#the subject to the email was ‘good job on the final’

[solace-seekers]

soemtimes the college experience is having your professor personally email you to tell you the exam went okay cause a ta noticed you crying during the final <3

[recareels]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

“I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck—to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[wonsdoll]

EMAILS i CANT SEND ── PJS

PREC𝓲S ｡｡ 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗃𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄. 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋

박종성 ／⠀ 𝑓𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒 reader ── slight angst + non 𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑙 au ｡｡ jay debut on my acc we screamed & for mils duh because she’s my jong girl >_< !! ∿ ✦ more

THE SOUND OF YOUR COMPUTER GOES OFF as you continued to work on your last designs for the night. your boss sent out one last email about final submissions before the fashion show in milan for next month.

you were a fashion designer, designing clothing for women in fashion shows. your job had its perks, your creativity was on showcase for many to see, many to hopefully buy if it went successful. although your life was at its high right now, back then it wasn’t.

four months ago you were in the happiest relationship possible, or so you thought. jay was a sweet guy, he always had you in his thoughts, he was your protector. who knew your protector could suddenly switch up and change drastically ?

jay had moved to france, his dream country, he also got a job as a famous watch designer. designing watches in paris was jay’s dream, something he took seriously and did whatever it took to achieve it. leaving you behind was one thing, it hurt more than any wound.

jay was living his best life, doing his dream job in his dream country. you tried to continue with life, the only way to move forward, was to move on and push through.

you hit sent on your final email, your mouse running over the words “draft”. you clicked on it, slightly curious about all your drafted emails, that’s when you saw it.

drafts: 76 unsent emails.

seventy six times, you tried to reach out to jay, in hopes of bringing you two back together, those messages never made it to him. you went back and forth with your inner thoughts whether or not you should send them, afraid of jays reaction. after seventy six times, you decided to stop saving emails and move forward.

your heart hurt as you scrolled to view more emails, more failed attempts of starting back something you once held so close to you.

subject: i miss you more than anything

to: jongsongpark@emails.com

y/nforever@emails.com: jay it’s me.. i miss you so much, the winters are colder without your warmth. something i can’t live without. i hope paris is good, have you tried the fresh croissants yet? remember our dream back when we were teens? going to the eiffel tower after a fresh french breakfast. we were young and wild, i miss us.

please take care of yourself jay, i mean it.

with love, y/n.

and another.

subject: merry christmas my love

to: jongsongpark@emails.com

y/nforever@emails.com: merry christmas jay ! i hope you got everything you dreamed this year, maybe even more. i miss our little traditions, like watching home alone on christmas eve. our matching pajamas which i still have and wear. i also still have that locket you gifted me, i hold it close to my heart, like i do with you. please get back to me soon, i want to make things right.

with love, y/n.

you closed your laptop, pushing it away as you sat up, preparing yourself for a late night walk. late night walks have always helped you clear your mind, especially late at night, when all your thoughts roamed to jay’s whereabouts.

even though things were hard for you, they were even harder for jay. jay sat up in his bed, checking his emails for the night before getting ready for a huge meeting in the morning. his fingers glided onto the touchpad, navigating his way through the emailing system.

jay’s computer pointer landed on the words “drafts”. with curiously, jay clicks drafts, finding over 70 emails of his failed attempts to reach out.

subject: paris update.

to: y/nforever@emails.com

hey sweet girl, i’ve made it to paris. i’m scared i won’t lie, i’m far away from you so i won’t be protecting you, not like i was doing a good job at it anyways. you taught me a lot in life and that’s why i’m chasing my dreams. let’s talk soon okay?

missing you, jay.

and another.

subject: paris fashion

to: y/nforever@emails.com

hey sweet girl, all the paris fashion reminds me of you. i know how much you love creating designs and everything everyone wears here has a touch of you to it. i good your job is going well, sending you a few french clothing pieces, hope you like it.

with love always, jay.

jay did send you a few pieces of french clothing. a gorgeous skirt with detailing that called your name, a few tops that hugged your chest perfectly, and a black fur coat, similar to the one who’ve been working on for months.

jay continued to scroll through his drafted emails, all his failed attempts to try to reconnect, all his late night thoughts. missing you was an understatement, he wanted to be with you, but jay never knew if the feeling was mutual.

his thoughts of you never left, jay was hurting. although his dreams did come true, one dream was left behind and it was you. you were his present, past, snd hopefully his future. jay was determined to see you again, the real question was, how was he going to see you.

jay did a few calls before heading to sleep, asking a few of his coworkers about your designing company and when the next fashion show in milan may be. his eyes lighting up the minute he heard you may come to milan in a month for the show.

this was his opportunity, his opportunity to spend time with you and reconnect. after his calls, jay went back into his email, his movements leading back to the “new email” page.

it took a while for jay to find the right wording, knowing this email would actually get sent to you, no backing down. his heart faced as he typed, the clicking easing his mind slowly.

subject: let’s meet again.

to: y/nforever@emails.com

hey sweet girl, i’ve been thinking over these months, let’s meet up in milan when you get here. i could show you around, maybe take you to get that paris latte you’ve always wanted ? just let me know your flight info and i’ll be there okay??

with love always, jay.

💌 : jay debut on my acc yippie. i’ll proofread in the morning i’m sooo tired so goodnight ! time to honk shooo honk shooo mimimimi BTW FOR @kairoot bc she’s the biggest jay girl eva !

[itgetzweird08]

one two three four

katsuki bakugo x Gn!reader

One week later

T-Minus three weeks until the dance

—------------

 “Good Morning!” 

For so early in the morning, the rat principal was very cheerful. The same couldn’t be said for his human climbing tree. Mr. Aizawa stood slouched, eyes dark and face heavy with lack of sleep. Nezu sat snuggly in the binding cloths on the tired man’s shoulder. Mitsuki had only spoken to the principal on a handful of occasions, and she always thought he was very…unique. But he was damn good at his job, and he really cared about his students. That's why Mitsuki had such a good feeling about the request she was about to make, despite it being such a large one. 

“‘Morning. Thanks for meeting with me, I know your schedules are probably packed with everything going on around here.”

Nezu smiled cheerfully at the woman, waving a paw in dismissal. “Nonsense! I’m always happy to meet with a parent, especially you, Mrs. Bakugo. Young Bakugo is an amazing student and has done a lot for the country. We owe him a lot. Now, let’s get into the conference room. From the summary of your reason for meeting that you gave me, I figured it would be best that the rest of the faculty joined us as well.”

The three walked into the conference room, with Mitsuki taking a seat at the head of the table. Around the table sat the UA teachers, Hounddog, and Hawks. While initially shocked by his presence, she realized that it made sense. In her email to Nezu, she mentioned that the subject of the meeting had to do with bending an international rule, and Hawks had a lot of contact with other countries as the new head of the Hero Commission.  She was grateful he was here, as she knew he had a particular soft spot for Katsuki. If she remembered correctly, he called him “A little asshole with a lot of spunk”. She thought it was a fair statement.

After exchanging greetings and pleasantries, and accepting a cup of tea from Present Mic, she began the meeting.

“Thank you all for being here. I recognize that you all are busy so I’m gonna try and make this quick,” Mitsuki sat up straighter, folding her hands together as she looked around the table. “A couple of years ago, Katsuki met another hero student at the I-Expo. They stayed in contact for a while, got really close, and eventually started dating. They care for each other, a lot. They talk every night and are a huge pillar of support for one another. So much so that,” 

Mitsuki found herself getting choked up. She always did when she thought about the possibility that she would have to deliver that letter to you. She cleared her throat, taking a breath. She hated crying, especially in front of people. After a moment, she continued.

“Right before the war, Katsuki gave me a box to send them in case something happened to him. He truly cares about them. On that note, as you all know, the Spring Dance is coming up. Despite what most people think, Katsuki actually enjoys dressing up. I thought he would be excited about the dance, but he wasn’t. In fact, he’s dreading it. All his friends have been talking about are their dates, and Katsuki refuses to take anyone but them. Now, for my request. Katsuki died for this country. This is his last chance for some fun before graduating and becoming a real pro. So please,” she bowed deeply as she spoke. Mitsuki had a lot of pride and was known for rarely ever apologizing or bowing to anyone. But Katsuki deserved to be happy. She just wanted her kid to be okay.

“Please allow them to attend as Katsuki’s date. I can give you records, letters of recommendation, and even character statements. They are a great kid and an even better student. They would cause no trouble. I just want Katsuki to be happy.”

The room was silent as all of the staff looked at Mitsuki. They then looked at each other, all thinking the same thing. Finally, Hawks broke the silence. “To be honest with you, Mrs. Bakugo, this is a complicated situation. Other countries still don’t have a particularly great view of Japan. Trying to convince them that they should allow a pardon, just for a school dance? Realistically, it’s damn near impossible,” Mitsuki felt her heart sink, a disappointed sigh leaving her. Well, at least no one could say she didn’t tr- 

“However, you make a very compelling point. Young Bakugo saved not only Japan but the rest of the world. He is, without a doubt, a hero. I make you no promises on what the rest of the commission or international board might say, but I can promise that I will advocate for Bakugou and get you an answer before the end of the week.” 

Mitsuki broke out into a rare, wide, sincere grin. She bowed once more to the room, bending deeply.

“Thank you all.”

————

It was about 15 minutes before your usual morning talk with Katsuki when you got the call. Before the war, Katsuki gave you his parents' contact info in case of an emergency. You had only spoken to them on a handful of occasions, wishing them a happy birthday or anniversary, shouting ‘Hello!’ when you were on the phone and Katsuki was at home. But you had never really spoken to them one-on-one until Mitsuki called you.

You answered without hesitation, disregarding your normal early morning TikTok scroll. Something had to be wrong for her to call you, you figured. Your voice was frantic when you answered. “Hello? Is everything alright Mrs. Bakugou? Is Katsu-“

“Chillax kid! Jeez!” 

You blinked, confused at her tone. Okay, so clearly there wasn’t an emergency. 

“I’m sorry, I thought something was wrong. You’ve never called before-“ 

“Sorry, I should make more of a habit of calling my future daughter in law” 

You chose to ignore her comment. “So..if there’s no emergency, not to be rude, why are you calling?” You could picture her shit-eating grin in your head, knowing it was where Katsuki had gotten it from. 

“Well…I spoke to Hawks, you know the head of the hero commission here in Japan, he spoke with your government and pulled some strings…how would you like to be Katsuki’s date to the Spring dance?”

————

I’m having trouble tagging some of yall 😔. Anyways sorry this is so late, uni has been beating me into the floor 😭

Taglist: : @sleepyeri @teeesthings @zaiban2989 @kathsuhki @rinbeeyum @oladelmars @luv-for-fictional-characters @attackonnat @ratcity12345 @bffrs-stuff @ch3rryjampi3 @venus1224idkpleaze @fiannee @consentismfhot @abcdefghijklmmopqrstuvwxyz @bl-og134 @amayaaaxx @mikestuffffs @mushroomsoup119 @thatprettybunny @wheezdostuff @devils-adversary @enony-da @matchat3a @kawliflo @urmomsbananabread @anicaaa67 @that-sweet-mars @crimsonrubie @xanneeeyyyy @sweetloveandaffection-blog @ghostreadersthings @itsdragonius @snore-3 @sleepyk0dyz @ririoutspoken @ivuriexo @getosuckers

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part one

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

status: completed

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 1.1k

The thing was, you didn’t plan on getting laid tonight. 

After a couple of days trying to settle in at Barcelona and looking for your lost luggage, all you wanted to do was to finally start your vacation. You just wanted to relax and experiencing the night life in Barcelona was definitely a good way to officially kick it off. 

So there you were at the bar of an (apparently) exclusive night club in the city–the location was emailed to you by Derek with a VIP pass and a note that said, ‘have fun ;)’–nursing your second, half-empty glass of mojito, the speakers blasting rhythmic reggaeton music, when a woman slid into the space next to you, cool and confident with the way she leaned on her elbows against the counter as she gave the bartender her order in smooth spanish, “A gin rickey, please.”

The woman looked to be several years older than you–and taller, too, even with your heels on–and maybe it was the alcohol or the proximity but there was no stopping yourself from openly admiring her. Her black, cropped top and her tight, high-rise pants revealed perfectly broad shoulders and toned arms, as well as the taught lines of her stomach. When your eyes travelled back to her face, you found her looking at you with a raised brow and immediately, your cheeks warmed. The fact that you were gawking shamelessly and got caught doing so… just wow.

Words of apology were already on your tongue but the curves of her lips were mesmerising, the elegant slope of her brows distracting, and those eyes… the depth in them threatened to drown you that all coherent thought deserted you. 

“Wow,” you breathed out.

“Excuse me?” Came the bemused question, an instant slap to the face that sobered you up immediately. 

“I’m so–I’m sorry, that’s what I meant to say. I’m–” You palmed a hand over your face as you began but a small chuckle stopped you halfway. You risked a peek through your fingers and saw the woman with her lips to the glass, something akin to a teasing smirk on her face while she remained leaning on the counter by her hip. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asked as she took a sip from her drink.

Not really the question you were expecting but you’d rather take a reprieve over a disaster. And at that, you smiled sheepishly at her. “Is it that obvious?”

“Hmm, no, not really. Your slight accent gave you away but your Spanish is impressive.”

“I’m still working on losing it but I’ll take that as a win. I’m assuming you’re from around here?”

“My home town is about an hour away outside of the city but I stay here most of the time for work.”

“That must be nice, being close to home.” Feeling more at ease now, you sipped at your drink. The woman did the same. Then you continued. “So, what do you do?”

For a moment there was nothing but music and chatter as the woman regarded you with an unreadable expression. Her eyes glinted–with what exactly? curiosity?–her head cocked slightly to the side. Then she sipped at her drink again. Did you say something offensive? you wondered.

“I work between the sport stadiums. And you? Where is home and what brings you to Barcelona?” 

It was clear from the vagueness of her answer that the stranger didn’t want to talk about her job and it didn’t help your growing interest for her. You wanted to ask her about further details but the dismissive tone with which she answered made you hold your tongue and her question, anyway, made you pause as you pondered to answer.

As an orphan who lived a few years in the system, the subject of where home was had always been a sore spot for you even if the stranger didn’t mean anything deeper by it. In some sense, your adoptive mom was home but there was always a part of you that longed for… something.  But, of course, you couldn’t bring that up right now especially to someone you just met. So you just told her where you were from, that you were on vacation, and that you work as a photojournalist for a press agency you helped establish. Something in your answer must had piqued the woman’s interest because her brows shot up.

“Which branch do you work in?”

“Spot news. But I’ve been meaning to expand my portfolio and get into another branch. Maybe try sports or portrait?”

The woman hummed in appreciation. “Any sports in particular? Wait, do you even like sports?”

“I honestly know close to nothing so I haven’t made a decision yet, but it will definitely be women’s sports,” you replied. She nodded and sipped at her drink again, never breaking her gaze from yours and you felt your cheeks warm again. Those eyes… they were dangerous; they lit up every nerve in your body and it felt good. You continued. “What about you? Are you much of a sports person?”

And to your total bafflement, the woman beamed at you, radiant and glowing, dimples in her cheeks as mirth shone in her eyes.

“What?” you asked, a bit nervous and at somewhat of a loss. 

The stranger let out a small chuckle, shook her head slightly as she rubbed the bridge of her nose, an attempt to hide her smile. “Nothing, nothing. And yeah, I’m a big sports fan. Then a beat passed before she continued, “you ever thought of covering women’s football? There are plenty of matches happening in the domestic leagues right now.”

“Maybe I will,” you hummed, mulling it over. It sounded good actually. And then you asked, “what else do you suggest for someone to do in Barcelona?”

The woman downed her remaining drink and placed the empty glass on the counter. Before you knew it, you could feel the warmth of her breath against your ear and you shivered when she purred. “Dance, of course.”And then she was holding your hand, pulling you off of the stool you were on, and began dragging you to the direction of the dance floor. 

