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romerona · 1 month ago

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The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Carmy stood in the dimly lit laundry room, hands on his hips as he glared at the washing machine like it had personally wronged him. The display panel flashed erratically, like it was trying to send an SOS in Morse code, while a faint but concerning smell of burning plastic wafted through the air.

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. All he wanted was to wash his clothes—just one normal task in a sea of chaos. Apparently, even that was asking too much.

With a frustrated sigh, he muttered curses under his breath and gave the machine a half-hearted nudge with his foot, as if that might magically revive it. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The machine remained defiantly lifeless.

“Wow. Bold strategy. Were you planning to wrestle it next?”

The voice startled him. He turned sharply to see you standing in the doorway, holding a laundry basket overflowing with brightly colored clothes. You were dressed in the epitome of Saturday comfort: an oversized t-shirt with a graphic that read 'Physics: It’s Not Rocket Science... Oh, Wait, Yes It Is,' paired with baggy sweatpants and ridiculously fluffy, colorful monster feet slippers. Your hair was slightly messy like you’d just rolled out of bed—or perhaps fought the laundry demons he was now dealing with.

Your lips curved into a teasing smile as you tilted your head. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know machines responded to passive-aggressive foot taps.”

Carmy let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t have a better idea.”

“Well,” you said, stepping into the room and setting your basket down on the counter, “I hate to break it to you, but this thing looks like it’s plotting your demise. What’s the issue? Won’t open?”

“It stopped mid-cycle,” he explained, gesturing toward the uncooperative machine. “Clothes are stuck. It’s probably fried.”

“Oof. Smells like defeat and polyester.” You crouched down to inspect the machine, tilting your head like a mechanic sizing up a stubborn engine. “Looks like it’s giving you the silent treatment. Did you try apologizing? Promising to separate your whites and darks next time?”

“Funny,” Carmy deadpanned, though the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

You straightened up, planting your hands on your hips in a stance that could only be described as authoritative. “Well, lucky for you, Carmy-next-door, I happen to be an expert in broken things.”

Carmy raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah? How’s that?”

You let out a playful scoff, crouching in front of the washing machine as if it were a patient in need of your expertise. “When you work in a place that runs on shoestring budgets and prayers, you pick up a thing or two about fixing stuff. I’ve practically got a minor in MacGyver-ing. It’s part of my many talents.”

He smirked, watching as you pressed a few buttons and tapped the side of the machine like you were coaxing it back to life. “Sounds like a tough gig.”

“Oh, it’s a blast,” you replied sarcastically with a grin, peering at the machine’s latch. “But the real fun is my lovely fourth graders and their… slippery fingers. Nothing keeps you on your toes like finding out your class stapler’s been dismantled to ‘see how it works.’”

“And you adore them,” Carmy guessed, his voice soft but sure.

“Ugh, to a fault,” you admitted, sitting back on your heels to glance at him. “They’re chaos in human form, but they’re my chaos. Like when Marcus decided to see if he could use glitter glue as a bookmark. Spoiler alert: he couldn’t. And then there was Kayla’s science project that involved exactly zero science but a lot of snacks. Kids are wild, but they’re kind of the best.”

Carmy chuckled, the sound low and warm as he shook his head. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

You huff a laugh nodding. “But they make all the broken stuff worth it... also, they’ve prepared me for moments like this. Fixing things? I’m a pro. Diffusing meltdowns? Also a pro. Dodging paper balls? Let’s just say my reflexes are unmatched.”

He chuckled quietly, his blue eyes softening as he observed your easy confidence. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Oh, hardly,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

He watched as you tinkered with the inner workings of the washer, the way your monster-footed slippers stuck out behind you, and the light in your eyes as you spoke about your students. There was something captivating about the way you moved—confident but never overbearing, your words spilling out in an endless stream of humor and warmth. For someone who probably dealt with endless chaos in your day-to-day life, you had an energy about you—warmth—messy and vibrant—that felt oddly grounding in his otherwise muted world.

Finally, with a triumphant click, the washer’s door popped open. A puff of warm, damp air escaped, carrying with it the faint scent of detergent. You rocked back on your heels, grinning up at him as if you’d just disarmed a bomb.

“And there you have it!” you declared standing up, sweeping your arm dramatically toward the liberated laundry like a game show host revealing a grand prize. “Your clothes are finally free, Chef Carmy. Laundry liberation, courtesy of yours truly. I accept gratitude in the form of snacks, coffee, or eternal admiration—your choice. But please, no autographs. I have to stay humble.”

“You’re something else, you know that?” Carmy said, huffing a quiet laugh as he shook his head, stepping forward to start transferring the damp clothes into another machine. His tone softened slightly as he added, “But thanks, really. I owe you one.”

You waved a hand dismissively, already moving to the next machine with your own basket in tow.

“Don’t worry about it, Carmy…” you said, your tone casual, though the smirk playing on your lips suggested otherwise. “But, if you do feel like you want to repay me, feel free to bring me more of those leftovers—like the ones you brought when I first moved in.”

He paused, eyebrows raising slightly as he met your gaze. “That’s what you want? Leftovers?”

“Not just any leftovers,” you clarified, turning back to load more clothes. “The fancy ones. Braised short ribs, perfectly roasted vegetables... whatever culinary magic you’re whipping up in that kitchen of yours. Don’t think I forgot.”

Carmy paused mid-transfer, glancing at you with a faint, almost embarrassed smile. “You liked those, huh?”

“Liked?” you scoffed, tossing a pair of socks into the machine. “I was ready to write you a thank-you sonnet. That braised short rib? Poetry in food form. You’ve ruined me for takeout forever.”

He chuckled softly, shutting the door to his machine. “It was just a test recipe.”

“Well, then I’d be happy to test more of your recipes,” you said with a wink, starting your own machine and leaning back against it. “Strictly as a favor, of course. I’m nothing if not generous.”

“Generous,” he repeated, shaking his head with a smirk as he pressed the start button on his machine. He glanced at you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

“See?” you teased, flashing him a grin. “You’re already getting the hang of this whole neighborly exchange thing. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my expectations high.”

Carmy shook his head, letting out another quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” you quipped, settling yourself into the nearby chair and grabbing a book from the empty laundry basket at your feet. You opened it casually, like you weren’t fully aware of the fact that his attention was still on you. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Chef Carmy. I’ve got standards now.”

Carmy smirked faintly, shaking his head as he leaned back against the counter, arms loosely crossed. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, watching as you flipped through the book, completely at ease. The light in the room, though dim and slightly yellowed, softened your features, making you look... warm. Pretty, even. The oversized t-shirt, the messy hair, and those ridiculous monster slippers didn’t detract from it—in fact, they only made you more endearing. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Instead, he tucked the thought neatly into the back of his mind, letting it sit there quietly.

The faint hum of the working washing machine filled the space, stretching the silence between you into something that felt oddly comfortable. He wasn’t used to that—not in conversations, not in moments like these. Usually, silence felt heavy, awkward, something to be broken. But this? This felt... different.

Still, the need to say something eventually won out, despite his lack of finesse with small talk. Clearing his throat softly, Carmy shifted his weight and finally asked, “So... uh, how are you liking it here?”

You glanced up from your book, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “In the building? Or in the laundry room?”

Carmy huffed a quiet laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “The biulding, I guess."

“Oh, it’s not bad,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “The walls are a little thin—I may or may not know the entire plot of the soap opera your upstairs neighbor is binging—but they are decent. A little quiet, though, except for one guy who keeps kicking appliances. Total menace.”

“Sounds rough,” Carmy deadpanned, though his smirk gave him away.

“It is,” you said with mock solemnity before your smile softened. “But honestly? I like it. It’s... cozy, you know? Feels like a place where things can settle down.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor. “That’s good.”

“It’s growing on me,” you admitted, closing the book and resting it on your lap. “I mean, it’s not every day you move into a building and immediately make friends with someone who’s probably going to be on the cover of Some Fancy Chef Magazine someday.”

“Friends?” he said, arching a brow.

“Yeah, friends,” you replied with a teasing grin. “Or at least laundry room acquaintances.”

He shook his head, his smirk softening into something closer to genuine. “Friend's better.”

"Good," You smiled, shifting slightly in your chair. “So, Carmy-next-door, aside from working and battling possessed washing machines, what do you do for fun?”

“For fun?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow as though you’d just asked him to name every spice in his kitchen alphabetically. “Uh... I don’t know. Not sure I’ve got much time for that.”

“Not buying it,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Everyone’s got something. Come on, spill. What’s your guilty pleasure? Do you secretly knit in your downtime? Binge-watch trashy reality TV? Start a garden but refuse to tell anyone because it ruins your ‘serious chef’ vibe? And if you are, I know someone who could be your new best friend.”

He let out another quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “None of those, but now I’m thinking I should start knitting just to throw people off.”

“Do it,” you said, pointing at him. “Then you can make me a scarf. But seriously, what’s your thing? There’s gotta be something.”

Carmy hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “I guess... sometimes I’ll just walk around the city. Clears my head, you know?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “That’s a solid choice. City walks are like people-watching with a side of fresh air. What’s your favorite spot?”

“There's this park near the river. Quiet, not too crowded. Good place to think." Carmy tells her.

"Sounds nice," you replied, smiling. "I might have to check it out sometime."

"You should," Carmy said, his expression softening. He clears his throat, "I-uh, I used to draw, though. Sketch stuff when I had the time.”

“Used to?” you asked, leaning forward a bit, intrigued. “You mean you don’t anymore? Or are you just too modest to admit you’ve got sketchbooks hidden under your bed?”

His smirk faltered into something a little more genuine, a touch of shyness creeping into his expression. “I still do. Sometimes. When things aren’t too crazy.”

“Now that’s interesting,” you said, sitting back with a thoughtful smile. “What kind of stuff do you draw? People? Landscapes? Elaborate food masterpieces?”

“A little of everything,” he said with a small shrug. “But mostly recipes, or at least how I want them to look."

“Like a visual diary,” you said, nodding. “That’s actually really cool.”

“Yeah, well...” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s nothing big.”

“Carmy,” you said, tilting your head at him. “You just admitted to having an actual hobby, and I’m here for it. Don’t downplay it.”

He huffed, shaking his head flushing ever so slightly. “Alright. What about you? What do you do for fun?”

“Me?” you repeated, your eyes lighting up as you sat back in the chair, clutching your book like a prop in a comedy routine. “Well, let’s see. I’m a professional daydreamer, certified in overthinking, and an expert-level snack enthusiast. It’s an impressive resume, I know.”

Carmy chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smile. “Sounds like a full-time job.”

“Oh, it is,” you said with a mock-serious nod. “But if we’re being serious... I like to read, obviously.” You held up the book for emphasis. “And I’m a sucker for a good movie. Big screen, small screen, doesn’t matter. I also like to go out with friends— go to clubs, a karaoke bar, grab dinner, play board games, complain about life. You know, the usual.”

He tilted his head, his expression softening. “Any favorites? Books or movies?”

“Hmm,” you mused, tapping your chin. “For books, I like a little bit of everything—mysteries, fantasy, even the occasional cheesy romance. Keeps life interesting. And movies... I’m a sucker for feel-good comedies. But every now and then, I’ll binge something dark and broody just to balance it out.”

Carmy nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Feel-good comedies? Got any recommendations?”

“Oh, I’ve got tons,” you said, your eyes gleaming. “But only if you’re ready for some real classics. Think Clueless, The Princess Bride, or When Harry Met Sally. If you’ve never seen those, we might have to reassess this friendship.”

“Clueless,” he repeated, remembering the movie because of Natalie who forced him and Mikey to watch it, one eyebrow-raising. “That the one with ‘As if’?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him with enthusiasm. “See? You’re already on the right track.”

He smirked, shaking his head again. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“What about you? Do you watch movies, or is that too much fun for someone as serious as Chef Carmy?”

He smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I watch stuff sometimes. Nothing specific. Just... whatever’s on.”

“Lame answer,” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him. “We’ll work on that. I’ll make you a list. Everyone needs go-to favorite movies.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said, his smirk softening.

“Good,” you replied with a playful nod, leaning back in your chair. “And since you’re such a layer enigma, like an onion, I’m guessing you don’t do the whole ‘night out with friends’ thing often?”

“Not really,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “Doesn’t happen much.”

“You should,” you said, leaning forward slightly, your tone teasing but warm. “You might surprise yourself. One minute you’re awkwardly standing in a corner, and the next, you’re reenacting a dance scene from Dirty Dancing with a stranger. That’s how the best stories happen.”

Carmy shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Not sure that’s my thing.”

“Hey, it doesn’t have to be Dirty Dancing,” you said with a shrug. “But everyone deserves a good night out now and then. Even mysterious chef-next-door types.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But no promises.”

“Fair,” you replied, looking over at him with a soft smile. “I’m just saying, Chef Carmy, you can’t live in your kitchen forever. Sometimes you’ve gotta step out and find your own rom-com moment.”

Carmy stared at you for a moment, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head, as though amused by something he couldn’t quite put into words, but the warmth in his expression lingered.

The hum of the machines filled the room, a soft backdrop to your easy conversation. What started as playful banter drifted into more thoughtful exchanges—small glimpses into each other’s lives, quirks, and histories.

Minutes melted into what felt like seconds, neither of you noticing the time slipping away. For once, it wasn’t about schedules, responsibilities, or the ever-present noise of the outside world. Just two neighbors sharing stories in the glow of the laundry room’s dim light.

A/N: So, thank you so much for all the support. It really keeps me going. I'm thinking of making like a small series of this, like a few interactions before they started dating- maybe some jealousy along the way lol- the first date- maybe the future but idk.

Also, just in case I do, please tell me if you would like to be tagged.

Part 4?

@themorriganisamonster

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x you #reader-insert #reader insert #the bear #abbott elementary #abbott elementary x reader

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imagine-you · 2 months ago

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Think I Only Want You Under My Mistletoe [Logan/Reader]

Summary: In which you need a fake date to your parent's Christmas party, Logan volunteers, and you realize that maybe your unrequited crush isn't so unrequited after all. May include: Fake Dating, Real Feelings, Meddlesome Friends, Terrible Parents, and Mistletoe. Word Count: 5.5k Author's Notes: Part of my In Another Life, Perhaps 'verse. In which they're stuck in a Hallmark Movie Universe??? Either way, Merry Christmas, y'all! 🎄

Read on AO3

"Ugh," you groaned, letting your face fall into your hands. You figured it was better than hitting your head against the table in the hopes that your situation would suddenly change.

"What's wrong?" Ororo asked, studying you across the break room table.

“My whole life,” you grumbled, knowing you were being childish, but glad that none of your students were around to see it.

You had managed to get a brief moment of respite from the teenagers roaming the halls of the X-Mansion by retreating to the makeshift teacher's lounge located in a room tucked away near the kitchen. All of you had worked to make it your own space.

Hank had lugged in a refrigerator and at some point a microwave had shown up on someone's repurposed nightstand. Charles had offered to pay for whatever the staff might have wanted, but all of you seemed to want to fill the room with personal touches and effects. So, someone had dragged in an old table that must have been stored in the attic and other people stole desk chairs from unoccupied rooms. Over time, a coffeemaker had been added along with a small cabinet full of snacks. There were also photos along the wall, candid and professional shots of the staff.

Your favorite was a group shot where most of you were making a goofy face. Your eyes were always drawn to Remy doing bunny ears behind Logan’s head and Logan in the middle of snarling at Remy to cut it out, but there was just the tiniest bit of a grin peeking at the edges of Logan’s mouth.

He swore he hated you all, but you knew better. He was part of the family and there was a reason he had stuck around despite his own protests.

The lounge was one of your favorite places to be and it was even better when you were joined by your fellow teachers and friends. It was a bonus perk knowing that none of the kids were allowed. You loved teaching and you loved all the bright, young students taking up residence in the mansion, but it was nice to get a break from time to time.

Especially when you needed a safe place to vent your frustrations about every wrong turn your life seemed to take.

“No, really, what’s wrong?” Ororo asked again.

"My parents," you sighed, sliding the invitation you received earlier that morning across the table so she could read it.

"What's the big deal, sugar?" Rogue wondered, leaning over Ororo’s shoulder so she could read the paper as well. "Sounds like a good time."

"Every year, it's always the same," you explained, reaching out to grab the invitation when Ororo handed it back. "My parents invite me to their Christmas party and I go because I love them, but I end up having a miserable time."

"If it's so miserable, why bother going?" Logan asked from where he was leaning up against the table that held the coffeemaker and microwave. He was sipping a beer and looked relaxed in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. You had a fleeting thought that Logan looked really good and you hoped Charles or Jean hadn't managed to catch that.

Charles had only grown more meddlesome in his old age and you certainly didn’t need him trying to set you up with Logan. And Logan had been infatuated with Jean for as long as you had known him. You really didn’t cherish the idea of her knowing she had something you desperately wanted.

"It's complicated," you tried, but rolled your eyes when Logan simply arched a brow at you, unimpressed with your attempt at deflection. "My parents aren't so fond of mutants," you finally conceded, unsurprised at Logan's snort and shake of his head.

"I might be missing something here, but you're a mutant, aren't you?" Remy asked as he dropped down into the chair at Rogue's side. He let his arm stretch across the back of her chair and you noticed the way she leaned into him, careful not to let her skin brush against him.

You hadn't noticed Remy enter the room, since you had been so focused on Logan. You shrugged your shoulders, staring morosely at the rest of your sandwich. "Yeah," you sighed, meeting Remy's gaze. "They love me. They do," you insisted at Remy's incredulous look. "But they want me to be normal. I only see them a couple times a year, since I'm usually here with the X-Men, and every year at Christmas, without fail, I show up without a date like an idiot. And then my parents try to set me up with some normal human guy as if that will make me somehow more acceptable to them."

"That sure sounds a lot like conditional love, sugar," Rogue mused, quirking an eyebrow at you. "Why don't you just skip out on the party this year? Save yourself the hassle?"

"Because as much as they've royally fucked me up with all their anti-mutant bullshit, I still love them. I can't help it. So, if I have to suffer through another year of trying to ward off some random jackass' advances while my parents stand there smiling as if they can't see how uncomfortable I am? Then I'll deal with the torture if I can make them happy for a few minutes."

Silence invaded the room and you suddenly got the sense that every person in the room was staring at you. You didn't realize until you said it out loud just how fucked up your situation with your parents really was, but you were so deep into it that you didn't know if you'd ever be able to claw your way free.

"Well," Ororo started, leaning forward across the table and placing a hand on your arm, as if trying to offer you comfort. "If you want them to stop meddling, then show up with a date. Break the cycle."

"But that's the problem," you protested, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm not dating anyone, so I don't have a date."

"Well, it's not like it's got to be a real one, darling. Why I'm sure Remy would love to go with you. Your parents will sure get a kick out of him," Rogue offered, reaching out to settle a gloved hand on Remy's shoulder.

Remy offered you a smirk before holding out his hand with his palm turned up. You furrowed your brow as you rested your hand in his and laughed when he pulled your hand close and kissed it.

"It would be my pleasure," he vowed with a wink.

You glanced from Remy to Rogue and then back again, realizing they were completely serious. You knew your parents would flip when they met Remy. He was charming, but chaotic, and sure to piss your parents off. If his red, glowing eyes didn't give away that he was a mutant, then you were sure it would only be a matter of time before he blew something up.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad showing up with a date. Remy was your friend and you knew that he would do whatever it took to make sure you weren't cornered by some asshole who had been misled by your parents into thinking you were on the market. You felt safe with Remy and maybe for once you might actually enjoy one of your parent's Christmas parties.

