown immediately, blinking twice. “Sorry, was that a weird question?”

“Not at all,” he clarifies, gruff this time, “just… I said not typically, not never.”

…oh.

Oh.

Suddenly you abandon the rabbit and sit up in bed, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Wait.”

“Scarlet.”

“No, did you actually—”

“I already said too much.”

“No, wait, you can’t just imply that you’ve gotten off with me then abandon ship here, Levi!”

“I’m not abandoning ship — why do you say such weird shit sometimes?”

“How many times?!” you yelp.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Holy shit,” you exhale, “I’m so mad I didn’t pay attention.”

It’s like you can hear Levi squinting, narrowing his eyes with uncertainty on the other end of the phone. “...why would you be mad?”

“Because maybe I want to hear you get off, too?” you suggest simply.

Another agonizing breath of silence.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you place your phone on your sheets and pick up the vibrator, contemplating your next move.

“Because I would totally love to just… I don’t know, make you moan, too? See what you taste like? Feel you lose control, pull my hair, hold my head down while I wrap my lips around—”

“Baby.”

Two syllables shoot out of his mouth, as if overwhelmed with shock.

Huh.

An Uno reverse in your favor.

You’re no Shakespeare, but what you say is as honest as words can possibly be.

“I picture you all the time,” you confess softly, pressing the rabbit vibrator’s first function.

A low rumble begins, and you guide it between your legs.

You’re already soaked from your session.

There will be little give to the toy.

“When we’re not on the phone together, I wonder what it would be like. I could be at work. I could be at a coffee shop. Like, holy shit, I was meeting with a friend today and all I could think of is how badly I’d love to just take you to it — maybe disappear in the back hall, find a bathroom? I’d bend over a sink. I don’t wear skirts all the time, but I’d wear one for you.”

You hear shifting on the other end of the line, but Levi is deathly silent.

Mindlessly, your hand takes hold of the vibrator and you press against your entrance.

With a tiny whimper, you push in, deliciously enveloped in a sea of vibrations.

“You wouldn’t need to wear a skirt.”

Suddenly his voice appears, and you accidentally push the vibrator further in, causing a strangled moan to exit your mouth.

“Le—”

“Pants are just as easy,” Levi cuts you off, a thread of a whisper. “Couldn’t take that much effort. Wouldn’t give a shit if anyone saw your damn clothes at your ankles.”

Suddenly the room burns.

“I just know you’d fill me up so good,” you whine, and there’s a sharp hiss on the other end.

“Jesus Christ.”

There.

You hear it: the waver in his voice.

“Yeah, baby,” he concedes. “I’d fill you so fucking good.”

You whimper, a pathetic little noise at the base of your throat, and he exhales a large breath — as if he’s been holding back this entire time.

“Promise?”

“When have I ever led you astray?” he challenges, a bit more strained now.

It’s the hottest thing you've ever heard.

“I wanna make you feel so good,” you breathe, ragged and wrecked, and there’s a small groan on the other end of the line.

“You already do, baby.”

“Not how I want to,” you argue in return, body pulsating with the growing need to release a second. “You’re so good at making me cum, but all I want is to take it how you want me — bend me over and fill me up, push me to my knees and stick my tongue out—”

“Fuck,” he curses sharply. “You’re so good for me. So, so fucking good, not fuckin’ fair.”

“Wanna cum with you.”

He groans, louder this time, and inhales the most deliciously jagged breath you’ve ever heard.

“Right there, baby,” he forces out. “C’mon. Give me one more. Just one more.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

You purposefully bite your tongue when you come a second time, squeezing your eyes shut with all of your senses focused solely on your ears.

A grunt, as if he’s holding back just the same before exhaling, slow and languid.

In your mind’s eye, you see it: how he uses his teeth to hold up his t-shirt, painting his abdomen with streaks of white as he holds himself back from climaxing too loud. His whole body trembles. He squeezes the tip, milking himself for all he’s worth.

Pulling the vibrator from your body, you turn it off and toss it elsewhere on your bed. Your body curls around your phone, trying to stay quiet so you can listen.

Shaky.

Exhausted.

Not typically, not never.

You say nothing, can’t, but a small giggle of euphoria emits from your throat.

Surprisingly, Levi chuckles back with that drugged slowness that comes with exhaustion.

“You’re too damn giddy after two orgasms,” he chastises, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Uh-huh, Huff ‘n Puff,” you tease right back, and he tsk’s right against the phone.

And in your heart, you know—

Know you’re in deep shit.

Know that you like Levi, even if it’s impossible to like a stranger.

Maybe when you get this month’s credit card bill, you’ll sober up from your crush.

But not right now.

Just not right now.

— —

The next morning, you’re up bright and early.

Skip the elevator to the apartment lobby.

Walk down the stairs to kickstart your adrenaline.

Skip the coffee at the local shop.

Choose a small cup of chai instead.

By the time you make it to the gym, you’re more ready than you ever have been in your life to take on the day.

— —

Forty-five minutes later, your sweat even has sweat.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, the endorphins from a tough workout only make you feel that more excited to get your shit together. To be more mindful of your time.

(Totally not because your last call with Levi was unreal. Nope.)

Overall, you went from hating your life to — well, this.

Whatever this is.

Owning your self agency and worth after a pitiful breakup?

Unfortunately joining this gym had been Porco’s idea — he’s a treadmill hamster, and you got swindled by the sea of abs under his tank tops.

A ‘couples activity’, whatever that meant.

(Being sweaty and tired without an orgasm to finish it off never did feel rewarding.)

After the breakup you considered trying to get out of your 6-month contract, but Porco dipped first.

He joined Pieck’s crossfit endeavor somewhere else in the city, leaving you and this dingy little gym to commiserate together.

Now?

Now, you excitedly get ready in the morning to the gym — not to get thin or look a certain way to appease anyone else. A revenge body is bonafide stupid.

No — you don’t want to be anything but stronger.

Because Levi would probably think it was hot if you were stronger.

Maybe the next time you call, he’ll be impressed that you’ve taken to strength training.

Maybe he’ll give you some pointers — one more topic of conversation to be had.

Setting down the free weights back on the rack after a thorough cleaning of the equipment, you step out of the way of the other regulars gearing up for their workout and head towards the locker rooms to shower.

In the small pocket of your leggings, you hear your phone vibrate.

Digging your hand in to fish it out, you see a familiar name on your lock screen.

[A. LEONHART]: Yo [A. LEONHART]: We’re all going out Tuesday for drinks – u in?

All.

All means the department.

All might mean Porco and Pieck.

Annie must sense your apprehension, before adding:

[A. LEONHART]: Porky probs not going, Pieck’s got a family thing

Well, that’s two positives.

[ME]: I’ll think about it. [A. LEONHART]: Think about it????

[A. LEONHART]: 🍅🍅🍅

Her and her fucking tomatoes.

You snort and begin to write back—

But not before accidentally slamming chest to chest into a stranger.

The phone flies out of your hand like a bar of wet soap.

Like a Scooby Doo short, it alley-oops to the sky then smashes down against the black-speckled rubber gym floor.

Before you can even react, the person you’d bumped into is bending to crouch on the floor.

“Shit. My fault.”

Every cell in your body freezes.

Time ceases to exist.

They scoop your phone into their hand, flipping it over checking for damage.

Luckily, the screen is intact.

No fall damage.

But that isn’t why you’re frozen.

As they rise to full stance, your eyes are still downcast.

From their sneakers your eyes crawl up, up, up — noticing the basketball shorts that cut just above the knee with compression under armor peeking beneath.

On his torso is an emerald green tank top, clinging to his flexing abs, the fabric speckled with sweat.

His collarbones are defined; chin just as sharp as his cheekbones.

Then you meet his eyes.

A blue-ish gray.

The man standing before you runs on the shorter side — under average height for a man.

His ebony hair dangles and sticks to his sweat-slicked forehead, the ends pointed and shaggy.

It takes a moment until you realize you’ve seen that hair before.

While you’ve taken to walking on the treadmill for your warm-up these last several weeks, he’s typically nestled in the strength training corner of the gym alone.

Every morning that you’re here, he is also here diligently working on his physique.

He’s always in some squat position or lying on a bench, so you never paid attention to his face—

He’s fucking gorgeous.

“Looks like it’s fine,” he says casually, and your stomach falls out of your ass.

Baritone.

Smooth like honey, low like a rumble.

There’s no way.

There is absolutely no way it’s—

“Here.”

The man holds your phone out for you, brows knitting curiously.

You can’t speak.

Hell, you can barely breathe.

He shakes his hand to wake you from your shock.

“Take it.”

You know that voice like the back of your hand.

Wordlessly, you reach a shaky hand towards the phone to take it back.

You part your lips to speak, but no words exit.

All you can do is grasp your phone and pull it to your chest as you catch the scent of his deodorant with a mixture of musk when he passes by, none the wiser.

By the time you turn to say something, anything—

Levi from Scout Services Hotline dips into the men’s locker room.

Author's Note:

...oops.

Thank you for reading part three of P4! I continue to be blown away by the response. Because of your encouragement, I wrote one of the fastest updates I've made in ages. How are we feeling now? Let me know in the comments!

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #aot fanfiction #aot fanfic #snk fanfic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman smut #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #aot smut #aot x reader #snk smut #snk x reader #press four for more options

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charliemwrites · 1 year ago

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Part 7

Content: sparring and injury

Sparring is one of your favorite activities. With your team, it’s a chance to learn and improve, to keep from falling into old habits. And yes, okay, it’s also become something of foreplay. Especially with your captain, who seems to delight in tossing you around and pinning you with his bulk.

(And Keegan, who came in his pants once when you had him in a chokehold, one your thighs between his. But no, no, now is not the time to think about that…)

You’re not the best hand-to-hand operator on the team, sure. That title belongs to Nikto, who hits so hard and fast you’re down before you even realize he’s swinging. But you’re certainly a force to be reckoned with.

Not this much though.

If you were in the mood to give them credit for anything — and you’re really not — they’re at least subtle. You don’t catch on during the first round with Soap. Your brain has completely transitioned into the comfortable rhythm of practice combat. Something to be taken seriously, but not the high-stress of victory or death in a mission.

No, Soap gets away with it in the moment. You only notice as you’re taking your water break, rotated out with the uneven numbers between your teams. You’re surveying the pairs and notice him sparring with Keegan.

There’s something decidedly more intense about it. Like… like he’s putting real effort into trying to beat Keegan. An effort he did not put into fighting you.

Rage burns through you, hot and thick, buzzing in your head.

Does he think you’re not worth any real effort? Does he think you can’t handle a proper fight, that this is just playtime? Is he really treating you like some fresh-faced recruit that needs to be babied after all this time?

When you captain finishes wiping the floor with Gaz, you go to his side. One look at your face and he knows.

“Whose head is rolling?” He asks, plucking your bottle from your hand for a sip.

“Soap threw our match.”

His eyes flare before he closes them, swallows the water in his mouth and sighs.

“How do you want to handle it?” He asks.

“Wait, wait,” Gaz interrupts. And the look your captain gives him… Christ. To his credit, he doesn’t back down though. “He probably just thought it would be good, yeah? To… let you get some anger out.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, a mean laugh slipping out. The captain arches his eyebrows in what could almost be sympathy. Or arousal, hard to tell when he’s got such a good poker face. (Mix of both, you figure)

“Oh, he wants me to get some anger out?” You roll your shoulders. “Sounds like a great idea.”

Ghost is your last match before reset — before you’ll get a chance to show Soap just how much steam you need to let off.

Except now that you’re looking for it, you recognize almost immediately that he’s throwing the match. Probably especially because it’s Ghost. You never stood a chance against him before leaving, even now you didn’t have optimistic expectations for a fight with him. So the fact that it doesn’t feel like you’re working for every inch you gain…

The final straw is when you try a move from before. Something he never fell for once and always reprimanded you for using. He “falls” for it this time. You don’t pull your punch when it goes directly into his face.

Know immediately that he’s feeling it, that wicked hook Keegan always whistles over. Blinking past his mask. And you don’t let up, pressing and pressing the advantage. Take him down to the ground using all your built strength, twisting into a vicious arm bar and pulling, pulling, pulling—

“Bloody hell, I yield!” He snarls, palm slamming against your thigh.

You release him, but not without one last nasty kick to the soft spot beneath his ribs.

The gym has gone silent. You don’t care, pushing to your feet with hands still balled into tight, angry fists.

“You ever throw a fight with me again, I’ll break your fucking jaw, Riley,” you snarl.

Price, expression stormy, takes a step forward.

“He threw the fight?” He asks.

You scoff, “Either that or the 141’s quality is lacking nowadays.”

You step off the mat to join the rest of your team, exchange a frustrated look with your captain. Nova comes to your side, curling a finger into your belt loop in solidarity.

“Gotta say, Price, I’m disappointed,” your captain says. “This is getting out of control. I won’t have my team put at risk because yours can’t keep it professional. I’d rather just tell Laswell to get you a different support team.”

You’re almost surprised to see how the 141 jolts, four pairs of eyes flicking to you in panic. What in the actual hell?

“Take it easy,” Price says, eyes flashing. “I’ll have a word with them.”

You glance up at your captain, see from the twitch in his jaw and the tightness around his eyes that his patience for this is wearing gossamer thin.

“See to it. In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.”

He turns his back on the 141, and you’re all too happy to follow suit, pressing a kiss to Nova’s cheek when she sends you a worried look. Whatever weird issue the 141 is having, they need to stop making it your issue.

“Keegan, with me,” your captain says. “Nikto, you’re up against the girls.”

Nikto tilts his head in a nod, then jolts as you and Nova take either side of him.

“Gonna show us a good time, Nik?” You coo.