All at once, warmth encompassed you: the crowd immediately swallowed you both, bodies pressed on you but the heat that emanated from the woman before you was the sole beacon for your attention. She had a loose arm around your waist and as the both of you danced to the music, you took that opportunity to wrap your arms around her neck and pulled her closer. She slowed down and she still had enough height on you that she had to lower her head.

“I never caught your name,” you spoke into her ear. 

“I’m Ale,” she replied. She pulled back to smile down at you. And then, she kissed you. 

[silhouetteonpaper]

Broken Trust, Breached Minds

Summary: When confronted with a new job opportunity, you’re forced to choose between careers. As an enhanced human, a certain someone has already picked out your future, making you worried what she might think—or better yet, what she might do. Wanda Maximoff x Reader WC: 1,882 Warnings: Use of powers, angst, trust issues

You stare at the bright computer screen, the email before you making your heart drop. We’d like to offer you a position with us. The job you passively applied to a few weeks ago actually got back to you, and not just to turn you down.

You didn’t think you’d actually get the job, it was solely a ‘doesn’t hurt to try’ attempt at applying. But here you are, reading the email containing the key to your dream career as a writer for the biggest entertainment company. It’s something you’ve dreamed of since you were little, before you made commitments to your current job.

Although less of a job and more of a lifestyle, you currently spend your days protecting earth as an Avenger. It’s fulfilling, yet something inside you yearns for a different career. You enjoy the time spent with the team, who’s more like family than anything else, but you know you’re destined for something different, something you’ve wanted for a long time now.

Terrified of what the team might think, you haven’t mentioned your application to anyone—let alone the job offer. The team is fairly aware of your passion for writing, but most of them assume it’s more of a hobby as most of your time is devoted to training. Everyone assumes just because you’re an enhanced superhuman, you only have one option in life.

The idea of being a professional writer fills you with bliss, spending hours exercising your mind as the endless flow of words finally have an outlet. Not having to worry about the city being in danger yet again, or the fear of not being prepared for your next mission. Getting to do something you truly love, and can never get tired of.

On the contrary, the idea of telling the team you’d prefer to write over saving the world makes you feel nauseous. Will they be supportive? Usually any person would pick being a superhero over anything else, but you’re different. Even though your powers are a great asset to the team and their Avenging, you feel you could be even more useful as a writer in the world of entertainment.

Plus, work should be something you love, right? You decide to entertain the idea of no longer being an Avenger, weighing if it’d be a good idea to test the waters and talk with someone about it. Eventually, you commit and attempt to build up your confidence as you head out to see what your closest friend might think.

When you leave your room, Wanda is sitting alone in the living room. She’s like an older sister to you, taking you under her wing when you first joined the team. Because both of you are enhanced, she played a key role in your training. Hours of time together brought you two closer, and now you already feel like you can tell her everything. That leaves a good chance she’d be supportive of you retiring as an Avenger. Still, you want to tread lightly—just in case.

“Hey, Wanda,” you say softly while approaching the strawberry blonde on the couch. She smiles warmly at you, shifting slightly to face you as you sit beside her. “Could I get your opinion on something?”

She nods. “Of course, what’s up?” Her eyebrows raise, signaling she’s really listening. You take a deep breath, thinking of how to phrase your words.

“I’m not one hundred percent on this, it’s just an idea… but what if I stopped going on missions?” You dance around the real subject, trying to gain an idea on where Wanda would stand with this. She sports a confused expression.

“And just train with us? If you’re going to train, why not go on missions too?” She asks curiously. 

You press your lips together, knowing the only way to be clear is to state your idea fully. “No, I mean… stopping all of it. No longer being a part of Avengers.” You cautiously watch as Wanda’s expression falls. Half of the story will have to suffice for now, because her unsure look makes you even more hesitant to speak.

“You’re enhanced, we need you on the team,” Wanda voices, your stomach flipping. Maybe you were wrong, maybe she wouldn’t support the idea.

“But what if I’m not really meant to be a superhero? I can’t control the fact I have these powers, but I can control what I do with my life.” You try to reason. Wanda shakes her head, looking to the floor as she tries to organize her thoughts.

“You do so much good every time we step out onto the battlefield, we can’t lose that. I don’t think anyone on the team would be okay with letting you go.” She expresses, putting a comforting hand on your knee.

“We can handle them,” You remark, knowing how persuasive the two of you could be. But that would only work if Wanda would agree to support this endeavor, and so far things weren’t looking too good. “Why is it that big of a deal if I’m not an Avenger? The rest of you are more than capable of holding your own.”

Wanda’s gaze finally meets yours again, her hand withdrawing. “Because enhanced super-humans usually don’t become writers. I don’t know why you’d quit such a good thing over that.” She discloses. You inhale sharply, not only taken aback by her sudden harsh tone, but at the mention of your new job offer.

She knows. How could she possibly know? Your mind reels, heart racing as Wanda’s words take you by surprise. She looks to the ground, the impact of her words finally resonating. That’s when it suddenly hits you; she read your mind.

“Wanda, I didn’t mention anything about being a writer.” You state, looking at her with a disappointed expression. It was something Wanda always held herself to, never using her powers on any of her friends. Especially the ability to read minds, it was a huge boundary she always kept.

You could see Wanda’s expression fall, but it was different this time. Like she knew she messed up. The sour taste of distrust rose in your throat as you watched Wanda break eye contact.

“You read my mind, didn’t you?” You assert, shaking your head in disbelief. Accessing your thoughts is a breach of any kind of privacy you still had these days, leaving you appalled at her actions. You thought she was one of your closest friends, but maybe you were wrong about that too.

“No, I-“ Wanda started, pausing as she tried to explain herself. But there was no use, what she did betrayed your trust and there was no going back. Any friend would want the full story, sure, but a true friend wouldn’t misuse their powers just for some extra understanding.

In a huff of frustration, you stand from the couch, not letting the woman even try to untangle her words. The anger inside of you leaves an urgent feeling, the decision you originally came here to make becoming even clearer. If not even your closest friend can support you, there’s no point in staying here a second longer.

You’ve been sitting in your bedroom, staring at that same email for the past hour. The drafted response accepting the position is typed out, ready to send with one click of a button. But your finger can’t seem to make that one simple motion.

The burning feeling in your chest won’t relent, leaving you weary about what step to take next. You want to take this job, more than anything. So why can’t you just hit send and accept it?

You’re a great asset to the Avengers, but don’t want to be a superhero anymore. Why can’t Wanda accept that? Why is she so against you following your passion? The questions that you can’t possibly answer swirl inside your mind, almost blocking out the sound of a soft knock on your door.

You let out an exasperated sigh, hoping that the strawberry blonde isn’t outside waiting to redeem herself. “Come in,” you call reluctantly. Sure enough, Wanda opens the door with a guilty expression.

You don’t let her get a word in before speaking up, “Look, if you’re here to try and justify things, I’m not in the mood for excuses.” Wanda takes a deep breath while clenching and unclenching her fists. It’s easy to tell she’s thinking hard about what to do next.

“Just give me five minutes.” Wanda pleads. You let out yet another sigh of resignation, moving aside on your bed so she can sit. It takes a moment for her eyes to find yours, and it’s easy to tell Wanda really wants to do this right.

“I only did it because I was worried,” She starts. You scoff, shaking your head. How were you supposed to take that as a valid excuse? Can you even trust what she’s saying right now?

“Is that the truth, or do I need to read your mind to find the real reason?” You jab in return. Wanda presses her lips together to relay a silent ‘fair enough’.

“The fact you were even considering leaving the Avengers made me worried, I wasn’t sure what possible reason could cause that. I wanted to be sure something wasn’t truly wrong,” She explains. Now it’s your turn to take a deep breath, the wall of anger you built up being knocked down a few bricks. 

“Why didn’t you just ask? I thought we were close enough for that.” You respond.

“I did too, so the fact you were hiding something made me worried. You never hide anything unless something’s up.” Touché. She’s not wrong; all those months of training side by side really allowed her to get to know you, more so than you thought. It’s not often you hide things from anyone, let alone Wanda. Maybe she had a reason to worry, but not enough to warrant misuse of her powers.

“Fine, yeah—I withheld part of the truth, but only because I was worried how you’d react. I know how you are about our powers.” You reason, thinking back to all those times where Wanda made a huge deal about your abilities. There were moments when you could’ve sworn Wanda saw herself as a villain, and therefore you by extension. She ingrained into you that you’re dangerous.

Wanda breaks eye contact as she rehashes those memories, nodding slowly while they replay in her mind. “I’m terrified to see you get hurt.” Her words are nearly a whisper, yet they leave you stunned to silence.

There’s only one thing able to escape your lips. “I think we chose the wrong career path for that.” The two of you both chuckle, finally meeting each other’s gaze once more. “Just because I'm enhanced doesn’t mean I shouldn’t live the life I want.” You breathe.

Wanda nods, this time more confidently. “I know. You’re going to make a great writer.” A grin spreads across your face, she’s supporting your choice. She wears a matching grin as you lean in to hug her, the two of you melting into a soft embrace. You get to go into your dream job with the support of the one person you care about most, that’s all you could ever hope for.

[whimsiwitchy]

I hear the secrets that you keep (series)

chapter one: a new beginning

Pedro Pascal x F!reader 

series masterlist

series summary: 24 year old y/n is an insecure and struggling actress in Los Angeles until she finally books a leading role in a big Hollywood movie next to her leading male, Pedro Pascal. A spark of friendship flickers between the two and it slowly begins to blossom into something more. As y/n is navigating a new found fame and a new found romance, she fears that a lie she has been sitting on might ruin everything.

Warnings: plus size reader (no specific description of reader, slight descriptions of weight: stomach fat, stretch marks, etc.), hefty age gap (24 years/14 years), female anatomy description, she/her pronouns, use of gendered terms (girl, girly, etc.), y/n used, descriptions of nudity, swearing,  use of the word fat, warnings may change as the story progresses. 

authors note: Hi everyone. This is my first time writing anything, so this might end up being pretty bad lmao. I kinda have an idea of where I want to take this and want to continue this even if no one reads it. Please let me know what you think! Thank you and enjoy. <3

chapter summary: Angie books y/n an audition opportunity and she is terrified. Y/n reflects on her insecurities and heads to the audition room. 

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

It was 9am and you’ve been staring at an email Angie had sent earlier in the morning. The subject read “AUDITION INFO BIATCH”. This would usually be deemed pretty unprofessional for an agent to send a client but Angie wasn’t just  your agent, she was also your long time best friend. You both had big dreams of making it big in Los Angeles and made the move six years ago. While you continued to search for acting jobs, Angie decided to become an agent after years of no luck. You wished you could give up, maybe gain some happiness back instead of having constant disappointment running around your head like it was trying to win a goddamn gold medal at the olympics. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Good morning sunshine, 

You have an audition scheduled for 3PM tomorrow! I attached all the details down below. If you need anything, give me a call babe! 

Sincerely, 

Angie Hawthorn (aka the best agent ever hehe) 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You read over the email and clicked on the files attached. One file was the original casting call information describing what they are looking for and a description of the project. The other was an audition offer explaining what you needed to prepare and where the audition would be held. You clicked on the casting call file and began to read it. 

“Fleeting Productions presents Risky Disco directed by Samual James.”

You stared blankly at the first sentence. “That is such a stupid fucking move title..” you huffed under your breath. You shook your head and continued reading. 

“Starring Pedro Pascal as Daniel Mendez. Daniel travels back in time to the 70s to live his dream of being a disco king. On his journey, he takes lovers every chance he gets and swears to himself that he won’t fall in love.” 

You picked your phone and called Angie. When she answers the phone she greets you with excitement.

“Y/n! Oh my god are you excited?!? This can be your big break. Your first audition for a big production company!!” You stared blankly at the wall while she spoke. “You’re fucking with me right? Like you have to actually be fucking with me..” You said with exasperation. She was silent for a moment. “What do you mean? This is great y/n. I’m not sure-” You cut her off before she could continue. “Angie, I need you to be so fucking for real right now. Did you read that shit show of a description?” She didn’t answer for a moment. “What’s so bad about it?” “Ang…you’re telling me, you saw this casting call, and thought of me? You have known me for how long? What about me is screaming 70s lover girl to a disco maniac? First of all, I'm fat. You know F A T. Fat girls don’t exist in the 70s it’s like-” The line goes dead. “Hello? Ang I’m trying to rant to you over here, don’t you care?” You looked down and noticed she hung up on you. “That stupid bitch.” You say in aggravation. As you go to call her again, a text pops up.

“Call me when you’re done being a self shaming loser <3”

You sighed and sat your phone down. You know that what you say isn’t always nice and you also know that Angie can’t stand when you talk down on yourself. It’s become a bad habit you can’t seem to break. You grab your water bottle from your night stand, take a sip, and continue to read over the audition information. 

“Our casting directors are looking for 12 women from the ages 35-40. All weights accepted. All skin tones accepted. One role will be filled as the leading lady alongside the leading male. The 11 other roles will be filled as lovers of the leading male. Each role may include sexual acts with a male actor as well as partial or full nudity. All actors will work closely with an intimacy coach before all scenes.” 

Okay, you definitely owe Angie an apology since they're throwing a weight limit out the window on this film. This film has the potential to be very… wait what the fuck does that say? You pick up your phone to call Angie again. 

“Are you done being a loser?” 

“Angie, honey, darling, my love…Why does it say that the age requirements are 35-40? I’m trying to be very calm about this right now but I really need to know what you were thinking in that little pea brain of yours? Hm.. a 24 year old auditioning for a role that is for a middle aged woman, what was the thought process behind that one love?” 

“Y/n I need you to keep that calm demeanor when I tell you this. Can you do that?” You think about your answer and sigh. “Yes I can do that. Spill the beans.” “Okay so, I might have sort of lied and said that you were 35…” You stood silent on the other end for a few seconds. “YOU DID WHAT???” “Y/n calm down it-” “HOW IN THE WORLD IS MY FRESH 24 YEAR OLD BABY FACE GOING TO PRETEND TO BE 35?? HUH ANGIE??” “Well you don’t have that much of a baby face, you can pull off 35.” “I’m gonna hang up now before I actually kick you in the head.” You hung up the phone and screamed into your pillow. 

It can’t be that hard to pretend to be 35 right? You sat up and set your head in your hands and took some deep breaths. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

After your mini freak out yesterday you went to work and got home at 8pm. You showered, ate, did some rehearsing, and hit the hay. You woke up at 7am the next morning and began getting ready for your audition. You searched pinterest to look for an appropriate outfit for a 35 year old. As you descaled your closet, you began to feel hopeless. After settling for an outfit, you headed to the kitchen to eat some breakfast and do some warmups. As it got closer to audition time, you started to feel the nervous butterflies entering your tummy. You took your phone off the charger to send Angie a quick text. 

“I’m sorry for freaking out on you yesterday, please forgive me my love. ♥ ️ Also OOTD, do I look 35? Oh and why the fuck are they casting that age for a disco movie… Love you!” You went to sit your phone down but immediately got a response from Angie. 

“It’s okay, you don’t look a day under 40 babe <3. And girl idk. I think it’s because Pedro is pushing 50.” 

“Okay fuck you. Who’s Pedro?” 

“Ummmm… the leading male. Like the whole ass dude you're probably going to be getting down and dirty with if you get this part. Did you not look him up?” 

“There ain’t no fucking way you lied about my age so I can bump and grind with a 50 year old man… I’m actually going to kill you.”

“Girl he’s hot as fuck, I’m doing you a favor. Who gives a shit if he's old, he can get it ANY day ;)” 

“You’re fucking gross dude. I gotta head out soon to try to beat a little bit of the traffic. Wish me luck. Love you!!”

