#work and the professor was a piece of absolute shit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thalwri · 4 months ago

Text

TEACH ME, SIR!

part 2!

STARRING: art professor!rafayel x art student!reader

synopsis: you've been struggling in your art classes, and your professor hadn't made it any easier for you. who would have thought he'd come looking for you when you stopped coming to the lessons?

warnings: porn with plot, all characters are aged up (and in university), fingering, body worship, cunnilingus, cockblocking, male masturbation, dirty talk, cock slapping, overstimulation, cum eating, pure filth.

wc: 7,5k

MINORS DON'T INTERACT!

you were more than prepared to throw that chunk of clay out the window. you could feel the pressure looming over you, mostly on your neck. you were just over a month away from your practical exam and you were drowning in absolute shit.

how did you end up in this unworthy predicament?

out of the kindness of your heart, and the fact that you owed them big time, you decided to take up an art course with one of your closest friends so that she wouldn’t be lonely throughout the semester.

you were registered and everything, with the needed supplies clean and fresh and ready for use. the glossy joy of it slowly disappeared when you slowly came to realise over the following days that your friend wasn’t attending classes for a reason. she dropped out. not of the class. of the university. and ran to another country with her boyfriend for a six month vacation.

perfect. now you were all on your own in an art class as someone who had no clue on how to draw, paint, or do anything art related. the only consolation – and misfortune – was your unnaturally handsome professor. despite his pretty face and alluring voice, he had a certain knack that always got on your nerves.

based off the rumours you’ve heard, professor rafayel worked as both a teacher of art and classical music, specialising in opera. apparently he had a voice so divine that half the auditorium fainted or fell ‘madly’ in love with him. his artwork was basically on par with his voice.

not only was he a renown artist globally, he often worked on pieces to send to the gallery near the university which attracted multiple art lovers from all corners of the world. he was rarely in lectures in the previous years but this year he decided to buckle down and teach full time.

and the first thing he had you do for your finals was a trial sculpture. you had started with something basic: a fish. a cute little fishie that would be surrounded by a wave. not too simplistic but it had enough detail to be easy to look at and mark.

you were almost certain your professor would compliment you for the detail you’ve meticulously added to your work. the way you’ve made something so simple so beautiful especially for your first time.

“it’s lazy.” that melodic voice quickly soured into a baneful buzz of noise. rafayel stared at your work with a hint of disdain on his face. your hopeful smile slowly fell in disbelief. you spent hours on that. hours. you could hear the giggles from the girls in the studio erupt behind you.

it wasn’t surprising that the professor had gathered a cutthroat fanbase of women who would do anything to gain his favour– and from some others, fuck him. solidarity clearly didn’t exist when it came to the illusive rafayel.

“this is something a child would do,” he scoffed, brushing his finger across the still-drying fins of your poor fish. “this may be a trial practice before the real thing, sure. but it’s no excuse to show no effort. you’ll get a 50 for this if it gets moderated.”

a pass. barely. those charming purple-blue eyes scanned your solemn face before he glided off to the next sculpture, immediately grazing the artist. but not as badly as he did with you.

you stared at your little fish, its form now scorned with the assault of his graceful, well maintained finger. for someone so effortlessly handsome, he was such a bitch. and you weren’t afraid to say it out loud. in fact, you did.

it came out as a mumble low enough not to be heard. yet he somehow did. those ethereal eyes glanced at you momentarily as if he acknowledged it, and a small grin curved on his lips.

you wouldn’t say you were accustomed to his ‘bullying’. however, it wasn’t the first time he’d pick on you. during the theory-based lectures, rafayel would turn his attention to you, poking and prodding you endlessly for the historical accounts of artists that you didn’t know existed. then he’d ask you – mind you, only you – which techniques should be used with which equipment for whichever type of painting style that came up in that stupidly pretty mind of his. that extensive mind covered and protected by a mane of purple wavy hair.

you had often wondered how soft his hair would be. and what his hands would feel like in yours. soft? calloused? he was always well dressed, adorned in expensive garb, always appearing in ways that would have any passerby fall madly in love.

he must have been some kind of siren. you were almost lucky you weren’t damned to hear his voice live.

but the picking and scolding was becoming unbearable. you were beginning to question your worth in the class. you knew you had minimal experience from the get-go, and you never dishonoured yourself by lying or trying to fake it.

with that being said, there’s only so much slander you can handle from not only your peers but your own professor before it becomes unbearable. eventually, like all straining predicaments, today was your inevitable breaking point.

you sat as you usually would, smack bang in the middle of the lecture hall, taking notes of whatever your professor said as quickly as possible. you took every word seriously, even if he repeatedly mentioned things like “you all should already know this,” or “which you should have learned from last year,”.

you had worked diligently, listening and writing and occasionally glancing at the board to keep up, in a constant flow determined to finish the course well. up until the lecture hall fell quiet, followed by multiple rings of notifications, even your phone vibrated.

and one by one, giggles erupted around you, gradually bursting into relentless chortles and laughs. the classmate seated beside you, showed you her phone revealing a devastating sight.

your trial sculpture, that was graded with a bare pass, was crushed and ruined before it could even dry. and right in front of the crime scene, stood a very familiar purple haired artist looking down on your besmirched work. his face was not fully clear in the image but you could see what you believed was a scowl.

with blurring vision, blinded by your tears scorching your eyes, you raised your gaze to rafayel and the professor’s face masked no shame, no grief, no remorse, just confusion. almost like he didn’t realise what had taken place.

but he must have. especially if he gave you such a low grade. your teeth ground and pressed against each other, forcing a tick in your jaw. you watched his face slowly contort in a slight realisation of what was happening. he stepped forward, his plump lips slowly split to speak but your things were already packed in your back and you were on your feet, ready to leave.

to make matters worse, the exposure clearly wasn’t enough to embarrass you. of course you had to sit in the middle of your row and stumble out under the sharp, scrutinising gaze of your peers. their snickers, hisses, and cruel whispers did not fall deaf to your ears. you absorbed them like a sponge, your face hardening more and more.

if it meant saving the last few threads of your dignity, you’d keep your head high. you stormed down the stairs, not sparing anyone a glance to push the doors wide open marking your escape.

and by your word, that was the last time you would ever touch that lecture theatre for the rest of the year.

“i shouldn’t have bothered with that course,” you hissed, stabbing your fork into a fresh pastry. “i should have dropped it when i had the chance.”

it had been three weeks since that embarrassing event. you kept your word to yourself and didn’t bother going to the lectures or the studio sessions. your absence initially did not go unnoticed. as expected, your more confident peers would occasionally tease you or laugh behind your back to get a kick at you. fortunately you knew better than to bite back.

like clockwork, the whispers dulled into eventual silence and you were at peace for once in the last few months. good riddance.

“you need to go back to your lectures.” zayne, a close companion of yours, muttered as he reached to have another piece of cake. that would be his third slice in the last hour. “your prac is in less than a week.”

“you’ve got a med lab tomorrow and yet you’re here for a limited cake.” you scoffed, watching his eyes light up in delight from the bursting flavour of chocolate mixing with vanilla. you wondered if he would have the same reaction with a carrot cake. mind you, he was likely going to be your future doctor.

“that handsome dickhead thinks he can almost fail my trial and then destroy it?” stab, stab, stab went your fork until it made the table shake. zayne swiftly held his plate up to protect his cake. “does he think i won’t report it to the dean?”

honestly, if you did there was a high chance you wouldn’t succeed. with rafayel’s reputation and the allegations of his donations to the university, you were more likely to be bullied into either apologising to rafayel for causing a ruckus or you’d be forced into silence. judging by the look on his face, zayne seemed to have the same idea.

“it’s only a month left of this crap. i’ve just got the prac and i can put all of it behind me. besides,” you stabbed the pastry again, visualising it as that stupid professor of yours. again and again, you stabbed until you felt it would reach your heart’s content.

and then a striking idea seeped into your mind. what better revenge than to crush him too?

“besides?” zayne repeated with a raised brow. he held out his hand, waiting for you to explain yourself.

“i have a plan.” your lips spread into a devilish grin. zayne cringed at the sight. he knew that face well. and it only meant trouble was near. “i’m going to make a sculpture of him. dying terribly.”

“isn’t that unethical?”

“i saw someone make a sculpture of their dick, i’ll be fine.”

your alarm went off abruptly, bringing your mind back to your revenge plot. you had already started creating rafayel’s annoyingly perfect head, using pictures you found of him online as a reference.

you were supposed to do it at the studio, but one of your senior art friends let you use their private room to prepare it. you would do anything if it meant you’d never have to see him more than you had to. after that stunt he pulled, he’d never get the chance to make fun of you again.

you quickly said your goodbyes to zayne – quickly swiping a bite from his cake – and rushed back to the art faculty, beelining straight to the private studios. you mind buzzed with images of you drowning rafayel in the ocean, watching him gracefully swim with fishes, of you burning him alive, of him seducing you with his looks and his tragically angelic voice as his bare form lay for you to replicate with clay–

a mere pause wasn’t enough for you to gauge what you were just thinking about. those juxtaposing thoughts had your hand on the wall to hold you upright in case you toppled over from your breath being wheezed right out of you.

since when did you find him that hot?

in all honesty, it wasn’t a lie. rafayel’s an insanely attractive man. truly, if you weren’t more reserved with your attraction to him, you’d probably tried to shoot your shot like all the other desperate people in your class.

his skin was almost pale like he had spent his entire life underwater, clear and soft and constantly emphasising his damn perfect features. not to mention the moles all over him. it was only up to your imagination what everything beneath his clothing was like. perhaps he hid his muscles well under his clothing.

you quickly shook your head, swatting away those mischievous thoughts about him. those visions of him kissing you, and painting you– fuck.

you deeply inhaled, filling your lungs with as much air as you could muster. your eyes fluttered shut, holding back the profanities brewing deep in your throat.

“that damned–“ within an instant your centre of gravity was toppled and travelled to your arm, which was bring dragged by an almost inhumane amount of strength.

you couldn’t look at who was pulling you without completely losing your balance and toppling over. you stumbled as your dragger’s pace sped up until you were yanked into complete darkness except the small ceiling lamp dimly illuminating the small space.

as your vision adjusted, you observed the room noting a second heavy breath outside of your own. you felt for whatever was close to you. soft bristles, cold metallic cylinders, the overwhelming smell of chemicals. of paint. this was the supply room.

“where were you?” a siren’s melody swam into your ears like water clearing out the impurities from your hearing. rafayel.

you swiftly turned to face him, following his voice. and fuck damn.

he was disheveled. like, roughed up like he ran all the way across campus just to find you. that dumb big chest of his rose up and down las if a child was using it as a trampoline. small beads of sweat dripped down the opening of his button-up shirt to his abdomen, hidden by silk.

he asked again. “where were you.” less of a question this time, more like a statement.

“that isn’t any of your business.” your eyes narrowed in scrutiny. why would he care?

“it is my business.” he protested, stepping towards you. instinctively, your legs took you an equivalent step back. this was reminding you too much of those cliche scenes– and they only ended in two ways.

to be frank, you wouldn’t have minded the more action-based ending. you may hate the man but that didn’t mean his face wasn’t pretty.

again and again he draws near and close, and again and again does the space between you and the cabinet full of paint grow smaller and smaller. your tongue slipped out, lubricating the small cracks forming on your dry lips.

a small groaned erupts in the room, rafayel slapped his hand over his mouth and halted in his steps. those purple-blue irises rolled back for a millisecond then returned both hazed and dilated. you tugged at the collar of your shirt, your body warming up the more you brought air into your lungs.

he was acting weirdly. was it the smell of paint?

“you haven’t been attending classes.” you couldn’t help but laugh. since when was that his concern? “it will affect your final mark.”

“i’ve checked the handbook,” you scowled. yes, you took the time to read the handbook in depth to make sure you weren’t going to get screwed for skipping lectures. “attendance is recommended but optional.”

pink slowly tinted his cheeks under the dim light, contradicting the enraged look on rafayel’s face– almost a bit too similar to the face he made when he scrutinised your sculpture. your lips twitched, almost exposing your smug satisfaction.

truly, you had no reason to be in his class anymore other than the fact that you had given too much of your time to it already. all those sleepless nights, those days of endurance, those moments of temptation– temptation to walk out the door and never turn back. you wanted it. you often felt that you desperately needed it.

but you knew better. your friends knew better. in those three weeks of your absence zayne persisted in ensuring you finished what you started, whether it was forcing you to work or giving you moral support by making his own botched version of whatever assignment you had to complete. though it did end up helping him when it came to making notes on anatomy.

you’ve had endless mounds of support in those three weeks. where you felt like absolute shit. where you wanted to just hide. where you were almost willing to drop out.

fucking rafayel wasn’t going to take that away from you. you had nothing to lose. and he wasn’t going to plague you any longer.

“so if you think dragging me into this supply room will do anything, it’ll only get you into a very dangerous meeting with the dean.” you harshly grinned, waving your phone in your hand. rafayel’s eyes slowly widened upon seeing what was displayed on the screen.

you were recording the conversation. you had been since you got tugged away.

“no donations and pretty artworks can take away the blow of harassment,” your phone rested on top of a can of paint on the floor as you glided towards him in a new air of confidence and spite. “professor.”

his response was disappointing. literally, he said and did nothing. like a marbled statue purely there to be admired. damn him, he was so unnecessarily handsome on a godly level. those disrespectful plump pink lips parted and closed as if trying to figure out what words to spout.

your smile twitched in agitation under his gaze scanning you from your hair to your skintight top pronouncing your curves, and back up to your face. your stance remained rigid, head held high and face taut with wavering spite.

rafayel’s calmness as unsettling, too calculating for your own preference. “you bite your pen when you concentrate in lectures, did you know that?” his voice dropped an octave, reaching a husky flow. a shiver rolled down your spine as it arched in response to his voice. like a siren calling a damned sailor.

“what?” your disbelief came out in a choked whisper. the moisture in your throat was wiped clean from you, leaving complete dryness almost worse than a desert.

“and you like to listen to the questions,” rafayel continued, moving closer to you in tandem with your rising pulse. his eyes were locked on yours, dragging you deeper into his abyss intending not to let you go. “you bite your lip whenever my voice deepens. and you always have questions but choose not to ask.”

he was getting too close. you were too close. the heat of his breath fanned your skin as his height forced you to raise your gaze to maintain your stare-off. something about it felt a little too hot for your liking. your skin prickled in sensitivity rubbing against the fabric of your clothing.

there was no way this was getting you aroused. no fucking way.

“do you know why you don’t ask?” his hand gripped the edge of the cabinet, just a few centimetres from your head. the distance between your lips slowly yet inevitably closed. your breath was trapped in your throat almost clawing for release but it remained trapped.

“you’re scared.”

“i’m not afraid of drawing, rafayel.” first name basis already? you were really testing your luck. you expected him to return to that unsettling silence again before telling you that your suspension was pending.

instead, rafayel broke into a chuckle, sweat-slick chest and shoulders shaking as he laughed. he quickly straightened his lips upon seeing your eye twitch, only to burst into another fit of suppressed laughs.

“who in their mind would be afraid of a bit of paint?” his voice returned to that familiar serene, light tone. the one that brought half the student body to its knees. “no, no, no. i’ve managed to reduce it to two things.”

you instantly jerked back as far as you could – which wasn’t really that far because were already at your dead end – and balled your hand into a tight fist, ready to punch him square in the jaw. the side of your neck tickled with heat as his lips hovered by your ear.

“me, or the chance that you’ll do incredibly well.”

bewildered was an understatement. you were discombobulated at the least. you couldn’t even say it was a bizarre assumption because it was true.

not the fact that you were afraid of rafayel– he’s a walking model who pouts whenever someone speaks to him with a bit more sass than him. even his relentless critique of you doesn’t illicit fear. the only thing he’s gained from that was you growing to despise him.

but your confidence in your artistic abilities were never high. remember, you only joined the course for your friend. and they ditched you last minute. you walked into the studio with the mindset of knowing that you were likely to fail even if you put your hardest work in.

clearly, he noticed.

“you walked into my class knowing nothing,” rafayel leaned back to face your gaze once more with a stern look on his face. “it’s only understandable that you’d be afraid of messing it up. i can see it in your art. i can sense the fear.”

“yeah, right.” you huffed, turning your face away to blink away the stinging sensation burning your eyes. “you prefer to call it lazy and then destroy it.”

for the first time in however long its been since you were trapped in this room with him, rafayel’s facade broke. a flicker of guilt flashed in his gaze. then confusion.

“destroy?”

“don’t act coy.” he could not just play coy. “you destroyed my trial sculpture. there are pictures of it spreading everywhere. you know what you did.”

rafayel slowly shook his head. “i found it like that,” his voice was grave, eyes almost darkened just from the memory. “i was trying to get a scope of the damage to see if i could redo it for you, but it was beyond repair.”

a grave heaviness weighed on your heart. he wanted to fix it? despite being so cruel to you he was that willing to repair your work on your behalf… but that didn’t answer the footage.

“and the picture?” what was meant to come out as a scrutinising hiss escaped as a whisper, holding back the many tears brewing in your eyes.

“i had heard giggles outside the studio, but they ran out before i could check.” his perfect brows furrowed as he observed you. it was more than just intuitive for him to comfort you, console your shock away. his hand reached to hold your arm, to transfer his remorse through his body’s warmth. “i am sorry about what happened to your sculpture. really.”

“don’t.” the involuntary pang in rafayel’s chest did not go unnoticed. his lungs filled with shaking air, unsure of how to proceed. you weren’t pushing him away nor were you hiding. it looked like you were equally as unsure.

“the mark you gave it–“ you seethed, voice cracking as the venom of your tongue delivered each words with malice. “the embarrassment. the shame it left me drowning in, all of it. it was you. and you think you can play innocent and ask why i haven’t shown up?”

rafayel’s fingers twitched, hovering over your skin hesitant to move away. perhaps he was too hard on you, too particular in his interest to monitor your growth in the arts. his face scrunched up, unsure of what you’d allow him to try without violating your space.

“you think you can use that stupidly pretty face to ask for forgiveness?” it was clearly intended to be a mumble that he wasn’t supposed to hear but he did. loud and clear. the tips of his ears instantly warmed and his brows rose.

“stupidly pretty face?”

shit.

of course he heard you. of course he fucking heard you call him pretty. you just wanted to crawl into a pint of paint and choke on it until it filled your lungs with chemical pigment. and there was no way out of this too. rafayel quite literally had you trapped with his body.

his tall, divinely sculpted, soft, gorgeous body. that artistically designed form that you’ve dreamt of touching, that you’ve touched yourself to in your quiet nights– not that you’d ever admit it to anyone let alone him.

warm, almost hot, fingers slide up your arm trailing the standing hairs on your skin. they rounded your shoulder and meeting with the fabric of your clothing, fondling it to check its quality. they reached higher, and hotter, slow and intentional feeling the curve of your throat until the pad of his thumb reached your chin, lifting it until your gaze found his. a raw, newfound level of unspoken, familiar need engulfed you— and you weren’t uncomfortable with it.

“you think i’m pretty?” that husk tone returned, tickling away your nerves replacing them with something more feral.

“everyone does.” you huffed, trying to maintain the front of rafayel’s charms not affecting you. it was almost obvious to you both that you’d fallen in deep.

and yet despite embarrassing yourself, rafayel refused to back down. his thumb’s touch on your chin roughened into a grip with his hand. a mischievous glint twinkled in his eyes.

“say it again.”

it was either the way he said it or the way he looked at you while saying it. regardless, it left your core warm and throbbing with an unprecedented level of need. this was wrong but it felt so right.

you slowly swallowed. “say what?”

the distance between your lips slowly closed, bit by bit. “that i have a stupidly pretty face.”

“no.”

his soft laugh fanned your face like a warm, mint scented breeze. “say it.”

your eyes darted between his own, noting how unnatural yet befitting the colours mixes and emphasised his almost inhumane beauty. it used to sink you yet now you could tell he was starting to drown in yours.

“make me.”

an erratic charge surged between you like lightning striking a tense, hot night. rafayel softly tutted, shaking his head– almost desperate to shake off his unspoken desire to pursue this. to pursue you. his hands did not leave you though. his grip on your face returned to your neck, securing a gentle hold on the base of your exposed flesh, both soft and pulsating with nerves.

rafayel pressed his forehead on yours, your connection anchoring him to reality and restraining his needs. “tell me you think i’m pretty.” his eyes grew heavy with heat, hazing in and out of focus as they moved from your spit-slick lips, your eyes, and every distinguishable feature on your face.

in twisted, lewd synchrony, your lower lip found itself caught seductively in the bite of your teeth. the corners of your lips twitched like they wanted to expose your snarky grin. like your body wanted to show rafayel how you’ve dreamt of that moment.

you should be pushing him away. you should minutes ago. but you didn’t. you didn’t want to. your eyes fluttered shut as rafayel’s grip on your face tightened, finally pulling you both into the passionate embrace of your lips.

the first contact was a shock, forcing you into a soft jolt. his lips were even softer than you imagined, his hands gentle yet crushing to keep you in his hold rubbing small circles on your skin with his thumb.

then the erratic hunger kicked in like a shot of vodka. your faces pushed deeper into each other almost desperate to keep yourselves deep in your embrace. your fingers tangled in his soft locks, your mind drowning in the flowing currents of his scent.

lips waltzing in a push and pull fell into an intoxicating dance of tug and bite. it drove you insane until it was just too much.

you slowly pulled your head back, still connected to him by his teeth latched onto your lower lip nibbling at your swollen flesh.

“this can’t be right.” you sighed against his lips, leaning your head back to catch some air without feeling like your face will get hotter. “we must be violating some code of conduct.”

that irritating chuckle escaped his lips again. “then push me away.”

you should have. you definitely should have. before you could even consider it you found your lips back on his, drooling tongue sweeping past the enclosure of his lips to meet his. it was hot and deliciously wet meeting in a careless fight to taste as much as your breaths could allow.

you rolled your hips against his– slight and subtle– just enough to feel a slight brush of him. to feel it. he felt so big and thick.

a sharp curse flooded your ears, his hands tugged at your waist to pull you closer and make you feel it. his fingers twitched and squeezed you, caressing your waist without abandon, rising ruthlessly higher until his hands disappeared under your shirt. he was boiling, a human inferno trapped in a body of flesh and bone restricted by restraint yet fuelled with hunger.

they reached inchingly closer to the swell of your breasts, barely contained by your bra– you needed him to rip it off at this point. they curved over the lace and enclosed on each one, pulling your perked nipples out to fondle.

his tight hold on you dragged out a sound not meant to leave your lips. it was enough to make him snap. two hot bodies pressed to each other, clothing almost completely unravelled, and the door behind you still unlocked.

the air was thick and hot with heavy pressure and mutual need.

a low grunt rumbled deep in rafayel’s throat as he pulled away from the intoxication that was your lips. “tell me to stop.” his lips ghosted over your skin, dragging a light trail of your mixed saliva down your neck until it stopped with a gentle peck. “tell me to walk away.”

“fuck no.” you panted. your hand tugged at his soft hair, pushing him deeper into your neck. “finish what you started.”

he laughed against your skin, marvelled by how much wittier you became when you weren’t tense. when you were fogged in temptation. he could only imagine how much more of you he’d experience the further down his lips went.

perhaps you tasted just as good as you smelt. his knees buckled at the thought, the mere sight of his eyes looking up to you as you lost composure was as unprofessional as it could get. his cock throbbed in his slacks, pumping so loudly he could barely hear himself breathe.

still gripping your fleshy mounds, rafayel sunk beneath your gaze never breaking contact with your beautiful eyes. one hand slowly crept down out of the warmth of your shirt to your alarmingly short skirt.

it was the third time he had seen you wear it since you joined his class. and every time his eyes were attached to you more than before. the vision of raising it above your pretty ass had always crossed his mind but he always had the mind to maintain decorum. the sea must have blessed him with this privilege today.

“need to eat you,” he whispered into your skin, spreading kisses all over you like invisible marks of his name. “taste you.”

your imagination conjured many things for you to indulge in, but this was beyond what even you could dream of. his glossy gaze, deliberate hot touch, his damned soft lips searing you with his affections… how could you say no?

your head hit the edge of the cabinet as you nodded in desperation, so needy for his mouth to explore you everywhere, so aroused that nothing could hold you back from sinking deeper and deeper. your legs slowly split apart, welcoming rafayel’s gentle hand with grace.

completely sat on the floor, the professor stared at your legs in a daze of reverence and worship. he was salivating the scent of your dripping pussy reeling him in like a fish swimming to bait. and he wouldn’t even consider himself damned if it meant being hooked by you.

his grip tightened on your thigh, fingers pressing into you to memorise your shape and how you felt by his touch. his hand slid down your leg in a great struggle to hold onto the last of his restraint while your pants and soft moans just made things so much worse.

