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gojonanami · 4 months

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❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,”

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness.

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks.

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there.

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall.

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large.

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture.

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt.

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out.

You got a B.

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88.

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds.

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare.

Academia was truly hell.

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,”

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly.

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—”

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?”

“I am, I wanted to—”

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—”

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?”

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze, “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,”

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—”

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,”

“I wasn’t—”

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,”

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—”

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.”

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease.

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist.

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin.

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?).

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do.

“See you soon.”

Oh, he would.

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours.

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to.

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it.

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?”

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip.

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal.

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside.

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—”

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,”

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,”

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—”

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,”

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle.

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall.

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,”

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips.

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,”

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,”

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs.

“You learn fast.”

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism.

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again.

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it.

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top.

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck—

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good.

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought.

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss—

And you clearly needed sleep.

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it).

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’”

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action.

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you.

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you.

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—”

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?”

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—”

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch.

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—”

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?”

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck.

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—”

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,”

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.”

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm.

What the fuck was that?

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up.

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working.

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you—

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you?

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade.

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory—

And then you heard him say your name—

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?”

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together.

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him.

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall.

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream.

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—”

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today — and a deep royal purple one no less, “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here.

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head.

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed.

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,”

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,”

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together.

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment.

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,”

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom.

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves—

What the fuck were you doing?

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor.

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—).

You needed to stop doing that.

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right?

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment.

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he.

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back—

But why did his smile look so strained?

There must be something wrong with him.

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you.

Why had he stopped you?

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands.

But this, this felt different.

You were different.

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism.

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile.

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm — but not the one he was looking for.

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you—

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?”

And it was you.

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips.

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?”

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,”

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease, “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?”

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

“I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,”

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?”

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?”

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,”

“No, but—”

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it.

And he didn’t want to pull away.

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—”

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?”

“But—”

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,”

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire.

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?”

And there’s only one answer — you.

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours—

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there.

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together.

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager?

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you.

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM.

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you.

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him.

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind.

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better.

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face.

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you.

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,”

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip.

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard.

Fuck.

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office.

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms.

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped.

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings.

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to?

It was that time again.

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart.

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board — his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name.

God. Fuck.

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes.

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear?

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes.

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?”

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,”

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips.

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—”

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,”

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high.

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up.

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture.

Double fuck.

Why was this so difficult?

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore.

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting.

But you didn’t know how to go in.

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him.

Or wouldn’t.

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it.

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?”

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?”

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?”

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?”

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword.

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross.

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there.

“But?” You wait for it.

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,”

You pause a moment, “Really?”

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,”

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his?

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,”

Your breath catches, “Really?”

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,”

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take.

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,”

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises.

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—”

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,”

He stares, “What do you—”

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,”

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?”

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,”

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,”

“I would say it depends,”

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk.

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?”

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—”

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,”

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours.

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips.

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more.

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?”

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again.