"Alright," you decided, nodding your head as you drew you hand back. "Yeah, that sounds like--"

"I'll do it," Logan interrupted, startling you.

You had completely forgotten he was practically standing right behind you. You turned in your chair to look at him. You were surprised to see him studying you, expression intent.

"What?" You blurted, sure that you had misheard Logan.

"I'll be your date," Logan offered before casually raising his beer and taking a sip, as if he hadn't sent your heart into a frenzy.

"You don't have to," you assured him, not sure how you would be able to handle Logan as a date to your parent's Christmas party. It wasn't that you didn't want to go with Logan, because you absolutely did. The problem was that you had had a pathetic crush on him the moment you first laid eyes on him, but Logan was notoriously head over heels for Jean.��

Even though she was married to Scott, you had heard time and again from practically every person on the X-Men that Logan had been in love with her from the first moment he met her. So, you wouldn't be able to handle a fake date with Logan, because you would spend the whole time desperately wishing that it was real.

"I want to," Logan insisted, finally standing up out of his slouch against the table that had been converted into a coffee bar. He rolled his shoulders, like he was preparing for a fight, and you wondered why he was being so adamant about being your date.

"That's sweet of you, Logan, but Remy already offered, and--," you tried before you were cut off by Logan again.

"I'll do it," Logan stressed, a hint of a growl in his voice as he stared down Remy like he was challenging him to something.

You glanced from Logan to Remy to Logan again.

"What the hell is going on," you muttered, shooting a bewildered look at Ororo and Rogue to see if they were as confused as you were.

Rogue looked amused and Ororo was watching Logan with an arched brow. But neither one seemed to be questioning the events that were playing out before them.

After what seemed like hours of intense eye contact between the two, Remy finally held up his hands in surrender. He shot you a wink, ignoring Logan's grunt of protest.

"I'm sure our Logan will do a fine job playing your paramour," Remy added, reaching out to run his fingers along your arm. "But if it doesn't work out, you know where to find me."

Logan grumbled something under his breath before he strode over. He snatched the invitation off the table, succeeding in separating you and Remy, before he skimmed over the page.

"How long will it take to get there?" Logan asked, glancing down at you.

"It's about a three-hour drive from here," you told him, trying not to focus too much on the fact that Logan was so close to you that you could feel the heat radiating off his body. The fabric of his sweatpants was dangerously close to brushing against your arm and you had to force yourself to stay absolutely still, because you weren't even sure what you would do if you allowed yourself to move.

"Be ready to leave by four tomorrow, then," Logan ordered before he placed his empty bottle of beer on the table between you and Remy and left the room.

You stared at the door for a moment before finally turning your gaze on the three people patiently waiting for you to break free of your stupor.

"What the hell just happened?" You wondered, still trying to catch up.

"What happened," Remy started, leaning back in his seat and placing his arm along the back of Rogue's chair again, "my beautiful, clueless friend, is that Ororo here owes me twenty dollars."

"What," you muttered, watching helplessly as Ororo handed Remy the money she evidently owed him.

"It was only a matter of time," Remy continued, tucking the money away in his pocket. "Logan's wanted you for years."

You scoffed, ready to deny it, but shut up at Ororo's eye roll.

"I thought he would never make a move, but Remy had far more faith in Logan than I did."

"A move? What move? There wasn't a move," you insisted.

"Swooping in and stealing you away from a fake date with my Remy? That was a move," Rogue assured you, grinning at you. "It was only a matter of time. Everyone knows about Logan's feelings except for you."

"There are no feelings, because he's been pining for Jean for years," you reminded them. You stood up, grabbing the invitation off the table, and fixed them all with a determined look. "You're all wrong, you know that? Nothing's going to happen between Logan and me," you told them before leaving the room.

You clutched the paper in your hands and tried to ignore the fact that you really, really wanted something to happen between you and Logan.

The next afternoon, you were nearly done getting dressed when someone knocked on your door. You glanced at the clock, realizing it was nearly four, and rushed to pull on your jacket as you walked to the door.

You opened the door and stood, stunned, at the sight of Logan dressed in a dark t-shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket. This was as close to dressed up as Logan got and you didn't get why he was going to all the effort just for you or your mutant-hating parents.

"Did you shave?" You blurted, noting that his usual scruff was a little more contained than usual.

Logan shrugged his shoulders, stepping to the side and gesturing for you to lead the way. You narrowed your eyes at him as you passed him, making for the front door of the mansion. Logan reached out and stopped you with a hand on your elbow, steering you towards the garage instead.

"Are we taking your bike?" Temperatures were quickly dropping outside and you didn't exactly want to freeze your ass off even if you would be pressed up against Logan.

"Nope," Logan answered, not bothering to clarify until he was standing right beside Scott's car.

"Are we stealing Summers' car?"

Logan held up the keys, flashing you a quick grin. "Asked for permission this time," he informed you before rounding the car and pulling open the passenger side door. He stood there, watching you expectantly, before you finally forced yourself to move.

"Thanks," you told him, gifting him with a smile, before settling into the passenger seat.

Logan gently closed the door for you before moving towards the driver's side. It wasn't long before he was pulling the car out of the garage as you put your parent's address into the navigation system. Christmas music faintly played, filling the silence between you, and you kept shooting nervous looks over at Logan. His shoulders were tense and his hands periodically clenched the steering wheel tight. You couldn’t tell if he was regretting his decision or feeling just as anxious as you were.

The silence began to feel excruciatingly awkward, but you didn't know how to fill it. You spent so long staring resolutely out the window that you didn't even notice when you began to drift off, your head lolling back against the headrest as your eyes closed.

"Y/N," Logan called, his hand on your shoulder cautiously shaking you awake.

"What?" You grumbled, reluctantly opening your eyes and squinting over at him.

Logan looked enraptured, a soft smile on his face as he studied you.

"We're here," he told you, prompting you to look out the windshield to the sight of your parent's home. Logan had parked the car in the long, winding driveway. There were already several cars parked along the side of it, which only made the driveway seem longer. "So, your family's loaded, huh?"

"Yeah," you groaned with a grimace. "Why do you think they keep trying to marry me off to all their rich friend's sons? They want their legacy to continue or whatever bullshit goes on in their heads."

"Damn," Logan sighed, shaking his head. "Good thing you won't have to worry about that this year, huh?"

You nodded your head, finally making yourself look at Logan again. You reached out, tentative, and placed your hand on his arm. "Logan?"

"Yeah?" He asked, staring down at your hand before turning slightly in his seat to face you.

"Thanks," you said, pulling your hand away when you realized you had been touching him for way too long to be normal. "For doing this," you clarified, ignoring the way your cheeks flushed at his attention. "You really didn't have to, you know."

Logan stared at you for one drawn-out intense moment and you fought the urge to look away. You inanely felt like you were in a predator's sights, which was stupid because Logan would never hurt you, but you still felt like you were being hunted.

"Yeah, I did," he finally responded, his gaze lingering on you before he glanced away.

Before you could question him, Logan got out of the car. You stared at the closed driver's side door for a moment before you took a deep breath and opened the passenger door. Logan met you just as you were getting out and he closed the car door for you.

He held out his arm and you linked yours with his as you headed up towards the house. You had to stop yourself from swaying into Logan's side. There was a feeling rising within you that you weren't sure how to contain. It was anticipation and longing and fear, because if you fucked this up, then what would you do? It would be awkward living and working in the same place as Logan and you hated the idea of avoiding him all to save yourself some dignity.

Before you were ready, you were standing on your parent's doorstep, hesitant to announce your arrival.

"What's wrong?" Logan asked, nudging you in the side with his elbow.

"We can leave," you blurted, avoiding his gaze. "We can leave and just skip this year and they never have to know I was here."

Logan sighed before unhooking his arm from yours and wrapping it around your shoulders. "I've got you," he promised. "Now ring the damn doorbell."

"That was almost sweet," you muttered, grinning at Logan's snort of amusement.

You reluctantly reached out to ring the doorbell, wincing at the chime you had heard throughout all your childhood. It meant you were home and not where you really belonged at the X-Mansion. You were still debating the merits of just making a run for it when the door opened and you were met with the sight of your mother.

She looked genuinely happy to see you, which was really one of the only things that was keeping you rooted to the spot. But then she realized you weren't alone and she turned her attention towards Logan. The warmth in her smile faded into something more polite and suited for company.

"Oh, you brought a friend," your mom observed, the corners of her mouth turning down in disapproval.

"I brought a date," you corrected her, trying not to startle when Logan dropped his hold on your shoulders and instead grabbed your hand. Feeling Logan lace his fingers through yours felt like the greatest thing ever and you hated that he was only doing it for show.

"And who is this?" Your mom asked, already dismissive of Logan despite knowing nothing about him.

She knew one thing, you thought, doing your best not to scowl at your mom. She hadn't picked Logan for you, so of course he wasn't good enough.

"Logan, ma'am," he introduced with a nod of his head.

"And how do you know my daughter, Logan?" Your mom interrogated, staring him down as if she could make him disappear if she concentrated hard enough.

It was then you realized your mom was refusing to move until she got her answers. Your mom hated being perceived as rude and you knew she must really not want Logan there if she wasn't even going to pretend to welcome him.

"Y/N and I work together and--" Logan cut himself off and shot you a wary look. You shook your head, letting him know not to tack on that you practically lived together as well. "We work together," he settled on with a small shrug of his shoulders.

"Are you one of those?" Your mom asked, gesturing briefly towards you.

You felt Logan tense up at your side and knew that trouble was fast approaching. Logan smiled at your mom, practically baring his teeth, and cocked his head to the side. "A mutant?" He supplied, practically not blinking as he met your mom's unimpressed stare with one of his own. "You could say that, sure," he added with a dangerous smirk that sent warning bells ringing in your head.

You tightened your hold on Logan's hand, lending him your own brand of moral support while also hoping to shut him up. "Mom, it's cold out here," you hinted, quirking an eyebrow at her. “Maybe you should invite us in.”

"Right," she muttered before stepping aside. "Why don't you and your...date," she practically sneered, "come in?"

"Thanks," Logan told your mom, offering her a wide, unsettling smile. "Your hospitality is appreciated."

You had never really seen Logan like this before. Maybe once or twice when he was in the same room as Scott and Jean and he wanted to get under Scott's skin. But this was somehow different and terrifying and just a bit thrilling.

Logan was doing his damnedest to stand up for you while also pretending to respect your mom. You could tell your mom was disappointed in you, but you didn't even care. You found yourself wishing that bringing Logan as your date was real, but you would take what you could get. You would just have to enjoy Logan's attention for as long as you had it.

Logan urged you forward with a hand on the small of your back and then helped you shrug out of your coat. “You weren’t kidding,” he muttered under his breath, sounding irritated. “You’ve put up with this shit your whole life?”

“Yeah,” you answered, knowing it was starting to look really pathetic on your part.

Your mom had retreated into the living room. You could see her talking to your dad and she pointed towards you and Logan. Your dad scowled before schooling his expression into something more neutral.

"Shit," you hissed, before grabbing Logan's arm. "Let's go somewhere else," you suggested.

"I go where you go," Logan promised, letting you lead him towards the dining room where you knew you would find a buffet-style spread of food.

At the very least, this was something your parents always got right. Logan looked exhilarated as he piled a plate with all kinds of food, ranging from strips of steak to scalloped potatoes to slices of honey glazed ham.

“Now this is a spread,” he approved, taking a bite of stuffed mushroom.

“Eat up,” you told him, grinning at him. “You’ve earned it.”

After eating and then drifting from room to room in a bid to avoid your parents, you realized that Logan was intent on keeping his word. He stayed right there at your side, letting you introduce him to your parent's friends and their kids with a smile on his face and a hand on the small of your back.

You were beginning to feel flustered having Logan in your space, so you retreated to the one place you knew you could drop the facade for just a little bit and gain a tiny bit of your sanity back.

You ended up hanging out with the children that had been left in a room near the back of the house. You had always hated being a kid at your parent's parties, because it meant you were stuck in a room with other kids and basically ignored for the rest of the night. But now, as an adult, it was the only true refuge to be found at your parent’s house during a party.

You ended up entertaining them with your powers. You helped some float using your forcefields and you turned invisible and let them try to find you. All the while, Logan stood at the entryway of the room, watching you with a fond little smile that set off a fluttering in the pit of your stomach.

After half an hour of Logan's undivided attention, you decided to give yourself a break. You planned on staying with the kids, so you doubted your parents would even find you. The plan was foolproof and would give you the time to calm your racing heart.

"Hey, would you mind getting me a drink?" You asked Logan, glancing up at him from where you were crouched on the floor and letting Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter draw what you thought might be a unicorn on your arm.

Logan nodded his head, pushing off the doorframe he had been leaning against. He looked so fond and you couldn’t take it anymore.

"Any preferences?"

"Surprise me," you told him with a grin, feeling just the slightest bit bold and playful.

“You got it.” Logan winked before leaving the room, doing nothing to help you feel any more in control of the situation.

"Are you and Mr. Logan getting married?" Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter asked you, adding what you assumed was blood beneath the unicorn's hooves. Either that, or she had run out of green for grass and was making do with what she had on hand.

"Mr. Logan doesn't like me like that," you told her, obediently turning your arm over when she tapped it and shook a blue marker at you.

"Yes, he does," she answered, as if it was that simple. She started shading in a sky and you hoped it would be easy to wash off later.

"Well, isn't that adorable," someone drawled from the doorway.

"Fuck," you breathed, instantly recognizing the voice.

"That's an uh-oh word," Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter reprimanded you.

"Sorry," you told her, patting her on the shoulder before standing up. You reluctantly turned to see your ex standing there. "What're you doing here?"

"Your parents invited me," Timothy told you, studying you. "God, you look great."

"Shit," you groaned, realizing that Timothy had been the person they were going to try to set you up with this year.

"That's another uh-oh word," Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter informed you with a disapproving frown.

"Right," you agreed before walking towards Timothy. "Maybe in front of the children isn't the best place for this conversation."

You brushed past Timothy, hating that you were in the same room as him, much less signing yourself up for a confrontation. You had been convinced for three years that Timothy was the one until he told you that he would rather adopt children than risk you passing on any of your 'mutant genes' to them. It had crushed you, realizing that Timothy didn't fully love you at all, and you had packed up all your things and joined the X-Men.

If anything, it should have made your parents hate Timothy for driving you away. Instead, they seemed to think he was the one who got away for you and you would never do any better.

You stopped in the entryway of an empty guest room and turned to face him.

"Look, I don't know what my parents told you, but I'm here with a date. I'm taken, alright? I don't want to get back together."

"Oh, come on," Timothy said, moving forward until he was in your space. "There's no date. You don’t have to lie to me to make me want you more. I want you. I always have. And now we're here and there's a really good reason why I should kiss you right now," he continued with a quick glance up.

You tried not to wince as you also took a chance and looked up at the frame of the doorway. "Mistletoe," you observed, hating that you had the worst luck. "It wasn't on purpose."

"I already told you that you don't have to lie to me," Timothy claimed before bringing a hand up and cupping your cheek. "I'm all yours, babe. Just say the word."

"Leave," Logan growled, approaching the pair of you from down the hallway. He had two wine glasses in his hands which he quickly set down on a table displaying family photos.

"Who the fuck are you?" Timothy asked, barely even budging from his spot in front of you.

"My date," you helpfully informed him just as Logan unsheathed his claws.

"What the--" Timothy started just as you pushed him away with a forcefield. He went stumbling back, shooting you a look of betrayal. "You swore you'd never use that against me."

"When we dated, sure," you reminded him. "But we're not together anymore. And we never will be again," you stressed, hoping he would get the message.

When Logan kept coming towards the two of you, not bothering to put away his claws, Timothy's eyes widened.

"Move it, bub," Logan snarled, looking like he was moments away from sinking his claws into Timothy.

"Okay, okay, I get it, whatever. Tell your boyfriend I'm sorry," he rambled, practically scrambling to get away from you and Logan.

You watched him scurry away, a grin tugging at your lips. "That was great," you exclaimed, turning back towards Logan. You nearly jumped when you realized that Logan was now standing right in front of you.

He packed the claws away and reached up to frame your face in his hands.

"What are you doing?" You whispered, your heart suddenly pounding so hard you were sure Logan would be able to hear it going crazy.

"There's mistletoe," Logan reminded you, his voice soft and intimate.

"We don't have to," you assured him. "I mean, it's just a dumb tradition, right? It's--"

"What I want," Logan finished for you, expression intent and serious. His thumb gently swept along your jaw and you didn't even have time to process the fact that Logan wanted to kiss you before his lips were pressed against yours.

Your brain went haywire trying to figure out what to do. You brought your hands up, unsure where they should land, before you settled them on Logan's shoulders. You were worried you would fuck the moment up by not responding, so you poured all your feelings into the kiss. You had wanted Logan for so long and if this was the only kiss you got from him, then you wanted it to be something you remembered for years to come.

Logan's touch remained gentle, but his kiss was searching and all-consuming. You nipped lightly at his lips, testing for a reaction, and shivered when Logan moaned and reeled you in closer.

By the time you pulled away, you felt like Logan had thoroughly claimed you. You nearly couldn't catch your breath, torn between giddy anticipation and fear that this was all about to come crashing down around you.

You met Logan's eyes, unsure of what you would find there. You froze for a moment, sure that you were wrong, but you let yourself take the time to really look at him. You couldn’t afford to mess this up. There was way too much at stake.

Logan was watching you like you were the only thing in the whole world. He was looking at you with affection and want and something that looked a lot like love to you. It was exactly what Remy, Rogue, and Ororo had claimed Logan had been doing all along.

"I've really got to thank Remy," you muttered, realizing that he had been right that Logan had been making a move by agreeing to be your fake date. Except, Logan did have real feelings for you, but you were the only one who hadn't been able to see it.

"What?" Logan growled, his grip briefly tightening on you. "You're really thinking about Remy right now? After what just happened, he’s what’s on your mind?"

You shook your head, smiling at Logan. Logan had absolutely no reason to be jealous, because even if he might not be aware of it, there was no one who could ever compete with him. No one else had ever made you feel the way Logan made you feel. You felt like there was a warmth taking root in your chest and it was lighting you up inside. It was all Logan. His touch, his kiss, and his affection had you feeling invincible.

As long as you had him, you truly could do anything. Including deal with your parents and their intolerance and shitty choice of suitors for you.

Logan had volunteered to be your date and had spent a whole evening putting up with your parents and their snooty, prejudiced friends all for you. Logan had run off your ex and then kissed you like he wanted nothing more than to keep doing that for the rest of his life. Logan wanted you just as much as you wanted him and you felt like you were on top of the world.

You didn't care that this had started out as fake, because now it was real and there was really only one thing you wanted to do now that you knew you had Logan.

"You've got nothing to worry about. You're all I want," you assured him before reeling him back in for another kiss underneath the mistletoe.

It wasn’t exactly the Christmas you had expected to have, but it was turning out to be the only one worth celebrating.

Logan was truly the best gift you had ever received.

All Logan Taglist: @i-left-my-cat-on-the-stove @slightlymediocree @snowyminty @i-wear-wet-socks313 @shizzybarnaclee

Series Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel @the-gentle-spirit @wolflover-20

If you would like to be added to the all logan or the series taglist, just let me know!

