#and his name is isaac | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

so-long-soldier-writes · 3 months

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Study Buddies

isaac lahey x reader

summary: isaac asks you for help in chemistry. you agree on one condition.

tags: high school, studying / tutoring, mutual crushes, awkward flirting, caught in a lie, shyness, embarrassment, play fighting / tickling, bad puns, confessions, first kiss, teasing, fluff, pre-wolf isaac; his dad still sucks; autistic-coded reader

word count: 4.5k

a/n: this is my first time writing for teen wolf. I feel like I'm encroaching on claimed territory. 😅 also i've had this tab up for almost a week but have been afraid to post it, so here goes

Mr. Harris slides your progress report down onto your desk before you have a chance to react, and it catches wind and falls to the ground a moment later. You sigh and roll your eyes, but he’s already halfway across the room, impatiently handing out the rest of his stack. Your own little slip of paper is nowhere by your feet, and you resist the urge to make a remark about it.

“Hey.” A voice interrupts your intruding thoughts at the same time a tap lands on your shoulder. Gentle, as if the tapper hates to disturb you, yet needs your attention.

You turn, and temporarily forget about your lost report as your eyes meet Isaac’s, the boy who sits behind you, and has the cutest smile imaginable. You drop your gaze instantly, only for it to fall on his dimpled smile, and then, finally, on the paper held between two fingers.

“I think this is yours,” he says, holding it out to you.

Your name is clearly printed on the front, followed by your most recent grades in the class. You blush, immediately remembering it had dropped in the first place.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“No problem. He seems like he’s in a mood today.”

You nod, then take your paper from his hand. By this time, Harris has made his way back to the front, and is clearing his throat in a demand for the class’ silence. Quiet mutterings amongst friends cease at once, and you turn back to face the ill-tempered chemistry teacher.

“Take a good look at your progress reports. The midterm is coming up, and some of you have more studying to do than others. Today, we will be learning new material, but next class period, we will have a review day. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. You can ask at the appropriate time in class, or come see me after school, or shoot me an email. Regardless of your grade, everyone should be studying, however, some of you have to move up a whole letter or two. That is on you to be aware of, and for you to put in the effort to do. Now, pull out your notes so that we can cover this section. It isn’t the hardest thing we’ll cover, but I expect it will be a struggle for some.”

And after that condescending introduction, he begins to teach.

When the bell finally rings, your head is swarming with so much chemistry, your eyes are beginning to glaze over and put you to sleep. You’re relatively good at the subject, but that topic was more challenging than he warned it would be, making even you confused at times. You shake your head when you reach your lockers, trying to relieve yourself of the numbers swirling about in your mind. It takes a moment. A very stressful moment.

A tap on your shoulder, more urgent than the last, pulls you out of your mental headspace. The chemistry bounces out of your mind entirely, bringing you back to reality, but making you jump in place at the sudden contact.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice apologies, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

Turning, you come face-to-face with Isaac again. His normally bright blue eyes are slightly cloudy, which worries you more than you’d like to admit. “No worries. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I have a question, actually, to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“Okay, I wasn’t looking at your report, I didn’t mean to see your grades. I accidentally saw them when I picked up your paper, but I promise I wasn’t looking on purpose.” He stalls, continuously apologizing for something not at any fault of his own.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt as politely as you can.

He pauses, “um. I was wondering if you could help me? Like, in chemistry. Help me study, kinda like a tutor, I guess?”

You pale immediately. Just because you’re doing okay in the class doesn’t mean you have a clue how to help him understand. “Um-”

“Just… I just need a little help, if you can. I understand if you don’t want to, or can’t, or… I don’t know… are busy.” He runs his tongue along his lips nervously. You snap your eyes to the floor, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know… I’m not a good teacher.”

“But you’re really good in the class. Probably a better teacher than Harris has been lately.”

You chuckle, but you’re still not sure. Being that close to the boy you’ve liked for ages? On top of not being able to teach well? He’ll reduce you to a stupid, stuttering mess, just look at yourself now, unable to look him in the eye. No, don’t look at him, that was rhetorical.

