#grading essays with glasses falling down his knows | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

millerscoffee · 9 months

Note

Hello!! 🤍 I was wondering if you could write something where Joel is the reader’s college professor, and then Prof. Miller INSISTS that reader comes over to his home for tutoring assistance, (because of failed tests or bad essays), and then finally coaxes her into letting him have his way with her.

hi nonnie! here it is! i hope you enjoy 💖

extra credit

6.2k | joel miller x afab!reader (professor!joel au)

rating: 18+ MDNI

warning: professor!joel au, age gap (joel is 46, reader is 21), soft!dom joel, pining, consensual sex, pet names (darlin', doll, baby), oral (f receiving), face riding, fingering, piv (unprotected, wrap it folks), squirting, joel spitting over the reader's ass for 0.5 seconds (OOPS IDK???), a pretty dress with easy access, hints of after care, spoiler: honestly prof. miller could've told reader to just do the paper in a different format but – that's the point 🤭

When you picked your major, English was a necessary credit needed to achieve your goals. It wasn’t your strong suit, but you weren’t one to quit just because you were bad at it. So far you were coasting through, getting a mix of good and bad grades in your English Lit class when the last essay before finals was presented.

Among the crowd in Professor Miller’s lecture hall, you typically sat in the front. He hands out papers, hovering by your desk. Giving you a look of disapproval, he places the grade face down. You peel the pages in anticipation, a sense of dread falling over you when you scan the big, red mark of failings. “Shit,” you say to yourself. That was it. That was the grade that was the defining factor of whether or not you had to retake this course. You use the side of your hand to wipe sneaky tears in falling. You failed. Doing your best to keep it together, you’re not sure you even heard the rest of the lecture from the possibilities running through your mind. What were you to do? How would you recover?

Class was over before you knew it. The sounds of bags zipping and feet stepping, you stayed seated until you were able to look over to Professor Miller. Dressed in black slacks, a brown button-up with leather shoes. His hair was slick, the slightest bit of salt and pepper patched at his sideburns. He looked like he had it all figured out, and that struck a nerve. A feeling of jealousy that he knew what he was doing, and you obviously did not.

Professor Miller calls your name when the class is emptied, and you sniffle, standing up to straighten your skirt. Your manicured nails pick up your essay as you walk over in an attempt to hand it to him. “I guess you want this back,” you hold your full bottom lip between your teeth.

“Did you read the material?” Professor Miller inquires, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His voice is so dark and honied in comparison to his scowl. Proving not to judge a book by its cover. The irony.

“Well, I did, but… I struggle with this stuff. Predicates and imagery? I’d rather be learning about biology. But I need this course, you know. And I…,” you swallow hard. God, the last thing you want is to embarrass yourself in front of your teacher. He doesn’t know you, out of the hundreds of people he teaches – how could he possibly even remember your name?

“Hey,” Professor Miller takes his glasses off, putting them on the table. He looks as concerned as you are over it and crosses his arms. Keeps his distance. “It happens, you know. There are things we can do to accommodate. You’re very bright, I’d hate to see you fail. You have options. I can’t let you rewrite the paper, but I could tutor you for your final. Another option is getting a student tutor, but it’s rare. You know the workload of this university. Not a lot of people are willing to sacrifice their precious time.”

“And you are?” You look up at him with grateful, bright eyes and he loves it. The praise just from your stare alone is cause for him to clear his throat.

“Listen, for someone like you, I believe it is important to help. You just need a little more time understanding what you’re doing, is all. I’m not in my office for the rest of the weekend, though. You’d have to come by my house…,” he watches those pretty eyes widen again, and that makes a smirk fall over his greying features, “if that’s okay, of course. If it’s not, we could work something else out.”

You think about it. You’ve never had a teacher invite you over, much less someone who looked the way he did. Though, that was neither here nor there. His lips formed words you couldn’t even pay attention half the time in hearing. Maybe that was part of the reason why you were failing in the first place. But you needed to pass, and if he could help you – and was so kind enough to do it in the first place, you should jump at the first opportunity.

“Okay. Is there a particular time you’d like me to be there?”

“Are you busy tonight?”

What the fuck. That makes your heart race. Tonight? Tonight?! Ton–

“Tonight… tonight is good.” How did you even form the words?

“Perfect,” he started, bending down to write his address on a sticky note – his cologne wafts in your direction, and you clamp your legs shut reflexively. “Here’s my address. 7 o’clock.”

“Seven. Okay… thank you, Professor Miller.”

“Please, call me Joel.” His teeth gleamed in a smile, and his personality shined through it.

A personality you didn’t get to see too often from your position behind a desk.

Shit.

---

According to your phone, he didn’t live very far from campus, and you were able to walk to his house without breaking too much of a sweat. You decided on a black dress, although it was a casual one, that paired nicely with your sneakers. It had buttons down the front with a relaxed collar. Your bag slung over your shoulder when you knocked on his door, a nervousness fluttering in your stomach. It was such a weird thing, meeting your professor in his home. Much less having him request you call him by his first name.

Your knees all but buckled when you saw him on the other side of the door.

He looks… young in his jeans. His t-shirt stretched over the broadness of his shoulders, but it’s still loose enough that it doesn’t look ill-fitted. His stomach, soft at the bottom. You flash him a smile, but internally you’re reeling over how casual he looks. You’d never seen him like this, not even during those school meetings that were informal.

“Hey, you,” he’s bright, too. Charismatic as he invites you into his home. Takes your bag, lets you take your shoes off until you’re in your socks. His words hit your stomach, how easy it is for him to talk to you like you’re the brightest sunflower. What’d you even do to deserve it?

“Hi, Prof– uh, Joel,” you titter, taking in the curated decor of his home. It was sophisticated, yet a little cheesy at the same time. His alumni cover his walls and a mix of pictures. Some with a couple of young girls you assumed were his children. He has children, you swallow.

“Wasn’t too hard to find this place, right? When I moved here, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t too far – not much of a mornin’ person,” Joel laughs and you do, too. Fuck, this feels so easy. But it’s nothing – it’s nothing.

What you don’t pick up on right away is his open body language. He places your bag on his couch and you follow him like a puppy – he likes that. You look so soft under the sienna hue of his lights, your hair falling into place naturally. Plump and ripe for the taking. Of course, he meant it when he said he’d tutor you, but the air got thick the moment the door was shut behind the two of you. What were you doing to him?

Joel’s large frame walks over to his bar cart, turning on his heel to face you, “Interested?”

“Huh?” You blink and he laughs again at your deer caught in the headlights expression. You’re cute.

“Do you drink?”

“Oh, uh… water would be nice.”

“Water it is,” Joel’s pleasant, gesturing his hand for you to follow him. And you do – that puppy he was coming to know, right to his kitchen. You study the marble countertops, the farmhouse style kitchen sink.

“So, tutoring,” he starts, taking a glass from the cupboard, he fills it with filtered water before handing it to you – you thank him with a nod, “I was thinking we could look at your paper, and then go over how to fix things in the future?” When you take the water from him, your fingers graze. The first sign of contact, your head continues to nod unthinkingly, but all that scorches your mind is how his skin feels.

“That sounds good,” you overcompensate, shoving the ideas from your mind. He was your teacher, and it was easy to get back into the mode of why you were here.

Joel’s expression doesn’t change much, still the same grin with hooded eyes and wrinkles at his forehead. The two lines between his brow. “Alright, well I have it on the coffee table. Let’s get settled on the couch, and we’ll get started, okay?”

So you agree. You take your glass of water and follow him back to the couch where everything was set up – your paper, his laptop. All of the correction marks in your face as you sit down. You take another sip of water before placing it down on the coaster. You dread it, you really do. Going over your failures? You scrunch your nose up to yourself, but Joel notices when you’re both settled on the cushions.

“You know, Voltaire said, ‘perfect is the enemy of good’,” Joel bends his knee on the couch, thigh pressing into the cushion to turn to you and it causes the couch to shift. The quote makes you giggle a little to yourself, and you shake your head. “What?” His eyebrow quirks in curiosity.

“Voltaire also popularised the story of Newton’s apple, doesn’t make it true.”

“Huh…,” Joel trailed off, keeping his eye on you – his tongue skating over his bottom lip in thought. You were so quick all he could really do was laugh, and that made your shoulders relax. Makes you feel more in control and comfortable to laugh at yourself. “You got an answer for everything?”