“don’t make too much noise,” he quietly groaned, licking a line up your thigh up to the lacy panties covering your warmth. his eyes rolled back as your scent flooded his senses like a drug. in a fuss, rafayel pushed your skirt up revealing red lace.

he almost came on the spot.

his fingers slipped between the hem, feeling you up and down. he just had to go a bit further… just a little to get a taste of that sweet nectar. his eyes darted upwards to find you completely disheveled, pretty lips parted, chest heaving with your nipples pressed against your shirt, and your hands holding his head as close to your cunny as possible.

rafayel’s lips curved into a lustful smile and finally pushed his fingers further into your panties, brushing over your sensitive nub. a sharp gasp sounded in the room, his scalp ached from the harsh tug you forced on him before slowly pushing him back where he was.

you were so cute.

you didn’t feel cute. you felt like you were boiling up, throbbing to the point where it hurt, dripping like a fucking river. you were surprised your wetness wasn’t dripping down your legs already. rafayel was definitely the type to lick it up to prevent it going to waste.

his fingers crept around your clit, ghosting circles round and round in a teasing tickle almost like he wanted to pull a reaction out of you. every subtle reaction, every jolt and twitch, and every hesitant tug at his hair made his hips jut into the air with his cock roughly straining his slacks.

he tilted his head, lips enclosing around your clothed clit, swiping his tongue sloppily around you, loudly moaning at your taste. his fingers finally found your pussy, soaking before they even went inside you. you slapped your hand over your mouth. he was going to drive you insane.

loud squelches echoed around you with his fingers teasing and tapping your hole to draw out as much of your nectar as he could. your pussy lips were as swollen the lips he kissed and bit, sensitive to his finger sliding up and down before slowly plunging into you.

just as his lips parted more– a loud bang! shocked you both out of your trance of indulgence. you yelped and jerked back, pussy walls tightening around his fingers as he swiftly moved his head away from your core– a string of saliva connecting him to your clit cruelly reminding him how far he let his desire take him.

the shockwave of the noise sent the door rattling as if someone was about to walk in on you. rafayel adjusted your underwear back in place and tugged your skirt down, rearranging it so that you were somewhat presentable. your hands shakily fixed his messed hair in a sore attempt to ignore the aching need your pussy screamed to you.

your clothes stuck to your skin from the heat, your vision hazed by lust and interrupted pleasure so filthy and sinful that you couldn’t help but bite your lip.

rafayel licked his lips as he rose to his feet, knees aching even though it felt like he had only been beneath you for seconds. he straightened his clothing, mustering the courage to face your gaze. you were dangerously close. dangerously beautiful. dangerously arousing. he just had to kiss you again.

“i’ll deal with the person that damaged your sculpture.” his voice both husky and cracked still rumbled deep within you. “please forgive me and the incident.”

without another word, he stalked out of the supply room leaving you to fully dissect what just happened.

he almost ate you out.

rafayel, your professor, almost ate you out. in a supply room. and he left you in need for so much more. a single step would send your poor clit, and your pussy really, into a frenzy– both sore and soaked, vibrating with pleasure.

you were going to have to figure out how to deal with it.

but rafayel was determined to deal with it now.

he almost sprinted to his office, dizzy with lust. it was locked and dark with only candles giving him light. stacks of paper was spread out all over his desk left abandoned while he sat in front of his recent work– a completely blank canvas.

gods, his length was already leaking through his pants and aching so fucking hard that any subtle movement would have him cumming for hours.

rafayel didn’t bother removing himself with the delicacy of taking care of himself properly. his hands fumbled at the buckle of his belt, fingers slipping out of control before he could tug it off and toss it to the floor.

his vision was blurring him blind and abandoned him in the memory of your lips, your divine mixing scent, your melodic voice, and your taste. your noses had brushed and bumped into each other while his tongue ventured deep in your mouth, tasting the remains of the sweet pastry and bitter coffee you had consumed beforehand.

the office was somehow as hot as he was, the air burned with the fading remnants of your scent driving into a state of great distress. the zipper to his pants were already forced down from the sheer will of his cock raging and throbbing against its confines. he barely bothered himself with pulling them down, hurriedly gripping his girthy length both recklessly pulsating and near suffocating in dribbling precum.

his fingers rose to his lips, rubbing at the swollen effect of you attacking him with your teeth. it still stung from a light touch and that only aroused him more. his fingers were still sticky from caressing and plunging into your juicy cunny— explicitly reminding him how delicious you were.

without further thought, he pushing his digits on his salivating tongue and the flavours that were you burst into his senses like an inferno raging through a dry forest. rafayel’s eyes fluttered as they rolled back, a loud and deep moan soon to follow.

“f-fuck.” he could just curse and curse for hours. “you did this to me.”

his tongue swirled between his fingers to absorb and savour as much of you as it could. he wasn’t too sure on whether he’d get the privilege to be so close to you again. he suckled on the tips of his finger like he would with that swollen clit of yours. fuck, you just somehow got a grip on him that he couldn’t shake off.

every moment he spent observing you just made him attach more and more even when he knew he shouldn’t have. but you intrigued him. your determination despite your lack of confidence. your thick skin in the face of his - often unnecessary - critique.

not to mention of good your lips felt with his own.

a shaky sigh shuddered out his lips as his hand slowly stroked up and down reaching to his base and tickling the leaky slit of his reddened tip. his hips jerked into his hand violently sending his head lolling back over the couch.

the tandem rhythm of his hips remained constant, thrusting into the air and being squeezed tightly by his hand to simulate that jaw clenching strength your pussy walls used to grip on him. no matter how hard he’d try nothing would be able to replicate the effect you had on him.

your name bouncing on the walls in an endless prayer turned to a song of moans and grunts. rafayel’s saliva-slick hand ran down his neck to his chest and slipped through his shirt to circle his perked nipples now rendered completely sensitive to even a breath.

while feeling each vine surrounding his cock pulsate, a lewd idea slithered into his mind like his most devious desires slipping right out to control him. he was so painfully hard it hurt. his clothes were sticking to his skin, dampened by his sweat and precum mixed together.

and then he raised his palm and struck it across his cock. smack! the sound struck through the room like thunder.

a gasp, then a laugh, then another smack! followed by a husky moan.

the sting melted into rousing pleasure so instantaneously it almost gave him whiplash. he did it again.

smack!

and again.

smack!

up until the pain was enough to knock him unconscious. with each swing, his cock flew back upwards and jutted into the air shooting drops of precum up. rafayel bit his lip at the sight, greedily laughing at the pure slutty act he performed for himself.

he could only dream for you to do the same thing.

his hand did not stop once it returned to stroking. the plap! plap! rapidly sounding as his hand fisted his cock to oblivion was disrespectfully slick. but it could be so much wetter. rafayel swiftly leaned over his length and spat straight onto his sobbing cockhead, pulling his hand right up to swirl and mix it all with his palm.

the wet friction alone was debilitating. he fucked himself into his hand like a rabid animal in intense heat, rutting like a fool drunken by a mere whiff of your scent. his hips lifted right off the couch, chasing his climax and hand that wasn’t even running from him– though could imagine you would.

“so– fucking– tight–“ he squeezed harder until his entire cock was red. the pain no longer affected him. his only devotion was hitting his edge in the hopes that it would feel like a fraction of what it would be like inside you.

inside your wet mouth, stretched wide open for him, drooling down your chin right onto your tits. or even inside your sweet cunny, throbbing and fluttering as your walls squeeze him with each thrust that tickles you to multiple orgasms.

“take it– take– oh fuck.” his voice cracked into a whiny whimper as his hands rolled over his leaking slit every time his hand brushed over his tip. the other hand continued to assault his chest, abusing his sensitivity to the max.

the hand pumping his cock raised to smack it over and over, left and right in a broken tempo. his cock jumped, legs practically shivering from the pleasure and spreading wider and wider like you sat between them to take him deep in your mouth.

he couldn’t help himself. smack! the pain felt so good. smack! it was so wrong yet so stupidly right. smack! he’d do this for hours if he could. his core tightened, awaiting his incoming climax as his cock pulsed in a plea for him to stroke it to oblivion.

his grip became utterly brutal, rapidly pumping his shaft like his hand was a fucking fleshlight. he was messy, wet, and his lewd mixture of fluid was dripping down his legs onto the couch beneath him, staining and soaking the fabric. he twisted his hand right at the tip shocking his senses beyond the board.

he brought his hand to his tongue, lapping up all the precum sitting so impolitely on him, swallowing every drop like sacred water. his free hand slid down to finish what he started and rubbed and stroked with the intention to push him right to the end.

his body tensed as one more cruel squeeze snapped the tight thin rope within him. his eyes crossed, seeing only pure white. his breath hitched, and thick ropes of hot, sticky cum shot up like rockets and splattered all over him like fallen paint.

moans and whimpers shivered out of him like a broken record, your name remained mixed within his curses. his hand didn’t stop its relentless strokes. it persisted in dragging him through his high no matter how many times he’d try to stop himself.

his cock ached and weeped, leaking hot white all over his hand as it gradually slowed. it had gone right up to his chin. rafayel lowly groaned, both fucked out and ruined beyond comprehension. ruined by his own hand and the thought of what more you could have done in that supply room.

rafayel raised his shaking hand to his face, analysing the way it glistened over his flushed skin. his tongue poked out of his lips and swiped all the way up from his wrist to the tip of his finger then took it deep inside. the flavour of his own juices mixed with your own, drawing a lustful moan from him.

he slurped it all up, licking his hand completely clean in an obscene and deliberate manner. like he was putting on a show for you, even though you weren’t actually there, and swallowed it all with great satisfaction.

he slouched into the couch, breath still laboured and heavy. he was still filthy and drenched and yet he still had the greed for so much more.

that beautiful laugh replaced the echoes of his lewd noises once his high slowly dissipated.

all that from a kiss?

rafayel was fucked.

might just post a calm part ii if you guys like it

#✧.* thalwri #✧.* thalwri works #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lnds smut #lads rafayel #rafayel smut #lads smut #rafayel x you #lnds rafayel #l&ds rafayel #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel #love and deepspace

3K notes · View notes

leaderwonim · 1 year ago

Text

MR. FUCKING BRIGHTSIDE

pairing. slytherin!jake x hufflepuff!fem!reader

summary. although sim jaeyun constantly surrounds himself with douchebags and looks like he could stomp all over a girl’s heart; you knew the real him that was deep inside. but did you really?

genre. hogwarts!au, ANGST, bits of fluff, right person wrong circumstances, forbidden/secret love

warnings. jake can be a bit of an asshole, the insult “mudblood” is used, slytherin gets shitted on as a house (dw, i’m a slytherin 😭)

Sim Jaeyun, or everybody knew him as Jake, the sixth year Slytherin, seeker of his house’s Quidditch team, and nevertheless, charming to every girl that has stepped foot in his proximity.

Half of your friends would disagree—that he was not charming but rather just another slithering snake in the worst possible house at Hogwarts.

Jake’s friend group consisted of three people: Draco Malfoy, Blaise, and Pansy Parkinson. They just so happen to be an insufferable lot, maybe except Blaise who minded his own business half of the time.

“Today you will be working in pairs.” Professor McGonagall states, fixing her glasses as she holds a stroll of paper. “I’ve already decided them, absolutely no changes.”

There’s groans that fill the room, one of whom you recognize as no other than Jake.

“Seriously? I wanted to pair up with Blaise!” He whines, earning a glare from Draco. “What? C’mon Dray, we both know you and I don’t get anything done.”

“Alright,” Professor McGonagall clears her throat. “Blaise Zabini with Nancy Drumswell, Aidan Callaghan with Hermione Granger, Harry Potter with Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy with Pansy Parkinson, and finally, Jaeyun Sim with Y/N L/N.”

You don’t blink when you realize who your partner is. Rather, you just sigh a bit in defeat, coming to the conclusion that you cannot do anything to convince McGonagall to change partners.

“Hey.” Jake plops himself down on the seat next to you, laughing as Draco gives him a shove on the way to his own table.

“Hi.” You murmur, suddenly finding your yellow robe more interesting than him.

“I’ve never been paired with a Hufflepuff before.” He grins, the shit eating grin that weirdly captives your senses. “Are you guys as nice as you claim to be?”

“I don’t know Jaeyun, you tell me.”

Jake’s eyes widen before he lets out a giggle. “Jaeyun? No one ever calls me that anymore.”

You shrug, sliding him the piece of paper with the instructions to your project. “You can stop by the Hufflepuff dormitories at 8, I’ll be done with dinner by then and I’ll open it for you.”

“Sounds like a plan sweetheart.”

You cringe at his words, the obvious disdain on your face makes him laugh even harder.

“I’ll see you then.” He whispers, and just like a movie, stands up as soon as McGonagall dismisses the class, merging into one with his friends.

♡;

Just as the clock struck eight, you heard a knock. Your books, pens, and parchment were spread out in front of you, eagerly waiting to be used.

As you slowly get up to open the door, you’re met face to face with Jake, who entered the room with a confident stride

"Hey there, Y/N," Jake greeted, flashing you a charming smile as he took a seat across from your side of the table.

"Hey," you politely turn his smile. "Ready to tackle this project?"

"Absolutely," he affirmed, pulling out his own notes and spreading them out on the table. "I've got some ideas already. How about you?"

You nodded, slightly impressed by Jake's readiness to dive into the work. "I've been brainstorming as well. Maybe we can combine our ideas and come up with something great."

As the two of you began discussing your approaches to the project, youcouldn't help but notice how articulate and intelligent Jake was when he wasn't surrounded by his usual group of friends. His confidence shone through, but it was paired with a genuine interest in the subject matter that caught you off guard.

"You sure sound different when you’re not around Draco," You remarked.

Jake only chuckled, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. "Yeah, well, I guess I don't always show this side of me around my friends. They have a different idea of what's cool."

You can only nod in understanding, realizing that Jake was more complex than you had initially assumed.

As you continued working, you couldn’t help but find yourself paying closer attention to the small details about him—the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the soft lilt in his voice when he explained a concept, the way his eyes sparkled with passion for the project.

"Thanks for coming, Jake," you say, offering him a genuine smile. "I really enjoyed working with you."

Jake returned your smile, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that sent a sudden flutter through your heart. "Anytime, Y/N. I had a great time too."

As you bid each other goodnight, you couldn’t help but suddenly miss his presence, something you didn’t expect to happen with just one session with him.

♡;

In your second studying session, you and Jake found yourselves engrossed in their project once again. This time, you two decided to move to a quiet corner of the library, away from prying eyes and distractions. The Hufflepuff dorms were too crowded, and you knew you’d rather die than step into the Slytherin dormitory as a Hufflepuff.

As you discussed your research findings, you couldn't help but notice how Jake's demeanor had softened since your last meeting. He seemed more relaxed, more open, as if he felt comfortable letting his guard down around you.

Jake suddenly reached across the table to grab a book, his hand brushing against yours in the process. It was a simple gesture, but it sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins, leaving you quite literally breathless for a moment. “Here Y/N, I heard this book was good for this particular topic.”

Your eyes met briefly, and you felt your cheeks flush with warmth.

“Thanks,” you murmur, looking down slightly.

Jake smiled back at you, seemingly oblivious to the effect his touch had on you. For a person who charms so much girls, you’d think he know how much his advances affected others.

“No problem, seems like we got a lot done within these 2 days huh?”

"Yeah, it seems so," you reply softly.

Even though it had only been 2 nights, in those quiet moments, away from the prying eyes of their classmates, you had realized just how much you actually enjoyed Jake's company. He wasn't just the annoying Slytherin she had initially pegged him to be—he was kind, intelligent, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

"I guess that's it for tonight," Jake said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Can’t believe they only allow Prefects in the library past ten.”

"Yeah," you groan, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of saying goodbye. "But we'll see each other again soon, right?"

Jake nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Definitely. Let’s just hope Malfoy doesn’t ruin it.”

♡;

As you made your way through the corridors of Hogwarts with Hermione, you spotted Jake surrounded by his Slytherin friends, including Draco and Pansy. Suddenly feeling the wave of confidence at the sight of him, you decided to muster up the courage to approach him.

But as you drew nearer, you noticed a subtle shift in Jake's demeanor. His usual friendly expression hardened, and a smirk spread across his lips as he turned to face you and Hermione.

"Look who it is, boys," Draco says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Little Miss Hufflepuff herself."

Jake and Pansy chuckled, exchanging knowing glances with Draco as if they were in on some inside joke. Your smile faltered, confusion and hurt swirling in your chest as you struggled to make sense of Jake's sudden change in attitude.

"Um, hi, Jaeyun," you replied, voice barely above a whisper as you fought to keep her composure.

"Seriously? Jaeyun? That’s hysterical.” Pansy laughs, as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

“What's the matter, Y/N? Can't find anyone from your own house so you bother our Jake here?” Draco continues to taunt you, his words like daggers aimed straight at your heart. “Or should I say Jaeyun?”

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment as the laughter of Jake's friends echoed in your ears. You had never felt so small, so insignificant to the group in front of you.

“I was hoping to discuss our project.” You say quietly, looking at anyone but Jake.

Hermione could sense your hostility, pulling you close to her side as she gave Draco a snarl.

“Listen Y/N,” Jake says, “all that crap you Hufflepuffs preach about loving each other and expressing feelings is a lie. No one really cares about what you have to say.”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Hermione says, shielding you by putting herself in front of your frame. “What has gotten into you?”

But Jake just shrugged her off, his smirk widening into a sneer. "Mind your own business, mudblood. This doesn't concern you."

Feeling the sting of tears threatening to spill from your eyes, you quickly turn on your heel and fled down the corridor, desperate to escape the humiliation of Jake's cruel words.

Had you really been so stupid to place your trust in Sim Jaeyun knowing full well his reputation? By the looks of it, all answers pointed to yes.

♡;

By 7pm, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the surface of the Black Lake just in front of the Slytherin Common Rooms.

“Y/N?” Almost as if he knew exactly where you were, Jake shows up in front of you, making you give him a glare.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N," he murmured, his voice tinged with remorse as he avoided your gaze. He takes a seat next to you on the grass, his fingers tracing patterns across them in nervousness. "I messed up back there. I let my pride get the best of me, and I hurt you in the process. I should have stood up for you."

You sighed, your heart heavy with disappointment but softened by Jake's sincerity.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “One moment you’re all kind and sincere around me, and the next, you say all these things like I’m worth nothing.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the air filled with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds. Then, Jake spoke again, his voice hesitant but earnest. "I guess my friends just have an influence on me that I can’t control. I’m sorry for what I said earlier, you’re one of the kindest people I've ever met, Y/N. I admire that about you."

You slightly smiled, a warm flush spreading across your cheeks. "Thank you, Jake. That means a lot to me."

As the sky darkened and stars began to twinkle overhead, the two of you continued to talk, laughter mingling with the night air.

♡;

The next night was one of the more important nights at Hogwarts. Everybody had finished their exams—and the Ravenclaws decided to throw a party at their Commons.

The music throbbed as you entered with Ron Weasley, who, at the sight of his twin brothers, ran towards them. You roll your eyes at his behavior, and start pulsing through the crowded room, a plastic smile plastered on your face.

You notice Jake in the corner, sipping on what looked like a bottle of beer. He exchanged nods and greetings with those around him, his eyes scanning the room for something—someone.

But before you could gawk at him any longer, Draco cut in smoothly, his tone laced with mockery. "Oh, look who decided to show up. Did you bring your Hufflepuff friend to the party, Jake? How charming."

Pansy giggled, her eyes glittering with malice as she looked at you up and down. "I didn't know us Slytherins were into charity work."

“Guys, seriously? Cut it out,” Jake gulps, eyes directly meeting yours.

“He’s right,” Blaise says, and you swear it’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him. “Don’t ruin the party.”

“Whatever.” Pansy throws her hand in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t want to make the Hufflepuff cry.”

Hermione comes to your rescue right after Pansy throws you a glare.

“Piss off.” She says, interlocking her arms with yours.

“Thanks ‘Mione.” You thank her softly as you’re lead away from the lot. “For saving me back there.”

“Always,” she smiles. “Now cmon, I heard Ron’s already drunk!”

You two giggle at that, you letting Hermione lead the way into the crowd of people.

♡;

It’s about 2 hours later and the Ravenclaw party is still loud as ever, filled with with laughter and music.

Despite the Weasley twins making a full ruckus of themselves, your eyes were drawn to a figure slumped in a corner. It was Jake, only this time, he looked uncharacteristically vulnerable, his face pale and contorted with some type of emotion you hadn’t seen before.

Concern etched onto your features, and your body felt itself navigating through the crowd of people until you’re knelt beside him. "Jake? Are you alright? Where’s Draco?”

He lifted his head, and you swore you felt your heart clenched at the sight of his glassy eyes and trembling lips. "I'm fine," he mumbled, but his voice betrayed the lie.

"No, you're not," you reply softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Jake swallowed hard, his gaze flickering with a mix of emotions. "It's... it's nothing," he slurred, but his words lacked conviction.

You stayed silent, sensing he needed to unburden himself. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice raw with emotion. "Do you think I’m good for nothing?”

"What?" You asked gently, your heart sinking as you watched him struggle to form his thoughts.

"I mean look at this, look at me," Jake gestured vaguely, gesturing to the party around the two of you. "This charade I constantly put on. Pretending to be someone I'm not."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Jake trailed off, his breath hitching. "Was it all worth the six years of be pretending to be who I wasn’t? Pretending to be the egoistic charming Slytherin everyone claims to know so well?”

Jake pauses before looking up at you, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. "You know I care about you a lot, right? I like you, a lot.”

“You do?” You say quietly, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of his eyes.

“But we just can’t.”

“What?”

“Why not?”

"Because,” Jake's voice cracked, and he looked away. "Because I wish you were in Slytherin."

You felt your heart shatter into a million pieces at his words. You almost knew it then, with a painful realization that you could never compete with the loyalty he felt towards his house and the expectations placed upon him by his housemates.

Tears stung your eyes as you realized there was nothing she could do to change his mind. With a heavy heart, you rose to your feet.

“Well I’m sorry then, Jake.” You say, turning around so he wouldn’t see your tears.

And as you walked away, the echoes of his confession lingered in your mind, haunting your thoughts with the bitter realization that sometimes, love simply wasn't enough.

1K notes · View notes

peachiejeongin · 1 month ago

Note

Hello!

I have another request for I.N x fem reader!!

Just HEAR ME OUT!!! This is a Good IDEA!!!!

I was wondering if you can write a fic about I.N x fem reader? Let’s say reader is in college (yes she is 18+) she has a college exam about the male anatomy (like male reproductive system), reader has to study and all BUT… she has ZERO experience about how it works? Y’know 😏🤭 reader is very naive, has no EXPERIENCE with how seggs/ the THING😏 works etc, but her boyfriend jeongin comes in to help her by showing her how it works etc. let’s just say things gets really SPICY/STEAMY??!?!?!

But the best part is reader has fallen asleep during studying which means all of her notes,textbooks and laptop are in the open all over her desk. But jeongin who is the sweetest boyfriend comes to check on reader making sure she’s fine and all. But he accidentally looks at her notes and gets an idea of how to help reader learn quick but also an excuse to Y’know 😏🤭.

It’s pure filth that’s all I’m saying 😂. Please add your ideas/thoughts make it out of this WORLD like make it JUICY!!!!

Okay that’s enough of my rambling 😂

Thanks so much!!!! 💋🩷😊✨🫶🏽🥹

There’s absolutely NO pressure if you decide not to write this. It’s okay, I 100% respect your boundaries and guidelines!!!!

anatomy lesson | jeongin

synopsis: you are stumped, absolutely taken aback by the male anatomy unit of your human biology class. yet, your ever-loving boyfriend is willing to teach you everything you need to know. pairing: jeongin x fem!reader genre: smut warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ recommended), innocent!reader, soft-dom!jeongin, oral (m!receiving), light overstimulation, teacher-student dynamic (not the actual pairing), unprotected sex (please do not), praise, pet names (good girl, baby, etc.), teasing, jeongin is low-key a little shit. notice: i would like to formally thank this darling for being the primary reason as to why i have jeongin content on my page! without further ado, enjoy the fiction!

word count: 3.1K

smut under the cut!

your dorm room was a disaster.

never did you think signing up to take human biology—although each of your upperclassmen friends warned you not to—would come back to bite you in the ass. yet here you were, absolutely lost on the current unit you were currently reviewing in class: male anatomy.

thus, numerous biology textbooks were spread out, wide open on your desk, all flipped to differing diagrams of male reproductive anatomy. pieces of paper were practically everywhere, highlighted to oblivion with vocabulary terms, anatomical placement, and any other information you needed to know for your upcoming exam. flashcards were stacked numerous feet high—seminal vesicles, corpus cavernosum, etc.—the words danced in your head like a cursed mantra.

you truly were trying to understand the concept, but for some reason, the information could not stick.

you had chalked it up to your lack of experience; in fact, your professor had even made a joke stating how your class was, "college kids; you'll get the concept in no time!" the poor instructor had not considered the fact that not everyone in the class was a sex addict.

you certainly were not, hence your struggle to take in the knowledge.

you did not get it, not in the way your professor had expected to. you had spent hours at this point reviewing the technical terms, biological functions, blood flow, phases—you even had a few highly questionable tabs pulled up on your laptop in attempts to understand; however, they just made you blush and slam your laptop closed.

your brain was tired, completely burnt out from studying. it did not take long before you found yourself knocked out cold, your head laying atop your arms and your legs curled up under your oversized hoodie as your eyes shut.

you had only been asleep for around thirty minutes when your door clicked open; however, you were so out cold, you did not hear it.

