#(truthfully I have some bones to pick with how Will is going about things to be completely honest with you but I'll keep that to myself) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eepyuii · 2 months

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frostbite — pt. 12

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to “rivals” to lovers, slowburn-ish

cw ; some self loathing talk, ending that you guys are gonna hate me for LMFAO

notes ; listen guys. i KNOW it’s been a minute, life’s just been really hectic lately- so many ups and downs and i couldn’t come up with what this chapter could be until i remembered- the inazuma trip!

and so that is what this is, the inazuma trip from childe’s POV and NOTHING ELSE happens. i promise :)

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if a mere gaze could incinerate, the letter before you would’ve been reduced to ashes by now.

it sits as pathetically unmoving as paper can get on the table before you— yet you can’t even bear to pick it up into your hands again, what a coward. it’s not even a bad letter either, very far from the bone-chilling mandates you receive from the doctor or directly from zapolyarny palace.

no, it’s an invitation. from ajax.

a simple invitation to a simple visit to inazuma to simply explore the scenery he had so passionately raved about to you before. your stay in sumeru had unintentionally prolonged itself, for reasons that if someone asked you out loud right now, you’d say you just ‘didn’t notice the days going by’. but any dimwit, if there is even such a thing inside sumeru city, would’ve been able to tell that you’re just cowering away from seeing ajax again.

since all of the matters had been resolved— crisis averted, dottore gone, kunikuzushi restored to his sharp-tongued self, you’d expected yourself to feel better. feel happier.

but you don’t.

because the guilt is still there, it still thrashes against your chest and scratches your throat dry, yelling out in a raucous, grating voice that you’re a terrible terrible person.

a terrible person who doesn’t deserve to go to inazuma. who doesn’t deserve to see ajax.

you still think of collei. you’ve been terrified to leave your quarters during the day, lest you bump into her on the streets of the city. you hope she’s feeling better, since all of eleazar was cured. gods, why do you even care this much? you’ve never even met the girl yet you’re desperate for her to forgive you, when you haven’t even done anything to her directly. you want to be worthy of her forgiveness so badly but.. you also think you’re not deserving of it, or any forgiveness at all. what is wrong with you?

“what is wrong with you?”

what.

“h-huh?”

you’re brought back to reality by kunikuzushi’s voice, who looms over the table you sit at, periodically moving his judgemental gaze towards the letter then back to you.

“the last ship for inazuma leaves in an hour, y’know. and you haven’t even started packing! you humans slack so much it baffles me how anything gets done ever.”

you fidget with your fingers, averting your gaze elsewhere as to avoid the very predictable death glare kunikuzushi is about to give at what you say next.

“i’m not going.”

thank the archons that his puppet body doesn’t have built-in eye lasers, or else you’d be barbecue by now.

“what do you mean you’re not going?”

“i changed my mind, i’m not going.” you shrug simply.

“as if,” he scoffs. “seeing that imbecile again is all you’ve talked about for days! i can still hear your stupid little melancholic sigh inside my head from how much you do so much as think about it.”

you remain silent, staring down at your own fingertips and fighting the urge to pick your nails.

“now suck up your idiocy for a second and answer me truthfully— why are you not going?”

it’s safe to say that one second you opened your mouth to answer and the next you were practically beaten into the ship, but not before you were almost deafened at kunikuzushi’s yells for you to pack up faster. you don’t think you’ve ever witnessed someone be so ragingly doting, though you believe he was partially motivated by how irkingly sulky you’ve been lately.

at least you can rest knowing nahida won’t let him rest.

—

“i’m sure they’ll arrive today, tartaglia!”

he’s sure yoimiya is right, yet his leg keeps bouncing impatiently. surely you’d accept his invitation, or at least show sign of life by sending a rejection letter— he could live with the sting of it as long as you were alive and safe in sumeru.

…no, that might not be enough. maybe his letter never arrived to you, maybe he put in the wrong address, maybe the letter did arrive but you weren’t there to receive it because you were unsafe. maybe he should just go to sumeru himself and check in on you. childe’s leg starts bouncing faster. he hates it, this giddy feeling but in a bad way. it’s not the kind of giddy he feels when he’s about to engage in combat or.. when he sees you— it feels terrible, like his heart is beating incorrectly in his chest.

but then he feels erratic taps against his shoulder and he looks over to see yoimiya hopping excited as her other hand points toward the port, where a ship is arriving. yoimiya doesn’t know what you look like, so you might not be in that ship at all— he prepares before getting his hopes up. the two of them step closer towards the port and childe scans the passengers leaving the ship with utmost attention, like he’s never focused so hard in his life. amongst the crowd, the top of someone’s head who looks like you is visible and just from that, his heart stutters. it still beats incorrectly. finally, as though a blessing from the tsaritsa herself, it’s you.

and his heart starts beating right. erratically, but right.

his legs take him to you before can even think of it. there’s a sense of deja vu from your reunion in liyue, except now there’s assuredly nothing that’ll keep you away from each other, for the time being at least. the one thing that’s different this time is that neither of you say anything upon seeing each other, you just both wordlessly wrap yourselves in a tight, breathless hug.

neither of you pull away for a while either, until childe moves 3 inches or so back to keep you at arms length. he exhales heartily, as if he only got to breathe for the first time just now, and takes in all of your features now that he can. he notices that your eye bags seem darker, more prominent— have you not been getting enough sleep?

he’s about to ask you that very question when your eyes flicker towards something, or someone, behind him with a hint of wary surprise in your eyes and he remembers that yoimiya is here and probably shaking with excitement to meet you— he’s spoken a lot about you, but we’ve already gone over extensively just how much he does that.

“a-ah, where are my manners— y/n, this is yoimiya, owner of naganohara fireworks and friend i’ve made alon-“

a shrill squeak comes out from behind behind childe and within the blink of an eye, he’s shoved away by yoimiya, who takes you into her own bone crushing hug.

“oh, y/n, it’s so so so nice to finally meet you!”

the blonde releases you from the hug, her hands fly to hold yours as she hops up and down with joy only comparable to a prancing bunny. whatever standoffishness you felt before melts and you return yoimiya’s excitement with a big grin, one that makes childe’s chest swell more than he thought previously possible.

though much to his dismay, you’re viciously dragged around by a hyperactive firework maker around inazuma city, she shows you all the best shops and spots within the city (especially naganohara fireworks), while childe only hurries to keep up with you two. eventually, you’re released from yoimiya’s ecstatic grasp, as she mentions having to help her father with dinner— the old man won’t even hear the pot boiling on his own, she says.

the two of you end up at a viewpoint in the city, leaning against a railing, shoulders only a breath apart from each other. sunset arrives before you even notice, the caramel rays shining against the unusual violet hues nature of inazuma create a sweet ambience— one neither childe nor you dare to interrupt.

it’s almost painfully awkward, the silence. you would’ve expected to be chatting till the sun rose again about your respective escapades but nothing, perhaps you two have so much to talk about you don’t even know where to start. and so neither of you do.

childe finally decides to take the fall and fills the increasingly cooling air of the evening with a clear of his throat.

“so,” he swallows hard. “have you been well?”

you take a split second to answer, he notices that your fingers fidget as well.

“yeah, just fine.” you nod before nudging him playfully. “what about you? surviving the island weather?”

he frowns— you’re not telling the truth. firstly, changing the subject so fast before he even gets to ask about your… mission in sumeru, whatever it is he can’t seem to remember it. secondly, the way you fidget is strangely familiar to him. it takes a moment but childe recalls, it’s precisely one of your old tells.

when the two of you were young, sometimes your father would bring back board games from his job in the big city— some were guessing games, some were training cards, some murder mysteries and others games all about bluffing. and you were terrible at bluffing, eyes always scattering about, fingers itching against each other, tongue poking against your cheek. old habits die hard, he supposes.

he wishes he could feel good about reminiscing over those moments but really, right now they only serve to prove that you were lying about doing well— he doesn’t like that.

childe opts not to sour the moment, though. it’s not even your first night in inazuma yet.

“i’ve been faring. but uh.. remind me again as i seem to have forgotten,” he chuckles sheepishly. “what exactly was your mission in sumeru?”

your eyes scatter.

“just an on-field investigation about this strange disease that was born in sumeru, eleazar. unfortunately, it’s still all pretty confidential— so no snooping even for someone like you, mr. harbinger.”

“yeesh, sounds serious. i’ll do my best to make sure you unwind from all that uptight working for now, though. i’ve got the next two days planned with all sorts activities and places to show you around in inazuma.”

your shoulders seem to intense slightly at the idea of actually vacationing and childe feels some relief in his chest. he grins.

“but for now— i’d like to take you to try some inazuman cuisine and then get some rest. i’ll show you around the food district but i heavily suggest these… little stuffed balls of rice they sell at this kiosk, i believe they’re called ‘onigiri’.”

“mm, sounds tasty.”

—

“no, i’m telling you i saw it go over here!”

it’s somehow nostalgic, hopping around chinju forest and chasing bake-danukis around like unburdened children. childe swears he sees the esper of your younger self following after you as you hop from rock to rock over the river, giggling at the splashes of water that lick at your ankles. he hears the jingle of the monster yōkai as it tries to taunt him, but he’s long since forfeited his own goose chase to bask in the warm delight of watching you.

it’s like his limbs have shut down, locked in place for the sake of gluing his eyes to your grinning figure who runs up and down after the elusive bake-danuki without another care in the world. you know that the chase is aimless, that the yōkai has no purpose or finality other than to taunt you— but you don’t care, you’ve abandoned the rationality you usually cling to like the air in your lungs just to have stupid fun for once.

and it’s because childe took you here. the pride that fills him due to the fact is so immense that he feels as though he could fell an army of mitachurls without even using his vision.

the image of your state yesterday is still burned into his retinas, how utterly exhausted you looked, not to mention that you lied about being well. it’s the most basic state of being, just being ‘fine’, yet even that wasn’t your truth. the worst of it all is that he can’t even figure out why, what could’ve happened in sumeru that left you like that. it all terrifies him.

“…ax?”

huh?

oh. you’re calling out to him. childe feels his entire being perk up at that and he’s fully at attention within a heartbeat.

“ajaax? you okay?”

you’re standing two rocks away from the bake-danuki over the river current, but you no longer care for it. instead, you look over to childe and wave to catch his eye, worried frown invading your features.

childe nods rapidly. “peachy! i was just, ah— thinking up a strategy to catch that slippery bake-danuki!”

he monitors you closely for the rest of the day, making sure everything goes well as to not make you frown again. he takes you up to the grand narukami shrine, where your eyes fill with light as you gaze up in wonder at the huge cherry blossom tree, a pink petal gracefully lands on your head but it compliments you so splendidly that childe doesn’t have the heart to tell you about it.

he’s only not completely enamored by how the peaceful scenery frames you so majestically because he feels an itch at the back of his neck, turning around to see the guuji of the shrine throwing him a both amused and judgemental stare. she gives him the creeps.

the next day, childe takes you to watatsumi island. it seems you’re once again possessed by a childlike spirit, as you scurry about every inch of the island to take in all of the almost magical details of it. you tell him it reminds you of the fairytales you used to read and the sheer glee in your demeanor almost makes him tear up. at some point, the two of you even go swimming in one of the beaches that frame the cascading island and it’s a sight childe’s dreams only hope to imitate, to see you canonballing into the warm seawater with pure joy— it’s completely incomprehensible to the frigid tundras of snezhnaya that you’re both used to.

to finish it off, you’re back in inazuma city to dine in a traditional inazuman restaurant and you’re both almost bursting from how much you’ve eaten by the end of it. you’re waiting patiently for a waiter to come by your table and give you the check for the food with sleepy eyes— the kind of sleepy that only hits you after a hearty meal.

when it arrives, both of you reach out for the check simultaneously.

“come on, please let me at least pay for the food this time? you already paid for our last two dinners.” you plea.

“nonsense! i invited you to inazuma to give you a tour, you’re a practically guest here-“

“not like you’re a local either… just this once, please-”

“i brought so much excess mora, it’s been weighing down on my backpack. just let me empty it a little more with this check and i promise you i’ll let you pay for our next-“

“but i’ll feel terrible. you’ve been doing everything for me these past two days, it’s the bare minimum for me to-“

“y/n. i insist.”

your poor waiter.

“fine.” you huff begrudgingly, turning to look down at your empty plate with a defeated frown. childe immediately feels like the worst person in the world.

the walk back to your hotel is quiet, eerily so. it’s almost ironically parallel to your first night here, you even pass by the same viewpoint as it’s on the way to your destination— you choose to take a wordless detour to the same railing.

childe is a step behind when he joins you, the first thing he notices is how hard you’re gripping onto the railing, knuckles turning white. the second things how tightly you press your lips to suppress their trembling. and the third thing is the wet glimmer that lines your bottom eyelids. he wishes the earth would give way and swallow him whole.

“y/n… i-“

“w-why are you doing a-all of this?” the breaking in your voice is the worst sound childe has ever heard in his life.

“w-what do you mean? have i done something to upset you?”

you shake your head.

“why are you d-doing all of this for m-me? taking me to beautiful p-places… paying for all my f-food— what did i even do to d-deserve this from y-you?”

childe scoffs incredulously. why would you even be worried about that?

“because you’re my best friend, y/n. i care about you and i wanted to show you somewhere new, somewhere i loved. people simply do that for each other someti-“

“t-that’s the thing, though, i’m not just people! i’m a t-terrible person who works for an even worse person, a fucking m-monster that i let be a monster! people are sickly and d-dying because of him and i j-just let him do it! i don’t d-deserve sceneries or g-good food for free…”

you yell, tears running freely and ceaselessly down your cheeks. childe is almost angry at the complete nonsense you’re spewing, but he scatters his brain for a gentler way to calm you down. then, he remembers a previous tactic of his— he places both of his gloved hands at either side of your face.

successfully, you immediately shut up, save for the erratic breaths that leave you. you’re staring up at him with almost enraged confusion, but not at him, rather at yourself— you truly believe what you’re saying to the point where you’d lose sleep over it, it shatters childe’s heart into a million pieces.

“y/n. please listen to me very carefully. you are not a terrible person, in fact, you’re one of the best people i have ever met-“

“but i c-could’ve done-“ you interrupt and childe immediately squishes your cheeks inward as to press your lips shut.

“shush. you are the most intelligent, caring, attentive, patient person i have ever had the privilege of meeting, y/n. dottore is a psychopath, that’s no doubt, but you couldn’t have done anything to stop him— he’s got power even i couldn’t begin to gauge and… unfortunately he uses them for evil deeds. but you, you use yours for good and for that, you’re infinitely and eternally better than him.”

you’ve stopped crying at this point.

“you’ve only ever used your capabilities to help people— help me, the traveler, all of the new cadets who get stupid injuries in zapolyarny palace.” he chuckles. “and you care so much and so deeply. you took such good care of teucer when he was in liyue, you even chose to go against me, betray our mission, for the chance to help the traveler and save the people of the harbor, you nursed me back to heal when i was at my weakest.

i believe that in this world, the lines between good and bad are blurry— many dance around in its fog, heh, including myself. but you, y/n? i think you’re as good as it gets.”

there’s no reason for childe to still be holding your face in his hands, really, but at this point it seems like the entire rest of the world has disappeared for him.

“this trip has only been the minimum of the thanks i owe you, hell, i’d pay for all of the meals in your life if that even repaid half of what you’ve done for others.”

you chuckle at that.

“but… i-i also wanted to treat you to this because i…”

oh god, why did he start that sentence, he wasn’t ready to admit that just yet. childe’s heart hammers against his chest, bound to break out at any moment, and his throat becomes dry almost immediately. his hands are so clammy that he desperately wants to pull them away from you, unfortunately his limbs betray him and stay right where they are. childe thinks he feels a heartbeat at his fingertips, like he can feel it from the pulse in your neck, but his fingers shake too much to discern.

years in the battlefield, a harbinger title over his head, falling into the abyss and childe has never felt as terrified as he does now— he feels as though he can’t breathe.

the entire world, time and space, halt at the tip of his tongue, where it’s next words will forever change your relationship. but then again, childe did say he could live with rejection so long as you were safe and sound…

…couldn’t he?

“…b-because i mean to go to fontaine soon.”

i saw this tweet in the midst of finishing this chapter and i was like “oh my fucking god. them.” LMFAO

taglist ; @kentply @osaemu @rain-and-a-nice-nap @koichirana

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happybird16 · 1 year

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A quick little thing I wrote to make both of your days a bit better @leyyvi @levmada

Tw; period mention

Huddled up beneath the covers, you blink awake at the sound of a door creaking open. You’re warm, tangled up in a twisted mess of sheets. They’re sweaty, nearly soaked, but you can’t even summon the energy to care. Head pounding, tummy stabbing sharp jabs angrily along your insides, you don’t even want to move. It seems like too much work to even lift your head and open your eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mhmmng,” you groan, burying your head into your cocoon of sheets.

“That bad huh,” Levi says with a sympathetic hum. “Do you want me to keep the lights off?”

“Yesss,” you hiss sharply. With how much your head is pounding, the light does nothing but sting.

You hear foot sleeps approach the bedside, sock coated feet a soft sound against the carpet. “Do you have your heating pad?”

“S’ cold,” you mumble, barely opening your eyes to see his approach. “Too much work to turn back on.”

Right by your side, Levi clicks his tongue. “It’s just a switch, here.” With a click, you can immediately feel the pad start to heat up again, already warm against your aching abdomen.

“Thanks,” you blink up at him, noticing that he’s still in his work clothes. A finely pressed suit, the tie hanging loose around his neck.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” You don’t even want to attempt turning on your phone screen, the device sitting not far to the side of your bed. The blinding electronic light will no doubt sear into your already burning skull. It can’t be that far past noon, you weren’t dozing too long.

“I’m working from home for the rest of the day, Erwin can deal,” Levi explains evenly. That’s sweet. You can see worry in his silver eyes, the emotion deep and buried. It’s something only you can really spot, the sheer familiarity giving you a glimpse behind his stoic facade.

His eyes bounce around your face, his frown becoming a scowl as he drinks in your distress. Raising a hand, his palm cups the side of your face, the thumb smoothing softly along your cheek. “Are you still nauseous? Do you want me to get you something?”

“It’s better,” you admit truthfully. The nausea is always worse first thing in the morning, fading a bit as the day goes on. Why do you have to go through this every month?!?

“Hmm,” Levi hums, sliding his hand up your cheek and into your hair, lightly ruffling the strands at the top of your head. They’re sweaty, all of you is, but Levi doesn’t even comment on it. It should be embarrassing, to have made such a mess of your shared bed, but Levi’s more than used to it. Still, a searing heat lingers high along your cheek bones. Hopefully you haven’t leaked onto the bedsheets this time.

“How about something light to start? There’s some yogurt in the fridge?” Levi asks, his thumb smoothing into the salty line of a tear streak, left right below your right eye. You hadn’t even realized you’d actually cried earlier, when the cramps were particularly devastating.

“That sounds nice,” you hum, leaning into his warm palm. You almost don’t want him to walk away.

“I’ll get you some Advil too.”

You almost want to whimper as his touch falls away. Watching him twist on the balls of his feet, turning to walk away, makes your heart ache. Quickly rising to grab his arm, you ask, “Can you hold me when you get back?”

“Of course,” Levi confirms with a soft smile, patting the top of your head. “I picked up a pint of your favorite ice cream on the way home.”

“You’re so sweet,” you sigh, heart fluttering happily in your chest. It’s as if all the pain of today, of all week, is inconsequential. You don’t want to let go of his arm. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Levi clicks his tongue, his lips quivering in an embarrassed warble. “Just- just lie back down, I’ll be back with the pain meds.”

“And the ice cream?” At the thought of your favorite cool treat, your lingering nausea seems to have vanished. “with rainbow sprinkles?”

“Tch, no. You need some real nutrition first,” Levi corrects softly, finally pulling away from your clasp. Gripping your shoulder softly, he pushes you back down onto the mattress, fluffing up the pillow behind your head. Several of the twisted up sheets are thrown back over you. Just touching the sweat-soaked fabric, you can see his nose scrunch up in disgust. “The ice cream is for later. We’ll watch a movie together on the couch while the bedsheets are in the wash.”

Watching him leave the room, not so discreetly wiping a hand on his slacks, you laugh, despite the ache in your insides. “Typical.”

#I Hope this isn’t rude or unwarranted #I Just had the urge to write something sweet #have Levi babying you #Levi/reader #Levi x reader #tw; period mention #fluffy and sweet #Levi Ackerman #attack on titan #myaotdrabbles #I want ice cream now

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ace-of-zaun · 2 years

Note

Okay but the fathers day fic was SO GOOD!!

Can we maybe have a second one where the reader is already like all round and has total baby fever and pregnancy brain?

Love you

A/N: Thank you!! Ah, go on then, just for you! Thank you for requesting <3 -elsie x

Silco x f!reader, Silco POV, 1.5k words, SFW

Warnings: pregnancy, fluff, established relationship, overly emotional reader, pregnancy brain

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 1.5

Six months into your pregnancy, Silco thinks he might be going mad. Although, he’d quickly learnt not to voice that particular thought, as one time he’d made an offhand comment when you’d lost your hairbrush and were desperately tearing apart his office looking for it.

You’d emphatically replied, ‘You’re going mad?! How do you think I feel?!’ before suddenly bursting into tears a few minutes later because you’d felt bad for snapping at him.

Truthfully, your tone hadn’t been that harsh at all, and Silco had certainly heard and said much worse in his time. But lately you’d been on a rollercoaster of emotions, and once you were hurtling down a drop, the only thing he could really do was support you as you rode it out.

You’d desperately hugged him and apologised profusely, crying into his shoulder as he’d rubbed soothing patterns onto the small of your back and murmured calming reassurances.

You were overwhelmingly adorable.

If he was being completely honest, Silco had never felt this on-edge before. Like a nervous energy was constantly humming through his lean body, rattling his ageing bones. Some of it he knew was down to apprehension and worry for your health, as your stomach grew rounder with each rapidly passing month.

But a huge part of him was also excited. The more he thought about raising a child with you, the more he looked forward to it. Never in his life did Silco think he’d be thrilled at the prospect of having a baby, but the simple act of having you in his life had changed all that. Changed him, for the better.

Of course, he’d never admit to all those conflicting feelings he felt bubbling away under the surface. Partly because he had an image to uphold as a ruthless kingpin, the portrait he’d spent years crafting to suit his glorious aims for his exploited city.

But mostly because he just didn’t want to stress you out any more than you already were.