“I just,” he continues, “when he was talking about people who needed to go up a whole letter, he was talking about me. I know you’re good, you sit in front of me. If you can even just explain it to me as you study, it would help a lot.”

Half of your mind races to find an excuse, looking for an out, while the other begs you to agree. Isaac shoves a hand in his pocket and waits for a response. You debate with yourself for a moment, but then the urging part of your mind wins the argument with a question of its own.

“What about this,” you start, “I’ll help you in chemistry, if you help me in French?”

“What?” He asks, taken off guard. “I’m not good at French.”

“You’re better than me. You have the answers to most of Ms. Morrell’s questions, and I can hear you when she asks us to recite words out loud.” His eyes narrow at that, to which you reply, “you sit behind me in French, too.”

“Right.” He smiles, but doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he rests his head against the locker beside yours.

“So?”

“How do you know I’m not just guessing?”

“What’s your grade?”

“A,” he sheepishly answers.

“See? You can tutor me.”

“What’s your grade?”

You purse your lips and avoid his eyes again. “Too embarrassed to say.”

“Really?”

“Languages aren’t my strong suit. We all have our strengths.”

“Alright, deal. Help me in chem, and I’ll help you with French.”

“Sounds good. Library, or at one of our houses?”

“I can probably go to the library sometimes. Maybe during lunch or free period. But after school, I have lacrosse, and you probably don’t want to wait around school for that to be over.”

“Okay, so then your house or mine?”

“Where do you live?”

“Like ten minutes from here. You?”

“A bit closer than that. Parents?”

“Don’t really care what I do.”

“My dad is a little controlling,” he admits.

“Would he care if I were to come over?”

“Not if you’re helping me study.”

“Okay. You want to meet a couple times a week at your house, and sometimes during lunch?”

“Sure. Practice ends around five. Is seven too late?”

“Not for me.”

“Cool. So, um, I’ll text you, and we can plan dates.” He shakes his head. “I mean, like, what days work best.”

You blush at his embarrassment. “Have to give you my number first, doofus.”

“Oh.”

You scribble it onto a sticky note and hand it to him. “Let me know.”

“I will. And thank you.”

“Thank you, too.” You hurry your way to your next class, leaving him red in the face and hands at having a girl’s number. Granted, it’s just for studying, but it’s the fact he was able to talk to you at all that has him shaken. Isaac forces himself to breathe, before entering it in his phone and tucking the sticky safely in his backpack. As the bell rings, he hurries to his next class.

~~~~

The next evening is the first time you meet up to study. You drive to the address he’s given and knock on the door as gently as possible. Isaac had mentioned his dad is controlling, so the first thing you want to do is to avoid pissing him off in any way you could. Controlling could mean a lot of things, and the boy wasn’t specific at all. For both of your sakes, you tread lightly.

Isaac opens the door a moment later, dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats. You try really hard not to blush as he invites you inside, but then his dad’s strict voice snaps you back into reality. You can see Isaac take a visible deep breath before rounding the corner in the kitchen, you in tow. You put on your best look of professionalism while trying to anticipate how the next couple of minutes might go.

“And? Who was it?”

“Y/N, the girl I told you I was studying with… with whom I am going to study,” he corrects at the last minute.

His father’s posture tenses a bit less when his son corrects his own grammar without prompt, but it doesn’t stop his cold eyes from floating over to you. “And you’re studying what?”

“Chemistry, sir. I’m helping Isaac, and he’s helping me with French.”

“And you know French well enough to help her?”

“I believe I do,” he says, trying to sound confident.

“I think he does, too. In class, he always has the answers, and Mrs. Morrell’s often impressed, and she’s hard to impress more than once.”

“Hm.” His dad takes a sip from a glass, then carefully sets it down on the table. His eyes are locked on Isaac the whole time. The boy stares at the ground, any confidence shaken by the interaction. You study the scene, confused. “Well… Go study. Bring up those grades.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply at the same time.

Isaac nods for you to follow him to his room, which you oblige. His dad remains seated as you make your way up the stairs. You bite back a comment about the man, even in the safety of Isaac’s bedroom, and he doesn’t say anything, either. The same remark is in both your heads, yet while you want to ask it in a question, he wants to use it as a reassurance. Yes, he’s a bit more controlling than Isaac originally said. No, he won’t do anything stupid while you're there. He tries to convey this in an expression, which you half-understand, but eventually drop it. If anything happens, you’ll leave. Simple as that.

As it turns out, the first night of you studying together ends up nothing like the initial interaction you had in his house. Isaac is gentle, patient, and willing to learn and teach the best that he can. He’s admittedly worse in chemistry than you are in French, but you’re able to convince him that you only need to work on a few things; an hour of time doesn’t have to be devoted to your studies, maybe only twenty minutes. On the contrary, the other sixty are put towards chemistry. And, of course, the first five are for settling in, and the last five are for uncontrollable laughter at a mispronunciation.

Thirty minutes to nine, you realize how late it’s gotten and start to pack your things. Isaac looks exhausted, and frankly, as much as you’re enjoying his company, you’re getting tired from talking.

“Voulez-vous qu’on se rencontre vendredi?” He asks, rather quickly.

You stare for a moment, then, “what?”

“Vendredi.”

“Thursday?”

“Non.”

“Friday?”

“Oui, rencontrer?”

“Meet then?”

“Yeah, would you like to?”

“Sure.” You nod. “Say it again?”

“Voulez-vous qu’on se rencontre vendredi?” He says it slower this time. It has the same effect on you, but you can comprehend each word better.

“Cool,” you say, not at all thinking about his accent that paints the words so beautifully. “I’ll bring my H2O, since I forgot it this time.”

The boy snorts with more laughter. “Bad joke.”

“Absolutely horrible,” you agree. “See you in school tomorrow.”

“Drive safe.”

“Be safe,” you reply before you can stop yourself, referring to his dad downstairs.

Isaac only nods. He walks you to his front door, then hurries back up to his room.