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.”

~~~~

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore.

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks?

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations.

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head.

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you.

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.”

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples.

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave.

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good.

Maybe it was for the best.

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with.

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all?

Oh, great, you were becoming existential.

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best.

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike.

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile.

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn.

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?”

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?”

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’”

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,”

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,”

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?”

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page:

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this.

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction.

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?”

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,”

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin.

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow.

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,”

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,”

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again.

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,”

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly.

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,”

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips.

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,”

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?”

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?”

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned.

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—”

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested —

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in.

Fuck, indeed.

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto suguru imagines #geto x reader #geto smut #geto x you #geto suguru fanfiction #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #dividers by @/saradika

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baby-yongbok · 10 months

Text

Sunset

Bang Chan x Thick Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, non idol

✨Masterlist ✨

Warnings: Unprotected sex (Wrap it up, guys), Cheating (Married reader/ Chan is dating someone) , Strangers to One night lovers, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral sex (M receiving) Slightly rough, Uh.. that’s it really? It’s just Smut, Sorry if I missed any tags. Explicit content so MDNI please.

Word Count: 2677

Note: First Person POV + This was something that I just whipped up real quick and wanted to share. It’s short compared to what I usually like to write but I thought you’d enjoy it! Just a quick smutty Chan fic to entertain ya.

Summary: The Sunset diner is your go to place to retreat, it allows you to meet new people while immersing yourself in the arts. It’s become your routine to relax at the diner every night and seek some...company. One night a new customer arrives and you just cant seem to keep your eyes off of him. You have to have him.

The Sunset studio and diner has always been a safe haven for me, ever since I was thirteen years old my step dad would bring me here and buy me a hot chocolate and two cookies before letting me roam around the studio and stare at the artwork in awe. It bought him enough time to smash whatever girl he picked up along the way in the bathroom then come back and act like he was never gone. I never cared, I was too fascinated with the artwork and the soft melodies of the guitars that the customers brought from home, or the grand piano by the entrance being played by whoever thought they were good enough to have the entire studio hear them. I was always amazed by those people, by their confidence, it was different from the kind that I possessed and I enjoyed being in its presence. No one has dared to play the piano in months though, not in my visits to the diner.

"Thank you, Lali." I nod my head to the waitress that serves me almost every night and she smiles back as always.

I continue my watercolor painting enjoying the ambient sounds of guitars and what I’m pretty sure is a ukulele when suddenly I hear it. My head snaps up and my eyes land on the brown haired man focusing on the keys of the grand piano. Others in the diner still their movements as they stare, those who are sitting around me stop talking and listen to the melody that he's producing. He continues to play a song that I've never heard before, an original maybe? The beauty in the notes that he's playing makes me close my eyes as the music builds me up to a feeling of bliss that I haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

As the piece picks up speed I start to wonder about its purpose. Is it an ode to tragedy or love? They are both one in the same in the end but I'd love to pick his brain. Suddenly the melody comes to a halt before he lightly strokes the last three keys. The sound of the last key drags out beautifully and applause erupts quickly after. The young man's head jolts upward and a small dimpled grin plays upon his lips before he stands and playfully bows before the studio. As the studio calms down I watch him carefully as he picks up his bag and makes his way to the counter to order a drink. I can’t help myself as I find myself ear hustling.

"That was beautiful." One of the employees that I don't know that well raves.

"Thank you, I appreciate it." His response is dry, he's uninterested.

"Chan?" Lali calls from the pick up counter and I glance back to watch him pick up his drink. He smiles warmly at Lali but he's still uninterested, what is he interested in? He scans the studio searching for a spot to sit and I quickly continue painting. He makes his way past my booth and I decide to go in for the kill.

"Excuse me." He turns around to me and his eyes soften once they land on mine, why's he so tense?

"May I ask what you got to drink? It looks divine." The same small grin as before plays upon his lips as he turns completely to me.

"An iced black tea with mint and cream."

"Oh, wow that sounds as divine as it looks, thank you." His eyes stay on mine as I offer him a smile and for the first time since he's stood from the piano he seems interested.

"It's my pleasure, I can't help but notice your painting. It's beautiful, truly stunning." Tapping the end of my paint brush against the table I shrug at him.

"It's alright, I'm experimenting with watercolor tonight. Would you like to have a seat?" I wave my hand towards the seat across from me and he kindly accepts. Sliding into the booth I get a swift whiff of his scent, a musk of some sort, Egyptian? Himalayan maybe.

"I'm not much of an artist, the world of paint intimidates me." He chuckles and I bring my hand up to rest my chin in the palm.

"Funny, you don't seem like the type to be intimidated by much." His eyebrow raises at my response as he lets it linger, he clearly doesn't plan to ask what I mean. He's waiting for me to elaborate, but I'm not the type to volunteer information and he doesn't seem like the type to ask about it.

"Do you come here often?" He asks disregarding my previous comment, I can't help but chuckle.

"Every other week since I was thirteen, I upgraded to every day at 9pm a year ago." He shakes his head and sips his drink.

"I'm passing through this town, thought I'd look for a place to relax and stop driving for a while."

"You made a wonderful choice stopping here, especially since you seem to be a fellow creative. That was a beautiful piece you played earlier." He nods and offers a quiet thank you. "Have you always played? Or have you just recently learned how to move your fingers like that?"

There his eyebrow goes again, raised and displaying his curiosity. "I've always played."

"Oh, how wonderful you must have such a careful way of doing things then. I've always found that those who play the piano are drawn towards the more intricate things in life."

We stare at each other for a few seconds, both grinning and scanning each other. He breaks our gaze, sitting up straighter he pushes his drink over to me.

"Have a taste." His eyes meet mine again and this time I challenge his gaze, holding it as I wrap my lips around the straw and suck up the tasty liquid. "Don't be greedy, now."

A small moan escapes me at the sound of his warning. Releasing the straw from my lips I grin at him. "Delicious, the mint is a really nice touch."

"Would you like for me to get you one?"

"No thank you, I like yours." The chuckle that falls from his lips stirs something up in me that I haven't felt in a while. He's flipping a switch that no one has been able to in a while and I am loving it.

"What do you do for a living?" Eyebrows furrowed and both elbows on the table he awaits my answer.

"I'm an art professor." There goes that eyebrow raise.

"Professor? Excuse me for my rudeness but my curiosity is getting the best of me. May I ask your age?"

"You may." He's visibly amused by my answer. He's clearly a bit younger than me. He's easy to get to but not too easy.

"Twenty-five and yourself?"

"Twenty-three" I knew it, experienced but not too much. "Too young for you?"

"Not at all, you'll be fun to seduce." There go those damn eyebrows, I wonder if he knows he's doing that at this point. I'm not mad at it, it's just interesting.

"Seduce, huh?"

"Mhm, I'm already turning you on." He leans forward in his seat and folds his arms.

"How so?"

" You like that I'm not easy to read, you're also into the fact that we both dabble in the arts of some sort. You're impressed by my age and my beauty, and you've been keeping consistent eye contact with me. Not to mention your manspreading which when across from an attractive female is an invitation to make an advance." He leans back against the booth, arms still crossed.

"Are you sure you don't teach psychology?" Smiling in his direction I nod before checking the time.

"Drive me home?" Checking his watch he keeps his eyes on me as I pack my art supplies.

"Is 11:15pm your cut off time here?" Grabbing his bag and finishing his drink he slides over to the end of the seat.

"Not usually, but I have to get to the next step in seducing you." Laughing, he stands and grabs my bag for me.

"I should've probably told you this before but I'm actually driving down to see my girlfriend." Shrugging my shoulders I pass him.

"And I'm married, your point?" Making my way through the doors of the studio I close my eyes briefly as the night air brushes my skin, the beginning of fall is always so relaxing.

"This way." Brushing his hand along the small of my back he starts walking towards his black Mercedes Benz G-Class. I guess he's not bothered by my relationship status, I'm glad we're on the same page. "After you." Opening the door for me and placing my bag at my feet he closes it after me and I quickly do a breath and pit check before he gets to the driver's side. Once he's inside he asks where I live and I say nothing, looking over at me I meet his gaze and smile at him.

"I never got your name.” he relaxes into his seat

"Chan, and yours" I don't plan on answering him, it's actually best if I don't. His breath hitches in his throat as I begin to palm him through his jeans.

"I like to think about how you'll recall this memory over the next couple of months." Getting on my knees in the passenger seat I leaned over to unbuckle his belt. "How you'll recall the blissful feeling of my mouth on you, the nameless woman you met at the studio."

Unzipping his pants teasingly slow, neither of us break our continuous gaze. "How I'm so much better than the girl you're going to visit, sexier, more spontaneous. Has she ever sucked you off in your car?" He shakes his head revealing the obvious answer.

"I didn't think so." My mouth sinks down his shaft and he draws in a deep breath. His hand tangles into my hair and the other grips the steering wheel. He clearly hasn't received oral in awhile, I'd be surprised if he lasts longer than three minutes.

"Oh my fucking god" He rests his head against the headrest and his grip on my hair gets tighter as I work his shaft, my tongue playing with the underside of his dick where his head and shaft meet, my favorite part of any man's cock. "You're pretty fucking good at that, baby."

Humming in response I take his length deeper down my throat swallowing around him. I think that today I'll try not to use my hands, I'd like to make him finish strictly with my mouth. "Shit, babe let me kiss you."

Humming in response I continue to work my head up and down his dick. "I said let me fucking kiss you." Pulling my head up off of him he holds my chin in place as his lips aggressively meet mine. Moaning into him I part my lips allowing his tongue to explore the depths of my mouth as he pleases. His hand explores my body, fondling my breast and Tracing the dips of my curvy figure.

"You're a fucking slut aren't you?" Moaning at the sound of his husky voice I nod. "Finish a sluts job then." Pushing my head back down to his cock I open my mouth taking his member back down my throat. Groans and moans fall from our mouths as I sucked him, the anticipation of his sticky cum coating my throat excites me.

"Just like that, give me all of that pretty mouth." His cock twitches in my mouth and I start to slow down eliciting a frustrated groan from Chan as well as a slap on the ass. "Don't you tease me, slut."

Smiling slightly I pick up the pace finding my rhythm, it's not long before he explodes in my mouth gifting me with the taste of him. Swallowing every last drop I sit up and start preparing to make my escape when he grabs my wrist and ushers me over into his lap. Leaning back into the steering wheel I accidentally honk the car horn with my backside and we both chuckle after the surprise and panic subside. Adjusting his seat so that it's further away from the steering wheel and slightly leaned back I adjust myself so that I'm comfortable before crashing my lips to his. Grinding into him my skirt rides up revealing my bare ass and his hand wastes no time gripping a handful and landing a firm smack on either cheek eliciting a deep moan from me. Before I realize it his length slips inside of me filling me up and reaching every spot that I need him to.

"Fuck, oh my god." Moans uncontrollably spill as he thrusts up into me.

"What about you, huh? Are you going to think about the guy you met at the studio? How he seduced you just as effectively as you did him." Picking up his speed he finds a rhythm that is bound to make me cum early. " How he made you cum so quickly that you can't fathom what a night with him would be like." Just as those words leave his mouth my orgasm washes over me in a wave stronger than any man has ever caused before.

"Or how about the way he kept you coming over and over again." One of his hands snaked down to my pussy and started aggressively rubbing my currently sensitive clit. The other hand lifted my shirt to reveal my bare chest, lifting his knee a bit and pushing me forward. He sucks one of my nipples into his mouth as he readjusts his other hand to replace his length with two fingers, as his thumb finds and rubs my clit. Bouncing with the rhythm of his fingers I end up riding his digits as my second orgasm crashes into me.

"Chan" All I manage to moan out is his name, the only thing I can remember at this point is his name and maybe how to breathe but even that seems to be failing me at the moment. I climax for a third time and he releases my nipple from his mouth.

"You look so pretty while you ride my fingers, go ahead and come for me again, kitten." I can't help but to completely let loose at the sound of him as my final orgasm rips through my body. I become limp on top of him and he slowly removes his fingers from me and slips them into his mouth. "Just as sweet as I thought you'd be."

Littering kisses up my neck and cheek he lifts me up a bit to meet his gaze. "You better clean yourself up, I'd hate for your husband to start a fight with you and ruin your night." Smiling over at him I sit up and pull down my shirt. Then climb back over into the passenger seat and pull down my skirt. Chan fixes the driver's side chair and I wipe my mouth with my forearm, my formerly messy hair is still messy so that's not a problem at all. Suddenly Chan grabs the back of my neck, ushering my face towards his and our lips meet In a heated kiss. I let his lips linger and dance with mine for a while before pulling away.

"Thank you for seducing me." He smiles teasingly as I laugh.

"It was my pleasure." Bending down and grabbing my bag I open the passenger door.

"Where are you -"

"My husband picks me up from here at 12:10am every night." Smiling over at him I almost close the door completely before opening it again. He looks at me hopefully with those damn eyebrows raised and his small grin painted upon his lips, I felt a wave of heat wash over me and I couldnt help what I said next. "Y/n."

"Y/n, thank you." Smiling, I look down at my feet before closing the car door and turning on my heels heading back inside of the studio. Walking up to the counter I smile at Lali as she asks what I'd like.

"A large iced black tea with mint and cream, please."

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ariesqueencobra · 6 months

Text

what we used to be | l

Pairing: Eli Moskowitz x Fem!Reader

Summary: You meet a new kid and your feelings for your best friend are said aloud.

Warnings: mentions of bullying, mentions of slut shaming, implications of violence, implications of strict parents

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Starting my first ever series for Eli! I always wanted to do a series following his story line in the show along with a female character so I did! I'm aware of other series being done like this by other writers on here, but this will be my own unique twist. There are similarities because it does follow the show's storyline but different because of my own interpretations!

I don't consent to this work being copied, translated or reposted.

“If the limit never approaches anything, then the limit does not exist,” you listened to Eli as he helped you with your math homework. “But in this case, it does, so what is it?” he pointed at the problem on the sheet.

“Two?” you furrowed your brows, trying your best not to sound like you were guessing.

“C’mon, Y/N, you’re in Calculus for a reason,” he encouraged.

“Only because I passed Trig with an 89, they only let me in because of pity,” you frowned.

Calculus has been your enemy since the beginning of the semester. You really didn’t want to take the class in the first place but your parents had been adamant about you taking higher-level classes. You would’ve been fine filling up your schedule with more creative art classes like ceramics and photography, but that wasn’t the agreement.

Math and science classes were part of the agreement.

Thankfully, you had two smart best friends who helped you whenever you had trouble.

“My advice?” Demetri spoke up.

You and Eli glanced at him, a knowing look on both your faces.

To be honest, while you had two best friends, only one was good at helping you out.

Demetri on the other hand? He had a habit of giving unsolicited advice. But because you loved him, you tolerated and actually encouraged him to hear what he had to say.

“Rewatch Mean Girls,” he deadpanned.

You let out a chuckle. “What I’m hearing is, that you guys are agreeing to watch it for our next movie night,” you grinned.

Both boys groaned.

“I’m fine watching your sci-fi, superhero films, but a girl needs her rom coms and chick flicks,” you mused.

Being the only girl and having vastly different interests compared to the guys, there were moments where you felt outnumbered. Sometimes you have to plead for one movie night to be your pick.

“I’d be down for Mean Girls this Friday,” Eli shrugged.

You silently clapped your hands, face creeping up with heat when you and Eli made eye contact.

“Demitiri?” you turned your attention to your other best friend.

After a minute, he rolled his eyes, agreeing.

“This Friday, my place,” you grinned. “Both my parents will be having a date night, so we’ll have the place to ourselves,”.

“Are you sure your dad will allow that?” Demetri cocked a brow. “That man is scary and I don’t want to know what will happen when he sees his daughter home alone with two boys,” he shuddered.

“He won’t mind, he likes you guys,” you attempted to reassure. “Besides, we’re just watching a movie,”.

“We know that, but will he?” Demetri asked in a mix of sarcasm and sincerity.

“C’mon, my dad isn’t that scary,” you trailed.

“I-I don’t think he likes me very much,” Eli said quietly.

“He does,” you straightened up. “Don’t worry about my dad guys, you’ve known him for ten years,” you stated.

You watched as the boys avoided your gaze, the sound of the cafeteria surrounded you when they both fell silent. Leaning back in your seat, you wondered why they were bringing this up now.

Like he read your mind, Demetri spoke up, “I’m just pointing out an observation I’ve noticed for the last few years. The older we get, the more of a threat your dad thinks we are,” he explained. “Guess it’s the raging teenage hormones!” he gestured with his hands, joking at the end.

Eli’s lips spread out into a smirk.

Relaxing, you shook your head at the way your best friend acted, even though you found the joke to be funny.

For the next few minutes, Eli went on to explain limits to you. You were about to ask a question when a new presence stopped you.