"baby?" jeongin's soft voice called out warmly, laced with a little concern. he stepped into your dorm room, carefully setting down the snacks he had brought along with him on your bedside table. he smiled softly when he noticed you sleeping soundly on top of your desk, stepping closer to you and rubbing your back gently.

his attention then diverted to the plethora of study materials surrounding you. he picked up one of your scattered notebooks, quirking an eyebrow as he read over your scribbled biology notes. he then noticed the multiple textbooks displaying diagrams, and he released a mischievous chuckle.

"y/n, wake up," jeongin said as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. you stirred lightly, slowly sitting up and rubbing your eyes harshly before peering them open slightly. when you saw jeongin in front of you, a cheeky smirk plastered upon his face, your eyes widened, flustered at the mess that was your room.

"innie? oh my gosh, i am so sorry! i fell asleep, and i completely forgot you were coming over, and-"

"hey, hey, relax, baby!" jeongin lightly grasped your shoulders, giggling lightly at your anxious state. "i noticed you were studying. speaking of which..." jeongin picked up one of your textbooks, pretending to skim over the page as if he had not done so already. "what an interesting topic you're going over."

your face burned red.

"i, um," you stumbled, trying to find the right words to explain your curious actions. "it's for my e-exam tomorrow. we're going over male anatomy, and i can't understand anything." jeongin's gaze softened; however, there was no denying the sneaky glint hidden behind his sympathy.

"oh, poor baby," he cooed. "why didn't you just ask me to help you?"

"you?" you asked puzzledly. "you aren't in human bio."

"no, but in case you couldn't tell," jeongin cheekily glanced down at himself, "i am a male."

"what, you want me to dissect you?" you sarcastically asked, chuckling at his shocked expression.

"absolutely not," he responded, laughing. "however, i do a way of helping you...study."

before you could ask him to clarify, jeongin's lips were on yours, encapsulating you in a kiss—soft, slow, and patient, yet full of passion. you kissed back gently but with as much light fervor. jeongin coaxed you against him, cupping your waist as he lifted you out of the desk chair and sat on the edge of your bed, positioning you to where you were straddling him.

"let me teach you," jeongin mumbled sensually against your lips. "i'll show you everything you need to know. you want that, baby?"

you felt your heart pounding against your chest.

"jeongin, wait." you placed your hands against his chest, and jeongin looked at you with glazed, doe brown eyes. "i've never...you know..." at your confession, jeongin chuckled knowingly.

"why do you think i'm teaching you, y/n?" jeongin asked innocently. "if you don't want to, we won't, and i'll actually help you study. but if you ask me, i think some...hands on experience will do you some good, yeah?"

you nodded, a newfound excitement coursing through your veins.

"then let's get started, shall we?"

your lesson started soft.

jeongin brought your attention back to him, trapping you in a kiss that, this time, felt more intoxicating than sweet. he slipped his warm, large hands underneath your hoodie, sliding them up and down your sides until he found perch on your hips.

his lips diverted from yours to make their way to your jawline and neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbones. he moved one hand from your hips to one of your own, which was laying softly on his shoulders.

he guided your hand down his chest and down his stomach.

"this is where it all starts, baby," jeongin whispered into your ear as he directed your movements. "stimulation leads to blood flow, blood flow leads to..." he lightly dragged your hand down, your breath hitching as he placed it over the growing hardness in his sweatpants. "...arousal. you can feel that, can't you?"

you nodded slowly; your cheeks flushed a dark pink. jeongin chuckled at your flustered state. nevertheless, he kept going, pressing your hand just enough against him to stimulate him further and earn a generous yet quiet groan. he let go of your hand, watching your grasp intently as you subconsciously rubbed him through his pants—slow, gentle, and entirely arousing.

"there you go," jeongin moaned out. "such a good student, learning so quickly for me."

jeongin's hands then latched onto the hem of your hoodie, tugging it upwards until he had discarded it from your body. his hands wasted no time in moving to your breasts, massaging them lightly and eliciting soft, breathy moans from your end.

"you're so eager, baby," jeongin chuckled out. "excited to learn, are you?" you responded with another quick nod before jeongin removed his hands from your chest, opting instead to lift them above his head.

"take my shirt off, darling," he commanded you, and you followed suit, discarding the piece of clothing somewhere on your dorm room floor. "good job, sweet girl. now," jeongin moved slightly, just enough to where you were both standing up. "kneel down for me."

you did as you were told, getting on your knees as jeongin took a seat back on the edge of your bed. his fingers hooked around the waistband of his sweatpants as you watched with intent, eager to see what your boyfriend kept hidden under the baggy clothing he frequently wore. he managed to pull his sweatpants and underwear down in one swift, antagonizing motion.

the sight before you was truly unbelievable.

jeongin was the perfect length—not too long, yet not too short. he had just the right amount of girth, and most prominent of all, his tip was already glistening with a few small beads of pre-cum. you absent-mindedly licked your lips, only brought back to reality by jeongin threading a hand through your hair.

"studying the material, baby?" he asked cheekily.

"maybe," you responded breathless. "i think i need some practice with it, though." jeongin quirked an eyebrow, looking down at you with a gentle hunger present in his eyes.

"go ahead, darling," he permitted. "study as much as you need to."

upon his permission, you slowly took hold of jeongin's length, stroking it up and down lightly. jeongin hissed at the contact, watching your every move with lust.

"you-you sure know how to-to get my blood flowing," jeongin chuckled, still attempting to keep his study metaphors going. his words encouraged you to go farther; after all, you wanted to be a good student, right?

you dipped down, lightly sticking out your tongue to kitten-lick his tip. jeongin let out a soft gasp.

"yes, yes, baby," he whined. "use that pretty mouth on me."

who are you to not do as your instructor commands?

you took jeongin in your mouth, sucking his cock gently and watching his reactions above you, your tongue trailed around every vein and inch of his length, committing the feeling to memory; it may come in handy tomorrow.

"so warm," jeongin groaned out. "your mouth is so warm, baby, fuck. keep going, just like that."

jeongin's praise fueled your actions, leading you to take him in further, bobbing your head up and down and taking him as deep as you could. you could tell jeongin was on the brink of his high, as his moans became more frequent and high-pitched, and his thighs trembled slightly. you were determined to tip him over the edge; however, before you could, jeongin pulled you off of him, standing you up and repositioning you into your prior straddle.

"why'd you stop me?" you questioned, cupping jeongin's face.

"'cuz, baby, there's still one more thing i need to teach you," jeongin explained, albeit a bit disheveled. your actions had pretty much already ruined his self-control, and his appearance mirrored this from his messy hair sticking to his forehead to his glossy eyes roaming over every inch of your body.

to begin the final leg of the lesson, jeongin found the waistband of your pajama pants, pulling them down before doing the same to your underwear. you squeezed your thighs together instinctively, shy at being so exposed as such.

"darling," jeongin cooed, gently pressing them back apart. "don't hide from me. you're so beautiful." he sneakily moved a finger down to your entrance, running it through your slick and earning a hearty whimper. "and so wet. fuck baby, all this for me?"

"mhm," you whined. "need you, please."

"yeah? well, who am i to deny such a good, good, student?" jeongin repositioned you both, laying you back on the bed and hovering over you. he aligned his length with your entrance, looking at you for confirmation to take things further.

your eyes pleaded with his, desperate for any form of contact you could muster. jeongin noticed this, smiling before pushing himself into you.

inch by inch, he stretched you, filling you up with a painful pleasure that made you whine. jeongin's mouth gaped open, his eyes rolling back intensely.

"f-fuck, darling," he moaned. "you feel so fucking good, so fucking tight and wet for me." jeongin stilled for a few moments, allowing you to adjust to his size before you gave him the go ahead to move. once you told him to do so, he began to thrust in and out of you, slowly at first, before picking up a rhythm that hit every spot inside of you.

you whimpered lightly, clinging to jeongin as if he were a lifeline and syncing your hip movements with his. your nails dug into his back, making him hiss and unintentionally thrust into you harder. the room filled with breathless gasps, the soft slap of skin, and the whispers of jeongin's praises. you took note of every thrust, every feeling you could grab hold of, keeping it in the back of your head.

"i've got you baby," he groaned. "you're doing so well for me. fuck, i'm already so close." you felt yourself at your own high, a coil in your stomach tightening until you saw white.

with a couple of more thrusts, jeongin came undone with a low, "f-fuck, baby, i'm cumming," spilling himself inside of you. the warmth of his finish, and the mere action of it all, had you cumming around jeongin's cock as he rocked you both through your highs.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing heavily as you worked yourself through the actions of tonight. jeongin used his finger to tilt your chin up, smiling lazily at you.

"so," jeongin asked, out of breath. "do you feel more confident for your test tomorrow?" you laughed in response, placing your hands on his shoulders.

"yeah, yeah, i think i understand the material much more now."

jeongin snickered, cupping your cheek with his hand.

"maybe we should review tomorrow before the exam too...just to make sure."

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ʙʏ: @ᴀɴɪᴛᴇʟᴇɴɪᴀ

🏷️@amararosesblog @velvetmoonlght (dm/inbox to be added!)

[ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ? ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴀ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴀ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ, ᴀɴᴅ/ᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ!]

(ᴘ.ꜱ: ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ; ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀꜱ!)

223 notes · View notes

liloshits · 9 days ago

Text

The Three Words

Where two worlds collide

Word Count: 2.5k

London - October 15th, 2004

It was a chilly Friday morning right in the middle of England’s autumn, it was not a surprise to anyone that the sky was grey and the weather was unstable. Dani was in town to participate in the European Social Forum, a conference where important (and not so important) people gathered around to discuss the world’s problems.

Dani was there not because she was one of the VIPs, but because her Professor told her it’d be good for networking, and she’d get some complementary hours for it. Obviously she didn’t want to spend her weekend trapped at Alexandra Palace, listening to white old men talking their asses off about problems they didn’t really live through nor truly cared about.

But she’s here anyway, wearing not so comfortable clothes and heels while she’d much rather be rotting in bed, watching TV or crying, as that’s what she does best, apparently. Well, at least that’s what she does best when she’s not drinking and partying or studying and working her ass off so she doesn’t lose her mind over how much her life changed in so little time.

Last october, she had just recently gotten engaged to her ex-boyfriend Marcus, she was studying Business Administration in Oxford University and she would start planning their wedding in a few weeks. She never got around to it because in what felt like seconds she found out he was one of those men who loved women too much. In fact, he loved women SO much he’d gotten himself a fianceé and three side chicks at the same time, which still baffles her as he is, at best, a 7 out of 10.

She still remembers how he cried and knelt in front of her, begging Dani to not leave him, telling her how much she meant to him and how it was all a mistake.

He cried telling her that his mom would get mad at him if she ever found out he fumbled an heiress. She scoffed at this, knowing his family was good and that his mom did nothing wrong raising him, Marcus himself was a piece of shit. He proposed to her in front of at least 40 people, including some family members and friends, and deep down she knew he only did this so she’d say “yes”.

Maybe the way she didn’t even want to tell anyone she’d gotten engaged was her gut telling her that she shouldn’t marry him, even though they had met in school and were together for 2 years already, she never thought of him as husband material. He was sweet when he wanted, funny but a tad bit arrogant and at times she could swear he’d rather be with and marry his best friend than her, but whenever she teased him about it he’d call her crazy, lunatic and be a homophobe.

She used to tell herself she wasn’t excited for it because she was still too young, barely 19 when he proposed, in college and absolutely focused on her career.

Which also was a problem to Marcus, he’d say that when they married she would stay home and tend to their kids, he said he wanted at least four, two boys and two girls, whenever he said it, she used to stare into his soul, thinking to herself that maybe they were together just because it was common to be in a relationship in their age. She tried to convince her friends that he already talked about kids and marriage because he was 3 years older than her, that maybe when she were 22 she’d also start to worry about it. Deep down she knew she wasn’t convincing enough, because she also didn’t believe it.

So when she found out he was cheating she hurt, obviously she did, she felt like a fool, like someone who committed a mistake, like a woman who didn’t deserve true love. But at the same time she felt relieved like she had a reason to walk away and never look back.

10 months after her discovery she finally understood she was angrier because she knew she was out of his league and still got fooled by him. He didn’t even deserve to ever be with her, and yet, he made her cry. After all, she was at least a 9 out of 10, she was tall, brunette, blue eyes, beautiful smile, intelligent, independent, funny, and undeniably hot. That’s what she reminded herself of when she went back home to Brazil to spend Carnival partying around the country, kissing as many men as she could, sleeping with the best kissers and more frequently then not getting told by someone that they thought they weren’t worthy of her.

And she wished that Marcus knew his place like those random men who approached her, but from what she heard he was slowly but surely understanding that he’s the dumbest man to ever live.

Clara, one of her Uni friends, told her he got dumped by all his three mistresses and that whenever he sees anyone that knows Dani he can only talk and ask about her. His mom, Diana, bless her heart, still keeps in touch with her and always tells her how sorry she is for Marcus’ attitudes and how she knows that Dani deserves much better than him.

A part of her feels like she gave him too much power over the situation when she left Oxford. She felt like maybe people would think she was hurting so much she couldn’t even be in the same city as him and to a certain extent it was true, but the reason behind it wasn’t heartbreak, but disdain. Also, her favourite professor had moved to Vienna, and going to a new city, staying close to her mentor, meeting new people and living in a new place where no one knew who she was, was the definition of freedom.

So yeah, her life was upside down, but she was managing and even finding strength to sit through an economic forum. At least, Elina, the girl she met in her first week at Vienna University was with her and, God bless her soul, she certainly was making her days better by just being this bubbly little thing that talked too much, too loud for Austrian standards but who didn’t care for what people thought.

“Hey D, I don’t think I’m going to watch this panel on venture capitalists, I’m going to go outside to smoke a bit and maybe find myself a girl I can talk to and maybe smooch after. Wanna come? We may find you a finance guy” Elina said with a nonchalant tone, staring at her watch as they knew the panel was about to start, so if they were to escape they should do it soon.

“Nah, I’m staying, I’m way too tired to stand, and it’s not like I’m going to pay attention to anything any those guys are going to say, so my plan is: sit here and create scenarios where I’m sleeping in my fluffy pajamas and all of my essays are written.” Dani says with a sigh and a soft smile, Elina seeing how tired her friend looks, nods and walks away, knowing better than trying to convince her.

As Elina leaves, almost immediately the panel starts and the names of the businessman behind capital firms are announced. Dani claps at each name, and a small part of her starts to rank their suits and who’s the ugliest from them all. The guy from Balderton is definitely on top of the list, with features that make him look like Gargamel and Frankenstein had a baby.

On the other hand, the guy from Marchsixteen is *CUTE*, tall, brunette, piercing eyes, disheveled hair, tailored suit, dimples when he smiles and an accent. And if she’s not mistaken, his accent is Austrian, as she’s now becoming an expert on Viennese people speaking English (as they switch to English every time they realize she’s a foreigner, even though she speaks German fluently, she just has an accent). Unfortunately, Gargamel spooked her so much she didn’t get the Terminator’s name, at least now she has a reason to pay attention to this panel.

And this ends up being the best thing to happen to her this morning, as now she spent the last 25 minutes with someone very easy on the eyes, he’s not only tall and conventionally attractive, he’s also charming. She swears, at least 3 or 4 of her friends would be throwing their panties at him if they were here. But Dani? Yeah, she knows he’s handsome but she also realizes he must be at least 8 or 10 years older than her and she doesn’t have daddy issues, not serious one’s at least.

But when they start the Q&A session at the end of the panel she can’t help but raise her hand, as mister Austria seems to have the brain and the looks - he certainly made her curious- so she asks once she has a chance.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get his name, but my question goes for the guy from Marchsixteen” Dani chuckles softly as she rises to her feet copying what she had seen everyone else do before her. “Guy from Marchsixteen name is Christian Wolff” he says cheekly with a soft smirk, while looking directly at her. “Right, I’m sorry Mr.Wolff, so you said that you’re a self made college dropout, and I can see you’re younger than most successful venture capitalists - not saying you guys are old - but I’d like to understand what’s the mentality behind the hunger of pushing yourself to be and do better, to achieve bigger things and how you don’t suffer from imposter syndrome, and if you do, how do you manage?” Dani says while staring at Christian Wolff, as she thinks to herself that he doesn’t look like a Christian. God she KNOWS that no one must call him Chris. That's impossible!

As she finishes her question, he looks at her like he’s surprised and thinking hard at the same moment “Wow, that’s a very good question, I believe that I dropped out of college because I’m a builder by nature. I learn by doing, failing, iterating. And I’ve always felt this urgency — maybe because I didn’t come from a safety net — to create something meaningful, something bigger than me. Now, as for being younger and maybe walking into rooms where I’m the least experienced on paper — sure, imposter syndrome creeps in sometimes, as I’m 32 and most of my colleagues are around 40/45. But I’ve learned that it’s not something you get rid of, it’s something you grow around. I manage it by reminding myself of the work I’ve done, the risks I’ve taken. And the hunger? That comes from knowing what it feels like to be underestimated and publicly humiliated.” Wolff states while looking around the room but always finding Dani’s eyes once again, and when he looks at her, he doesn’t simply look, he stares, and she feels herself blush a little at how intense his gaze is. As he finishes his answer she nods and whispers a thank you under her breath, he smiles softly and nods to her as well.

After that, all she thinks about is him, the way he looks, speaks and handles himself as someone who’s confident and truly selfmade. She knows he’s transparent and true to himself. Needless to say she doesn’t listen to any of the other questions and she doesn’t stop staring at him, and she could swear he also glances her way a few more times.

The panel ends, she picks her things up as she wants to go grab some coffee, she leaves the conference room searching for the toilet, ever so often nodding softly to someone she’s not even sure she knows.

After spending some minutes in the lady’s room line, she finally finds the room where the coffee is and as she places her order she hears a deep voice behind her “Oh, there you are, I thought I had you but then you disappeared” and before she turns she knows it’s him, Christian Wolff. “So the eyes that I felt burning my back were yours Mr. Wolff?” she turns, already smiling at him, kinda surprised at herself for the subtle flirt. “You could say that miss… sorry, now I’m the one who didn’t get your name” He says half chuckling at her, as they’re now in opposite roles “Miss Salles, Daniela Salles. Nice to meet you Mr.Wolff” she says stretching her hand to him, he shakes it softly as they look at each other up close for the first time. “Pleasure is all mine Ms. Salles, you’ve made a very good question out there, balancing the personal, psychological and business side of things. I see you’re a very bright young woman” he says smirking softly at Dani.

She chuckles lightly “Thank you Mr. Wolff, you’re very well spoken, I really liked to listen to your insights on Venture Capital, even though that’s not something that attracts me very much. But if you don’t mind, I’d love it if you could let go of my hand so I could get the cup of coffee I ordered.” Dani says, chuckling lightly at the face he makes when he realizes he’s been holding her hand for longer than it’s normal. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… what was your order? I got myself a half cappuccino before going on stage, wouldn’t recommend it” He says making a face as he recalls his poor choice of drink.

“Oh, I got only a cappuccino,” Dani says trying it out “hm, it’s actually good, I like it Mr.Wolff, maybe the problem is that in the half cappuccino they use half the effort, so it’s not as good.” she says laughing “do you wanna taste it or do you take my word for it?”

“I’ll take your word for it, you seem like the type of woman who knows what’s good in life. Confident in yourself.” Wolff says, half surprising himself with his flirty words but quickly changing the subject once he sees her face registering his words “so, are you still in university? I mean, you look younger than me so I presume you’re still in Uni” he asks “Yes, I am still in University, business administration, with a minor in marketing, but I’ll graduate soon.” Dani answers “Oh, that’s good, do you like it? Do you go to college here?” he asks genuinely interested and listening to her “No, I’ve studied in Oxford until this summer, but I transferred myself to Vienna University, I’m liking the change of air for now. Let's see during winter, if the Viennese winter is as bad as Oxford’s. I couldn’t help but notice, you’re Austrian, aren’t you?” Dani answers as she watches his face lit up at the mention of his hometown

“Yes, I’m Austrian, from Vienna actually but I’m surprised you guessed, my accent is almost nonexistent” he says jokingly “glad you’re liking it and I truly hope winter is not too harsh on you, Vienna is a beautiful city to live in. I’m definitely not biased though” he says smiling straight into her eyes, like he’s building courage to say something else “I’m sorry if I’m staring Ms. Salles, but your eyes are quite distracting… I’m glad I couldn’t see them properly from the stage, otherwise I think I wouldn’t be able to form many sentences”

#toto wolff #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #fiction #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #toto wolff x y/n #toto wolff x original character #fanfic #formula one #I’m cooking #f1 fic #mercedes amg f1 #Toto Wolff so hot he made me write fanfic after 11 years #God Bless my soul #Hope you guys like it #English is not my first language

63 notes · View notes

smellingbats · 2 months ago

Text

1. let it happen

⏾ professor! bruce wayne x student! reader

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

⏾ cw: 18+ (MINORS DNI), opposites attract, eventual smut, you can’t tell me this man isn’t ocd, your professor is hot 🥵

⏾ content: Your professor calls you out in front of the entire class. Your world comes to a screeching halt.

⏾Hi! I haven’t written a fanfiction in a really long time so I’m sorry if this is not the greatest piece of work. I’m going to probably turn this into a series as well so stick around if you’d like! Thank you so much to @ellesthots for inspiring me to write this and being so encouraging and so dang sweet!

“Y/N L/N. See me after class today, and yes, I see you pretending not to see me.” Professor Wayne’s voice abruptly interrupts your thoughts, snapping you out of the dissociative episode you were in.

You can’t help but scowl at his callout. You did not appreciate being called out in front of your fellow classmates. Especially after the ever so slight smirk on his face upon seeing you scowl. Only for a split second of course. Almost immediately, he returns to lecturing as if nothing had happened. His face and body language was perfectly composed, it seemed like everything he did was deliberate, no matter how small the action. Somehow, he always remained in complete control of the room. Which wasn’t hard because not only is he a genius on multiple subjects, but he also happens to be incredibly attractive.

‘What is his deal?’ You think to yourself, internally cursing yourself for letting him catch you off guard like that.

You sigh softly, knowing exactly what his deal was. Not only were you incredibly late for almost two weeks straight, but you had a handful of unexcused absences. Missing five of his classes was bound to get you dropped at one point or another, you just wished you had communicated more. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be in the predicament you were in right now.

The rest of class is spent with an insurmountable amount of anxiety about the meeting with Professor Wayne after class. Your mind was racing with possible scenarios of how it would go; in one he absolutely shits on the entirety of your submitted work, and in another he just sits and stares while you cry and beg him to not drop you (he drops you).

Finally, he excuses everyone and you find yourself practically sprinting out of his class to get the meeting over with. Of course, by the time you get to his office he is already there. Perfectly composed at his desk, presumably looking over your school profile on his computer. You wonder if he is secretly the shadows or something. You go to knock politely, but he speaks before your hand reaches the door.

“Come in Y/N.” His voice was smooth and low; unreadable as always.

You nervously walk in, not saying a word. Professor Wayne was always unnerving to you. How could someone be so passionate about what they teach while being one of the most intimidating people you had ever met? Not because of who he was or how much he was worth. But mainly because of the way that he seemed to see through others so clearly while remaining incredibly aloof. You have never really been able to get a read on him, so you had no clue how he felt about you, or anyone else for that matter.

He points to the chair directly across his desk and simply states, “Sit.”

You adjust yourself uncomfortably in the small chair across from him, internally cursing yourself for choosing to wear a skirt today. You stare at him awkwardly, noticing his piercing blue eyes for the first time. You watch him type something and then meet your gaze, making you blush ever so slightly.

“I’ve noticed you’ve missed several lectures now.” He fully turns towards you, placing his now folded hands neatly on his desk. His tone is sharp, but not harsh. Just straightforward. You expect him to ask why, so you open your mouth to finally speak, but he continues. “Is everything alright?”

You swallow softly and nod, slightly shocked at the question, but then shake your head. “It’s been…a really tough few weeks. Just some family stuff.” You say, trying your hardest to not unravel in front of him and embarrass yourself by crying. “I know that that’s no excuse Professor, I know that I’m falling behind. I just didn’t want to give up so easily…especially because I’ve really enjoyed being in your class.” You look down at your hands ashamedly, 100% certain that he’d fail you.

Bruce looks at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re not one to give up so easily.”

You look up at him. Was that a… compliment? “You think so?”

“If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have told you to come in today.”

You stare at him, unsure what to say. You didn’t realize that he was actually paying attention to you or the assignments you submitted.

“I’m offering you a chance to earn your grade back through extra credit. A research paper.” He stares through you, leaning back in his chair slightly. “A research paper on the psychological and social effects of constant exposure to violent content, specifically on social media.”

You look at him with an intrigued gaze, “So. Desensitization?”

