#small life update it's getting close to the end of the semester and it looks like I might actually pass this final class this time lmaooo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foreveia · 5 days ago

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c(alc)ulus ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; hard 2 explain but there's a happy ending so u shld read (jk its a college!au, frat boy!au)

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x f!reader

⨭ word count; 9.7k

⨭ descriptions; you're the last person kei wants anything to do with, but not even he can deny it: he, and the entire frat, needs you.

⨭ warnings; frat boy levels of alcoholism, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i love math but love blondes more. i also love rly long fanfics with plot and pretty language and feelings, so hope y'all enjoy this super long mess of a frat!universe haikyuu with college-core drinking habits, calculus talk, and a whole lot of simping for kei <3

one.

Kageyama is failing calculus.

This statement wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal—after all, he had barely passed most of his classes his whole life, getting into college solely with his athletic skills and having zero intentions to stay in academia in the future. He’s in university primarily just to have something to fall back on, and he has made it exceptionally obvious that he does the bare minimum to get his degree by sleeping through his lectures and procrastinating his homework to the night it’s due. He doesn’t, and has never, cared much about school, and has somehow made it through life anyway, so really, in most circumstances, Kageyama failing a class wouldn’t be a big deal at all.

However, in this circumstance, Kageyama is also a brother of Kappa Alpha Rho, and therefore his grades reflect not just him but the brotherhood, meaning him failing a class has fully become Tsukishima’s problem, making this, in fact, a very, very big deal. He thinks he’s screwed.

And it’s completely your fault.

Tsukishima glares at the email notification sitting at the top of the screen, clenching his jaw so hard that he feels his back molars ache.

ASU Policy Update: New Funding Requirements for Student Organizations

He’s already read it twice, but he clicks on it again anyway, as if the words would magically change now that it’s his third try. His fingers drum against the desk, anxious and annoyed all at once.

Effective immediately, all university-funded student organizations must maintain a collective GPA of C+ (2.3) or higher to remain eligible for financial support from ASU. Organizations failing to meet this requirement will be placed on academic probation for a select amount of time, after which, if under the minimum, will be denied funding for the academic year.

He exhales sharply through his nose and shuts his laptop a little harder than necessary. His knee bounces under the desk as he stares at the wall, running the numbers through his head. A D- average to a C+? That’s not a small jump. That’s a fucking leap.

And it’s because of you. But then again, of course it is.

Tsukishima doesn’t even know you personally, but he knows of you. Everyone at Furudate University knows of you. It’s honestly impossible not to.

Your name gets thrown around like a fucking urban legend: the math department’s golden girl, every professors’ favorite. The kind of student whose name gets printed in bold on the Dean’s List every semester, top of the class in every single way, looking down at everyone else from your haughty position up there.

You’re the poster child for academic excellence, and this is exactly the kind of sanctimonious, holier-than-thou rule someone like you would pass.

He can practically see you in his head, sitting in some committee meeting, smug as you argue for “higher academic standards,” completely unaware of the absolute nightmare you’ve just created.

He rubs his temple. He doesn’t have time for this. If Kappa Alpha Rho loses funding, they lose access to the house stipend, the event budget, the formal venue deposit—

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, already clicking through the chapter’s internal roster. He zeroes in on the worst grades. Not surprisingly (albeit disappointing nonetheless), Kageyama’s name jumps out immediately.

He has a 37 in Multivariable Calculus.

Tsukishima closes his eyes and counts to five. It doesn’t help. His laptop screen just glares back at him, the double-digits in bright red. He’s dragging the entire GPA down, significantly so.

So if Kageyama fails, they’re all fucked.

Tsukishima opens the frat group chat.

(11:42 AM) tsukishima: who here actually passed multi calc

It takes all of five whole seconds before the chat explodes.

hinata: LOL NOT ME yamaguchi: barely but yea? noya: i didn’t even know multi was real lmao

Tsukishima pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re useless. They’re all fucking useless.

(11:43 AM) yamaguchi: wait is this about the gpa thing? are we actually losing funding? tsukishima: we will if kageyama fails calc hinata: bro just make him pass it then tsukishima: do you think i control his brain (11:44 AM) tanaka: wait hold on. are you saying if we fail we’re actually broke?? yamaguchi: tsukki wouldn’t joke about this lol hinata: WHAT DO U MEAN BROKE. LIKE. BROKE BROKE?? noya: LIKE WE GOTTA PAY FOR KEGS OUTTA POCKET BROKE???

Tsukishima watches the messages roll in, each response growing increasingly more unhinged. He feels his blood pressure rising, ticking up with every single one.

(11:45 AM) tanaka: WE CAN’T LOSE FUNDING FORMAL IS IN 3 MONTHS hinata: NOOOO NOT FORMAL noya: NOOOOOOOOOO NOT FORMAL tanaka: WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA PAY FOR FORMAL

Tsukishima sighs, dragging a hand down his face. This is exactly what he didn’t want. The second these idiots realized the frat’s funding was actually on the line, everything was going to implode. Where’s the rest of the exec board right now? He misses them.

(11:46 AM) yamaguchi: okay but seriously what’s the plan tsukishima: kageyama needs to pass calc obviously tanaka: okay but like. how

Good fucking question.

Tsukishima leans back in his chair, thinking. Kageyama isn’t stupid—not in the traditional sense, anyway. He just doesn’t give a shit. If he had a decent tutor, someone to force the information into his thick skull, he might actually stand a chance.

(11:47 AM) tsukishima: does anyone know a decent tutor (11:48 AM) yamaguchi: y/n

Tsukishima physically recoils.

(11:48 AM) tsukishima: like… vpaa y/n??? yamaguchi: yeah?? she’s the best tutor in the math department hinata: wait isn’t she the one that profs never shut up about lol tanaka: bro we’d be paying for a 5-star tutor with beer money noya: u think she’d go for it tho?? hinata: tsukishima just bat your pretty little eyelashes and get her to help us 🤩 tsukishima: i will block you

There is no way in hell he is asking you for help. Absolutely not. Because if there’s anyone on this entire campus that would not hesitate to let Kappa Alpha Rho crash and burn, it’s you.

But then, Daichi—super convenient timing for the president to come in right now—sends the real kicker.

(11:49 AM) daichi: Text Y/N. Now.

Tsukishima grinds his teeth. His fingers hover over the keyboard. For a very, very long moment, he just stares blankly at the screen, until finally, he types.

(11:50 AM) tsukishima: someone send me her number.

And Tsukishima thinks, for not the last time, that he’s absolutely screwed.

two.

For someone who’s actively ruining his life, you’re surprisingly… okay.

At least, you were over text. You responded within minutes, and—without sarcasm, without question, without any needed negotiation—agreed to a tutoring session the next day.

Tsukishima thinks he should be wary of this. Surely you have some ulterior motive, something that’s meant to prove to him (and yourself) just how much smarter you are than everyone else.

Ah, yes. That’s probably it. You’re going to use the dumb frathlete to make yourself feel good.

After some contemplation, Tsukishima decides that he should be there. As idiotic and annoying as Kageyama can be, he’s still his brother, and Tsukishima isn’t about to let some pretentious academic just mock and insult him; Kageyama is shitty with words, so the least Tsukishima can do is be there to snap back for him.

Tsukishima is almost certain that you’re doing this solely to stroke your ego. After all, why else would someone like you agree?

That being said, twenty four hours later, sitting across from you at a library table, he’s forced to admit—begrudgingly—that you’re actually not… terrible.

Tsukishima watches you carefully, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the moment you slip up—some trace of superiority, some indication that you think this is beneath you. But to his surprise, you don’t smirk, you don’t sigh in frustration, you don’t roll your eyes every time Kageyama gets something wrong.

You’re just… patient. Shockingly, infuriatingly patient.

“Okay,” you say, tapping the corner of Kageyama’s notebook with your pen. “Walk me through your thought process. How did you get to this step?”

Kageyama stares at his paper, scowling. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you got this part right,” you say, circling something in the equation. “So let’s build from here.”

Kageyama frowns deeper, pressing his pencil so hard that the lead tears a little hole—Tsukishima expects you to finally snap, to lecture him for not paying attention, but instead, you just tilt your head and try again.

“I think you’re having trouble with double integrals, so let’s break those down first, okay?” you say, not at all unkindly, before flipping open your notes and locating the respective chapter in the textbook. Tsukishima notices, with mild surprise, that you don’t even have to check the table of contents—you go straight to the right page.

And then, even stranger: your own notes are written beside the original text. Your annotations are precise but casual, breaking down the wordy explanations into clear, digestible pieces; your diagrams take up the margins, and where there’s extra blank space, you’ve doodled functions, arrows, sometimes little stick figures interacting with equations.

Tsukishima shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

But something about it—about how thoroughly you understand this shit—sticks with him.

And as you start explaining, Tsukishima quickly comes to understand why they call you the best in the department.

Your voice is even, steady, and you don’t just read from the textbook—you reframe the concepts completely, breaking them down into comparisons, real-world applications, diagrams that actually make sense. It’s the kind of familiarity that takes years of experience and countless hours of practice, and you obviously have gotten to an incredible degree of expertise. And most importantly, when Kageyama hits a block or stumbles over the formulas, you don’t get irritated.

You just adjust.

Again. And again. And again.

Until finally, something clicks.

Tsukishima watches, arms crossed, as you do something no professor, no TA, and certainly no frat brother has managed before: you make Kageyama think. You make him care. Kageyama straightens slightly in his seat, gripping his pencil a little tighter; he scribbles something down, then nods to himself, like he actually understands.

Tsukishima leans back, exhaling through his nose.

He hates to admit it, but Yamaguchi was right: you really do know your shit.

three.

An hour passes like this. Slowly, but gradually, Kageyama works through his problem set, stopping every so often to ask questions. You answer every single one without hesitation, without even having to double check, with the complete confidence of someone who simply knows that they’re right.

Then, completely unprompted, you ask, “So, do you play volleyball?”

Kageyama pauses mid-writing. The question catches him off-guard—catches both of them off-guard, actually.

Tsukishima gives you a sharp look, but you just smile, amused.

“You retained information best when I used sports analogies to explain,” you continue, tapping the end of your pen against the table. “And when I used a volleyball as an example for triple integral applications, you corrected me on the radius in like, two seconds.”

Kageyama blinks. Then, looking somewhat sheepish, he mumbles, “Wow, that’s crazy. I’m on the university team.”

“That’s cool,” you say simply, clicking your pen. You doodle absentmindedly on an extra sheet of paper, this time drawing a little volleyball in the corner. “Our executive VP is on the team too. Sakusa.”

Kageyama hums an affirmation. “Yeah, we’re both starters.”

“As a sophomore? That’s really impressive,” you say. Tsukishima thinks that you’re pretty impressive too, considering you’re a sophomore just like them, but you don’t seem to be even thinking about that. “Why are you taking calculus, then? What’s your major?”

“Physics and kinesiology.”

“I didn’t peg you as a STEM guy,” you muse, still sketching in the margins. You’ve now switched to drawing a little banana.

Tsukishima, despite himself, huffs a quiet laugh.

Kageyama flushes slightly. “I, um, want to go pro after college,” he admits, ears bright crimson as he speaks. “So kinesiology felt right for an athlete. And for physics, well, I’m a setter, so I want to, um… I want to be able to calculate the velocity of the balls I send with more accuracy.”

It’s a ridiculous reason. Maybe even a stupid one. Definitely the stupidest reason Tsukishima’s ever heard for taking an incredibly intense and complex major like physics.

But you don’t laugh.

You just nod, smiling to yourself. “Thanks for letting me help you with your process, then.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Tsukishima bluntly remarks, “You’re weird.”

It comes off slightly ruder than intended, and you pause, your pen coming to a halt on the paper. He adds, quieter than before, “I mean, you notice things like that?”

Your nose and forehead scrunch up in slight confusion, expression so befuddled as if he were simply asking you if the sky was blue.

“Well, yeah.” You say this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone is different, with different interests and learning styles, and things get easier to understand when you break things down on their terms as opposed to yours. So of course I’ll pick up on things like that. I try to be observant of all the people around me.”

When your eyes meet his, he instinctively is on edge. Your tone is still light, but there’s something pragmatic about your eyes that makes him feel apprehensive, like he’s standing at the edge of a 50-foot fall and you’re watching to see if he’ll take the jump. It’s like you’re taking all of him in, like you’re taking everyone in. Like you see things other people don’t.

If Tsukishima is being honest with himself, this perceptiveness is something he lacks. He willingly disregards much of the people and the things around him; it's a defense mechanism he has perfected over the years. It’s easier to stay detached. It’s easier to keep to himself; it’s easier to be indifferent.

To be blunt, your astuteness unnerves him, and it’s a sensation he’s not used to grappling with. There’s a raw honesty in your gaze that feels almost invasive, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed facade. You two had just met, but for a brief moment, he wonders if you can somehow see through him because despite your cheerful and carefree attitude, you are looking to understand people in a way he never has.

He quickly looks away, breaking the intense eye contact. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” he mutters.

You don’t reply because your attention has already shifted back to Kageyama, with you leaning over his notebook and exclaiming, “See, you got this!”

Kageyama has solved the several problems you gave him, his work still amateur but complete. You scan his notebook, pointing out the few areas where he could simplify his work, but the overwhelming beam on your face is nothing short of proud, and it incites a completely new determination in Kageyama. Despite his usual stoicism, your encouragement has visibly boosted his confidence and Tsukishima watches as the boy smiles and nods along when you flip the textbook to a new chapter, declaring loudly, “Okay! Let’s move onto vectors!”

As you continue to explain, Tsukishima watches the two of you with a slight mixture of exasperation and something else he can’t quite put a name to. You are honest and true and it’s wholly unfamiliar, tiring in a way where he is overwhelmed. He’s not quite sure how to describe how he feels right now, sitting here with you together: maybe it’s a touch of admiration for you, maybe it’s just relief that someone else is dealing with Kageyama’s math woes for a change, but either way, at the end of it all, he finds himself settling back into his chair, a small, almost imperceptible amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

Minutes turn into hours, and before you know it, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library floors. By the time the library's closing announcement echoes through the halls, you have made it through half the vector fields unit and Kageyama has filled several pages of his notebook with neatly written solutions.

“Well, let’s finish up. I think we’ve made some good progress today,” you decide, stretching your arms above your head. You begin to gather your things—if you’re not all out soon, the librarians will come and yell at you for sure.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Kageyama says earnestly, closing his notebook. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You are. Just keep practicing those problems, okay? You’ll pass this week’s quiz for sure if you keep at it,” you say cheerily. “Just text if you ever need any help. I’m always around.”

Your enthusiasm seems genuine, like you really do want to help Kageyama succeed. Tsukishima’s not sure what to do with this information.

He should be suspicious. Should assume there’s something in it for you—some academic accolade, some resumé boost, some smug satisfaction in proving you’re better than everyone else. But you don’t gloat. You don’t even act like this is a favor Kageyama—or, by extension, the frat—owes you for the rest of time.

You just offer your help like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to give this much of your time, your energy, your effort.

It’s strange. It makes him uncomfortable.

“You’re always around?” he says, unable to stop himself. His voice comes out dry, skeptical. “Sounds like you have way too much time on your hands.”

You blink, then laugh, genuine and light.

“Not really,” you say, slipping your notes into your bag. “I’m just good at making time for things that matter.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and for some reason, that sentence sticks in his brain.

Good at making time for things that matter.

Before he can think too hard about what that implies, Kageyama—completely unaware of the odd shift in atmosphere—stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll text you,” he says. “Uh. If I get stuck.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied. “See you both next time.”

And with that, you’re gone, stepping out of the library doors, the evening sun catching in your hair before you disappear down the hall.

There’s a brief silence.

“…She’s nice,” Kageyama says, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Tsukishima sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound weird about it.”

Kageyama scowls but says nothing, already distracted by whatever thought process is rattling around in his thick skull.

Tsukishima, however, lingers.

He doesn’t want to admit that today went better than expected. That you weren’t condescending, that you didn’t treat Kageyama like a lost cause, that you were actually kind of impressive to watch. That there’s something about the way you carry yourself—the way you see people, notice things, care about things—that makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like.

He exhales sharply. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and starts toward the exit, brushing off whatever this feeling is. After all, this is just the first session.

There’s still plenty of time for you to prove him right.

four.

After the fifth tutoring session, Tsukishima notices two things.

First: since you’ve started helping Kageyama, his calculus average has jumped dramatically from a 37 to a 60. Considering he has to catch up on the whole semester, this much progress in such a short amount of time is insane, and Tsukishima—who has spent years watching Kageyama be a stubborn idiot—is actually kinda baffled by it.

Second: it’s not that you look down on him, or Kageyama, specifically. You just look down on Greek life as a whole.

It takes him a while to realize it. At first, he assumes it’s personal—that you have some vendetta against Kappa Alpha Rho, some deep-seated superiority complex. But then, over the next few weeks, he starts paying closer attention.

You don’t sneer at Kageyama’s jersey. You don’t mock him for struggling, don’t look at him like he’s a dumb jock barely worth your time.

But when Tanaka and Noya come to pick Kageyama up after a session, still wearing their frat hoodies from some brotherhood event, Tsukishima catches the way your eyes flick to their letters. The way your lips press together, just slightly.

When Kageyama makes an offhanded comment about formal, you barely react—just a small exhale through your nose, something unimpressed.

And then there’s today.

You’re explaining another concept—Tsukishima isn’t really listening; Kageyama is nodding along, so he figures he doesn’t need to pay attention—when Hinata, of all people, shows up at the library. He bursts through the doors like a chaotic, overexcited golden retriever, completely disregarding the quiet study environment as he waves both arms above his head.

“Kageyama!”

Kageyama physically tenses. Tsukishima watches, vaguely amused, as he slowly turns to the orange-haired idiot now bounding toward them.

Hinata slaps a recruitment t-shirt onto the table. “You left it at the house, dumbass! Daichi said to bring it to you.”

Kageyama looks vaguely murderous. “Shut up.”

Tsukishima smirks. And then, he glances at you.

And there it is again: that brief flicker of something. That same exhale through your nose.

You don’t say anything, don’t react much at all—but Tsukishima sees it.

You hate frats.

And now, he wants to know why.

Luckily for him, it actually doesn’t take much to find out.

It comes up casually, in the way most revealing things do—offhanded, unguarded, something you don’t realize you’re giving away.

Kageyama is the one who brings it up. Not intentionally, obviously—he's never been intentionally insightful a day in his life—but between scribbling down an answer on his problem set, he suddenly asks, “Why’d you make that rule, anyway?”

You glance up, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The GPA thing,” he clarifies. “You’re the VPAA, right? So it was your idea.”

Tsukishima watches as you blink, your grip tightening just slightly around your pen.

Then, after a moment, you exhale, setting it down. “It wasn’t just me,” you say. “It was a committee decision.”

“But you agree with it,” Tsukishima says, leveling you with a look.

Your lips press together. There it is again—that tiny flicker of something. Then, you sigh.

“It’s just frustrating seeing people waste their potential,” you say finally, voice careful, deliberate. “I mean, don’t you want to succeed?”

Ah. So that’s what it is: you think that all fraternity boys are idiots who only care about partying and drinking games. You think they don’t care about their futures. That they’re lazy, entitled, wasting the opportunities they have.

Tsukishima exhales slowly through his nose, tipping his chair back just slightly. He should be annoyed. He should be pissed off.

But instead, he just smirks.

“You think we’re all just dumb party boys, don’t you?”

Your eyes flick to his. You don’t answer, which, really, is answer enough.

So obviously, he challenges you.

“Come to the house,” he says. “See for yourself.”

Your expression shifts into something guarded, something skeptical and unimpressed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you clearly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tsukishima says simply.

Kageyama, ever helpful, chimes in: “Hinata’s even worse at math than me.”

Tsukishima watches you pause, purse your lips, obviously considering. It’s a long pause, you staring down at the desk for a full minute, until finally, you sigh. “Fine.”

Oh, you’re in for a disaster.

five.

Walking into the Kappa Alpha Rho house for the first time, you’re not sure what you were expecting.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t… this.

The first thing you’re hit with when you enter the house is, simply put, noise.

The music is loud—too loud for a weeknight, you think absently, because there’s no way none of these guys have morning classes tomorrow. Someone in the kitchen is yelling indistinctly over the sound of clinking glass, and from somewhere deeper inside the house, there’s a resounding crash, followed by an enthusiastic, “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it!”

Tsukishima watches as you visibly tense, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You’re standing near the entrance like you’re considering leaving, like maybe you’d rather walk straight back out the door than step even a foot further into this chaos. You wouldn’t be the first: he’s seen people walking into the house for the first time and immediately regretting every life choice that led them here. The frat is loud, messy, chaotic in a way that isn’t easy to handle if you’re not used to it. And you—pristine, calculated, Type-A to your very core—are definitely not used to it.

He watches you closely, waiting for you to scoff any second now, to turn around and walk out.

But then, you hear it.

“Integrate or drink, loser!”

As an applied and theoretical math double major, the sentence instantly piques your curiosity, and you can’t, in your conscience, just walk out after hearing that. So you square your shoulders, and saunter in.

And when you see it, you stop in your tracks.

The scene before you is, frankly, absurd. Kageyama is standing at the end of a beer pong table, furrowing his brows like he’s solving a differential equation rather than playing a drinking game, and Hinata, vibrating with excitement, looks one misplaced shot away from combusting. Around them, the rest of the guys are watching with varying degrees of amusement: Tanaka and Nishinoya are grinning like they already know something Kageyama doesn’t, Yamaguchi is stifling laughter behind his hand, and Tsukishima—leaning against the wall, arms crossed—is watching you.

You glance at the table. The setup is questionable, at best. The cups are unevenly spaced, some tilted at an angle that defies both gravity and common sense. The whiteboard behind them has the remnants of what was probably meant to be a scoring system, though it's mostly illegible thanks to a combination of bad handwriting and smeared marker. And then, of course, there’s the absolute nonsense of what just came out of someone’s mouth.

You shift your gaze to the ping-pong ball in Hinata’s hand, then to Kageyama, who still looks personally insulted by whatever just happened. You blink once, then twice.

“What,” you say flatly, “am I looking at?”

“The future,” Nishinoya says dramatically, throwing an arm around Tanaka. “The greatest intellectual drinking game of our generation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sugawara mutters. You didn’t even notice him and the other two, presumably, seniors, sitting lazily on a couch against the wall and supposedly monitoring.

“It’s simple,” Hinata says, barely containing his enthusiasm. “You make a shot, the other guy has to solve a math problem right, or they drink.”

Silence. You stare at him.

Kageyama’s expression darkens. “It’s stupid.”

“You’re just mad because I got the last one right,” Hinata shoots back.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! The integral of sine is cosine, dumbass!”

“The answer was negative cosine—”

“Same thing!”

“It is literally not.”

“You know what,” you interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Forget I asked.”

At this, Tsukishima makes a quiet noise—something between a laugh and a scoff—but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy assessing the catastrophe in front of you.

Because, to be honest, this is ridiculous. A complete mess of a game, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. But…

You bite the inside of your cheek.

The concept isn’t terrible.

It’s just wrong. And you, for better or worse, cannot let a flawed system stand.

Tsukishima watches as something in your expression shifts. You set your bag down with purpose, stepping closer to the table, eyes narrowing as you take in the setup. Then, voice completely serious, you say, “You’re playing it wrong.”

The entire room pauses.

Tanaka, who has a ping-pong ball balanced on the tip of his finger, squints. “Huh?”

“You’re playing it wrong,” you repeat, arms crossing as you survey the table like it’s a crime scene.

Hinata frowns. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” you say, “you are.”

Tsukishima raises a brow, intrigued. You’re not mad at them for playing. You’re not disgusted by their antics. You’re just… offended by the execution.

“The whole premise doesn’t work,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the cups. “You can’t just shout out an integral and expect them to solve it in two seconds. You need rules. A system.”

Tanaka exchanges a glance with Nishinoya. “Bro,” he says, in awe. “We don’t have a system?”