“Hey, can I sit here?”

You all turned your attention to a kid with dark hair and brown eyes, a tray in his hand as he gestured at the empty seat next to Eli.

You were about to welcome him until Demitri beat you to it.

“Check back next semester as you can see we’re entirely booked,” he said sarcastically but the new kid didn’t catch it.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he was about to walk away.

“He’s kidding, you can sit,” you gestured to the empty seat. “I’m Y/N, that’s Demitri and Eli,” you introduced.

“Miguel,” he nodded.

Just then, Yasmine and her entourage walked passed, causing Miguel to go into a trance.

You frowned at his reaction. You hated that just cause they were pretty, it forgave all the terrible things they’ve done to your friends and you.

“You’re just torturing yourself,” Demetri warned. “They’re the rich girls”.

“Do you talk to them or…?” Miguel asked.

“Yeah, all the time,” Demetri feigned a smirk. “We hang out after school, make out,” he shrugged. “Eli is homecoming king, and gets laid more than anyone”.

You rolled your lips together, glancing at your lap.

“You pretty much signed away all hopes of losing your virginity before college the moment you sat at this table,” he frowned.

Comments like that reminded you that boys will be boys. In the sense that virginity is still frowned upon. The societal pressure to lose it before a certain age disgusted you.

What happened to not conforming to society's rules?

“Oh, great, Yasmine is looking at us,” Eli narrowed in on himself, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “Probably making fun of me”.

“I wouldn’t assume that,” you reassured. “She’s always going to have that nasty look on her face,” you grimaced.

Then you made eye contact with her.

She whispered something to Moon, causing both of them to burst out laughing.

You figured she was making fun of you again, calling you a slut or whatever. Dropping your gaze to your food, you checked your phone for the time.

“I gotta go, it was nice meeting you,” you smiled towards Miguel as you got up.

“What about your homework?” Eli asked.

“I got limits now,” you attempted to reassure but your composure fell when you accidentally looked Yasmine’s way. “Besides I have to get my sketch done before class,” you hoisted your bag over your shoulder.

Art was your passion. Since you could talk, you could draw. Your best friends might’ve been computer nerds, but you? You were an artistic geek.

Still, as talented as you were, Yasmine and Moon used that area of your life to make fun of you. Whether it was a silly doodle you drew during class or an actual piece you worked your ass off for class.

They tried to diminish your spirit with your art, but thankfully you haven’t lost it yet.

Shaking your head to brush the thoughts away, you gulped down the lump in your throat and managed to make your way down the hall to your art class twenty minutes early.

While you were gone from the lunchroom, the conversation at the table shifted, focusing on you.

“Do you like her or something?” Miguel asked Eli.

The awkward boy stilled at the newcomer’s question, opting to fidget with his fingers while staring at his tray. He didn’t think he was being obvious, the only other person who knew of his infatuation with you was Demetri.

“He’s been in love with her since they met in kindergarten, her too but they’re too scared to admit it,” Demetri answered for him. “I think they’ll get married before either of them admit they do like each other,”.

It was true.

You liked Eli and Eli liked you.

The moment you laid eyes on him on the playground, that was it for the two of you. But both of you are socially awkward, insecure people…neither of you had the guts to tell each other how you truly feel.

Leaving Demetri to stand and watch at the mutual pining unwind for the last ten years.

“I’m not in love with her,” Eli defended. “Besides, she wouldn’t ever like someone like me,” he folded in on himself.

“You won’t know if you never strike first,” Miguel tried to reason.

“Good luck with getting Eli to do that,” Demerit said.

Eli sighed, keeping his gaze down. As much as he wanted to argue, he knew deep down that his friend was right.

“Keep this door open,” your dad barked quickly followed by your mother scolding him.

The door had been half-way opened, or half-way closed, when he walked past. He decided it wasn’t to his standards so he made sure the door was wide, banging it against the adjacent wall.

“Sorry,” you said, not looking up from your notebook.

You were sitting in your room, Eli helping you study for your Clac quiz tomorrow. It was a routine for the two of you, hanging out after school and doing homework. Quality time well spent and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sometimes Demetri would join but he decided to play Dungeon Lord after school today. Part of you was happy to hear he wouldn’t be joining.

Especially when that meant you spent more time with Eli. Meaning there would be more brief moments where your shoulders or knees would brush. Which would send butterflies straight to your tummy.

“Miguel seems nice,” Eli shrugged, placing his pen down. “He mentioned something about karate, he wants all of us to join,” he smiled lightly.

“Really?” you smirked. “What did Demetri say to that?” you laughed, knowing he had some highlighted opinions about it.

“Wasn’t on board, but I don’t know,” he glanced down. “Maybe it could be fun,” he said.

“If you want to,” you passed him a smile. “It’d be nice to see you kick Kyler’s ass for once,” you sighed, glancing at the problem in your book.

You missed the way he frowned but he continued, “You should join too,”.

“Me?” your eyes widened and you glanced up to meet his gaze.

“Yeah,” he cracked a grin. One that was big and genuine, something that only happened in front of you or Demetri. “You’d be great at kicking ass too,” he reasoned.

“In my dreams,” you huffed out a laugh. “I can barely do a push-up,” you shook your head.

“Maybe just think about it,” he suggested.

“Okay, I will,” you nodded. “So, how am I doing?” you licked your lips.

You pushed your notebook between the two of you.

Both of you leaned in, your shoulders brushing against each other. Anytime you inhaled, you smelled him.

He smelled nice.

“You’re doing good, you just need to remember that an open circle means the limit exists but not in the function,” he pointed at the problem you got wrong.

“Stupid circles,” you huffed out a breath, running a hand over your hair. “Thanks again, Eli,” you pressed your lips into a soft smile.

“You’re going to do great, okay?” he nudged his elbow with yours.

“Okay,” you nodded, allowing yourself to believe.

You went over the material for a few minutes, your mind getting lost in all things limits and functions.

Unbestowent to you though, Eli was watching you.

He watched the way your nose would scrunch when you didn’t understand what you read the first time around. The way your lashes fluttered as you scanned the page. The way you would lick your lips in concentration. The way you would crack your knuckles when they got too stiff.

He was utterly in love with you.

Being friends for ten years, you’d reach that point without even dating. Even if it was just puppy love, he knew one thing for sure—he likes you, a lot.

He doubted himself when he thought about what Demetri said. And when he thought about the comment Kyler made earlier of him being a loser. He had come home crying, knowing he was never going to get a girlfriend because of the way he looked. But then his mind thought to Miguel.

Maybe he could be wrong, maybe he could get a girlfriend. Maybe it could be you.

Without second-guessing any further, he opened his mouth.

“Hey, Y/N?” he cleared his throat.

“Yeah?” you reached your gaze to his, your head resting in your palm.

“I like you,” he confessed, face going pale at the fact that he actually said that to you.

Your eyes went wide, face blank as you took in his words. You didn’t say anything for a few moments, just staring at your best friend.

“I-you know, never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he felt embarrassed, shaking his head as he went back to his homework.

“Wait!” you reached out and touched his arm. “I like you too,” you gulped, a smile creeping up on your face.

“Really?” he seemed taken aback.

You nodded enthusiastically.

The two of you gazed at each other for what felt like a few minutes until you bent over in giggles, still in disbelief.

“I’m glad you told me,” you reached for his hand on your desk, squeezing it.

“Me too,” he squeezed it back.

You felt your cheeks heat up before you turned back to your work.

The rest of the night was spent with the two of you doing work, holding hands.

The next day at school, Eli was sitting with Demetri and Miguel.

Having just told the news about you and him, he was feeling a little proud of himself that he actually did it.

And more relieved that you actually reciprocate his feelings.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Demetri raised a brow.

Eli smiled, his cheeks turning pink while Miguel laughed.

“I’m glad someone took my advice, now you see my Sensei is legit,” Miguel pointed out.

Eli nodded, a small smile on his face.

“I’m gonna need more evidence to back it up,” Demerit crossed his arms over his chest. “This,” he gestured to Eli, “has been a work in progress for ten years, your words of encouragement just gave him enough push,” he scoffed.

About to respond, Eli was stopped by the smell of your perfume. He turned his head to the left just in time to greet you as you approached the table.

“Hi, guys,” you greeted, taking your seat next to Eli. “Hi, Eli,” your cheeks warmed up.

“Hi, Y/N,” his eyes beamed with admiration. “You look nice,” he blushed, glancing over the pretty green sundress you wore today, but his gaze circled back to your face.

“Thanks,” you glanced down, running a hand over the skirt. “It’s been in my closet for a while, I figured it’d be happy to see the light of day,” you shrugged, unaware he wasn’t talking about the dress.

“You should wear it more often,” Eli commented.

Demetri and Miguel sent each other a knowing look before Miguel decided to cut the awkward lovey-dovey talk.

“So, Y/N, did Eli tell you about joining my karate dojo?”

You focused your gaze on him, the warmth of your cheeks dissolving when your mind was pushed away from Eli. “Uh, yeah,” you smiled. “I thought about it, but I don’t know if I want to do something like that. I need my hands for my art, I don’t want them beaten and bruised,” you stifled a laugh.

Miguel nodded in understanding. “Thanks for thinking about it, Y/N,” he pressed his lips in a smile.

“No problem. Anyway, do you want to join us for movie night this Friday?” you extended your invitation to him. “You can pick the movie,” you offered.

“Sure, I’d like that,” he grinned.

“Awesome”.

Friday came around and you were all seated on your couch in the living room watching Spider-Man.

You actually enjoyed the pick, especially watching the nerdy boy become the hero. One who reminded you a lot of the boy sitting right next to you.

Miguel was on the recliner, Demetri on the other end of the couch, and Eli in the middle with you on the other side. Except, Eli was scooted closer to you, only a bowl of popcorn separating the two of you.

Your hands happened to brush a lot when you’d reach for the popcorn. Though, you didn’t mind.

You had gotten to the part where Peter Parker discovered his powers, a glass in your hand as you had come back from refilling your drink.

“That’s a cool painting,” Miguel noticed the piece of art framed by the TV.

It was an oceanscape of the beach.

“Y/N painted it,” Eli stated.

“No kidding,” Miguel said in amazement, standing up to study it. “You’re really talented, Y/N,” he smiled over to you.

“Thanks, that was my first one so my parents framed it,” you shyly said.

“You should see her sketchbook, it’s filled with the most awesome things,” Eli smiled.

You glanced at him, sending him a thankful look.

“Can I see?” Miguel’s eyes beamed. “My yaya loves paintings, I’d love to show her your work,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ll grab some that you could take pictures of,” you stood up, cheeks on fire.

It wasn’t often that you got praised for your art, mainly from your parents or your friends. So this was new. But you took the pleasure from it nonetheless.

Heading to your room, you grabbed a few of your favorite paintings before you went to your bag in search of your sketchbook, only you couldn’t find it.

As panic erupted, you thought back to the last time you saw it. You had it in art class and then you went to P.E. You could’ve sworn you had it then, but you guessed you were wrong.

“I can’t find my sketchbook,” you gulped, walking back to the living room.

“Maybe you left it in your locker or someone found it and took it to the lost and found,” Miguel offered, gesturing with his hands.

“Yeah, it’ll turn up,” Demetri reassured. “I don’t think anyone would have wanted to steal it,” he shrugged.

“We’ll help you find it on Monday,” Eli said, reaching for your hand.

“Thanks, guys,” you blew out your breath.

You were glad you had them and you really hoped your sketchbook turned up.

Part of you didn’t want to think about it, but you were worried about who had it if they did. And it only traced back to two girls.

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181 notes · View notes

sukibenders · 10 months

Text

consolation

FEATURING: percy jackson x reader

summary: y/n has been cooped up in their cabin for days, only leaving to attend breakfast and lunch at their siblings' insistence. it's not that they mean to, it's just that their art is doing anything but coming together as of late and it's making them doubt their abilities. good thing for them that their fantastic boyfriend is there to save the day!

contents: soft!percy, cute couple moments, possibly some angst in regards to self doubt but mainly fluff in the end, references to passing of time, worried!percy, gn!reader, no stated cabin or godly parent but mentions of siblings, percy referring to you as 'babe'

note" this is my first actual piece of written work on here, and it seemed fitting that it would be pjo related. I'm so nervous about it, so please be kind and give this some love! it's stated that the reader is in an art slump, and that's for the sake of the plot behind this so sorry to all those who aren't interested in the arts or things like that!

You would say that it wasn't a normal occurrence for you to compare yourself to others to anyone who asked, but you yourself knew that that simply wasn't true and, in this moment, were being proved wrong as you stared at the messy array of art supplies circling around you--from crumbled papers of failed sketches to messy rags layered with dried paint. While the mess was contained to your side of your cabin, you were sure that your siblings cautious of just how long that would last.

Your appearance faired no better. Your camp shirt was littered is paint marks from sloppy movements of your hands, the orange holding more life to it than the fresh canvas in front of you. Three had laid crestfallen along the floor, thrown down carelessly during fits of frustration after another failed attempt tallied in your mind. Just when you thought things where going to go smoothly, fate had other plans and took another direction. Maybe this was a sign of the Gods punishing you, but for what? You couldn't figure out.

The more you stared at the blank canvas, at the mess around you, the more dishearted you felt. Your mind wandered to a group of kids that you had seen at the arts and crafts center last week, some Apollo campers you had assumed, albeit bitterly, when your eyes fell on their stunning art pieces making it hard for you to look away. They were so beautiful and held your attention longer than you'd hope to admit outloud. You had desired to master a similar affect with your own piece. That did not seem likely.

"But they did it so perfectly," you muttered to yourself (more like growled), hands gripping your paint brush tightly to the point where you were sure that the wood would snap under the force. "I'm sure they didn't have to go through all this." Your brows furrowed and you were just about to give up when a familiar voice spoke up.

"Man, it looks like a hurricane rolled through here." You looked up and were met with a pair of sea green eyes, of which held a mirth to them that only increased tenfold when they landed on you. "Maybe I should take you to seek shelter, just to be safe."

This caused you to snort. "Haha, very funny. I know that, if ever in a hurricane, to simply call out your name and you'll be there to save me, won't you?"

"Always!" A toothy grin broke out over Percy's face and it was almost enough to draw you back from your creativity haze. But when your eyes drew back to the blank canvas, the sense of dismay returned. Subconsciously, your shoulders sagged in response, but you were none the wiser. Percy, however, being the attentive boyfriend that he was, took notice. "I take it things aren't going as planned?"

You shook your head. "That's an understatement. This is my third attempt so far, and I can't even put paint to the material. At least with the others I could say that."

Percy shifted forward, reaching for one of the lone canvases and studied it with interest. "This one is nice," he said honestly. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because it's bad." You answered simply.

But Percy didn't believe that. "No it's not, you're just being hard on yourself." Like always hung in the air, but it was moreso a thought of your own rather than Percy's himself. The inky haired boy gave you a brief once over, brows furrowed with tinges of worry. "When was the last time you took a break? Stepped outside for something other than going to the dining pavilion?"

You blinked for a moment, attention slightly divided between your boyfriend and the work before you. "Uh, I think it was like...yesterday, one of my siblings dragged me out to the strawberry field with them." Or, at least you thought it was yesterday.

But Percy shook his head. "That was Tuesday, babe, I asked one of your siblings. Today's Friday. We need to get you out of this cabin, doing something other than painting."

Slightly shocked by clarification, you body tensed at the thought of being pulled away from your workstation, especially so prematurely into your journey. If you stopped now, what was to say that you would ever finish? Or that this was possibly your last chance at recreating and if you left now, all that went down the drain.

"I can't." You sighed weakly, hurriedly drifting your eyes to your boyfriend, who you had just discovered, that you hadn't spent much time with at all during this week. "If I don't get this piece right now, I might never-"

Percy raised a brow in response of you cutting yourself off. "You might never what?"

With a frustrated and embarrassed sigh, you explained to him your dilemma and the set backs it had provided you, refraining from looking at him the whole time. A part of you had fear some sort of mockery or lack of understanding that conjured up a simple dismissal without actually helping. You had grown accustomed to that after a few occasions and, while you didn't believe Percy to be like, it still hovered in your mind.

To your surprise, though not really, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you so gently yet fiercely that you felted tethered and set free all the same. Your face subconsciously pressed into Percy's bicep and you inhaled his scent, feeling the burdens of the weight you had placed on yourself slowly slipping away one by one. Faint tears welled in your eyes, but he made no move to comment on them.

"I wished you'd came to me sooner, I could've helped you. While not with anything art related, because it would have ended poorly for the both of us, I could have been here to keep you company and show some support."

A small sound that was a mix between a cry and laugh bubbled from your throat. "I don't think I would have been much fun."

Percy snorted. "Please, we would've had the time of our lives here. You're siblings would have kicked me out and banished me from ever entering." While this drew another laugh from you, it wasn't hard to notice the seriousness enveloping the boy's tone. "I think you need a break, for real this time and with no objections."

"But-"

"This piece, can wait. You can't. So what if some other camper made a cool piece, that doesn't mean anything. It especially doesn't mean you're a bad artist just because you're having trouble recreating it." When you fell silent at his words, he rested his nose against your temple, breathing you in. "You're very talented, and that shouldn't be doubted."

A part of you wanted to argue, to say that he was only telling you that because you were dating, but the more you thought about doing anything other than laying in your boyfriend's arms, the more exhausted you felt. Maybe it was your sudden drop in weight, but Percy had maneuvered you around until you were far from the canvas that had been torturing you for hours and closer to your bed.

"Let's get you some rest, babe." He moved to lay you down when your hand reached out, stopping him. "Babe-"

"I got paint on your shirt." You said simply, eyeing how your, still paint riddled, fingers smeared over your boyfriend's tee from his abs to his side. You had been so wrapped up in savoring his embrace, that you had forgotten about your own mess clinging to your frame.

Rather than wallow in the new stain, Percy reached for a damp, less paint splattered cloth and held it to your face. "It's no big deal, but it will be if you get paint on your sheets. Let's get you cleaned up."

By the time he was finished, you were already dozing off no matter how much you tried to fight. Your body rocked and swayed softly, and the action only made Percy laugh even more. Resting you gently on to your bed, head braced against your pillow, the inky haired boy moved to stand when your hand latched around his wrist.

"Stay," You whispered, eyes hopefully. Even with how busy you made yourself, you had missed him deeply.