“Love you girly, break a leg!”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You turned into the studio lot and parked when you found the building the auditions were being held in. You’ve been to the studios more times than you can count, but this time felt different. This time felt real. You entered the building and walked up to a woman at a desk. “Hi, I’m here for an audition.” You smiled and she handed you a form to fill out. Once you were finished you handed it back to her and she instructed you to wait until your name was called. You looked around as you sat and waited. There were only 4 other women waiting in the room. As you looked at them, all of your insecurities started to pour out. This was not the time to be doubting yourself. You settled on looking down at your shoes instead. Each woman was called back one by one until you were the only one left. 

“Y/n Y/l/n?” You got up and greeted the man that called your name. As you followed him to the back your heart began to pound. Once you got to the door, you shook out your nerves and plastered the most sincere smile you could muster. 

You opened the door and walked up to a table in the back of the room. You shook everyone's hands and handed them your material. You stood in the center of the room and began your slate. After the prepared material was performed, they asked you various questions. You were answering with all honesty. Even flying by their questioning of your age. “Your paper states that you're 35. You look really young for that age.” You gulped “Just good genes I guess.” You gave them a laugh and a smile to which they returned. “We’re going to have to do a quick reading with some sides from the movie if that’s okay with you?” “Of course, that would be great!”.

You got into character as they handed you the slides. “You’ll actually be reading with the leading man himself. Pedro, whenever you’re ready go ahead and start.” You looked over to where the man looked when he spoke. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at who they spoke to, Pedro you assumed. He smirked as you stared. How didn’t you notice him before? With a face that handsome, you’re thankful you somehow skipped over it. He for sure would have had you shaking with even more nerves. 

“You ready to start sweetheart?” You could have melted into a puddle right then and there. After a few seconds of silence you collected yourself. “Yea, I’m ready.” He gave you a smile and looked into your eyes. The two of you flowed through the lines with ease. It was like butter melting perfectly on a warm piece of toast. The type of toast that is so perfect, you don’t need to add jelly at all. It’s golden and beautiful. The chemistry between you two was golden. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

4 hours later…

The reading with Pedro was intense. There are no other words to describe it. Everything felt so natural and it was electric. The whole room got 10 degrees warmer by the end. Once the reading was over, everyone thanked you for your time and you were dismissed. You thanked them and gave a quick bye. You tried to sneak one last glance at Pedro but he was already looking at you. These memories that happened just a few hours prior keep swimming in your head. No matter how hard you tried to think about something else, you couldn’t stop thinking about the handsome man and how he looked at you.

You’re yanked out of your thoughts when your phone starts ringing. It was Angie. 

“Hey Ang, what’s up?” 

“Bitch….you must have left one hell of an impression.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Y/n you got the lead!” 

“Oh shit..” 

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝ 

Thank you for reading <3

chapter two

[drdemonprince]

When other people say that they do not have enough time to get something done, they (often, if they're quite healthy) mean they are taking into account the time it takes to do the laundry and arrange new pieces of furniture and cook dinner and meet up with friends to see a movie and run to the post office or the hair dresser and take the dog for walks and do the dishes and paint their nails and drive to the store and go to their cousin's wedding and go to the barbecue their friend is throwing on the weekend

they don't winnow their life down to just spending time at the computer, working from when they wake up until they cannot focus their eyes anymore, granola bars, coffee, and bottles of water all around them because of course they did not take time to have lunch or breakfast, only dragging themselves away from work when they are truly too exhausted to do any of it anymore, and then lacking the energy to do much of anything that remains of life but to eat a tiny bit more, sponge themselves off, and go to sleep.

i just saw a video of a fursuiter on their bed, legs kicked back, head propped on their hands, delightedly announcing that after many years of hard work they had finally finished their Master's degree. And some part of me, some sick withered part, thought really? you had time to do a Master's degree while also getting a fursuit done? and going to conventions, presumably? you had time in the day to research fursuit makers, have a sona designed and drawn by someone else (or to draw it yourself), to contact a maker to make a duck tape dummy of yourself, and to have a friend over to help you make it and to cut it off of you, to send it in the mail to the maker, to then get it and make videos? you had time to set up this beautiful bedroom that i see in your video, with a soft pink sham on the bed and LED lights behind your bookshelf and lamps and all kinds of stuffed toys? you had a life? you were out playing, and dancing, and pursuing your hobbies, and you did a master's degree?

because when i was working on my doctorate, there was nothing. three layers of foam on the floor with a fitted sheet over it. a folding card table from aldi that had cost $40 that my grandparents got me. no food in the fridge. no time to even get the internet installed, just stolen wi-fi when my laptop could pick it up. i woke up, got dressed, and slunk into the office. i sat alone in the dark working until my hunger made me furious and i could not write another word. and then i walked to the grocery store, got something to subsist on, went home, ate, kickboxing video, went to sleep. every day. with almost nothing breaking the routine.

and ive gotten better, so much better, but my brain still kind of works that way. i feel like i have to quit my job and stop being a writer if i want to have hobbies. to paint my bedroom. to marinate a meat for longer than fifteen minutes. to get a driver's license again. to take a trip. but i dont want to be like that any more. how do people know when to stop? i feel like i have to give everything my absolute all until there is nothing left or else i have done nothing. i feel that i would have to treat a hobby like a job to get it done. I feel that anything that takes more than two minutes is a huge waste of time i must feel guilty for. i am working on all these things. jesus i have been working on them for years at this point. but because i have been so successful at telling people to do less, i get pulled in. interview. workshop invitation. email. urgent in the subject line. call from my agent. meeting request from my boss. new book idea, better sell it now while my sales figures still look good. recording studio session. deadline. writing. can you talk about this. can you talk about that. tag. email. book idea. deadline. long heartfelt email. still so often i have to take my own damn advice.

and this is why i am getting a fursuit made!! and going to cons! and going to leather and latex events! and making socials that are separate for these things!! i am going to let myself be silly and soft and do frivolous things. i am so sick of what i do to myself, all the pursuit of seeming like a strong mature adult.

[coffeeadict61]

Humans Are Weird: Auditory Processing Disorder

Report # 306

Topic: Auditory Processing Disorder

APD: disorder of the auditory (hearing) system that causes a disruption in the way that an individual's brain understands what they are hearing.

Four days ago I was doing my monthly meeting with the electrical department, receiving updates on our monthly usage, needed parts, and checking up on general morale. (The transcript of that meeting is already turned in.) After the meeting we had refreshments and I discovered Lucy (previously mentioned in report #286) pouting in a corner. I inquired what was bothering her. She said, "The ship's head medic just diagnosed me with APD but he wasn't trained to treat it." I asked for further information on the condition. She listed several of her personal symptoms. "It means I don't always catch what people say. It feels like my brain doesn't want to listen. In one ear and out the other making me look stupid to however I talk to. It's connected to my misophonia, and the fact I was born really premature."

I was unsure how to comfort her so I made no effort. This seemed to work for Lucy kept speaking.

"And what's worse is there's nothing I can do! We don't have a speech therapist aboard or even any research materials! Its starting to affect my work performance. On top of decoding, hypersensitivity, and prosodic problems, I have integration issues which mean its really hard for me to focus on what people are saying when I'm doing something. Which freaking sucks when you're part of a team!" I had no clue what she was really talking about but gave her a hug (human gesture of enveloping one in your arms as a sign of comfort or safety), and she apologized for "venting" to me.

She then spoke on how her crew mates just thought she was "slow" or wasn't good at her job. They questioned if she was capable because she would follow directions incorrectly and she was worried she'd be replaced with someone "less problematic". I tried to assure her that I would help anyway I could on her behalf. Never again will I doubt a human's sincerity.

After some of my own personal research I have made a list of the different types and their definitions for your education on the subject:

Hypersensitivity – Hypersensitivity to sound is often diagnosed as misophonia or hyperacusis. Misophonia is when people have adverse physical reactions to sounds, such as becoming nauseated by the sound of chewing or slurping. Hyperacusis, on the other hand, is characterized by a sensitivity to sounds. For some, this means that white noise can be deafening, even causing physical pain.

Decoding – Decoding difficulties involve a lack of figuring out words that are spoken. They hear the sounds, but their brains do not process them as words.

Integration – Integration applies to those who struggle to do multiple things while listening. Such multi-tasking may be writing notes and listening, or having conversations while typing an email.

Prosodic – Prosodic refers to people who have trouble with tone, inflection, and implied meaning. A question and exclamation are processed identically in their brains. Their speech is also often monotone.

Organizational – Finally, organizational, or output, is often characterized by not recalling information in a specific order or having difficulty with noisy situations.

Honestly, Humans are so diverse and unpredictable. To think that different "problems" or " abnormalities " within their mind or body can lead to even more similar issues astounds me. They are so intricate in a way my species has never been. Despite the struggles that their disorders, and conditions being, I think it's strangely beautiful. Maybe that's just me, but I have a new appreciation for them.

I am requesting the presence of a speech therapist, whether physically or digitally, to be readily available to our crew. We must also add APD onto our medics research requirements. It is not an overly complicated subject to be fluent in. I also request that Lucy's diagnoses be added to her list of wrongful termination along with her gender, age, and race. No one should feel their position is at risk because of a disorder or disability. I also request that a written copy of daily instruction be printed for her if necessary. She is one of our best electricians and I mean to keep her employed here as long as she wants.

Human Observer #5743

[rigelmejo]

Really basic study tips. As in, you have no idea where to start, or you've been floundering for X period of time not making progress.

Total beginner?

Go to a search engine site. Whatever one you want Google.com, duckduckgo.com, or a searx.space site will work (I like search.hbubli.cc a lot). I think a non-google search engine will give you less ads and more specific results though so keep that in mind.

As a total beginner, search for some articles and advice to help you start planning HOW you are going to study a language. Search things like "how to learn X" where X is the language, "how i learned X," "guide to learn X." Ignore the product endorsement pages as best you can, you're looking for personal blogs and posts on learner forums like chinese-forums.com and forum.language-learners.org. After reading a few of these, come up with a list of general things you need to learn. This list will generally be: to read, to listen, to write, to speak. The articles/advice you find will likely mention Specific Study Activities people did to learn each of those skills - write them down! You might not do all those study activities yourself. But its good to know what possible study activities will help build each of the 4 skills.

Now get more specific. Think about your long term goals for this language. Be as SPECIFIC as possible. Things like "I want to pass the B2 exam in French" (and knowing what CEFR levels are), or "I want to watch History 3 Trapped in chinese with chinese subtitles" or "I want to read Mo Dao Zu Shi in chinese" or "I want to play Final Fantasy 16 in japanese" or "I want to make friends with spanish speakers and be able to talk about my hobbies in depth, and understand their comments on that subject and be able to ask what they mean if I get confused." Truly be as specific as possible. Ideally make more than one long term goal like this. And then specify EVEN MORE. So you want to "pass the B2 exam in French" - why? What real world application will you use those skills for. A possible answer: to work in a French office job in engineering. Great! Now you know very specifically what to look up for what you Need to actually study: you need to look up business appropriate writing examples, grammar for emails, engineering technical vocabulary, IN addition to everything required on the B2 exam. Your goal is to read mdzs in chinese? Lets get more specific: how many unique words are in mdzs (maybe you want to study ALL of them), how much do you wish to understand? 100% or is just understanding the main idea, or main idea and some details, good enough? Do you want to learn by Doing (reading and looking up things you don't know) or by studying ahead of time first (like studying vocabulary lists). Im getting into the weeds.

My point is: once you have a Very Specific Long Term Goal you can look up how to study to accomplish that very specific goal. If you want to get a B2 certificate there's courses and textbooks and classes and free materials that match 100% the material on the B2 test, so you can prioritize studying those materials. If your goal is to READ novels, you'll likely be looking for "how to read X" advice articles and then studying based on that advice (which is often "learn a few thousand frequent words, study a grammar resource, use graded reader material at your reading level, extensively and intensively read, look up unknown words either constantly or occasionally as desired when reading new material, and continue picking more difficult material with new unknown words"). Whatever your specific goal, you will go to a search engine and look up how people have accomplished THAT specific goal. Those study activities they did will be things you can do that you know worked for someone. If you get lucky, someone might suggest ALL the resources and study activities you need to accomplish your specific goal. Or they will know of a textbook/course/site that provides everything you need so you can just go do it. I'll use a reading goal example because its a specific goal i've had. I'd have the goal "read X book in chinese" so I'd look up "how to read chinese" "how to learn to read chinese novels" "how i read chinese webnovels" and similar search terms. I found suggestions like these on articles I found written by people who managed to learn to read chinese webnovels: Ben Whatley's strategy had been learn 2000 common words on memrise (he made a deck and shared it), read a characters guide (he linked the article he read), use graded readers (he linked Mandarin Companion), use Pleco app and read inside it (he linked Pleco) and in 6 months he was reading novels using Pleco for unknown words. I copied most of what he did, and did some of my own other study activities for theother 3 listening speaking writing skills. And in 6 months I was also reading webnovels in Pleco. Another article was by Readibu app creator, who read webnovels in chinese just looking up TONS of words till they learned (real brute force method). But it worked! They learned. So copying them by using Readibu app ans brute force reading MANY novels would work. Another good article is on HeavenlyPath.notion.site, they have articles on specifically what materials to study to learn to read - their article suggestions are similar to the process I went through in studying and Im confident if you follow their advice you'll be reading chinese in 1 year or less. (I saw one person who was reading webnovels within 3 months of following the Heavenly Path's guide plan). LOOK UP your specific long term goal, and write down specific activities people did to learn how to do that long term goal. Ideally: you will have some

SHORT TERM GOALS: you will not accomplish your long term language goal for 1 year or more. Probably not for many years. So make some short and medium term goals to guide you through studying and keep you on track. These can be any goals you want, that are stepping stones to the specific long term goals you set. So for the "read mdzs in chinese" long term goal, short and medium term goals might be the following: short term: learn 10 common words a week (through SRS like anki or a vocabulary list), study 100 common hanzi this month (using a book reference or SRS or a site), read 1 chapter of a grammar guide a week (a site or textbook or reference book), medium term: read a graded reader with 100 unique words once I have studied 300 words (like Mandarin Companion books or Pleco graded readers for sale), read a 500 unique word graded reader once I have studied 600 words, read 秃秃大王 and look up words I don't know once I have studied 1500 words (read in Pleco or Readibu or using any click-translator tool or translator/dictionary app), read another chinese novel with 1500 unique words, read a 30,000 word chinese 2 hours a day until I finish it, read another 30,000 word novel and see if I can finish it in less time, read a 60,000 word novel, read a 120,000 word novel, read a novel extensively without looking any words up and practice reading skills of relying on context clues (pick a novel with lower unique word count), read a novel a little above your reading level (a 2000 unique word count if say you only know 1700 words), go to a reading difficulty list and pick some novels easier than mdzs to read but harder than novels you've already read (Readibu ranks novels by HSK level, Heavenly Path ranks novel difficulty, if you search online you'll find other reading difficulty lists and sites). Those shorter term goals will give you things to work for this week, this month, this year. An example of study goals and activities might be: study all vocabulary, hanzi, grammar in 1 textbook chapter a week (lets say 20 new words/10-20 new hanzi,1-5 new grammar points - or alternatively you have 3 SRS anki decks for vocab, hanzi, grammar) along with read and look up unknown key words for 30 minutes a day (at first you may read graded readers then move onto novels). Those are short term goals you can ensure you meet weekly, and they also contribute to being able to read better gradually each month until you hit long term goals.

If you are very bad at making your own schedule and study plans: look for a good premade study material and just follow it. A good study material will: teach reading, writing, speaking, and listening skills, all the way to intermediate level. You may need to find multiple premade resources, such as 1 resource for writing/reading (many textbooks that teach 2000+ words and basic grammar will suffice) and 1 for speaking/listening (perhaps a good podcast, glossika, a tutor). Ideally formal classes will teach all 4 skills to intermediate level if you take 4 semesters of classes as an adult (beginner 1, beginner 2, intermediate 1, intermediate 2). Especially if the classes teach in accordance with trying to match you to expected defined language level skills (so formal classes that have syllabus goals that align with HSK, CEFR, or national standards of X level of fluency). So formal classes are an option. The same tips as above apply: make short term goals do do X a week, like study 30 minutes to 2 hours a day, to learn 10 new words a week, to get through X chapters a month, to practice speaking/reading/writing/reading oriented activities to some degree.