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett #wolverine #x men #x men imagine #logan howlett imagine #wolverine imagine #reader insert #imagine #marvel #marvel imagine #christmas fic #logan x reader #in another life perhaps verse #fic #ao3 #my fic

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 5 months ago

Text

A family thing

Written for the September pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles blog

Prompt: Anniversary

Rated: T

Tags: Post-Vecna; Everybody lives; Recovery; Disabled Eddie; POV Wayne Munson; Good uncle Wayne Munson; Implied sexual content; Domestic fluff; Found family

The sounds coming from the kitchen pull Wayne from his sleep much earlier than he'd like after a night shift. He lies awake for a while, cursing the government. Sure, they covered Eddie’s medical bills and bought them the new trailer, but would it have killed them to get one with thicker walls? He doesn't need to hear everything the boy gets up to.

He's almost managed to drift off again when a clatter and a string of swear words make him shoot upright. He barrels out into the corridor that separates the living space from the bedrooms, almost colliding with Steve, who has just barged from Eddie’s room. His eyes are bleary, his hair a tousled mess. He's wearing boxers and a familiar guitar pick necklace, and that is it.

“Ed?” Wayne asks, ignoring how Steve freezes at the sight of him. “What happened?”

Eddie, on the kitchen floor in a heap of gangly limbs and fallen crutches, groans. “Wayne! You weren't supposed to wake up.”

“Yeah, you're making that kinda hard,” Wayne mumbles, eyeing the shattered plates and spilled food on the ground. Toast and bacon and pancakes. There's something stuck in Eddie’s hair that looks like scrambled eggs.

“What the hell?” Steve mutters, bridging the few steps into the kitchen and dropping into a crouch beside Eddie. Wayne stays where he is and watches. The way Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist to pull him up, careful not to hurt him. How Eddie slings bony arms over Steve’s shoulders, fingers grazing the scars on the boy's back.

“Why didn't you ask me for help?” Steve asks. The rising sun basks the kitchen in oranges and golds, and for a second, Wayne is overcome by the thought that he mustn't blink, or they'll vanish. “I could've-”

“What, on this highest of holidays?” Eddie asks, gesturing dramatically as Steve lowers him into one of the kitchen chairs. “Have you no respect for tradition? It is my responsibility and my duty to do this alone.”

Steve blinks, then looks over at Wayne.

“Okay? I don't get it.”

Eddie cackles, gently pushing him aside to beckon Wayne closer.

“Happy Uncle's Day!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wayne grumbles, bending at the hip so that Eddie can hug him, but there's an annoying sting behind his eyes. For a moment all he can think is how close he came to losing all of this.

“What the fuck is Uncle's Day?” Steve asks. He's eyeing the calendar on the wall like he's expecting it to spout an extra holiday.

Eddie scoffs. “Only the most important holiday of the year? You need to stay up to date on-”

“When Ed was nine years old,” Wayne explains, making his way over to the coffee pot, “he came home one day, seething and spitting venom, ‘cause his teacher had them making Father's Day cards.”

“Why would I be making that asshole a fucking card?” Eddie grumbles. A pink blush has erupted from the collar of his shirt, but Wayne isn’t sure if it's because of the childhood story or because of the way Steve has pulled out the chair next to his and is finger-combing bits of egg from his curls. “The only thing I should've given him is a kick in-”

“That's exactly what he said back then,” Wayne says, pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter. “So we came up with an idea.”

Steve frowns at Eddie. “Uncle's Day?”

Eddie beams. “The anniversary of the day Wayne took me in.”

“Dunno if took in is the right term,” Wayne hums around his first sip. “You pretty much let yourself in and refused to leave.”

Eddie waves him off, as if to say that he won’t argue about the technicalities. Steve’s eyes, meanwhile, have grown large.

“Wait,” he says. “That's today? Why didn’t- … I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

Eddie cocks his head at him, smile bright and incredibly fond. It makes a familiar warmth spread behind Wayne’s collarbone, one that has nothing at all to do with the coffee. “Why would you be sorry?”

Steve gestures awkwardly at the mess that is the kitchen. “This is a family thing. If you’d told me, I’d have left you alone.”

Eddie laughs. On the tabletop, his fingers find Steve’s.

“Exactly,” he says. “This is a family thing. You're right where you belong. Ain't he, Wayne?”

Wayne regards them - two men littered in battle scars, leaning into each other in the hazy morning light - and thinks of a hurt little boy who was too scared to let anyone in.

“Can't argue with that,” he says.

Steve's face lights up as if he'd just invited him to spend Christmas morning.

“I- … thank you,” he stutters, and Wayne gets a feeling that he, too, is still learning to let people in. “Let me clean this up, and then I'll make us new-”

“Stevie,” Eddie says, and hooks one finger into the necklace to pull him back. His next words are a murmur against the shell of Steve's ear, so low Wayne almost misses them. “Maybe get dressed first, darling.”

The last thing Wayne sees of Steve as he flees into Eddie’s room is the blush coloring his neck and shoulders.

“Do you have to tease him like that?” he asks, starting to gather the broken plates off the ground.

Eddie shrugs. “He can take it. I think that's a basic requirement for joining this family?”

His eyes find Wayne's, searching for a reaction.

“Ed,” he says, picking up the crutches and handing them over. “My only requirement ever was for you to be happy. I think your boy has long proven himself in that regard. Now, run over to the Mayfields and ask if we can borrow some eggs, yeah?”

As Eddie bolts out with a blush matching Steve's, Wayne settles into the newly vacated chair, allowing himself a long sip of coffee and a content sigh.

It's gonna be a good Uncle's Day.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles 2024

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kenacoki · 5 months ago

Text

Rain Check

//Pairing// Eddie Diaz x Reader

//Summary// The five times Eddie Diaz tries to ask you out.

//Word Count// 6.97k

//Warnings// none!

//Request// requesting a eddie x reader , 5 times eddie has asked you out and you say no and the one time you say yes. (or something like that idk i’ve seen fics like that and love the idea) maybe reader is a teacher at Christopher’s school ??

//Dividers// sister-lucifer

“I wanna thank everyone for coming today!”

Your (e/c) colored eyes nervously dance around the small, cramped classroom. There are about twenty or so parents currently occupying the desks of your fifth-grade students. As your gentle voice pierces the air, the room falls silent, and all eyes hall on your anxious form.

Oh dear god…please don’t vomit.

You feel your nerves skyrocket as you rub your sweaty palms against the fabric of your pants. You take a shaky breath and swallow, trying to focus on the task at hand.

"As the new teacher for the fifth-grade class, I wanted to meet with you and discuss your children's progress and what I think is next to come in the school year for them." You glance around the classroom, trying to make eye contact with everyone at least once.

For the most part, the adults in the room remain quiet. Most of them are at least moderately invested in what you are saying. You gesture towards a bulletin board at the back of the room as your eyes fall on a handsome figure.

The man's honey-colored irises are trained on you, his facial expression completely neutral. He's one of the few parents who isn't sitting down, instead leaning against a wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His biceps are on full display in the snug-fitting t-shirt he's wearing. His short, dark brown hair is perfectly tousled. As you meet his gaze he gives you a subtle, almost unidentifiable once-over.

Good God, he's attractive.

You try to ignore the small burst of butterflies that explode in your stomach, quickly looking away to continue your pre-rehearsed speech.

"As I'm sure you're all aware, this is the last year that your children will be with me before they move on to middle school." You gesture towards some of the younger children, watching as they all look at you with wide-eyed interest.

"They are all incredibly bright, smart, and sweet kids," you continue, a small smile on your face as you speak. "I'm so excited to see what the future holds for them."

You can’t help but jump as the bell suddenly rings, signaling the end of the parent-teacher conference.

"That's all the time we have today," you say, taking a deep breath as you watch the parents stand up and begin to leave. "If you haven't done so already, I've left some signup sheets for class volunteers on the table by the door. Please feel free to sign up to help at your convenience."

You watch as the parents start to leave, the students trailing behind them with excited grins on their faces. A few remain behind, talking amongst themselves as they gather their things.

The handsome man you took notice of earlier pushes himself off of the wall and begins to make his way towards you.

You internally curse yourself as you feel a wave of nervousness wash over you.

Okay, dumbass. Get yourself together.

You take a small step away from your desk, straightening your spine and trying to appear as composed as possible as he stops in front of you.

“I’m uh, Edmundo Diaz. Eddie,” he says, a rough edge in his voice that you find completely entrancing.

God, even his name is attractive.

You fight to keep a neutral expression as he holds his hand out; you try to discreetly wipe your clammy palms on your pants before you take it. His grip is strong, and you nearly gasp at the feeling of his rough calloused fingers against your skin.

“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Diaz-” you begin, but he quickly interrupts you.

“Eddie.”

There's a firmness in his tone that sends chills down your spine, and you pause for a moment before you continue.

“It's nice to meet you, Eddie. You’re uh, you’re Christopher’s father, right?”

Eddie nods, pulling his hand from yours as he stuffs them in the pockets of his tight jeans. “That’s right. How’s he doing?”

You swallow, trying to keep yourself focused as you speak. “Christopher is such a wonderful kid. He’s incredibly smart and so sweet. Honestly…” You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “ I’ve never met a fifth grader—or any kid for that matter—who’s as kind and polite as he is.”

Eddie’s smirk only grows, the corner of his mouth curled up into an almost cocky smile. “Chris is an amazing kid,” he says, his eyes raking over your form. “He’s better than I ever was at his age, that’s for sure.”

You shift on your feet, your nerves going haywire as his eyes travel up to meet yours. “He’s an absolute pleasure to have in class,” you respond, your heart fluttering when his gaze doesn’t move. “I’m positive he’s going to do great things in the future.”

Your eyes catch the LAFD emblem on his shirt, “just like his father it seems.”

Eddie lets out a chuckle, a low, husky sound that makes your knees weak. “You’re a charmer,” he says, taking a small step closer. “Do you always compliment the parents of your students?”

The sudden proximity of his body makes your pulse quicken as his scent slowly fills your nostrils.

He even smells good…god, what’s that scent?

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm and collected. “I’m just being honest,” you respond, ignoring the way your voice slightly wavers. You glance up at the clock on the wall, “Anyways, it was a pleasure to meet you Eddie, but I’ve—“

“would you want to go out for coffee sometime?”

The words immediately die in your throat, your heart nearly stops. For a second you honestly think you hallucinated the sound of his voice, but the expectant look in his eyes makes it very clear that he actually spoke.

You blink a few times, your voice caught in your throat. “What?”

Eddie’s smile grows, his gaze never leaving yours. “Coffee,” he repeats. “Would you want to go get a cup sometime?”

You stand frozen, completely dumbfounded. You honestly didn’t expect him to say that, and yet here he is; a charming, hot-as-hell, firefighter asking you out.

“I—I-“ you stumble over your words, your cheeks heating as his eyes roam over your face, “I can’t.”

Eddie’s smile quickly fades from his, his confident demeanor faltering. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” your words rush out, your cheeks still stained a deep red. “It’s just…I kind of have a rule about not dating parents of my students, you know?”

Eddie just nods his head, that unreadable expression on his face once again. “Yeah,” he says gruffly; the same firm edge back in his voice. “Don’t apologize, I get it.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, a gnawing feeling in your stomach that tells you you’ve made a mistake. “Because—”

But Eddie just gives you a dismissive wave of the hand, “It’s fine. Student’s parents and yadda yadda—I get it. I’ll see you around.” He gives you one last look, a small smile on his lips before he turns on his heel and walks towards the door.

You watch as he leaves, a feeling of dread settling in your chest.

“Goddammit…” You let out a groan, burying your face in your hands as you curse yourself for rejecting him.

“Hey Siri, add wine to my shopping list.”

II.

“Hi, can I just get an iced coffee? Thank you.”

the barista takes your order as you move off to the side of the line, awkwardly picking at the skin around your fingers. You bounce your leg anxiously as you glance up at the clock on the wall.

7:35 am

You’ve gotta be getting to the school—

You're snapped from your thoughts as you hear the door to the coffee shop open behind you; the small bell attached jingling in the air. As you glance over your shoulder, your eyes widen as they land on a familiar form.

Eddie stops in the doorway, eyes widening slightly in surprise as he looks at you. For a moment you just stand there, looking at each other, neither of you saying a word until the barista behind you speaks up and snaps you both into focus.

“Uh, your total is $2.50.”

You turn back towards the barista, hastily looking for a few dollars in your purse to hand them.

“Fancy running into you here.”

You can feel Eddie’s presence behind you, his voice low and rough. He pulls his debit card from his wallet and hands it to the barista.

“Oh, you don’t have to-” you start to protest, but Eddie just shakes his head slightly, interrupting you.

“I got it, don't worry about it.”

“I…thank you.”

The barista hands you your coffee as they take Eddie’s order.

“I’ll just take a large black coffee.”

Both of you stand there awkwardly for a moment, neither of you saying a word. It’s not like there is a lack of things to say or talk about- there are about a dozen things you want to ask him right now. But for some reason, the words just won’t come out.

“So uh….“ Eddie seems just as awkward as you do, his eyes never quite meeting yours as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets, “I’m sorry, about yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, asking you out like that.”

“I wasn’t—“ you cut yourself off, shaking your head slightly, “I appreciate the gesture, it’s just…” you fidget with the cup in your hand as you speak, struggling to find the words to describe your thoughts.

“Yeah I know,” Eddie sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t date parents of your students. It’s a good rule, a sensible one.”

“Right, it’s, uh yeah…” You look down at the coffee in your hand, fiddling with the little cardboard cupholder. You can feel his gaze on you, the weight of his eyes making you antsy.

“I’ve gotta get to the school—“

“What if I took you out for lunch?”

His question catches you off guard. You have to pause for a moment, processing his words.

“I-” you stutter, not sure how to respond. Your brain is screaming at you to say no, but at the same time, you can’t deny the thrill running through you at the thought.

“Black coffee for Diaz.”

The interruption causes Eddie to turn and face the barista. Glancing back towards the door, you take this as your chance to make a break, hastily slinking away.

“Wait-”

Eddie whips around to stop you, but you’re already halfway out the door, the little bell giving you away. He watches you go, a frustrated yet somewhat amused look on his face as he holds his cup.

“Uh sir, that’s gonna be $3.00…”

III.

The large mall is teeming with people, parents, and families going in and out of shops, or rushing past in order to reach their next destination. You look down at the shopping bags in your hands and groan softly under your breath. You had been here since 9 this morning, and you were already exhausted. And yet, you still had more shopping to do.

You take a step inside the store, immediately surrounded by various school supplies, decorations, and books. It’s a relatively small store, the aisles narrow, but the walls are lined with countless materials to use in the classroom.

You let out a small sigh as you look through the aisles, your face dropping when you read some of the prices.

“Jesus…how do teachers afford some of this stuff?”

You make your way through the store, slowly gathering a few supplies; dry erase markers, a new class calendar, and a few books to add to your library. The list in your pocket grows smaller with each thing you pick up.

You’re standing in an aisle debating over some new math flash cards when a voice suddenly sounds from behind you.

“Miss. (L/N)!”

Christopher…?

You quickly whip around, eyes widening as a smile forms on your face. Sure enough, there, standing in the middle of the store is your student Christopher; Eddie’s son.

“Chris!” You exclaim, walking over to the boy. “What are you doing here?”

Christopher stands there, a massive grin on his face as he looks up at you. “Dad and I are shopping!” he responds, his voice filled with excitement, “I was supposed to be helping him, but I kinda lost him.”

The realization that Eddie is around somewhere immediately sinks in, causing your heart rate to spike.

You quickly glance around, hoping and praying that Eddie is nowhere in sight. But as you look up, you spot a familiar mop of dark brown hair in the next aisle over.

You watch as Eddie looks over a few items in his hand, seemingly unaware of your presence. You can just barely see his face from your position, but notice he’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a tight-fitting dark blue shirt. Your eyes rake over his form, taking in the way his clothes cling to his muscles, making it almost impossible for you to look away.

You swallow hard, forcing your attention back to Christopher, who is still smiling up at you.

“So have you been helping your dad shop today?” you say, praying that your voice doesn’t give you away. “Have you helped him pick out any good stuff?”

“Yeah!” Christopher exclaims. “We got new shoes for me,” he points down at the new vans on his feet. “And we got some new video games. We’re gonna get pizza later too.”

You nod along, listening to him, but your brain is still trying to process the fact that Eddie is so incredibly close to you right now.

“Christopher Diaz.” an all too familiar voice calls out.

Your head immediately snaps toward the end of the aisle, and your heart nearly stops. Eddie is standing there, a stern look on his face as he walks towards the two of you. He stops just a few feet away from you both, his gaze fixed on his son, who awkwardly fidgets beside you.

“Chris,” Eddie says, his tone firm yet soft at the same time. “I told you not to go over here. You could’ve gotten lost.”

Christopher’s expression twists, a sheepish look on his face as he looks up at his dad. “I got distracted,” he mumbles.

Eddie shoots his son a look, but his expression softens slightly as he looks up and sees you standing there.

There’s a moment of tense silence as Eddie’s eyes connect with yours, his intense gaze sweeping over you, making your heart skip a beat. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes locked on yours as he stands there; his hands in his pockets and his muscles tensing beneath his shirt.

Oh my god, how does he look so-

You almost forget how to breathe as Eddie’s eyes rake over you, your hands gripping your shopping bags tightly to the point you’re worried you’ll rip them.

“Hey.”

Eddie’s voice cuts through the silence, sending chills down your spine.

“Hi…” you respond, your voice weak. Christ, what is wrong with you right now?

Eddie looks down at the items in your hands, his eyes lingering on the ‘teacher store’ bags.

“Shopping for school supplies?” he asks, taking a step closer to you.

You nod in response, your voice not quite working. Eddie’s proximity makes it extremely difficult to think or speak, your heart fluttering against your chest.

You can practically feel his presence towering over you; a heat radiating off his body as his gaze is still locked on you. The urge to squirm under his look is almost too strong to ignore, your knees feeling weak.

“Yeah,” you finally respond, your voice slightly hoarse. “There’s a lot of stuff I still needed to pick up…”

Eddie nods, his eyes drifting down to your hands. Suddenly, he takes a step even closer, making your breath hitch in your throat as his shadow engulfs you. It takes every ounce of willpower that you have not to shiver under his gaze right now.

Without a word, Eddie carefully pries the bags from your hands, slowly taking them from you.

You feel your pulse skyrocket as his fingers graze against your skin, your brain short-circuiting as he takes the bags from your grasp.

“Uh…” is the only sound you manage to get out, your heart thudding against your ribcage.

What the hell is he doing?

Eddie doesn’t say anything as he takes the bags from you, his fingers grazing yours for a few extra moments before he takes a step back. He looks down at the bags in his hands, a smirk appearing on his face as he speaks.

“I’ll take these,” he says, his tone slightly nonchalant. “You can go finish your shopping.”

His words catch you off guard, and it takes a moment for you to process what he’s just said. “I…what?” you respond, still not quite believing he’s actually offering to do that.

Eddie just shrugs his shoulders, a casual look on his face. “You said there was more you had to pick up, right?” he replies, “So go do it. I’ll just follow behind you and carry the bags for ya.”

You can’t deny how attractive this is; the way he’s just casually offering to carry your shopping bags for you. But at the same time, this also feels…odd. You’re sure this has to be some kind of flirting tactic that he’s using.

But, you’re hardly complaining. If it means you get to spend more time with Eddie, you’re sure as hell not going to argue with it.