And despite his repeated attempts to ensure that you were thoroughly looked after and well-rested, you still insisted on keeping your normal routine, much to his quiet, haggard despair. You were almost as stubborn as him and a hundred times more stubborn than Jinx, that’s for sure.

You’d left the bedroom one morning, waiting until he was deep into a pile of reports before trying to sneak past his desk towards the office door. But Silco had noticed. He always noticed.

He’s fairly certain he’d notice you first in a crowd of hundreds.

“Where are you going, lovely?” he’d asked, not looking up from his work.

“Uh...the market?”

Silco had instantly grabbed some blank paper and a spare pen, holding it out to you as he’d finally met your gaze.

“Write down everything you need and Sevika will get it.”

“Honestly Sil, it’s fine, it won’t take long. Do you want me to pick anything up for you?” you’d insisted as you’d continued your journey towards the office door.

Silco had all but leapt up from his chair and stalked his way after you, grabbing your hand to stop you from going any further.

“You can’t go to the market. What if someone pushes past you and hits you in the stomach? Or what if-”

“Darling,” you’d murmured softly, cupping both his cheeks in your hands, with one thumb slowly smoothing across the scarred one, “The doctor said I need to keep active, it’s good for both me and the baby.”

Silco had nodded understandingly, pulling you into a gentle hug whilst being mindful of your belly. He knew you could take care of yourself, but it didn’t stop him from being over-protective.

“I need you to be safe,” he’d spoken into your hair, the low rumble of his voice raising goosebumps on the back of your neck.

“I know, my love, I know,” you’d kindly whispered back.

Gods, you were ethereal.

You were exceedingly important to him before, but now that you were carrying his child, it was like he would combust if you were away from him for too long.

Another day you’d waddled into his office carrying a box he’d left in the newly-painted nursery without telling you.

“What’s all this?” you’d asked, plonking the box down at the edge of his desk, thoughtfully avoiding his work papers.

“Some items I’ve been collecting for the baby,” he’d told you as you’d rifled through his purchases.

And at the discovery of his first gift, you’d given him the most incredulous look possible.

“Silco, the baby does not need a set of personalised throwing knives.”

“They will someday,” he’d countered haughtily.

You’d given him a filthy look in return, one that he quite frankly adored.

You were so beautiful when you were exasperated with him.

“It was at the tender age of five when I stole my very first set of knives. It is never too early to be prepared for battle, especially growing up in Zaun,” Silco had continued, looking forward to your sarcastic reply.

But instead, you’d ignored him, taking out the other items in the box and purposefully placing the knives to one side.

The next gift you’d pulled out was one of the many baby grows he’d requested to be made by his usual tailor. A variety of tiny burgundy and black striped onesies, accompanied by a matching set of blankets embroidered with his logo. His colours for his baby.

“Okay, these are adorable,” you’d cooed, holding one up to the light of the window.

“They’re practical,” Silco had corrected.

“You’re practical,” you’d teased as he’d glared at your cheeky smirk, “And adorable.”

You always knew how to break his composure and despite how long you’d been together, it still baffled him just how easily you did it.

But the most baffling part of your pregnancy by far was how awfully forgetful you’d gotten as a result of your adequately named ‘pregnancy brain’.

Most nights now, you woke up complaining about having the craziest of dreams, grumbling as Silco gently pulled you towards him to rest your back against his chest, fingertips tracing patterns up and down your arms until you slowly fell asleep again.

And it wasn’t until you were fast asleep that his fingers gradually moved down to place his hands protectively over your round belly.

He would always protect you. You, Jinx, and the new baby.

Which was certainly the case one quiet, rainy morning, as you’d walked into his office holding a candle that usually lived in your shared bedroom, and stared blankly at the wall behind him for a good thirty seconds.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Silco had asked.

“I can’t remember what I was going to do,” you’d eventually admitted, frowning deeply.

“What are you doing with that candle?”

You’d looked down at it in your hands and shook your head slightly, like it would reset your memory.

“I don’t know.”

Okay. Now Silco was worried.

He’d stood from his chair and moved over to you, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on the small of your back as he’d gently herded you across the room to sit on the sofa. Silco had pried the candle from your slightly swollen hands and placed it on the coffee table, sitting down next to you.

“I’m going to call the doctor,” he’d told you carefully.

“Don’t, I’m fine,” you’d said sluggishly, “Just tired, that’s all.”

But he wasn’t convinced, so he’d made a mental note to call when you would inevitably fall asleep on the comfy sofa, probably within half an hour of you sitting down on it.

Almost naturally, you’d placed a hand on your belly and smiled warmly a few seconds later, the reaction making his heart flutter in his chest. But he’d barely had enough time to process it before you’d grabbed his hand and lifted your oversized shirt to place it on your belly.

All of a sudden, he’d felt a kick from the baby against the touch of his hand.

Oh, fucking hell. He was absolutely enamoured.

That was his baby. Your beautiful child.

“Are you saying hello to daddy, little one?” you’d said cheekily, looking down at your stomach with a grin.

Silco’s eyes had instantly snapped up to meet yours, his whole body going tense at your teasing comment. You’d laughed loudly and freely at his alarm.

“What, do you prefer papa?”

“Stop it,” he’d said grumpily, although there was no real bite to his words.

“How about pops?”

Silco had huffed loudly, a pout adorning his face as his hand left your stomach. You were far too good at teasing him.

But before he could instinctively run his hand through his greying hair, you’d caught it with your own and pulled him close again, until your lips were pressing against his softly.

And in that moment, Silco swears that time has stopped.

No matter how many times you’d already kissed him (and it must be in the thousands at this point), he still felt like the world had ended and been divinely recreated every time you did.

“I love you,” you’d whispered against his lips, lightly resting your forehead on his.

“I love you.”

And he did. With all his heart.

Silco knows that the next few months (and the rest of his life) are going to continue to be a complete and utter rollercoaster, but he also has utmost faith in your ability to help him through it. Because Silco knows you are, without a doubt, the strongest and most beautiful soul he has ever met.

PART 3

A/N: Another part of this is in the works!! let’s see how silco handles reader going into labour... hehehe

Requested tags: @pinkrose1422

#silco request #silco x reader #silco x f!reader #silco x you

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sojournerstales · 29 days

Text

Lauralette is Hungry

It is the tail-end of a long, hard week. Lauralette’s bones ache, her breath tastes stale, and there is a sharp pit in her stomach. Lauralette is hungry and she has been trying not to deal with it. Methods to that end include a diet of red meats, idly thumbing the on-off button of her phone, pacing the main room of her apartment, leaning forward with her forehead on the wall and her eyes closed, keeping halfway busy with chores and errands that are quickly given up on, and then thumbing that button on her phone again.

She isn’t going to make the first call, but the person she is waiting on hasn’t either.

Frustrated, Lauralette tosses the phone down face-up on the table. It reflects the dark grey sky through the window. Moon-haze, all clouds and no stars and a glare of red from the lit sign outside.

BLOOD

ROCK

MOTEL

Lauralette owns the place and her living situation is a small two-room affair above the main reception and office. She doesn’t need a lot of space and if her ego needs a shot she can embellish things by claiming that in actuality 22 rooms are hers.

Right now Lauralette is in the dining room which is the living room which is the kitchen. She’s trying to keep down a greasy, somewhat undercooked burger, but it’s already tasting stale at two bites in and the cheap-as-shit chair is uncomfortable and her jaw aches from clenching.

“Fuck it.”

From slouched to upright to standing, her bones creaking all the way, Lauralette rolls her shoulders and massages that space between her neck and clavicle. She ignores the twinge of pain there which carries down from her neck and the top of her spine. She hisses whatever curse she has for it and drags herself through the bedroom to her bathroom.

The light here is a cold green-blue from the cheap lino and wall tiles. Lauralette peels out of her clothes and leaves them discarded over the corner of the towel rack. Her skin is grey, her eyes are dark and sunken. In years past her dirty blonde hair had looked more vibrant and she had put the work in, given it volume and sheen and she had blushed herself, and painted her lips red. She is older now and less interested in putting the effort in. Truthfully she hasn’t had to put the effort in for a while.

Lauralette pushes herself into the shower and washes under cold water. She had put on some mass since her glossy blonde, red lipped days, and then let it go again. Well worked musculature was left behind, along with nicks and scars and calloused knuckles. The water feels good down her back and for a moment she can forget everything aches. Only a moment.

The idea of clean and presentable had shifted over time. These days a shower is body soap and two-in-one shampoo, water splashed on her face and then quickly rinsed off. Clothing then has turned from sparkling black dress and heels to old jeans and a black t-shirt. She hand-combs her hair after drying off and by the front door Lauralette pulls on her bomber jacket and stuffs her hands in her pockets to find her keys.

Lauralette locks up the upstairs apartment and heads down. She is lost in her own head, mind filled with bad ideas, operating on autopilot as she moves through the reception, out the front door, almost bumping into a man.

“Oh thank God someone is here!” He sounds relieved.

“Uh?” Lauralette is trying to remember how to talk.

“Sorry, I know it’s late. I’ve been driving all night, I got totally lost on my way to– Nevermind that, sorry. Do you have a room?”

Lauralette stares at the man. He needs a shave and he’s sweating and his hair is a little greasy and he has thick rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. He looks warm in the literal sense, she knows nothing about him to gauge the other sense. He is also travelling alone. The man is easy pickings. She could take him to a room and rip him open.

“I can pay, obviously. Cash or card. Whichever is easier.”

The man’s saving grace is that he is simply not Lauralette’s type. Neither is it a good look if people go missing so close to the motel. Lauralette makes an irritated sound and heads back into the motel reception, “Fine,” She grunts, “Come in.”

The man’s relief is obvious and immediate. He follows Lauralette inside, who has quickly rounded the front desk, and almost fumbles the catch when she tosses him the key to a ground-floor room.

“Pay me tomorrow,” Lauralette says, already leaving the front desk, “Can’t be asked to open the register.”

“Oh. Oh, well. Okay then! Thank you.” He isn’t certain what to do with himself.

“Uh-huh.” Lauralette brushes past the man and heads out into the night air. She sucks on her teeth, tongue pressing against a sharp fang.

“Thank you!” The man calls out again. He is left to inspect the key given to see if it has a door number attached.

. .

Far flung from the small town she lives at, Lauralette pulls her truck into the parking lot at a roadside bar. Here there are stars in the sky. Lauralette pays them no mind. She climbs out of her truck, boots crunching gravel underfoot, and rolls her shoulders to work out any lingering stiffness from the drive.

She’s about an hour from home.

Hands stuffed into her pockets, Lauralette approaches the bar. It has a neon open sign that contradicts the painted lettering above it.

OLD MASTER’S ARMS

OPEN

Lauralette nudges the door open with her boot and sidles on inside. She catches the scent of tap beer and nicotine and sweat, then someone’s cologne, more than one strand of floral perfume, some kind of chlorination also. Underneath it all is the age that clings to the walls and the wood. Lauralette is hit with noise also – the mild din of conversation underneath a louder voice backed by terrible speakers and microphone pops. It is quiz night from the look and sound of things.

Lauralette licks her top teeth and sucks on a fang. The sharp point digging into her tongue focuses her from the sensation of the world packed into this bar and she scans the space. No patron looks isolated, it’s the sort of night where everyone arrived with a group and are unlikely to break off from each-other. They all look like they are getting along, any falling outs will be lubricated by alcohol and taken in stride.

She is scowling even though she doesn’t mean to. It’s just how her face rests, if rest can be considered as a frown and a knit brow and narrowed eyes. Someone once told her about how her crows’ feet would clench into fists. Scowling then, Lauralette walks to the bar. Most seats here are empty, anyone coming up intends to take their drinks away.

“You all good, hun?” The barmaid asks. She’s pretty enough, that’s the first impression. Warm skin, full lips, big brown eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, black ponytail and the way her apron is tied pulls her whole outfit snug to her figure. Hourglass.

Lauralette reads that with a long look that drags up until finally meeting the barmaid’s gaze – the barmaid wears a knowing look there – and Lauralette says, “Yeah.” A single word typically isn’t enough to lay a line, so she gives the mildest form of elaboration, “Long week.”

“I hear you,” The barmaid’s name tag says CAM in neat handwriting. Cam is cleaning a line of shot glasses with a bit of torn cloth. There is someone else behind the bar with her, he’s name-tagged PAUL and seems to be pulling more than his own weight. This means Cam can be busy with those glasses and with Lauralette’s company and not worry about much else.

“Mm,” Lauralette leans on the bar after sitting and gestures with a nod across the room, “Weekly? Monthly?”

“Few times a year. Look like your kind of thing?” One glass is stacked under the bar, the next is picked up for a polish.

Lauralette scoffs, lip curling, “No.”

The MC cracks a joke at the same time and the whole pub floor breaks out into a mixture of laughter or just polite chuckles. Mostly polite chuckles.

“Bad night to come if they aren’t your thing, then.” Cam says, “Not from around here?” She leans forward, elbows on the bar, glass and cloth still in hand. At this angle she is bent at the waist and Lauralette is unsubtle in dragging her gaze away from the crowd, craning her neck to look behind the bar, behind Cam, Cam’s behind.

“I don’t mind the noise,” Lauralette says, sounding absent, the question goes ignored. Her eyes have darkened, though her gaze is not quite perverse it is altered somehow. Shark-like. Blood in the water.

“You checking me out?” Cam leans to one side and intercepts Lauralette’s gaze. Here she demands they meet eye-to-eye, though her expression is amused rather than offended. Her smile long and lop-sided, one brow raised, eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. She is used to playing this sort of thing off, but Lauralette isn’t the same kind of breed as the good old boys Cam is used to.

Catching Lauralette’s gaze is a mistake.

Her eyes are black pits, abyssal and falling forever, and though eye-contact is momentary the feeling will last. Lauralette calls this her certain something and that’s something she used to say with a coy tone of voice and an easy ‘gotcha’ smirk. These days she hardly says anything about it, little effort put into the social side of affairs. At a certain point it became easier to act as hook rather than bait.

She spares idle thoughts for the concept of catch and release. A back-of-the-mind reminder.

It is Lauralette who breaks eye contact and the experience leaves Cam blinking, staring into space. She glances away and tries to remember herself, what she was doing, asking internally if someone had just given her an order to fulfill.

“Got a light?” Lauralette asks.

“Uh. Yeah. Sec.” Cam stands up straight and then leans back to pat down her apron pocket. Tied around her waist, but not over her shoulders, she has to rummage to find what she’s looking for. “Here.” Cam slides a translucent pink lighter across the bar.

It spins into Lauralette’s hand. “Cheers,” She mutters and pockets the lighter. “Got a cig, too?”

“… Yeah.” Cam obliges again. She is feeling stupefied, malleable, though the feeling is quickly starting to fade. She hands Lauralette a cigarette and adds – voice empty – “You gotta smoke outside.”

“Sure.” Lauralette pushes away from the bar. Cigarette balanced between her lips, she heads for the exit to the pub garden.

. .

Outside is relative quiet. The bar still thrums with the energy of a busy night, though that energy is hitting its peak with a round of clapping, some cheers and jeers, and the muffled unintelligible announcement of the winning team. Moments later, a handful of people step outside into the garden to light up before heading home.

So the smokers smoke, chat, comment on the cold, and one by one snuff out their little lights and head back inside to re-couple with the others they came with.

Lauralette watches this from a corner of the building, one which joins the beer garden and the back wall to a side-alley between the bar and old wooden fencing. There is a dumpster there, garbage bags piled up, a door into the kitchen or some such back area. She is outside of any cones of light from the bar or the garden lamps, marked instead by an ember pinpoint. Smoke curls from between two fingers and then her lips.

She waits.

Time passes.

Lights inside the bar go out, the main floor cleared. Lauralette slips from her corner position to deeper in the alley. Action had managed to push down a certain feeling, but now it bubbles back up from the pit of her stomach, carves a line up through her chest, and grips at the back of her throat.

Hunger.

Lauralette knows that Cam will come out here. It comes from a certain type of intuition gleaned during their brief eye-contact. It’s only a waiting game before the barmaid delivers herself to Lauralette. Cam will come out here, she will find a pleasing shape in the shadow, she will allow herself to be lured deeper. Her mind will ignore the litter, the rust of the dumpster, the horrid scent of it, all in favour of a kiss and hands on each others’ bodies.

Lauralette imagines taking Cam by the neck then, dipping her low while clutched tight. Then there her fangs will sink into skin and Lauralette will be able to drink deep.

Lauralette knows this from both sides. For the giver it is a mix of hot-and-cold. First ice where the skin is pierced, the sensation running through the giver’s veins until seizing and slowing their heart. Then in their head they swim with feverish heat. Their vision blurs with blots of inky darkness. The corners close in.

For the taker it is the base euphoria of a vital need met after too long. Water in the desert. Warm hands in the dead of winter. Food, actual food, after a lifetime of starvation. Satisfaction is reached only when the taker drinks deep of the blooded well and it takes only a moment for it to turn deadly. Only a moment for the giver to take hold of a small strand of their sense and try to push away. Only a moment for the taker’s feral instinct to kick in, like an errant twitch on a hair-trigger.

Only a moment to go from control to a dead woman slumped in blood behind a rusty dumpster.

Images of it all flash hot in Lauralette’s mind.

Door opens, door closes. Cam steps into the night holding a garbage bag in each hand. She mutters something to herself about getting no help and dumps the bags as best she can into the dumpster and it’s then that she hears a sound – movement just out of sight.

“Hey.” Cam’s voice has a shrill quality when met with cold air, “That you, weird hot lady?”

Nothing responds, nothing is there.

. .

“FUCK!” Lauralette slams her hand on the top of her steering wheel once, then twice more. After the third time she grips with both hands on top and rattles her arms, “Fuck!”

She is driving too fast down narrow winding roads, each turn is taken too hard. That feeling of speed, the g-force on each bend, the sight of the world whipping by on either side, none of it is enough to truly distract her from herself.

She had very almost made a terrible, terrible mistake. Though she knows to call it a mistake is part cowardice and would not truly characterize what could have happened. She almost gave into her hunger in the worst possible way, all because she has been avoiding a phonecall.

Her stomach hurts. Her own body is angry at her.

Lauralette slams a cassette into the center console of her truck. She hits play and cranks the volume and the entire vehicle is filled with bone-shaking garage metal.

Another sharp turn with no loss of control. The straight-away ahead is empty and so – screaming along to the wave of sound – Lauralette slams her foot down.

. .

BLOOD

ROCK

MOTEL

The light of the signage casts a red glow about its immediate area.

The dusty road leading two ways to and from the motel – one way goes towards town, an errant collection of shops, businesses, two tourist traps, and a sprawl of mostly single-floor houses. The other way goes elsewhere.

The front of the motel’s lobby. The glass of the windows and door reflecting the sign at odd, conflicting angles, glaring over the signage posted on the window interiors. Rates, lobby hours, local businesses.

Further flung, from the other side, the motel pool is tinged red only if the night breeze catches the surface just right.

Right below, the step that leads up to the lobby doors. A young woman is sat with her knees up looking tired and bored. Without thought or intent she focuses her gaze on the whites of her trainers turned red by the light above.

She sighs. Her name is Dina and she is not sure how long she is going to continue waiting out here. She had called ahead, she had knocked on the doors, she had walked back to the side of the road to expertly toss a small pebble at what she knows is the bedroom window. Only after all that did she walk around the side of the building to see that Lauralette’s pickup truck was gone.

Dina hears a distant engine approaching. The trope ‘speak of the devil,’ might apply in some fashion, but Dina has been trying to manifest Lauralette’s presence for a while now. What this is – the truck fast approaching down from the road towards elsewhere – is coincidence. Good or bad remains to be seen.

Dina braces herself because she truly does not know what state Lauralette is going to be in. Just underneath the sound of the engine and then as the truck draws closer overpowering it, the sound of Lauralette’s rage-out tape. It isn’t an unfamiliar nose and it tells Dina very little about what to expect.

Lauralette parks the truck opposite where Dina sits. The windows glow red from the motel sign, but through that red Dina can see Lauralette. Lauralette is staring straight ahead. She takes a few moments to compose herself and then with a forceful thump she cuts out the music. Dina pushes herself up to her feet and Lauralette exits her vehicle. Neither women say anything to each other just yet, instead they hold eye-contact over the few feet between them.

It’s a game of chicken. It’s a game of who will blink first. It’s a game of Dina staring Lauralette down under the red haze and wondering if she’d see any blood. Lauralette with her hands stuff into her pockets, pulling the jacket taught and encouraging a slouched stance. Dina with a long narrow satchel over one shoulder, her hand steepled on the end of it, stood up straight to force Lauralette into meeting her gaze.

Lauralette blinks first. She bows her head, steps forward, and then steps past Dina entirely. She takes the step up to the motel lobby, opens up the door and says, “Alright. In, then.”

. .

Red glow, lunar grey-blue, dark shadows where the windows can’t reach. Lauralette sees just fine in darkness, though she’s familiar with home enough to navigate blindfolded. Lauralette winces when Dina hits the light switch behind her. The space still isn’t brightly lit by any measure, the bulbs are old and take a while to warm up and the furnishing harkens to an era where beige and muted greens were the fashionable thing.

Dina has said before the space needs an update, Lauralette always tells her it is the way she likes it.

“Tried calling you,” Dina says. She sounds distracted while looking around the front room of the apartment, looking for clues as to how Lauralette spent the week since they blew up at each other.

Lauralette shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the back of the sofa. Then with the attitude of stepping into an old routine she pulls a chair from the table and sits slouched, legs parted, fingertips balanced on a surface. She looks up at Dina who is still in the middle of the room, “Didn’t take my phone with me.”

Dina had come here telling herself she wasn’t going to play caretaker, but still she sees that old plate on Lauralette’s table with the going-stale food and she feels compelled in some way to take it to the kitchen.

Tap-tap. Fingertips on the table. The chair creaking when Lauralette leans back, head turned to track Dina, tentative, curious, too-satisfied, hunger roils and it feels too easy to think this is how her week ends.

When Dina returns Lauralette makes sure to smooth her expression to something less shark-like.

“You fuck up?” Dina asks. She stands at the end of the table and looks down at Lauralette.

“Not all the way.” Lauralette is clean. No blood on her lips or her chin or her collar and sleeves. Hungry as she is, hungry as Dina knows she must be, she hadn’t tasted blood tonight. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” Dina folds open her satchel on the table. It’s a knife-roll, though hardly a standard kit. Rather than the tools of a butcher there is a scalpel and a wooden stake and zip-ties and gauze and adhesive bandages. Lauralette had helped her put it together more than a few weeks ago and she had called it a Bloodletter’s Kit. “Hands behind the chair.”