“Not everything. See this,” you pick up your paper, thumbing over the ink of corrections the man on the couch made and you shrug, “I don’t really understand why this got marked wrong.” Joel’s gaze flashes over your mouth when your teeth press into the plushness of your bottom lip – he should be given some damn award for having so much self control around you.

“Wrong format. This citation works for your research papers, right?” He nods with you before leaning in closer, that damn cologne coming back in full force just like earlier in the day. You all but freeze when his warm touch graces you again – this time, fingers tracing over where you’re holding the paper. “Oh,” your voice is soft, a bit of disappointment pangs at your ribs. You were so busy you didn’t even realise that was the majority of the issues you had.

“So… it’s not really what I wrote, it’s how I wrote it? You asked if I read the material?”

“Exactly. If you read the syllabus, you’d see the required format. Listen, there are some ways for extra credit, I do think this is salvageable.”

You suddenly feel silly.

You did all that work, Professor Miller was kind enough to let you into his home, and it was all for some redundant formatting. An open palm curls over your chin as you look at the paper in deep contemplation.

“I really fucked up,” you say, hushed in the space.

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” you manage an exhale of amusement at the sound of your teacher curse. You shift your gaze to look at him. The curls at the nape of his neck, the way his t-shirt dropped enough so you could see his neck, his chest. The freckles that splayed over his aged skin. “You just needed someone to tell you what to do.”

That was the loaded statement. And a pointed one, it seems. Someone to tell you what to do. And Joel wanted to be that person? Your eyebrows raise for a flash, thumbing over the paper.

“That would be too easy,” you scratch at your neck idly before going for the glass of water, sipping in contemplation. “...I mean, I should’ve known better.”

Joel takes the glass from you, offering himself a sip of your water and it stuns you speechless, doing your best not to convey it. Maybe he did that just because this was his house. That must’ve been it. He was comfortable, but goddamn – the eye contact he gave you when he swallowed the liquid.

It felt intentional.

He watches your features, vague as they were, in what to do next. He honestly wasn’t so sure what he was doing either. What? I know how to give you extra credit, sweetheart. Too forward, too boastful, too… cheap. You deserved better than that. He saw you in class, how hard you were on yourself. He talked to your other teachers, how well you were doing in your other classes. He felt for you. And he was a bit lost in your eyes. You were all too pretty, too brilliant to be dimmed down to a fuck for extra credit. Joel could see that. He wasn’t even sure what he was thinking, you had him distracted. You threw him off without even trying. The plight within him grew stronger as he handed back the glass.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Joel straightens up, his hand cups over your forearm in a way that’s understanding, but also makes goosebumps rise. You look down to see where you connect and he pulls away slightly. “Sorry, I–,” “No, it’s okay,” you agree, “It’s okay. You’re right.”

“It’s just, I see hundreds of bright, beautiful young people every year, but none of them have stood out to me like you.” He can’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth. The candor, the nerve. A filthy old man, that’s all he was in the eyes of someone as sweet and innocent as you were. Even if you happened to be experienced – god, what was he thinking?!

Joel clears his throat, shifting a bit in his seat, but he sees the way your lips part, but your eyes don’t show an ounce of shock or distain. They look soft, and… willing. You know that is because the pull at your core feels too strong to think of anything else. You look down at his left hand, making sure you’re not dreaming. He’s not married? You’d casually look at his hands from time to time during class and ignored the ache it gave you, but this? So close? Backed by the glow of his house? It was so different from the boys you were used to. In their dorms or disgusting apartments. It smelled as nice as it looked. You realise you’re not speaking, but the way you lean into him says more than you really ever could.

“I don’t know what to say,” shyly, you touch your knuckles to your cheek, “you should teach the guys that go here how to chat with someone.”

It’s a mutter, but not to yourself. You drink one more mouthful of what you were offered before putting it back on the coaster. Honestly, any distraction was welcome to defer from the ever-present density in the room.

“Those guys don’t know what they’re talkin’ about anyway. I know I didn’t at that age.”

There. The topic right in front of both of your faces.

“How old at you, anyway?” You inquire, thumb mindlessly circling over your knee. Joel tracks it, licking over his lips as he answers. “Forty-six. You?”

“Twenty-one.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

There’s this standstill, as if you’re both in the air together looking at each other in slow motion. How will this land? What are you both even doing here like this?

“I’m sure your boyfriend takes good care of you,” Joel’s eyes, round and bright brown, get lost in yours – the way your breath hitches, the shift of your thighs on his sofa. He wondered what you tasted like, what sounds you make when these boys who don’t know what they’re doing with their tongue attempt to eat you out. Do you fake it? Do you give it to them straight? Neither of you had a drink from that bar cart in the corner of the room, but somehow you’ve become closer – and more intoxicated.

“Don’t have one,” you respond softly, orbs flickering to the set of plush lips that grow more red the longer you let the tension build, “what about you? N-no partner?”

Your attempt in confidence wavering the longer he stares at you. It’s like staring back into the sun and you have your brows knit together until the tug of muscle makes your forehead hurt – smoothing them apart with the twitch of muscle fibers.

“No partner,” Joel’s hand settles on your thigh and you can’t hold it back; you gasp. But you do something he doesn’t anticipate, or well, you don’t do something: you don’t pull away.

How did you two get to the topic, anyhow?

How did you end up straddling his lap, for that matter?

It’s within six eager seconds that his hand, hot and rough, touches your soft skin, and you – green, you – fervent, throw all inhibitions aside and lunge. It’s more fluid than you realise, and his hands (both now) grip the backs of your bare thighs and you whimper at the sensation of him squeezing you. Your wetness against your cotton panties grows from the kneading alone. No, absolutely not, the boys back in the dorms didn’t know how to do this.

It takes an even shorter time for your mouths to meet. He’s first to kiss, and he tastes like coffee and his dinner, and the faintness of a cigarette – maybe early in the day? You couldn’t tell, your head was swimming too deep in now to come back from.

And although his calloused fingers roll patterns into your soft skin, he’s just as willing. Just as desireful and you can feel it beg to be set free at the seam of his jeans. His tongue skirts against yours, hips rolling up the second yours tempt to roll down; causing you both to moan in each other’s mouths.

It gets feverish after that. All teeth, tongue, bite.

You don’t want to stop, you don’t want to take a moment to breathe because fuck, that could stop things. That could make him realise what is happening.

But that only is another item to your list of naivety.

Because Joel, he’s ready. His masculine arms wrap around your frame to lift you up just enough so he can get out of his fucking jeans that he now regrets wearing. Shoulda been wearin’ sweats, but it’s effortless… eventually. He hurriedly pushes the thick fabric down until they hit at his thighs and you’re pushed down onto his boxers that – holy fucking shit – leave nothing to the imagination. “Joel, J-,” you pant between kisses, fingernails digging into the base of his neck, he pauses. Pulls away, gets a good look at your face.

“Y’want this?” And goddamn, you can’t see yourself, but you imagine you look just as fucked out as he does. On the cusp of every little fantasy he’s had about you from the moment you sat down behind that desk.

“I want this,” you repeat. You weren’t sure exactly when the nerves subsided, maybe because all of the blood is now rushed at the apex of your thighs, but you mean it.

You want this. You want Professor Miller.

“You got me,” his breath dances over your lips before guiding you back a bit, “here… I’m going to lie back, I want you to– I’ll show you.” Your lips quirk up at the fact he’s so flushed he can’t even finish his sentence.

But that soon turns to you flushing when you realise his request. “I – what?”

“No?” Joel sits up on his elbows, looking over to you and you’re worried you’ve killed the mood. It’s just, straddling his face? Blood rushes to your cheeks.

“I’ve never done that… What if it’s bad?” His eyes, reassuring, but a deep shade of black now beckons you.

“Darlin’, I think you’ll be a natural. But I can teach you, if that’s what you want.”

You swallow, straddling his knees somewhere at the bottom of the couch and you think about it.

Joel, on the other hand, was living in a fantasy of teaching you things in and out of school. Showing you how to make yourself feel good on his mouth – make you forget all about the essay that caused you grief today. He leans over, pushing it under the couch out of view for good measure.

“Okay,” you agree, though nerves still flood you. “Okay, you wanna take your panties off?” You lick your lips at that, biting back another whimper that brought you to this predicament in the first place. And you did – you wanted nothing more than to slip your underwear off and give into your pleasures. His voice was deep, graveled with the prospect of him fucking you senseless on his couch and who were you to deny him that?