“We do have a system,” Kageyama huffs.

You promptly ignore him, already reaching for a marker. “Okay. If we’re going to do this right, it should work like this.”

And just like that, you take over.

In what seems like an instant, the frat house—which is usually ruled by sheer chaos and barely functioning groupthink—is now operating under your direction. You’ve got the whiteboard in a chokehold, a marker uncapped and poised between your fingers as you outline a system so airtight, so horrifyingly efficient, that even Tsukishima has to admit it’s impressive.

Suddenly, the game makes sense. Instead of random, impossible integrals, each shot now corresponds to a category—concepts from the last five chapters, ranked by difficulty.

And as if just to add to the disbelief, everyone is listening.

Kageyama, glaring at the rules with an unreal intensity, is following along, his brows furrowed like he’s mentally poking holes in your system but failing to find any. Tanaka and Noya are nodding like you’ve just changed their lives. Ennoshita, who had previously been lurking near the drinks table, is watching you rewrite the game’s structure with increasing fascination.

Even Sugawara nods sagely. “She makes a good point,” he says solemnly. “The game did lack structure.”

“Thank you,” you reply, as if this is a serious academic debate and not an impromptu beer pong overhaul.

Tsukishima can’t even be mad about it. Not when you’ve very quickly become the most interesting thing in the house.

And especially not when he watches you, against all fucking odds, join in. As if you were some god tier frat boy in a past life, you sink a cup with infuriating ease on your very first throw, the ball arcing perfectly without any slightest bounce back. You don’t even blink.

As if on cue, the whole house erupts.

Tanaka and Noya nearly combust on the spot, clutching each other in sheer exhilaration, while Kageyama’s jaw drops so fast you think it might actually unhinge. Even the seniors look mildly impressed.

And Hinata… well, Hinata looks very afraid.

“You—” he starts, pointing at you like he’s about to accuse you of something heinous.

But you don’t let him. You simply cross your arms, unimpressed, and say, voice smooth as ever, “Basic derivative. Give me an answer, or drink.”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then, absolute carnage.

Hinata scrambles for the marker like his life depends on it. “Uh—uh—five x to the—no, wait—”

You tilt your head. “Is that your final answer?”

“Shit, no—”

“You took too long,” you say, entirely unsympathetic. “Drink.”

Hinata lets out a strangled noise of distress as Tanaka and Noya dissolve into laughter. Even Daichi, who up until now has been observing like a wise elder, shakes his head in amusement as Hinata accepts his fate, downing his drink in defeat.

Tsukishima watches the entire thing unfold, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

Huh.

He’d expected you to bail before even stepping past the threshold. Expected you to scoff, maybe say something scathing about how frat boys had the collective IQ of a teaspoon, and leave without looking back.

And yet, here you are, rewriting the rules of a drinking game with the kind of ruthless efficiency that would put actual math professors to shame. Even worse: you’re winning.

By the time you sink your third consecutive shot, the rest of the guys have gone from mildly entertained to genuinely invested. Even Kageyama, who Tsukishima assumed would be sick of math by now, is begrudgingly playing along, answering derivatives and integrals like his pride is at stake.

Tanaka and Noya have fully accepted you as one of their own, chanting your name every time you land a shot. Hinata, despite his earlier humiliation, is practically buzzing, clearly determined to redeem himself. Even Yamaguchi, who usually prefers watching Tsukishima verbally eviscerate people from the sidelines, has been sucked into the chaos, trying (and failing) to solve an integral before Kageyama can.

It’s a disaster. A ridiculous, mathematically-inclined disaster.

And you—poised, serious, utterly deadpan as you call out equations like you’re running a boot camp—are the reason for it.

Tsukishima doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Yamaguchi elbows him.

“You’re enjoying this,” Yamaguchi says, low enough that only Tsukishima can hear.

Tsukishima scoffs. “Please.”

But Yamaguchi just gives him a knowing look, then pointedly nods toward you.

Toward the way you command attention without even trying. The way you challenge their game without hesitation. The way your focus sharpens when you're confronted with something that, even in the realm of absurdity, still needs to be corrected.

Tsukishima exhales slowly, shaking his head.

Of course you’d walk into a frat house for the first time and immediately take over.

Of course you’d turn a drunken joke into an actual intellectual challenge.

Of course you’d be—

“Tsukishima.”

He blinks.

You’re looking at him now, one brow arched, an extra ping-pong ball in your hand. The room quiets just a fraction, the weight of attention shifting ever so slightly. “You haven’t played yet,” you say simply. Your gaze is intense, and it makes his stomach twist, his chest strangely warm.

Tsukishima stares at you for a long moment.

Then, very slowly, he pushes off the wall. Rolls up his sleeves.

“Alright, genius girl.” He steps up to the table, arms loose, completely at ease. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room erupts once again.

And for the first time that night, you grin.

six.

After two months of knowing you, Tsukishima notices something else.

Your bag always contains not just the calculus textbook but several others as well. Every time he sees you on campus, you’re sprinting from place to place, dashing between study halls and libraries and the ASU building. Whenever Kageyama does need help, you’re true to your word and always there, but Tsukishima observes the way you rub at your temples when you think no one is looking, the way you blink a little too long, like you’re stealing micro-moments of rest in the middle of a conversation. The way your hands tremble slightly when you reach for your coffee, as if you’ve been running on caffeine and sheer willpower alone.

So one day, after Kageyama has already run off to his volleyball practice and it’s just the two of you in the frat house’s study room, Tsukishima finally asks the question he’s been wondering for weeks.

“Why do you do this?”

You still, your hands stopping midway as you pack up your belongings. You pause, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Tutoring?”

“Well yeah, tutoring, but also everything else—ASU, TA-ing… all of that. Why?”

You hum as you think over his question, a thoughtful look gracing your features. For a minute, it’s just silent in the room.

“I mean, do I need some grand reason to do it?” You decide after a moment of consideration, shrugging. “There’s a few reasons, I guess. But the biggest one is just that I genuinely like helping people. Like, being there for them and getting to see things click for them. That’s super rewarding in itself.”

“And the other reasons?” He watches you intently.

Clutching your laptop to your chest, you sigh, biting your bottom lip tentatively. It’s the first time he’s really seen you look vulnerable, now that he thinks about it. You’re always so calculated.

“Well– I guess it’s actually only one other reason. It’s also just… the only thing I’m really good for– sorry, at. But whatever, that’s kind of just–” you’re stumbling through your words before you cut yourself off mid-sentence, shaking your head. “At the end of the day, the only reason that matters is that I like seeing other people succeed.”

He nods slowly, sensing your discomfort and deciding not to push any further. “Yeah, okay.”

A small, wistful smile grows on your lips. “In the end, I’ll still be here. The time will pass anyway. I might as well spend it helping people find the happiness I find in math, you know?”

“So you’re tutoring him again tomorrow?”

You nod. “Mhm, from noon until two. I would go longer, but I think he has practice, so I’ll probably just do some work. I have a few policy briefs to go over.”

“Were you not busy enough today?” He drawls, gesturing to the sagging bag on your back.

You laugh with pink cheeks, almost as if embarrassed at the question; you slightly scratch the back of your head. “Um, well, I don’t know. I had a really early class and then I had TA stuff, and then two tutoring sessions, and then a committee meeting and then this. So a pretty packed schedule, I guess,” you admit. Tsukishima gives you a look, and you quickly wave your hands. “I’m good though! I like all of it, so it’s not like it’s bad. It’s a lot, but not the worst, so it’s okay.”

Tsukishima watches you closely, taking in your words and the lilt in your voice. He can see the fatigue etched on your face, the prominent dark circles ringing under your eyes, but there's also a light in your eyes that speaks volumes about your genuine passion for what you do. It’s the same look that sparks up when you watch Kageyama succeed at a problem, the one that makes your eyes look like they’re dancing with fire and sets that weird fuzzy feeling in his stomach going again. It's both admirable and concerning, and he can't help but feel a strange mix of respect and worry.

“You really care about this, don’t you?” he says softly, almost more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, I do,” you reply. Your voice is purely sincere, completely direct. “Even if I’m super busy and stressed out and tired, it’s all worth it because I get to be a part of someone’s life becoming even just a little bit better.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing everything you’ve said.

He used to hate you. He deemed you pretentious for the GPA rule, assuming you were just another overachiever with a superiority complex, or someone who enjoyed making things harder for people like him and Kageyama. Even beyond you personally, he’d always mocked people like you for flaunting their overtly virtuous and self-righteous personas, always seeming to crave attention and recognition for their altruism.

But now, for the first time, their actions don’t seem self-serving: it’s a sacrifice, a genuine and earnest effort to make a difference that has nothing to do with personal gain. You don’t push people to do better because you think you’re above them. You do it because you believe they can be better. Because you care. Because, despite everything, you genuinely want to see people succeed. You dedicate all of yourself to others, to strangers unaware of your existence, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Simply because you can.

You’re standing there, shoulders weighed down by the sheer number of responsibilities you carry, yet still speaking with unwavering certainty. You don’t expect anything back—in fact, you barely even take credit for the work that you do. You are just kind for the sake of being kind; even when you’re exhausted, even when you have nothing left to give, you keep going. You work yourself to the bone for the sake of everyone else, and no one seems to notice—not your professors, not the students you tutor, not the countless committees that rely on you.

Except now, Tsukishima does.

And because he doesn’t know what else to do with this realization, he sighs and just says, “You should eat before you go.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The house is making dinner.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re here anyway. Might as well eat something before you collapse.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something warm in your expression, something soft. “I’m not going to collapse.”

Tsukishima raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You look like you might.”

You roll your eyes, but to his surprise, you actually consider it. Then, after a pause, you sigh. “Okay, fine.”

And when you follow him toward the kitchen, Tsukishima tells himself it’s nothing. That he doesn’t care. That he’s just making sure you don’t keel over in the middle of a lecture hall somewhere.

But later, when you’re laughing at something Yamaguchi says, plate balanced in your hands, that strange, unfamiliar warmth creeps up his spine again.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that he might be screwed.

seven.

Since the first day you had dinner with them a few weeks ago, you’ve come to spend more and more time at the KAR house.

And well, you admittedly didn’t see it coming, but you like the Kappa Alpha Rho boys.

They’re loud. They’re class clowns. They spend many, many weeknights drinking and blasting 2000’s pop at maximum volume, so much so that you can hear the telltale tunes of old Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears from halfway down Frat Row. They are, in many ways, exactly what you expected.

They’re also… really sweet.

They’re all extremely determined to help each other to succeed. They care about each other so deeply; they’ve opened their arms to you, too, without question or complaint. They’ve looked after you in a way that you’ve never been cared for before. They gifted you a frat hoodie—your initials stitched beside the KAR letters. You have a designated mug in their kitchen cabinet. They don’t even ask if you’re staying to slide a plate in front of you at dinner. Tsukishima watches you closely whenever you pick at your food, and you pretend not to notice when he scoops an extra helping onto your plate.

They’re driven too, in their own way: as if inspired by Kageyama’s improvement, they’ve all begun to care about school, even if their study methods always seem to include some variant of rage cage or beer pong. You’ve seen how passionate they’ve grown about it, celebrating each small academic win as if it were a final exam. The whole fraternity has been clawing their way out of academic ruin, grinding through assignments, struggling through tests, pulling their GPAs up one painstaking decimal point at a time, going from one of the organizations with the lowest GPAs to being so close to the C+ minimum.

They’re so close. So close.

But technically, the frat still falls under that 2.3 minimum.

You realise this, sitting at your desk in the ASU building, because the deadline for organizations on academic probation to get their GPA up is inching closer and closer. The deadline that you set. From the policy that you put into place.

You stare at your desktop screen, at the open PDF of the passed policy, unblinking. The text is sharp and unforgiving. Academic probation lasts one semester. Organizations must raise their cumulative GPA to at least 2.3 by the end of that period or risk losing university funding. No exceptions.

You remember writing that clause, steady in your resolve at the time. It was supposed to be fair. Cut-and-dry. The goal was to push organizations to take academics seriously—to ensure that no fraternity or club skated by on empty promises and minimal effort. But now, the words feel different. They feel wrong.

You click open the academic records, searching for Kageyama’s name. His grades appear on the screen in neat rows: a scatter of past failures, single digits that make your chest ache, then a stark and steady climb. He’s sitting at a B-average now, a remarkable turnaround considering where he started.

But as you do the math quickly (a habit at this point), calculating projected GPAs based on their current grades and the remaining assignments for the semester, you realise the bitter, indisputable results: no matter how hard they push, it won’t be enough. KAR’s overall GPA still won’t meet the minimum.

The weight of that realization settles deep in your stomach.

Your policy is flawed.

For the first time since writing it, you see its error clear as day: it measures results, but not effort. It punishes past failure while ignoring present growth. It demands perfection in a system that, by design, allows only for progress in small, slow steps.

Something about that feels deeply, fundamentally unfair.

You think about the very principles that allowed you to sit here in the student union building, to have earned the title of Vice President of Academic Affairs. Because you’re not a natural genius, either: you’ve put in countless hours of hard work and effort into your studies, pulled countless sleepless nights and worked through countless practice problems just to get things right. Your policy was meant to encourage others to do the same.

To reward hard work, and drive.

And you’ve witnessed it for yourself, out of a group of rowdy, rambunctious frat boys.

You inhale sharply and sit up, rolling your chair forward. The cursor blinks in the empty document in front of you, a quiet invitation.

Slowly, carefully, you begin to type.

eight.

The night before the deadline, the Kappa Alpha Rho house is unusually quiet.

It’s strange. Even with music thumping from the speakers, even with bodies packed into the living room and voices rising in conversation, the usual energy—the chaotic, unrelenting, borderline obnoxious joy—is gone.

The party isn’t really a party. It’s a wake.

They all know what’s coming. Without funding, they’ll barely be able to keep things running. They’ll have to gut their budget, cut out every major event, every tournament, every social they used to host. They’ll lose their momentum, their presence on campus. They aren’t naive; they know what happens to a fraternity that can’t sustain itself.

So they drink. They celebrate what they were while they still can.

Tsukishima stands near the kitchen, beer in hand, watching the scene with a quiet irritation that hasn’t left him in days. It’s not just the situation—it’s you.

Because you’re not here.

And you haven’t been, not for days. No texts, no calls, no sudden appearances at dinner. No slipping into the house with your laptop and a resigned sigh, no sarcastic quips over Tsukishima’s shoulder while he studies. He knew you’d take this hard—he’s watched the way you’ve thrown yourself into their academic comeback, has seen the way your eyes light up when someone passes a test or raises their grade.

But he never thought you’d disappear.

The realisation sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

“Have you heard from her?” Yamaguchi asks, appearing at his side with a drink in hand.

Tsukishima exhales sharply through his nose. “No.”

Yamaguchi frowns, but doesn’t say anything else.

The thought festers in Tsukishima’s mind as the night stretches on. He should be angry at you. A part of him is angry at you. But mostly, it just doesn’t make sense: no possible explanation he comes up with does. You’re not someone who runs from responsibility; if anything, you take too much of it on yourself. But if you’re not here, if you can’t even look at them, then maybe you really do feel guilty. Maybe you really do think you failed them.

The idea makes something twist in his gut, makes the irritation curdle into something else.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that feeling.

So he stands there, arms crossed, listening to the frat he’s come to love mourn itself in real time.

And then the front door opens.

The music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound—the soft creak, the shuffle of movement as someone steps inside. Tsukishima looks up, and the irritation he’s been holding onto vanishes in an instant.

Because it’s you.

You look exhausted. Shadows hang under your eyes, and your hair is slightly disheveled, like you’ve spent too many hours hunched over a desk. But still, you’re here.

And in your hand is a folder.

You walk straight toward him, weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. His breath catches in his throat before he realizes he’s holding it.

You stop in front of him, holding out the folder.

“Here,” you say simply.

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just stares at you, at the folder stamped with the massive, obnoxious university logo, at the way your hand doesn’t waver. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it open.

His eyes scan the page.

ADDENDUM TO THE ACADEMIC PROBATION POLICY

His heart stutters.

It takes a moment for the words to register. The fraternity’s cumulative GPA is still below the requirement. But this—this thing you’ve spent the last few days working on, the thing you’ve evidently been breaking yourself over—it changes everything.

Organizations that show substantial improvement will still qualify for funding. As long as they continue to raise their GPA, they won’t be penalized.

He blinks. Once. Twice. The words blur slightly as he rereads them, brain struggling to keep up.

And then he looks up at you.

“You did this,” he says, voice lower than he intended.

You smile, small and tired but real. “You deserve it.”

Tsukishima feels like the air has been knocked from his lungs.

For a moment, he can’t speak. He can’t move. He just stares at you, at the quiet certainty in your expression, at the exhaustion lining your face, at the way you’re standing here, in his house, telling him that they deserve this. He’s digesting the fact that you cared enough about them, that you respected their effort so much that you admitted your system’s faults to the entire university, published and notarized with physical proof.

Then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—he grabs your wrist.

The folder nearly slips from his grasp as he pulls you toward the center of the room, toward the rest of the fraternity. Someone notices first—Hinata, probably, judging by the sudden yell of surprise. Heads turn. Conversations still.

“What’s going on?” Kageyama asks, brow furrowed.

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. He just holds up the folder.

And then he watches it happen. The shift. The confusion, the realization, the moment the words sink in.

Kageyama’s eyes go wide. Yamaguchi’s jaw drops. Someone swears. Someone else shouts. And then, chaos simply erupts.

Because the next thing Tsukishima knows, they’re celebrating.

It’s different from before. This isn’t a goodbye party anymore. It’s loud, and wild, and joyful. There’s yelling and laughter and Hinata practically tackles you in excitement before you’re pulled into a flurry of hugs and cheers. Someone turns the music up. Someone else pops open a bottle of champagne that they were definitely not supposed to be saving for this occasion.

Tsukishima doesn’t join in.

Instead, he watches you.

Watches the way you’re laughing, exhausted but triumphant, surrounded by the people who care about you more than you realize. Watches the way they pull you into the celebration like you’ve always been one of them.

Watches the way you belong.

And for once, he doesn’t fight the way his chest tightens at the sight.

nine.

The party winds down eventually—not the joy, just the noise.

Most of the fraternity has either passed out in their rooms or sprawled out in various corners of the house, too tired (or too drunk) to make it any further. The music is still playing, but softer now, reduced to a faint hum that drifts through the open windows. Even the air feels different—lighter, easier, like the very house itself is breathing again.

Tsukishima finds you on the back porch, sitting on the steps, nursing a half-finished White Claw. He hesitates for only a second before stepping outside, letting the screen door creak shut behind him.

You glance up at him but don’t say anything as he sits down beside you. There’s no need to. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It lingers, settled, like something well-worn and familiar, like you’ve known him forever.

It’s Tsukishima who breaks it first.

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “Why what?”

He huffs, staring down at his beer. “Why’d you do it?”

You blink at him, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Because I was wrong.”

Tsukishima looks at you then, sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. You don’t waver under the weight of it, and he remembers the way you look when you simply know something, that quiet certainty, that unshakable conviction. It sends a warmth through his chest, the same warmth he’s been trying to ignore for weeks now, the same warmth he always seems to feel when he’s with you.

“They deserved to have their efforts rewarded,” you continue, voice steady. “I wrote that policy thinking I was setting a fair standard, but all it did was punish people for starting at a disadvantage. They—” you gesture vaguely toward the house, where distant laughter still filters through the walls—“worked their asses off. I watched them do it. I wasn’t about to let that mean nothing.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t need to. The way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers drum once against the step before curling into his palm—he gets it. He knew before you even said it.

“You didn’t have to kill yourself over it, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t.”

He levels you with a look.

You sigh, glancing away. “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t easy.”

That’s an understatement, and you both know it. You don’t admit just how much effort it took, how much red tape you had to cut through, how many meetings you had to schedule, reschedule, and push through just to get the addendum approved in time. You don’t tell him about the sleepless nights, about the pages of drafted revisions, about the quiet, gnawing fear that it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t tell him how you single handedly powered through academic records for every single organisation on campus, just to make sure this change gets written into law.

You don’t have to.

Tsukishima already knows.

He clicks his tongue but doesn’t push the subject further. Instead, he shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “Tanaka and Noya are already losing their minds over events now that the funding’s secure.”

You snort. “I can only imagine.”

“They’re talking about a full house party lineup, a tournament series, and some kind of insane spring break trip.” He exhales sharply, something that vaguely sounds like a laugh. “It’s exhausting just listening to them.”

You smile softly. “Sounds about right.”

He hums in agreement. Then, almost offhandedly, he adds, “They mentioned formal, too.”

You nod, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Makes sense.”

A beat of silence.

Then.

“…Can I take you to formal?”

You freeze.

It’s not like you haven’t been asked out before, but it’s different coming from Tsukishima. Maybe it’s the way he says it—not cocky, not casual, not even teasing. Just direct. A little uncertain. A little careful.

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. Just for a moment.

It’s a moment too long.

Tsukishima sighs, looking away. “Forget it.”

And that’s when you see it—so brief, so subtle, but there. The way his shoulders tense, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his fingers twitch like he’s bracing for something. Like he expected you to say no. Like he’s already trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

Before you even think about it, you reach for his hand. Your fingers lace through his, warm and solid, and you squeeze lightly, grounding him.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you to take me.”

Tsukishima goes still. He stares first at your joined hands, like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re holding his. Then, slowly, his gaze flickers back up to yours.

His voice is quieter when he asks, “…Not out of pity?”

“Have I ever done anything out of pity?”

He considers that for half a second before huffing out something that’s almost a laugh. “…No.”

“Exactly.”

You don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, you shift slightly, moving just a little closer, lifting your interlocked fingers as you lean into his side. It’s easy, natural, like something inevitable.

For a moment, Tsukishima doesn’t react.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your hand back.

The porch is quiet, the sounds of the house fading into the background. Somewhere inside, Tanaka and Noya are still arguing about something, Kageyama is grumbling, someone bursts into laughter—but out here, it’s just you and Tsukishima, sitting in the soft glow of the porch light, hands entwined.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t need to.

And in that moment, Tsukishima is certain that he’s screwed. But right now, with you curled up next to him, knowing you deeply the way you seemed to know him the first time you met him, remembering everything that has brought you two here, to this moment, he is equally certain about this: he will be there. He’ll keep noticing things about you that you think no one bothers to see, and he’ll be the support that you always offer to others but never ask for. He’ll let you—make you, if he has to—rest; he’ll take care of you the way you do for everyone else.

And above all, he’ll be the person to prove to you that you are incredible. Not just for being good at tutoring, not just for being good at math, not just for being good at school, but that he’s in awe of you and who you are.

He’ll love you how you should be loved.

He swears it.

⨭ closing notes; very very attached to this one bc i started it in 2019. yes, 2019. she's gone through an insane amt of rewriting and cuts, but i am super proud of this final draft and i rly rly love it. this is also 1/3 of my asu trilogy so look out for that!!! as always #comment #like #reblog i literally see them all and it keeps me going :') thank u all sm if u made it to the end!

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pedgito · 1 year ago

Text

MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter One: Teacher’s Pet

Chapter Summary: First day woes and a difficult semester ahead, you find solace in your caring, attentive creative writing professor who shows you just a little more attention than everyone else, or so you think. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), mentions of infidelity (not by joel), sarah doesn't exist here, background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, talks of literature and lots of random writing topics, dream smut, gratuitous descriptions of mr. miller's body and personality.

note: thanks to @planet-marz1 for the last minute beta.

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There’s a deafening silence that surrounds you when you step into the lecture room, not nearly as big as your other main course classes, it’s intimate. Close. If you kicked a foot out from the chair you were sitting in you could touch the professor’s desk.

Part of you wonders if you were the only person taking this class, sitting for a few minutes alone, not another person in sight—until one files in, then another, until there’s about ten of you seated sparsely in the small space. It’s mostly bare aside from the few books shoved away on a nearby shelf, antiquey books that, no doubt, had a thick layer of dust.