"I gotta clean up around here. Wouldn't want you to trip in this mess, now would you?"

This caused you to wave him off. "Ah, well you'll simply just have to take care of me again, which seems like a win if you think about it."

Percy chuckled. "Yeah, it does. And maybe I'm so inclined to be against it." He patted your side. "Move over, babe, I'm coming in."

You cheered softly, doing as told just enough for him to rest his frame an inch away from you before you practically melted into him, arms wrapped around his waist and face tucked under his chin. You could feel Percy's chest rumble in satisfaction before he followed a similar manner. The two of you laid like that for a few minutes before you whispered.

"I'm sorry for not spending time with you these last few days." You apologized. "I was just...so wrapped up in this project and my own thoughts that I lost track of time. It's no excuse, but-"

"It's all right," Percy cut in, shushing you softly as you tried to protest. He was in no mood for you to get worked up, especially over something that was so easily fixed and could be settled even further once you were rested. "I understand, and I'm not uupset. I missed you, for sure, but we'll find a way to spend time together later, once you've had a decent amount of sleep."

You nodded in agreement, a yawn pulling from your lips. "I propose a date, anywhere you'd like and we can do whatever you want. You deserve it."

"I don't think taking care of my partner necessarily guarantees a reward," Percy commented, watching with mirth as you sent an eye roll his way. "But I'll hold you to that deal later. Love you."

"Love you, too."

#percy jackson #pjo fandom #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #x reader #percy jackson x black!reader #percy jackson x poc!reader #[🪐] - lunars writes

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joelmillersdumbslut · 10 months

Text

I took your matches before fire could catch me (part two)

(joel miller x f!reader) 18+

summary: After your first date with Joel Miller, you wind up at his house begging him for more. (no outbreak. no use of y/n) rating: 18+ explicit (minors do NOT interact) warnings (for this chapter): age gap (reader is in late 20's, joel is mid 50's), dirty talk, pet names, reader is kind of a brat, masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, oral sex (f! receiving), daddy kink, hand kink, referenced cheating, degradation, angst, orgasm delay/denial, bondage (gags) word count: 2.8k a/n: thanks for the love on the first chapter, hope you all enjoy this one too <3

a03 link

It’s been a week and you can’t stop thinking about Joel’s cock. You’ve masturbated every night to the thought of him fucking you in that bar bathroom, the way his large fingers curled up inside you, bringing you to the brink of losing control. But, your self-induced orgasms are nothing compared to the one you had with Joel. You keep chasing it. Every night when you get off work, you scurry to your room, using your hands, toys, vibrators, pillows, anything to get you close to that feeling you had with Joel. You even wore his unwashed flannel, the smell of him lingering while you touched yourself. It just didn’t work.

So, after another lame attempt at a messy and desperate masturbation session, you look up his profile on Lily. A sigh of relief escapes you as you realize you’re still matched, the last message being from you saying you had arrived at the bar.

You type. Then erase. You type. Then erase. What the fuck are you supposed to say?

Hey Joel, I had a fun time last week. Can you fuck my brains out again?

Or maybe…

Hey Joel, I’m sending you an invoice for the dry cleaning for my favorite dress. Can you cum on me again?

You’re about to throw your phone in frustration, when you realize you had accidentally hit “send” on one of your drafts. And it was possibly the most pathetic message you could have sent.

I need you.

You groan out loud, but not before your phone vibrates almost immediately. It’s a message from Joel. It’s an address.

Then another message.

Babygirl.

Come home now.

—

You drive. Fast. You’re wearing his flannel shirt, opting for an unbuttoned look to show off your black bralette underneath. And a pair of high-waisted denim shorts that show off the curve of your ass. You had dressed quickly, but calculated, hoping he’d be there waiting for you. Visions of Joel touching himself, pacing back and forth in his home waiting just for you to arrive fills your mind. You daydream through intersections and stop signs.

You finally pull up to a cozy home on the other side of town, parking across the street. You realize you had been white knuckling the steering wheel. You take a deep breath and step outside the vehicle. The house looks dark. Maybe he’s not home? Your knuckles rap on the door anyway. It opens swiftly after your second knock. You bite your lip, noticing something growing in Joel’s pajama pants.

“Sarah’s sleepin’, so you need to be quiet,” he whispers. “You gonna be a good girl tonight?”

You nod quickly, following him inside.

—

His room is huge. But, the bed is even bigger. He locks the door behind you, a table lamp emitting a dim light throughout the room. There’s a framed painting on the wall, something abstract. You don’t know enough about art to care. There’s an exercise bike in one corner of the room, although it’s currently being used as a clothes hanger. You notice more odds and ends, like books and blueprints scattered among a desk and the surface of his dresser. Definitely the kind of bedroom that belongs to a man.

You inch yourself closer to the bed. Kick off your shoes. Then you turn around to stare at him, unsure of who should make the first move. So, Joel does.

“Why are you here?” he suddenly asks, pulling his shirt over his head.

You raise your eyebrows, “You invited me.”

“I know that, smart-ass,” he marches toward you, his large hands wrapping around your waist. “Why’d you message me?”

Suddenly, you feel guilty. Like maybe you shouldn’t be here after all. You realize how dumb and cock hungry you are. Pining over the older man you met online who turned out to be the brother of your affair partner from years ago. Isn’t this kind of weird?

Well, your body certainly doesn’t think so. You can feel yourself getting wet already.

“I… I want you,” you whisper.

Joel starts biting your neck, leaving hot kisses against your skin. You can’t help but moan. He pulls back, his eyes shooting daggers.

“Thought I told you to be quiet.”

“Then why’d you want me to be so loud in the bar?”

Joel glares again and your eyes narrow at him.

“So, you’re gonna be a brat tonight,” he huffs, leaving you to retrieve something from his dresser.

You stand there, hands on your hips. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

He returns with a tie. It’s floral with flamingos. You get ready to make a joke at Joel’s expense, but he begins to wrap the fabric around your head as a makeshift gag. Your skin burns against his touch, you can feel yourself soaking your underwear even more. You want to protest, but you can’t. Not with this stupid piece of fabric stuffed in your mouth.

“Only good girls get to cum,” he says.

—

Joel strips you of your clothing until you’re standing naked in his room. Couple that with the gag in your mouth, you start to feel self-conscious and cross your arms. Pretending you’re annoyed with him, but secretly you’re doing this in a feeble attempt to hide the parts of your body you don’t like. Your insecurity doesn’t seem to bother Joel, though, who’s looking straight at you, palming himself through his pajama pants.

“Get on the bed,” he growls.

You do as you're told, laying down flat on your back. Joel finishes undressing, your eyes widening. You had felt how big his cock was, but you actually hadn’t seen it until now. No wonder you couldn’t get off by yourself. Your toys and hands were a complete and utter disappointment compared to what was lying in wait between his legs. You begin to squirm in anticipation.

To your surprise, Joel smiles briefly. You didn’t think he was capable of expressing that kind of emotion. He shakes his head and climbs onto the mattress, towering over you.

“You get this cock when you behave. Understand?”

You nod frantically, eyes widening. I’ll be a good girl, I’ll be a good girl, I promise! you want to scream. Joel kisses your neck again, trailing down your body. He takes a handful of your breast, squeezing gently and playing with your nipple. His touch is irresistible, and your whines are muffled beneath the fabric of his flamingo tie. You so wish you could scream right now.

Reading your mind, Joel puts a finger up to his lips, “Gotta be quiet if you want daddy to fuck you.”

You choke on the makeshift gag, your pussy throbbing as he makes his way to your inner thighs. His lips brush against your clit and you writhe around underneath him.

“Did Tommy go down on you, babygirl?” Joel asks, his tongue lapping up the liquid seeping from between your legs.

You shake your head furiously, your hands burrowing into the blankets around you. Sure, you’ve done this with guys before, but with Joel, it felt like a whole new world. How does he know exactly what to do to make you feel this way? And without you even guiding him?

“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he murmurs, his lips sucking and kissing your clit. He glances up at you with a mischievous grin.

“You really liked it when daddy fucked you with his fingers, didn’t you,” he mutters, his long fingers pressing against your entrance. You silently plead with him with your eyes and after teasing you for a few more moments, he hurriedly sinks his digits inside you. You bite the cloth of the tie as hard as you can to prevent yourself from making any noise. You feel lightheaded as his fingers pump in and out of you while his tongue washes over you, suppressed moans from both of you bouncing around the room.

“You thinkin’ ‘bout Tommy when I touch you? When I eat this pussy?” his words vibrate against you.

You shake your head again, feeling hot tears roll down your cheeks as you get closer and closer to climax. It’s so overwhelming in the best way imaginable.

“Then who are you thinkin’ ‘bout?” a smirk dances across his face. Every nerve in your body is set ablaze.

Joel.

You realize you’re not just thinking his name, but you’re screaming it too. Or, at least you’re trying your damnedest to scream with that flamingo tie jammed down your fucking throat.

And then you realize you’re about to cum. What you had been waiting an entire week for is almost within your grasp. But, Joel knows and he pulls out. An exasperated sigh departs your lungs and your eyes flutter closed, feeling your clit pulsate. The punishment continues.

But, then, something slides into you. It hurts a little, and you open your eyes again. Joel is leaning over you, breathing heavily, his cock pushing into you. Your scowl quickly turns into a sneer as you think about how unfortunate it is that you’re gagged, that you can’t make another joke about Joel’s inability to last long while he’s inside you.

But, something feels… different. He runs his thumb over your clit while he fucks you, nice and slow. Not at a ravenous pace like he was the week before. It almost feels gentle and soft compared to the encounter in the bar bathroom.

“You were a good girl,” he pants, and your eyes begin to roll to the back of your skull once he finds your sweet spot. Your pussy getting wetter, tightening around him.

“You gonna cum? I wanna feel you, babygirl.”

Those few words were all it took for you to cum all over Joel’s cock without any warning. And apparently that’s all it took for Joel too as he pulls out, stroking himself once. Twice. Then warm, sticky strings exploding across your soft stomach. The two of you lay next to each other, chests rising and falling. Joel glances over at you, motioning for you to sit up. You do so, vision still blurry from your orgasm, and he unties the gag from your mouth.

Before you can say anything, he kisses you. Maybe you’re still cock drunk because it feels like a real kiss. One that fills your belly with butterflies. Making you see stars and planets floating through a galaxy. You don’t have time to think more about it before you’re asleep in the crook of his arm.

—

You wake up to sunlight piercing through the curtains. Which is weird because you have blackout curtains. As your eyes dart around the room, you suddenly realize you’re not in your bed.

Where the fuck are you?

Then you remember what happened last night. How you broke down and messaged Joel on that stupid dating app. How he invited you over to his house and fucked you senseless again. But, then he kissed you. And not a sloppy kiss either, but one filled with sweetness and intention.

And then you remember falling asleep in his arms.

What the fuck?

You rub your eyes and look around the bedroom. Joel’s gone. Did he up and leave you? In his own house?

You crawl out of bed, examining the room for any sign of life. You notice your clothes are folded in a neat pile on a chair in the corner of the room. There’s a note too.

Take a shower. Come downstairs.

—

After scrubbing yourself clean from the night before, you step back into the bedroom to get dressed. You notice Joe had laid out another one of his flannel shirts for you. It’s navy blue. You put it on, making sure to button up all the way this time in case his daughter is downstairs. That would be mega awkward. Maybe not as awkward as her hearing you fuck her dad though.

You bound down the stairs, following the smell of bacon. You wander into the kitchen, spotting Joel, who is fully dressed and standing at the stove. Pops and sizzles fill the air. He looks back over his shoulder, nodding at you to sit at one of the bar stool chairs propped up against the kitchen island. You do as you’re silently told. You stare at his back while he finishes up the cooking. Sitting as still as possible.

Joel chuckles, still not looking at you.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“You’re behaving this morning. Just surprised is all,” he answers, sliding some eggs onto a plate. He turns around and sets it down in front of you.

“I behaved last night too,” you say in a hushed tone, your eyes scanning the kitchen in case his daughter is nearby.

“Not at first,” Joel corrects you.

You roll your eyes and begin to dig in. The eggs are scrambled to perfection, with sprinkles of cheese mixed in. You’re about to give your compliments to the chef when you notice he’s been gazing at you, waiting to speak.

“We need to talk.”

“About?”

“You know what.”

You swallow. Hard.

“Sarah can’t know about this,” his voice transforms into a whisper, “Tommy can’t know about this. No one can know about this.”

You push the plate forward, your hands shaking. You certainly weren’t expecting a relationship out of this, but you analyze the severity of the situation. You’re gonna fuck this guy in secret and sneak around? Especially after you ruined his family once already? You don’t want to do it. You don’t want this to burn out as quickly as it began. But, you decide maybe it’s best to cut your losses while you’re ahead. Before you get attached. Before it ends like all the rest.

“I’ll go home. Thanks for breakfast,” you say, standing up from your seat.

Joel reaches for you, grabbing your hand. His calloused fingers intertwine with yours, squeezing you tight. You don’t pull away. But, you know you need to say something.

“Look, Joel,” you can feel tears welling at the corners of your eyes while you babble, “I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. You give me the most mixed signals in the world and expect me to understand them. You hate me because I fucked your brother. But, then you have sex with me in the bathroom of a bar. Then you invite me over after I message you just so you can fuck me again. And you have to constantly humiliate me and remind me of the choice I made six fucking years ago. The one I want to forget so badly. But, then you tell me what a good girl I am when you hate fuck me. Can you see why I’m so confused?”

He’s staring at you. Nodding. Your eyes widen as you realize he’s actually listening to you intently. You keep rambling.

“I don’t know what we’re doing, but wouldn’t it be, like, weird if your brother found out? What would your daughter say? Maybe we should stop.”

Joel is silent. He lets go of your hand.

“If that’s what you want,” he huffs.

If that’s what you want…

If that’s what you want???

“Do you even know what I want, Joel?”

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to continue.

“I want you to keep fucking me. Because you make me feel things I’ve never felt before. Feelings and sensations I’ve never experienced by myself or with any other man. Not even that one time with your brother. And even though it’s only been a week, I can’t stop thinking about you. There’s something about you that I just can’t quit.”

You fumble with the buttons on the cuff of the flannel shirt, not bothering to look up at Joel. You think you've said all that needs to be said.

He sighs.

“Listen. I don’t like you. Not after what you did to my family.”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. As if you had a chance with him anyway. However, he continues.

“But, there’s somethin’ ‘bout you that I just can’t quit either. So, I propose this.”

You look him in his brown eyes, eagerly waiting for what he has to say.

“You and I keep this a secret. You only come over when Sarah’s gone or otherwise incapacitated. I go over to your place when it’s best for you. No attachments. And no one finds out. Deal?”

He holds out his hand, waiting for you to shake on it. You stare at his fingers, the ones that have already casted a spell on you. Your hand slips into his.

“Deal.”

—

#joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #tlou #joel tlou #joel x you #joel x reader #joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal characters

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spaceyaceface · 1 year

Text

What Could Have Been

Sebastian Sallow x f!Reader (Unspecified Hogwarts House)

Word Count: 3.4k

Content Warnings: Heavy angst. This is not a very happy fic.

Summary:

She had been in love with Sebastian Sallow for some time. And she was afraid of having something to lose. After all, she knew all too well that good things always came to an end.

Now it was their last night together. What were they willing to lose?

Also available on AO3

"I don’t know how to mend it, When this chapter ended, When all of my plans have depended on you. But at least tonight we’ll still pretend, Hold each other close like it’s not the end.” - from "Dearly Departed" by Marianas Trench

Time had passed much too quickly. It felt like yesterday that she walked into the Great Hall for the first time, head spinning with the buzzing noise of students talking. The room still sounded the same—but it was now her last time sitting there as a student.

Tomorrow morning, the last term of her seventh year would be over. She had no more classes to attend, no more essays to write, no more detentions to be served. She knew at least part of her should have been excited, but all she felt was dread. Was she the only one feeling like this? Was it because she had had so little time to enjoy her time here, compared to the rest of her classmates? She’d found that being a student at Hogwarts was much more than learning magic. It was having a home, knowing there was some place to belong. It was building friendships that felt more like family.

She knew she was being a bit silly about all of it—after all, she wouldn’t really be leaving Hogwarts. Professor Hecate had offered her an apprenticeship; she had seen the girl’s talent in fighting the Dark Arts first hand in her fifth year, and thought she would make a wonderful Defense Against the Dark Arts professor when the time came. She wouldn’t be leaving. But nearly everyone else would.

As she looked around the Great Hall, her eyes rested on each of her friends. Garreth was beginning his own line of potions—he was already doing well. Poppy was going into the Ministry, working to preserve Magical Creatures. Imelda had been accepted to fly with the Holyhead Harpies. They all had adventures to go on, lives to live freely. This was their parting of ways—would they ever be all together again?

Her throat tightened as she saw Ominis and Sebastian sitting together across the room. Of all the friends she’d miss, they were easily at the top of her list. There had been a while she truly worried their little trio wouldn’t pull through. After Soloman’s death, Ominis found being around Sebastian almost unbearable—he felt a great deal of responsibility for the man’s demise. For that time, Sebastian was pretty much completely alone. But she had stepped in. She couldn’t let him wallow in his guilt (and there were times it had nearly consumed him) and tried to pull him back off the dark path he’d started treading. While not guilty in the same way, she a semblance of what he had been feeling—when Professor Figg died, she tore herself up for months afterward, grieving and regretting. Sebastian had helped her through it. They had learned to depend on one another when they weren’t feeling strong enough on their own. They had each other—and that was enough. Sebastian swore off the Dark Arts forever, and he was finally serious. There was no way to completely rid himself of the burden of his guilt—a guilt that had come from using an Unforgivable Curse. He never wanted to feel that way again.

After some time, Ominis saw the change in Sebastian. The two began talking again—and they had pulled through. She was glad. She didn’t know what she would do without them both.

Poor Ominis was going back home with his family, now that he was done with school—at least for a little while. He was planning on buying some little cottage and leaving them as soon as possible. And Sebastian—she had to look away from him as the memories clouded her head.

It had just been a month ago. He’d sent her an urgent letter, telling her to meet in the Undercroft. When she had entered the room, he’d been pacing back and forth. This worried her. Usually, Sebastian only paced when he was concerned or thinking hard about something. But as soon as he spotted her, his face broke out into a wide grin.