Who were you to deny yourself that, more importantly.

“Yeah,” doing as you say, you slip off your lace-trimmed undies and abandon them somewhere on your Professor’s floor. “Fuck,” you mutter. This was naughty.

“Already so good for me,” you weren’t even sure that Joel’s voice could get deeper, or more inviting, but it does. You bite your lip and oblige when he pats his chest. Going over to him, you straddle just above his broad shoulders, and he’s almost out of view with him like this – somehow making it easier to just feel what he could do to you.

Joel on the other hand? All he can do is see the outline of your glistening core from the shadowed tent you’ve made of your dress and his groans are muffled slightly from the fabric, “Fuckin’ Christ,” he wants to devour you, but he takes his time instead.

Peppers kisses along your thighs that make you claw the armrest, causes you shiver at the contact and you can’t believe this is happening. “J-Joel,” you hesitate, but his hands are wrapped around your hips now, fingers digging into the breadth of your ass.

“Sit.” Joel commands.

Oh, fuck.

You’re almost certain you’ll break skin at your lips from biting down so hard, but you do as you’re told. Anchoring down, it’s subtle at first – the brushing of his facial hair against your folds, his chin prying you apart. Then, it’s incredibly palpable. His lips are the first thing you feel as they press and kiss over your middle and as you shudder it only makes your muscles sink deeper on him. You’re the first to moan, and then Joel, and his mouth is open when he invites you inside it.

“Oh, my god,” thighs shaking, Joel flattens his tongue under the hood of your clit, a body part you were certain hadn’t been touched by anyone else but yourself. There was no time to compare, the white hot pleasure coursed through your veins and he took his time with it, too. Made sure he was teasing you, his tongue dipping inside your entrance, as sloppy as it felt. “Hmmn,” you can’t speak, forearms resting on the armrest now as your head hangs between your shoulders and his fingers make pliable work of your asscheeks. Pushing you down, using your hips to move back and forth against his mouth – like he’s using you while you use him.

The air is thick under your dress, sticky and humid, as Joel swirls this tip of his devilish tongue in the most astonishing circles you’ve ever experienced, and you know it’s because he has more experience than you do. Has so much to teach you, if you let him. Your mouth hangs open as you try to inhale, but it’s just too much. Especially with the way he thumbs into your stomach, then your pubic bone – lifting it just slightly to expose your clit to him. An angle, not even you have found yourself.

It almost feels like too much. It’s intentional, the way his tongue flicks over that bundle of nerves right at the top of your cunt. Delicious, deliberate. Two fingers greet your entrance and it startles you, the way he’s rubbing your hole with his two fingers in slow circles before pressing them where you want them most.

“Tell me you want it,” you hear, muffled and fucked, and you shiver at the slightest bit of lack of contact.

“I want it, I want your fingers – please!”

And that seems to send him over the edge of how much he’s willing to hold back because he’s exactly where he was. Mouth on your clit, but fingers skillfully pressing inside of you and you don’t know how long you’ll last. Not with the pads of his fingers tapping in the perfect tempo against the ridged spot inside you.

That’s when a weird sensation comes over you. A pressure, you felt like you had to pee and your insides pulled in more trying to keep it all contained. “I–,” you start, but it happens so suddenly. Your orgasm rushes through you, convulsing and almost falling over the edge of the couch, you dig your fingernails into the upholstery. Your eyes roll back, and fuck, so are your hips. Unable to stop yourself using Joel’s mouth to keep you exactly right there. Pleasure pricks your skin, it feels like every cell is ignited – but you jump when you feel a rush of fluid come out of you. The pressure rebounding out, then rippling pleasure back inside you. Joel fucks you with his tongue and fingers until he feels you calm down.

“W-what, what… did I do?” You pant, and Joel is groaning, too. He lifts your hips to get lungfuls of oxygen, so dizzy on you and you notice how soaked his pair of fingers feel on your skin. Sits you down on his chest and you can see his face finally. Can see his mouth parting, gasping as his eyes are hooded and so gone. Curls stick to his forehead, his shirt a dampened colour at the collar. You blush heavily, embarrassed because you aren’t even sure what that was. Did he hate that, was that weird?

“C’mere,” he growls with gritted teeth and sits up, the tables turning instantly. Joel’s stripping his shirt off, kicking every last bit of the bottom half he had on to be abandoned on the floor. His fingers remove the buttons, but he can’t really get them – those fingers too big for the buttons. “Here,” you whisper, an intense feeling of lust falling over any self-conscious self talk you had. You undo the top of your dress one button at a time until your breasts are released from your bra – you moan when he has no problem spilling your tits from the satin, nipples in stiff peaks from your orgasm. And everything else.

“You know what you did?” Joel asks, taking both of your nipples between his fingers from each hand. You moan, lifting your hips and he bites his lip when he sees your cunt front under your dress. “What was it?” You ask, curiously. Innocently.

“You squirted f’me, baby,” he slurs, thumbing over your clit now as he gets a good look at you and he’s drunk on you. His cock throbbing against your thigh, he taps it against your skin before realising what he needed.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters and you can tell by the tone it’s not just at your appearance. “What is it?” You inquire, eyebrows knit.

“Gotta get a condom,” you hear him mutter, getting onto one foot and you stop him. “No. No. I want to feel you. It’s okay, I don’t get pregnant–” well that sentence isn’t exactly how you mean for it to come out, but your mind is mush, your body feels boneless underneath him, and he chuckles at that. At how gone your brain is. Here he was, thinking he was the only one. “Okay, okay, darlin’. I believe ya.”

And really, maybe he should be using more discretion. But he can’t get the feeling of you out of his head. You were everywhere. His mouth, his glistening chest and beard. He takes you by the hips then, sitting back to flip you on your hands and knees with your help and you moan at the sensation. Joel looks down at you, groaning of your ass in the air, pushing back for his cock. “Such a needy little thing, now,” it’s as if someone else is talking. This isn’t the Professor Miller you know. This man has layers and you’re first in line to know exactly what that entails.

Joel takes the base of his cock, bobbing it as it throbs alive in his hand and runs through your slick with the head of it. “So fucking wet. Beginning to think you’ve been wanting this for as long as I have.”

You bite a whine and he can see the back of your head nodding as you crane your neck back enough to make eye contact, but his eyes fall down to your ass pressing eagerly on his cock. Doing your best to press him inside yourself.

“Go ahead,” he slaps his cock on your folds and you mewl at the wet sounds coming from it. “Take my cock.”

And take, you do. Joel holds it out for you, keeps it steady and you push back slow on his cock. Clenching around the head and he growls at that. “You dirty thing. This how you fuck all your teachers?” It burns your skin, pushing your face into your arm and you shake your head.

“Words.” He warns.

“Just you! Just you, Joel!”

“Just me,” he parrots, hissing when you shift back and you both twitch and groan when you take him to the hilt of you. It was so thick, stretching you out until you felt split apart from him. “Just me, show me then. Show me how you fuck me.”

You bite into your arm then, choking on a sob as you push your ass back over and over. Your cunt taking him deep like this, it almost feels like too much and not enough at once. Torturously slow against the spongy spot again

It felt so amazing taking him yourself, but it was like an itch you couldn’t scratch on your own. The tapping of his balls against your clit was too far apart in tempo, his cock speared inside you at a pace that didn’t have quite the same leverage as Joel did behind you.

His hands busied themselves on your ass, peeling the muscle apart – pressing his digits to leave bruises and just when you think it’s too much to take, he gives you something else. His spit falling from his lips right to the velvet of your asshole. You shudder and flutter around him when it falls to where you’re connected. Your fingertips grip the other armrest now, cheek resting atop of your hand and you can’t do it yourself anymore. “Fuck me, Joel! Professor Miller, please!”

“Shit – you know where to push, don’t you?” Joel’s wide hands slide up your sides, keeping them locked in place as he pulls your hips to him at first. Using your whole lower body, your head hands doing your best to keep yourself up but you’re so close when he uses you like this. When he picks up the pace and you let your head fall on his throw pillow – your screams of desire are targeted into the plush cushion.

Joel is bound up in amazement behind you. How you feel around him, your gorgeous figure in front of him as he gives you every bit of power he can now. His hips hammering into you, but with the right amount of speed – not too fast, not too slow. The sound of his balls slapping against your clit is faster now, and the difference is what you focus on. The way it sounds. Joel feels you tighten, pulse around his own pulse and he has to say something to you. Has to talk you through it, even if he’s not sure you’ll like it.