The problem with the class was that you weren’t sure if it was ever going to be a real thing—applying you had the expectation of who your teacher would be, what you could expect from the coursework, and just how manageable it would be amongst the rest of your classes. But, there was little known now.

All you did know was that they had to find a replacement quick, which they did, and you were sure that a sign of their lacking punctuality was a great start, tucking your chin over the bag placed on your desk as you waited in silence amongst simmered voices, feeling starchly out of place.

You didn’t know this place—it was new, Austin. You moved clear across the country on a whim, wanting a new start in a place you’ve never seen before. You’d plucked a community college out of the bunch, not worried with the semantics of applying to some big, ivy league school. You wanted something manageable, something attainable. This seemed like the easiest option, unsuspecting and unknown, you could slink by and go about your life peacefully.

That is what you wanted, after all.

Until you meet Mr. Miller.

Joel could’ve pursued music, or carpentry, or about a billion other things he was skilled at—yet somehow, teaching seemed to be the easiest option. It gave him the familial feeling of caring and guiding that he did enjoy, molding young minds and helping them bloom. He worked at a local high school in Austin for years—fifteen good, long years.

But, he too needed a change. His life was slowly crumbling in on himself.

He sees the job opening on the last weekend of summer, still teetering with the option of returning to his teaching job at the high school—it isn’t as manageable as it used to be, finding that in his older age that dealing with the behavior and arguments with ill-managed kids was more of a hassle than it needed to be for the pay he was receiving.

So, fuck it. He applies.

He gets a call the following Monday and he’s officially added to the staff by the end of the week—and of course, he’s never stepped foot on the campus until his first day. So, he’s lost. Joel realizes how unprofessional it looks, scrambling with his bag as he throws it over his shoulder and haphazardly adjusts his tie, hoping that his hair wasn’t too askew and wild, despite the wind flying through his hair in the chilly bite of the autumn weather.

Things couldn’t have been off to a better start.

There’s the slightest trickling of a thought that you should leave, give up that this class might be an ultimate failure but then he’s walking through the door. You knew his name, but that was as far as your reach extended. Mr. Miller. J. Miller, to be specific.

James. Justin. Jonathan. It was all a mystery to you.

You find that his appearance is less than prepared, mostly disheveled and he seems breathless as he offers a subtle nod of awkward acknowledgement as he slings his bag onto the desk. Thankfully, he seems to understand that there was a tinge of urgency with him being late and he quickly reaches into his bag and pulls out a stack of papers.

Class syllabuses. He hands them off silently to the person on the farthest side of the room and hoping they would get the idea, pass them off until they reach the final person. It’s crisp, stark white paper covered in a boring black-inked text. Nothing seemed out of the norm—different methods of writing you would try over the course of the semester and specific assignments that would pop-up throughout. You enjoyed the predictability of it. Though, there is a significant surprise when your professor begins to speak, pulling your attention to the front of the room.

He’s gathered himself rather quickly, assuming he’s had his fair share of time in the field.

He writes his name out in clear, dignified letters on the board.

Mr. Miller, the screech of a solid drag as he underlines his name.

“I know I’m not who you all were suspecting.” He begins, placing the chalk down, hand wrapping around a balled fist as he cracked his knuckles, walking slowly until he can lean against the edge of his desk, soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor.

“And I’ll admit, I’m new to this,” He waves vaguely around the room, “I’m used to public school and the shittiness that comes with that—so I hope that if I can take this seriously, you all can extend that gesture too.”

You notice how comfortable he seems in group settings, relaxing his broad shoulders as he crosses his arm, glancing around the room casually, never lingering for too long.

“I won’t pester you too much today, given I already wasted some of your time,” Someone snickers softly toward the back of the room and Mr. Miller cracks a subtle smirk, seemingly embarrassed but not offering anything to pick at. “But, I’m willing to answer any questions you have while we have the time today.”

Questions flow in easily: what the semester would consist of, more elaboration outside of the syllabus, some of Mr. Miller’s favorite pieces of literature—part of you expects him to inject the usual ‘around the room introduction’ scheme, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans into the more engaging questions asked, answering as freely and as interested as he can.

He loves Robert Frost, which makes sense. You’re not sure why, but it is predictable.

He is predictable. Sipping on a large mug of what you can only assume is coffee, the smell permeating toward you with where he’s resting against his desk, only a foot or so away. You haven’t managed to catch his gaze yet, which you’re partly thankful for. It allows you to study him, examine his expressions—admire…No.

And while he can continue his talk about favorite authors for days—the class draws to a close sooner than you expect, and you move lazily as most of the class disperses at the first opportunity with it being their final class of the day.

You’re throwing your bag over your shoulder when you hear his voice, addressing the only other person in the room.

You.

“Intimidating?” Your face screws up in confusion, head tilting his way as your eyes connect for the first time. “Oh, uh—sorry, I’ve just been doin’ this a while. I can tell when someone is anxious in class.”

And, while it wasn’t necessarily anxiety—it was more the idea of adjusting. This was new, this place wasn’t familiar and you were just trying to settle in. Mr. Miller seemed like the guy to have deep roots planted into these grounds, familiar with this town like he’s been here his entire life.

He has, but that wasn’t the point.

“No,” You answer indifferently, shrugging your shoulders, “I think your radar might be a little off.”

Joel chuckles softly, tapping his fingers against the leather cover of his bag as he leaned the tops of his thighs against the edge of his desk, “You know—you didn’t partake much in class discussion just now.”

You weren’t sure where he was driving his point, gradually stepping toward his desk, fingers wrapped around the straps of your bag, pulling against the tight material of your shirt as it stretched over your breasts, “And you were about—fifteen minutes late, too.”

Touche. He nods, lips pursed together.

“Just, fair warning—class discussion is a good chunk of your grade, participation and all that. I want you to feel comfortable enough to join in so…however I can help with that.”

Your eyebrows knit together, thoroughly thrown off by his forwardness—or well, so you assumed. He quickly realizes his misstep.

“No—not like…I mean, if there’s anything that you like or are interested in that you want covered over the semester, let me know. I don’t want it to be so focused on stuff that only appeases a few people. Alright?”

You think on his words, chewing at your bottom lip quietly.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s standing on the edge, waiting impatiently for your response—but when you do, it feels like he can breathe. Joel didn’t want to fuck this job up and he already felt like he’s stepped off on the wrong foot.

“Alright.” You confirm simply, nodding politely. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He nods in response, the smallest twitch of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Have a good day.” He bids kindly, waving at you haphazardly as you left.

And now the day felt even weirder than when it started.

The first few weeks of class are actually…a delight. You find yourself looking forward to them as the weeks grow on and drag out, slowly making your way through the day and finding that Mr. Miller’s was the only class you could successfully relax in, not so pressure to participate because it was as equally engaging on both ends.

Mr. Miller liked to talk and argue just as animatedly as most students who had a point to prove—and you see why he must’ve been hired on a whim, the ability to charm and wit himself in and out of any scenario he wanted. It was…mesmerizing in a way that intoxicated you and infected your body and mind. He had you locked in every time he opened his mouth, finding your eyes dragging along the planes of his face and his well-kept appearance now that he arrived on time, sharp. Never early, never late.

He was as punctual as they come, slowly littering his classroom with more and more personalization. More literature books, smaller books of poems, packets of some of his favorite script writings and a few non-fiction pieces he thought to be intriguing.

But, the most interesting thing you notice is the small tan line around his ring finger. The advantage of the small classroom allowed for such details to be revealed, alongside knowing when he had taken a certain morning to do a fresh shave of his facial hair or spill a small spattering of coffee against his shirt, dull brown staining the white, crisp button-up he usually dawned alongside the occasional navy blue or black.

So, he was married—you assumed. He just didn’t wear his ring.

The more you indulged in him, the more complex he seemed. The ever mysterious J-something Miller, finding that no matter how hard you looked you couldn’t seem to find any information on him or an inkling of what his first name might be.

He must be a private person—no socials, no good deeds leading to news articles about him, or anything of tangible evidence to allow such information to seep out to the public. He was good at hiding, integrating himself in places he might not belong. He was a natural chameleon, much like yourself.

And you’d like to think you were good at writing considering you were attempting to pursue a career in it, mostly focusing on the aspect of screenwriting and film, not entirely sure what you were after but knowing that was where you wanted to go. You were great at convoluting things and empowering your far too creative imagination—often dangerous. You were never lacking in ideas, but your first assignment is a struggle.

It was something pertaining to non-fiction, a boring topic that Mr. Miller wanted to be intrigued by—he wanted something so mundane to be eye-catching and page-turning. Hanging on the edge of his seat, as he’d said so menacingly.

So, here you were, writing about the monogamous lives of certain breeds of penguins and they’re mates—whatever the fuck that was all about. It’s like he picked obscure topics for this very reason, the difficulty and the need for assistance. He wanted to help and you learned that quickly.

You could’ve been stuck with global warming, so it wasn’t all that bad.

Mr. Miller is leaning against an empty desk as he’s talking to a student a few desks away—yeah, the unlucky one who snagged the global warming topic. His expression is sour, tapping his pencil against the desk rapidly as Mr. Miller talks quietly, nothing that you can make out. He travels around the room gradually, eventually landing on you with a raised eyebrow, seeing that you had some, if not very little outlined.

He looks amused, knowing how you were pulling an absolute fat nothing over this topic. You could sit there and lay out the facts, but that’s not what he wanted. He wanted it to be explained in a way that held you close and dragged you along. It all came down to wording, at the end of the day, and as much as you wanted to prove you were a decent writer, you still had a lot to learn.

“This is so stupid,” You gripe, looking up at him briefly before you continue to stare daggers into the notebook you were scribbling in, “—pardon my language, but what the fuck is this topic?”

Mr. Miller chuckles deeply at that, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

“I’ll let that slide but try not to make it a habit,” He comments, acknowledging your foul language and understanding the frustration, “—it’s meant to challenge you. The obscurity of it. It’s not complicated, but you don’t want to just write a research paper.”

“Isn’t that…exactly how non-fiction works?” You ask curiously.

“You’ve read biographies, right? Auto-biograhpies and all that?”

You nod quietly.

“And I’m sure some of that caught your intention, right?” He asks and you respond with another nod, though meeker than before. “Non-fiction work is just as important as story-telling. Do some more research, explain why monogamy is sacred to them, explain their mating patterns, the behaviors—are you following?”

“Yeah—because some penguins mate for life, right?” You ask, feeling ridiculous asking him such an obscure question. “At least, I thought they did.”

“Most do.” Mr. Miller nods, “If you find yourself learning enough about the topic and actually finding some interest it won’t come out so…bland. Just look into it and write something you’d find intriguing to read, don’t stress over it that much. It’s just one assignment.”

It eases your worries slightly, but still, the frustration stuck.

“Okay,” You mumble, “Thank you.”

Mr. Miller offers a soft pat to your forearm as he nods silently in acknowledgment.

You were determined to make that assignment your bitch. Plain and simple.

Class discussion days are much easier. You switch between a certain selection of poems to snippets of scripts that Mr. Miller has pulled apart for the class to dissect and mince the words, learning how to write screenplays in a way that was both descriptive but directive and still managed to somehow keep the flow. Poems always seemed a little silly, but it was nice to debate the meanings and nuances of it all, always finding that you preferred to sit back and hear the thoughts of others until Mr. Miller decides he’s had enough one day—two months into the semester when he finally calls on you directly.

It was something he didn’t do often, but you find yourself going wide-eyed. He was always so polite to you, even when he’d catch you staring or lingering on his form for a moment too long, like he knew what you were thinking.

He was tall and—as was glaringly obvious, broad. His shoulders were immense and large as he extended his hands out and talked animatedly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, slacks stretching over taut, tight muscle as he planted a foot in a nearby chair or stretched his stance out slightly as he stood—often finding it hard to stay still the longer class drew on.

You pull your attention to him, an innocent gaze glazing over your features.

“Why don’t you read the next poem?” He asks curiously.

“Oh—um,” Your eyes flick toward the poem book held tight in your grip, flitting to find the the place where the class last left off, so distracted you find yourself scrambling, but Mr. Miller is quick to lean over without much show or way of embarrassing you, pointing out the spot where the class last left of, blunt nail scratching against the paper as you follow the trail of his finger, you clear your throat and start:

“How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.”

The point was to interpret the words and form an explanation for why they were used, what they were trying to explain, but you lose any sense of thought when your eyes drag up to meet Mr. Miller and he’s staring right back, allowing you all the attention in the world.

Like no one else in the room existed. It was all a delusion in your own head, something you weren’t privy to then, but you believed whole-heartedly in the moment. He was just allowing you the floor and sharing you the same attention he had with everyone else.

At least, that’s what he tried to do.

Mr. Miller clears his throat to subtly bring you back down to earth when he notices your mind fleeing from your body, asking an easy, “So, what do we think about this one?”

No one answered, staunchly disinterested as they stared at you, waiting for a response as you were the only one who had avoided participating all day.

“Uh, it—it sounds like the love isn’t being returned,” You start slow, dissecting the words in your brain as Mr. Miller nods, “but that person is willing to show up and offer more to make up for it, maybe even to their own…undoing, I guess.”

“There’s really no right or wrong,” He addresses the class as a whole but pointedly acknowledges your observation, “and that’s the best thing—you’re allowed to think as individuals and come up with your own conclusions. Good job.”

The final part is directed at you. It makes you feel warm, gooey—like you were being given a star for good behavior or gentle praise under the guise of friendly language.

You despise how hard it is to stay focused some days with how often Mr. Miller likes to pick on you and point you out—but he sees potential there. Real potential. Not to say that it isn’t within the rest of the class, he just sees…more. And it intrigues him in a way that feels dangerous, but he wants to ensure that you are given the proper support needed, even if that means a little extra attention.

It was harmless, after all.

Your first big assignment comes three months into the semester.

It’s a simple writing assignment but tactful and heavy, given a week to complete it before you were due to turn it in for a final grade. A collection of self-written poems, the outline for a possible script idea for a scene, and a small creative writing assignment that must include some kind of supernatural element. You appreciate the Mr. Miller never allowed things to lay stagnant with his work, always giving you something to think about.

And everyone loved him, that much was blatantly obvious. He was, easily, one of the hottest professors at the college for someone his age—you could only assume he was somewhere in his late 40s. But, there remained the unknown of if he was married, something people debated often, but you examined in the privacy of your own mind.

There was no indication of another—no pictures lingering on his desk as his classroom continued to collect belongings, no screensaver on his phone or laptop (because yes, you were observant) that gave you any idea of what his partner looked like. And he never mentioned anything outside of his own interest in literature. The curiosity with no discovery was only slightly disappointing, because despite that, Mr. Miller showed his attention toward you like you were the only person in the room.

And maybe it was like that for everyone, but it felt special to you. There was always a little extra to give to you that he didn’t offer to everyone else.

You turn in your assignment a few minutes before it is due, well into the late hours of the night.

Mr. Miller, unbeknownst to you, smiles when he sees the notification on his computer as he sits in his office at home, scrolling down the deep troves of porn in the darkened space, quickly clicking away to another browser as he hears the door creak, his wife poking her head through the crack with a smile.

“Hey, it’s late—you comin’ to bed soon?” Tess asks, eyes ringed with a deep exhaustion.

Joel nods, scratching at the side of his face, blinking tiredly.

“Yeah. In a bit,” He excuses, “Just tryin’ to catch up on these assignments and then I’ll be done.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Things had been rough since the affair—finding that Tess had been sleeping with her boss at her law firm for a few months, something she swore meant nothing, despite how long it dragged on in secret. Joel forgave her, mostly. They were managing, attempting the idea of marriage counseling, but he still couldn’t bring himself to put his wedding band back on, despite how proudly she wore hers still.

He had his own reservations on the matter and while he was trying to work things out, he wasn’t sure they could ever resume the same rhythm they had before, thinking that this was something he had for life, slowly crumbling and falling between his fingertips.

This was why he needed a change of pace, something different.

And maybe he was stupid for entertaining the obvious affection you showed toward him—he definitely was, but he does it anyways. It was playful, so meaningless and harmless that he didn’t even think twice about it. He could see you craved the attention and while he couldn’t be bothered to save that energy for Tess anymore, he could try to offer it to you.

Because you—you had so much potential. It was refreshing, seeing so much of his younger self in you, drive and dedication. The willingness to question stuff without fear.

He clicks on the email notification with your assignment, opening in a separate browser as he rises to lock his office door quietly, before returning to his other browser as he sat and unbuckled the thick leather belt around his waistband, a dignified zip that echoes throughout the confines of the office, reverberates and reminds him of his own loneliness.

And he shouldn’t picture your face as he finds himself aching and fucking deseprate into his fist, soft gunts muffled behind clenched teeth. But, he does. And he loves it.

He’s so fucked.

The comments on your assignment come a few days later, curled up in your bed in the small apartment you rented out, scrolling desperately to find out any further information on Mr. Miller but coming up with absolutely nothing. What a fucking ghost he was.

You’re curious, though—so you quickly switch to your emails to check his response and what your grade ended up being after how hard you worked to make sure it turned out perfect. Better than perfect actually. You hoped that with his obvious relationship woes he would appreciate the angst and underlying meanings in your poems, a bunch of bullshit you couldn’t relate to but hoped, on a whim, that he might.

‘Way to press on the idea of heartbreak, well done. Very expressive and real. Thank you for pouring those feelings into your work, though I hope no one has ever broken your heart that bad. Wonderful job.’

And he scores you a 90/100.

Which—whatever. You could accept it. Still, you wondered if those lingering ten points lied with him and his own bitter dealings. You’re fingers are curled around the laptop, ready to close when you get another notification blaring through your speakers.

You lift the laptop to stare at the screen, seeing an email come in from an unknown sender—though, the name grabs your attention immediately. First name, last name, followed by a series of number you can only assume is a birth year—not the school email Mr. Miller had previously sent you a response from.

You perk up, legs crossing over each other as you take a peek at the contents of the glaring email, seeing that it had links to a few books, followed by:

‘I hope you don’t mind my emailing you like this. But, I have a few pieces I think you may enjoy and would help with some of what you’re trying to convey in your writing. You have a beautiful way of expressing feeling and you should harness that. Let me know what you think. :)’

In hindsight, Joel should’ve never sent it. But, there was an urge there he couldn’t fight.

Maybe it was out of spite for his life and his wife betraying him, his urge to try and do some real good for someone, seeing that potential in you no matter how inappropriate it may be to go around school ruling and message you from his private email.

But, now you had a sliver of information. A peek into who Mr. Miller—Joel Miller, was.

It sends you down a spiral, searching and scouring for any information available online.

You find out that he’s 48…or 49, not entirely sure of his actual birthday. Only going off the year designated in his email. And that he’s a published author, but nothing of significance. He used to be a high school teacher and he was…or is, married. It’s all vague and unassuming, but it has your mind stirring. Wondering what was so interesting about him, what part of him had crawled into your mind and refused to get out.

And him messaging you on a private email—complimenting you with unnecessary eagerness, even when it wasn’t needed. You can’t be this delusional. There’s something there, even if neither of you have spoken on it explicitly.

The faint touches and smiles traded, the hard-gazed looks and glances over his shoulder as he does a sweep of the room, always spending just a smidgen of extra time over your desk when you ask for help.

It makes you feel special. And that’s exactly what you need.

You fall asleep that night with a wild idea in your head, wondering just how brave you could be in this situation. It burrows into your mind and seeps into your dreams:

You’re pressed against the edge of a desk in a dark office, the solid wood pressed flat against your cunt as you lean forward and capture the lips of the person in front of you, a shaky breath coming from their mouth.

“Want that pretty mouth ‘round my cock.” He says—your heart skips, nearly stops.

You don’t know why you’re surprised to hear Joel’s voice, but it clears your mind and his hazy face finally comes into view in all of it’s intricate detail, right down to the soft crinkle of skin around his eyes, eyebrows furrowed as he pulls away to look at you, lips puffed from the kissing and seeming so innocent as he spoke in such a depraved manner.

Delicate fingers drag along the shape of your lips, stopping at your cupid’s bow before he’s pressing two fingers inside, grabbing the hand relaxed at your side and pressing it over the front of his slacks, the hard line of his cock pressing against the zipper.

There’s no other word to offer than intimidating, his size morphing any idea that you might’ve had–which, you did. His slacks are well-tailored, form fitting, and if he stretched just the right way in class you could see the head or outline of his cock press against the fabric for a split second….and you observed. A lot.

“Wanna stuff your mouth, huh?” He asks, eyes rolling back as his fingers press down on your tongue, quickly pulling out as he grips your face, spit spreading across your cheek, gasping at the suddenness of his movement. “Think it’ll fit?”

He sounds so condescending, eyeline over you but downcast on your figure from where your perched against his desk, idle hand exploring the soft, plush skin of your thighs as he drags his fingers along the full expanse of your cunt and it sets your whole body on fire, like you’re feeling everything dialed to an impossible level, every nerve in your body coming to life.

You shake your head meekly, gasping when he yanks you forward suddenly.

“Guess we’ll have to train that filthy mouth then, won’t we?” His eyebrow quirks up salaciously, earning a less than subtle grin as he presses his fingers into the wet spot of your underwear, not breaking the barrier but allowing you to feel the pressure.

And just as you feel yourself grabbing onto something tangible, hands gripped in the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, you’re startling awake with a gasp.

You could feel your imagination mixing with reality, falling lazily back against your bed as your chest heaved hurried breaths, palms pressed over your chest in an effort to calm down, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The room was hot, too hot to feel comfortable anymore.

Your lip pulls between your teeth, chewing thoughtfully at a bad idea.

You reach blindly for your laptop laid out near the end of your bed, opening the device with a swiftness, squinting at the blinding screen that burned at this time of night.

Nearly two in the morning—this was pointless.

But, you hit reply on his email anyways and slowly type out a response.

‘Thank you for noticing, Mr. Miller. It’s greatly appreciated and I will definitely look into those sources and give you a full, detailed review. :) I appreciate you thinking of me as someone so esteemed. I would love to talk more about literature, if that feels appropriate.’

The lines were already blurred. He’d blurred them. You were just smudging them a little more.

You never said that starting fresh meant you had to stay on your best behavior. Because really, there was nothing innocent about what game was developing between you both.

It was a game of chess and you felt a million moves ahead, nearing a checkmate—and you would do anything to have Joel Miller in the way you craved. Anything.

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedrostories #professor!joel miller #miller's girl #my writing

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violetsaffron5 · 3 months ago

Text

Beautiful Disaster (13)

← Chapter 12 • series masterlist • Chapter 14 →

13 | Glass

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x f!Reader

A party at Satoru's house ends in disaster.

words: 3.9k

AN: Hey guys! Not sure if anyone is even reading this story anymore, but I fell of the face of the planet for a while, sorry about that. Things IRL were crazy with work and my personal life, and I just didn't have it in me to write anything. Things are much better now and I was in the writing mood, so decided to give this one a little update, since I already had the chapter mostly written already.

I will be going through it to proofread/edit before I do the last two chapters (which will probably be posted together).

Ao3 • Discord 18+ • Social Media • Series Masterlists

April 2012

Taking a deep breath, cinching the robe around your waist a little tighter, you step into the class. There’s a murmur from students setting up their supplies, getting their easels into position, and canvases ready to draw on.

The walls are covered in art from various classes and years passed - even some portraits of past nude models hang on the wall as examples of creative liberties and proper proportions. Something many artists have a hard time getting a handle on.

As you stand in front of the class, a little stool next to you so you can sit on occasion while the other students draw, you look around the room, making eye contact with Choso.

He gives a small, shy smile, like he always does and you swallow thickly - feeling the way your chest and neck heat with the flush creeping up to your cheeks.

Satoru wasn’t particularly… pleased when you told him you were taking an extracurricular art class this semester. Less pleased when he realized Choso was in your class.

And even less so when you told him you offered to be the nude class model.