“I’ve got great news!” he said, marching up to her. “I’ve finally found a solid lead for Anne’s curse!”

Her mouth dropped open. After all that time, Sebastian had never stopped looking for a cure for Anne. They were hardly on speaking terms—or more send-the-occasional-letter terms, really—but he was still looking for the cure he was sure was out there.

“A lead?” she asked. “How? What is it?”

The whole story came spilling out of his mouth, and he spoke faster than she had ever seen him do. He detailed of the letters he sent, the books he had tracked down for mere sentences of information. But it had concluded in learning of some wizard who had extensive knowledge of healing curses.

“He’s agreed to help me. He’ll have loads to show me—to teach me. I’m sure something he knows will help Anne,” Sebastian said. “I leave for America at the end of the year.”

She swore her heart shattered.

Sebastian, gone to chase after a man in America? Why would he have done anything different? He’d always done everything he could for Anne—his care for his sister was still one of his driving forces. She loved that about him.

Yes, loved. She loved Sebastian Sallow with every bit of her heart and soul. He was a troubled young man—but one who persevered through his problems with an unyielding determination. He was passionate in everything he did. He was like a fire, spreading himself far and wide with a heat and excitement that astonished her. And there were those times he calmed down enough to be a focused flame on the wick of a candle—something warm and careful, a light when the world seemed black.

She had never told him this. Just as he had never told her how he felt. But it was there—present in every word, every moment they had together. It was there in the sleepless nights they spent in the Undercroft, fending away nightmares. It was there in the brushing of hands, the whispers of “are you ok?” It was there in aching embraces when it all became too much.

She couldn’t tell him. No, she had always told herself, it was better left unspoken. Better left in the dark, where it could fade away when it had run its course.

Better left where it wasn’t something to lose.

Because that was what she was afraid of, wasn’t it? Both her and Sebastian had already lost so much. Families, friends, innocence—it had all been whisked away from them. To place hope in something—to give life to something good—well, losing it could be the end of either of them.

That didn’t mean she didn’t want it—and God, did she want it desperately. There had been times she’d written it in a letter, only to burn it in the fireplace. Times she almost closed the distance between them, breaching the invisible wall they’d put up. There were nights she had stared up at the ceiling, deciding that tomorrow, tomorrow she’d throw all caution to the wind and let herself be happy for once, dammit.

But now, she was all out of tomorrows.

Tomorrow, he left for America. Tomorrow, he was no longer hers. Tomorrow, she would be alone.

There was no guarantee she would ever see him again. She’d run through every possibility in her head—it was all she had done since he’d told her his plans a month ago. He could go and find a cure, inviting Anne to join him across the sea. Maybe he’d find work there—be an apprentice to the healer, follow in his footsteps. Maybe—and this is what she feared the most—maybe he’d find some beautiful American girl, one who Sebastian for the dashing man he so obviously was, and he’d fall in love.

He could have asked her to come with him. It was that thought that hurt her the most. She already knew what her answer would have been—a complete and undeniable yes. She would have followed him anywhere, if he had only asked. But he didn’t.

How could he have asked that of her? To leave the home she had so recently found for some mere possibility? To leave a job that had been all but promised to her, to abandon everything she had come to know… No, no… he couldn’t ask that of her.

She still would have said yes.

She said yes that very night, after her thoughts had cleared. It wasn’t to America that he had asked her to follow—only to the Restricted Section of the library.

“For old time’s sake,” he said. He smiled down at her, his dark brown eyes enticing her.

She smiled back. It had been one of their first adventures together—might as well be their last, too. “How could I say no to an offer like that?”

And off they went. They waited together in the Great Hall until most of the other students had gone off to bed, following the rule of curfew—a rule both she and Sebastian had long since disregarded. She said goodnight to Ominis and other friends as they filed out, making them promise to send letters. She couldn’t think too hard about the goodbyes—it would break her. Instead, she focused on the Disillusionment Charm she cast on herself as she and Sebastian walked quietly through the halls. She heard Sebastian chuckle beside her. She looked over at him, only seeing a hazy blur of motion in the shadows.

“Something funny over there?” she said quietly.

“Do you remember the first time we did this? You didn’t even know the Disillusionment Charm, and yet you were ready to go barging into the library, no second thoughts about it.”

She smiled. “I was a bit brash then, wasn’t I?”

“You say that like you aren’t now.”

“Oh hush. I’m plenty brash. The difference is now I know enough to keep it from being my downfall.” She poked her head around the corner, eyes scanning for any prefects in the hall. She didn’t spot any, stepping forward. “Looks clear.”

Into the library they went, sneaking easily past the dim lights and empty tables. Scribner didn’t seem to be there. Turned in early, perhaps, to prepare for travel the next day.

At last they were marching down the familiar stairs of the Restricted Section. Even in her shortened time in Hogwarts, she was sure she came second to only Sebastian in the time any student had spent there.

Sebastian sighed in comfort, taking the charm off of him. He went to a nearby shelf, finger brushing over the spines of familiar books. “Sure am going to miss having my own private library,” he said.

“You’ll be miserable,” she told him. “I’d suggest packing enough books to keep you on your boatride over, but I doubt even an enchanted case could hold that many.”

He laughed. “I’d say you’re making fun of me for all my reading, but it’s too true to be much of a joke.”

“A proper and thorough education is nothing to make fun of, dear Sebastian.” She stood beside him, staring at the shelves. “You reckon you’ve really read every one?” “Twice over,” he said confidently.

“Then which one is your favorite?”

He thought for a moment. “It’s this way,” he said, leading her around the corner. Then he leaned down, staring hard at a lower shelf, arms crossed as he searched. Then he smiled. “Here we are!” The book he pulled out was intricately designed, with weaving patterns of gold decorating the cover. It was thick and clearly old, but well kept. “It’s a book of children’s tales. Some of them are quite gruesome, of course, and describe a bit too much of the curses and hexes in the stories, hence the being in the Restricted Section. The story I like is just fine, though.” He leafed through the pages, finally settling on a moving drawing of a maiden weeping, looking out a window.

“Seems cheery,” she commented.

“Well, it’s not for the most of it, but it ends alright. Happily ever after and all that,” he said, turning the pages. He was quiet at the moment, staring at the words the end on the last page of the story. “I think it’s the only one with a happy ending in the whole book. I don’t really remember much of the story.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. It was… too real. Too fitting. He had to be wondering the same thing she was—would either of them have a happy ending? Were they lucky enough to be the single story in a book of sorrow that ended well? If their lives leading up to this point were any indication, she was inclined to say no.

They spent a bit longer browsing books, Sebastian showing off some of the interesting spells and facts he had learned there. It was a walk down memory lane—one that she found comforting on that last night. Finally, they grew bored of already read books and parchment, and made their way back up the stairs. They had charmed themselves to fade away against the stone walls of the castle, and made their way together through them. She paused suddenly when she heard voices up ahead.

“I’ve still got to finish grading the last essays they turned in.” She recognized the voice, of course—Professor Weasley.

“That’s why I went with a practical exam for the final. Less papers to go through,” Professor Onai replied.

Sebastian grabbed her hand from behind her—they were just around the corner. It was much too bright in this corridor—the charm would do nothing to conceal them. So, she let Sebastian pull her into a classroom just beside them. Well, she thought it was a classroom until she tried to step back and found a wall directly behind her. It was a closet—barely big enough to hold them both.

Sebastian stood directly in front of her, trying to peer through the crack between the door and wall. He looked so awfully serious as he did—she couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up through her lips. Sebastian’s eyes widened at the sound, and his scandalized expression only made her laugh harder. He dove forward, pressing his hand over her mouth.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” he whispered. The voices of the professors had passed them by, leaving them in silence once again.

She tugged away the hand over her mouth. “What are they going to do? Expel us?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past Black to do something like that.”

“It would sure allow you to be remembered here,” she said. “Sebastian Sallow, the brilliant, troublemaking boy who made it all the way to his last day before getting kicked out.”

“Don’t forget his sidekick, who got the both of them kicked out with her ridiculous laughing.”

She gasped. “Oh, I’m the sidekick, am I?”

“Well, most stories prefer to have a dashing and likable main character, and I fit that quite well, I think.”

“I think you’re forgetting which of us wields a very rare kind of ancient magic.”

He waved a hand. “Semantics.”

They were grinning at each other, light dim in the closet. She adored that mischief in his eyes. It made her feel alive. But slowly, his grin faded, face becoming more serious.

No, she thought. No, he can’t say it. I can’t let him say it.

“Do you want to go down to the boathouse?” she asked, before he had the chance to open his mouth.

He nodded. “We couldn’t dare forget to say goodbye to our dear old friend, the squid.”

She playfully shoved his shoulder before opening the door to the closet. The both of them tumbled out and soon found themselves outside, cool breeze blowing over them. The night sky was clear; the stars glimmered in the sky.

Sebastian sat at the edge of the boathouse’s dock. She quickly joined him.

“I’m going to miss this view,” Sebastian said quietly.

It really was something. The Black Lake reflected the moonlight and stars, making her feel like she was surrounded by the night sky.

She felt Sebastian’s gaze shift to her. “I’m going to miss you, you know.”

She bit her lip. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” she said softly.

It took him several moments to respond. “I know,” he finally whispered. He reached for her hand, taking it her own. “I don’t know what I would have done all this time without you.”

His voice was soft—softer than she’d ever heard it. She was so used to his confidence, his bravado. This softness scared her. It was too close to what they shouldn’t say. It implied too much.

But she decided to let herself have that moment. They would toe the edge without coming over. They’d get close to that line, but never cross it. She leaned against his shoulder, resting her head on him.

“I’m glad I met you, Sebastian. Truly.”

She felt his body tense at the words—she knew exactly what was going through his head. How could that be the truth? How could she be glad to meet him, after all the pain he had put her through? She stayed quiet, letting the words sink in. The sincerity of them.

“I’m glad I met you, too. Even if you had to knock me on my arse to do it,” he said quietly.

She laughed a bit, relaxing into him. If she could just stay in this moment—this one where she could pretend he wasn’t leaving in a few short hours, this one where they held each other close, as if the words had been spoken, as if it was how it could be, she would.

But she knew too well that all good things had an end, and this night was just the same. She didn’t know how long they had sat in silence, staring out across the water. It felt like lifetimes. It felt like seconds. Then they stood and began walking back to the castle.

He didn’t let go of her hand. She was grateful for the comfort—she needed every once of it. He led her to her common room as they unspokenly decided to get it over with; to let the night end.

With every breath, she felt her chest tighten. She had to let it go. He had never been hers—she needed to remember that. Nothing was ending, because it had never begun.

They stood, face to face, in front of her common room door. She let go of his hand and threw her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. His arms didn’t hesitate to hold her tight against him—like he was afraid to let go. She felt the pounding of his heart, his warm breath against her neck as he buried his face into it. All too soon, they broke apart.

She stared up at him. Ask me. Ask me to come with you.

I’d follow you. I’d say yes.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a small step backward, letting the distance come between them. It was better this way, she thought. Of course it was.

He was just about to turn to go when she spoke.

“Seb-Sebastian,” she said. Was her voice really that frantic? He turned around, facing her again. There was hope on his face—paired with dread. Her next words came out soft. “Write me, will you?”

He nodded, still staring at her.

And then Sebastian Sallow ruined it all.

He marched up to her, placing his hand on her cheek, and before she could even think, he crashed his lips into her own. Her hands came up to grip his robe, holding him there, keeping them together. It was searing and haunting, soft and horrible. It was everything she had ever dreamed of, and that made it all the more painful.

They parted. His eyes were closed as he pried her hands off of him. And then he left.

She walked into the common room, shaking. She didn’t even have time to think if the room was empty or not before she collapsed to the ground, sob tearing out of her throat.

He had done it. The idiot had done it. He had given her everything, and now she had lost it. The taste of what could have been haunted her—she knew in that moment that she would never be free. It would follow her each morning she woke up without him. It would keep her awake each night. She had gotten too close to the flame—she’d let herself burn.

She wept, trying to forget the heat of his kiss—his kiss goodbye.

A/N: ... sorry about that, folks. This was heavily inspired by the song "Dearly Departed" by Marianas Trench, hence the title and quote above. I highly recommend giving it a listen.

Thanks for reading!

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow imagine

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jen-with-a-pen · 2 months

Text

ALL TIED UP - FOUR

Previous ⊹ Series

summary: A look into the House of Sigma Beta Theta (ΣBΘ). Annoyed with the vague hinting at the party on Friday, Steve confronts Clint and stands up for once– and it only slightly backfires.

pairings: Art Student!Frat Brother!Steve Rogers x Film Student!Sorority Sister!Reader

word count: 1386

warnings: cursing, food mention, meeting the rest of the brothers, dudebro Clint, fuckboy Tony, singling out/exclusion, power dynamics, Steve's just trying to make it through the day man

a/n: we get to meet the rest of the fraternity! so sorry it's been a while. the holidays, seasonal depression, and work happened and i didn't really have the motivation to write for steve again until recently. hope yall like it ❤ p.s. thank you all SO SO much again on the continuing love for filthy impetuous souls. it means the world ❤

This chapter was not beta'd by anyone else. All mistakes in this chapter are my own.

gif by @paliaphrodite | additional graphics + dividers by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist | all tied up masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥ Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

Last Wednesday.

Dribbles of cereal milk splash onto the kitchen table as Steve switches between eating breakfast, drafting a perfect-but-also-not-too-perfect text to his barista, and reading the newspaper. The newspaper thing makes him feel like an old fucking geezer, but it reminds him of mornings with his Ma back home. He misses her.

He makes a mental note to call her this weekend.

Munching on another spoonful, he nearly chokes at the sound of slow, calculated footsteps descending the stairs. Normally he’s the only one home on Wednesday mornings. Normally he can sit in comfortable silence in the kitchen without needing to sneak around the fucking house. However, this specific Wednesday morning was not normal– all the guys were hungover from the party the night before. Upon realization, Steve reluctantly swallows the half-chewed gob of Cheerios. It lands in his stomach like a rock as he frantically looks about the scene on the table; he can’t decide fast enough whether to hide the newspaper, or his phone– or himself– before whomever is around the corner sees him outside his bedroom, outside his element.

Tony Stark is the first to stride into the kitchen. Jet-black hair slicked back with yesterday's pomade complimented by a face riddled with stubble. He’s a mismatched mess of a worn Yankees jersey, khakis, and the newest Nikes, all of which are covered by the stench of luxury cologne and seven types of vodka. Even with designer sunglasses on, he winces at the fluorescent kitchen lights while dragging his feet straight to the coffee pot.

"’Sup, Rogers."

As far as they are into the semester, it’s the first time Tony directly acknowledges Steve in a way that isn't sarcastic or followed by a snooty comment under his breath. Steve quietly tips his chin to Tony out of politeness. From his perch at the kitchen table, he watches Tony pour a mug of coffee before slyly taking a mini Fireball out of his shirt pocket, dumping it into the hot liquid. He stirs his concoction with a finger, tasting it with a faint grimace before sipping.

To each their own, Steve thinks.

"Are you really reading the fuckin' newspaper, old timer?" Tony remarks behind his mug. Last night’s party and lack of proper hydration makes his voice raspy, deeper than usual. Steve shrugs, nodding with a faint 'yeah' in response. Steve sips his protein shake.

Tony sniffs a laugh. "Soon enough, you'll be on it."

Another slurp.

"What?" Steve chokes, a chunk of unmixed protein powder lodging itself in his esophagus.

"Hm. Nothin'."

“No, what did you–”

"Whoa! Sure is a party in here," Clint Barton jokes upon entering the kitchen, following in Tony's footsteps to the coffee maker. Compared to Tony, Clint takes his hangovers in full stride. It figures, too; the guy is a kinesiology-finance major with a nutritionist-business major of a girlfriend. Eyes full of light and mischief, hair already stylishly spiked even though he just rolled out of bed, he’s already in his usual workout shirt and sweatpants. Clint whistles to himself, taking a large tub of protein powder off the top of the fridge before fixing a shaker of protein coffee. Tony steps out of the way to the other side of the kitchen to lean against the stove, watching, lurking.

"Not until you got here, Clint," Steve attempts. Clint doesn't turn around until he's shaking his protein shaker. Loudly.

"You say sumn'?" He asks, smirking when Steve begins to shake his head and go back to his phone.

"Steven, I kid, I kid.”

Steve gives a tight-lipped smile, looking down at his soggy Cheerios. The knot in his chest tightens. The milk smells sour.

“Hey, Steve.”

Steve looks up, locking eyes with Clint. He swallows, hands gripping the newspaper and crumpling the comics section– his favorite.

“You have fun last night?” Clint asks, dropping more powdered supplements into his shaker.

“Y-Yeah, it was fun.”

“You see any cute honeys you like?” Clint waggles his brow.

Steve’s face burns. His eyes dart to Tony, who’s hiding a knowing smirk behind his coffee mug.

“I think, yeah,” he shrugs.

Clint laughs, lips morphing into a knowing, dark grin. “Well if you think they were cute last night, just wait ‘til Friday. You’ll believe it, then.”

Another vague nod to Friday. Steve’s brow furrows, leaning forward in his chair. “What do you mean by that?”

Clint blinks, surprised at the confrontation, and sets his shaker down on the counter before approaching the kitchen table, hands slamming into the wood. Steve’s cereal sloshes, splashing a bit onto the screen of his phone.

“You wanna ask me that again, Steven?” Clint hisses with a challenging smirk. “Go ahead, y’know I can’t hear real well. I didn’t hear ya the first time.” He leans in with a hand cupped to his ear and a mocking face. “What’s that? Huh?”

“Nothin’,” Steve mumbles.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing.” Steve’s knuckles are white.

“Sorry! Come again?” Clint’s smirk grows wider the further he leans in.

Steve stands abruptly, slamming his own palms onto the table. “I said–!”

“You said what?”

Steve and Clint turn to the direction of Bucky’s voice as it drifts into the kitchen before he and Sam do. Hands pocketed, brow raised, ponytail bobbing, Bucky looks sternly between Steve and Clint. Sam mirrors him with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Steve straightens instantly; Clint follows suit, stretching a hand out to Sam to exchange high fives. Steve’s eye twitches.

