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#I'm a little tired of doing tag essays

radi0activec0smos · 1 year

Text

“I still remember the day they came back from the ambush. How worried we were - scratch that, how terrified we were that they wouldn’t come back. We’re all lucky they did.

We just wish we knew exactly what happened from that moment. Unfortunately for us... they couldn’t bring themself to speak much for a while afterwards.”

I need to stop dong these at like 10/11pm I stg

Anyways HEE HOO MORE ANGST BECAUSE GUESS WHO CANNOT GET ENOUGH :]

Wounded sweetie I’m sorry but. You are an official blorbo of mine. Therefore I must consistently put you through The Horrors™. Yeah it’s in the job description.

One of my more rushed pieces, I will admit, but I did this mainly to get the scene out of my head and onto something - and tbh I still like it enough to post it so hee hoo. Tumblr please if you’re not going to show some of my stuff in the tags again I’m gonna go apeshit /hj

(For context: This is set shortly if not right after the events shown in Wounded Warrior’s memory in-game :] Because this is meant to take place when all are still alive, behold - humanisation of sorts)

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hier--soir · 8 months

Text

a lover's pinch | three

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel gets a little birthday surprise, and you get a little too drunk. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, pining, f!masturbation [barely], sending nudes, joel finally locks his office door, dirty talk, the slightest slip of possessive language, uh.. ahem.. biting, protected piv birthday sex, a messy dinner party, excessive alcohol consumption [i'm talking embarassing], irritating men, soft!joel. word count: 10.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: let the pining commence folks. hey siri, play brown eyed girl by van morrison. special thanks to @bageldaddy for the emotional support as i endured the labour that was the final hour of editing this. hope you guys enjoy! this is part three of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two.

Thursday.

A fortnight passes in the slow blink of a bleary eye.

Fall nudges Summer out the door, solidifying its presence in Maine with flaxen leaves and rolling grey clouds.

The rain comes at night. Rivulets of moisture that leak onto the windowsill, seep into the cracked wood there and fill your room with the sweet smell of petrichor. It clears before the sun rises most days, but you unpack of a box of sweaters and hang them in your closet, nonetheless. You enjoy communal coffees in the kitchen and try not to frown when the morning light doesn’t warm your legs the way it used to. Force yourself not to feel mournful when you get home one afternoon and find Pete on the sofa with a blanket over him.

And perhaps that’s why when you wake on Thursday to sunshine—to warm bed sheets, to blue sky, to bright whites and yellows coming through the window—you feel lighter. Start the day with a calm countenance that has you blinking sleep from your eyes and smiling drowsily as your fingers trail the windowsill and come off dry. You share a pot of coffee with Pete; let him explain soil vapour extraction to you for the fifth time. Listen, smile, nod, and don’t roll your eyes when he asks do you get it now? And when the time comes to get ready for the drive to campus, you are smiling. Shoulders loose, eyes bright.

It had been a tiresome couple of weeks.

As the middle of the semester drew closer, you’d spent days on end poring over a laptop with tired eyes and cramping fingers. Writing and editing—and then rewriting and re-editing—your first round of essays and analyses. Balmy afternoons spent nursing glasses of cheap wine with your roommates evolved to late night coffees alone in your room, eyelids drooping as you fawned over every word, every quote, every fucking comma – all of it for him.

Him who you hadn’t been alone with in almost fifteen days.

Him whose texts were seared into your memory, left unanswered on your phone.

Him who you could hardly look at during lectures, for fear of losing your train of thought.

Him who you were hellbent on impressing.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

And as busy as you’d been, it hadn’t stopped the stares. Brief, intimate glances from down the hall in the history commons. The flash of a knowing smile as you shuffle toward the exit after a lecture. The graze of fingertips against your elbow, muddling your mind as you rush to meet a text translation study group.

Watching, waiting, wanting – a near insufferable task since that afternoon in his office.

Late into the first week you’d discovered that, upon focusing hard enough, you could still feel the ache in your knees; the rug burns his carpet had left on your skin. And then you shoved the memory of it down; compressed it somewhere deep inside, hidden away until you had the chance to open it back up again, and take your time with him like you truly wanted to.

And it seems today was that day.

You stare out the window for a moment. Sip your coffee and rake in the greenness of the grass, the cloudless sky, the ray of sun shining across your bedroom floor – and decide you’ll wear a skirt to Joel’s seminar.

The pin on his shirt is blue.

Not cerulean, or baby, or steel.

Not like how the sky was blue as you drove to campus with your windows down. Not like clear turquoise waters on a white sand beach in Greece, or like a robin’s egg swathed in leaves and sticks. But a deep, rich colour. Royal blue. A folded circular pin, with two tassels coming out the bottom of it.

It’s the first thing you notice when you walk into the lecture hall – the thing your eyes snag on repeatedly as you wander towards the third row and tuck yourself into a seat. That vivid splash of blue against a plain white t-shirt. No buttons today; formal wear forgone in place of a simple tee that hugs the vast planes of his chest, snug against the thick span of his biceps. His arms are almost enough to distract you from the gaudy brooch.

Joel won’t stop moving at the foot of the room, pacing the same length of floor over and over again, waiting for the crowd to settle. Hands busy themselves at his waist, wiping a small square of cloth against the lenses of his glasses. A muscle in his forearm twitches with every swipe of fingers against glass, and the sight has a hazy flush rising in your neck. Despite yourself, you try in earnest to catch a glimpse of what the pin says. Bare thighs tensed in your seat as you tilt your torso forward, eyes squinting.

The last students wander in, and he’s shifting, sliding those glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and snatching the slide clicker from the desk. He offers a polite greeting to the room.

It doesn’t take long for someone to speak up. “Special occasion?”

Joel’s hands still, chin tilting down as he glances at royal blue and then back out at the group, a wry smile breaking across his face.

“Just a thing the faculty does here,” he clears his throat awkwardly, laughs a little. It’s a soft sound, his laugh. Tickles your ears and makes you want to smile in return. “Some of the others started it a few years back… they make everyone wear one on their birthday.”

A chorus of surprised well-wishes chime from around the room, and Joel waves them away with a broad palm, shaking his head.

Even from three rows back you can see the pink in his cheeks; the resistance in his eyes as he intercepts the kind words soaring in his direction. You recognise a shyness there, an unwillingness to be the centre of attention, and it surprises you. Joel always seems so confident, standing week after week in front of 30 odd people and talking for hours. But you suppose then he can hide behind his words; behind years of knowledge and study and practice. When it’s about him? He falters. Tries to hide. You almost want to curse at him for being so endearing. And maybe you would – if it wasn’t his birthday.

“Nah, none of that,” Joel tuts, shaking his head. “Let’s get started, alright?”

He claps his hands once, and the sound reverberates through the quietening room. The fabric of his pants clings to the meat of his thighs, tightening around muscle as he rests against the edge of the desk. You fight to keep your gaze on his face.

“Today we’re gonna start with talkin’ about the instigators in our parallel texts.”

And you try to listen, you really do.

Try to focus on his words as he talks, spouting thoughts about antagonists of war, about Helen and Menelaus, about Paris of Troy, but you can’t get past the spread of his thighs against the desk. The way his body moves when he finally rises, wandering to-and-fro across the space. How his thick thumb presses against the clicker in his hand, slides shifting on the wall behind him. There’s a dull ringing in your ears, the rough spell of his drawl vibrating inside your mind, spinning it’s yarn, and tangling itself in the space where rational thought normally resides. Birthday. It’s Joel’s birthday. Your hands clasp in front of your face, knuckle snagged between teeth, biting down, clinging to some far reach of clarity; something to bring you back to the ground and halt the dallied trance you seem to come under whenever he’s nearby.

Birthday, birthday, birthday.

As he discusses the Judgement of Paris, your mind wanders to a teacher you had as a child. A stern woman in her sixties who was fearsome among the gang of six-year old’s you roamed in. One year it had rained on your birthday, a spitting storm of hail and thunder. And when you cried, she told you that it only rains on your birthday when you’ve been a bad little girl.

It was sunny the next year, but she wasn’t your teacher anymore, and there was no one around to praise you for how good you must’ve been that year. For how hard you must’ve strived to achieve such wonderful sunshine on your special day.

A wry smile splits your face, tucked into the back of your hand, for you know better than anyone else just how bad Joel has been. And yet today, for his birthday, the sun shines.

He steps closer to the front row of seats, and your eyes glean across the lettering on his pin; the words Birthday Boy laid out in gold. A huff of laughter escapes you, and then your eyes are drifting up, past tan skin and scruffy facial hair, to find Joel staring straight at you. Dark, intrigued eyes. Assessing you, undressing you. Frowning.

“Somethin’ to add?” he clips.

The smile slides off your face. “Sorry?”

“Do you have somethin’ to add?” he drawls, unimpressed. The words slow and paced out as if he were speaking to a fool. “You seemed amused.”

“Oh,” you blink.

You shift awkwardly in your seat, straighten up, aware of every set of eyes in the room on the two of you. Joel’s face is stony, unimpressed. It’s the first time he’s made direct eye contact with you since you stepped into the room, and he is… on edge, clearly.

“No,” you decide on the safe answer, tone firm. “Nothing to add.”

He stares for a moment and then nods. Mutters a stern Pay attention underneath his breath before returning his gaze to the rest of the room. You scoff quietly, and swallow down the stab of embarrassment his words bring. The feeling is sour in your mouth, like the seed of a lemon is stuck behind your teeth.

Two seats to your left you hear a poorly concealed titter. Turn your head to spot a woman, maybe a year or two younger than yourself, giving you a pitiful smirk. You arch an eyebrow. Mouth what?

She simply shakes her head at you and turns to look at Joel, all glossy lips and doting gaze as she listens to his continued ponderings about Menelaus' role in the Trojan War.

You watch her for a moment. Note the way she laughs at his jokes, smiles as he goes off on a mindless tangent about something you aren’t paying attention to; hanging onto his every word. And you wonder if this is how you look to other people when you watch him. Another stark-raving Maenad, thirsting and possessed by the spirit of this Bacchant of a man. The Roaring One. The one with bedroom eyes and cheeks like wine. Joel Miller; fraught, brooding, and willing to embarrass you in front of a room of your peers to feel an inch of the self-control you've so easily ridden him of. A Dionysian fit to oppose the doomed Bacchant inside of you, whose mouth foams and eyes roll in ecstasy at the mere presence of him.

He crosses the front of the room, back and forth, and you imagine him as a bull of a man. Golden locks and thorned head, thyrsus in hand as he commands the attention of an enthralled audience. Corrals them to follow him, to adore him. And yet the image you create is distorted at best, a watered-down version of the truth, for what spites you the most is that he simply… doesn’t have to try. There are no attempts to convince; no persuasion in his voice, no dishonesty necessary as the room swoons for him. As you yourself yearn for him. Covet his touch, his body, akin to that of a God’s.

And perhaps there is some immorality there, some gross misalignment of hubris, that yearns to reset the scale. To remind this man that indeed you have knelt before him, but he knelt for you first.

The thought has your thighs pressing together.

“Well, Juno hates Aeneas because she hates Trojans. And for that we have Paris to blame,” he answers someone’s question with a chuckle. Gains a few scattered laughs in response. “Because we all know how Juno feels about Paris.”

You rise from your chair, legs shifting before your brain can catch up. Take careful, tip-toed steps towards the exit. Joel’s eyes drift in your direction, curious gaze draping over the bare skin of your legs as he talks. Just for a second though, a split second, before he’s looking determinedly back to the room, and you’re disappearing from his line of sight.

“And so, she thwarts the Trojans every chance she gets,” his voice grows softer as you stray farther from the door, until it’s nothing more than a vague purr down the hall. You wander into the women’s bathroom and slip inside an empty cubicle.

Birthday, birthday, pay attention, birthday, they make everyone wear one on their birthday, pay attention.

Your brain is abuzz, nerves alight as you place your phone carefully atop the toilet paper dispenser. Trembling fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the warm skin of your thighs, and yes you’ve been wet since you saw him. Turned on from just the sight of him, the sound of his mellow voice, the idea that maybe, just maybe, today you will get to touch him again. You can feel how it clings to your panties, sweet soft warmth pooling out of you, a dizzying wetness that longs for Joel to come and find you. To take you in his hands, tilt you down to his parted lips, and drink it from the source.

Your fingers are cold against your skin. A delighted shiver swims down your spine as you graze them along the front of your underwear. Barely touching, hardly any pressure, simply grazing over the spot where your clit has begun to pulse. A little firmer now, you press against the thin material of your underwear, let it slip between your soaked folds. You bite your lip to contain a soft sigh, and smile as you feel how wet the material is getting. Once you’re satisfied you pull your hand away, leave a shimmering streak against your leg where you wipe your fingers, and reach for your phone.

Position one foot on the closed seat and rest your back against the cubicle wall, angling the phone between your spread thighs. Tilting your phone this way and that until the camera catches you in the perfect light; the flared material of your skirt bunched around your hips, the shiny smear across your inner thigh, the damp stain of slick against the front of your light blue panties. You take a few pictures. Trail your hand down your stomach and let it appear in some of them as well; fingers poised over the band of your underwear, just a tease. Finally content, you tuck your phone away, splash some cold water on your neck, and wander back into the lecture theatre.

Joel looks up when you walk inside. He’s seated behind his desk now, the room quiet as people jot down notes, eyes flitting between their laptops and the presentation displayed across the wall. Furrowed eyebrows and brown eyes shining with that barely-contained interest they always seem to hold when he looks at you these days. You offer him a nonchalant smile before turning your back to him. Sway your hips with exaggerated emphasis as you waltz up the stairs, slide back into your seat, and take your phone back out.

No one’s watching you now. Not your fellow Maenad, with her sharp judgemental eyes. Not even Joel. Your fingers dance their way into your text thread with him, and you select your favourite from the pictures.

You glance at the two lone messages in the thread, gaze lingering on the second message.

That can’t happen again.

Hesitation grips you, fingers hovering over the screen as you contemplate the seriousness behind the words. And then you hear him answer someone’s question, and the rough drone of his voice has you pressing send anyway.

Happy Birthday Professor x

You imagine you can feel the vibration of his phone. Feel it groan and shift in the pocket of his pants, screen lighting up. You wonder if he’s saved your name in his phone, or if a picture of underneath your skirt just popped up from an unsaved number. You try to focus on the article laid out in front of you. Stare at the messy under linings, at the notes on the margins made in your chicken-scratch handwriting, and wait.

It doesn’t take long to feel the heat of his gaze, almost paranormal in its effect. You can feel it’s weight – how it glides across your skin, sticky, viscous, and impossible to ignore.

When you glance up, you have to resist the urge to shrink into your seat. Joel’s face is a mess of emotions. Square jaw clenched tight; lips sealed. Stormy eyes that dart furiously between you and his lap, where you imagine his phone rests. Previously neat curls are now tousled and stressed over. You watch he glares downward, and drags tight fingers through the locks again. He doesn’t look up for a long time after that. Shoulders hunched forward, chin to his chest as he stares down.

Joel doesn’t stand up for the last 90-minutes of the seminar. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. And he certainly does not look in your direction again. Not until the little hand on the clock strikes 11 o’clock, marking the end of his seminar, does he even entertain your side of the room. And not until the last student files out the door do you rise and meet him by the desk, a knowing look in both of your eyes.

You walk ahead of him the entire way to his office. Joel keeps an all-too casual distance from you, but you can hear the weight of his steps against the hardwood floors. Can feel his looming presence over your shoulder – sense his bursting need to get you alone. You only fall into step beside him when the office door comes into view, and then he’s herding you towards it, palm pressing flat against the small of your back in trivial, insistent shoves.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Joel nudges you inside his office.

There’s music playing inside. Soft waves of sound undulating toward you from the record player, and yet when he drags the door shut behind him you still hear the undeniable click of his key turning the lock. The window is closed, curtains half-drawn, and the air in his space is warm; almost stuffy from lying dormant and empty for hours.

Silently, Joel makes his way across the room to where his record player sits. Your eyes trail him faithfully, trained on how his shoulder blades shift like tectonic plates beneath the thinning fabric of his shirt. The urge to wander forward and pull it off him is intense. To run your nails down his skin and leave marks on his body the way he’s done to you.

“You think you’re funny?” his voice comes, a low murmur that you almost miss through the music. He lifts a hand and pulls the glasses off his nose. Tucks them carefully onto the table.

“Funny?” you reply, mouth suddenly dry.