My short advice for picking a premade resource if totally lost: pick a starting material that covers 2000 words, basic grammar, and has dialogues if you don't know where to start. That will be enough to cover roughly beginner level language skills. I suggest you study by: studying the vocabulary and grammar of each chapter, listen to the dialogue with and without translation repeatedly until you understand it (listening skills), read the dialogue with and without translation (reading skills), write out example sentences using the new vocabulary and grammar (writing skills, the textbook exercises usually ask you to do this), speak your example sentences out loud (speaking practice), record yourself saying the dialogue and compare it to the dialogue audio - repeat this exercise until you sound similar in pronunciation to dialogue (speaking exercise - shadowing). Most decent textbooks will allow you to come up with similar activities to those listed above, to study some writing reading speaking listening. I like the Teach Yourself books as an example of the most basic version of what you need. Many languages have much better specific textbooks of that language. But if you're totally lost, get a Teach Yourself book and audio free from a library or for 10 dollars (or ANY equivalent book that teaches at least 2000 words and grammar) and go through it. If you buy a language specific textbook: keep working through the series until you've learned 2000 words and covered all basic grammar. For example Genk 1 and 2 cover 1700 words so you would want to work all the way through Genki 2 and ger near 2000 words before branching off to a textbook for intermediate students, or into native speaker materials. (Another example is I found a chinese textbook once that only taught 200 words... as a beginner you would not find that book as useful as one with more vocabulary)

Another adequate premade resource option: if you lile SRS tools like anki, look up premade decks that teach what you need to learn as a beginner. For Japanese you might look up "common words japanese anki deck" (Japanese core deck with 2k or more words is likely an option you'll see), "japanese grammar anki deck" (Tae Kin grammar deck is an option that covers common grammar), "JLPT kanji deck" or "kanji anki deck" or "kanji with mnemonics anki deck" (to study kanji). Ideally you study vocabulary, vocabulary, kanji, and ideally some of these anki decks will have audio and sentence examples for reading practice. Like with a textbook, you would attempt to do exercises which cover reading writing speaking listening. For reading and writing you may read sentences on anki cards, and write or type example sentences in a journal with new words you study and new grammar points. For listening you will play the sentence audio of a card with eyes closed until you hear the words clearly and recognize them, and for speaking you'll speak out the sentences and compare what you say to the audio on the card.

Keep in mind your specific long term goals! If your goal is speak to friend about hobby, you may follow a textbook and still need to ALSO make yourself practice talking weekly (on a language exchange app, with a tutor, with yourself, shadowing dialogues, looking up specific words you wish to discuss). If your goal is to read novels, you will likely need to seek out graded readers OUTSIDE your textbook and practice reading gradually harder material weekly. If your goal is listening to audio dramas, you will want an outside podcast resource likely starting with a Learner Podcast (chinese101, slow chinese, comprehensible chinese youtube channel) then move into graded reader audiobooks, then listen to audio dramas with transcripts, then just listen and look words up.

Once you hit lower intermediate: I'm defining that here as roughly you have studied 2000+ words, are familiar with basic grammar and comfortable looking up more specialized grammar information, and if you used a premade material then you have finished the beginner level material. If you desire to stay on a premade route then pick new resources made for intermediate learners. Do not dwell in the beginner material forever once you've studied it, continue to challenge yourself and learn new things regularly. (No matter what, continue to learn new things regularly, if you do that then every few hundred hours of study you WILL make significant progress toward your goals). Once you have hit intermediate it is also time to start adding activities that work toward your Very Specific Long Term goals now if you didn't already start. If you want to watch shows one day, this is when you start TRYING and get an idea of how much you understand versus how much you need to learn and WHAT you need to learn to do your goal well. If you want to read novels then start graded readers NOW if you havent already and progress to more difficult reading eventually into reading novels for native speakers. If you want to talk to people, start chatting regularly. If you want to take a B2 test, start studying language test specific study materials, practice doing the tasks you must be able to do to pass the test (so you can see what you need to learn and gauge progress over time), take practice tests. Intermediate level is when SOME stuff for native speakers will be at least understandable enough you can follow the main idea. Or at least, if you look up some key words you'll be able to grasp the main idea. Start engaging with stuff in the language now. For several reasons. 1. You need to practice Understanding all the basics you studied. Just because you studied it doesnt mean you can understand it immediately yet, you have to practice being in situations that require you to understand what you studied. 2. You also need to gauge where you are versus where you want to be, in order to set new short term goals. Once you do things in the language, you will see what specifically you need to study more. 3. By doing the activity you wish to do, you will get better at doing it. This is also a good time to mention that: if you wish to get better at speaking or writing now is the time to practice more. Just like listening and reading, you'll have to Do it more to improve.

The leap from using materials for beginners to materials for intermediate learners is harsh. It just is. The first 3 to 6 months you may feel drained, like you didn't learn much after all, annoyed its so much harder than the beginner material catered usually specifically to a learner's language level. Push through. I suggest goals like "listen to french 30 minutes a day" or "read 1 japanese news article a day" or "chat with someone for 1 hour total a week" or "watch 20 minutes of a show a day" or "write 1 page a day" and look up words you dont know but need to understand something or communicate to someone. Do X for X time period or X length of a chapter/episode type goals may be easiest to stick to during this period. Gradually, the time spent doing activities will add up and it will suddenly feel EASIER. Usually around the time you start understanding quicker and recalling quicker what you studied as a beginner. Then it keeps improving, as you gradually learn more and more. At first, picking the easiest content for your study activity will make the transition to intermediate stuff slightly less drastic. Easier content includes: conversations on daily life that only gradually add more specific topics (so you can lean on the beginner daily life function vocabulary), podcasts for learners entirely in target language and podcasts with transcripts, novels with low unique word counts (ideally 2000 unique words or less until your vocabulary gets bigger), shows you've watched before in a language you know (so you can guess more unknown words and follow the plot even when you don't understand the target language words), video game lets plays (ideally with captions) of video games you've played before, playing video games you already have played before and know the story for, reading summaries before starting new shows or books so you know what the general story is, reading books that have translations to a language you know (so you can read the translation then original or vice versa for additional context). Using any tools available (dictionary apps, translation apps like Pleco and Google Translate and click-translate web browser tools, Edge Read Aloud tool, reader apps like Kindle and Readibu, apps like Netflix dual subitles stuff).

Last mention: check in with your goals every so often. You might check in every 3 months, and say you notice you never manage to study daily (if that was your short term goal). That could be a sign it might be better to change your study schedule to study a couple hours on the days your life schedule is less busy, and skip study on busy days. Or it may be a sign the study activity you're trying to do daily is Very Hard for you to stick to, and maybe you should switch to a different study activity. (Example would be: I can't do SRS flashcards consistently, so when I got tired of SRS anki after a few months as a beginner, I switched to reading graded readers daily to learn new vocabulary then reading novels and looking up words. Another example: I love Listening Reading Method but could never do it as it was designed, so after a month of only doing 15 hours of it instead of the 100 hours the method intended at minimum in that time, I decided to modify that study activity into something I could get myself to do daily and enjoy more).

And, of course, its okay if what works for one person doesn't work for you. Everyone's different. As long as you are regularly studying some new things, and practicing understanding things you've studied before, you will make progress as the study hours add up. It may take hundreds of hours to see significant progress, but you Will see some progress every few hundreds of hours of study. I made the quick start suggestions for beginners above, because I have seen some people (including me) get lost at the start with no idea what a good resource looks like and no idea what to study, or how to determine goals and progress on those goals.

[shroomiewrites]

Private Lessons || Professor!Price x F!Reader

Professor!Price x F!Reader || 7.4k words || NSFW || 18+ || Minors DNI

Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual themes, alcohol consumption, degradation, creampie, spanking, dry humping, praise, power play if you squint, blasphemous behavior.

⁠✧.*⁠Next chapter || Assignment Tutoring*⁠.⁠✧

Synopsis: You couldn't be happier when your failure of a professor was being temporarily replaced with a substitute teacher, however, your happiness is quickly replaced with panic as you meet your new professor.

The clock ticked slowly. Agonizingly slowly. It usually did when you were seated in the uncomfortable joint seat from the auditorium, behind your laptop as the bright white blank page stared back mockingly at you. Not an unusual situation by any means, that, however, didn't make it any better as you repressed a yawn for the third time in the past two minutes.

Your professor paced around in front of the full board, hands gesturing wildly, rambling about some nonsensical story that had nothing to do with the subject he's supposed to be teaching and you're supposed to be learning. Clearly you were both failing at your tasks, but, ironically enough, only you'd fail at the end of the semester when the lack of attention and study notes came back to bite you in the ass.

The bell finally rang and you felt your body physically slack in relief. Your hands mindlessly putting your laptop away in your bag in a robotic manner from pure habit. Your mind was only thinking about what you were going to eat that evening and how long of a nap could you fit into your afternoon before you had to spend the rest of the day actually studying whatever was supposed to be taught by your incompetent teacher.

"Thank you everyone for coming, and don't forget that I'll be away for an international congress for the next month, so a substitute teacher will be taking my place. As always if you need me my email is–"

Is God real? Or did you just think so hard about having someone that actually knows how to do their job that it you manifested it into existence? Whatever it is, whatever divine entity that allowed for those words to come out of your professor's mouth were sure to be working in your favor and you promised you'd owe them one would you ever figure them out.

Your coffee tasted that much better that afternoon, a taste of accomplishment and contempt that doubly warmed your throat as the hot liquid ran it down. 

"Celebrate the small victories," you thought.

If God was real, he was a dick. The absolute fucking worst. Him or whatever other deity played a cheap trick on you when all you wanted was to get a damn good grade in possibly the most boring class in your curriculum. 

Given, it wasn't that boring anymore, thanks to the mountain of a man who had his back turned to you as he unceremoniously wrote on the board, clapping his hands softly to rid it of the excess chalk powder before he turned to the class once again.

Professor Price, the words read.

You would've relished a bit more in the absence of your previous failure of a teacher, but you could nearly physically hear the universe laughing at you as you tried to pry your eyes away from the man's giant arms that escaped his rolled up dress shirt, without any success whatsoever. 

You were fucked. If you were failing before thanks to your teacher's lack of any teaching skills, now you are failing because the way this man's thighs were furiously trying to break free from the confinement of his pants was making you want to get up and scream about how incarcerating innocent subjects was a miscarriage of justice. Maybe you could throw in some fancy precedent that'd show him you were actually a good student of the law and not just some whore lusting after your own fantasies of being bent over his table and feeling his muscular thighs hit your legs from behind as–

"Morning, class." His thick British accent nearly made you jump your seat, eyes focused on his figure but your mind far away.

His voice. His fucking voice. Hoarse and throaty. Like he just stretched relaxedly, sprawled in bed after a long night and was greeting you with a sly smile on his face. Or maybe you were just a little too deep in your headspace. Either way. It scratched your brain just right, sending tingles down your spine, you watched as he put his hands inside his front pockets, wide stance giving you a perfect look at his broad chest. It probably felt nice to lay on, to place your palms on to steady yourself as you– God. 

"I'm Professor Price and I'll be covering this class for the next few weeks as Professor Wilson is away," The way he scanned the room was focused but unpretentious, not in judgment, more like curiosity. 

When he glanced over you, stopping to take you in for a split second that you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't making a living out of studying his every feature, you felt butterflies in your stomach. A familiar warmth traveling down to in between your legs as you scolded yourself for acting like a damn college girl, soon reminding yourself that you were, in fact, a college girl. Not that it was terribly on brand for you to lust after your professors, however it was painfully often that you found yourself falling for men that would be charmingly referred to as DILFs. And Professor Price? Was a fucking huge one. 

"I hope we can make great use of this short amount of time we'll be together, and I'm here for any assistance you may need. I know this subject can be quite a challenge," he chuckles, deep and rusty, and you make a mental note to check if you need a panty change when the class ends. 

The rest of the class goes by so fast you actually find yourself disappointed when the bell rings. Professor Price was as good of a teacher as he was eye candy. Never once had you seen a class so thoroughly focused on a lecture about corporate law, and you suspected a few other students shared your same fertile imagination when it came to your new educator. For the first time in weeks you were actually able to look proudly back at your laptop screen, paragraphs of text and citations adorning the screen. Sure, you had to fight your instinct of drooling over the way Professor Price's back muscles shifted as he wrote on the board, unaware of all the vile, lascivious thoughts that plagued your mind every time he cleared his throat to start a new sentence.

You scoffed putting your stuff away while looking at two girls in class go up to Price's desk, twirling their hair as they asked him a question about the lecture. But you weren't dumb. You saw it in their little mischievous eyes that corporate law was the last thing in their raunchy heads as one of them touched his arm, oh, so accidentally. Please. At least you hid it. 

Right?

If you were ever an atheist, you couldn't remember. You were pretty sure God was real and present, but above all else, that he had a personal vendetta against you. Maybe that was narcissistic to think, but you sure got that impression as you recognized a certain pair of blue eyes and combed beard coming through the bar's double door. Because, of course, your male's-underwear-catalog-model of a professor just walked into the place you've been drinking and trying to forget about him for the past hour. And, of course, he's wearing a tight white shirt that outlined his spec muscles so well it might be illegal, not to mention the glasses?! The fucking glasses. Thank goodness he didn't wear them in class or you might've just cum right there and then. He looked so entirely different with them but recognisable still, it was infuriating. Who does he think he is? Clark Kent?

You had plenty of plans for the night. Convincing yourself you deserved a little treat after spending the evening looking through and editing your class notes. His class notes. It was a simple course of action you had in mind, truly. Go down to your usual bar, drink yourself away, maybe kiss a guy or two, go back home and regret it all as you woke up on a Saturday with a massive headache and books to read. But now, your body was getting side tracked. Insisting on traveling the entirety of his body, not feeling a drop of shame as you stopped at his crotch, taking notice of the big bulge there. 

Fuck. He was big. You could sense it, you could imagine it and you desperately wish you could feel it.

Shaking your head, you tried to erase the mental image of being on your knees in front of him and focus on the average looking blond guy who had been eating you with his eyes ever since you stepped foot into the place. You were betting with yourself on how long it'd take him to actually make a move on you. Needless to say, he had the rush of a monk. But at least it'd keep you busy as you tried with every fiber of your being to forget your professor.

"Hey," A familiar croaky voice came from behind you,"You were in my class earlier right?"

Now this just has to be some sort of sick joke. How long until cameras popped out from behind the bar and footage of you staring at his dick was all over the internet? Could you just double it and give it to the next person?

"Uh– professor!" You whipped your head, putting on the best sober smile you could, "Yeah, yeah. I was." Maybe that's all he wanted to know, just being a nice, courteous man before he went on his merry way.

"Ha! Knew I recognized ya." He sat down on the stool next to you. 

Well now this is just tragic, frankly. Both the way he was oblivious to how much of a mess you were by as much as his presence and how the blond guy was apparently very taken aback by the wardrobe sized man talking to you and started flirting with another girl shortly. Pig. 

"How was it? I was a bit unsure on how to approach it, I remember I found the topic so bloody boring in my time, thought I could spice it up a bit." And spice it up he did. Maybe a little too much. 

"It was great!" you nodded, hoping he wouldn't ask you to quote your favorite part because right now, the alcohol in your system and his musky cologne wiped your brain out completely, leaving only a deep burning desire to be absolutely fucked senseless, "Professor Wilson is a great teacher," A lie, "but I could comprehend it a lot better with the way you explained it." Not necessarily a lie. 

"That's great to hear, then." His smile was genuine and bright, of someone who had no idea that if he ordered you to get down on your knees right there and then you would with zero hesitation.