“Always love a tag-team,” Nova purrs.

The captain grins. “Have fun you three.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #former 141 reader #specgru reader #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley

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dadvans · 2 months ago

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when I want to run away (I drive off in my car) [bucktommy]

Chimney comes over with an armful of DVDs. Mandated brother-in-law break-up bonding time. Buck is pretty sure that isn’t a thing, at least not the kind that Chimney seems to be suggesting with what are discernibly all romcom titles. Buck is pretty sure Chimney should be taking him out and getting him wasted and encouraging him to get laid, but then again he’s friends with Tommy too so there might be some allegiance at play here.

He groans when Chimney puts on Say Anything.

“What, you actually know a movie made before 2012?”

“Tommy loves this one,” Buck replies. There had been a showing at repertory cinema in July and Tommy had dragged them both to escape the afternoon heat. It had been… sweet. There had maybe been three other people in the place who ignored them in the back row, making out like teenagers.

“Yeah, he’s always been a secret softie,” Chimney says.

“I’d say you should be over at his place with these,” Buck continues, flipping through the titles. Love Actually. The Proposal. Crazy, Stupid, Love. “These are actually his favorites. Wait, was I your second choice?”

“What? No,” Chimney says, but he sounds kind of cagey about it.

“He’s probably too busy cliff diving or BASE jumping.” Buck drops the DVDs. “He was the one who dumped me, remember? I don’t think he’s too hung up to need a chick flick movie marathon.”

“Now that is not true. Secret softie, remember? He’s hurting as much as I’ve ever seen, he just doesn’t wear it on his sleeve like some people.” Chimney gives him a very pointed look. “I bet he stood outside your door a half hour after he left hoping you’d chase after him, feeling like a total idiot.”

That’s new. “Did he tell you that?”

Chimney shrugs. “Maybe not verbatim, but he may have let something slip in a moment of total weakness.”

Buck snorts. “So, what are you doing over here with me and these then?”

“I was maybe hoping I could inspire you into some of your usual Buck heroics,” Chimney admits, then has the gall to look offended when Buck twists to stare at him, confused. “What? I’m a meddler. I notoriously meddle. C’mon, he said some things he wishes he could take back, but maybe he’s not as confident as you give him credit for. He’s a romcom guy. He could use a little woo-ing too, you know. Someone who makes him feel like he’s worth fighting for. A big gesture! Not—not moving in or anything, but just—you see what I’m saying here?”

Buck stares at young John Cusack paused on his TV screen and smiles to himself. “Yeah, I think I might.”

He spends the rest of the day off his couch driving through half the pawn shops in Glendale before he finds himself, sun setting at his back, outside Tommy’s house. He parks between Tommy’s truck in the drive and walks down the sidewalk where Tommy’s kitchen window is lit up and open.

Tommy comes outside thirty seconds later to the sound of Peter Gabriel blasting out of the second hand stereo Buck’d finally found with an aux input at St. Vincent de Paul’s. His mouth twitches as he crosses his arms before he coughs and tucks his head down, briefly.

“Really?” He asks when he blinks back up at Buck, eyes wet like the last time Buck saw him: hope there, fleeting, wanting so badly to swim to the surface and stay. “Wait, did you plug your phone into that thing?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, loud enough over the music the whole neighborhood can probably hear him. “I don’t know how to burn CDs.”

Tommy’s smile finally cracks through, and he nods before taking several careful steps across his dead lawn, feet bare, so he can get two tentative hands on Buck’s hips. “Well, if you want to come inside,” he says, “I can show you.”

#bucktommy #911 abc #tommy kinard 🤝 me 🤝 loving a good say anything moment #fix it fic #delaney writes

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namazunomegami · 1 year ago

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Mélange

Pairing: Okkotsu Yuta x gn!reader

Synopsis: Sometimes humans are not above animals. Sometimes they burn to fulfill the same basic needs and not strive for more in the moment. A full belly, safety, procreation. What happens when all three of them need to be satisfied? Tinged with spice. Under the influence of an unknown substance.

CW: aphrodisiac, dubcon, slight somnophilia, feral and animalistic Yuta, he has cannibalistic thoughts, licking, lovebites, scratching, biting, slight pain, handjob, premature ejaculation, fingering, Reader can feel Yuta’s ring during fingering, slight dacryphilia if you squint, implied multiple rounds, porn with feelings, good old unprotected sex + creampie, both Reader and Yuta are ultra possessive in their own toxic way <33

WC: 3.6k

Credits: my dearest @notveryrussian for proofreading this mess and doing a bit of rework on the tenses <33 the cannibalcore pics are from pinterest

Song rec: needles and pins by deftones and gibson girl by ethel cain both give a nice vibe to the fic as we slowly transition from Yuta's POV to Reader's POV

A/N: Can't believe I'm posting my first one shot here 🥹 After so many unsuccessful attempts to wrap up multichaptered fics, at least, this one messy smut got finished. My first ever finished fic 🥹 And the first to get completed in a relatively short time. Yes, a week is a short time for me. And happy holidays to y’all, this is gonna be the last fic in this year so expect only shitposts from me from now on lmao.

Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

Minors do not interact or else I'm gonna go apeshit, also a seperate warning for heavy dark content as usual. If there's anything mentioned in the tags that you're not comfortable with, this is not your fic.

Many sorcerers envy the title of special grade. Yuta thinks these people deserve a separate Naraka in Hell. They don’t realize the immense responsibility, they can’t fathom the challenges, the danger of the missions. The threat those curses pose. They only care about the power he carries.

During today’s mission, Yuta realized he’s not entirely an unstoppable force. Even someone like him is weak to certain fighting styles, he can’t counter everything with his wide range of copied techniques. This curse’s grade was well deserved. Whenever the katana slashed deep into it’s skin, a strange kind of gas was emitted from the wounds. Though he eventually exorcised the curse, he did breathe in the weird, sweet-smelling substance. The scent was hard to resist, it felt like the perfect mixture of all his favorite smells, inviting and comforting. However, he trusted his body to withstand the temptation, reinforced to near perfection with cursed energy and the usage of reversed cursed technique.

There was no problem until he finished reporting back to the higher ups and was on the way home. Maybe it was just the fatigue, the late summer heat, the humidity of the night but something made him feel weird. Almost sick. A thin veil of sweat glistened on his skin, his cheeks, ears and upper body were flushed. His chest was heaving, a burning, aching sensation tormented him between his legs, throbbing with a synced rhythm to his heartbeat. All his thoughts narrowed down to one single, inherently primal thing. A need. A hunger.

Shame and confusion swelled inside his chest. How can he lose his composure? How can he want it so badly? If he wasn’t so wired for monogamy, he would have fucked anyone who moved. And with every passing minute the feeling was getting worse. Descending slowly to the brink of madness. Hell, he was close to wheezing and growling like a rabid dog. He already had no patience to find the right key to the door. He could break that shit, he definitely could. He had no idea why, but he could stop himself from doing that. Maybe the insane price to get it fixed.

But the comfort of his home isn’t helping him. He can’t calm down, he can’t unwind. On the contrary, everything intensifies the strange urge in him to act territorial. But it’s only natural when he grew up feeling like he didn’t have anything he could call his own, whether it’s a material possession or a person. Every comprehensible thought vanished from his head. Leaving only the instincts. The need to claim. He immediately goes to the bedroom, not even bothering to have a quick shower or a light meal.

He gazes at your sleeping form, unknowing and peaceful. Innocent and vulnerable like a newborn lamb and he’s… he wouldn’t compare himself to a wolf, he’s a more vicious predator than that, all starved and keen on capturing its prey. Your limbs are thrown in every direction on the mattress, a thin, silk blanket barely concealing your body, but you’re hugging a some of it to your chest. Like you’re missing him, finding solace in the way the material is touching you. The windows are wide open, hoping that the night air can cool you down.

Yuta caught himself almost drooling at the sight. He can’t stop himself, he can’t fight the shameless thoughts plaguing him. The need, the want is stronger than what he deems right in the moment. His steps are quiet, that part of the floor that normally creaks is now completely silent. He looms over you, like a sinful, ungodly spirit, your very own kanashibari that’s bound to you. His weight is pressing down on the mattress ever so slightly, caging your form between his arms. He breathes in the smell of your freshly showered skin. A mixture of heady vanilla, milk and honey. He mindlessly licks a stripe up your thigh, wanting to taste you, to bite you, to tear out a big chunk of your flesh with his teeth to satisfy this torturous hunger he feels for you. More than anything he wants to devour you. Completely. Have you all for himself. The thought alone makes his dick so hard it’s outright painful.

He ascends towards your hips, leaving soft yet wet kisses that make you twitch in your sleep. Yuta swears that he’s more sensitive to all stimuli, his senses are working at their maximum capacity. He’s able to feel every morsel, every particle of you. The soft peach fuzz, the bumps, the ridges of your stretch marks, their pearl-like glistening texture flowing on the surface of your skin like a river. The material of your shorts, loose and thin, he can feel the seams on the band of your underwear through the fabric. Where the bones bend, where flesh folds. Your smell. Not just from the shower gel and the laundry detergent but your natural scent, so strong he believes it’s some kind of weird pheromone that’s driving him wild. To the point he almost considers nudging his nose between your legs, just like dogs do when they smell blood there.

Maybe it’s not entirely wrong to claim you this way. He can spare you from this more primal side of him, you won’t get to see it and despise him for it. It’s enough if he deals with the shame alone, self-deprecation is his ultimate talent afterall. But that can wait until after he finished soothing this excruciating itch. Because now the last remnant of his resolve goes out the window.

He pulls up your shirt all the way up to your chest. His shirt to be exact. It makes his heart flutter, a piece of him enveloping you, makes the boundaries between your sense of selves blend and blur. The thought of you using his stuff as your own feels so right, so promising.

He practically glues his face to the expanse of your stomach. The flesh is so soft between his teeth, feels so good to bite on it, so easy to suck on it until the skin turns a deep purple.

And maybe… maybe he can lower his crotch onto your knees. Just a little. Just for a little friction…

You stir, opening your eyes slowly, tiredness and confusion are still heavy on your expression. And then you feel teeth nipping at your stomach, fingers digging into the dips of your hips firmly, some wetness here and there along your leg.

Your first response is fear.

You start to squirm and fuss, kicking your legs up in the air, not even thinking about who’s doing this to you until Yuta grips your shoulders and pushes you back into the sheets, keeping you still by the weight of his own body, shushing you. You can feel his nails penetrating the skin, branding the crescent Moon itself into your flesh.

“It’s me, don’t panic.”

You’d recognize this voice anywhere, but you blinked a few times just to clear your vision. The striking white of his coat is easy to spot, even in the dimly lit darkness of the room.

“Yuta…?”

Your voice is an ode, a blessing. Even when it’s hoarse and faint after waking up. He bends down and kisses your temple, nuzzling into your hairline, breathing in your scent. His body feels oddly warm, almost overly so, radiating through you. Through your spine, to the very center of your being and that’s when you notice that you’re a little bit… hot and bothered. What has he done to you while you were asleep?

“I’m so sorry…” he whispers an apology. But his voice is just… it’s like his mind is not entirely here. Something is hurting him and he’s trying to conceal it. Barely. You can hear his voice is hitched from the deep breath he takes, in a futile affort to calm himself. “Have you been sleeping for long?”

He asks you for the sake of it, there’s no genuine interest behind it. Even if you were sleeping for hours, it wouldn’t stop him. He couldn’t stop. He genuinely feels like he’ll die if he can’t get it out of his system. He snuggles his face into the crook of your neck, listening to the rhythm of life coursing through your veins. The thought of puncturing your jugular with his teeth is so irresistible. He must do it… It’ll drive him insane if he won’t.

“N-not really.” your answer is weak, all your strength is used to move your arm freely, trying to locate your phone on the bedside table. The light coming from the screen almost blinds you as you’re checking the time. “I went to bed about… half an hour ago.”

He dips his fingers right into the hollow dips between your ribs, he kneads the skin in a way that has his nails slightly scratching you. And then you realize that you’re almost entirely topless.

He traps your earlobe with his teeth, sucking on the soft tissue.

“Y-Yuta…” your voice is more reprimanding that you want it to be. But your patience is starting to run thin. You want to know what the fuck is wrong with him, he never did anything like this before. Even if he’s horny as hell he would ask for your permission because that’s the way he is.

Instead of giving you an answer he bites your neck. Hard. It hurts, it makes you yelp. Shit, that’s gonna leave a mark. And he growls, just like a wild animal.

You squirm, you jolt, trying to get away from the source of your pain with a prolonged hiss. Only one hand of his is enough to stop you from fussing while the other fondles your chest. Your nipple is caught between his fingers, he twists it slightly. You can’t see it getting red, hard and swollen. His moves are awkward and tactless, but somehow they help with soothing the sharp pain in your neck. Your tensed body eases up a little.

He kicks the inner side of your knee with his own, creating a little space in between them, then forces your legs apart with one smooth movement. As he tries to settle right under your core, you feel him brushing the apex of your thigh.

He’s so painfully hard.

You’re sure he can read the instinctual reactions of your body. The rush of adrenaline, your pulse, how your heart is almost breaking your ribs with every beat. You’re getting more and more aware of your surroundings because you have no idea what will happen to you. He pins your wrists down on the bed. He doesn’t want you to escape.

What has gotten into him? Where’s your shy and gentle man, your sweet little angel? The one who needs so much guidance, who gets so awkward about his lack of experience compared to you. The one you need to encourage to talk about what he likes since you won’t judge him for it. Well, angels shouldn’t be benevolent and sweet, right? They’re the soldiers of god after all. And the depth of his psyche is still very much a mystery to you…

“I don’t want to hurt you… I just need you.”