Joel shifts the needle, restarting the record. Momentary silence swells into a bright intro, and he’s turning to look at you, thick arms folding across his chest. Your heart is a galloping staccato behind your sternum. A bead of sweat glides from the hollow of your throat down your chest, dampening the fabric of your shirt.

“Sendin’ me that picture of your pussy all wet for me,” he tuts softly. “Knowin’ damn well, I couldn’t do anythin’ about it.”

You swallow as he takes a step towards you. His hands drift to the front of his body, and you watch with bated breath as long fingers begin working at the silver buckle on his belt.

“Y’gimme nothin’ for weeks, don’t even pay attention during my fuckin’ classes, and then…” he pauses, almost glaring at you. But it’s not contempt in his eyes. No, it’s something else, something deeper—black brown peppered with frustration and lust and… There’s a lump in your throat. Something heavy that presses against your windpipe and makes it hard to swallow.

“You get off on this, hmm?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Torturin’ me? Makin’ me wait?”

“I’ve been busy,” you murmur, eyes fixed on where he drags leather through the beltloops of his pants. He discards it on the ground between you – an offering, an invitation.

“Busy girl,” he murmurs dryly. “And what about now? Now that I’ve got you here all alone… you gonna make me beg for it?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of him on his knees, palms clasped in his lap, and it has that slick heat pooling between your legs. You want to denigrate him the way you feel he has done to you. Order him to kneel, to apologise, to fucking beseech you. But Joel’s eyes are dark, face drawn as he watches you. And you know that you’ve already gotten even.

Royal blue swims in your vision and you give him your best smile. Shake your head and say, “Not today, birthday boy.”

Something glints in his eyes, hands twitching by his sides. You mirror him, finally inching forward a step across the carpet. His belt is solid beneath your shoes.

He’s shifting in an instant, swallowing the final stretch of distance between you until his chest knocks into yours. The breath rushes from your lungs at the contact, and his hands are clasping your face, mouth slipping against yours in a brutal collision.

It’s rough, messy, teeth knocking and chapped lips. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since that night at the bar, and it consumes the both of you.

Joel’s body seizes yours, wraps around you and holds you to him, gripping the skin of your arms, your neck, your face, anywhere he can reach. Saliva pools in your mouth and wells into his, low sounds of desire being swapped back and forth between dripping tongues. There’s something desperate about it – how his lips bruise against yours. Something earnest and needy and urgent in the way his thumbs dig into your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair around your ears.

You’re gasping into his mouth, hands dropping to undo his zipper in a frenzied hurry. You can feel him behind the material, a firm bulge that becomes more and more evident as you work to get him undressed. His hands drop to your waist, your ass, and he’s pressing up, up, up the hem of your skirt, nails digging into skin as he squeezes and pulls you flush against him. Broad palms splayed across searing flesh, the tips of his fingers dragging dangerously close to where you’re aching for him. Your fingers shift from his pants to your own shirt, gripping the hem to tear it over your head—but Joel stops you. Bats your hands away and hoists you off the ground instead.

“Shit,” you huff in surprise, holding his shoulders for support as his arms tighten like a vice beneath your thighs and around your waist. He cuts you off with another sweltering kiss, and he’s moving. Stumbling blindly backward, a blurred mess of two people, all harsh exhales and clashing teeth, tilting back, back, back until his calves hit the armchair and he’s dissolving into it, dragging you down with him. Your knees sink into the plush fabric on either side of his waist, and his hands are on you, bunching your skirt up around your hips until your underwear is visible. He breaks the kiss and looks down quickly, lip curling upward as he takes in the sight of your barely covered cunt hovering over his lap.

“Fuck me,” Joel breaths. He cants his hips upward, clothed cock grinding against you. The pressure on your clit is exquisite. It has your nose scrunching up as your shallow breaths flutter the curls across his forehead. “Dress like this for all your classes?” he asks, fingers snapping at the band of your panties before his hand drops to cup your entire sex. “Fuckin’ filthy girl.”

“No,” you gasp as his palm settles over you. “Only—oh fuck, no, no, only yours.”

A rough sound escapes him, and he’s pushing the material of your underwear to the side. Thick fingers glide over the coarse hair on your mound, dipping in between your folds, right to the beating centre of you. You stare at his face while he stares at the swollen mess between your thighs.

“S’damn right,” he grunts. His eyes are ablaze. “Just for me.”

Your eyelids flutter closed, face warming at the words, and you’re whimpering as he rubs firm circles over your clit. Joel’s tongue presses against yours, coaxes your jaw open until it aches.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he marvels into your mouth. “Always so fuckin’ wet.”

A finger drops to your slick hole, slips slowly slowly slowly inside until the tip of it is curling against the soft spot inside you that he reaches so fucking easily. The air in the room is thin, his breaths a hot wash against your face, and a languid moan snakes its way out of your throat.

“Quiet.” Joel adds a second finger. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. Fingers so long, so thick – fingers that pale in comparison to his cock.

“I want you,” you gasp.

“Hmm?” he hums dangerously.

“Please,” your head tilts back, mouth ajar and thighs trembling as he works you open on his fingers. Joel lets out an impatient sound, and then his fingers drop from your swollen core, and he’s holding a condom. He must’ve pulled it from his back pocket, or between the cushions of the chair, but you don’t dwell on it. Don’t care where or how or why, too restless to be filled to ask; just give a pleased nod and lean back so he has enough room to free his cock from his pants.

The thick weight of it rests in his palm. He’s swollen and thick, the tip a deep rosy colour that reminds you of his flushed cheeks, his puffy lips, and has your mouth watering. And it’s wet with slick strands of precome that drip down his length to meet the movement of his fist.

“S’this what you were thinkin’ about?” Joel breathes shakily. “Got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip. Watch him tear open the foil packet and roll latex down his length. You ignore the familiar urge to say forget it just take me I’m here and I’m yours just fuck me. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. Drags his cock against the dripping seam of your cunt. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you repeat, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt. “God, Joel, please.”

A sharp wet smack and a trembling gasp fill the air as he taps the tip against your clit, and then rests himself at the notch of your entrance.

“Show me how bad you want it,” he orders huskily, hands drifting to rest on the arms of his chair. “Go on, fuckin’—ride it.”

Breathing heavily, you reach down to grip him. holding his length still as you lower yourself over his lap.

There’s a stinging resistance there – your body pushing back against the size of him, against the angle.

Joel’s fingers drape against your clit and he rubs soft circles above the spot where you’re connected. You grip the back of the chair, face twisted in muted concentration.

“C’mon,” he breaths, jaw set with clear intention. “Fuckin’ drippin’ for me, y’can take it, I know you can. Yeah—yeah, that’s it.”

You sigh, body relaxing, and you’re pressing down, through. Sink down on him another inch, and then another, until he’s bottoming out inside of you and the skin of your thighs is flush with his pants and he’s making this rough, low sound from deep in his chest. Your mind goes blank for a moment, vision whiting out and lungs squeezing as you hold your breath and adjust to the sheer size of him, to the delicious burn between your thighs where he’s stretching you. And everything is soft and hazy around your mind, but you can see Joel’s eyes on you. The glassy, blissed out expression on his face as you clench around him. His hands drift to your waist, fingers groping bare skin underneath where he holds your skirt up.

“Fuck,” Joel pants. “So god damn tight.”

A pathetic whimper catches in your throat as you grind down, clit rubbing against the coarse hairs at his base. You’re so full, every sense heightened by the feeling of Joel, pressing you apart and making a home for himself inside of you.

Slowly—tentatively—you rock your hips forward, rutting against him in short, shallow movements. His hands encourage your body, guiding you along his cock as you gain confidence.

Soon enough your hips are lifting and dropping back onto him, over and over, tilting against him, doing whatever it takes to drag more hopeless sounds from his mouth. The music from his record player is a low, thrumming bassline in the back of your mind, every bright refrain of guitar punctuated by sharp gasps and elongated sighs.

Joel’s eyes shift from the space between your bodies to your face. Pupils blown, sweat beading along his forehead. Watching you, he seems to fall backward, into himself perhaps. His body goes slack against the armchair, head lolling back as he stares.

“Jesus,” he mutters lowly. “Missed this perfect little pussy.”

There it is again. Perfect, perfect, perfect. You clench around him at the word, rut your hips in a particularly rough movement that has Joel’s eyes rolling back and a guttural moan falling from his lips. His chest is heaving with ragged breaths, the tendons and veins in his neck on display as his chin tilts upward. A bright red flush has raised across the exposed skin of his collarbones, his neck. You lean in and lick the skin there, skirt your teeth across his pulsing jugular. Joel’s palm clasps the back of your neck, holding you against him. You can feel his thighs tensing below you, and then his hips begin to snap upward, meeting you thrust for thrust. The angle is harsh, and he's filling you to the brim, the tip of his cock bruising against the deepest part of you. You cry out against his skin, and the hoarse sound only spurs him on.

His wide palm shifts to hover at the base of your neck, slips beneath the collar of your shirt. Splays over your collarbone, dull fingernails grating against the skin above your breast, by your armpit. You lean back to let him see you, and his eyes drop to watch the way your hips roll over his lap. His finger snags on the strap of your bra and it snaps against your skin.

“Take it off,” you mutter urgently. Need to feel his skin against yours. Chest to chest. Heart to hea—

“No.” His hips snap up into yours faster, knocking the breath from your lungs. One hand grips the armchair, one his shoulder, trying to find some kind of leverage as he pistons into you from below. That fucking Birthday Boy pin is still stuck to his shirt, and blue flashes in the periphery of your vision. A particularly rough thrust has a loud moan parting your lips, but as soon as it begins Joel’s hand is crashing over your mouth, fingers gripping your face to silence the sound. Your eyebrows raise, silently questioning overtop his hand.

“Need to shut up,” he grits out. “Gonna—ohhh—gonna get us caught.”

You glide your tongue against his palm, taste the salt on his skin. Feel his fingers squeeze your jaw harder in response. And then your own hand is moving from his shoulder, fingers gliding across the sweaty skin of his neck, to slot over his mouth. You stare at one another, wild eyes locked, palms sealed over slick lips, and something fiery pulls taught between you. Liquid heat spreads through your muscles, tightening and loosening with every movement of his body against yours. You can feel the coil at the base of your stomach tightening. Your pussy throbs in a rhythm sympatico to that of your heartbeat, and your fingers squeeze around his face.

You can feel the vibration of Joel’s moans against your hand, and then his teeth are sinking into the soft flesh of your palm. For a moment you wonder if he’ll pierce the skin. Let your blood seep from the wound and spill across his tongue; a sacrificial offering. Drink you down, devour you as he lies within your body. You bite down on his palm in return, holding his gaze as your bodies grind and rut against each other.

Your back arches suddenly, and your forehead knocks against his as your orgasm steadily approaches. Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours. Your shoulders begin to lock up, thighs burning, but he doesn’t let up. His hips collide with yours at a devastating pace, and his free hand drops between your thighs. The pad of his middle finger circles your swollen clit, and you jerk against him, every nerve inside your body fraying and sparking.

Joel slurs a curse against your hand and then you’re coming with a haggard whine into his hand, walls constricting around him in a vice grip. You close your eyes only to discover that royal blue is stained on the inside of your eyelids, unavoidable. He is unavoidable. Even in the darkness of your own mind, he lurks. The smell of him in your nostrils, the taste of his spit in your mouth. You think you hear a garbled version of your name spoken into your palm, and then a stinging sensation rips across your ass as Joel starts to come, fingernails dragging across skin, as he grinds his cock desperately into your pulsing heat. Your eyes flutter open, body shivering with the aftershocks of your high, and you watch him. Admire the way his jaw softens beneath your grip, teeth retracting and leaving dull indents on your skin in their wake.

There’s a low pinch between your thighs. It rings out minutes later, a sullen ache, as you lift your hips and let him slip from your wet clutch. His hands fall from your body, and you suck in stale air, taking a clumsy step off his lap to stand shaking on the ground before him. There are circular white marks on his cheeks, lingering reminders of how you held him, smothering his wanton groans of pleasure. You watch them slowly fade to pink, and try to settle the unsteady breaths that wrack your frame.

Your fingers drop lazily to adjust your underwear, but then those hands are tilting your hips, encouraging you to turn until your back is to him. They slip beneath your skirt, find purchase on the band of your panties, and slide the drenched material down your legs. You step out of them, and gasp in surprise when he flicks your skirt up again. A shiver travels down your spine as he glides a finger through your swollen cunt.

“Joel,” you whimper, lips poised to say that it’s too much, too soon, that you need a second to breathe.

But Joel exhales a quiet groan, and something sharp nips the sensitive skin of your ass. Peaking over your shoulder, you find Joel’s mouth there, wet tongue soothing over the mark his teeth made on your flesh. There’s a slip of blue clenched in his fist, held protectively in his lap beside his softening cock.

You feel the vibration of something against your skin, a murmur of words that you can’t quite make out, before he pulls back. Retracts all points of contact, carefully removes the condom, clears his throat softly as he tucks himself back into his pants. The tell-tale sound of the moment drawing to a close. You swallow down that familiar tang disappointment and hold out a hand for your underwear.

And then Joel surprises you.

This soft, teasing smirk lights up his face, and Joel knocks your hand away. A huff of surprised laughter escapes you as he rises and wanders toward the desk. You watch, stunned into silence, as he drags open a drawer on his desk and tucks that blue slip of fabric inside. It slides closed with a definitive thud, and Joel falls down into his desk chair. His eyelids must be heavy, because they droop closed while you watch.

There’s a damp patch at the bottom of his t-shirt that has your face in flames, but he doesn’t seem to care, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as his body relaxes into leather. Your legs tremble as you grip the strap of your bag, taking that as your cue to quietly head for the door.

“Liked your essay.”

You pause with your fingers on the door handle. Turn to find that his eyes are still shut.

“You’re only saying that becau—”

“No,” Joel interrupts, the firm tone a sharp contrast to his lax frame. Eyes open now. “It was good.”

You hum quietly and rock back onto your heels. Unsure of what to say, you settle on offering him a small smile. He nods in return. The silence drifts back in, and you find yourself unable to speak until his eyes close once more.

“Happy birthday, Joel.”

So softly, so as to not disturb. And you aren’t sure whether he heard you or he’s already fallen asleep, but you do notice the corners of his mouth tilt upward ever-so-slightly.

Friday.

A crimson tablecloth covers the expanse of the table. Deep dark red, almost brown, reminiscent of old blood.

Plates smeared with remnants of a dinner long-past litter the surface, dirtied knives and forks stacked precariously atop them. Sauces have hardened to thickened globs on the China, sticky and stale and calling out to be cleaned. But the end of the evening is nary in sight, as Ian, your gracious host, deposits another bottle of wine onto the table.

“It’s a Cabernet Franc,” he slumps back into his seat at the head of the table, directly opposite you. “My parents brought it back from their trip to Bordeaux this past Summer. A gift.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes for the thousandth time in three hours. Pour yourself a generous glass and taste it. Say, “I’m more of a Merlot fan,” despite being drunk as all hell and having zero knowledge to help discern between different wine grapes.

Pete offers a supportive smile, and you watch as his friends light fresh cigarettes that send plumes of smoke to the already stained roof of Ian’s apartment.

Ian’s girlfriend Claire, a wildlife and conservation biology undergrad, is draped across the chair to your left. Eyelids half closed; her slim fingers grip a half-smoked joint for dear life, hand hovering dazed in mid-air between her thigh and her face. You think back on the words Pete spoke to you this morning in the kitchen – there’ll be another woman there, don’t worry. And Claire’s great, I swear. You try to reconcile his words with the girl beside you, and the dank smell of burnt weed drifting toward you through the air. She’d been high when she arrived, and after speaking a measly three words of greeting in your direction, had sequestered herself to a chair and smoked through the entire dinner. When none of the others batted an eye, you held your tongue. And their nonchalance became clear when, upon completion of the meal—overcooked chicken, sticky carrots, and undercooked parsnips—Ian and Henry lit up cigarettes at the table too.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to attend the dinner party.

They’re really cool, Pete had blabbered into his mug that morning. We do it every Friday. It’ll be nice to have you meet some of my friends.

Oh, Pete. Cool, they are not.

Henry and Ian, friends from one of Pete’s environmental engineering units, are filthy rich. The kind that you can smell from a mile away. The kind that radiates from their expensive clothes, their manufactured pearly teeth, their god-awful haircuts. The kind of rich boys that have their own apartments in Portland, paid for by a Mummy and Daddy who holiday in Europe every summer—a trip that Ian has managed to bring up at least once an hour since the moment you met him.