“That is one part, yes.” He grabs a thick file next to him and places it in front of you. “The most important part though, is how this desensitization is affecting our ability to sympathize with others. Specifically when it comes to self proclaimed victims. The ones caught in the middle.” He pushes the file towards you and continues. “Especially when these ‘victims’ are committing acts of violence openly in the name of ‘real change’. Think of how the public reacted in the past year to Edward Norton. Some were angry, yes, but he gained quite a large following within a very short amount of time from the first video he broadcasted. Do you remember how people mainly reacted to his videos and livestreams?” You look at him with slight shock, impressed at how well versed he was on a subject so fresh. You open the file and look at him again. “With anger?” You could barely remember the last year, especially with the terrorist attack committed by the ‘Riddler’ and his followers. Everyone in Gotham was heavily impacted by his ‘real change’. He had made thousands homeless, killed hundreds, and forced everyone to start over.

“Close.” He says with a slightly amused look in his eye. “Amusement. People like to say that they’re empathetic, but if you give them a phone screen to hide behind and one person's confession? Then it becomes entertainment.”

“Thats…heavy.” You say.

“That’s exactly the point.” He pauses before continuing. “I expect your work to be 100% your own. No regurgitating my lectures, and no citations that are already in this file. I don’t want to read about something I have already researched myself. ” You look at him, feeling defeated. The file was huge! How could you ever find evidence that he hadn’t?

He ignores your look of defeat and continues on. “Not only will your work be 100% your own research, but you will also meet with me weekly. If I’m going to invest my time into this then I expect you to show me that you’re fully committed to this. We’ll meet for progress check-ins, research reliability, and any other needs that arise.” Professor Wayne stares through you expectantly, awaiting your response.

“I’ll do it.” You say quietly, not wanting to come off as ungrateful. “I’ll work hard and I won’t let you down sir. Thank you. Really.”

For the first time maybe ever, you see his expression soften ever so slightly. “Good. I look forward to seeing what you find. This is going to take more than a little bit of effort to redeem your grade.”

As you left, you could feel your knees buckle as you turned slightly to look at him again. He was still looking at you. With the same damn smirk from earlier. Maybe he wasn’t just talking about grades.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

⏾ Next chapter ⏾

#battison x reader #bruce wayne x reader #the batman x reader #professor x reader #bruce wayne #y/n #battinson #the batman #professor!bruce wayne #professor!bruce

79 notes · View notes

defectivevillain · 1 month ago

Text

attempts at amnesty, ch2

pairing: Harry & Reader (platonic)

The reader is gender-neutral—their gender and race are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: “You should get some sleep, Harry,” you suggest, changing the subject. “We have a long day ahead of us.” Harry’s face is pinched and he stares at you for a moment, before shaking his head. He won’t let his guard down, and you can’t really blame him. You take a deep breath, before trying to think of a way to assure Harry that he can trust you. “Here.” Harry stands at the object you hand him with thinly-veiled confusion and apprehension. “It’s my wand,” you explain, “A wand is a wizard’s most powerful accessory, weapon, and aid. I’m giving my wand to you to show that I mean you no harm.” “You trust me with your wand?” Harry whispers. “Yes,” you respond instinctually. You decide that more people need to show their trust and faith in the boy.

Canonically, Harry’s first introduction to the Wizarding World was wonderful and magnificent, but it was also jaded. He was left to make his own assumptions about magic from the behaviors of those around him. But what if Harry Potter had a trustworthy adult to teach him about the Wizarding World—one who always had faith in him, stood up for him, and protected him?

This is the second chapter of attempts at amnesty.

word count: 11.8k | chapters: 2/? | ao3 version

author's notes: in light of jkr’s many recent fumbles and failures… i want to reiterate that i do not support her or her ideals. she’s a piece of shit fr. an absolute flop of a human being. and, honestly? flop of an author too. just a flop all-around. 🖕

This is paced much quicker than I’d like it to be, but oh well. I have to get this done so I can work on the upcoming stuff!!!! Which is more exciting to me. Heehee.

As a reminder, this fic is canon-divergent and non-compliant. There will be canonical events I forget to include and discrepancies that may not match with the book series. This is fanfiction; let me have fun!

warnings for this chapter: canonical child abuse, grief

The castle is bustling with energy and activity. The students aren’t set to arrive until tomorrow, but there’s a lot of preparation that needs to be done. Each of the professors has to finalize their coursework, organize their classrooms, and make sure there are enough supplies for their students. Thankfully, since you teach Ancient Runes, you don’t have to source many supplies. You have no idea how Severus—the Potions professor—or Minerva—the Transfiguration professor—keep track of all of their supplemental materials. You’re sure you’d be a disorganized mess if you were in either of their positions. Thankfully, you’re not, though; now, you’re free to review your course plans and make sure the classroom’s physical space is in order.

With the arrival of the students comes the Sorting of the first-years. It’s always amusing to see their bright-eyed awe when seeing the castle for the first time. You miss that feeling. Hogwarts is a nostalgic place for you, but you’ve grown out of that childlike wonder.

The Sorting Hat’s song breaks through your thoughts. It sings of the four Houses before Professor McGonagall is quickly summoning the first student to be Sorted. From there, it’s standard procedure—at least, until Harry’s name is called. The entire hall almost seems to erupt in noise, as whispers and shouts echo around the space. You watch as Harry nervously approaches the stool; upon catching his eye, you send him a wink.

Harry proves to be what you affectionately refer to as a hatstall, or someone the Sorting Hat struggles to place into a House. This typically means the student exhibits enough traits to be considered for more than one House, which leads to some deliberation regarding their placement. The same thing must apply for Harry.

Just as the other students begin to grow impatient, Harry is sorted into Gryffindor—just like his parents were when they arrived at Hogwarts. You clap for him, as you do for every student. He seems relieved that he made it into Gryffindor, as he moves to sit next to Percy Weasley. Another Weasley is getting sorted today, to your surprise. The hat barely touches his head before it shouts, “Gryffindor!” The younger Weasley slumps in relief and makes his way over to the table to sit next to Harry.

After the remaining students are Sorted, Albus gives a brief speech and ushers in the beginning of the meal. The food is excellent, as always—and you enjoy catching up with your fellow professors. The evening passes rather quickly, and, before long, you’re reclining in your bed and thinking about the first day of classes.

Fortunately, since you teach Ancient Runes, you won’t have to deal with the first-year students. That age can always be a bit interesting. By the time students reach your classes—which begin in their third-year—they’ve usually matured ever so slightly. Furthermore, since Ancient Runes is an elective course, your students are often ones who choose the subject because they’re genuinely interested in it.

The beginning of the school year always passes in a whirlwind, and this year is no different. You don’t even get the chance to talk with Harry until a few weeks into the semester. Secretly, you’re glad he took the time to visit—while you offered him the opportunity, you weren’t sure if he would take it.

“And then she took me to see Wood and he taught me about the game,” Harry explains, recounting the rather entertaining tale of his first Quidditch lesson. “Professor McGonagall told me that she’d make sure I have a broom, too. Apparently, I’ll be the youngest Seeker in a century!” he exclaims, clearly very excited. Whispers of the encounter between Harry and Malfoy spread throughout the castle, but it’s good to hear it from Harry himself. Besides, it sounds like he wasn’t quite punished anyways. Malfoy was antagonizing him, after all. Honestly, it’s just a miracle that he didn’t get hurt.

“That’s incredible, Harry,” you remember to respond. Normally, you’d address a student with only their last name. However, Harry seemed adamant on avoiding that and you agreed to refer to him with his first name in private conversations. “I’m very happy for you. You know, your father was quite talented at Quidditch himself.” That must explain why he was able to perform such a feat.

Harry smiles silently. The look on his face is somewhat strained and you try to discern why.

“Your mother didn’t play Quidditch,” you continue. Harry looks up at that, and you begin to understand. Harry is surrounded by people that mostly speak of his father, but no one ever talks about his mother. Lily was a Muggleborn, so she wasn’t as well-known as James was. “She was brilliant at Charms, from what I’ve heard. She was Head Girl and one of Professor Slughorn’s favorite students, despite being a Muggleborn. I think her tutoring was one of the only reasons that I passed Potions and earned an Exceeds Expectations. Potions… isn’t exactly my forte,” you decide to admit.

“It isn’t mine, either,” Harry sighs.

“I’m sure being berated and antagonized by your professor isn’t conducive to the brewing process,” you remark wryly. Harry’s eyes widen and he lets out a startled chuckle. Speaking of which, you’ve been meaning to talk to Professor Snape about his rather cruel treatment of Harry and some of the other students. You give yourself a mental note to discuss that with Severus later.

Harry and you keep talking for a bit, and he explains his Quidditch schedule to you. He seems very excited, which you’re happy to see. You haven’t seen such pure joy on his face before and you immediately want to make sure you see it more often. You want Harry to be happy. And, wow, isn’t that a dangerous thought? The boy is quickly growing on you. To think, a mere month ago, you were dreading having to guide him around Diagon Alley. And now, here you are, inviting him to your office to have casual conversations. Safe to say, Harry’s quickly growing on you.

As time passes, you’re almost deluded into thinking this school year will be uneventful for Harry. Of course, just when you begin to think so, you’re swiftly proven wrong.

“Malfoy challenged me to a duel,” Harry announces one morning as he strolls into your office, taking a seat with an exaggerated sigh. He looks a bit tired—probably from all of the Quidditch practice. It’s a tough adjustment: to be attending wizard school and playing a magical sport at the same time. You can only hope he’s taking care of himself.

“Did he really?” you muse, realizing Harry’s still waiting for your response to the whole duel idea. You’re immediately suspicious of Malfoy’s intentions. Harry and he quickly became rivals, after Harry refused to be friends with the boy on account of his rudeness to Weasley. Ever since that interaction just before the Sorting Ceremony, Malfoy and Harry have been enemies.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, clearly annoyed at the prospect. “He said to meet at midnight.”

“Midnight?” you repeat. That only makes you more suspicious. “That’s… way past curfew.” The Prefects will be out and about at that time—and Filch will be roaming the halls too. Overall, this duel sounds like a spectacularly bad idea. Not to mention, the boys are only first-years. They shouldn’t be dueling to begin with.

“I know,” Harry says, sounding withdrawn.

“Malfoy’s trying to bait you into going,” you assert, “but he probably won’t even be there.”

“Really?” Harry blinks.

“He could easily ditch and then tell Filch or one of the professors that you were out past curfew,” you reason. “Then you’d lose points and probably be given detention.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“I wouldn’t go,” you advise him. “I’m saying that as both a professor and someone who used to be a student here. It’s just a trap.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Harry admits. He fiddles with his hands in his lap. “I didn’t really want to duel him anyways. I don’t even know what a duel is.”

“They’re usually a waste of time, to be honest,” you remark. “And while there are rules involved, there’s no telling that Malfoy would even follow them. He could cast a Dark spell and cause you serious harm.”

Harry’s eyes widen at that. You feel a sympathetic smile rising on your lips. “I could teach you about dueling some time, if you really wanted,” you offer before you can think any better of it. “It wouldn’t hurt to know the basics, if you ever find yourself in one.” Considering Harry’s reputation as the Boy-Who-Lived, there’s always the chance that someone could approach him and challenge him to a duel.

“That would be good,” Harry nods. “Maybe next year?”

“Sure,” you agree easily. “That works out, actually. The 2nd year Defense curriculum will accompany dueling lessons quite nicely.” Harry smiles and the two of you continue talking, until the hour grows late and Harry has to head back to the Common Room. He seems almost reluctant to do so, but he eventually withdraws—but not before telling you about his upcoming Quidditch match. You make a note of the date as soon as he leaves. It’s not for a few months, so he still has time to train and practice some more.

Halloween at Hogwarts is charming. Many professors would use a host of other adjectives to describe it: tedious, noisy, tacky. But it’s heartwarming to see the students so excited about things as simple as floating pumpkins and colorful candy. Of course, Hagrid’s giant pumpkins and live bats certainly made things a bit more… lifelike, to say the least.

The Halloween feast is always a sight to behold—and this year’s is no exception. The food magically appears on the same golden plates from the Sorting Ceremony, with virtually endless options for main and side dishes, drinks, and desserts.

The feast in the Great Hall kicks off without a hitch. You’ve made it a point to check on Harry frequently throughout the day, considering it’s technically the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. He seemed pretty busy today, which you’re happy about. It wouldn’t do him any good to have time to dwell on their murders.

Everything is proceeding smoothly, with one slight snag: Professor Quirrell’s chair is empty. You’re not exactly friends with the guy—you’ve barely even spoken to him—but all professors are required to attend the feast. It’s strange that he isn’t here.

His unexplained absence soon resolves itself, however. He scares the life out of most of the students when he races into the Great Hall screaming, “Troll in the dungeon!” before promptly passing out. The professors and Prefects calmly direct their students back to their common rooms, but the younger students’ panic starts to make things a bit disorderly.

You soon recognize the occurrence for what it is: a diversion. You’re about to head off towards the third-floor corridor, but it seems like Severus has the same thoughts as you. When you turn to look at his seat, you find that he’s already left. Hopefully, he can get there in time. Since that’s handled, you decide to turn your attention back to the students. Your gaze falls to Harry at the edge of the Gryffindor table. Weasley and he are exchanging worried glances and you frown. They look like they’re up to something. You tell yourself to keep an eye on them, but the next opportunity you have to glance over at them, the two boys are gone. You curse under your breath and make your way through the Great Hall, trying to figure out where Harry and his friend could’ve gone.

It takes you a few minutes to find Harry and his friend standing in one of the wrecked restrooms with Granger, another first-year Gryffindor. It isn’t the leaking toilet or shattered sink that immediately captures your attention; rather, it’s the incapacitated troll on the ground. An unpleasant feeling runs through you at the thought of Harry battling it entirely unprepared. You think you’re going to be sick.

“Merlin—” Minerva remarks, placing a hand to her chest as she enters the room. Severus is quick on her heels, looking positively murderous. You’re not quite sure what expression is on your face, but it must be betraying your distress, because Harry is quick to reassure you.

“I’m fine,” Harry assures you. He’s covered in troll snot, but he appears to be unharmed. “We’re fine.” The Granger girl’s cheeks are tearstained and she looks a little frazzled; Weasley has some bits from the ceiling stuck to his robe. They’re all breathing hard.

You’re speechless. Minerva seems to notice that you’re struck silent, because she responds for you. “I sure hope you are, Mister Potter!” she exclaims. “That was incredibly dangerous and irresponsible of you three.”

“What exactly… happened?” you manage to choke out, once you no longer feel as if your heart is in your throat. Harry and the Weasley boy exchange a look, before starting to speak. They hardly get a word out before Granger interrupts, admitting that she thought she could take on the troll alone. You suspect she’s lying, but you don’t see the need to mention that aloud. The trio will be punished regardless of the explanation. Indeed, moments later, Minerva is sending them off with less points and dates for detentions. Severus doesn’t seem too satisfied with the punishment, but, then again, he’s almost never satisfied with anything. Minerva leads the trio back to the Gryffindor dormitory, leaving the Potions master and you standing in the flooded bathroom.

“The Stone?” you ask. Severus stares at you with a scrutinizing gaze, clearly not expecting the question. The Sorcerer’s Stone lies at the end of the third-floor corridor, after the several obstacles devised by Albus and some of the other professors. If someone wanted to get to it, a distraction like the troll would allow them time to get through the different obstacles.

Snape studies you for a moment. “Secured,” he eventually confirms.

“Good,” you nod. “I can clean this up.” You look up, only to find that the Potions professor is already gone. You huff a laugh and begin to cast a few cleaning spells. Your stomach turns as you see the blood on the floor, but you quickly spell it away and pretend not to notice it.

After the troll incident, activity around the castle seems to be a bit more subdued. It’s understandable that many of the students are shaken up by what happened, and rumors surrounding Harry and his friends’ interaction with the being are spreading like wildfire.

Fortunately, with the steady approach of the Quidditch season and the threat of final exams looming in the distance, the corridor on the third floor becomes a distant memory for many students. And before you know it, it’s the morning of Harry’s first Quidditch match. He seems pretty nervous and frazzled at breakfast in the Great Hall. You want to head over and give him some reassurance, but he looks pretty anxious already—and Weasley and Granger seem to be trying to do that anyway. You do manage to catch his eye and send him a wink. Harry does seem to relax a bit after that, giving you a weak smile in response.

You try to attend a few Quidditch matches throughout the year, but you don’t usually attend the first game of the season. It’s a bit fun to see the energy vibrating through the air, as the students cheer and jeer at the teams. You find a seat next to Severus in the stands with the other professors and occupy a tense, somewhat uncomfortable silence. Even as the game begins, Severus is a silent presence at your side. When Slytherin scores, a smirk will dance across his lips. Otherwise, he is eerily quiet.

The game is proving to be pretty close. You’re torn between watching the Quaffle and keeping an eye out for Harry. He seems to be doing pretty well, surveying the field as he flies above the Chasers and Beaters. Gryffindor scores a few more times before a blur of motion draws your attention. Harry’s jerking around unnaturally, as if his broom is trying to throw him off.

You watch for a few more seconds, concerned by how violent the movements seem to be. It soon becomes clear that there’s something wrong with Harry’s broom. You’re standing up before you can stop yourself, quickly casting a spell to right his balance and quell the object’s apparent sentience—

“What are you doing?” Severus hisses, successfully disrupting your concentration. He sounds moments away from grabbing your forearm and yanking you back down to sit.

You let out a frustrated sound. “Something’s wrong with Harry’s broom,” you manage to say, taking a deep breath and casting the spell unimpeded before taking your seat once more. You watch with bated breath as Harry regains control of his broom, swinging a leg over it and returning to his regular position. You breathe a sigh of relief. “Merlin.”

“You suspect someone tampered with it,” Severus states. Despite his flat affect, you recognize the remake as a question and you nod gravely. A stormy expression rises on the other professor’s face. He soon strides off, likely to check on the third-floor corridor. You stay to see Harry win by nearly swallowing the Snitch—and you manage to congratulate him before he’s swarmed by his Gryffindor housemates. You suspect the Gryffindor common room will be rather hectic tonight.

“Ron and Hermione were happy,” Harry recounts the next night, a bright grin on his face as he remembers the match. “They were going to set Professor Snape’s robes on fire.”

“What?” you sputter.

Harry just laughs, like the troublemaker he is. You keep your concerns about foul play to yourself, promising yourself to investigate later. For now, you let Harry rant about different Quidditch plays with an endearing sparkle in his eyes. His infectious energy leaves you fighting off a smile, even as he heads back to the dorms.

Your gut is telling you something’s wrong. You have no idea what it is. Today has been a pretty uneventful spring day. The snow on the ground from the frigid winter is finally starting to melt, leaving the castle surrounded by muddy and damp grounds. It’s getting a bit warmer outside and students are starting to occupy the courtyards once more.

By all means, it’s an entirely ordinary day. As the day drags on, nothing goes horribly awry. You almost start to think your fears are unfounded, when you realize you haven’t seen Harry all day. Even if he doesn’t stop by your office, you’ll usually see him at meals in the Great Hall. It’s strange, you think, that you haven’t seen him.

As the evening bleeds into night, you find that you can’t quite get yourself to calm down. You settle for taking a late night walk around the castle, hoping to get some clarity. You head through the corridors with only the light of your wand, ignoring the annoyed grumbles and groans of the sleepy portraits. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you almost miss the sight of a student ducking into a corridor.

Frowning, you decide to follow them. It’s well past curfew and they could easily get in trouble. Not to mention, since that outright foolish announcement Albus made about the third-floor corridor, it’s even more dangerous for students to wander. A few troublemakers have tried getting into that corridor as night falls, necessitating even more security around the area.

You follow the student around the corner and into an alcove, watching as they crouch down and sit on the floor. The castle’s floors are cold and unforgiving at night, but this student doesn’t seem bothered by it. You squint at them, trying to figure out just what they’re doing here.

You take another cautious step forward, unintentionally drawing their attention. They turn around and you squint, holding your wand up to them.

Harry Potter is just about the last person you expect to see. “Hi, Professor,” Harry says, blinking quickly at the light of your wand. You manage to dim the light and take a step closer, studying him for several moments.

“Hi, Harry,” you respond. “What are you doing?”

“Just… looking,” Harry responds, looking pointedly at the gilded mirror in front of him. You aren’t sure why you just now noticed it—it’s rather tall, and the only object in the space. You frown and try to study it, wondering why it’s brought Harry out of his dorm so late at night.

“That doesn’t look like a normal mirror,” you murmur, hesitantly taking a step closer. Harry just tugs his knees up to his chest, as if shielding himself from your scrutiny.

“It isn’t,” he admits with a wayward glance. “I can see my parents.”

“Your parents?” you repeat with disbelief, taking a step forward and stepping closer to the mirror. You study the object for a moment, taking in the gilded frame and the elegant writing etched into it: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. It doesn’t take you long to transcribe the message: I show not your face, but your heart’s desire. Not a very creative inscription for a magical object. You can’t help but be suspicious about this mirror: the majority of magical artifacts in Hogwarts live in the library or the Room of Requirement.

Wait. Erised. Desire. The Mirror of Erised: The Mirror of Desire. It shows you what you desire most. It draws the user in, compels them to spend time wasting away in front of it. People have lost their minds looking at it.

“Harry, get away from that,” you say quickly, your voice filled with urgency.

“Why?” Harry asks worriedly. Despite his skepticism, he obeys your request and scrambles up to his feet, moving to step behind you.

“It can’t be trusted,” you say.

“But—” Harry tries to argue.

“Magical artifacts like this are often drowning in Dark magic,” you say with a frown, casting a quick detection spell. As you suspected, black amorphous shadows drip from the frame of the mirror in response, showing the Dark magic running through the object’s very core. “See?”

“Oh,” Harry says quietly.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” you sigh. “I’ll have to confiscate this.” And bring it up with Albus. Did he know it was here? It’s something he should definitely know about…

“...Okay,” Harry relents, bringing you back to the matter at hand.

You send the mirror to your office before turning back to Harry. “Are you alright?” you ask. It’s kind of a stupid question: the tortured expression on his face speaks for itself. Not to mention the fact that he’s awake so late on a school night, sneaking through the halls.

“Yeah,” Harry says with a slight nod.

“Are you sure?” you press.

“...Yeah,” he maintains. “I’m fine.”

Well. It doesn’t seem like this strategy is working. You’ll have to try something else. “Were you visiting here frequently?” you decide to ask.

“......No,” Harry says unconvincingly. It’s clear he’s lying.

“It’s okay if you were,” you reassure him. “It’s not a crime to want to see your parents.”

Harry looks around the space. He doesn’t want to meet your eyes. “I don’t even remember them,” he admits, his fist clenching at his side. His eyes are glimmering with unshed tears. “I’ve never even heard my mother’s voice. I’ve only heard her scream.”

Merlin. That’s the darkest, most depressing thing you’ve heard in quite some time.

“I—” you stumble over your words, “I’m so sorry, Harry.” You have no idea what to say. There are no words that could even begin to heal the pain he’s experiencing. He practically never met his parents. He grew up without them. Harry only knows what he’s been told—and from what you can tell, he’s been told frighteningly little.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, with the practiced ease of someone who has heard those same words far too many times before.

It’s not fine. It’s the furthest thing from fine. But you’re struggling to think of a way to help him. You weren’t super close with Lily and James, but you were aware of them, at the very least. Plus, Lily tutored you in Potions—and James was in your Charms class. You have memories of them, even if they aren’t super fleshed-out or significant.

That gives you an idea. “You know,” you start, “I think I have some memories of your parents. I could put them in my Pensieve and show you.”

Harry just blinks in confusion. “What’s a Pensieve?”

“Oh, right,” you say. Of course he won’t know what a Pensieve is: he was raised in the Muggle world. It’s easy to forget that sometimes. “It allows you to extract memories from your mind and preserve them. You can show other people your memories in a Pensieve, or you can revisit them yourself.”

“Oh,” Harry remarks, seeming to brighten up just a little bit. He still looks melancholic and borderline despondent, but you can tell he’s warming up to the idea you’ve presented. “That would be nice,” he agrees quietly.

“Next time you visit my office, I’ll have some memories ready,” you promise him.

“Thanks, Professor,” he says.

“No problem,” you respond. “Let me walk you back to the Common Room.”

Harry reluctantly follows after you, and the two of you walk back in silence.

“Harry,” you say. “You know I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

“I know,” Harry responds. You’re not quite satisfied with that answer, but it’s too late for any further discussion—Harry’s already slipping behind the Fat Lady’s portrait and returning to his dorm. You stay there for a few moments, concerned about him.

“Are you just going to stand there and gawk all night?” the Fat Lady demands impatiently. “I need my beauty sleep.”

“Sorry,” you respond, shoving your hands in your pockets and heading back to your office. The Fat Lady huffs and evidently returns to sleep. You attempt to do the same when you return to your quarters, but it’s a bit difficult. Even when you finally drift off, the look on Harry’s face haunts you in the days that follow.

After that night, you try your best to keep a closer eye on Harry. But you can only do so much: he’s a first-year, so you can’t see him in classes. You usually only see him at meal times. He’ll occasionally visit your office, but as his schedule grows busier, these visits become more sporadic. You’ve talked to Minerva and she’s promised to keep an eye on him, but that doesn’t do anything to dispel the worry you’re feeling.