Lauralette obeys. She sits up straight, reaches her arms behind her, and watches carefully as Dina prepares. Earlier she had felt like a predator. If she’s still an animal she wonders what sort this makes her. Dina rounds behind her and binds her hands, the zip-ties looped through the spindles of the chair. Dina pulls them extra tight and Lauralette just barely hisses at that.

“I feel teeth and I stake you,” Dina warns. It’s nothing new, but Lauralette doesn’t roll her eyes, doesn’t take any of it disingenuously. So many aspects of her – her boredom, her attitude, her confidence – they get washed away and replaced with need. Hunger. Blood is close.

“Yeah,” Lauralette answers because she doesn’t want to fuck this up. Her eyes catch the glint of silver and she licks her lips when Dina raises the scalpel to her own wrist. Dina cuts a small, thin line without flinching.

The line of precious red. Thin but thickening. Terrible in its inches out of reach, almost enough to make Lauralette lurch.

“Please,” Lauralette gasps.

That seems to do it, the plea. Dina holds the cut to Lauralette’s lips and instinct takes over from there. Lips to skin, tongue over the red line, then eyes closed she suckles from the wound. Dina holds the back of Lauralette’s head, fingers in her hair, ready to yank her away if needs be, but until that might occur only cradling. Not a drop is spilled.

This isn’t their first time doing this. The sensation is familiar to Dina. Cold up her arm, hot in her head, a silent bee-swarm sensation that buzzes throughout her body and rocks the world from left to right. For Lauralette it is a vital heat that floods into her, flushes red in her cheeks and her chest. Nothing can replicate this, nothing comes close. Not from an animal, alive or dead. Not from a donor bag, lacking a pulse. The pulse is important. Lauralette drinks to the rhythmic throb pounded out by the beat of Dina’s heart.

Then it is over. Dina pulls her arm away and stumbles backwards until she is able to catch herself by the edge of the table. Lauralette lunges forward. The chair creaks. She gasps, teeth bared. Animal. The zip-tie bindings dig into her wrists and she remembers herself.

“Ugh.” Dina grabs the gauze and turns to sit heavily on the floor. She puts pressure on her wrist and keeps the limb raised.

The room is hot. Sweat prickles at Lauralette’s skin. Her mouth is wet and that void in her stomach is gone. She sits herself up and stares up at the ceiling and feels animal instinct abate and subside. She can’t look down at Dina, not right now, not while she is too painfully aware of how warm that body is, aware that the cut on her wrist hasn’t fully closed yet.

Time passes with silence between them. The buzz of the lightbulb, the heat of their breathing. Eventually the floor groans and Dina picks herself up. Lauralette catches her in the bottom of her vision – Dina looks tired and pale, but there is less red on the gauze than one might expect. The cut is already healing. Through some property of Lauralette’s mouth, wounds close quickly, but Dina still bandages up her wrist.

“Can I?” Lauralette’s voice comes out wet and sated, but the question itself is pathetic. She’s staring at the gauze, at wasted drops of blood.

Dina’s expression curls. She’s amused and disgusted and a harder to read third thing. It’s this strange third thing that has her indulge. She shoves the bloodied gauze into Lauralette’s mouth.

“You good?” Dina asks.

Lauralette nods. She can still taste blood all over her mouth. Metallic and warm. There are precious few drops left, soaking from the gauze to her tongue. She knows how it looks, she doesn’t care.

Dina waits a beat just taking Lauralette in. This woman who had drifted into her life with supreme confidence and unsaid history and some kind of raw magnetic power. This woman who is now very much bound and at the mercy of Dina. Dina, someone who really has no idea what she would want to do with power. Dina shakes her head. She kneels down behind Lauralette and with a deft hand she cuts the ties that bind.

Lauralette slouches immediately. She folds forwards and rubs her thumbs against her wrists. “Mn.” She takes the gauze from her mouth and uses a clean side to wipe her face before tossing it across the table.

“See you tomorrow, Lette.” Dina has already packed her things away. She is shouldering her satchel and getting ready to leave.

“Wait.” Lauralette sits up, one hand on the table and the other about to reach out.

“What do you want?”

“It’s late,” Lauralette says. “You should stay.” It’s impossible for Lauralette to sound innocent here. Even sated there is a wet hunger to her voice. Blood itself makes her feel whole, but she is always, always left wanting more.

“Ugh,” Dina scoffs and shakes her head, “You’re just fucking horny because I fed you.”

Lauralette takes Dina by the wrist, leant forward almost out of her chair, “That a problem?”

Dina snatches her wrist back. She’s starting to remember clearly why she stormed out last time, why she told Lauralette to go fuck herself and tossed the spare key she had been given at the vampire’s face.

“Sorry.” Lauralette says the word like it physically pains her.

“See you tomorrow, Lette,” Dina tries again. This time she leaves without interruption.

. .

The next day, about seven in the morning. The world is dusty yellow and orange and the colour blue strikes through all that in a big rectangle shape. Lauralette is standing poolside with a big net. She has a wide-brim hat and large shades and a short sleeve floral print shirt and the heat of the sun only mildly stings and the brightness of the summer morning atmosphere is not enough to dampen her mood.

It is quiet. Soft breeze and the glug-glug of the pool’s water filter and the splash whenever she swoops the net through the surface to catch more dead leave and the occasional cigarette end.

“Oh, hey!” Some man’s voice in the distance behind her.

Lauralette squints at something odd in the water. She has to lean to reach it with the net, but an expert’s hand swipes it from the water.

“Hey!” He’s getting closer. The man is loud, but trying not to sound threatening.

Lauralette pulls a face when she has to touch the net to get the strange bit of litter free. It must be some type of business card, but the ink is all run and ruined.

“Did you know the ice-machine is broken?” The man asks her. He’s not just a few feet away.

Lauralette doesn’t want to deal with all that. She swoops the net back into the water. She will pretend not to hear him for at least six seconds longer. It’s going to be a good week.

. . .

Read more like this?

#writeblr #creative writing #horror #queer fiction #prose #short story #original fiction #sapphic #vampire

3 notes · View notes

prydainroyals · 9 months

Text

“Now, with all that out of the way-- have you any questions or concerns? Best to be voicing them now while you have my ear,” the Captain advised, swiftly moving on.

Arthur could see the Captain clearly did not have some sort of bone to pick, or a grudge, or some strange insecurity relating to Arthur’s status. His intentions seemed to be that he would be firm but fair; this assumption was backed up by what he’d heard about the Captain. At least, that’s what Arthur hoped.

It was...

Refreshing.

He didn’t want to be His Royal Highness.

He just wanted to be.

“None, thank you Sir, Captain,” Arthur answered truthfully as he felt the tension of long travel and social anxieties wash away; dashed like fruitless waves against the firm structure of military life and reasonable expectations.

“A-actually--” Arthur suddenly amended. “Permission to speak?”

The Captain tilted his head curiously and nodded. “Granted.”

Arthur took a breath to steel himself. Either this effort of honesty was going to backfire, or it would help build trust. His mother had always instilled in him how important trust was, even, and especially when, trusting others might seem impossible.

“When I said I don’t expect special treatment, I meant it, Sir. I am grateful, really, for the chance you’ve given me to winter here under your command. And I am grateful for the chance to be a Lieutenant, not a Prince.” He met the Captain’s clear, blue eyes with his own sharp green ones and pushed onward through the terror of laying the groundwork for quality candor.

“I intend to make the most of the opportunity, and... above all, I consider the integrity and safety of the operations here to be far more important than-- well, than my ego, or my status. I’ll do my best not to let you and the others down, Sir.”

... Not the most heroic or valiant dismount, but it would do.

Arthur took another breath, realizing he’d tensed up again.

“Is-- Uh-- Will that be all, Sir?” he asked.

Thoughtfully, the Captain nodded. “... That will indeed be all. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant-- have yourself a good rest, your shift starts at four tomorrow morning so you’ll be needing it.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Arthur did a remarkable job at hiding his disappointment at the lack of a response, and rose to his feet, made for the door of the Captain Commander’s office--

“Lieutenant, wait just a moment--”

Francis stood as well, crossed the office from behind his desk and stood firmly as he regarded Arthur, studied him up and down, took a moment to choose his words.

Arthur swallowed, shoulders tense, but before he could say a thing--

“I wouldn’t have chosen you as Chief Engineering Officer if I had little or no faith in your ability to do the job,” Francis told him. “I hand-pick each and every person under my command, Lieutenant. If you’re working here, it’s because I want you to be.”

“... Thank you, Captain. Thank you.”

- - -

You can spot the exact moment the Prince of Daddy Issues imprints on the Captain like a baby duckling.

- - -

PREV | BEGINNING | NEXT

- - -

#c: arthur #c: francis #atff: story #I promise there's more settings than CAPTAIN'S OFFICE

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cuiizhu · 5 days

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Helios Rising Heroes - Rise on GoldenXXsection

Chapter 5:

Gast: “GoldenXXsection’s first tour has been announced! Fans rejoice as they perform new songs!”

Gast: It’s become a hot topic, hasn’t it? I’m glad. Homecoming also seems to be well-received.

Asch: Amongst the fans, right?

Asch: LILIAN took all the rest of the public’s attention.

Gast: …………

Asch: Take a look. A whole fucking day after the festival, and they’re still topping the trending charts.

Asch: Even those who went just to mock them and call it a bad move all said they were “good-looking”.

Asch: ……If you were so confident in your appearances, why didn’t you just show your faces in the first place?

Gast: Wasn’t that part of the plan?

Asch: Aah?

Gast: They chose this method because they were confident, not just in their singing, but their visuals……

Gast: In fact, people in the industry are praising it for deepening its worldview and direction, so the effects have only been positive so far.

Asch: Tsk…. They really do have some kind of skilled producer over there huh?

Gast: …..I wonder……

Gast: Anyways…. Akira?

Gast: Huh, where’d that guy go? He should’ve come here, but……

Asch: He’s over there.

Gast: Eh!?

Akira: …………🧍

Gast: Oi, Akira, what are you doing in that corner!? That atmosphere like you’re growing mushrooms is so unlike you?

Akira: …..Leave me alone.

Asch: Hmph, this is why you’re just a kid…..

Asch: I told you that rehearsals are part of your job. Pull yourself together.

Gast: I guess what happened yesterday must have come as a big shock….. Well, only fans came to listen to us, after all.

Gast: I thought it was admirable you were still able to give your all under those circumstances. You did a great job—

Asch: The fuck are you saying? Are you implying yesterday was just some kinda bad luck?

Gast: Eh…no, that’s not what I…..?

Asch: Haah, you’re no different to that guy, both still brats.

Asch: No matter how you look at it, that was an act of sabotage. Pulling that kind of stunt specifically on a stage where others would be performing.

Gast: Sabotage……

Asch: The more I think about it, the more it feels like LILIAN’s got a bone to pick with us. There have been many offers aside from the commercial they’ve stolen from right under our nose.

Asch: It’s annoying……. If you’re gonna start a rivalry, at least compete with us on technical skill—by song and performance.

Gast: That’s some overthinking alright……

Asch: That’s just how this industry is.

Gast: ………….

Gast: Huh, by the way, what happened to Dino? It’s about time for rehearsals……

Asch: He arrived earlier and had some pizza, but left when the producer called him.

Gast: Eh….did something happen again?

Asch: Beats me. Well, besides LILIAN, there’s a ton of things it could be.

Gast: ……….

Asch: We can rehearse even without Dino. Let’s warm up on our own.

Gast: Y-yeah…..

Gast: S’pose you’re right. I don’t have as many rehearsal opportunities as everyone else…. I realized that yesterday.

Gast: Recently the number of people going “Gast’s just here for his face” have increased, so I have to prove them wrong.

Asch: …..On social media?

Gast: Mainly, yeah. Though it’s the kinda comment that can sprout up anywhere, right?

Gast: Truthfully, I’m pretty average in terms of singing and dancing, so I don’t take it to heart when they say that.

[door opens and shuts]

Asch: ……You—

[Dino walks over]

Gast: Oh, Dino! You’re finally here….eh

Dino: …………

Gast: D-did something happen?

Asch: From looks alone it looks like something frustrating again, too.

Gast: You were called by the producer, right? …..Did he say anything?

Dino: …………

Gast: Dino?

Dino: Actually…about that……

Dino: Next week’s weekly magazine is going to feature an article on a scandal about you, Gast-kun……..

Prev || Masterlist || Next

#helios rising heroes #cuitranslates #rise on gxxs #gast adler #dino albani #asch albright #akira ootori

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borisbubbles · 1 year

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Eurovision 2022: #03

03. SWEDEN Cornelia Jakobs - “Hold me closer” 4th place

youtube

Decade Ranking: 6/79 [Above Monika Liu, below Barbara Pravi]

Reality can sometimes be a big cruel jape. Through providence, Sweden finally send a woman to Eurovision She was selected basically through sheer luck (and thank Vishnu can you imagine how low Sweden would have ranked if they had picked Baggy Anders?) and yet quickly became their best hope for a top 3 since 2012, and rose as a contender, beloved by all.

She was left stranded in fouth place.

Seriously, how did Cornelia not win? Yeah I know why (The Circumstances) but honestly it’s moments like *this song* being a *fourth placer* that sometimes call the validity of the contest into question. I honest, hand-on-heart feel that without the invasion everyone would have flocked to the altar to Cornelia and willed her victory into reality. Like, yeah the Chanel stans calculated that -surprise- Spain would have won with a Ukraine WD, but are we really going do indulge their headcanon? Fuck no, and I say this as someone who has just ranked Chanel ahead of Cornelia Jakobs.

Anyway, we have finally arrived at the final instance of “This was some really good music” on the 2022 ranking. As with many of my faves this year, I felt like Sweden finally did something that they should have done years ago: send a GREAT indie pop song to the contest, one that validates Sweden’s reputation at the contest while simultaneously invalidating the claim that only overproduced, generic-sounding scandi-blandi pop has a shot at winning Mello.

And it’s definitely a challenge to be a better ballad than “Hold me closer” - It’s as graceful and poignant as Cornelia Jakobs herself. Lines such as “So baby bye bye, wish you the best, but most of all I wish that I could love you less”, “you say it isn’t me but when did that ever help” and “so before the sunrise, could you just holllllllllllld me tiiiiiiiiiight” just go through bone and marrow, through sinew and flesh, through heart and soul.

The Real Songs of this world don’t have “socially relevant” or "academic” topics - they turn the most banal, universal feelings and make them feel special. Cornelia delivered her message with such a rawness, with such a fatalistic truth I’m longer flesh and bone when I give Hold Me Closer a listen. I’m a marshmallow man.

Because I went there. We ALL went there. Everybody who has ever loved and has felt unloved has went there, which is everyone. When Cornelia sings from the heart, truthfully and unpretentiously, she speaks for us, and that’s #Powerful.

So why only third? Well, two things. First of all, while I love the staging (Cornelia slamming a giant hoop, then fruitlessly begging the crowd for affection 😭😭😭) , the performances are Melfest were better. The first ever live performance of Hold Me Closer was its best, and Sweden never managed to recreate the same feeling of magic in Turin, despite being one of the few countries to be fully unaffected by the Kinetic Sun.

And secondly, I usually do rank my indie weirdo’s first, so why not change it up? In Corpore Sano and SloMo are not as good as songs, sure, but Eurovision is a Live Performance Contest first, and only a Song Contest second. And thank fuck it is, because otherwise the stage show would hold no relevance of its own and we would just be ranking music videos.

Still, there’s only one truth to Hold Me Closer and that is this:

Tattoo will do better in Liverpool and this is something we should ALL feel a little bit uneasy about. 🙂

The Ranking.

#Eurovision 2022 #ESC 2022 #ESC #Eurovision Song Contest #BorisBubbles #Ranking #Sweden #Cornelia Jakobs #Hold Me Closer

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imyourliquor-youremypoison · 27 days

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Trainwreck (OC fiction) - Part 1

This is just a little something-something that i wrote for myself. It's not finished yet (even though I started drafting this idea in 2018) but I have fun getting back to writing more again, and so this work is finally born.

It's not a fanfic, feel free to ignore if it's not your thing.

Boy x Girl, not mature in anyway, an ode to falling in love, however briefly, with strangers

4.5k words

MASTERLIST

>>> Part 2

(If you need a little push imagination-wise, here's what I pictured the boy to look like)

As far as her memory went, Jo couldn’t recall the last time she’d had such an awful day. It started off with a nice, good nosebleed at seven in the morning, followed by the light bulb frying off when she tried to turn on her lamp to grab a tissue and stop the bleeding. After changing the bedsheets and putting the bloody ones in the washer, she was running late. She ripped her favorite tights when she hastily put them on, and she had to go for a pair of jeans instead of the skirt she planned to wear.

Eventually, when her rough beginning of the day was over – or so she thought – she walked to the train station, only to find out that her train was twenty minutes late. Not that delayed trains were a rare thing, but today really got its place in Jo’s top five worst days when it started pouring rain, drenching her to the bones before she even had a chance to pull her umbrella out of her bag. And truthfully, at this point, was it even worth it to open it? She was late, wet, cold, and couldn’t imagine there was anything in the world that could salvage today.

She sighed, and still pulled out the umbrella. How stupid would she look if she’d just stood in the pouring rain, umbrella closed in her hand?

Now there she was, standing stiffly along the rails, waiting in a late-November rainstorm, pondering the pros and cons of jumping in front of the train. A girl can only endure so much. Jo was no exception, which was why she stood there, lips pursed and face adorned with her award-winning resting bitch face to keep away any potential old lady who’d want to chat her up about how it’s a shame that trains are always late.

In the rush, she didn’t grab her gloves and when she noticed the tip of her fingers turning blue, she painstakingly wiggled one into the small pocket of her jeans – the other one was holding the umbrella, unfortunately. It didn’t do any good, causing her to grumble to herself, wondering if today’s classes were worth so much trouble or if she should just head back to her apartment and not leave the coziness of her feather duvet until the end of the week. It was only Tuesday and already Jo couldn’t wait for the much-needed week-end to finally start.

In order to keep herself busy for the next fifteen minutes, she put on her earphones and some blasted the loudest, most angry music she had downloaded on her Spotify, something that reflected accurately her current mood – and once again, she cursed silently the world. She really wished she had chosen to take her car today – parking was always a hassle but by God, she would give anything to be sitting her dry, warm car, mindlessly singing along to the lyrics. She obviously couldn’t do that here, there were other persons around her waiting for their train, and she wasn’t a nut job.

After what seemed like an eternity, the train arrived in the station, and when the engine finally arrived to a stop, a few feet away from where she stood, shaking from head to toe from the biting wind, she could have cried.

Suddenly, everybody rushed towards the opening doors, eager to escape from the downpour and find shelter in the train. In the mayhem, somebody bumped into Jo’s shoulder, causing her bag to drop down into her elbow and making her let go of her umbrella.

A gasp of surprise and yet another groan fell from her lips as she quickly put her bag back on her shoulder and knelt down to pick up her umbrella and close it so she could enter the train. Jo looked up to see who the culprit was, ready to lash out because today of all days wasn’t a good time to not apologize to her. She froze dead in her tracks.

A single glance at the boy standing before her eyes made her swallow back whatever she was going to say – and almost stumble back and trip on her own feet. His blue grayish stare took her aback, and he mouthed a swift ‘sorry’ along with an apologetic look – but was truly caught her attention was the fact that he only had one eye fully open. Before she could take her rudeness further, the familiar whistle signaling the doors closing was heard. He turned around to go take a seat, and the spell was broken.

Still a bit unnerved by the peculiarity of this boy’s captivating single eye, Jo mindlessly made her way down the alley and sat down as far away from other people as possible, shrugging off her coat and carefully putting her dripping umbrella on the floor. After shoving her scarf in her bag, she took out a book and started digging to search for her glasses aggressively pushing stuff out of her way, but finding nothing.

“You gotta be fucking kiddin’ me!” she whisper-shouted to herself. The only thing that could have made this day worse just happened. Her hands flew up in defeat and she leaned back, seriously considering jumping off the bandwagon. Short of finding a five hundred dollars bill on the floor, this day was definitely ruined.

She opened her book regardless, determined to get a few pages in, even though it would be particularly tiring to read without her glasses. Jo furiously flipped the pages until she reached her bookmark, letting out all of her frustration on that poor book. Aside from her issues seeing the words on the pages, Jo’s reading was greatly disrupted by the fact that her mind kept drifting back to this guy’s unearthly eye color – and she couldn’t help being intrigued by his other eye, the one that didn’t open all the way up.

She felt uneasy and somewhat ashamed that it was so big of a deal for her – as if she should have noticed him for something else, anything else than his ill eye. This whole ‘one eye’ thing had her brain upside down and she wondered whether or not it was normal to be this interested in some stranger’s condition. Maybe ‘normal’ wasn’t the right word, but it was human. Most people would probably look away as quickly as they could, as if voiding eye contact would prevent contagion as if it was actually contagious. Then, they’d pass it off as politeness. It’s rude to stare.

Well, it is. But at least she didn’t pretend she didn’t see it. It’s right there, in the middle of his face. Wouldn’t it be worse to ignore it? Was she overthinking this?

He must receive so many indiscreet stares… Jo felt a surge of embarrassment heat up her face when she realized how she had looked at him when their eyes met. A sudden urge to smash her face in the seat before her overwhelmed her. On the other hand, she wasn’t expecting that, so it was understandable to be surprised, right? Anyway, now that the unfortunate meeting was history, she could let her mind wander a bit, that wouldn’t hurt no one.

What happened to him? A disease? A physical trauma? Just some dust in his eye? Did he still see with that eye? She’ll most definitely never get answers to her questions, but she couldn’t help but wonder. She was a curious one, and sometimes she overstepped her boundaries when she really wanted to know something – although in this case, she might think twice about it, because speaking to attractive boys wasn’t exactly her forte.

This reminded her of sixth grade when she had a crush on this boy, Adrian, because he had this accident in PE and ended up having an arm-brace for a few months. Later on, when Jo mentioned this childhood crush to her friends – because once you are over twenty, sixth grade is labeled as childhood – they teased her about it, saying that she was the ‘mom’ kind of girlfriend. The type of girls that only go for guys who could potentially need them, as if tending to their wounds – physical or emotional – would make them win their affection.

This really is a thing. At the time, Jo laughed it off with her friends before changing the subject, but when she came home, she took the time to cogitate a bit, and she realized just how accurate her friends were. But going after the broken ones wasn’t a sport, and Jo couldn’t help how she felt, and for lack of a better word she was drawn to vulnerable people.