The one beautiful, stunning, gorgeous saving grace is that there is alcohol – enough to ply yourself with in order to deal with Ian, who asked what your postgrad was in and replied slyly, “Oh, a fun one.” Ian, who, upon learning about your translation internship in Greece, said, “Sounds like you had a marvellous vacation.”

In return, you sat like a good little house guest—ornament—and listened to the three of them talk ad nauseam about engineering. Consume glass after glass of wine, decline cigarette after cigarette; you get profusely intoxicated as they debate—interrupt each other—the validity of different pollution control policies.

It’s not until early in the fifth hour of the dinner that Ian raises the topic of philosophy.

“It’s curious, that’s all,” he says, cigarette hanging limply between wine-soaked lips. “That these old guys would just hang out all day and… what, talk? Never understood why people rave about Socrates and Aristotle all the time. Just a bunch of sad sacks that liked the sound of their own voices a little too much, if you ask me.”

You hum against the rim of your glass, decidedly unbothered. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. His dining chairs are stiff, and your ass is aching against the heavy mahogany. Pete shifts awkwardly to your right. You can feel him looking at you, trying to gauge your impending reaction, and your face remains placid, numb from all the wine rushing through your veins.

“Is that what your degree is like?” Ian asks. “A bunch of old guys who love to listen to themselves talk?”

And that almost makes you crack a smile. You respond with a lacklustre shrug that neither confirms nor denies his suspicions, and definitely don’t think about—

“I don’t know,” Henry slurs, shooting a pointed glance in your direction. “I used to date this girl—”

“You fucked her once,” Ian interrupts.

“—Rita—"

“Rose.”

“—and she studied all that shit. Used to tell me about that guy who, he, uhm,” Henry pauses. Belches loudly. “He said something about God committing suicide and like, we’re his body or—wait what is it?”

“Mainländer,” you nod, mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s a creation theory of sorts – God commits suicide to create the universe, and we’re all living on his decaying corpse.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Of a potential God’s potential suicide?”

“Yeah,” Henry grins dopily.

You sigh. “Would’ve been cooler if he left a note, I suppose.”

Henry guffaws loudly, leans back until his chair is balanced precariously on two legs. The cigarette falls from his fingers to his lap, glowing orange cherry leaving charred ashy marks on his jeans. If you were more sober you might’ve said something. But as if were, you just laugh and drain the final dregs of wine from your glass.

“So, your degree involves stuff like that?” Ian asks then.

“Sometimes,” you hum, already bored with the hint of mockery you sense in his tone. “We study the societies as a whole, so yeah, there’s talk about philosophy on occasion.”

“And mythology,” he wiggles his eyebrows from across the table, fluttering his fingers in the air. “Must be fun to talk about made up ideas all day.”

Henry clears his throat roughly and plucks the cigarette out of his lap, all remaining hints of laughter filtering into silence.

You stare. Feel your hackles rise. Sharper this time, as a more acute sense of irritation floods your system. “You do know that Greece and Italy are real countries with real histories, right?”

Claire moves for the first time in fifteen minutes, takes a long drag from her joint. Exhales in your direction.

“Sure,” Ian shrugs. “But you have to admit, all the stuff about the Greek Gods is a little silly.”

You spare a quick glance in Pete’s direction and find him wearing a tight, awkward smile, looking at you with something apologetic in his eyes.

“Silly,” you repeat the word slowly. It as though your brain is working at a thousand miles a minute, desperate to catch up with the conversation. Constantly two steps behind wherever Ian is dragging you. And he’s giving you this smarmy, sympathetic smile that screams oh your poor thing, you have no idea how poor your future job prospects are, and you’ve seen that smile a hundred times, had this conversation a thousand more, and you can suddenly envision yourself reaching across the table and pouring your glass of wine into his lap.

“And what about the rest?” you ask tersely. The collar of your shirt scratches against your neck, and his cigarette is spilling ash onto the fucking table, and he’s an asshole, and you want to throttle him for getting off on belittling you.

“The rest?”

“The rest,” you nod. “I suppose I can admit that those gods are silly, so long as we’re also admitting how fucking laughable biblical Gods ar—"

Pete says your name sharply. You pause, seal your lips shut. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, the wary glint in his eyes a reminder that you’re a guest in Ian’s apartment. Ian’s apartment that was paid for by Mummy and Daddy; Ian’s apartment that has a crucifix above the kitchen entryway.

“More wine?” Pete asks smoothly. He’s rising from the table before you can respond, lifting the bottle and pouring a swell of red into your glass. Ian’s grin broadens, and a fresh round of irritation flares across the back of your alcohol sodden brain.

“Gimme a second,” you mutter, pushing your chair out. Your body sways as you stand, blood rushing to your head. Blinking the dizzy spell away, you grip Pete’s shoulder for leverage and make your way past him, shuffle down the hall and into a swanky bathroom. Your feet are heavy, mind a blur, as you collapse onto the toilet seat and rest your face against the cool tiled wall.

“Silly,” you grumble under your breath. “You’re fucking silly… asshole.”

Digging your phone from your pocket, you squint against its harsh light. Fingers fumble across the screen to your messages app. Tap Nora’s name, and hold your finger against the voice memo button.

“Nora,” you mumble, nose squished against tile. “It’s awful, you... I need you to save me.”

There’s a roar of laughter from the dining room.

“Why do men always have to be the smartest person in the room?” you continue as the sound dies down. The tile is cool against your skin, a welcome reprieve from the boozy flush that’s taken over your body.

“Pete is such an—” hiccup “—asshole for inviting me to this, I swear—”

Your phone hits the ground with a sharp clatter, and you curse, torso tilting forward as you reach clumsily for it. When you tilt the screen back to your face, a jolt rushes through you. You stare for a moment, dumbfounded, at the picture. There’s the soft sound of rushing water in your ears – your pulse, you realise.

“No,” you mutter, senses sharpening the longer you stare at the picture; your soaked blue panties. At the voice memo underneath said picture, that had certainly not gone to Nora. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, no.”

A moment of painful clarity comes when you make out the delivered sign below the voice message. Blurry eyes dance across the screen, vaguely deciphering the capitalised word MILLER. Panic swirls in your stomach, a churning writhing thing that feels a lot like nausea.

And then a text appears.

Are you drunk?

Your thighs are still numb from sitting for so long, so you slink dejectedly onto the floor and type out a response.

yes

that wasn’t for you

Ten minutes pass. You stare at the bright screen until worn-out tears prick in your eyes.

Doing okay?

tired

ate bad food, drank alotta wine

Probably time to go home.

cant drive

thought you hada phd? telling me to drunk driev

bad profeseor

Five minutes. Pete knocks on the door to ask if you’re okay and you assure him that you’re fine.

Where are you?

You type out the address carefully. Wash your hands in the sink and combs wet fingers through your hair to tame your appearance before skulking back into the dining room, where the vulture awaits you.

“I’m going,” you announce blandly. Claire is asleep, you think. Ian and Henry are playing an aggressive game of cards. Only Pete looks up.

“How are you getting home?” he frowns.

“Got a ride,” you mutter. Collect your things and give his shoulder a brief squeeze before slipping out the front door.

The air is cool outside the apartment building. A sharp breeze whistles through the parking lot, snakes it’s way beneath your clothes to curl against your skin. You welcome the chill. Rub lazily at the goosebumps on your arms as you glance at the last text from Joel.

Be there in 20.

You’re perched on the stoop when headlights finally appear. You curse, eyes smarting as you duck to avoid the harsh fluorescents, and then a black truck is idling a few metres away, engine purring. The passenger door kicks open and you squint, trying—and failing—to see inside through the darkness. Until—

“Get in.”

You’re barely in the car before Joel is pressing a bottle of water into your hand. The plastic is sweating, damp with condensation, and you sigh in relief. Press it against your neck, your face.

“Drink it,” he says sternly. You crack an eye open and look at him. He’s so close. Just a hairsbreadth from you, in a soft t-shirt and jeans. Glasses on the end of his nose. Fluffy hair—bed hair. There’s a soft frown on his face that dips and rolls in your vision. A downward tilt to his mouth as he puts the car in drive and tears away from Mummy and Daddy’s apartment.

“Hey,” you give him a lop-sided smile.

“Hey."

“Were you in bed?”

“You stink,” Joel ignores your question. “You chain-smokin’ in there? Christ.”

“Not me,” you huff in frustration. Take a small sip of water, careful not to spill on the seat. “They were smoking at the table. While we were eating.”

“Who was?”

“Pete’s friends.”

“Who’s Pete?” Joel grunts. He’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes are set on the road. Only when you don’t respond does he look back at you.

“Who’s Pete?” he repeats. Something stony in his voice. You smile.

“One of my roommates,” you offer. “Why? You jealous?”

“Quit it,” he bites out. “You gonna tell me where you live or am I s'posed to guess?”

Your smile spreads into a full-blown grin as you type your address into his phone. He snatches it from your hand and tells you to drink it all. You sit in silence for a while after that. Roll down the window and let your hand rest outside the car, fingers fluttering as the wind whips past them. He’s driving fast, green traffic lights blurring in your vision, and you feel your head spin faster, harder. Mumble under your breath.

“What?” he asks, voice too loud.

“Slow down,” you repeat, inhaling a deep breath. You feel him ease his foot of the gas instantly, a hand coming to hover over your knee.

“You feelin’ okay?” he murmurs.

“Mm.”

You let your eyes slip shut. Just for a second. A minute. And then—

“Hey.” A firm hand is on your shoulder. Thumb pressing into the skin beneath your collarbone. “Wake up.”

You jolt upright in the seat. Rub a palm roughly against your eye. Forget that you’re wearing makeup until you see black smeared across your hand.

Joel is saying something as you climb out of his truck, but you don’t hear it. Too busy pressing the door shut behind you and stumbling up the paved path to your house. Cool metal slides in your palm, numb fingers grappling for purchase. You scratch the key against the door’s aperture once, twice, and then feel it slip from your hand. A wave of dizziness hits as you watch it clatter against the ground.

“Shit,” you grumble. Bend down to pick it up. Rise and try a third time as silver swims in your vision. You hear a car door slam, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, and slur another impatient curse under your breath.

“Let me help,” he says from behind you.

“It’s fine,” you protest, skin searing with embarrassment.

“C’mon.” Joel’s warm hand covers yours. Pries the key from your palm and unlocks your front door in a one easy movement. “Let’s get you inside.”

“I can do it.”

“Just let me help you.”

You practically float down the hall, buoyed by the thick arm around your waist, towing you along. In your room, Joel clicks on the lamp in the corner. Dim orange light envelops the space as you fall back onto your bed with a huff, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“You need more water before you sleep” he says. “And a fuckin' shower.”

“Mmm,” you agree, eyelids fluttering. “I'm… just gonna lie here for a second.”

The responding sound is that of heavy footsteps disappearing down the hall. A fleeting rush of liquid somewhere in the distance. Your eyes close for a minute, maybe two, and reopen to find Joel’s broad frame hovering in the doorway, holding a glass of water and gripping the doorknob as he assesses your most private space. Your eyes are hardly open, but you can see him in the dim light. Glancing into the darkness of the hall and then back to you, slumped messily against the pillows. After a thick moment of silence, he steps decidedly across the threshold, and closes your bedroom door behind him.

As you watch him, you begin to feel a sense of startling clarity.

Joel Miller, in your house. Joel Miller, in your bedroom. Joel Miller… seeing you make a complete fool out of yourself.

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out.

“What?” Joel asks sharply. He rounds the bed in two quick strides, and then he’s pressing a glass of water on your side table and sitting beside you. His weight on the side of the bed has the mattress dipping, your body tilting onto your side to face his back. A wave of nausea strikes suddenly, and you suck your lips into your mouth. No.

“Y'oughta warn me if you’re gonna be sick,” he warns.

“M’not.”

“You better not.”

“I won’t.”

“Think you’ll need about ten of those,” you hear him say. “But one glass is a good start.”

But there’s already an ocean inside you. Rocky, white-wash waves that lap at the walls of your stomach, press against your lungs, and have your mind swaying even as your body lies still. Fingers, moving faster than your brain, seek purchase. Crawling across the sheets to snag your index through a belt loop on the back of his jeans. Chilled skin against worn denim, an anchor. Something sturdy to calm the eddying current inside you.

“What’re you—”

“Did you have a good day yesterday?” you interrupt, eager to distract yourself.

Joel is silent for a while. Keeps looking down at you until he finally says, “Yeah,” so quiet that your ears strain to hear it.

There’s a hint of something there that you can’t quite read. An emotion that he holds clasped in tight hands, just beyond your reach. You let it be, mind distracted by the soft orange light emanating from the lamp. When you close your eyes it glows against the back of your eyelids, vibrant swaths of sunset and marigold that make it hard to fall asleep just yet.

“Seventy, right?” you tease.

An indignant scoff rings out, and you squeak as a set of rough fingers pinch at the skin of your exposed stomach. The quickest touch, just a graze of flesh, before he’s pulling back. You laugh easily, open your eyes to look at him again.

“Careful now,” he warns. But you can see humour in the lines by his eyes, the quirk of his lip.

Your finger wiggles against his belt loop, tugging on the material there once. A tired patience in your eyes as you wait.

“Fifty,” he finally concedes, smile wavering as his gaze darts to the sheets.

“Mhm,” you murmur. Lips part as you let loose a low, impressed whistle. It comes out as more of a lacklustre exhalation of air. Joel’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter when he meets your eyes again, a little more relaxed. “The big five-oh, huh?”

“The big five-oh,” he repeats simply. Tired as you are, you can see the question in his eyes. This searching, curious thing that rakes across your features, waiting to note any hint that you might be perturbed by the fact.

“S’nice,” you offer quietly instead. “Get any good gifts?”

The muscles in his neck strain, shirt tightening around his shoulders as he turns to look at you head on. Soft eyes gleam with something darker, teasing, as his lips pull into a lazy smirk.

“Sure,” he agrees, voice low, suggestive. “Good’s one word for it.”

Warmth floods your stomach and your toes curl. But you falter under the intensity of his gaze, a weary heat rising in your cheeks as your gaze lowers to his collarbone.

“Hey," you say quietly. “Look, I appreciate you helping me out tonight, I just…”

Joel’s eyebrows pinch the middle of his forehead, relaxation dissipating as he stares.

“Sorry,” you grimace, skin on fire. All of a sudden, your finger feels swollen in his belt loop, a promise that you can’t keep, the fabric branding hot against your skin as the words tumble out of you. “I’m just, I’m pretty wasted, and I’m grateful, you know, but I don’t think I can—we probably can’t fuck tonight—"

Joel says your name quickly. His hand is gripping your bedsheets, sun-kissed skin against pale yellow. “We’re not fucking.”

Unwitting relief courses through you, and you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay, I just wasn’t sure if you thought maybe… I don’t know—"

“Thought that if I gave you a ride home you owed me a fuck?” he asks plainly, expression tight. A dark, frustrated laughs spills from his lips and his shoulders are tightening, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt. “That’s not how this goes, darlin’. So don’t go thinkin’ that way, ever, y’hear me?”

You blink, eyes wide. Suddenly alert. Feel the warmth in your stomach spread to your chest, your thighs. Darlin’.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah, that’s—how does this work then?”

The indent between his brows only deepens as he gazes down at you.

“You call the shots,” Joel says. “I thought that was well established by now.”

His brown eyes look so soft in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Honeyed and golden in the warm orange haze. You stare at them for so long that you lose track of whether or not he’s answered your question. Forget everything that isn’t the lines beside his eyes, the dark speck of his pupils, the wild hairs of his eyebrows. You feel yourself drift closer to sleep again.

“Pretty,” someone says faintly. You. “You’ve got brown eyes.”

“Jesus.” He’s still frowning.

“Brown-eyed girl,” you sing—slur.

“Alright, Van Morrison,” Joel grumbles, the lines in his face softening. “Drink up.”

You do as he asks, gulping down half the water while he watches. His fingers rest cautiously at the base of the glass in case you drop it. And when you’re finished, he takes it from your hands, stands. Another wave crashes inside you when the mattress shifts in the absence of his weight, and you drift, unmoored, onto your back again.