~~~~

Each day you study together follows a similar routine to the first: five minutes to settle in, sixty of chemistry, twenty of French, then five of joking around with each other. Sometimes Isaac pushes for thirty of French instead, worried that you’re sacrificing your own studies for his, and never understands when you push back that you’re good with only twenty.

His chemistry improves immensely with your help. In three weeks, he manages to pull it up to a ‘C’. Not only is his father a bit more lenient to him after the next progress report, but he’s also more pleasant to you the next time you come around to study. He even cracks a smile.

Today, you go over just the same as you have been. Seven on the dot, you’re greeted by his dimpled smile and half-friendly father. The man has now graduated to welcoming you, and has once clapped you on the shoulder as you’ve passed. You’re polite to him, though you can tell Isaac’s uncomfortable with his unusual behavior, so you always try to retreat upstairs as soon as possible. This time, he’s busy with something in the kitchen and doesn’t talk for long. He makes one comment about grades; you promise him you’re both doing well, then he lets you go.

Finally away, it doesn’t take long for you to settle down anymore. You make yourself comfortable on Isaac’s bed, pulling out your notes and pens, and smiling when he joins you. You’ve come to be good friends in the last couple weeks, and although there’s something definitely in the air, too, you’re good with being friends if that’s all you can convince yourselves you are.

You start, per usual, with chemistry, reading over notes and figuring out problems. He moves closer and closer to you each day you teach, simultaneously making you nervous and excited. Either way, your water bottle remains beside you to calm your ever-growing heart rate. When it comes time to switch subjects, you excuse yourself a minute to recover and prepare for the next half hour. In the beginning, it was easier to hide your blush, promising you’re still getting the hang of the co-teaching thing. Now, your excuse dwindles. The shy smile you wear as he recites words of the love language has never faded. You have to compose yourself entirely, elsewhere, to be able to control your reaction and face him.

“Can I use your bathroom real quick?”

“Yeah, just over there.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as the door shuts, Isaac jumps off the bed to check his hair in the mirror. In the process, your French binder falls to the ground and loses its page. The boy sighs, mutters an ‘oh shit,’ then pulls it back up to find the page again. He opens the flap and immediately finds a stash of old progress reports. You seem to keep all of your old ones in the front flap of your binder; he’s noticed you have all your chemistry reports, too. Curious, Isaac steals a peek. Despite confessing about his ‘D’ in chemistry, you’ve always cheekily refused to share your French grade. He doubts it’s that bad, but he’s never gotten you to admit it.