Before taking her reflection too far down that slippery slope, she shook her head to chase away those parasite thoughts. She abruptly closed her book single handedly with a loud thud, causing the few people sharing the wagon to look up from whatever they were doing to seek out the source of the disturbance. The sudden attention brought to her made her face heat up and she knew she was red as a ripe cherry.

In an attempt to escape those prying eyes judging her for troubling the religious silence reigning in the wagon, Jo desperately searched for some place she could set her eyes on. Finally, her face cooled down and she relaxed in her seat, wondering what she'd do in class today without her glasses. But once again her train of thoughts was interrupted by the feeling of somebody looking at her.

Everybody knows the unsettling feeling of having a stare so intense directed to you that you could physically sense it, as tangible as the touch of a hand against one's cheek. Darting her gaze around to find the source of the disturbance, Jo frowned her brows, wondering if maybe someone she knew was on board and recognized her. But she didn't recall seeing any familiar faces when she waited at the train station. Eventually, she found what she was looking for. Once again, her cheeks flushed a bright pink and it was suddenly extremely hot in here, especially when the boy from before stared a hole through her head - Jo couldn't fathom how intense his gaze would be if both his eyes were fully open.

For a good five seconds, their eyes were locked and the girl wondered what would be more awkward: looking away with the blush obvious on her cheeks or supporting his stare, at the risk of freaking him out. In the end she decided it was safer to look away because she didn't trust herself to uphold his gaze any longer.

When she looked down to her lap, a wave of regret washed over her - what if he thought she looked at him because of his eye? Of course, it was the truth in a way, although there was much more to him than his sight issues. Indeed the 'boy' must be around her age, maybe a little older but not by much. His valid eye was a light shade of ice blue, piercing with intensity and he seemed not at all bothered by his other eye. His dirty blond hair was stylishly put back and tamed in a way that Jo couldn't even dream to achieve with her own long, inconvenient hair. He had one of these noses which you want to boop and had a nice curved slope. His lips were full and sharp and gave his face a slight femininity that suited him and graced him with a certain fragile charm. He harbored the same uniqueness and delicacy as snowflakes, without losing any of his male beauty.

If she hadn't already drawn enough attention to her, Jo would have face palmed herself for looking away. She felt as though she had missed her chance with this guy even though there was nothing there to begin with, and she certainly had no intention of hitting on him.

She didn’t.

He managed to intrigue her, beyond the physical peculiarity there was something edgy and elusive about him. He was sitting rather far away from where she was but he was just in her line of sight. When she dared to peek between the seats in front of her to see him again, he was staring out the window. He couldn't see her at all because she was on the side of his bad eye. It allowed her to take a better look - although blurry because of the absence of glasses on her nose - at the droopy eye. It wasn't completely closed, it was more like he couldn't open it and it remained oddly narrowed, resulting in a lazy stare. The contrast with his other eye was mainly due to his eye color though, and Jo wished he would look her way again. This made her shake her head again because what in God's name would make her want to confront his stare again? First of all, she would probably look away as she did before and then-

He was simply too handsome for her own good. At this point, she figured she maybe should’ve thanked him for bumping into her. He looked so put-together, so clean and sleek – not at all like someone who had braved the rain to catch a train-ride. This only reminded her that she, in fact, did not possess such grace, and currently looked like a drowned dog. Felt like it, too.

She was one to go weak in the knees when she had to talk to an attractive person and ended up stuttering out some idiotic sentence which would later feed on her esprit de l'escalier. This guy though, had a magnetic effect on her, despite the fear of being caught red-handed eying him - for the second time! Suddenly his eye left the landscape to focus back on the inside of the train, apparently with the intention of finding her eyes because he locked his gaze right with hers. This time the awkwardness was gone. The unease was replaced by a sort of calm curiosity from both parts - they were studying each other. Jo was overwhelmed with the strange impression that the outcome of this staring contest had a lot more at stake than what it seemed. Her heart missed a beat when the corner of his mouth curved up a little. He was smirking at her, and before her brain had the time to process what was happening, she felt her own lips curl into a faint smile, returning the silent address.

And in that exact moment, she realized just how screwed she was, because she knew this strange boy was the new object of her wavering affection, and hopefully, she’d get over this instant crush by the end of the day.

How fucking wrong she was.

The following week was even more stressful than the last one, though this time she arrived ten minutes early – just in case, not at all because she hoped to see the guy again. Jo stomped as if angry at the whole world and paced around the platform like a caged lion. At some point she had to stop because this old lady was giving her a judgmental look while clutching at her small flower pattern tote bag, as if she thought Jo was some kind of drug addict who needed her fix and was about to jump to her throat, teeth out, foam dripping down her chin.

All this because she couldn’t stay still. The girl huffed and stopped walking. Before pulling her tights up, she made sure no one was looking her way, and she also quickly checked her hair in the nearest window. Her makeup hardly hid the dark circles adorning her face, but she did as well as she could. Her hair kept flying in her face because of the wind and she constantly had to pull it back with one hand, while the other one was on the hem of her dress to keep it down and make sure it wouldn’t go all Marilyn Monroe on her. After five minutes of this game, Jo groaned and forcefully closed her coat, crossing her arms over her chest and blowing air upwards to chase her hair out of her face. A small laughter erupted from behind her.

She spun on her heels to see who was making fun of her distress and immediately felt her face fire up again. Of course, it was him. But how long had he been? How long had he watched her struggle with her hair and outfit? Jo was overwhelmed with the urge to dig a hole and crawl in it to die. Well… at least it didn’t rain this time.

“What are you laughing at?” she snapped, mentally scolding herself for being rude, although it wasn’t very nice of him to mock her either. The first wave of guilt vanished pretty quickly and the girl applauded herself for not just blushing and looking away like a schoolgirl. It was his fault; he shouldn’t have laughed.

“Comfort being sacrificed on the altar of beauty,” he stated enigmatically, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jo’s mouth fell agape, and he looked proud to have her at loss for words, yet when she processed what he told her and finally went to answer him, he suddenly strode away, as if shying away from the conversation.

The underlying compliment in his sentence had her confused and a tab bit flustered, but she inwardly slapped herself to regain her senses and do something. God, he said something to her – he didn’t have to but he did – she couldn’t just let the conversation stop there. Even though she wasn’t sure this exchange deserved to be called a conversation.

When she was about to follow him and speak up again, she was interrupted by the honk of the train. After that the small gathering of people waiting there started moving towards the deck, waiting for the complete stop of the engine. Her timing was so bad Jo actually considered having offended whatever superior power there was, because this much bad luck couldn’t be natural, or coincidental. She went with the flow and followed the other people inside, a bit disappointed that she lost sight of him so quickly.

However, as soon as she got inside, she spotted the boy and pondered the pros and cons of making a bold move like sitting next to him, despite of the many, many empty seats around him. If she thought about it too long, she’d back down. Before changing her mind, she bee-lined towards him, almost tripping over some rogue luggage on her way down the alley, but quickly reaching the empty seat.

When she arrived, there was his bag on it.

“May I?” Jo asked, her voice unsure but at least not stuttering. He looked up, startled but trying not to be rude and automatically nodding his head, but not giving any sign of removing the bag from the seat. “-unless you want to be alone?” she asked, her eyes switching between him and the seat.

She would have sworn he blushed, but he took the bag and turned to the window before she could see for good. Jo sat down, a bit too slowly not to make it awkward, but it was so obvious that he agreed just because she took him aback that she hesitated a second. If he kept acting like this, the next thirty minutes were going to be incredibly uncomfortable. For the first five minutes, it felt to her that he was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact. It was stupid though, wasn’t it? They already had made eye contact earlier, and last week.

“What’s your name?” she blurted out, ignoring all and any social conventions. Maybe she should have opened up with her own name first. Too late for that now though – God, she should not be allowed out in public.

The stranger turned to face her, once again speechless as he stared at her – probably regretting letting a weird girl who kept staring at him sit with him. His valid eye was wide open as the other remained half closed, barely opened and still. There was surprise painted all over his graciously flawed face and his lips fell open as he continued to soak up the details of her face.

Jo had dark brown eyes, one of those straight and pointy noses with a beauty spot on the bridge of her nose and a mouth that was made to smile. Her hair was a mess still, but she was a pretty girl, in a wild sort of way.

“You know, if I didn’t hear you speak before, I’d think you’re mute,” she suddenly told him, raising an amused eyebrow. This had the effect of relaxing him slightly, and when she saw the tension leave his jaw, she smiled.

“Sorry,” he felt the need to apologize. This one word sent shivers down her spine. That voice.

“I’m Joyce. Jo for short.” Her smile widened even more and he didn’t know what to do.

“Roman,” he managed to voice, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You’re the girl from last week?”

Jo invoked all of her self-control not to blush. “That would be me.” She nodded, not looking down in her lap now. At least that was out of the way, she thought.

This was about as awkward as it could get, and the tension between them was so thick Jo actually considered taking out a knife – not that she carried one with her – and cut through it. She knew he was aware of it too, but neither of them knew what to do about it. Last week’s playful smirk he shot her was a much better start than this conversation which led them nowhere. Although, Jo suspected she knew where the unusual awkwardness came from. She was more than capable of making friends with ease, so there had to be more to it than just a bit of shyness. It had to be his eye. Was he self-conscious?

Within a second, she had made her decision, and before giving it a second thought, she blurted out, “Ptosis of the eyelid[1], right?”

“Excuse me?” he asked, his eye almost popping out. If he wasn’t sitting at the window, she was sure he’d run away as fast as light speed.

“I figured I might as well talk about the elephant in the room. It would be even ruder of me to pretend I don’t notice, wouldn’t it?” she reasoned, progressively making his confused and shocked frown disappear. “And just to make it clear, I’m not sitting here out of morbid curiosity.”

“Then why?” he replied, giving her a suspicious look.

Because you’re handsome, and you smirked while looking at me, and I have knots in my stomach right now because of how nervous I am.

“Do I need a reason?” she said.

“If I say yes, would you tell me the truth?” he answered her question with another one. His brows shot up, causing a wrinkle to draw on his forehead. She nodded. “Then yes.”

“I think you’re attractive.” There, she said it. Dammit. If she ever told her friends about this, they’d all squeal so high-pitched she’d go deaf instantly. Jo wasn’t known to be so bold.

The stranger’s face suddenly flushed red and he blinked and turned to the window to avoid her gaze before saying, “Well, that was straightforward. But I asked for honesty so I’m not complaining.”

“You look surprised,” she stated. It sort of felt like she was in control of the conversation at this point, and she enjoyed the feeling. His eye went back to her, and this time he was smiling too – though it was discrete.

“It’s not every day that a pretty girl hits on me so boldly,” he simply answered. But it was the second time today that he complimented her indirectly, and this time she wasn’t going to let it go away. For some odd reason, she was drawn to him in a way she had never experienced before. He was there, at arm length and she wanted to reach out and touch him – and only her common sense prevented her from doing so.

Putting her bag under her seat, Jo brought her left leg up and over her right, putting herself more at ease. This particular show of relaxation gave Roman confidence and he ditched the landscape to focus back on her, with a boyish grin plastered on his pale face, his one opened blue eye piercing right through her.

“You could have spoken to me last week. You don’t strike me as a shy person,” he said. “After all, you did come today.” He also crossed his legs, placing his left ankle on his right knee, and fiddling with his shoe laces.

“Oh no, last week I couldn’t. Even today, I always didn’t. I’m not used to this, what I figured, what did I have to lose?” The girl shrugged, telling him the truth. He was slowly warming up at her and this was a good thing if they intended to flirt during the whole ride.

“What indeed,” he said distractedly, slightly biting on his lower lip. Jo saw his Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallowed nervously.

“My ego might have been a little wounded if you told me to sit somewhere else, and I probably wouldn't have approached a guy again for the next fifteen years of my life,” she dramatized and made a funny face to make him laugh. “But aside from that, I thought it was worth a shot.”

“I am honored that you deemed my company worth the risk,” he joked, playing along. “If you don’t mind me asking, why exactly, couldn’t you speak to me last week?”

Jo sighed a long sigh.

“I was on a massive streak of bad luck last week. If I’d so much as tried to walk past your seat, the train would have abruptly pulled the brakes, and I’d have fallen right into your lap or something ridiculous like that.”

Now Roman laughed a little louder, visibly not having expected this explanation. He threw his head back a little, and Jo’s chest flare up with pride at having made him laugh.

“I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t that,” he eventually said. “Did you rehearse this conversation beforehand? I feel… sort of- unprepared compared to you.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, you’re doing great,” she reassured him, going as far as gently bumping her shoulder against his.

She regretted it almost right away, wondering if she was going too far with this virtual stranger. They met minutes ago and she was already cozying up to him, maybe he would find it weird.

He didn’t seem to mind, though.

“So-“ he began. “Tell me, where are you going every Tuesday with the 9a.m. train?”

[1] Disease that causes the eyelids to drop (one of them or both), making it difficult or impossible to open the eye completely.

#writing is hard #alyssa talks #bill skarsgård

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seokjinsonlyone · 3 years

Text

so i got on tiktok for more than five minutes for the first time in like a month the other day and i saw they was doing this trend where it’s sorta like fmk but like husband, boyfriend, or sneaky link and i just wanted to add my two cents

namjoon:

this is your boyfriend

i know you may be thinking ???? boyfriend???? not husband??????????

but yes boyfriend listen we all know this man is brilliant; big brained and big bodied; cognitive skills off the charts; he knows a thing or two about a thing or two

however, he just ain’t there yet 😭 he don’t even got his license y’all gon flub on the contraceptives once or twice and next thing you know you strapping your kid into the basket of his bike so he can drop them off to school 😩

and his cooking……….. like watching this man with a knife gives me anxiety

he has a bit of growth to do but that’s why you date before getting married 🥳🥳🥳

y’all would go on the beeeest dates i’m talking museums, picnics, hikes, and yes bike rides

and like he’s just so sweet and thoughtful and he tries his very best to be gentle despite his destructive nature so it would just be so cute and fun for him to be your boyfriend

seokjin:

it goes without saying that this is your husband

to be honest ion even really need to elaborate on this one like…

he cooks; he cleans; he’s thoughtful, supportive, silly, will do anything to make you happy…

everything you could ever want and need in a man is manifested in kim seokjin

so just lemme tell you what this ^^ gif is this is like three months after you’ve given birth to your second child

he got home from work way later than expected he was tired exhausted really but still helped you with your new baby taking turns tending to them on and off all night

you had just gotten into a really good sleep when your alarm went off signaling it was time to get child number 1 up and ready for school

you groaned sitting up but before you could even get out of bed he was wiping the sleep from his eyes and telling you he was going to take care of it

“but you got off late last night and you helped me too”

he reassured you that it was fine and that he had it he knew how hard you worked all day everyday and you never got the opportunity to clock out

it was his day off anyway so he kissed your forehead and told you to get back to sleep

which was a bit easier said than done bc those two were like bulls in a china cabinet there was whining and scuttling all around a few disagreements on which outfit your child should wear and what they should eat for breakfast

but soon enough you looked out the window and saw jin adjusting his shorts and a few seconds later your child bobbling out after him backpack a little too big for their body before they walked hand in hand to the car

that’s… what that is… that’s your husband

and when i say your i mean mine that’s my husband

you can keep scrolling 😗✌️

yoongi:

husband <33333

like jin this man is the total package

he cooks, cleans, is loving and supportive, will take care of you emotionally, and on top of that he’s handy! extensive knowledge about interior design!

like if you want some pictures hanged or a shelf built or something this is the man for you

your lil bob the builder <3

like idk what it is with this man but something about him is just so soft and makes me want to love and be loved by him

like if this is not your husband this is your long term boyfriend you are dating him for no less than five years and when you part way you ain’t gon know how to live without him

so don’t leave

bring the documents he already said so

hoseok:

boyfriend 100%

hobi just seems so partnerable

i look at him and i see movie nights and pillow talk

i see cuddles and late night facetime calls

your own personal hope on the streets when he wants to loosen up or practice or relieve stress😩

you go to a restaurant and each pick a dish and share it with each other like he’s very much giving one milkshake 2 straws

or you two cook together side by side he’s chopping vegetables and cleaning while you’re sautéing and stir frying and what not

you go shopping with him and critique his outfits when he tries them on and vice versa

i don’t even know man i just see hobi and i think he’s flawless i want to give him the world

and i think about that time when he said one of his personal goals was to become special to someone 😭😭😭

so like girl get your boyfriend and just give him all the love he’s searching for all the love he deserves

jimin:

….sneaky link

look at him smh caught in 4k sending a “you up?” text at the tender hour of 3am

idk what to tell ya man he just ain’t bout it rn

he ain’t looking for nothing but fun

atm it’s just him and his bros

every once in a while he’ll go searching for a connection for a night or two

there may be a few repeat offenders a string of flings if you will but never anything serious

i can see it in his eyes everyone can really bc he flirts with every living and nonliving thing in sight

taehyung:

husband

now you may be thinking… is he not on par with namjoon when it comes to practical skills???

and like yes perhaps but he definitely is not as much as a liability

like i think i can trust him to open a packet of barbecue sauce without risk of ruining my outfit and like i know i wouldn’t fear for my life if he was slicing a hard boiled egg

which is not to say that i wouldn’t mind getting stabbed by joon there are certainly worse ways to go but that’s not what we’re talking about

what we’re talking about is tae and how i just know with him you’d be safe physically mentally and emotionally 🥺🥺🥺

and idk if it’s bc i done seen him in slacks one too many times but something about him just screams commitment

like he’s giving 401k he’s giving life insurance he’s giving condo in florida where you spend the winter bc your bones get too cold where you normally live

but you know what he’s also giving passion like you will 100% spend the rest of your life in love with this man

like in that picture it’s giving you’ve been married for three years it’s wednesday and he’s off so he asked you on a date

it’s taking you longer than anticipated to get ready you wanted to look pretty for him bc truthfully you don’t get to go on dates often as much as he’d like to

your hair and makeup is finally done so you find him and tell him you’re almost done and you’ll be out as soon as you slip on your outfit

he lazily turns his head to you and tells you to take your time there’s no rush and he’s just looking at you with absolute hearts in his eyes

you’re not even fully ready and there’s hearts in his eyes 😭 it makes your heart race and you can’t keep the smile off your face as you get ready for your date, for the rest of your life together with him

jungkook:

i know y’all gon hate to hear this one but… sneaky link

^^ that may be your boyfriend but you ain’t his girlfriend 😭

that is the face of someone you called and told that you wanted to stop messing around bc you was getting attached but he convinced you that it didn’t have to be all that and acted cute until you changed your mind

listen this man is in his prime he ain’t tryna settle down

the moment you try to commit is the moment he jumps out the window

and this is not to say that he’s not a good boy but like i’ve known jungkooks i’ve been friends with jungkooks and the second you try to take things farther than what they want that’s when they stomp all over your heart

however i do firmly believe that jungkook ain’t like them others he’s more than a good boy he’s the best boy

and if he like idk heard bells when you walked by or was pulled by the red string of fate or like felt the yearning or whatever it is that he done conjured up in his head he’d be everything and more 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

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lunaslovelyrambles · 3 years

Note

hi! can i request a scenario where instead of sasha dying it’s levi’s s/o? ty!

OOPE YEAH OFC YOU CAN. i haven’t written a scenario in a long ass time so i hope this is good for you!

sort of spoilers for s4 ep8, angst, some swearing, death/blood

——

levi ackerman

“It’s here,” Connie remarked, pointing towards the airship approaching from the distance. You felt relieved. Finally, this fight would be over and you could go home with everyone- with Levi.

“Thank god,” you breathed out, aiming your ODM gear at the ship and retreating. Jean and Sasha were ahead of you while Connie and the rest of the squad followed suit.

You gripped onto the rope netting outside of the ship as you watched the rest of your fellow soldiers board. One by one, everyone had boarded except for Lobov who was watching the rear of the ship.

Jean held his hand out to you, pulling you aboard the airship next. Some sort of feeling of safety fell over you as you found your footing inside. You were by no means in the clear yet; after all you were still in the middle of enemy territory. But you took comfort in Jean’s words that they didn’t have the weapons to take down an airship.

You knew he was right. However that didn’t stop your beating heart as you were high on adrenaline from the fight prior.

A deep sigh escaped your lips. The fighting was over for now. Finally..

“Did anyone see Levi board?” you asked towards the group in front of you. A few of them nodded and pointed toward the door towards the far end of the ship.

“He arrived before all of us, he’s in there with Eren now,” a cadet said. You simply nodded at that. You knew about his.. feelings towards the Titan shifter and how he felt about the whole event today. Knowing this, you knew that the conversation happening behind that door was not a pretty one.

Despite every bone in your body wanting to rush to him to ensure he was okay (despite you knowing fully well that he was) you chose to avoid entering that room.

As you leaned against the wall, Floch began hollering about how the day was a victory and that they should be honoring their few fallen comrades. It brought a small smile to your lips, how naive they could be about the whole event.

Despite the loud screams of them all your ears still managed to pick up what sounded like a thump behind you. Sasha seemed to hear it as well.

Just as you were about to reassure your concerns, your eyes caught the sight of a child behind you pointing their gun at Sasha. Fear struck through all of your eyes.

A loud bang went off as the young girl shot at Sasha.

But the bullet didn’t hit her. No, it hit you.

At the last second you jumped out in front of your comrade and pushed her to the side, effectively taking the hit for her. You don’t know what sparked you to react. Was it your body acting quicker than your brain? Or did some part of you actually think this through?

You didn’t know. You weren’t even thinking about it anymore. All you could think about was how tired you felt, and an overwhelming desire to see your lover.

“S-Shit! (Y/N)! Someone get the medkit..! And the Captain!” a voice said. Connie’s..? Jean’s..? They blended together at this point.

A dull pain settled in your abdomen. It hurt. You just wanted to rest.. Close your eyes for a second and just ignore the pain.

“Oi! (Y/N)! Stay with us!” another voice said and nudged you slightly. Your eyes fluttered back open just barely enough to allow you to see. It was Connie’s voice from before as he sat above you. Sasha was tending to your wound as he tried to keep you awake.

Both of their eyes were glossy as tears threatened to pool out at any second.

“L..Levi..” you whispered. Connie bit his lip as he prayed that the Captain would arrive soon.

“He’s coming.. shit.. you’re gonna be okay..” he said again. He didn’t know if he was reassuring you, Sasha, or himself. Or possibly even all three of you.

Loud footsteps suddenly approached your body as well as some other yelling. A figure appeared in your vision but it was so blurry you almost didn’t make out who it was.

“How.. how did this happen..” the voice asked, anger laced in every word as he glared at everyone in the room, “how did this happen, you idiots?!”

It was Levi.