The decision was easy though, despite his grievances. His only real one was jealousy and not wanting everyone in the class to ogle you - which you assured him wasn’t likely going to be the case. You have no reason to be ashamed, and everyone who’s taking this class knew this was an assignment. Besides, the professor has made it very clear that if anyone says anything or makes you uncomfortable, they’ll fail and be removed from the class.

You offered to be the model when you found out it’s a paid gig, and you’ll take an opportunity that arises to get your own money - money your mom doesn’t need to know about and money she won’t have any reason to grill you on how or where you spend it.

Once you explained this, Satoru relented a little, though you’re confident his problems have more to do with Choso than anything else. Which is ridiculous considering there hasn’t been anything more than a friendship between you two. It’s not like you have a history with Choso like Satoru does with Mei.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the professor states after closing the classroom door. You look around, taking in the overhead string lights giving the space a warm glow - the shades are drawn on the windows, stopping anyone from outside the room from witnessing what’s about to happen.

Licking your lips, and looking up at the ceiling, you draw the ribbons on the robe, letting the soft, fluffy material fall to the floor. The air is cold in the room, immediately perking your nipples as you purse your lips, feeling a wave of goosebumps cover your flesh.

The rustling of utensils being grabbed and the scratching on canvases immediately fill the room. Gaining a little more confidence, you look back at the class; Choso’s deep black eyes are the first - and only - you see in the room. At the beginning of the class, you thought it might be more awkward with him here, being the only person you know outside of class and seeing you vulnerable in front of everyone. It’s more comforting than you could have imagined.

In reality, you don’t know him all that well, but he’s always been kind, and he hangs around Suguru a lot. You also don’t miss the way his eyes trail the length of your body before he busies himself with what he’s supposed to be doing.

There are several times during class when your eyes meet, you give a little shrug and smile and he grins full-on, laughing to himself quietly as he continues drawing your form.

When class comes to an end, the professor allows you to leave to dress in the bathroom down the hall and come back since he has a few announcements.

Once you’ve changed you take your place next to Choso as the teacher drones on about maintaining professionalism from seeing a classmate naked and urging everyone to continue working on their canvases on their own time, turning in their finished work at the next class.

Except for you, of course, being exempt from having to draw anything and getting an automatic A on this assignment.

“Thanks for drawing me naked and not being a perv about it,” You whisper to Choso, nudging his shoulder gently with yours.

He flashes his brows, chuckling, “That’s kind of my thing, you know - trying not to be a creep.”

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you wait for Choso to finish packing his art supplies, slipping the canvas under his arm, gesturing for you to walk ahead of him out of the room.

“Are you coming to the party tonight? Haven’t seen you around the last few.”

Choso gives a wistful smile, “Yuji’s grandpa is sick, in the hospital so I’ve been joining him on his visits. But I think he’s hanging out with his friends tonight.”

“Great!” Smiling widely, you turn and walk backward toward your next class as Choso stops in front of the stairs, on the way to his, “Then I’ll see you there!”

Steam rolls out from the bathroom door when you open it, the cool breeze from Satoru’s room hitting your skin, immediately making you shiver. He’s lying on the bed, arm relaxed by his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.

As soon as you emerge, he lets his phone drop to his chest, a heated gaze watching as you meander around, combing through your hair and deciding what to wear for their house party tonight.

Per usual, there’s a fight tonight starring yours truly. How the higher-ups at the school haven’t figured this out, even with Toji acting as an “inside man” - for lack of a better term - is beyond you. You’d think schools would want to investigate why several students show up with black and blue bruises and cut lips and eyebrows every so often, but apparently, they have better things to do.

Satoru has gotten off the bed, wrapping his arms around your waist and slipping them under the towel until it becomes loose enough to drop to the floor. He pulls you close to him, one large hand splayed on your stomach, the other playful tweaking your pert nipple while he kisses down your neck.

You let out a soft sigh when he nibbles your lobe, before whispering, “You smell so fucking good,” pushing his hips into your ass so you can feel his growing length.

With a sharp gasp, he spins you around, setting you on his dresser, wrapping your arms around his neck as he continues nipping and kissing your neck. And almost inadvertently, as soon as he slips his hand between your thighs, you close your legs a little tighter.

Satoru pulls away, brows knitted as you sigh and purse your lips. His tone comes out harsher, more exasperated than you think he really means, “What’s wrong?”

The truth is your heart fucking aches at the state of your relationship. Things were so great, until they just weren’t anymore - there was a part of you that always thought people who described being in a hard relationship felt like they were drowning were just being dramatic. But it honestly feels that way.

Your chest is heavy and your heart beats so loud that sometimes it’s the only thing you can hear; your throat feels so tight you can’t catch your breath. There are nights where you’ve stayed up wondering if he feels the same way but in reality, you’re not sure he’d ever tell you.

He avoids conversations like the plague and is so much better at hiding his feelings and playing them off than you are.

Since the Okinawa trip, there’s been a lot weighing on your mind about how realistic this relationship with Satoru is. He’s fun and makes you feel alive with his silly ideas and schemes, makes you feel heard and seen. And along that same vein, there are times where you feel simultaneously loved and unwanted.

Afterall, he’s the one who wanted to keep things casual but relented only because you wanted a relationship and it almost feels as if you forced his hand with that. Sure, he made his own choice, but even then, there are things you can’t deny or look away from.

There’s no hiding Mei is a point of contention in your relationship. She has been since before it even started. And it was something you thought would go away - that she would see the two of you together and go find someone else to sink her claws into but she just keeps coming back, and for whatever reasons, he won’t let her go either.

Satoru told you their relationship was primarily physical - that there’s no real interest in one another beyond that, and the only reason they were involved to begin with was because of their family businesses being tied together. More convenient than anything.

So why won’t he let her go? And is it fair to even ask him to? Outside of Suguru, Shoko and even Utahime, she is one of his oldest friends.

You’ve also been wondering recently how much Satoru respects you. Considering how many times you’ve talked about how uncomfortable you are with this… relationship with Mei and how it hurts you, nothing has changed despite his repeated promises.

And it’s not logical to think he’d change.

Satoru groans when you hop off the dresser, grabbing your shirt and slipping it on, “I’m fine. Just not in the mood, I don’t feel great tonight.”

“You’re never in the mood anymore.” There’s no mistaking the annoyance in his tone as grabs his glasses to shield his eyes, no doubt rolling them behind the dark glass.

Despite the lie you’ve been telling, you want nothing more than to have him, let him have his way with you as he has so many times before. But you’re not emotionally ready to go there right now - you need time to think and you can’t do that when he’s buried ten inches deep in you almost every night.

So the physical aspect of your relationship has taken a hit. You’ve tried talking about Okinawa with him, bringing up everything with Mei once again - but just like always, Satoru says you’re being dramatic, making a mountain out of a molehill.

But it’s clearly not nothing since it bothers you and it’s clear as day to everyone around.

Satoru doesn’t bother staying by your side during most of the party, opting to meet up with some of his classmates. You try not to pay too much attention to him, but you sneak glances over every now and again.

He chats, a drink in hand while laughing and animatedly waving his free hand around while telling a story.

“Hello?” A pale hand waves in front of your face, snapping a few times, breaking you out of your trance - apparently you were staring longer than you thought.

Blinking a few times and turning your head, you look at Choso, “I’m sorry - what were you saying?”

He gives a soft smile, glancing between you and Satoru for a moment, “Everything okay?”

Pursing your lips and sighing heavily, you nod slowly, “Yeah… It’s just…” You trail off, not sure how much or what to actually say. It doesn’t take long to make a decision though, since looking back over to Satoru shows Mei has joined his little soiree. “He says nothing is happening, but he’s always with Mei.” You nod your head in that direction.

Choso purses his head and nods, “Yeah. I was wondering about that.”

“Great.” Your voice is monotone. Because this just confirms you’re not the only person who sees them together constantly - that it’s not just you being high maintenance or a pain in the ass. It is a real problem, and one Satoru refuses to acknowledge.

“Why don’t we,” Choso starts, eyes flickering between yours for a moment before pointing off to the side, “take some shots?”

Your eyes trail to where he’s pointing - a small group of people around a small table, just big enough for someone to lay on and take a body shot. A smile spreads across your face with amusement for two reasons: Shoko is currently taking a shot glass out of Utahime’s mouth and tipping it back and because you’re feeling a little petty tonight.

Maybe it’s the alcohol you’ve already consumed, your inhibitions are lowered but you don’t care. If Satoru gets to have someone other than you hanging with him all the time, going on family outings during the holidays and hanging on him twenty-four seven - then why can’t you do the same?

Choso’s questioning stare is innocent, so there’s a chance he won’t be up for this - there’s a part of you that wonders if he meant just regular shots, and not specifically body shots. You get your answer however, when you agree and a wide smile spreads across his face.

While you walk to the table and lay back on it once Utahime has gotten up, Choso busies himself with getting salt, a lime and a shot of tequila.

Shoko is off to the side, staring daggers at you before asking, “What the hell are you doing?”

You smile and shrug, “Playing his game. I’m tired of being the one that gets hurt all the time.”

“This is a really stupid fucking idea,” Utahime chimes in to your surprise. It’s not often she adds her two cents on your relationship - normally she just adds how stupid she thinks Satoru is.

Choosing not to answer, you lay back and turn to face Satoru. He’s not paying attention, however Mei is, you glare, lick your lips and lift your shirt just enough to expose your navel.

“Ready?” Choso asks and you nod, but he keeps a hold of the tequila shot, rather than putting it in your mouth.

Small grains of salt hit just below your belly button and then the feel of a small metal ball and cool tongue trail up. The reaction your body gives is normal; stomach clenching, breath hitching and thighs closing ever so slightly - like a reminder of all the times Satoru has done the same to you.

Looking down at Choso was a mistake - he has a mischievous smirk spread across his lips and heat in his eyes. And rather than take the shot in his hand, he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes widened in shock, because this was not part of the plan - it was supposed to just be a normal body shot, just something to make Satoru a little jealous and hopefully realize how he’s been treating you.

Panicked, you sit up and fix your shirt - Choso winks, placing the glass to his lips just as a fist connects with his jaw in a deafening crack. Satoru is seething, nostrils flared as he grabs a fist full of Choso’s shirt and pulls him in for another punch to the face.

Choso isn’t caught off guard this time, landing his own blow on Satoru’s cheek, and then his ribs.

“Stop!” You scream hysterically, covering your mouth with your hand, because this was not the mess you wanted to cause - this wasn’t supposed to happen!

Before you can take a step forward, a large hand grips your shoulder. Suguru is next to you, shaking his head before stepping in to separate the guys. Panicked, you look at Shoko who has a look of disappointment written on her face, Utahime is shaking her head, watching as Suguru stands between the two.

Satoru runs a hand down his face, Choso wipes his lip with the back of his hand as Suguru says something to them - when he’s done, Satoru stalks out of the room and up the stairs without so much as a glance in your direction.

“Why,” it’s a small noise that leaves your lips, not loud enough for anyone to hear other than yourself. Looking at Choso with upturned brows, you shake your head slightly. If you had known he planned on kissing you, there’s no way you would have agreed to do this.

He must have seen you mouth the word because Choso walks over to you, brows bunched together. “Because he treats you like shit. And you just let it happen time and time again.”

A scoff leaves your lips, “I love Satoru - you know what, I can’t deal with this right now.”

Onlookers move out of your way as you make your way to and up the steps to Satoru’s bedroom. The room is quiet, light off except the illumination of the lights peeking out from the partially closed bathroom door.

For the first time, probably ever, you knock on the door to make your presence known before poking your head inside. Satoru’s standing, head hanging between his shoulders, leaning on his palms on the cool countertop.

“Satoru,” a step forward with your hand outreached for him, wanting to check on the cuts on his lip, and the bruise blooming across his cheek, “I -”

“Stop.” He interjects, tone raspy, lifting his head to look in the mirror but not looking in your direction.

A sigh leaves your lips, because of course he doesn’t want to talk about this. He would rather let his emotions show physically - through sex or fighting - rather than sit and have a two minute conversation to talk things through.

“Okay…” You’re really not sure what to do in this situation, stay and potentially make it worse or leave him to cool off and come try and talk to him later. Opting for the latter, you take a step back - you really need to talk with Choso about what happened too, you just needed a second to take a step back and see Satoru. To make sure he didn’t need any bandages or some other medical care. With the exception of the few scrapes and bruises, he seems physically fine.

Turning and opening the door, a large hand reaches over your head and pushes the door fully closed.

“Where are you going?” Satoru asks, voice annoyed.

“To check on Choso.” It comes out quieter than you intend, which Satoru’s body heat radiating against your back, his hand still firmly pressed against the door, yours on the knob.

“Why? Kissing him wasn’t enough?”

Heat flares through your veins at the comment, because he’s acting like you asked for him to kiss you. And that was never the intention - you would never do anything like that, and he knows it - especially with your history.

He’s just trying to piss you off too.

Turning around, you snap at him, pointing a finger in his chest, “Maybe because my boyfriend went insane and beat the shit out of him,” he grins slightly at that comment, teeth pink from fading blood. “And because -”

Because you saw the way Choso looked at you when he suggested body shots. Knew it would piss Satoru off to no end. Because you were already questioning what Choso was wanting to do before you agreed. It was like you lost your mind in the moment, in all of the feelings and anger and hurt at everything that has happened, and continues to happen in this relationship.

“Because this is my fault.” Your voice is quiet, shoulders slumped, guilt written on your faces as tears well in your eyes.

Satoru’s arms are around you the moment the first tear drips from the corner of your eye, holding you close and rocking side to side gently.

“Don’t leave me,” He whispers into your hair and you’re sure he doesn’t mean physically, in this moment.

“I’m not - I won’t.” You say between sniffles, pulling back to look into his ocean blue eyes, showing his own uncertainty in this situation - a look you’re not used to from him. “Satoru, that was scary. It looked like you were trying to murder him.”

“I wanted to.”

Your brows pinch together at his admission, “You’re insane.”

“In a good way?” The teasing tone to his voice is starting to come back.

A small laugh leaves your lips, “How is there a good way to be insane?”

He thinks for a moment, pulling you back into his muscular chest before shrugging, “Dunno just, don’t go to him. Okay?”

Closing your eyes, you nod against him, taking in the warmth and safety you feel in his arms, hoping he’ll explain his reaction to that, “Why did you punch him?”

It takes several minutes of standing in silence, holding one another to realize he’s stopped swaying you back and forth, a motion you found comforting when he was doing it, and the odds of him answering are lower and lower with every passing second.

After another few minutes you pull away and sigh, wiping the smeared makeup under your eyes away.

“I don’t want him touching you,” Satoru says hurriedly when you open the bathroom door again, grabbing your free wrist, “Let alone kissing you.”

That’s not a real answer - just some fucked up possessiveness he feels he needs to display because another guy is clearly interested in you. Which is ironic considering he said the two of you could see other people before he agreed to try dating.

And clearly he forgets is attached to him at the hip anytime she’s around, but how dare anyone but Satoru do that with you. It’s a stupid double standard and one you’re tired of.

He lets your arm go when you shake your head slowly, which breaks your heart. Wishing he would fight for you right now, for your relationship - not physically fight, but actually listen to each other and work together to make things better.

Maybe it is time to call it quits. Having these feelings in your relationship continuously is not healthy and it’s taking a toll on you. At this point you’re not sure what’s worse - finding your boyfriend cheating on you with your own mother, or this cycle you found yourself in with Satoru.

There’s a deep stuttering sigh behind you, to your surprise, “Things haven’t been great between us recently,” he says quietly, clearly unsure how to say what’s on his mind, “And I - fuck -” he groans, running his hands up and down his fast several times, “I don’t know, okay, but I don’t want to see you with anyone else.”

Your brows are raised as you turn to look at Satoru with surprise, not having anticipated getting any sort of answer. It’s not much, but it speaks volumes that he’s admitted your relationship isn’t in a good place right now - honestly you weren’t sure he was even aware of it. He never wants to talk about these things, he’d rather have sex and show you how he feels by the way he delicately spreads your legs, teasingly kisses up your thighs and makes love to you.

But it also hurts that the only time he says he loves you, with the exception of the first few times, is when you feel like you have to force it out of him, or when he’s buried deep in your cunt.

“Are we gonna make it?” You whisper back. And for the first time in your relationship, find yourself wondering when this relationship will meet its inevitable end.

But maybe there is hope. He’s admitted this - maybe it’ll just take more time for him to find the words and continue learning to open up.

Satoru kisses the top of your head, opening the restroom door and pulling you gently to his bed, laying down behind you and covering you both with a throw blanket before whispering back, “We’ll make it... Just don’t leave me.”

So you don’t.

@petalsrdead @sofiaconlaz @lovelylashawnalee @s-witch-bitch @watyousayin @desthevirgo @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn @musababy @sagejin @ritsatoru @faewithsnakes @erenputurchildreninsideme @lex-dear @hvziers @babybae-shisui @sugurunicorn @niki-sun @lilith412426 @sofiaconlaz @lxvephxbic @iam-mia9 @laylasbunbunny @creolequeen11210 @xiaosie @lem-hhn @yogurttea @slut-jr @crystxlline @ritsatoru @abba-simp @myabae @etherealkakashi @hyperfixationsporfavor @yihona-san06 @ambersea7 @knightoflove

#jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #violetsaffronfic #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #BD

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connieisthesun · 6 months ago

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Chemistry and Cadavers Chapter 2 - Conrad Fisher x Reader

Chapter 2: Dorm Dilemmas

Chapter Summary - Everything's going well in you and Conrad's friendship until you receive a letter from the Campus Housing office that changes everything...

Warnings - close proximity, banter and flirting

*Authors note* - Let me know if I should keep them coming, also share your thoughts about season 3 being filmed rn ahh. Enjoy loves!

The semester was well underway, and life at college had settled into a comfortable routine for Y/N and Conrad. Their friendship was flourishing, with their playful banter and flirtatious exchanges becoming a staple of their daily interactions. Little did they know that a mix-up in room assignments was about to add a new twist to their lives.

It was a crisp Friday morning when Y/N received an email from the campus housing office. She opened it with curiosity, expecting the usual update on dorm activities or upcoming events. Instead, she was met with a notification that left her staring in disbelief:

Subject: Urgent: Rooming Assignment Change

Dear Y/N,

Due to an administrative error, there has been a change in your rooming assignment. As of next week, you will be sharing a dorm room with Conrad Fisher, who was also affected by this mix-up. We apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate your understanding as we work to resolve the situation.

Best regards, Campus Housing Office

Y/N blinked at the email, her mind racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Sharing a dorm room with Conrad was something she hadn’t anticipated, but the prospect of spending even more time with him was undeniably intriguing.

Later that day, Y/N met up with Conrad in the campus coffee shop. As she approached their usual table, she noticed Conrad already waiting, his usual relaxed demeanor in place.

“Hey, Conrad,” Y/N said, sliding into the seat across from him. “I have some news that might be of interest to you.”

Conrad looked up from his laptop, a curious expression on his face. “Oh? Do tell.”

Y/N pulled out her phone and showed him the email. “Looks like we’ve been assigned to share a dorm room together.”

Conrad’s eyes widened in surprise. “Seriously? That’s… unexpected.”

Y/N nodded, her smile playful. “I guess we’ll be spending a lot more time together than we thought. How do you feel about that?”

Conrad leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Well, considering how much fun we’ve had so far, I think it’ll be an interesting experience.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing. “Interesting, huh? I hope you’re prepared for my impeccable taste in music and my tendency to hog the bathroom.”

Conrad chuckled, clearly unfazed. “And I’ll make sure to keep my collection of quirky socks and loud snoring to a minimum. Deal?”

They both laughed, the tension of the rooming situation easing with their lighthearted banter. The rest of their coffee date was filled with laughter and playful teasing, as they discussed their plans for the upcoming week and how they would adjust to their new living arrangement.

As the weekend approached, Y/N and Conrad began the process of moving into their new shared dorm room. The campus housing office had provided them with a room in a co-ed dorm, and the space was small but functional, with two single beds, a shared desk, and minimal storage.

When Y/N arrived at the room with her belongings, she found Conrad already there, his side of the room looking surprisingly organized. He was unpacking with a methodical efficiency, his belongings neatly arranged.

“Hey, Conrad,” Y/N said as she entered the room. “I see you’re already settling in.”

Conrad looked up and smiled. “Yeah, I figured it would be best to get things in order before you arrived. How’s the unpacking going on your end?”

Y/N set down her suitcase and began to unpack. “It’s going well. I’m just trying to figure out how to fit all of my stuff into this tiny space.”

Conrad chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll manage. We’ll make it work.”

As they continued to unpack, the air was filled with playful banter and occasional flirtatious remarks. Conrad would occasionally tease Y/N about her choice of décor, and Y/N would respond with witty comebacks and good-natured ribbing.

“So, Conrad,” Y/N said, holding up a poster of a famous band. “Do you think this will clash with your collection of motivational quotes?”

Conrad grinned. “Only if you promise not to play your music too loudly. I’m pretty attached to my study sessions.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll do my best. But no promises about the occasional dance party.”

The days passed quickly, and the transition to their shared dorm room proved to be smoother than either of them had anticipated. Their dynamic was filled with humor and camaraderie, and their interactions continued to be marked by playful flirtation and light-hearted teasing.

One evening, after a particularly challenging day of classes, Y/N and Conrad found themselves lounging in their dorm room, the space now feeling more like home. Y/N was sprawled on her bed, reading a textbook, while Conrad was sitting at the desk, working on an assignment.

“Hey, Y/N,” Conrad said, glancing over at her with a smirk. “Did you know that sharing a dorm room with a friend can actually strengthen your friendship?”

Y/N looked up from her book, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Is that so? And what’s your source for this fascinating information?”

Conrad pretended to think for a moment. “Let’s just say I’ve read some interesting articles. And besides, we’re living proof.”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, really? And how exactly are we proving this theory?”

Conrad leaned back in his chair, a grin on his face. “Well, for starters, we’ve managed to avoid any major conflicts so far. Plus, our daily banter and teasing are a testament to our strong connection.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “You make it sound like we’re conducting a social experiment.”

“Maybe we are,” Conrad said with a wink. “And if we’re being honest, I wouldn’t want to share a dorm room with anyone else.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered at his words, but she played it cool. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Conrad.”

Later that evening, after they had finished their respective tasks, they decided to unwind by watching a movie together. They set up their small TV, grabbing snacks and settling in on their beds.

As the movie played, they found themselves engaged in easy conversation, the chemistry between them as palpable as ever. Their playful teasing continued, with Conrad making occasional jokes about the movie’s plot and Y/N responding with witty comebacks.

At one point, Conrad reached over to grab a handful of popcorn from Y/N’s bowl, their hands brushing against each other. The touch was brief but electrifying, and they both looked at each other with a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Nice move,” Y/N said, her voice playful. “But you owe me some popcorn now.”

Conrad grinned. “Deal. I’ll make sure to replenish your supply.”

As the movie came to an end, they found themselves lingering in the comfortable silence of their shared space. The evening had been filled with laughter and connection, and the bond between them felt stronger than ever.

“Well,” Y/N said, stretching her arms, “I think we’ve successfully navigated our first week as dorm mates. What do you think?”

Conrad nodded, a warm smile on his face. “I’d say we’ve done a pretty good job. Here’s to many more weeks of shared space and friendly banter.”

Y/N laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And maybe a few more dance parties and impromptu study sessions.”

Conrad’s smile widened. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As they settled into their respective beds for the night, the comfort of their shared space was evident. The playful teasing and flirtatious exchanges had created a bond that was both enjoyable and meaningful, and the prospect of spending more time together in their cozy dorm room was something they both looked forward to.

As Y/N drifted off to sleep, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation for the days ahead. The new living arrangement had brought them closer together, and the adventures that awaited them promised to be filled with excitement, connection, and perhaps even a touch of romance.

Tag list - @conradfisherswifesstuff @cheezbot @grxnde-dwt @itsshayfr @lanivoid @calpurnia2002

Comment or heart to be added.