“So fuckin’ good for me,” he drapes his body over your back, huffing into your ear as the controlled weight of him pushes your ass down just enough to make your thighs shake. You are soaked, sticky against his abdomen, between your thighs. Over your own stomach. You move your face so you can feel his skin closer against your. His lips staying on your cheekbone, he grunts and nods.

“That’s it, fuckin’ take it. I know you can take it. Those shaky fuckin’ thighs better hold on.”

You feel yourself coil and he is quick to sooth over your hips with his palms.

“Relax, baby. That’s it, that’s good, darlin’. Shh, easy. Do you feel that heat?”

You nod hopelessly, the buildup was so strong you couldn’t do anything but curl your fingers into fists and whimper repeatedly.

“Give into that heat. Come for me, I know you can be so good for me. Good for – fuck – fuck. Good for my cock,” Joel groaning in your ear makes you flutter uncontrollably, and he wastes no time in wrapping his arm around your front, rolling quick circles at the split of your cunt, right at your clit. “Milkin’ my fuckin’ cock like that, don’t stop. Don’t fuckin’ stop,” he grits, and you’re gasping.

Clawing at the pillow, head craning up and back as you come. Mouth gaped, Joel takes advantage – pouring his tongue into it, swirling and drinking you while his cock bottoms into you repeatedly until he can’t take it anymore. You feel too good. Perfect, even.

“Joel!” Your whine is high, as your wet folds take his merciless shoves. “You feel so good, youfeelsogood!” Your lip quivers, jerking in aftershocks that feel a lot like multiple orgasms. You aren’t even sure how you feel, but he knows he has to pull out. So he tells you, rough and pained against your ear. He doesn’t want to any more than you do. But as soon as he does, that reward feels just as sweet.

He exhales roughly through his nose, a popping sound filling the room when he pulls out. Not even needing to touch himself to spill himself over the small of your back.

“Fuck,” he’s out of breath, grunting, and doing his best not to collide into you. You’re still, the nape of your neck dews with sweat and you can feel it stick to your dress instantly.

“Stay there,” Joel pulls away, and you sit up on your elbows now that you’re fully flat and study his frame walk into the kitchen.

The back of him is just as irresistible as the front.

You hum hungrily at the landscape of his back. But you do as you say, you don’t move a muscle. When he comes back, you take note of the splotches of his chest, his neck red and sheened with sweat, too. He’s just as disheveled. The paper towel he comes back with is rough against your lower back, but tickles more than anything else.

Makes you wriggle and laugh.

“What did I say?” He threatens, but his voice is much more smoother and tender. More playful. More like what you’re used to.

“Tickles!”

“You must endure it if you know what’s good for you.” he’s finished enough for you to roll over. You pull your tits back into your bra with another low laugh, but to yourself at how exposed and a mess you’re sure you look on your professor’s couch.

“I think I like that threat.”

“No more,” and that makes your heart drop. He must be able to see the disappointed look on your face, so he rephrases his sentence in an instant. “No more tonight.”

“Maybe I should be teaching you the importance of ambiguity.”

“Next lesson.”

Your heart soars just as fast as it dropped.

---

While you slip on your sneakers, you turn your heel to him – bag in tow. “Listen, I don’t want this to be why I passed.”

“It’s not – it won’t be,” Joel chews up the space between you – his hand pressing against the doorframe that your delicate hand adorns at the knob, fully dressed himself, now. “You will pass by your own volition. I meant it – you are bright. You won’t let anybody take that from you, will you?” You knew that wasn’t a question as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but you still swayed your head ‘no’.

“Not even me.” He whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead before dropping his arm – allowing you to leave. And that’s exactly what he’ll let you believe.

“Especially not you.” You smile, leaning up to kiss his lips – your flavour lingers over his facial hair and tongue. Your panties in his pocket.

“Goodnight, Professor Miller.”

“Goodnight, doll.”

taglist: @cool-iguana – comment to be added!

#bee's requests #professor!joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x afab!reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou smut #joel miller requests #soft!dom joel #softdom!joel #professor au #professor joel miller au #tlou au #joel miller au #by bee

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rogueddie · 10 months

Text

Runner / End Of Beginning

Steve has never seen his father as upset, as furious, as he was when he got home with his final exam results. He'd known- suspected- that his father would flip when his results came in...

His father got angry at small things. Hearing that he'd had a party while they were away, that a girl went missing at that party, had been the closest Steve thought he'd ever get to recieving a beating.

But when he came home with his grades... when his father realized that his son, his supposed prodigy, barely passed...

Steve has never ran as fast as he currently is.

As soon as he'd seen an openning, a clear line to the door, he'd stumbled to his feet and bolted. He'd picked a random direction and ran. He isn't going to stop running until he physically has to stop, knowing that his father is most likely in his car, trying to find him.

He can't stop. He has to keep running.

Eventually, he has to pause. He has to catch his breath.

He leans against a trailer, panting. He prays that no one thinks to look outside and spot him. He prays that no one will-

"Harrington?"

"Fuck." He hisses, squinting up at- "Munson?"

"What the fuck happened to you?" He says, eyes widenning when he finally gets a look at his face. "Second round with Hargrove, or what?"

"Nothing happened, I'm fine."

Munson eyes him for a moment, frowning. "Is someone after you?"

"What do you care?" Steve heaves a deep breath, forcing himself to stand up straight. He brings his knees up in a few knee highs, gearing up for another sprint.

"Ugh. Just- you can come into my trailer," Munson says, sounding as though Steve is forcing him to make the suggestion. "No one would think to look for you there. You can, like... I don't know. Drink some water? You jocks do that, right?"

"Wh- I don't need your help!"

"I'm not waiting for you all day, come on, let's go!" He makes a wide, exaggerated gesture for Steve to follow.

"You just assume I'm gonna follow?"

"Yeah."

He sounds so confident, so sure, that Steve can't think to do anything other thank blink and say, "fuck it, yeah, alright."

Steve is a little surprised at how much space Eddies trailer has. It's cramped, but in a nice way- the way a home gets when people actually live in it. When the people inside are actually happy and chase those joys.

Munson does get him a glass of water, mumbling at him to "sit anywhere", before flopping onto the sofa himself. He turns the TV on, focusing on that.

"Thanks," Steve eventually mutters, awkwardly sitting down.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Sure."

"There isn't," he insists, despite how casual and accepting Munson is acting. "It's my fault, anyway. I deserved it."

"Did you?" Munson turns to him, eyebrow raised. "All us freaks and losers can talk about these days is your change of heart. King of Hawkins High turned lame boytoy."

"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better," Steve sneers.

"Even Jeff thinks you're alright now," he barrels on. "Said he bumped into you, pretty hard, knocked all your shit down, and you apologized. Said his coffee ended up on an essay, or something. Thought he was about to get his ass kicked and you just..."

He waves his hand at him, as though that's explination enough.

Steve doesn't know a Jeff, but he's pretty sure he knows who Munson is talking about, and; "I wasn't looking where I was going. If anything, we were both at fault."

"See?" Munson waves his hand at him again, a little more pointed. "Don't doubt you've got a long way to go, but you're not half-bad. You didn't deserve whatever the fuck happened to your face."

"Whatever."

They fall quiet, both pretending to watch whatever is on the TV. Steve is so zoned out that, when someone clears their throat, he flinchs.

"Sorry to startle you boys," the man chuckles. But the humor quickly teeters out, once he gets a good look at Steve. "You alright, kid?"

"I'm fine."

"He's not," Munson grins wide when Steve glares at him.

"Staying the night?" The man continues, only looking at Eddie now.

"If I can convince him," Munson shrugs.

"I can't stay the night," Steve tries.

"Good," the man nods, as though Steve hadn't said anything. "I'll start making us all some dinner." He finally looks to Steve. "You got any allergies?"

"I can't stay," Steve tries again, insisting.

"No," Munson answers for him. "No problems with meat either."

The man gives Munson a thumbs up, heading through to the kitchen.

"I can't stay," Steve repeats, turning to Munson. "Really. I have to go back or... I have to go back."

"What will happen if you don't go back?"

Steve grimaces. "Nothing. Just- I can't stay here."

"Why not? They gonna hit me too?"

"You know what, Munson? Yeah, probably. And your- your dad?"

"Uncle," Munson snorts, standing, stretching. "No one messes with us though. We're too scary." He wiggles his fingers in Steves face as he passes by. "And call me Eddie."