He glances at the bathroom door, then checks the date on the report before scanning the grades. Guilt eats at him the longer he looks, but nosiness, then confusion keeps his eyes glued. Is he really reading that right? There’s no way you have a-

“Sorry about that,” you say, closing the door.

Startled, he drops your binder and looks up at you. “It’s no worry.”

“What’s wrong?” You notice his change in behavior, like a young boy being caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

“Nothing. Your binder fell off the bed, I was picking it up.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He smiles when you join him back on the bed. You’re not sure if you still have a right to be suspicious, or if he’s just embarrassed because he’s so shy. “So, um-”

Isaac, on the other hand, is brimming with questions. As anxious as he is that you caught him peeking, he can’t help but wonder about what he saw. You start to speak, maybe to change the subject, but he cuts you off, guilt and curiosity both winning. “You have an ‘A’ in French?”

“What?”

“You’ve had an ‘A’ since the start of the year. Why do you need me to tutor you if you already know it?”

You shut your open mouth immediately, face paling at the realization you’ve been caught. “I-... I don’t know. Your grades are better than mine.”

“By one point.”

“Two points. You have a 94. I have a 92.”

“Doesn’t explain the need for a tutor,” he argues.

You study him, choosing to base your reaction off his own. He’s smiling; seemingly happy, curious, and not at all upset. His tone implies no accusation, just confusion, and his body posture is straight, shoulders relaxed. A twinkle shines in his baby blue eyes; his level of eye contact is neither constant nor avoidant. He’s safe.

“I, um,” you decide to tell him the truth. Or, rather, stutter out the truth. “I don’t need a French tutor.”

“So I’ve gathered.” Decisive tone, yet still friendly. Still safe.

“I figured, since I would help you with chemistry, even though I’m not that good of a teacher, if you had to teach me something too, it would put less pressure on me to be a good teacher.”

His eyes narrow. “Okay… but why French?” He’s still a little confused on that reasoning, but doesn’t question it. He knows you’re shy. If that’s what you had to do to make it work that you could help him, he doesn’t mind.

“I, er, well, the French provided a win-win scenario.”

“Which is?”

You shrug, body warming quickly as you near your deeply guarded secret. “I- I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Mhm, really?”

“You’re best in French,” you offer instead, on a whim.

“True,” he agrees, “though I feel that’s not the real reason, judging by your lack of eye contact.”

“I’m always bad at eye contact.”

“You’ve been getting better with me these last few weeks.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’m not going to judge, Y/N. Whatever you say, it’s safe with me. You trust me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then how is me teaching you French a, as you call it, win-win scenario?”

Finally, you fess, “because I get to hear you speak it every time you teach me.”

Isaac’s quiet for a moment. Then, you realize it seems to have gone over his head as he says, “you hear me speak all the time in class.”

“Yeah, but… with twenty other voices mixed in, too. I like hearing just your voice. The way you know just how to sound it out perfectly, and the way your accent flourishes each sentence. Most people in class sound like they’re gurgling saltwater, but you make it sound hot, like the way French is supposed to sound.” Your mouth utters words before your brain can catch up and prevent you from embarrassment. As soon as you realize what you’ve said, a dizziness swarms your head and it feels like the temperature’s gone up ten degrees.

Isaac is speechless in front of you. He’s first stuck on the fact that you like his voice, then on his pronunciation being described as perfect, but then he short-circuits as the word ‘hot’ falls from your lips. He doesn’t even realize when you plant your face into your binder, shocked by your own confession.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. It’s muffled, but he hears it enough to pull him from his trance.

“You like my voice?” He asks, cursing himself for the stupidity of the question. It’s all he can think of to say, though, still trying to cool his own rising body temperature.

“I shouldn’t have said all that, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he blurts out quickly. “I’m actually quite charmed by that.”