He has no control over his own thoughts, everything on his mind gets blabbered out. Not just that he needs you, but that he wants to fuck you (he rarely uses that word so you’re even more baffled), that he wants to eat you up, bite for bite, digest you so nobody else can have you.

It sounds devoted yet utterly terrifying.

“You’re-“

He’s scary. Well, you knew this prior to crawling into his life. What people thought about him, one rumor more unhinged than the other and you have no idea how much truth there was to them. Everyone has some sort of admiration, respect for him or repulsion of him. You just tend to forget sometimes, how malicious his cursed energy feels, how his eyes never reflect the light, looking outright dead. But it’s all so contradictory to his personality… you know that you’re dear to him, he’s willing to risk everything for his friends, he’s so starved for connection, to carve himself a place within people’s hearts. You blamed the whole phenomenon on Rika. And you took pride in yourself, for taming a monster.

“I feel so…” he suspires, trying his best to contain himself. “… weird.”

And he’s a kind monster indeed, even now, controlling his impulses as he humps your thigh like a feral dog.

“I don’t know if I’m able to hold back, so I need to know….”

His voice is desperate, almost a plea. He’s afraid of himself too. With the last bit of his sanity, he wants to make sure that it’s alright for you, whatever he has in store for you.

You don’t protest.

His lips crash into yours in a violent, hungry kiss. Your teeth clang together, he shoves his entire tongue in your mouth. He grabs the hem of your shorts, peeling off anything that covers you below the waist. You hear the fabric tear. It’s the same with his own clothes too, in a few blinks of your eyes he’s already stark naked.

He takes your hand, pulls it towards him, you can feel him in your palm. So hot, hard and swollen to the touch. He closes your fingers around him and his hips start moving back and forth, fucking himself into your grip. You smear the precum along his length with your fingertips, squeezing lightly when you feel the base. It has him moaning, breathily, more vocal than he usually is. He’s so sensitive, his pace quickens and his voice is thinner, almost like a whimper.

And he groans. Unexpectedly. It bursts deep from his throat. You feel his cum pooling in your palm. Though you may be surprised, you don’t make a big deal about it. You search for tissues on the bedside table to clean your hand like nothing happened.

“Feelin’ okay?”

Your voice is calming, tender, it warms his heart but the mere sight of his cum on your hand makes the blood rush to his dick again.

You sit up to caress his face. You open your mouth to question him, but he won’t let you start your aftercare routine.

“It’s… not enough.”

He grabs your thigh, hooking your leg over his shoulder, giving him better access to your naked core. Your back falls onto the mattress again.

“I’ll take care of you.”

It’s a promise, you’re sure of it.

His fingertips sink into your folds, relief ripples through him when he finds them already wet. He goes all out on you, his thumb circles your clit and two fingers dip in at your entrance, waiting to loosen you up so they can be pushed inside. His nails gently caress your inner thigh, it’s a tickling sensation, goosebumps dot your skin, a sigh dies on your lips. Treating it as a sign, his fingers start stretching your walls. They curl and curl inside you to the point of the cold band of his ring touching your folds, your essence soiling the stainless metal. The symbol of the haunting spirit of his first love. Childish love that it is, unserious, all just a game. The promises… the word forever holds no weight. Or maybe it does but they have no idea how hard it is to maintain those vows.

Can you ever compare to Rika in his eyes? Have the same effect over him? You don’t dare to talk about it just yet. No, the nature of your relationship is not the same. Childhood love is not like adult love, you just want some reassurance. You want to feel important.

And your reassurance is soaking that wretched finger with your juices. Make that wretched ring yours. He spreads his fingers inside you, scissoring you apart, eagerly working to prepare you. You’re holding onto the sheets and the pillows desperately, your body feels so volatile you might as well float away.

When he pulls out you feel hollow, incomplete. But he won’t keep you waiting long. The head of his cock feels like salvation. Scorching hot and wet with the mixed arousal. And he completes you with one smooth thrust. You’re whole, fulfilled, a merged existence worth suffering over. He’s throbbing deep within your walls, pulsating through your nerves. You can’t tell if the noise coming out of him is a moan, a whine, or a growl, you only know that it’s bordering on bestial. Filled with need, an ache, coupled with something beyond your comprehension.

He drills into you, there’s so much strength and resilience in him, it almost makes you scared. But something else also swells inside your chest. An unknown kind of excitement, a thrill, it makes you feverish, wired. The dissonance between his absolutely feral state and the fact that he’d never hurt you. Or maybe he would, in a way that you’d like it. Nobody could bite through your throat with such force that your windpipe breaks, only him, him and no one else.

He holds you at the back of your pelvic bone, lifts you up in an utterly perfect angle. You mewl him that it feels so good, so perfect, so raw. You love this feeling so much. You get completely lost and immersed in it.

“…it?”

His voice is faint yet his broken self-worth shines through it. Poor soul… You didn’t pay attention to his most important desire. He’s a parasite living off of your kind words, but nothing can make him as blissful as knowing you love him, despite everything he despises about himself. And you’ll feed him. Prove it to him that he matters more than the things he does to you.

“Oh Yuta, my sweet…” the rest of the sentence gets stuck in your throat as you open your arms and he crashes into your embrace like a lost, lonely puppy. You hug him tightly, brushing through his locks with a free hand. The sweat makes the strands stick together. “Of course I love you, don’t be silly.”

He might as well have been a puppy in his previous life. And now your words eased his guilt about his temporary condition. He gained your forgiveness.

What he does next is much more instinctual. He folds you in half, where your knees bend, is pressed right against his traps, your heels graze the middle of his back. Now his thrusts have weight, uncovering spots that even you had no idea that existed inside of you. Tears of joy prickle in your eyes, calling upon whatever deity’s name you can think of, off the top of your head. You can swear his pace increases at the sight. It’s so intense a broken cry erupts from your throat.

He thrusts right into a sweet spot, which has you melting and trembling. Please is the only word your lips can form. At this point, you couldn’t care less about the lewd sounds of your skin slapping together or the squelching noises that make the whole act sloppy, shameless and primal, you only want to reach your peak, and you’re not far from it as you’re clenching around him with a rhythm that you have no control over.

It crashes, it ruptures, sudden, sharp and hot like an electric spark. A scream empties your lungs, but Yuta muffles it with sealing his mouth onto yours. You feel yourself getting filled as you’re convulsing around his length.

After he fucks you through your orgasm you feel yourself shaking, your whole body is limp, numb, drifting slowly to sleep. You’re both soaked in sweat, your bodies stick together but there’s a need to bond further in each other’s embrace. You plant a kiss between his locks, praising him, telling him you love him. Satisfaction clouds your mind, like a soft, pillowy pink mist.

However, his cock is still not soft.

“I have no idea what has gotten into you.” you tell him, marveling, as you’re still catching on your breath. “I like it though, but you owe me an explanation.”

He handles you gently, like you’re some precious thing, made from glass, fragile. Your body is like a ragdoll’s, he has you lying on your stomach, lazily, flatly, you might as well fuse together with the mattress. Calloused fingers are drawing nonfigurative shapes on your shoulder blades.

“I’ll tell you right after we finish.”

Your blood runs cold for a moment.

“Again? Yuta, for the love of god I’m exhausted.” you whine.

He apologetically kisses your spine.

“Just this one, okay? Please? I’ll do all the work, I’ll make it quick. You only need to relax, you can sleep even.”

You want to tell him that sounds a little bit creepy, but you don’t have the strength to talk. He kisses the two shallow dimples right above your tailbone. His gaze lingers on your folds, admiring how red and swollen you are.

“If you manage to make me cum again, you deserve a fucking award.” you comment, face nuzzled into the pillow, your voice is obviously snarky.

You can feel teeth sinking into the flesh of your asscheek. The mark that is burning on your neck found it’s pair. He presses down your overly sensitive clit with his thumb, balancing the pain out with pleasure. But it gets overstimulated so easily, you feel the need to bite the pillow.

You brace yourself with a deep breath through your nose. You’re going to pay him back next time, you promise yourself that you’ll make a begging, crying mess out of him, and the thought makes you chuckle.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #yuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #do not perceive me please idk how I came up with the whole cannibalcore pipeline #yuta okkotsu x you #jjk x reader #meesa writes

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coffeeshades · 3 months ago

Text

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART XI

—this must be the place

summary: two idiots who got their shit together and now love each other unconditionally.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). filthy smut, p in v, unprotected sex, lots of fluff, cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello besties, dual pov so watch out for that, and reminding everyone this is a work of fiction so just sit back and relax and enjoy! but if this isn't your thing, move along :)

masterlist!

January 18th, 2024

Los Angeles, CA

January was a whirlwind. Awards season came faster than either of you could’ve anticipated. After years of grueling work, both of you were at the pinnacle of your careers. The Golden Globes were just the beginning, and somehow, you found yourself receiving best actress nods at every award show that followed. Each time your name was announced, you were stunned—as if each award was a surprise gift wrapped in disbelief.

Pedro? He was right there beside you, proud, beaming, like he’d won every accolade himself.

And in a way, he had.

The Emmys came next. Pedro was dressed like a hot English teacher—a title you bestowed on him while posing for photos on the carpet. He blushed at your words, but his imagination clearly ran wild through the entire ceremony. You’d catch his mind drifting, the corners of his mouth twitching with thoughts you could only guess.

But when the time came, he lost his category. You turned to him with an exaggerated sad face, eyes wide, and before he could even fake another mournful look, you took his face between your hands and whispered in his ear, “You might be an Emmy loser, but you’re my Emmy loser, baby.”

He chuckled softly, a mix of amusement and adoration, his hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing absentmindedly. “Maybe we can celebrate the loss later,” he teased, and you grinned, your shared laughter barely masked by the applause surrounding you.

February 25th, 2024

Los Angeles, CA

Pedro wore Prada that night. A crisp white button-down shirt, half the buttons undone, his chest peeking through like a prince stepping off a ship in some romantic novel. His hair was so much longer, curling softly around his ears, a curl decorating his forehead, and when you both arrived, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

“You look dreamy,” you’d whispered, your hand lingering on his arm.

You shared a tequila shot for luck before the ceremony, a ritual that seemed to work for both of you. When Pedro’s name was called, you watched in awe as he walked up to the stage, shock evident on his face. He was adorable, overwhelmed, and completely unprepared, but still effortlessly funny.

"And thank you to my love for being my biggest supporter," he said during his speech, eyes finding you in the crowd. "I love you."

The audience roared with laughter as he joked about having a panic attack. You covered your face with your hands, laughing with him, but your heart swelled with pride. When your category came not long after, you got up there, thanked everyone, and finished with, “And last but not least, thank you to now SAG Award winner Pedro Pascal for also being my biggest supporter."

Later that night, you posted a picture of the two of you holding your statuettes, captioning it, “a couple of winners,” a nod to the moment and your shared triumph.

March had rolled faster than anticipated. The Oscars themselves were here, and there you were, sitting in the middle of Hollywood’s most glamorous circus, your name announced as a Best Actress nominee. The whole thing was surreal—like, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming kind of surreal.

Pedro sat next to you, gripping your hand for dear life. He had been holding it for the last half hour, unable to let go, which made you wonder if he was comforting you or himself. Maybe both.

You gave him a quick glance. He was calm on the outside, but you could tell by the subtle way his thumb kept moving over your knuckles that his nerves were bubbling underneath too. You squeezed his hand back, your silent way of saying, Hey, we got this, right? Though, in truth, you weren’t sure who “we” were anymore. You hadn’t breathed since they started announcing the nominees.

And then it came—the moment. The envelope opened, the pause, the suspense that felt like it dragged on for an eternity, and then... someone else’s name. Not yours.

The applause in the room felt both deafening and distant, like you were watching it all through a fog. You let out the breath you’d been holding since they called your name and tried to steady yourself. You smiled, clapping for the winner because, hey, they deserved it. But inside, you were thinking, Well, damn.

Before you could even process the mix of relief and mild disappointment, Pedro turned to you. His eyes were gentle but mischievous, the exact combination that both made you feel better and also a little nervous. He tilted his head, looking at you like he was about to drop the world’s most important line.

“You might be an Oscar loser,” he said, grinning that cheeky grin of his, “but you’re my Oscar loser.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing, because of course he would say that. But he leaned in and kissed your forehead, so sweet and sincere, that you felt your heart melt just a little. Leave it to him to make losing feel like a win.

You rolled your eyes, more at how much you loved him than anything else. “Nice one, P. I feel so much better now,” you teased, shaking your head.

"You did the same to me; I had to."

"That's just cruel."

You elbowed him, laughing despite everything. Because at the end of the day, you realized something—you hadn’t lost at all. You were sitting there with the person who made you laugh when you needed it most, who held your hand through the stress and teased you when you least expected it. And that, as far as you were concerned, was the best kind of win.

•••

The next few months were filled with so much love and so much laughter. Pedro went with you to every concert you had scheduled, sitting backstage or in the crowd with your friends, watching you command the stage. It became your new routine, traveling to different cities with Pedro beside you for each show.

June arrived, and with it, Pedro’s filming schedule kicked back into full gear. This time, though, it was a little different. Instead of the usual months of long-distance calls and late-night texts across time zones, he was filming in New York. That meant he came home every night to your shared brownstone.

It felt wonderfully domestic.

One evening, you were curled up on the couch, the windows open to let in a soft breeze. You could hear Pedro moving around in the kitchen, humming to himself as he tried to figure out what to make for dinner. He had arrived early today and insisted on taking care of it. The scent of garlic and olive oil was already beginning to fill the room.