"Why?"

"It's my name."

Steve awkwardly follows him to the kitchen, hovering a good distance from the two of them, watch how they move around each other with so much comfort and ease. It makes something in Steves chest ache.

"Oh, hey, you like football right?" Eddie asks, pointing to him.

"Uh, yeah, kinda. Not enough to have, like, a team." Steve shrugs.

Wayne turns around slowly, eyebrows raised. "You don't got a team?"

Talking football with Wayne is so easy that, until he's halfway through the dinner he cooked, Steve doesn't notice how fast the time is going. He can't bring himself to be bothered though. It's too nice.

Plus, Eddie is almost bouncing with joy at how well Steve and Wayne are getting along.

Someone starts banging on the door, loud and aggressive, as they make their way to the kitchen.

"Alright!" Wayne calls, rolling his eyes. "Hold your horses."

Steves stomach drops when the door opens and his father is on the other side. He smiles at Steve, sickly sweet and dangerously calm.

"Oh, thank God," he sighs. "Steve, your mother and I have been looking all over for you. When you didn't get home-"

Wayne blocks his way when he tries to step inside. "Who are you?"

"Robert Harrington," Steves dad sniffs, leaning back so he can physically look down at Wayne. "I'm here for my son."

"He ain't here."

Robert Harrington splutters, face tinting red with anger and frustration. He points to Steve, voice raising as he says, "he's right there! And he's coming with me."

Wayne turns, slow and casual. "Huh. That's odd. Don't see him."

"Steve," he snaps his fingers at Steve, like he's a dog. "Come on. We're going home."

Eddie shifts so he's standing slightly in front of him.

It's enough reassurance for him to finally snap back; "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Steven-"

"Get off my property," Wayne snaps.

His father glares at them, waiting, as though he expects them to back down. When he doesn't, he snarls; "this is kidnapping."

"He's 18," Eddie drawls.

Grumbling, he stomps off.

"Asshole," Wayne mutters. He shuts and locks the door, sliding on the chain too.

Steve has to sit down, with how much his legs are shaking.

"You alright?" Eddie asks, hesitantly sitting beside him.

"Yeah," Steve says. He's surprised to find he means it. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You can stay here, long as you need," Wayne offers. "You'll have to bunk with Eds though. Not a lot of room."

"Why can't he use the sofa when you're-"

"Nope," Wayne cuts him off. There's a glint of mischief in his eyes that has Steve squinting in suspicion. "And you'll need those cuts looking at. Eddie, why don't you go with him. Medkits in the bathroom."

Steve goes ahead when Eddie points the way to the bathroom.

Eddie tries to give Wayne a warning look but he's unbothered and, with Steves back turned, he gives Eddie an encouraging wink.

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #steddie #steddie fic #ficlet #decideweekprompt #tw abuse #tw child abuse #better late than never

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minhosimthings · 6 months

Text

Prideful

Synopsis: You never thought that Lee Heeseung, the man who had proven you wrong in the subject you were best at, would be fucking you on the classroom floor, but here you were.

Pairings: Heeseung × fem!reader, sort of enemies hate sex, includes Sunoo from Enha, and Soojin

Warnings: Smut with plot in the beginning, MINORS DNI, fluffy in the beginning, mention of food, degradation, praise, fingering, oral (f receiving), sex on the floor, unprotected sex (not for you bubs), rough sex, overstimulation, swearing, Heeseung calls reader princess and doll, open ending my babies have fun with that

A/N: idea came into my brain and I thought I'd forget about it and just added it to my wip list but then I was like NOPE IMMA WRITE THIS SHIT. So this makes my third smut for Heeseung (idk why I'm writing only smut for him) enjoy it y'all

Jane Austen once wrote an entire fanfic about enemies to lovers, slow burn, and she thought no one would notice. Well almost no one. Nothing ever gets out of the eyes and pens of literature majors does it? Especially not out of hardcore Jane Austen fans like yourself.

You must have analysed that godforsaken piece of literature atleast a thousand times since you recieved it as a gift for your birthday. And every single time, you failed to understand how such a love could be possible. I mean come on, a man and woman who hate each other, falling in love with each other? Either Jane Austen must have been a reincarnation of Aphrodite, or a madwoman who still kept faith in love.

Your heart nearly exploded when your professor had assigned a full fledged essay-presentation, costing half your grade on Pride and Prejudice. "Explore your opinion!" She had called out cheerfully, "Tell me what your heart truly feels about this beautiful piece and I'll give you a full half grade and no assignments for the rest of the semester." The class gasped in excitement at her words as you pretended to be interested. Internally, you were groaning. Wasting half of your night to make a presentation about a book you hold no love for? The universe really was against you. You picked your books up dejectedly and walked towards the entrance, shoulders hunched and music at a higher level of noise than it should have been at.

"Oh shit!" You cursed, dropping your books at the sudden interruption. A flurry of blue wool flooded in your face, as you leaned down quickly to pick up your fallen books and phone. "I'm so sorry." You apologised not looking up at whoever you crashed into. "It's alright." A voice responded back, and you looked up to see him. Lee Heeseung. You had seen him a few times in class, heard him actually. With his pristine glasses, and his woolen sweaters, he was the definition of a movie nerd. He was actually smart, you had to admit, always quick to respond to the questions that you had no idea about. Best in the class after you, according to your professor. Although his choice of literature slightly weirded you out. You often spotted him sprawled out under a tree, holding Pride and Prejudice to his nose, deeply engrossed in taking in each word.

"Is that The Neighborhood you're listening to?" Heeseung asked, as he handed you your phone, which he had picked up before you had the chance to. "Do you have an ear for them?" You asked, taking the phone from him. His hands felt soft, like the first snow when you were eight. Heeseung shook his and chuckled. "I'm more of a Arctic Monkeys person." You smiled awkwardly and shuffled your feet. "To each his own then."

"Macbeth." Heeseung said, before you could escape from the conversation. "I'm sorry?" You questioned, confused at his sudden outburst. "That line's from Macbeth." Heeseung sent another smile your way, pushing his glasses up from his nose, "Polonius says it, 'To each his own'." You felt a pang of jealousy hit your chest. You didn't know where that line was from. Of course, what normal person would know the origin of a common idiom?

"Cool." Your laugh was not without a tint of awkwardness. "Well-" Heeseung shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "Bye then." "Bye." You bid each other goodbye and rushed off in opposite directions, not wanting to be stuck in another neverending loop of conversation.

"Don't tell me you actually talked with The Lee Heeseung." Your roommate Soojin laughed, accidentally smearing some turquoise nail polish onto your thigh. You quickly wiped it off with a tissue before frowning at Soojin. "It's not a big deal." You scoffed, having another slice of pizza, "I mean he's just a guy. Kinda nerdy actually"

Soojin burst out laughing again, this time shutting her nail polish close. She gasped for air as she pulled out her phone and showed you a picture of a what looked like a frat party. "Girl-" she got up from her leaning position, "Nerdy is the worst way to describe Lee Heeseung. I'm telling you-" she picked up the last slice of pizza, "-he's the playboy representative of this college."

"Oh come on." You scoffed again, getting up to go to the bathroom, "Stop joking around." Soojin shrugged her shoulders as you disappeared into the bathroom. "Whatever you say."

The next day, you strolled into your favourite cafe with your laptop, headphones, a copy of Pride and Prejudice, money in your pocket, a sketchbook, and a positive mindset. Always need one to write an essay right? You were thankful that it wasn't raining today like it had been for the past few weeks.

The cafe was mostly empty, with a few medical students drinking coffee to their death, as they always did. You walked up to the counter, where you saw your friend Sunoo, working his shift.

"Y/N hey!" He flashed his bright smile at you, putting down the glass he had been cleaning. "Hey sun." You clapped back, leaning in front of the counter, "The usual please." Sunoo nodded his head and started to prepare your drink. "So I've heard something." He put on his mischievous smile, one that he often wore when he had gossip on his fingers. "Please tell me it's not about that girl from Chem again." You sighed, as he put a coffee cup down in front of you. "No it's about you dumbass." Sunoo scoffed, taking the money you handed him, "I heard you bumped into Lee Heeseung." You let out a groan at his words, and quickly grabbed your drink, going off to sit in the corner. "Yah take your change!" Sunoo shouted after you to which you shouted back, "Keep it! Your broke ass needs it anyway!"