“Hm?” Bucky questions, stopping in the middle of the kitchen. He looks from Tony– who just nurses his coffee, checking stocks on his phone– to Clint– who lifts his hands in defense, acting confused– and finally to Steve– who sets his jaw, trying his best to level his breathing and frustration.

Steve swallows, gritting his teeth. “I didn’t say anything.” He tries to keep his tone level, convincing. Bucky nods, gaze shifting to Clint.

“Nothin’, boss, y’know me.” Clint’s lips twitch along with his brow.

Bucky’s eyes dart between them before he turns back to Sam, who leans against the fridge with crossed arms. Steve locks eyes with him for a second longer before he turns to Bucky and shrugs. The moment hangs in the air, silent and tense, like every other time all five of them are alone in the same room. Steve’s always the one that feels the tension, though.

“As you were,” Bucky concludes. The kitchen reverts back to normal as everyone resumes the start to their days. Steve stands idly by, looking down at his milk-coated paper and phone, his breakfast soggy and ruined. He sighs and begins to clean up. Before he leaves the kitchen, Bucky grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Forgot to ask. You inviting anyone?”

Steve responds with a confused look.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “To the party, Stevie,” he clarifies, flashing a smile differing from his usual, knowing smirk.

Steve hesitates, looking to Sam then back to Bucky. “Kinda, yeah,” he shrugs. All eyes are on him and the kitchen stills once again. Bucky’s brow rockets up his forehead.

“Yeah? Who?”

Steve’s Adam's apple bobs. “Uh, just–just a friend. From class.”

“But who?” Bucky’s grip on Steve’s arm tightens.

“She’s just a–” Steve immediately bites his tongue. It's too late.

“She? You have a she-friend?” Clint asks incredulously. Even Tony looks at Steve from behind his lowered sunglasses. All eyes are on the blond whose eyes dart around helplessly.

“I–Wh–She’s just a friend from class, that’s it,” Steve defends, heat pooling in his cheeks as he stares pointedly into Bucky’s cool blues. Bucky holds him for a second more before releasing his arm, dusting off Steve’s shoulders, smiling.

“We’ll make sure to give her a real warm welcome, then,” Bucky winks.

Unnerved, Steve quickly makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room while mixed conversations from the kitchen chase after him. He doesn’t bother listening. Once he enters his room, he triple checks the locks on the door before slouching into his secondhand office chair. Popping in earbuds, he hits play on the album he fell asleep to the night prior as his fingers fly over his phone’s keyboard, coming to a stop when the adrenaline does.

He reads over the text, chewing his lip, and hits send.

Hey, it’s Steve

who?

Meathead.

oh i know just wanted to hear u say it

Don’t you mean see it?

damn. got me there

nice first attempt at texting btw. solid 8/10, good introduction

8/10??

What can a guy do to earn a 10/10?

hmm

come by the cafe later and try a new drink i made ;)

Deal.

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purplefangirl42 · 4 months

Text

You're My Favorite

Summary: Silco is a bit insecure about your interest in others, but you're quick to ease his mind.

Pairing: Silco/GN!Reader

A/N: This was part of a gift exchange for my lovely friend @deny-the-issue. Love you lots and lots Jasper 💜

Tags/Warnings: Modern AU, Fluff, Silco being jealous, Themes of Insecurity Divider by saradika

A soft huff of annoyance was the sound that greeted you when you entered Silco’s office, which was not exactly what you were expecting. He was usually very happy to see you, as it meant he would have a small distraction from his busy work day.

“Something wrong?” you asked as you sank into the armchair across from his desk.

Silco peered at you over the edge of his laptop screen, the skin between his eyes crinkled as he furrowed his brows at you. Before you could ask again what his problem was, he turned the computer to face you.

You leaned forward to look at what he was showing you and discovered he had the purchase history open for his online shopping account. The list contained many purchases from Jinx, but also a number from yourself. The latest was a set of merchandise for a game you enjoyed, specifically for the character you were a big fan of.

“If you’re upset I used your account, I can pay you back,” you said, trying to not let your own annoyance seep into your tone. “I didn’t think you’d mind me using it though. I’ve used it plenty of times before.”

Silco sat back in his desk chair, turning the computer back around.

“It’s not the money that bothers me, it’s the content,” he said. “Everything has this man’s face on it. As if the big poster at home that I have to walk by every day wasn’t bad enough, now his face will be staring back at me from your clothing?”

Confusion filled your mind at his reaction. He had never expressed an issue with this subject matter before, so you had no idea where this was coming from.

“At least tell me this one has some flaws,” he continued. “That last character you were fawning over from that TV show was a near perfect human specimen.”

Silco’s last comment echoed through your mind for a few moments before you realized what the problem was. He was feeling self-conscious about his looks and comparing himself to others you showed attraction to.

This was not the first time something like this had happened. Around the time the two of you started dating, he had expressed concern about your ability to find someone better than him. Someone younger and better looking. Though you had assured him that he was the one you wanted, it seemed that those doubts still lingered to an extent.

You stood up from your chair and made your way around to his side of the desk. He was pointedly not looking at you, focusing on the screen in front of him. When you stopped at his side, you gently placed your hand on the side of his face to turn it towards you.

“Silco? Are you feeling jealous?” you asked.

Silco scowled and let out another huff in response.

“Of fictional characters? Don’t be ridiculous.”

You raised your eyebrows at him, giving him a chance to change his answer to the correct one. After a moment, his face relaxed and he gave a resigned sigh.

“I will admit, it’s a bit discouraging to see you so infatuated with these people,” he said. “It just reminds me of what I’m lacking.”

He gestured to the computer screen again and to the phone in your front pocket.

“You surround me with these images and as hard as I try to ignore it, it lingers in my mind.”

You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. The case had a piece of art featuring the character you had just purchased merch for. You turned the phone over and placed it down on the desk so the case was hidden from his view.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Silco said. “I know I’m being ridiculous about something so unimportant. Forget this conversation ever happened.”

You leaned down to be at his level and gently stroked his cheek.

“Silco, you don’t need to apologize for expressing your feelings.”

“You deserve to enjoy things, to go all out. If having these things makes you happy, then I will deal with Mr. What’s-his-name staring at me from every angle.”

You laughed softly at Silco calling the character ‘Mr. What’s-his name’ and reached for your phone again, turning on the screen.

“While he may be all over the place, do you know who I have as my lock screen?” you asked, turning the phone so he could see.

Silco leaned over and looked at the phone and you could see the embarrassed look on his expression fade into something softer. The image on the screen was a picture of the two of you together. Jinx had taken it for you at one of Silco's company parties. She had said the two of you looked cute together, and you had agreed and immediately made it your lock screen.

“I may enjoy all these beautiful, FICTIONAL, characters,” you said, emphasizing the fact that they were not real. “But you are still my favorite, Silco. You always will be.”

You leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek before pulling away and placing the phone back in your pocket. Silco looked up at you with a look of adoration that made your heart swell. You gave him a soft smile and pointed at the screen.

“I’m still getting those by the way, they were a great deal.”

Silco rolled his good eye and you could swear you saw the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Yes, darling. I will simply pretend that they do not exist. For you.”

To make things easier for Silco, you placed the items you purchased in your office as soon as they arrived. You had even moved the poster so he wouldn’t have to see it every day. When you watched him walk past the spot the following day, you saw him hesitate and look at the empty wall. He turned his gaze to you with a raised brow, which you responded to with a smile before coming over to wrap your arms around him.

“What happened to What’s-his-name?” Silco asked. “I was just starting to get used to him.”

“He lives in my office now so you don’t have to see him staring at you every day.”

You felt Silco’s arms tighten around you for a few moments before he released you. He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead and went about his normal routine. You knew he had many things to get done before the holiday break, so you let him go without further conversation.

You started going about doing your own things, getting the house ready for the upcoming holiday. Jinx was going to be coming home from school for two weeks and you wanted the house to look magical when she arrived. Silco wasn’t much help when it came to the decorating process, so it was probably better that he was busy while you did this.

Just as you were putting the finishing touches on one of your decorations, you heard the front door burst open. Before you could turn around, you felt a body slam into you, nearly knocking you to the floor. Blue and pink tipped fingers were visible at the ends of the arms wrapped around your midsection, which gave away the identity of your attacker, as if you didn’t already know.

“Welcome home, Jinx,” you said, patting her hands. “Did you have a good trip here?”

“I don’t think she stopped talking the entire way here from the airport,” came an annoyed grumble behind you.

Turning around in your daughter’s tight grasp, you looked over her head to see a very grumpy looking Sevika standing in the doorway holding Jinx’s paint splattered bags. She dropped them to the floor and held up her hands.

“She’s your problem now,” she said, turning to leave.

“Thank you, Sevika!” you called after her as she departed.

You spent the rest of the afternoon with Jinx, listening to her stories about the past semester. You all had plans to go out for dinner once Silco came home from work, so when the time got closer, you disappeared into the bedroom to get ready. You were surprised to find Silco standing there waiting for you.

“When did you get home? I never saw you come in!” you said, walking towards your closest.

“That’s because I told Jinx to distract you so you wouldn’t notice. It would have ruined the surprise.”

“What surprise?”

You stopped in your tracks at the sight of a box sitting on the end table beside the door to the closet. It was long and red with a white bow on top. You reached out for the box and picked it up carefully before turning to face Silco.

“What’s this?”

Silco crossed the room to stand in front of you, his hands clasped behind his back and the hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. He pointed his chin in the direction of the box in your hands, clearly wanting you to open it.

Doing as he wished, you pulled at the white bow, undoing the knot. Lifting the lid from the box, you revealed the contents inside. A beautiful gold bracelet sat inside, nestled in black velvet. You let out a soft gasp as you carefully extracted it from the box, placing the box back down on the end table.

“Silco, this is beautiful!,” you exclaimed. “But, Christmas isn’t for another week!”

“I thought you could wear it tonight when you go for dinner,” he said, stepping closer and taking it from your hands and turning it over. “Look on the back.”

You looked at where he indicated and saw an engraving that looked very similar to Silco’s handwriting. Your eyes scanned over the words on the metal and you felt your heart skip a beat.

You’re my favorite too. Always have been, always will be.

Your vision blurred slightly as tears began to form in the corners of your eyes. You looked up to meet Silco’s gaze as the first drop ran down your cheek. Throwing yourself in his direction, you wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.

“I’m glad you like it, darling,” Silco said, returning your embrace.

“Like it? I love it!”

Silco pulled back from the embrace and took your hand in his to guide it to a position where he could attach your gift. Once it was securely in place, he lifted your hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“It is just a small token of my love for you. I wanted to ensure that you knew your sentiment was returned.”

“I didn’t need a bracelet to tell me, but it is nice to have it there as a reminder.”

You closed the distance between you once again, kissing Silco softly on the lips. You felt him smile into the kiss and wrap his arms around you to pull you tightly against him. You hoped he truly understood how much you loved him and how important he was to you. Much more than anyone else you could ever meet.

A/N: Give this a like, comment, and reblog and let me know what you think!

#silco #silco arcane #lol silco #silco x reader #arcane league of legends #arcane #gift fic

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exoticmoonsstuff · 1 year

Text

Douma x Female cultist!Reader Smut: coming into paradise (cross-posted from my ao3 account)

Characters: Douma, female cult member (reader)

Summary: Douma ties you up with his ice vines. Pure smut LOL very porn with plot. Bondage, praise kink, dom/sub vibes. I also have this on my ao3 account (plus an additional chapter there).

Warnings: 18+

Douma's bright eyes looked over your naked body. He seemed to be pondering what to do next, running through the options. It made you feel both excited and vaguely impatient. The effects of your orgasm had begun to wear off, and you could feel the wetness drip down between your thighs. You longed to touch yourself, or to touch him, but something in his eyes made you think you should wait for his orders.

"How would my precious girl enjoy being tied up?" he at long last asked, with a raise of his eyebrows. "I'll be very gentle, I promise," he said huskily, licking his lips. You looked around the room. There were no ropes in sight. He saw your expression and said, "I have them already, darling. Can I trust you with a secret?" playfully. At your nod, he picked up a pair of golden fans and waved them. With the movement, several vines made of pure ice appeared before you.

You let out a gasp of surprise. Not human, then. Of course not -- how could any human man compare? The vines moved towards you slowly, gently twisting themselves around your waist, your wrists, your ankles. The sensation was cold but not unpleasant.

Douma hummed as he debated to himself. "Shall I fuck my darling like this?" he said with a wave of his fans, the motion forcing your back to arch as you kneeled, still sitting upright, your legs spread open. "Or like this?" the vines put you on your back. "Ohh..." he said, "I know the perfect position for your beautiful body." The clink of the fans moved the vines, so that you were on your hands and knees, your back to Douma.

Although you longed to look him in the eyes, that was soon forgotten as the vines moved. One around each breast, gently teasing your nipples, another pair holding your wrists, you propped up on your elbows. Two more forcing your thighs further open. Another began to rub against the lips of your pussy, the cold sensation heightening the pleasure. Every inch of your body felt electric, the ice cold of the vines, the silky sheets against your elbows and knees. As the vine began to move faster, you began grinding your hips, willing it to touch your clit. Just the slightest bit closer...

"Ohhh, you like that, don't you?" Douma said, walking around to admire you. The vines wrapped around your delicate body was truly a work of art, in his mind. His nails traced the arch of your back, the portion uncovered by the vines. "Would you like me to keep going?"

You nodded straight away. "Please, please..." you could not form the words, as the vine between your legs began to trace your clit. Another vine wrapped itself around your throat. Not enough to hurt or silence you, but just enough to add to the array of sensations filling your awareness.

Douma patted you on the head, brushed your head back. "Since you ask so sweetly, that deserves a reward." With another movement, a smaller vine inched its way into your pussy, as the other picked up its pace on your clit. The vines supported your body, helped you grind your hips with greater strength. Your mouth was open as you panted and you were vaguely embarrassed seeing Douma watch you squirm. With each movement you were closer to orgasming. Closer, closer...

He said, "Wow, you look so pretty like that! Now, should I move you to fuck your mouth, or where do you want me, my darling?" his fingers traced the curve of your cheek.

"Inside me, sir. In my pussy" you moaned.

Douma fanned himself, causing the vines at your pussy to pull back. You pouted in frustration, longing for the sensation to return. Clutching your thighs only helped so much. "What a good girl, still so respectful of me. But I want to hear you say my name, I want you to say what you need, now." He went behind you, his hands cupping your ass. Then you felt the length of his tongue trace you, felt it enter you. He began to suck at your clit, ever so softly.

You let out a moan as he picked up the pace, the small vine teasing your g-spot. Your pleasure built, and built, and built. But just as you nearly came, he pulled back. This repeated over and over, the sensation maddening. The vines tightened, forcing your hips to stay in place. Oh yes, he wanted you to say... "Douma, oh Douma. Please, please let me come." With that, he began sucking and licking your clit, until you could feel a wave of pleasure build once more. This time, instead of pulling back, he kept going. Kept sucking and licking, his hands clutching your body, forcing you closer to his mouth. Finally you came, gasping for air, your vision blurring as you rode out your orgasm.

Douma pulled back and stood. You felt his hands on your ass. He then leaned to whisper in your ear. "I'm going to fuck you now, Y/N. What do we say to that?" huskily. His nails gently scratched, almost enough to bleed.

You tried to gather your thoughts, still lost in the aftermath of your orgasm. "Yes, please" you said, smiling. With that you felt the vine leave your pussy, replaced by Douma's thick cock tracing your lips, using the wetness from your orgasm to gently enter. His cock was so big, so thick, yet you were so wet that he managed to enter you slowly but surely. One of his hands grabbed your hair, not pulling, yet. The other just below the vine circling your waist.

When at last the full length of him was inside you, he said, "Wow, what a good girl, taking me all the way inside!" his tone was admiring and you smiled, happy to please. He began to move and you felt your walls stretch to accommodate him. He said, "now, be a good pet and move those hips."

You happily obliged and the vines assisted. The feel of grinding against him, the feel of his hips against you, was ecstasy. You were once more moaning and panting, wishing he would pick up the pace with you. He occasionally complimented you in gasps, admiring how hot and tight you were around his cock. But he seemed happy to take it slow, to watch your frustration grow. At long last began moving faster, pulling your hair back as he grinded against you. The sensation of his cock deep inside you, his hand tugging your hair and forcing your head back, his ice vines gently squeezing -- heaven.

The cool air felt wonderful against your exposed skin. "Douma, harder, please..." you begged with a moan. "Oh god, is this what sex is supposed to be like?"

He laughed, temporarily slowing his pace. "Yes, my darling. Pleasure... that's what it should be. Now cum for me." He said this rather smugly, happy to please you just as much as you sought to please him. One of the vines returned to trace your clit, building the pleasure. You adored his cock fucking you, but it was only with the sensation on your clit that you could orgasm once more. He let you orgasm, and you called out his name.

You thought that would be it, but he merely removed the vine, until your clit was no longer overwhelmed with sensation. Before returning it once more. He said huskily, teasingly, "how many times in a row can you almost come, my love?" as you cried out in pleasure. He seemed to know instinctively when to slow the pace, when to increase it, when to whisper words of encouragement, that you were doing so well. But he refused to let you come again It soon became overwhelming. One, two, three... "Douma," you panted.

He went, "hmm? Speak up, my love." and reached down to kiss your neck. "Beg for what you want." His tone was teasing, yet firm with authority. He could do this all evening, he seemed to be saying, while you turned into a liquid mess.

You begged, "please let me come, Douma!" panting. So close, just a little bit closer...

Douma laughed, the husky sound ringing in your ears. "Hmm... not quite loud enough, pet."

You practically screamed, "please, please let come" as you grinded your hips.

But he refused once more. Over and over, until at long last he relented with a smack of your ass. "You sound so beautiful begging like that. I'm going to cum in you, Y/N. You're going to orgasm with me, okay?" his pace building once more, your hips grinding harder and harder. You merely nodded, beyond words. Soon you felt your orgasm build once more, and as you began to orgasm you felt Douma cum inside you, as he moaned your name. He kept thrusting as you rode out the wave of pleasure, the sound of your cum-filled pussy erotic. At long last he stopped, pulling out. You felt cum drip from your lips onto the bed, as his vines retreated.

