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formulaforza · 2 years ago

Text

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two part three part four part five

18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.

There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus.

Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away.

Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance.

You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show.

The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo.

“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.

“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.

You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”

Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”

Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again.

You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.

His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick.

A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves.

The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league.

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol.

“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask.

He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care.

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you.

Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem.

You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.

This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut.

Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension.

Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving.

The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled.

You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion.

He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”

He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.

You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”

His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”

You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

[18 minutes later]

You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”

He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold.

He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig.

It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand.

Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses.

He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”

You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”

He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”

“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement.

“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”

He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache.

But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”

He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils. His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s not for you,” you goad.

“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”

Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”

“Fuck off.” You first.

“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.

You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions.

His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you.

You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”

He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy.

He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt.

Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”

“It’s different,” you grumble.

“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets. A woman can only make so many sacrifices.

You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”

His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check.

You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity

Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”

“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth.

Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar.

“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”

You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open.

“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth.

He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.

“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air.

God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts.

“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning.

That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other.

You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”

His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him.

When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return.

He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess.

He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily.

He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”

“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal.

You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”

“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you.

You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms.

“I promise.”

“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment.

“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you.

Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work.

You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember.

God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t.

You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled.

You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky.

You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point.

Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t.

You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace.

Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged.

You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?

You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder.

Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?

You roll your eyes. No.

Ok.

You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.

You couldn’t pay me.

Door’s unlocked.

Give me 20.

You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time.

You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble.

“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”

You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway.

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”

There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”

He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”

You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”

“–We aren’t friends.”

You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”

You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”

“No.”

You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together.

When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”

You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.

“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me!

“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky.

(Eleven minutes later)

Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole.

He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed.

Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer.

It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost.

He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements.

“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right.

“Watching what matters.”

“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”

He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”

He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors.

Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response.

You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”

He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”

A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock.

He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?”

He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.”

He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer.

There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.

He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”

Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe.

“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.”

His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.”

You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern.

You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them.

It won’t be happening again.

#oi #this is getting me sent to hell.#charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc series #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 #charles leclerc imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 x you #ferrari

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wttcsms · 1 year ago

Note

grumpy tenured professor Naoya x new, sunshine-y associate professor reader !!

lessons in intimacy, naoya zenin ;

pairing naoya zenin x f!reader word count 4.5k synopsis naoya zenin, phd, still has a lot to learn, and you are a surprisingly good teacher content contains fluff!!!, academia au, and they were office roomies!, naoya-centric, he bashes the arts </3

Learning Objective One: Notice Things About Your Partner

Naoya Zenin stares at the heart-shaped cake you left on his desk and refrains from going absolutely batshit.

He can feel the pinpricks of irritation poking his insides, making him curl his hands in annoyance. Two weeks prior, there was a staff meeting informing the business school that they would be sharing their classrooms and offices with the English professors since apparently, due to poor plumbing and a lack of funding, their shack of a school building got flooded and was therefore deemed “unsafe” and “unusable.”

Naoya distinctly remembers making a snide comment about how majoring in something as worthless as English or literature should be deemed a safety hazard and that the degree is basically unusable. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling everyone in the school to get a grip and let the entire English department just float away into a nearby swamp.

The business professors all agreed and considering that all of their students end up becoming wealthy alumni who donate money to ensure that their buildings don’t go under, Naoya doesn’t care about the enraged comments from the English department.

All his rude remarks seem to ensure that he’ll be left alone, which is exactly how he likes to be. It seems that he’s the most hated business school professor and no one is willing to share a space with him.

Because you are the youngest and newest member of the faculty, you end up being the unfortunate soul paired up with Naoya Zenin, PhD. When you first step into the office, big box filled with your printed lesson plans and desk supplies, he refuses to lend you a hand.

Instead, he sits back in his seat, staring at you with such an intense look in his eyes that you decide to look at anything but him, and he watches you struggle to maneuver around the tight space. Because of the funding, the business school offices are spacious, but to maintain some semblance of privacy, minor renovations were made. Crammed in a corner is a new desk meant for you. If he keeps staring daggers into your very soul, you’re going to make a request to have a room divider put in place so you can cower behind them and avoid his glare.

While your side of the office is small, you make it as unique to yourself as possible. There’s a Cinnamoroll plushie sitting on your desk, a cup holding glittery gel pens, and inside your desk drawers are scratch-‘n-sniff sticker sheets with colorful words of encouragement because the world has already beaten down your students enough — you might as well give them back some of their childhood enjoyment.

Naoya’s desk is vintage mahogany and rarely has anything sitting atop it unless he’s inside the office and on his laptop. Hanging on the wall behind him is his doctoral degree that is forever put on display in a massive, ostentatious frame. Naoya Zenin, PhD from Keio University. Economics, you recall him telling one of his colleagues. Because finance is the poor man’s idea of a prestigious field.

It doesn’t take a degree to know how Dr. Zenin feels about a degree in the arts.

Upon your first awkward meeting with Naoya (where he let you nearly trip and spill all your meager belongings onto his pristine office’s floors), you immediately head home and look at your new office buddy’s RateMyProf reviews.

⅕ OVERALL QUALITY BASED ON 986 RATINGS | 0% WOULD TAKE AGAIN | 5.0 LEVEL OF DIFFICULTY

Professor Zenin’s Top Tags

#lotsofhomework

#getreadytoread

#lectureheavy

#skipclass?youwon’tpass

Review 1: i dropped my econ major because of him. this wasn’t even supposed to be a weeder class

Review 2: DR ZENIN IS THE WORST PROFESSOR FOR ECONOMICS. HE MIGHT BE THE WORST PROFESSOR IN THE BUSINESS SCHOOL. HE MIGHT EVEN BE THE WORST PROFESSOR IN THIS WHOLE DAMN UNIVERSITY!!!!!! DO NOT TAKE HIM! I regret not taking everyone else’s advice and going with Dr. Gojo instead

Review 3: only redeeming quality is being hot, but he’s still an asshole

Review 4: Misogynist, doesn’t believe women can be leaders in the business world, has God awful takes that literally no one sane would agree with, teaches what HE thinks is right and refuses to acknowledge any opposing viewpoints, talks down on students, and that’s all i can say about him from the TWO DAYS i attended his class. i immediately dropped his course LOL

Review 5: Dr. Zenin’s rigorous coursework and unforgiving grading has prepared me for graduate school, and I still believe all the courses I had with him provided me with a better foundation than my other peers in my doctoral program. However, he did make my undergrad experience a miserable one. His lectures are hard to follow at times, and he creates his exams with the intent of making it unpassable. He’s the professor that you wonder why he hasn’t been fired yet.

You search for any positive comments about him, but it appears that the students hate everything about him, to his tests, his teaching style, and his personality.

In all honesty, it’s kind of sad. What must it be like, you wonder, to be so hated by the very students you’re meant to teach and inspire? You’re willing to give Naoya the benefit of the doubt — you know how one student’s misconception against a professor can paint a bad picture overall. Maybe Naoya is just a difficult person to understand! An undercover softie, if you will.

There’s no harm in trying to be friendly with him. After all, the two of you are going to be partners for the foreseeable future. You don’t have the energy to remain constantly on your guard around him.

You start off with little things, like burning candles in the office to fill it with sweet, welcoming scents. You offer to let him borrow your extension cord so his charger doesn’t have to bend all awkwardly when he plugs in his laptop. You make an effort to ensure that the classroom is clean before his class enters because that’s a courteous thing to do. You notice that when he eats his lunch on campus, he’s always unwrapping a sweet treat afterwards.

You can’t be a truly bad person if you have a sweet tooth, you rationalize.

So, you bake him little goods and leave them on his desk. When a week goes by and he doesn’t acknowledge your actions but the goods are always gone by the time lunchtime is over, you think you’re making progress. You notice that he seems stressed and annoyed every time he storms into the office, and so you start adding tiny notes of motivation alongside the goods, too.

Written on a pink sticky note that’s in the shape of a heart (probably to match the fucking miniature cake you baked), Naoya’s eye almost starts to twitch as he examines every loop and curve of the letters you personally handwritten for him.