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180oz · 1 year ago

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wanted to start posting updates of my life even though nobody is really reading 😫. ive been having a really tough time and i need some positivity in my life to look back on when i feel down or unmotivated. I just want to stop being scared of the world and start taking better actions i can feel proud of 🥺❤️

im actually kind of excited, which i dont feel often!? 2024 feels like its going to be my year. i want to take care of myself and really work on my mental health which needs a lot of love and pampering and big hugs and smooches right now muah 😘

sometimes i forget that i am only 24 and that my life shouldn’t be given up on just yet. I always had this lingering feeling that i would die early based on my mental state or something else happening. even if i was to die early, i want to know that i lived a good life even if it was for a couple of years. i would rather die knowing that i accomplished some very cool things ive always wanted to do than die knowing i stayed the same person for the rest of my life. i want to die happier than i was last year or today.

some small things i want to do this year (some of them will sound very silly and miniscule):

1. bake something from a recipe i saved on youtube

2. post more art on tumblr, especially my OCs and fan art of shows i used to enjoy. learn more art tricks and tips so i can replicate the way i exactly imagine my art to be like !!

3. find a good job for the summer, hopefully one that is full time and i can make good connections and money with 🥺

4. finish this semester knowing i did my best to go to the library and study as much as i can! hopefully pass with a 3.8 overall (i have never gotten over a 3.1 overall since i started university a couple years ago…so lets see where this goes

5. find something i’m very passionate about as i get close to finishing my degree.

6. do more activities with current friends and make new friends

7. make some cool nail art with my polygel nail kit

8. move out of campus dorms and into an apartment with friends this year.

9. start writing again and work on my webcomic

10. learn japanese again so i can visit my friends in japan and impress them with how much ive improved!!

11. learn front end development

12. eat healthy full meals instead of skipping them and snacking throughout the day

13. be the positive happy and kind girl i miss being! ever since i had started going to uni here, my attitude has gotten worse and i feel like i am a bit too mean and sensitive now, but no more of that !

14. get my learners!

15. grow and pamper my lovely natural hair

i dont think this is all but i think its a good start while i make an official goals list for 2024💪🏾

#sushi/motherish actually inspired me to do this 🥹#came back to tumblr reading her posts after almost a decade and she is still as sweet and inspiring as ever!!#bo's diary

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the-mind-hive · 2 years ago

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July 17, 2023

Hello!

It’s been a veryyy long time since I’ve updated this account. I forgot it even existed!

6 years has gone by faster than I even know. Reading back on this makes me cringe! But it’s nice to look back on that stage of my life. As I got older, I’ve lost some of that loneliness I felt in my middle school years. I did later get diagnosed with depression, however nothing really has resulted in that sooo. Idk! I try to be who I wanna be, regardless of what others think. It’s sorta working lol.

Anyways!! Small Recap on my life in the past 6 years

Successfully moved! Looking back, I was very excited for the move. The place I was coming from held many bad memories and I just wanted to get away from it all. I’m still glad I did, I actually started thriving!

Started, Attended, and Graduated High School. I wasn’t valedictorian or anything but I did finish with honors. High school life wasn’t too eventful!

Make a couple friends! I’ve lost touch with some over the years but many have stuck around. I am very thankful to have them.

Got into many relationships. Most were nonserious, high school type relationships. However, I ended up finding my current boyfriend! We’ve been dating for 4 years, I really do love him. He’s a perfect match for me and I am really grateful to have him in my life.

Lived through a Pandemic. Yeah who knew that a global pandemic was going to change the world! I sure didn’t 6 years ago. The pandemic didn’t not hit my family hard and I am thankful for that. However ever since that times have been sort of weird…I try to be compassionate towards my fellow humans however it always feels like the world is losing it’s grip a little. I try not to think about it too much.

Went to Culinary School. I was honestly really surprised to find that this was actually a long term dream of mine. However, now knowing I’m actually glad I stuck to what I was passionate about. While I’m not necessarily becoming a chef and owning a business, I’ll be still getting to work with food as a Food Scientist! I still cook and bake on my own time, which I believe is more enjoyable!

As for now, I’m on summer break between college semesters. I’ll be a Junior next year! It’s very nerve wracking cause I’m close to actually reaching the adult world. I’m not ready, what so ever. However, no one is unfortunately. I’m trying to spend much of my youth now as carefree as can be.

I don’t know how this blog will end now, I doubt i’ll actually remember to update everyday. Maybe i’ll just keep personal entries on here for future me to look at; Updating every now and then. (If you are looking at this future me, Hi! I hope life is going great for you ❤️)

If some random stranger does somehow find this, I hope your day goes amazing. Stay strong out there.

I’ll see ya later.

#personal diary #blog

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barnesafterglow · 3 years ago

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let it happen

summary: when you run into your adorable lab partner at a frat party, the night doesn't end like you could ever expect

pairing: frat!steve x f!reader

word count: 3k

warnings: explicit language, mild smut (MINORS DNI), drinking, drunk sex, charming af steve, a smidge of angst, cheesy confessions, wanda ia a good bro, and so is sam

a/n: this took me a lot longer than i thought but i think it ended up okay! thank you @sweetascanbee for requesting this, i hope it was everything you wanted <3

main masterlist ─ i no longer have a taglist, but you can follow @theafterglowlibrary and turn on post notifications to get fic updates!

C’mon, it won’t be that bad, she had said. Of course it wasn’t that bad for her, she had Vision’s tongue down her throat practically the second she walked through the door. Wanda better be glad you loved her so much.

You had gotten lucky with your randomized roommate freshman year. Moving to a city where you knew no one was not the best move as far as your social life was concerned, but you and Wanda had clicked instantly and you had been pretty much attached at the hip ever since. Except, now she had started dating someone and more and more of her time was spent at his frat house.

The very frat house where you now stood with your back to the wall, watching Wanda and Vis dance while you sipped on your third drink of the night. You were starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, but without anything else to do, idly drinking was your best option.

You wanted to be annoyed - Wanda has spent all week convincing you to come to this frat party because you had been cramped up in your room stressing over finals - but she looked so happy you couldn’t fault her for wanting to get out of your apartment for a night. Plus, you really did need a break, the stress was starting to get to you.

Stepping into the kitchen, you nearly spilled the rest of your cup when you saw who was standing in front of the fridge.

Steve Rogers - your chemistry lab partner who you had been pining over all semester. He was a gentleman through and through, which endeared you to him immediately and caused your small crush to snowball into a full blown panic to Wanda for a week straight when he saved you from scorching yourself on a Bunsen burner. The feeling of his massive hand wrapped around your wrist was ingrained in your brain forever.

He was sweet and charming and definitely not the type of guy you pictured ever being in a frat. You were about to high tail it out of the kitchen when he closed the refrigerator door and his eyes immediately landed on you.

“Y/N! Hey!” His smile was so wide, you could tell he was genuinely happy to see you. It made your heart constrict and you didn’t know if you hated it or not. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

“I didn’t either,” you laughed nervously. For some reason you could not gain your composure around this man. It was easier in the lab where you had one thing to talk about. Even when your conversations diverged to more personal topics, it could always be brought back to chemistry when you felt like you were about to make a fool of yourself. But there was no chemistry now, at least not in the practical sense. The explosion in your stomach when his large frame wrapped you in a hug had to be some kind of chemical reaction, you were sure.

“My roommate convinced me,” you continued. “I didn’t even know you were in a frat.”

“Oh yeah, my best friends kind of roped me into it our first year, and I guess I liked it enough to stick around.” That same moment, a tall man with bright eyes and a gapped smile came up on his right side, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Speaking of, Y/N, this is Sam. The running partner I told you about.”

You laughed at that, while Sam playfully glared. “Hey, it’s not my fault you’re built like a superhuman or some shit. I can keep up with anyone else.”

“Anyways,” Sam said, obviously getting to the reason he came to find Steve in the first place. “We were about to play a drinking game, if you want to join.”

“Sure.” Steve turned to follow Sam who had begun to make his way out of the kitchen, and looked back at you expectantly. “You coming?”

You nodded, maybe a little too eagerly, and quickly filled up your cup from the punch bowl on the counter before shuffling through the throng of people in the living room to where Steve and Sam had disappeared up a flight of stairs.

When you stepped off the landing, you were met with a much smaller group of people than were downstairs, including Wanda who was perched on Vis’s lap. She jumped up at the sight of you, practically throwing herself at you, and you could smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Y/N! I’ve missed you!” Her eyes were a bit glassy, and you laughed as she smacked a kiss right on your lips before making her way back to Vision. “Come sit over here.”

She waved you over, but her and Vision were crammed on a loveseat with Steve, and there was no space for you to sit. Surveying the room, you realized there wasn’t anywhere else for you on any of the other couches either, and your best bet was a spot in the floor.

Steve, however, was not having any of that, and let you have his spot. He settled onto the floor with his back pressed against your legs and you had to take a moment to calm the erratic beating of your heart. You were thankful for the drinks coursing through your system, otherwise you may have bolted for the door. Instead, you boldly ran a hand through his hair like you wanted to so many times. When your sober brain finally caught up to your drunk actions, you nearly snatched your hand back, but you realized he was leaning into you more, so you stayed where you were.

“Sammy, what are we playing?” someone asked, and Sam stood up, dramatically turning to make sure everyone was looking at him.

“This is why he’s the president,” Steve muttered low enough for just you to hear it. “Always has to be the center of attention.”

You giggled at that, while Sam announced that you would be playing Never Have I Ever and explained the rules - whoever’s turn it was would say something they had never done before and whoever had done that thing would take a drink.

“I’ll start,” Steve piped up. “Never have I ever tried to make wings out of cardboard and broken my leg falling off a roof.”

Everyone else laughed while Sam booed at that, but took a drink anyway. The game went in a circle with varying degrees of crudeness - anything from never have I ever kissed my best friend to never have I ever hooked up with a professor which you gasped at when Wanda slyly took a sip.

“What?” she said, feigning innocence. “Professor Levinson is fine and you know it.”

Finally, Sam’s turn came around and you could tell by the shit eating grin on his face that he was gearing up to get back at Steve for singling him out.

“Never have I ever had a massive crush on my lab partner.”

You nearly choked, and with a glance down at Steve you could see every inch of visible skin spread with a fiery blush. Then, to your complete and utter surprise, he finished the last of his drink and threw the cup at Sam before getting up from the floor and quickly walking out of the room.

Wanda smacked your arm as you watched him leave, and basically shoved you to follow after him.

He was pacing the long hallway outside of the room you had previously been in, his hair pointed in a hundred different directions because he had obviously been running hands through it.

When he turned and saw you, you didn’t even get a moment to speak before he was crowding you against the wall, his hands a bruising grip on your waist.

His warm breath fanned over your face and your heart was pounding so loud that you could barely hear yourself whisper, “What are you doing?”

“Same thing you are, I hope.”

At a loss for words, you simply nodded your head and suddenly his lips were encompassing yours, his hands roaming your body. You melted into him, right there in the middle of the hallway where anyone could see you.

You started to protest when he pulled away, but he laced his fingers with yours and tugged you down another hall, pushing you into what you assumed was his bedroom.

His lips were back on yours the second the lock clicked, and before you knew it, clothes were shed and his body rested, warm and heavy, on top of you. He kissed a line down your jaw, across your collarbones, stopping to graze his teeth over one of your nipples, which caused your hips to buck up against his.

It was then you could feel just how big he was, and you audibly gasped.

His usual sweet demeanor was replaced with something different - confident and a little cocky - as he hovered over you.

“Y’okay, baby?” You couldn’t answer, a moan catching in your throat as his fingers glided through your folds, spreading the mess you had already made.

“Want you, Steve. Please.” Your vision went white as his fingers were replaced by the thick head of his cock, nudging you open inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside you, you arched your bed off the back only for him to press a hand to your chest, keeping you flat on the bed.

Between the fuzziness of the alcohol and the euphoria he was making you feel, time passed by in a blur of pleasure, until his erratic thrusts became still against you. You vaguely registered him pulling away, hearing a whine that had to come from you as the heat of his body left you.

The last thing you remembered was a cool cloth between your legs and you were asleep before you could feel the pair of strong arms encircle your waist.

The next morning brought a hangover and an unfamiliar bed.

The initial panic you felt was dispelled when you saw Steve’s sleeping face, only for it to come back full force when you realized it was Steve laying beside you. You wracked your brain, trying to piece together what had happened the night before.

You remembered a drinking game, Steve getting upset about something and you following him from the room, and then suddenly you were naked in his bed. There was a lot of disconnect, nothing quite making sense in the middle, and you quickly scrambled from his bed, trying to get out and figure out what happened before he woke up.

Unfortunately, your legs were tangled in his sheets and you ended up crashing to the floor, your shoulder throbbing to match your headache.

The sound of your body smacking the hardwood must have woken Steve up, because when you finally stood, all your clothes in your line of sight grasped in your hands, he was sitting up in bed looking at you.

You felt suddenly, embarrassingly naked, even with the memories from last night flashing in your mind. You just wished you could remember how it happened, but the only solid memories were those of his hands roaming your body, and unfortunately those weren’t answering any of your questions.

After you had turned away from him and put your clothes back on - sans underwear, which you were sure he would find in the depths of his room at some point - you finally forced yourself towards the door.

As much as you wanted a recount of what happened, your pride won out, and you couldn’t stand another moment in this room, knowing you were likely just another notch on his frat boy belt.

Your mind screamed at you to stop and think for just a minute. This was Steve you were talking about - sweet, careful Steve, who followed you around the lab like a lost puppy and brought you coffee after particularly rough lectures, even when it made him late. This was Steve and yet your panicking brain couldn’t decipher the look on his face. You were so sure that it would lead to inevitable heartbreak that at the moment he opened his mouth, you bolted from the room without a glance back.

You heard him yell after you, then a thud that was probably him getting caught in his own sheets and crashing to the floor much like you had. You could also feel the eyes of the handful of frat members that watched you dart through the living room and out the front door.

Thankfully, yours and Wanda’s apartment was only a couple of blocks from the neighborhood where the row of fraternity houses were, so within ten minutes you were trudging up the steps and to your own front door.

Where you promptly realized you didn’t have your keys. Or your phone.

After banging on the door for a constant minute, Wanda finally swung it open, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that was not her own and looking very annoyed. Though her expression softened when she took in your puffy eyes, and you realized that you had been crying.

She wrapped an arm around you, guiding you towards your couch and tucking a throw blanket around you before she disappeared into her room. You heard low murmuring and a moment later, Vision emerged, giving you a quick wave before leaving.

You wiped at the fresh tears threatening to well over your lash line, and your best friend finally came back with a steaming mug of coffee, just how you liked it.

“What happened?” she asked, petting over your hair like she knew you loved. Wanda was so good at taking care of you; she had a natural instinct for knowing exactly what you needed, almost like she could read your mind.

You spilled the entire story to her, setting your cup on the table and curling up with your head in her lap. She listened to you recount the bits you remembered, then let you cry it out when you were done.

“Oh honey,” she whispered. “You don’t even remember the most important part?”

“What’s the most important part?”

She told you about the stretch of time you previously had no recollection of, though it was starting to all come together as she spoke. Sam’s obvious jab at Steve, the way he had drained his drink at the indirect mention of you, the longing glances all night you had failed to see, but Wanda caught every one.

“I’m such an idiot,” you wailed, burying your face in your hands as you sat up. You were mortified - here you had been convincing yourself that Steve had simply taken you to bed out of convenience, when you had it all wrong. And you had just left him without any explanation yourself.

“Only a little,” she teased, and you wanted a whole to open up and swallow you right then. You were going to have to drop out of your chemistry lab, and retake it next semester. Then you would have to reroute your walk to campus to ensure you never passed frat row. This was the end of your life as you knew it.

You were just about to tell Wanda all of this when a knock sounded at the door.

Almost like you knew who was on the other side, you stayed hunkered on the couch while Wanda got up to answer it, and not even a minute late Steve fucking Rogers stood in front of you, with your phone and keys clutched in his hand, fidgeting as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“You can sit. If you want,” you said, and he nodded before setting your stuff down and settling down next to you. He was close enough that your thighs could brush together if you moved even a hair, and it awakened some hope that you thought died when you left his bedroom that morning.

Wanda had wisely abandoned you, and the silence stretched until you both broke it with apologies tumbling over each other.

“What are you sorry for?” you asked, clearly confused since you were the one that was a total moron.

“I just,” he stopped, running his hand down his face - in either exasperation or embarrassment - before he continued. “You were drunk, and I took advantage of that. I feel like an asshole and I know I don’t even deserve your forgiveness after that.”

A laugh escaped you; you couldn’t believe what a ridiculous pair you two made.

“Well I felt like an asshole for disappearing on you. And for assuming you just hooked up with me because I was there and not because you liked me.”

His cheeks flamed at your words and he started something along the lines of I would never before you cut him off.

“I know. Now, at least. Wanda filled in the things I couldn’t quite remember, and I feel awful.” You took a deep breath, contemplating your next words. “Speaking of, if you had stuck around long enough, you may have seen me take a drink, too. Though not one quite as dramatic as yours.”

Though his eyes widened in shock, a grin to match split across his face.

“Really?”

You nodded, moving on the couch so you were facing him, your knees brushing against his when he moved too.

“Can we agree that we’re both a little stupid? And forget last night?”

“Well,” he responded, cupping your face in his hands and running his thumbs along your cheekbones. “There are some things from last night that I will never be able to forget. But I do think a redo is in order.”

Your cheeks heated at the implication, but you leaned forward, breathing him in. When your nose bumped against his, your breath hitched. And the moment your lips met, it felt like the first time all over again.

if you enjoyed this, please consider donating to my ko-fi! 🤍

#steve rogers #steve fic #steve smut #steve rogers smut #steve fluff #steve rogers fluff #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers reader insert #steve rogers x y/n #mcu #marvel #tiff writes #let it happen

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ascarimo · 4 years ago

Text

After Class - [Professor!Lando]

A/N: Requested on Wattpad

WORDCOUNT: 2.2K+

WARNINGS: nsfw (teacher x student plot, unprotected sex)

SYNOPSIS: You're one of Lando's students, and he's your Arts professor. You have a question about a project, and therefore you ask if you can stay after class.

When reading the description of the extra course you were about to choose, you weren't exactly sure if it would be a good choice. Nevertheless, you thought a semester of art class would mean easy credits added to your study, and therefore you selected the course, taking it next to the other courses of your study. Art and design had always interested you, especially the designing of clothing, and it would also be fun to take this course as an extra effort. Ever since you met the professor of the course, Professor Norris, it was your favorite course. The Brit taught the class four hours a week, a lecture and a seminar. You had to admit that his good looks and his charming, bright character are the main part why you loved the course as well. The exam period was coming up soon, and for the art class, Mr. Norris gave his class the assignment to design their own clothing line.

And it was harder than you thought. Two weeks before the exam period, Professor Norris gave his students the time to work on it in class, where they could ask him questions as well. After the last seminar, all the students had three more weeks to finish the project and hand it in. You were struggling with the color scheme, yet confident about the design. You felt like you were stuck in your project, and whatever you tried, it didn't seem to work. Luckily, you had the chance to ask your professor today. You were right on time for his class to start, and with your laptop, you sat down in one of the middle rows of the classroom. The seminar group was small, which you liked, as the setting was a lot cozier with just eight students, instead of a large group. Professor Norris hopped on his desk, looking around the class. He was wearing a ripped pair of jeans, a slightly large shirt, and some sneakers he had designed and created himself.

"Good afternoon, everyone, we're just going to repeat the seminar from last week. You have the time to work on your projects and ask about anything you need help with. Feel free to put some headphones on or anything," Professor Norris told his students, which made most of them nod in agreement. You looked up at him, his lips twitching upwards when his eyes met yours. You smiled back at him before starting up your laptop, logging into your account, and selecting the file of your project. You scrolled through it, silence filling the classroom as everyone was either busy or on their phone. You looked around, waiting for the first one to step towards Professor Norris' desk, but neither of the others did. You were hesitant to ask him something so soon, just after the start of the class. You remained seated for a while, however, he seemed to notice your pondering, and when you looked up again, he stood at your table. "What are you working on?" Mr. Norris asked.

"Ehm, well..." You started with a soft laugh. "I started on this, but I don't like it a lot," you admitted, turning your laptop to show him, feeling slightly nervous. He leaned his hands on the table, and your eyes glided over his arms, the veins bulging up over his tanned skin. You were quick to divert your eyes elsewhere. "What don't you like about it?" he asked. "It's too basic. I think it needs more... me" "You." You said at the same time, causing you to laugh softly, and so did he. "Think of something that describes your life, your personality, think of symbols or sayings that mean a lot to you, and try to work that in. You have a great base, so just some more creativity is needed," Professor Norris told you, and you looked into his eyes. You nodded slowly, feeling your face growing hot under his gaze. "Thank you," you choked out, gnawing your teeth into your bottom lip as he gave you a grin. Mr. Norris was young, about your age, and he was doing his internship at your university, and he was undeniably hot.

You were continuing on your project throughout the class, yet you were still not satisfied with the current look of it. You weren't sure what kind of things to design along with it, and you decided to stay behind to ask some more. "Mr. Norris? Would it be okay for me to stay behind for some minutes?" you asked, standing up as the others did so too. "Of course," Lando replied to you, wishing the others a great day and good luck with their projects. Your eyes glided over his appearance once more. You liked that his style was different from the other professors, who were dressed in tight suits. He was young, seemed the have the same mindset as his students, which automatically caused his classes to be so much more fun. The other students now walked out of the classroom, and you picked up your laptop to take it to his desk. "To improve the design I'd like to see it in 3D, but I can't get this programme to work," you sighed.

"You do have the updated version downloaded, right?" Professor Norris asked, moving next to you and glancing at your screen. "Yes," you replied. "Some of the functions are hidden a little, let me try," Lando took your laptop, briefly watching when you leaned back against his desk. The skirt you were wearing looked very flattering on you, but Lando diverted his eyes from your figure. He was distracted by the move you made when leaning against his desk with your hands, pushing your upper body slightly forward, the off-shoulder blouse you were wearing nearly showed the swell of your cleavage. Lando cleared his throat, swallowing hard as he opened the menu on the designing program on your laptop. "Could you get the charger, please?" Lando asked then, the battery was still 30 percent, but he watched you nod and turn around to your bag.

His teeth dug into his lower lip when your skirt floated around your legs, the material riding slightly upwards from the movement when you picked up your bag and got the charger out. "Thanks," Lando muttered. "If you come on my side, I can show you how it works," Lando said then, and you made your way around his desk. He was close to you, and you could feel the heat of his body radiating off him. His long fingers were pointing to the screen, making your eyes dart over to them instead. The pull in your lower abdomen worsened each time his hands came in sight, making you squeeze your thighs together subtly. "Is it understandable?" Lando asked. "J-just once more how to activate..." Your breath hitched in your throat when his fingers brushed over the back of your thighs. "To activate?" Lando hummed.

Professor Norris rose from his seat, and you looked up at him meanwhile, words stuck in your mouth. "Tell me, darling," he ushered, making a step forward. The back of your thighs hit his desk, and you shuffled onto it. "I-I think it's clear now," you stammered. "Are you sure? You can stay a little longer if you want," Professor Norris replied while his fingertips trailed up your legs, feeling the soft material of your skirt. "Unless I make you uncomfortable," he was quick to add, and you looked into his bright eyes. You shook your head, your lashes fluttering when his lips hovered over yours. "This is so inappropriate," you muttered, feeling his lips on yours. "But you're so pretty, and we're the same age," he replied, giving you a taste of his lips. "My best student," Lando continued, his hands curling around your waist.

"That's not true," you laughed, gnawing down on your bottom lip when his nose nuzzled against your cheek, a sweet peck following. "Always so sweet in the middle row, working so hard," Lando told you, his fingers riding up the material of your blouse, feeling your bare skin. "Let me reward you, darling," his voice was husk, raspy in your ear, and you were addicted to the scent of his cologne that lingered around him. You adored the feeling of his fingers wrapped around your waist. Lando lifted his head and finally kissed your lips, humming lowly when he felt the pressure of your mouth kissing him back. His tongue glided over the seam of your lips, deepening the kiss. You joined the sway of his tongue, feeling your body heating up. Lando shivered lightly when he felt your fingers weaving into the curls in the nape of his neck.