“Are you sure?” you ask, uncertainty in your tone.

Eddie just nods a smirk still on his face. "Of course, I don't mind at all," he responds, shifting his weight to one leg. "Consider it a favor for all those good grades you're giving my kid."

You let out a soft laugh, a slight tension in your shoulders lessening.

"Well, I guess if you insist..."

Eddie gives you a small smile, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment. He then looks down at Christopher, who has been quietly standing beside you throughout this entire exchange.

"Go look at some video games for me, buddy," he instructs his son. "I'll be right there in a minute."

"Okay!" Chris responds, shooting you a quick grin before he turns and walks away, disappearing down an aisle of electronics.

Eddie looks back towards you, his gaze focused solely on you now.

"So, what else is on your list?" he says, shifting the bags in his hand.

You blink a few times, forcing yourself to focus. It’s incredibly difficult to do when he’s standing this close, and looking at you with those dark eyes--

“Uhhh…” you falter, struggling to remember what on earth you had even needed. “More…flash cards, I think…” you respond, your words coming out slightly shaky.

Eddie nods, his eyes still locked on you. “Flashcards,” he repeats, the smirk still on his face.

He jerks his chin slightly, signaling for you to start walking. “Lead the way then.”

You swallow hard, nodding silently as you start walking down the aisle, your heart beating hard. It’s almost difficult to focus on walking properly with Eddie right behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on your neck.

Luckily, you manage to locate the flashcards fairly easily, picking up a few different sets to add to your collection.

You quickly move on to the next item on your list, your footsteps almost robotic as you keep your eyes firmly ahead. You can feel Eddie’s presence behind you, his footsteps slightly heavier than yours despite his more casual demeanor.

Finally, you reach the last item on your list; push pins. You pick a few packs up, looking them over before adding them to your bag.

You let out a soft breath when you finally finish picking up everything you need. You turn around, coming face to face with Eddie.

“Damn, school supplies are a lot more expensive than I thought they were,” he comments, looking back up at you. “You must be planning on spending a fortune on all this stuff.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, looking down at all the items in his arms. “You’re not wrong,” you reply, shrugging your shoulders. “I’ve gotta practically sell my soul to pay for all of it, but the kids are worth it.”

“We can go check out now.” You gesture with your head towards the register.

God his arms look so good right now…

Eddie nods, readjusting the bags in his hands, “Lead the way, sweetheart."

You swear your heart stops for a second at the endearment, your throat going dry. Taking a deep breath, you turn and start heading towards the register.

As you reach it, your chest is fluttering like crazy as Eddie follows closely behind. You place the items on the counter and pay for them, the entire time forcing yourself to keep your eyes on the items in front of you and not on the man right behind you.

You finish paying, taking your receipt and shoving it deep into your pocket. You turn to take your bags from Eddie’s outstretched arms, praying he doesn’t notice your shaking hands.

“There you go,” Eddie says, his voice light and casual. “All done with your shopping.”

You nod, gripping the bags tightly, “Y-yeah, I’m all done,” you respond, your voice wavering slightly. Eddie's eyes flick over your face, an undecipherable look on his face.

He just silently watches you for a moment. then after a beat, he shoves his hands into his pockets, the casual smile back on his face.

Your heart is thudding against your ribcage; every word you want to say is caught in your throat right now. Just as you open your mouth to speak, however, Eddie’s voice interrupts you.

“Chris and I are gonna head up to the food court. Would you, uh…would you want to join us?”

The question catches you off guard, your breath hitching in your throat.

For a moment, you freeze, your brain short-circuiting as you try to process the implications. You want to say yes; spending more time with Eddie is a very tempting proposal. But it’s also a risky one.

“I-i would, really—but I can’t.”

The immediate flash of disappointment that crosses Eddie’s face is almost devastating.

Oh my god I think I would rather die than see this man sad

“Oh.” He says, his voice surprisingly soft. He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a scoff, his gaze flicking away from you for a moment.

“Yeah, of course,” Eddie finally looks back at you, an artificial smile on his face. “You must be pretty busy, yeah?”

Your heart breaks at the look of disappointment on his face, almost making you regret declining his offer.

But you know that you can’t accept it. The risk is just too high; too much could go wrong.

“Yeah,” you respond, trying your best to sound nonchalant. “I’ve got…lots of stuff to do. Lesson plans to write and stuff.”

Eddie just nods, still forcing a small smile, “Right, right. Makes sense. You should probably get on that then…”

Why do I feel like such crap now?

“Right,” you finally force out. “Bye, Eddie.”

You turn away, your heart pounding as you start walking away. For a split second, you want to look back behind you, want to see the expression on Eddie’s face. But you know deep down that it’ll probably make the aching pain in your chest even worse, so you don’t look back.

This sucks.

IV.

The fourth time you run into Eddie Diaz, you’re convinced that the universe is playing a cruel trick on you.

You had decided to go to a nearby park in order to try and get into the grading groove. The park is practically empty, just the occasional stranger walking by. You’re so caught up in a paper on Ancient Rome that you don’t even notice footsteps approaching.

“What’re you working on?” A low, gruff voice comes from your side. You look and see a very familiar, sweaty face, and pair of dark eyes looking down at the papers in your lap.

“Eddie?” You say, surprised to see him standing next to you out of the blue like this. You can’t help but notice the shimmer of sweat glistening off his body; was he running? His shirt clings to his muscular body and beads of sweat roll down his neck and face.

He nods his head slightly, taking in your appearance, how you’re wearing a soft t-shirt and some leggings, your hair lightly disheveled, “Yeah...I was out for a run.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, and your eyes follow the movement, watching the way his arm flexes as he moves it. You quickly snap your gaze back down to the paper in your hand as he looks back at you.

“So…what are you working on?” Eddie repeats his question, tilting his head to the side slightly to try and look at the papers you’re still holding.

“Just doing some last-minute grading before the semester ends.” You admit, tucking a strand of your (h/c) behind your ear.

“You work on your day off?” He teases.

“I’m a good teacher, what can I say.” You say in mock defensiveness, placing a hand against your chest.

He laughs softly, the smirk on his face doing all kinds of things to your insides, “Clearly.” You give him a playful push on the shoulder, but the contact does nothing to stop the way you shiver as your hand brushes against the bare skin on his arm.

He runs his tongue across his lips, his eyes roaming your body.

You try and ignore his gaze as you look down at the paper in your hand. You’re suddenly very self-conscious about the outfit you’re wearing, all too aware of the sweat that’s coating Eddie’s body, the way his eyes are moving over you like he’s undressing you right here on the park bench.

“What if, after you get done with your grading…we go get some ice cream?”

The question catches you off guard. You look back at him, your expression a cross between confusion and surprise.

“Ice cream?” you repeat as if to make sure you heard him correctly.

“Yeah.” He’s got a lopsided grin on his face as he watches you. “Ice cream, at the stand around the corner here. C’mon, it’s hot out, you deserve a break after all this hard work.”

You glance down at the papers in your hand, contemplating what to do. You still have quite a bit of work left to get done, but Eddie is giving you that look again, almost daring you to agree, and for some reason, you’re tempted to throw caution to the wind. Yet…you can’t.

“I’d love to,” you start, and the surprised look on his face would be almost comical if you weren’t already internally wincing, “but I’ve still got a lot of grading left to do, and...” You pause for a moment, struggling to find an excuse to say no while not fully rejecting him. “And, I have that teacher’s seminar thing tomorrow so I gotta make sure I get some sleep tonight.”

It’s a pathetic excuse, and you know it. Judging from the expression on his face, Eddie knows it too. But he doesn’t call you out, just nods his head slightly.

“Yeah I get it, I guess I’ll let you get back to your…” he glances down at the papers in your hand, “papers. See ya around, (y/n).”

You’re just about to tell him to wait, to throw caution to the wind and agree to the ice cream. But he starts to move away, jogging towards the opening of the park.

You watch as he goes.

You know you made the right choice, even if a part of you doesn’t agree. You go back to grading, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingles from when you touched him.

“Are you guys ready?!”

There’s a chorus of cheers from the kids. You can practically feel the excitement coming from them. They’ve been looking forward to this experiment for well over a week.

“Okay okay! Everyone stands behind the line!” You call, and the class scrambles back so they’re standing behind the white line you had taped down in the grass.

“Okay! On three everyone, one…two…thr—ow!” You feel a tiny pinch on your neck. Instinctively, you swat at your neck and see a dead honey bee lying in your palm.

“Ooh Miss. (L/N) it stung you!”

“Are you okay Miss. (L/N)?”

“Did it hurt?”

The kids have surrounded you now, and are talking over each other, their voices filling with concern and worry.

You hold up the small dead bee, trying to reassure your students. “I’m okay, it was just a tiny bee.” You assure them, but it doesn’t do much to ease the worried looks on their faces

You can feel a small bump forming where you got stung, already starting to hurt and burn.

“Why don’t you guys go count down from 10 in the line? You still get to see the big boom.” You shoo them into the row, all of them giving you concerned glances on the way.

As they count, you crave to find some sort of relief for your neck. It had started to hurt more than you expected, and it felt like the spot where you were stung was even starting to throb a bit.

“2...1!!!” You hear from the class as they finish their countdown. Your eyes widen in anticipation as you wait for the explosion from the small baking soda and vinegar volcano.

And sure enough, there is an explosion and a burst of purple lava-like foam from the vinegar and baking soda concoction. The kids cheer in excitement, pointing at the display before them.

You’d probably enjoy watching the joy on their faces more if you weren’t still struggling with the pain in your neck.

Something…something’s wrong.

You put a hand to your neck, rubbing it slightly, as the kids continue to gaze excitedly at the mess they just caused. Something was starting to feel off…and not just in your neck. The pain and the burning sensation from the sting was starting to grow and intensify, feeling as if it was running through your entire body. The pain in your neck is now excruciating, and you swear you can feel your chest start to get tighter.

You start to feel dizzy, the kids becoming a blur before your eyes. The noise around you is starting to become muffled and everything seems to be spinning a bit too fast.

“Call—call for help…” That's when everything goes black.

When you finally come to, everything is a haze at first. The first thing you become aware of is the beeping noise piercing your ear and the strong smell of antiseptic.

It takes a moment for your eyes to focus and actually look around. Once your vision adjusts, you become aware of the white walls around you, the sterile equipment. You’re in a hospital.

Flashes of what happened slowly start to return to you. You remember doing the science experiment with the kids, the bee, the pain, and then...nothing.

You lay there, (e/c) eyes staring up at the white ceiling, the memory of the kids running through your mind. Your heart almost stops. How are the kids?! Are they okay? They must have freaked out when you passed out.

The need to know if they’re okay overpowers you, and you push yourself up in the bed, the beeps from the heart monitor quickening in pace as you try to sit up, only to immediately be stopped by a firm voice

“Woah there, woah. You should probably stay still, you got some pretty strong drugs in you.”

Your eyes dart to the sound of the voice, and suddenly Eddie is standing there to your right, looking down at you, a concerned look on his face.

“E-Eddie…?” You say, unable to hide the surprise from your voice. He’s the last person you expect to see in the hospital room.

Why was he here?

“Yeah, it’s me.” He says, a soft comforting look on his face. He steps closer to the bed now, stopping right by the side of it, looking down at you. You swear you see him swallow a lump in his throat, “How are you feeling?”

You’re about to make a sarcastic remark about the strong pain meds that are currently running through your system, but the look on his face stops you. The concern and the worry that’s present is more than any casual parent should have, and it surprises you.

“Okay…I think. I’m a bit fuzzy right now, and my neck hurts a bit.”

He nods slightly, his eyes roaming your face, checking what you assume he can in the state you’re in. “Well that’s to be expected…ya know it was me and the rest of the 118 that responded to the call.”

He’s standing so close now, his body practically towering over you. A small lump forms in your throat at the revelation that it was him and his team that had responded to the call, it was them who had probably saved your life…he was probably the one who had saved you.

Eddie reaches a hand out now, almost as if he’s going to touch you but hesitates last minute, letting it drop to his side. He looks unsure, a strange look for the usually confident man.

“The, uh, the kids are safe,” he says, and a sense of relief washes over you. “There was some…chaos once you passed out, a few of them started crying, but they’re okay now, Buck was able to calm most of them down.”

“I-I just, I wanted to check on you.” His voice is low and quiet, you’d almost think he’s uncomfortable. And then it hits you. This man, this man who stands before you, a wall of muscle and toughness, actually looks almost nervous. It's endearing and sweet...and strangely attractive.

“Listen,” he spares a glance out into the hallway of the hospital, “I’ve gotta go, but when you get released…you really should let me take you out.”

His words are so unexpected that you think you actually hear him wrong. But it’s not a dream at all, or the meds that are running through you. Eddie looks at you, a soft, pleading look on his face, as he waits for your answer.

For a moment you’re so shocked that you can’t even speak. Eddie’s already got your head spinning at the best of days, the fact that he's asking you out right now is almost too much for you to process. In a weak moment, you’re tempted to just give in…but you can’t.

“I—I can’t…” you practically whisper, and the expression on Eddie’s face is almost enough to make you change your mind. He looks like a puppy that’s just been kicked. “I-I appreciate the offer Eddie…but we both know it’s not a good idea.”

He looks down at the ground, the disappointment present on his face. He nods his head slightly as if to agree with you, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to. He clenches his jaw, and swallows, looking back up to you, the pleading look in his brown doe eyes slightly stronger now.

“I-okay.”

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from taking it back, from telling him that yes, yes you’ll go out with him. You watch as he stands there for a moment longer, wanting to say something else, but stops himself, turns away, and leaves the hospital room.

You feel your heart sink as he leaves, a feeling of guilt and disappointment washing over you. You know that your reasons for saying ‘No’ are good ones—great ones! But still, as he walks off…

You already regret saying it.

VI.

This…this is violating so many different ethics laws.

you hastily walk down the street, “Oh my god, I’m gonna lose my job for this.”

So what if went back to your emergency forms and got the Diaz’s address? It’s not like it makes you a stalker.

…right?

as much as you try and tell yourself, you know you shouldn’t be doing this, and yet no part of you wants to stop.

You’re so lost in your thoughts, that it’s a miracle you don’t miss the street where Christopher lives. Walking on, you suddenly feel a drop of rain splash against your face.

Looking up at the sky, you see black clouds moving in rapidly, “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

As you turn the corner, you see the street numbers slowly rising as you get closer to the one that matches Christopher’s house. Your heart is racing, and you start walking even faster, the rain starting to come down in heavy sheets.

Once you finally reach Christopher’s house, you stop, staring at the front door. All the doubts that have been nagging at you in the back of your mind start to come back in full force.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet, you are.

You take a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare yourself to knock on the door. You’re already so far down this rabbit hole, might as well dig deeper, right?

With a trembling hand, you reach up and knock on the door, the sound of the rain getting louder as the moments pass. You hold your breath as you wait for an answer, feeling every second tick by.

The seconds feel like minutes, and the rain starts to get worse, until finally, you hear the door unlocking.

The door swings open, and Eddie stands there, his eyes widening in obvious surprise as he sees you standing there. The rain is falling faster now, and you can feel the cold drops hitting and drenching your clothes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Eddie asks, the confusion obvious in the tone of his voice. You look like a complete and utter drowned rat, hair soaked, body starting to shiver. How long had you been standing out in the rain for?

“I want you to go out with me!” You shout over the heavy rain.

Eddie’s expression morphs into almost complete shock, his eyes widening and his mouth hanging open. He stares at you, clearly not having expected that at all. You stand there, looking up at him, and your face is drenched with rain, water dripping from your hair and running down your face, but you don’t care, because all you can focus on is the man in front of you as you nervously ramble.

“I-I completely understand if you don’t want to. You’ve asked me out so many times and I’ve turned you down repeatedly, but after the other day I-i just couldn’t—“

You’re cut off mid-sentence as Eddie surges forward, his body almost colliding with yours as he pushes himself against you. The kiss takes you by complete surprise, and you don’t react for a moment, but you soon find yourself kissing him back. You can feel your heart thump against your chest as his lips continue to press against yours.

This is what you’ve craved for what seems like forever now. The feeling of his lips on yours, the taste of him. The cold rain doesn’t even register, all that registers to you is him. The feeling of his body pressed against you as his lips move against yours has you feeling a high you never have before.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Eddie pulls back slightly. The two of you are both a mess, breathing heavily, hair soaked, and clothes sticking to your bodies. But all Eddie is focused on is you.

He stares down at you, his eyes roaming your face, “You…you really want to go out with me?” he says incredulously, his voice low, barely able to be heard over the rain. You can’t help the wide smile that breaks out across your face.

“yes.”

A look of complete surprise and happiness crosses his face at your answer. Eddie’s hand comes up to cup the side of your face and for a moment the two of you are silent, staring at each other, taking everything in.

Until a shiver wracks throughout your body, cold from being out in the rain.

Eddie’s eyes dart down to your form. Concern flashes across his face as he looks down at your clothes, which are now drenched and sticking to you. “Jesus Christ…you’re soaked.” He says, his eyes roaming over you once more

“I could say the same for you.”

He chuckles, reaching out and grabbing one of your hands; rubbing it between his in an attempt to warm you up.

“Let’s get you inside. You’re gonna get sick out here,” He keeps a grip on your hand as he leads you into the house, shutting the front door behind the two of you.

“then…we can talk about where I finally get to take you for this date.”

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lukolathoughts · 14 days ago

Text

Dearest gentle readers,

As a GCSE English teacher in the UK, I have taught Of Mice and Men until I am blue in the face. I know the text like the back of my hand. There is a scene/extract where Carlson takes Candy’s dog outside to be shot (spoiler) and the men in the bunkhouse listen and wait anxiously for the eventual gunshot. The tension builds and builds and builds and the characters become more uncomfortable as they wait. To demonstrate how this tension might feel, I would often show my students a video of a balloon getting bigger and bigger and bigger. You get the idea. Until it becomes so uncomfortable you can’t stand to watch it. You know the explosion is coming but there is nothing you can do to stop it. The eventual BANG brings both fear and relief. This my friends, is how I perceive the Lukola fandom at this current moment. Like a kettle whistling away on a stove that no one knows how to turn off. All waiting for the eventual BOOM of the gunshot that feels inevitable. It is in tarot, the Tower.

Of Mice and Men is also a great one for division. White against black. Men against women. Social class. Feels familiar doesn’t it in this day and age? Ironically, next year it is being taken off UK GCSE English exam papers for being too ‘controversial’. A damn shame in my opinion, as it’s just as relevant now as it was in the 1930’s. Probably even more so. Anyway, in this fandom we have mainly the Lukola’s against the Jakola’s or the Jakeholes as I call them. This narrative was perpetuated by a certain creator after the festival photos of Jake and Nic emerged in August. Until this point it was widely accepted that Nic had been socialising with her ‘gay’ friend Jake and no one batted an eyelid about it. Until those pap photos dropped of a seemingly ‘tipsy’ Nicola staring adoringly up at her ‘friend’ Jake and scratching his arm. Hmm, weird I thought. Didn’t we just have chaos week? Wasn’t the fandom floating on air at this point examining Nic’s ‘drink your milk’ t -shirt and obsessing over Nicola’s insta posts? We knew damn well Luke was home from Italy and we knew he had left two days early alone without his homeboys and most importantly Antonia. What is the meaning of these paparazzi shots taken from the VIP area of the festival. Didn’t Nic just sign with CAA talent agency a few weeks ago? The gears in my over stimulated brain dismissed the photos as Nic simply being over friendly with Jake, as she is prone to be, despite him looking bored and uninterested in her, and I simply went about my day.