I hope you have a great day today! Look on the bright side, you’re done with all your lectures for the week!

Naoya angrily takes a bite out of the cake as he waits for his laptop to turn on. The sugary sweetness does very little to alleviate his annoyance, but he can begrudgingly admit that the cake is good. Delicious, even.

This makes his scowl deepen.

How annoying, he thinks, tossing your note in the trash bin (not having the heart to crumple it up like he used to do with your previous notes). What are you, some kind of a stalker? How is it any of your business to know that Thursdays are his last days for teaching since business schools don’t believe in having class on Friday? And why do you always do that? Saying I hope?

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, Momo,” he remembers you telling your blonde-haired student. “But I hope you consider sticking with your creative writing major. We’ll lose a very talented student if you choose to go, you know.”

Naoya had let out a little snort of amusement at this. Who the fuck cares about whether or not students drop out? If they can’t handle the coursework, clearly they’re not cut out for the real world. He finds it annoying that you practically hold their hands, coddling them, always tacking on an I hope because you don’t want to demand people to do things. So much damn consideration, he wonders how you even survive in this big city. You’re probably the type of person who apologizes when someone else gets in your way at a busy store. You probably let yourself get cut in line. You definitely give money to panhandlers who are only posing as the homeless and needy.

Naoya wants to take joy in the fact that you are the type of person who could easily be taken advantage of, but as he finishes the cake you made for him, the idea of people purposely giving you a hard time just because you’ll take it lying down makes him feel even more irritated than before.

He takes out his frustration on his students. A first-year student emailed him asking for an extension, so Naoya tells them either they get it done by the original deadline, or he is more than willing to just give them the zero right now. In the real world, your boss and your clients will not give a single shit that you are hospitalized after being hit by a truck. Perhaps, if you used the brain inside your head and the eyes on your face, you would know better than to cross the road when a speeding truck is heading your way.

Then, he thinks that you would probably gladly give your students an extension if they asked. You’d probably even visit them in the fucking hospital, like the saint you think you are.

You’re so helpful to the point of your kindness being detrimental to your own wellbeing. You extend deadlines, and then have to beg and plead with the dean and bust your ass to get final grades in by the required date. All that struggle could have been avoided if you just gave the zero. You hear out your students, letting them speak their minds, and it cuts into your lecture time. Nobody is paying tuition to hear another student’s ramblings. And how long does it take you to bake him these desserts? It’s something different every day, always fresh, always seemingly made with care.

He doesn’t even know how you know he likes sweets. Lucky guess, he tells himself.

You see, Naoya knows that he is respected (somewhat) and feared (most definitely). He knows that he is not loved, not by his colleagues (who are all intimidated by him), not by his family (who thinks becoming a professor at a prestigious research university is dogshit when he should have been a global economist), not by his students (the university-mandated end-of-the-term class surveys are always sent to him). So to him, despite the ego he presents to the public, he cannot fathom the idea of someone noticing little things about himself. He definitely can’t imagine someone noticing and caring — it would honestly make more sense if they used private information against him.

He doesn’t think about you noticing him, and he refuses to think about all the things he subconsciously notices about you. He can recognize you by your perfume alone; someone had passed him by in the hall, and his eyes searched for your figure, only to be greeted by a student who just happened to favor the same fragrance as you. (He had snapped at the poor girl, telling her to walk faster or get out of the way.) He’s certain he knows the fucking HTML color code for the specific shade of lipgloss you’re always constantly applying in the office. One time, against his better judgment, he saves the place you’re at in your book. You had fallen asleep at your desk, your finger pressed on the page you were struggling to read, and then your head banged on the desk, hand slipping away. He doesn’t know why he didn’t leave you alone in the office; he had no business staying that late since none of his students were brave enough to turn in any assignments to be graded. There was an on-campus police alert the day before, though. Naoya rationalizes that he just didn’t want any criminals or deviants breaking into his office and destroying it. That’s all.

He actively avoids any thought of you, not realizing the irony of how, in his vehement attempts to ignore your existence, he is very much acknowledging you.

Learning Objective Two: Have Meaningful Conversations With Your Partner

“Why do you do that?” Naoya snaps, breaking the silence in the office.

Naoya is the type of person who does not simply say things — he snaps, he sneers, he smirks. And he has the exact tonation, voice, manner of speaking, of someone who grew up and was never told to shut the fuck up. With his current position in life, it seems like no one ever will.

“Do what?” You look up from the papers you’re grading, staring at him all doe-eyed and genuinely confused that Naoya discovers the unfortunate fact that he does, actually, possess a heart. An annoying one that gets all tight in his chest and starts beating against his rib cage every time you look at him. He’d charge you with a hospital bill from a top of the line cardiologist, but he knows you get paid like shit in comparison to him. Also, because he doesn’t like the idea of women spending money on his behalf.

“Give out pity grades.”

It’s like you’ll do anything in your power to not fail a student. You’re just pulling out participation points straight from your ass! And the comments — don’t get him started on the amount of comments you waste time leaving on your students’ papers. There’s a reason why his grades always get entered before deadlines. He’s efficient.

“And ruthless.” You tell him, after hearing him tell you all about his “efficiency.” “We’re here to help cultivate their minds. Get them to think. College shouldn’t be about getting grades based on your professor’s mood.”

Was that somehow an attack on him? He should be annoyed. Instead, he finds this side of you less annoying.

“I’m always in the same mood every time I grade.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that, vindictive?” You’re teasing him, and he wouldn’t let just anyone get away with such a comment. He’s bored, he tells himself. That’s why he’s entertaining this. Unlike someone, he doesn’t have anything left to grade.

“Nah. Irritated. They’re all idiots.”

You frown. “No student is an idiot.”

He gives you a look. “You teach English.”

“Intro to Classic Lit.” You correct him.

“Right.” He says this slowly. “Idiots.”

“Maybe yours, but definitely not mine.”

“Let's compare our students’ majors and potential earnings after graduation.”

Now it’s your turn to give him a look. “There’s nothing wrong with pursuing your passions.”

“Great. Do you tell them that when the cashier tells them their card declined? Or, does the passion end up paying the total? Are grocery stores accepting passion as a form of payment now?”

“Don’t be as mean as people say you are.”

His signature smug air of superiority momentarily dissipates at this statement. It’s not often that someone can get Naoya to shut up. To be bested by someone who grades using pink gel pens is so humbling, the only thing keeping him on his pedestal is the fact that he knows he’s the youngest tenured professor in this whole entire university and an acclaimed researcher (he always makes the list for top five most cited economic researchers). You’re fresh out of a doctoral program, and even being tenure-track would be a pipe dream for you.

“There’s nothing mean about being honest.”

“You can be honest without being mean.”

“It’s the truth. Students are idiots.” He shrugs, because what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?

“Then why become a professor?”

“Sweetheart, professors that work here are researchers first, teachers… no, not second. Maybe third? If they’re that dedicated to shaping young minds, or whatever fantasy you’ve got going on.”

“Well, I believe that the students are here to learn. And before you call them stupid again, that’s the great part about learning. You don’t have to be smart to do it.”

Growing up, Naoya had to be a lot of things, smart being one of them. No one in his household was ever capable of producing an ounce of empathy, and considering all the people he’s been surrounded by since his prep school, university, and internship days have all been raised in similar environments. The world is unforgiving. Naoya lives by the ever-so-poetic motto of “sucks to suck.”

He will go home and lay in bed and stare at the crown molding on his ceiling, and he will recall your sunny disposition. He wants to shame and berate you for being so damn optimistic, for believing in those words, and he will think to himself wouldn’t it be nice for it to be true?

Instead, right now, all he does is huff. The truth is, Naoya is well aware that his students aren’t stupid, even if he tells them that they are every time they’re in class and every time they dare to come to his office hours to debate their grades. They aren’t stupid in the booksmart sense, but they are very dumb when it comes to the real world, and Naoya considers it a ruthless kind of mercy that he exacts on them. They’re idiots because they have all the potential in the world and would rather waste their time on stupid shit and procrastinate on their assignments instead of putting forth any real effort.

If they tried, he would give them an A.