You’re grading papers one night when you hear a sudden commotion outside the hall. You look up to find Harry and Ron Weasley breathing hard, hands on their knees as if they just ran over to your office. They look visibly frazzled and stressed.

“Hi, you two,” you greet the two of them, surprised by their sudden entrance. “What’s the matter?”

After catching his breath, Harry looks up at you with panic in his eyes. “Professor, there’s—” Harry chokes out.

“The Sorcerer’s Stone and—” Weasley interjects, evidently just as worried.

“Someone’s trying to steal it—” Harry says breathlessly. “We tried to tell her—”

“Slow down, slow down,” you remind them gently. The boys grimace in embarrassment and take another few moments to collect their breath. “I’m going to need you to say that again,” you try to say patiently.

“Snape’s trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone,” Harry chokes out. You blink at the sudden change in demeanor. He’s usually quiet and withdrawn, but right now, he seems outspoken and restless. “Ron and I tried to tell McGonagall—”

“Professor McGonagall, Harry,” you say, unable to stop yourself from speaking.

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry corrects himself, “but she told us that Dumbeledore is away and he won’t be back for a while. She didn’t believe us when we said the Stone was going to be stolen.”

You frown. There are several different things wrong with that statement, but the part that troubles you the most is how easily Minerva dismissed the two boys. You know the third-floor corridor was fitted with several different security measures, created by Severus, Quirinus, and Albus. However, those security measures are far from infallible. In fact, they were almost designed to encourage a student to best them. The thought troubles you greatly—so much so that you have to push it away.

“I see,” you frown at the boys. You know Severus wouldn’t steal the Stone, so it’s very likely that he entered the Chamber in order to stop someone else from stealing it. You take a slow breath. “Well, I would scold you for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—no offense meant, you two—but it seems I have bigger issues to deal with.”

“Professor?” Harry and Ron both echo, looking at you in confusion.

“Excuse me, Mister Weasley,” you say, staring at the redhead boy who is standing in front of the door to your office. The boy steps aside and you place a hand on the door, pushing it only a few centimeters before you hear a voice behind you.

“Professor—” Harry breaks off. You chance a glance back at the two boys, only to find that they still look unconvinced. You take a deep breath. You suppose you owe them an explanation. They did trust you enough to speak with you, after all.

“None of this is your responsibility,” you say. “You two are far too young to go running into a situation like this unprepared. I know you’re concerned about the Stone and Nicolas Flamel, which I admire. But that area is forbidden for a reason—it’s very dangerous. And besides, Harry, you have the Quidditch finals coming up, too.”

Harry exchanges a look with his friend and sighs. “I know it sounds difficult, but I’m going to need you to trust me with this. Contact Professor Dumbledore if you want—rest assured that I will also be contacting him—but do not, under any circumstances, follow me,” you say tersely.

You level the boys with a fierce look—or, at least, as fierce as you can manage. “Do you promise to remain in the Common Room?” you demand a few moments later, when their silence remains unbroken. You look at them expectantly.

“Yes, Professor,” the two boys then echo in unison. You nod and dismiss them. You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling winded all of a sudden. You take a few moments to plan your next move. First, you need to contact Albus. You conjure a Patronus and relay the information, before sending it off to Albus. Next, you need to tackle the corridor. The obstacles should be easy enough. The only problem is what—or, more accurately, who—awaits you at the end.

Indeed, the obstacles aren’t much of a problem. It appears that someone beat you to the punch, because the troll meant to guard the path is already unconscious. You get through the fluttering keys, win the giant chess game, and choose the correct potion. Once you finally reach the inner Chamber, you find yourself staring at Professor Quirrell. The two of you hadn’t talked much throughout the school year—you were never very fond of him. Now, you’re starting to understand why. Quirrell is indeed standing next to the Mirror of Erised in the middle of the hollow chamber. His gaze finds you upon your entrance and he laughs. He no longer looks like the meek, timid professor from before—his eyes are narrowed and there’s a cruel sneer on his face.

“Ah, Professor!” Quirrell remarks. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” you mutter wryly. You’re starting to realize… If everything had gone as intended, Harry would’ve been the one down here. The mere thought of Albus so callously throwing Harry into danger is enough to make your stomach turn.

Let… me… see…

What was that? It sounded like a voice—and not Quirrell’s. You watch with mounting horror as Quirrell turns, removing his turban to reveal a face at the back of his head. It’s Lord Voldemort, you realize with revulsion. Voldemort has possessed Quirrell’s body. You feel sick to your stomach.

Suddenly, you’re dueling. You can’t imagine Harry, a first-year, dueling with this professor—it would’ve been a very one-sided fight. Thankfully, you’re a Hogwarts professor with years of experience under your belt. Therefore, the duel doesn’t last very long. You manage to disarm Quirrell and bind him tightly enough to keep him contained. Amazingly, hardly a few moments pass before Albus is standing in the Chamber with you. You explain the recent occurrences to him and he nods silently, before moving to take Quirrell to the Ministry.

Unfortunately, you don’t realize that Quirrell landed a few hexes and curses on you until it’s nearly too late. You’re heading down the hallway on the third floor when an intense pain sends you nearly falling to the ground. You hold a hand to your side, only mildly surprised when your hand comes back bloody. You manage to stumble your way to the infirmary—albeit clumsily—and Poppy is quick to push you into a bed. Your eyes slip shut within a few moments.

You wake to a headache running through your temple and down your cheekbones. Your body feels weirdly stiff — and you soon learn that it’s nighttime after a quick glance at the nearby window. From what you remember, you had entered the infirmary the previous night. Were you unconscious for a whole day?!

Supposedly you were. You must’ve needed the rest—or so Poppy says. She’s quick to reprimand you for your reckless actions. You maintain that you summoned Dumbledore, but he was ultimately away on a visit to London. She relaxes a bit at that, but still appears mildly disappointed in you. You’ll take it, you suppose.

You don’t think you’re awake for more than fifteen minutes before you find yourself faced with a visitor. Albus Dumbledore stands at your bedside, before eventually moving to take a seat in the armchair he summons out of thin air. The casual display of wordless magic makes you smile in exasperation.

The headmaster seems a bit peeved at the thought that you went to the third-floor corridor, rather than Harry. You’re quick to break through his rose-tinted vision and remind him that Harry is just a boy. And, more importantly, he doesn’t exist for the headmaster’s amusement and manipulation. Harry isn’t a mouse in a labyrinth of Albus’s creation. Your words are laced with a frustrated and bitter exhaustion that you’re unable to hide.

“I’m only preparing him for what comes,” Albus responds diplomatically, after taking a moment to contemplate. His cool disregard for Harry’s safety is enough to get you fired up again.

“For what?” you question, unable to hide your irritation any longer. “The war he didn’t sign up for? No part of this battle is his, Albus. Harry’s parents started this war, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean he has to finish it.”

Albus remains silent, as if he knows that none of his words will dissuade you. However, he doesn’t look to be at all convinced by your prior statements. For a few moments, there’s nothing but awkward tension. “I’m glad you’re alright,” the headmaster then says out of nowhere.

“I’m sure,” you huff. The bewildered look on the wizard’s face is enough to make you laugh. You push yourself up to a better sitting position and recline against the pillows at your back. “Would be one hell of a story otherwise.” The Daily Prophet would certainly put it on the front page, with a title like: ‘Hogwarts Professor Killed by Three-Headed Dog!’

“I suppose,” Albus acquiesces valiantly, apparently sensing your thoughts. You resist the urge to sigh at how begrudging his agreement is. “I see you have some gifts.” At that statement, you frown and look over at your bedside table, only to find it piled high with candy and cards. You blink at it and Albus, sensing your confusion, laughs. “From your students. News spreads fast around the castle, it seems,” he clarifies.

“They did not have to get me gifts—” you sputter.

“I believe this one is from Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, and Miss Granger,” Albus interrupts, his gaze caught on the box sitting precariously on the top of the pile. “Would you mind terribly if I have some? I haven’t had Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans for a long time…”

“Go ahead,” you shrug, watching with amusement as Albus rifles through the box of candy. For a moment, you’re content to watch him pick through the box of jelly beans. Then, you’re suddenly struck with a realization: you rarely get the opportunity to speak with Albus one-on-one like this. He’s always rather busy. There’s been something weighing on your mind throughout the school year—namely, who Harry will stay with over the summer. From what you’ve gathered of his home life so far… you’re apprehensive about allowing him to return to his Muggle family over the summer. You’ve seen how Harry flinches when someone touches him without warning, how he’s always positioned to face the exit in a room, and how he goes uncharacteristically quiet in the presence of authority figures. That behavior isn’t often present in children with caring guardians.

“Actually, Albus, before you leave…” you break off, drawing Albus’s attention away from the candy, “I’d like to speak with you about Harry’s summer residence.” For the briefest of moments, you swear you see Albus twitch. You convince yourself that it’s a figment of your imagination, because when you look at him again, you find that he’s simply staring at you with a blank expression.

“The boy will be staying with the Dursleys,” Albus says diplomatically.

Your fingers twitch on top of the scratchy infirmary bedsheets. “Actually, I think Harry will be staying with me this summer,” you blurt out. The headmaster blinks at you, evidently not having expected any argument. You can’t help but wonder if anyone ever opposes Dumbledore. It certainly doesn’t seem like it happens often, judging from the fleeting expression of utter confusion and shock on the wizard’s face.

“Oh, I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Albus then asserts.

“Well, I’m afraid it is,” you snap with renewed energy. You’ll be damned if Harry goes to those awful people for another summer. “I’ve researched the Blood Wards that protect him from Voldemort, and I can replicate them in my own home.” You raise your eyebrows at him. Your move, Albus.

“That’s not possible,” the headmaster insists, his eyes wide.

“It certainly is possible,” you frown at him, resisting the urge to laugh. Just because something is beyond his capabilities doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Truthfully, you’ve spent a lot of your free time throughout the year researching the blood wards Albus is so fond of. You hadn’t told anyone, in case your research proved fruitless. But it was just the opposite: you now have a rune diagram that will provide Harry with that same protection, without keeping him in an abusive household. “I did some research and found runes that mimic the exact same effects of the wards you’re so fond of.”

“The Dursleys are the boy’s only remaining family,” Albus reminds you after a few seconds. He’s quick to take another angle—likely because he knows you’re fully capable of replicating the wards. “You seek to take him from them?”

“You know as well as I do that the Dursleys don’t care for Harry in any way whatsoever. They view him as nothing more than a burden,” you remind him.

At Albus’s silence, you continue. “Harry will be living with me this summer and all future summers, if he so chooses,” you assert with somewhat unfounded confidence. Your heart is racing away in your chest, despite your conviction that this is the right decision. Someone needs to advocate for Harry and his well-being — he’s too young and has been hurt too many times to do it himself.

“Very well; I see you’re convinced,” Albus responds, his lips pulled tightly in a flat line. You resist the compelling urge to roll your eyes and instead remain silent. You watch as Albus regards you for a moment, before turning his attention back to the Bertie’s Bott’s in his hand. He reaches in the box and takes out an unappealing brown jelly bean, popping it into his mouth without a second thought. You grimace instinctively. The headmaster’s face is blank for a moment, before his expression sours. He turns to you and smiles. “Dirt.”

“Never change, Albus,” you remark with fond irritation. The headmaster raises an eyebrow and smiles again, before getting to his feet and finally leaving you alone.

Somehow, Albus isn’t your only visitor for the day. A few hours pass and, suddenly, there are three first-years standing at the foot of your bed. You push yourself up to a proper sitting position and level them with a curious look. “Miss Granger, Mister Weasley, Harry; how are you all doing?”

“Professor, who cares about us—?” Hermione blurts out, then slapping a hand over her mouth as if she hadn’t meant to speak. You let your gaze wander across the trio—they all have varying looks of concern on their faces. You begin to realize that they’re worried for you.

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” you say, waving them off. None of them seem particularly convinced. “And thank you for the gift. It was entirely unnecessary, of course, but I appreciate the gesture.”

The three students all nod. They’re being uncharacteristically silent. An awkward tension settles in the air for a few moments. You take a deep breath and contemplate your next words.

“Before I forget… I want to say that I appreciate you all coming to me and expressing your concerns,” you remark. “I’m sure it was frustrating to see Professor McGonagall not take you seriously and, rest assured, I’ll be having a conversation with her soon.” Your reassurance seems to work, as they all nod.

“In the meantime, I believe there are some points to be awarded.” Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchange confused glances. It seems as if they understand what you’re alluding to, but they don’t want to get their hopes up. You can’t quite hide the fond smile growing on your face.

“To you, Mister Weasley… Fifty points to Gryffindor.” Ron turns bright red at that. Harry and Hermione’s eyes are comically wide. “Same for you, Miss Granger.” She didn’t show up at your door, but you suspect she was involved too. She was likely the one to suggest speaking to Minerva. “And Harry, one hundred points.”

“But, Professor—!” Hermione exclaims, only for Ron and Harry to both loudly shush her. You smile in amusement.

“I’m very proud of you three,” you say sincerely. “It takes courage to rush into a battle recklessly. However, it takes even more bravery to stand aside and place your trust in others. You should all be very proud of yourselves.”

“Thank you,” they all say in unison.

“Now…” you say, after casting a quick Tempus charm. You ignore the furious glare that Madam Pomfrey levels at you—you weren’t supposed to use magic so soon in your recovery—and smile. “I believe the three of you have a feast to attend. I get the feeling your peers will be very surprised by Gryffindor’s sudden tie with Slytherin.” The three students all grin in unison at that and thank you once more, before leaving for the Great Hall. At least, you think the three of them leave for the feast. For some reason, Harry comes back a moment later.

“Harry?” you ask.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, Professor,” Harry says, averting his eyes. “I’ll be staying with the Dursleys this summer, so you probably won’t see me until the fall.” You frown at him for a moment, before realizing that he evidently was never told about the change of plans.

“Actually, you’ll be staying with me over the summer,” you assert. The truth of the matter is, beyond your concern for Harry’s safety, you’re actually growing fond of him. You enjoy caring for him and providing him with the resources he needs to succeed. You’re not so delusional to think you’re a replacement for his parents, but you hope Harry at least considers you to be a trustworthy adult in his life. Merlin knows he needs more of them.

“Really?” Harry’s expression is guarded and wary. He doesn’t look like he believes you at all, and you get the horrible feeling that he won’t believe you until he’s standing in your home. You curse all the authority figures that mistreated Harry in such a manner—the Dursleys especially. You promise yourself that you’ll never let the boy down, not in the same way so many adults already have.

“Yes,” you decide to respond. There’s nothing you can say that will convince Harry to let his guard down—not when he’s been harmed by hope so many times in the past. You decide to speak a little more, even if you know it won’t necessarily diminish his doubts. “You’ll see, Harry. For now, though, go enjoy the feast! I’m sure there’s some treacle tart waiting for you.”

A hesitant smile falls onto Harry’s face and he nods, before running out of the infirmary—immune to Madam Pomfrey’s aghast exclamations that he should refrain from running. You recline back against the pillow behind you and take a deep breath. You’ve finished another year at Hogwarts.

As you rest, you let one thought dominate your mind: you will make good on your promise to Harry.

endnotes: Notice I made the restroom Hermione went into gender-neutral. poor jkr is probably so scared rn 🥺🥺 harry potter and the sorcerer’s all-gender restroom 🥺🥺🥺 harry potter and the chamber of genders 🥺🥺💀

After this, each chapter will be another book, I think. So Chapter 3 = Book 2, and so forth. So see you in book 2…! Prisoner of Azkaban is what I’m really looking forward to, and I’m sure you can guess why. Heeheehee….

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you @moss4ev3r @hottskull

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

#defectivevillain #hp #hp x reader #Harry Potter x reader #not a ship fic #just platonic #x male reader #x gn reader #x transmasc reader #transmasc reader #gn reader #male reader

36 notes · View notes

maxdibert · 5 months ago

Note

I wished lily wasn't the reason for Severus' loyalty. The revelation of his love for her (platonically or romantically) was truly important. You have the incident that kickstarted the prophecy. Severus' switch to the order. Voldemort giving Lily a chance to choose. Severus playing an important role in the second wizarding war. All because of a friendship of two people from spinner's end.

JKR should have developed it more. I understand that she went for the twist, but when the thrill of the discovery is gone there are so many questions that are unanswered.

first, I do not like Lily as a friend. She forgives the marauders for the years of bullying, see her 'best friend' being hanged upside down and threatened to have his genitals exposed. Who the fuck does that ? Also when Harry asked if his mother knew that James still bullying Severus in the seventh year, remus answered with "she did not know too much." so she knew something...

I do not like Lily as a sister, why did she not let James know that vernon probably doesn't know anything about the wizarding world before they went on dinner. I mean wth is Petunia supposed to say to Vernon ? "Oh yeah my sister is a witch and she went to this magical school". Not the best way to make a men fall in love with you. Is Petunia even allowed to tell Vernon all of this under the secrecy law? (I'm aware that restaurant scene is not canon, but that's what I thought when I read it on the website).

I don't like the way she uses her other friends opinion of Severus and their friendship, who clearly don't like Severus, as an argument to why Severus should stop hanging out with his Slytherin friends. Why are your friends even discussing Severus?

Also, I don't like the way she idolize Albus Dumbledore. Severus' got bullied for years, and Dumbledore did nothing. Severus was nearly killed by a werewolf and Dumbledore made Severus swear to never talk about it. What did he do, he made James head boy. Yeah if that happened to me and this man was the leader of the order, I might have asked for the death eater sign up too. Ridiculous.

By making his love for her so pure and selfless, it makes me wonder why he loves her so much. We know nothing, and the things we know just make me go "bruh really.... her ? .... she would not spare a thought for you if your funeral was announced in the papers".

Listen I was never part of the cool kids, so perhaps I don't understand her. But then again, for a Gryffindor, she really is a social coward.

It makes everything so bloody tragic. I sometimes wonder if I'd wished Severus stayed a death eater in the story but then one with guilt because he started caring about the professors and children through the years of working there.

It was honestly funny to read all of this because it feels like listening to myself when I was 16 or 17. I mean, even before I was a fan of Severus—because that came with time—I had a pretty neutral opinion of the character. I didn’t dislike him because I understood his motivations, but I wasn’t particularly a fan either. And if I wasn’t a fan, it was precisely because of everything you’re talking about.

A lot of people say Severus was an obsessive incel who spent 24/7 thinking about Lily, but I never saw it that way—I just thought he was an idiot. I thought, Wow, what an absolute moron. Like, did he really sacrifice his entire life for a woman who was actually kind of a piece of shit? Did he really give up everything to protect the son of his bully and the woman who married said bully? Could you be a bigger loser? No, seriously, could you be more pathetic? Because that woman not only let him be bullied for years, she almost smiled at his bully while he was publicly stripping him. She practically blamed him for her lack of popularity because she was seen with him, and somehow, he was supposed to be grateful. She gaslit him when he tried to tell her about what his abusers were doing to him. She literally told him he should be grateful to one of his abusers. Like, this woman was a piece of shit who was just looking to climb the social ladder. She loved being Gryffindor’s golden girl, just like she was the golden girl back home, and she hated that she had a weird, ugly, nerdy friend with questionable associations who tainted her image. On top of that, she loved having Gryffindor’s rich, pureblood king fawning over her because it was yet another symbol of status—but, of course, she had to play hard to get because good girls always resist bad boys.

That’s how I saw Lily Evans (and honestly, how I still see her), and it seemed absurd to me that Severus would have given so much for her when, honestly, I would have told her to fuck off. Like, if I were Severus, I would’ve dropped her the first time she gaslit me about my abusers. But if for some reason I had still stuck around after that, the moment I saw her almost smiling at my main abuser while he was stripping me in public, I would’ve beaten her so hard she’d have lost all her teeth.

That was my mindset when I was younger, before I learned a lot of things. Back then, I didn’t know what toxic friendships were or how easy it was to fall into them. I had no idea what codependency was, nor did I understand what an attachment figure was. At the time, I grasped some of these concepts vaguely, but over the years, I not only understood them more deeply but also experienced them—both personally and through people around me.

As I got older, I realized that the fact that Severus came from a home where he felt terribly unsafe, and that Lily represented his first safe place as a child, played a huge role in his cognitive development and psyche. In some way, he was always going to be grateful to her for probably being the only good thing in his childhood. And those childhood attachments are some of the strongest and hardest to break because they’re so deeply ingrained in a person. On top of that, Lily was his friend for years, during key developmental stages, and he probably didn’t see all of her flaws—he had her idealized. He grew up in a house where violence was the norm, and his classmates at Hogwarts also treated violence as normal. Lily was different, so he simply wasn’t capable of recognizing problematic behaviors that anyone with a healthy upbringing and healthy role models would have seen immediately. Because he didn’t have those things.

We’re not talking about a character who had examples of healthy behavior, affection, or attachments—we’re talking about someone who had the opposite. So, of course, he wasn’t capable of seeing anything bad in Lily. To him, she was the good in his environment. She was his moral compass, a kind of lighthouse to guide him when he wanted to know if he was heading in the right direction. It’s even possible that he never blamed her for marrying James, and instead, just thought it was normal that she gave in—because she was so good that she could see the good in even horrible people like James. Or maybe he believed James had somehow deceived her.

Severus’s attachment to Lily is kind of like a child who idolizes their mother and is completely unable to see her flaws—even when she acts like a complete asshole—because she’s their mother. And if she does something bad, well, it’s probably the fault of the people around her, not her. That’s exactly how Severus saw Lily.

When I understood all of this, I felt like I finally understood the character and his motivations better. I think it’s important to look at it not from our perspective as outsiders forming opinions, but from his perspective as someone inside the situation—someone who was emotionally dependent on her and either didn’t see the truth or didn’t want to see it.

Over the years, I’ve toned down my discourse about Lily, but my opinion of her hasn’t changed all that much from when I was a teenager. The only difference is that now I rationalize it better. But I still think she was a self-centered social climber. The only thing that’s changed is that before, I just thought she was a shallow, frivolous person—now I give her a little more credit and think her behavior was based on an inferiority complex stemming from her working-class background and her Muggle heritage.

But that doesn’t change the core of the issue. And honestly? I think she and James Potter were a perfect match—two absolute assholes who deserved each other. In fact, I’ve never been bothered by Jily because I’ve always thought they belonged together. Equally insufferable.

#severus snape #pro severus snape #severus snape defense #pro snape #james potter #lily evans #lily evans potter #lily potter #jily #young severus snape #snapedom #severus snape analysis #severus snape meta

60 notes · View notes

fafodill · 2 months ago

Note

I'm glad you liked my (perfectly reasonable and canon compliant) ship suggestions to glacierberries. I also have a little additional bellambrige piece written in the reblogs, because evil wlw rules.

Want your opinion on those ones:

- Gilderoy Lockhart/Voldemort (narcissists, unite!)

- Severus Snape/Augusta Longbottom (Neville is hysterical)

- Lily Evans/Horace Slughorn (he talks of her SUSPICIOUSLY well)

- Sirius Black/Fenrir Greyback (if the fandom wants Sirius to bang a daddy werewolf – fine, but at least pick an actual daddy werewolf)

And our newest addition – ✨️kreagulus✨️

Regulus definitely was unhealthily obsessed with Kreacher. I mean, why else would he betray Voldemort, am I right? He just wanted to fuck him😔 #elfcelregulus

I shit you not I almost CRIED laughing as I read those. These are AMAZING!

✨Lockmort is a banger. They'd meet because Gilderoy would keep on stealing competent wizard's work, including undercover DE and leaving them with memory brain damage. Voldemort is pissed and demands to have the responsible captured. Once they finally meet (read: someone yeet Gilderoy in the room and he's on the ground at Voldy's feet), Gilderoy is absolutely shaking in fear like a newborn bird but then Voldemort (who's pretty disappointed already) gives him a compliment about his charm skills and cleverness in avoiding detection and Gilderoy gets on his feet and puff his chest in pride and they start talking. And to Voldemort's horror, the man is a HUGE moron but he's also strangely clever in his own way? (he's ravenclaw after all) Greet schemer, very good liar, very ambitious, totally narcissistic but if Voldy gives him attention and fame, then the guy might give him GREAT IDEAS to pull wool over important people's eyes and get a fuck-ton of money. Like, he's an expert con-artist! And also, he's a total whimpering sub in bed, especially when you make him look at himself in a mirror. 8.5/10, Voldy would use snakes as bondage ropes on him. 🐍

🐦‍⬛Snaugusta (I'm wheezing), I can see them bonding over Augusta coming to school one day and - as an involved guardian figure - ask to talk with the Potion Professor with whom her grandson is having so much trouble with. She's pretty pissed at first but find Severus's sternness very refreshing and totally agrees with him and his methods. They have similar old-school views about school and what is to be expected from a proper wizard. Also she finds him very attractive. Had she been 30 years younger she'd have asked him out. She won't tho, she's too well-educated to meddle with her grandson's professor. Also Severus would have said no for approximately 12 diff reasons. 6/10. IF she was to hit on him in a post-war AU and he's a bit drunk, I can see it happening. Why the fuck not, he's not even supposed to be alive and life makes no sense. It wouldn't last tho, she's way too bossy in bed.