Douma moved you onto your back, straddling you. His rainbow eyes were adoring, a sweet smile on his lips. Just as you began to speak, his lips met yours. The two of you kissed, his tongue tracing yours. You clutched at his back, wrapping your legs around his waist. He then pulled back and said, "Surely you aren't ready already?" teasingly.

"I'm always ready for you," you said simply.

#18+#Douma smut #Douma #fanfiction #douma x reader

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justrainandcoffee · 3 months

Text

Criminal (Alfie Solomons x fem!oc)

Alfie Solomons x Rose Coldwell (ofc) Masterlist

Summary: Why give her a diamond necklace, a perfume or a new dress, when you can pay a bail to free her from prison? Their valentine's day ended with her in jail, but if you ask Alfie the events that lead her to be there were really worth. And hot.

Warnings: None. Except mentions of misogyny.

Words: 1.1 k.

1912.

The police station was in silence except for the chief's voice who was dictating something to another man who was sitting in front a typewriter.

Name: Rose Elizabeth Coldwell.

Date of birth: 20 June 1888.

Age: 24.

Status: Married.

Name of partner: Alfred Solomons.

Charges: Disturbances in public space, fighting, injuring another civilian.

Murders: zero.

"For now, you fucking pig!" the woman in question, didn't finished what she had started.

"Shut your mouth, lady."

"The day you close your ass, idiot."

"Add 'offenses against authorities'" the chief said to his colleague before turning his head to her "anything else you want to say?"

In response, Rose just showed him her middle finger.

How she had ended in such situation was a great question. Supposedly, that very night she and her husband were ready to enjoy a romantic dinner to celebrate Valentine's Day.

A new elegant restaurant had opened its doors and Alfie had made a reservation for them. Musicians were playing a beautiful melody with their instruments when they arrived. A waiter received them and accompany them to their table. Lamb was their choice for that night.

The young couple have only been married for less than a year, so that Valentine's Day was especial. Alfie kissed her hand and she smiled at him.

"I love you"

"I love you, too."

That restaurant allowed couples to dance and they saw several of them enjoying that night. Once the dinner was over, Alfie said to her, they'd dance as well.

But that never happened.

Lost in their own world, Rose only knew what was happening around them when she heard a woman sobbing. In the table next to them, a man was threatening his partner.

"I'm sorry," she said trying not to make an scandal.

"You're a worthless whore, that's who you are. Nothing but a bitch."

"Steven, please… don't."

"Don't what? Whore."

Rose frowned. Not in valentine's night and not in front of her. Sadly, Alfie reacted too late.

"Excuse me," she said approaching the man "Are you Steven?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

Rose smiled at him warmly and repeated the question "Are you Steven?"

"…yes "

"Good! Because I have a present for you!"

"What present?"

"This one!" Rose punched his nose with such strength that immediately it started to bleed and the man screamed. Now the whole restaurant were looking at them.

"My nose, you fucking bitch! You broke it!" the man tried to grabbed her but he couldn't. Over the last months she learnt jiu-jitsu and before the man could realise what happened he was lying on the floor with Rose sat on his back. She was making a key lock with the arms.

"Now listen to me, you piece of shit," Rose said still immobilizing the man. "Your options are very limited. Or I break your arm along with your nose or you learn how to treat a woman, fucking worm. Don't blame your wife if you are fucking, fucking miserable man. If you mistreat her again, I'll find you and I hope you have kids because after I find you, your days as semental are over and you'll learn that a broken nose is nothing compared to have a knife decorating your dick, did you hear?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"What?"

"Yes, ma'am, yes. I swear never again!"

"Good."

Rose let him go at the same time police arrived. The man walked through the multitude not looking at anyone and following one of the officers. The girl who was mistreated by that man and Alfie stayed there.

"Who's she?"

"Me wife," Alfie said trying not to sound so proud, but he was. He knew that she trained in martial arts but he never saw her in action. And to be honest with himself that was hotter than he expected. Such a badass attitude was definitely something new for him. "My Rosie."

They didn't allow Alfie to pay the bail in that moment. They kept adding charges because Rose wasn't ready to let it go. A lioness kept in a cage was a perfect definition for the current situation.

"Fifty pounds, sweetheart," said Alfie when finally, the next morning, they freed her.

"Make it one hundred, you fucking bastards!" she said leaning against the counter. The chief looked at Alfie.

"Control your wife, Mr. Solomons."

"Why don't you control the poor, eh? That's something you do very well! Bastards, part of this oppressive system, I hope you…"

Still protesting, they left the police station. Well, Alfie left the building carrying his wife with him.

"Ok. Enough, we're going home." Alfie picked her up easily and put her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. "Have a nice day, gentlemen."

"Let me down, Solomons!"

"No."

"What? Let me down!"

"No."

"Are you planning to walk with me over your shoulders until we get home?"

"Yes."

"People are watching us."

"Good."

"Have you considered to say anything else apart from monosyllables?"

"No."

Rose sighed while Alfie walked. There were no far away from their home and yet, Alfie indeed didn't seem to be ready to let her go. She accepted her fate. More than one in the streets looked at them amused.

"Nice ass," she said pitching his bottom while he was turning around the corner. She heard him laugh. "Did you enjoy the show last night? The bastard went to hospital and I heard policemen said that he didn't want to present charge but the cops had another idea. Assholes."

Alfie didn't talk until they arrived their home and only inside, he let her down. She fixed her dress while opened her mouth to keep talking.

"You…"

But her words remained in her mouth. Alfie put his lips over hers and was kissing his wife passionately.

"Yes, I saw the show last night and it was fucking hot…" Alfie started to unbuttoned his shirt, guiding her to their bedroom. "Next time, warned me about your skills, Rosie."

She giggled, hugging him by the waist. "I didn't know that was a turn on for you."

"Me neither."

The man grabbed her by the waist and laid over her in bed. "Next time," he said between kisses, "I'll take you with me when I have a meeting with fuckin' Sabini."

"If you want…" Rose beneath him, looked at her husband.

"Oh, I fucking want." Both of them kissed again.

Their romantic valentine's night had to wait until the next morning to be finish the way they wanted to finish it. But it was worth. That 1912, it was probably one of the most memorable valentine's date they ever had. Chaotic, for sure, but they were used to it.

Alfie knew he was married to a criminal, after all, she had stolen his heart.

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons x ofc #alfie x rose #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x oc #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fanfic

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blueberrypancakesworld · 9 months

Text

Watercolor and Daisie

warning : fluff, mutual feelings, comfort, tiny angst, older man younger women, no use of Y/N, reader is female

Van Helsing x fem!reader

Summary : It was just supposed to be a quick purchase for his watercolours. But when he sees the lovely saleswoman, as pretty and innocent as a Daisie. But the tables turn as night falls and he fears for his flower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a coincidental encounter in the big city, but it was an encounter that would change the lives of both of them. London is one of the great cities of the world - risky, loud, modern and full of people and mysteries.

Whether Jack The Ripper or just the moving shadows, they all found their place in London. Also a creature of immortality, of bloodthirst of which only a handful of people knew. Dr. Van Helsing was one of them.

The vampire hunter with his dark coat, the expensive fur collar and the white shirt, which was set off by his dark blood-red vest. A handsome, engaging, perhaps mysterious man. A man with many sides, his good kind ones and his strong ones like his will.

He was firmly convinced that he would send the creature back to hell. Eliminating the threat of London. His way led him through the streets of London the lanterns were not yet lit and yet the sun was slowly setting in the sky.

It bathed the city in a golden colour and illuminated everything like a canvas on which the colours spread. In it he moved purposefully towards the small art shop where he hoped to get new colours. His last painting, a small farm with a cow and blue flowers, had used more paint than he had intended.

Letting his gaze wander through the street, only a handful of people came towards him, most of them staying indoors at an increasingly late hour. But he knew that the more time that passed, the better it would be for Dracula.

Shaking his head slightly as he thought again of the horrors he had encountered, he tried to focus back on his colours. Reaching the shop after a few moments and stepping inside, the small silver bell sounded its announcement.

A more rustic shop appeared, finely crafted wooden shelves and dark velvet curtains together with the chandelier created a pleasant atmosphere. His bright blue eyes travelled around the shop and landed on the various smaller golden signs.

The various art materials were written in fine script. ,,Sir, can I help you?" a female voice sounded and his attention went to the young woman standing behind the counter.

She herself was looking up from a smaller canvas standing next to her, which appeared to be the one she had been painting a few minutes ago. ,,I'm looking for watercolours, Miss," he replied, giving her a gentle smile as she nodded and walked around the counter. He knew she didn't have to, but apparently she valued customer service.

Walking over to him and making a welcoming motion, she led him past the marked shelves before they arrived in front of the watercolour section. ,,Thank you, my dear," he said gratefully, giving her a grateful, almost knowing look as she stopped in front of him for almost a moment too long.

Her eyes were on him for a moment almost too long, running over him and hardening on his leather gloves for a moment too long. ,,You're welcome to call me if you need any help," she said hastily, giving him one last friendly look as she headed back to her counter. Running his fingers over some of the products, he picked out the colours he needed and went back to her, satisfied.

He saw her smile effusively at him and he couldn't help but compare her to a pretty Daisie. The pretty and innocent, pure white petals and the bright cheerful yellow inside.

She was cute, he thought. ,,I hope you found everything?" she asked as she put the items into a small bag and accepted the money he had taken from his wallet. ,,Yes I did, thank you, you have a really nice shop Miss, I will definitely come to you again," he said goodbye and took the bag.

He briefly saw sadness flash in her eyes as he turned away. Walking to the door, however, he stopped in the doorway and turned to her once more. ,,What time do you close?" he asked more seriously and with a hint of concern.

She looked surprised for a moment and replied cautiously, ,,At nine o'clock at night. Do you want to come here again?" she asked but saw his brief shake of the head before he gave her a reassuring look.

Tried to ease the worry he had caused her and was relieved that it worked before he closed the door behind him and disappeared into the dark streets. Time had passed faster than he had thought, the sun had disappeared in the sky and he could already see the moon slowly rising.

Putting the small bag in his dark leather doctor's bag and already a few streets away from the shop he saw that he had forgotten his wallet. It seems I have to go to the lovely Daisie he thought and turned around to walk back towards the shop.

He had only gone a few metres when he heard a scream, bright and feminine. Immediately he felt his intuition. Told him it had to do with her. Running back the way he came as fast as he could, he reached into his pocket and felt the cross in his fingers before continuing down the path.

To his worry, he saw that the door was hanging by its hinges, almost as if someone or something had ripped it out. But he knew exactly who it was, knew what monster would be in the shop. ,,Get away from her, you monster!" he demanded, raising his cross in front of him as he stormed into the shop.

He saw Dracula bending over the woman's body, her hands pressed against his chest as she tried to free herself from the monster. It was clear that she had not succeeded, but what worried him was the blood hanging from the monster's mouth.

Dracula hissed at him, but the deepest night had not yet fallen. Van Helsing saw the godless creature looking out and then trying to escape the cross.

He was several woods and colours after the vampire hunter before the vampire fled out the door and into the night. Van Helisng rushed after him but as he looked out he realised he would not catch him. A painfully frightened sound pulled him back to the woman.

He saw her trying to hold herself upright against one of the cupboards and not fall over because of the lack of blood. ,,Calm down my dear, everything will be alright" he told her but saw only a faint tired look before he gently and carefully as possible took her and lifted her up in bridal style. ,,Do you have your quarters here too?" he asked her, concern in his blue eyes as he saw her blood flowing lightly down her neck, covering both her clothes and the floor.

She looked more emaciated, more tired and weaker yet still lovely carefully he put two fingers to her neck. A weak but steady pulse he noted mentally before he heard her whisper, ,,In the back room, the stairs" she said so softly he was afraid she would die of blood loss. Looking around with her in his arms he saw the door she was talking about.

He saw that the room around the stairs was used for storage but the steel stairs lead up. ,,We're almost there my dear," he murmured and closed the door behind him before he began to walk up the stairs, careful not to bump into her. Walking up the stairs he found himself in a small but pretty flat.

The walls were covered with pictures of every kind - small, big, round - everything was there. Going to her bed and gently putting her down, he immediately took care of her. Opening his bag and taking out the hand pump, he looked around for a bowl of water.

Finding it only moments later, he washed his hands but kept his gaze on her. He was afraid she might faint. Even though her eyes were closed, he saw that she was still there, with him.

Pulling out a chair next to her bed and sitting down on it, he grabbed a simple white cloth at the same time. ,,Don't be alarmed," he said reassuringly and dabbed away the slightly liquid blood still flowing from the wound with the cloth.

He saw her wince in pain and soothingly stroked her slightly trembling one with his free hand. ,,I'm here, everything will be all right, Miss," he said and dabbed the cloth in alcohol he had in his pocket over the wound, ,,Shhh, don't, but everything will be all right," he admonished himself lovingly and continued to stroke her hand, trying to take away the pain as best he could. Before he had cleaned and stopped most of the blood with the cloth.

Reaching into his pocket again he took out the pump and desinfected the two needles at the ends. ,,S-Sir I-I what was that creature?" she murmured, watching her fingers tremble with fear and her eyes show fear.

Fear that she was corrupted by the evil that could haunt her, had haunted her and was only prevented by him. The handsome stranger she didn't even know the name of.

Soothingly stroking her fingers, trying to give her his warmth, he replied, ,,A vampire my pretty a godless creature of the night. A creature that feeds on the blood of the living". Saw her close her eyes for a moment in fear, processing the information she had received from him.

Seeming overwhelmed and yet somehow understanding that it was not human, a creature of evil. ,,Thank you...so much," she thanked him and tried to sit up but was gently pushed back onto the bed by the older man. ,,It wasn't just my duty to help such a beautiful, talented woman has to be helped," he said with a smile and pointed to the various pictures hanging in the room.

He saw the little smile that came to her lips as she watched her work and was pleased that he acknowledged her paintings, praised and appreciated them. She hardly noticed the picks that followed as he stuck the needles of the pumps into her arm, she was too busy talking about her artwork.

The different methods she used from watercolour to oil and aquarelle, even pastel chalk could be found in some of her works. As his blood ran into her bloodstream, he watched her, listening to her excited and full of life despite her condition.

As he watched his blood flow into hers through the two rubber tubes, he couldn't help but feel a slight warmth on his cheeks. The gesture had a certain intimacy that he had only just begun to feel.

A few minutes later, he gently took the needles out of his arm and hers and pressed a cloth on her wound until it stopped bleeding before doing the same to himself. ,,You should rest for a few more days and you will regain your strength," he ordered and gradually packed his things carefully and gently. He saw how she seemed to realise what this meant and would have disappeared long ago.

But when he suddenly felt her gentle fingers on his, he paused and saw her look full of pleading as she asked, ,,But I am so terribly afraid, can't you stay with me until tomorrow?". He looked at the ticking clock on the wall, there were still a few hours until the safe morning. Besides, a gentleman would never leave a woman in need, especially not a pretty flower.

Putting his bag aside and wrapping his warm fingers around hers, he pointed to a small landscape painting. ,,Did you paint this?" he asked the obvoius, pleased that she immediately responded. Like a pretty flower in bloom, she excitedly told him about the painting and how she had been on holiday in the Alps.

She had seen them and it was so beautiful. But that's how they spent the next few hours, talking about her paintings and little trips she saved up for and sold the rest of her paintings with a heavy heart.

In return he told her with joy about his researches, his journeys and his fights. Was only more pleased that she found it fascinating how he worked and with what.

By the end of the night, as the clocks chimed again and again, she had fallen asleep in his arms, even snuggling lightly against him as he still gently stroked her fingers and watched her sleeping still form. Knowing that he now had more than one reason to come back to her shop and not only for colour. Perhaps also for the reason of love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@villainsidechick and @fanfic-she-wrote I thought you two might wanna read it since you two seems to be the only ones here that are blogging/writing/posting for Peter Cushing and his charcters

#dracula 1958 #peter cushing #van helsing #van helsing x reader #dracula #vampire #reader is female #no use of y/n

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blainesebastian · 11 months

Text

mistakes were made

words: 2,290 ship: austin butler x reader summary: (anon request) “fic about the reader getting really bad food poisoning and Austin taking care of her” warnings: none notes: i really enjoyed writing this request, thank you! hope you enjoy it :) masterlist is here tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @stylespresleyhearted

You kinda have a love-hate relationship with the chicken place down the street. Sometimes the spice level is completely different any time you order it, which makes no sense that you can’t depend on it being the same every time, the fries are sometimes Cajun flavored…sometimes not? (no matter how you order them), and delivery and pick-up can range from ten minutes to two hours with no rhyme or reason.

And yet, you give this place your money pretty much every week.

“There’s something charming about it.” You tell Austin, your best friend, over the phone as you walk out of your apartment (the goal is to get coffee, do a nice mental health walk and grab said chicken for dinner).

You can hear Austin crinkling his nose as he replies, “There is nothin’ charming about chicken that sticks to the wrapper when you order it.”

You can’t help but snicker, walking down the steps and outside on another beautiful day in New York. No rain this time in the weather forecast…you made sure to check. The last little walk you went on, you hadn’t checked the projections and got stuck in a downpour. Austin found it hilarious—you? Not so much.

“Uhm, that’s definitely part of the charm, excuse you,” Rolling your eyes, you cross the street, making your way to the coffee shop that you favor. “Maybe you need a reminder. I can order you somethin’.”

“No,” Austin laughs, “Despite the fact that I’m in New York for the next few weeks,” A pleasant and warm thrum kisses your body at that, it’s been way too long since you’ve seen him, “I will not be eating at that place. C’mon, ditch the chicken, let me take you to a proper dinner.”

You smirk, “’A proper dinner?’ What’re you from an Oscar Wilde novel?” You laugh, “Or is this you askin’ me out on a date?”