Learning Objective Three: Be Specific and Sincere With Your Praise

You’re crying.

In his head, Naoya tries to force himself to roll his eyes but finds his body unwilling to comply with the demands of his mind. He’s annoyed, but the irritation isn’t directed at you.

It’s at the man sitting across from you. Dr. Kimura got his PhD from Cambridge and thinks he’s hot shit, but out of pure curiosity, Naoya found his dissertation online and still uses it as free melatonin. Two paragraphs in knocks him out faster than a whole bottle of sleeping pills.

Dr. Kimura asks him to leave, into which Naoya reminds him that this is technically his office, and that Dr. Kimura is an intruder. Too much time spent with you in such a confined space has some of your little lessons rubbing off on him. Words are so important to you. Naoya decides that visitor and guest are too kind, too euphemistic, for Dr. Kimura. Call it like it is.

Kimura’s business for being here is to give you your first ever teaching evaluation. It’s actually just a poorly disguised attempt at trying to lowball professors’ salaries, but this is the type of schtick that only works on pushovers like you. Naoya leans back in his desk chair, arms crossed, and it’s obvious that he is going to be listening in on the whole entire ordeal. You’re embarrassed to be put on display like this, not knowing that he isn’t here to scrutinize you (for once), but rather he’s your backup.

Before things take a turn for the worse, you’re actually all smiles and sunshines and rainbows.

Stop smiling at him, Naoya thinks. He hates your smile. Hates it the most when it’s directed towards anyone but him.

Kimura begins with a compliment. That’s how all the professors in the arts are taught. Compliment sandwich! Praise, constructive criticism, more praise! What a fucking joke. Naoya thinks his way of handling things is much more efficient. Talk about all the stuff they need improvement on, and whatever isn’t corrected clearly is okay. Don’t you people know how to read in between the lines? Context clues ring any bells? Fuck, what did you all go to school for?

Disaster strikes, just as Naoya predicts.

“Listen, we know that this is your first year of teaching, and you’re still getting settled into your role of professor and not student, but clearly there’s some leniency when it comes to your grading…”

Kimura’s listing all sorts of shit. Grade inflation is what he claims one second, next he’s claiming you have subjective grading criteria. No other Intro to Classic Literature course has a similar class average to yours.

Kimura shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in you. Another tactic that would only work on someone as sweet as you.

“If this continues to be an issue, we may have to reconsider renewing your contract.”

And there are those waterworks Naoya is expecting.

The thing is, Naoya knows a bully when he sees one. Naoya knows all about being cruel just for the sake of being cruel. As cold, shriveled up, and worthless as it seems, Naoya does have a heart.

“That’s bullshit.” He inserts himself into the conversation. You’re staring down at your lap, twiddling with your fingers. Kimura turns to look at him.

“This is a private matter—”

“If it was private, you would have done it in your own office instead of mine.”

“This is a matter that concerns the English department, not yours, Dr. Zenin.”

He’s right. And yet—

“Have you even read any of her students’ papers?”

—Naoya is your backup.

“How is this relevant?”

“Read their papers. Read their first one versus their most recent one. Hell, read every single essay a student has turned in over the course. I guarantee you they deserve the marks she’s given them.”

“Their papers are filled with corrections and questions, and yet, she gives them an A.” Kimura knows all about Naoya’s reputation. He’s infamous. He’s the reason why everyone’s scared of majoring in economics. Naoya Zenin is the toughest grader there is.

“I’ve seen the mental state of your department’s students. She’s doing them a favor by not crushing them.”

“You’re saying they deserve those grades?”

“She lets them redo all their papers within a reasonable period of time and grades based on the overall improvement.” Naoya shrugs, like it’s just that simple. “I don’t see an issue.”

“She’s manipulating grades.”

“She’s giving them a second chance. I personally find that to be admirable.” Naoya is not lying. This is what makes you look up. “And she cares. I think she’s the only one of your faculty who gives a damn about whether her students are learning or not.”

Naoya doesn’t hate a lot of things because he doesn’t like giving certain things so much special attention, but he does dislike insincere people. People like Kimura are the worst because they hide behind fake niceties and table manners, but if you peel off their skin, they’re secretly lizards in disguise. At least in Naoya’s case, no one ever has the luxury of being shocked when he says something very mean and unpleasant because he will never filter himself or put on a mask that gives off the vibe that he practices civility.

As a matter of fact, Naoya has a nasty, serpent-like grin on his face as he locks in on Kimura, caging him in.

“After all, isn't that the point of becoming a professor, Dr. Kimura?”

Gotcha, you slimy bastard.

Learning Objective Four: Be Vulnerable, Put Yourself Out There

“Would you say I’m an asshole?” Naoya brings this up as he helps you pack up your belongings. He claims that it’s because he can’t wait to have his office all to himself again, but really, he’s starting to realize that lending a helping hand every once in a while can’t hurt. He hisses when a sharp edge from one of the many stacks of paper you possess cuts his finger.

That’s the last time he’ll ever help someone, he thinks bitterly.

“Not to your face.” You reply back, giving him a grin. He wants to take your smile and store it in a moving box and then keep that box underneath his desk and have it be one of his most prized possessions.

“Hm.” Then he tells you, “A student called me that.”

“To your face?” You look equal parts shocked, amused, and delighted. It’s a good look.

“No. RateMyProfessor.”

“Oh, I think I saw that one. They called you hot, right?” You’re busy packing up your sticker sheets and binders. Naoya wonders if he’s reading too hard into what you’re telling him.

“You’ve seen my reviews?”

“Of course I did. I looked you up on the Internet the day we became office roomies.” You throw this information out so nonchalantly that Naoya almost feels like he’s the weird one to have a reaction from it.

“You looked me up on the Internet?”

“Duh. Naoya, we live in a world where AI is writing essays for students. Of course, I would look you up online.”

“But why?” He presses you, latches on to the idea that there is a world where someone wants to look him up online and it’s not to find his home address so they can get revenge on him failing them.

“Because I wanted to know more about you, silly.”

It would be nice to be known. It’s already nice to have someone who wants to get to know you. Naoya Zenin does not settle in life, but he thinks he could settle for this and be content for the rest of his days.

Of course you would. He would say this, all snarky and egotistical, but he knows better. He won’t have an excuse to see your four times a week, won’t be cooped up in this office with you late in the night, won’t get to smell the remnants of your perfume when he’s up at the podium, lecturing his class. But there’s a chance that he could see you in different settings, too. Getting coffee together in between classes. Sitting next to each other during university-wide faculty meetings. Taking you out to dinner, because he’s reviewed your contract, and he’s not sure how you’re surviving financially.

“I would like that.” The words come out rushed, all jumbled and smushed together. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t blush. This is what he tells himself when he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I would like for you to get to know me. And to learn more about you, too.” He swallows. Hard. “I sound stupid, I meant to—”

“It’s okay, Dr. Zenin.” You have the prettiest smile in the world. His dissertation should have been on that. “The fun part about learning is that you can still do it, even when you’re being stupid.”

#naoya zenin x reader #naoya x reader #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #fluff #drabble #one shot #college au

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glassrowboat · 7 months ago

Text

Ruffled Crow. Dottore.

Really just a few headcanons.

Dottore, once upon a time, used to be really bad about safety measures once upon a time, but now there's eyelash stations in every section of his lab along with showers and signs to remind people to wear their safety glasses on every door. Though, he did assign the task of handling that to his segments.

Each segments hair is synthetic, so instead of it being able to grow itself they would have to uproot their hair and fix a new one much like you would do a doll for their new wig (aka the good old push pin method) if they wish to change it.

Dottore has a chemical burn under his mask from an experiment gone awry that caused one of his eyes to go blind. Nowadays, it's been changed out for a robotic eye. It may or may not be like bluetooth connected to the monitor on his mask.

The bracelet Yelan lost that she cherished as family heirloom was actually made by him. When he was in that lab in Liyue (Childe’s story quest for a reminder) he had started tinkering with the idea of making the prototype for what is now his network with how Dottore communicates with his segments. This is why he ended up breaking out in a hysterical fit of laughter when Pantalone brought it to him one day out of the blue and asked him if he knew what it was.