You smiled to yourself, getting up to join him. “Need some help, Chef?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him stir something in a pan, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He looked up, a grin spreading across his face when he saw you. “I’m handling it. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking over to peek into the pan. “Uh-huh, that’s what you said last time."

“Okay, first of all, I told you that was ‘blackened’ for flavor,” he shot back, pointing the spatula at you. “And second, tonight’s different. I’m on it.”

You laughed, moving closer and slipping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back. “Mmm, smells good though. Maybe I’ll give you a pass this time.”

He leaned into your embrace, his free hand coming up to hold yours around his middle. “Only a pass?” he teased, turning his head slightly to catch your eye. “I was aiming for full marks.”

“You’ll have to earn that,” you replied, your voice playful as you squeezed him tighter. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

He twisted around in your arms to face you, a mock-serious expression on his face. “You are looking at a masterful creation of... stir-fry.”

“Fancy.”

“Very. It’s gourmet,” he said with a grin, pulling you closer. “It’s got vegetables and everything.”

You couldn’t help but laugh; the ease between you was just so comfortable.

It wasn’t about the food or the dinner itself—it was about the quiet rhythm of life you’d found together, the simple joy of these little moments. The kind of comfort that only comes from knowing someone so well and loving every bit of it.

As the food sizzled away on the stove, Pedro pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand still resting on your back. “I like this,” he murmured.

“What, my expert critique of your cooking? Because I can keep going."

He laughed softly. “No, I mean…this. Us. Coming home to you every night. It feels right.”

A smile spread across your face as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, his eyes soft as he looked at you. “I could get used to this.”

“Well,” you said, grinning as you stood on your toes to kiss him, “good thing you’re stuck with me.”

He kissed you back, his lips warm and familiar, lingering just long enough to make you lose your train of thought. “Best decision I ever made,” he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer.

You smiled into the kiss, feeling the warmth of him seep into you, grounding you in the moment.

“Alright, mister. Let’s eat before your gourmet stir-fry turns into another ‘blackened’ creation.”

“Noted,” he laughed, turning back to the stove with you still wrapped around him.

July 25th, 2024

San Diego, California

The morning had a slowness to it that Pedro liked.

The two of you were still wrapped up in the sheets, limbs intertwined in a comfortable, familiar tangle. The sunlight crept lazily through the curtains. He felt your body stir next to his, your warmth pulling him further out of sleep. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, soft kisses trailing across your skin, while his fingers lazily traced patterns on your back.

"You nervous for today?" you asked, your voice still sleepy but carrying a smile that he could hear.

Pedro groaned slightly, his morning voice raspy. "A little," he admitted, his face half-buried in the pillow.

"You’ll be great. They’re going to eat you up," you said, teasing but reassuring, your lips brushing his neck. "Anything I can do to help?"

He smirked, his eyes still closed as his hand found its way down the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Actually, yeah… I’ve got a couple ideas."

You laughed, straddling him, your hair falling over your face as you leaned down for a slow, lingering kiss. The kind of kiss that promised more, the kind that was a language only the two of you spoke. Pedro’s hands moved with familiarity, tracing the lines of your body as if he were memorizing you all over again.

He discarded yours and his clothes too. Your perfect breasts in his face as soon as you straddled him again, knees on either side of his thighs as you sat down on his cock. His head fell back on the soft pillow as you dug your nails into his broad shoulders.

For a while, it was just your steady breathing as you rode him, smooth and constant. Your moans—a delicious symphony to his ears—filled the room, mingling with his own groans of pleasure. And then both of your movements became more urgent, and he held you down to his chest, his lips finding yours in a hungry kiss.

"Fuck," he cursed, his hands gripping your back tightly as he pushed himself deeper inside you.

"Need-need you deeper."

He heard you say, and with a low growl, he complied. "Lay down."

You quickly got on your front, head turned to the side, ass in the air, and he entered you from behind. He filled you, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, stretching you in the most delicious way.

"Yes, yes, yes."

It fueled him to see you and hear you so fucked out and desperate for more.

"Goddamn," he breathed, pulling out before gliding in again, this time a little harder, a little deeper. He repeated the motion several times, each time pushing you into the bed harder and harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. It's filthy. His hands dug into your hips. Your moans grew louder—consuming him, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You were close; he could tell by the way you were clenching around him. He cannot take it anymore. It's stupidly, brilliantly too good. Too intoxicating. He leans forward, chest pressed against your back, skin slick with sweat. "Come for me, baby."

He sees your eyes go blank as you reach your peak, your body shuddering with pleasure. The sight of you unraveling beneath him pushes him over the edge, and he follows right after you, his hips turning erratic, heat spreading inside him, and his release mixing with yours.

You don't move, and neither does he. He stays buried deep inside you, both of you trying to catch your breath and come back down from the euphoric high you just experienced together. The only sound in the room is heavy breathing and the occasional whisper of a kiss against your skin.

•••

Later, the chaos of Comic-Con surrounded him, but Pedro was good at playing it cool, even if he didn't really feel like it. He’d been in the industry long enough to know how to handle the intensity of the spotlight, but today, something felt a little more electrified. It could’ve been the crowds, but as soon as you arrived and caught sight of him, you couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Oh my god, what did Marvel give you?” you said, grinning up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “You look ten years younger—I’m scared.”

Pedro chuckled, turning a little and glancing down at himself. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, babe. You know that.”

"Right. Smoke, mirrors, and a little bit of Marvel magic."

You stole a quick kiss. "I'll be right here when you're done, P."

He loved how you could always ease him with just a few words. No matter the situation, no matter how chaotic or overwhelming things got, you had this way of cutting through the noise and grounding him. It was something he never took for granted, especially in moments like this—before the whirlwind, when he needed to remember who he was underneath it all.

"Now, get out there and win them over, handsome."

•••

Summer turned into fall; life became a blend of filming and fleeting moments of domestic bliss.

Pedro’s schedule took him to London for Fantastic Four, and you had your own projects to attend to, which meant falling back into the familiar rhythm of long-distance. It was tough—long nights filled with texts and video calls, stolen moments across time zones—but somehow, the two of you made it work. You'd promised you would.

One night, as you lay together in bed before your next trip, he whispered, “I’d rather have you 3 days a year than anyone else all the time.”

You smiled.

Weeks later, Pedro went back to New York after a short break and found solace in the little routines.

He loved coming home to you.

He found himself doing little things for you. He’d never been much of a "chores guy," but there was something solid about washing dishes while you hummed in the next room, or folding laundry. It made up for the time he spent away, the guilt he sometimes carried for being gone so much. Doing these little things felt like his way of making sure you always knew how much he loved you, even when he wasn’t physically there.

One night, after a particularly long day for you, you flopped into bed. He was finishing brushing his teeth in the bathroom. As he walked into the bedroom, he noticed the exhaustion in your eyes. You were sprawled out on the bed, your blouse slightly rolled up. He pressed a knee against the edge of the bed and hovered over you.

You looked up at him, your voice a soft whisper. “You’re the only calm thing in my life.”

Pedro’s heart swelled at that, his mouth instinctively forming a smile. “And you’re the best kind of chaos in mine,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. But beneath the joke was something deeper—a truth he felt in every fiber of his being. You had become his home.

He crawled back down slowly, peppering you with gentle kisses along your neck and sternum. You unbuttoned your blouse as he continued to trail kisses down your body. Each one a promise.

He bit your hip playfully, leaving a faint mark, and when the red faded, he did it again.

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. “Always leaving your signature.”

“All part of the service."

•••

As fall settled, Pedro found himself reflecting on everything that had led him to this moment—this life he had built with you. All his lonely days, all the times he had doubted whether love like this would ever find him, seemed like a distant memory now. Everything he had been through had led him to this.

And there wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t grateful.

As he watched you move around the London flat he had rented, his home for the next few months, catching you mid-laugh or lost in your own world, he felt whole. Complete. Every piece of his life had finally fallen into place.

And he knew, without a doubt, that there would never be a time when he had enough of you. You were his everything, and he would always come back.

Always.

a/n: the end!! sad because i'm gonna miss them so much :( but happy to have finished this the right way. thank you everyone who reads, likes, reblogs and leaves a kind message <3

#pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #love is complicated fic #pedro pascal fluff #my writing #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you

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ruporas · 2 years ago

Photo

a conversation about scars

[ID: A Trigun comic. Vash is shirtless with his back to the viewer, showing off his many scars and metal implants. He complains, “Oh, c’mon... The shirt got stuck... Argh.” Wolfwood’s finger pokes him at the base of his neck, and Vash exclaims, “Ack! Wolfwood!?”

Wolfwood, looking down, asks, “Does it ever hurt?” Vash’s eyes go wide with surprise, and he looks down and says, “No-- Sometimes they ache, but nothing unbearable.” Wolfwood kisses the back of his neck and then leans against Vash, silent as Vash cheerfully laughs, “Got it! It’s free, finally!”

Wolfwood still looks sad, and Vash turns back and smiles nervously to ask, “What is it?” Hand over the grate over Vash’s heart, Wolfwood says, “... I was just thinking it would’ve been better had I met you sooner.” He hugs Vash from behind, and the background goes dark.

“If I were with you earlier, I’d been able to stop you from making dumb decisions. And protect you when you do.” Wolfwood’s expression is heavy as he looks down Vash’s back and says, “Then you’d at least have less of these.” He puts his face against Vash’s back, and Vash, mouth tight, thinks, “.. When he puts it like that... It’s so embarrassing somehow...”

Vash moves away and says forcefully, “But-- I don’t want you to protect me. Because then-- you’d get hurt.” Wolfwood angrily replies, “Huh? Are you forgetting-- Scars don’t last on me!” Vash angrily exclaims “Idiot!” and grabs Wolfwood’s collar.

Wolfwood, irate, goes, “Idiot!?” but Vash pulls down Wolfwood’s shirt as he leans their foreheads together. He exclaims, “I meant up here!” Vash looks upset and says, “Just because your body won’t leave anything-- doesn’t mean nothing every happened!”

Wolfwood grits his teeth as Vash continues, “So don’t say that-- I can take care of myself and I... wouldn’t want you to be burdened any-- mh?!” He breaks off with a loud sound of surprise when Wolfwood pulls him forward to kiss him.

Scowling very fiercely, Wolfwood demands, “Don’t call yourself my burden. That’s up to me!” Vash, flushed and scowling back with one hand raised to his mouth, shouts, “That’s what you’re upset about?!” For a second, they stay in the same positions, Vash braced over Wolfwood as they glare at each other, both labeled “upset.”

Then Vash turns somber and says, “These scars don’t bother me at all and I own responsibility for them... And... at least, I can count mines.” Wolfwood looks away as Vash touches his hair and says, “What about you?”

They lie down, Vash on top of Wolfwood as he says sadly, “I’m never going to know how many times you’ve been shot, how many times you had to drink that potion. (You won’t even tell me how it works...).” There’s a close up panel of Wolfwood’s eyes, tired and guilty, and Vash continues, “Don’t focus on me now... Please just protect yourself first.” Wolfwood responds, “You have to consider yourself first too.” Vash says, “This isn’t about me,” and Wolfwood argues, “Yes it is.” Vash says, “Nuh uh.”

There’s a final cartoony panel of them against white space: Vash pouting with annoyance at a ticked Wolfwood. Their next speech bubbles hover in white. Wolfwood aggravatedly shouts, “Listen to your own advice!”, and Vash exclaims, “Ack--! Don’t get mad, Wolfwood!!” “Fin” is written next to a donut and lollipop.

At the very bottom of the page is a cartoony sketch titled “Alt to p.4″. Vash presses their heads together and shouts, “I meant up here!” Wolfwood looks down with confusion at his bare chest. Vash looks down too, sweating. Wolfwood, squinting, says, “My ch--” but Vash cuts him off with a shrieked, “NO!!” End ID]

credits for ID text

#vashwood #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #nicolas d wolfwood #trigun #trigun maximum #trimax #HUAUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #some text are in the captions #as much as i could fit them anyway #ruporas art

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lucasfigaredo · 11 days ago

Text

Hiii~

This will be my last Sorvus drawing for the year! It was very difficult for me to do it bc I was sad about the uncertainty of Arc 3. Let's hope for the best for TDP

Btw, just in case, a few days ago I saw one of my sorvus fanart on Pinterest, even though the person gave me credits on the title; they literally hide my signature (at least they tried). Please don’t repost my art and definitely don’t delete my signature! (U can use them in a video/collage with credits but not as the only piece)

#the dragon prince soren #soren x corvus #sorvus #the dragon prince #tdp #digital drawing #draw #drawing #cartoon #dibujo

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empress-simps · 10 months ago

Note

for remus, maybe a fic where he has a crush on fem!slytherin reader, and maybe the rest of the gang disapproves (at least initially) because of the silly house rivalry between gryffindor and slytherin? hopefully they’ll warm up to her because she’s actually really sweet and likes remus back, and they see how good for him she is :)

Hi darlingg! Thank you for this request, this is so adorable, and it was so fun to write :) I somehow made it a bit angsty...sorry about that I got carried away. Hope you enjoy! Pictures are from pinterest, credits to the owner!

Beyond The Surface

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Fem! Slytherin! Reader CW: Sirius being dramatic, Remus getting angry, and Language

He never really planned to fall in love. Remus thinks it would be better if he just lives his life in solitude; away from the confusing and complicated world of romantic relationships.

He doesn’t think anyone should bear the responsibility of having a werewolf boyfriend. Remus wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he even touched a single hair on your body during that time, he desperately tries to convince himself that his friends and their future children will be enough to warm his heart who secretly yearns to have his own family.

‘It’s for the best, they wouldn’t suffer because of me.’ Remus thought, being the selfless person he was. Although, his plans that he so desperately tried to put up all came crumbling down when you came into the picture.