🍷Slugvans, I mean you're right, he's clearly talking about her a bit too much and too fondly. But how could he approach her with James AND Severus ready to pounce on him if he made an inappropriate move? No, he'd have to meet her outside of school, after her graduation. He'd take her out on a lunch date on Diagon Alley and be totally prepared to be her daddy. I see him as an old gentleman, he's not lusting after her per say (he'd even blush so hard if she was to take his hand, oh my!). If we go with the idea that Lily was interested in James because of his status and the protection it would give her, then Slughorn is also a safe bet! And he's got tons of connections! She could be his dear trophy wife/sugar baby and not have to worry about getting pregnant because if they did the do, he'd be super cautious about it. Lily lives, no Harry, no prophecy, Sirius kisses James while they're drunk one night and everybody is happy. Though they wouldn't last a lifetime as she's way too fiery for his old bones and she'd get bored and leave him a few years along the line. No bad blood though. A solid 7/10.

🐺GreyBlack, yes, THIS is the werewolf daddy fanon!Sirius deserves. The problem is, Sirius is bigoted towards werewolves so if he doesn't want Remus, he won't want Fenrir. BUT he would find his 'fuck society' stance really sexy. Fenrir would so be his leather daddy after school. Sirius would act as if he's not interested then finally cave in when the man would shove him against a wall and rip his clothes apart. But also... would Sirius run the risk of getting transformed? I don't believe Fenrir doesn't use teeth when he fucks. So yeah, werewolf!Sirius entering the ring for sure! But he'd loose Remus friendship for good and I don't think Fenrir would appreciate his rebel posh ass for long before tossing him out of the pack so 4/10, not compatible enough imo.

💎Kreagulus is, since I saw the post a few days ago, absolutely canon. Kreature was the only nice person towards poor old Reg' in this godforsaken house. Their love and loyalty towards one another is endless. But I like them tragic, so Reg' never confessed his feelings, except when he wept about it as he was dying while drinking the cursed potion. Kreature has been heartbroken since. He's never going to get over it, 12/10.

38 notes · View notes

amymbona · 1 year ago

Note

Can you write something about Patrick with a girl who talks a lot?

You could talk his ears off and still be listening, fucking reading your lips if he has to. Headphones go off when you speak. And you speak a lot. You're aware, right, you have a little rambling problem. But you just have a lot to say about every single topic!

In class, you always talk the most, constantly raising your hand and contributing when the professors allows you. You choose different topics and make the longest presentations just so you could tell everyone all that you've managed to remember. And, what's best you keep Patrick interested. He's genuinely been putting a lot more effort into learning and preparing for classes, especially when he's in your presence. Even when you're talking about a difficult topic, about something you don't understand, you keep brainstorming out loud. Every single math equation you solve, you keep mumbling under your breath.

"Alright, both sides are divisible by two so we can do that, mhm, then five-x goes onto the other side. No, no, no, the other way. Three-y goes there. Yup. Now five x minus two x. Oh! We can divide that by three, mhm."

And Patrick is listening. He's fucking sitting there on your bed, eyes glued to the glasses that keep sliding down youe nose, watching as you lick your lips and nod, encouraging yourself that you're doing it the right way. And, fuck, you look fucking stunning sitting there in your little shorts and working on your stupid math problems.

There's never a silent moment with you. You're a bubbly extrovert, making sure that no meeting leaves the two of you in awkward silence. You always find a topic to talk about, even if it's just the weather, and sometimes Patrick gets annoyed that you're paying so much attention to everything around you, always finding topics to talk about that you kinda forget he's here, next to you.

"Do you ever shut up?"

He doesn't mean it in a bad way, not even considering talking rudely to you. But the sentence slips past his lips before he could stop it.

"What?" your head snaps towards Patrick, lips parting in confusion. Did you hear him right?

But apparently, there's no going back for Patrick. Not now. "You talk a lot."

Oh. Your mouth closes slowly and eventually, after a few seconds of processing his words, you nod, gazing down at your lap. "Yeah, um, I guess, yeah. I guess I do. Sorry."

Fuck. You look like you're about to cry right now. Like you're about to shatter into pieces because now, at this moment, you realise how much you've really been talking. Not just around Patrick, but around everyone else too. You always talk, pulling all the attention to yourself and the things you see, that you don't give anyone else a chance to speak their mind.

Patrick shifts closer, his thigh pressing into yours. He absolutely didn't mean that. He never wanted to see you cry.

"No, no, no, listen," he begins, panicking at the glossy sight of your eyes. Fuck, he's really messed up this time. "I meant it like... You talk about everything. Everything around you. But never about me."

About him? And why would you possibly have to talk about Patrick?

"About you?" you mutter, gaze nervously raising to settle on his freckled face. "You... You want me to talk about you?"

"Yes," he nods.

"But why? I mean... We talk about you, don't we? About tennis, about Art... There's a lot of stuff we mention, isn't it?" you keep murmuring bashfully, once again prolonging your speech despite trying to hold back.

Patrick shakes his head and takes one of your hands in his. "That's not me, that's different topics."

"Then what is you, Patrick?" you wonder.

"I'm me, Y/N. I don't want to talk about the weather or some random shit. I want to talk about me, about you. About us."

"Us?" you gulp, eyes flicking between his own. Apparently, his words are still not settling in your brain in the right way.

"You're so stupid sometimes," Patrick sighs, balling both of your hands into little fists and resting his shoulder on your knuckles. For how much you talk, your mind seems so empty all of a sudden.

"What do you mean, Patrick? I'm sorry, I just don't really understand you, like, we've never talked about this before. I thought we like talking together? We're on the same wavelength and we-"

You're roughly shut up by Patrick grasping your face in his hands and pressing his lips against yours, effectively interrupting your speech. He's desperate, really, and don't know what else to do to just shut your mouth for a while.

And after a moment, his lips begin moving slowly, parting and ghosting over yours in a gentle kiss. His hold on your head loosens and fingers slide over your cheeks which have surely heated up at the sudden gesture. That's definitely not what you expected to happen.

It takes a while for Patrick to pull away, a thin trail of saliva hanging from your lips as he does so, leaving you completely flabbergasted. He chuckles at your flustered expression, running over your lips with his thumb.

"Sorry. I just had to shut you up somehow."

#challengers #patrick zweig #josh o'connor #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig blurb #ask #send asks #challengers x reader #challengers x you

106 notes · View notes

punkrockmlchael · 5 months ago

Note

Happy 100 followers!! Your writing is so addictive <3 could I request "Museum" and "College" with our boy Gareth? Could be nsfw or sfw i don't mind :]

Masterlist for 100 Follower Celebration!

Thank you for the request and for your kind words!! Here's cutesy and fluffy Gareth hehe; also I am currently working on a fic with painter!Gareth so here's some Art Student!Gareth! With a hint of cranky sass because that's so him (Word Count: 349)

Prompts: College and Museum ; Gareth Emerson x GN!Reader

You sat next to Gareth in the art museum with your sketchpad on your lap. You continued to glance up at the sculpture in front of you before looking back at the sketchpad, your pencil moving across the page gracefully.

"I hate this," Gareth mumbled, looking up at the sculpture. You looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Hate what?" You asked.

"This." He motioned towards the sketchpad on his own lap. "I hate sketching stills and I'm absolutely shit at blending and shading." Gareth huffed, looking at your sketchpad. "Like, see! How do you do that?" He asked, examining your sketchpad.

"Tissue," you admitted, holding up a small piece of tissue that you use to help yourself blend out your work.

"You use tissue?" He asked, "doesn't our professor like frown upon that?"

"Yeah, but this is just always how I've done it and it works for me." You shrugged, moving the tissue along your sketchpad to blend out some the pencil marks on the paper. Gareth watched your movements, observing how you blend the marks and begin to shade them together.

“Is… is it really that easy?” He asked, mesmerized by the movements you were making with your hands.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” you nodded, blending out more marks on the paper. “Here,” you said, reaching into your bag. You grabbed out a tissue and handed it to him, smiling softly. “Try it.”

Gareth looked up at you before looking at the tissue in your hand. He shrugged, reluctantly grabbing the tissue, crumpling it up in his hand. He looked down at his sketchpad, making some movements with his pencil gently before he moved the tissue across the the paper, blending the pencil marks he had just made.

"Huh," he smiled, looking down at his sketchpad. He glanced up at you, smiling more. "I might be coming to you for help more often."

You smiled, a slight blush crossing over your cheeks, "yeah?"

"Yeah." Gareth nodded, now a little more interested in you sitting next to him than the sculpture in front of you both.

gareth tag list: wanna be added? comment + let me know! @keeryhours ; @darkyuffie-blog ; @luveediary ; @the-witty-pen-name ; @bastardstevie ; @pupwrites ; @swiftieintheupsidedown ; @hawkinsmafia ; @the-unforgivenn ; @corrodedcorpses

#museum #college #stranger things #punkrockmlchael #punkrockmlchael 100 follower celebration #gareth emerson #gareth emerson x reader #gareth stranger things #gareth emerson fic #gareth emerson x fem!reader #gareth emerson x female reader #gareth emerson x you #gareth x reader #gareth x you #gareth #gareth emerson fluff #gareth emerson stranger things #gareth emerson x gn!reader #gender neutral reader

33 notes · View notes

encachette · 2 months ago

Text

𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉: 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆

Ch. 1 | 2

❣ Professor!Bucky Barnes x F!(former)student

❣ uni au, F! former student is in her 20s ❣ cw: it’s just pwp, again. subby!bucky this time <3 and some angst if you squint; casual alcohol consumption in social context ❣ MDNI ❣ Word Count: 9.4k

❣ Summary: Several months since your romp with Dr. Barnes and the stifling tension between you two, you run into each other at a bar.

❣ Author's Note:

Epilogue of professor!Barnes. Because I didn’t want to let this piece go, just yet. I kinda want to turn this into a cute lil drabble series. Flashbacks in italics. Haha as if anyone in academia faces the consequences of their actions. We gotta finish proletarianizing the academics STAT.

epilogue

✶

Several Months Later

Dr. Bucky Barnes, assistant professor of the prestigious Department of Political Science at MCU, was absolutely burned out after such a chaotic semester. So he let the happy burn of the first shot of tequila rip a hiss from his throat, his best friends Steve and Sam slapping his back and cheering him on. Bucky was going to get drunk tonight, take a load off before the start of summer break and then get back into where his head really wanted to be — working on the final draft of his first manuscript, up for publication next spring by Marvel Academic Press.

“About time you came out with us, Barnes,” Sam says, sucking on his own wedge of lime after downing another shot, “Been too cooped up in that library.”

“Yeah, well, had a lot on my plate,” Bucky responds, taking a gulp of his water, not particularly inclined to share much these days. His thoughts flash to you for a second, before he shakes them away, fist opening and closing as he tries to get rid of the tension that comes up whenever he thinks of you. Steve eyes his best friend with a wary curiosity, having seen his best friend fray at the edges throughout the last few months. He knew Bucky was dealing with something, but nothing he’d tell Steve in detail.

“Tell me about it,” Steve concurs somberly, “Stark keeps getting on my ass about those grant applications and volunteered me to run point on orientation in the fall,” he takes a swig of his drink, shuddering as it goes down, before he adds with an annoyed chuckle, “For the freshmen.”

“That guy’s gettin’ on my last fuckin’ nerve,” Bucky agrees — he was often overworked by the department chair as well, too overstretched to give the time to his research that it deserved. To give the time to his personal life, or really anything outside of the walls of Thunderbolt Hall. “He’s got me chairing a conference in the fall,” Bucky continues, dread filling him as he emptied his beer.

“Shoulda gotten degrees in STEM, fellas,” Sam jokingly chimes in, determined to lighten the mood, “My boss doesn’t give a shit what I do and my salary is like, double yours.”

“Okay, we get it, we get it, Wilson,” Steve rebukes, “Just so you know, not a single engineering major in my classes can write a grammatically correct sentence.” Bucky snorts his amusement, turning and signalling the bartender for another beer.

“Whatever lager you’ve got on tap, please,” he practically yells over the rock music, hoping the bartender could understand him. He turns back to his friends, ready to agree with whatever Steve was saying when something strikes him frozen in his tracks.

You.

Out of all the places he’d expected to see a girl like you on a Friday night, it wasn’t at some dive bar downtown where the side streets smelled like piss and the bar bathrooms streaked with remnants of last night’s 8 ball. In fact, Bucky usually imagined you curled up in a chair by the fire, maybe in a cozy robe, warm mug in hand as you listened to music. Whatever you were doing, he always imagined you’d smell good. In the months since his… tête-à-tête with you. He always wondered what kind of music you listened to in those earphones, ostensibly attached to your ears with super glue.

Right now though, there were no earphones in your ears. Usual book bag nowhere in sight. Your usual pink lip balm swapped with something more red, more confident. Bucky allows his eyes to work their way up your figure. He’s struck, and the ache this time at the sight of you is more insistent than usual. It’s slow, the way it roils in his chest. He almost dares to shift his gaze up to your face. Bucky didn’t think he could meet your eyes without wanting to combust right on the spot. They haven’t left his thoughts. He thinks about your eyes a lot, actually. Especially at night, when the stress of life keeps him from sinking into much-needed sleep.

God, those eyes, he thinks when he finds the stones to look directly at your face.

“Earth to Barnes?” a hand snaps in front of his face, bringing him back to reality,drawing him back into the increasing loudness of the bar. Snap out of it, Barnes, he chides himself. Trying to smooth his expression into one of nonchalance, he turns toward Sam, as if nothing happened.

“What’s up?” he asks, willing himself not to look over at you again. Stay cool. Just stay cool. Clearing his throat several times does nothing to help conceal his deeply uncool

“Why are you starin’ at that girl, Buck?” Sam questions, slightly amused. “Honestly, she looks young enough to be a student,” he adds as he sips his cocktail.

But for Steve, everything clicks when he sees Bucky’s cheeks and neck flush a deep crimson; Steve practically fuckin’ squeals a gleeful “oh my god.” Bucky’s eyes flash to Steve, hoping his death threats could be telepathically communicated to someone who was supposed to be his best friend. Steve just laughs, clapping Bucky on the back, “That’s who you wouldn’t tell me about?” Steve teases.

“Wait, what’s going on here?” Sam’s eyes shift between Bucky and Steve — one with a murderous expression of foreboding, the other merrily teasing at his best friend like they were in grade school.

“Buck — Buck has a crush on a student,” Steve explains in between hiccups, “That was her —”

“— Steven, you will NO LONGER be my best friend if you keep talking —” Bucky interrupts.

“Ooooh, aggressive! Bucky likes a girl,” Steve teases again, “And she’s a hot student!”

“Steven, I am going to throat punch y—”

“James Buchanan Barnes, you dog,” Sam gasps over Bucky’s mounting threats, pretending to be scandalized in the same way WASP suburbanites clutched at their pearls.

“Former. Student.” He growls in response, irate. “And I don’t have a crush, I’m 33,” Bucky states plainly, assuming the tone of a know-it-all, yet again, “That’s undignified.”

Steve just rolls his eyes.

Bucky turns around, making sure his back is to you. He doesn’t think you noticed him.

“Tell me what she’s doing,” he hisses at Steve and Sam, who are losing their inebriated minds over the juvenility of it all. Sam claps his hands on Bucky’s back, the slap of flesh against the leather jacket making Bucky wince. His flesh hand flexes out of discomfort — god, he felt like he was in high school again.

“Sure, if you tell us what happened,” Sam says with Steve’s agreement.

“Nothing. Happened.” Bucky grits out, frustration bubbling and complicating his Friday night, “Now tell me what she’s doing. Is she with someone?” He figures swigging his beer might tame the nerves flicking their way up to his chest.

“Oh hey! She’s with one of my students — Parker, I think is his name,” Steve offers cheerily.

“Will you keep your voice down?,” Bucky begs, hoping you didn’t hear. Even though the rock music emanating from the subwoofers seemed to be piercing his ear drums in their assault on his senses. And he was trying to focus on the fact that you are here with someone — had you moved on? Had that day meant nothing to you? Because he couldn’t go a goddamn night without thinking about it.

He takes another swig, hoping the frothy, coolness of the beer would help him decide what to do. Should he leave — risk facing you on his way out the door? Should he wait it out, for you to leave first? Maybe he could sneak out the back entrance — there had to be a back entrance, right? There’s always a back entrance.

“Buck — you need to relax,” Steve drags out the last syllable a bit too long, “Tell us what happened.” Bucky heaves a breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head, like it’d clear his head, etch-a-sketch style.

“She’s a student. Or, was as a student, rather. We, uh — we, y’know — we,” he struggles to find the words. Fuck was too hollow. Too devoid of the meaning that your tryst had imbued in him, plagued him for months afterward.

“Yeah, we get it, Buck,” Steve encourages gently before adding, “Doesn’t seem like she’s with Parker, another girl just arrived — they look cozy.”

“I know that girl — MJ? I think? She’s taken two of my trig courses and passed,” Sam narrates, eyes observing you and your friends behind Bucky’s back. “Yeah, your girl doesn’t seem to be dating that nebbish little white kid,” Sam affirms.

Bucky gives a half-hearted chuckle as Steve breaks out into another fit of giggles.

“So what happened after?” Sam asks.

When Bucky just gives him a confused furrow of the eyebrows, Sam rolls his eyes and clarifies, “After you guys hooked up?” Bucky cringes again.

“‘Hooked up?’” he sputters, “Please, it wasn’t like that.” He’s miffed. Annoyed that Sam would dare choose words that assigned such little value to what happened between you two.

“Then what was it?” Steve teases, glassy eyes bright with mirth.

“I —,” Bucky frowns, wracking his brain for a witty rebuke, “It was — It was a mistake, that’s what it was,” he ultimately huffs, deflated. Tired of thinking about it, running and rerunning it over in his head until he went crazy. Every word he should have said, instead of the ones he actually did say — they rattled against his skull late at night when he was too worked up to do anything other than snake his hands into his pants, trying his damned hardest to make it feel as good as having you on his desk.

Sam and Steve just wait for Bucky to continue, patient as always, letting Bucky mull over his thoughts in his brooding manner. He takes a minute to deliberate, downing the last gulp of his beer and signalling the bartender for another. He was starting to feel the sweetness of the alcohol laving against his senses, loosening the tongue and feelings that he’d spent several months squashing to the bottom of his mental health to-do list.

“Okay,” he starts, correcting himself first to get a foothold on the conversation, “It wasn’t a mistake.” He’s even a bit peeved with himself for saying it was. “Honestly, it was the hottest sex I’d ever had in my life,” he says, though his glow is dimmed by the glum realization that he’d never have it again…

﹍﹎﹎﹍

It hadn’t taken long for the afterglow of Bucky’s well-earned orgasm to subside, the creep of anxiety and panic beginning to settle into the back of his mind as he forced himself to breathe evenly. What the everloving fuck did he just do? Were you going to hold this against him? Turn him into the department? Oh my god, he was going to lose his job. He was going to lose his job and be blacklisted in academia — he was going to have to find a new job. But what new job? He has a PhD in fuckin’ political science, who the fuck is going to hire him? Oh my fuck, he’s gonna starve, him and his poor baby Alpine are gonna be out on the street corner; he was going to have to teach Alpine tricks to entice alms from snooty private school college kids — wait! Maybe Steve can take Alpine for a while if things get really bad; it’s fine, it’s not like he’s worked his whole life for this career and threw it all away for pussy so fucking good he thinks he’ll never fuck with such passion again —

“Dr. Barnes?” Your voice abruptly halts his train of thought, which seems to have been headed straight toward hell. You were sitting on the table, with only your lingerie on, looking so well-fucked. “Anyone home in there?” A delicate touch comes up to his neck, stroking the hair at the base of his scalp. Almost angelic, with your messy hair framing your face, lips puckered into a bemused line — when he meets your eyes, it’s as if that afterglow gains a second wind.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He presses his lips to your furrowed brows, and you hum with content. “Did you say something?” Bucky lets the sensation of your palms, smoothing your palms in circles on his back, lull him back into the lustful daze of satisfaction. You giggle, face against his chest as he holds you. He feels your head shake against his pecs.

Every so often you stop at a particularly tense muscle and take your time to knead it with applied pressure, coaxing groans of relief, pleasure, exhilaration up Bucky’s spine. He could stand there for eternity, he thinks, between your legs as you’re perched on his desk, leaking remnants of craving satiated.

Still, Bucky can’t completely untangle himself from the mass of trepidation in his chest, waging a fight against the bliss he was so reluctant to abandon. And the longer he stood there, hoping you would say something to puncture the ache swelling in him, the more visceral his anxiety. He pulls back a little, separating himself from the warmth of your skin, a slight ring in his ears as he tries to focus on you. Your face was so serene, glassy eyes meeting him with such unguarded genuinity, unceasing mischief, that he felt his heart jump out of his throat.

You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him in towards you, beckoning him to break through his senses, to crawl toward the obscenity of it all. But he can’t. He can’t, in good faith, let it go any further. So, against the screaming protests of his cock, his senses, his heart, just before your lips meet, Bucky murmurs, so cautiously,

“This can’t happen again.”

﹍﹎﹎﹍

“...so I gave her an A on her final, and we haven’t spoken since,” he finishes, looking downtrodden at his empty beer bottle. Maybe he should order another one, he thinks to himself.

The first thing Sam does right after Bucky finishes recounting his sad little story is smack his bionic friend upside his empty head.

“Ow!” Bucky flinches, glaring daggers at his assailant, “What the fuck, Samuel?” Rubbing the back of his head, part of Bucky knows that he deserved that. Sam just laughs at him with incredulity. He looks to Steve, hoping that he, at the very least, would be on Bucky’s team.

Unfortunately, Steve’s goofy grin has grown with such mirth and reddend , Bucky had no hope of finding an ally. Sam mocks him, pitching his voice ten times higher,

“‘What the fuck, Samuel?’ You stupid motherfucker, Barnes,” Sam laments, gulping down the last of his drink before interrogating Bucky, “First of all, why would you say that to a woman right after sex?” Sam just stares at Bucky patiently, waiting for a response.

“I don’t know,” he struggles to grab onto any wisp of confidence left in him. So he shrugs, admitting to himself, “I panicked, I guess.” Sam just snorts at his half-assed answer.

“Guess a little harder, bub,” Steve interjects, grabbing at the glass of water that Sam holds out to him. Bucky huffs,

“I panicked! I had just slept with a student, and I liked it, okay?” He flexes and unflexes his flesh hand, nerves spilling out when he admits, “I liked her.” It takes a moment for it to sink in, for the words to settle in the air. And despite the magnitude of the revelation, at least from Bucky’s vantage point, Sam is there to ruin it again.

“Obviously,” he exaggerates, “Anyone with eyes can see that. Now second, what are you going to do about it?” Bucky feels that his friends are too busy taunting him to see the gravity of the situation.

“Good, now’s your chance, ‘cause she’s been talking to some new guy for the past ten minutes,” Sam announces, not without a glint of glee in his grin.

Bucky whips around, forgetting that he had to be casual, that he didn’t want to draw your attention to him — and his eyes land on a sight that sends a shock of irritation bubbling through his tipsiness. The next few words out of his mouth are spat unplanned, but to this day, he can’t bring himself to regret that little breach of decorum.

✶

“What the fuck?”

Unfortunately, Bucky’s subconscious choice to utter those words coincided with a switch in the record. So, to his embarrassment: you, along with your date, MJ and Peter at the next table over, along with the rest of the bar turn their heads toward the source of the noise.

You feel the surprise take over your face before you register that Dr. Barnes was staring right at you. Oh dear lord, Your eyes snap back to your date, who had already recovered from the shock — the music had already resumed and the rest of the bar back to its usual business, but you feel Dr. Barnes’ stare boring into the side of your head now.

“Wonder what’s up with that guy, huh?” your date — whose name was currently much too evasive for your memory — muses congenially..

You hum a little noise of ascent, vague and unresponsive as you make eye contact with Peter and MJ. They knew about you and Dr. Barnes — you had told them both one night, about a week after Dr. Barnes so unceremoniously threw you out of his office, never to speak to you again. A drunken story recounted to your best friends in a moment of weakness. Still, they’re both returning your gaze with creased brows and plain worry. You can’t do anything but shoot them a weak smile, thumb nail picking at the wet label on your beer bottle.

You turn back to your date, trying to tune back in to his yammering — for fuck’s sake he had been irritating tonight. What was his name? Pietro? Wouldn’t stop talking a mile a minute, couldn’t linger on a subject long enough to really develop any rapport with you. It was hard to keep up.

“So, what do you think?” Pietro asks, face patient and expectant as he takes a break to sip his vodka. Ugh, gross, you think. Vodka straight is crazy.

“I’m sorry — can you repeat that?” you respond, no longer in the mood to entertain a date, not with Dr. Barnes’ eyes pinned on you. You felt it, and you felt the goosebumps erupt on your skin as your heart speeds up.

“Hey, guys!” Thank fucking god for MJ. Truly, a best friend sent from heaven. “We’re about to dip, do you want to catch a ride?” She fixes her sight on you, gauging your reaction. Peter looks a little sheepish, having set you up with Pietro on this blind date gone awry.