He knows how to swing dance. It's just you have to be careful with him because those stupid (cunty) boots of his are a hazard. One time they may have even gotten caught on your pants leg and tripped him. A fact he still denies.

Dottore has a child segment he finds himself disassembling and reassembling every few years. To see the face his own parents turned away running around with a smile, giddy and without worry, is something that always has his stomach turning without fail. So wouldn't it make sense he simply ignores the thing before he turns it to a pile of parts again? So why is he currently building the little boy again with gritted teeth?

Major sweet tooth. To the point he had done some bullshit scientific method to make the perfect baklava. Still, Dottore finds himself preferring the one his mother made.

He does not have any game. Sorry guys, but this is the same man who prefers to hide away in his lab rather than interact with other people. You can't tell me he knows how to flirt, and it ends up affecting any romantic relationship he has because he knows about such practices in theory, but not in reality. It can make his time with you rather....well, let's just say he tries.

(Welder Dottore is so real in my heart, guys) The reason Dottore's bangs are uneven isn't because of a fashion choice, despite the fact he says it is. Rather, it's because one time when he got too wrapped up in his excitement, Dottore didn't properly secure his hair behind the welding mask, and it caught on fire. The only reason he hasn't let it grow back out is because he knows Pantalone would call him out that it was never a fashion choice in the first place.

He has worked with Sandrone on multiple projects. Their research tends to lean towards the same subject, so it only makes sense that they have collaborated multiple times even if their interactions can be tense and full of snark. But a like, mind that can challenge your ideas is what Dottore needs so he can reach new heights, no?

His sharp teeth aren't natural. They're the result of one of his first experiments. After all, he didn't have any willing subjects besides himself now, did he?

#hoyoverse #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader #gn reader #Dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #headcanons #/glasshcs

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simp-ly-writes · 2 months ago

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Safety Hazard

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Pairing: Partner!Trevor Evarts x Can't-Cook!Partner!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You cannot cook to save your life so much so that it even endangers others when you do not mean it to but good thing you have a patient boyfriend who is more than willing to help!

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral pronouns, no use of (y/n), light swearing, fluff, domestic fluff, short, attempt at comedy (near death experience for Chef!Josh /sarcastic).

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 585

─ · · A/N: Thank you for this hilarious ask anon! This pic inspired me so much and I truly embraced the chaos on this one LOL 🤣

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↳ Trevor. You loved your boyfriend for being the most supportive of your failed culinary career but you adored taking pictures for the Smosh and Good Mythical Kitchen marketing team- it was your newfound passion and helped you to get through the office's endless teasing about you practically married to a guy who can cook very well and then you who burns water somehow.

↳ (But you wouldn't change it for the world, there was nothing like eating meals cooked personally from a literal chef every meal of the day and Trevor was more than happy to serve and watch you eat the food he made, it was a major love language shared between the two of you).

↳ Fun Fact! You met Trevor by being kicked out of culinary school after being deemed "too much of an endangerment to your fellow staff and students." But what they really were meaning to say was that you were just too good of a chef that they couldn't handle your heat in the kitchen (or at least that was what you told yourself to sleep better at night).

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Trevor did not have the heart to tell you that you were quite frankly terrible at cooking but you were an excellent baker... while under supervision (of course). But all the rest of the Smosh cast and crew would think otherwise often steering you clear of the communal kitchen or distracting your very kind offers to help by doing other tasks.

Some had even had the guts to say it, albeit very nicely, to your face that you should not be in the kitchen. Yet Trevor insisted that you were fine as long as he or another trained staff member was there to supervise your culinary explorations.

It quite frankly became a joke around the office, so much so that even the marketing team but up anti-(name) signs, your face in a red circle with a line through it, to show that the kitchen was off limits except it you were with Trevor.

Other departments got creative, the set-design crew made a finger-blender that Shayne used cos-playing as you during a Try Not to Laugh episode recently that had you howling with laughter. The next best was the Games Team forcing you to play overcooked with Trevor and Josh from Good Mythical Morning and then half-way-through switching to real life.

Everyone on set that day lost hair and years off of their life. You swore to see Josh growing grey hairs by the end of it and Trevors loving eyes but shaking and nervous hands and smile pinning you down as you barley missed your fingertips every time you chopped a vegetable or turned the over up way to high to steam a fish.

But the greatest of them all was you and Trevor all completing the 'Can't see, hear, or talk challenge' in the Kitchen with the rest of the Good Mythical Morning Kitchen staff. Trevor played the can't hear character as you choose the cant speak one and Josh the can't see.

At one point you were waving a knife around trying to prove your point without the ability to speak as Trevor panicked, throwing his hands up in the air and shouting as Josh felt around almost getting attacked accidentally by you before everyone was calling the shoot off and even debating of airing the video. (They eventually did and it raised to the top of trending over the culinary section on youtube, take that culinary professor!).

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─ · · TREVOR TAGLIST: @lisiliely @missflufffanfics @thevintagefangirl @maricarorp @uniquely-haunting @laurasdrey

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chai-berries · 6 months ago

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all my friends support palestine and will click and share this link to spread awareness

Come to my Lake House (#3)

Jerry bought the cabin on the lake when Abby went into middle school. The following summer, she invited her new Salt Lake City friends out to the lake. That started the tradition of going straight from the last day of school celebrations to the lake house for a long weekend. They’d come busting in through the cabin’s french doors, dropping gym bags and jansports backpacks into a perfect trip hazard pile by the door. Grabbing a slice of watermelon that Abby helped cut up and greet Jerry, who was in charge of the grill, before splitting off to do different lake house activities.

And the lake house itself is surrounded by so many things to do. From looking for newts in the water to trying out the infamous rope swing. Hiking in the forest that surrounds the majority of the house.

Don’t forget the traditional summer games like cornhole and horseshoes. Once Jerry even set up crochet — but he had to immediately return the game for the safety of the extremely competitive friend group.

This tradition continued past high school and college and budding careers. Eventually, Jerry didn’t feel the need to tag along with them and the group continued using the lake house as a place to escape from their corporate jobs and hectic schedules.

A year into your relationship with Abby, you got to see the cabin in all it’s glory. Abby didn’t have to ask you twice when she invited you, as you’ve been craving a nice cool lake for ages, work kicking your ass. You packed your swim gear, your journals, and books to keep you entertained throughout the trip. Abby had spent the drive up to the lake chattering your ear off about all the things she wanted to show you.

She wanted to take you to a cool cliff side view about three miles from the cabin. And the fire pit with the perfect view of the sky above between the trees. She was also just genuinely excited to be with you, playing in the sun. You practically radiated the star. With your silly jokes and pretty laugh. Whenever you guys went hiking, you’d practically be skipping down the trails, playing in the spotlights of the sun along the way. Your face under the light of the bright sun gave Abby butterflies every time. She couldn’t wait to share with you all the sights she loved so much.

The lake picnic happens three days into the trip. Manny, Abby, and Jordan drag Manny’s jet skis into the water. You help Nora carry the basket of sandwiches she painstakingly made for everyone, with specialty diets considered. Everyone had their beers, sodas, and sparkling waters tucked between their legs. There’s a giant wooden raft in the middle of the lake that they were using as base. Once the food is safely put on the base, alongside Jordan and Leah who were gonna swim in the water around it, the jet skis are revved up and the races begin. Manny and Whitney get on one while Nora takes the second. Abby invites you to ride with her and how could you say no?

Once you’re situated, your thighs against hers and arms around her waist, she floors it. She starts with big circles around the lake as she gives you a scenic tour of the greenery around it. But soon after, she’s pulling tricks to make you shriek. She drives by the others, causing waves that rock them. Manny almost takes you both out when he retaliates with his own jet ski tricks. The two of them start to race, with you and Whitney holding on for dear life.

Abby drops you off at the raft before doing a switch around with Leah, who takes the jet ski and Abby goes over to join you. She plops down next to you on the edge of the raft, her legs and feet submerged in the water next to yours. You had collected a bag of chips, one Pepsi and one La Croix before you sat down and you quickly pass the sparkling water drink to her before she even notices it. She thanks you with a simple kiss on your temple.