Joel is staring at you. Towering over the bed, hands jammed awkwardly against his hips. His presence so large, so looming. He crowds your small space, his size ensuring that there is no room for another; only you and him, you and him, you and him, and you call the shots. You squeeze your eyes shut, determined to block that thought out.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now,” you mutter. “If that’s alright with you, teach.”

Joel says something, but it’s a far away sound. You tuck your face further into your pillow.

You think you hear him say good night, or some version thereof, but you don’t hear him leave. Don’t hear his boots on the hardwood, or the creak of your bedroom door. Don’t hear his truck start up outside.

And when you wake, alone, you find that droplets of rain have settled on your windowsill, marking another wet September morning. But you don’t frown as you drag a sweater from your closet, nor as you draw the curtains and clamber back into bed. Don’t yearn for the warmth of Summer as the dull ache of a hangover ricochets inside your skull. For you can smell Joel on your sheets; can still feel his presence lingering in the corners of your room.

And that’s warm enough for you.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5

thank you for reading! x [and idgaf okay i was gonna put that birthday boy pin on him no matter what shitty excuse i had to come up with]

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #ALP #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

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braidlottie · 21 days

Text

“mother” knows best.

pairing: stepmom!lottie x virgin!transmasc!reader

summary: after getting comforted by your stepmother, she thinks of a way to get rid of your stress.

tags: smut, nsfw, 18+ (minors dni), stepcest, age gap, reader is 19, lottie is in her 40s, comfort sex!!,, soft!mommy!lottie, sloppy kissing, virginity loss/first time, breast sucking, handjob, crying, corruption?,, charlotte is used instead of lottie, the niCKNAMES!,, if anyone is know irl sees this no you didn’t

wc: 1.2k

a/n: am i cooked?

unlocking the front door with your house keys, you finally step into your house, feeling so tired. it was only 8 pm and you were ready to crash. you were about to go upstairs when you heard a female voice that startled you. "ignoring me now, honey?" you didn't even notice your stepmother on the couch, reading a book.

"oh- sorry. i didn't see you sitting there." you apologized, and she just shook her head with a smile. "come sit down, honey," she patted the couch cushion next to her. "did your father let you use the car?"

you sat down and shook your head. "he told me he had to go to work early again. but i took the bus." charlotte gave you a look of disapproval, but you knew it was for your dad. "you know i don't like you taking the bus at night, let alone walking." even though she wasn't your birth mother, she still cared about you tremendously. "i'll talk to him later." she put her glasses on her head, taking a sip of her tea.

"you doing okay, sweetie? what's wrong?" a comforting hand wrapped around your waist. "rough day?"

you nodded, resting your head on her shoulder, trying not to doze off. "you know you can tell me. it's not good to keep what you're feeling bottled up inside." she patted your thigh, saying her second sentence a little quieter than the last.

"i was late to class because of the bus, and my professor gave us our essay grades, and mine was a 68, and i don't know why because i worked so hard on it and he won't even tell me what i did wrong. and i didn't have a chance to get any lunch because i had to study, and i'm so tired, mommy." your voice quivered at your last word, covering your teary eyes with the collar of your shirt.

"oh, honey..." she took her book out of her lap and put it on the coffee table, instantly taking you in your arms. "there you go. just cry, baby. let it all out for mommy." she rubbed your back, rocking you while you were hunched over her lap, crying into her lap.

you stopped after a few, wiping your eyes again with your t-shirt. you've never cried in front of your stepmother, but she made you feel so loved that you wanted to cry even more. she pulled your shirt off your face, wiping your eyes with her soft hands. they were cold as well, cooling down your face.

"you're such a hardworking boy, you know that?" charlotte brings you closer, running a hand over your hair. "and such a smart boy.. and a good boy." she gave you a kiss on the temple, shushing your faint whine. "i think you need to relax a bit, hmm?" her hand slowly shifted up your thigh, making you squirm.

she wiped what was left of your tears, and kissed you on the cheek, the corner of her lips touching yours. your heart jumped at the feeling, staring back at her big eyes.

she went in for another kiss, planting one directly on your lips. you couldn't help but break the kiss, trying to catch your breath from the sudden connection. "charlotte... we shouldn't." she could tell you were flustered but scared of getting caught. "this- this is kinda wrong, don't you think?"

"not to me, darling. i just wanted to cheer my boy up, mommy can't do that? can you let mommy help you?" her voice was like velvet, but you couldn't give in. "what about dad?"

"he won't know if we don't tell him, right?" she nodded and you followed her action innocently. “now, c’mon. you gonna give me another kiss?”

you hesitantly nodded before sitting up to peck her on the lips. when you pulled away, she snickered, taking her glasses off her head. “what? what did i do?” you panicked, thinking you did something wrong.

“that’s your kiss? really?” you shrugged and looked down, playing with the thread on your jeans. lottie realized that she upset you and immediately apologized. “oh- i didn’t mean it like that, sweetie. have you ever kissed someone before?”

you looked up at her, shaking your head. it was silent for a second before she spoke again. “..have you ever had sex?” she watched you shake your head again, feeling herself get covered in goosebumps.

“that’s perfectly fine, honey. you’re still young.” her smile grew bigger by the second at your answer. “just relax.” she whispered, hands rubbing up and down your tensed shoulders. she kissed you once more, smirking when she felt your lips melt against yours. “good boy...” her voice was deep but soothing as she chuckled softly, slipping her tongue into your mouth.

she guided your hand to her breast, giving you permission to fondle them. “you know you want to. shy boy.” she teased. you bit your lips, hand trembling as you pulled down the collar of her v-neck, watching her nipple pop out from the cloth. you look up at her, mouth agape.

“use your mouth, baby. c’mon,” she pushed your head closer, feeling your breath on her breast. you kissed the perked bud before swirling your tongue around it, getting a sharp exhale out of your stepmother. her hand rested on the back of your neck, knowing she had you wrapped around her finger.

her hand found the zipper of your jeans, managing to unbutton as well with her other hand on your head. you felt the cold air touch your thighs, squeezing your legs together with a faint whimper. “i don’t bite, pumpkin. open those sweet legs for mommy, hm?” she coaxed, tapping your thighs. she pushed your head back into her nipple, moaning as you latch back on.

you let charlotte tug your pants and boxers down to your ankles, the pads of her fingers swirling around the head of your t-dick. “there’s my boy. just feel good for mommy.” you gasped, letting go from her breast to moan, resting your head back against the couch. your squirms made her put an arm around your waist, feeling yourself get dizzier by the second.

“mama, mama,” you sob, the pressure in your stomach worsening. you try to repeat the phrase again, but only make out a slurred mumble. “shh, shh… oh baby… can’t even think of the right words to say to mommy. are you so close? i can tell you’re right on the edge for mama.”

her words sent a shiver up your snipe, body jerking forward as you came against her fingers. you left quiet the mess, squirting into your clothes, charlotte’s hand, and the edge of the couch.

“good boy. such a good little boy for mommy.” she pulled away from your tdick, holding you close as you came down from your first orgasm. “he’s gonna see the stain, mommy. on the couch.” you whined, scared that your father would find out about your night once he came home.

“shhh, baby. let mommy take care it, okay? c’mon, i’ll run you a bath and clean it up before he gets back. i promise, honey.” she took your jeans off your ankles, and pulled your boxers up, helping you off the couch. you nodded, knowing you could trust her with anything. “that’s my boy, mommy loves you so much.”

you could tell she really meant it, squeezing your hand tight before pulling you into a hug, giving you the affection you’ve always wanted and needed.

taglist: @t4tnat @jaywritessometimes @girltwinklater @kessellluvr @lotties-ashwagandha @shipmanisms

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #lottie x reader #lottie matthews smut #adult lottie #stepmom!lottie #adult!lottle #lottie yellowjackets #lottie mathews x reader #charlotte matthews

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irisintheafterglow · 9 months

Text

End Game #2 (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: you sneak out to play volleyball.

word count: 1.5k

cw/tags: mild language, jjk volleyball au, misunderstandings, a little angst but nothing too bad, commitment issues lol, subtle pining !!!!

note: ok part 2 because this au has given me motivation again. also i don't know if i should make the rest of the team the second-gen jjk sorcerers (yuuji, megumi, nobara, inumaki, etc) so if you have any thoughts on that lmk. i'm thinking yes make them part of the team but that'd negate their age gap so as long as that's fine i think it'll work. anyways hope you enjoy!!

likes/reblogs/feedback are always appreciated <3

A knocking on your window jolts you from your daze as you stare blankly at the unfinished document in front of you. It was only supposed to take two hours, you told yourself, but those two hours had doubled as you kept rewriting and re-wording every sentence you typed. Squeezing your eyes shut, you rest your face in your hands and pray for the teacher to postpone the due date.

More insistent knocking draws your attention again, despite willfully ignoring it the first time. You lean back in your chair and groan, waiting for him to become impatient and start his Shakespearean monologuing.

“Are you going to make me sit out here in the cold? In the dead of night? How cruel is this earthly plane–” You slide the window open, meeting Satoru’s eyes with a tired stare, and his voice catches in his throat. “Wow," he manages. “You look like shit.” You blink once, twice, a hand leaning on the window frame and the other on your hip.

“What are you doing here, Satoru?”

The mouth turns into a sly grin. “I need a partner.”

It’s late, and you’re unfazed. “I have a boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I mean, wait…what?” You laugh at the genuine confusion that paints his face, turning back into your room to grab your shoes. He slides through the window easily like he’d done a million times before, landing softly on the carpet and leaning back against the ledge. Poorly masked concern leaks into his voice and you smirk. “Since when were you seeing someone?”

“Since never, Satoru. I already have my hands full dealing with you and your team; a relationship would essentially be another item on my schedule.” You slip on mismatched socks and some worn-out sneakers, shutting your laptop with a scowl. The essay would have to wait until you were done taking out your frustration on a volleyball. He watches you intently, blue eyes glowing in the moonlight. You’d known Satoru for years, but you always found that it was most challenging to read his emotions at night. It was like certain emotions were nocturnal. By day, Satoru was the goofiest person you knew; by night, you sometimes caught him staring at you in ways you knew he didn’t look at anyone else. You pushed whatever motives he may have into the back of your mind, dismissing his nightly flirtations the same way you ignored the daytime ones.

You stand in front of him expectantly with your hands on your hips, and he peers up at you, eyes twinkling like the stars. “Shall we?” His fake chivalry makes the corner of your mouth turn up.

“We need a ball first, Satoru.” You maneuver through your window after him, allowing him to briefly place his hands on your hips as you jump down from the ledge. His hands linger on your body for a moment before his senses come back.

“I left it in your yard.”

Your mouth drops in disbelief. “In the flowerbed?” You’re both whisper-yelling in front of your house, and you hope none of the neighbors decided to take a late-night stroll.

He puts his hands up in surrender, shrugging as you turn on your phone flashlight to find the ball. “There was nowhere else to put it!”

“I swear if you crushed those pink asters that I’ve been–”

“That you’ve been tending for years, I know.” You shoot him a glare over your shoulder as you bend over, fishing out the ball among the dark foliage. “You should grow red asters.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Satoru,” you quip, tossing him the ball and running a hand over the petals to ensure they weren’t damaged too badly.

He takes your spunk in stride, falling into step next to you. “I think they’re pretty. D’you know they’re supposed to symbolize devotion?”

Your body runs on autopilot, crossing neighborhood sidewalks with Satoru at your side as you head toward the small park a few blocks from your house. He spins the ball on a slender finger absentmindedly as you walk. He continues his attempts to convince you to plant red asters the entire way to the park, even after you’ve taken your regular position across from him near the playground. “I’ll think about it, okay? Will you stop telling me how to garden now?”

“I wasn’t telling you to do anything; I was just suggesting it.” He throws you the ball, underhanded, and your arms move together mechanically to bump it back to him.

“Yeah, just like you were suggesting that I call you captain earlier today.” Nimble fingers set it gracefully back to you, and you almost miss spiking the ball watching it arch in the air.

He receives it easily, bumping it back. “I still don’t understand why you refuse.”

“Because I’m not one of your players, Satoru. I’m outside of the game. I make sure you all have water bottles and stuff.” Set.

“You’re still just as much part of the team as anyone else is.” Spike.

“Agree to disagree, then.” Bump.

There was a separate reason as to why you didn’t want to call him captain, one that you would take to your grave. It was a line, you considered it, just like acknowledging his flirting. If you crossed that line, you were truly integrated into the team, truly connected to Satoru. You were the team’s manager, still separate from the rest of the players. As nice as it was to have somewhere to go after school besides your house, it was just as nice having a foot in the door just in case things suddenly went south. It was how you were, and you weren’t in the mood to verbalize your commitment issues with the one guy who’d probably tease you the most about it.

Satoru’s face is unreadable again as he sets the ball, but you could see the gears turning in his head. “Are we still having that practice match with Kyoto next week?”

Of all the things he would ask you, you didn’t think it would be practice-related. “As far as I’m aware, yeah. They offered to buy dinner if we won, by the way.” Spike.

“Does that mean we have to pay for their food if we lose?” Bump.

“Probably.” Set.

“Then, no. Definitely not.” Spike.

“Why?” You stick your tongue out teasingly. “Got plans?” Bump.

“No, not yet at least.” Set.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spike.

Bump. He shrugs nonchalantly, running a hand through his moonlit hair that you knew he only did when he was nervous. “Was thinking about asking someone out after the match.”

Set. “Oh.” The surprise moves past your lips before you can stop it, and you kick yourself mentally for feeling a bit of disappointment at his plans. You tended to get dinner with Satoru after practice matches, always some shitty fast food place where he talked about how much the other team sucked as he wolfed down three burgers. Sometimes Suguru or Shoko or Nanami would join you, but the one constant after hosting rival teams was dinner with Satoru. His intentions bothered you deep in your chest, but you couldn’t figure out why.

Spike. “Yeah.” A layer of awkwardness settles between you two that you’d never felt before. It wasn’t that you were distressed that he was gonna ask someone on a date; your body just felt physically unable to create words.

Bump. “Well, have fun with that then.” You fight to keep your voice even, eyes on the ball to look away from Satoru’s piercing stare. He was trying to read you, and you weren’t going to let him.

Set. “Aren’t you going to ask me who they are?”

Spike, a hard spike. The ball speeds toward Satoru faster than he expects it, forcing him to catch it instead of sending it back toward you. “No, Satoru. Unlike the rest of the country’s population, I really couldn’t give two shits about who you decide is worthy of your attention.” The words fall from your mouth with more venom than you intend, and you bite down on your bottom lip guiltily. “I’m sorry. It’s late.”

He watches you again, mysterious eyes analyzing your thoughts like a science experiment. “Yeah, it’s alright. It’s my fault, anyway, making you come out this time of night.” He smiles one of those make-everything-better smiles, and you feel a little lighter that he wasn’t too angry. “I’ll take you home.”

Several minutes that felt like hours later, you’re back in your room as Satoru sits on the windowsill again, about to leave. “Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’m gonna ask them to dinner.”

“Really? Why not?”

With his back to you, you had no idea what his expression was. You didn’t know if he was angry with you, but something in his voice told you he was hiding something.

“Just doesn’t seem like the right time.” Before you could formulate a response, the old Satoru is back in a snap, tilting his head toward you playfully. “But, hey. You never know. Maybe someday I’ll get the balls to ask them,” he murmurs before he disappears, leaping down from your window into the night.

You can’t tell if you’re relieved or disappointed that he wasn’t going to ask out that mystery person.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen #suguru geto #satoru gojo #jjk volleyball au

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charactersmashorpass · 7 months

Text

rules for submission:

no little kid shows (think bluey or sofia the first)

characters must have a canon age over 18 or in some way implied that they are a grown adult (18 year olds still in high school will be excluded)

please do not resubmit the same character, queue posts only 4 times a day, so it may take a bit to see your submission

see submission form here (currently closed) please don't send any more submissions in the ask box!

this blog was inspired by wouldyoudatethem

faq under cut

how long should my submission reasoning be?

keep your reasoning to a few sentences max, no essays or mile-long explanations, if you wanna add these after the poll has posted, then be my guest

can you add a "i'm not attracted to this gender/not interested/etc." button?

currently do not plan on adding it, i find it sort of unnecessary and if you feel that way, not voting or choosing pass is perfectly acceptable

can i submit x character?

i'd prefer you'd either just submit it anonymously or if you feel like it might be rejected, don't submit them at all, having to go through and approve different characters is tiring

i will sometimes answer asks about broad categories of characters, please check the #answered tag before sending one of these types of asks

why hasn't my submission been posted?

there a lot of submissions yet to go through and the queue only posts a few times a day, it may take a while to see your character. they may also have been rejected, i would prefer to not get asks about this

ugh why did x character lose? all you people are [insert insult here]!

be normal about people passing your favorite character, it doesn't matter

why is the icon mario?

because we're friends move on

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dnd-smash-pass-vs · 4 months

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As the year wraps up, I gotta get something off my chest, don't worry I'm not making a habit of this. Even though I know that the people who it's pointed at won't read or care, and the people who do see the resemblance to themselves likely won't be the ones I'm talking to. but I just had to delete multiple asks again, and it's stuff I get all the time, so I'm going to indulge in a little angry rant that you're free to ignore. Because seriously, I LOVE getting asks, I'd turn them off if I didn't. but some of ya'll REALLY don't understand there's a person on the other end of this. ...also, this is explicitly not pointed to the happy anon with the super long slaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad post last night, you're cool. I was just a really tired last night and hit delete on accident.