An innocent smile adorned your lips as you took another sip of your third drink of the night, barely feeling the burn that went down your throat anymore. You were embarrassed, honestly. Being this hot and bothered by a poor teacher who was only putting effort into doing his job right left you feeling like the biggest slut to set foot in town. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, not missing the way Price's eyes glanced subtly to your legs as your mini dress rode up a few inches. 

Just an involuntary reaction, you were sure, or your devious mind was playing tricks in you.

"Recommend me anything?" Your attention turned back to him as he pointed at your drink.

You thought for a second. He didn't look like he enjoyed the fruity sweet drinks you were downing like a mad man, no. He looked like he was more of a 'something strong and a little bitter on the tongue' man. 

"You look like you might be into scotch." You note and he raised an eyebrow, a low hum echoing from his lips.

"Read me like a book, I see." His smirk was as amused as it was surprised.

"Try the godfather." The bossy underline of your tone was definitely not on purpose… Grinning to yourself as he bit his lip before nodding and turning to the barista that arrived to take his order.

"Well, ya heard the lady. One godfather for this old man." The barista nodded and you contemplated whether to jump onto the opportunity or not.

Fuck it.

"You don't look old at all," you giggled. Disgusting truly, as low as the girls in his class, but could you honestly be blamed? 

The low chuckle that came out of him made it all worth it. Putting one arm on the counter as he shook his head. You noticed how his biceps flexed as he moved.

"You know what they say, 'age isn't a number, it's an attitude'."

Cheesy. Would absolutely turn you off if he wasn't the one saying it. In his voice it became a rather sexy mantra. You wanted to show him an attitude alright.

"Means more experience no?" You brought your straw to your lips, never breaking eye contact. The innuendos of the question were to be judged by God and God alone. You're lucky being horny isn't a crime.

"Indeed it does… in a lot of areas." His gaze was fixed on yours and you nearly choked on your drink.

He didn't– he wasn't… flirting with you? Was he? 

"Law?" You asked cheekily, trying hard not to think about the wet patch in your panties.

His laugh was easy and genuine. A treat to your ears, not being able to hold a smile yourself.

"Sure," he concluded, drink being posed in front of him by the bartender.

He thanked the man, bringing the cup up in between you two.

"For learning new things, aye?" You smiled, bumping your cup softly against his, a small clink sound coming from between the glasses before you two brought it to your lips.

And, man, did you learn new things. 

You learned his name was John, which you immediately tested in your head about how you'd sound moaning it (pretty good), he worked at a firm in the UK for nearly 10 years before deciding to take up on teaching full time. He'd been a professor for 6 years now, was unmarried with no kids, "My hectic life couldn't hold up a proper relationship," he said. 

You also learned he was an avid football fan and loved hiking. Both which explained his top notch physique. Not that you were staring, of course… 

"But tell me more about you," he finished his second drink, "You have a boyfriend?" 

The question caught you by surprise, erupting something very unholy inside of you. Was this a casual get-to-know-your-student question? Did such a thing even exist? As far as your experience went, professors weren't really going around drinking with their students.

"Uh– no, no. You know, with the whole last year of college thing and trying to find good opportunities it's just… hard to find the time," you answered truthfully.

Not that you were a lonely, sad woman by any means, having your fair share of lovers here and there. Ultimately they all ended the same way, you slowly fell out of touch as your schedules got more and more conflicting. Not that it bothered you that much, you were more than fine with the freedom of being single and the pleasure of an occasional fling.

"I get that," You thought he actually did, "but I'm more than sure a pretty lady like you won't have trouble finding a nice young guy," he stated, eyes looking for your expression.

His choice of words stuck with you. Nice young guy. You stopped momentarily, it could either mean two things — he was giving you a hint that he didn't want anything with you, or… he was trying to see if you were open to the idea. You pondered for a moment, your next words needed to be expertly chosen if you wanted to cover both terrains until you figured out which was right. 

You took one last sip of your drink, head slightly dizzy as you thought hard, "I don't know if those young nice guys are really for me, Professor." 

The way he sucked in a breath at hearing his title was nearly too much for you, sending you spiraling into your carnal thoughts about moaning it as he spanked you on his lap. 

"Have they not been taking care of you right?" There was a dark undertone to his words, a palpable tension as you both tiptoed around the blurred lines, the alcohol serving as a catalyst to send your mind into a frenzy with each look he gave you.

You bit your lip, noticing how his eyes darted down to them, Adams' apple bobbing in a contained gulp.

"Not in the way I want them to." He visibly tensed at your words, veins getting more visible as he grasped the empty glass tighter, knuckles turning slightly white. For a second you were scared he'd bust the cup, fully aware that even if he did, it'd be the hottest thing in the world.

Another second of silence went by and you started to panic. Had you gone too far? Did you step on a landmine in the little minesweeper game you were playing? You were about to backtrack, come up with a bullshit lie when he interrupted you.

"I think it's getting late. You should head home as well. I'll pay for your taxi." Your heart dropped to your stomach. It felt like a slap to your face.

You stood there, mouth agape as you tried to comprehend what went so wrong in so little time. Above all else, how would you still attend his class after this? Maybe you could just retake it next semester? Wait until Professor Wilson came back and tell him you had come up with a mysterious case of the flu and couldn't go to class for the past month. 

Your internal rambling was interrupted by John taking his wallet out and laying two bills on the counter, paying for both your drinks. You were about to tell him to stop and that you could pay for your own drinks, feeling embarrassed enough. Before you could, he dragged his arm off the counter, hitting your purse that rested above it to the ground. You watched as he immediately bent down to grab it, grunting an apology.

His fingers curled around the purse beside your leg and he agonizingly slowly brushed his other hand on your leg all the way up to your thigh, where he rested it for a second in a subtle and discreet move. Anyone looking from afar would just think he was giving you back your clutch. He placed the small bag in your lap, being as close to your face as he ever was and you could clearly see the lustful gleam behind his glasses. 

"Black Ford, parked on the end of the street. I'll take 5 minutes checking something on my work bag…" He whispered, sending a heat down your body, "If you decide for whatever reason to go there help me…" The brittled tone of his voice along with the mixed scent of his cologne and the scotch was sending you to paradise, "I'll take good care of you, darling." 

You definitely needed a panty change. Hell you might've felt your slick run down your legs slightly, feeling cold where his touch was after he took his hands off, nodding a courteous goodbye to the barista before going out the doors and making a right.

Heart stammering against your chest, you took a second to try and think straight, failing miserably. Whatever was left of your logical thinking begged for you to reconsider the idea of getting into your professor's car. But it was to no avail as you slowly got up from your seat, grabbing your purse and walking out, turning right.

The short walk to the end of the street where you thought you saw a black Ford was filled with your anxious thoughts. God, were you really about to sleep with your teacher? Well, he'd only be there for another few weeks anyway, it's not like you were officially his student anyway. Or that's what you'd tell yourself at night to be able to sleep after letting out all of your fantasies with the hot mountain of muscles that currently stared at your small figure approaching the car. You glanced around once before opening the passenger door and getting inside, a small sigh leaving your lips as you settled into the comfortable seats.

Price's eyes were glued onto your figure, unabashedly skimming his eyes over your exposed legs and your chest and neck.

"Drive us somewhere a bit more… private." You don't know where you found strength or courage to order him around, but he clearly didn't mind, smiling and spitting out a 'yes, ma'am', starting to drive out of the busy street. 

You took the opportunity of having him focused on the traffic to take him in completely, how his arms flexed as he grasped the steering wheel, how his thighs barely had any free space to move on the small driver's seat and the giant boner he sported. It made your mouth water and you bit your lip, repressing a premature moan from spilling out your lips.

"Like what you see?" He was clearly amused, a side smirk playing on his face as his eyes were still glued to the road in front of him.

"Maybe…" You decided to tease a little, two could play that game.

He chuckled, a small breath coming out of his nose as he wet his lips before talking, "I think you do, since you've been fucking me with those eyes ever since class this morning."

You considered opening the door and simply throwing yourself out of the moving car. How much more pathetic does the universe need you to look? 

"Oh. I– well–" He was full on laughing now, a husky, delicious laugh that had you rubbing your thighs together for any friction you could get.

"Can't say I didn't find myself getting distracted by you a couple times, love…" he confessed, taking a quick side glance at you and you felt utterly naked under his gaze, completely exposed.

"You fuck your students often?" Was it necessary? No. Did it please you to see the way he looked at you pointedly, almost angry? Absolutely.

"Who said I'm gonna fuck you?" 

The bastard. How dare him. You turned your head in his direction, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"What are we doing? Private lessons?" He chuckled once more, one hand moving from the steering wheel to your leg, giving it a squeeze. Your breath hitched, biting your lip.

"I'll definitely teach you a lesson." His smile was playful but his tone… he was serious. Deadly.

The words went straight to your core, if it was physically possible for you to get wetter you would've. You cursed yourself for not being able to keep up a cool act near him, your body constantly betraying what your mind wanted you to do.

"And you're the first one. I'm not a pervert." You chuckled at his words, but felt a weird sense of pride. Like he was your dirty little secret.

"We'll see about that." He looked at you curiously, hands squeezing your thigh one more time, a bit harder this time, "You're not killing me right? Cause technically, you're taking me to a secondary location and the odds of me surviving that are slim to none." 

Price threw his head back, a genuine string of laughter coming out his mouth. Surprisingly enough that one warmed your heart more than your pussy and you were utterly disgusted with yourself. Fantasies of riding him until you passed down were fine, but you drew the line at imagining how his chest would bob up and down when he laughed as you laid over it on a chilly Sunday evening. 

"I wonder if you'll still be that cheeky with my cock in your mouth, love," he said nonchalantly and you stood dazed as he winked at you.

Where had this man been all this time? 

"I think this is good." The car stopped and you looked around.

You recognized the neighborhood, not too far off where you lived. It was quiet and peaceful, a lot different than most places in your city during a Friday night. There was a small hill close by that stood in front of a river that crossed the city, the soft sound of rippling water filling your ears. 

"I see you chose somewhere near the river so it'll be easier to dispose of my body," you joked, John undid his seatbelt and turned slightly to you, or as much as he could with his giant legs.

"Or I could take you up there and hold you while we watch the stars," he said softly, but you still picked up on the gentle sarcasm of his tone.

"Now that's a psychopathic thought." You turned to him, licking your bottom lip as you mapped his features, the slope of his nose, the way his mustache grazed his upper lip, how his blue eyes looked down at you ferociously behind the thin frame of his glasses, like he was about to jump at you anytime. You found it thrilling.

"If you want to stop this…" he began, voice barely audible, "Tell me now. Because after we start, I know I won't be able to hold myself anymore." 

You inhaled dizzily, unsure of how could every single thing he did turn you on so damn much. Your hands moved to rest on his chest, you enjoyed the feeling of his muscles underneath your hand, traveling up until they rested on the collar of his shirt. His breathing was ragged and you watched him close his eyes for a moment.

"Eager much?" you whispered back, hoping your bratty behavior would stir up something in him. He scoffed, his own hand trailing up your inner thigh, taking your dress with him.

"They'd need a fuckin' crane to tear me off ya." It sounded a bit comical, but with the way he looked at you, like you were prey, and his fingers groped the flesh of your thigh, you actually believed him.

"Wouldn't have it any other way." You pulled him harshly to you, crashing your lips. 

His kiss was exactly like you imagined, like you hoped. The taste of scotch filled your mouth as your tongues lapped against each other in a messy kiss. His guttural moans sent you off orbit, worrying that if his dick wasn't inside you in the next 20 minutes you might just drop dead. 

Your hand slid up from his collarbones until they rested at his nape, you pulled his short hair harshly, parting his mouth away from yours by mere inches, relishing in the way his half lidded eyes looked down at you, watching attentively as you took his bottom lip between your teeth, softly biting into the skin. John let out something close to a whimper and you were sure that that was the single hottest sound in the entire world and you'd kill to hear it again. 

"Fuck, c'mere." In a swift movement, he pushed his seat back a bit, grabbing you like you weighed nothing and placing you straddling him, his hands immediately going from your waist to your hips, before giving your ass a firm slap.

A sound moan went out your lips, closing your eyes and nearly falling forward on his chest. You could feel the outline of his dick under you, providing you with not nearly enough friction, pulsing with the whimper you made as he squeezed your ass harshly. 

"Sound so fuckin' good, baby." His head was now in the crook of your neck, kissing, licking and biting his way to your breasts. 

You wanted to answer with a little quip, keep up your bratty attitude. But the sheer stimulus from his hands and mouth on your body, being slowly rocked on his hard on, was just too much already and you could only moan and whimper broken cries of his name.

"Already daft for me, sweetheart?" He let out a throaty small laugh, one hand traveling from your ass, up your waist, gently squeezing your boob before setting down on your cheek, "Thought you'd last longer with your little attitude, hm?" He whispered darkly into your ear, biting your lobe softly and rocking your hips against him again. 

"J-John…" you whimpered, the fabric of his jeans against your wet panties, sure to leave a stain, torturing your pussy.

His fingers grazed your cheek and your jaw, before his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, dragging it down slightly.  

"Are you gonna be a good girl for me?" he asked, his hand coming down on your ass in another loud slap, you steadied yourself with both hands on his chest, gripping his shirt tightly as his thumb invaded your mouth. You instinctively sucked on it, nodding your head to his question, a low hum echoed from his throat as he shook his head, "Use your words like a big girl, hm?" He grazed your tongue one last time before taking his finger out, your spit dripping from his finger to your chin, he gently smeared it around, eyes fascinated as he watched your drunk eyes and parted lips, body squirming on his lap.

"Y-yes." You gathered the strength you had to mutter, little huffs coming out of your mouth as you tried to grind yourself harder against him.

"Yes what?" He raised your chin to look at him, eyes fiery and dark.

You trembled over from another slap he gave your ass, rocking you forward in his covered dick, the friction sending jolts up your body and you threw your head back, hissing. John grabbed a handful of the hair on the back of your head, turning your face back to him in a surprisingly gentle movement.

"Y-yes, sir." You could feel his dick twitching under you at the honorific, the side of his mouth going up slightly as he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.

"That's my girl." 

By God, you nearly came at that. You barely had time to bathe in the way his raspy voice echoed in your ear with the praise, feeling the straps of your dress be pushed down your arms, the fabric at your chest now bunched over your hips. John sucked in a breath, admiring your naked body lustfully, biting down on his bottom lip.

"Bloody hell, love, look at you…" He used one hand to mold the flesh of your right boob, kneading it with furrowed brows, completely focused on the way you panted in pleasure. He rolled your nipple on his fingers and you jumped, making him chuckle.

"A little jumpy, are we?" You groaned in complaint but he just laughed at you, mouth flying down to capture your other breast. He sucked and twirled his tongue around your hardened nipple, humming in satisfaction, while humping up, grinding into your pussy.

"S-sir, please–" you begged and he let go of you with a pop, you looked down seeing his shiny lips from sucking on your boob, trying your best to take in so you could relive the moment when you were alone.

"What do you want, baby girl?" He was teasing you, taking the most pleasure in breaking you apart. 

"You in– fuck– inside me," you spoke in between breaths, his grinding getting harder and harder as your panties got so soaked you could only feel the friction of his jeans against you.

"Well looks who's eager now," if you had any strength you would've slapped his chest, but your arms were already shaking, your inebriated state along with your desperate need for him down there making your head spin.

Maybe it was mercy, maybe he wanted it just as much as you but was that much better at hiding it, whatever it was you thanked the heavens when he pushed you back slightly to open the zipper of his jeans, a wet stain in the spot you were seated before. Price looked rather amused at it, almost proud that if he left you there for another 5 minutes you would've probably come on riding his clothed dick alone. 

You salivated at the sight of his boxers, a huge bulge outlined by the thin, stretchy fabric of his underwear. Your hands immediately flew down to it to break his cock free, feeling the absolute girth and length of him. Your belly ached with the sheer prospect of having his massive dick in you, certain that you would be sore for a few days at least.