You both sit there, talking and sunning yourselves until Manny drags Abby off to a beer chugging competition with Leah and Jordan. You and Nora get to properly catch up as you wait for Abby to come back. Smiley and a little buzzed, she does come back and she immediately holds her hand out to you.

“Let’s swim, baby!” You give in once you see she’s not drunk and you trust she won’t drown on you. You guys walk over to the corner of the raft where no one is at and jump into the lake. You do a simple dive but Abby, after waiting for you to pop back up to the surface to watch her, does a running start and cannonballs into the water with a big splash. You close your eyes as the water hits your face and don’t open them until you feel Abby’s hands at your waist.

You open your eyes to see Abby’s own eyes practically glowing with mischief, the blue darker in some places and light in others. You tell her you “love her pretty eyes” and she pinks up, pressing a smooch to your smiling lips. You push away from her to float on your back, the girl doggy paddling next to you until you guys are further away from the raft.

“Hey,” Abby rasps out against the water pushing her around. “Wanna play mermaids?”

You bark out a laugh. “Okay, but I get to be the purple-tailed one.”

Abby laughs, agreeing. “I wanted to be green anyway.”

And like two little girls, you and Abby play mermaids for what feels like hours, swimming around each other and the logs and rocks that coat the river floor.

It is when you’re laughing so hard at her impression of her “pet seahorse” that can’t stop nuzzling up to you for “pets and kisses” that you realize you hadn’t seen any of your friends in a while.

“Wait, Abby? What time is it?”

The girl pulls back and looks at her wrist where her waterproof watch shines the time back to her. “Oh, shit we’ve been over here for two hours?!” Abby’s flabbergasted face pulls a laugh out of you. You kiss her wet pout.

You guys had managed to swim pretty far away from the raft and when you finally get to it, you notice that while the coolers were still on the raft, your friends are gone. You climb onto the raft and look around. The sun’s in your eyes and you have to cup your hand by your eyes to block it out in order to see.

“HELLO??!?” Abby walks around the raft calling for Manny and Nora or anyone.

Finally you hear Manny screaming Abby’s name. You see him on land by the house, waving his arms.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” He yells across the water.

“We were swimming!” Abby yells back. She looks back at you and rolls her eyes.

You see Manny move — his hands are now placed on his hips. “You get your asses over here! Dinner is almost done! Dios mios! No me jodas! I thought you guys died!”

“Sorry, Manny!” you yell back. You then turn to Abby.

“How are we supposed to get back?” You groan. “I’m fucking exhausted from mermaids, but they took the jet skis back.”

Abby scans the area and indeed they took both jet skis back. But that doesn’t deter her.

“I’ll go swim to get the jet ski and then come back and get you.”

Now you normally would say no but you can’t argue the fact that Abby’s stamina is way higher than yours on a good day. You’re exhausted but Abby is still bouncing around, full of energy. She dives into the water and swims to a jet ski. It takes her a quick minute to mount and start it, but soon she’s cruising towards you.

“Thank you, Abs.” You take her helpful hand to climb on behind her. And you wrap your arms tight around her waist to hold on as she drives you both back to shore. Manny is still there, looking exactly like a latina mother irritated with her children. He hands you both towels and gestures for you to follow him back up to the house.

“Thanks, mom!” Abby teases Manny. She just barely dodges his smack aimed at the back of her head and ducks behind you as protection. You put your toughest face on as you guard your girlfriend. Manny laughs at your attempt and rolls his eyes. “That’s cute, sister. Like a rottweiler hiding behind a pomeranian…”

“Aye,” you scold Manny, waggling your finger at him.

“Leave my girl alone. Pomeranians are ankle biters. Which means I’mma getcha!” you put your fists up, punching the air near his face. Manny gets into a defensive pose, bopping around in place like a video game character in create mode, which makes Abby cackle behind you.

“Hey, bitches!” You three turn your heads to the house where Nora is standing in the doorway. “Food is done. Get your asses in here,” she walks back into the house.

Manny straightens up. “Best not keep the cook waiting. She hid the chocolate for the s’mores when I kept asking when dinner would be done.” His face pulls into a deep drown like a scolded child. You laugh and shove him in front of you. Abby shuffles over to walk next to you, placing her arm over your shoulder. You slide your hand around her waist and walk the rest of the way glued to the hip. Manny was inside by the time you both got to the porch stairs. You could hear him reenacting the moment he saw you guys on the raft to the rest of the crew.

“You wanna go get changed?” Abby quietly asks. You nod and follow her up the stairs to your shared bedroom. She grabs her clothes from her bag and chivalrously goes into the bathroom to change, allowing you to have the bedroom to yourself. Making do without a shower, you put on a sweatshirt and shorts.

You’re sitting on the bed, putting on socks when Abby comes back in. She’s wearing her go to track pants and the thrifted harley-davidson shirt you bought her months ago. It has holes in the collar and along other seams, but it’s soft, light, and has a picture of a half naked lady sitting on a motorcycle. So safe to say it’s one of Abby’s favorite shirts. She joins you, putting on her own wool socks. You both get up to head downstairs but she stops you in the doorway.

“Hey, wait,” she pulls you towards her until you're close enough for her to lean in and press a long kiss to your lips. You smile into it and tug Abby even closer.

She eventually pulls away and you watch her lick her lips. Her cheeks are rosy red. She doesn’t say anything, just scans her eyes all over your face.

“You good, baby?” you ask, playing with the hairs at the nape of her neck, comforting her without hesitation.

“Yeah,” Abby coughs. “I’m just, like, really gay, sorry.”

“What?!?” you squawk out. The snort that she pulls from you is embarrassing but the way Abby’s face is so serious makes it come out of you. “You're dumb as hell! God, I love you.”

“Aw,” Abby cooes. She brushes a finger along the apple of your cheek. “I like you too!”

You roll your eyes at her smirk. “Shut up!” you joke, shoving her shoulder back. She barely moves, her stance planted.

“Hey! I was kidding! C’mere! I am sorry baby!” Abby apologizes. “I love you so so much!” She kisses your temple repeatedly.

You can’t help but pout at how fast you are able to forgive her, jokes aside. You’re a fucking sap for her.

You guys head back downstairs and into the dining area where everyone is devouring Nora’s gourmet tacos. There’s a spot for you and Abby saved, with empty plates waiting. The cups are filled with something non-alcoholic that sits in a glass jug next to your place mat.

“Damn, Nora,” Abby comments when she sits down. “My plans for my dinner seem subpar to yours.”

Nora smiles. “Shut up. But thank you. I’ve made these a few times already and they hit every time. So please, y’all, eat it up!”

The rest of the table cheers unanimously and then they settle back down, eating and enjoying the company around the table as the sun sets. It turns into twilight, then dusk, before everyone finally disperses from the table. Since tonight is Jordan and Leah’s turn to do dishes, Abby invites you to sit outside with her. The stars are bright out here and you take a moment to look at all of them in the sky. Abby takes that time to look at you.

“Do you know any of the stars?” She asks

You continue looking upwards. “I wish but no. You?”

“Nah,” she clicks her tongue. “I was honestly hoping you’d know.”

You laugh at her response, looking away from the sky. Abby’s holding back a smile when you look at her. She points over your shoulder.

“We have some chairs over here.”

There are lounge chairs sitting on an overlook of a small cement patio and campfire area. Abby tells you about building the fire pit a few summers ago with her dad. She sits down on one and before she even has time to say something, you nudge her thigh with your knee.

You look positively bashful. Abby’s thankful for the lanterns surrounding the area that alight your face for her. “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course, yeah, c’mere,” Abby scoots a bit back on the chair and spreads her legs so you can sit between them. You eagerly settle in against her warm chest. It’s not too hot or cold tonight — perfect summer night weather. She wraps her arms around your shoulders. Goosebumps arise on her skin where your hands run down her arms until you bring her forearms up to your chin, encouraging her to snuggle closer. Abby smiles into the back of your head and she tightens her arms around you. You both lay there, Abby pressing random kisses onto your head and you respond to them with kisses of your own to her arm.