- Every time a post gets reblogged, it finds more monsterfuckers, but also more non-monsterfuckers. A less monstrous person doing well or winning does not mean you're the only monsterfucker here. don't fill my inbox with multi-paragraph "everyone here's supposed to be a monsterfucker" hate essays every time a monstrous option isn't in a massive lead, take it up with your followers if it matters to you that much. -Some of you are fine always voting against bone devil no matter what, but can't comprehend something auto-losing for a different reason. Like "I hate heat." Or strong smells, or frogs. Sometimes people don't like the option they chose, they just hate it less. I see the merit in near any option I post, even if it's not for me...but seeing why you like it doesn't me I do too, stop asking me to take sides. - Or the opposite, one of the most common tags is "I love both, but I have a core memory or fetish with one so that's my default." Choosing one doesn't mean they hate the other option and you specifically. I'd happily fuck them both, but one indulges a fetish more core to me than some of my organs. - Someone who would fuck a werewolf or manticore or such is a monsterfucker, even if they don't go further. You don't get to say they aren't a REAL monsterfucker because you decided their preferred monsters aren't monstrous enough. Do you to see someone thirsting over a butch and say they're not a REAL lesbian because you decided that's not girly enough? There's no need to be elitist or gatekeep. Especially in an ask, but also in general tbh.

- I'm a basic bitch too sometimes! Just because we like the weird stuff doesn't mean we have to start hating the basic stuff and those who indulge in it. kinkshaming goes both ways, neither of which should be sent to me. You are not the standard by which all is judged, you being relatively more kinky does not make them objectively less kinky. - Seriously, if tumblr is anything, it's the "Labels" site. where people come to learn thier labels, give themselves labels, show off thier labels, surround themselves in similar labels until they forget it's not the only label. Often while saying they hate labels. It's not even the monsterfucker website, Tumblr's just more neutral toward it instead of openly hostile. I get the disappointment, but don't direct it to me. TLDR: That shoggoth or whatever isn't going to become real and fuck you because you flooded my inbox with rants on how "anyone who didn't choose X is fake, and all ya'll aren't TRUE BELIEVERS of the ONE TRUE MONSTERFUCKER GOD." Sarenrae on a bike, It's my blog, and I say everyone's welcome as long as they stay civil. so be civil before I take the anon button away. At least some people have the guts to show their face when insulting anyone who likes ___ over ___

#though tbf some of ya'll keep kinkshaming furries like it's fucking 2008 again out here.#leave it on your own blogs goddamn it #fuck it I've been mulling this over for like 7 hours #sending it #getting food #probably turning off the notifications

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dearhargrove · 2 years

Note

Ok so!! Imagine showing up to school with Billy and you two are just all over eachother and everyone is absolutely shocked that YOU one of the most popular cheerleaders art Hawkins High, is dating the resident hot shot and Bad boy

(Un)welcome surprise

Billy Hargrove x f!reader

summary Being the most popular girl and cheerleader meant tons of attention. But the only attention that counts was that of your boyfriend, which the school finds out in a rather surprising way.

word count about 1K

tags swearing, reader being whipped for Billy (and him being whipped for reader)

notes hellooo! I saw that my post (change of heart) was appreciated and that made me really happy and motivated!!! So here I am. I love Billy. But you know what's better? Him being whipped. Enjoy this little something, and to the person that requested this; I'm sorry it took so long <3

masterlist | navigation

You'd taken a lot longer than usual to get ready this morning; meaning you didn't have another chance but to call Billy so he could pick you up. Well, you could also walk and be late - but there was nothing more unpleasant than walking into a classroom and having everyone staring at you.

Your car is currently useless. A few days back, after an important game, some idiot of the loser and other school's team had slashed a few tires - including yours.

Billy had only picked you up in a very secretive way so far, making it look like you did walk to everyone else. After quickly crossing the street and walking past a few houses you knocked on the door. Billy opened it for you, already ready for school with his hair styled and his shirt unbottened just the right amount. You knew his morning routine pretty well, so it was assured he'd be the one to open the door instead of someone else.

"Good morning, drive me to school," was all you said before walking back to his car with crossed arms. Not being a morning person added to your fear of being late, so you were extra grumpy today.

Didn't mean a little attention from your boyfriend couldn't make it better.

You watch him yell something to someone in the house (you're guessing it was Max; hopefully this hurried leave you caused wouldn't mean she'd have to skate all the way to school) before he grabs his keys and slams the door shut.

When he's with you he puts an arm around your waist, squeezing a little. "Someone's grumpy," he chuckles and kisses your temple. At this, your resolve and anger crumbles and you slump against him, causing him to huff out in surprise.

"I am," you start, voice whiny, "nothing looked good on me today, my hair actually killed my brush and I would've rather jumped out of the window than gotten up. And then there wasn't enough time for anything!" You explain your disaster of a morning.

He laughs a little and when you elbow him rather harshly he shuts up and sends you a pitiful smile. "Well then, let's go. Get in the car, babe," you do so, getting comfy in the slippery leather seat and putting your bag between your legs.

He starts the car but turns the music down - though only a little you appreciate it, considering he only did it in favor of you.

"Did you eat any breakfast?" He inquires and you sit there in guilty silence, realizing you forgot. "I told you that's important, didn't I, princess?" He asks with a raised eyebrow and clenched jaw. He got pretty sensitive with stuff like this since your health was the most important thing to him (with pretty much everything else surrounding you), as cliché as it was.

"I was in a hurry," is all you manage before your breath stops, because damn, does he look hot when he's agitated. His hair is sitting perfectly as always, his earring dangling due to the uneven streets and his shirt flowing a little in the breeze coming from the open window. You could write an essay over how gone you are for him.

"You're not even listening, are you?" Another guilty silence from you. "Alright, but get something in school, yeah?" You agree and he smiles relieved, setting a hand on your thigh. This in turn distracts you enough to not notice you're already in the school parking lot - right on time for it to be packed full of students.

Unbuckling your seatbelt you lean forward to press a kiss to his lips, promising him to meet him here after school so you could go home together.

What you didn't think of, was all the attention on you two. No one knew you were dating, simply because you'd both decided to keep your relationship a private matter, but due to his and yours very much public kiss everyone definitely knew, now.

When you seperate you make eye contact with some of Steve Harrington's teen friends - their eyes blown wide. With them is standing Max, a small smirk on her face. You didn't doubt she'd known for a while now.

All in all, the day is filled with questions from everyone wanting to know about your business with Billy. It was tiring, and you briefly thought about just going home and pretending to be sick.

It was all worth it in the end, though, when Billy pulled you close and it was just you two for a moment again. Then cheers and oohing erupted and you rolled your eyes, pulling him away by the hand.

Yes, being the most popular girl and cheerleader has its perks. For example everyone being nice and respectful (except the boys from the basketball team - excluding your boyfriend and Steve -, those were horrible) to you. But you also had no privacy, as seemingly everyone needed to always know what exactly you were doing.

"They were so shocked, jeez," you sigh and lean against the headrest. "Mhm. I mean the sweet, perfect student with me? Who would've thought you wanted a troublemaker?" He repeats someone's words humorously.

You laugh at that and smack his arm, "Don't be so silly, they're just curious," he shrugs, "Curious about the wrong thing. Not their business," he's right so you nod, silently agreeing.

When he parks in front of your house he stays seated, probably to go eat somewhere or go straight home. Either way, you wanted him with you now so you open his door and pull him out. "Fulfill your duty as a boyfriend, idiot." And, damn, he's so in love with you.

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #dacre montgomery x reader #dacre x reader #dacre montgomery

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astralaffairs · 1 year

Text

voltaire to versace 04 | thomas jefferson

title: voltaire to versace 04

pairing: professor!thomas jefferson x reader

words: 7.4k

warnings: this one is chill just like sexual tension. sorry ive been gone for two years lol

desc: from francis bacon to foucault, descartes to dante, your political philosophy seminar doesn’t promise to be a blowout — and yet, one mysterious stranger and a risqué evening later, your burberry-clad professor gives you the feeling it won’t be quite the snoozefest you’d expected.

tags: @lunariasilver @tinywhim @nyxie75 @wreakhavoconmacroissantdiggs @checkurwindow @katierpblogg @cubedtriangle @lunariasilver @lexylovesfandoms @fanfic-addict-98 @stephyra17 @notebookgirl30 @exorcisms-with-elmo @kmsmedine @itshaileyn @honeyand-roses @laic2299 @id-do-it-for-free-babe @luckyfriesss @golddiggs-x @drreamhugs @sillyteecup @notebookgirl30 @marvelouslyemily @checkurwindow— let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future parts!

SHE STILL FINISHED grading the first round of essays for Thomas, but she dropped them off at the faculty mailboxes that Sunday afternoon — she couldn't face him at that point. On Monday, she gravitated back to her seat at the rear of his lecture hall. She did the same on Wednesday.

Her responses to his emails and his texts were short and to-the-point. He needed her to grade the recent papers from his International Security class? Sure, but she was busy during his office hours; any chance he could leave them in his mailbox so she could pick them up the next morning? Thanks, that'd be great. He wanted her to work with him on laying out the rubric for an essay? No problem. She'd set up a shared Google Doc right away.

It was a week after Y/N had last spoken to Thomas that Dolley was over his apartment that weekend with James. She was smug when she came home to Y/N.

"Thomas is looking for you," she said mildly, and Y/N glanced up from her laptop on the couch with a skeptical gaze.

"And what, exactly, makes you say that?"

"He asked me to tell you."

Y/N's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, seriously?"

"Mhm." Dolley's smile was self-pleased. "He was home when I was over, and he said he needed to talk to you."

"Thanks for letting me know." Y/N's voice was tense as she looked back to the paper she was writing, and Dolley took a seat beside her with a glass of water.

"Can I ask why that might be?"

"No clue."

"So are you going to talk to him?"

"I have class with him Monday. I'll see him then."

"Y/N." She gave her a deadpanned look, and Y/N looked tired when she met her eyes. "Did something happen? You haven't mentioned his name even once all this week."

"No, everything's fine," Y/N assured her, but Dolley looked less than convinced.

"Then why do you look so unhappy right now, dear?"

"What? I don't," she replied defensively, and Dolley raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"How daft do you think I am?" she asked, folding her arms after she put her glass on their coffee table. "You can deny wanting to sleep with him all you'd like, but I know how much you like Thomas. It isn't exactly subtle. So what happened with you two?"

Y/N sighed, rubbing the side of her nose. "It's not really that big of a deal. I'm probably blowing it out of proportion, but he drove me home from the party at their apartment last weekend, and..."

"And?"

"And I came onto him." She was wincing at even the memory. "I was drunk, though, and he knew that, but it was so stupid. I'm still kind of mortified, so I've been dodging his attempts to talk to me. I don't know how I'm supposed to face him."

Dolley took a deep breath, eyeing Y/N where she sat with her head in her hands, her laptop closed on her lap. "Well, he clearly wants you to talk to him, so I'm sure he didn't think it was quite so bad."

"But I'm gonna be an anxious wreck the next time I have to talk to him," she groaned.

"You're his TA and his student," Dolley pointed out. "You can't avoid him forever."

"I'm not trying to," Y/N said. "But… y'know. I can still put it off for a little while. Midterms are only a week away, and then it's spring break. If I can make it that far, I don't have to talk to him until fourth quarter."

"You're being ridiculous."

“I’m being practical,” she replied, “besides, it’s only two weeks till break. The only time I’m gonna need to talk to him is when I turn in my midterm.”

Dolley snorted. “I’d wish you luck, but this one’s a lost cause, dear.”

————————————

IN THE END, Dolley was right. He hardly let her get away with it for more than a week.

"Y/N, can I have a word?"

She cringed.

It was 6 PM on Wednesday; the rest of her class was filing out of the lecture hall, but she paused where she stood in the row second to last. She'd already turned to leave. She shifted on her feet as she turned to Thomas, pulled her bag further up her shoulder, but when she saw him standing at the front of the room, arms folded and brow creased as he watched her, she couldn't meet his eyes.

Her classmates shot her curious looks as they left — Thomas never asked students to stay after class. If something was wrong, he sent them emails, he asked them to come to his office hours, he’d even used Twitter messages to reach people before, but he never publicly asked someone to hang back. She’d learned that it was against his ethos as a professor; he’d told her a story or two of his college days that made her understand why.

However, as much attention as this anomaly in his behavior drew, she had a feeling she knew why he wanted a word with her. She slumped back into her chair beside the aisle until everyone else was gone, and finally, the door fell shut, echoed through the hall, and she approached Thomas's desk with a looming sense of dread. He glanced up from packing his bag.

"Hey."

"Hey." Her voice was hesitant. "You couldn't have just approached me after the class got out?"

"In my defense," he started, "you haven't been makin' yourself all that easy to find. Everything okay lately?"

He was watching her expectantly, an eyebrow raised, and she folded her arms. "Yeah. Just fine."

"Then lemme rephrase that." Then, he turned fully toward her, his bag pulled shut and pushed aside. He frowned. "Why've you been avoiding me?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "What? I'm not."

"Yes, you are." The words left no room for negotiation, and she sighed. "And I mean, 's your prerogative. You've still been comin' through as a TA, so I'm not about to try and criticize you, but can I at least get an explanation?"

He looked pretty frustrated for someone who wasn't about to try and criticize her.

"You're not that oblivious," she said. "I have a feeling you know why."

Several moments passed in a tense silence. He was eyeing her tentatively, unmoving, and she couldn't meet his scrutinizing gaze, shifting on her feet. Finally, he sighed.

"The party?"

"Got it in one."

To her surprise, he let out a dry huff of laughter. "To be honest, I'm surprised you even remember that."

"I kinda wish I didn't."

Thomas offered her a reluctant smile. "I hear that. But..." He hesitated. "Which part of that night’s still bothering you?”

Y/N furrowed her brow, looking back up toward him. "Seriously?”

She figured it was obvious. Trying to seduce your professor while well-past drunk seemed like a clear, egregious issue, and she wasn’t quite sure why he was playing dumb.

"After all that time you spent avoidin’ me, you've gotta know what I'm talkin' about. C'mon." She stared at him blankly for another moment, and finally, he sighed. "Nevermind. I'm sorry about what happened then. We don't have to keep discussin' it if you don't wanna."

"No, hang on, what are you sorry for?" she asked, disbelief clear in her voice, and he raised an eyebrow. She hesitated before she went on, "I... I'm sorry for coming onto you like that. It was really stupid, and I know I crossed a line, but that's all my own fault; I don't—"

"You were drunk. Don't feel bad about it," he said reasonably. She was searching his apologetic expression as he spoke; she couldn't fathom why he looked guilty. Had something happened that she didn't remember?

"But why are you apologizing?" she asked softly, creasing her forehead. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I got real close to doin' something I shouldn't, though," he said, carding a hand through his curls. "I shouldn't have let it get that far. 'Specially not when you were drunk. I got too close to crossing that line."

"Too close to..." Y/N repeated, trailing off with her brow furrowed, but that was when it hit her. Had she not been so mortified by her own actions, she realized, she'd have been dwelling instead on the way his hands had tightened around her waist, how he'd pulled her into himself with a bruising grip when she tugged at his hair. That evening, she'd convinced herself he was going to spend the night. "Oh."

"Yeah." He swallowed hard, hands tucked into his pockets. "So, 'm sorry. I should've shut that down, and I get why you've been keepin' your distance."

"No, no, relax." She dismissed his apology with a flippant wave of her hand. "I was in the wrong. You were trying to be considerate."