“Actually —”

“I’d love to,” you interrupt Pietro, who emits an indignant little harumph. So to him you say, “Pietro, thanks for the drink. I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s going to work out — you’re too young for me,” you shrug, hoping that the $10 bill you slapped down on the table was enough to cover your tip.

“Honestly?,” Pietro replies, still friendly, “I get it. No hard feelings.” He flashes Peter a bro-ey nod, and you turn as the two of them make small bro-ey talk.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Peter nods at the both of you.

MJ’s drapes an arm over your shoulder as you two file out of the bar together.

As soon as you step out into the humid summer breeze, you gulp in a mouthful of fresh air — well, as fresh as any urban American city can provide — and focus on clearing your mind.

“You okay?” MJ assesses you with a frown. You shrug it off, hoping that if you carry on long enough with the false nonchalance, it’ll eventually become real to you.

“Yeah, fine,” you nod, trying to give an easy smile and leaning on MJ’s shoulder. “Where’s Parker? Let’s get the fuck outta here,” you sigh, letting the familiarity of MJ’s shampoo and smell, wafted by summer breeze, settle you.

Both of you look up as Peter exits the bar with a new friend, cackling boyishly at something Pietro said. Both seemed a little pink and overly smiley. Well, at least Peter did. They bid each other goodbye with one of those machismo slaps on the back. Peter comes to drape his arm over MJ’s shoulder, still laughing about whatever joke was shared between him and his new buddy.

“Pietro’s a good guy,” he shrugs when you look up at him expectantly, “We’re going to the gym together next week!” MJ just plants a kiss on his cheek, rolling her eyes with love.

“Boys,” she mutters, swiping a thumb across his cheeks to remove her lip balm residue. You had to agree with Peter. Pietro was cute, nice enough, but not particularly interesting to you. Nothing to talk about besides the weird social idiosyncrasies that all people your age shared. There were only so many ways you could dance the dance until it became boring — “Oh, so what do you do? Where’d you go to college? Any pets?” There were only so many finance guys you could tolerate before you gave up dating — and there were so. many. of these quarter-sleeve adorning fucks.

Tonight’s date was supposed to be different. Peter had jumped at the chance to set you up with a coworker. And after months of MJ’s worried invectives, stewing in your own anger about Dr. Barnes, and an array of one-night-stands slamming the door on their way out of your apartment, you were ready to find something a little more meaningful. Peter and MJ were ready for you to stop being so damn moody all the time. Even Friday was ready for you to get out of the house.

It had taken you so embarrassingly long to get over being dismissed by Dr. Barnes in such a blasé, disrespectful manner. You had dressed as quickly as possible and got the hell out of dodge the moment Dr. Barnes had dismissed you. “This can’t happen again,” you had run over and over in your head in the months afterwards. The couple of months between then and graduation had been painful. You’d show up to class, sit in the front, as always but there was no quick-witted insult, no sarcastic quip ready to put Barnes in his place. You felt, for lack of a better word, shame about the whole thing, if not a little longing.

So you kept your head down, got the grades you always got, did your job to the best of your ability (which was already incommensurate with your wage), and graduated. You took a gap year to figure out what you wanted to do next — you needed to talk to normal people again. Got a job that would satisfy Friday’s expensive tastes in cat food (only wet food now, the spoiled brat), had a string of hobbies, took your time really exploring the city. Sometimes you took a shift at the university library reference desk if they were short-staffed, and on those nights, you hoped to god you wouldn’t come face to face with Dr. Barnes.

You let men and women on the latest dating app take you to dinner. Sometimes you fucked them. Rarer were your orgasms. Never were they invited back. Any of them. None of them had come even close to making you feel as exhilarated as you yearned to feel – adrenaline rushing through your veins at not knowing what was going to come next, not knowing every word that would come out of the mouth of your date. More often than not, you went to bed, pent up and unable to sleep just from physical tension alone.

Alas, your life since college has been steady. Rewarding. You had your book club with MJ still going, expanded to include a few others (Peter crashed the meeting sometimes for the free pizza). You had narrowed down which graduate programs you wanted to apply to in the fall. Friday lost her winter chub.

You bid both of your friends goodbye, you turning one way and MJ and Peter turning around the block as you head to your homes. A few steps down the sidewalk, you hear the faint crash of wood on concrete as the door to the bar entrance slams open, then a call of your name. It takes you a second — maybe you’d imagined it, but it’s repeated again. Closer, this time, and you turn to the sight of Dr. Barnes jogging to catch up to you.

Under the glow of the streetlights, the both of you just kind of stare at each other — you with an expectant look of derision, an eyebrow quirked; him with an expression of agitated nervousness, mouth opening and closing in false starts. You refuse to speak first, and mentally give him ten more seconds before you turn around and leave. You’d leave even if that tiny piqued curiosity in you wanted so badly for you to stay, to pick at why Dr. Barnes was here in front of you in the fi— He says your name, with so much warmth that you feel it shoot up your spine, the way he says it. But you don’t let it get to your exterior.

“What?” you ask plainly. Bored look on your face, as if you were looking at a pesky fly on your windshield.

“I —,” you watch him struggle for words, mad that he seems even more handsome than when you saw him last, “Can we talk?”

“Eloquent as ever, Dr. Barnes — we’re talking right now.” you quip, “Actually, I’m listening and letting you talk to me. So what do you want?” You swear you see him exhale a little relief, and he smiles at you — almost as if he can’t help it.

“How about we go somewhere and talk?” he suggests, looking around to appraise his options before setting his gaze on you again.

“Why?” you adhere to your god-given obdurance, “Just say what you have to say here.” This was fucking weird. You don’t really know what you want right now. You watch him shake his head.

“No, we should sit down and really talk,” he insists, “I have a lot to apologize for.” He’s looking around, craning his neck to read the board on the coffee shop window across the street — closed. The mention of the apology, though, reeled you straight into him. But you keep quiet for a few extended seconds, making him wait for it, pretending that you were actually deliberating his request.

“Fine. Nothing’s open though, and I’m not going back into that noisy bar,” you turn around and start walking toward your apartment, “I live a block this way.” You know he’s going to follow you, and you quietly smile to yourself when you hear the crunch of poorly-maintained sidewalk under his shoes. He catches up with you, easily falling into stride next to you.

“Fancy seeing you here, huh?” Dr. Barnes makes excitable small talk, “Of all the gin joints.” You had to snort at that.

“Gin joints? You’re such a grandpa,” you deride. You weren’t sure how to reciprocate. Small talk had never been the MO between you two. And you were still indignant about the whole thing. Still, Dr. Barnes just gives a quiet, boyish laugh. You continue your walk home, nose in the air with a huff, determined not to acknowledge how cute he was. Or how good he smelled, like leather and expensive cologne.

“Were you on a date?” he asks, less meek now. You’re taken aback, looking over at him and raising an eyebrow. He didn’t seem to regret his question, quiet confidence in his face as he looked directly back at you, anticipation etched in the frown of his lips.

“And if I was?” Your response is coy, unable to hide the fact that you were elated with his apparent jealousy. Dr. Barnes seems to carefully deliberate his next few words.

“Didn’t peg him as your type, is all,” he decides, clearly hoping that he had suavely delivered his bait. You can’t help but snort.

“First of all,” you start, amusement laced in your sardonic words, “you need to learn how to hide the bait. But I’ll take it anyway. Second,” you say as he follows you up the path to your first floor duplex apartment, “Yes. It was a date.” Dr. Barnes doesn’t respond.

You turn on the lights, kicking off your shoes and making sure that Dr. Barnes does the same. Friday comes meowing down the hall, as if she hadn’t spent the better part of the early evening perched on your lap, snoring into oblivion.

“Oh my god, hello you precious thing,” Dr. Barnes coos at her, holding out his hand for him to sniff. You turn, unable to keep your heart from melting as Friday leans into his large hand, letting him scratch her chin with her tail straight up in the air.

“This is Friday,” you introduce, ever the proud mother, “She’s really friendly.” You turn on the lamps, bathing your modest, but homely apartment in a cozy warmth as you invite Dr. Barnes into your home. He follows you, and settles next to you on the small loveseat you got secondhand. Friday lays down by your feet on the rug, content with the comfort it provided as she got down to giving herself her fourth bath of the day.

“I have one at home,” Dr. Barnes nods at Friday as he speaks, “Her name is Alpine.” His eyes have such a sparkle to them, you notice. So blue and genuine, when you really look at them. And you almost swoon, against your better judgment.

“Cute,” you say nonchalantly, even though you’re anything but. “So what did you want to say?” Your tone isn’t overly confrontational. Just plain. The nerves in your veins send a rush of anticipation, and you start picking at the frayed ends of the throw blanket you have on the loveseat. You watch him take in a huge breath, as if preparing himself for something of real consequence.

Dr. Barnes angles himself toward you, the dim glow of the streetlights outside highlighting the depth of blue when you return his gaze. Your knees are touching. You feel his hand slide toward yours, folded in your lap. In what seems like fucking forever, you feel a thrill at the thought of someone holding your hand; when your fingers unfurl and he slots his fingers through yours, you let his slight squeeze cradle your shaky, reluctant grasp.

“I’m sorry, doll,” his voice is all honey and sincerity, “For everything.” You can’t explain why, but your chest just squeezes inwards, even though you had rehearsed what you would say for this moment several times in your head over the past few months. You start stroking your thumb over his fingers,

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Barnes,” you respond with wryness. You watch as his face wrinkles with confusion — handsome, with a shadow of stubble that you ached to kiss.

“No, I do,” he swallows, insistent, “I was your professor and I took advantage of you, doll, and I —” he pauses, trying to find his words, “I’m just so sorry.” You slowly remove your hands from his grip, the situation too hot, discomfort threatening to writhe its way through your lungs.

“Like I said.” You try your best to express disinterest, “Nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t a big deal.” You dare to look back at his eyes, hardened by your response, the way you resisted his touch.

“Right,” he chokes out, flesh hand flexing in his lap, where yours had been a few moments earlier, “I don’t think you mean that.” And unlike you, he’s not enough of a coward to keep your gaze. You hate that. There has to be a way out of this.

“Look,” you try a new tactic, “If you’re worried about me telling anyone, don’t be. I won’t report you to Stark — I have a reputation to maintain, too.” One of the threads on the blanket you’ve started picking at snaps under your finger. “I’m not interested in bureaucratic shitheads prying into my private life.” At least that last part had some truth to it. Dr. Barnes just looks even more hurt at your new line of reasoning. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, as if searching for patience. His nose flares just a bit when he grits out:

“You think that’s what I care about?” You do what he did, and take a deep breath for yourself. "You know, for a smart ass sometimes you don't really know what the fuck you're talking about." You don't like this, this kind of anger from him. He made you feel guilty.

This was too much. You needed to breathe properly and your small apartment was getting stuffy. You calmly rise to your feet, wood creaking under you. Dr. Barnes watches as you open two windows, creating a cross-breeze in your apartment that helps you loosen your shoulders, fresh air wafting through the room and carrying with it the scent of the tomato leaves on your window sill. Friday stretches, butt and tail up high in the air as she makes her way toward the window sill, peering out onto the busy city streets below through the bug screen. Dr. Barnes has yet to take his eyes off of you, and you feel his stare follow you, cling to your skin as you finally look back at him. You sit next to him again, calmer than before.

“Shouldn’t you be on your knees thanking me?” you throw at him, sardonically, “You got to fuck a student, and you’re gonna away with it.” You can tell he’s starting to lose whatever patience he managed to hold on to a few moments ago. His eyes close, he takes another deep breath as he shakes his head,

“No, that’s not what I came to say.” He’s not going to let you derail the real conversation. One hand comes up to cup your cheek, steady and sure as his thumbs swipe at one of your tears that managed to escape.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you,” he says, unwavering. “I’m sorry for ignoring you.” You hate that he could probably feel the furious heat warming the apples of your cheeks. That he could feel your jaw flex under his palm as you try not to let any more traitorous tears escape.You lean into the warmth of him. The smell of him throwing you right back into that moment with him, on his desk. Right before he threw you out of his office. Before he ignored you. Before you flirted with other students in front of him, to no avail. Before you spotted him on a date with another university professor. Before this fucking mess you became right at that instant, like putty in his able, commanding hands.

“Like I said,” you felt like a robot, sticking with your prepared defense, “No big deal. It’s over. It meant nothing.” But by now, your ability to convince anyone of your indifference has melted into nothing. Dr. Barnes pulls you in closer, planting a soft kiss to the side of you head, whispering,

“I don’t think you mean that, sweetheart,” he whispers, so tenderly as he cups his metal hand at the base of your neck. “You know what I think?” he taunts you, planting another kiss on your temple, pad of his flesh thumb coming up and pressing against your adorable pout, dragging along your bottom lip as he rasps with conviction.

“I think you’re chicken shit.” You freeze. Pulling back to look straight at him, but letting him keep his distance, glaring at him right in the eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” he nods, amusement and frustration simultaneously blooming in a dry, boyish smile. “You’re scared to admit that it meant something to you.” You’d never seen Dr. Barnes this confident in the words he’d said. “You don’t want to admit, to me or yourself, that I mean something to you,” he continues, coming closer to you, hovering way too close for you to think clearly. He smelled too good, his words too potent as he enticed you even closer.

“And how would you know anything about that?” you challenge, tears drying as you finally confront him, face to face. Stubborn, as always. And right before he pulls you into a heated, consuming kiss, he quietly murmurs, just for the two of you,

“Because it meant something to me.”

✶

Bucky feels you kiss him back, and a triumphant spark of glee ignites thoughts of you. So many thoughts and feelings about you. You under him again, you wrapped around his cock — lips, hands, pussy — whichever. You, writhing under him as he drove into you, fingers on your clit, on your nipples, pinching until your pretty, gasping cries satisfied his need. He’d spent too many nights thinking about this, about having you again. No other person he’d been with had compared to cumming into his own fist while thinking about you. He desired you, and his desire was so singular — he would take tonight as a sign.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky sighs into you in between kisses, arms coming up to cage you in his hold, “I’m so sorry, baby.” He’s desperate, he feels it; feels like he’d do whatever you asked of him if it meant that you knew how he felt. How he wanted you. Needed a release that he just knew you’d be able to give him.

“Yeah?” You’re just as consumed and winded by lust, “Prove it,” you command. “Prove to me that you’re sorry Dr. Barnes,” you come in to nibble on his ear lobe, licking a messy trail around the shell of his ear – “Please.”

Bucky groans, trying to get a grip on the situation first, ignoring the growing bulge in his pants as he mutters into your neck, refusing to detach from you. From the flowery, sweet scent of you in the summer breeze.

“First, you can call me ‘Bucky,’ he instructs.

“Bucky?” you raised your eyebrows, “How provincial,” you snort.

“Hey,” he chides, bringing your hands up to his lips and pressing a short, loving kiss to them and then shrugging his retort, “My ma thought it was funny namin’ me after one of the worst presidents in history, so I’m Bucky.” He smiles at you, proudly at his name, a little glassy eyed and giddy, you think.

“Bucky,” you let his name roll off your tongue, sweet and soft. Bucky thinks he wants to hear you say it while he makes you feel good. For you to groan it in his ear while he drives himself into you, coaxing you toward the throes of an ecstatic pleasure that you grip him again, just like you did on his desk. “At least she didn’t name you ‘Andrew Johnson,’” you shrug with a chuckle, “He’s ten times worse.” Bucky laughs along with you, charmed as he kisses up your neck, down your jaw, hands gripping at your waist, thighs.

“God, Buck—” he starts tending to a particularly sensitive spot at the juncture of your neck shoulder, sending goosebumps down your back.You pull back, asking him,

“What was the second?”

“Huh?” His goofy smile warms you, his eyes so deep with blue and desire. He looks just how you felt; exhilarated, awaiting something that felt like it had been so impossibly out of reach, that when it's finally in front of you, you can’t help but feel let pressure, the eagerness of the moment seize you.

“You said, ‘First, you can call me Bucky,” you explain patiently, amused at his desire. “What was the second?” His eyes perk in recognition,

“Oh,” his hands start moving toward the bottom of your t-shirt, peeling it off. “Hands up, baby,” he murmurs, pulling your top over your head, “Second, you got a bed around here?” You can’t help but giggle, leaning in to give him a hard, forgiving kiss. His flesh grabs at your breast over the silk of your bra, massaging at an increasing pace in a way that drags the moans straight from your chest. You break the kiss, searching for air,

“Down the hall,” you nod toward your bedroom. Dr. Ba—Bucky stands and grabs your hands, pulling you up to stand in front of him — he’s too tall. You have to crane your neck slightly just to look him directly in the eye. You can’t help but let your heart spark in your chest, letting that feeling of adrenaline rush through your veins and dominating your desires.

Bucky kisses you again, building up with such slow urgency, a skilled tongue, and wandering, soft hands. He picks you up, bridal style, and walks you two into your bedroom. On your way, a flick of your wrist floods the room with the warm glow of the lamp in the corner, next to a few bookshelves and your bed. It seems Friday had made her way to the middle of your bed at some point during the commotion in the living room.

Bucky takes in your room, finding that it suits you so well. Little pieces of who you were, who he wanted to know, a girl he had so many questions for — so much of it revealed to him in the blink of a light switch. He wanted to know which books on your shelf you liked, which ones you hated. If the spot on the carpet lit up in the sun; if Friday liked sleeping there as much as Alpine loved sleeping in the sun. He wanted to ask about the photos of you with your friends, your family, scattered across the walls, next to posters of several indie bands that he enjoyed. Other posters he didn’t recognize. As he gingerly places you on the bed and hovers over you, Bucky thinks about what he’d do to make this last, to make the time last with you — so he could ask all the questions he needed the answers to. Until he could take what he needed.

Your hands make quick work of removing his clothes, and he strips you down to nothing. Bucky swallows thickly. That simpering, sweet smile on your face, still so mischievous, so sexy. Just like when he makes himself cum at night.

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he kisses down your body, positioning your leg over his shoulder and refusing to break eye contact with you, “Let me show you how sorry I am.” You can’t do anything but swallow and nod vehemently, head cloudy with need.

The moment Bucky’s tongue licks a stripe right up the middle of your cunt, you feel yourself twitch, releasing a breath at the relief of that first, pleasurable stroke. He continued to lick with pressure, taking care to smear his spit all over, but avoiding your clit. Your hand comes up to grab your tit, pinching at the nipples just the way you like it. Bucky observes, licking you into intense desire, and brings his flesh hand up to grab your other breast, twisting and pulling at your nipple just like you were doing.

“Oh —” you gasp, your other hand grabbing a fistful of his dark hair, but not enough for it to hurt. Bucky lets his tongue, flattened against your sopping pussy, travel up to nudge your clit. You let out a sigh of relief, a shock of pleasure running up to your head as he repeats his motions over and over. “Fuck, yes, Buck— oh gosh—” you keen up into his mouth, chasing the pressure of his tongue. He slows down, groaning into your clit and sending another wave of pleasure. So patient, so focused on you, Bucky carefully, with so much tenderness in his eyes as he looked up at you, carefully inserts two fingers into you, drawing another gasp.

At some point, he begins to fuck his metal fingers into you, gradually gaining speed, tongue diving back to draw circles around your clit. You don’t do anything but moan, letting him make you feel like you were on cloud nine. The coolness, the metal of his fingers creates an intense sensation as you repeatedly tighten around them. The moment he starts to crook his fingers into just the right spot, the sweet spot that has you gushing if you bullied it enough — when Bucky starts sucking your clit in earnest, you can’t help let a loud, whiny moan escape.

“Oooooh, fuck yes,” you murmur, “Keep doing that, keep doing that and I’ll—” you’re cut off as Bucky starts to suck even harder on your clit, his fingers repeatedly rubbing against your g-spot and coaxing your pleasure out, manipulating it into waves as the dirty, sexy squelch of your arousal leaks down his hand. “Uh-huh, baby, right there,” you encourage, grinding your pussy into his willing mouth, letting him bring you to the brink of your orgasm. Just as you’re about to climax, you stop Bucky abruptly, hand grabbing his metal wrist and twitching as he removes his fingers from you.

“Wait,” you instruct, trying to catch your breath. “Wanna cum with you inside me,” maintaining eye contact as you divulge your dirty little secret out loud. Bucky’s pupils darken, face shiny with you, the evidence of how good he made you feel.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers, coming in to capture your lips again — to no avail.

“Ah, ah, ah — “ You cut him off, hand on his chest to push him back. “Sit up” you nod toward the pillows, where Bucky rests his back as follows your instructions. His smile is giddy with anticipation. You take this moment to scour his body, taking in details that you couldn’t memorize the first time. From the lust in his eyes, well-built, muscular body, and a thick, erect cock begging to be touched by you, you couldn’t comprehend anything other than your desire for him, for him to make you feel good, for him to really prove that he was worth your forgiveness.

You move to plant your knees on either side of him, hands gripping onto his biceps to help you hover right above where he needed you. But you refused to let him in yet, refused to let his cock, angry and red with leaking precum claim you until he knew you were serious. So you just move your hips back and forth, never quite letting him notch his cock inside you, but slipping your pussy back and forth on him, drawing out small breaths of his desperation, his lust, his need for you. You lean in to kiss him, searing into him a possessiveness, a desire to claim him as your place your palms on his chest for your support. Bucky’s hands travel up, one gripping the fat of your asscheek, the other high on your waist, metal thumb swiping across your nipple as you moaned and slicked yourself back and forth on his cock. His whines become needier by the minute, and he swears he hasn’t been this fucking hard in forever.

“Please, doll,” he murmurs desperately into your mouth, grunting when you nip a little too hard on his bottom lip, feeling the sensitive tip of his cock nudge your clit. “Fuck me, please.” He’s not above begging. Not at this point. Not when an angel presents herself to him, ready to let him make her feel just as good she could make him feel. Bucky whines in frustration when you shake your head in denial, breathy whimpers doing nothing to break your control over him, even as you’re about to lose yourself in the pleasure of rubbing your pussy against him.

“Not yet, Buck,” you deny. “Not until I know you’re sorry.”

“Baby, you know I’m sorry,” he kisses you. So desperate. “Please,” his hips buck upwards, trying to get you to acquiesce to his desires, “Let me make you feel good, huh? Let me fuck this pussy and remind you how sorry I am, doll.” He knows he’s begging now. He knows how desperate he is to make you come. For you to know that he means something to you.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky thinks he might cum on the spot when he feels you notch the head of his cock into your hole, and when you start to sink down on his dick, perfectly manicured fingernails digging into his biceps, Bucky knows that he’s in heaven, that he’d do anything to make earn your forgiveness.

Your moans don’t do anything to help his patience. The further you suck down on his cock, the more the stretch, the sensations, the pure lust enveloped you.

“God, this feels amazing,” you moan straight into his ear. Bucky feels some of your slick, evidence of how good he made you feel, dripping down his cock, confirmed by the sound of your wetness as you let him bottom out inside of you.

“Fuck yes, baby. Take my cock. Let me make you feel good, c’mon,” he encourages you, stroking your back with tenderness in his touch, his other hand coming to your hips and guiding you back and forth on his cock.

You ride him like you have something to prove, letting the friction of his cock pulling against your walls rip lewd, salacious cries from your chest. You were purely chasing your own pleasure, feeling every little sensation that promised release.

“S-so deep,” you whimper, your clit repeatedly dragging against Bucky, the sounds of him feeling just as fucking good as you drowning out your own thoughts as you focused on the building tension in your lower stomach.

“O-oh fuck, doll,” he pants, “Just like that, please.” So tight, so wet — he was losing his mind. The closeness of you, how willing he was to let you use his body for what you needed, Bucky was overcome with so much desire that he couldn’t think about anything else besides making you feel good, just as satiated as last time. Except now, he was going to do things right.

Bucky groans your name into your ear, even more desperate than before; he could feel his balls tighten in anticipation.

“Gonna cum, baby,” he warns you, breaking a kiss that had you both melting into each other. You don’t break your pace, ass plopping up and down repeatedly as you fuck yourself silly on his cock.

“Not yet,” you pant, “Wait.” Bucky’s eyes widen with the effort it takes not to come as you utter your demand. He liked it, you taking charge. He thinks he might have gotten even harder as you continue to roll your hips against him. He’s going to lose his mind, he doesn’t know what to do, how he would hold himself back from the blinding white pleasure of spilling inside you.

“Doll, pl-please,” he begs pathetically. “Need to cum, wanna cum in you, please, baby ple—” His own gasp cuts him off as he feels your pussy pulse around him, impossibly tight as you whine into his ear,

“Don’t —” you whine as you come, hips still rolling against him fervently, “Don’t fucking cum until I saw you can,” you finish your command, letting your orgasm finally overwhelm you. Bucky starts fucking up into you, deep as he can go, determined to draw as much from you as he can, to make you feel how much he wanted you.

“Cum for me, doll,” he coos, “So fucking beautiful on my cock.” Desperate words of encouragement carrying with them a silent plea to let him come, too. And as you ride out your pleasure, convulsing on his cock, you murmur sweet little words that Bucky makes a mental note to stow away for the future.