Your hand seemed to move on its own to find his. It felt so warm, and to him you felt so cold. He stopped his yelling at the other soldiers and focused solely on you. He didn’t want to believe it, when Jean burst in and exclaimed that you’d been shot. He didn’t want to believe it when he said that you were losing a lot of blood. He didn’t want to believe it when he said you’d most likely not make it.

But as he looked at you he couldn’t even deny it- you were dying.

You, the one love of his life were dying in front of him and he was helpless. He couldn’t do anything. Sasha kept wrapping the bandages tighter and tighter but to no avail. Blood kept soaking through each bandage she wrapped around your body.

You were honestly and truthfully dying.

He had promised you countless nights in the past that he’d protect you. He swore on it every time he told you he loved you. He’d never let you die while he was around. And now he had broken his promise.

“(Y/N)..” he held your hand just a little tighter. Using his other hand he gently cupped your cheek. You were dying yet you were still the most beautiful person on the planet.

“P..please don’t- don’t blame.. yourself,” you choked out, eyes slowly losing their color as you gave him a weak smile. He couldn’t even return that gesture.

“I.. love.. you..” you said finally.

Levi stopped. Your hand went limp in his as his grip was still tight on yours. He couldn’t stop staring at you. He was waiting for you to start breathing again, for it to all be over and for you to wake up. For you to kiss him like you always did, hug him like you always did.. To do something, anything.

You didn’t.

No one in the room dared say a thing.

Levi was in disbelief.

He just couldn’t win, could he?

He just couldn’t keep those he loved alive.

——

masterlist || rules page

#aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman #levi #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi x you

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warmblanketwhump · 3 years

Text

flight plan: part 2

no planes in this one - just some good old-fashioned sickfic! But if you want the backstory, check out part 1 here.

“A, can you hand me my glass of water? Pleaaaase?” B sticks out their bottom lip in a pout, and A can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, you. It’s been four days and I know you’re getting better, because you’re getting pesky again.” A straightens the blankets and slides their hand up to feel B’s cheek. “Still a little warm, but I think you’re on your way out of the woods.”

“So I should milk this while I can?” B flutters their eyelashes and gives a pitifully fake cough, which slips into a real one, sharp and rattling. Concern flits across A’s eyes, and they help B take a few sips from the glass.

Despite the joking, A didn’t kid themselves about how sick B had been, or how awful they’d truly felt after getting off the plane. The first two days had been nightmarish - B barely conscious, shivering with chills and sweating through their sheets, alternating between terrifying fever dreams and inconsolable moaning and weeping.

A did their best to hold them through it, but they had been minutes away from hauling B to the hospital. Thankfully B’s fever had spiked just one final time before settling into general low-grade misery.

“As long as you need me, sweetheart, you’ve got me.” B gives a tired smile and pulls the blanket to their chin, huddling around the new stuffed animal A gave them at the airport.

“Did you call C?”

“Ah, not yet. Too busy with you, ya sick little bean.” A gently fluffs B’s hair. “You rest, and I’ll give them a call now.”

But C doesn’t pick up. Nor do they pick up an hour later, leaving A stuck with the unpleasant task of leaving a voicemail.

“Um, hi…this is A. I just wanted to call and let you know that B’s on the mend. They’re still pretty weak, but I think things are looking up. So…yeah. Thanks for everything you did for B - once they were feeling better, they told me all about what you did. And I…well, I care a lot about them. Obviously. So I appreciate it. I guess you can call back if you-”

The message cuts off, and A groans. Hopefully that was enough. Still, they couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomach.

Later, they settle in with B to watch a movie, B’s head cradled in their lap as A combs their fingers soothingly through their hair, reveling in the sheer normalcy of it all. They both end up falling asleep, and when A blinks awake as the credits roll, they notice a missed call from C. B’s still out, so they click to listen to the voicemail.

“Hey, A….sorry I *coughs*…missed you earlier. Wasn’t able to *sniffs* make it to the phone. So glad to hear that B’s *cough cough* doing better. I think they did a little sharing.” C laughs weakly, but A can hear the sheer exhaustion in their voice. “Anyways, glad they had you. And if you’ve got any survival tips, feel free to pass them along…..I’m just kidding. *cough* I’ll be fine. Anyways, I’ll…see you around, I guess.” They pause briefly, like they want to say something more, but a coughing fit steals their breath away, and the message ends with a click cutting off the rough gasps.

The pit in A’s stomach comes back. C sounds sick.

“Who….who was that?” B mumbles from their spot on A’s lap.

“It was C. They called back and they….didn’t sound so good.”

B’s eyes snap to meet A’s, more alert than they have been in days. “Did they sound like me?”

C pauses. They hadn’t thought about not telling B, but in hindsight, maybe they should have. After all, it’d only flood B with guilt, and they needed all the energy they had to get well. But one look at B’s concern, and they knew they wouldn’t be able to lie.

“Yeah. They did.” Immediately B struggles to push themselves up, throwing their blanket off their shoulders and trying to stand.

“Whoa, hold it there. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To C. If they’re sick, it’s from me, and if any hints from the past four days of living with me are any indication, we gotta help them.”

A throws their hands up, pressing B back on the couch. “Hold up. We don’t know them, we don’t know if someone’s already taking care of them, and we don’t know where they live. I’m sure they’re-“

B frantically shakes their head. “You didn’t hear them. On the plane. From what they said…I don’t think they have anyone. I have to go.”

A chews their lip. “Well, let’s get things straight first. You’re in no shape to go help them. Which leaves me. A random stranger they don’t know. And you want me to check on them?”

The question was meant to be sarcastic, but B nods vigorously and fear fills their eyes with a fevered anxiety. “A, you saw how sick I was. You think anyone’s gonna be able to fight through that alone?”

A sighs wearily. They could blame it on the fact that arguing with a sick B was like arguing with a brick wall. But truthfully, what did their heart in was the thought of B alone on that plane, sick and shivering and miserable, if C hadn’t helped.

Fine. They’d send a text.

You okay? You sounded kinda rough on the phone. B was worried….

A few moments later, C responds.

Eh, I’ve felt better. But thank you for asking. And tell B not to feel bad. They were a better seatmate than most.

A smile tugs at A. At least this C was polite.

Is there anything you need? B said something about you being by yourself.

This pause was longer. The dots appeared and disappeared a few times, before a message came through.

I hate to take advantage, but is there ANY way you could bring over some cough medicine? I ran out a couple days ago. No worries if not - I can figure it out.

C’s heart sank. So they were alone. Sure, they didn’t say it - but any good friend or significant other worth their salt wouldn’t leave someone they loved without medicine for days.

I’ll bring some to you! Want to meet somewhere neutral, or just want me to drop it off?

In moments, C sends a response and an address.

Dropping off is fine. You are an actual lifesaver.

A settles B into bed with blankets, a cup of water, hot tea, and six types of medicine on the side table. “Now if you get worse, call me and I’ll turn around immediately. Nothing’s more important than you, okay?”

B shook their head. “I’ll be fine. They need someone.”

A heaves a sigh. “You’re too good, you.” They give B a quick forehead kiss, and head out into the night.

By the time they get to C’s apartment, their stomach is flip-flopping - C is a stranger. A lonely stranger, but a random stranger nonetheless. They come to C’s door and knock tentatively, gripping the paper bag of cough medicine (plus some cough drops and Tylenol for good measure), and hold their breath.

Nothing. A few minutes go by and A knocks again. They’re ready to break down the door if C doesn’t answer soon, but they realize what took so long right after they hear the click of the deadbolt.

A had seen corpses that looked more alive than C did right now. They lean heavily on the doorframe, sweat beaded on their forehead, a thick grey throw blanket clutched tightly around their shoulders. Their face is hollow and devoid of color, lips dry and cracked, their hair mussed and matted to their head. The cool night air hits their fevered body, triggering a round of chills that make them shudder. Despite their misery, a tiny light of gratitude flits across their eyes, and they stare incredulously at the paper bag in A’s hands.

“C….” A’s jaw drops to the ground.

“A, I seriously owe you one.” C tries to laugh, but it turns into a wheezing chest cough, high pitched and tense as they fight to catch their breath. Their eyes blink slowly, and they start to slide down the doorframe, but A grabs them and they both tumble inside.

Even through the blanket, A can feel C’s every bone. C weakly clings to A as they stumble toward the couch, and A deposits them on the cushions before tearing into the package of meds.

“What have you taken so far today?” A asks, trying to figure out the dosages.

“I….nothing…” C mumbles. A meets their eyes in disbelief before cracking open the blister packet and retrieving a proper dose. Grabbing an empty glass on the side table, they fill it before helping C choke the pills down. C greedily gulps the whole glass, breathing heavily once they’ve drained it.

“Water…water’s good.” C smiles blearily - they’re almost completely out of it. A presses a hand to the side of C’s neck, and C flinches at the cool touch. Their neck feels like a bank of hot coals, slick with sweat, lymph nodes sore and swollen. Their forehead isn’t much cooler either.

“C, when’s the last time you ate or drank anything?”

C cocks their head like A just asked them to recite the entire periodic table. “I….not sure? Days….kinda blurry.”

A’s seen enough. “C, you’ve got to go to the hospital. I haven’t even seen your temp, but you’re burning up even worse than B was.”

C frantically grasps at A’s wrists, sharp panic flooding their eyes. “Please…no…no hospital. I can’t. The meds….I’m fine here. Please.” A shiver wracks their body, and they hunch their shoulders, wrapping themselves back up and pulling the blanket over their nose. “Please. You can go now.”

“C, you need help-“

“I don’t.” Their voice breaks on the last word, cut off by a brief hiccuping sob.

Confusion rises through A - one minute C’s a grateful wreck, and the next moment they’re demanding they leave?

“C, I don’t understand-“

“You don’t get it. You think it feels all nice, having people care about you. Making you feel like you matter. And then they leave you. Get tired of you. Decide you’re not worth it. And it hurts worse than if they were never there at all.” C scrubs their eye with the corner of their blanket and sniffles as tears run down their cheeks. “I can’t let it happen again. I have to be alone. So just go. Please.”

A’s speechless. They kneel down next to the couch, hand tentatively hovering above C.

“C, is it okay if I put my hand on you right now?” C’s still sniffling, but they nod and mumble a weak “yes”, and A gently lets their hand rest on this stranger’s shoulder.

“C, I want to respect what you want right now. But you should know that you’re very sick. And you’ve managed in your own way - how, I have no idea - but you need some help right now. Now I can either call the hospital and let them handle it, or take you home with me. It’s up to you. Otherwise, you need to look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you want to be left alone through this.”

They squeeze C’s shoulder, and it triggers a deep gasping sob from their broken, aching body, sending a fault line straight through A’s heart. The sob turns to weeping, and A can barely make out the words C whimpers: "I don't want to hurt anymore."

God, who broke this poor thing? A bites their lip. C’s losing it. They’re running out of options short of forcing C to come with them, and that’s the last thing they want to do to a delirious, love-starved person who’s known them all of 6 minutes.

“C, I’m not gonna hurt you. I want to help you. Heck, even B wants to help you. I had to practically pin them down to the bed before leaving, they were so hell bent on this rescue.”

C’s red, swollen eyes meet A’s. “You mean….they asked after me?”

“Yes. They did. They could hardly stop talking about you once they came to their senses.” A rubs C’s knee through the blankets. “And they’d never forgive me if I left you here alone - they were very adamant about that. So if you want to save me a lot of arguing with and consoling of a very sad B, you’d actually be doing me a favor coming back with me.”

C seems to be weighing their options, all while struggling to stay awake on the couch. “I mean…if it saves you the trouble….”

A’s the one nodding vigorously now. “Please. It would.” Please. Just come back with me. I can’t leave you here like this. But I don’t know what else to do.

C presses themselves up off the couch with a single shaking arm. “Well, if it’d help you, then I accept.” And then they promptly pass out into A’s waiting arms.

It’s late when A gets back home with a limp C, and B is knocked out in their room, light still on - they’d tried to wait up, but their body still craved rest.

A carries C over the threshold and into the house. They gently lay the bundle on the bed and feel their forehead - still too hot, but the medicine seemed to be working. They manage to wake C up enough to take a few sips of broth from a mug before they pass out again.

For the briefest moment, A lets their hand touch C's shoulder again, making a silent promise they barely know how to keep: I don't know who broke you, but I'm not gonna let you hurt any more. I won't allow it.

A wave of exhaustion floods their body as they feel the effects of several late nights and long days of caretaking. They'd be no good to anyone if they didn't get any rest. A drapes an extra blanket over C’s sleeping form and heads for the couch for the night - they’d check back in an hour or so.

--------------------------

B’s awakened by the sound of sniffling. And it’s not theirs. They blink tentatively in the lamplight, sleep clouding their thoughts. Snatching a blanket from the top of their bed, they wrap up, stuffed animal under one arm, and shuffle across the hall to see where the sound is coming from.

It’s C, swathed in two blankets, holding a wad of tissues and trembling like a leaf. B flicks on the bedside table lamp, and C winces at the light. B can see the tear stains on their cheeks.

“Cold,” C whimpers, coughing weakly. Pity floods B - it’s like looking at a picture of themselves just a few days ago. They reach out and put their hand on C’s head, and C leans into the touch.

“Yeah, this part sucks,” B says softly, guilt flooding their core. Sure, they didn’t mean to make C sick. But they did. And they felt a certain responsibility to make sure they made it through okay - just like C had cared for them on the plane.

“Can I get you anything? Another blanket, tea, medicine?”

“Throat hurts…water…please?” B nods and places the stuffed animal next to C before beginning the long, slow shuffle to the kitchen. A’s asleep on the couch, and they can’t bear to wake them up for something this small. But by the time they get to the kitchen, their legs are trembling with exertion. Easy there. You’re still sick, too.

They brace themselves against the sink as the glass fills, and will themselves to make the final journey back to C. By the time they’ve returned, the glass feels like a lead weight in their hand, and their entire body is chilled and shivery all over. They do their best to help C take a few sips, holding the glass with trembling hands, bracing themselves on the bed so they don’t tip over.

“Thank….thank you,” C’s grateful eyes meet theirs, and in a split second B knows the effort was worth it. But the validation is replaced with a bout of lightheadedness that nearly topples them onto C.

“Sorry,” B gasps. “Still not up to marathons yet. Just...need a minute.” They tug their blanket tighter, closing their eyes. “And this body forgot how to stay warm when I do stuff.” C’s eyes flood with concern - even in their fevered haze, they can see B struggling.

"Want to sit for a minute?" C asks softly, patting the open spot next to them on the bed. “I’m still cold, too.”

B wriggles into the spot, propping themselves up on pillows and pulling blankets over them both. "Just a minute - you need your sleep."

C's already dozing. "S'okay. I'll sleep just fine. 'Sides, you're warm." C's nestled themselves into B's side, head resting on their chest, and B wraps an arm around C's shoulder and holds them close. They’re warm, too. Just a minute....

Many minutes later, A pokes their head in to check in on C - and finds two sick peas in a pod curled up together, C's head still on B's chest, B's arm curled protectively around C, stuffed animal squished between them, both tangled in blankets and Kleenexes.

In spite of their own exhaustion, A smiles. After everything that had happened, they had a feeling C wouldn't ever be alone again.

#sickfic #sickfic whump #whump prompt #hurt comfort #soft whump #caretaking #i just couldn't stop writing #so this happened lol #i don't even know who the whumpee is at this point #everyone is the whumpee and everyone is the caretaker #where is the plot?? who can say #anyways enjoy this soft whumpy mess!!

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itsthestutterforme · 3 years

Text

The Next Step Part Two

Summary: A few kids were able to hear Hanseok's screams in the abandoned house Vincenzo left him in. They called the ambulance in time to take him to the hospital. Months later, Hanseok tracks Y/N down at a party with Han and tries to kill her. Han had something else in mind.

Notes: mention of Jang Hanseok, mentions of Vincenzo plots, SMUT warning, 18+, minors DNI, GIF is not mine

Despite it being months since Vincenzo's call saying that Hanseok was dead, Han still kept his eye on you. Once he saw you actively looking for apartments, he squashed it and said that you could keep each other company. Something fluttered in you when he said that he was willing to do anything to keep you safe.

For once, you enjoyed someone staking claim over you. With Han, he respects your individuality and free will. He doesn't restrain you from doing anything but when he thinks you're doing something dangerous, he'll keep you company.

Sean thinks that Han will ask you out or something but you said that wasn't going to happen he only saw you as a friend and he was still in love with Giselle. Sean asked Han the same thing and he was said similar things. So Sean decided to leave you two alone and let you two figure it out ourselves.

"Put something cute on, we're going to a party." Han says, poking his head in to see you doing yoga. "Who are you trying to be flexible for?" He asks. "For me, Han. Yoga calms me." You say, lifting one leg and tucking it on your pelvic bone in the tree pose. Han steps into the room and pushes you into the cushion in front of you.

"Han!" You scold. "Come on, Sean is waiting for us." He says, turning his back to leave but you jump on his back instead. You grab the chips from his hand and jump off his back to make a run for it but he already grabs you. The back of your knees hit the bed, sending you both hurdling onto the bed.

Your hair fans around your head as you stare up at him. A smile tugs on his lips and he asks, "Is that where you wanted this to go?" You were completely baffled by the fact that his hips were hovering over yours and his chocolate brown eyes drifting between your lips and your eyes.

"What? Cat got your tongue?" "Something like that." He leans in so close you could practically taste him. Your breath hitches in your throat and your heart bangs against your chest but your find yourself pulling him closer until your lips collide with his. A softly sigh into the kiss and he plants a hand on either side of you.

You were just getting used to him lips against yours when his phone starts to ring. He pulls away with a grumble and answers his phone with a sharp what. You smile up at him and you could hear Sean asking where you guys were through the phone but Han leans down to give you a few more kisses in response.

"We'll be there. Don't get your boxers in a twist," Han says against your lips. He ends the call and kisses you once more before getting up from the bed. "Get dressed."

"Roger that," you say, sliding to the edge of the bed. "You want your chips back?" "I'm actually in the mood for dessert, but I'll gladly wait until later tonight." He says, giving you a once over.

Feeling a bigger sense of pride, you walk up to him and press the bag of chips into his chest. "I'm going to take a shower, care to join?" You ask. "If I do that, we're definitely not making it to the party.

Han and Y/N finally pick up Sean thirty minutes later and he immediately felt a change in the vibe between you two. And he definitely noticed the stolen glances and smiles you would send each other. But he didn't say anything until he was alone with Han.

"So what happened between you two?" Sean asks before taking a swig of beer. "What are you talking about?" Han asks, trying to keep it cool by having his back leaning against the railing and not staring at her like he wanted to do. But at least Sean has eyes on her.

Han has body guards trained on her at all times but he still worries for her. It's like he can finally breath when he sees her. "Alright, well what if I tell you she was talking with a pretty good looking guy right now?" "She's her own person. I don't control anything she does." Han answers, popping a chip into his mouth.

"Oh, look at that, he's snaking an arm around her waist." Sean teases and Han wiped his head around so fast, Sean felt whiplash by just witnessing it. Han looked to see you softly swaying her hips to the music as you sipped on your Sake. No man in sight. Once Han realized that he rolled his eyes at Sean but couldn't hide the sigh of relief that left his lips.

"So what changed between you two?" Sean repeats. "We kissed. And it felt so addicting like smoking my first cigarette. I just want to keep kissing her until I can't breathe. And it scares me man." Han says, crunching on more chips.

Sean's eyebrow furrows when he realizes that you were gone and your normal guards are nowhere in sight. "Han, she's gone." Sean says. "Cut the shit. It's not funny."

"No, I'm serious. Look." Han looks at you were a few minutes ago to see . Little did they know that Hanseok tracked you down and followed them into the club.

He bought off Han's guards so you became easy access. Then he just pulled you into a room and shoved you in. Crawling away from him on the floor, you frantically searched for anything you could use as a weapon. Then your eyes fall on a mirror.

"You almost killed me, you know. Vincenzo nearly did it, but he was so caught up on making me suffer as you requested, that it gave me the chance to be saved." Hanseok explains, pulling off his hoodie to show his scarred body.

"Oh God," you whimper. "I'm going to enjoy this," He says, pulling a knife from his belt. You stand up in a wide stance and put your hands up so you could deflect his blows. Your hands were shaking, your worst nightmare has come to life but you can't forget what Vincenzo taught you after he left Korea.

He came to Japan to visit you and see how you were doing. In return for assisting with Hanseok's execution, he taught you how to defend yourself from any deadly weapon. "What? You really think you're going to fight me?"

"The days where I cower from you are over, Hanseok. You want to kill me? Go ahead and try." You snark, shifting your weight from one foot to the next as you waited for him to strike. "Where the hell could she be? She was just here!" Han snaps, looking around the crowd frantically.

You scrambled out of the room with blood sprayed across your neck from when she stabbed Hanseok in the chest with a piece of glass. He should be dead but knowing that he has a vendetta, he's not going to die so easily. You spot Han in the crowd and ran towards him.

"What the hell happened?" "H-hanseok, he's still alive. He tried to kill me." You whimpered, tears building in your eyes. "Where is he?" Han asked. You could see his eyes darken with anger but chose not to question it. You took his hand and followed him into the room where Hanseok held his chest heaving.

Han took out his phone to call DK who answered on the first ring. "Bring your gun. We have some business to take care of." Han says coldly. "Take her back to my place and don't leave her side until I get there." Han says to Sean, talking as if you weren't standing right there.

"No, I'm staying with you." You start, grabbing a hold of his arm. "I don't want you to see me like this," Han says, pulling his arm away hesitantly. "Come on, Y/N." Sean says and Han reassured, "I'll be fine." You nodded before following Sean to the car.

Hours passed and you were on the verge of taking Han's car and going back to the club when Han slowly walks through the door. Sean and you looked at him with wide eyes when you notice blood splattered across his clothes and face. He was practically drenched in it.

"You can take my car back home, Sean. I won't be leaving for a while." Han says softly and Sean nods his head, choosing not the say a word. He leaves the apartment and you spring to your feet. You try to cup his face to get a good look at him but he moves away.

"Han," "Let me get cleaned up first," he walks passed you and turns on the shower. You wait on the couch for him to finish his shower, chewing on the inside of your cheeks nervously. He finally walks back in with black sweatpants and a white tank top.

"I'm headed to bed. It's been a long day." He says. "Don't do that. Talk to me. Please." You say, standing in his way. "What happened?" You add.

"Do you really want to know?" "I want to know if you're okay." "Well I don't want to talk about it. Good night." He dismissed before walking upstairs to his room.