"You're givin' me too much credit," he sighed, and a flicker of a smile graced her lips.

"I wouldn't say that," she argued, and she hesitated, cocked a brow before adding, "Unless, of course, you had an ulterior motive for insisting on taking me home in the middle of the night?"

His eyes widened. "Oh! Jesus, no, I swear, I didn't— I wouldn't..." As an amused grin split Y/N's controlled expression, though, he trailed off, squinting at her. "You're just messin' with me, aren't you?"

“Maybe,” she answered mildly, giving an innocent shrug. He scowled. “But, really, Thomas, it’s fine. We can forget it ever happened, okay?”

He watched her warily as she offered him a tense smile. He wasn't sure it was fine, and quite frankly, he knew he'd have a hard time forgetting it ever happened — he felt like there was more left to say.

But as his pause stretched on, as she raised her eyebrows at his uncharacteristic silence, he didn't have the words.

"You sure?" was all he finally said.

"Yeah."

“Alright.” He eyed her for another moment, wary, before he pulled his bag up onto his shoulder. "That’s good. I… guess I'll see you around. Good luck with midterms, Y/N."

She didn't miss the final, unreadable once-over he gave her before starting up the stairs out of the lecture hall. She didn't go after him.

————————————————

WHAT FOLLOWED WAS midterms week, which came and went without much pomp or circumstance. She didn't see much of Thomas that week after finishing with his test, which was more intentional than she’d like to have admitted. On Friday night, she finished grading the papers he'd delegated to her, but she just left them in his mailbox.

When Saturday afternoon rolled around, she was perched on the couch in her apartment flipping through the same Netflix suggestions she'd been seeing for the past hour. She'd had an incredibly relaxed day, and she assumed it would stay as such until Dolley came bursting in with a wide grin.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Where are you coming from looking so excited?"

"James's."

"Ah." No further questions were necessary, but when Dolley circled around to stand right between Y/N and the television, it was clear something more was up — something Y/N had no interest in finding out about. "Do you mind? I was watching that."

"Oh, please. No, you weren't," Dolley scoffed, but her eyes were alight despite her contrived annoyance.

"Well, I was going to," Y/N grumbled, and Dolley could only smile.

"You're going to want to hear what I have to say."

"Am I?"

"Certainly." Y/N raised an expectant brow when Dolley took a step closer to her. "Spring break just started."

"What else is new?"

"James's family has a home in the Outer Banks."

"Good for him." Y/N's responses were short as she tried to lean around Dolley, scrolling through the 'New to Netflix' category. Dolley groaned, rolled her eyes. Y/N's noises of protest went entirely ignored as Dolley pulled her remote from her hand, and she deadpanned as Dolley rested her hands on her shoulders, sitting down to straddle her lap on the couch. "Seriously?" Y/N whined.

"And we are going to the Outer Banks for spring break."

"I'm sorry, what?" She let out a dry laugh at the conviction in Dolley's voice. "Alright, maybe you're going to the Outer Banks over break, but last I checked, James and I aren't exactly on the level of road trip buddies."

"Please consider it. He told me I could invite you."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because he likes you. Not because he wants me there."

"Oh, what does it matter?" she whined. "An invitation is an invitation. James just doesn't know you yet. I'm sure he'll come to love you."

"I don't care," Y/N groaned, shoving her off, and Dolley rolled off to sit beside her on the couch with a huff. "As much as I love you, I refuse to let your infatuation with James take over my social life."

"What social life?" Dolley scoffed. "I've already taken it over. Now I'm just adding James."

"Hey, I have other friends," Y/N said, but Dolley gave her a disbelieving look.

"Your professors and your study groups don't count."

"There's also the kid I see every day in the library," Y/N defended. "He's the only other one on the sixth floor."

"Do you even know his name?"

She hesitated. "That's not relevant."

"Darling," Dolley groaned, shifting onto her side to face Y/N. "Just come with me. It'll be fun. And I'm sure James is bringing Thomas; after all, they're roommates."

"That doesn't add to the appeal, Doll." Y/N wasn’t sure she trusted herself on a vacation spent with him in the Outer Banks, sleeping in the same house as him, trying not to stare at him shirtless on the beach. "I let you drag me to their apartment for a night, and it ended up sucking. I'm not gonna subject myself to that for a whole week."

"Ten days," Dolley corrected her.

"That's worse." Y/N’s huff was heavy, and as she raked a hand through her hair, Dolley wore a pout. “Besides, I can’t. I have that scholarship dinner thing, remember? I have to wine and dine all the donors.”

Dolley wrinkled her nose. “I forgot about those. I’ve always thought they were exploitative.”

“Oh, they are,” Y/N agreed, “but they’re giving me too much money for me to be able to complain. I can be their little academic Miss America for a night as long as they keep paying my tuition.”

Dolley hummed in acquiescence as Y/N returned to scrolling through her suggested shows on Netflix. “So it’s like a beauty pageant, but instead of hair extensions, you bring your resume.”

“Feels more like a strip club. I had to go to two at my old school, and it’s just putting on a show to get rich, wrinkled old men to throw us a few bucks. May as well wear a g-string and try to find myself a sugar daddy.”

“Mmh, let me know if any of your DILFs have pretty sons, alright?”

Y/N gave Dolley a skeptical look. “You’ve already got James; leave the rich legacy boys for me.”

“Sharing is caring.”

———————————————

ULTIMATELY, DOLLEY WENT to the Outer Banks without her. She left the next morning (but apparently couldn't leave without giving Y/N a serious tongue-lashing). And from there, Y/N was left to fend for herself.

The first couple days were fine. She ate the remainder of the groceries in the apartment. She watched seven seasons of Grey's Anatomy before deciding she hated all the characters. She cleaned out the fridge. She drank Dolley's nice red wine (with no plans to replace it). She organized her sock drawer.

Alright, so maybe she was going a little stir-crazy in Dolley's absence. So much for her having a social life outside of that apartment.

However, she didn't leave until she was clean out of food, bourbon, and episodes of SVU.

She was just around the corner from the nice CVS, though, so when she left, she didn't particularly expect to have any reason to look her best — if any of her classmates saw her in her pajama pants, it was far from her greatest concern.

She emerged with two white plastic bags, both stretching around the edges of the fruits of her pseudo-grocery run; the fact that she hadn't bought anything with nearly the nutritional value of actual fruit was beside the point. Regardless, she was feeling rather self-satisfied as she turned onto the sidewalk headed back to her apartment, arms weighed down with junk food, holding her CVS rewards card in the corner of her mouth, lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to re-organize her wallet — but apparently, she was too preoccupied to realize what was immediately in front of her as she took the next left.

"Woah, there."

She screeched as she ran directly into the man on the other side of the corner. As she stumbled backward, not managing to spare herself from falling on her ass, two of her grocery bags went tumbling to the ground; three split right through the bottom of the plastic, and as her pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream rolled to the feet of her accidental assailant, she let out a defeated groan.

She dropped her shoulders with an angry huff, and when the man before her leaned down to pick up the ice cream she'd spent the past week working up the energy to leave the house for, her gaze followed it up as he rose.

"Mint chip? Really?" When she caught sight of Thomas's amused expression, the exhaustion on her shoulders only compounded. He'd clearly been out running; he ran a hand through his curls, wiped the sweat from his brow as he popped out one of his earbuds. "You've got some awful taste, there."

"Of course, it's you," she grumbled. "Because I couldn't have been bulldozed by some stranger to, at least, spare myself the humiliation."

His smile was entertained as she dusted herself off, sparing what she could of her CVS haul, tucking her rewards card into her wallet and her pack of razor heads into her purse before she stood. "I think this belongs to you?"

"Yeah, yeah." The annoyance was clear in her voice when she looked up to see his outstretched hand, offering her back the ice cream, but (although she took the pint back immediately, as her priorities were still in order) that wasn't where her gaze stopped, instead trailing up his arm to his heaving (bare) chest and the earbuds hanging loosely from one of his ears. Her breath caught in her throat.

Sweat trailed down his torso to his abs, glistening in the mid-morning sunlight and drawing her eyes down to the waist of his sweatpants where they hung low on his hips. Her stare was only broken when he pulled his headphones out, wrapping them around his hand and yanking her gaze back up to his arms. The shift didn't help; instead, she couldn't break her wide-eyed, gawking stare from his biceps.

"Y/N?"

She was jolted back to earth with a start at the sound of his voice as he stuffed his earbuds into his pocket. His grin was broad, and her cheeks were on fire. "Shit, sorry, I, um—"

"Relax, it's fine," he said, tucking his phone in his pocket. "Need a hand with your, uh..." He picked up her extra-large jar of Nutella, "groceries?"

As he watched her expectantly, she swallowed hard, shaking her head with a tense smile. "No, no, that's fine," she assured him. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your run. I can manage."

He quirked a brow. "You sure? You're gonna have a hell of a time carryin' all of these on your own."

"I don't live far."

"I know," he said, and as she did her best to collect all her goods from the pavement around them, he did the same, "but there's no way you can get these all back by hand."

"I'll be alright," she said, her words taking on an undertone of annoyance (although it was ultimately born of her unease). Thomas didn't look so convinced.

"C'mon, just lemme help you out?" he reasoned with her, and as she tried to pull her purse shut around her two bags of mini tacos, balancing a package of laundry detergent pods on her lifted knee, she couldn't put up too much resistance. "You 'n I both know you need it."

Y/N pursed her lips. "Fine. Thank you."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Call me crazy, but you don't sound too grateful, now."

"Let's just go."

Though it took them a moment longer, between them, they did manage to balance all of her quasi-groceries in their arms, and Y/N nodded in the direction Thomas had been coming from. "My apartment is back this way."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Still?"

He shrugged. "I'm good with directions. And I've taken you back there twice, now."

"Right.” Against her will, the memories from those two separate nights began to surface in her mind, and she could feel her cheeks heating up. “How could I forget?”

Her tone was dry, uncomfortable, but to her relief, Thomas laughed it off.

"Someone's feelin' hostile today, huh?" he commented. Although she rolled her eyes, her face was burning; his presence had her on edge, reacting to even the smallest of his movements, and she was still trying to shake off how mortified she was from having run into him in the first place.

"Sorry. I'm just tired." He raised an eyebrow. "My sleep schedule's been all over the place without Dolley around to nag me about it."

"Oh, yeah, she's outta town with James, huh?" She hummed in confirmation. “Why didn’t you end up goin’ with ‘em? James told me he invited you.”

She huffed out a dry laugh. “Yeah, he invited me as an extension of Dolley because he wanted her there. I’m much happier alone in my apartment than stuck in the Outer Banks with people I hardly know.”

“Yeah, you ‘n me both.”

Y/N furrowed her brow. “I thought these were your friends that were going.”

He shrugged. “James ended up bringin’ a lotta grad students I’ve never met. Some undergrads in there, too. Would’ve been a shitty ten days, ‘specially once he let me know you weren’t comin’.”

“‘Especially once you knew I wasn’t coming’?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied. “I stayed behind ‘cause I knew I could pawn more papers off on you to grade.”

“Well, that is part of my charm,” she said frankly, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“That and the pajamas you’re always wearin’ around campus?”

“Oh, come on, I’ve seen you when I was wearing pajamas once. That’s it.”

He hummed skeptically, and she glanced up at him as they walked. “I know you’re no math major, but addin’ today to the day you stormed into my office makes two days, not one.”

“Today doesn’t count,” she argued. “The plan was to go to CVS, go back home, and interact with nobody. Besides, you’re not even wearing a shirt, so it’s not like you have any room to judge.”

“At least you know that I own shirts, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you only own pajamas, sweetheart. Didn’t think I had to spell it out for you,” he said matter-of-factly, casting her a sidelong glance, and while his expression was playful, she could feel her cheeks flush.

“Oh, shut up; you know that isn’t true,” she defended. “Just because I’m partial to my sweatpants doesn’t mean I can’t dress up when need be. I have nice clothes.”

He eyed her skeptically. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

————————————

IT TOOK THE pair of them just a few minutes to reach Y/N’s apartment building, but it took several more for them to actually make it up to her apartment. Trying to get the door unlocked without dropping anything was a fiasco — it ended in one of her mini Coke cans rolling down the hall, no doubt fated to explode the minute she opened it, and a bag of pizza rolls splitting open at the corner when she dropped it. Thomas had little sympathy for her complaints about them being exposed to carpet germs.

"Thank you for all the help." Y/N turned to Thomas with a sheepish smile when she finally put her groceries down. "Sorry for ruining your workout."

"Don't mention it." He dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand after he put the rest of her things down into the pile she'd started. "After all, you're tiring enough that it doesn't make a difference."

"Shut up." Despite her scowl, he snickered, and she rolled her eyes as she went to open her fridge. "I should put everything away so it doesn't go bad, but is there anything I can get you as a 'thank you'? A drink? Something to eat?"

"This just your way of askin' me to stay longer?" He raised a teasing eyebrow, but when she turned to him, her eyes were wide.

“Oh! No, no, I didn’t mean… I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

“Woah, relax.” His voice held a trace of a laugh at the panic that was slowly dissipating from her gaze. “I was kiddin’, alright? Didn’t mean to rattle you like that.”

“I’m not rattled,” she defended, closing her fridge, and she could feel her cheeks heating up as he eyed her with disbelief. “I just felt like I owed you something for all the help. I know I kinda derailed your day."

"I told you, it wasn't a problem," he said mildly. “But, y’know, if you wanna pay me back, I’ve got a whole lot more papers that need gradin’.”

Her groan made him laugh. “God, please don’t make me regret becoming your TA. I have better things to do with my spring break.”

“Like what?”

“Like eating all the ice cream I just bought?” she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and he rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, if I give you the rubric, you really can’t multitask?”

She sighed. “Yeah, alright, if you really need the help. I’ll come to pick them up sometime this week if that works for you?”

“That’s just fine. I wasn’t plannin’ on going into my office, though, so you’ll have to swing by my apartment.” Her most vivid memories of the last time she’d been at his place flashed in her mind’s eye. “That okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” She cleared her throat when she realized how long her moment of hesitation had been. He creased his brow. “Just tell me what time you’ll be home. I won’t have any scheduling conflicts.”

“What, you don’t have any big parties on the calendar?” he asked, cracking a lopsided grin, and she let out the lightest of laughs, the sound quiet and forced. “You aren’t gonna find yourself gettin’ arrested when a professor calls the cops on your rager?”

“Nah, not this time,” she said. Her smile was stiff, and he pursed his lips as he watched her continue unpacking her groceries, bending down to tuck various packages into different cupboards.

“Good to know,” he replied. In the pause that followed, Y/N was aware of every twitch of every muscle in her body; she could feel his eyes on her as she moved through her space. “I’ll text you when I sort ‘em out, then.”

“Cool.” Her mouth was dry. She didn’t look his way.

“Alright.” The hum of the fridge had never sounded louder. They could hear footsteps on an adjacent floor of the building and the soft buzz of their AC unit. Y/N swallowed. His next words were cautious. “So, should I, uh, head on out, then?”

Her eyebrows jumped. When she turned her head to look at him, she realized he hadn’t moved from his spot. She shrugged hesitantly.

“I mean, it’s your call.” His gaze flitted away from her when she met his eyes. “If you have somewhere to be, I don’t wanna keep you. I can finish putting my food away.”

“Wouldn't wanna overstay my welcome is all. I dunno if I should be spendin’ any more time in your apartment than I need to.” His expression was nonchalant, uncaring, but his shoulders were tense. She could see the tendons in his upper arms twitching, and it was only then that she was reminded that he was, in fact, very shirtless in her kitchen.

He glanced back at her with tentative eyes.

“That might be smart.” She stood up to her full height, looking down at the counter before her. “It’s getting kinda late anyway. You should probably head back before it gets dark.”

It was nowhere near sundown, but the message was certainly received, and Thomas nodded. “‘Course. I’ll see myself out.”

“Thanks for the help with the groceries,” Y/N said softly, and he smiled.

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

———————————————

“WHAT CLASS GOT a multiple choice midterm?” The indignance in Y/N’s voice made Thomas laugh.

“The freshmen.”

They were at Thomas’s apartment. Dolley and James would still be gone on their road trip for five more days, though, and that left them living alone about a block away from each other. Y/N wasn’t sure she knew where they stood, but when she went to pick up the midterms Thomas needed her to grade, he first had to walk her through the rubric. Then she started asking questions, and they both ended up sitting; then Thomas returned to sipping his coffee, and Y/N started leafing through one of the papers with a pen, and it only made sense for her to stay.