You didn't get the chance to see Sunoo giving you the stink eye, as you plopped down on the comfortable couch and opened up your laptop. You had prepared a few opening lines the night before, since you had learnt that doing half of an assignment on the day of the announcement is better than starting the next day. Whoever wrote that theory needs to clarify it to you, but hey never pass up a good study tip right?

Immersed by the clacking of the keyboard keys and the pretty syllables decorating your page, you were completely absent from the world around you. Until, you heard a familiar voice, which broke you out of your hypoxia.

Heeseung.

What was he doing here?, You thought, not realising that you were basically staring at him. He was dressed in full black today, a leather jacket adorning his broad shoulders. A single earing dangled from his right ear. He still had his glasses on, which were fogged up completely, courtesy to the weather outside. Chatting away sonderly to Sunoo, as Sunoo prepared his drink in a way familiar to you, Heeseung caught your eye. He waved joyfully to you, akin to a child waving to their best friend. You waved back, not aware of the face you were currently making.

"Hey!" Heeseung said, sitting down in the chair next to you, with his drink in hand, "Working up on the Pride and Prejudice thing?" There were atleast a million other seats empty in the cafe. Why did he have to sit next to you? You didn't really realise how handsome he was, until he was sitting face to face with you. The mere sunlight coming in from the windows seemed to illuminate his face well. "Oh yeah I am." You replied, shooting him a smile, "Same thing?" You asked, wanting to keep the conversation going. Heeseung smiled jovially at you and propped his laptop open. "Yep." He replied and glued his eyes to the screen as you went back to your own work. "The Neighborhood again?" He raised an eyebrow, peeking at your open Spotify. You smiled gently and replied, "Arctic Monkeys?" As if ticking a correct answer, Heeseung laughed and showed you his phone where 'Arabella' was playing. A pretty album cover, you thought, subtle and sleek. "To each his own then?" Heeseung said. You nodded and smiled in response, before dropping your head back down to your laptop.

An hour must have passed like this, both of you hypnotised in writing and editing, and downing the refills of coffee Sunoo was providing you with. You stole tiny glances at Heeseung from time to time. Concentration was a good face on him, his eyebrows furrowed, his hands typing away furiously at the keyboard. He didn't talk to you at all, except for the initial hey and hello. But something about the way he spoke to you in the beginning, about the way he asked if you had a pen, and about the way he said 'Hey you have an eyelash on your nose' made your stomach erupt into butterflies.

Heeseung left before you did and before leaving he had extended a hand out to you. "May the best essay win." He spoke, shaking your hand and showing you his smile. God he never stopped smiling did he? His hand was soft, as was his grip on yours. It felt like how your father would hold your hand when you were little on the crosswalk.

"Girl just ask him out." Sunoo called after you as you were about to leave, "The tension between both of you back there was almost poetic." Even though you laughed at Sunoo's quip, and denied the offer, a part of your mind lingered on Sunoo's words and the way Heeseung spoke to you that afternoon.

The days leading upto the hour of the presentation went fast. Too fast almost. Your mind went over your short conversation with Heeseung atleast a million times, sometimes distracting you from typing. You didn't know where all the red bull cans littered across your room came from, but you remember where you threw every single one of them and why. The presentation was perfect. It must have been checked by your eyes atleast a hundred times. Finally, a time was coming when you would be able to express your true feeling about it. Despise and Trouble ran through your veins as you walked up to the board as your professor called on you to present. The class seemed to hold a tight breath to themselves. Everyone knew you, teacher's pet, best at English, known for using the most difficult metaphores in her essays yet having a straightforward point.

"Shall I begin?" You asked your professor who gave a curt nod and leaned back in her chair, an expectant smile plastered on her face. You returned the smile and turned to your classmates, who seemed most interested in your essay.

"Well to begin with, as one does-" humor was always the best way to start off speeches, which was shown by the subtle laughter of the students, "-I would like to say that Pride and Prejudice may be one of the most despised books I have sitting in my bookcase." You heard gasps around the room as everyone started murmerring. Your professor leaned forward in her chair, her mouth pressed tightly to form a thin line. That's good, you thought, a good way to break into their corneas.

"While most people would disagree with me upon this apparent piece of art, I truly believe that this sort of a romance is highly impossible. And no-dont tell me that this is fiction and in the fictious worlds you can quote unquote 'do whatever you want'." The audience held their breaths back as you continued with your rant. Your professor was watching it all with a smile on her face, knowing that she couldn't disagree with you. After all, you had to present your own opinions no matter how opposite they were to everyone else's.

"Well-" you professor stood up from her chair, as you finished your presentation. It had been a 25 minute rant about the book and by now everyone seemed to be meekly looking at their own essays. "That was brilliant Y/N. Truly brilliant." You professor clapped you on the back, "I must say, you have a flair for arguing in a way no one can find counter-attacks. I wonder why you did not choose law as your major?"

"Because there is another argument to be discussed here."

A cold voice rang through the room, as you were about to laugh at the professor's quip. You spun around on your shoes to face the culprit.

Lee Heeseung.

"Heeseung!" Your professor delightfully responded clapping her hands together, "Well why don't you tell us your opinion then? And we'll see if Y/N can fire back." She sat in her chair again, looking positively delighted at the forthcoming, "A battle of the best wits perhaps!"

Heeseung smiled widely and stepped forward to where you were sitting, plopping down on the opposite chair. Your professor had always kept two chairs facing each other in front of her class, for debates, her reason sounded. And now, as you sat in front of Heeseung and his stupidly handsome smirk, you swore you were going to bring him down.

"First of firsts-" Heeseung began, as everyone's attention caught on you. "-your opinion is speaking from a highly biased perspective." "How so?" You fired back, before he could even breathe, "I had already stated in the beginning, about how this cannot be on a biased perspective, since fiction based in actual words cannot be this animated." Heeseung smiled again, which threw you off track a bit. God he's handsome, you thought, too handsome....

"Of course but must I remind you, that this book was perhaps the first out of many to start with the trope of enemies to lovers?" Why were his eyes like galaxies?, "Jane Austen invented an entire trope, which still remains a genius scan of literature to this day. How could you say it's too animated?"

"Yes but-"

"Furthermore-" Heeseung continued, not giving you the chance to breathe, "inventing new tropes does not break this 'law of literature' as you say. Since there was no law of literature to begin with. So please Miss Y/N-" he leaned forward, looking at you with dangerous eyes, "-don't you dare say that Pride and Prejudice is a worthless piece of literature just because it does not have proof of poetry."

The class let out a breath as you sat frozen in your seat. Someone actually breaking your argument was a first for you.

God, his hair. His pretty curly hair.

You didn't realise how long you'd been staring at Heeseung with widened eyes until your professor clapped her hands together again.

"Well then!" She said cheerfully, effectively breaking you out of your stupor, "I believe this goes for grading both of you an A+. Half of your grade is filled you two! Congratulations!" The class broke out into applause as you thanked her and awkwardly shook hands with Heeseung as the bell rang loudly. "Well class I'll be seeing you next time!" Your professor announced, as everyone started filing out. "Oh Y/N, Heeseung a moment please?"

You stopped your feet from stepping out the door and immediately spun around, marching off towards your professor, seeing Heeseung doing the same. "Yes Professor Kim?" Heeseung responded with those stupid puppy eyes of his before you could. Professor Kim smiled gently at both of you, before pulling out her tablet.

"I need a bit of help from both of you. It'll be sort of a favour to you too." She handed you the tablet, which had a sort of letter open on it. Heeseung leaned from behind you, and put his chin on your shoulder, making your stomach feel clammy. He smelled good too, you thought, like fresh paper.

"An event is being hosted by our Dean for all majors." Professor Kim smiled, "Sort of a career booster you could say. We were instructed to pick two students from our classes to have the assignment of checking essays, and documentations and whatnot pertaining to their majors."

"And you chose to pick us Ma'am? I'm flattered." Heeseung chuckled, as Professor Kim laughed to his quip. "Well you two are my best students." She drawled, "So the assignment I'm giving you is-" she pulled out a huge stack of papers from beneath her desk. It shocked you how quickly they appeared out of nowhere, like magic. "-these are all essays collected by last year's class. I want you to go through them, give them a good critic, and grade them according to you. You will personally grade each one, taking each other's help of course,since it's a group project. And it will lend you a helping hand since you'll be getting a certificate which you can use to get into any company you'd like!"