You resist the urge to look up at him, desperate to see if he’s smiling or not. Isaac seems to have a similar thought, and tries to hook a finger under your chin to lift your head. He succeeds, but then you instantly embarrass again, and dive for the pillows, burying your face amongst them.

“Oh no, get back here,” he jokes. You feel him before you look out to see him. His hands shake your shoulder, but when you don’t respond, he playfully starts to tickle your neck. You scrunch and try to scramble away, but he only continues. “C’mon.”

“I can’t!” The words have finally sunken into his head; the weight of them falls on your chest.

“Oh, yes you can!” He teases more, moving pillows away from you, just for you to grab another and bury back under it. When Isaac realizes there’s no use in trying to win the pillow war, he swings a leg over yours and begins to tickle your stomach. Your shirt has begun to ride up from your movement, and temporarily, he forgets you’re classmates, not longtime best friends. “C’mon, give it up!”

“I-I can’t!” You’re running out of breath, and pillows. He pulls another away from you, then puts his hands back on your sides. Your eyes are squeezed shut, but only do you open them because of the unfamiliar feeling of him touching you. A beat skips in your heart at the sudden, unexpected realization that he’s not only touching your skin, but he’s also straddling your waist. You swallow hard. He pinches your side lightly, shocking you back into reality, and making you grab another pillow to hide your face again. Before you can grasp it, Isaac grabs your hands and pins them above your head. You pant, heart racing a mile a minute. His too, as you can hear in the moment you both grow quiet.

“You think it’s hot when I speak French?”

“No, I think you’re hot when you speak French. There’s a difference.”

“Is there now?”

“The temperature of the room doesn’t get hot, it’s you that gets hot.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Not that you’re not always hot… I mean, sometimes, you’re more like a cute little puppy than a hot, French-speaking…” your words fade as your brain catches up, faster this time, yet still not fast enough.

“Am I now?”

What’s done is done, you figure. Can’t take it back now, can only admit it. “Yeah.”

“Huh. So all this time, you’ve been teaching me chemistry, and I’ve been talking pointlessly while you listen and learn nothing?”

“When you word it like that, it sounds bad.” A pout graces your lips as guilt floods you. “But I have learned some things. I was struggling with direct objects, and now I’m not.”

“Ah. So I’m not totally useless?”

“Never. You wouldn’t be useless even if I knew perfect French.” Before he can reply, you continue. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I shouldn’t have. Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I wasted your time when we could’ve been doing more chemistry.”

“Darling, too much chemistry and my brain woulda exploded. The French lessons are a nice intermission. Besides, I wouldn’t consider any time with you as time wasted.”

“Really?”

He drops your hands and they fall back down to your waist. He seems, then, to realize he’s still on top of you, and begins to climb off. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Can I confess something else?”

He pauses. “Sure, anything.”

“I would’ve been okay with just tutoring you chemistry, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye long enough to do it well.”

“You’ve been doing great with the eye contact thing. I know it’s not your strong suit, but you’ve made a lot of progress these last couple weeks.”

“Thank you,” you smile. “It’s not only that.” A heartbeat passes. “I like you.”

“You like me?” His eyes narrow before he assumes only, “you like my voice.”

“No, I like you. I mean, yes, I like your voice, but I like it because I like you.”

“Like me, as in…”

“Like I have a crush on you.”

He tilts his head like a confused dog. “On me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Why do you seem so surprised?”

“I’ve never had anyone have a crush on me before,” he admits.

Now you’re confused. “What?! How?!”

“I don’t know!”

“That’s stupid. Never had anyone admit it, maybe.”

“I’d never know.”

“Well I’ve had a crush on you since the seventh grade.”

“You moved to Beacon Hills in the seventh grade.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’ve had a crush on me this whole time?”

“Very secretly.”

“Huh. Well I’ve liked you since the first day of school,” he confesses.

“I’ve liked you since orientation, so I win.”

He smiles, then shakes his head playfully. “So I sit behind you in classes for years and only finally get the courage to talk to you when I’m borderline failing chemistry, and you only get the courage to talk to me for more than one minute if you can convince me to talk half of the time that we’d be studying together.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And my portion of the talking is in French, because you think my accent is hot?”