He didn’t think of it much at first. Remus thought it was just a simple crush that would go away in about three days or so. He was completely wrong.

“Remus Lupin, right? I’m Y/n Rosier, we’re assigned partners in potions.”

You sat beside him, beaming a smile that Remus was certain you were a gift for him from the Gods above. Merlin- you were simply breath taking. That was the first time he felt butterflies on his stomach, feeling his cheeks heat up as you offered a handshake.

“N-nice to meet you, Rosier.” He took your soft hands into his rough, and scarred ones. Shaking it as he desperately tries to ignore the sparks that seemed to go off inside him. Your face grimaced as your last name rolled off his tongue.

“Y/n is fine.” Remus nods, noticing your reaction. He was wondering how someone like you managed to survive other annoying Slytherins as your housemates.

“Alright then, Y/n. Call me Remus, yeah?”

That marks the beginning of an unlikely friendship of a Gryffindor half-blood with a Slytherin pure blood.

“Shall we begin?”

“Alright, but you lead. My skills are no good in potion making.” He jokes, making a small chuckle escape your throat. “I am quite aware.” She teases.

Being partnered with him for a Potions project meant that you would often meet up in the library, spending long hours sitting beside each other in silence, flipping page after page as Remus occasionally puts back books but returning with 5 more.

“Remmy, look here.” You pointed, not noticing how Remus blushed at his newfound nickname as he leaned to your seat, placing one arm on the back of your chair, his tall frame nearly engulfing you as he reads the contents of the page you found interesting.

He suddenly pales, his eyes transfixed on the title of the page. “Wolfsbane potion…” He whispers, eyes scanning the page quickly before looking at you. You hummed, flipping into another page to see how to make the said potion.

“Right, I figured we should make this for our project. What do you think? I think Polyjuice potion is a tad bit boring, hm?” She mused, seeking his opinion on the matter.

Remus parted his mouth to speak, yet the words seem to vanish at the back of his throat. You shot him a worried look, “Do you not like it? You could say so, don’t pretend nothing is wrong, Remmy.”

He blinks, trying to compose himself. “Ah, no-nothing’s wrong. It’s just that…”

You raised your eyebrows curiously, urging him to continue. “What? You know someone who’s a werewolf?” She jokes, trying to lighten the atmosphere as she lightly elbows him.

“I do.” He chokes out, the confession was unexpected, even to him. Remus doesn’t even know why on Earth he’s about to tell you one of his darkest and deepest secrets. It was probably because of your warm and inviting aura. It’s like you wouldn’t judge anyone based on first impressions, appearance, and what you’ve heard about them until you can see for yourself.

Remus felt like he could trust you, and his instincts are almost never wrong.

“Well, maybe the potion we’ll brew can help them?” You offered a smile.

“It certainly would be of help to me.”

You stilled; your hand that was about to get your quill hovered as you looked at him in shock.

“You’re a werewolf?” You whispered quietly; eyes that were surprised stared into his nervous, amber ones. Remus could only nod, an inkling doubt and regret slowly crept up to him. Did he make the right decision? Was he wrong this time? Would you hold it against him?

Your face turned serious, clasping his hand on the table with yours, you looked at him in the eye. “Your secret is safe with me; I would never tell it to anyone. If it helps, I will even make an unbreakable vow, Remus.”

He widened his eyes, “N-no! It’s alright, I trust you, Y/n.” You visibly relaxed, smiling lightly, squeezing his hand, a soft look was sent his way.

“Thank you for trusting me, Remus. If you’d like, I’ll brew you a supply of wolfsbane from time to time.”

If Remus wasn’t in love before that, he certainly is now.

“Out of all the people you could’ve chose to like it was a Rosier?!” Sirius screeched, a horrified look on his face as he grabbed Remus’s shoulder and looked at him straight in the eyes. The said boy frowned “What about it?”

Sirius blanched, “Are you daft, Moons?” He threw his hands up in the air, looking at the rest of the marauders and Lily, wanting them to side with him. Lily’s lips pressed into a thin line; she does not quite agree with Sirius but there’s still a possibility. It doesn’t help the fact that you are a Slytherin; the house that reeks of cunning pure-blooded wizards.

Peter looked anywhere to just not meet the eyes of Remus, clearly uncomfortable. While James frowned, a troubled look on his face as he clasped Lily’s hand. “The Rosier family… they’re not exactly known for their…,” he started, but Sirius cut him off.

“Rosiers are evil! Slytherins! Pureblood Supremacists! Death Eaters!”

Remus frowns, reading the room and the reactions of his friends. The message was clear without words: none of them supported Remus’s interest in a Slytherin, a Rosier no less.

“Give her a chance, she’s different.” Remus tried to make his friends listen to him. Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes. James sighed, looking at Remus. “Moony, it’s just… We never thought you would fancy a Slytherin.” Remus pursed his lips, “Yeah, I never thought you and Lily would end up together but here we are.” James grimaced at his words.

“There’s tons of girls who fancy you, Moony.” Peter tells him. Remus frowned, feeling annoyance stir inside him. “They’re not her, Wormtail. All I’m saying is that Lily and you blokes should give her a chance before you make assumptions.” He spat, glaring at Sirius before leaving the room.

“Rem? Mon amour, what’s wrong?” She frowns, placing her book down as Remus entered the library, heading straight to her usual place but the window. Remus sighs, shaking his head. He couldn’t possibly tell you what happened, how Sirius thought you were just those pesky Slytherins they pull pranks on.

“They do not like me.” She stated, looking down with a frown as she fiddled with her thumbs.

“Honey, it’s not your fault.”

“I know, amour.”

Remus felt his lips press into a thin line, gently taking your hands in his, trying to stop your nervous habit. “They’re still wrapping their heads around it. They’ll come around, don’t worry about it love.” You sighed shakily, “I hope so.”

Remus traced shapes across the back of her hand, “Anything interesting happened today?”

“Evan and I got into a fight; said I was a blood traitor…” You trailed off, noticing how Remus’s jaw tightened and his stare hardened. “But it was alright, we made up. He just told me to be careful.” To say Remus was surprised was an understatement. “He couldn’t be angry at his twin sister for a long time.” She smiles.

“Black! What the fuck did you do?!” Remus roars, grabbing a fistful of the said boy’s shirt, pushing him against the wall as James tried to pull him off, “Come on, Moons-“

“Don’t bloody touch me, James!” He bellows, pushing off the Potter boy who stumbled away, shock evident in his features. Peter quickly got up from his bed, “Moony, why are you so angry? What did he do?” He drops shoves Sirius off as he stared at his friends.

“It was you guys who pulled a prank on her right? “Remus’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears, pointedly looking at Sirius. “Well congratulations, she’s being treated by Madame Pomfrey right now.”

Sirius felt shame and guilt ate him up. The prank was never supposed to go that far.

“Ever wondered why I was suddenly so calm during the full moon? It’s all thanks to her. She makes me batches of wolfsbane potion every month, without fail.”

James choked, “You told her?”

“I did”

“What if she tells everyone?” Peter frowns, concerned for Remus.

“If she wanted to, then the whole school would’ve already known, she even suggested an unbreakable vow.” Remus uttered out, sitting at his bed, looking away from them “Some kind of friends you guys are. I care about her, and if you hurt her, you hurt me too.”

Sirius cautiously approached him, “Moons, I’m sorry.” He began. James placed a hand on his shoulder, “I know, we’re knobheads. Sorry, Moony.” Peter nods, “We messed up, it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to her.”

“We will, Moony.”

An hour has passed after you got treated by Madame Pomfrey, you wanted to leave as you already felt alright but she insisted you stay for an hour or two just so she could monitor you. Having no choice but to oblige.

“Love?” Your ears perked up, the sound of Remus’ voice calling out to you. You turned and smiled at his direction, although suddenly dropping it as you saw the rest of the Marauders and Lily following him.

Trying to alleviate the awkward atmosphere, Sirius pulls out a bouquet of flowers. “Remus told us you like Tulips…” You were about to take it but stopped, James seemed to notice this. “It’s not jinxed, or anything like that.” You bit your lip, silently looking at Remus as if asking was it safe, he nods. “I was there when they picked it out love.” You finally took the bouquet, nodding gratefully. “Thank you.”

“We wanted to say we were sorry.” James started; Lily nodded. “It was quite shameful that we made such accusations and judged you before even getting to know you.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n. We…we were just looking out for Moony.” Sirius sighed; shame visible in his features.

“I understand, I probably would have done the same. I’d also look out for the people I care about.” You softly replied. “It’s okay, I forgive all of you.” You looked at them.

James stepped forward, “We hope you can give us a chance to make it up to you.” Sirius cleared his throat, “And maybe, if you’re up for it, join us for a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks?” His attempt at a smile was hopeful.

Your lips curved into a genuine smile, your body slowly becoming relaxed. “I’d like that,”

#remus x reader #remus fluff #moony x reader #remus lupin x reader #remus x y/n #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #remus lupin #james and lily #james potter #sirius black #marauders era #harry potter #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic

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whatdoeseverybodywant · 5 months ago

Text

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

❤ Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

All OC Characters belong to me

Summary: He's been gone for 4 months. 118 days without a phone call or a text. What happens when he finally shows back up to work? Will he give Kaela the answers she's looking for?

Parings: Roman Reigns x Black OC

Word Count: 2.2k

EDIT: I Forgot to give props to my girl @paigereeder ! She helped me out tremendously! Without her, this jawn would not have gotten done lmao.

youtube

Friday Night Smackdown August 2nd, 2024

Where will you go now? Now that you're done with me Where will you go now? Now that you're done with me

Kalea Crawford stared down at her phone in shock. She could feel Jade and Bianca's gaze on her so she tried to school her features but the bold headline at the top of the page made her furrow her eyebrows. She felt like she was about to throw up.

“Girl, are you okay?” Jade asked, her voice filled with concern.

“I’m fine,” Kalea replied a little too quickly, her eyes still focused on the phone. All three women knew it was a lie though. Kalea was anything but ‘fine’. If there was a word to describe how Kalea felt it was devastated. The longer she stared at the tweet the more she wanted to scream in frustration and anger. How could he do this to her?

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” Bianca spoke up this time.

“It’s been a while.” Bianca and Jade shared a look.

“How long is ‘a while’?” Jade pressed.

“I was giving him time, you know? He’s been dealing with so much these past couple of months, and I just thought.” Kalea trailed off with a shrug.

“Lele -”

“The day after Wrestlemania.” She kept her eyes cast downwards so as not to see the disappointed look on Jade and Bianca’s faces.

“Wrestlema- Girl that was four months ago!”

“I know,” Kalea whispered. She knew it was dumb but like she said, she was giving him time. He had just lost the Universal Title and had a bunch of personal shit going on. Every time she texted him, he either responded with one-word answers or he didn’t respond at all.

I don't blame you You should be done with me I don't blame you You should be done with me

Was it naive of her to think he was still her boyfriend after not speaking for four months, Yes. But, she was in love. Kalea finally looked up, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I just didn’t want to push him,” she admitted softly. “I thought he needed space to figure things out.”

Jade shook her head in disbelief. "Lele, I get trying to be understanding and all, but this is next level. Four months without a single proper conversation? That's not space, that's practically radio silence."

Kalea let out a humorless chuckle as she looked back at the pictures of Roman and his ex-wife. “Well, at least now I know why he hasn’t been answering my calls.”

“You don’t deserve this,” Jade whispered and Bianca nodded, agreeing with her. “You are a bad bitch! You can get any man in here that you want.”

“Aht!” Bianca cut Jade off, holding up her index finger. “Not any man.” Kalea laughed as she wiped away her tears.

“Girl, you know what I meant. Don’t nobody want Kenneth's ass but you.” Jade pushed Bianca’s shoulder. “Anyway, fuck Roman.”

I should've waited somehow I shouldn't have pushed so hard I always push too hard And now it's just a blackout

Kalea was grateful for her girls, but in the back of her mind, there was this nagging thought that his ghosting her was all her fault. She should have waited. She should have peeped game. Maybe if she had kept her mouth shut she would have been the one in his arms at the beach.

What the fuck was she thinking? Why had she sent him that fucking text message? She kept replaying the moment she hit send on that message, wishing she could take it back. He had already told her not not fall in love with him, but how couldn’t she?

“Unh-Uh. No!” Jade exclaimed, knocking Kalea out of her thoughts. “You are not gonna sit there and wallow. Him being a dickhead is not your fault!” Even though she and Jade had only been friends for about 4 months, she could read her like a book. “I will not sit here and let you cry over him! No, wipe them tears, and go fix your makeup.” Kalea scoffed out a chuckle as she looked at Bianca who held her hands up defensively.

“You heard her. Go get yourself together.”

SummerSlam August 3rd 2024

kalea_wwe

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kalea_wwe: so, if I don't win, y'all gon riot right?

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I should've treated you better Used to deal with lames 'til she ran into a stepper

If looks could kill, Joe would have dropped dead where he stood backstage talking with Paul Heyman. He could feel their glares as he stood there going over tonight's plans. He knew he was an asshole for what he did to Kalea, but he was scared. Her love scared the fuck outta him. Being in love with her scared the fuck outta him. To everyone else, he was Roman Reigns, The Tribal Chief, The Head of the Table, but to her… to Kalea, he was just Joe.

Kalea didn’t care about any of that. She didn’t care if he was the Undisputed Champion or the face of the company. She saw him for him. And that terrified him more than any opponent he had faced in the ring. The vulnerability Kalea stirred in him was a weakness he couldn't afford to have, not with his reputation on the line. He had pushed her away to protect himself, but all he had done was push away the one person who truly saw him.