His hands traveled over your lower back to your behind, his palms squeezing your hips before pulling you a little more forward. You whimpered softly when he kissed the corner of your mouth, down your jaw and to your neck. A shiver ran up your spine when he kissed the delicate skin of your neck, nibbling and sucking down your throat while one of his hands slipped under your skirt. "We've got to be quick, my love. Another class will be here in fifteen minutes," Lando apologized. Your mind could barely process what he said as soon as his hand squeezed the apex of your thigh, his fingertips brushing over the lace edge of your panties. You hummed softly when three of Lando's fingers moved over your clothed core. The feeling of your damp panties made him twitch in his jeans, and he started to stimulate your clothed nub of nerve endings to get you soaking. After teasing you shortly, he shoved your panties aside, and you looked down at his hand.

You bunched your skirt up around your waist, watching his fingers flex and the muscles in his arms tightening when he entered you swiftly. Your head fell back with a moan, but his lips were soon back on yours to shush you. "Sssh, be quiet, babe. It's our little secret," Lando whispered against your lips, his fingers curling up against your front wall right away, his thumb circling over your pulsing clit while he created the most delicious rhythm. His fingers stimulated the most sensitive spots, and had you trembling on his desk within a couple minutes. "Such a good girl," Professor Norris praised, watching your eyelids flutter while he felt your walls getting wetter and tighten around his digits. You cursed under your breath, trying your hardest to remain silent while your orgasm ripped through you. Lando licked his fingers clean, undoing his jeans and zipping down the denim.

His underwear was pushed out of the way, and his palm wrapped around his shaft that stood tall. The girth of his cock, the veins running over them, caused your mouth to water. Lando pulled you a little more to the edge of his desk, the round head of his length briefly moving through your folds before he bottomed you out right away. There was no time to go slow, and his pace went to fucking you into his desk with a hard, deep pace that had you nearly whining under the firm grip of his hands on your hips. It was so good, it felt so amazing, raw, hot, and the fact that he's your professor and you're his student nearly tipped you over the edge right away. "That's it, love," Lando grunted lowly when your core contracted around him, walls squeezing him tight. The tip of his cock brushed over your gathering of nerve endings each time, creating the state of frenzy you floated in.

Lando looked down at your blissed out expressions, admiring the furrow of your eyebrows, and your lips parted with soft breaths. Your hands were curled around his lower arms, your nails digging slightly into his skin. The white hot pleasure washed over you soon enough, briefly blurring your vision. The throbbing of his release against your inner walls prolonged the feeling of ecstasy. Lando reached for some tissues, helping you to clean up a little before you pulled your panties up again, and you adjusted your skirt and your blouse. Lando did the same, then moved to open some windows to let in some fresh air, which caused you both to laugh. You went to get your bag, and meanwhile Lando shoved a note your way. "This is my number, in case you need some more help with your project," he said, a grin curling his lips.

"Thanks," you chuckled, taking the note with you. "Maybe we can discuss it over dinner this weekend, you can text me your availability," he continued, approaching you again while you held onto the handles of your bag. "If you want to, of course," he added, his fingers moving under your chin and gently caressing your cheeks. "I'd love to, Professor Norris," you said, your eyes flickering up to his. His jaw slacked briefly before he grinned again. "Great, good luck with your project till then, Y/N," Lando said and walked you to the door. You smiled at him over your shoulder, walking down the hallway. Lando leaned against the door, shaking his head at himself, knowing he was crazy about you whether you were his student or not.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris one shot #lando norris AU #f1 fanfiction #mclaren #lando norris smut

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browniesarethebest · 3 years ago

Note

Hi! It’s been years since I discovered your Reverse!Batfam fics and even now I’m still rereading them because they have to be the best written fics on both ff.net and AO3. So, thank you very much for your service.

I was wondering, if possible, would you perhaps be able to write a fic/shot of Dick and Bruce, and a close call (either on YJ mission or usual patrol) which has everyone (as in the Batsiblings) freaked out and ends up somewhat smothering Dick with their mother-henning? (I need my angst fix hehe…) Dick eventually crawling into Bruce’s bed and/or Bruce admitting he’s scared of losing Dick would also be very nice touches :)

No pressure at all if you don’t feel like it, just a plot bunny that has mildly taken over my brain.

I literally went "Awww!" out loud when I read this so thank you! This is actually perfect too because I just finished my semester, so I have some time to write now.

I hope this is what you were looking for!

It was never easy when one of them got hurt on patrol.

It was always a reminder that in this world of crime and super-powered beings and aliens, they were just human. They weren't invincible, no matter how good they were at their job. Even men like Batman and Shadowbat, despite their decades of training, were still fallible.

Watching Dick as he lay unconscious in the medbay, practically a mummy with the way he was wrapped up in bandages, was probably the hardest of all. Seeing their youngest lie so still was unnatural. The boy was always moving—always full of life.

Even Damian, who frequently complained about Dick's endless energy and enthusiasm, could not find peace in the silence. He sat by Dick's bedside, keeping watch over the boy as he slept. The others would join him sometimes, but it was Damian that was always by the boy's side. The only time he left when Alfred forced him to shower and rest.

Though Richard was legally Father's, Damian felt responsible for the boy. Perhaps it was because Richard always managed to get through whatever walls Damian put up, or maybe it was because Damian was the one Richard went to when Father was unavailable. Perhaps it was because the boy was the youngest in the family, so everyone, including Damian, felt extra protective of him. Whatever the reason, Damian was furious with himself for allowing Richard to be hurt, and as soon as Richard was better, he would add in extra training for both of them.

"Dami...?" Dick slurred, bringing Damian out of his thoughts. Damian immediately dropped the sketch he had absently been working on and leaned forward.

"Richard?"

The boy's eyes cracked open before slamming shut again

"Too bright..." the boy whined.

Damian got up to dim the lights some before returning to Dick's side. "Is that better?"

Dick hummed and peered up at Damian with heavy lids. He let out a sigh. "'M tired..."

"Go back to sleep, Richard. I'll be here."

Dick hummed again with a smile and was out immediately.

Damian settled back into his chair and pulled out his phone to update the others on Richard's condition.

He would let the boy sleep some more, and he would be by his side when Richard woke up again, as he always would be.

Dick had been moved to his bedroom as soon as he could stay awake for more than a few minutes. Stephanie and Cass had been quick to kick Damian out so they could spend some time with their youngest brother alone. Currently, Dick was curled up between the two of them as they watched cartoons on Stephanie's laptop. Dick had his head leaned against Cass, who was gently running her fingers through his hair. Dick yawned and snuggled closer to his sister.

"You getting tired?" Stephanie asked.

"No..." Dick protested, but he was cut off by another yawn.

Stephanie smirked and closed her laptop. She and Cass moved to get out of the bed but were stopped by small hands gripping their shirt sleeves tightly.

"Please don't go."

Stephanie looked at Cass, partially to avoid the wide-eyed pout sent her way, but Cass just shrugged and snuggled back down, apparently content to nap. Stephanie sighed but wasn't particularly bothered. A nap sounded pretty good to be honest.

She gently tugged Dick's hand from her sleeve. "I'm not going anywhere. Let me just tuck you in first, okay?"

Dick narrowed his eyes. "Promise?"

Stephanie chuckled. "Promise." She tucked the blanket around Dick, nudging Cass out of the way when she needed to, and pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead. Carefully, she settled beside him. "Is that better?"

"Much better," Dick replied, smiling. He shifted from cuddling with Cass to cuddling with Stephanie. Cass didn't seem too bothered and simply laid an arm across his body.

"Good night, Dick."

"Night, Steph. Cass."

Stephanie wasn't expecting to fall asleep so quickly, but it wasn't long after that Tim found them, carrying a book that he was planning on reading to Dick. He grinned at the sight of all of them asleep and pulled out his phone to snap a picture. He closed the door quietly and walked off to find Alfred.

Dick would later wake up with Stephanie's hair in his mouth and an ache in his bruised ribs from Cass's arm lying across them, but he wouldn't mind. It would be the best sleep he had gotten in ages.

Dick was thriving from the attention his family was giving him. He had spent the last few weeks rotating between watching TV with Steph and Cass to drawing with Damian to playing video games with Jason to being read to by Tim. It was absolute heaven for the boy, reminding him of his time at Haly's where he was always surrounded by people.

There was just one thing missing.

Dick had spent so much time with his siblings that it felt like he had barely seen Bruce. After Dick had gotten hurt, Bruce had thrown himself into taking down the rest of Bane's operation. Bane had already been apprehended and sent to Arkham, but Bruce still had to deal with dismantling the labs still producing Venom.

His siblings had told Dick not to take it personally. It was how Bruce dealt with his emotions. Dick understood, but he still missed Bruce. One night weeks later, when he had mostly healed, Dick found himself limping towards Bruce's room. He pushed the door open gently and found Bruce asleep in bed. Dick padded his way over and nudged the man.

"Bruce?" Dick whispered.

"Hn."

Dick nudged him harder and whispered louder, "Bruce."

"Hnn." Bruce groaned and cracked his eyes open. He stared blearily at Dick. "Chum? Did you have a nightmare?"

Dick bit his lip. "No...but can I sleep with you? I miss you."

Bruce sat up and rubbed a hand down his face to wake himself up. "Of course. You know you're always welcome."

Dick beamed and scrambled up into the bed, settling into Bruce's side. He closed his eyes and sighed happily.

Bruce looked down at his youngest with a smile before frowning. "Dick?"

"Hm?"

"What did you mean by you missed me?"

Dick opened his eyes. He glanced at Bruce briefly before focusing his gaze on Bruce's shirt. He picked at a stray thread as he spoke. "It's just...you've been really busy taking down Bane's Venom operation. I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

Bruce sighed and wrapped an arm around Dick. "I'm...I'm sorry, Dick." Dick's head shot up in surprise, and he stared at Bruce with wide eyes as the man continued. "I should have been around more while you were recovering. But when I saw you lying on the ground like that..." Bruce smiled ruefully. "I think you've realized by now that I don't like it when any of you get hurt. No matter how much I train you or how much experience you have, there's always the thought in the back of my head that I will lose one of you. Something will be out of my control, and it will cost me everything. So I throw myself into cleaning up Gotham to make it safer for you."

Bruce sighed and ran a hand through Dick's hair. "I became Batman because I didn't want anyone else to experience what I did. I continue to be Batman because I have so much more to lose now." He moved his hand down to cup Dick's cheek, rubbing it softly with his thumb. "If anything were to happen, I can't bear the thought that I could have done something to prevent it."

Bruce was cut off as Dick threw himself into Bruce's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the man. Bruce could feel tears soaking into his shirt.

"I-I'm s-sorry I got hurt!" Dick cried. "I don't wanna make you worried!"

Had this been years ago, Bruce probably would have tried to take Robin away from Dick to ease his worries. He had tried that once with Damian a few years after the boy had come to the Manor. Damian had been badly hurt by the Joker, and the sight of the boy unconscious, looking more innocent and vulnerable in his sleep than Bruce had ever seen him, sent Bruce into a spiral. He had tried to send Damian back to his mother, but the boy had run into Gotham and got tangled up in a human trafficking ring. After watching Damian march out with 30 kids relatively unharmed, his son had made a point that he would never stop being a hero, and there was nothing Bruce could do to stop him. He could either stay at the Manor and let Batman watch his back, reducing the likelihood of getting injured, or he would venture out into Gotham on his own, and they wouldn't speak again.

It hadn't taken long for Bruce to concede.

Years of experience and a conga line of kids had taught Bruce that he would never be able to control his kids, no matter how hard he tried. The best he could do was support them to the best of his ability and know that his children had each other's back.

Bruce sighed and wrapped his arms around his youngest. "I'm always going to worry. I worry every time you all go out because anything could happen. We all make mistakes, Dick, even me. I just have to hope that everything will work out fine."

Bruce adjusted them so that they were lying down again. He carded his hand through Dick's hair as the boy's eyelids grew heavy. "I'm sorry again that I haven't been around, but I'm going to make it up to you. What do you say about going to the arcade tomorrow?"

"Can we get ice cream after?"

Bruce chuckled. "We can do whatever you want."

Dick hummed. "Sounds nice..." His eyes closed.

"Good night, chum."

"Nigh', Bruce..."

Bruce listened as Dick's breathing evened out before closing his own eyes. His children were safe in the Manor, alive and breathing as they slept.

That was all Bruce needed to fall asleep easily.

#ask #reverse batfamily #dick grayson #robin #reverse robins #anon #reverse robins au #reverse batfamily au #my fic #damian wayne #stephanie brown #batgirl #cassandra cain #black bat #bruce wayne #batman #i wrote this in like 2 days so i hope this is ok

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made-ofmemories · 2 years ago

Text

When Life Tears You Asunder, But You’re Not Alone

(Chapter 11/17)

General Warnings/tags: Found family, implied Wayne/Susan in future chapters, Max & Eddie have a sibling like relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort

Chapter specific warnings/tags: Canon typical violence, mention of blood/ description of injuries, Jason is a warning of his own, angst

Word count: 2361

Summary: Billy was a pretty shitty brother, there was no denying it, but Max still finds herself mourning for the sibling relationship they never got to have. With him gone she thinks so are her chances of ever having the big brother figure she’s always wanted. Then in a turn of events that she never saw coming, Eddie Munson waltzes into her life. Or more like, almost runs her over.

Notes: Co-written with the wonderful @ladydorian05 and crossposted on AO3. Updates every Friday.

Series masterlist

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January rolled around quickly and with it came the end of winter break. Nancy and Jonathan were already back at college ready for the new semester which was just a few days away leaving Eddie, Steve, and Robin to their usual babysitting duties.

The movie marathon had been a last-minute plan put together at new years as a way to celebrate the last of the kids’ freedom before school started up again. Food at the diner then back to Steve’s for movies which would inevitably lead to more bickering between Dustin and Lucas than actual watching of movies.

Eddie had let Max tag along to work with him before they had headed to the diner, though he suspects he actually had very little choice in the matter, she had been quick to rush inside to use the restroom leaving Eddie outside to wait for the others. He’s leaning against the side of his van, making the most of the ability to smoke a cigarette in peace before Robin shows up to give him that look of disappointment and disgust until he finally feels guilty enough to snuff it out.

He doesn’t think much of it when he hears footsteps crunching through the thin layer of snow on the ground. He’d parked in a more secluded corner of the parking lot, but despite the diner being small it always has a steady stream of customers entering and leaving. He keeps his head down, expecting whoever it is to continue on their way, but a pair of white sneakers stop a few feet from him and he finally looks up.

Jason. And he isn’t alone, flanked by 2 of his little sidekicks. Eddie only recognizes one of them, Andy, he’d been there the night they had attacked Erica and Lucas.

“Well, well, well.” Jason starts, a twisted smile gracing his features and Eddie can already tell this isn’t going to end well for him. “What do we have here boys? Hawkins resident freak, in the flesh.”

“Now Jason, that’s no way to talk about yourself.” Eddie taunts with a tilt of his head. He immediately regrets it when Jason grabs a handful of black fabric at the collar of his shirt. He feels his back slam into the side of the van and his cigarette knocked to the floor before he even has a chance to register what’s happening.

“You think this is a game?” Jason seethes, so close now that Eddie can smell the mint gum on his breath, “Try telling that to Chrissy and Patrick.”

Eddie knows how this little speech goes and he’s not particularly interested in listening to Jason talk about things he will never understand. Instead, he’s looking over Jason's shoulder. He can’t see the entrance to the diner from where they are, his back is to it and the van is, unfortunately, blocking the view of anyone in the establishment though he suspects there’s still a large portion of Hawkins who would turn a blind eye to the scene even if it were to play out right in front of their eyes. What he does see is a flash of fiery red hair rounding the corner.

“Hey, assholes!” She yells before lobbing a ball of snow at Jason’s back.

Great, so she’s trying to get them both killed. Fantastic.

“Max, go.” He says sternly, but he’s quickly silenced by Jason’s fist connecting with his stomach causing him to double over with a wheeze as he tries to remember how to breathe. Max doesn’t listen. He hadn’t expected her to, but it was worth a try.

“Get her!” Jason orders not letting go of his hold on Eddie. She may have been able to handle Jason last time, but now they’re outnumbered and all he can do is watch as Andy grapples with her. She doesn’t give up without a fight, throwing her elbow into his ribs when he tries to grab her though it ends up being in vain.

“She has nothing to do with this, just let her go,” Eddie says, attempting to push forwards out of Jason's grip, if he can get Andy to loosen his grip she might still be able to slip away. But Jason is long past reasoning with and he finds his back slammed against the van just as quickly and twice as hard as the first time.

“So she can go tell all your satanic friends where you are?” Jason questions, “No. She stays.”

“Fuck you!” Max yells, still squirming violently in Andy’s grip. He quickly gives up on the idea of covering her mouth to quiet her protests and yelling when she sinks her teeth into the flesh of his hand first chance she gets.

Eddie almost cracks a smile as he listens to Andy’s cursing, under any other circumstance he’s sure he would have been grinning ear to ear watching that jerk get what’s coming to him. Never underestimate Max Mayfield, a valuable life lesson he’s sure Andy will not be forgetting in a hurry. Unfortunately, all his amusement earns him is another punch to the stomach.

Eddie tries to fight back at first, he manages to land a knee to Jason's groin buying him a few seconds to get a couple of hits in. It’s far from Eddie’s first fight, he knows how this goes but despite his shorter stature Jason is stronger and Eddie quickly figures that any retaliation is only going to be a futile attempt.

Despite her best efforts to break free Andy keeps Max restrained and their third member keeps lookout. This was planned, Eddie realizes though he knows it won’t do him or Max any favors now.

He lost the strength to stand some time ago and despite his best efforts to shield his body from the assault he can feel kick after kick landing on his torso and the warmth of blood dripping from his nose. Breathing becomes a difficult task, leaving him gasping for air. It triggers the unwelcome memory of being on the brink of death, lying in Dustin’s arms after being chewed on by the bat-like creatures from the upside down.

He’s on the edge of unconsciousness when Jason finally relents, stopped only by the worried yells of their lookout. Eddie can’t make out what’s being said between Max’s voice screaming for help and the frantic shouts of the lookout, his ears are ringing and the world is blurred and spinning, he’s not even sure how long it's been. Minutes? Hours?

There’s someone else here he realizes, unfurling his limbs and using what little energy he has to roll himself onto his back, his head flopping to the side in an attempt to get a better view of what’s going on. He stays conscious for long enough to see a blurred figure he’s sure is Steve sprinting in their direction. The edges of his vision are starting to close in, but he’d recognize that hair anywhere.

-------

Steve barely spares enough time to put the car in park when he arrives at the diner. He’s not sure what’s going on, all he can see are 3 green letterman jackets making their retreat just as he gets out of the car. Eddie’s on the floor, Max soon joins him when she’s pushed by the guy that had been holding her with an arm twisted behind her back in his hurry to leave, but that’s more than enough to raise concern.

Robin is right behind him followed by Dustin, Lucas and Mike as he sprints towards the group. He tries to go after them, wants to go after Jason and his friends’ retreating forms but Robin grabs his arm with both hands dragging him back.

“They’re not worth it.” Her voice is an octave higher than usual and laced with panic, “Eddie and Max need us, you running off on some wild goose chase isn’t going to help.” She reassures him and Steve finally takes a breath and manages to calm down long enough to see sense.

Robin and Lucas are already helping Max to her feet, one at either side of her, other than the tears running down her cheeks and a graze on her palm, she seems to be physically fine. Eddie on the other hand, is unconscious as far as Steve can tell with a bloodied face, obviously broken nose, and one eye swollen shut.

“Help him! Steve, help him! He’s not moving!” Max sobs, pushing weakly against Lucas’ much gentler grip who is trying his best to calm her down and keep her back whilst Steve deals with the situation. “He can’t die! He can’t, not like this, not like Billy.”

“Max, it’s okay, he won’t. We’re not going to lose him.” Lucas assures her, gripping both of her arms and moving to stand in front of her so she’s forced to look at him and not the scene behind him. She doesn’t need to see that, she’s seen enough.

“Robin.” Steve calls after a quick glance over his shoulder confirms Lucas is dealing with Max, “I need you to go inside and find a phone, there’s change in the car if you need to use a pay phone, just find a way to call an ambulance.” He explains, sounding much calmer than he feels. Robin is already on her way before he continues, “Dustin, radio Hopper tell him what happened and where we are.”

Hopper was meant to be dropping off Will and El, with any luck he won’t be far away. Steve turns his attention back to Eddie the moment Dustin nods. The tears in Dustin’s eyes and his shaking hands hadn’t gone unnoticed, Max clearly wasn’t the only one having a hard time with this but he could comfort Dustin later right now his main concern was making sure Eddie survived this.

“Mike, come help me.” Steve says without looking at the younger boy, “We need to move him carefully so that we can make sure his airways are open.”

He’d decided to take a first aid course after what happened at Starcourt and the less than stellar job they had done when removing the slug-like creature from El’s leg. It had already saved Eddie’s life once after they’d managed to drag him from the upside down, he was hoping it would once again.

“What do I do?” Mike asks, kneeling by Steve’s side without hesitation. Steve talks him through the recovery position, where to place his hands and how they’re going to move Eddie’s body.

“Ready, Mike?” Mike nods. “All right, remember fluid movement, we need to do it in one move. One, two, Three.” Mike does as Steve had instructed and between the two of them they’re able to roll Eddie onto his side, Mike shuffles back once they’re done and Steve gently tilts Eddie’s head to keep the airway clear. “Good work.” He says clapping Mike on the back with one hand.

“The ambulance is on its way.” Robin still sounds just as frantic as when she had left as she comes running back from the diner.

“Hopper too.” Dustin adds, hugging his radio against his chest.

“Ok, good.” Steve comments without looking up. He places the back of his hand near Eddie’s open mouth, relieved when he feels a breath, albeit a shallow and ragged one.

“How is he?” Robin asks, coming to crouch by Steve’s side and place a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to provide even just a little bit of comfort.

“Still breathing.” He replies, wishing there was something more he could say.

Robin nods in understanding and Steve turns to look at the others. Max is in Lucas’ arms, her head resting on his shoulder but her eyes are glassy and she has a far away expression on her face. Dustin is hovering around a little closer, eye’s glued to Eddie, Mike joins him a moment later offering a few words of comfort which isn’t Mike’s speciality but he tries. Steve wishes he could go to them, pull Dustin into a hug, talk Max through whatever she’s dealing with right now, and reassure Lucas and Mike who he doesn’t doubt are struggling with this just as much despite putting on a brave face. But he doesn’t, he can’t leave Eddie, too afraid that if he moves Eddie will stop breathing.

“You should go check on them.” He says to Robin jutting his chin in the direction of the kids. Robin hesitates, giving him a skeptical look, “We’ll be ok, go on.” He reassures her. She goes, reluctantly.

Hopper arrives before the ambulance and Steve knows he must have broken a speed record. He barks an order to Will and El to stay in the car before the door slams behind him. They don’t listen, El rushing to Max’s side and Will heading straight for Eddie until he’s intercepted by Robin.

Steve is telling Hopper what they saw when the ambulance gets there and they take a step back, letting the paramedics get to work. They place Eddie on a stretcher and load him up. Max is the first to speak up when one of the paramedics asks if any of them are family to ride with them to the hospital.

“I’m his sister!” She says so loudly she’s almost shouting.

“Sorry kid, you’re a minor we can’t let you-”

“I’ll go with her.” Steve interrupts, the paramedic doesn’t look the happiest with the arrangement but he allows it when he sees Hopper’s glare and Steve offers his arm to help Max into the vehicle.

Hopper accompanies them as far as the back of the ambulance, “The kids-” Steve starts, but Hopper cuts him off just as quickly.