You and Heeseung glanced at each other and we're relieved to see the same excited expression face back at them. This was a rare opportunity, a diamond of the first water you'd say. And you had to grab it, even If that meant it was with a person you despised with your entire being.

"I'll do it Professor!" You replied positively to which Heeseung also nodded frantically as if to say the same thing. "Great!" Professor Kim clapped her hands together again, "Oh and one rule is you two have to work together in this classroom. Since the Dean wants to provide you with an opportunity to see how workplace relationships doon out."

Your heart dropped to your stomach as you heard her words. You, working with Heeseung in an empty classroom? You would rather have praised Pride and Prejudice.

"Here, the keys." Professor Kim handed you and Heeseung a pair of keys, "You can work in the evening if you want. But make sure to complete it as soon as you can alright? Oh and you can skip classes if you want to do this first, since the Dean is prioritising this before anything else." You nodded in response to her instructions and bowed her goodbye as you and Heeseung walked out.

"So-" Heeseung stuffed his hands in his pockets, "You wanna work on this shit tonight?" "Unless you have any other appointments, sure we can work on it tonight." You responded, coldly, not looking at him in the eye. "Alright then." Heeseung scoffed, "Meet you here at 8?" "Alright." The end of your conversation came a little too fast, you thought, but you couldn't stand looking into his pretty little eyes and talking to him, as if he didn't just embarrass you infront of your entire class a few minutes ago. "Y/N wait!" Heeseung called, running up to you, as you were about to exit the building. "What?" You spun around to face him. "Shouldn't we exchange numbers first?" Heeseung handed you his phone, which had his contact list open. "Why? So you can take me out on a date later?" You shot at him. A smirk tugged on the corner of Heeseung lips, but he resisted, not wanting to anger you more. You looked cute when you were angry in his opinion. "No. Maybe incase you were murdered by someone on the way here, I can call you and scold you on why tardiness is a childish thing to do." Heeseung joked. You smiled sarcastically at him as you handed him his phone back, having typed in your number. "Eight o'clock princess don't you forget now."

Tick tock tick. The clock's quiet sons echoed through the empty class. 'Don't forget.' you scoffed, 'And he's the one who's late.' The time on your watch sounded 8:30 and yet Heeseung wasn't here. You had given up waiting for him, and started on the assignment yourself, already finishing two of the army of papers. You were a hard critic, and it clearly showed in the way you were seeping your eyes through the ink.

"Soojin he's late! I can't come back now!" Your roommate had called you, in the midst of your third paper, complaining about a cockroach in the room. "Just call your boyfriend, and don't be such a pussy it won't hurt you." You scoffed at Soojin, whose scared whimpers were heard clearly through the phone.

"How's the checking going?" Soojin asked, having seemingly calmed down. You groaned and leaned back in your chair, wincing at the crack of your backbone. Your back must have become stiff from the amount of time you had been sitting in that chair. You felt pity for your professors for the first time, having finally been in their shoes.

"Heeseung's not here yet and I'm literally so fed up right now." You complained to Soojin, "That handsome bastard told me not to be late, and now look where I am! Asshole seriously." "He'll turn up, cool down Y/N." Soojin soothed you. You heard a sound of crashing in the background and stifled a laugh, assuming that Soojin must have miraculously jumped from one bed to the other. "I told you he's a playboy." Soojin panted through the phone, "Maybe he's busy fucking some poor girl in his frat house." You rolled your eyes at her statement.

"Please." You scoffed, "He couldn't fuck a girl if he wanted to, with the tiny ass cock he has." Soojin let out a raucous laugh from the other side of the phone. "How the fuck do you know he has a tiny cock?" She chuckled. "Intuition baby." You responded, "And my intuition is never wrong."

"Like how it was on the day of our debate?"

A familiar voice again. But this time, the warmth in it wasn't present. You whipped your head around to the door, where Heeseung stood, leaning against the door and smirking. "Soojin I'll call you back." You cut the call, before Soojin could respond.

"Hey." You called out to Heeseung. "Hey." Heeseung shot back, sitting down on the chair in front of you, spreading his legs wide. An involuntary gulp went through your throat. "What were you saying princess?" He leaned forward, his shirt dropping down slightly, "I have a tiny what now?" The dim lighting of the room, made his eyes look dark, and the leather of his black jacket, gleam more. "I- I wasn't saying anything Heeseung." You responded, turning your chair back to the desk, warmth coming up on your cheeks. Heeseung cocked his head to the side and smirked at your flustered state.

"Really princess?" He smirked, edging closer to you. The smell of his cologne filled your nostrils again. His glasses dropped on his nose, and he hadn't even bother to push them back up. "Heeseung just get to work." You sternly responded, trying to keep your cool. How could you though? When he was so close to you, lips almost touching your ear. "For you information-" Heeseung spoke, turning your attention away from the paper you were working on, "-I had a friend who needed a lift to his dorm, so I ran a little late. But you couldn't wait for me could you princess?" He smirked, laying his hand on top of yours, "Just couldn't wait to critique all those papers like the good girl you are." "He-Heeseung." "Shh don't." Heeseung shushed you, "You want to see how tiny of a cock I really have then hmm?"

"Heeseung we shouldn't." You hesitated, feeling your legs warm up. "No one's gonna know, as long as you don't make a noise alright?" He kissed your neck gently, turning your figure to his, still sitting in the chair. "Oh princess, already wet for me?" He chuckled, toying with the button of your shirt. "Heeseung-" you moaned out, quickly unbuttoning your shirt, as Heeseung took off his jacket and threw it on the desk. You pulled back slightly as your mind came to its proper senses. "Where are you going doll?" Heeseung questioned, hands resting on your thigh, squeezing it from time to time, "Don't worry princess, no one's gonna know."

Heeseung brings his lips down to yours in an instant, wasting no time. You gasp at his sudden actions and he takes advantage of that by entering his tongue into your mouth. You grab at his shoulders while he cups your jaw with both of his hands. Your hands reach his hair, softly tugging at the root and you hear him whine. Heeseung sucks on your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth and pulling it back to look at you. You look up at him and he takes your face in his hands.

“You wanna see my cock baby?” Heeseung asks in a teasing tone as he looks down at you. You could feel the throb in his pants press against your legs as you whimper. “Hee please.” You whine, squirming as he places a kiss between your breasts. Heeseung runs his hands up and down the sides of your body. If he was going to fuck you on the classroom floor right there and then, you were going to let him.

“Oh, you're feeling extra polite today huh? Please, Heeseung.” Heeseung mocks you with a tiny laugh. You groan in embarrassment and hide your face with your hands. Heeseung just lets out another laugh and wraps his hands around your wrists, prying them away from your face. He transfers both of your wrists to one hand, holding them over your head as he uses his other hand to trail his fingers down your body.

“Don’t hide your pretty face now, princess.” Heeseung says nonchalantly as he dips a hand inside your leggings and panties to feel your dripping cunt. His glasses were beginning to fog up slightly as he whipped them off of his face, setting them down on the desk. You clench around nothing when you feel his middle finger dip into your wetness and bring it up to your clit, rubbing slow circles around it. You moan softly as Heeseung teases your clit, never taking his eyes off of your face.

Heeseung begins to rub your clit faster, and you buck your hips up into his fingers. You hear him laugh at your eagerness and he presses soft kisses into your neck. Heeseung takes his fingers off of your clit and he snaps the waistband of your trousers against your pelvis.

“Dirty girl. Never thought you'd be like this.” Heeseung says with a smirk and you dumbly nod your head. The sounds of your heavy breathing and your pussy squelching around his fingers make your legs begin to shake.

Heeseung spits on your cunt to lubricate it even more, and that's what makes you come undone. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, sucking them in as he fingers you through your orgasm.

Heeseung takes his time kissing down your body, letting your need and desperation build by the second. He tugs one nipple and then the other into his mouth, suckling at the perky nubs and massaging your areola between his lips. Your hips are trembling with anticipation, the space between your legs aching to feel Heeseung's kiss.

Stars hover over you, or at least, that’s how it feels. Your eyes are closed, awareness cut off to the world around you except the place Heeseung's face is buried. He devours your cunt like a man starved, swallowing you whole. Heeseung doesn’t come up for air; he doesn’t need to, because all he breathes is you. Your back is arched and arms stretched forward, fingers clutching Heeseung’s hair in fistfuls.