Austin’s quiet for a few moments, the sound of traffic behind him, a soft hum leaving his lips, “It very well could be, you know, a date.”

Your heart hammers in your chest because…you both have been at this very same precipice so many times. You’re just not sure how it’d work out. You’re…you’re so normal compared to him, legit have a job teaching second grade English and art. This man is an upcoming actor, getting bigger and more prestigious with each role he accepts. How would that work?

“I’ll say yes if it’s the chicken place.”

Austin laughs, something warm that dips into your stomach, “You’re insufferable.” He mumbles.

You can’t help but grin, “I know, part of my charm. You love it.”

“I do,” Austin confirms and lets that sit for a few moments, “I gotta go, but see you tonight? Even if you refuse to part ways from that chicken place.”

“Yes,” You promise and then throw in to drive him crazy— “It’s a date.”

You’re not quite a nap person—you know you get weird looks for saying that but it’s just something you haven’t managed to perfect like some people. So you know the moment you pass out on the couch after eating your favorite order from the chicken place is a bad idea. You feel sick the moment you wake up, groggy, a bit disoriented—like you’re not sure if you slept ten minutes or ten hours.

You blink at your phone as you pick it up, missed texts from Austin—

Austin: be over in an hour

The was fifty minutes ago.

Austin: you in a chicken coma?

You let out a soft huff and text back,

Y/N: 🐔🐔🐔

You stand from your couch, swaying a moment, dizzy and kind of get your bearings for a moment before shaking your head. How is it that naps always mess you up like this? Wandering to set your phone down on the kitchen counter, you move to fill a glass of water and take a few sips, your apartment intercom system beeping. A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth and you move to press the button,

“Yeah?”

“Yeah?” Austin asks, “That’s all I get? What about a ‘hello’?”

“I reserve that for the food delivery people.”

Austin chuckles lightly but you hit the button to buzz him in, not wanting to reserve him to all the banter outside…it’s been a while since you’ve seen one another and you have missed him. Letting out a slow breath, you open the door and hover for a few moments, your stomach churning and you kinda shake your head at yourself because apparently now you sometimes have to take an anti-acid with your favorite chicken place. Maybe you’re just getting old.

Glancing up as you hear the elevator ding, you can’t help but smile as you see Austin getting off, making his way down the hall to you. Just as attractive as you’ve always remembered and yet somehow more devastatingly handsome than you’re able to recall. You smile at his pair of black jeans, white t-shirt, blue jean jacket; simple, comfortable, looks too good on his tall frame.

He reaches for you, his hand plucking the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing and using it as leverage to tug you forward into his embrace. You can’t help but grin, pushing yourself up on your toes and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You squeeze him tightly, closing your eyes to his familiar scent that feels far too much like home. You feel him press his face into your shoulder and hair, planting a kiss there before letting you go.

“We gonna spend tonight out or in?” He asks, giving you a teasing look at your oversized t-shirt. “Pretty sure you could pull that look off with some boots.”

There’s a myriad of replies that you’ve got right at the tip of your tongue but something shifts in how you’re feeling, far too soon, stomach lurching along with a sickly-sour sensation in the back of your mouth. Oh no, oh no. Your eyes widen and you don’t even have a chance to explain to Austin what is happening, just kind of putting your hand up and rushing to the bathroom and kneeling down in front of the toilet before losing the contents of your stomach.

It's quick and kind of violent and god, you’re not sure if you’ll be able to remove that taste from your mouth even if you brush your teeth a handful of times. Groaning, you flush the toilet, sitting to the side for a few moments because—what even was that? Your mind whirs through possibilities but…deep down you know there’s pretty much only one thing you can land on, and it’s not pregnancy, so.

You glance up to see Austin moving to stand in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. While part of you wants to tell him to just…leave you alone to suffer, he’s also seen you a lot worse than this.

“Don’t even say it.” You mumble, running a hand over your face. It’s really not a good sign that you’re sweating, slightly dizzy and your stomach hurts. You feel worse.

“I wasn’t gonna say anythin’.” Austin comments, crossing his arms over his chest, “Other than you look terrible.”

A soft laugh rumbles in your chest and that is…decidedly the wrong move because your stomach protests with another lurch. You quickly turn towards the toilet, coughing afterwards, a soft whimper leaving your lips as you feel Austin hover behind you and help hold your hair back. His hand gently works up and down your back until you’re done, slouching back against his body. He reaches up and flushes again, reaching for a washcloth on your tub.

“Just leave me here to die,” You mumble, tears stinging your eyes because you’re…embarrassed? Which seems so silly, it’s just Austin. But also just…you feel terrible. Not just physically, but the fact that Austin doesn’t visit often and now he’s stuck here taking care of you.

He smirks lightly, even though you’re not looking at his face, you can hear it as he talks, “Still think that chicken place is charming, hmm?”

Austin turns on the tub and wets the washcloth in his hand, dragging it over your forehead and along the back of your neck. You groan lightly, your hand rubbing over your stomach, “Please don’t talk about food.”

“Fair enough,” He brushes some hair over your shoulder, “Think you’re done?”

“God I hope so.” You whine and a soft rumble of amusement happens in Austin’s chest. He carefully hooks his arms underneath your armpits and swiftly lifts you from the floor. Your knees are wobbly and you take a step back, leaning against his chest a moment.

He keeps you steady, one hand on your waist and then helps guide you out of the bathroom to your bed. You sit slowly on it, attempting to assess yourself. You’re still…very nauseous but you don’t think you’ll be vomiting more any time soon. You really hope not. Closing your eyes a moment, you run a hand through your hair, sitting still so that the room doesn’t spin.

“You know,” Austin sits down next to you, toeing his shoes off, “Think this wouldn’t have happened if you would’ve just let me take you out on a date.”

A startled laugh leaves your lips as you turn your head to look at him, “Oh my god,” You playfully tap his face, “Shut up.”

He smiles, taking your hand off his face but holding onto it, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Think you need a firm break-up with the chicken place.”

You crinkle your nose—you need to brush your teeth but walking back towards the bathroom sounds like a fate worse than death, “Never knew you’d be so jealous over a chicken restaurant, this is cute and unexpected.”

Austin huffs out a sound but it’s amusing to you that he doesn’t quite deny it either. You take a few moments to look at your hands joined, his thumb traveling along your knuckles and the bones of your fingers. There’s a slight fluttering sensation in your chest that almost offsets the nausea. Almost.

“I’m sorry I ruined the night,” You mention when you turn a bit to look at him. He doesn’t get much time to himself unless he’s between projects and you’re sure this is the last thing he wants to be doing when he could be having a night out in New York.

Austin shakes his head, brushing your hair aside so its not in your face, “You didn’t ruin anythin’.”

“I feel terrible,” You reply with a soft laugh and then close your eyes, groaning, “Literally, I feel terrible.”

Austin laughs gently and wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his chest. Leaning against him, you huff dramatically, allowing your eyes to close for a few moments as you relish in the feeling of his touch, hands through your hair, along your back. Eventually, he stands from the bed and motions to the headboard,

“We’ll watch one of those awful sci-fi films you like. I’ll make you some tea, get you some water too—need to keep hydrated.”

You stand slowly from the bed on wobbly knees, intent on brushing your teeth first. “Alien is not horrible.”

Austin crinkles his nose, “Sure.”

You don’t argue with him—mostly because you don’t have the energy to, and he’s being nice in offering to make you tea, so, you’ll let him slide this one time. Brushing your teeth as quickly as you can, you wander back to bed and grab the remote, stacking some pillows against the headboard for you and Austin to lean against. Running a hand over your face, you slowly sit down and tug the blankets over your legs. Bluh—still far too nauseas. You pick up the remote for your TV and start the movie Alien, a small twinge of a smile on your lips as you think about Austin’s ‘review’. Clearly he does not appreciate a good classic.

You close your eyes and tip your head back, letting out a soft sigh as you attempt to self-evaluate. Last thing you want to do is drink something when you’re not ready but…Austin’s right, you need to keep yourself hydrated. You hear him walk back in, setting glasses on the nightstand,

“Water first.”

Humming lightly, you run a hand over your stomach before picking up the glass of water. You take a few slow, careful sips, waiting for your body to absolutely pitch a fit. When it doesn’t, you lean more comfortably against some pillows, Austin joining by crawling into bed beside you.

“Think I’m gonna make it.” You tell him, your body coming to lean along his.

Austin smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders so that you’re more against his chest. “Glad to hear it,” He reaches for the tea on the nightstand, handing it over to you as you put the glass of water down, “Doesn’t this movie have the alien bursting out of some dude’s chest? You’d think you’d want to avoid visuals like that.”

Snickering, you take a slow sip of tea, pausing, before leaning back against Austin again. Your head rests on his shoulder, “I’m immune to aliens.”

“Just not to chicken.”

You grimace, turning a bit so that your nose brushes against the soft skin of his neck. “Too soon.”

Austin smiles, tilting his head down a little so he can plant a kiss on your forehead. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to consider that date, hmm?”

You take another sip of tea, allowing your eyes to close for a few moments, your stomach fluttering now in a good way. “Alright—just…anything but chicken.”

Austin smirks, squeezing you closer. “Noted.”

#austin butler #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #austin butler fic #elvis 2022 #mccall writes things

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stardancerluv · 2 months

Text

A Time to Love and to Fight

Part: Thirty One

Summary: The truth comes to life.

Notes/Warnings: Angst, flashbacks to the barricade, mortality questions. 🍋Lemonade🍋 came to London in the 1800’s they made it with Honey, before it became chic…men on ships used to drink it to prevent scurvy.

❤️s, feedback, reblogs and comments are appreciated.

He slipped free of his coat, untied and pulled his scarlet scarf from his throat. Laying them on his desk, he turned and kelt in front of his cupboard. When the door creaked open, he glanced around. He hated hiding this from you. It wasn’t in his nature.

Though he did not want to risk upsetting you or his unborn child. Uncovering, the sabers, he took the one had grown more comfortable toward. Inhaling, he began slicing through the room.

At first it was only his room that was a blur as he moved around. His heart began to beat harder, his breathing shallowed as his room began to fade it shifted in his mind to when he had first began to art of the sword. It had been at an early age when he learned on how easy it was for him move about. He was good at dodging and deflecting.

As a child, he never found it hard to find a place for his foot when climbing a tree or running across rocks that made it easier to cross a brook on his family’s estate. His heart lurched as his mind brought back the moments in the alley. The space easily had grown tight and the air had soured with plumes of smoke from the pistols and canons. The barricade fell broken in mere moments. A vision of his friend, Courfeyrac; he had long since laid rest his memory. He had been brave stood tall and made it possible for him and you run away from the soldiers that burst through the doors.

Stopping, lifting his arm clad in a start white sleeve he brushed aside the sweat that blossomed on his forehead. Thank you dear friend, he whispered in his mind.

“Mon amour.” There was a knock and creek of his door opening as your voice fluttered over to his ears.

Turned on his heal.

“There you are.” Your voice was so light, like the sunlight that shone into his room.

He coughed, holding the sword close to him. He glanced back at you over his shoulder. “Yes?”

He saw your brow furrow and your smile wavered but remained.

“A message came. I thought we’d read it together.”

“Ah, yes…yes. Bring it and yourself to the sitting room. I will shall join you shortly.”

“Oh, yes that shall be pleasant.” And his door snapped shut.

He relaxed, though annoyance prickled him. He hated that his words to you were as sharp as the sword in his hands. His heart rode his emotions, his actions. He crossed the short distance to his cupboard. He had to compose himself before joining you.

******

“My lady?” The soft voice of Beatrice broke the world of the book in your lap.

“Oh? Yes?” You were still getting addressed as such. Greta had always been respectful but lady, that was an entirely different class then you ever expected to be addressed in. And in these last couple of months. You realized not to argue with Beatrice over it. In the end, it only helped you and Enjolras in your new life.

“Sorry to disturb you but a message came for Sir Julien.”

You put the book down and with a quick breath, you stood and went over to her. “I would love to bring it to him.”

“I am sure, he will enjoy that all the more.”

Beatrice then handed it to you before turning and returning back to whatever task she busied herself with beforehand.

You can tell it had been replaced on the smooth and more elegant paper for the destination it was to reach. The paper felt very nice nice in your hands.

******

You were confused as to why he had not turned to even face you. His words, his tone were like an icy shadow compared to the days you had heard him speak warmly and passionately.

“Oh, yes that shall be pleasant.”

You felt a churning inside of you, not wanting anything further from this shadow of the man you loved, you closed the door at his last word.

******

On the small table besides the chaise, you tossed away the fine paper. The exchange between the two of you didn’t make you inclined to hold it any longer.

Eyeing the pitcher you wondered of its contents. You smiled seeing the sweet lemon and honey mixture. Beatrice, knowing you didn’t always want to ring by bell or other means would leave you pitchers ready for your thirst would fall over you. Though it was best kept inside because if you were to go to the garden, she would bring it out. Because if not it attracted more beings then the flowers did.

You poured yourself a glass, then holding your day dress just so you said down on the chaise. The cushions were very comforting and the dye chosen in it always pleased you. It reminded you on the sun shining down water by a forest or the ocean when it was not angry.

******

“There is my ange.” You noticed that his words had soften.

You barely glanced his way, and u took a sip from your cup.

He closed the door and soon his shadow fell over you, as he stopped on the other side of the table.

“Is this the message?”

You looked up, you immediately noticed the top buttons on his billowy shirt were undone and a flush dusted his cheeks. It made you pause. “Yes.”

You noticed that he also poured himself a cup. “I am glad you are fond of this.” He held up the cup and soon he snatched the envelope in his other hand and came and sat beside you. He took sip.

“It is very pleasant. It lays close to my heart like a deep rose tea.”

He smiled. “You do enjoy your tea.”

You nodded.

He put the cup down. He held up the envelope. “From home, I do wonder what they coiled possibly want.”

You put down your cup, reaching up you drew his hand down. “What is the matter?”

His brows knit together. “What are you questioning?“

You swallowed. “You.”

The flush returned to his cheeks.

“I see you infrequently unless it is time to slumber or eat.” You shrugged. “Yes, on the occasion I see you in the garden and we take in its beauty like we did in the park so long ago. But now, you act as if I have grown to be a nuisance or I am no longer bare any importance in your life.”

You finally spoke of all that had been lingering in your heart. A tear escaped and ran down your cheek.

He pressed his lips together, he placed the letter back on the table and finished what was in his cup. You didn’t dare move, you felt as if he was gonna spring off the chaise like a kitten would if it was hoping to catch a butterfly or a mouse. And right now you couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving your side.

Then he did the unexpected. He shifted and moved till he was sitting like he had under the willow in garden of your home. His back now more comfortably supported by the curve of the chaise.

The sight of him before you as such made your heart yearn.

“Do not break my heart.”

“Oh, my sweet amour.” Easily, having forgotten the strength he has you found yourself nestled close to him.

You laid like this. Silence had fallen over the two of you like a blanket would have. You felt the beat of his hear, the warmth of his breath and his arms draped loosely around you. That you knew was for fear of disturbing the baby that still grew with you.

“Oh my amour.” He spoke again lifting his chin from where it had nestled in the strands of your hair.

“Our life, our destiny more mine that yours may cause your heart to break, not I. In my wild, undignified ways I will always love you.”

His words, the feel of his heart beating harder, made you move so you could look at him.

“Not long after we arrived and wonderful news of the blessing of a child filled our new home. A storm, a shadow drifted and reached our shores from our past.”

You watched as he swallowed. Despite the warmth of him around you, coolness prickled you.

“A man, a solider is seeking revenge for my action. I struck down his son at the barricade. Now he is searching and wishes to do the same to me.”

“That was during a fight, skirmish I dare say. Deaths, men get slain.”

He nodded.

“Did I grow angry at the boat that went down or the ocean that swallowed my father? No. I was made that it was my father. Does be not see this?”

“No. He does not see that it was an act or war. There was no personal thoughts. It was a question of survival.”

You nestled close. “What are you to do?”

“I watch my shadow and I have been practicing with the sabers, my father sent me.”

“Enjolras, why…but why?” You were at a loss as why did not fair this horrific news with you.

One of his gently reached and held what he could of your growing stomach.

“What if he found you while you would be at the tavern? Were I then to find out when you would not return to us?”

He stilled under you. “To be honest, the thought had never came to me.”

******

You had not been able to sleep, reading by candlelight finally you felt as sleepiness clawed at you.

You felt the bed give after what felt like moments after you had pulled the blanket more tightly around you.

“Enjolras?” Your voice scratchy from sleep.

“Yes, mon amour.”

The bed gave only this time, only beside you. You blinked at the now glow of the candle on the table beside the bed.

Looking up you smiled seeing, Enjolras in and out of the shadows. It made him all the more handsome at that moment. You watched as could see etched on his face.

“Are you alright?”

“I just could have sworn I had just crawler back into bed when you awoke. I was worried I disturbed you.”

“I don’t think so. I had just used the water closet and seeing the dawn, I knew I had best travel to the harbor. The package mentioned in the letter should be arriving today.”

“Would you have awoken me?”

He smiled and ran his fingers through his curls. “Once the carriage was ready.”

“Let me come with you.”

You put your hand over his.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“I will stay in the carriage. I need to do something outside of our estate.”

He pressed his lips together. He knew there was no stopping you.

“You are my husband.” You admitted. You were not that rebellious.

He inhaled and absently rubbed his goatee. “Maybe we can eat at the tavern or perhaps even do a little shopping.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but make me a promise my amour.”

“Please, if I grow concerned you will listen to me. I don’t quite trust these English men.”

“I promise.”

*******

The carriage rolled and bumped through the countryside. The world world turned but a murky dark blue, to purple to violet and finally to a clear light blue.

You say absently, after stirring.

“Looks like it will be a good day.” You yawn softly, waling more from your unexpected nap.

With the shaking, the creaks and cracks of the carriage the two of you actually had drifted off for more that half of the portion of the trip to the city proper.

He gave you a side long glance. “You look like a proper English lady with the hat and the gloves.” He rolled his shoulders, before stretching out his legs with a sigh.

You squeezed his arm before glancing down at yourself. “You think so?”

“Only far lovelier.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Enjolras. How is it you still make me blush.”

“Because my words speak the truth.”

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