“Don’t worry about them, I’ll deal with everything here. Radio when you get to the hospital.” He instructs, tossing Steve a radio. Steve manages to nod before the doors are closed and they’re on the move.

There’s a sniffling noise from beside him which he soon realizes is Max. He places an arm around her and holds her close the whole way to the hospital.

The journey was 15 minutes at most.

It felt like an eternity.

#stranger things #eddie munson #Max Mayfield #steddie #not so much steddie this chapter #but there is a little in previous #and will be more in future

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peterpparkerwrites · 3 years ago

Text

begin again - part six

a/n: currently on hiatus - look at my pinned post for more info! I have this series and the following ones scheduled to post twice a day - once at 11:00 AM PST and once at 7:00 PM PST. since I will be gone and can’t update links, if you want to find previous parts, just scroll down my page :) warnings: language, death mentions, anxiety/ptsd mentions pairing: college peter parker x reader word count: 4.7k

masterlist ~ requests are closed ~ part seven

taglist: @lilbeatlebear @somefuckshit1 @hufflepuffseeker

Your first semester of college ended faster than you would've expected. The last week before winter break you only had two finals - your photography class just wanted the project turned in online, and one of your other classes didn't require a final and let you off early.

The project was submitted and graded within the first week, your exams went by fairly easily, and the holidays and new year came and went with barely a blink. Before you knew it you were done with your first semester and getting ready for your second.

And Peter didn't speak to you all of break.

He didn't send you a goodnight text the night you got home after he basically ran from you, like he normally did. You sent one anyway, thinking maybe he had just been out being Spider-Man and forgot.

He never responded.

You had texted him the next day asking if he was alright, still getting no response. The whole day you were on edge, thinking something bad had happened to him when he was patrolling - but then you saw a news story about Spider-Man saving some people from a bank robbery, and knew he was alright.

Then your worry turned to confusion. Why would he ignore you? He's never ignored you, even back when he was mopey and closed off. You didn't have your read receipts on but you knew he must have read your texts. You even tried calling him a few times, and after a while they went straight to voicemail.

You had a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach the last time you saw him, almost like your body was warning you that something would happen. The guilty look on his face when he left wasn't reassuring either.

It was obvious to you now that he was ignoring you on purpose. After a week of no response, you decided to stop trying. What were you going to do if he wanted to be left alone? It sucked, it really did, and you felt a pang of hurt every time you opened your phone to see no new texts from him, but what were you going to do?

You did have a life outside Peter Parker, and it wasn't going to stop just because he was ignoring you.

The new semester started (with nearly three weeks of no word from Peter) and the newspaper kept you busy. It wasn't like you were getting good shots of Spider-Man, either - as much as Peter was avoiding you around campus, he also did it while he was dressed up in his spandex, and you could never seem to find the guy. So you resorted to scrambling to find small news stories on campus or around the city that you could partner with a writer for to photograph before Harry could.

The lack of classes shared with Peter made it easier for him to avoid you - there were times you considered just going and knocking on his door, but you didn't know his new schedule. Not that he would answer even if he was home.

It wasn't like you didn't have friends or anyone to hang out with, but Peter meant a lot to you. You only knew him a semester but he had been shaping up to be one of your best friends, and you let yourself think that maybe it could turn out to be something more. He had let you in a little, shown you the home he grew up in and the person who raised him, only for him to immediately shut you out right after.

None of it made sense to you.

Peter sat with his legs crossed, fingers tapping his knee and the grass underneath him. He didn't care that it was freezing or that he was in his suit or that the grass was wet and disgusting or that it was nearly three in the morning.

He hadn't visited her grave in a while. It usually was too painful to be there where she was buried, her funeral being the last place he was really near her. The looks on her parents' faces killed him, all of their friends and people he'd never met from her family mourning her without knowing what happened - only Peter really knew.

Of course it still hurt. Every time he thought about her there was a stab of pain in his gut and his thoughts were filled with guilt.

But since you came along, he didn't have as many nightmares. He didn't go through every waking moment thinking about what he should have done differently. He didn't have panic attacks because someone said her name or brought her up in conversation. It didn't hurt like it used to because he was finally letting himself move on, and he had you to thank for that.

He knew she'd be scolding him for taking this long to move on. They'd had that discussion before, but it wasn't about her dying, because he never imagined that happening.

"I don't want to talk about this," she mumbled, dabbing a cloth to his split lip.

"I know you don't want to," he replied quietly, "But we need to. I might not come home one day and-"

"Don't say that," she gave him a little glare, "You don't know that."

His hand came up to take her wrist, bringing her arm down from his face. "I don't know that, but I do know that it's a possibility, and I want to make sure you'll be okay."

"I don't want to think about what it would be like without you, Peter," she shut her eyes, scrunching up her face a bit, "I can't. That's why you need to be more careful."

"I know, sweetheart, and I will be," he brought a hand up to her face, and she opened her eyes, looking like she was trying not to tear up. "But if anything did happen I want you to move on and be happy, you know that right? I already feel like I'm holding you back and-"

"Hey, you're not holding me back," she promised, bringing her hand up to hold his still on her cheek. "And...I'll do my best."

"That's all I can ask for."

He wasn't currently doing his best. She was a lot stronger than him and he had never worried about her ability to move forward if something happened to him. Maybe if he had prepared himself for the possibility of losing her, it would have been different.

But he hadn't, and he suffered for months after she died to try and come to terms with it. He had almost convinced himself that he never would, but then you showed up. You made the hole in his heart stitch itself back together every time you cracked a stupid joke or brought him coffee with a snarky remark about how gross it would taste. You couldn't fix the hole completely - there was still a scar, but you were the first person able to close it.

And he knew that she would chew him out for what he was doing to you now.

But he didn't want to go through it again. He couldn't go through it again. If he was with you then eventually you would find out about him being Spider-Man, and then you'd be the one patching him up after a long night and then you would be the one bleeding out on the sidewalk because he wasn't fast enough.

You'd be the one whose grave he'd be sitting in front of.

Peter grit his teeth a little, his eyes focusing on her name on the headstone. She never got to go to graduate college or get married or have a real job and that was his fault. He shouldn't have let her get involved in his life and he should have been strong enough to let her go before it killed her.

He had to let you go now before it was too late, or he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

Peter hadn't gone out much in hopes of not seeing you. He avoided your usual coffee shop like the plague and opted to study from home instead of the library. He was lucky he didn't live on campus or have any classes with you, but even he knew that luck wouldn't last forever.

It hurt. Every day he wanted to text you and apologize and make up some shitty excuse and have you back in his life despite how selfish it would be. He felt empty without your stupid jokes and weird emojis and pointless snapchats, but he knew it was for the best.

He picked up carnations every week and was reminded of why it was for the best.

His aunt called him and asked when you'd be coming over again and he gave some lame excuse about this semester being harder so you were both busy. Ned asked about you too, and so did his other friends that Ned had spilled the beans too, but he brushed it off every time. They'd be disappointed if they knew he was shoving you to the side, even if his reasoning was, in his mind, pretty valid.

When he was out as Spider-Man, he found himself avoiding places where he knew you would go to take pictures. He wasn't sure he could take it if he saw you in person, he might forget all his reasons for avoiding you and change his mind about the whole thing, which he couldn't afford to do.

So he fell back into his old routine. Carnations, class, homework, Spider-Man, occasional movie night that his friends forced him into, and brief visits to May. Avoid thinking about her, avoid thinking about you, do his best to accept that he shouldn't put you in harms way just for his own selfish reasons of wanting you.

That didn't stop him from looking at the picture, that stupid picture of you both that he decided to print out and keep, and think about if he was really making the right choice.

Maybe you could be his happy ending. The hero deserved that sometimes, right? He had suffered so much loss that he just wanted something that would be permanent, and maybe that could be you.

You were kinda perfect for him, if he was being honest. Your personality matched up well with his and provided a good balance. He knew you would get along with his friends and you clearly got along with May already. You kept him in a good mood even when he was stressed or having bad thoughts. He hadn't really felt himself around anyone until you showed up, and you made him happy just because you were you, as lame as it sounded.

He hadn't given anyone that look he was giving you while you were both dancing since she had been in his life.

But then he remembered what it was like to hold her while she was bleeding out on the street because some asshole with a gun realized she was with Spider-Man, and he put the picture back down.

He knew he was lucky to avoid you as much as he did, so it shouldn't have really surprised him to finally run into you when he decided to get coffee at a shop far from campus.

"Peter?" He looked like a deer in headlights, his hands tightly gripping his to-go cup and eyes blown wide. You had just stepped inside and Peter felt the hairs on his arm go up a little, almost warning him that you were here before he even looked up.

He hadn't seen you since he walked away from you that night. It had probably been a month and it felt like a lot longer than it actually was, going from seeing you every day to not at all definitely made it seem like it had been ages.

But here you were, looking as stunning as he remembered, only instead of your usual cheery presence and wide grin, you were sporting a hurt look that made his chest ache.

"Hey," he decided to go with, hating himself a little when your frown deepened. "What's...up?"

"Are...are you serious?" You knit your eyebrows, "You - all you have to say is 'what's up'? Why the hell have you been ignoring me?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," he said a little coldly, tapping his fingers against his cup.

This was the exact situation he had been trying to avoid. He knew it would hurt him too much to see you again so he did everything he could to just outright avoid you. It was stupid of him to assume he could do that forever, though.

"I know you're avoiding me, you couldn't make it more obvious," you said quietly, the hurt in your eyes evident. "Did I do something?"

"I'm not," he lied, not able to look you in the eyes. You looked so sad and it wasn't something he ever wanted to see, not when you were usually so happy and carefree. It felt wrong. "Is it so bad for me to want some space?"

"Well you could have asked, I would have left you be," you responded, knitting your eyebrows, "But you didn't, you're just giving me the cold shoulder for no reason-"

"It's not my fault you're so clingy," he suddenly said harshly, and he watched your face fall with a sharp pain in his chest. He had to do this, he had to push you away, he couldn't let what happened to her happen to you, too. And if you kept talking he was afraid he would forget that. "Can't you just let me be sometimes? Do you not have other friends?"

You stared at him in shock. Peter had always been reserved, but he had his moments where you thought this might work out. But he had never talked to you like this, had never said such harsh things, and by the way his expression looked - he didn't even want to say them. And you realized he was doing it purposefully in hopes of pushing you away, and you didn't know why.

He was protecting himself, but that didn't make it okay.

"Wow, okay," you muttered, turning your face away so he couldn't see your hurt expression. "I'll give you your space then."

He wanted to apologize the second you turned to leave, not even bothering to get a drink after all, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything before you were out the door. He felt guilty watching through the window as you hastily wiped your eyes and marched back down the street, hugging your arms to yourself.

Peter breathed in through his nose, trying to shove that feeling away. He was saving your life by hurting you, or at least, that's what he convinced himself he was doing.

Crying over boys was stupid.

You didn't like to be emotional about stupid things, but this didn't feel like a stupid thing to you. Peter had essentially broken your heart and stomped on it some more just for fun, without even offering a decent explanation.

"It's not my fault you're so clingy."

There's nothing you hated more than being called clingy, and you didn't think he would ever say that to you. Hell, you didn't think he would ever even hurt you like this. He was a good guy, a mostly honest and really sweet guy, who helped you with studying and bought you coffees and you danced with you to old cheesy songs for no reason at all. This wasn't him.

Then again, did you really know him at all? He was Spider-Man, something you wouldn't have guessed at first if you hadn't heard his voice coming from the hero's mask. When you first met him he seemed like he didn't even want to tell you his name, much less be your friend. It took you months for him to open up, and the second he really did - boom. No contact for a month.

You decided to suck it up and move forward. It might take a little while for your feelings to go away and for your anger to subside, but what were you going to do? Mope around for the rest of college over a stupid boy you knew for only a semester? Absolutely not.

It was January and New York was freezing, but you didn't want to let that stop you from going outside and doing what you loved, and what you knew would distract you. Your aunt had gotten you a new camera for Christmas, and you had left Peter's on his doorstep with a text that he never responded to. Big surprise.

So when the sun decided to peek through the clouds, you chose to brave the cold and find a distraction from the stupid boy you didn't want to be sad about anymore.

The nice thing about going out when you did was that it was finally light outside, and the ice and snow looked stunning. There weren't many good pictures that you had taken during the darker and colder parts of winter, so this was a good chance to get some that you might be proud of.

You went straight after class to a park near campus where there was an ice skating rink, hoping it wasn't too crowded. There weren't many people out much to your satisfaction, and you were able to hang around and try out new settings on your camera that you hadn't tried out yet.

After a while you sat on a bench and just decided to hold it up and move it around a bit, trying to find anything interesting. When you moved the camera more to the right you were suddenly blocked by a close up of someone's face and you squealed, nearly dropping it.

"You gotta learn to be more aware of your surroundings, Y/N," you grit your teeth a little when you moved the camera away from your face, seeing Harry of all people smirking as he took a seat next to you.

"Are you starstruck? Want an autograph?" Harry joked when you had yet to respond, making you roll your eyes. "I've been told I look like a younger Idris Elba, if you got confused I definitely understand."

"What are you doing here," you whined a little, "This is my spot."

"I don't see your name written anywhere," he pointed out, making you frown more.

"Come on man," you sighed, adjusting your camera strap, "Did you just come here to annoy me?"

"Maybe I just wanted to hang out with you," he suggested, making you roll your eyes.

"Yeah, okay," you huffed, "I'm just gonna go to another spot cause there's no point taking pictures here if you're just going to-"

"Wait, you don't need to leave," He stopped you, his grin dropping, "I can go if you really want me to. I did just want to see you, one of the writers mentioned you take shots here sometimes so I thought I'd come by."

"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was joking, "I thought you didn't like me, it seems like you've been trying to shove me out of my spot the whole semester."

"Nah, no way, I think you're great! We don't need to compete so much, you know, it wasn't really a competition to me," he smiled a little, and it did look more genuine, "If I'm being honest, I was just trying to get you to notice me."

You raised your eyebrows, "What?"

"Come on, I thought it was obvious," he scratched his chin, not quite meeting your eyes now. "I'm not really a straight forward guy so I couldn't really seem to get the point across but...why do you think I'd be trying to get your attention?"

After a second of silence you felt your cheeks warm up when you realized what he was implying. "Oh."

"Yeah," he chuckled a little, eyes on you while he waited for you to say something other than "oh".

Harry was nice - you might've had an initial dislike for him but that was only because you thought he was trying to get you off the paper so he'd be the youngest photographer, but that clearly wasn't the case now. He was nice, he was good looking, he had similar hobbies to you...

But he wasn't Peter.

You had no idea what to say to him, he literally just came out of nowhere and within a few minutes of conversation decided to drop that bomb on you, but luckily you were saved by a soft thud behind you, making you both jump up.

To your shock and then slight horror, Spider-Man - Peter - walked up to the both of you. He appeared pretty much out of nowhere, but before you could be suspicious as to how he happened to be here so coincidentally, he stopped in front of the both of you and crossed his arms.

"Hey, camera girl," he said cheerfully, his mask shifting a little into what you assumed was a smile. He tilted his head at Harry, who looked a little uncomfortable but also shocked. The eyes of his mask narrowed slightly, "This guy bothering you?"

"No, no he's-he's fine," you shook your head, almost forgetting that it was Peter under that mask and wondering why he even dropped down to say hi when he was so actively avoiding you. "What, uh, what are you doing?"

"You know, just patrolling," he hummed, still looking at Harry, "Swung by and saw you, couldn't help but notice you looked a little bothered, figured I would make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," you tried not to snap when you said it, but you knew you didn't look "bothered". He clearly dropped down to interrupt your response to Harry, which you might have been a little grateful for, but it still wasn't his business to do so. And what did he care, anyway?

"You're Spider-Man," Harry said in a monotone voice, looking a little shocked while you tried not to put your head in your hands.

"Sure am," Peter grinned while you made an annoyed noise, sticking his hand out to the star-struck guy. "Nice to meet you...?"

"Harry," he replied, shaking Peter's hand and hiding a wince at how hard his grip was. Peter tried not to laugh at that.

"Sorry, Y/N, do you...do you guys know each other?" Harry pointed between the too of you. "I'm confused."

"Oh yeah, we're real close," Peter threw an arm over your shoulder and you resisted the urge to shove it off. Who the hell said he could act chummy with you like this when he was treating you like crap when he wasn't being Spider-Man?

Harry gave you a strange look and you just shrugged, giving up. First he basically tells you he likes you, and then Peter - the only real reason you'd probably reject Harry - literally drops from the sky, despite the fact that he'd been avoiding you for well over a month. Of course, he thinks you don't know it's him, so does it really count?

"Look, Spider-Man, thanks for dropping by, but I'm fine," you put on a smile, stepping out from under his arm. His mask's eyes narrowed a bit and you almost imagined that he was hurt you were basically telling him to leave.

"Right," Peter cleared his throat, "As long as you guys are cool, I'll get going then."

"Uh, before you go, do you mind if I-?" Harry held up his camera, but Peter shook his head.

"Sorry man, I only pose for the pretty photographers," his mask winked at you, and you nearly wanted to die right there.

Before either of you could respond to that he gave you salute and lifted his other hand to an adjacent building, shooting a web and swinging off as quick as he came.

You swore too many weird things happened in the span of like, fifteen minutes.

"Um...what was that?" Harry asked after a minute, and you just shook your head in response.

"I have no idea. But I should get back to my dorm, I have a ton of work to do," you backed up a little, shooting him a small smile, and hoped the message got across. He looked a little disappointed but nodded, and you tried not to feel too guilty.

"Right. See you around then," he gave you a tight smile, not meeting your eyes.

"Bye, Harry," you mumbled as he walked away, and you sighed, rubbing your forehead.

You were a little annoyed at yourself for not even giving him a chance, but you knew it wouldn't be fair to him. The feelings you had for Peter were stronger than you realized, even with how he was not speaking with you now.

But you were more annoyed that Peter had the audacity to waltz up to you both like that. You knew he thought you were oblivious to who was under the mask, but even disregarding that, what the hell was he playing at acting friendly with you now, and very obviously trying to force himself in between you and a guy you weren't even interested in?

With a little huff of annoyance, you took off your camera and packed it into your case, deciding to pack up and go home. The distraction you were looking for clearly backfired, and you wanted to go back to your dorm and make some hot chocolate and watch a shitty movie instead of think about what just happened.

Peter tried not to grin when he heard from the rooftop above how you didn't give Harry a clear answer. It might've been a little pathetic of him to interrupt that and then stay after to eavesdrop, and it was definitely not his business who you wanted to go out with, but he couldn't help it.

And he was definitely not stalking you. He just happened to see you on the street with your camera and decided to stop for a minute.

He hadn't seen you in a while. Not since he saw you angry and upset at him, at least. You were snapping some photos of random things, he couldn't really tell of what exactly, but you kept moving your hair out of your face and frowning at your camera, making him chuckle a little.

When some guy approached you he tensed up, but once you started talking he relaxed a little, realizing it was someone you knew. He could hear the conversation - perks of having superpowers - and felt his heart drop to his stomach when he heard what Harry was saying, basically implying that he liked you.

That was when he made a stupid move and dropped down, not really sure if he could handle hearing your response.

He knew it wasn't his business. He knew that you were your own person and obviously allowed to do whatever you wanted. But he couldn't help the sharp pain in his chest at the idea of you with someone else.

Though when he saw your face right after he jumped down, it was a little obvious how grateful you were to be interrupted. Of course, then you were annoyed, but he did see your relieved look before. Maybe he had nothing to worry about.

But that thought made him frown as he watched you get up from the bench and start to walk away, presumably back to campus. He shouldn't have anything to worry about. He shouldn't be this worried about you, not anymore. Not now that he was protecting you by staying away from you.

With a sigh he got up from the ledge, rubbing his hands together from the cold and deciding to follow you back to campus before continuing his patrol.

Just to make sure you would get there alright, of course.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker reader insert #peter parker fic #spider-man x reader #spider-man fic #spiderman x reader #peterpparkerwrites masterlist #my writing

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goldentournesol · 4 years ago

Text

Not in That Way

*gif not mine, found on Giphy*

(Spencer Reid x fem!Reader)

The one where Spencer’s TA falls in love with him.

Length: 3.3k

A/N: VAGUE SPOILERS FOR S15 AHEAD! AGE GAP (10 years). Read at your own risk everybody, very angsty. NO PART TWO’S WILL BE WRITTEN. enjoy :)

masterlist

It wasn’t hard, really. It wasn’t hard at all to fall in love with Spencer Reid. In fact, it was the easiest thing she’d ever done. It came so easily that it shook her to the core.

Really, what’s not to love? He is a badass FBI agent with a heart of gold, he can literally recite almost any book to her on demand, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that he looks like he’s been sculpted by a coveted artist.

She didn’t know though, she didn’t know how easy it would be to be completely enamored by someone. She didn’t know what kind of life she’d be stepping into when she’d applied to become his Teaching Assistant. She’d heard from her peers that there was a part-time professor who had been looking for a TA. She signed up without a second thought, desperate for any kind of connections that could possibly help her with her PhD in forensic psychology. When she’d learned that he was a certified genius whose other job was to be a real life superhero, she hoped and prayed he’d pick her application.

She was over the moon when she found out that he did indeed pick her out of all the students who had applied. This was an opportunity of a lifetime. She’d seen his university ID photo on the website and thought he was attractive, but seeing him in person was almost magical. The camera definitely could not quite pick up on the subtle gold flecks in his irises or the silky sheen of his hair. And that smile. She was sure she could drown in it forever.

After being chosen and going through a number of interviews, Y/N learned just how meticulous Dr. Reid was in everything he did. She helped him create the syllabus as well as build his lesson plans. Over the semester, she would go over his grading since he had the tendency to give students the answers instead of making helpful comments on the papers to make them think and reflect. She’d also learned about his particular aversion to technology, which meant they had multiple meet-ups when he was in town just so she can walk him through certain systems, like the university’s portal system as well as the email. She also showed him how to pose his answers as questions instead, explaining that sometimes, he shouldn’t answer their incomplete thoughts because it's an undergrad class. Also, with his unpredictable schedule concerning the FBI, she would often step in and teach his class whenever he was away on a case.

They’d become good friends outside of his office and classroom, probably closer than they should have been. He was just too likeable and she was always eager enough to hear what he had to say, thus a bond between them was born and reinforced each time they saw each other. He was so thoughtful, it shocked her. Once he’d heard her mention that she used to love collecting keychains when she was a child, and made sure to get her a new one from each state he’d visit thanks to his trips around the country. Her previous boyfriends were beyond disappointing in comparison to say the least, and they weren’t even dating. He knew her favorite coffee order by heart and often had it ready with a fresh croissant whenever they met at the university’s coffee shop and if they were meeting at his office, he’d take them to go.

It was little things like that that made her fall in love with him. And she knew, it’s not like she didn’t, she just chose to hide it with every cell of her being. Crushing on your professor is pretty common amongst university students, but being a TA and being desperately in love with your professor was a whole different kind of story.

She already admired his intelligence in class immensely, however hearing his stories from his time out in the field made her heart grow three times the size of normal. His stories ranged from being about geographical profiling, to action-packed anecdotes, and even funny moments with the team.

Was she constantly impressed by him? Yes.

Was she constantly worried about him? Also yes.

Which is why she’d practically made him adopt the habit of texting or calling her every time he landed in DC. They’d been chasing this unsub, Lynch, for months on end and he’d informed her that they were finally close to getting him. The last time they talked two days ago, he was feeling confident. But then it was just silence. He hadn’t texted her, he hadn’t called her. She didn’t even know if he was back in DC. Her mind took her places she didn’t want to go. He’d gotten so good with keeping her updated that this silence was turning her blood into ice water.

She’d left 11 missed calls so far. But she didn’t give up, she was determined to hear from him. The next morning she tried again, holding her breath and squeezing her eyes shut in a silent prayer.

“Hello?” Someone finally picked up, a woman.

“Hello? Who is this? I’m trying to reach Spencer Reid.” Y/N said into the phone, voice clearly on the edge of tears.