“Big Uce!.” Joe felt a genuine smile come over his face as he turned to see Josh approaching with his usual easy-going grin.“Whats good man!” Josh then turned to Paul. “OG,” He saw Josh’s eyes shift from his face to behind him. “Wassup with them?” Joe sighed and turned his head slightly to look at Bianca and Jade who still looked like they wanted to kill him.

“Nothing just-” Joe replied, stopping short as he felt all the air leave his body when he saw Kalea walk up to Jade and Bianca dressed in her ring gear. This was the first time he laid eyes on her and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. Kalea's presence stirred up a whirlwind of emotions within Joe, his heart aching with regret and longing. Her eyes met his briefly, a flicker of hurt and disappointment clouding her gaze before she turned her attention back to Jade and Bianca.

He couldn't bear the weight of her gaze, the silent accusation piercing his soul. Joe clenched his fists, trying to suppress the overwhelming guilt. He knew he had to make things right with Kalea, to explain himself and beg for her forgiveness. But would she even listen?

Kalea had a timid smile on her face as she looked at her two best friends. “Girl you look bomb!” Bianca said and Kalea let out a breath.

“How you feeling?” Jade asked, her eyes flickering behind Kalea’s head before flicking back to Kalea.

Kalea’s smile faltered a bit. She went to turn her head to look behind her, to see if Joe was still there but Jade grabbed her cheeks and held her head. “Jade,” Kalea trailed off with an eye roll.

“How. are. you. feeling?” Jade repeated.

Kalea sighed “I feel fine, a little nervous but I got this. You are looking at the newEST WWE Women’s Champion. ”

“Alright now!”

“Oh fuck.” Jade whispered, her smile had dropped and now a panicked look was on her face.

Kalea’s brows furrowed. She opened her mouth to ask what the problem was, but before she could get it out, the problem spoke.

“Kalea, can we talk?” Kalea felt her heart start to beat faster as she turned to look at Joe. He had his hair slicked back into a bun, his new OTC merch, some sweatpants, and a pair of Air Jordan 1s.

“I-”

“She can’t” Biance spoke for her, arms crossed over her chest as she and Jade mugged Joe. Joe sucked in a deep breath already annoyed with Jade and Bianca.

“Kalea?” He ignored Bianca’s statement, keeping his eyes on Kalea.

“I won’t be long.” She said softly to Jade and Bianca. Bianca looked like she wanted to protest but Jade placed a hand on her shoulder and led her away from Kalea and Joe.

I was fine with you bein' one of my hoes, for sure She said she seen us bein' somebody goals, what are those? I thought about givin' you the key to my heart, but it's froze

Kalea walked a few steps away with Joe, a mixture of nerves and curiosity swirling in her stomach. This is it. She thought. She kept her eyes downcast as they made their way to an empty part of the stadium. She could feel his eyes on hers but couldn’t find it in her to look up at him.

“Kalea, can you look at me please?” The emotion in his voice shook her to her core. As she slowly lifted her gaze to meet Joe's, she felt her heart skip a beat at the intensity of his stare. His eyes held a mixture of vulnerability and determination, making her breath catch in her throat. “I’m sorry.” He finally whispered after a moment of them just standing there, staring into each other’s eyes. “I should have responded to your messages.”

“Why didn’t you?” The pain in her voice damn near broke him. “An ‘i’m alive’ would have sufficed Joseph.”

“Kalea –”

You know the love was X-rated, it's how we made it

“It was because of my text message wasn’t it?” She cut him off. “You –, Because I told you I loved you? That’s why you ghosted me?” She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was bracing herself for his response.

Joe’s face fell as she shifted on his feet, his guilt apparent. He took a deep breath as if steeling himself against a storm. “It’s not that simple,” he began, but Kaela cut him off.

“Not that simple?” She scoffed, her arms falling to her sides. “So fucking me was simple, but loving me isn’t?”

“Kalea that not –”

“No, I totally get it.” She cut him off with a chuckle but wasn’t shit funny. “You were okay with the physical part, but when it came to actually feeling something, that was too much for you.”

Joe took a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to maintain control over his emotions. “Kalea, it’s not that I didn’t care. It’s—”

“Not that you didn’t care?” Kalea rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you cared, you would have faced it head-on. Instead, you just ran away, like a coward. I understand you told me not to fall in love with you, but you shouldn’t have been doing all the right shit for me to fall in love.” Kalea angrily wiped away the tears that fell. “All the dates and the – the little gestures. The way you looked at me, the way you held me. How was I supposed to not fall in love with that!?” She was damn near shouting now and she was grateful the part of the arena they were in was empty besides the two of them.

She needed angles, I need angels, I'm fightin' Satan Leave me faded, I feel painless, I go out gracious I'm tryna feel a shade of greatness by celebratin' Bring entertainment, goin' brainless, like goin' dumb on my hiatus

Joe knew he messed up. He knew it when he ignored her first phone call. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He just wanted her to know how fucking sorry he was.

Kalea shrugged "Sorry doesn't cut it,. Not this time. "

She turned to leave, but Joe reached out, grasping her wrist gently. "Wait, please. Let me explain."

Kalea pulled her wrist out of his grip. “It’s a little too late don’t you think Roman?” Joe’s heart fell to his ass. Roman? She was calling him Roman now? “You had four months to explain. But you didn’t want to explain to me then huh? You didn’t want to answer any of my text messages or phone calls. No, I wasn’t good enough for you. But I guess you’re ex-wife was.”

Joe furrowed his eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not cute.” She pulled her phone from out of her bra and went to her Twitter, going to her bookmarks page and pulling up the tweet from TMZ. She shoved her phone in Joe’s hand.

If Joe didn’t feel like shit before, he definitely felt like shit now. He hadn’t even seen anyone with cameras that day. Before he could say anything, before he could explain and beg for her forgiveness, she snatched the phone out of his hand.

Kalea's eyes were burning with anger and hurt. "Four months. Four months of silence, and then I see this?” She scoffed, shaking her head as she started to back away from him. “Just –, leave me alone.” She whispered, giving him one last longing look before walking away from him.

Joe’s heart ached as he watched her leave, the depth of his mistakes more apparent than ever. He wanted to call out to her, to explain, to make things right, but the weight of his actions left him paralyzed.

Where will you go now? Now that you're done with me Where will you go now? Now that you're done with me Where will you go now? Now that you're done with me Where will you go now? Now that you're done- 'Til further notice 'Til further notice 'Til further notice (we'll keep you posted) 'Til further notice (I'll keep you posted)

WooHoo! Finally

I'm debating on making a part two. But I kinda like how I left it. .. sike, y'all know there's definitely gonna be a part two.

Lemme know what y'all think, this was my first time really sitting down and writing Roman (hope it's not too OOC)

❤ Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

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*Im sorry if I missed anybody*

#Youtube #roman reigns #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns x fem reader #roman reigns fanfic #wwe x black oc #wwe x black reader #wwe x fem reader #wwe fanfiction #roman reigns angst #wwe angst

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gutterfuuck · 9 months ago

Text

“ROI—“

more bff!mark for my baby girls out there, i am watching and lurking when you least expect. the title is based on a song! it is the instrumental for roi. i do not have a specific reason, i just heard it while i was writing and hadn’t a title ready. i saw the phrase “sandbox love never dies” on another work, credit is due there for that!

cw: mdni!, dubcon-ish(? not sure how to describe, haha), smut, mark is pining hard for reader, possibly hint of yandere, this one is kind of long, bff!mark, piv, childhood friends to lovers trope, mark is a little delulu if u squint, virgin!mark (implied), semi-dark content please be aware, reader and mark are in college, reader knows that mark is invincible but that isn’t really important to the story.

mark knew this bedroom all too well. how couldn’t he? you both basically grew up in there together. you were always over at his house, he was always over at yours. inseparable ever since the day he had moved in across from you, sandbox love never dies.

his eyes landed on the fairy lights that were stapled to the wall to keep them in place… he had done that, years ago. he couldn’t bare to see the look of disappointment on your face when you realised that they hadn’t come with a sticky back so you could have them up on your wall. he still remembered the way your eyes lit up when he returned to your home with a stapler in hand, being careful not to staple through the wire. mark’s heart fluttered when he saw your little collection of cereal box figurines; also his doing. he couldn’t believe that you had held onto his gifts for so long, let alone display them proudly as if they were medals. to you, they might as well as be.

“you okay?” you asked, snapping him out of whatever dreamy trance he was in. he snapped his head around back to the tv, the ending credits of the zombie movie rolling on the screen. you had noticed how he had been staring into space for the last half hour of your movie, “me? yeah- i’m good, just thinking about something.” he smiled, quickly rummaging around on the floor to pick up the last of the movie cases, your marathon nearing its end. you were both back in town for the weekend, college kicking you both down and your dorm rooms not homey enough for it to feel right, so you had decided to drop in for a couple of days, killing two birds with one stone and seeing both mark’s parents and yours in one trip. your parents would be coming back later, that’s when the barbecue would come out.

mark switched the disk for the unwatched one, the movie menu popping up shortly after with a blood splatter animation on the title screen, “no don’t play it yet! we gotta refill here.” you spoke, pointing down at the almost empty bowl of chips, save for a few crumbs at the bottom. you had even ran out of cookies, remembering how mark had said that they should stop calling them family size if they were only able to feed two people in the span of an hour or two. you retorted with something about how usually people had self control; you weren’t supposed to scoff down three packs of family value cookies. ever.

“you gonna leave me here, all on my own? out in the open like this? i’m a sitting duck out here.” he joked, a satisfied warmth washing over him as soon as you had laughed. he loved your laugh, always. for as long as he could remember, “like anyone would come attack my house while you’re here, mark.” you rolled your eyes, his heart skipped a beat. he knew how much you relied on him to keep you safe sometimes. already knew that you’d know who to call if you were ever in any danger. he fed on it. you picked up the empty bowls, stacking them inside one another and opening your bedroom door.

“d’you want anything from downstairs?” you asked, holding an empty bottle of pop under your arm, hands preoccupied. mark shook his head, getting up to open your door wider for you, “i think i’ll just stick to eating all of this junk you keep throwing at me.” mark smiled, you smiled. mark’s heart ached.

“don’t you dare press play on that movie, mark grayson!” you yelled from downstairs, just missing the way mark’s cheeks dusted pink at the sound of his name on your tongue. you sounded like an angel. mark’s attention turned to your dresser, the top drawer full of your underwear. how did he know? well, he was the reason for your declining pairs of underwear, the source of the disappearing panties act that you had just brushed off as being forgetful or losing them somehow. he got up, face turning beet red as he stepped towards the drawer, fingers shakily reaching for the handle, slowly, slowly-

“are you going through my stuff?” shit. shit.

you had caught him, after all this time you had caught him. his mind raced for an excuse, his heart threatened to give up on him and he hoped that he would just have a heart attack already, quickly, he had to say something. anything, anything- “i’m kidding! if you’re looking for the remote, you already left it on the bed, silly!”

thank god. thank god.

“right, y-yeah! ha, i must’ve- forgotten..” he laughed nervously, heart still racing in his chest. all he could do was try to steady himself, calm his shaking hands and retreat back to his original seat, on your bed, next to you. he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering, couldn’t stop thinking about how he could’ve had you right there if you had actually caught him, couldn’t stop thinking about holding your hands above your head and covering your mouth with his palm, ‘please let me, you don’t understand- just the tip and i’ll be done i swear.. just let me make you take me.’— he was daydreaming again, it was all your fault. he wanted you so badly, so desperately, why couldn’t you see it? why couldn’t you see him?

mark stared blankly at the tv screen with his jaw clenched, looking right through the screen. if he hadn’t had seen this movie dozens of times before with william, he would’ve been missing it. it was as if he was sleeping while sitting up with his eyes open, idle and dormant…

he heard you scream, his body shifting to shield you on instinct, breaking him out of whatever trance he had put himself in. you had thrown your arms over him, eyes squeezed shut. he was ready to fight, but fizzled down when he realised that you had only jumped into his arms for safety because of a jumpscare. a jumpscare. you were pressed up against him, you had almost jumped into his lap. it was like you were doing it on purpose, torturing him just because you could. you clung to him tighter, eyes glued to the screen in fear and anticipation for the next bloody scene…

fuck. he could feel his cock twitching in his jeans, straining against his boxers. leaking, weeping for you, his best friend. he was frozen, his eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip pulled into his mouth with his teeth so hard that he thought he would make himself bleed- bleed for you-because you were clinging onto him like you needed him. he needed you. he couldn’t help it anymore. it was now or never, here or nowhere.

“m’sorry-“ he said quietly and you turned to him, eyes staring up into his. that sent him over the edge. before you could ask him what he was apologising for, you were on your back, mark leaning over your body, a hungriness in his deep brown orbs. you had forgotten how fast he was, his powers completely slipping your mind. that was just it, you never cared. you always stuck with him, even after he had told you about his father’s secret roots all those years ago after he had just found out. he couldn’t wait to tell you, he always knew that you’d still see him the same, believe his words even if he lied-

“y/n, please- just let me talk, please just hear me out..!” he sounded different, shaky, almost scared to speak to you as if you were the one with superpowers holding him down. you weren’t scared, of course you weren’t. you looked into his eyes, concern washing over you as you watched your best friend open and close his mouth again, trying to find his words, “i.. i don’t- look, i…” more silence followed, tears brimmed in the corners of mark’s eyes and landed on your face, his gaze refusing to meet yours once again. you wanted to wipe his eyes, get to the bottom of why he was so upset… oh. oh. that was it, huh?