“Bucky, oh fuck,” you giggle, out of breath but still slowly, torturously gyrating your hips with in you. He can’t do anything but look up at you, full of awe and want. You give him a peck, sinking into his arms as they wrap around your body. “You wanna cum, now Bucky?” Your question is coy, full of promises, your hips taunting him as they circled with his cock nested inside you. He nods vigorously, swallowing before he yelps a small,

“Please, please let me cum, baby.” You smile as you kiss him again, nodding your consent. It’s all Bucky needs to flip you both over, wrap your legs around his waist, and start fucking into you with abandon.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he pants against your open mouth, breathing in your moans as he drives into you with calculated force and precision, “I’m so, so sorry. I want you so fucking bad,” he confesses against your lips.

“It’s okay, Buck—” you forgive him; in the cloud of lust, the haze of sex and cravings, you let him know that you forgave him, “Oh god, you’re so d-deep. Need your cum.”

“Keep sayin’ that, doll,” he grunts, just on the precipice. Your legs tighten around his waist, locking him against you as he drags his cock in, out, in—

“Fuck me until you cum, baby,” you whisper into his ears, just as desperate, knowing your words were truthful. “Fuck it into me, I need it—”

“I’m gonna — fuck,” Bucky feels his cock twitch inside you, and he buries his head in the crook of your neck as he rides out his pleasure, an overwhelming orgasm tingling from the base of his spine up into the sex-filled haze in his head. You’re kissing along his neck, stroking his back comfortingly as you coo,

“Just like that, baby,” you soothe, “Fuck it into me.” Bucky’s hips don’t stop rolling into yours, making sure that his cum was fucked into you just like you wanted, like you told him to do, trying not to whine at the oversensitivity.

As you both come down from the heights of sexual release, Bucky still inside you, on top of you, kissing praise into your lips, you let that sense of contentment flood through you, surround you, envelope you in comfort. Bucky pulls back to look into your eyes with such sincerity, brows furrowed.

“You know I mean it, doll?” he whispers, planting another kiss, “I’m sorry for hurting you.” You’re sure he could feel the steady beat of your heart against his chest, how calm were right then as you rubbed your hands up and down his back — you needed that, the feel of warm skin. It was intimate, the way you could elicit a sensual shudder from Bucky every time your hand kneaded at a particularly sore muscle. You just nod, unable to contain your smile as you accept what Bucky has to say.

“I know,” you say, pressing another sloppy kiss to Bucky’s red, inviting lips. “I’m sorry, too.”

✶

An annoying, blaring sound jostles you from your sleep, and you wake with a sudden movement — annoyed that you were tangled in sheets that slowed your progress toward thrashing your alarm clock.

As you smash your palm against your alarm clock to muzzle the noise, its sound is replaced by a faint snoring. You look over on the other side of your bed to see Dr. Bucky Barnes, drooling and snoring right into one of your pillows. Surprisingly charming, you think, letting yourself embrace the warmth that spreads through you at the sight of him sleeping. Heavy sleeper, you note.

You sink back into bed, and your movement stirs Bucky. He groans slightly, refusing to open his eyes as he pulls you into his body, spooning you as he presses a kiss into your head

“Good morning, baby,” he rasps, hands starting to roam over your body slowly. You let yourself enjoy the intimacy of the moment, sleep still heavy on your eyelids.

“Morning,” you return with a yawn.

“Still sleepy?” you hear Bucky yawn as his arms wrap around you, cuddling you like you were a body pillow.

“Mhm,” you hum, peeking at the sliver in your curtains, revealing a still-rising sun.

“Let’s get some more sleep,” Bucky suggests as he nuzzles into you. You can’t imagine feeling more relaxed. “Then I’ll take you to breakfast when we wake up. Sound good?”

You hum your ascent once again, and you let the drowsiness pull the both of you into a dreamy, comfortable sleep.

#writing in hiding₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊#bucky barnes #smut #mcu #fanfiction #marvel smut #bucky barnes x you

22 notes · View notes

makeitp1nk · 6 months ago

Text

Happy to share the second and last piece I wrote this year:

Erised claim - do you (one) better

4.2 k | M | warning: unintentional consumption of truth serum

A @hd-erised gift for @legendrarry

Summary: Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter abruptly loses his Favourite Hogwarts Professor title to none other than Potions Professor Draco Malfoy. He swears it’s fine, really, but the feelings boiling within him say otherwise. Until Poppy Longbottom, Pansy and Neville’s hellion daughter, forces Hogwarts faculty and staff to engage in a very controversial Pureblood family tradition.

Author comments: Legendrarry wrote in their Erised submission that they like slice of life, Drarry growing up and going through life, and my heart screamed to write about reaching your thirties. It’s that age when you’re supposed to be an adult and have your shit figured out, but you don’t.

Maybe you made a home and a routine, and it’s earth-shattering when it’s disrupted. Maybe you didn’t and taking that leap towards settling is terrifying for a million little reasons. Either way, you might be doing well, but you can’t help but compare yourself to others, others who surely have their shit together.

At its heart, that’s what this story is about. Being in that place and realizing there’s no right answer. We’re all in the dark, and finding someone to blindly stumble along with is special. After all, the best things happen in the dark, no? 😉

A million thanks to @shealynn88 for the Alpha-ing this beast. It’s nowhere near close to the original concept but the heart you helped me find is there, and it wouldn’t beat so fiercely without your help. Another million thanks to the always absolutely lovely to work with @tobeleftoutinthedark for the beta read ❤️

Read it on Ao3

#p1nk writes #drarry #erised 2024

24 notes · View notes

zwolfgames · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere Draco Malfoy x reader (Part 1)

Requested by: /

Warnings: None yet.

Not yandere yet, this is a part one.

parts: Part 2 , Part 3

(3rd person POV)

Potions, always goddamm potions.

Yea, you hated the subject with a burning passion, as did many of your peers. Who could blame you when the teacher was such a greasy haired git.

You've had to suffer professor Snape's tyrany since you were eleven. But this, this is the last straw.

"Hello? Earth to who-ever you are. Atleast move."

Some annoying, grating voice whined in your ear.

Draco Malfoy, your potions partner for this year. He didn't seen happy with you either, as you're not one of his pure-blooded slaves.

"..Sorry." You sigh silently, did you want to punch him? Yes, but his dads Lucius Malfoy, so unless you wanted your parents to go bankrupt, you'd shut up.

Malfoy scoffs and pushes you aside so he can reach some random worm like ingredient.

You retreat back to your spot at the cutting board and cut up the root infront of you like the instructions said. As much as you hate the Slytherin you're working with, he knows what he's doing. Probably the only upside of this arrangement: good grades.

"Not that small. Gods you're useless." Malfoy grits his teeth and takes the knife away from you. He reminds you a bit of your friends' mean mother. So controlling and arrogant.

"They're as big as the instructions say." You almost scoff but you keep in a nasty scowl as to not anger mister blondie.

"The instructions are wrong. I've made this potion before, it's better if the roots are in bigger pieces." Malfoy lectures absentmindly and starts anew. At this point you'd just let him do everything since you do it wrong anyways.

But no, he'd tell you off and call you names. So what does he want you to do? You don't know. He doesn't want you to do anything but you also can't do nothing. At this point you should just drink the unfinished potion and see if thats alright for him.

The potions class ticks by incredibly slow. Due to not wanting to piss Malfoy off, you end up being the one who just has to hand him stuff and wash the used lab materials. Utterly boring, but oh well.

You don't think you're going to last a week more with him before you get mad and let loose all the damm insults you've carefully crafted.

But would it be worth it to endure years of bullying just to smack that smug grin off of his face? Yes. Yes it would.

But no! Don't doom yourself now, potions class is only for... Another hour. Okay yea, you're not making it trough this one.

"L/N, spoon." Malfoy orders and holds his pale hand out for a spoon you're supposed to hand him.

"It's next to you." You answer plainly. Not wanting your irritation to show.

"I didn't ask for words, I asked for the spoon." Malfoy snarls, as a 'last warning'.

"It's next to you."

You repeat calmly. This bossy Slytherin turns his head around in such a quick snap you almost feared he'd broken something.

You facial expression remains neutral, while on the inside, you're screaming at yourself to jump out of the window.

"The. Spoon." Malfoy hisses angrilly.

"It's. Next. To. You." You mimick him, done with this absolute shit.

"My father will-"

"Hear about this. We know Malfoy." The dude in the group next to you speaks. Neat, people who're not against you.

Malfoys eye twitches a bit before he glares at you with cold grey eyes.

He finally grabs the spoon himself and stirs the potion at a pace wich, to your knowladge, is way too fast for this potion.

A minute later, you were proven absolutly correct as the dark blue goo explodes and douses you, Malfoy and some neighbouring students under the hot slushie of grossness.

You hear multiple sounds of distaste around you, tough your vision is mostly obscured by the goo you refuse to let enter you eyes.

"Who did this?!" You hear a loud and angry voice... and theres the worst part of the day, Snape's wrath.

"Malfoy did!" Some brave student pipes up. Poor soul, thats the last you'd ever hear of her this class.

The blonde lets out an audible snarl of rage as he's tattletailed on. Hopefully he also has goo in his eyes, so that he won't be able to see who snitched.

"Malfoy, five points from Slytherin." Snape ends this quickly and sends all the damaged students off to the closest lavatorys to wash up.

You walk half blindly trough the hallways in search of a lavatory. A hand on the top of your back seems to be leading you, you haven't a clue who it is but you mumble a quick 'thank you'.

You reach a lavatory with the help of the mystery person and wash up. Tough when you're done washing the gunk out of your face alone, they're already gone... a shame.

As such, weeks go by of Hogwarts lessons. Malfoy's still a bitch, but that was expected, atleast it's only in potions class...

So it is to your dear surprise when the blonde himself comes up to you in the hall.

"L/N. When do you want to make that potions paper? I don't like making things last minute." Draco scoffs as he stands before you with his arms crossed.

You didn't have a problem with making things last minute. But bratty mac brat face did, ofcourse.

"I'm free now, if thats fine." You sigh and get mentally ready for this study session if he said yes.

"Great. Library." Draco organizes chastely and walks past you towards the library. Unfortunatly, trough a less popular part of the. Now, if he were to stick a wand up your nose you'd have no witnesses...

Tough, all goes well, Draco seems to actually just want to get this done. So you two silently walk to the slightly dark hallway.

You hear him sigh as you two walk, you're a bit on edge, yes. You've heard about Malfoy's urges to hex people.

Nothing happens... he just keeps walking.

That is untill you hear a creak from up above and a nasty metal sound.

You body reacted before you even knew.

You jumped at Draco like some kind of tiger and rolled onto the floor with him as the chandelier you two were under had crashed where he had just stood.

You blink rapidly to get the dust out of your eyes and stare at what could have been both of your dooms.

Draco coughs up some dust and focusses his gaze onto the chandelier just before he was about to insult you for pushing him.

"Did you do that-" You two asked in sinc.

Draco sighs as he realizes you have no clue either.

You get up and pull the blonde up with you. A lame 'thanks' comes out of his mouth as a mumble.

"So... You know, like who did that?" You look on at the chandelier in shock, your life had just flashed before your eyes.

"Maybe it was a coincidence?" Draco suggests. You side glare at him.

"Obviously not. Everyone hates you, someone must have tried killing you." You sneer now, realising you just risked your life to save him.

"Hate me? I'm the most popular boy in this school- outside of Potter- But my word still stands!" Draco protests. Glaring at you with cold grey eyes.

"You're a loud mouthed, insulting git. But sure, if thats how you wanna be know, do continue." You furrow your brows.

"Excuse me?! You could be a bit nicer after saving my life-" Draco stops mid sentance as he realises it himself.

"You... saved my life? Why?" Draco's voice gets quiter.

"Honestly, I don't know. I just did." You shrug, not wanting to make as big of a deal of it as it truly was.

"... Thank you. Y/N." Draco speaks, full on eye contact.

You've never heard him say your name... first name at that, in such a.. non mocking manner.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrasment.

"No problem... Let's go report this to a trusted adult." You brush off and start walking.

"Trusted adult? Really?" Draco snickers in amusement at your words and behavior. It's like your little life saving action opened his eyes.

You weren't incompetent anymore. No longer an annoyance. You were just.. Y/N L/N.

"Well I can't say teacher, theres a lot of teachers I ouldn't even trust to hold my pen." You scoff. Draco perks up in curiosity and walks next to you.

"Spill." He muses simply. Looking at you from the side.

"Obviously Filch. Snape, just because he seems to hate me. Umbridge, it explains itself. Dumbledore, don't ask, its a personal grudge." You roll your eyes and Draco nods, amused.

"Fair enough. So who are we telling?" He asks you as you two walk down the halls. Now on edge as the one trying to murder you both may be around.

"Uh... How about McGonnagall? Or maybe Sprout. I'm sure they'll care." You answer and keep walking. Draco nods along. Wow, this is the first time you two must have agreed on something.

You two end up finding proffesor Sprout's office first. Draco takes the lead in explaining the events and your houses both get five points... for not dying you suppose. Or maybe not being as stupid as Harry Potter and his squad and actually telling a teacher whats going on.

As you'd expected, the woman instructed you two to go to your dorms for the night, dinner would be in seperate houses as the school would be inspecting for the evening.

You and Draco parted ways, tough you could see the reluctance in the blonde's eyes as you were about to walk away.

So with a deep sigh you walked him to the Slytherin dungeons entrance and walked back on your own from there.

This one shot was way too long for me to finish in one writing session, so it's getting split. Woops.

#yandere #yandere x reader #oneshots #harry potter #yandere draco malfoy #draco malfoy #xreader #reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #hogwarts #mystery

113 notes · View notes

aldisobey · 6 months ago

Text

If I Lead

The last night before the ritual, a still mortal Emmrich and Rook are wrapping up a date in Treviso. Worry, love and all it's trappings. First chapter of story leading to first days of lichdom and a little after.

Rook Thorne x Emmrich | Words: 6994 | Rated: EXPLICIT | fluff & smut

AO3 Link

shoutout to @emmg and @heylittleriotact because all your amazing pieces made me want to have some fun as well and it's been a blast (hope you don't mind the tag, but this one goes out to you).

This first part isn't explicit and below, you want the spicy you'll need AO3 for that.

Their first meeting the touch had been brief. Contrasting in nature, Bellara had embraced the proffered handshake with vigor, excitement. But Rook? Glancing, delicate, he held the professor’s hand like glass for the barest second. Emmrich wondered at it back then. Quick as it was he could still detect the coarse skin, the strength of the fingers, the abysmal arthritic state of them. What life led to those hands on one mid-thirty?

Best keep an eye on him.

That had been his first thought for Rook. Or perhaps the second. The first had been in that glance, a curiosity, a flicker of delight at fresh-faced company down in the Shrouded Halls. No matter the nature of the man, no matter the distracting air about him, Emmrich swore that look was simple inquisitiveness. But the second, the one that lingered, had been concern.

“Ah, shit!” Rook shouted from down the street.

Many of the thoughts remained ones of concern. Emmrich sighed, gave a nod to the vendor he’d indulged and walked in the direction of the shout. He didn’t wonder at Rook’s first weak handshake anymore. The Warden took care with others. Would note the myriad of rings, it wasn’t even a matter of hurting Emmrich, the man knew his strength well. No. He hadn’t wanted to dull the gold.

He could see him now, shaking his hand, momentary grimace on his face as he stuck the offending thumb in his mouth, bleeding again? Never a care for himself. How could one be so mindful of a stranger’s rings, while simultaneously being so flippant with their being? Gold could be polished. The healing of tendons was less absolute. Emmrich’s grip tightened on the skull staff, briefly pinched the bridge of his nose as a heavy breath escaped, prepared himself…

“Emmrich!” Ah. Rook heard that. Or felt the judgment upon him, uncanny knack for that. The Warden was beaming pure joy at him over the reunion of mere minutes. The necromancer’s gaze gentled, not quite a smile, but content, as he wove through the thoroughfare to the beckoning man.

At the start of their night, hours past, he hadn’t recognized the Warden. Dressed as he was in the finest Treviso offered. Emmrich had convinced him to have it tailored a week ago. It baffled Rook, ‘it fit fine’, well now it did. The Warden could feel the difference, it could be seen in his posture. Certainly felt dashing as well, there was a difference in stride, he deserved it. And there. Pinned to lapel, a lilac boutonnière, he’d thought it good luck. Brought Emmrich a matching one. The necromancer’s hand briefly went to his, he did smile then.

Rook still bit at his thumb as Emmrich approached, spoke through it clear somehow, “Check this out…” reached his free hand out towards the mage. An offer Emmrich nearly took hold of, but he pressed his staff into those calloused fingers instead of giving an answering embrace.

Rook’s brow furrowed a moment, confused as he took hold of the staff without a word. He turned his head at Emmrich, questioning clear. The necromancer merely motioned for the thumb in Rook’s mouth.

“Oh.” The Warden’s face flushed, embarrassment clear as the thumb dropped and he wiped it on his pants. Emmrich winced, grabbed it before the wound could be further exposed and brought it chest height. Rook cleared his throat as the mage towering over him inspected the damage, a soft firm touch, no hint of a waver. “Good knives here.” Rook shrugged, half a grin working to smile it off.

“Hold still please.” Emmrich gave a tut, this wound was deep. Spirits how did he get near bone, it was still bleeding. He had half a mind to dress it and let the Warden deal with natural healing, but as the thought passed in mind he noted the smattering of knicks and scratches further coating the skin. Best not risk infection, Rook wouldn’t tend to it properly. Emmrich sighed, felt the wince in the man through his fingers.

“Rook…”

The Warden would’ve scratched his head at such a tone if he wasn’t in charge of the mage’s staff, instead he blurted out the words.

“Yeah yeah, I know, more care. But you gotta test the edge somehow.”

Emmrich languidly raised his head from his inspections, looked long into Rook’s eyes and arched a single brow.

“Darling, do you plan to test every potential purchase in such a manner?” All he had to do was throw a single look to the table at the side, vast array of blades on display, before returning that dark gaze back on Rook.

The rogue chuckled, nerves hitting, “Well, no…but…”

Emmrich smiled then, the look in his eyes softening, “You’re capable of numerous testing methods, my dear.” With that said he led Rook by the hand, even and steady, to a nearby alcove, in but apart from the bustle of the market.

“This always has a chance to sting.” Emmrich muttered soft and low, his thoughts traveling to the deeper realm the incantations kept. The necromancer tilted his head, brought Rook’s palm up, and whispered to it. Trite few movements of his fingers danced over the injury, a quick ritual, and a handful of soft green light dripped from his fingertips. The light congealed over Rook’s thumb, melded into flesh, wove and knit, dance sparking, heating, then spilled from once bleeding epicenter to ripple across the hand, soothed the myriad of cuts and cracks it passed, left whole flesh in its wake.

Rook nearly dropped the staff, ended up biting at his cheek instead of preferred hand as his toes curled in his shoes. The spell, stinging as it was, allayed more than surface pain. He was capable of ignoring the constant aches, couldn’t remember life without them, but to have the burden whisked away all at once caught his breath. The relief overwhelmed him as the rolling green faded. Thankfully the groan never came to air, but Rook could see a smirk starting on Emmrich’s face.

The necromancer gave the hand a pat, turned it to kiss a knuckle gentle, look in his eyes saying stop biting here. Then released his hold and retrieved his staff from Rook’s loose fingers, infuriating smirk still lighting a smile in his eyes.

“Might I suggest utilizing a testing method that doesn’t risk infection?” The mirth mixed with fading concern could be heard, but Rook barely noticed, a wide smile plastered on his face as he laughed full and resounding.

He shook out his hand, flexed, looked down at his fingers unbelieving. His chuckles still traveled in his chest, merry as he spoke, “As if any infection from Treviso could fight against what I grew up with in Darktown, you worry too much.” The words more mumbled thought than rebuttal, he reached out and cupped Emmrich’s face with that healed hand. Pressed a heavy kiss to the soft cheek, a joyous crush of nose and face and smile into loving skin, voice a low whisper, “Thank you. Truly.”

Emmrich felt his cheeks go warm, everything went warm, “Darling…” he meant to say more but his word came out mildly scrunched.

Rook couldn’t stop from pressing into his cheek, mumbled more words into skin, “...for everything tonight…” more pleasant hum than legible speech.

Laughter in his throat, Emmrich replied a still mushed, “It was my pleasure.” He could feel Rook’s delightful smile on him. It had been a sincere pleasure. No time, no thought, no amount spent on this was wasted.

Emmrich recalled Rook demanding it. Demanding a date at the very least, and feeling guilty over having not planned the last one. But his idea had been…‘ I’m taking you to dinner and a show before the ritual alright! You deserve a fun night out. I found a place in the drowned district with decent enough beer and an acro… ’ he had cut off the Warden then. Offered an alternative, intrigued as he was to try the other at some point, it didn’t suit the mood.

Thankfully Rook had acquiesced when an opera was mentioned. Emmrich felt a flutter at the memory, the light that sparked in the rogue’s eyes, the hesitant doubt, the sheer joy at confirmation. That had never been an option, had it? It would be.

It had surprised Emmrich at first, with those rugged hands, the astonishing scars, a general desperate air about the man, but manner meant nothing, Rook adored the arts. Specifically story and song.

He could feel him now, Rook was still glowing, and Emmrich didn’t doubt it was due in part new music’s effect. The man never sang, but once or twice Emmrich had stumbled on him whistling. He wasn’t shy about it, but the moment Rook knew he was being heard he’d stop. A private affair of some kind. Emmrich would catch the trails of scales far off, but knew if he dared edge closer they’d cease altogether. Emmrich imagined favorites from tonight might join that secluded practice. Oh the ways in which he…and then Rook was a breath away, hand dropping from Emmrich’s face to reach for the necromancer’s hand.

Rook found the fingers as if they were his own, laced his with them. Let go of a full weighted breath, the release of it trembling down his arm into Emmrich, he squeezed hard a moment. Turned his head and spoke warm truth to the ever listening ear inclined his way,

“I’m in love with you…”

Emmrich’s eyes went wide, he turned his head, Rook waited there, raised their joined hands to his lips, kissed gentle, let his sincerity speak in that longing look peering over their joined hands, voice soft and spoken to skin, “Don’t say a thing, just let it be, don’t stress, okay? I had to say it.” One more press, and he dropped their hands.

Took lead in leisurely walking away from the alcove, left with the mage tight to his side, moved from held hands to looped arms as they wandered the market.

It was a good thing he took charge then, Emmrich’s breath had caught, all he could hear was ringing, a thumping in his chest, where the stomach had gone was anyone’s guess but he felt light, and heavy, and hot at the collar. A sudden shiver, clawing cold gripping at throat as he tried to summon a word. Nothing came but a quivering to his hands, he clung to Rook's arm, squeezed tight. The best reply he could manage in that first shuddering. His eyes felt warm, he tried to clear his throat, nearly choked.

Rook squeezed Emmrich’s arm back. “I don’t want you to have to force it alright?” He was heading slow to their final destination for the night. Used touch to ground, motion to distract. Couldn’t bare a firm denial, didn’t want a coerced confession. For now, he did a firm trailing scratch on the nevromaver’s arm, “I want to hear it natural. You know…that moment it just has to be said. Like what a night?” He tilted his head into Emmrich’s shoulder, maybe rambled so the silence wouldn’t feel a need to be filled, “Never would’ve…”

“Rook…”

“Don’t. I know that tone.” Rook spoke in such an endearing manner, one might think he spoke sweet nothings instead of a firm, hush now in those words. A kind command in the next. “Don’t you dare be fool enough to apologize.”

Emmrich felt his heart settle, the trembling calm into a comfort at Rook’s gentle touches here and there. The need to say something, anything, was gone. The Warden seemed pleased, content to have said it, and went to a mood bordering joy. Desperate to pull Emmrich down that path with him fears be damned because, “I know it’s in your throat. This is the best way I could have it. Let me be selfish and love you all on my own for a bit.”

No time for fears when you had time for fun. Rook rolled the word around in his mouth. Love. Teased it now. ‘Look what I’ve got that you haven’t’ mischievous sparkle in those dark eyes. Emmrich laughed then, anticipated the rogue’s next actions. Rook started to lean up on tiptoe, and the necromancer surprised the rogue by turning his head to meet that glancing peck aiming for his cheek with his lips. He cupped Rook’s chin in hand, held him there, the rogue nearly leapt into the embrace, hands immediately clinging to the mage’s lapels as he drew himself up, Emmrich could feel the sigh of need flow to his throat as Rook took as much as he could. Emmrich had to draw back first, breathless.

Thankfully their lodging wasn’t far. Rook was dragging Emmrich down the street, ten seconds from scooping him up and running, but allowed the necromancer some decorum until they got in the door.

#emmrich volkarin #emmrook #dragon age the veilguard #datv spoilers #datv #emmrich x rook #emmlich #rook x emmrich #veilguard spoilers #emmrich smut #smut #it's getting posted NOW because i have my first tattoo appointment to get to and I know it's good enough even if I want to delete it #maybe it's fine I don't care I can edit more later and I've been breaking my teeth on it #fic #rook thorne

18 notes · View notes