At least, that was how she justified it to herself as she reached the end of her second hour parked on his couch.

“I swear to god, you coddle those freshmen,” she said, twirling her pen absentmindedly as she went through the answer key. She scowled. “And they’re still getting, like, 25% off.”

“See? I’ve gotta coddle ‘em,” he defended. “If I make that class any harder, I’m gonna have a full class of Fs on my record. Won’t be gettin’ tenure, that’s for sure.”

“If you treated them like they were competent, maybe they’d be forced to learn,” she suggested, and he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you finish grading ‘em, d’you mind calculating the curve for me?”

“This is curved?” Her tone bordered on genuine annoyance, but her dramatic reaction was only entertaining Thomas. “I’m gonna need another cup of coffee to get through this.”

“Now, this feels exploitive.”

“You don’t even pay me to TA,” she pointed out. “With the bullshit I put up with, you owe me a drink from that fancy espresso machine you have tucked away.”

“Aw, c’mon, is workin’ with me really so bad, sweetheart?” He plastered on a pout, but the casual term of endearment made her pulse jump. It didn’t feel so natural to hear him call her that anymore.

"Don't get me started," she said, but she knew how shaky she sounded. Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice (and if he did, he didn't mention it).

“Alright, alright. I was just headed to get myself another, anyway.” He acquiesced easily, and she was all but relieved when he left the room, taking both their mugs with him.

She wanted there to be a way for her to shake off any of the nerves he always seemed to leave her with. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t fair — he was her professor. He used terms of endearment without a second thought. She needed to stop overthinking it, especially given that she’d heard him call both Maria and Angelica “darling” and “honey” on more than one occasion. “Sweetheart” seemed to be reserved for her, though.

Stop thinking like that.

She cringed as the observation surfaced. She knew she was reading into it, and her mind was running a mile a minute to try and replace the idea with something else, any kind of distraction. She decided to chalk it all up to the caffeine she’d been consuming en masse.

So maybe another latte wasn’t the greatest idea. She pushed herself off of his couch with a grunt.

All she wanted was a glass of water, so she didn't expect that there'd be any problem with her just barging into his kitchen since she was already at his place.

But she'd just turned into the kitchen's doorway, and Thomas wouldn't have minded it if she hadn't turned with the worst timing imaginable.

"Oh, fuck." She felt the coffee scalding her skin before she processed what'd happened. Her grimace was involuntary and pronounced as she stumbled away from him, pulling the back of her shirt as far away from her body as she could. "Shit, shit, shit, that's hot."

"Jesus, are you alright?" It wasn't until a split second later that she turned to see Thomas standing behind her, mortified and frantically going to set down his mugs so he could go to check on her.

But she only shook her head, doing her best to regulate her breathing, control her expression despite the searing pain across her upper back. “Shit, I—” Her voice broke off as she swallowed hard, far from concerned with being a considerate guest when she pushed past him into his kitchen. Thomas was frozen to the spot, watching her rush to the sink and frantically yanking off the nozzle of his sink to run cold water over her shoulder blade (she’d never been more grateful for his bougie interior design). Her focus was nowhere near him.

She had no clue how to treat a burn. However, she didn’t think twice before tearing her shirt off — it was searing her skin.

Her tunnel vision may have blinded her to the larger context of her panic (and for good reason, all things considered), but Thomas was stunned as he watched her strip off her button-down in the middle of his kitchen, run it under water to use it as a rag. She tucked it under her left bra strap so that she could press the cold cloth directly against the burn.

Thomas was gawking. When Y/N caught her breath, turning to him, she met his eyes, and— well, actually, she didn’t meet his eyes. His gaze was focused a good ten inches below her eyes, and she chose to conclude that he was staring at her chest because he was concerned about having burnt her with coffee. The fact that not even a drop of the scalding coffee had touched her chest was a nonissue.

“Do you know anything about treating burns?”

“Not…” He cleared his throat, redirecting his stare up to where her eyes actually were. “Not much. I— Holy shit, are you alright? God… lemme Google it. Hang on.” She tried to catch her breath as Thomas pulled out his phone, and the first thing he said was, “Alright, says you’ve gotta get rid of any clothes over the burn.” He glanced back up at her. “Looks like you’ve got that covered, though.”

“Yeah, I figured that one out for myself. Thanks.” Her tone was dry.

“Right.” Thomas cleared his throat. “You wanna use my shower to run it under cold water, then?”

She nodded frantically, grimacing as she pulled her damp shirt out from under her bra strap, holding that as far from her skin as she could without her bra coming off. “Please.”

It took just about all of Thomas’s willpower to keep his gaze north of her collarbones as he showed her where the bathroom was and told her how to work the shower. If any god happened to be real, he was fairly sure he was being tested that afternoon — and all because he didn’t feel like calculating the curve on his midterms. He could safely say that this was far more difficult.

He gave her a towel and some of his spare clothes to change into, but when she dug the Neosporin out of his medicine cabinet, he heard her call his name.

He knocked on the bathroom door. “Everything alright in there?”

“Yeah, I just…” Her voice was muffled as she trailed off. “I can’t reach the burn.”

“Oh.” He swallowed audibly, although Y/N was far enough that she couldn’t hear it. “D’you… need help?”

“Please.” Her voice was hesitant and nervous.

“Can… can I come in?”

“Yeah, just hang on a second.” There was a pause. Y/N didn't meet his eyes when she came to open the door; she held a towel over her bra-clad chest, one of the straps having slipped off the side of her left shoulder. "I, er… can't reach my back to bandage it. Can you… ?"

Thomas's eyes widened. "Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, I've got it."

"Thanks," she said quietly, and when she turned to the sink, passing him the ointment and gauze as she faced the mirror, she kept her hand towel held over her front. "Sorry about… all this."

"Why're you sorry?" The amusement in his voice eased the tension in her shoulders. "Sorry for gettin' coffee spilled on you? Sorry for havin' skin on your back?"

"Sorry for having burnable skin on my back," she corrected him, and he laughed.

"Yeah, alright, good point. If you weren't so damn flammable we wouldn't have this issue," he teased, but he pursed his lips. "In all seriousness, this one's on me. Wasn't watching where I was goin'; I was the one that ran right into you, not the other way around."

"Yeah, but I was in the way," Y/N pushed back, and Thomas raised a skeptical eyebrow, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

"You've gotta stop apologizing for things, sweetheart. Especially things that I think we both know weren't your fault." How frankly he spoke made her sigh, and in that moment, it felt as if she was back in the entrance of her apartment, clinging to him as he tried to keep himself from pulling her closer. She swallowed her pang of guilt. “Lemme know if this hurts, yeah?”

“Okay.” Her voice was small.

Neither of them spoke as he dabbed ointment onto her wound, and his gentle touch had a warmth filling her skin that had nothing to do with the burn. He stood within inches behind her. The air in his bathroom was tense; both of them were aware of every movement the other made, every brush of their skin against one another, and it took every ounce of her willpower to keep her eyes down, to keep from staring at him in the mirror. She glanced up to see him knitting his brow, concern in his gaze.

He placed the ointment back onto his sink, instead unraveling the gauze he held in his other hand.

"Pass me the medical tape?" The sound of his voice made her look up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. It took her a moment to process his words, but when she did, she broke his gaze immediately, clearing her throat and nodding as she reached for it and handed it back to him.

Her skin tingled as he laid the gauze softly over her wound, doing his best to give her skin room to breathe. She shivered as he taped it down by the sides. "Alright."

"You're done?"

He nodded and although his touch was tentative as he pressed the tape down to her back, it was firm. "Yeah, that should hold. Looks good."

"Okay," she said quietly, giving him a small smile. "Thank you."

When he finished, she expected him to take a step back, to let himself out of the bathroom so she could get dressed, and so she turned to him, anticipating that he'd move out of the way and she could retrieve her clothes from the bathroom floor. However, it was at the same time that she turned that he leaned forward to put the gauze back on the edge of the sink behind the ointment. They moved in synchrony, but it wasn't the synchrony either expected.

They were both far, far too afraid to move, then.

Thomas's hand was on the side of the sink, now to her right as she faced him, and with him leaning into her, between his arm beside her and the rest of his body in front of her, Y/N didn't have much of anywhere to go. Thomas, however, could've moved. He should've moved, too, and he knew that well. But when she turned to him, he found his face mere inches from hers. His nose brushed against her cheek, and with her having used his shower, with her wearing his spare clothes, he could smell the traces of his woody cologne mixing with a sugared scent he couldn't describe as anything other than her. She swallowed hard.

This felt familiar to both of them, by then. The proximity between them was all but second nature with how much time they spent together, with all the late hours in his office or her apartment. But this atmosphere was charged.

Every interaction between them had been measured and meticulous for months — while they had both been pushing boundaries, neither dared to cross them. But this? Neither of them had meant for this to happen. Neither had meant to make it so easy for them to simply fall into each other, but something about it seemed so natural, almost fateful.

Thomas was exercising every last drop of his willpower as he looked down at Y/N's wide eyes, her wet hair, her (his) pajama pants that were far too long for her. He tucked one of her damp locks behind her ear.

"We can't do this." Y/N's words were cautionary as Thomas's eyes wandered to her lips, but there was no feeling behind them. She didn't want him to stop.

"I know." His thumb traced her jaw, and he made no move to step away. He did know that what he was doing was wrong, but with how caught up he was in everything that was her, he was having trouble remembering why. "So stop me before I do something stupid."

She couldn't take a breath. Her voice was trembling.

"I don't think I want to."

He was hesitant to lean in toward her, but when he shifted forward, she met him halfway with every bit as much trepidation, and this kiss was nothing like the night they met. His touch was careful. His lips were slow, savoring the taste of her on his tongue. He held her as if his gentle touch would negate all the implications of their actions, all the damage this might cause.

Because this didn't feel like the illicit affair that Y/N knew it to be. This was Thomas, her friend, her coworker, her fleeting one-night stand, and she held him against her in an embrace like that of a lover, her arms looped around his neck as the side of her nose brushed against his. This was easy. This was natural.

But this was her professor.

"Stop." She pulled away from him, a hand on his chest as she struggled to catch her breath, and Thomas's gaze didn't read as dejection or hurt, but instead it came with an air of concern. The silence that followed her single word was excruciating.

"Y/N?" His voice was hoarse, but it was heavy with guilt. She didn't meet his eyes.

"I… I'm sorry, Thomas. I really…" She trailed off as he took a wary step back; she let out a breath of relief when he was no longer boxing her in against the counter, his hips no longer pinning hers back. "I need to go. I'm sorry."

She left the bathroom in a rush, grabbing her shirt from the floor and pulling it back over her head without a second thought. When she took off, he didn’t try to stop her.

#hamilton x reader #hamilton #thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson x reader #jefferson x reader #hamilton imagines #hamilton imagine #thomas jefferson imagine #thomas jefferson scenario #thomas jefferson scenarios #thomas jefferson smut #thomas jefferson fanfic #hamilton fic #hamilton x reader imagines

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autisticempathydaemon · 1 year

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AutisticEmpathyDaemon’s RedactedAudio Match-ups!

because why not I love old-school tumblr games and making people happy and this beautiful heckin fandom so let’s gooooo

You know the drill- tell me about yourself, answer some fun questions, and I’ll match you with the Redacted boy I ship you with the most along with a little blurb about your relationship, a song that reminds me of you as a couple, and the runner-up dude!

Edit: I will also include a moodboard with the the name of the fic I would write you. Please note I’ve never made a moodboard before.

Details and questions under the cut!

(I wanted to be a little whimsical about it and pose some questions I thought would tell me really interesting things about you, but you don’t have to answer any or all of these. You can send in whatever information you’d like or feel comfortable sending.)

What song are you fixated on at the moment? What lyric or verse, and why?

What is your Enneagram type?

Do you love gargantuan Youtube video essays, and if so, which is your favorite and why?

Tell me about your childhood imaginary friend.

What is your go-to way to fall asleep?

If you had to change your name, what would it be, and why? (In tandem, if you have changed your name, why did you pick that one?)

What is your favorite of Redacted’s audios, and why?

What Redacted boy holds no appeal to you, and why? Like, not the one you hate but the one who you don’t get the hype for. (I won’t judge, I promise.)

Tell me about that one book/movie/tv show you know all the words to.

Which Redacted boy are you platonically attracted to? Like- forget dating, which dude do you want to be your best friend?

Do you have a go-to thing you ramble about when you’re tired, and if so, what is it? (For example, my boyfriend knows I’m ready to sleep when I start talking about space.)

Tell me your go-to gas station and drink combo.

Tell me about your favorite playlist at the moment.

What’s your guilty pleasure media, and why?

And whatever else you think tells me about who you are!

Notes:

The options will be all the boys that were up for this year's March Redactedness (edit: except Caelum, I forgot he was in the brackets.)

If possible, I'd love it if you could send it anonymously so that way I'm not influenced to pick who I know you like (but that's obviously not required. I overall want you to have fun~)

Please feel free to reblog or comment after it’s up and tell me what you thought; the anonymity is only so I may attempt to remain objective 🧡

There's no closing date or time on this event; it'll be open indefinitely, so send in an ask whenever you like!

Update: this got so many more entries than I was expecting! I’m so glad y’all think this is fun and cute, and I’m so sorry that I’m not doing these as fast as I was or as I’d like do. Rest assured, I’ve gotten your submission and I’ll get to it. I recommend following #busybee matches which is the dedicated tag for the matchups and checking every so often.

#redacted asmr #redactedasmr #redacted audio #redactedaudio #redacted #redactedverse #Busybee matches

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please-give-dd-bread · 4 months

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phlyhyltgplelpppppppppppppppppppppp. deflating balloon noises. exhausted deflating balloon noises.

whoo. okay. although i just finished the mess that is my translation for both gogatsu and rokugatsu (i still need to touch up a little bit), i have here prepared. Yuu Ichijou

also for the past week i've been feeling kinda crappy my throat was threatening to rip itself out my chest felt like i was wearing a binder for 12 hours non stop and i felt ready to pass out (but don't worry i'm fine now i've been drinking tea and stuff)

oh also happy birthday イモン on yorucord!!! you know who you are no idea who you are on tumblr or if you even use tumblr but happy existence anniversary :DDD you know who you are.

anyways here have my translation for ai nijou's response, yuu ichijou

9/5, 憂一乗 (Only Sorrow/Yuu Ichijou)

You know, it's like I'm at the bottom of a lake A breath of air gets stuck in this throat I let go of the last few bubbles, and finally My feet touch the soft, warm ground.

Always, always, always, always, always. The only person I've ever followed behind was you.

And the only things I ever wanted to talk about were the things I wish I could change These water lilies floating around, are transparent from this water pressure I'm more than okay with anything - more certain than mirages I don't care if it's right, I don't care if we know what to do, I really don't care - I just want to run away with you.

Again, it's kind of like the bottom of a lake, My ears start to itch a bit Hopes, the future, even tomorrow - I've gotten tired hearing things about them The bubbles that left my mouth were so pretty.

Always, always, always, always, always. I've only ever looked up to you.

And now, I wish I had found something more important than the heart Words can be so cruel - transparent under the water pressure I'm just looking for something, anything more beautiful than this facade But just forgetting about it all is fine, let's run away.

I don't need whatever I've become, I don't need anything. I don't need money, or fame, or love, or people that admire - I really don't need any of that I want to go further, away from here I want to go, feel something other than these memories, Can I please, just hear your voice, sing one more time?

Always, always, always, always, always. I've only ever followed, chased, after you.

The only things I wanted to sing about were those things I could never change Life really is transparent, under the water pressure I don't really care - anything works as long as it's more certain than a hallucination I don't care if we don't know where, I don't care if we don't have any idea of what we're doing, I really don't care, honestly - let's run away together.

---

i know i've said this in my dakaboku and elma album essay but dakede *sobbing*

i swear this song is so sad and quiet in contrast to the like WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO *cue epic guitar sequence* from ai nijou it's just wow. i mean i know Elma's developing her style from here but wow. it's just really different from the person she tried to imitate so said person she tried to imitate wouldn't "disappear".

anyways yeah that's all i'll go take a nap or something byeeeee

(wow the yorushika tag is drying up.)