“Thanks for coming up here with me. I know it can be a bit overwhelming with everyone but I’m happy you’re here,” Abby says into the night. You lean your head back so you can look up at Abby. She looks down at you, instinctively closing her eyes when you put a hand on her cheek.

“Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been having a lot of fun. It’s nice to see the crew… unleashed.” You shoot her a wry grin. Abby knows exactly what you’re referencing as she was also witness to Leah and Manny’s rock, paper, scissors turned arm wrestle turned into actual wrestling over who got to have the big inflatable dragon. Apparently, Abby had told you, they had to take turns because this wasn’t the first inflatable those two fought over but it is the only one that still inflates.

Abby leans her head back, groaning. “God I was so embarrassed when they did that!”

You snort. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Abby shrugs, looking sheepish. “I wanted to impress you with this trip and there goes my best friends fighting over an inflatable floatie.”

“What are you talking about?” You move your entire body 90 degrees around so you can look at her, your legs now swung over one of Abby’s. There’s an exasperated but extremely adorable expression on your face. “I love your friends. They are your family. And they’re funny as hell. You have to come camping with my family — we get crazy on the river. Just you wait,” you hum, looking up at the sky.

Abby slyly leans closer to you. She can’t help the grin that grows on her face. “Yeah? I’m going camping with your family now?”

You look over at her and smile. “I mean yeah, my family already invited you without me even asking. It’s going to be twenty of us so you better be prepared for that whole circus,” you tease. Abby shares your smile. She’s met some of your family but only in short bursts. She met a few of them before you guys even started officially dating. They loved her as much as she loved them. “Just be prepared for the fly fishing because it’s a requirement while camping with us.”

Abby scoffs. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll catch the biggest fish.”

You cup her cheek and bring her face closer to yours. “I’m sure you will, baby.” You coo. You lean forward and press your lips against hers in a slow kiss. She keeps you there with a hand on your neck, nudging your lips open with hers, your tongue enthusiastically meeting hers. You can’t help the moan you let out that vibrates against Abby’s lips, encouraging her own moans. It’s deep, slow, and full of love as she keeps you firmly tethered to her. When you finally pull away, it’s to look at Abby’s pretty face in the flickering lantern lights.

“Did you know,” you start. Your hand is still on Abby’s cheek and you take the time to delicately brush your thumb against the apple of her cheek. “That you are so fucking pretty?” You lean in to kiss her freckled cheek. The smooch is exaggeratedly loud in order to bring a laugh out of Abby. She pretends to lean away from you but is secretly enjoying the attention you give her face as you lay kisses all over her face, repeating “so pretty” under your breath after each kiss.

You continue to smooch her face until she is giggling so hard that you can’t stop smiling at the sound, which makes keeping your lips puckered very difficult. You reluctantly pull away, taking the time to brush loose hair from Abby’s face. Her giggles subside and she watches as you comb her hair back.

The stars and tree line behind you give Abby a view she could stare at all day, your soft expression as you look at her warming her more than any bonfire could. This is exactly what she wanted when she invited you to come up here with her. You, her, the stars, the soundtrack of a summer night floating around you. No work, no appointments. No other distractions besides her best friends, who adore you and have no problem leaving you two alone to enjoy your time together. No real interruptions for an entire week. And Abby is going to take full advantage of the full week to love on you as much as she can.

She presses a kiss to your cheek. “C’mon,” she gestures for you to go back to your earlier positions, your back against her front. You both spend the rest of the evening sharing kisses and inventing random constellations out of the stars above you.

#🏕️ 🧜‍♀️ 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🌌🇺🇸#the format is a little wonky but i’m gonna blame the internet and not my formatting skills <3 #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby brainrot era #mads’ headcanons #abby anderson fluff #the number game #number 3

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gremlinandacrow · 2 months ago

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Mouthwashing Headcanons

I may be cringe...But I am free! This is my first time actively sharing my headcanons. Sorry if this sounds incoherent, these were partially done on impulse because I wanna share my love for this game!!!

(Note: There's no mentions of Post-crash here!) (Note #2: Yeah Anya has the most, she's a queen and deserves it!)

Anya 🌕

Early to mid-30s

Tall! I imagine she's at least 5'8 (and her sandals provide an extra inch of height as well)

Russian (credits to @lesbiananya for this hc actually! Her fics are awesome!)

She moved to America in her mid-20s

Lesbian

Growing up, her family placed many expectations on her. Academically, she went beyond most of her class, but as she got older, she struggled immensely with various insecurities over being "good enough".

It developed into her feeling very hyper-independent. She only considers it her final option.

It's...Partially the reason why she's so estranged from her family now.

Undiagnosed autistic (currently going through burnout)

Major reason why she kept failing medical school: She kept running out of money she earned from working hauls with Pony Express. Is in debt.

On the ship, she...Doesn't do much. With such a small crew, there's very little chance of anyone getting seriously hurt. And the food...Well, it's terrible, but not enough to make anyone sick.

She spends a lot of time (during the "workday") in her office. She likes playing the music while she studies in there. It's mostly ambient music.

Bands/Artists I'd think she'd like though: The Crane Wives, Mitski, boa (Maybe Big Thief as well?)

When the crew is playing a board game and it's getting intense, she'll go eerily quiet and have this intense glare!

Smokes often, usually when she's stressed. Unfortunately on this haul, she only packed one box, so she making them last as much as she can...

Also has a journal. She mainly uses it to vent her frustrations out. It's the only thing that will "listen" to her.

She's cold to the touch

After her first haul, she packed extra blankets. You can't tell me the Tulpar isn't cold 24/7!

Near-sighted! She wears contacts (I know this isn't the most original headcanon, but I wanted to mention this one!)

Curly 🚀

Mid-30s

6'1

Born in Australia, raised in America after his family moved when he was young

Bisexual, but he didn't know for a long time (At least until his late 20s)

Parents had him when they were older. Both passed by the time he was 30.

Has been Jimmy's friend since middle school.

Kept finding himself surrounded by bad influences. Sometimes he'd get out of those situations...And other times he'd stick by Jimmy.

Doesn't have that much of a social life outside of Pony Express. As a pilot, it's a super demanding job.

Daisuke 🌺

5'7 (Shortest of the Crew)

Japanese/Filipino (Born to immigrant parents)

Aroace, but hasn't realized yet (struggling with comphet)

Trans! At first, only Anya knew (due to medical reports). He's pretty open about it!

Loves art, but his parents didn't understand how it could've been a stable career/passion for him.

Not a morning person at all. For a while, the hardest part of being on the ship was waking up before noon.

Used to Naruto run (honestly he still does it sometimes for fun)

Not a fan of coffee unless if it's 90% creamer + sugar.

Also doesn't like alcohol (even the sweeter drinks such like Pina Coladas, Cosmopolitans, etc.), prefers soda!

Reminds Curly of when he himself was younger (right when he started working for Pony Express)

Swansea 🦢

Early 50s

5'10

American (Southeast)

Also has Welsh ancestry!

Married, has three daughters. He's estranged from his family due to work.

Doesn't wear his wedding ring while working. Safety hazard.

Like Curly, he goes by his last name rather than his first.

Sees Daisuke like the son he never had!

Didn't really understand what Daisuke was talking about when he came out to him. Mostly because the intern was talking really fast and used a lot of lingo Swansea couldn't begin to wrap his head around.

But he eventually got it. He's still a bit confused, but willing to learn. Just not while he's busy working.

Jimmy 🐴

(Content Warning: Implied childhood abuse and neglect.) (Additional Note: I did not make these headcanons to excuse, downplay his actions, or make him sympathetic.)

Mid-30s (A little bit older than Curly)

5'11

American (Midwest)

Rough childhood. Curly was the only one who knew the full extent of what his homelife was like. However, when Curly wanted to tell people, Jimmy pressured him not to.

He fully believed that his life would get worse if anyone got involved.

As an adult, he believes he'll never be like his father.

Barely graduated high school

HATES being called "James"

His feelings towards Curly are complicated, to say the least. They have a codependent relationship.

Listens to crunkcore and country exclusively.