"Shite–" he threw his head back in a hoarse moan, biting hard on his lip as you smeared the pre cum on his tip, imagining all the positions you wanted to do with him.

He looked back at you, eyes narrowed in pleasure as he witnessed you spit on his cock and move your hands up and down faster, the wet, unholy sounds paired with your cock drunk appearance driving him to the edge. He gathered the strength to grab both your wrists and pull you to him, your lips connecting once again in an even messier kiss.

His beard tickled your skin, but it wasn't as prickly as you thought it'd be. His hands moved to the small of your back, while the other nested into your hair again. Your tongues met again, groans erupting from him while you whined to feel more of him. You moved your hips forward until you were grinding your clothed clit against his hard member. The pleasure making you moan loudly into the kiss as he pulled your hair.

"You want my cock inside you, baby? Want me to pound into you like a whore?" He bit hickeys on the column of your neck, licking the sore spots after, drowning in your soft moans and begs of his name that just rolled of your tongue in a messy string of pleas.

"P–please, sir. Fuck me like a slut, pl–please," You whined and he gave you one final bite, right between your shoulder and neck, before ripping your panties completely from you. 

If you hadn't been so damn wet already, that alone would've been enough to get you dripping. The way he just effortlessly tore the lacy fabric from your body with a growl. His gaze was sinful as he pulled your hair back, chin pointing to his face.

"Open up," he ordered and you immediately obeyed, "Good girl," he uttered  satisfied as he stuffed your mouth with your panties, a guttural groan of pleasure escaping from him as he enjoyed the beautiful sight of you as a panting, drooling and moaning mess, begging for him to fuck you. He could cum just by looking at you like that, completely disheveled thanks to him.

He used one of his hands to raise your hips, the other one guiding his cock to your entrance, sucking in a breath as you sank down on his shaft.

"Oh– fuckin' hell, so bloody tight," he rasped and you could only moan loudly, the sounds muffled by the crumpled fabric in your mouth. 

He barely gave you time to adjust, grabbing your hips and guiding you up and down, your hands bracing yourself on his chest, hair falling all over your face. The sploshing sounds your wet cunt made whenever his cock entered you were loud and filthy, permanently ingrained in Price's memory, along with the way you shook and whined over him. 

You could hear him panting and hissing, strong legs giving you leverage as you rode him, feeling the tensing muscles of his chest against your hands, his own altering between running up your sides and your tits, giving them a hard squeeze, nipples hard against his palm.

"Bloody fuckin' hell, baby," he all but growled, "Such a good cunt for me. C'mere, wanna her you scream my name." He latched his hands onto the panties in your mouth, discarding then somewhere. 

The immediate lewd sounds that erupted from your mouth could surely be heard by anyone passing by the vicinity, but you found that you didn't quite care, thoroughly enjoying the way his dick twitched inside you as broken pleas of his name dripped from your mouth like honey, driving him to insanity.

"So f–fucking good," you cried, hips faltering as he hit a deep spot inside you that stung so good you could practically see stars.

"Those f–fuckin' bastards can't give it to ya like I can, hm?" Another sharp slap came down to your red, sore bum, sending you flying straight into his chest. He used the new angle to lift his thighs rapidly, pounding into you with vigor as you scratched his chest and shoulders, screaming his name, "That's right, need– need someone like me to fuck you j–just right…" His own voice was breaking, low grunts of pleasure coming out with his ragged breath as his cock disappeared inside you again and again.

"I–I'm close, s–sir… please… need t–to cum…" You buried your head on his neck, barely having the strength to hold yourself up. Not that you needed to, his big hands holding your hips locked in place as he hit a spot that had you reevaluating every single fuck you had before.

"Gonna cum on my cock like the dirty little whore you are, darling?" He nipped at your ear, going harder and deeper as you felt your high approaching. You couldn't even think straight enough to nod your head yes, biting his neck as you whimpered and squirmed, "Will you let me cum in you, hm? Fill up this pretty little pussy full of cum so you can walk around dripping? Fuck… you'd look so fuckin' pretty," he moaned the words through gritted teeth, legs shaking ever so slightly as his own orgasm started to build. He grabbed your chin harshly, fingers digging into your cheeks as he forced you to look at him, his eyes narrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth as low grunts mixed with the sound of his thigh hitting your ass.

"Look at you," a moany laugh left his lips, mouth quivering up in a smug smirk, "So cock drunk for me, what would people think, hm? A pretty, smart lady like you– completely fuckin' ruined. Does it turn you on? Being put in your place and railed by your bloody professor?" That's all you needed to come undone above him, a string of incoherent babbles and broken cries of his name dancing out of your lips as you shook violently on his lap, hands coming down on his thigh to support yourself as the strongest orgasm you ever had washed through you. Head spinning in complete daze and disorientation.

You fell on top of him, body pliable like playdough as he continued to fuck into you, his own moans getting louder and out of breath as his own high came down on him.

"Oh shite– fuck, princess, let me cum in you. P–please…" The sound of this 6 foot man begging and writhing under you was nearly enough to get you ready for another round, if it weren't for your completely exhausted body. He didn't have to ask you twice as you moaned and nodded.

"F–Fill me up, sir, please. Want you to– to stuff me full of your cum." That was the only permission he needed as one his fingers dug into the flesh of your hip, sure to leave a bruise, his other hand moving from your face to your nape, gripping your hair and pulling you back. 

His head got lost in your neck, leaving bites all the way down to your breast, sucking on it hard and pulling your nipple between his teeth as he moaned, the gruff noises sending vibrations down your body as you felt him shake, burying himself inside you as a warm, thick liquid filled you to the brim, spilling down your leg and onto his lap. He desperately tried to catch his breath, resting on the seat with you on top of him, the sounds of your respiration the only thing you could hear along with distant sounds of sirens and cats from the city.

You both stood there for a minute, one of his hands coming down to your back as he brushed his fingers softly in a random pattern, sending small shivers through your body, his other hand still nestled in your hair, but now gently massaging your scalp, the sheer comfort of the movement would be enough to lull you to sleep in other circumstances. You also had your fingers on nis nape, playing with the little tips of his hair absentmindedly, head resting on the curve between his shoulder and his neck as you inhaled his scent, now a mix of sweat, his musky cologne and a bit of alcohol, you could get drunk alone through his smell, wanted to bottle it up and keep it to yourself forever.

"You okay, bunny? I hope I wasn't too rough with ya…" The low volume of his voice, a bit louder than a whisper, the obvious care that laced his words and the cute completely out of nowhere pet name made you melt into him even more. Your heart skipped a beat, a gentle sigh escaping your lips.

"You were perfect." You managed to get out amidst your dazzled state, your other hand squeezing his arm reassuringly. You felt his soft chuckle under you, his throat bobbing slightly with the sound before you felt him turn his head towards yours.

"I'm glad." Was all he said before planting a kiss so chaste, so caring and full of tenderness on your head you nearly passed out, unsure of how the man behind those soft lips and featherlight touch on your skin, as if he was afraid of tainting you, was the same one that fucked you senseless not even minutes ago. 

The sheer loving and innocent nature of his actions were almost enough to make you forget he was still balls deep in you, his liquid running down your sore thighs. You unglued yourself from him, looking down at the hot mess you made, the sight making you get wet all over again.

"That's quite the mess, innit?" You looked back at him, noticing the smirk and pure delight in his voice as he said it. You could feel his damn pride in the air, could see it in his eyes that he'd do it again ten times worse if he could. The thought alone sent you spiraling again.

"I'd offer to clean it up," you started, running your finger on a drop of his cum that ran down your thigh, taking it to your lips and locking eyes with him as you lapped it up, sucking your finger clean before removing it with a pop. The way his eyes darkened all over again, his cock twitched involuntarily inside you, made you smile in victory, "but my body would definitely give out and you'd be obligated to throw it in the river," you quipped and he just stared at you smiling, an odd, bewitched glimpse to his eyes, you felt even more vulnerable than when he was fucking you. 

"I won't let that happen," his hands brushed gingerly from your collarbones to your jaw, feeling your soft skin under his touch, he glanced down your lips, licking his, before going back up to your eyes, "I told ya I'd take care of you, didn't I?" 

You couldn't move away your sight from him, from his fucked out, half lidded look, the way his mustache was slightly wet still and his glasses fogged up near the bridge of his nose. Your mind was screaming for rest, but your body ached for him, for more. You unconsciously rolled your hips, relishing in how he threw his head back, exposing his neck, littered in purple blossoms, a hiss leaving his mouth, feeling his hand squeeze you involuntarily.

It'll be a long night. But perhaps, God doesn't hate you that much after all.

A/N: Whew, this was something. This absolute piece of filth and profanity was inspired by this lovely drawing and this video. I highly suspect that this concept will still make my imagination go wild, so expect perhaps a part 2?

Constructive criticism and feedback are always more than welcome! I hope you enjoyed reading~

Tag list: @thychuvaluswife

[moniquill]

FOR FELLOW RI VOTERS

directly copy/pasted from the ACLU news dispatch on this topic:

Let's debunk some ideas about a constitutional convention (AKA con con). Some people urging you to vote for a con con seem to think we're overreacting or fear-mongering, even though our constitutional rights would be at risk in the process. We're going to fight against anything that chips away at our rights from the very start – which means urging everyone to vote against holding a convention in the first place.

Debunking #1: The idea that we just want to "keep the status quo" and avoid "government reform."

A delegate from the 1986 convention said in an interview that hot-button issues took over the last convention immediately, pivoting the conversation from government reform to social issues. And for the government reform amendments that were put before voters, many were rejected because they were too watered down.

Our job at the ACLU is to protect the civil liberties of all Rhode Islanders, and our opposition to a con con is to avoid a really damaging set of constitutional amendments.

Debunking #2: Proponents frame our words of caution as being anti-democratic and not letting the voters decide.

Our concern is not a lack of trust in Rhode Island voters, but a lack of accountability the delegates have to the voters. Unlike legislators, who assumably want to get re-elected for another term, once delegates are elected, they have free rein to propose any amendments they want to – regardless of what promises they campaign on.

Additionally, voters can't make informed decisions when they're not getting all the information. In 1986, the ballot included an amendment that restricted abortion rights, but the description of the amendment all voters received omitted ANY reference to the anti-abortion clause. It's not exactly a "let the people decide!" situation when the people themselves can't know what they're voting for.

Finally, we believe individual rights should not be subject to majority rule, especially in a process that historically has damaged the rights of minorities the most.

Debunking #3: They think we talk too much about special interest dark money affecting the result.

We're not overstating how much money will be spent on ballot amendments: In MA, over $26.7 million has already been spent on their referenda items, most of the money coming from out-of-state, according to a recent WCVB news report.

Realistically, money really matters. All the organizations in our small state working to protect our rights – many of which you may donate to – can't possibly outspend the millions of dollars that out-of-state special interests can to get specific messages in front of voters.

Fighting against bad amendments (that could have been avoided!) is not where we want to be spending our budget in the coming years.

So, for any of you who are thinking, "let a convention happen, and then we'll sort the good from the bad!" We're not waiting for a convention to be approved and then to fight against the proposed anti-civil liberties amendments. We're starting now, and we need you to reject Question 1 and spread the word.

Forward this email, or our website page explaining what Question 1 is to three friends and family to help us work preventively!

In solidarity,

Zoe Chakoian Communications Associate, ACLU of Rhode Island

[rangerzath]

I've finally played the Lake House and now I'm going to talk about it for awhile. Spoilers below the break.

I will start off by saying this is one of the BEST DLCs I have ever played in any game.

I have always loved Kiran as a character since we first saw her, but The Lake House really highlighted just how fantastically rounded and detailed this character is given the short amount of time we spend with her. Her humor, the fear she experiences, but above all the determination she has to do her job makes a great character.

I appreciated how much we see of the everyman FBC agent. Not everyone at the FBC is a parautilitarian, a lovable scientist dork, or the Director. There are normal people working there believing in what they do. This is a very important part of the overall story of this organization to me. Often I see the Bureau demonized as a whole by the fandom and that really upsets me. Bad apples are everywhere, as we see in this DLC. But we also see how a good person like Kiran stands up against it. Even through the emails and documents we find in game you see good people trying their best against that evil. I am again thankful for Remedy's writing team that they really highlighted that. Even going as far as showing Darling denying a request to capture live test subjects, which means he learned after Dylan. You even see that Trench denied outlandish requests despite being being in the late stages of a galactic war raging in his mind.

You know I had to talk about Trench and Darling, but it was nice to see them again in this way. They still felt a part of this world in a way that made sense. Document storytelling has been one of my favorite things about Control. They present us with just enough framework to use on our own canvas to try and piece together details of those blank pages.

Did I get emotional over signatures? Yes, yes I did.

The atmosphere of this DLC hit all the right horror points. From the moment you walk into The Lake House it captures all the scariest horror vibes from the main game. The paint spattered on the walls like blood, but somehow even creepier because of how it wouldn't make sense to see paint like that (until you figure out just what is happening). Being helpless to the painted because again you are just an FBC Agent not a parautilitarian emphasized this feeling.

Using a picture frame set up with Kiran telling Saga what happened at The Lake House made sense and gives us the point in time Kiran would be providing this information. She left us clues in the main game with her dialogue of something horrible that went down at the Lake House, so it feels very appropriate that we get to see that in detail.

The question that resounded throughout this DLC of what is art was very appropriate given the struggles we face today with AI and plagiarism. How is art perceived and how does its emotional impact play on its viewer? Again the writing team really shines here with all the little details. The room with the ATDs was truly horrifying. I don't think they have ever made a room with no one feel so ominous.

Obviously there was a lot in the DLC for Control fans. We will be speculating on every detail for the next couple of years. I always hoped this last DLC of Alan Wake would lead into Control 2, so I couldn't be happier to see just that happen.

Unlike some DLCs that feel as though they were an afterthought, the story feels like the natural ending of Alan Wake 2's story. It felt like the only goodbye we would have with this game and its characters.

The ending song was a beautiful final note to capstone a game that Remedy struggled for so long to make, and I imagine at times doubted that it would ever be made.

I often struggle to put my feelings into written words, but I wanted to try and get them out. Remedy's future looks bright with multiple games on the horizon, but we see how quickly companies can run into issues and nothing is set in stone. Anything could happen in these uncertain times. We may never see these characters again, and most certainly not in the form they are now. It makes me really sad to think we may never see Saga and FBI Casey or Kiran ever again. Maybe there won't ever be an Alan Wake 3. Maybe we won't see Alan battle the Dark Presence again. Maybe we won't ever see Dark Place Casey's echos pave a path for Alan. Maybe we won't see Alice show us just how much a character can grown into her own. Maybe we don't even get to see more of Jesse, or Emily, or Arish. I already know with the passing of James McCaffrey some of these things are impossible. But its not only death that separates seeing a character again. The song End of an Era highlights this goodbye. This end scene. The curtains close. It is an end.

What I appreciated in this song was that it highlighted the struggle of getting to that ending. No matter what goal you are trying to reach, whether it's Alan trying to escape the Dark Place, Jesse finding out what happened to her brother, any one of us creating things that make us happy, that path always has its ups and downs. And that end will always be bittersweet. It will change us. It is a goodbye.

Whatever Remedy creates in the future it could be something we may like or something we may end up disliking. They could ruin characters or make brand new ones for us to fall in love with all over again. We can take that or leave it. Whatever they decide to do. Maybe we like Firebreak and their new type of Remedy game, maybe we don't. But none of that will change how we felt about these prior games and how these characters made us feel at this moment in time. We can look back and remember how it made us feel. When we laughed, when we cried. The journey they took us on.

I will always be grateful that I was able to experience these games. They moved me in ways I cannot find the words to fully describe. I will carry these feelings forward and cherish this memory.