Well, we know the rest of the story. The New York stalking incident where a fan practically chased Nicola and Jake down the street. Again, sent to find them reportedly by the ‘creator’. The photos and videos emerged and showed that Nic and Jake were holding hands. It’s okay, he was just leading her away as she has little Irish legs. Now the narrative was well under way and the gleeful Jakeholes had started to creep out from their swamp. The Jakehole ship was rising like an infested remnant of an 18th century passenger ship, spluttering its way across the Atlantic. This is no splendid brand new Titanic, my friends. This is a leaky, wooden, rickety old boat that I’m amazed gained it’s sea legs in the first place.

This was then followed up by the real kicker. The Lukola fandom had been floating on air in joined union and rejoicing over ‘October chaos week 2.0’ as I like to call it. It started with Luke’s cheeky October 3rd post of Polin and ended with the sheer euphoria of BOTH Luke and Nic seemingly on route somewhere. Perhaps, together, perhaps not. But he posts his luggage at an airport! When has Luke Newton ever done this? Nicola then posts herself smiling on a plane and I swear everyone just about fainted in excitement. Oh, the euphoria. Only then spoiled by the stalking incident, which I am convinced spooked Nic and Luke back into the shadows. Then the second lot of Jake and Nic pap pics hit, and this is the one that really hurt. I remember my discord going wild and then me and my bestie wife (she knows who she is) trying to justify the weather for about three weeks in the UK. Not that it really mattered. Distraction or no, the stage was set for the most bizarre few months of my life and undoubtedly Nicola, Luke and Jake as well. What a mess. The Jakehole ship gains some traction and starts chugging away like Popeye the sailor man after too much spinach.

But we’re a stubborn bunch the Lukola fandom. Things behind the scenes were not adding up and anyone with a set of eyes and a smart phone could deduce the real story from Jake’s Instagram. And then like some magic glitter bomb in comes Antonia. Can you hear the song Wrecking Ball by Miley Cyrus screeching in your ear? Because I can. I had done a tarot read that morning and got repeated Antonia cards and most specifically the girl with the snake. My breath caught in my lungs, and I knew she was coming like some willowy Darth Vader with an axe to grind, eating a lettuce sandwich. I quickly jumped on You Tube and gave my warnings. I know it was inevitable. I know a lot of other readers got the same message that day too and I give some of them credit for that. Prepare the ship! incoming attack port side. Boom. I’ve really started to fear seeing bowls of pasta which is ridiculous. I think I have PTSD from pasta gate 1 and 2.

And here my friends is where another division happens. I can pinpoint it exactly for you. Antonia’s pasta video from a Rome restaurant that Luke had been tagged at an hour before. All hell breaks loose, and I mean it. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, not because I believe a word that girl says, but because I KNEW others would. People started jumping off the USS Lukola quicker than I could say, wait a minute, please just wait! There were me and others running around the deck shoving the band out of the way as the death throes of Nearer my God to Thee sound in a haunting melody. I could see the captain of the ship, followed by his foolish crew, letting the water suck them down whole. It was no use, they had jumped all the way down to Davey Jones locker while I still stood on deck, with many others, watching their faces disappear into the murky depths of the black sea.

I do not wish to give Antonia anymore power, but girl I would have been impressed if it wasn’t such a mean thing to do. There is speculation, Luke may have given her the video to distract from some things, that might even be a bit too delulu for even me to comprehend. She also had friends in Italy at the time who could have given her the video, including a dancer friend of hers. She could have simply saw Luke’s location and downloaded a video off the internet. Or she simply was there. I must come to terms with that critically in my own mind as a possible option. However, I do think if she really was there, she would have posted more than some woman making pasta. Admittedly, I am one of those people who like to take pictures of my food, and I bet my arse, Antonia is too. Where is your plate of pasta Antonia? Where are the pictures of Luke’s studio, his hotel room, his shoes? Any bit of evidence you are with him like she used to post incessantly during the world tour to prove her proximity.

We found out later that Luke was not at the restaurant that day. The man pictured was not the owner and just a fan who had a picture with Luke some days or weeks before. The next day after pasta gate 1.0, Luke pushes a bunch of PR explaining he is in Rome to film his first movie White Mars. I felt a lot of energy behind this from him, even if he didn’t organise the Deadline article directly. Antonia was punished accordingly and was in my imagination told by Luke, I will not like your pathetic grid posts on Insta for the whole month of November, so don’t bother. She didn’t post to her grid.

The damage had been done, almost like a tornado hitting and spinning USS Lukola on it’s head. But we were still standing with a new faction of die hard Lukola’s forming. Nothing short of a kissing photo or a word coming from either Nic or Luke was moving us off this ship and that is where we are today. The Lukola’s who jumped, what happened to them? Well, like ghosts of their former selves they spend their time walking along the seabed aimlessly between still wanting to be on the ship but having a new perspective of ‘realism’. We must be realistic, me hearties!! Luke is still most likely with Antonia (eye roll) and Nicola is with Jake (major eye roll, they have left my sockets). I talked a lot about critical thinking in my last blog and I don’t want to rehash it all here, but there is no evidence that Luke has been within the same breathing space as Antonia since last July. I do not count the dodgy Facebook post by Luke’s mother as any kind of believable evidence. No, I also do not believe that Luke’s mother has a beef with Nicola either. Anyone who ever meets Nicola seems to be sucked into her light like a moth to a Dyson hoover. I do not believe Michelle would to it to either Luke or Nic, as I have explained previously.

So, the last week has been a bit exciting for the Lukola diehard’s. Again, here comes another split. Crack, like lightening hitting a road. Nicola appears looking fabulous at the Big Boys premiere in London last Wednesday 22nd January. She was again dressed in black. I should have put bets on it, but I’d win pennies at this point in my predictions that Nicola would be wearing black. Now why is she wearing black again you ask, well dearest gentle reader that is the question, isn’t it? Why does she have a bottle of non-acholic beer at her feet? Why is her dress at the event raising eyebrows? I will tell you why: the Empress, the High Priestess and the Moon repeatedly. It’s as simple as that for me. That is all I will say, because the hate is real guys. I woke up Thursday morning to a barrage of insults. I had not said anything publicly on Twitter about Nicola.

Here now comes the death knell of my one remaining Lukola discord. I woke up to the announcement the server was being shut down. I took my Twitter private to stop the trolls and I thought it was a bright idea to make my own discord server, to hell with the haters. Welcome everyone else. Anyone who disparages Nicola in any way, shape or form in discussions of personal body issues I find disgusting. Talking about a person’s weight is vile to me, it is not acceptable and calling someone ‘just fat’ to explain away other things is abhorrent. We should not be saying things publicly. So now there the Lukola’s who believe one thing and the ones who still support Luke and Nic, but do not believe what they are seeing. That’s okay and we will not force those opinions on others. We will listen and we will wait. We will not comment on Nicola’s body.

There is one last split I want to touch on briefly. The division of the tarot readers. It is unfortunately the case now, much to my inner anguish. I started in this fandom listening to them and loving the readings. I had previously been reading privately on Harry and Meghan Markle (don’t even ask) and I was scared to read on Nicola and Luke because I didn’t want to know that weren’t together, because June 13th broke my heart just like everyone else’s. But these tarot readers were amazing, they gave me hope, and I truly admired and learned a lot from the OG’s. I listen and believe my spirit team implicitly and I will not turn on my intuition. I will not turn my back on Nicola and Luke. There is too much evidence to support they are together. Christmas and NYE confirmed this for me significantly and the fact that Jake got a job in Sheffield yesterday. Good for you Jakey boy, off you go and let the grown-ups carry on now. There are tarot readers who sadly stopped believing, they jumped off with the rest of the frantic Lukola’s and they keep trying to swim back to the surface, before being dragged back down by yet another social media post of the adjacents or paparazzi picture, despite evidence to the contrary.

You know who doesn’t have social media and her readings never change, and she stays true to her heart? The lovely Meghan on YouTube. She doesn’t know about adjacent drama, so they are simply not in her remit and her spirit guides do not address them either. My advice is to follow her lead and listen to what Nicola and Luke tell us, no one else.

It is okay as well for other tarot readers to have different opinions and I respect that, but as public facing roles with large platforms, it is our responsibility to be excellent role models to our followers. We should be supporting each other as women and not disparaging those we read on with our biases. Foul mouthed rants and calling Nicola names is not helpful.

In conclusion, the fandom is a powder keg. We are all sitting in the bunkhouse divided but ultimately waiting for the same gunshot that will snap us back. This might put us all back on the same page, all back to shipping Lukola where we started last year, or this gunshot could divide us further as all factions refuse to see or believe the truth. I truly believe we are coming to the end of this now and one way or another, the truth is on it’s way. We the fandom are the Tower, not Nic and Luke. One way or another, the tower will fall. One gunshot and bam.

#lukola #nicluke #luke newton #nicola coughlan

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youleftmenochoicebut · 1 month ago

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HOPELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU — remus lupin.

SUMMARY. — remus can’t help himself, he has to take it off of you.

PAIRING. — remus lupin x halfblood!fem!reader

WARNINGS. — smut; unprotected sex (wrap it up pls!); not much plot but still some;

A/N. — i need some requests! send me some requests!🙏🏻

it’s the first party Lily and James are hosting at their new house, and it oh so happens to be a halloween one. after hours of fighting, your friend group settled on making it costume themed, which has made it tough for you to figure something out.

good for you, your fiancé is a very creative man. not so keen on playing dress-up, but creative nonetheless. you spent a few hours deciding what to wear, and in the end you settle on going as Sandy and Danny from Grease, a musical that over the last few months became your and Remus’ favorite movie.

you can hear Remus grumbling out in the living room, and you giggle to yourself as you finish putting on the bold red lipstick. your eyes focus on your reflection in the mirror, up and down your body in that tight costume, your maroon heels clicking against the floor when you step away from the counter. you ruffle up the curls you made with a muggle curling iron Lily had borrowed you for the occasion, and you leave the bathroom in a jumpy stroll.

„m’ready, Remy!” you hum softly, making your way over to where you’re sure he’s waiting for you, having the biggest smile on your face when you see him.

even though you knew who you were going as, you two decided to keep the exact look of your costumes a secret up until this moment. you think he looks amazing, he always does to you. he’s a bit down spiritually, considering the full moon is in about a week, but he definitely put his best into this. for you.

„you look handsome!” you put your hands on his chest, eyes grazing over his tall figure, and you hear him sigh. his dark caramel hair is brushed back with a lot of gel and styled to mimic Danny’s, the scars on his face faint and whitened from the time that’s passed since he got them. he’s wearing the costume well, simple black t-shirt that clings to his lanky body, black jeans that are taut on him, and of course, a leather jacket.

„thanks, dovey. you look fabulous.” he murmurs, resting his hands on the swell of your hips, thumbs brushing over your hipdips affectionately. he was leaning against the arm of the sofa, and now he stands up, raising his eyebrows.

you nod, and his arm wraps around your middle, hand on your lower back, and he smoothly apparates you both outside the Potter’s house in Godrick’s Hollow. your fingers intertwine as you make your way inside, the party already in full swing. Lily greets you, dressed as Sally Hardesty, and you compliment her outfit while hugging her. she moves on quickly though, going to greet new guests.

as you walk through the house with Remus practically attached at your hip, you see James and Sirius already dancing on the coffee table in the living room. Black dressed as David Bowie, and James… well, you assume is Leatherface (deducting from Lily’s costume), but honestly it’s hard to tell.

you split with Remus when Mary, Dorcas and Marlene drag you away from him, making you take some shots with them and dance.

and oh, you dance a lot. you’ve always loved dancing, your muggle mom being a dance teacher at a prestige academy. when you were little, before you went to Hogwarts, you used to always follow your mom to her private lessons. even now, despite not living in the muggle part of London, you love to wander to those parts of town, looking in windows at dancing studios.

somehow you end up upstairs (smoking some pot with Peter probably hasn’t been the best idea), walking through the hallway with your head turning left and right, watching the walls as if they are the most interesting thing you’ve seen tonight. suddenly you feel a harsh tug, someone pulling you into a bathroom, and you’re ready to scream before Remus’ scent envelopes your senses.

„Merlin, you scared me!” you hit his shoulder, frowning confused as you feel his hands glide all over your body, touching and kneading your flesh.

„sorry. need you.” his mumble against the column of your throat is barely audible, and you pull him away for a moment by tugging at the ends of his hair.

you know he gets like that, soon before the full moon. needy. possessive. heated. sometimes it’s almost like the wolf in him takes over, trying to keep you as close to him as possible, trying to mark you up. you can tell he’s drunk too, his pupils dilated, his breathing rapid.

you only smile, waving your to cast muffliato over the room, so that you won’t be overheard. you also cast colloportus to keep the door locked for anyone who could accidentally walk in on you two.

before you can turn your head back to him, he’s already tugging your shirt off, unclasping your bra, letting both things fall to the cold floor. he stares at your tits, just for a while, quickly leaning in and wrapping his lips around one of your nipples. while his mouth works on your left boob, his hand squeezes and plays with the right one, and you throw your head back in quiet pleasure. he’s got you pinned against the door, the handle digging into your side, but you don’t mind it.

aware of the fact you can’t stay in here for much time, you gently push him off you, dropping to your knees. you grit your teeth when they hit the tiles, your hands reaching out to unbuckle his belt, fighting with it for a few seconds before Remus helps you. he throws the belt away, unzipping his pants and pulling them down along with his boxers. his cock springs out, painfully hard, slapping over his lower torso.

your mouth always waters at the sight of it, the throbbing ache between your thighs always doubling. it’s not very impressive in girth, but it’s long. like nine inches long. uncut, of course. your hand wraps around his base, giving it a gentle stroke, and Remus lets you just have your fun with it for a bit. not for too long though, because he soon gets impatient, and pats your hands away.

his own hand grabs his dick, and he steps closer, slapping his shaft against your cheek.

„open up, dovey.” he rasps out, and once you open your mouth, he puts the tip of his cock on your stuck out tongue, making a tsch sound. with a snap of his hips, he wastes no time pushing his junk further down your throat, making you gag and spit up. he’s mean tonight, set on what he wants, so he doesn’t pull out. he starts to thrust in and out, shallow at first, then grabs a handful of your hair to tug your head in closer. “you like that, huh? i sure as hell do. looking so fucking perfect for me on your knees like that.”

the way he talks, the way his thrusts grow faster and sharper, the way he pulls your hair to control your head movement. it all leads to you clutching your hands at his thighs, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, and your legs squeezing closed. you reach out, taking hold of his balls and kneading them between your fingers, happy as you hear the grunts escaping his mouth. finally he lets go of you, allowing you to breathe (or more like heave) for not even a minute before he grabs your arm and yanks you up. you grasp the edge of the bathtub, leaning down slightly, your ass on his crotch level.

you tilt your head back, wanting to watch him, and he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your tight leather pants, harshly pulling them down to your ankles. he rips your thongs off, and when you yelp in a form of protest, he slaps your asscheek hard.

“wanted to take those damn pants off the moment you left our bathroom.” Remus whispers, leaning over to nip at your earlobe, his slender digits grazing over your soaked cunt. “fuck, dove, you’re so wet. guess you wanted that as much as i did.”

“Remy, shit…” you whimper as he pushes two fingers in right away, and honestly they go in so smoothly, you’re surprised. he seems surprised too, letting out a low chuckle and pressing a kiss behind your ear, then straightens up.

he stretches your hole for a few minutes, adding a third finger, pumping in and out, curling his fingers inside you to hit the spot he knows makes you see stars. he even lets you come undone on his fingers, your orgasm crushing over you rather suddenly, and you can feel your pulse quicken rapidly.

he doesn’t let you ride out your orgasm though, removing his fingers to replace them with his cock. he’s not gentle about it either, immediately taking up a rough pace, hips slamming into yours in reckless abandon.

you arch your back, moans and whines you let out getting more obscure with each thrust, and you reach back, trying to wrap your arms around his neck while not facing him. he helps you, hands moving from your hips to your waist and pulling you closer, resting his chin on your shoulder as he fucks into you.

“that’s it. so good to me, dovey. taking my cock like a pro.” he coos in your ear affectionately, fingers tracing mindless patterns over your stomach and his pace slows down. “gonna take my load too? or should i cum all over this gorgeous ass of yours?

you know he’s close, he practically always slows down when he’s close to cumming, and you can’t do much more than just nodding your head, feeling like mush in his embrace.

he clicks his tongue, slapping your tit lightly, and whispers. “use your words. can’t take a fucking nod as an answer.”

“inside, Remy. y’can cum inside.” you breathe out, the shakiness in your voice a clear indicator that you’re chasing your next release too. his hands rest on your chest at last, and he’s panting in your ear, while you let out a moan so high-pitched you would’ve cringed at it, if it wasn’t for the fact you’re getting fucked senseless right now.

his hips snap against yours a couple more times before he buries himself inside you completely, moaning and grunting as he stills, cumming deep into your cunt that’s squeezing him and clenching around him so deliciously. you climax at the same time, your legs giving up on you so you lean on Remus mostly, heaving and rasping for air.

it takes you both a while to come back to your senses, but when you do, Remus is peppering kisses over the side of your neck and shoulder, mumbling quiet praises.

“d’ya wanna go home, dovey?” he asks you as your pulse and breathing go back to normal, and you turn in his arms, letting his dick slide out of you.

“yeah. let’s go home.”

#divs by roseraris #marauders #blurb #james potter #sirius black #the marauders #remus lupin #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin smut #smut #dead gay wizards

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hier--soir · 1 year ago

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a lover's pinch | two

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: will a complicated realisation drive you and joel apart, or drag you closer together? warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, some mildly gratuitous Classics chatter, some very gratuitous descriptions of joel's office, trope of being enamoured by your favourite teacher lol [and her fav isn't even joel, sorry guys], angst, a little manhandling, semi-public sex acts with a not-so-stranger, dirty talk, brief impact play, fingering, orgasm denial, oral [m!receiving], face fucking, facial, cum eating, sheeesh i think that's it okay i need a glass of cold water word count: 10.3k i'm not sorry series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: folks, this series has taken over my entire brain. i'm having the best time writing+outlining it, and i have been so delighted by how many people liked the first part. giving you all the biggest kiss through the screen right now. lmk what you think of part two! this is part two of ALP. you can read the previous part here: one.

Tuesday.

It’s as though a mirage resides in the periphery of your vision.

A wobbling, shimmering thing that offsets the centre of a picture and makes your eyes hurt until you want to close them. The type where you’re squinting and trying to see, trying to make out what’s happening, and people are turning to look at you and pointing and you realise that you aren’t wearing any pants, and it’s a dream, a dream, a nightmare, it’s not fucking real. Illusory. Fantasy.

It's a childish thought that you can’t help but be consumed by. The idea that this is all some cruel, fucked up delusion you’re about to wake up from. That it couldn’t be possible for the charming Texan you’d met four nights prior to be stood only a few metres in front of you, discussing your fucking syllabus. Reality becomes this twisting, writhing thing that is painful and awkward to comprehend, and everything slows to a liquid, dreamlike pace. His voice, his movement, the shifting of other students around you, all drifting by slowly, as if a year has passed in the span of ten seconds.

And yet when you pinch your arm—nails scraping across skin until raw red marks raise in jagged lines—and you don’t wake up, the mirage remains, your stomach rolls.