#yorushika #ヨルシカ #elma #エルマ #憂一乗 #i know it's pronounced yuu in japanese but for some reason i had to type urei to get the sorrow kanji. weird but whatever i guess

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httpseiki · 2 years

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skz as types of moments!!

summary: types of sweet, chill or fun moments I think the skz boys would spend with you!!

genre:

-> fluffiest fluff, I might say.

-> fem!reader x members

tw: mentions of anxiety, bit of Christmas!au

note: this is my first ever post on here, so please give me tips on how to use the app, I'm terrible. ㅠ^ㅠ

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

Bang Chan - sitting in comfortable silence.

he's the one if you think sitting in silence, while both of you focus on your own work is the best way of spending an evening.

just chilling in his studio or in your apartment or in his dorm room, sitting on the bed with your laptop on your legs across each other.

silence isn't always comforting, but at the right time, with the right person, it can be very soothing.

even if you're both working on different essays, Chan would make sure to give you something to smile about; something to remind you that you're still in his presence.

that would mean he'd make a random noise just to get your attention. or he'd interlock your fingers whenever you'll be reading your masterpiece. and if you're lucky enough, you'll get a tired Chan laying his head on you.

as much as he'd like to do any other couple activity with you, being the busy man that he is, he tries to enjoy your presence right by him, even if you're not sharing a word for a long chain of minutes.

Lee Minho - feeding stray cats together.

knowing the soft spot Minho has for animals - especially cats - you always wait outside the company for him to finish his practices.

since he always got out pretty late at night, you guys found at least three kitties in need of food on your way home. so, it became like a habit.

whenever you went to pick him up, you brought some cat food in a bag as well. Minho's smile grew larger on his face whenever he saw your little tuna fish conserve in your hands.

in awe, you bent down to a baby cat who was meowing towards you. letting him open the can, you placed the fish in front of the stray animal.

with your heart shattered at the kitten's hunger, you looked back at him, asking if you can adopt her. shaking his head, Minho protested, saying that you already have 3 cats at home to feed.

pouting, you get back up and hold your boyfriend's freezing hand. his glance was soft towards you, thinking how he could deserve an angel like you. as the kitty finished eating, he picked up the can before he dragged you back home, not realising the kitty following.

Seo Changbin - collecting plushies.

as soon as your eyes landed on a vending machine, you dragged Changbin's arm towards it. smirking, he took out his wallet and inserted some coins.

after a few failed attempts, he finally hit jackpot, and won not one, but two plushies for you. smiling proudly, you hugged him and kissed his cheek.

arriving home, you rushed to cut the tags off the toys your boyfriend won for you. hugging you from behind, he asked you if you needed any help.

refusing his offer, you moved out of his grip and run in your bedroom. chuckling at your behavior, he followed you inside. placing your new friends on the bed next to the other ones, you giggled happily.

softened by your reaction, changbin pushed you into the pillows before throwing himself on top of you, kissing you.

as you laid there, enjoying each other's presence, Changbin gasped and got up, walking towards his luggage. sitting up with furrowed eyebrows, you watch as he came back with a green, dino plushie in his arms, smiling proudly.

Hwang Hyunjin - switching paintings every 5 minutes.

concentrated on finishing the tree you were picturing, you didn't notice the clock beeping, signaling is time for Hyunjin to take your place in the drawing.

whining your name, you finally looked up to see him pouting. frustrated, you gave him your canvas and took his in your hands.

you gasped, seeing the beautiful, blue flower vase painted in waterpaint. you thought how could you continue his art piece, quickly getting the idea to add a window behind it.

changing the canvases again, you notice a squirrel sit by the tree you created. as your tongue poked out, you decided to add a tree house for the small animal.

seeing the small detail you added, Hyunjin tilted his head and smiled. he continued the vase by adding multicolored flowers.

he loved doing this with you, because you never knew what the end would look like. sometimes, it would end up looking godly. other times, it ended up being random details all out of context. even if your drawings weren't the best, hyunjin still loved it - you don't need to have skills to make art, right?

Han Jisung - singing while playing the guitar.

as fun as playing the guitar can be, for you and Jisung, it can be very calming, too. it became a habit for the both of you to grab the guitar and strum it in order to shoo away the anxiety crawling up the other's spine.

with deep, small breaths, the knee you once bounced up and down slowly stopped, your eyes closing, as your brain focused on the guitar, and not on all the thoughts lingering all around.

Jisung started humming along the sweet melody released by his fingers, making you smile. you loved his voice.

giving in, both of you started singing. surprised by it, he mistaken a chord. he scrunched his nose, and sang in a higher pitch in embarrassment, making you giggle.

he quickly cleared his throat and continued to play the song. you followed his lead, and tried to hamonize with his sweet vocals.

even if your voice would have some cracks or squeaks, Jisung would watch you with soft eyes, making you blush and make a mess of the song.

Lee Yongbok - baking together for the members.

snow falling gently from the sky, Christmas music playing in the background, flour on your nose and the members dancing around the kitchen.

taking in the cinnamon smell, you hummed, while Felix tasted the batter you were both focused on preparing. scooping some on his finger, he brought it to your lips.

agreeing that some vanilla would mix well, you tried to make your way to the shelve, trying not to bump into the joyful members singing carols.

bringing the vanilla back, Felix's eyes caught your attention - it seemed the snow he was busy admiring reflected in his eyes.

placing the vanilla on the counter, you leaned in to quickly peck his lips. becoming all giggly, he gave you a peck back.

getting lost in your own little world, neither of you noticed Minho coming back with the already frozen icing. placing your arms around his neck, you swayed your hips to the slow carol. Felix held your waist and followed your moves. this might be the best Christmas ever...

Seungnim - cuddling while you read.

sitting in bed, under the blankets on a rainy day while reading with Seungnim spooning you. it couldn't get better than this.

but as you were way too captivated in your book, he was getting impatient. squeezing you, he tried to get your attention.

it was obviously a fail. whining, he pulled you while he rocked back and forth. annoyed, you told him to stop.

unwrapping his arms that were around you, making you shiver slightly, he rubbed his palms on your thighs.

getting frustrated at his actions, you turned around to ask him what he wants. his hands stopped from moving, as he pouted, as if he was about to cry.

sighing, you opened your arms, signaling for him to sit on your chest. Seungnim happily obliged, hugging your waist. now, you were holding the book with a hand and playing with his hair with the other. now, it truly couldn't get better than this.

Yang Jeongin - planning each other's outfits.

you and Jeongin are both the type to have a leaning towards fashion - always being somewhat overdressed.

and as your cousin was getting married this week, you needed a full on glamorous outfit. so, Jeongin came to the rescue!

taking a look through your closet, he asked what mood you were going for. clarifying, you said you want something unique and elegant, but not very eye turning, as you wanted your cousin to have all the attention.

a pout forming on his lips, he picked up a white skirt, alongside a lacy top. nodding your head, he also took out a black corset, in curiosity, but he decided to keep it.

making you try it on, his eyes studied every piece of your body. you shined!! coming closer to you, he kissed your cheek and gave you a hug.

showering in all the compliments and observations Jeongin added to your outfit, you became a flustered mess. playfully hitting his chest, you sent him downstairs to complete the outfit by picking a pair of shoes, as you changed back - you always loved the fits he chose for you!

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

A/N: okay this was an emotional rollercoaster as this was the first thing like this I've ever written. but I hope y'all enjoy it ㅠ^ㅠ

#skz scenarios #skz fluff #skz x reader #skz bang chan #skz jeongin #skz seungmin #skz lee know #skz jisung #skz minho #skz felix #skz changbin #skz hyunjin #skz stay

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waheelawhisperer · 1 year

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Double whammy, 1 and 8, since they're almost the same question

Since you didn't specify a fandom I'm gonna answer these for a few different ones

the character everyone gets wrong

RWBY - Yang. No one understands her in-universe or out, and at this point I'm not convinced that the writers do either.

Arknights - I could pick any character that's been flanderized to hell and back until they're shells of their former selves by the fandom, but I'm gonna go with Nearl because every time I see someone trot out the same tired NTR jokes and act like this makes them clever I want to strangle someone

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure - I would lay money that Jotaro Kujo has autism but good luck getting mainstream anime fans to acknowledge that a character might be neurodivergent.

University of Texas Athletics - It is amazing how few people in the wider football fandom don't understand how an athletic department works (no, the boosters do not control the entire football program) or how the various behind-the-scenes politicking between schools, TV networks, and athletic/academic conferences works. It is also amazing how few people within the Longhorn fanbase understand that it takes time to build an athletic program and that firing the coach the moment they have a bad season just puts the program in a bigger hole.

League of Legends - I don't go here anymore but everyone gets every character wrong because I don't think League of Legends players can actually read anything but slurs and skill/item tooltips and Riot changes the lore all the time anyway when they're not busy sexually harassing female employees.

Competitive Pokemon - I don't go here anymore either but anyone who puts Heavy-Duty Boots on Dragon Dance Salamence in SS UU has no idea what they're doing with it and should stop playing immediately.

I kind of went far afield with this one. Oops.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

RWBY - Oh God there are so fucking many this fandom is so stupid. I was just gonna post the pansexual Yang image again but then I realized I could write a whole essay. The RWBY fandom is split into so many diametrically opposed factions that finding something all of them are wrong about is borderline impossible, but I'll list some of the common stupid opinions below.

"RWDE is ruining the fandom" - there's like 20 people who post in that tag and you can just block it, get over yourselves. Get off Twitter (you should be doing this anyway), avoid reddit (or at least the RWBYCritics subreddit), and if the YouTubers piss you off, just don't watch them. You are not martyrs valiantly saving the show from the wicked infidels who think it's bad.

"Team RWBY is responsible for Ironwood's fall and are horrible little monsters for betraying him and lying to him" - Cinder and Salem are responsible for Ironwood's fall. After that, Ironwood is responsible for Ironwood's fall. Team RWBY had valid reasons for lying to Ironwood. I wrote a whole bigass post about it. I certainly wish the writers had done more with that conflict, but I've given up any hope of them making any effort to align the scope of their story with their available resources at this point.

"Ironwood was right to abandon Mantle" - Abandoning Mantle for any reason other than regrouping and resting Atlas's forces was categorically stupid because Atlas's war machine can't function without Mantle's infrastructure, such infrastructure does not exist elsewhere from what we've seen of Vale and Mistral, and fleeing to the upper atmosphere permanently would've consigned Atlas to a slow death.

"Team RWBY force their way in and take responsibility away from the people actually qualified for it" - Team RWBY consistently defers to authority figures until those authority figures either prove themselves unworthy of obedience (Ironwood) or abdicate their responsibility (Qrow, Ozpin). They only end up dealing with this shit because the people who are supposed to either can't or won't or are actively making things worse.

"RWBY is consistently well-written and every choice the writers make is deep and thoughtful" - Lol. This show is average at best (if I'm being generous) and the writers have outright admitted to just throwing shit in because they felt like it multiple times.

I'm only 3 episodes in but based on what I've seen so far and heard about the rest of the Volume, "Volume 9 is good" is probably gonna end up on this list as soon as I can force myself to watch it.

Arknights:

The Arknights subreddit has the stupidest fucking ideas about game balance and unit viability that I have ever seen.

"Arknights has consistently brilliant storytelling and masterful writing" - Some of Arknights's writing is genuinely fantastic but it's also consistently packed full of long-winded bullshit and almost every given story/event could be 1/2 to 1/3 of its length without losing anything of value if anyone on the writing team was willing to be concise about anything ever.

"Arknights provides trenchant and incisive political commentary" - Arknights is great at taking shots at real-world nations and not so great at providing solutions to the problems it identifies, given all the shit it does with Reunion and Dublinn and then tries to make us believe that we should be Rooting For Furry Britain, Actually, a single chapter after watching a Furry British military officer dirty bomb Furry Irish civilians.

"The Doctor is a heterosexual man" is a bonus I'm throwing in because every Arknights community outside of Tumblr that I've ever experienced is incredibly heteronormative it's like Arknights Tumblr exists in a different universe from the vast majority of the playerbase.

Elden Ring:

"Radahn was stronger and a better military commander than Malenia" - I already wrote a big post on why Malenia was straight-up more competent in the arts of war than Radahn.

#ask game #rwby #arknights #pokemon #league of legends #jojo's bizarre adventure #elden ring

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geolato · 17 days

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Not only do you know where I am from, where (and what?) I study, my tragic backstory✨ and my last name you also now my future actions???

Like. Girl at this point you know too much I might actually have to kill you💀

I literally was thinking about what to write in my essay while I was reading your tags and then I see this.

Κυριολεκτικά άφησα το κινητό μου κάτω και άρχισα να γελάω μόνη μου😭😂😂

I was like "hmm I'm a little tired and I already wrote a mini essay about ουκ today, should I just link the already existing posts? Recommend θείτσα's blog? There's a whole post with greek movies there, the best series name poll post?-" *this tag*

... I'll come back tomorrow with the essay

Also... didn't we met through my para pente essay? I'm pretty sure that's the first post of mine that you interacted with?? Lol🤣

If only we had τέτοιο θέμα στις πανελλαδικές 😔😔

20 θα είχα πάρει 🥲

The funniest thing is that I forget like 80% of what I know lmao.

To be honest I don't remember why I followed you. Like I said, I forget everything.

#asks #sugaroto #sugar

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butcherlarry · 5 months

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I was tagged by @burins in a people I want to get to know tag meme! Thanks for the tag!

Last Song: I was actually listening to this in the car as I was coming home from work today, Sexkiller on the Loose by Carpenter Brut. I really like this whole album, Trilogy , and listen to it all the time when I'm traveling. It's nice thinkin' music for me, but I have to be careful because it's very easy to speed when listening to the upbeat songs.

The last podcast I listened to was the most recent Behind the Bastards episode, discussing Michael Lewis and the terrible book he wrote about Sam Bankman-Fried. I also completed a re-listen of BtB's six part series on what a bastard Henry Kissinger was, in honor of his death.

The last book I read was Axiom's End by Lindsay Ellis. I might have stayed up until 12:30 am finishing it, and was VERY TIRED when I went birding the next day. Reading this book finally pushed me to get a library card so I can read the next book, Truth of the Divine. I've been holding out on getting a library card for the last couple years because my life has been so hectic with multiple moves. I've finally settled down enough where I can get a library card, and this book was the push I needed to finally do it.

My favorite color: purple! I just really love that color. If you look in my closet, you'll see a lot of purple clothes :)

Currently Watching: What everyone else on the Internet is watching, Hbomerguy's Plagiarism video essay. I couldn't watch it all yesterday and have one more hour to go!

Last Movie: Barbie! I watched it with my two best friends over a discord chat. One of them hadn't been able to see it yet, so we watched it together. It was also lovely to catch up :)

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: Hmmmmmm. I'm a sucker for sweet things, but sometimes that gets to be a little too much for me. So sweet and savory or sweet and spicy are always favorite combos of mine.

Relationship status: Single. Not really looking for anyone either. I'm starting to suspect that I'm aro as well as ace.

Current obsessions: BIRDS. Omg, birds. I blame my cats for this, I got a bird feeder to hang outside a large window at my old apartment to entertain them. Well, it ended up entertaining me too. Now I have a nice camera, multiple bird field books, and I go to the local arboretum every Sunday to go birding. It's my "go out and touch literal grass" day. And it's so much fun to see the birds throughout the year, especially seeing which ones stay in the area and who migrates/come back. The dark-eyed juncos and white-throated sparrows are back and I'm SO HAPPY to see those little guys! I post my pictures on my bird tumblr or Bluesky, as well as the Batfam discord server I'm in :)

Last thing I googled: How to take the FUCKING knife guard off our back up meat slicer to clean it. I wanted both slicers going because we had 100 POUNDS (45+ kgs) of deli turkey to slice for my company's holiday party and it was dirty from the last time it was used. I have NO IDEA how the FUCK we got it off the first time. It should be simple! There is a long pin/bar you unscrew in the back! But it still wouldn't come off!! I think there is some kind of safety we're not triggering, but I have NO CLUE what it is. The manual it came with and the manufacturer's videos on YouTube were NO HELP. I blame the French (the slicer was made in France).

I'm tagging @ktkat99, @betta-male, @sunny-in-gotham, @halehathnofury, @froizetta, @superbattrash, @lizyarikus, @sisaloofafump, and anyone else who would like to join! No pressure though! :)

#tag game #tag meme #about me #thanks for the tag burins!#I hope you're happy about the library card part #I moved 3 times between April 2020 and end of December 2021 #so settling down and getting a library card was the last thing on my mind during that time #it's nice to have one again :)

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