“mark-“ you interrupted, propping yourself up on your elbows to get closer to his face, closer so you could wipe his eyes-

mark panicked, he wasn’t ready for your rejection. wasn’t ready to hear you tell him that you had a boyfriend or that you couldn’t, didn’t want to hear you tell him that he was just like a brother to you, you couldn’t like him back because you were only best friends. he leaned forward, hands on your cheeks, lips crashing against your own. “mmf-!” you tried to move, his grip only tightening the more you tried to pull away, your hands on his wrists tightly. so this was how it was going to have to go, right? he’d dreamed of this for so long, it was so perfect. you were perfect.

“mark-!” you finally yelled, pushing him away by his shoulders. he could feel a dark pit starting to form inside of his stomach, regret washing over him, wishing that the pit would open up enough to swallow him too… “let me just breathe for a second..!” you huffed, locking eyes with him. your eyes never left his, mark’s eyes would try to flicker away from yours.

to him, it was a miracle. to you, it was a confession. it was years and years of bottled up feelings drowning you both all at once, it was confirmation.

you didn’t hesitate, hands snaking into his hair and pulling him back into a sweet kiss, your legs wrapping around his waist as he gasped shakily, a sweet nervousness behind his reciprocation. fireworks shot off in his brain, opening his mouth slowly only to be met with the intrusion of your tongue first, licking up against his as you held him tighter, pulling him closer, devouring him whole. god, you were going to kill him. are you going to kill him? give him a heart attack right here, right now? he thought so, hands aimlessly wondering under your shirt with his hips bucking into you with a groan rumbling from his throat, you whining back when his thumbs brushed against your nipples, your hips rocking against his. “w-wan’ you so b-bad-“ he spoke in between kisses, desperately trying to shove his tongue back down your throat straight after. you moved your hands to the hem of your skirt, shuffling out of it and kicking it off the end of your foot and onto the floor. this was hot, hungry. your hands pulled at his sweater, attempting to pull it over his head. he paused, sad to leave your lips once more, to take off his sweater and discard it into a random corner. “y/n, wanna- can i.. please- just the t-tip, only wanna feel it..- please let me, i’ll be quick, p-promise-“ you shut him up with a deep kiss, arms wrapped around his neck, “..i want all of it, mark. i can take you.” and mark almost cums in his jeans right there, nodding lazily and sliding his hand between your bodies to fiddle with the button and fly of his jeans, mentally congratulating himself for not just messily tugging them past his hips. he wasn’t alone with your panties jerking off next to you in your bed while you slept anymore- no- he had time. he could take it slow.

you couldn’t help but moan when you caught sight of his cock, heavy and thick and leaking between his legs, aching for you. who would’ve guessed? your best friend was packing. mark rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him so you were straddling his waist, hands pressed on chest. to him, all you had ever done was look down on him, even if you had never intended so. for once, you really were looking down on him, but he was in control. he wanted to be in control, he should have been in control. and with that, the position shifted once more.

mark’s thumbs separated your gooey folds after pulling your panties to the side, he recognised that pair, he had planned on taking them one night. a pair of red lace panties, simple but permanent in his brain. he knew your cunt all too well, the nights where you would need help to stumble back to your dorm drunk when he would tower over your clothed body, flipping up your dress and lick your cunt until he busted against your bedsheets, he could always dismiss it as a yoghurt stain or something if you had ever asked.

mark grabbed you by the thighs, pulling you closer so your cunt was in perfect line of his fat dick, swiping the head up your slit and shivering when you moaned quietly because of the contact to your clit. this was so surreal, he was living in a dream and he never wanted to wake up. you both hissed when he caught his tip on your hole, eyes meeting once more before he let himself go, hands gripping your hips as he pressed into his your warm, wet pussy. you were going to take all of him. “fuuck..! mnh-“ you almost screamed, trying to adjust to his length. mark didn’t care. neither did you. his cock bullied its way into your tight walls, mark whispered small apologies into your ear as you whined at him, slowly gyrating your hips to try and almost run from the stretch, to give yourself a minute to adjust again, “don’t do that- you don’t have to do anything-“ he started, his warm breath fanning over your neck which caused goosebumps on your skin, “you don’t have to do anything other than lay here.. stay still n’ take my cock.” his words made you tremble, you tried to protest, his mouth blocking your words with a kiss, his dick pressing right up against your cervix with a harsh thrust of his hips, gummy gooey walls clenching down on him, a low “ohhh, ohh f-fu..ck-!” rumbling against your lips.

one thrust and he was immediately pussydrunk, your mouth hanging open and tongue poking out when he drew his hips back, slamming them back into you with uneven, inexperienced movements. he fucked like a rabid dog, his nails digging into your skin as he babbled above you,

“d-do you feel full? can’t push any deeper..” followed by a pressure on your stomach, his hand pressing down so he could feel himself thrusting through your body,

“ghnn..- y/n you feel so much b-better than my fleshlight-!” did he even know what he was saying? your walls tightened around him, the wind being knocked out of your lungs again when he pressed harder, lips working against yours, his vision blanking and ears ringing when you didn’t stop tightening and loosening on him, mushy cunt trying to milk him dry.

you couldn’t do anything but moan breathlessly, pushing the hair falling into his face back, his jaw clenched and forehead sweaty, pressing his head against yours. this was it, this was everything his life had been building up to until now. he thought that maybe he had subconsciously made you fall for him, all of the times he had touched you secretly conditioning your brain. he doubted it, but the idea of him and him only reworking your mind to love him made him keen. “yeah, tha’s right.. take it, c’monnn..” he babbled, his eyelashes wet with tears, not knowing or caring whether they were happy tears or the result of his pleasure. you were right on the edge, your moans getting louder and shorter, scrambling to let mark, your best friend, know that you were going to spray all over his pelvis. you’d squirted before but this felt.. different. warmer, hotter. “c-c-!..” you struggled, eyes crossing and back bowing off of the bed, “fffuck-! ghfuckk yeah..- y-you’re cummin-“ he held your hand, hips stuttering when he felt your tight pussy starting to flutter, the tight coil in your stomach finally snapping;

warmth flooded your insides, legs twitching when you gushed all over yourself and mark. if you weren’t planning on changing your sheets after this, you definitely had to now. white ropes were out of mark’s cockhead riiiight against your cervix, breeding your cunt as if he had no control over himself, which he didn’t. you both panted, trying to balance your breathing. you felt his hips pull back, cock pulling out and opening the floodgates for thick globs of cum to pour out of you, your best friend rolling onto his back and covering his eyes with his forearm, mouth open as he breathed. he was in a daze, completely out of it, both of your liquids stuck to mark’s flaccid dick.

“did you get it out of your system yet?” your voice always bought him back. it was always you, it had always been you. “i… really want to be with you. i wanted- i want you, y/n.” mark spoke sternly, finally being able to complete his sentence from earlier. “i think i could gather that.” you retorted with a laugh. your laugh, his favourite.

you locked eyes, dark murky brown pools staring directly into yours. his pinkie finger hooked around yours, laughter bubbling from both of you. the fairy lights shined in his peripheral vision. the movie’s credits rolled on the screen, the whole movie falling on deaf, horny ears.

it was quiet, the only sounds being of yours and mark’s breathing. this was nice, blissful. peaceful.

“i love you, mark grayson.”

#mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible #dark blog #mark grayson smut #fem reader #invincible smut #invincible x reader #bff!mark grayson #smut

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swiftyangx12 · 1 month ago

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🤖Confrontation⭐️

Transformer Animated x Captain America![Reader]

[Synopsis]: After coming back from an errand run with Bumblebee and Sari, Captain [Y/N] “Buddy” [L/N] witnesses Optimus being berated by Sentinel who came to Earth for some orders. The Leader of the Avengers didn’t like the whole ordeal they’re watching so they step in to shield Prime away from unnecessary drama.

[Gender Neutral]

[PLATONIC]

[WARNING]: Nothing much, except for a phrase involving the B-word and S-word at the end.

[Inspiration]: Credits to @in1-nutshell for their fun writing. (Hi! I was the anon who requested the Captain America![Reader] with the TFA cast.)

[(A/N)]: The author I’m basing off of their work uses “Buddy” as a placement for the readers until they come up with an official name, depends on the requests they received. So, I thought of using this aspect by making it as the reader’s nickname in this piece. Like Bucky Barnes from the Marvel franchise.

[Bumblebee, Sari and Captain [L/N] had came back to the Plant after an errand run. The three stepped inside only to witness Optimus being talked down by the most unlikable Elite Guard who just so happened to be assigned for some business on Earth.]

Captain [L/N]: That’s the jerk who you guys told me about?

Bumblebee: Yeah, that’s Sentinel Prime. He and Boss-bot had history together back in their academy days.

Sari: He sounds much harsher than last time.

Captain [L/N]: I don’t like what I’m seeing. *Marches over the two*

Bumblebee: Whoa whoa whoa! What are you doing?

Captain [L/N]: Putting this mech in his place.

[Then the captain approaches to Optimus and Sentinel.]

Captain [L/N]: Hey! *Throws their shield at Sentinel to get his attention*

Sentinel: *Gets knocked to his helm* Ow! Who threw that?!

Captain [L/N]: *Catches their shield as it bounced back* I did.

Bumblebee & Sari: *Awestruck* You have to teach us that.

Captain [L/N]: Now is not the best time, guys. Maybe later. Optimus, are you okay?

Optimus: Oh, I’m fine. You surprised us with that shield of yours.

Captain [L/N]: At least you’re good. I need to have a word with this mech. Could you do me a favor?

[Optimus lifts Buddy up to Sentinel’s optic level.]

Captain [L/N]: Thanks. *Clears their throat* Son, you need to stand down and listen.

Sentinel: Oh, I see. You’re the one organic with the shield helping this team. Why should I hear you out?

Optimus: *Looking at him with the “You better listen because they don’t mess around” type expression on his faceplate*

Sentinel: *Groans* What?

Captain [L/N]: Do you know why you’re given the Prime title? Because you believed you earned it, which you did. However, you should have used it wisely.

Sentinel: *Scoffs* Wisely? Of course I’m using it wisely. I got the title because I worked hard to earn it.

Captain [L/N]: Just because you gained it doesn’t mean you can boast it around or use your position to abuse your colleagues, your subordinates, your comrades. It damages possible connections, plus you look like an aft-hole from that behavior of yours.

Sentinel: Hey, watch it. What do you know about positions, anyway?

Captain [L/N]: I earned mine back in my world during one of the great wars and became a leader of the Avengers. I use those titles to not just save civilians from danger, but also build better communication with my team and act accordingly with one another for a brighter future. As of what I’m witnessing here is you acting like someone with poor leadership skills.

Sentinel: Can’t believe an organic is talking down on me.

Captain [L/N]: *In a stern commanding tone* What was that?

Sentinel: *Spooked a bit* Nothing! It’s just unbelievable I’m being lectured by a flesh-ridden organic. I mean, why is this happening? Why are you intruding my business with Optimus?

Captain [L/N]: Because I have the right in this situation. I’m captain since the 1940s, sacrificed myself to save my world, my home, the people I cared about and…someone I didn’t get the chance to dance with…

Sentinel: How old are you, exactly?

Captain [L/N]: “This son of a b*tch…💢” Old enough to be someone’s grandparent, but that’s not the case. You need to stop belittling Optimus and his team since they’re doing you favors by foiling the Decepticons’ plans of destruction. Where’s your sorry aft when they risked their Sparks?

Bumblebee: Wow, they’re pulling in our words.

Sari: Buddy told me they were studying your vocabs during downtime. They thought it’s easier for you guys to talk with each other.

Sentinel: That’s because…

Captain [L/N]: There is no excuse to behave like that with anyone, especially to Optimus who even I can see potential in him.

Sentinel: *Struck his already fragile ego* You’re really going for that, huh?

Captain [L/N]: Not the first time I seen people with potentials greater than they assumed.

[As some time passed while Captain [L/N] lectures at Sentinel of what truly makes someone a great leader, they let a final saying towards the end.]

Captain [L/N]: One more note: Optimus Prime is a better leader than you. He and his team had fought the enemy countless times on Earth while your Elite Guards are busy dealing with Cybertron. He even cares about them and their well-beings as well as people on Earth. Don’t ever talk down on him or anyone else. You’re dismissed.

[After the talk and Sentinel returned back to Cybertron, the young Prime approached to the captain.]

Optimus: Buddy, you didn’t have to stand up for me. I can handle him.

Captain [L/N]: Optimus, I worked with people like him and nobody else stood up for me back in my day. I had to fight my own battles when my best friend wasn’t around on time. Someone has to do what’s right by sticking together and not repeat the cycle.

Optimus: I’m sorry you went through that, Buddy.

Captain [L/N]: It’s all in the past so I’m okay. You’re a great leader, Prime. Don’t forget that. And never mind the unnecessary comments Sentinel has said.

[Buddy then walks off and returns to Bumblebee and Sari.]

Bumblebee: Wow, you really talked him down..

Captain [L/N]: I thought the guy needed some humbling. Or what my friend, Peter explained back home.

Sari: Speaking of your friends, you got any more stories to tell?

Captain [L/N]: There’s plenty to tell from my universe. One time when Bucky had to sneak out…

[Bonus Content!]

[Captain [L/N] teaching some of Team Prime how to throw a shield (or any weapon) like them.]

Sari: *Missed a target* Sh*t!

Captain [L/N]: Language!

Bumblebee: Use Slag next time.

Captain [L/N]: Again, language.