Joel looks so different here. What had been casual at the bar, a lob of messy hair above a cotton t-shirt, is now professional. Buttoned shirt tucked into pressed brown pants. Beard trimmed, and hair pushed back into soft, tidy waves that roll down to his neck. A set of glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. Square, with black frames that compliment his skin tone, and have your fingers gripping the edge of the desk, wondering why the hell he hadn’t been wearing them on Friday night when he sunk his mouth against your cunt. Dirty little thing.

You can still feel his hands on you, days later. Feel the rough scrape of calloused fingers on your thighs, between your legs. Remember how soft his hair was when you buried your fingers in it and held him against your aching core, whining his name. It had been like this all weekend; holding an image of his tan, handsome face in your mind, trying to emulate the feeling of his hand between your thighs with your own, only to fail over and over again.

And he’s talking. That low, honeyed drawl that tickles across your skin and drips into your ears, warming your insides. It’s a marvellous thing; the way he shifts easily from topic to topic, disarming the room with short, sharp—surprising—jokes sifted in between soft-spoken sentiments about classical academia and the university, and what he hopes you as individuals will gain from a postgraduate in this course, and it feels like it’s been both hours and seconds as you watch him breathlessly, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to skirt to your side of the room, to dance across your face and recognise you, remember you, just as he said he would.

Joel is talking about The Aeneid when he finally notices you.

“I want you to be thinking about language,” he’s saying. “And tone. Virgil and Homer’s writing differs in a lotta ways, but it does share that same character of irony. Don’t forget that Virgil wrote during the Golden Age of the Roman Empire – and he’s presenting us with a story about destiny, about fate. Our focus here isn’t so much about love, or reverence, as it is about tragedy – no one in The Aeneid is safe from what their own fate lays out for them. All of these calamities and heartbreaks are necessary for the empire to thrive.”

He pauses. “Take Dido in book four as a prime example. In the openin’ lines of her story, if we’re looking to the West translation; she is suffering from love’s deadly wound, feeding it with her blood and being consumed by its hidden fire. We know from the beginnin’, that her love for Aeneas will be her downfall; that her death is essential for him to leave Carthage. And on that same page, talkin’ about Aeneas, we get, oh how cruelly he has been hounded by the Fates. This is what you need to think about if you’re gonna get to the bottom of Virgil’s bigger plan with these books. Why is he using this language? These words? I want—”

Joel inhales sharply, dark eyes frozen on your face, which grows steadily warmer beneath his scrutiny. His body doesn’t move, hands hovering in the air mid-gesticulation, lips parted as his next words rest there, caught on his tongue. You swallow thickly. Feel sweat form on your hairline. The silence stretches, dead air giving rise to confused murmurs across the room, and your eyes widen, willing him to look away and continue; to do anything except stand there and keep looking at you like that. But it’s like he’s in a trance. Tan face dimming to a sickly, pallid colour, shoulders shifting as he breaths deeply. Staring.

A few heads turn in your direction, but you can’t bring yourself to look back at them; to snatch yourself away from the feeling of being held in his gaze again. It’s intoxicating—almost euphoric—to have those dark eyes on your skin.

And then it’s over, the moment severed as Joel’s eyes snap away and he clears his throat, offering a pained smile to the rest of the room. And he’s apologising, Lost my train of thought for a moment there, using a playful tone of voice as he says, first day of the semester jitters, y’know?

He ignores you after that.

For the entirety of the two-hour lecture, he makes sure not to spare a single glance in your direction. And it stings, but you suppose you understand. Can see the tension held in his shoulders now; the strain in his voice as he works to talk with that same measured ease he’d had at the beginning.

You take notes carefully, and don’t bother raising your hand when he inspires participation from the other students. But by the end of the class, you can’t bring yourself to walk out – not without saying something, without finding some kind of understanding over what the fuck is happening. You’re practically glued to your seat as students rise, filing out of the theatre hall.

Joel stands by the desk, back hunched as he collects his things, fielding kind comments of thanks and that was great from people as they pass him on their way toward the exit. Eventually you join the stream, wandering down the stairs on shaky legs until you find yourself at the edge of his desk, fiddling with the strap of your bag and watching his back. His shoulders hunch tighter when you pause there, shadow splaying across the desk. Though his face isn’t visible to you, his hands are almost a blur, scrambling to drag his things into a messy pile so that he can pack up faster. He slaps his laptop closed and you flinch at the sound.

After a few moments, you find the courage to speak.

“That was, uhh, that was really interesting,” you clear your throat awkwardly, watching other students shuffle past in your periphery. His hands move faster, stuffing loose notes into a leather satchel with little disregard for the paper creasing.

You lower your voice to a hoarse, careful whisper. “We need to talk about this.”

Joel finally looks up, nostrils flaring as he meets your stare. He nods once, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Not here,” he says gruffly, tight eyes darting around the room. “Room’s booked for another lecture in five.”

He tilts his head towards the door, encouraging you to follow him as he paces out towards the hall. You shadow him quickly, clutching your bag and watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he walks three paces ahead of you. You fight the urge to place your hand in the dip between his shoulder blades; to feel the heat of his skin, the rolling tension beneath it, and dig your fingernails into him. Joel doesn’t look back to check if you’re following – he knows you are.

He leads you up a flight of stairs and down another hall, makes a left, and then another left, until finally he’s pausing and dragging a key from his pocket, pressing it into the lock of a heavy wooden door and nudging it open. There’s a plaque on the wood that reads J MILLER, PhD. You swallow. And then follow him inside and let the door fall shut behind you.

Joel stalks into the room, feet heavy against the dark carpet. He tosses his satchel to the floor and then stands by the desk, wild eyes trained on where you hover silently by the door. He looks on edge, to say the least. Frazzled fingers race through his hair, mussing the curls until they look reminiscent of the past Friday. Foot tapping against the ground in a quick, jerky rhythm.

And you know that you need to talk, need to clear the air, need to say anything, but you can’t help it when your eyes wander around the room because—

His office is sort of beautiful.

A larger space than you expected it to be, with a north-facing window that allows a natural yellowed morning light to fill the space, and a vast bookshelf stretching across the wall behind a large desk. You can’t make out the titles from where you stand by the door, but texts fill every crack and crevice of the shelfing unit, not organised by any noticeable colour scheme or structure. The space is messy – personal. In fact, everywhere you look seems to expose something private, something intimate.

A jacket hangs from a hook on the back of the door, made of a worn duck brown waxed material that looks soft to the touch. In the corner opposite the desk, a velvet green armchair sits beside a low table that houses a record player and a potted plant. Sleeves of records are tucked beneath the table, stacked upon each other haphazardly, without a hint of dust on them. Clearly touched and rifled through more often than not.

The wide window is cracked just an inch, allowing a warm early-Fall breeze to slip in and rustle the starched curtains. A coffee mug is beside the record player. Two more sit abandoned on the outskirts of his desk. All empty and forgotten about, too busy to be refilled or moved or cleaned. And there are books everywhere; strewn across his desk, forgotten beneath the cushion of his armchair, piled against the wall beneath the window. Worn, well-read books, with frayed covers and broken spines. You almost drool, tempted to ignore him completely and venture towards them; to run your fingers over the covers and find out exactly what kind of writing this enigma of a man spends so much time devouring.

After what feels like an hour of simply looking—but could only have been a minute—Joel breaks the silence.

“Did you know?”

His voice is quiet. Detached. The backs of his thighs perch on the edge of the desk, hands tangled in his lap. Large fingers pluck at each other as he stares at you from across the room, in an almost anxious fiddling movement.

“What?” you ask.

“Did you know who I was?” he clarifies, voice hardening. Those dark eyebrows tighten in the middle of his forehead, features pinching together into a sharp frown. “When you saw me.”

“Joel,” you scoff, taken aback. “How the hell would I know who you were?”

“Your classes were organised,” his voice raises slightly—just a little. “You knew the names of your profess—”

“J Miller,” you interrupt. “Everything says J Miller, that’s it. I didn’t fucking know, Joel.”

His frown softens at that, eyes dropping to the carpet as he nods once, clearly still unsure. You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, shoulders tense. There’s only a metre or so between the pair of you, and yet you can feel it. That static, burning energy, the same as four nights before. Something inside of you that rages and claws at your skin from the inside, begging to get closer to him. You ignore it.

“Why didn’t I meet you when I interviewed for the program?” you ask. You remember the day you came in, six months ago. Sitting with an older man—the Classics department head—and a soft, round woman with light hair. No Joel. You would’ve remembered him.

His eyes flash, hands tightening in his lap. “I was on vacation,” he grinds out. It’s like it physically pains him to talk to you—to even look at you. One of his hands drops, palm flexing by his side. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly trying to calm the quell of panic that has been swirling inside him for the past two hours. You keep your distance.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“Greece, huh?” It comes out in a low scoff. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, frustration laced through the lines in his face. “Said you were there for a month.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I was involved in a text translation study based in Athens.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes. “This can’t be happenin’.”

“Joel—”

“Y’need to transfer out of my class,” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “They run it online, you can—”

“What?” you blink. You feel your blood pressure rise, anger spiking as you comprehend what he is suggesting. “Be serious – I am not doing the class online because of this. It’ll jeopardise my entire semester.”

“I don’t care,” he glowers, rising from the desk.

“Jesus, stop acting like this was all my doing,” you snap. “If memory serves, you’re just as to blame as I am—you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

“Stop,” he growls. It’s a rough, unforgettable sound that fills your stomach with heat. An oddly familiar thing that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Silly little slut. The memory licks at your throat, the skin of your chest, leaving a hot heady feeling in its wake. You wonder if he’s noticed the hickey on your neck that hasn’t entirely faded yet. A persistent, lingering reminder of his mouth on your skin. Of the sharp scrape of his teeth.

You take a step forward and Joel’s entire body goes rigid, right hand jutting out in front of him, fingers splayed open.

“Stay over there,” he says quickly, voice a low warning.

You scowl but don’t move, feet planted in the soft carpet. The breeze rushes in through the window and causes a paper on his desk to flap upward, and your eyes drift toward the movement. Gaze shifting over the items on his desk, the mess of papers, the half-full mugs, and then… a picture frame. You squint, unable to make it out from where you are. Take a step forward, and then another, and realise it’s Joel’s shape in the image, standing with a tall woman tucked against his side. It’s too far for you to see clearly, but you can tell his arm is wrapped around her shoulder, holding her against his chest, and you know he’s grinning from the splash of white across his face.

“What’re you—” Joel’s words turn to silence as he tilts his head and realises what you’re looking at. A broad hand darts out, gripping the frame and knocking it face down on his desk. You flinch, eyes widening in incredulity as you turn to him.

“What?” A sardonic laugh escapes your mouth. “Are you fucking married or something? Jesus, Joel.”

You reach for the frame, fingers skirting across it with every intention of seeing, of understanding, of knowing just what it is that he’s so desperate to hide. But then he’s there, strong fingers looping around your wrist, halting your movement. The speed of it sends you stumbling toward the desk, and Joel’s body follows you forward, chest flush against your back as your lower stomach collides with the dark wood. Caught between a rock and a hard place, quite literally. You stiffen, sorely aware of how close he is. How much of his body is touching yours, and how similar it is to before.

“I’m not married,” he bites, and you can feel his breath against your ear. Hot, harsh exhales that send whisps of your hair fluttering forward. A shiver runs down your spine. His grip is firm around your wrist; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place with your hand frozen in the air, fingers still outstretched towards the frame.

“Then who’s in the picture?” you grunt.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps quickly. You can feel his stubble graze the edge of your jaw, and something fizzes in your stomach. Your resolve softens at the frustration in his voice; the truth that bleeds out through his words. It is none of your business. Your body relaxes a little, arm going limp in his hold, and yet he doesn’t let go. It takes a moment for you to realise why.

Joel’s hips are pressed tightly into you, trapping you against the desk, and he’s hard. You can practically feel him throb against the small of your back, the full length of his cock only separated from you by two layers of clothing. Saliva pools in your mouth, eyes pinching closed as you remember the feeling of him; the delicious burn of his heavy cock dragging through you. Using your free hand, you twist your arm behind you and slide it down his front. A whispered oh fuck escapes your lips as your fingers drag across the front of his pants, and he grunts in your ear, grasp tightening around your wrist. Painful this time, but only for a second, until he’s tearing his hand off you and placing it on your lower back, pushing you down so that your chest is flush with his desk.

You gasp, lips parting to speak, but no words are coming out and Joel’s hands are on the waistband of your jeans, on the button. He’s undoing it, fingers steadfast in their movement, and then he yanks the material down roughly over your ass.

“Joel,” you whimper urgently as he grips your panties, dragging them to your knees as well. He keeps you bent against the desk, so you twist your neck to stare at him over your shoulder, legs tensing when you see the expression on his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown behind his glasses as he looks down to where his covered cock grinds against the swell of your ass.

“God dammit,” he exhales, and you clench around nothing, warmth pooling between your thighs. This is so different from at the bar. There the door was locked, place full of people who didn’t know either of you. Here, in his office, anyone could walk in. A member of faculty, a student, anyone. And the thought has you fucking aching for him.

Thick fingers streak between your thighs from behind, spreading your slick folds apart. You gasp as cool air hits your throbbing clit, but the sound cuts into a low moan as his fingers expertly roll over the sizzling nerve endings there. He ousts a low grunt of surprise at how wet you are, hips still grinding against you as his fingers drift to your entrance, rubbing and collecting your slick on his fingers until you’re whimpering into your own palm, pressing your hips back and begging him for more. All at once, one of his palms slaps across your ass while two thick fingers press inside you. The sting has your eyes rolling back. Your teeth sink into the palm of your hand to muffle the noise you make, and he’s curling his fingers inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and your legs are trembling with the effort of staying standing. Your mind is a blur. You feel almost lightheaded at how suddenly this is all happening – and at how relieved you are to feel his hands on you again.

“S’this what you wanted?” Joel pants, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you out. “Knew if you followed me in here, I’d end up fuckin’ this pretty pussy again? Huh?”

“Fuck,” you choke out, eyelids fluttering as he adds a third finger. Heat sizzles beneath the tightening muscles in your stomach, and you can feel yourself clenching around him over and over again, your high already approaching. It’s almost pitiful, the affect he has on you; how easily your body yields to the simplest of touches from his hands.

“Huh?” he prompts for a response. You can feel the cool zipper of his pants cutting across the bare skin of your ass, scratching you as his hips rut forward.

“Please,” you say, voice quiet as you can muster. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”

He grunts, increasing the speed of his fingers. Soft squelching sounds are audible now, slick smearing against your inner thighs, his wrist, and your face goes warm at the sound of it. Your fingers claw at his desk, nails catching on paper as your hand lands against a book and grips it tight. Your abdomen burns, that soft thrumming heat licking at your skin, the muscles of your thighs, scorching in its might as your orgasm builds and builds, hanging dangerously close to the precipice.

“Gonna come all over my fingers?” Joel asks, voice haggard and breathless. “C’mon, give it t’me.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, forehead knocking roughly against wood, eyebrows pinching together. So close, so close, so fucking clo—

A light knock sounds against his office door.

Joel freezes. Your eyes widen, hips shifting against his hand as you murmur no, no, no, please Joel. But he ignores you, gripping your hip to keep you still and dragging his fingers from your dripping cunt to press them over your mouth. Your pulse thunders in your ears, heart trashing wildly in your chest as you catch your breath, devasted.

“Joel?” a soft voice calls from the hall. A woman. “You in there?”

“Just on the phone,” he says loudly, voice surprisingly steady. You can taste yourself on his fingers. Feel it smear across your lips. “What d’ya need?”

“I’m headed to the café,” the woman calls. “You want anything?”

Joel responds with a sharp, resounding no.

There’s a beat of silence where you can almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to inevitably open the unlocked door and discover the scene in his office. But the silence stretches on, and then you can hear soft footfalls fade down the corridor, and you know that you’re alone again.

Joel rips his hand from your mouth. Grips your underwear and drags it up over your hips, then your jeans, before he’s stumbling away and dropping into the armchair across the room. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wide as he gazes at the floor. When you push off the desk and turn to stare at him, a firm tent is visible in his pants. You button your jeans slowly, watching him. He doesn’t look at you.

“Joel—” you start softly.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Just… just get out.”

You open your mouth to speak—to argue—but once again, nothing comes out. No words to defend yourself, or what the two of you just did. You stare at him for almost a minute, but Joel’s eyes stay trained on the carpet, fists clenched against his thighs.

You leave his office silently and try not to look back. Make two rights and head down the stairs, outside and across the green to where your car is parked. The whole thing feels so dirty, so debauched, and yet you want so much more from him. Want it so badly that you drive home in silence, mind too busy with thoughts of Joel Joel Joel to remember to turn on the radio.

And behind it all, is a low, itching thought at the base of your skull, something that makes you smile as you drive – the knowledge that he wants you just as badly as you want him.

Wednesday.

You decide very quickly that you like Rachel.

Maybe it was because you were having a good day. The sun had been shining when you woke up; strong beams that teased their way through the window in your bedroom and rested warm upon the bare skin of your back. By the time you rose, the coffee was already done brewing, and Trin met you in the hall with a large mug of it and a soft hey, man, how’d you sleep? And when you went to get dressed for the day you remembered you did the washing two nights before, and found your favourite pair of jeans—the ones that squeezed your ass just right—were neatly folded in a drawer, waiting for you. Yes; maybe all of that had something to do with it. Or maybe, it because Rachel was just great.

You like her tenacity, her words; the idolatry with which she discusses her work. And she is charming; an intellectual through and through. The soft roundness of her face and the kind slant to her eyes offset by a razor-sharp wit. And there’s this peculiar quirkiness to her that catches your attention in seconds – a rough snort whenever she laughs, the bright orange shade of the toenails sticking out of her sandals.

Her teaching is direct, no-bullshit, and yet she has this smile. This soft, thin-lipped genuine smile that says, I know something you don’t know, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

During her first lecture, you feel rooted to the spot, unable to draw your eyes away from her for two-hours as she waxes poetic about heroines and tragic love stories, about the importance of myth, of gore.

Listening to her reminds you of what you’d always loved about classics – the filth of it, the horror. It feels like reaching your hands into a puddle of mud, flexing your fingers and letting the dirt and grime slide beneath your nails, coating every inch of your skin. The squeamishness of it, the rot, the tragedy – you love it all, and Rachel does too.

“When we talk about the juxtaposition between heroines across different texts,” she says. “We want to look at the values being portrayed; the meaning behind what’s happening to these women. Let’s appreciate the context here, guys! To understand the rage of Medea, or, say, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, we have to get to the root of their roles in society. Priestess, mistress, virgin, mother – we want to understand the perspectives being shown to us. What drives these women? What fire lives within them, pushing them to make their decisions—or to have their decisions made for them?”

She points to a student and nods, “Go on.”

“Do you think Medea holds much bearing here?” someone to your left asks. A man. “If we’re focusing on heroines, I mean.”

“Do you?” she challenges. A hint of a smile—that smile—drifts across her lips, hands clasped to her stomach as she awaits his response.

“Not particularly,” he says, voice less sure now. “I know you can view any text through most perspectives, but I’d never thought of her so much as a heroine in a feminist text.”