“Oh you must be Y/N Y/L/N. You’re Spencer’s TA. I’m Penelope Garcia, I work with Spencer.” She said into the phone evenly, calmly.

“Yes, I am. Did something happen to Spencer? He hasn’t contacted me in two days. Why do you have his phone?” Y/N worried into the phone. She could hear every heartbeat, loud and clear.

“Spencer is in the hospital. There was an explosion yesterday and he hit his head really hard. We found him passed out in his apartment this morning.” Penelope answered. Y/N’s eyes widened and she felt the tears slip from her eyes quickly. The panic began to set in.

“C-could you please text me the address?” Y/N managed to whisper into the phone through her tears.

“Of course, sweetie. He’s going to be okay. His mother is here, I’m assuming you know about Diana?” She asked tenderly.

“Yes, yes, I know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Y/N said, already rushing to put on shoes and looking for her keys.

The drive to the hospital wasn’t long, but Y/N felt like it took ages to get there anyway. Her breathing was uneven and her eyes were already swollen as if she’d been crying for days. There was a bad, bad feeling reverberating around in her chest. She’d somehow floated through the hospital like she was running on autopilot.

She’d found the room and met eyes with a blonde woman adorning two identical blue puffs in her hair. She would have thought they were adorable if she wasn’t panicking her heart out. She spotted Spencer laying on the hospital bed with oxygen tubes hanging around his ears and inserted into his nose. The sight made her stomach lurch. Something about the way his usually pink lips were drained of their color made her want to sob until tomorrow came. Beside the bed on the other side sat Diana Reid, a tall woman with short blonde hair. She’d seen her in photos before. Diana merely stared at her with a hint of a smile.

She stepped in the hospital room, swallowing down the bile in her throat, “H-Hi, I’m Y/N.” She waved tentatively into the room, almost unable to keep with the tensity of the two women’s gazes. She wiped at her eyes and stood at the foot of Spencer’s bed, “Is he going to be okay?” She asked, staring at the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest. That way it was reassuring to watch him. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she stood.

“The doctors are hopeful.” Penelope replied, assessing the young woman who just entered. She was much younger than she previously thought she was. Although she had no idea what to expect when it came to Spencer’s academic life, he was always surprising her.

Diana sat still and silent in the hospital chair, a pensive expression draped across her features. Penelope sensed a tension in the room and looked towards Diana, “Hey, Diana, would you like to come with me down to the cafeteria to fetch some jello for Spencer to eat when he wakes up?”

Y/N sent Penelope a sidelong glance filled with gratitude. She tuned out the sounds of Diana telling Penelope the story of the first time Spencer had jello as they exited the small room. She immediately pulled up the chair closest to his bed and grasped his hand tightly. She let out a shaky breath at the contact. Cold, his hand was so, so cold.

“Oh, Spencer, you scared the shit out of me.” She whispered, pressing her lips to the back of his hand quickly, “I could have lost you today...and-and I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself if that would have happened. I know you probably can’t hear me, but I still have to say what I’m going to say. I have to. For myself. So here goes,” she pauses, taking a deep breath, “there’s nothing that scares me more than losing you, and that thought alone terrifies me.” She sniffled, wiping away her tears, “What I feel for you terrifies me, Spencer. I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone so deeply until I met you. And...I don’t know what to do with all this love, I want to hand it all to you, let you see yourself the way I see you, but I can’t do that. I can’t.” She held back an incoming sob, whispering, “I can’t ask that of you.”

She bowed her head and rested it along his forearm, her silent tears soaking through the hospital sheets. The fear of grieving for him outweighed the fear of rejection. She’d never forgive herself if he died without knowing how big of a space he occupied in her heart. She didn’t know if she was brave enough to tell him to his face while he was awake, but this was a start. Solidifying her feelings was a start. And man, were they solid.

A few minutes later, her phone began to ring because of an endless stream of emails. There was a class today, and she’d have to teach it. She went back and forth from her phone to Spencer’s face and released a deep, heavy sigh from the pit of her chest. She stood from her seat and hovered her hand over his cheek before allowing it to rest timidly on his skin.

“I have to go, but I’ll see you soon.” She paused, chewing on her lip, “I love you.” She said softly, fresh tears making their way back to the brim of her eyes. She pulled away from him and exited the room swiftly.

Spencer’s bleary eyes opened slightly to just barely catch the sight of her disappearing into the hallway from which she came. Seconds later, Penelope and his mother came marching in, seeing his open eyes.

Penelope set down the cups of jello nearby and Diana made her way to her son quickly. He could barely keep his eyes open for long enough. It was a small achievement but they both held onto it dearly.

Hours later, he blinked his eyes open again as he heard his mother and Penelope conversing about his favorite type of cloud. Diana leaned over her son’s bed and set a comforting hand on his shoulder. He stared at her fondly.

“Am I alive or is this heaven?” He asked, smiling slightly.

“You are very much alive.” Diana smiled broadly at him.

Garcia had since gone back to the office to assist the team in finally closing the Lynch case. Spencer was just waking up from yet another snooze.

Diana looked at him closely, sometimes he felt she was the profiler in the room, “She told you didn’t she?”

Spencer rubbed at his eyes slightly, “Who are you talking about?” He yawned.

“The pretty girl who was in here earlier.” Y/N’s name had slipped her mind the second she said it. Spencer stared at his mother incredulously, shocked at just how clear her mind was at the moment. Diana took his silence as an affirmative and nodded at him.

“You should tell her.” She said definitively. For a moment, he doubted if he understood just what she meant, but he understood.

“How did you know?” Spencer asked curiously.

“I told you, a mother always knows. And I saw the way she looked at you. She deserves to know, Spencer.” Diana said.

She deserves to know.

The thought tumbled around in his head for days after he was discharged from the hospital. He was on medical leave for the moment but as soon as he could see straight, he took the train to her apartment. He’d been there a few times, they’d had a few casual dinners there while grading papers together or coming up with future lesson plans. His hands were on the verge of trembling as he knocked on her apartment door. The numbers nailed on the door mocked him as he stood waiting for her to open.

She frowned at the sound, she wasn’t expecting anybody. She pushed her laptop to the side and stood to straighten her pajamas, making her way to the door. She ripped it open as soon as she saw who it was.

“Spencer! Oh thank goodness you’re okay! I’ve been worried sick about you.” She threw her arms around his middle tightly, making him stagger a bit from the impact, but he enveloped her in his arms anyway. The contact was very welcome.

“Hey.” He smiled into the hug, his heart spilling with gratitude over being worthy enough of her attention. They separated from the embrace and she stared at him with a look resembling wonder.

“What are you doing here? I thought you still had a few more days off until you had to get back to work. Come in, come in.” She moved aside to let him in. She also moved a plethora of blankets and textbooks off the couch to make space for him to sit.

“I know, I’m sorry for kind of coming over unannounced. I didn’t mean to intrude or anything.” He eyed her matching set of cartoon character pajamas as he took a seat, making a mental note that it was the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. She blushed under his gaze but shook her head nonetheless.

“Oh come on, you know you’re always welcome here. Can I get you something to drink? Some water or coffee, maybe?” She asked.

“Water’s fine.” He smiled, leaning back into the couch. She nodded and made her way into the kitchen. Spencer’s shoulders untensed for a moment and he hadn’t realized that he’d been carrying so much of his worries in them around her. She came back with the water and took a seat next to him, angling her body to face him. He muttered a thank you as he sipped from it, unsure how to approach the situation.

“I wanted to thank you. For coming to the hospital to see me. That meant a lot.” He met her eyes and saw a flash of panic dance across her irises. How did he know she was there? Penelope probably told him, right? He couldn’t have heard her.

“Of course, Spencer. It’s the least I could do.” She smiled sweetly. His heart cleaved in his chest as he stared at the sweet girl in front of him.

What did he ever do to deserve her friendship?

He fidgeted with the glass in his hands, a silence beginning to drape over them.

“Is everything okay?” She asked, noticing his fidgeting.

He took a deep breath and set the glass down on the coffee table in front of them. He turned his body to face her and reached for her soft hands. Her breath hitched at the intimate contact, butterflies erupting in the pit of her abdomen.

“You are a remarkable person, Y/N. I’m so lucky to have you in my life. I see the absolute worst that humanity has to offer on a daily basis, but you have made it your mission to make my life easier. And you do, honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” He said with soft eyes and a half-laugh. She smiled back, she could practically feel the rush from his words directly in her brain.

“And it is an honor to be loved by you,” his voice hesitated to say the word, his eyes darkening with regret as he continued. Realization snapped into place for her as he said, “but I can’t give you what you need.”

He had heard her. He knew.

Her blood ran cold as she tore her hands away from his, as if the skin on his hands had the ability to burn her. He frowned as he watched her frantic eyes search his for any semblance of dishonesty. Her throat closed up over all the words that fought to surface. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came up. Instead, tears sprung to the corners of her eyes.

“What?” She whispered, brokenhearted and momentarily in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He tried to console her but she was past the point of consolation.

“I-I understand.” She nodded painfully, tears cascading down her face before she even got the chance to wipe them away, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s completely unprofessional.” She swallowed an incoming sob as best as she could.

“No, I’m glad you told me, but if I’m being honest, I knew long before it. This isn’t about professionality, I don’t care about that. But I care about you, a lot.” Spencer said softly, staring at the young woman in front of him. She shook her head, utterly devastated and doing her best to shield herself from his gaze. Thoughts escaped her as her heart took a deep-dive to settle in her abdomen.

“And I thought I should let you know how I feel. I love you, Y/N,” he paused, “just not in that way.” The soft voice he used was completely useless against the harshness of the words.

She tried, she tried her absolute hardest to suppress the incoming sob, but those words just about broke the dam. She rubbed at her eyes, nodding. He tried to set a comforting hand on her shoulder but decided against it. She took a deep breath and stood up from the couch.

That was enough humiliation for the day.

“No, no, I completely understand.” She said, voice wobbly and eyes ringed with red. He frowned up at her at the sight of her being so upset.

“Will you be okay?” He asked as he stood up from his seat. She laughed slightly, this man had devastated her, broken her heart with a few simple words and still wondered if she’d be okay. That’s Spencer Reid for you. The question made her heart ache and long for him more. His simplicity and good intentions made her question why the world wasn’t kind enough to let her have him.

“No, I won’t. And I probably won’t be okay for a long time. Because I will keep meeting men and keep comparing them to you so, until I stop doing that, no, I won’t be okay, Spencer.” She answered with a surprisingly stable voice. He frowned and nodded.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, stepping forward to cup her cheek and gently use his thumb to wipe the remainder of her tears. Her glassy eyes bored right into his, her lips wobbling at the contact. She then closed her eyes and leaned her cheek into his palm, soaking in his warmth one last time before he tore himself away from her completely and showed himself out of the apartment without looking back.

That was when she allowed herself to fall apart. He heard her heart wrenching cries from behind the door and hesitated, but decided to walk away anyway with a chest heavy with regret.

She will never be enough for him, she thought.

He will never be enough for her, he thought.

#im sorry #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer Reid fic #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid masterlist #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #professor reid #spencer reid fluff #mgg

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wish-that-i-was-buckys-girl · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! How are you!? Hope you're good 😁 Could I request a BuckyxFem!Reader oneshot? ❤️

A mission goes wrong. The reader and Bucky are trapped in a cell surrounded by several HYDRA agents. One of them says the keywords to activate the Winter Soldier just at the moment when Steve and Tony appear to help them, they fight against Bucky trying to make him the same again until a scream takes him out of that personality: the reader is wounded, wanting to protect him from another HYDRA agent getting in the way of the bullet. Bucky becomes him again and takes the reader in his arms to return to the quinjet.

Maybe lots of angst and fluffy ending with them confessing eachothers love at the hq?

Thank you so much!!!!!!! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

A/N: Hi guys! Wow it’s great to be back and free from college stress. I received this request two months ago, and again I am so sorry it took this long for me to make it, but writing academic papers had absolutely kicked my ass this past semester. This ask obviously takes place where Bucky has not been to Wakanda yet to get his trigger words removed. I hope you guys enjoy! I am a little rusty, and not sure if I should write from the first person perspective or third person perspective for Y/N fanfictions so let me know what you guys prefer. Happy Summer!

Pairings: Bucky x female!Reader

Warnings: Talks of blood, gun violence. Other than that I don’t think there is anything else.

Word Count: 2.5k

You’re My Endgame

The floor was cold. It’s not like you haven’t endured worse, but the concrete you had been resting your head on was less than inviting. Your body was rigid due to the freezing temperatures and the uncomfortable position you curled your body into. The HYDRA facility you had been captured at was in Lithuania, Bucky promised he knew it like the back of his hand. Things had changed since his work and internal torment as the Winter Soldier, something he wasn’t expecting due to lack of funds on their part. Unfortunately, no one could’ve predicted there were spies in SHIELD funneling crazy amounts of money into new buildings and updating new HYDRA facilities and weapons.

You decided to sit up and stretch your limbs. It had felt like weeks you were being held hostage, but in actuality it was only a day at most. The HYDRA agents kept you and Bucky busy with periodic torture. You’ve been kicked, punched, beaten into the ground even but neither of you talked. Bucky was more familiar with these torture treatments than anyone, but he focused all of his attention on you.

He was the first real friend you had made at the Avengers’ campus. He had trauma, you had trauma, one of the best bonding factors you had both concluded. He listened to stories of your abusive childhood, being trained by your father as his own personal assassin, and he would share whatever he was comfortable telling you. You never poked and prodded. You knew you were more open than most when it came to over sharing experiences. Talking helped some people, others not so much.

You stood up and shook out your arms and legs. Once you stopped, you assessed the bruises on each body part, counting how many had accumulated over the canvas that was your skin. 48 in total. A new record.

You looked over at Bucky to see he was lying in a similar position to you, close enough that you were in arms reach but not too close that you were uncomfortable with his touch. You were both exhausted from the continuous torture, touching was not in anyone’s best interest at this point in time.

He groaned softly, beginning to stretch his limbs out as well. Trying to turn a horrible situation into a lighter occasion (as if that were possible), you cracked a joke in Bucky’s direction.

“Good morning sunshine, I see you decided to join me for our delicious gourmet breakfast” you gestured to nothing behind you on the concrete floor.

Bucky cracked a smile “Good thing I didn’t miss it, I’m starving” he joked back. You understood each other’s humor and personality so well.

“How’re you feeling Buck? I know they did a number on you after me” you looked down at him somberly.

He shook his head “Don’t worry about me. Show me your arms and legs. I wanna see how much they hurt you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Buck I’m fine. I can hold my own just the same as you. We are trained for these situations.”

Bucky rolled his eyes back at you. “Did I ask if you were trained? No. In fact I didn’t ask you anything at all. Show me your goddamn body Y/N”

You didn’t want to stress him out anymore, so you just knelt down in front of him and started showing him your arms. He hovered over them, careful not to touch your delicate flesh. His phase was full of confusion, anger, and something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He shook his head, not even wanting to see your legs if this is what your arms looked like. He didn’t want to upset himself even more, which would in turn make you upset.

“Lay back down Y/N. You need to rest, even if it is on concrete. We can’t have your pretty self looking like that when we get back to the compound now can we?” Bucky replied, trying to lighten the mood once again. It was worth a shot.

Bucky always told you you were pretty, never really thinking anything of it. Steve or Natasha was his endgame, and you respected that. You were best friends and best friends always complimented each other like that. You definitely didn’t need to make your relationship more complicated, even if you were desperately in love with him. You would keep those feelings locked down in the deepest crevices of your brain, unwilling to share with anyone.

You smiled towards Bucky, getting ready to sit back down when you heard the door to the basement unlock. You both winced at the sound, turning to look at each other with dread in your eyes.

Please dear god no more. We can’t take anymore.

You wanted to keep Bucky safe from HYDRA’s wrath, and he wanted to do the same for you. Given the circumstances however, it was near impossible. Bucky felt helpless that he couldn’t properly protect you against their torture, only adding to his mental torment. He was in pure agony, and hearing that door again made him want to scream out to a higher power he didn’t believe in.

“Rise and shine dirtbags, we have a new surprise for you today” the first HYDRA agent said with a small smirk on his face.

You had no idea what they had in store for you today, always expecting the worst. You definitely were not prepared for what they were planning to do to you today.

“You, girl, have you ever met those they call the Winter Soldier?” the second HYDRA agent asked.

You had no idea what he was talking about, honestly thinking he was talking about Bucky. You knew he had been called the Winter Soldier in the past, but Bucky never shared much of his trauma. You didn’t know to the full extent what he was capable of, he never wanted you to know what he was capable of. In response, you nodded with a confused look on your face.

Bucky, however, knew exactly what he was talking about. His heart felt like it had dropped to his stomach, unable to prepare for what was about to happen. He started shaking his head furiously, begging softly. “Please, please don’t do this. I’ll do anything, just please don’t do this. Not with her.” You could see the pain in his eyes.

A third HYDRA agent strutted into the room, just as smug as the other two. He was holding a red book with a black star on it. You thought it was just a log of what torture they had performed on you, but it was much more sinister based off of Bucky backing up into the far corner of the room with absolute dread in his eyes. That’s when the third HYDRA agent started to speak.

“Longing, rusted, seventeen.” Your confusion only grew as the HYDRA agent spoke these words, but your confusion slowly faded as concern took over. You looked over to Bucky who was squinting his eyes as he hugged his rigid body. He was whispering “No, no god please no, please stop.”

You walked over to him gently, crouching. “Bucky? Bucky what’s wrong..”

The second HYDRA agent took the book from the third, continuing reciting the words “Daybreak, furnace, nine.” Everyone’s smile grew wider except yours and Bucky’s. He was starting to shake from fear and anger, knowing what was about to happen. Bucky screamed at you, something he had never done before in his life. “Y/N, get away from me. Just stay away!”

You were a strong woman, never faltering during a mission, especially in times of crisis, but you felt like curling up into a ball and crying. You were worried, disoriented, and even worse, you couldn't do a damn thing about it. The words kept flowing from the HYDRA agents’ mouths.

“Benign, homecoming, one” the HYDRA agents spouted in unison. Bucky was screaming in pain. You couldn't bear to look at him, tears streaming down your face as you heard his agony. This was far worse than any torture inflicted on you yet.

Then, the final word was spoken.

“Freight Car”

Bucky’s eyes shot wide open. His rigid body remained the same, only beginning to stand instead of hugging himself in the fetal position. That’s when he spoke.

“готов подчиниться”

You understood the meaning, but didn't understand what your best friend had become. That’s when an explosion behind the three HYDRA agents erupted, causing everyone to become disoriented.

Debris had been blown everywhere, dust clouding your vision and settling all around you. You didn’t see Bucky, you didn’t see the HYDRA agents. All you could see was a glow. It came from beyond where the explosion came from. You began squinting, trying to identify what was heading in your direction. That’s when you began to see flashes of the one and only “Hot Rod” red, along with the Star Spangled Man with a Plan. Although you wanted to smile at your rescue, your thoughts were all encompassed by Bucky. You hadn't known what happened to him, only knowing he was in extreme pain, now missing. You yelled out to Tony and Steve.

“Over here!! I’m over here. Do you guys see Bucky??”

That’s when you heard a shift in the rubble, only a few short feet from where you were lying. A metal arm had popped out of the ground, reminiscent of the scene in the Evil Dead.

Thank God. At least I know where he is.

You worked slowly over to where he had appeared out of the ground. You began removing the stones off of his body with vigor. You could finally see his face and somewhat of his body, calling out his name.

“Bucky? Bucky tell me if you’re hurt. Bucky please talk to me. You’re scaring me”

His expression remained blank, awaiting orders from whoever was willing to give them first.

That’s when you heard the faint commands of a fallen HYDRA agent, determined to finish his job.

“Attack”

Bucky’s reaction was immediate. He grabbed your throat with force, causing you to claw at his metal arm with what little energy you had left. Gasping and kicking your feet as he held you in the air, you tried calling out to him. This was your best friend, surely he had to recognize you. That’s when Steve threw his shield directly at Bucky’s legs, causing him to loosen his grip on your neck.

You fell to the ground coughing, your body begging for air as you inhaled so sharply you thought your chest would explode. Your coughing didn’t stop for a few seconds, only being brought back from reality when you heard the clash of vibranium on vibranium. You looked up to see Steve and Bucky fighting, Steve screaming “Buck! Buck it’s us!”

Bucky replied with angry grunts, not understanding anything but his commands. While Steve and Bucky fought, Tony was busy securing the area, taking out other HYDRA agents who had flooded the scene. You didn’t know what to do, but you knew Bucky was your top priority. You called out to him several times, hoping he would realize it was you. Your cries fell on deaf ears, however, as he continued to fight Steve with all of his might.

You quickly glanced at everything going on, that’s when you noticed a HYDRA agent Tony had missed while fending them off. He was holding a loaded pistol, directly in Steve and Bucky’s direction. Before you could truly process what was going on, you heard the gunshot go off. At this point you weren’t too far away from them, sprinting in their direction to protect them from the bullet. You launched yourself in their direction, screaming in pain as your body was pushed to it’s limits already in pain. As you fell to the ground, you barely noticed the bullet had entered your right shoulder. Figuring the pain was from landing on sharp stones, you groaned loudly.

As soon as you screamed, Bucky was ripped from his Winter Soldier persona and back into reality. However, Steve didn't see his realization, landing a punch straight to Bucky’s jaw, sending him staggering back. Both Steve and Bucky turned their attention to you, lying on the ground and bleeding everywhere. Bucky, who couldn’t care less about the fact that he just got punched in the face, moved over to your body with haste.

He looked down at you softly, covered in dirt and blood. His heart wretched in his chest, knowing all of this could’ve been avoided if he just double checked the layouts of the base before invading the building for their mission. “Y/N? Y/N sweetheart talk to me please” he said as he picked your head up gently to lay in his lap. You coughed up a little spittle of blood as you turned to look at him with tenderness in your eyes.

“Bucky? Is, is it you?”

He smiled down at you, with tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Yes sweetheart, it’s me. Just hang in there for me okay? We’re gonna get you to the quinjet. It’s gonna be okay.” You could hear the cracks in his voice as he spoke to you, but couldn't focus on it for too long. Both your vision and your hearing were starting to waver, going in and out as the chaos ensued around you.

The last words you remembered hearing before everything went back was Bucky’s voice.

“Don’t leave me now sweet girl, I need you. Please don’t go, you’re it for me.”

He continued talking, but lost consciousness as he spoke. Everything was dark.

_______________________________________________________________________

You woke up, looking at an absolutely blinding light. You squinted as you opened your eyes, not fully able to open them completely thanks to the mini sun above your head.

You began to move your limbs, realizing that someone was holding your left hand. You looked over to see Bucky, sitting with you in the quinjet infirmary, his head hung low and gentle sobs escaping his mouth.

You spoke up softly, unable to speak at a normal tone.

“Bucky?”

Bucky picked up his head, eyes puffy and red from the crying, not expecting you to be awake so soon after how much blood you had lost.

“Y/N? Oh god, oh sweetheart” he stood up and kissed your forehead, not wanting to move your body by embracing you with a hug.

You smiled up at him as he hovered above your face, taking in your beauty.

He spoke with a quiver in his voice.

“I, I thought I’d lost you. All because I was a fucking idiot who couldn't do my job before the mission, Y/N I am so sorry, I don’t, I never wanted you to see me that way. I’m so stupid, I’m-” you stopped Bucky from continuing his pity party by raising your left hand to his lips, shushing him with one finger.

You gently removed your hand and lifted your head slightly to meet his lips with yours. You both closed your eyes as your lips met, savoring how delicious you both tasted, even post mission. You deepened the kiss slightly, angling your head so you both had more access to each other’s mouths. You held the kiss for what seemed like forever, finally decided to pull away softly.

Staring into his beautiful ocean blue eyes, smiling up at him while holding the back of his head, you spoke softly “You are Bucky Barnes, and you’re my endgame.”

#Bucky Barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan characters

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