You respected his decision and decided to stay in the living room with a clear view of the door. Just in case Hanseok crawls out of his grave and finds his way back to you again. Truthfully, you didn't feel the need to sleep. But after you became hyper-vigilant of the door, your eyes closed on their own.

You woke to a soft hand touching your cheeks. Gasping away, you grab Han's hand. "Hey, relax, it's just me." He says and you loosen your grip on him. Sitting up, you tuck your knees into your chest. "What are you doing awake?" You ask.

"I couldn't sleep." He says, followed by a long silence. "Thank you, for doing that for me. I don't know how to repay you." You say. "You don't have to repay me." "Of course I do. What you did is traumatic. It'll effect you in ways I can't fix." "As long as you're by my side, Y/N. I can get through anything."

"Han," you start, but he turned your chin so you are facing him. "I love you," he says, making your heart flutter. You lean forward and pressed your lips to him. Piling yourself in his lap, you pull away to say, "I love you too."

He stands from the couch and carries you into the bedroom, occasionally pecking you on the way. He lays down on the bed and you straddled his lap. You unbuttoned your shirt and let it fall off your shoulders. Your hands found his chest but he sits up and rolls so you are laying on your back.

He glances down at your bare chest before wrapping his lips around one of your nipples. Your head falls onto his soft pillow as he continued to work on your sensitive nub. He pulls away with a satisfying pop before blowing cool air and pressing a soft kiss to your nipple.

He does the same to the other breast and your back arches off of the bed, gasping when your clothes buckle rubs against his crotch. He kisses down the line of your stomach before pulling off your fleece shorts, leaving more kisses in it's wake. He settles himself in between your legs and props your legs on his shoulder.

"Oh God," you whine when he laps your folds painfully slow and kitten licks your clit before lapping your fold again. Your hand rakes through his fine hair and he links one of his hands with yours, resting it on your stomach. You rolled your hips at the same time his kitten licked you clit and your legs spasm as you release yourself into his mouth.

"You taste amazing, ojo." He says. He uses his thumb to part your folds before going to work on your clit much faster now. "Han! Oh God, oh God, oh God," you chant as your grip on his hair tightens and you lift your hips off the bed. He push you back down gently and unlinks his hand with yours so his body could shadow over yours.

His free hand rubs circles on your clit and you moan into his mouth. "Han, please." "Shh, chisana hana." You moan at his pet name for you. Little flower. I think it fits. He captures your lips in a slow kiss that you were so caught up in, you didn't even notice that he pulled off his pants and started to pump himself.

He gently parts your legs and slides the tip along your folds to gather your juices. He slides himself in and your toes curl as his dick brushes up against a sensitive spot in your pussy. He waits for you to adjust and you signal him to move by nodding softly. His thrust are slow but deep and he buries his face into your neck.

You rest your hands on his lower back and he continued to rub your clit as he thrusted into you. A whine leaves your lips as you come apart under him but he continues to thrust into you. He lifted one leg over his shoulder and kept the other one hooked around his waist.

Digging your nails into his back, he moans and arches his back, digging himself deeper into you. "Of fuck," he moans into your neck and thrusting into you faster until you came undone once again. You were seeing stars as he cums after three hard thrusts.

He pulls out of you and lays down next to you, nuzzling himself into you neck and leaves soft kisses. The entire time, it felt like you were floating on a cloud. His touches felt light as a feather but burned into your skin the more he touched you.

It was nothing like sex with Hanseok. Han puts your needs before his own and he actually takes care of you in ways you didn't even know were possible. "Can I tell you something?" "Sure," you lay on your side, resting your hand on the side of your face.

"I think I fell for you and it scares the hell out of me." He confesses and you reach over to trace the side of his face. He waits for you to say something and a soft smile plays on your lips. "I think I fell for you as soon as we met. But we don't have to rush anything. We have nothing but time." You say softly.

"Come here," he says,.opening his arms and you wrap your arms around his neck, hiking your leg over his waist.

#han lue #fastfurious #fluff #smut #vincenzo fic #vincenzo

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songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

when i kissed the teacher.

summary: the one man you want more than anything is the one man you can’t have - your english professor.

warnings: teacher/student relationship, age gap (implied), f receiving oral, whole lotta smut, whole lotta feelings, whole lotta angst

word count: 14.7k (strap in)

song inspo.: when i kissed the teacher - abba

There was something special about Professor Styles.

You knew it, and so did every other girl who took his class. Your less-than-appropriate feelings about him were shared and that should’ve made you feel better about having them - at least you weren’t as obvious as some of the other girls who obviously took a fancy to your English professor. You applauded their efforts, showing up to classes in short skirts and low cut tops in the hopes that they’d catch his eyes drifting down to their chests while he passed out your essays -

But they hadn’t had any luck yet. He was a very respectable man, and more than his looks, that was what you appreciated about him. He was passionate about English, with a curriculum that appealed to you from the very first day and essay topics that forced you to look deeper into every book that the class read. He was one of the youngest professors on campus and you could tell something about that seemed to motivate him - to not be seen as a joke by the older professors, to be taken seriously by the students, some of which weren't much younger than him.

You decided, after your very first class with him, that, in any other universe, you’d have fallen in love with him. Or perhaps tried to jump his bones immediately.

Something of that sort.

As classes progressed you found yourself only liking him more. His classes were as difficult as you’d anticipated and you should have hated it, hated how much work and effort you had to put into every assignment but you absolutely adored it. You loved doing his essays, loved the novels he picked, loved the look on his face when he handed back your assignments with a 100% scribbled on top.

Most of your assignments, at least.

It didn’t really make sense to you, why your 1984 analysis should have gotten a 71%. Truthfully, you’d felt confident while writing it - it was such an easy analysis that you’d decided to go a little deeper, spending more time on it than was necessary, because you were sure he’d be tired of reading the same essay from everybody over and over again. So you gave him something different and maybe you should have stuck to analyzing the same themes that everyone else did.

“If any of you are confused about your grade,” Professor Styles announces to the class when everyone has gotten their essays back, time left in class slowly ticking down, “please feel free to see me after class. M’happy to discuss any concerns with you.”

Perhaps you’re being paranoid, but you could’ve sworn you felt his eyes land on you.

Class ends within a few minutes and you take your time packing your things back into your bag, waiting until the last kid has trickled from the lecture hall before swinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way down to his office. The door is cracked open and he’s barely sat down at his desk when you knock, flashing him a smile before pushing the door open a bit more.

You clear your throat before saying, “Hey, um, sorry to bother you - ” he interrupts you, telling you that it’s no bother at all “ - I’m just kind of confused on why I did badly on this essay.”

He nods, motioning for you to come in, and you step inside before shutting the door behind you. His office is small and cramped, with bookshelves lining the walls and a couch pressed into the corner. It’s a good vibe, you have to admit, although slightly messy. Perhaps you’d describe it as cozy, and it seems to fit him well.

There’s an empty seat in front of his desk and you sit down in it awkwardly, placing your essay in front of him. His eyes skim the first page before he tells you, “You usually do really well on essays, and this was … a really easy one.”

“I know,” you tell him, leaning forward to try and read what he’s reading. “I just thought you might be looking for something more complex. It seemed too simple.” When you look up, he’s staring at you, and you feel heat flood to your cheeks. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

“It really is that simple, I promise,” Professor Styles informs you, and he pushes your essay back to you. “But you’re one of my best students, and I don’t want to let this bring down your grade. So, I have an idea for how you can make it up.”

Your mind runs through all the ways you’d want to make it up to him - most of them involve you being on your knees, and you cough into your elbow. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling embarrassed about it. Fantasizing about your professor from across the lecture hall is one thing, but you’re barely a foot apart from him now and you’re almost nervous he can hear your thoughts.

“I’ll do anything.” And you don’t care about the ways he could interpret it. He drums his fingers on his desk, and when you look down at his hand, you notice with a start that his nails are painted - you’d never seen that before, but you’d also never been this close to him, you suppose. You wonder if he gets them done or if he does them himself - you can’t picture him going to a salon, and the thought of him painting his own nails could make you cum on its own.

You don’t realize he’s been speaking until you zone back in, and when you look back up at him, he furrows his brows at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” You shake your head. “Just - um - could you repeat that?” His eyes linger on you for just a beat too long, and your face flushes again. “So distracted,” he murmurs in a faux chastising tone, and your stomach flips. “What I said was that I’m willing to put this essay in as a 97 - your average for the class - if you would help me with grading some things. Not too heavy, maybe an hour or two after class. I’ve been falling behind with a lot of my classes and I’ve been looking for help, anyway, so it works out for both of us.”

Jesus Christ. Spending an extra hour every day with Professor Styles sounds like a recipe for disaster, and yet it also sounds completely perfect at the same time, and you’re nodding before you can fully process the pros and cons of the situation. “That sounds great. I mean, really - thank you so much.”

“S’my pleasure,” he informs you, giving you a large, dimpled smile. “So, after class, tomorrow - when I’m caught up and don’t need your help anymore, you’re off the hook.”

“Got it.” you stand, grabbing your essay and your bag and making your way towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” he echoes, and the last thing you see before you shut the door is him, bringing his hand up to wave you off.

---

When class concludes the next day you maintain the same habit as you did the day prior - watching every student trickle out the door before swinging your bag over your shoulders, grabbing the two cups of tea that you’d made before class and making your way down to the front of the lecture hall.

Professor Styles stands in the doorway of his office, holding the door open for you - you make your way inside with a tight, only slightly awkward smile. His eyes roll over the two cups that you’re holding and he asks, with a mildly amused inflection in his voice, “I guess you like tea quite a bit, then?”

You smile, looking down at your cups, and when he shuts the door you hold one out to him. “I do like it a lot, but this one’s for you. You know, to say thank you for giving me a freebie, and also because you look like the kind of guy who loves tea.”

He laughs and your grin widens at the noise - god, it’s like music to your ears, and you would do anything to keep hearing it from him. He reaches out to take the cup from you and brings it up to his mouth, taking a small sip - when he’s done his tongue pokes out to lap up a bit of tea from his lip, and you try to ignore how much the minuscule motion affects you. “This is perfect, Y/N. Just the way I like it. You’re an angel.” Your cheeks heat up, and then he says, “But you don’t need to thank me. I’m probably gaining more from this arrangement than you are, truthfully. People are starting to get annoyed with how I’ve been falling behind grading, which is where you come in.”

Yes, you’d heard the girls next to you whispering about how bothersome it was that they’d submitted three essays in the past month and had only gotten one back. Why does he give out so much work if he’s never gonna hand it back?

It didn’t bother you too much.

“Well - alright, then. You’re welcome for helping you grade,” you tell him, pulling out the chair in front of his desk and settling in, dropping your bag beside you. You take another brief moment to glance around his office, as though expecting something to change, but it’s the same distinctly messy, cramped office that it had been yesterday. At some point, you should tell him that he ought to clean out his space, but that’s not what you’re here for - yet.

Professor Styles nods, making his way to the other side of his desk and plopping down in his spinning chair - it was quite nice, and made you wonder why the one you sat in seemed to be falling apart at the seams. But, then, you supposed teacher salary didn’t leave room for spectacular seating. “See, that’s the spirit.” All at once, the casual discussion between the pair of you died as he dug in the drawers of his desk for something - and then he plopped a large stack of papers on the table between you both. “This isn’t all of them - not even close. You’re very smart, so this should be pretty easy for you. Just read through them, add any notes, things they need to work on, and look at the rubric for a final grade.”

You nod, picking the first essay off the top of the pile and reaching for a pen from the cup on his desk - it’s a coffee mug with the Rumours by Fleetwood Mac album cover on it, and you take a moment to marvel at it briefly. “You like Fleetwood?” you question, voice seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet of his office. “Didn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”

He looks up, then, from where he’d already begun scribbling bright red notes into the margin of someone’s essay. His eyes trail down to the mug full of pens, and then back up to meet yours. “You seem to make a lot of assumptions about the kind of guy I am. What’s that all about?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, your voice faux sweet and innocent, and he smiles slightly. “But I’m glad you have an appreciation for really good music. I was worried your music taste would be terrible, and then I’d have to live with the knowledge that Professor Styles exclusively listens to Justin Bieber.”

Your professor rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips. “You know,” he begins, “you don’t have to call me Professor Styles. Not outside of class, at least. It sounds weird when it’s just the pair of us here.”

“Oh.” You pause. “What should I call you, then?”

“Harry’s fine.”

Harry Styles. The name flows easily off the tongue as you test it out in a teasing tone, your eyes meeting his as you do, and your cheeks flush. You don’t know if it's commonplace for professors to allow random students to drop formalities and call them by their first names but you’ll accept it anyway - all you know is that, when you go home tonight, the thought of calling him Harry will fill your mind until you can’t stand it anymore.

Harry as he buries his face between your thighs.

Harry as he pounds you into the mattress.

Harry as he bends you over his desk - this desk - the one you’re sitting at right now.

You cough into your arm and pick up your pen, pressing your thighs together to try and alleviate the throbbing that’s now affecting your body. You should’ve known not to let your mind wander because you’ve barely been here for 15 minutes and you already feel like you need to go rub one out in the bathroom. But you pause - take a sip of your tea, though it’s nearly gone from drinking it so much in class - and get to work grading Brianna Valeria’s essay on Death Comes to the Archbishop. The rubric sits on the desk next to you and you bury yourself in your work - if Harry notices the sudden silence that’s overtaken you, he doesn’t mention it.

For the rest of the hour, the pair of you work in silence. It’s comforting and surprisingly not awkward, and occasionally you ask his opinion on something one of his students wrote in their essays, but the playful banter you’d had before has dissipated. You’ve finished your tea and you suspect he has, as well, with the way he’s been feverishly drinking it.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly, and you glance up from where you’re in the middle of scribbling red notes into the margins of Alexander Simmons’ essay. “You should probably get going.”

One quick glance down at your phone proves that he’s right, and you rise from the extremely uncomfortable seat you’ve been perched in for the hour - you can practically hear your butt crying in relief. “Thank you so much for the tea,” Harry tells you, handing back his cup, and it’s empty, like you expected. “And - um. You don’t have to call me Harry if it makes you uncomfortable. Just thought it would be less formal, but if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

Ah. He took your silence as you being uncomfortable calling him Harry. Well, it’s better than him knowing just how wet the sentiment made you, but you shake your head immediately. “No. No, I prefer calling you Harry. You’re right - it’s weird when it’s just us.”

He grins at you, then, standing up from his seat and stretching his arms over his head. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Ms. Y/L/N.”

“You know, if I’m calling you Harry now, I think you should drop formalities too. Make it equal.”

“Okay … Y/N. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Harry,” you tell him, turning and walking out of his office with your phone in your pocket and two cups in your hands, blissfully unaware of your abandoned bag still sitting next to the terribly uncomfortable chair you’d been all too quick to leave.

It’s only when you’ve finished the trek back to your dorm, the sun beginning to lower down into the horizon, that the absence of your bag on your shoulder becomes prominent.

You can’t get into your building without your key and your key is in your bag and your bag is … back in Harry’s office, where you nearly made yourself cum just thinking about him. And the thought of having to go back across campus, back to his office, when he might not even be there, is not favorable, but you need your key and you need to bang out homework tonight, so with a soft groan you spin on your heel, walking away from the warm comfort of your building and making your way back to his.

As summer bled into fall and fall begins to bleed into winter, the weather has changed so drastically in just the past week or so that you tug your cardigan closer to your body, but the air that seeps through the holes in the crocheted sweater send goosebumps trailing up and down your body. The wind whips your face and brings tears to your eyes that run down your cheeks, and when you’re finally at the door of Harry’s building it’s a welcome surprise to walk inside, allowing the warmth to embrace you - even if the shock of the changing temperatures causes your eyes to water again.

His office is on the 2nd floor, so you pull open the door to the staircase and make your way up the two flights. Most professors have gone home for the day, classrooms dark as you speed past them to where you know his office is.

His office is dark and your heart sinks at the sight - there are a few posters pinned to the small window, but you can see the lack of light clear as day. Your hand grasps the doorknob anyway, turning it without any hope that it would open - but then it was, giving you access to his dark office, and by the seat you’d occupied later you can make out your bag.

A breath of relief escapes your throat as you take a step inside, reaching down to swing it over your shoulder before turning to leave. And then you hear it - a small breath, an indicator of someone else in the room, and you whip around to look back around at the office.

Oh.

Harry sits in his chair, face buried in his arms, fast asleep. His hair is messy and in front of him sits the stack of essays you’d been working at early, hardly any smaller than when you’d left. It would nearly be an adorable sight - your professor, passed out at his desk - but it just seems concerning, and without thinking you’ve leaned over the desk, placing your hand on his shoulder and shaking him slightly.

“Professor?” your voice is soft, barely audible, and you speak louder when you say, “Harry?”

He doesn’t respond, so you say, louder still, “Harry?”

Then he stirs slightly under your touch, and you drop your hand from his shoulder as he lifts his head from where it had been resting on his arms, looking up at you with messy eyebrows and a thoroughly confused expression on his face. “What - what are you doing here?” Jesus. His voice is deep and raspy, sounding as though he’d been sleeping for ages instead of merely less than an hour, and if his present state wasn’t slightly concerning to you, you know that you’d feel the effects of his words between your thighs. But you pause, staring down at him, before asking, “What are you still doing here?”

“Just working on some grading.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking around the darkened office with an air of distinct confusion.

“With all due respect, Harry,” you tell him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I think you’re burning yourself out. You should go home.”

He hesitates, and then questions, “Why are you here? I thought you left -”

“I forgot my bag,” and you hold it up to demonstrate it to him. “Are you going to go home? I’m serious - you need a break. And to sleep on a bed.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, and he stands up from his chair. It moves back and hits the wall with a soft thud that goes unnoticed by both of you. “You should go home, too. I need to finish some stuff up. I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

To neither of your surprise, you don’t move from your spot standing before his desk. You cross your arms over your chest, digging your sneakered toe into the plush rug on the floor of his office - you hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s pale blue and bright against the mahogany floors. The brief silence between you two, daring either of you to speak, fills the confined space and all you can hear is the ticking of the clock behind you, and finally you say, “You’re not going to get anything done when you’re exhausted. I mean, you fell asleep on the essays. How are you going to explain why there’s drool on their assignments?”

He gives you a tight lipped smile in response, looking down at the essay he’d been working on as if to check that no saliva had landed on the words. “You caught me at a bad time. I don’t usually fall asleep on top of student essays, I promise - but you should be heading out now. It’s getting dark.”

It is getting dark, he’s right - the window behind his desk shows the darkness that newly falls over the campus. And the thought of walking home in the dark scares you just a bit, but you’ll suck it up if it gets him to go home too. “Harry.”

“Y/N.”

“I’ll help you grade tomorrow. But you’re fucking yourself here -”

(Harry laughs at your choice of words internally, but it comes out as a small release of air and a soft grin.)

“ - so come on. Walk out with me so I can make sure you’re actually going home.”

Perhaps he’s realized he’s fighting a losing battle here, because finally he looks back down at the stack of ungraded essays with a small sigh and then says, “Fine.”

“Great.” Your grin widens across your face, and for a moment you make to hold out your hand to him, to drag him along like you would to any of your friends - but the second your hand raises you drop it down to your side, and heat burns your cheeks. He’s not one of your other friends, you tell yourself, stepping out of his office, hearing him walk behind you. And you can’t hold his hand, even as a joke.

“Where’s your dorm?” Harry asks you as he locks the door to his office and jiggles the handle to check it, and you jump at the chance to forget about what happened - you don’t want to dwell on it. “Is it far?”

“Across campus.” You raise your arm and point in the distinct direction of where your building is. “Closer to the cafeteria, I guess.”

“Christ, you have a trek, then, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” The pair of you make your way to the staircase, and from the corner of the eye you can see his head turning left and right down the hallway, as if scanning to see if there’s anyone coming - you can imagine it wouldn’t be great for him to be seen with a student long after classes ended. “I had to haul ass there and back to get my bag.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, not until you’ve left the warm building and made your way into the cold air, the sun now having retreated for the night, and immediately you wrap your sweater tighter around yourself to try and provide some semblance of warmth. Harry glances down at you with a bemused smile, and you hoist your bag further up your shoulder.

“Well,” you sigh, breath coming out in white puffs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t burn yourself out, professor. And get a good night’s rest.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”

“Maybe.” You grin, feeling goosebumps sprout on your skin, and you shiver before turning in the direction of your dorm - the thought of walking home in the dark and cold doesn’t sound too great, but you’ve become good at dealing with it. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He doesn’t respond, and you’ve taken a few steps away when he calls out, “D’you want a ride?”

What?

“Y’know, like a ride back to your dorm. I can drop you off in the back - it’s just really cold and I’m sure you don’t want to walk so far in the dark.”

You turn back around to look at him, his cheeks a light shade of pink - whether from the cold or his offer, you can’t tell. And you’d love to jump in his car, accept his offer without a shadow of hesitation, but - “Is that allowed?”

Harry shrugs, and you know that’s code for absolutely not. “No one has to find out.”

(Your stomach drops, then.)

“Sure.” You take a few steps back towards him, and he spins on his heel, leading you to his car, and you walk in silence until you reach it. By the time you’re both safely in his car - his head turning every so often to check if there was anyone watching the pair of you - you’re shivering desperately, and you know you would have been positively miserable walking back to your dorm in these temperatures. “Thank you so much, Harry.”

“S’no problem, really.” His hand goes behind your seat as he turns to look behind him, and you hate the way the simple action makes you feel. “I’d rather know you get home safe than have you walk so far in the dark. Pretty girl like you, can never be too careful.”

You pause, cheek pressed against the cold window, and turn to look at him with a small smile. “Ooh, I’m a pretty girl now?”

“Wasn’t the point, Y/N,” Harry mutters, dropping his hand onto the center console, and if it were anyone else driving you like this, you’d rest your hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers and pressing your palms together. But he’s your professor, as much as you’re beginning to wish he weren’t, so you slide your hands beneath your thighs. “Which building, again?”

“McKinley,” you respond, voice barely louder than the sound of the heat blasting into his car.

His car smells like eucalyptus and mint, and it’s surprisingly clean compared to his office - you wonder if his house is messy or clean, or a balanced mix, because you can’t quite catch a vibe for whether he’s organized or not. But, no - you’ll never see his house, surely. You can’t.

“I used to date a girl who lived at McKinley,” he tells you, and you exhale slowly. You can tell he’s merely trying to make conversation but the sentiment isn’t making your internal conflicts any easier to manage. “Real nice dorms.”

“They’re alright.” In fact, you’ve been at university for 3 years and resided in 3 different dormitories and they’re your least favourite, with furniture that’s too big for rooms that are too small and bathrooms that can hardly fit more than 5 people, but you don’t tell him that. “Not the greatest.”