“There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest part, So just give me a happy middle And a very happy start.” - Shel Silverstein

[heademptie]

Scrapes and Bruises

CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFAE III (2023) DRABBLE HANDLER! READER, UNDECIDED/READER: 

cw: mentions of death, hospitals. mild depictions of violence (one punch is thrown) mentions of mental illness (PTSD). [I don't know if there other warnings I should add]

a/n: the writing is incosistent because the idea got away from me a bit. unedited ramblings. there are definatly military and medical inacuraces, and if i make this a proper fic/fic series there will be more. im leaning towards making this a price x reader fic because he's my recent brainrot. the title is also subject to change.

   Handler! Reader who used to work in the field until they suffered an injury that made active field work too difficult, instead taking up a desk job, occasionally training recruits in the basics. Handler! Reader works hard, doing the rare, simple job out in the field, and eventually gets promoted to a handler position. A contact for soldiers doing confidential, dangerous work. Reader is good at their job, their innate healthy (not so healthy) amount of paranoia serves to keep themselves and their charges safe. Theres been close calls, and severe injuries (one charge lost an limb, another's lungs will never recover, and of course the PTSD almost all have), but only three have died in their eight years (almost nine) as a handler. Some cases lasted a few months, others years. 

   It’s after a four year long case, a pair of soldiers are finally able to go home, they wear new scars and their bodys have new aches. The paperwork is all done, the soldiers have been checked over and given well deserved time off and counselling. Reader gets them settled, hands them off to the person who helps them readjust to society, offers (like every time) for them to call if they need. But like every time, they nod to be polite and don’t take Reader up, wanting to cut ties from the time spent isolated. 

   Reader gets a call then, asking them to be the handler for a new soldier, one who hasn’t done this type of work before. The isolation that rots away at soldiers' minds. So they agree, they’ve always been the best at handling the newbies. A file is sent over in an email, the soldiers information inside, along with a brief explanation of circumstances. A K.I.A case, these ones needed to be handled carefully. 

   Handler!Reader arrives at a military hospital, always hating being here, always being the bad guy here, and the place is in a bit of a flurry. They’re dressed in fatigues, blending in to the soldiers and medics around. It's easy to spot the team they’ll have to pry a comrade from, be the bringer of grief and mourning, and it kills a bit of them too. They wait off to the side, speaking with a nurse absently, actively avoiding looking at the team. They already look defeated, hollow and angry and, much to Readers juxtaposing relief and dread, hopeful. After a while, Reader makes their way past the team, escorted by a nurse through a set of doors separating dire patients from their concerned teams, friends, family. 

   They get to the Sargents room, Sargent MacTavish, he’s surrounded by doctors and nurses, all fluttering to keep him stable. It feels pervasive, it always does, to watch him be sewn together, hear the shriek beeps that monitor his heart, to watch him die. Except he’s not actually dying, not currently anyways, it's all a show, John MacTavish is currently unconscious in front of them, peacefully asleep as a play of chaos happens around him. Armed with a surgical mask and latex gloves, they slip into the chaos easily, grab their dead soldier's hand and squeeze it. A comfort more for them than him. Reader slips a note between his teeth and cheek, laminated to avoid damage before he can read it and uses a sharpie to mark the inside of his left bicep. A subtle way to let the morgue know not to autopsy.

   They leave the room the same time as the rest of the medics, departing in a flurry of movement, they pass the team again as the doctor in charge approaches. She delivers the news with practised sympathy, giving them a beat before leading them to where Sargent MacTavish lay dead. If they check, his heart won’t be beating, his skin won’t be as warm, he’ll look dead, he’ll feel dead too.

    (“Let them say goodbye.” “What?” “The only way I take this job, be a handler, is if they can say goodbye.” “It will put them in danger.” “Let the people they leave behind say goodbye.” “We can’t-” “The only way.” “Fine.”)

   He’s cremated, they typically are, and his ashes are spread somewhere Reader hasn't been. Handler! Reader takes Johnny there. They wait for him to get his bearings, patient as he processes what he’s been told. 

   (“‘M no’ dead.” “Literally? No, of course not. Officially? Time of death eighteen, thriteen.” “An’ ma team?” “Alive and, well not well, but physically they’re relatively unharmed.” “Relatively?” “Scrapes and bruises, Sargent MacTavish. Just scrapes and bruises.” “I wa’ shot.” “Yes.” “In the’ head?” “Yes.” “Bu’ ‘m alive.” “Sargent-” “Johnny.” “Johnny, give me your hand please.” “Wha’ for?” “...There it is.” “Wha’?” “Your pulse, steady and strong. Exceptional for a dead man.” “...” “...” “Ya do this alo’?” “Job of the Ferryman, Johnny. Job of the Ferryman.”)

   They watch from afar, safely hidden in tall grass looking through a sniper's scope. Reader purposefully ignores the shake in Johnny's shoulders, does not comment when his hand covers his mouth and a muffled, near silent, cry barely reaches their ears. 

   Handler! Reader has to pull him away, covering his mouth just in case he calls out to them, he doesn’t thankfully, he doesn’t fight as hard as others do, some part of him resigned to this new work.

   (“They won’t want to go, they’ll fight you.” “I know.” “No, you don’t. It’s not the kindness you think it is.” “It can be.” “It can also be a torture.” “I know.” “No,” “Yes, sir, yes I do know. They will fight and kick and scream and beg. But there will be some, if only just one, who will be thankful. And the ones who don’t make it, because that's something I have to accept, that there will be casualties, no matter how good they are, how good I am. They will remember that they got to say goodbye. At the end of the day it’s just scrapes and bruises.” “Your hearts’ too big for this.” “Nah, I’ve lost just enough of it.”)

   Handler!Reader gets him far enough away, safe for him to scream and grieve without an audience. That's where he hits them, a solid punch to the jaw and more yelling before he just collapses to his knees in the stony dirt. Little pebbles try to dig into the fabric and flesh over his knees, and Reader joins him, sits with their arms around their knees and looking out into the distance while Johnny composes himself. Their jaw aches and they only rub it slightly, curiously pressing on the forming bruise, a hum that sounds awfully like admiration taking Johnny's attention. It takes a half hour, forty-one minutes to be precise, for them to get moving. Johnny apologises on the way to the car.

   (“‘M, ach, ‘m sorry fer…��� “Nothing to apologise for, Johnny.” “No, really, ‘m sorry. Ye dinnae deserve,” “Scrapes and bruises, Johnny, it's just scrapes and bruises.”)

a/n: yeeaah, this is gonna be a proper fic eventually

[irrevocableloves]

violent delights

twilight rewrite! edward cullen x fem!witch!reader

chapter five: blood type

previous chapter ౨ৎ masterlist ౨ৎ chapter six

summary: edward gives in, no matter the efforts it took to keep himself away from her.

warnings: swearing, fluff, blood, gore

words: 4.9k (unedited)

Throughout the entire night, Edward’s words replayed in my mind. It's better if we're not friends. What did that even mean? That he wanted to? That he felt this pull just as I did, but was too afraid to embrace it? Or was it just me? My stomach twisted. He must’ve noticed how engrossed I was by him and didn’t want to lead me on. Perhaps he was a mind reader. Oh god. The pathetic thoughts I’ve had towards him… I was considering it.

Normally, it was so easy for me to read people. For all my life, I was able to take in someone's thoughts from just their expressions whether it was genuine or forced. I knew someone was so annoyingly obsessed with me or completely hated my guts. Lauren wasn’t even a good example, anyone could see right through her act even though she tried to hide it with fake smiles and interactions. She didn’t like me and even the entire school could catch onto that. My dad always wondered if I could hear his thoughts because of how in tune I was with his emotions. He was closed off, which was part of the reason him and my mother ended things, but for me? I could always see right through him and know exactly what to say to him. But, Edward on the other hand? He drove me absolutely insane.

My thoughts were thankfully interrupted by a buzz on my cell.

jess &lt;3: Mike said YES!!!!

And then an immediate call afterwards.

Jess had me on the phone for almost an hour talking about Mike, the dance, Angela and Ben, and then of course, the so-called ‘tension’ she felt with Edward and I. But, I quickly changed the subject to shopping for dresses which kept her occupied for another hour.

Finally, she hung up and I went onto doing homework and answering emails from my mom before eventually passing out.

Turning into the school lot, I made sure to park even farther than usual from his Volvo for my own sanity. Getting out of my car, I realized I’d left my keys and yanked it out a bit too swiftly, the keys flying into a puddle just outside my car. As I bent down to get it, a white hand swooped in and grabbed it, causing my jerk upright. I looked up, seeing Edward Cullen casually leaning on my car, my keys just dangling in his hands for me to take.

“How the hell do you do that?” I ask with an exasperated huff.

“Do what?” He held out my keys for me and I snatched them. He gave a light-hearted chuckle.

“Appear out of thin air.” I spat out.

“Y/N, it’s not my fault that you’re exceptionally unobservant.” 

I didn’t want to have this conversation again. I was tired of it. Instead, I walked past him. This time not even bothering to serve him a glance towards his way, no matter how much I wanted to.

To my surprise, he jogged towards me.

“So, why the traffic jam yesterday?” I huffed. “Thought you were supposed to be pretending I don’t exist, not deliberately annoying me.”

He gave a light chuckle. “That was for Tyler’s sake, not mine. Seems like he wanted a chance with you.”

That’s when I finally faced him, finding the urge not to hit his perfect face or perfect anything for that matter. “You’re fucking kidding.” He only seemed amused by my response.

“And I’m not pretending you don’t exist.”

“Oh, really? So you’re trying to annoy me to death? What? Since Tyler’s van didn’t do the job?” This anger was new to me. Usually, things didn’t bother me this much. But, Edward was different.

I expected anger from him as usual, but he only looked down at his feet, before muttering, “Y/N, that’s not–”

“I don’t care. Can you just leave me alone? Please? I just can’t keep up. One minute you're angry and the other you're consoling me. Your mood swings are giving me whiplash.” I interrupted him, not daring to look him back in the eye.

Silence followed, which was my que to head off to English.

I hadn’t realized class started by the time I walked in, Mr. Mason gave a huff with a “Thank you for joining us, Miss Y/L/N.” I headed to my seat in a rush. 

The entire class, I spent the majority of the time zoning out, thinking about what Edward had said. It wasn’t until class ended that I realized the seat next to me wasn’t occupied by the usual Mike, who would whisper my ear off for a straight hour. The silence was quite nice, but it worried me a bit. Once we all walked out of class, Mike’s spirits seemed to have lifted somehow as Eric mentioned the beach trip. Even with your sixteen years living here, it amazed you how Jess and the boys enjoyed surfing in this weather. No matter how much you favored Forks, California sure had Forks beaten with beaches. Most of the beach trips at Forks consisted of Angela and I waddled up in blankets at the back of Tyler’s van and watching movies off of one of my old DVD players.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Now, it was lunch. With my shaking nerves, I attempted to keep all my focus on Jessica’s babbling instead of searching for those golden eyes. I could hardly keep up with her pace as she rambled on about the dance plans, even convincing Angela to ask out Ben. I couldn’t help but wander my eyes towards his table. He wasn’t there. His four siblings sat in their usual spots, the only one with eyes on me was the one with a pixie-cut, Alice, with a slight smile curving on her lips.

“Edward is staring at you again,” Jessica said. I broke eye contact with Alice, bringing my attention towards Jessica. “I wonder why he’s sitting alone today.”

I followed her gaze from across the classroom. There he was. Edward. His crooked smile widening once he’d caught my attention. Suddenly, I’d lost my appetite. He waved his fingers towards me, motioning for me to join him, then a wink. Fuck.

“Does he mean you?” Jessica’s voice staggered. I’d forgotten we weren’t the only people in the room for a moment. “Told you he was into you.” she whispered, fighting through her giggles. I swore he heard that asI saw him fight a chuckle.

I shoved Jessica with my shoulder, hesitantly walking towards Edward with Jessica’s giggles in my rear view. When I reached the table, I didn’t sit, instead I stood behind the chair waiting for him to speak.

“Why don’t you sit with me today?” he asked, smiling. I eyed the chair, pulling it opening and sitting on the edge of it. His smile felt unreal, as if it was another ploy to reel me in again and push me away just as hard.

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends?” I questioned.

“I said it would be better if we weren’t friends, not that I didn’t want to be.”

“What does that even mean?” I couldn’t read him. Why put so much effort into someone he hardly even knew? Why was I doing that?

“It means if you were smart, you’d stay away from me.” I tried.

“Haven’t I tried that already? You’re the one who wanted me here.”

“Well, I’ve decided to hell with it. As long as I’m going, I might as well get to know you better.”

“Hell? Now you’ve just expanded my theories.” I had none. No logical ones at least. I couldn’t even think them, let alone say them out loud, it was too bizarre.

“Oh, really? Won’t you tell me then?” he asked, tilting his head to the side with a tempting smile.

“Nope.” I shook my head, giving him a malicious smile.

“That’s really frustrating, you know?” So was he.

“Well that’s too bad.” I snickered. I decided not to make a scene, I could’ve bursted to him about the many ways he’s frustrated me. For starters, him being absolutely disgusted by me, ignoring me, then suddenly being enamored by me, then saving me, then ignoring me again, then suddenly he wants to get to know me? But, I wasn’t about to let the entire cafeteria know my frustrations with him.

“Fair enough.” He chuckled, then moved his gaze towards my original table. “I think your friends are angry with me for stealing you.”

I looked towards them. Angela and Jessica wore the same attitude: smiles and a fit of giggles. Lauren was angry as always, forcing herself closer to Tyler as he watched Edward and I with careful eyes. Eric pretended he wasn’t looking at all. Mike on the other hand, thankfully Jess hadn’t noticed, was burning holes at the back of Edward's head.

“They’ll survive.”

“Your boyfriend seems to think I’m being unpleasant to you – he’s debating whether or not to come and steal you away from me.” My face fell.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I mumbled.

“He sure acts like he is.”

“Yeah, well that’s not my problem.”

Our table fell silent for a moment, until he spoke, “Aren’t you hungry?” No. I was full of nerves.

“No,” I said plainly. “You?” I knew what the answer was. It was embarrassing how attentively I watched him. He had food and he nibbled at it, but he never once ate. Same with his family. Emmett always carried a large amount of boiled eggs for whatever reason.

“Can you do me a favor?” I breathed out, hesitant to even say anything at all.

“Depends on what you’re asking for.”

“Not much…” He waited for my response. “What is this? What are we doing? Are we friends? Cause I don’t wanna waste my time if you’re just gonna ignore me again.”

“I told you – I got tired of trying to stay away from you. So… I’m giving up.” His smile was almost contagious, but I can see the pained look in his eyes.

“Giving up?”

“Yes, giving up. I’m not good for you, I know that. But, for some reason, I can’t seem to stay away from you.” He said softly. My breath hitched. I can’t seem to stay away from you. So, I wasn’t the only one.

“So…” I breathed in. I could hardly even bring myself to speak. “Friends?”

“Only if you tell me one of your theories.”

“Maybe later. Too many people around.”

He’d gotten up, I assumed that he’d wanted to leave. Instead, he moved his arm in front of himself, gesturing for me to go in front of him. “Lead the way.”

“You can’t be serious.” I laughed. The entire cafeteria’s eyes were on us, even his siblings and the stare they wore seemed unwelcoming, besides Alice, who tried her hardest to not break out into a smile.

All he did was give me another famous smirk. I practically jumped out of my seat, feeling all eyes on me as Edward and I left the cafeteria. We walked until no one was in sight, leading me to the back of the school on a hillside.

“Now, just one theory – I won’t laugh,” he said, plopping himself down in the grass.

“Yes, you will.”

“Please?” he breathed, leaning towards me.

I froze. My mind had gone completely blank. It took me a minute to recuperate before responding, “It’s dumb. I–I don’t know? Bitten by a radioactive spider?” It didn’t even sound better in my head at all.

“Well that’s not creative at all,” he scoffed.

“Well that’s all I’ve got. You haven’t given me much,” I laughed.

“You’re not even close,” he teased.

“No spiders?”

“Nope.”

“And no radioactivity?”

“None.”

“Dammit,” I sighed.