“I see,” Rachel nods. “Well, the short answer is that I’d encourage you to read it again.” She laughs, a soft tinkering sound. “The long answer is that her character is complex. Let’s not beat around the bush; Medea is a woman scorned. Banished by Creon, forgotten by Jason. As the reader, we are able to comprehend the most brutal pain through her – a woman trapped in a world where men have decided everything for her, and she is furious. Even describes herself as a woman born to sorrow. Now, as the reader, it is your right to believe that she is bad, or an anti-heroine, but you cannot deny that she is made bad by circumstances out of her own control.” She pauses, thick eyebrows jutting upward as she looks around the quiet theatre. “I’d say that’s pretty feminist of Euripides.”

You approach her afterwards, fingers an awkward tangle in front of your chest.

“I just have to say,” you smile bashfully. “That was wonderful. You’re so engaging, I was… god, I don’t even know what to say, but thank you. I’m really looking forward to learning from you this semester.”

Rachel’s eyes light up at your words.

Up close you notice a pair of thick, ceramic earrings dangling from her lobes. They look hand painted; thick brushstrokes of dandelion yellow smeared across crimson red ovals.

“Oh, how lovely,” her eyes assess you quickly, mouth splitting into a crooked, fond smile. “I’m very glad to have you here…?”

You tell your name in a mumbled rush, and she nods once, eyes scanning the list of students on her sheet.

“Oh of course,” she says knowingly. “You emailed yesterday, no? Some trouble with accessing the readings online?”

You stiffen. Blink at her, smile dimming somewhat. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Yes, that’s actually—I was having trouble with the link for another class, and I hoped you might be able to help.”

“I see,” she frowns then. “Well, unfortunately if it’s not for this class I won’t be of much help; my access code only gets me so far in that damn portal. Which professor assigned the reading?”

“It’s, uhh,” you speak slowly, the words stiff as they stumble out of your mouth. “It’s Joel Miller.”

“Oh, Joel?” she smiles. “Well, he’ll be happy to help, I’m sure. He’s usually in his office around this time – do you need me to show you the way?”

Your mouth is dry. Yeah, you think. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see me.

“That’s okay,” you reply with a tight smile. “I’ll find it.”

She nods, bids you a warm goodbye, and her eyes have already drifted back to the papers in front of her when you turn to leave the room.

Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, straps of canvas material digging into the muscle there as you retrace your footsteps from yesterday. Up the creaking set of stairs, taking a left, and then another left, and your mind is a blur, static wobbling in your veins as you rehearse what you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you’d last seen him, and from the second you left, an image of what happened in his office played on a loop in your brain. Like the spool on a VHS has been stuck together, wound into a circle, and the tape repeats over and over again, the same images, sounds, smells, soaking your mind until all else is white noise. And it’s twisted, and wrong, and you’re vaguely aware of that, somewhere in the part of your brain where you stash knowledge that you’d prefer to forget. Because it’s easier to forget the hard part, the ugly part, and far nicer to remember the scrape of his stubble against your skin. The smell of him filling your nostrils as he crowds you against his desk. The scratch on your ass from his zipper. Remember how your name sounds when he moans it, and forget the feeling that comes when he refuses to look at you after the fact.

And you wonder if this is what the entire semester will be like; spending each day reminiscing on your last interaction with Joel, hoping for another touch, taste, another chance, another something, anything, from him. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, like a wall of freshly cemented bricks left to solidify in the sun. And beneath that, beneath the clay and sand and limestone, excitement buzzes. Indisputable, persistent, anticipation. A vibrating that hums in your bones and has you shivering from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull as you knock on his office door.

J MILLER PhD. The words glare at you from the bronze plaque for the second time in two days.

You hear his voice call pleasantly from behind the door. Light, relaxed. You swallow down the lump in your throat and step inside.

The window is wide open today, pale curtains drawn back to allow the bright midday sun to shine through and warm the carpet. Joel’s head tilts upward and within seconds the soft, easy smile on his face dissolves into something unreadable. He’s perched behind his desk, broad frame bent over a mess of papers, pen tucked neatly between coiled fingers. A clear tension simmers in the lines on his forehead; a tangible rigidity that clouds his expression when he sees that it’s you. He clicks the top of his pen once, twice, three times, and says your name in a clipped greeting.

“Hi,” you say, hand raising in a quick wave. “Sorry to barge in like this, I, uhh, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“My office hours are between one and four,” he says tersely, eyes lowering back to his book. “Schedule an appointment over email.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, face warming as embarrassment swells in your chest. All of the excitement—the longing—that had churned inside you since yesterday seems to dissipate, replaced by a looming sense of dread as you register how distant and apathetic he seems. How hard he tries to not even look in your direction. Those words from yesterday ring in your ears. Just get out.

“Seriously?” you mutter, nonetheless, trying to contain the hurt that threatens to spill across your face. “It’ll take five seco—”

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly.

Your jaw clenches, annoyance tightening the already stiff muscles in your shoulders as you march over to his desk, dropping your bag onto the edge of it. The exact same spot from yesterday, where’d pressed you down against the wood and— Joel’s shoulders hunch. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to just below his elbows, thin white material stressing around cords of muscle. You gaze at the bare skin for a moment, tongue heavy in your mouth, before looking to what he was doing before you came in. A book in front of him is filled with scribbles and annotations, harsh black marks scrawled beneath thin lines of text. You only get a second to look at it before his hands are snapping it shut, revealing the cover. Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey. The picture frame from yesterday is nowhere to be seen.

“Working on something for a lecture?” you try. If it’s about class, he can’t be mad. If it’s about class, he can’t push you away.

“What do you need?” he asks impatiently, ignoring your words entirely.

A hand lifts to rub the skin above his eyebrow. The tip of his middle finger massages the tan skin there in soft circles, and you watch the movement for a second, transfixed. No ring. I’m not married. His other hand reaches for the mug on his desk, and he takes a long, drawn-out sip of black coffee. Steam billows from the dark liquid, fogging the lenses of his glasses. The sight makes you want to laugh, but you swallow it down, acutely aware that Joel would be less than impressed by the reaction.

“I can’t access one of the readings for next week,” you explain distractedly, dragging the laptop from your bag.

You round his desk in a few short steps and Joel sighs, cringing as you place it down in front of him, opening the screen for him to see. He shifts his chair just slightly to the right, away from you. That persistent feeling of doubt coils in your gut, sharp teeth that twist and nip at your insides, taunting you, telling you that he doesn’t want you. And it’s not why you’re here—not at all—but you can’t bring yourself believe it. Don’t want to believe it. So you bite back – turn your back to his desk and pitch your thighs atop the edge of it, feet dangling an inch off the ground. You jeans are tight, and the fabric cuts into the skin of your hips where they bend.

“Get down,” he warns sharply, dismissing you with a taut shake of his head. “You can ask IT for help with that.”

“I’m asking you,” you persist stubbornly. “You’re my professor, Joel—"

“Yes, I am your professor,” Joel bites in agreement, glowering up at you. You stiffen warily at the heat in his gaze. At the anger you can see stirring in those dark brown orbs, brimming and ready to boil over. “And I don’t think we should be alone together,” he adds. “It’s not… this is bad for us, okay? I can’t… fuck, you can’t just come in here. I don’t want you comin’ in here anymore.”

And the memory plays once more. That thing, that something twisted, something wrong, something familiar, curls in your stomach. Snaps and bares its teeth at your uncertainty, sends it scattering into the distance, and replaces it with want.

“I didn’t even plan to come here,” your voice hardens, hackles rising as the feeling rises within you. “You’re not the first person I asked, alright? I just need some fucking help—”

“Don’t swear at me,” he interrupts through gritted teeth.

A beat of stunned silence hangs between you. A shocked laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes widening as you take in the grave expression on his face.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you stare at him incredulously. “Joel, you had your fingers inside of me against this desk yesterday. I think swearing is the least of our worries.”

“Jesus,” he spits, pushing his chair further from the desk. His elbows fall against his knees, head resting in his palms as he breaths, not looking at you. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, y’know that? Can you not just behave?”

Don’t swear, you want to tease, but think better of it.

Instead, you nod slowly, drop your hand onto the desk, fingers hovering over his book. “Joel,” you implore, tone pleading. “I don’t… I don’t know how to act around you right now, okay? It’s not easy for me to just pretend nothing has happened between us. To just forget.”

“And you think it’s easy for me?” he gripes. His eyes are focused on your hand; on the way your fingers tense and untense over the bound cover, stroking the frayed paper his own fingers have clearly touched countless times. He doesn’t move a muscle. “To try and act like things are normal, act like I didn’t—” he cuts himself off, lips clamping shut. An anguished look crosses his features.

“We’re both adults,” you frown. “It’s not a crime that we fucked, Joel.”

A harsh laugh falls from his mouth, stern eyes blazing. “Ain’t about that and you know it. It’s against professional ethics,” Joel snaps, tone firm. “Against university policy – if anybody finds out it could put us both in jeopardy.”

You’re silent for a moment, watching him. His glasses have slid down a little, and they rest precariously on the tip of this nose. Dark eyes stare from over the top of black frames, and then his legs are crossing, one tucking tightly over the other, a thick forearm dropping to rest across his lap, and want burns in your throat. You struggle to remember why you came to his office in the first place.

“Nobody is going to find out,” you whisper.

A rasp of your name catches in his throat. Joel looks bemused, face as flat as he rolls his eyes. “Quit fuckin’ playin’ around. You know how serious this is.”

You contain the urge to scowl, lips tight as you say, “Yeah, I know. Just—look, you don’t have to worry. We can cut it off right now – I won’t say a word of it to anyone. Nothing else is going to happen.”

But you can see the way his eyes flicker down your body whenever you move. How his gaze rests heavily at the pinch of your waist, the spread of your thighs against his desk, your bare arms, before darting away. You wonder if he’s touched himself thinking about you, and a jagged heat tears through the top of your thighs as you picture what that would look like.

“But that's not what you want, is it?” you ask softly. Joel doesn’t speak. He’s so still you almost think he didn’t hear you. But his eyes glance to your thighs again, you know that he did.

“You want me,” you say then, voice low and sure.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. Lips purse around clenched teeth and a harsh breath escapes his nose before he’s saying your name again, a strained whisper. And God, you love the way he says it. Like the word was created just to spite him.

“You are walkin’ on some mighty thin ice right now,” he grits out, heated gaze scorching your skin.

You glance down to his lap, where a forearm still balances over his crotch, and arch an eyebrow.

“Show me,” you murmur.

You can hear him breathing. Slow, exaggerated puffs of breath, chest rising and falling at an increasing pace as he maintains eye contact. Large hands tighten into fists, fingers curling against palms, and he’s dragging his arm back from his lap, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go within the arms of his chair. You wet your lips, face heating as you stare. The firm line of his cock is evident beneath his pants, a solid ridge against his left thigh. When you look back to his face there’s a faint red hue colouring the skin of his neck, steadily rising toward the edge of his facial hair. He’s blushing.

“How long?” you ask, voice awed.

“Since you got on the desk,” Joel grumbles, tone almost begrudging.

You hum softly, a low vibration in your throat, and then you’re slipping off his desk and taking a step towards him. And he doesn’t flinch away. He watches you close the distance between the pair of you and hover between his thighs, your legs almost brushing his.

“Let me help,” you whisper, lowering onto the ground in front of him. The carpet is warm and rough against your jean-clad knees. Your eyes drift from his face to between his thighs, and then back up, slowly.

“We shouldn’t,” he croaks, lips chapped and dry. You want to kiss him senseless. Want to drag your tongue across his mouth until it’s soaking wet and then push your way inside.

“But do you want me to?”

An agonising beat of silence follows. But there’s no doubt there anymore. No more wondering, or uncertainty, because you can see it in his eyes. The same all-consuming, devastating desire that crawls its way up to rest at the base of your throat whenever you’re with him.

And then thick fingers are at the waist of his pants, undoing his leather belt, his button, pushing the material open to reveal a pair of black briefs. He doesn’t take his pants off, just adjusts slightly in the chair before pressing his hand beneath the band of his underwear. Joel grips himself, the sight still obscured from your vision, and you find yourself mesmerised nonetheless, unable to drag your eyes away from the dark material. A low grunt escapes him, and then he shifts the band of his underwear down and pulls his cock out.

The head of him is swollen and leaking, tight skin so red that it’s almost a purple hue against the stark white of his shirt. Joel’s fingers tighten around his base, stroking himself once. Impatient, you lick you hand and let it drift forward to replace his, fingers slipping over the silky wet skin of his head and wrapping around him. Your hand is so much smaller in comparison, and your fingertips almost don’t meet as you flex your grip around girth.

Your underwear clings to the skin between your thighs, material warm and damp against you, a result of the simmering heat that rests in the base of your belly and flares every time Joel sighs. When you glance up to see his face, he’s already staring at you, pupils blown wide, lips sealed in a tight line. His length twitches in your palm, and you salivate.

You lean in and place a gentle kiss again his tip, smearing the pearl of precome there against your lips. You stroke the length of him in slow, firm pumps, guiding his head against your puckered lips, but not quite taking it inside yet. Joel’s fists are tight against his thighs, and you wish he would put them in your hair, on the back of your head, grip you, pull you down against him. But he doesn’t, not yet.

He’s got a salty, heady taste, and you swipe your tongue out to clean the hint of it from your mouth, swallowing with a satisfied purr. A harsh exhale shoots from his nose, eyebrows dragging further down as he watches you tease him.

A quick flick of your tongue against his slit has a sharp gasp rising from him, and in response you lathe wet, messy kisses to his head, puckering your lips around it and swirling your tongue, not caring what you look like, not caring that he probably wants you to go faster. It’s purely for your own enjoyment, and you’re moaning and sighing around the taste of him. You want to take Joel Miller a part, piece by piece, and feel him come undone beneath your mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, you let his head slip passed your open lips and sink into the wet heat of your mouth. And he’s so quiet, so composed, so you glide your tongue over his slit again before pressing forward, lips meeting the movement of your own hand as you take him deeper.

Your jaw strains, muscles smarting as you attempt to take the entirety of him. He’s so long, so thick, and the tip of him is nudging against the back of your throat in seconds, making your eyes water. And god it’s better than you could’ve imagined.

Tears cling to your eyelashes as you look up and find Joel with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, pink skin turning white from pressure. The heavy weight of him crowds your senses, his taste on your tongue and scent in your nostrils, everywhere, and you can feel how hot your face is getting but you can’t look away from him. You don’t stop until his hand is landing on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair in his fist and dragging your mouth off him. You part with a wet gasp, a string of saliva dangling between his tip and your shiny lips.

“Breathe, goddammit,” Joel says, holding you still when you attempt to press forward and take him back into your mouth.

“You’re so big,” you say earnestly, head tilting backward to rest heavy in his hold. You blink through bleary eyes, smiling lazily. Drunk on him after only a little taste. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this, you know. How you’d taste… how it would feel to have you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, stop,” Joel says quickly, voice pained. “Y’can’t say shit like that.” His grip tightens at the base of your neck, and then he’s guiding your face forward so the head of his cock slips back into your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

You hum appreciatively and relax your jaw, taking him until he’s nudging at your throat again, and he’s still so fucking silent. Determined to get some kind of reaction from him, you pull off and lick a broad stripe from tip to base, hand stroking his length in unhurried, firm pulls as your mouth finds his heavy balls. Your tongue glides along the sensitive skin in slow, overwhelming movements, leaving no inch of him untouched. Wet sounds fill the air as the movement of your fist increases in pace, and your lips drag over him, sucking one of his balls into your mouth and then—finally—a long, drawn-out groan spills into the air, and he’s saying, “Shit, that’s it.”

Never pausing the movement of your hand, you pull back just a smidge and grin.

Joel’s hands are on you then, another deep sound sputtering from his lips. He’s brushing your hair off your face, mussing it as he rakes his fingers through it, short nails scraping against your scalp. He swears softly when you take him back into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly. “Is that what you want? Needy little thing wants a little praise, huh? Want me to tell you how good you are, how good your pretty mouth feels on my cock?”

You whimper, eyelids fluttering as you begin to move on him desperately. Your mouth tightens around him, and a tear squeezes from your eyes as his hips jolt forward, cock nudging suddenly into the back of your throat. Joel’s hand cups the back of your head, strokes the damp skin at the base of your neck as you gag around him.

“Jesus,” Joel groans at the sound. “There you go, s’perfect, s’fuckin’ perfect.”

The muscles in your thighs tighten, legs pressing together to try and soothe the pulsing ache there. Your head is moving up and down along his length and it’s wet and messy and depraved, saliva gliding down your chin to your neck, and you fucking love it. Joel’s gruff sounds of encouragement only serve to spur you on.

And then, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, it happens again.

A firm rap against the door of his office.

Joel goes silent. Your shoulders tense, and you pull back until his tip rests heavy on your bottom lip. Wide eyed, you gaze up at him, panic swelling in your chest. And then comes that voice; the same voice as yesterday.

“You in there Joel?”

You can feel your lungs squeezing inside your chest, grasping violently for air and finding zero reprieve as the reality of the moment begins to overwhelm you, because you know that voice.

“Fuck,” you whisper dazedly, slumping back to rest on your heels. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

Joel shakes his head, strong hands gripping your shoulders to soothe you. “Shh,” he hushes quietly. “Stop, hey, stop. It’s fine.”

Another knock at the door. Nowhere for you to go, nowhere to hide.

“Just a sec, Rachel,” Joel calls, voice laced with frustration.

And then those hands are guiding you backwards. You move blindly, allowing him to encourage your body back, back, back, broad palm protecting your head as he nudges you underneath the desk. Further and further until you’re completely hidden, tucked away where only he can see you. And as you settle into the warm, sweaty space, watch Joel drag his chair forward and squeeze his long legs around your body, you feel the panic quell. Your pulse slows, the tremor in your hands settles, and cool relief comes in the form of a chill down your spine.

“Come in,” Joel calls. You can hear the door click open a second later, soft footsteps entering the room. You hold your breath as they begin to talk, heart stuttering, eyes trained on his where his spit-soaked cock rests against the underside of his desk.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Rachel’s soft voice chimes. “I was hoping to grab my copy of The Annals, I need it for the undergrad lecture I’m covering this afternoon.”

“Course,” he says sharply, and you can hear a drawer to your right open and close. A moment of silence. “All yours.”

Your abdomen tenses at the sound of his haggard voice, and something tight pulls in your chest. A flare of jealousy, of possessiveness, at the fact that someone else is seeing him right now. That the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his neck, is no longer yours alone. And it’s absurd, because she has no idea. But the desire to reclaim the moment for yourself, to assert that his sweat, his blush—his body—is yours is overwhelming, and you find your hand gripping his heavy cock, tongue gliding out of your mouth to swipe against his weeping tip. The dread from before flares in the back of your mind but you push it away, shove it down until it’s hazy, a faint ringing that fades into the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Joel’s thighs stiffen. He coughs, a sharp, surprised noise.

“Thanks for that,” Rachel says, voice slow. “Hey… are you doing okay? Looking pretty faint over there, Miller.”

You smile around him and rub your tongue in teasing strokes along the underside of his sensitive head. He clears his throat roughly, and then his hand is slipping underneath the desk to tangle in your hair. It’s rough and it stings, and you find yourself humming ever so slightly around him, indicating that you love it.

“Feelin’ a little under the weather,” he agrees faintly.

“Should try some of that tea I always tell you about,” she says, ever so friendly. “Works a treat when you’re sick.”

“Maybe I will,” Joel says, and his fingers are twisting in your messy locks, pulling your mouth away from his cock.