“S’what she told me, too,” Harry says, and you smile down at your lap, but you can’t find anything else to respond to that, so you take to gazing out the window.

Within a few seconds he’s slowing down, and you can recognize the back entrance to your building. You reach down and pick your bag off the ground, digging through it to find your key.

When you have it clutched in your hand, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to look at him - to your surprise his eyes are already on you, and you swallow thickly. “Um - thanks for driving me.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You hesitate a moment before turning and swinging open the car door. You hop out and, just before you can shut it, he says, “Y/N.” And when you duck your head back into his car, raising your eyebrows, he adds, “Please don’t tell anyone I drove you home. You’re right - s’not allowed.”

“Alright.” Then, before you can help yourself, you flash him a wide grin and say, “Thanks for letting me be the exception, then.”

With that, you shut the door of his car, bounding up to the door of your building, and you swear you can feel his gaze remaining on you before his car drives off, and when you turn back around, it’s gone.

(In the back of your mind, you’re entirely too aware of the fact that merely sitting in his car crossed some sort of line that you didn’t know existed until now, but you don’t really know how far past it you are - not yet.)

“I have a question.”

You look up from the rubric you’d been working at - the student whose essay you’re grading hadn’t done too well on it, but you were trying to give them the most points you could, anyway. Harry’s looking down at his essay like he hadn’t spoken, but when he feels your gaze on him, he continues. “Why did you care so much? Yesterday. Me grading more s’less work for you to do. I feel like you should be loving that shit.”

It’s a reasonable question but, for a moment, you struggle thinking of how to answer it without exposing yourself to him. Finally, you give him a grin and say, “Well, if you were sleep deprived, it would make you mean.” He chuckles softly, and you can tell that’s not the answer he wanted, and it couldn’t have been further from the truth. So you add, “I guess I’m used to being the mom friend. Making sure all of my friends get a good night’s sleep and whatever.”

Harry pauses. “So we’re friends, then.”

You shrug, trying to stop the smile from peeking through onto your face. Being friends with Harry sounds positively dreamy and if it could segue into something else - whichitcan’t - you’d be the happiest girl alive.

You nod. “Yeah, aren’t we.” But it isn’t a question, and you can see the way his eyes twinkle at your response.

After a moment, you shift in your entirely entirely entirely too bloody uncomfortable chair, the wood making your butt ache. “I have a question, now.”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you pick the most uncomfortable chair you possibly could for your guests to sit in?”

“Gets ‘em out of my office quicker.” Harry glances up and meets your glare with a laugh. “But I don’t want you to leave, so you can move to the couch, if you’d like.”

You hop out of the chair without a second’s hesitation, clutching your essay and your pen, flopping down on the couch and feeling your body weight sink into it. God, it’s so soft and your body relaxes into it, the relief of not being confined to the small, wooden chair so magnificent you could scream. Harry watches you with an amused grin, and says, “I feel like you’re being just a bit dramatic here.”

“Me? Dramatic? Never.” You sprawl yourself across the couch, head atop of the armrest, staring up at the white ceiling tiles above you. “I’m telling you, Harry, that chair is terrible. You should burn it.”

“So dramatic.”

You roll your eyes, sitting up slightly so you can rest your paper on your lap and still manage to scrawl semi-legible notes on this person’s piss poor essay. You wonder, briefly, if this is how Harry felt when he’d graded your 1984 essay, but - well - doesn’t matter now. And you’d fail that essay a thousand times over to get to this point, a point of companionship with your professor that you’re not sure any other student has felt with him before. At least, none that he’s told you about. It makes you feel special, and spectacular, and also the tiniest bit confused.

Why are you so special?

Maybe he’s lonely, or he’s merely entertaining your presence because you’re helping him grade, but you swear you can feel something more hidden within the lines of your relationship.

It doesn’t really matter, though, even if it is just a tad confusing.

“You should get going,” Harry tells you after another 15 minutes of you working at grading the essay. “You’ve been here for nearly two hours, bloody hell, wasn’t watching the time at all.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, though, in truth, you do have quite a bit of homework to work on later. “Don’t really have anything else to do.”

You sit up anyway, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch and stretching your arms above your head. Tiredness is beginning to affect you but you try not to let it.

“Well, in any case, you should be heading out now.” Harry nods his head towards the window behind him, the blinds pulled up so you can see the sun, nearly completely sunk below the horizon, the sky fading from reds and oranges to a dark shade of blue.

“What about you, professor?”

“What about me?” “You’re going home now too - right?”

He looks at you with a faux annoyed glare, but he can’t help the amusement from seeping through his features, and finally he breaks your stare with an exhale of breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever win this against you, will I?”

And you shake your head in response. “Never. So let’s go. Get your things.”

You take the next five minutes to gather all your stuff - resting the essay on top of his desk, sliding your phone and water bottle into your backpack, and zipping your bag shut - as Harry grabs his computer bag and his key. The two of you move surprisingly in sync with each other, sorting all of your stuff from around his small office, before making your way outside with him locking the door behind him.

It’s nearly completely dark, even colder than it had been the day prior. You reach behind you and pull the hood of your sweatshirt over your hair, protecting your ears, at least, from the chill.

You turn and face him, giving him a wide smile. The air is silent around you, surprisingly empty though the bitterness of the cold must be a contributing factor to that. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor. Make sure you get a good night’s rest -”

“Don’t want a ride?”

Your grin widens, and his eyes sparkle, even in the darkness, at your expression. “Well, of course I do, but it’s rude to invite myself into your car.”

“You’re not inviting yourself - I’m inviting you. Or, rather, demanding you. C’mon.”

Harry walks fast and you have to speed up your pace to keep up with him, though you suspect that has something to do with wanting to be free of any wandering eyes as quickly as possible. You recognize his car in the parking lot and bound ahead of him, standing by the passenger side door and wrapping your arms around yourself to try and warm yourself up, and for a moment his pace slows as he stares and looks at you. Standing by his car, holding an incredibly oversized hoodie tight to your body, a wide smile gracing your face.

“Staring is rude, professor,” you inform him as he shakes his head, unlocking his car and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

Your lilt is teasing but you can tell it makes him slightly defensive either way.

“S’hard not to sometimes,” Harry tells you, and you giggle softly.

“So first, I’m a pretty girl, and now I’m hard not to stare at?” You drop your head back against the headrest, blowing air softly out of your mouth as you reach to buckle your seatbelt. “Keep this up, Harry, and my ego’s gonna be too big to even fit in your car.”

Harry laughs at that, resting his hand on your seat to back out of his parking spot. The radio softly plays some pop song that had been overtaking the charts recently, and you hum softly to it before turning your head to look at him. You examine his side profile - perfect, like every other angle of him - as he pulls out of the parking lot, making a left out of it.

He turns to see you watching him, and you watch redness bloom over his cheeks. “Staring is rude, Y/N.”

You smile, about to parrot his previous words back at him - it’s hard not to - but you bite your tongue, gazing at the road in front of you. A light drizzle is beginning to fall, a barely audible pitterpatter on the windshield, and that’s the only noise, for a moment - that and the radio playing, like a thought in the back of your mind.

The drive to your dorm seems to be taking longer than it had been yesterday and you can’t imagine why, but you appreciate just sitting in the car with him. Even if you’re not saying much, listening to his even breathing calms you.

You want to break the silence, though it’s comfortable rather than awkward. You like talking to him, like hearing everything he has to say, but you have no idea what you can possibly tell him that wouldn’t seem forced and awkward. So you sit, curling your legs up to your chest as you stare at the streets, and entirely too soon, the back of the McKinley building becomes apparent.

You want to stay in his car forever. Want to stay with him forever.

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him, your voice sounding uncomfortably loud in the soft car. He nods in response, but for a moment neither of you move. You can’t bring yourself to leave yet, even if you know you have to, that he might have someone waiting for him at home.

“Y/N.” You turn and look at him, your eyes meeting his with your brows furrowed. “Uh - if you ever want a ride home, or to class, you can just let me know. Text me.”

“I don’t have your number.”

Harry’s cheeks are bright pink and there’s too much tension in the car, so thick you feel like you could cut it with a knife, and you lean down, unzipping your bag and pulling your phone out.

He takes it from you once you unlock it, going into your contacts and you watch as he types his phone number in, adding the contact name as Harry S. and you think you’ll be changing that later. He leaves the contact photo blank, which you expected - if anyone saw the name Harry S. in your phone, the contact photo would give it away.

He hands your phone back to you when he’s done, and your fingers graze his when you take it. “Just text me, then. If you need a ride.”

“Alright.” you give him a smile, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing open the car door. “Thank you, Harry. Really.”

“My pleasure,” he says, and you grab your bag, hooking your arm underneath the strap and racing up to the back entrance of your building. It’s only when you get inside, the door firmly shut behind you, that you turn around again, and his car is gone.

10:52 PM

Y/N: hey professor...it’s y/n. just wanna make sure u have my number saved in case of emergencies

Harry S.: How is it you can have the highest grade of any student in my class and use improper grammar while texting?

Y/N: it’s a talent i guess

Y/N: texting like you’re writing an essay makes ppl v uncomfortable, and i speak from personal experience

Harry S.: So you’re uncomfortable right now, then?

Y/N: nooo, ur different

Harry S.: To quote this girl I know, ‘thanks for letting me be the exception, then.’

Y/N: how did u remember that? that makes me uncomfortable

Harry S.: Haha.

Harry S.: You should be sleeping right now. Students need their full 8 hours, don’t they?

Y/N: so do professors, as i keep telling u, but…

Y/N: i had hw to do, also had to make mac n cheese for dinner

Harry S.: You can do your homework in my office, you know. And then you can probably make it to the refectory for dinner.

Y/N: the food at the refectory sucks

Harry S.: Yeah, you’re right.

Harry S.: But I do feel bad that staying to help me grade made you have to stay up until 11 doing homework.

Y/N: well honestly i’d rather be sitting in ur office talking to u than in my dorm doing american lit work

Harry S.: Why’s that?

Y/N: ig i like hanging out with u

Y/N: u should feel honored btw

Harry S.: Believe me, I do. And now you should get to bed so you’re not grumpy tomorrow morning.

Y/N: ig i deserved that… and i’ll only go to bed if u do too

Harry S.: I will.

Y/N: promise??

Harry S.: I promise.

Harry S.: Goodnight.

Y/N: goodnight, professor

After a week, your arrangement has changed slightly.

Every day, you spend just a bit more time in his office. Then he drives you home, in comfortable silence, and from the minute you step into your dorm, you’re fishing your phone out of your bag to text him. Every night that you lie awake, texting him until you physically can’t keep your eyes open, the line that you’ve been dipping your toe across falls back even more.

The stack of assignments that need to be graded are beginning to dwindle, and you hate it. Hate to see the pile of ungraded work getting smaller and smaller, because when it’s gone, you probably won’t step foot in his office again.

Truthfully, and as embarrassing as it may be, Harry has become one of your closest friends at school. He’s funny and nice, and he brought you hot chocolate with powder left unmixed at the bottom after you mentioned that’s how you used to like it when you were younger, and he plays music on his phone at a low volume while you work on grading.

Of course, as your friendship with Harry grows, so does the burning feelings for him that reside in the pit of your stomach day after day. And you know he doesn’t feel the same - he can’t - and maybe that’s painful for you, only slightly, but you’ve become rather talented at hiding those emotions. He can’t know that, everytime he laughs at one of your jokes, your heart swells - and everytime he reads a sentence from one of the essays out loud, using a mocking, deep voice, it makes your stomach flip.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so passionately about anyone, and that’s scary. Scary to think that the one man you want more than anyone else is the only person you can’t have.

“Y/N,” he says, and when you look up at him from your spot sprawled on the couch, he’s nibbling at the tip of his pen. “D’you think this makes sense?”

And he reads you a few lines written by one of his students - a name you recognize from being in your class, you think, but you’ve been paying attention less and less to other students during lectures. All you focus on is Harry, his booming voice projecting through the hall as he talks about the stories you’re reading, and every so often his eyes meet yours and the smile that spreads across his face could bring tears to your eyes, if you let it.

“Um - I guess. It’s worded kind of strangely, don’t you think? But I’d cut them some slack on it.” Harry nods and scribbles something in the margins of Nathalie Carron’s essay before flipping the page. “Can I put in a song request?”

He nods, then, picking up his phone from where it sits on his desk. The Chain plays softly, not too loud to interrupt your train of thought, but not too soft that you can’t hear it. “‘Course.”

“Heroes by David Bowie.” You glance back up at him, dropping Hannah Joseph’s essay on your stomach. “You like Bowie, right?”

“Who doesn’t, is the real question.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” You grin, glancing up at the white tiled ceiling as the song fills the hair, replacing Fleetwood. “You know, we should make a playlist for grading.”

Harry laughs. “A playlist of just Fleetwood and a dash of Bowie?”

“No, no. It can have other stuff, too. I mean, we know what we like.”

“Alright, alright.” He picks up his phone again, and you see his thumbs moving feverishly on the screen. “Y’know what, I’ll make it right now and show it to you for approval.”

“Make it good.” You pause, picking your essay up again. “No Justin Bieber.”

He snorts, and you relish in the noise.

The next ten minutes passes in mainly silence - when Heroes ends, Fleetwood continues, playing Secondhand News, and you hum to the tune. Harry’s ringer is on and you can hear it, the sound of the keyboard on his phone as he searches up song titles, and you rest the essay back on your stomach, writing messy notes with the pen you snatched from the mug on his desk again.

You sit up, suddenly, leaning over to rest Hannah’s fully graded essay on his desk, and instead of reaching for a new one to work on, you push yourself to your knees, resting your palms on his desk and attempting to lean over and peek at the playlist. But he anticipates that - he knows you’re nosy - and tilts his phone towards him, intercepting your attempts to eavesdrop.

“Don’t be impatient,” he murmurs, a smile tugging across his lips as he scrolls through something. “I’m almost done.”

You hum in response, dropping back down onto the couch, stretching your entire body across it, head resting on the armrest. The two of you settle back into a comfortable silence - he’s paused the music, by now - lasting only a moment or two before he stands up from his insanely comfortable chair, maneuvering his way around to the couch where you’re lying. He crouches down next to you, handing you his phone, opened to a Spotify playlist, and you greedily snatch the device from him, flicking through the songs.

Your eyes scan every song, absorbing every song title.

I Walk The Line by Johnny Cash - My Eyes Adored You by the Four Seasons - Your Song by Elton John?

Love songs. Every single one of them.

You push yourself up, sitting leaning against the armrest, as your eyes fall on the last song of the playlist - When I Kissed The Teacher by Abba. You lower his phone to your lap, looking at him with a slightly confused smile adorning your face.

He watches you intently, your heads a mere few inches apart, then reaches down to grab his phone off your lap, and you laugh lightly before saying, “it’s a lot of love songs.”

“They reminded me of you,” he tells you, voice quiet, testing the waters.

“They - they did?” It doesn’t make sense to you - doesn’t make sense that 45 love songs should bring you to the forefront of his mind, that every single time he hears Fooled Around And Fell In Love he should think of you.

They make you think of him, though.

And without thinking - of what you’re doing or of the consequences - you lean in, closing the short distance between your faces, pressing your lips against his so softly that it feels like it’s a mere breath on your mouth.

Harry pulls back, lips barely a centimeter from yours, exhaling softly. “We shouldn’t.”

You hum in agreement, already leaning back in. “No, we really shouldn’t.”

Your lips meet again and his hand goes to your face, cupping your jaw, and when he deepens the kiss you whimper into his mouth, bringing both of your hands to the back of his head. Your fingers bury themselves in his curls, tugging on the chocolate brown strands, and he groans softly into your mouth.

It’s everything you’d imagined and more, as the hand not on your cheek drops down to your waist, pulling your body closer to his. The angle is awkward - you sitting on the couch and him kneeling before it - so you unattach your lips, much to your dismay, and swing your legs around the edge of the couch so he’s situated between them. Harry’s eyes are wide, his hair mussed up, and you lean back in without a moment’s hesitation to resume the kiss. His tongue brushes against yours, and he tastes like mint tea and fucking heaven.

Both of his hands go down to your waist, tugging you to the very edge of the couch so your bodies are as close as they can be, and yours go to the back of his neck, dipping underneath the collar of his button down shirt to scratch at his back. It feels muscular, more toned than you were expecting, and feeling the skin underneath your nails makes you moan into his mouth.

“Fuck -” you groan softly as he moves his lips down your chin and to your jaw, nibbling softly at your skin, as if experimenting to see what you like - your reaction prompts him to move further down, licking a stripe down your neck and to the base of your collarbone. One of his hands - very large hands - slide up to cup one of your breasts, squeezing the mound of flesh through your tight shirt. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Harry hums against your collarbone, pressing open mouthed kisses across your skin. Your nails dragging down his back causes him to bite down gently to stifle the moan rising from his throat, but you hear it and Goditspursyouonsofuckingmuch. “God, Y/N -”

His praise is cut short by the sound of three swift knocks on the door - he pulls back from you, nearly falling back on his ass with the speed at which he stands, and your eyes flash to the door. Your heart is pounding desperately in your chest - are the doors soundproof? Did someone outside hear you? The thought makes you sick to your stomach, and your eyes meet Harry’s to find the same worry in his orbs.

Within moments he’s back behind his desk, running a hand through his hair to try and smooth it out, and you’ve reached to grab Hannah Joseph’s essay off his desk just as he calls, “come in!” in a voice that’s far too cheery for the panic that had just overtaken the both of you.

The door opens and from the corner of your eye you can recognize the girl who walks in - she lives across the hall from you, and her name is … Anna or Emma or something similar. She’s nice, and you should remember her name, but your brain is so scrambled that you can’t think of it.

Harry kissing you. Harry making you a playlist. Harry’s hands on your waist, pulling your body into his.

It’s everything you’ve dreamt of since the beginning of the semester, feeling his touch on you. And when you close your eyes, you try to imagine what would have happened if nobody knocked on the door, and it sends a shiver down your spine that doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, sitting at his desk as he looks over Anna-or-Emma’s essay.

You can’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. The girl (who, now that you think of it, may be named Alana) is asking Harry a million bogus questions about the essay requirements he’d just given out and her shirt is so low cut that you’re surprised her boobs haven’t fallen out. Whether that was intentional or not isn’t something you dwell on, but something about sitting on the couch, trying to steady your breathing while your clit throbs violently feels wrong.

“I’m gonna go, professor,” you say, interrupting her question, and she looks at you like you just told her you’re going to give her a million dollars. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Y/N,” Harry calls as you grab your bag and shut the door behind you. His voice sounds pained, almost, as though he doesn’t want you to leave him alone with a girl whose only goal is clearly to fuck his brains out. You practically run down the hall, which isn’t close to being as empty as it usually is when you and Harry leave at the end of the day.

Your shirt is tight and short sleeved and you can picture your jacket, up in his office, thrown over the back of the couch. You’d been in such a rush to leave that you’d left it, and you’re beginning to truly feel the consequences of it as the cold corners you, attacking your skin, and you could go back up to his office and get it but you just want to go home. The sun is setting, and it’s earlier than when you usually leave.

The walk home is decidedly miserable, the wind sending tears streaking down your cheeks, and your mind is practically going into overdrive. Jesus Christ. You kissed your professor, and he kissed you back. And then you left, like a fucking idiot. He probably feels terrible - feels like he violated you, or ruined his career. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. If you were more respectable you’d go back to his building and apologize for running out, wrap your arms around him and kiss him like you fucking mean it, but all you do is scan your card to get into McKinley and walk down the hall to your dorm.

Your roommate is out - at her boyfriend’s, as per usual, but you appreciate it. Truth be told, you haven’t seen her much since the first few weeks of the semester, but she seemed nice enough. You drop your bag onto your bed and collapse on top of the covers, gazing up at the ceiling.

You bring your hand up to your mouth, brushing your fingertips over your lips with the same feather light touch that the first press of Harry’s lips to yours had felt like. You can still feel it - feel him - if you close your eyes, his hands grasping your hips and his lips trailing down your collarbone.

Slowly, you press your palm to your stomach, trailing it down your torso until you reach the button of your jeans. You undo it with shaky fingers and push them lower down, beneath the hem of your cotton thong, and the first brush of your fingertips against your clit sends a shiver down your spine and a whine falling off your lips.

Harry’s hand on your chest, squeezing your breast through your shirt as he kisses down your neck - oh my god, licking down your neck, biting your skin, his eyes are so wide, his hair is messy from where you grabbed it, and you hadn’t been interrupted he would’ve climbed on top of you, pressing you into the couch, tugging your jeans down your thighs and -

Maybe he would’ve done what you’re doing now, sliding his digits into your heat, fingers longer than yours, hitting every spot that you need him to. Or maybe he would’ve slid down your body, lifting your shirt to suck a deep purple mark into your chest, before burying his face in your cunt -

A very loud moan falls from your lips as you push a finger inside of yourself, curling them immediately to hit the spot inside of you that makes your tummy flip.

But maybe - just maybe - Harry wouldn’t have bothered with that. Would’ve watched, breathing so heavy as you unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his nice dress pants to wrap your hand around his cock, throwing his head back and moaning as you swiped your thumb over the tip of him.

You’re so close so fast you can practically taste the orgasm creeping up on you, your hips bucking up to meet where your fingers are feverishly rubbing circles on your clit.

And he would’ve slid into you, and he’s so big that he’s stretching you out more than any of your fingers or the guy you’ve been with, and he’d grab your chin and force your head up and kiss you so fucking hard, his hips flush against yours -

With a strangled cry, you curl your fingers once more and then you’re cumming, release coating your fingers as your hips roll into your hand. All you can think about is him and what could have happened, and the fact that you may have ruined the start of something magnificent, but God if the orgasm wasn’t good.

You pull your hand out of your panties, wiping your dripping fingers on the denim of your jeans. For a moment, you merely stare back up at the ceiling, focusing on steadying your breathing, and then you stand up, kicking your jeans off your legs and tossing them onto your dresser. You have a pair of plaid pajama pants crumbled in a pile at the bottom of your bed from the morning, and you pull them over your legs with a sigh. Perhaps it’s not the height of cleanliness, but they’re soft and comfortable, and you lie back down on your bed once they’re on.

After nearly an hour, you still haven’t done anything but sit and do nothing, occasionally flicking through your phone. You wish you could fall asleep but your brain is working far too fast to even think about resting, and -

The sound of your phone getting a notification startles you, and you groan, grabbing your phone to look at whoever disturbed your panic.