“Your accent is always hot; your French is hot on its own.”

“Ah, I’m following now.” He chuckles, letting his fingertips grace your hips.

“So,” you ask, “as two people with several year long mutual crushes on each other, what do we do next?”

“Well you’re the one that’s been tutoring me chemistry, love, I’m hoping you have the answer.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes playfully. “Wrong kind of chemistry, dork.” You reach your hands up to the sides of his face anyway, and pull him down for a kiss. Isaac complies immediately, setting one hand down beside you, while the other caresses your chin. Your legs hook around his waist, keeping him close until he starts to pull away, needing air. You let go, then hide your face as his own turns a rosy pink.

“That was worth the wait,” he says, smiling, and touching a finger to his recently-kissed lips. “Êtes-vous d'accord?”

“Shut up,” you tease, pushing him slightly. “Chemistry time.”

“We just had chemistry time. It’s French time now.”

“No, we can skip a round,” you insist, unsure you can hear anymore French fall from his lips without folding and kissing them again.

“On the contrary, I think you need to sharpen your vocabulary.”

“I think I’ll need a water break first.”

“That we can do,” he agrees. “I’ll make sure to get yours with extra ice.”

“Shush!”

#i feel like i'm cheating on kai #but i promise kai isn't going anywhere!!#nor are the mikaelsons - those for which i'm trying to write more #i have simply ✨ added ✨ another man to my collection #y'all i spelt his name wrong so many times writing this #have i ever mentioned i had a crush on a boy named isaac in my junior year of hs?#he was a twin #anyway #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey x y/n #teen wolf fanfiction

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boredzillenial · 8 months

Text

Day 3: of @flightlessangelwings fawktober!

King John upholds his scandalous reputation and takes what he wants.

Themes: DEAD DOVE - DNE, degradation through Exhibitionism, hurt no comfort, Dub-con/non-con, power imbalance, mentions of blushing, f!reader servant, pinv, creampie, oral f!receiving, cuckholding if you squint

A.N: I do not condone any of this - this is a safe place to explore kink and erotica as writers and readers, not beta read, cranked out in a couple hours when struck by inspiration, exhibitionism is not my usual thing so lemme know what y’all think!

Word count: 1267

You knew as you headed into the castle the reputation of your new master. That his beauty was the only thing to rival his cruelty.

You had hoped that keeping your head down, keeping quiet, and keeping out of the way would save you from his wicked nature. Your hopes were dashed on your first meeting.

He lay sprawled in bed, a concubine beside him and his cock laying limply across his stomach.

He sat up to watch you as you moved about the room, his length springing to life as he watched your figure move silently about the chamber.

You managed to get about halfway through your morning tasks before he slipped out of bed and came up behind you, rutting against the curve of your ass as you bent over. Your panic sent you reeling forward away from him as a wicked grin spread across his face.

“You’re a quiet one…” he observed, stepping closer. You shimmied out of the way and ran out of his chambers, catching your breath in the hall.

The next day you found his chambers empty, sighing with relief for a moment as you go about your chores. As you emptied a basin of water out of the window you felt him come up behind you again, pinning you against the stone windowsill.

You felt him lean forward, his breath fanning across the back of your neck as he murmured, “quiet girl, I’m gonna make you scream.”

He threw your skirts up around your waist and rutted against you, your body betraying you and soaking against the pressure of him sliding into you. He moved slowly at first, drawing out his movements to pull anything out of your throat more than a soft whimper.

He huffed and began to move faster after a few moments of failing to make you so much as groan. The sound of him slapping against you echoing in the stone chamber as you got your hand up to your mouth to stifle your cries.

“No!” He huffed as he yanked your arms behind you, using them as added leverage as he slammed harder. “Nothing still?” He growled and you grit your teeth together and swallowed as much noise as you could.

“I love a challenge.” He growled and kicked your feet apart. Adjusting his grip he held both your hands in one and with the other he snaked around finding your clit and circling roughly. You couldn’t fight your body’s urge to arch back as you cried out, the sound echoing in the street below. “That’s it!” He he laughed cruelly as he continued to pound into you, sending you reeling and your knees nearly buckling as he ripped your orgasm from you and planted his own deep in your channel.