#mouthwashing #headcanon #anya mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing

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shouldprobablybereading · 5 months ago

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Great job by Whelan as always but I do hope that is not what the railing looks like all over urithiru, because that's a major safety hazard. Totally not PBL complient

#Gavinor better not be allowed to step a foot on that place #I know Dalinar is tall among the alethi #so probably not the best to measure with #but that shit barely even reaches his knees #it's not gonna do anything to stop someone from falling over #sa5 #tho I don't see how any of this would be a spoiler #stormlight archive #cosmere #brandon sanderson

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would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend · 7 months ago

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How about Typhlosion?

I’m afraid this one isn’t going to come as much of a surprise for anyone, but a typhlosion would not make a good pet for a vast majority of owners. Like many large fire-type pokémon, Typhlosion require a very specific environment to thrive without posing a threat to themselves or any humans or pokémon around them. As much as I like this pokémon, I can’t deny that it is perhaps the epitome of a walking fire hazard.

Before we even get into the fire risks inherent with adopting a typhlosion, I must address the species’ size. Typhlosions are quite large at five and a half feet tall. These pokémon would not be comfortable in a smaller home where they don’t have plenty of room to run around and play. Typhlosions are able to get around both quadrupedally and bipedally, indicating to me that they like to move around and might behave somewhat like real-world bears, who need large territories to thrive. At over 175 pounds, transporting them might be a little difficult without the use of pokéballs: its not like this is a pet you can easily carry around or even lead with a leash without some real effort. While a pokémon of this size isn’t necessarily disqualified from being a good pet, it will put them out of the running for many owners.

Since the evolution line that typhlosion comes from is commonly used as starter pokémon for trainers in the Johto region, we know that typhlosions respond well to training and are generally friendly creatures. They have a documented history of getting along with humans, which is a huge plus. However, training to take part in Pokémon battles with a trainer and training to live inside a human home are very different things.

This species’ biology, unfortunately, makes them a very poor candidate for pethood. These pokémon appear to have a large, open flame on the back of their necks, which alone can pose a fire risk in a smaller home. This flame is actually blazing-hot fur (Silver), which can, in certain circumstances, burn so hot that “anything that touches it will instantly go up in flames” (Gold). In the wild, typhlosions use this natural heat to hide themselves in battle with other pokémon: according to the pokédex, typhlosions “[obscure themselves] behind a shimmering heat haze that [they] create using intensely hot flames” (Ruby/Sapphire). When this pokémon gets angry, they burn even hotter. In order to safely keep a typhlosion in your home, you will need to invest quite a bit into flame resistance furniture that won’t cause a blaze as soon as an energetic typhlosion rubs up against it, either when play-fighting or agitated by whatever stressors may appear. This is, obviously, beyond the means of some owners.

The danger of keeping a typhlosion doesn’t end with the risk to your home, it includes a substantial risk to you. Keeping a typhlosion requires a keen awareness of their mood. As previously mentioned, when these pokémons’ tempers flare, the heat they generate can be extremely dangerous. In the hopefully low likelihood that your typhlosion lashes out and attacks you, you might be in very big trouble. They can use several moves that could easily pose lethal, like Flame Charge, Lava Plume, Flamethrower, Inferno, and Overheat. Additionally, the pokédex warns of this pokémon having an ominous “secret, devastating move” that may have something to do with their ability to cause explosions by rubbing their fur together (Silver). While there is a way to tell when a typhlosion will attack by observing the way their rising heat affects the air around them (Crystal), the safety risk of living with a typhlosion is simply too great for me to recommend them as a pet.

Safely adopting a typhlosion would require a large living space and costly investment in fireproofing, and the additionally safety risk they could pose to you and others is immense. As popular as this pokémon is, I cannot in good conscience recommend them as a pet to anyone but the most dedicated fire-type carers.

#pokémon #pokemon #typhlosion #pkmn irl #Pr-:(

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postcanon-ii-hazard-au · 2 months ago

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ASKS ARE CLOSED

after the past contestants of ii start fearing permanent death, Oj takes the matter into his own hands, to keep everyone in the hotel safe... but isn't he doing a bit much...?

(hello! this au takes place after ii18 and the hotel is rebuilt (which I may explain later). in this au Oj decides he's responsible for everyone's safety and starts taking precautions that are a bit overboard. but, until fear dies down, there's a lot more rules in place. a bunch of former contestants are labeled as hazards that are potentially risky for the more "fragile" contestants. more info will come later.

sorry in advance for any and all potential mischaracterization, I'm trying my best!)

EVERYTHING BELOW THE CUT

Hotel residents Oj labeled as "hazards" + notes + extra (askable characters! But feel free to ask any other ii char and I'll try my best):

Chemical hazards:

Test tube

Liquid hazards*:

Test tube

Toilet

Fire hazards*:

Paintbrush

Candle

Sharp object hazards:

Knife**

**no longer an issue

Explosion hazards:

Bomb

Volume hazards***:

Microphone

Tea kettle****

****convinced oj that she'd have to get really angry to make the tea kettle noise. almost sounded like she was threatening him

Toilet

Salt

*(main focus of the au)

***Residents that are known to have high volumes are also labeled as hazards for the safety of glass residents. The group was made to keep an eye on Mic, but other... loud residents were added later.

(other askables +) new safety programs and those participating:

Anger management:

Paintbrush, Candle*, Silver Spoon, YinYang, etc.

Oj won't admit it, but anger management was only made for Paintbrush, despite its later popularity. Their anger issues are the only reason they're a fire hazard after all, so this was the solution to reduce the chances of them getting angry. Whether it's working or not is debatable.

*Candle, upon being classified as a fire hazard, was put in AM alongside Paintbrush. Though she quickly proved to be better as a teacher, replacing Goo, whose analogies weren't exactly helping anyone calm down.

Silver Spoon was not labeled as a hazard yet started attending classes after a few petty arguments. Though he was initially reluctant, he seemed not to complain after finding out Candle was leading it.

YinYang's behavior, though improved, has landed them both in trouble occasionally. AM was more so a suggestion.

There are more attendees, but they either aren't regulars or don't have a good enough reason to be listed

Lifering's "Life Guard" program:

Lifering volunteered to help prevent any accidents when there was no other reasonable solution. This includes sticking closer to "hazardous" objects. He's been spending the majority of time just being in the same room as Candle. Besides that, Lifering has generally been available immediately in case of emergency. (But then again, when was he not?"

Anti-Mold:

Food objects are susceptible to molding, especially if they eat moldy food, so everyone has been asked to leave dates on anything in the fridge. They aren't sure what they'd do if someone did start molding, but it's better to prevent it all together.

(Tags key!):

#ii hazards answer (ask tag)

#ii hazards au (general tag)

#ooc (out of character/canon)

(Post key!):

(no posts yet...)

#ii hazards answer #ii hazards au #ii #inanimate insanity #ii au #ii oj #oj ii #oj

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perfectly-m1saligned · 4 months ago

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(Late) K!nktober day 1

Following @dreamlandcreations prompt list. Day one: lingerie; first time; degradation. I couldn't decide on one so I simply decided to integrate all three :) You can find all the stories on my Wattpad as well. Toodles!

(NFSW: MDNI!! Reader's discretion is advised)

Simon Riley x reader

(virgin!Simon x experienced!reader) (college!au)

Halloween, the one night of the year where all deeds are excused, for it’s our only chance to let loose, shadows and masks protecting us from the inevitable shame. Or as the Romans said: semel in anno licet insanire. Of course, you were no exception to the cravings of the flesh, putting on the slutties outfit you could produce with the items in your closet, a black and gold mask covering the upper side of your face.

The party was already in full swing when you arrived, thumping bass reverberating through your ribcage and hammering in your ears, the flashing lights installed throughout the room creating a hypnotising succession of dancing limbs on the dance floor. All the people you knew were at the warehouse tonight, an abandoned place - possibly a safety hazard - the youth of your city had basically full control over for Halloween, close to the forest. After a few rounds of greetings and small talk, entirely out of formality, you decided to go to the bar to get the night started. The drink was purple and sparkly, you had no idea what was in it, but the vampire bartender was cute and it tasted like straight up rubbing alcohol when you took a sip out of the straw, so it was perfect.