Harry S.: I’m behind your building. I have your jacket.

He’s here? Jesus Christ, you just came over him and damn near cried over him and now you have to see him.

Perfect.

Your heart skips a beat, and you jump up without a second thought. You look an absolute fool, stuffing your feet into the first pair of shoes you can find - a pair of slip on Vans that are so dirty they can barely constitute as white - before you’re running out the door, your phone tucked in the waistband of your pants, heading down the hall and out the back entrance where Harry’s black car sits, waiting.

You walk up to his car, pathetically out of breath, and lower your head so you can see him through the window as he rolls it down.

“Hi.” Your tone is quiet, and you clear your throat. “Um, I’m sorry about running off like that. I just got overwhelmed and that girl showing up made me - um - nervous.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, though he’s very pointedly not making eye contact. “M’sorry if I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, or -”

“No, I kissed you first -”

“But I’m your professor.” He says the word with an odd inflection, nearly pained. “I shouldn’t have let it escalate. I’m sorry.”

You dig the toe of your shoe into the road, looking down at the passenger seat where your jacket sits, waiting. The tension is palpable and you swallow thickly, then grab the car handle, forcing the door open so you can grab your jacket. You wrap the fabric around your shoulders - the seat heaters made it warm and you could nearly cry at the way it embraces you.

Harry watches you - you can see him from the corner of your eye - and then he looks down at your body, your shirt and your pajama pants with no pockets, and asks, “D’you have your key to go back in your dorm? S’just, you don’t have any pockets … I can’t see it.”

Shit. No, you don’t. You hadn’t thought about that when you were running out to see him. Perhaps he can decide the answer from the way your face drops, because he exhales with a small smile, barely perceptible, and nods his head. “Get in.”

You grab the door handle again, pulling the door open and climbing inside. The seat is toasty and warm and the car is toasty and warm and altogether you feel like both of those adjectives combined. The radio plays softly - or maybe it’s his phone, hooked up to the aux cord, because Maybe I’m Amazed by Paul McCartney is a song you recognize reading on the playlist he’d made. You slam the door shut and wrap your arms around yourself, holding your jacket closer to your body, before turning your head to glance at him. He still hasn’t started driving, merely gazing at you, and you feel your skin heat under his eyes. “Where are we going, professor?” It’s a stupid question, because you aren’t going anywhere yet, and he doesn’t look like he plans to start driving anytime soon.

“I’ll take you back to my apartment.” HIs eyes haven’t left yours, and your stomach turns. “How does that sound?”

You exhale softly. “Sounds perfect,” and then you’re leaning in, pressing your cold palms to the side of his cheeks and bringing his face into yours.

Your lips meet and it’s more desperate than it was in his office - teeth clashing and your tongues brushing against each other, as if he’s trying to devour you. His hand rests atop of yours, dwarfing you pathetically, before dragging his fingertips down your arm and up to your shoulder, fingers dipping beneath the sleeve of your shirt.

Where you’re cold from the air outside, Harry is so warm and toasty, his breath hot against your face when you pull away briefly. He presses his forehead to yours and then leans up, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose and smirking at the whimper you let out.

“Wait,” he tells you, voice low and quiet, and you nod slowly. “When we get to my apartment - but not now.”

You nod feverishly and sit back in your seat obediently, desperate for him to finally start driving. His hand rests on top of the center console and you stare at it for a moment - you can do it, do what you’ve wanted to do every single time he’s driven you home - and you place your palm overtop of his. He turns it over so your palms are pressed together, fingers intertwining, and you’re sure he can hear your heartbeat with how loudly it’s beating in your chest.

The line that you’ve crossed is so far behind you that it’s a mere dot in the distance.

The car ride to his apartment is short - only 2 full songs play during it, and you recognize My Girl and I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight from the playlist. Truth be told, it feels as though you’d been in the car for hours and hours, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of your hand. You want nothing more than to crawl across the center console and straddle him, kiss him until you’re both breathless and go as far as you’d fantasized about but you have to wait.

Harry’s unlocking the door of his apartment entirely too slow for your liking. It’s as though he’s trying to tease you, make you antsy, when all you want is for him to press you against the wall and kiss you silly.

He lives in a large brick apartment building - one of the newer ones, you know - in an apartment on the third floor. You’ve passed his building so many times driving through town and you never even knew it - didn’t know the man who lived there was someone you’d be so desperate for.

“Come on,” he whispers, though there’s no real reason for the two of you to be quiet - perhaps it just fits the mood. Harry’s hand wraps around your wrist as he tugs you into the now-open door of his apartment, flicking on the light switch residing beside the door.

As light floods the apartment you’re somehow both surprised and also not at all. It’s surprisingly tidy, resembling more of his car than his office, and - to your relief - it’s quite obvious he’s the only one who lives here. You slip out of your Vans and take a moment to look around. A cat sits on top of the couch (her name is Marie, named after Aristocats, you learned from class) and you can’t stop yourself from gravitating towards her, using two fingers to stroke down her back as you peek around the apartment.

Yes, it is quite clean, and surprisingly colorful - there’s a striped rug and red couches and your eyes fly a bookshelf filled with picture frames against the wall. One is him with four other guys, arms wrapped around each other - one of him and Marie - one of him, significantly younger, hugging a girl who looks extremely similar to him.

“Is this your sister?” you ask, unaware of where he is in the apartment but trusting he hasn’t strayed too far from you.

“Yeah,” he responds, and you jump slightly. Harry stands just behind you, and when you turn to face him he’s fighting back a grin. “So nosy, aren’t you?”

You raise your arms to wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to yours as his hands gravitate down towards your lower back where your shirt rises just a couple inches from your pants, exposing a strip of skin, and his touch sends a shiver down your spine. “I guess I am nosy. Can’t help it.”

Harry leans down, then, pressing a kiss to your forehead and down the bridge of your nose before landing on your lips - you whine into his mouth, pushing yourself onto your toes to try and deepen it, swiping your tongue into his mouth. It’s so different than before - heavier, deeper, and you can’t get enough of it.

“Please,” you whimper against his lips as his hands creep farther down your back, landing on the globes of your ass through your soft pajama pants. “I need you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You can hear a sense of cockiness working its way into his voice and you groan softly as he pulls away from you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

You need everything. You need everything he can possibly give you and more - you need wish fulfillment of everything you’ve dreamt of since the start of the semester and that includes every single goddamn appendage on his body put to use somehow.

But you can’t possibly begin to tell him that, not yet. His fingers are already trailing down to the waistband of your pants, tugging at the tie that holds them up when you breathe, “Your mouth. Please, I need - I need your mouth.”

It’s not enough for him, you can tell, as he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your throat, sucking softly. “M’using my mouth.”

“H - Harry …”

“Where d’you want my mouth?”

You curse beneath your breath, and he pulls his head back to raise his eyebrows at the sound. You bury your hand in his hair, tugging lightly on his curls, before squeezing your eyes shut and muttering, “Want your mouth … down there.”

As much as you want it - and Godyouwantitsofuckingmuch - it makes it no less awkward to say it out loud.

“Down where, baby?” Harry asks, voice teasing and so fucking smug. “Down here?” His hand sprawls across your stomach, pressing down on your abdomen and you moan softly. “No … down here, s’that right?”

His hand slides down to your cunt, pressing his palm overtop of you through your pajama pants and you’re so wet you’re sure he can feel it even through two layers of fabric. Your throaty cry in response and the feverish nod of your head confirms what he’d been teasing you about, and Harry delivers one last soft kiss to your lips before dropping to his knees before you.

Fuck. You never thought you’d see Professor Harry Styles, the man of your dreams and the one person you considered to be entirely unattainable, kneeling in front of you with his nice dress pants on and a crisp button up shirt. He looks entirely normal, save for his messy hair and lust blown pupils, and you’re sure you look a bloody mess but his eyes still devour you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You drop your shaky hands down to the tie of your pants, undoing it at record speed, and he hooks his fingers in your waistband. Slowly - so slowly - Harry tugs them down and his eyes remain on you as though expecting you to stop him, but you can’t. Finally they pool by your feet and you lift your legs to kick them off, sending them flying near the couch where Marie resides.

Had you known this would be happening perhaps you would have opted for racier panties - your cotton thong isn’t terrible but it certainly isn’t doing you any favours, and you have so many lace ones at home that would have been perfect for the opportunity - but Harry still looks at you like you created the world. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh and then the other, leaning in to suck a dark purple hickey into your skin.

You suppose he has a thing for hickeys.

Your fingers twist in his curls, trying to direct his head up to where you truly need him, and he chuckles softly - the soft exhalation of air makes you whine as it hits your cunt, even through your panties. A soft kiss is what he lands on your clothed clit, and your hips buck up into his mouth. You’d forgotten, perhaps, that you’d had an orgasm less than an hour prior but you’re very swiftly reminded, and he looks up at you with a smirk.

“So reactive,” he murmurs, wrapping his lips around your clit through your underwear and sucking softly. “Just the way I like.”

A shaky breath escapes your mouth as you toss your head back, legs shaking and you can’t expect them to hold you up much longer. One of his hands moves to the back of your thigh, kneading your skin softly, and the other dips into the hem of your panties and slowly tugs them down. You’re so wet that the fabric is desperate to stick to your dripping cunt but he manages to roll them down your legs, face to face with your pussy and -

Heat floods through your body and up to your face as you look down and make eye contact with Harry. Now that he’s down there, gazing at your bare pussy, you feel oddly compelled to protect whatever modesty you have left and shut your legs but then he grabs one of your legs and throws it over his shoulder, pushing you back just a bit until your back smacks into the wall, and leans in.

The first stripe he licks up your core sends a choked cry from the back of your throat and then a long whine as Harry focuses his attention on your clit. His tongue flicks the swollen bud, still rubbing circles into the back of your thigh. Your heel digs into his back as he moves one hand up to your cunt, running his finger through your soaked folds before pushing it inside of you.

He curls his finger, mimicking a come hither motion until he brushes against the spot that makes your hips jerk against his face. Harry’s lips wrap around your clit and when your eyes roll back into your head, he takes his hand off your thigh and snaps his fingers.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled against your cunt, and the vibrations roll through your body like an earthquake. “I wanna watch you fall apart. Look at me.”

Slowly you lower your eyes back down to him, meeting his gaze as he pulls his mouth away briefly - smacks his lips - and pushes a second finger into your dripping heat. As he thrusts them in and out, hitting that sweet spot in your velvet walls, you can feel your orgasm building in the pit of your tummy embarrassingly fast, but you want to hold out for him. Want to prolong this as long as you can.

Harry’s teeth brush against your clit and you cry out, barely hearing the way he groans, “So fucking reactive for me, yeah?” but you can hear it and it only makes you moan louder. His tongue draws patterns over your clit and he’s so determined to maintain eye contact but you can tell it’s a struggle for both of you.

He pulls his fingers out of you, licking a thin stripe up one of them as if he can’t get enough of your taste before reaching his arm up so his fingers rest on your bottom lip. Obediently you open your mouth, accepting his digits and swirling your tongue around them, tasting yourself on his skin, as he leans back, glancing up at you with heat blazing in his eyes.

“You’re close,” he tells you, his voice deep and throaty. “Can feel it - feel how you’re clenching around my fingers, baby. D’you wanna cum? Tell me how fucking bad you want it.”

Harry pulls his fingers from your mouth and presses them to your clit, rubbing a slow circle as you struggle to find your voice before gasping, “Fuck - need to cum so fucking bad Harry - Harry, oh my god -”

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

“Yes! Oh my god, H - Harry -”

“Cum for me, baby.”

He leans in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking and that’s all you need to topple over the edge, the orgasm that had been building in the pit of your tummy finally exploding. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud that’s hardly audible over your loud shrieks and moans, your leg finally giving out and you damn near slide to the ground before Harry hooks an arm around your thigh to keep you upright.

His tongue flicks at your clit gently, riding you through your orgasm, and when you’re coming down from your high it’s all you can focus on. There’s a high pitched ringing in your ears and you don’t think you’ve ever - ever - cum that hard in your life. You’d only been with one guy before who didn’t even know women could orgasm and your fingers never gave you anything so earth shattering.

Your breathing comes out in desperate pants as Harry rises from his knees, moving both hands to your hips as your legs nearly collapse again. Your clit is throbbing and when you press your body to his, leaning up to kiss him so desperately, you can feel his boner, hard against your thigh.

“Holy shit, professor.” It’s all you can manage, pulling away to drop your head against his chest, using the moment to try and steady your breaths. “W - who knew you were so good at that.”

His fingers brush through the ends of your hair, a gesture so sweet and innocent that it could make you forget what just occurred. “A hidden talent, I guess,” he mutters, gripping your chin to kiss you again.

You drop your hands to his waist, gripping his nice button down shirt in your tight grasp, surely wrinkling the fabric as you roll your hips against his. Even through his pants his hard on feels fucking huge and you’ve only been with one guy before and suddenly you’re wondering if he’ll even fit inside of you.

But you’ll try. By god, you’ll try. And you press your head to the wall, looking up at him with lust dilated pupils. “Harry.”

“Tell me what you need, baby.” But he already knows, and you can tell he needs the same thing.

You swallow, bucking your hips forward against his boner, and he groans. “I want you to fuck me. Please. I - I need you to fuck me, professor.”

The word makes him moan aloud, and within barely a second he’s grabbing your wrist, tugging you away from the wall and across the apartment until he’s swinging open a door and pulling you inside.

Something about being in his bedroom is entirely different than being in his living room, the carpet beneath your bare feet plush and soft. There’s a large television in front of his bed and the bed is made beautifully, a flannel blanket tossed over the end, and you can’t fucking wait to mess it up.

Harry spins you around to face him, attaching your lips once more as he shuts the door. You whimper into his mouth as his hand drops down to your bare bum, squeezing the flesh in his large palm. “Sorry,” you murmur, voice high pitched and breathy, “was nosing again -”

He groans as you drop your hand to the front of his fancy dress pants, trying desperately to undo the button with one shaking hand. It’s a struggle and finally he chuckles breathlessly, dropping both hands down to help you with the task, and finally you reach your hand into his trousers and press your palm against his cock, hot and heavy even through his boxers.

“Bed,” he grunts, backing you up until the back of your knees hit a hard edge and you fall backwards onto his plush duvet. He stands above you, breathing heavily, and for a moment you stare at each other, as though processing that this is happening - and the moment picks up again. Harry reaches down and tugs at the bottom hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off your body and sending it into the corner of the room. Your bra is lace, at least, and decidedly prettier than your panties, and for a moment he stares down at your chest with a look of pure lust adorning his face.

“You look a bit flushed, professor,” you tell him, voice faux innocent and sounding entirely more confident than you feel. “Are you feeling okay?”

Harry chuckles through gritted teeth, and you push yourself onto your elbows so you can work at the buttons of his shirt as he tugs his pants down his legs. “I’ve never been better, in fact.” His boxers are flannel and you can see the bulge in his boxers, and it’s even bigger than what you’d expected.

Your work at undoing his buttons slows down as your mind suddenly flips into overdrive - you must wear the worry that suddenly overtakes you because Harry leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“When’s the last time you’ve done this?” he questions, voice soft and spun sugar sweet.

“Um -” you try and think. The last time you’d done this you’d lost your virginity and that was - “A year ago. Maybe longer.”

Harry nods, nudging your nose with his and giving you one final kiss before rising back up. His hands replace yours as he works on unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to go slow, baby. I promise.”

In every fantasy you’ve had about him, he’s not slow - he’s fast, pounding you so hard the bed is nearly louder than the noises you make - but now that you’re here with him? Maybe you need slow.

You nod, and he smiles down at you. He presses his hands onto the mattress and then snakes them beneath you, fingers working at the clasp of your bra, and you lift yourself up slightly so he can undo it and slide your last piece of clothing off of you. He sends it into another part of the room and you can’t be bothered to focus on it because - Christ! - all of a sudden Harry lowers his mouth to your breast, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples and sucking.

“Fuck!” you gasp, fingers working themselves into his curls. Your fingernails scratch at his scalp and he moans lowly against your skin. Harry lifts his head off of you, pinching one of your nipples so you cry out.

He lifts one leg to rest on the bed and then grips your hips, pulling you closer to the edge. Your legs instinctively spread and he watches you, breathing heavily. “Baby,” he mutters, hands slipping his boxers down his thighs. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Heat burns your cheeks and you shut your eyes.

“Look at me,” Harry tells you, and it’s all you can do to obey. “Want you looking at me while I fuck you. Can you do that?”

You nod, swallowing as he grips one of your calves and hikes it onto the bed, exposing your sensitive, dripping cunt to him. You look down your body, where he’s grasping his achingly fucking hard cock in his hand, and then he drags the tip down your slit with a low hiss.

“Are you ready, baby?” he asks, voice soft and strained, as if he’s holding back and you know he is. But he needs this to be a good experience for you so it can be good for him and that’s what you appreciate.

“Y - yeah.” you push yourself onto your elbows and your eyes meet, maintaining perfect eye contact as he pushes himself inside of you. He’s going achingly slow and -

The stretch aches and you drop your head onto the mattress with a groan, Harry’s hand immediately finding your hand where you’re grasping the duvet feverishly. He bottoms out, fully sheathed in your warm cunt, a low groan piercing the air at the feeling of your walls, tight around him. It hurts - not as much as you’d expected, and the pain that quite literally fills you overtakes the burn.

You squeeze his hand, feeling his other run up and down the inside of your thigh as you adjust to him. “Oh - my god - wait - just - just one second wait one second -”

“Of course,” he breathes, and his voice is shaky with an emotion you can’t quite decipher. “T - take your time, babygirl.”

After a few seconds you push your head up to look at him, nodding slightly. “Okay. I need more, p - professor.”

You can tell he likes when you call him that and in some weird way you love it too - love knowing that the professor everyone lusts for is fucking you, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in, squeezing your hand when you cry out at the feeling. Maybe you’re not the first student to experience him like this but based on his demeanor you think you are - there’s something about him in this moment that feels like a secret you’ve discovered.

“Oh - fuck -” Harry grunts as he moves his hand from your thigh to your hip, pressing your body down with just enough force to limit your movements. It’s paining him, going so slow, you can tell - and you’re already starting to need more from him. You need him to go faster, and with a breathy moan you tell him.

Slowly his pace picks up, his grip on your hip tightening until you’re sure there’ll be fingerprint shaped bruises on your skin by tomorrow morning. With every thrust he fills you up so completely that every perfect spot inside of you is hit just right, and you never knew it could feel this good.

Every noise of his that tears through the bedroom spurs you on, pushing your hips into his to deepen every thrust. And every time you whine or whimper or cry or anything Harry delivers a harder thrust, fucking you so deep that you can feel it in the pit of your tummy.

“God, p - professor,” you moan, the word falling entirely too naturally off your lips even in your heightened state. Harry throws his head back with a high pitched whine, speeding up his pace until the loudest noise in the room is skin hitting skin. “Holy shit - fuck - I’m gonna - gonna -”

“Gonna cum around my cock, baby?” He hisses, pressing the hand that had once resided on your hip into the mattress, gripping the covers tighter so he can rail his hips into yours desperately. “So fucking tight around me, can’t even fucking stand it -”

Your hand, shaking beyond belief, slides down to rub hard circles into your clit. The sensations on your clit and his cock, rutting against your G spot with every thrust, sends you over the edge again - already so overstimulated from the rather intense orgasm you’d had before - and with a loud cry-bordering-on-scream you’re cumming again.

“Fuck!” you moan, hips bucking up against his as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Fuck, Harry, oh my god -”

He’s not far behind you, hips stuttering ever so slightly but he wants to bring you to one more orgasm, securing this day as the best fuck of your (admittedly limited) sex life and he can’t cum yet. Your hand falls back onto the mattress and Harry pulls his clammy hand from yours, bringing it down to replace your fingers on your clit, and immediately you clench around his cock, begging incoherently for something - you’re not sure what - as he presses down on your clit hard.

Your eyes roll back into your head as his cock twitches inside of you, and grunts and moans are flying from Harry’s mouth faster than he can control it. Your walls flutter around his dick, his thrusts slowing to lazy pumps in and out. He’s so fucking close, he just needs one more push and then -

Your fingers wrap around his wrist and he looks down at you, your eyes nearly black with desire, tears streaking down your cheeks. “C - cum in me, professor.”

It’s the final straw for Harry, and with a nearly animalistic cry he sheathes himself fully inside of you and cums so hard so fast, it’s nearly violent, and the feeling of warmth that explodes in your cunt sends you into your fourth orgasm of the night -

It’s less intense than the others but still entirely too prominent and when you’ve finally rode out the last wave you collapse against the bed, your head spinning and your legs aching as Harry presses it back down from where it had been perched up.

Harry collapses on top of you, his body suffocating and hot and sweaty and you wrap your arms around him, your desperate attempts at steadying your breathing filling the room. You’ve never cum so hard and so much and you’re fucking exhausted, truthfully.

He lifts his head, gazing down at you as you run your fingers through his tangled, sweat soaked curls. “How was that?”

You exhale with a smile upturning your lips, beginning to feel his cum dripping out of your pussy and down your thighs. “Jesus Christ,” you murmur, and a grin breaks onto his face as he drops his forehead against your shoulder.

The two of you lie in silence for a moment - no words need to be spoken. Harry shifts the pair of you further up the bed, your head crashing onto one of his pillows as he remains, firmly on top of you, like he never wants to leave.

But you can’t stop yourself from asking the question burning through your mind, and you swallow thickly before mumbling, “Harry -”

He hums softly.

“Is this like - a one time thing?”

His head lifts again, chin pressed to your shoulder blade, eyebrows furrowed. Harry takes a moment to respond, though, lifting his hand to trace a line across your jawline to your lips, and you press a soft kiss to the tips of his fingers when he arrives at his destination. “I don’t think so,” he tells you, and his voice is quiet and vulnerable, as if waiting for you to deny him. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

You smile softly, leaning in to press a kiss against his soft lips. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“‘Course, baby.”

The name makes your tummy flutter, and you think you could listen to him call you baby for the rest of your life. “I’ve dreamt of this,” you tell him, lips merely a centimeter from his. “Since the beginning of the semester, every night.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at you, and you giggle at his expression. “Glad to know I’m not the only one.”

You shut your eyes, then. Rest your head on his pillow, feeling warm with the man you adore pressed on top of you, his arms firmly and protectively wrapped around you. Nothing has ever felt more right to you, and you drift off to sleep with a soft smile still gracing your lips.

#harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #yall i am rlly proud of this but yes im sorry it took so long to come out #i had so much fun writing it and im so happy w it #please leave feedback!!! id appreciate it so much

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