Although he can’t see you, you pout. Not wanting to push it, you settle for looping three fingers around him, index middle and thumb, gripping just beneath his head, and begin to rub him in slow, soundless movements. With every forward motion of your hand, the tip of his cock brushes against your lower lip, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“I could bring you some,” Rachel offers then. You can practically hear the smile in her voice, picture the kind slant to her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow, if you think you’ll be coming into wor—”

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Joel snaps suddenly, voice almost harsh as he interrupts her. “Was that all you needed?”

“Oh,” she replies awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No,” he says, audibly flustered. His cock is drooling over your lips, and the salty taste has your pussy aching, clenching painfully tight, begging to be filled. “m’sorry, got a fuckin’ headache, is all. Tea tomorrow?”

“Tea tomorrow, sure,” Rachel confirms. “Sorry again, I… yeah, sorry, I hope you feel better, Joel.”

Whem the door closes a moment later Joel is shoving his chair backward again, hands wrenching you out from underneath his desk. You fall forward, flushed and breathless. His expression is thunderous, pitch-black eyes glaring down at you. On all fours, you crawl forward and splay your palms across his thighs, feel them twitch and tremble beneath your nimble fingers.

“You couldn’t fuckin’ wait?” he snaps, hand finding a home in your hair once more. He drags it into a ponytail and wraps it around his fist.

“Sorry,” you lie, teeth nipping at your swollen bottom lip. Joel’s eyes follow the movement and he grunts, unimpressed with the apology.

“She could’ve caught us,” he admonishes you.

“Better start locking the door then,” you clip, winking lazily. A short huff passes through his lips, and then his left hand is dropping to land on your chin, thumb rubbing against your lower lip, prying it from between your teeth.

“Open,” he orders.

His jaw is set with concentration, eyebrows drawn low as he cradles your jaw, holding it still while he pushes his cock back into your eager mouth. The salt of him rushes your senses again and you’re moaning around him, cheeks hollowed and eyes wet as he begins to rut into your mouth, the tip of his cock caressing the back of your throat with every thrust. It’s fast and hard, and the noises coming out of you are scandalous, but you can’t drag your eyes away from his face. Lips parted, eyes ablaze as he watches his cock push in and out of your mouth, over and over again. A tear streaks down your cheek and Joel groans, swiping at it with his fingers. Shallow curses and murmurs of your name spill from his lips in a tortured stream of consciousness.

“Always so fuckin’—impatient,” he mutters. His grip on your jaw is near bruising, cock throbbing against your tongue. You can sense how close he is. Feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, snapping thrusts losing their rhythm.

The stretch has a dull ache searing through your jaw, but Joel is breathless, eyes dark and focused on yours, saying, “Look at you. So pretty takin’ my cock like this.” and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyelids flutter closed, and his fingers are tapping your cheek quickly—softly?

“Let me see you,” he says urgently. “Want those eyes on me, don’t close them.” You cast your eyes up to meet his gaze, and Joel hisses under his breath, expression taut.

His hips drag backward, and he’s replacing your mouth with his hand, fucking himself in quick, brutal strokes, and your mouth is open, slick tongue peaking between your lips before he can even say open your mouth.

“Fuck,” he exhales at the sight, tip bumping against your tongue with every wet pump of his fist. His thighs are trembling beneath your hands, and you dig your nails into the muscles there, encouraging him. “Fuck me.”

And then he’s coming, face going slack as hot ropes of his come paint your lips, your tongue, your chin. Unashamed rasps of your name fall from pink lips, washing over you in glorious waves as you sit there and take all of it. And for a moment, you think it’s over. But then Joel’s hand is still moving over his length, calloused thumb gliding against the ridge of his rounded tip, and there’s more.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck—yes.”

Salty strings of his spend gloss over your cheeks and slide down to paint your neck. And it’s like he’s coming a second time, torso jolting in short, jerky movements, and you wish you could see his body while he came; the way the muscles in his stomach would flex and pull taut, entire frame straining as he gives you his all.

His shoulders slump forward as he stares down at you, hand falling away from his sensitive cock, and his face is ruined. Eyes blown wide, cheeks a dark red, looking at you like he’d enjoy nothing more than to devour you whole. Maintaining eye contact, you swallow down his spend, practically purring at the taste of him.

Joel’s thumb smears his come off your cheeks and into your swollen mouth, making sure you don’t miss a single drop.

“Good girl,” his voice is broken. “That’s it, yeah—yes, s’perfect.”

Perfect, perfect, perfect. The word rings in your ears. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t believe that you are both still fully clothed. You feel naked, bared to him in the truest sense of the word, despite being completely covered up.

He groans heartily when you suck his fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around them greedily, and swallow down the last of his spend.

For a moment after, the two of you simply sit there, your knees chafed and aching against the carpet, his fingers hooked against your tongue, staring at each other. And you know. You both know – there’s no going back from this.

Joel drags his hand away and snatches a box of tissues from the top drawer of his desk. You stand, knees popping in relief, and lean against the desk to stabilise yourself. He takes a moment to clean himself, and when you’re sure he’s not looking you swipe a pen from his desk, scribble a set of numbers on a post it and press the sticky paper down against the cover of The Odyssey.

He offers you the box of tissues and you wipe your face carefully, make sure no trace of him is left on your skin. Joel watches your movements like a hawk, eyes fading from black to brown as he fixes his belt and tucks his shirt back into his pants.

“You good?” he asks after a moment. And it’s the same. The same thing he asked you that night in the bar after fucking your brains out. After calling you a slut, a dirty little thing. Maybe it’s his thing—you good? And it’s more than anyone else has ever said after you’ve had their cock in your mouth, so you smile at him. Nod. The duality of man, you think.

“Perfect,” you use his word, and cringe at how wrecked your voice is. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches upward, something sly and conspiratorial in his gaze as he watches you tuck your computer into your bag, IT issue long forgotten.

Even as you wander toward the door of his office, tossing a casual see you tomorrow over your shoulder, you can see it in his face. In the lines by his eyes, the furrow of his brow; never satiated, never finished, never satisfied. More, more, more. This wasn’t enough for either of you. And this will not be the last time.

Hours later, when you’re tucked into bed with a glass of wine and a book perched in your lap, you get a text from an unknown number.

You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.

And then another, twenty minutes later.

That can’t happen again.

You grin. Save his number under J MILLER, PhD, and don’t reply.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida

thank you for reading! x

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

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anotherworldawaitsus · 5 days ago

Text

Crash

Summary: An accident pulls you and Melissa further into each other’s orbit.

Chapter: 3/4

Chapter 3

The meeting passed in a blur. Melissa had a hard time following the agenda. She bounced her knee nervously until Barb laid a gentle hand on her thigh and she stilled. As soon as it was acceptable to leave, Melissa was up like a shot.

“Where are you going now?” Jacob asked. The redhead paused in the doorway, turning to fix him with a glare.

“Who’s askin’?”

“I was just wondering…” Jacob gulped, eyes darting around the table. “Does this have anything to do with a certain school psychologist?”

As soon as he mentioned you, Melissa’s gaze softened.

“Gregory shared that she wasn’t feeling well,” Barbara added. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Not feelin’ well,” Melissa laughed darkly, rocking back on her heels.

“I was trying to respect her privacy,” Gregory explained. “But that’s probably an understatement.”

Barabra’s eyebrows knitted together in alarm. “Why an understatement? What happened?”

Melissa opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, not trusting herself to speak. Gregory chimed in. “Car accident. She’s a little banged up.”

“Someone ran her off the road,” Melissa corrected. “And when I find out who it was, they’re gonna wish they’d never been born.”

Cries of outrage and concern rose up around the table, warming her Sicilian heart. “Has she seen a doctor?” Jacob demanded, already halfway out of his seat.

Melissa held up a hand. “Paramedics treated her at the scene. She has some broken ribs, a bunch of cuts and bruises—“

“And a concussion,” Gregory reminded her. At Melissa’s dumbfounded expression, he muttered, “Am I really the only one that took health class? Her pupils were dilated, she’s got a headache—“

“She’s sensitive to light,” Melissa breathed, awareness dawning on her features. “Oh Jesus, I left her alone in her office, what if she falls asleep?”

“That’s actually a myth,” Gregory supplied. “Sleep is an important part of the healing process after head trauma.”

“Oh, really?” Melissa spat. “Where’d ya get your medical degree, Web MD?”

Barbara walked over quickly and laid a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Hey, is Nurse Donna in today?” Janine asked, redirecting the conversation before Melissa could eviscerate her boyfriend. “Maybe she can stop by and —“

“That’s an excellent idea, Janine,” Barbara said, and the younger teacher beamed. “Check the infirmary. Jacob, why don’t you walk over —“

“Run over,” Melissa interjected.

“—and inform her of the situation.”

Jacob, practically vibrating with nervous energy, sprang from his chair and sprinted out of the room. Barbara squeezed the redhead’s hand, giving her a significant look. “Go. We’ve got this.”

She smiled sheepishly, mumbling a word of thanks. Then she was off again, hurrying back down the long hallway and up the stairs that led to your office. She was kicking herself for not noticing what had been so obvious to Gregory. Melissa had seen your helmet, after all. Just the memory of it made her queasy.

As she chastised herself, the image of your bloody t-shirt flashed in her mind again and she felt a cold spike of fury. Tonight she’d make some calls to her cousin. He had a friend that worked in the DMV. If the cops didn’t find the driver that ran you off the road, she would.

Melissa took a moment to rein in the twin tendrils of rage and vengeance crackling beneath her skin before stepping across the threshold of your office. She was relieved to see that almost everything was exactly as she’d left it. The only difference was that you had changed position, reclining fully on the small sofa. With a terrible stab of fondness, she noticed you had kicked your boots off and your feet (wearing mismatched wool socks) dangled over the edge of the low armrest.

She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at you for a moment, allowing herself to enjoy the sweetness of your face, soft and unguarded in sleep. You looked impossibly young.

The sight was somehow more intimate than seeing you shirtless and vulnerable in the bathroom, more intimate than touching your bare skin with her hands. She had the urge to gather you up in her arms, tuck you into bed, protect you from the fraught, perilous outside world. And it was in this moment, breath hitching in her throat, warmth flooding her chest, that the awful truth finally dawned on Melissa. She had fallen for you. Shit.

As quickly as the realization gripped her, she pushed it away. There would be time to work through these inconvenient emotions later, preferably with a bottle of wine and a few Nicholas Sparks movies (a course of treatment you might have some professional objections to, but hey, Melissa was a creature of habit when it came to heartbreak.)

She crouched down beside you and gave you a gentle shake.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she whispered. “Can you wake up for me?”

Your features remained slack, as if she hadn’t spoken. Melissa frowned, saying your name a few times. You didn’t move. She raised a hand to your face, gently tapping your cheek. Still nothing.

A soft knock interrupted her rising panic. Nurse Donna stood in the doorway, carrying a small medical bag. Her kind face was schooled into a comforting expression as she surveyed the scene, wire rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose. Jacob hovered in the background, hands clasped together.

“I heard there was an accident?” Nurse Donna prompted.

The nurse was a fixture at Abbott. Her neat gray bun and no-nonsense demeanor had weathered many a medical emergency over the decades—broken bones, fevers, asthma attacks, allergic reactions. Melissa stood up and cleared her throat roughly, but her voice still cracked when she spoke.

“She ain’t wakin’ up, Donna.”

The older woman nodded calmly, stepping forward and taking control of the situation. She leaned over your prone form on the couch and placed a hand on your forehead, slowly lifting the lid of one eye and then the other, shining a penlight into your pupils. A few tense moments later you recoiled as if from a slap.

“There she is,” Nurse Donna crowed happily, reaching into her bag to retrieve a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff.

Melissa sagged against the edge of your desk, relief spreading like a sweet antidote to the malignant venom of fear. Jacob entered the room and stood beside her. He didn’t say anything, but she appreciated his solid, warm presence flush against her side.

“M’lissa?” you slurred.

“I’m right here,” she answered, peering around the nurse to get in your line of sight.

“Had a funny dream.” Your voice was thick with confusion.

“Has she taken any medication?” Nurse Donna asked, affixing the cuff to your arm.

“Some Tylenol,” Melissa said. She plucked the bottle from the table and deposited it into the nurse’s outstretched hand. Donna gave it a cursory glance before continuing with her ministrations.

“Blood pressure is normal,” she reported. Next she listened to your heartbeat, carefully maneuvering the chest piece around to your shoulders, sternum, and lungs. Finally, she lifted your shirt high enough to inspect your ribs. Jacob gasped softly. Bright red blood had soaked through the gauze in several places. She pulled the bandage back, examining the large abrasions and purple bruises thoughtfully.

“Ouch,” she said.

Reaching back into her bag, she withdrew some antiseptic ointment and gently cleaned the wounds before applying a fresh dressing. Then, giving you one last affectionate pat on the cheek, she stood up and exited your office. Melissa and Jacob followed her out into the hallway.

“She does appear to have a slight concussion,” Donna confirmed. “But that’s not the reason she can’t wake up.”

She raised the bottle of pills and gave it a shake.

“Tylenol PM,” Jacob read, eyes widening.

“Combined with the general stress that tends to accompany blunt force trauma, I’d say these little guys are what’s making her so sluggish.”

Melissa closed her eyes. A calm hand landed on her shoulder.

“An honest mistake,” Nurse Donna soothed. “And, in hindsight, perhaps serendipitous! She needs rest, and I bet she’s not the type who goes down without a fight.”

Jacob laughed, nodding his head and jerking a thumb toward Melissa. “The only person more stubborn is —“

The redhead quirked an eyebrow at him, daring him to finish that sentence, but Jacob seemed to become suddenly fascinated by something on the floor and trailed off. Nurse Donna continued her report.

“My advice? Let her sleep it off. She should be more alert in a few hours. As for the rest of her injuries, there’s no quick fix. Ribs will heal on their own in a month or so. Ice will help the pain, but she won’t be doing any heavy lifting for a while. And she should keep the abrasions clean to avoid infection.”

Jacob looked at the redhead, relief plain on his face. “That’s good news, right?”

Melissa nodded. Though part of her still wanted to march down to the hospital and find the paramedics that had treated you. She had a few questions to ask them—like what the hell were they thinking, releasing you with a concussion? She hoped for their sake she never met them in a dark alleyway.

“I’d recommend someone sit with her, she might be disoriented when she wakes up,” Nurse Donna said. “Other than that, if you have any questions, just give me a ring!”

Then, with another comforting squeeze to Melissa’s shoulder and a little wave, she headed back to the infirmary.

“I can bring anything you need from your classroom,” Jacob offered.

Melissa shot him a grateful look. “Thanks, hon,” she said. “I owe ya.”

For a few hours, Melissa worked quietly at your desk. Every so often she would pause and watch the gentle rise and fall of your chest, but overall it was a blissfully uneventful way to pass the time after such a frantic and frightening start to the day. With every minute, she felt the tight coil of anxiety unwinding in her body. She was making good progress on a stack of ungraded tests, thought she might even get her marking done before lunch.

But then you whimpered.

It was a sound not of confusion or pain but something longing, needy. You shifted on the sofa, and made another breathy, keening noise in the back of your throat. Melissa’s mind went blank. The entire world seemed to shrink to your flushed face, your pink lips parted in a sigh of pleasure.

Melissa felt a flash of guilt for witnessing such a private moment, but it was eclipsed by curiosity—what (and who) were you dreaming about?

She knew that the breakup with your ex at the start of the summer had been messy. That you’d fallen back into bed with each other several times before you finally called it quits. And that since then, you’d spent a few nights with different people. It was these casual, faceless hookups that drove Melissa to distraction. Were you picturing some fast fuck in a dive bar bathroom? Reliving a night in a stranger’s apartment, being spread open by some other woman’s hands? The thought made her head foggy with lust, with outrage, with jealousy.

And then you clearly said one word.

“Melissaaaaaaa,” you whined softly.

The lead point of the pencil in her hand snapped, rolling away uselessly across the page she’d been marking. She looked down briefly, then back up to your supine form on the sofa. Your eyes fluttered open.

“Hi,” Melissa said, her voice hoarse. “Good dream?”

“You should know.” You licked your lips. “You were there.”

The confession was laced with none of your usual playful swagger. You were seized by the surreal sleepy clarity of desire, your entire body throbbed with it. She stood up and walked toward you on unsteady legs. Your eyes, bright and glassy, never left her face.

“How do ya feel?” she asked.

“Tired,” you said with a frown. “Like I can’t keep my eyes open.”

You shifted, making space for her on the sofa. She sat down and leaned against you, seeking out your fingers with her own and tangling them together absently. She explained the mix-up with the pain pills and you huffed in disbelief, a teasing smirk edging at the corners of your mouth.

“So you drugged me.”

Melissa squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t be a brat.”

“You bring it out in me,” you insisted quietly, playing with the edge of her denim shirt. Then, still possessed by the fading memory of dream Melissa, you slipped your hand under the fabric, fingertips dancing along the curve of her bare hip. Your breath caught at her warmth, her softness.

“You’re delirious,” she said, looking down at you in wonder. You were close enough you could see the pulse flickering madly in her throat.

“Feels like I’m still dreaming,” you said, voice little more than a whisper.

“Go back to sleep, hon.”

You protested, but your eyes were already drifting closed. Melissa waited until she was sure you were out again then placed a kiss on your forehead. With great reluctance, she returned to your desk, ignoring the electric hum of affection and arousal stampeding through her body.

Slowly the rest of the day slipped away. When the sky outside began to deepen toward late afternoon, Barbara came to check on you both. She stood in the doorway for a few moments before Melissa noticed her. The redhead looked quite beautiful in the soft halo of lamplight. Her hair fell in a curtain over one shoulder. Every so often, her eyes darted toward your sleeping form. Barbara wondered what revelations the day had bestowed upon her stubborn friend, and what, if anything, would come from them?

She cleared her throat to announce her presence and pulled a chair up next to you on the sofa.

“How’s the patient?” she asked, running her hand over your forehead tenderly. You nuzzled toward her touch, but didn’t wake up.

Melissa leaned back from the desk and stretched, smiling as Barbara proceeded to brush hair out of your face and straighten the blanket draped across your chest, her mama bear instincts on auto-pilot.

“According to Donna, she’ll live.”

“Praise the Lord,” Barbara murmured.

Melissa hummed in agreement. “Wanna give me a hand? I’m gonna drive her home. She don’t look too comfortable on that little couch.”

Barbara helped Melissa pack up her things and together they roused you, walked you to the parking lot, and situated you in the passenger seat of her car. You thanked Barbara, still a little groggy, as she helped you buckle up. You were too tired to be embarrassed.

“Get some rest, dear,” she said, closing the door carefully. Then she turned to her friend. “I know you’ll take good care of her.”

Melissa nodded, looking away. “Yeah, Donna said she shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Ok, maybe that was bending the truth a bit. But the fact remained you had a concussion, and you lived alone. Melissa couldn’t stomach the idea of dropping you off to an empty apartment. What you needed was a home-cooked meal, a warm bath, and someone to make sure you behaved. Her stomach flipped pleasantly at that last part.

Barbara didn’t press, just gave Melissa a long look before she spoke.

“Make sure you take care of yourself too,” she said, running a gentle hand up and down her friend’s arm. “You don’t always have to be so strong.”

She turned and walked to her own car.

“And call me if you need anything,” she added over her shoulder.

Then she drove away, leaving Melissa standing in the cold afternoon light.

Chapter 4

#melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary

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