“Kryptonite doesn’t bother me, either.” He chuckled.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to laugh, remember?”

He struggled to compose his laughter.

After a few moments of silence, I started up again, “I just feel like… this doesn’t feel real. I’m here guessing which superpower you have and it sounds ridiculous, it really does…” I was caught up in thought, not even realizing the words I was saying aloud. “But I know what I saw. I just need a little help feeling a little less crazy here.”

“I wish you wouldn’t try.” His tone was serious again.

“Because���?”

“You say superpower, as in superheroes, but what if I’m not a hero? What if I’m the bad guy?” He tried to hide his remorse with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No.” He seemed surprised by my remark. “I don’t believe that you’re a bad person. Dangerous, maybe? I don’t know. But not bad.”

“You’re wrong.”

Before I could even respond, the bell had rang, not even allowing me to process my thoughts.

I got up, offering my hand to his. “We’re gonna be late.”

He ignored my offer, gracefully standing up on his own.

“I’m not going to class today.”

“Why not?” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

“It’s healthy to ditch class now and then.” He smiled, but still had a look of uneasiness.

“Not me. I’m gonna go,” I said. I couldn’t miss any more school than I already did, plus, I was a coward.

“I’ll see you later, then.” I wanted to stay with him. I considered it about fifty times in my head, but once I heard the first bell, my feet moved to its own accord.

As I fast-walked to class, I couldn’t help that my mind wandered to Edward. How none of my questions were answered, how I wasn’t afraid of him, how he thought of himself as a bad person. Only one question had been answered: I wasn’t the only one who felt a mental and physical pull towards him.

Lucky for me, Mr. Banner wasn’t in the class yet, so I hurried to my seat, hearing Jessica and Angela plead to come to their table for ‘deets’. Mike on the other hand looked resentful as he stared at me with his dejected eyes. I hushed them before Mr. Banner finally came into the room, juggling a few cardboard boxes in his arms, ordering Mike to pass them around.

“Okay, guys, I want you all to take one piece from each box,” he said, pulling a pair of disposable rubber gloves from his desk onto his hands. “The first should be an indicator card,” he went on, grabbing a white card with four squares marked on it. “The second is a four-pronged applicator –” he held up what looked to be a nearly toothless hair pick “– and the third is a sterile micro-lancet.” He held up a small piece of blue plastic and split it open. The barb was invisible from this distance, but my stomach flipped.

It happened when I was 12. I always saw my dad watching sports, but no matter how hard I tried, I was never engaged. One thing I did love: tossing around a foam football in our backyard. It was something that I could be a part of, rather than being lost in all the rules and regulations, tossing around a ball with my dad was almost effortless, with either no rules at all or ones that I maliciously made up on the spot. One day, my dad’s hand was far too strong, throwing it far into the woods. Normally, there was never an issue. Either one of us would run over and pick it up because what was the harm? It was only our backyard after all. So, I ran to get it. I found myself wandering a bit too far off than usual, hearing my dad’s shuffling and yells to head back. When I turned to head back, on my left there was a foot in the distance. I ran to it, calling out to my dad over and over to help the poor person who laid motionless in the middle of the woods. But when I reached them, they were far from gone. There was blood, a lot of it. I could hardly stand the gory horror movies with the blood even knowing it was fake. But this was something entirely different. Blood was absolutely everywhere, pooling from the neck. I was mortified. I ran back screaming, fully broken out into sobs as I tried to explain to my dad what I’d seen. That was the first animal attack in years. Ever since then, I’ve had what the doctor’s called ‘hemophobia’. It had gotten better over the years, the only exception being television or movies where I mostly closed my eyes, but physically? Needles and blood draws were a different story entirely.

“I’ll be coming around with a dropper of water to prepare your cards, so please don’t start until I get to you.” I felt like all my senses had heightened. At Mike’s table again, he started by carefully putting one drop of water in each of the four squares. “Then I want you to carefully prick your finger with the lancet…” He grabbed Mike’s hand and plunged the spike into the tip of Mike’s middle finger. Fuck. I felt sweat accumulate on my body, my hands leaving marks on the black countertop.

“Put a small drop of blood on each of the prongs.” He demonstrated, squeezing Mike’s finger till the blood flowed. That was it. The entire room spun around me and I couldn’t move a single inch. The words of Mr. Banner turned into a mumble as the ringing in my ears rang at an uncomfortable volume. I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to tune out the entire world. A flash of red floods through my vision, not blood, but hair. A fiery red shade that complimented her pale skin and dark lips. She ran through a forest, impossibly fast, never breaking a sweat. Next to her, a man, just as pale as her, blonde with his hair tucked away in a ponytail. Then a third, one with much darker skin, but they all shared the same quality: red, bloodthirsty eyes. Then there’s water. A dock. A boat. Then, blood. Lots of it.

“Y/N, are you alright?” a voice said. I opened my eyes and I was back in the classroom, Mr. Banner hovering over me. What the fuck.

“I– uh– I already know my blood type,” I said in a weak voice, wiping the sweat from my hands on my pants.

“Are you feeling faint?” I nodded in response. “Can someone take Y/N to the nurse, please?” I didn’t even have to look around to know that it was Mike who volunteered to take me.

I attempted to stand, but Mike had practically ran to my side, putting his arm around my waist and my arm to his shoulder, forcing me to lean on him on the way out of the classroom. While he lugged me across campus, my mind was moving faster than my body, which had almost completely shut down from the shock.

“Can we stop for a minute, please? I– I just need to sit.” I yelped out. He brought me to a bench on the side of the building before I begged, “And p-please, keep your hand in your pocket.” I didn’t know what would happen if I saw blood again. I shivered at the thought.

“Bella?” his voice called from the distance. No, please, no.

“What’s wrong – is she hurt?” His voice was much closer, a voice filled with worry?

I didn’t even bother opening my eyes, instead I rocked my body back and forth, knocking my head on the wall, hoping that by some miracle, I was dreaming.

“I think she fainted. She didn’t even stick her finger, I don’t know what happened.” I could hear the stress in Mike’s voice, also the anger. He wanted more than anything for Edward to go away and so did I.

“Y/N.” Edward was inches away from my face. “Can you hear me?”

“No,” I groaned. “Go away.” A chuckle left his lips.

“I was taking her to the nurse,” Mike explained defensively, “but she wanted to stop.”

“I’ll take her,” Edward said. Please, no. “You can go back to class.”

“No,” Mike protested. Oh god, here we go again. “I’m supposed to do it.” Even with my eyes closed, I could picture Mike attempting to stand his ground against Edward, who was probably three inches taller than him. If I wasn’t so mentally and physically drained, I would’ve giggled at just the mental picture.

Suddenly I didn’t feel the bench anymore. My eyes shot upon. Edward had effortlessly scooped me up in his arms as if I weighed nothing at all.

“Put me down!” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I could hear Mike yelling in the back, but Edward had already strode quick enough to the point where he was only a mumble.

“You look awful,” he said, grinning.

“Edward. Please put me down.” The rocking felt worse. He wasn’t listening, so I settled my arms around his neck to steady my movements. I couldn’t help but notice how much his body had gone rigid. 

“So you faint at the sight of blood?” he asked. Yes... and apparently have freaky visions too… I didn’t answer. “And not even your own blood,” he continued, obviously amusing himself.

“Oh my,” I heard a female voice gasp.

“She fainted in Biology,” Edward explained.

Opening my eyes, I found myself in the office with Edward already making his way to the nurse’s door, to which a lady opened for him. Edward gently placed me on the cot, moving only just inches away from me.

“She’s just a little faint,” he said to the nurse. “They’re blood typing in Biology.”

“Just lie down for a minute, hon. It’ll pass.” I nodded in response. “Does this happen a lot?”

“Hasn’t happened in a while.” I couldn’t help, but notice Edward from the side of me, barely being able to contain a laugh.

The nurse faced Edward. “You can go back to class now,” she told him.

“I’m supposed to stay with her.” The nurse didn’t seem to argue with him. How did Edward have such a way with people?

The nurse had left the room to get ice, to which I laid down on the cot, groaning, “You were right.”

“I usually am – but about what in particular this time?” I didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Ditching is healthy.”

“You scared me back there.” His tone surprised me. The way his breath hitched, as if he was confessing his deepest darkest secrets; that he was worried about me. “I thought Newton was dragging your dead body off to bury it in the woods.”

I stifled a chuckle. I tried to imagine poor Mike Newton, anxiety and all, trying to cover up my murder.

“How’d you see me? Thought you were ditching?” I sat up, facing him. Finally, the dizzy spell had passed.

“I was in my car, listening to a CD.” For some reason, it surprised me. So, he was normal-ish?

The door opened, revealing the nurse with an ice pack in hand, laying it across my forehead. “You’re looking better,” she chirped.

“Yeah, I think–” I was interrupted by the door opening, the receptionist had her head peeking through, claiming there was a boy waiting at the door for me.

The door fully opened to reveal Mike, awkwardly walking through the door, glancing from me to Edward, a look of loathe stretched across his face.

“You look better.” I nodded in response. He continued, “So, you ready to go back to class?”

The nurse interrupted before I could reply, “I think it would be best if she stayed. What’s your next class, dear?”

“Gym.”

“Oh my, Ms. Cope here will get a note right out to your class, dear, don’t you worry about that!”

Mike left awkwardly, mumbling, “Feel better. See you at the beach.” before heading back to Biology. I didn’t even realize Edward had left too. I took the time alone to lie back down, placing the ice pack back on my forehead, hoping the ice would numb my mind too.

I felt the cot from beneath me disappear and was once again surprised to see Edward scooping me up in his arms. I yelped, “What are you doing?!”

“Taking you home.” As it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Once we were through the doors, I could feel all eyes on me, both the nurse and Ms. Cope looked at me in admiration. I could feel my cheeks burning red from the embarrassment.

“I can walk, you know?”

“Yep.” I didn’t miss the smirk on his lips, especially when we’d passed Mike, who’d become even more red from the sight of us. Edward simply laughed it off.

As soon as we got to the parking lot, he set me on my feet, leaving us both to walk side by side until we reached our cars.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“A little, yeah.” That damn smile. 

When I went to walk over to my own car, something caught my jacket, yanking me back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his eyebrows completely raised.

“Home?”

“I promised I’d safely take you home. You think I’m going to let you drive in your condition?”

He was right, as much as I hated to admit it. Not even twenty minutes ago I was recovering from a dizzy spell, accompanied by whatever the hell I saw when I closed my eyes. I only asked, “What about my car?”

“I’ll have Alice drop it off for you after school.” He loosened his grip on my jacket, placing his hand on my back to guide me to his car, to which he opened and closed for me once I’d gotten in.

He got into his car and settled his keys in, cranking up the heat. I didn’t even realize how freezing I was until he cranked up the heat, which eventually settled down my shivers. Before we set off, I told him my address. Then, a familiar tune flooded my ears.

“Clair de Lune?” I asked, surprised. When he said he was listening to a CD, I didn’t know what I’d expect to blare from his speakers, but it definitely wasn’t the elegance of Claude Debussy.

“You know Debussy?” He sounded just as surprised as I was.

“From my mom.” I nodded. “She plays a lot of classical music – I only know a couple of my favorites.”

“It’s one of my favorites, too.”

I leaned back into the gray leather seat, watching the rain, and letting the music soothe my nerves. The view outside had blurred completely into green and gray streaks, showing just how fast we were going, but the ride had felt as smooth as ever.

“If you don’t mind me asking… Why are you sensitive to blood?”

“Um…” I paused. For some reason, I felt alright with telling him. No one else had known besides my dad, the doctors, and the occasional therapist. “When I was 12, I saw an animal attack. It was in the woods by my house. There was a lot of blood… and since then, I don’t know… I just freak out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

I let silence invade the space, before mumbling, “Your turn.”

“What?” He looked terrified. As if I’d just asked him to reveal one of his deepest and darkest secrets.

“Tell me something about yourself. It doesn’t have to be as deep and traumatic as mine… What about your family?” I deserved to know even a portion about his life at least.

“What do you want to know?”

“The Cullens adopted you?” I confirmed.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what happened to your parents?” I didn’t expect an answer. Even after all that I’ve told him, it seemed too overbearing.

“They died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember them much. Carlisle and Esme are all I’ve ever known really. I couldn’t imagine two better people.”

“I’m glad.” I continued on, “And your brother and sister?”

“My brother and sister, and Jasper and Rosalie for that matter… they are going to be quite upset if they have to stand in the rain to wait for me.” He chuckled.

“Oh, shit.” I hadn’t even realized we stopped, let alone in front of my house already. “Sorry, yeah, I’ll um– see you later?” 

I didn’t get out of the car yet. I wanted to ask him something, even if I ended up regretting it later.

“Did you wanna come with us to the beach?” I breathed out.

A smile littered across his face. “Which beach?” Was he considering it?

“La Push.”

His smile lessened. So I asked, “Something wrong?”

“No, sorry.” His eyebrows furrowed intensely. “I just remembered Emmett and I had plans. Hiking in the Goat Rock Wilderness.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, have fun.” I tried to hide my disappointment, but I don’t think I fooled him too much. A smile was still spread across his face, almost amused by how I reacted.

Just as I was about to open the door, he said, “Maybe another time. Just the two of us. Somewhere more quiet.” I felt shivers down my spine.

“Y-yeah.” I stuttered. “Thanks for the ride.”

Slamming the door shut, I turned to face him, his smile still radiating even after he drove off.

next chapter

a/n: this one is a lot longer than the others and i had to rely on the book a lot for some of the dialogue, but just some little changes here and there! i hope you all like it!

tags: @measure-in-pain @brekkers-whore @rejectedbimbo @leilanileila

[chlorine-and-daisies]

good omens fics i enjoyed this week!

for further discussion, see Crowley & Fell (2024) (T) by @twosoulsinonehome- Aziraphale teaches English Literature at Cambridge and Crowley teaches History of Religions at NYU. This was so fluffy and funny and their voices shone through, especially in the emails. Keep the work skin on- the author made perfect use of the format, with funny subjects, signatures, and everything. It's not just the main couple- Muriel, Maggie, and Nina are great in this one too. I loved seeing the progression of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship over time, from drunk emails to vows. As I'm in a long distance relationship with my own precious demon partner I had a particular soft spot for this one :)

Artist's Rendition (T) by @bingothedingo666- After Armageddon't, Adam restores Aziraphale's shop with a few extra books...including a children's Bible with an interesting drawing of the Serpent of Eden. This is silly and sweet, with great footnotes. The drawing itself made me laugh and I thank the author for writing this and sharing it with me. I loved the dialogue and jokes and Aziraphale's sheer fondness for any depiction of Crowley and his soft side, but also the subtle hints that Crowley's not fully comfortable or familiar with religion being portrayed in an innocent/childish way (Smiting builds character). One can only speculate as to why that is (the Fall, the Flood, Job...)

and finally Every Part of Me (T) by @foolishlovers from this past February! This one's probably the most unique fic I've recommended yet- it's a Hannah Montana AU! I thought it was super interesting how the author used the popstar alter ego as a way to explore Crowley's genderfluidity, and Aziraphale was funny in this one. I do love clothes so of course I enjoyed the outfit descriptions. While I was one of those kids with strict parents who was never allowed to watch the Disney channel, I still liked this a lot, and if you grew up with the show you'll appreciate the song references.

Yes, there are fewer recs this week- partially because some of the stories I've been following this week are ongoing and I'm planning to recommend them later when they're finished, and partially because I was busy working on my own post s2 Crowley character study, sleight of hand (T) (ohoho, you thought I would give the self promotion a rest?) I'd love it if you added more recs in the comments/reblogs, including your own self-promotion.

Hope you're enjoying these weekly posts- this fandom can be so huge and intimidating sometimes so I really want to showcase new work :) All three of this week's picks had really unique premises and I'd encourage everyone to take them as inspiration to write your own special fics. Best of luck to all you authors- keep on sharing all those stories only you can tell!