🤖[Reblogs help creators and creates more content!]⭐️

[A/N]: Make sure to check out Nutshell’s work! (@in1-nutshell)

#Transformers #Marvel #Transformers x Marvel #Crossover #Transformers Animated #TFA #Optimus Prime #Sentinel Prime #<- I despise this jerk so much.#Well actually I despise TF One!Sentinel more than the TFA variant so he’s the second most hated on my list.#Wait. Scratch that. TFA Sentinel is third most hated on my list because I remember Bayverse Sentinel. Traitor.#Bumblebee #Sari Sumdac #Captain America!Reader #Avenger!Reader #Transformers Animated x reader #TFA x reader #Transformers x reader #TF x reader

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amywritesthings · 4 months ago

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( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: march/farmer (fields of mistria) Word Count: 2.5k Summary: It's your first Halloween in Mistria, and you're excited for the costume party at the inn. One small problem: you accidentally match your costume with the worst possible person.

Tag: halloween, mild language, enemies to something, everyone ships you with march except march, friday night at the inn, unresolved romantic tension Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

HALLOWEEN AT THE INN.

Maybe the Kiki costume is too on the nose.

While you’re technically the new farmer of the town, tending your crops has recently begun to feel like a secondary job to the impromptu delivery service you’ve tripped into.

Not that you mind — if Hayden leaves a communal bulletin stating he needs an egg, then you’re more than happy to pop by and deliver.

(Though… doesn’t he technically own a ranch? Why would he need more eggs?)

Whatever.

Not your problem, just your solution.

Tonight marks your first-ever costume party at the inn.

While it’s been a town tradition for years, perhaps even decades, you find Hemlock stating that this year simply feels different.

Lighter, maybe. More exciting.

(Because the town needs a little excitement that isn’t privy towards an earthquake.)

You stand in front of your elongated mirror tucked against your bookshelves, tugging at the purple-blue skirt skimming your thighs.

It isn’t difficult to guess what you’re dressed as: between the massive bright bow wrapped around your head like a headband, the flats, the smock dress, and the stuffed black cat tucked under your arm, you should hope your friends know what you’re dressed as.

Kiki, the delivery service girl from the Studio Ghibli movie of similar title.

With one last huff of anxiety, you turn for the front door and trudge through your dilapidated (see: work in progress) farm to make your way towards the heart of town.

Josephine has already decked out the front with strings of paper bats and pumpkins lining the doors to the inn. The gentle glow of recently-carved pumpkins framing said doors with the bails of hay you donated to tonight’s event brings a nostalgic warmth to your heart.

You can’t remember the last time you went to a Halloween event, much less a costume party.

As your hand reaches for the door, you’re met with a sudden burst of wind.

The door flies open towards you, revealing a button-nosed Dell peering up from her perch. Whiskers streak her rosy cheeks, the black cat ears a stark contrast to her cropped blonde hair.

“You’re here!” she chirps excitedly, beaming up at you.

“Hey, Dell,” you greet politely, opening the door for her.

It appears the rascals of Mistria are following in tow — as they tend to do all over town in a troop — all equal parts dressed up as various animals.

Maple has a small painted bunny nose with tall ears in her hair.

In true Luc fashion, a spider body with fuzzy arms attached to his appendages. He doesn’t look the least bit comfortable, but he’s clearly excited to be an arachnid nonetheless.

“Are you Kiki this year?” Dell inquires.

Luc fixes his glasses with his many arms before perking up at your added props. “Whoa, and you have Jiji with you!”

Dell gets this look on her face, as if knowing something you don't know, but you think nothing of it at the time.

“Celine is back by the kitchen with Adaline and Orlic,” Maple suggests as if assuming you’re looking for the eldest sister.

Celine had been one of your first friends in town, so it’s no surprise to you that one would anticipate you would gravitate right towards them.

However, hearing Orlic’s name in the mix makes your stomach flip-flop, because—

. — —

Well, let’s get it out of the way early.

For the record, you love to spend your time at the blacksmith shop.

For the past month you’ve been hard at work in the mines, exploring the ins and outs of such a mysterious place, so naturally you’ve come to the shop to forge your tools and weapons.

And you’ve gotten good at offering a helping hand when it comes to blacksmithing.

Like, really good.

So good that Orlic has even set up a little spot for you to consolidate and work.

—only issue is that it’s right next to March’s bench.

March.

The bane of your existence, if you ever had one.

The naysayer that wants you gone from this damn town.

The only person in town who seems to have a big problem with you being here.

You wish you understood why — it isn’t like you did anything wrong to him.

You show up to the shop with an ever-revolving door of gifts from the mines.

Slowly but surely, you’ve learned what each brother likes. Olric is easy to please: he’s happy to take any stone you find, hoping one day to find a gem in the rough.

March, however…

He couldn’t care less that you show up after a long day’s work, dirtied and exhausted, holding out a piece of copper ore like a proverbial olive branch.

(Tch, he clicks with his tongue like clockwork, I could do better.)

Still, you persist.

Because deep down, you don’t think March actually hates you.

Orlic has said it time and time again — his brother can be tough to get used to, but that’s because he doesn’t have many friends. A loner at heart; March would rather sit in solace and march (no pun intended) to the beat of his own drum.

He likes you in his own way!

If it wasn’t for one of the first nights at the inn, then you wouldn’t believe it.

You distinctly remember walking in with Adeline after accomplishing a renovation of a bridge (to nowhere, you’d like to preface, but a job’s a job) when a voice jumped out from the fray of baseline chatter.

“Yo, farmer!”

Slurred, maybe, but after so much time at the blacksmith shop, you know it well.

However there’s little bite to March as he stands from his bar stool, face flushed with a flourishing pink as he sips from his mug.

He makes it a point to poke his head over his brother’s to see your face, and he…

Smiles.

Not in mockery.

Not in hatred.

A real, bonafide, drunk-as-a-skunk smile.

“Come here,” he hiccups, sloshing some beer as he tries to beckon you closer. “C’mere—”

You don’t think March remembers, but he talked to you.

For three hours straight, actually, about nothing in particular.

Your farm.

Your week.

Your future plans.

Chin dropped to his propped-up fist, his eyes are hazy, but he listens. Intently. Like he’s genuinely interested in what you have to say.

At first it was jarring, especially since Orlic hopped up to give you his seat and never returned, but after twenty or so minutes it was… nice.

The next morning you were strangers.

Six straight days of snappy remarks, but without as much bite.

By the time Friday rolled around again, you found him in the same position — drinking, happily enjoying a communal game, while waving to you periodically to get your attention while you’re busy spending time discussing the week with Celine and Reina.

You want to ask Orlic.

Hell, you want to ask anyone to make sure you’re not imagining the once-a-week friendliness.

But you don’t.

You just endure six whole days until the next Friday rolls around.

. — —

As the kids shuffle out of the inn to get some air, you walk into the festively-decorated venue looking for a drink.

Reina had said something about themed finger-foods and drinks, both mocktail and cocktail, that she was beyond proud of.

There’s a circle near the tail end of the bar where Celine, Reina, Orlic, and Ryis all chat. Ryis has gone traditional cowboy, while Reina and Celine match in regency ball gowns, presumably a period-piece costume. Orlic is standing in an inflatable dinosaur costume, so you can only make out the visor of his eyes in the blow-up ensemble.

And when their eyes land on you, they stop talking completely.

At first it feels normal, albeit intimidating, but you wave and walk over anyway.

(Why has Ryis’ jaw dropped to the floor? And why is he excusing himself with a little laugh?)

“Hey, guys!” you greet as cheerily as you can, and Celine gives a look to Reina.

…huh.

The same kind of look Dell had on her face, like there’s something unspoken being passed around by your appearance.

“Oh — hello,” Celine replies in her musical voice, curtseying in character. “Lovely costume!”

“Yeah, it looks amazing on you,” Reina adds, but she keeps looking around.

You feel like there’s something you’re missing.

Staring down the cat and broomstick in your arms, you open your mouth to compliment them in return, but—

“So that’s why March didn’t want to match with me!”

Orlic pipes up, his dinosaur suit squishing and swishing around as he holds his arms out.

“I would have never guessed you’d plan a costume together,” pipes up Celine, shoulders deflating as if glad someone brought up the elephant in the room.

Except you can’t see said elephant — it’s still invisible.

“I… sorry,” you start, fixing your bow. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t have to be coy, Kiki,” Reina teases with a wave of her hand. “I think it’s cute!”

“But what’s cute?” you urge. “I feel like there’s something—”

“Hey, nerds, I got us the stupid punch. You could’ve told me the ladle was for baby hands. Took me like five minutes to make four drinks.”

At the sound of a gruff, annoyed voice, you turn—

Oh.

Oh, no.

March stares back at you through black-rimmed glasses with equal horror, sloshing one of the drinks he’s delicately balancing in his hands in a diamond.

His hair’s a little flatter than usual, but the fluff fights the frizz of the heated inn. On his body is a striped red and white t-shirt, along with some light blue denim jeans rolled up at the ankles.

The costume is just as distinct as yours.

Tombo.

“The hell are you wearing?” he blurts directly at you, and you hear a high-pitched giggle of excitement behind you come from Celine.

“I… a costume,” you lamely reply.

March scowls. “Yeah, genius, I know that it's a costume 'cus you never wear bows.”

“Yes, I do?”

“Not as big as that one!” he snaps. “They’re always smaller or, like… two, on either side of your— Whatever! But why that costume?”

“Thanks for the drinks, little bro!” Orlic happily states, waddling around you in order to gingerly pick up his punch. “We’re gonna go see how the mummy-wrapping game is going.”

March's eyes shoot wide in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Yeah,” Reina adds, taking two drinks for her and Celine, before giving one back. “Actually, I’m totally hydrated. Our lovely Kiki might need a drink. You two have fun.”

“Huh?!”

March’s head whips side to side so fast that you expect the glasses to fly off of the bridge of his nose.

You stand with your plushie cat and broom, blindsided by the matching outfits.

Oh, god — it clicks.

They think the two of you secretly conspired together to do a couples costume.

That’s not good.

“Why’d everyone leave?” March grumbles. “It took a lot of damn effort not to spill those drinks.”

When you say nothing, he reluctantly returns his attention to you and holds out a drink.

“For the record, I planned to be Tombo before you even got to town, Farmer Girl.”

“I put together whatever I had in my suitcase,” you confess, taking the drink from his hand.

“Sure you didn’t sneak a peek of my costume hangin’ up when you were at the shop?” he accuses, squinting while he sips on his alcoholic punch.

“No, March,” you groan, dropping your head back. “Trust me, I don’t want to be matching with you, either.”

In true March fashion, he contradicts himself without missing a beat.

“Why the hell not?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, what’s so bad about matching me?”

“Because people will think—”

“So?”

“So?” you repeat, slightly higher pitched. “Uh, hello, it’s your worst nightmare?”

“Nah, dressing up as a t-rex is my worst nightmare,” he corrects, like everyone knows this vital piece of information about him. “Orlic was pretty hell bent on getting us to match this year, but I wasn’t sweating my ass off in a damn blow-up suit.”

“And accidentally matching with me is significantly less than that?”

March pauses, marinating on the words, before growing silent to sip more of his drink.

Exasperated, you throw your hands up and switch plushie Jiji from one arm to the other.

“Well, I’ll go home and change. Maybe I have a black shirt and jeans.”

Surely you have to have something basic in your arsenal, even if you were really excited for this costume. But the implication is rearing its ugly head into a territory you’re not sure you went to venture into.

Friendship with the one guy who hates your guts, or worse.

Yet his voice rumbles against the lip of his cup. “What’s a black shirt and pants combo gonna be for a costume?”

“I don’t know, a cat?”

“But Dell’s already a cat.”

“Then a raven! I don’t know.”

March snorts, shaking his head. He uses his free hand to push his fake glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“That’s dumb. Just keep being Kiki.”

The huff out your mouth is laced with disbelief. “And what, have you be my Tombo?”

You don’t mean the words to come out as harshly as they do, but the options to rectify this awkward situation are limited.

It’s either he changes, you change, or—

Well, or you match with your sworn enemy of the town.

Both of you stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the rest of the party rage on.

For what feels like hours, neither of you speak.

A few people greet the two of you, but beyond your initial friend group, no one else seems surprised to see the two of you in a common duo costume.

“I like your bow, by the way.”

The words are so quiet that you almost think you caught wind of a ghost.

Turning your head, the sight before you is one you’ve grown accustomed to: March’s cheeks are flushed, sprinkled with an embarrassed pink.

He side-eyes you, studying the bow before flickering his attention to your face.

You sip your drink, trying your best to look neutral.

“I… think you look nice with glasses.”

That pink turns into crimson, and he buries his head into his chest like he wants to curl into himself to hide the fact that your compliment affects him so deeply.

“...thanks.”

With a curt nod, you bring the cup back to your lips, only to realize it’s only left with ice.

Huh. You didn’t think you drank it all down.

In your peripheral you see it, but it doesn’t register until something warm lands on your hand —

March’s fingers overlap yours, gently nudging the cup out of your grip and into his.

“You're empty,” he mumbles. “I’ll get you some more.”

Before you can protest, he turns on a heel and rushes back to the punch cauldron. The blush goes so far as to creep up the nape of his neck and into his dyed-red hair.

You watch him disappear, your stomach flip-flopping with anxiety and…

Butterflies?

Weird. That’s new.

(But that’s how it goes on Friday night at the inn.)

author's note:

I wrote this in about an hour because I have been dying to try my hand at an FoM fic, and since I'm in a very Halloween-y mood, I figured I could write a little cute heart event for March!

If you got this far, thank you so much for reading! What other costumes do you think March would be cute in? Let me know in the comments! (And thank you for any reblogs, likes, etc.)

#fields of mistria fanfiction #fields of mistria fanfic #march x reader #march x farmer #march fom #fom fanfiction #fom fanfic #fom fic #march fanfic #march fic #fields of mistria fic #halloween fanfiction #halloween fanfic #fields of mistria #fom march

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