You walked towards the dance floor, squeezing yourself between the bodies that flooded the room, girls shaking their ass and boys with their hands creeping under their short little dresses; in about five to ten minutes, you would’ve been in their same situation. Drink in hand, you closed your eyes and started to feel the music, and it wasn’t long before a pair of large, strong hands found your waist, coaxing your backside against his front. You didn’t even turn to look who it was. You didn’t care. You started moving your hips, your free hand finding the side of his thigh as you pressed your ass against the growing bulge in his jeans. You felt his fingers curl more firmly around your waist, chest puffing out as if he’d sucked in a sharp breath, the feeling of power swelling in your own chest making you grin.

You eventually turned around, hand snaking around his neck to guide his head level with yours. He was wearing a Ghostface mask, covering the entirety of his face, but the majority of the people around you preferred anonymity. Your lips found his ear: “Let’s get somewhere more private, yeah?” your booze-laced breath proposed, a smirk in your voice. He didn’t answer, simply following your lead when you took his hand in yours. You led him towards the stairs, since the warehouse had an upper floor with some vacant rooms, and hoped you weren’t too late. Couples littered the space, some making out, some not really caring about privacy as a girl was not-so-subtly bouncing up and down on some guy’s dick, his hands secured under her thighs as he held her up and against the wall.

Luckily, you saw two people come out of a room, and you immediately ushered the stranger inside. The full moon outside the large, metal grate-covered window provided the only source of light. You didn’t waste any time, pressing the boy’s back against the wooden door. You hastily pulled his mask up, eyes already shut as your lips met his in a feverish kiss, not giving yourself the time to take a look at his face. Your hands were on his chest, feeling the muscles growing taut under your touch, his fingers settling themselves back on your waist. With a soft, impatient huff, you guided his hand down to the curve your ass, and you felt him stiffen.

“C’mon, what’s wrong with you?” You groaned. “You can’t even-” The words died in your mouth. “Simon?” A pair of sheepish brown eyes looked down at you in sheepish confirmation. “y/n, I’m-” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, I knew you would’ve never even looked my way in any other context, so when I saw you on the dance floor-”

Your best friend, Simon Riley. He’d told you he would’ve stayed at home, since he wasn’t feeling well, but there he was. You had danced with him, and now you had just made out with him. You were aware of his attraction towards you, yet you’d never acknowledge it, and he’d never come forward, as to not ruin your friendship.

“Hush.” You whispered, shutting him up with a quick peck on the lips. “It’s Halloween, Simon, we can do whatever we want for tonight.” You put emphasis on ‘tonight’, reinforcing the finality of your statement; you wouldn’t have talked about it ever again. You grabbed Simon’s hand again, guiding him towards the couch on the far end of the room. You didn’t want to think about the various fluids coating the leather surface, and thankfully you were intoxicated enough to not let your thoughts spiral.

After Simon sat down, you climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Your lips were back on his in an instant, his hands now more confident as they settled back on your ass, making your already short dress hike up. With a long finger, he felt the string of your thong between your asscheeks, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “God, y/n…” he panted out, breaking the kiss, only for his lips to latch onto the sensitive flesh of your neck. “y/n”, he whispered against your skin, nervousness lacing his voice. “You know that I’ve never…you know, done this.” Right. Simon was a virgin. You simply smiled, hooking a finger under his chin to force him to meet your gaze. “Don’t worry, baby,” you whispered, your mouth only a breath above his. “I’ll teach you.”

Climbing off his lap, you took a step back, starting to peel off the strap of your dress at a torturously slow pace, your eyes never leaving his. As fabric gave way to creamy skin and the black lace of your lingerie, you saw Simon squirm, shifting on the couch every other second to soothe the aching erection in his pants. His chest heaved with increasingly ragged breaths, nails digging into the material of his pants, itching to put his hands on you, or himself.

“Touch yourself, Simon.” You suddenly ordered, making his eyes snap wide. “I want to see how much you like me. Come on, touch yourself.” Simon gulped noticeably, but eventually caved. Trembling hands reached the buckle of his belt, subsequently unzipping his jeans and pulling them down with his boxer briefs, granting his cock some much needed freedom. The tip was already dripping precum, and Simon collected some of it with his thumb, using it as lubricant as he started to move his hand up and down his length with deliberate strokes. You let your dress pool down at your feet, left in nothing but the sheer lingerie, barely covering you, and the mask on your face. He grunted at the sight, lips parting as he fisted his cock more vigorously. “y/n…” he groaned, a pleading look in his brown eyes. “God, p-please…come here.”

You grinned, stopping in between his spread legs. “I need to touch you,” he murmured, still fisting his cock. He leaned forward, nose grazing your lower abdomen, enough to catch a whiff of your scent. “I’m begging you. Fuck, please let me touch you.” You looked down at him, satisfaction and power coursing through your veins. “Give me your hand, Simon.” He gave you his free hand, the one around his shaft momentarily wrapped loosely, too focused on your actions. You pulled your thong to the side, the flimsy triangle of lace easily giving way to your already soaking cunt. The moment you brought Simon’s index finger to collect the slick arousal between your folds, you were sure he was close to cumming all over his hand already.

“Shit, baby, you’re so fucking wet.” He said quietly, his warm breath fanning over your bare heat. He lifted his face to meet your gaze, a puppy dog look in those onyx pools of his. “Tell me where you want me to touch you, baby. I want to make you feel good.” A shuddered breath left your lips, a whimper getting choked in your throat when Simon’s thumb brushed over your clit. “Fuck,” you hissed. “Right there.” A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips, slowly inserting a finger inside your drenched entrance, coaxing out the sweetest moan. “That’s it, such a pretty little slut. You’re so tight and wet, y/n.” He withdrew his fingers, a wolfish grin on his face at your frustrated whimper. “Come sit on me, pretty girl,” he patted his thigh, dick still hard and ready. “I want to feel your tight pussy around me.” You climbed back on his lap, lifting your hips and putting a hand under yourself to line him up with your centre. “Sure you can handle it, Riley? You’re being a little too smug for my liking.” He obliterated the attitude out of you in one motion, burying himself so deep inside of you, you couldn’t help but cry out. An animalistic growl rumbled in his chest, face buried in the crook of your neck as he shuddered slightly, feeling your warm walls enveloping and squeezing him.

“Ride me, y/n,” he commanded with a raspy whisper. “Be a good slut and milk my cock.” You began moving your hips, his length reaching all the delicious spots inside of you that made your eyes roll back into your skull, coaxing the sexiest moans from your lips. His hands were firmly set on your ass, guiding your movements as you bounced on his dick. Simon lowered his head between your breasts, lips latching onto the soft, sensitive skin and leaving purple marks, as more groans rumbled in his throat.

He moved your hips faster, your motions more frantic and sloppy, purely driven by lust and the need for release. You felt the pleasure starting to coil in your lower belly, the knot getting increasingly tighter, ready to snap. “Fuck, Simon!” You cried out, hands on his shoulders and head tipped back, eyes shut. “That’s it,” he grunted. “Cum with me, y/n.” With a few last, powerful thrusts, you felt your orgasm wreck through your body, making you shudder uncontrollably, screaming out Simon’s name as you creamed all over his cock. He held your waist with a vice-like grip, overwhelmed by his own release, shooting a warm load of cum deep inside you.

There were a few silent minutes in which neither of you spoke a single word, feeling him going soft as he was still inside of you, your ragged breaths and the distant music the only sounds filling the room. Once you came back to your senses, you climbed out of his lap, finding an abandoned box of tissues on the ground to clean yourself up. Pulling your underwear back in place, you retrieved your dress from the ground and put it back on.

“So…this is it, huh?” You heard Simon call out from his spot on the couch. Fixing the strap of your dress, you looked over your shoulder, cocking your head to the side with a sympathetic look in your eyes. “Happy Halloween, Simon.” You simply replied, your heels clicking over the floor as you walked out of the door.

•This is an original work of fiction, please do not copy, steal or upload to this or other platforms without credit•

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod #kinktober #18+ mdni #mdni #i need him #omg this man #college au #halloween #perfectly-m1saligned #call of duty smut

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