By the time he was finished you clung to the windowsill and managed to keep your shaky legs under you. You glanced out of the window as you adjusted your skirts, seeing a couple of weary guards looking around for the source of the cries they’d just heard. Shame peppered your face pink as you ducked out of his chambers and continued about your day, his hot spend and your slick slowly trickling down your thighs.

You made yourself scarce the rest of the day, breathing a sigh of relief as you saw him ride out with most of his knights the following morning.

In the weeks he was gone, you grew close to a young knight he had left behind, well mannered, strong but soft spoken, and he had even made his intentions known to start courting you. You thought your luck had changed until one chilly morning you heard the distant thrum of hoofbeats. The King had returned…

You nervously helped carry food to the long ornate breakfast table. Praying that keeping with the cooks and his long travels would have him too tired to try anything.

You flinched and backed away as the doors to the hall slammed open. The King threw his helmet down as he stamped inside, grime and sweat from the road caked his armor as anger etched the contours of his face. “Out! All of you!” He shouted.

You courtesied and moved to leave with the other maidservants till you felt his grip on your wrist. “Not you.” He growled, pointing at the seat beside him.

You felt as if your heart was going to leap out of your throat as you sat beside him. He began tearing into the food laid before him. Taking a bite then throwing whatever he was holding aside. “No. No. No!” He threw his plate aside, “What the hell has happened to the cooks since I’ve been away.” He grumbled, his lips tilted in a wicked grin as he looked over to you. “Now, there’s a meal...”

You gulped as you tucked your legs tighter against one another. In one swift motion he hoisted you out if your chair onto the table. Pulling your legs apart and shoving your chest hard enough to press your back into the wood. He yanked you roughly toward him and locked his arms around your legs as he dove his face under your skirts. Nibbling and licking like a man starved, up your thighs to your center.

He licked and sunk his tongue deep into your cunt, drawing out the slickness and relishing in it. His low rumble and moans of pleasure vibrated through you and sent your mind into a haze. He truly was eating you for his own pleasure but you couldn’t help reaching the edge after many a night with only your own touch that left you unsatisfied.

“Your grace.” You heard someone’s voice clear as you looked to see some of his knights standing awkwardly in the doorway. Shame rushed through you like wildfire as you lay locked in the king’s grip.

He pulled his head out from under your skirts, eyes half lidded with lust and face soaked from your wetness. He drew a hand over his mouth and wiped some of your slickness on the ornate cloth lining the table. “Can’t you see I’m eating?” His tone a warning to the men awkwardly watching your horrified expression unfold.

You locked eyes with the knight you had been courting, cheeks blazing as you saw his hand reach for the pommel of his sword.

“And what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing.” John spat at the young knight. “Best you leave before I make you stay and watch me take what’s mine. And leave the door open on your way out!” He dove back under your skirts, this time biting up your supple thighs. Drawing yelps and cries from you to make his point known.

The young knight released his sword and stormed out along with the others. Leaving you sprawled across the table at John’s mercy. Weary eyes peaked in through the open doorway as the king had his fill of his choice of breakfast. Shuffling away quickly but their expressions would be plastered in your minds eye for weeks to come.

You had never come so hard or so many times as that morning, and John reinvigorated his cruel reputation as your overstimulation turned you into a twitching babbling mess sprawled across the table. Never stopping despite your pleas till he was fully satisfied. Once he was done he stood slowly, smiling down at the mess he’d made of you and glancing at the open door. “Be sure I start every morning like this.” He cooed as he leaned over you and wiped his face on your skirts.

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Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @lunar-ghoulie @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

#fawktober2023 #oscar isaac characters #Robin Hood king John #totally had his name as John the whole time #king john

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claiestve · 2 months

Text

𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ꨄ Isaac

˜”* ❝𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙬𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙚'𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙛𝙛 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙛𝙪𝙡?❞

⎯⎯ ୨ ୧ ⎯⎯

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴡᴏ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

⎯୨⎯ " " ⎯୧⎯

“Hey, did you get my text?” Isaac caught you from across the room. Honestly, you hadn’t picked up your phone at all. You heard it ding a few times, yes. But you didn’t bother looking at it. You were in a weird state of just thinking and nothing else. No distractions, no conversations, no anything.

“Pickle?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t see it.” You responded. It was hard to truly focus on what he was saying and why. You were just so in your head. It wasn’t anything crazy though, you were just thinking.

Isaac tilts his head, “Are you okay? You seem off.” He always makes it a point that you can come to him if you need him but sometimes you just don’t feel like bothering him. You know he hates that, you think you’re bothering him. If anything, he’d be the happiest knowing that you’d go to him for anything.

“Yeah, sorry.”

He turned on the light in the then-dark room and sat down. Isaac gestured for you to join him which you did. You knew he caught on and you knew he’d probably think there’s something wrong. There wasn’t, again, you were just thinking. What’s so wrong with that?

He looks you in the eyes and sighs. Normally, you were the one to pull him out of the bubble but it was difficult for him to do the same. Not that he couldn’t or anything, it was just difficult. Plus, you never really let him either.

“Pickle, don’t do this. Let me help you for once.” He looked at you with pleading eyes. You almost felt sorry for him with the look he gave you.

“Isaac, it’s okay, I’m okay.” You say trying to get up.

Isaac perked up a bit and dragged you back down. He put his arm over you, locking you into place. If he wasn’t getting answers before, he’s getting them now.

“Here’s the deal, you can either tell me what’s wrong and we can talk it out orrr,” He leans his head on you, “We just sit here in silence. Either way, neither of us are leaving.”

Well, now what? Isaac got you trapped in his arms and you knew damn well he wouldn’t let go. He’s done this before. That’s how he did it, the comforting. He’d make you tell him unless he truly felt it wasn’t his place to know. For some reason, he has this odd sense of knowing. Knowing about a quarter of what’s going on in your head. Maybe it’s all those years of experience, being a PI and all.

“Fine, fine! I’ll tell you, okay?” You finally gave in. His arm loosened but it stayed around you. Isaac was now looking at you expectantly. Shit. See, the problem was you never address what you’re thinking about when you’re like this. It stays in your head and doesn’t go anywhere else. You don’t say anything, you don’t put it on paper, it just stays in your mind. Now he was raising a brow, waiting for an answer. “I’m just in my head, that’s all.”

“About what?”

Damn.

“It’s really nothing, don’t worr–”

“Tell me.”

Damn.

“You know, I just think about us and all that.” You tried to summarize. You should’ve known he wouldn’t take that as an answer because he knew there was more to it. He knew a lot when it came to you.

He shook his head, “What about us? And what’s ‘all that’?”

Damn.

“Fine. Look, I was just thinking about how couples are normally really fit for each other. Like, you can see two people together and it makes sense that they’re a couple. Especially if you know them because they tend to compliment each other a lot.”

“Uh-huh…”

“But with us… I mean. I feel like it’s weird or unfitting. Like, I feel like im holding you back somehow and I can’t help but think it’s about all of my imperfections that you say you love, and I don’t doubt that but, I don’t know.”

“I think we’re fitting. I think we look good together. I could ask other people if they do too. Pickle, your imperfections complement mine, your weaknesses complement mine, your strengths, your likes, your dislikes, everything. If anything, I feel like we’re a perfect match. I was alone for years after losing everyone. You were alone and in need of help. I had enough to help you, you had enough to keep me company, and now we have enough to love each other.”

Your eyes lifted from the ground and into his where you see the corner of his eyes slightly wrinkled. He would typically look at you with that when he’s the most sincere. It was like he was smiling with his eyes, like a Duchenne smile.

“But, I understand. Our mind does this to us, we start overthinking about something we thought we knew,” He continued, “Here’s something you can trust, though. I love you, okay? Nothing will change that, ever.” He pressed his grinning lips onto your forehead and then to your lips.

“Thank you, Isaac.”

“Anything for you, Pickle.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

this album has multiple covers so yall know what that means .

okay i feel like this whole thing was just straight yapping but you know, isaac's my bae so best believe i WILL be yapping. thank you.