Your thighs are shaking, reflexively clamping around Heeseung's’s face. He keeps forcing them open, demanding full access to your cunt, even as you buck and claw and convulse. Your mouth hangs open in a stupor; a thin line of drool trickles down your cheek and connects to the cold floor beneath you.

Heeseung laps at your slit like he’s never tasted you before, like he never will again. His tongue pads between your lips, upward strokes that end with the tip of his tongue flicking your clit with a firm intensity that has you reeling. Tugging at his hair, trying not to scream his name incoherently, you ride out the longest orgasm you’ve ever had. Tears burn the corners of your eyes, stars bursting in the black sky of your vision. Heeseung doesn’t stop licking your cunt till you release his hair.

“M’gonna fuck you now, okay?” Heeseung says sweetly and you nod your head. He runs his hard cock through your folds, and he catches your clit, making you jerk a little. Heeseung slowly begins to push himself into you and you throw your head back against the hard material of the desk.

“Fuck, knew you’d be tight when I felt you around my fingers.” Heeseung grits out, and he continues to push himself into you until he bottoms out. He starts to move at a slow pace, and he whines when you beg him to move faster. “Fucking whore. Bet you think about me fucking you in class don't you?” Heeseung spits out as he pushes himself harder and deeper into your sloppy cunt. You moan at his words, and you try to reply but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper.

“Hee, I’m gonna cum.” You cry out, and you clench around Heeseung's fat cock.

“ Cum for me princess.” Heeseung. moans out, fucking into you so deep, a ring of your cum and his has formed at the base of his cock. You run your fingers through his hair, harshly tugging on it as you come undone at his expense. Heeseung buries his face into your neck as he cums, sucking at your pulse point. You feel his cum shoot into you and it only prolongs your own orgasm.

After a couple minutes of you two catching your breath, Heeseung takes his face out of your neck and plops down in the chair, pulling you onto his lap. You sit there, dazed for a few seconds, burrowing your head in his chest, his heartbeat reminding you where you were.

"Well that was a whirlwind of emotions." He says at last, when you start to stir from your hypnosis, "You good doll?" You nod slightly and feel Heeseung's arms wrap around you, putting you safely down on the chair, as he put his clothes back on, slowly picking up yours as well.

"Heeseung the assignments." You panic, as he puts your shirt back on you. "It's alright princess." He coos at you, wrapping an arm around your waist, "We can do that in the morning. Let's get you home." He guides you slowly out the door. "So-" he smirks, locking the classroom with his key "Same time, same place tomorrow?"

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nataliesfirefly · 1 month

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chapter 1 - new year, same rivalry

a/n: hello! i’m back finally! super excited for this series, it’s definitely going to be more wholesome than my other one, and more of a slow burn! my plan is to have ten chapters, but that could change later on.. anyways enjoy and please tell me what you think! if you would like to be put on the series taglist, let me know! ♥️

chapter warnings: slight language

wc: 3.8k

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“Welcome, year twelves. It’s lovely to see you all today, I recognize some familiar faces. My name is Mrs. Chasteen, I’ll be your teacher for English studies this year.” You set your bag down and take a seat, glancing up at the woman speaking. She’s very elegant, with her grey hair pulled into a strict bun and sophisticated tiny rectangle glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. You smooth out your black pleated skirt before crossing your legs.

“As I’m sure you all know, this year is very important. You should be considering which universities you wish to apply to, how you would like to further your education…” Your attention is side tracked when a tall figure hurries into the room, his dark eyes scanning for an open seat. You swear your heart drops to your stomach. Farleigh.

His eyes eventually fall onto you after spotting the empty seat next to you. He reluctantly walks over and sits down next to you with a big sigh, like he’s just put off by your existence. At least the feeling’s mutual.

“Your grades need to be in top shape this year, as they will determine your chances of getting into university. This year is arguably the most important for grades,” Mrs. Chasteen explains, pacing around slowly. You shift uncomfortably, scooting away from Farleigh. It’s like he’s trying to take up space on purpose as he splays his books and papers across the table. You shoot him an ungrateful look which he ignores.

“Now, enough about all that. I’m going to introduce the book that we will be studying closely this term.” You perk up at her words as she goes to her desk, picking a book up off the surface.

“This book is found on many, many reading lists for universities, namely Oxford.” You raise an eyebrow and sit up at the mention of your dream school. “A classic from the Victiorian era: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.” She holds up the book briefly and you let out a relieved sigh. “One of my personal favorites,” She adds quietly, setting the book back down.

Farleigh nudges you with his shoulder and you have to stop yourself from physically recoiling. “Would’ve thought you’d already read this by now,” He mutters with a slight smirk on his face, showing his teeth like a fox. Suddenly, a question enters your mind and now you have to ask, though you might come off as insecure. “Have you?” You whisper back, eyebrows furrowed. He shakes his head. “No.”

Okay, good. That would have been bad if he had already read it. It’s always nice at the start of the year. You’re both even, and no one’s ahead of each other in anything. Yet.

“We’ll be discussing and taking assessments over the chapters, so be certain to keep up with your reading. For your final project before winter break once we finish the book, you will be writing an essay based off of it and a prompt that I will give you. I will also be pairing you up with someone to collaboratively write said paper with.” Your eyes widen at this. A group project? Well, not a group. A duo. Nevertheless, it’s weird for two people to write an essay together. You’ve never heard of it.

“You need to learn how to critique each other and work together. It’s an important skill for uni.” Mrs. Chasteen seems to notice everyone’s looks of confusion. “Hmm,” Farleigh hums. You glance over to him shortly before observing the other students in your class. You recognize a lot of them. Just accquaintances, not friends.

“Anywho. Please come and grab a copy, then sign the sheet so I know you received one.” You quickly stand up and head over to her desk. You want to make a good first impression. But Farleigh and his stupid long legs make it there before you do, charming Mrs. Chasteen with a bright smile.

“Hello. I’m Farleigh. I’m absolutely thrilled to be taking your class,” He holds out his hand, speaking with his velvety voice while your teacher shakes his hand with a curt nod. “You’re quite tall,” She remarks with an impressed expression. You roll your eyes. Why does everyone feel the need to comment on his height? Does it make him better than everyone else? It’s just one more thing that makes Farleigh stand out more than you, and you hate that. You miss what he responds with due to your bitter thoughts.

“Please, take a book.” She steps back and gives him more space. He reaches down and takes a copy off of her desk, signing the paper shortly after with his free hand, writing in flawless cursive. You’re envious of how smoothly and quickly he can connect the letters. It looks like something out of a scroll from the eighteenth century.

“Oh, wonderful cursive,” Mrs. Chasteen clasps her hands together in approval and Farleigh just glances at you with a shit-eating grin before walking off and back to your shared table.

“Hi there,” You put on your best I’m very high achieving and hard working smile and mimic Farleigh’s actions, holding out your hand as you introduce yourself. She smiles back warmly while shaking your hand. “What a beautiful name. I’ve heard many great things about you from your previous teachers.” She almost lowers her voice. You feel your face heat up and you try not to show your pride.

“Oh, well then, I hope I live up to your expectations, miss.” You say with a beaming smile. She chuckles and hands you a book. “I’m certain you will,” She replies as you sign your name on the sheet of paper in slightly sloppier cursive, looking worse underneath Farleigh’s perfect signature.

You walk back to your spot with a spring in your step, holding your head high. Hearing just those few words from your new teacher’s mouth made your day. That’s how badly you crave academic validation. Or just… validation in general.

“You hear that?” You ask, returning his grin from earlier. “Hear what?” He asks, raising an eyebrow and turning to you with a confused expression. “Nevermind.” You don’t know why you thought he would’ve heard your conversation from all the way over here. “Mmm,” He hums in response, and there’s some attitude in his tone. You debate whether you should come up with a snarky question to ask him, but you decide against it.

Once all the books are handed out, Mrs. Chasteen walks up to the whiteboard and uncaps a marker. “So, can anyone tell me something interesting about Emily Brontë?” She asks.

Both of your hands shoot up at the same time. You mentally curse at Farleigh and shoot him an annoyed side glance. He returns the favor. Mrs. Chasteen notices this and raises her eyebrows. “Eager to answer, are we?” She chuckles and then looks around. “Anyone else?”

You glance around the room. No one else is raising their hands, they’re all just looking expectantly at you and Farleigh. You look back to your teacher with wide eyes, willing her to pick you.

“Alright then..” Mrs. Chasteen clears her throat. Her eyes land on you. She’s going to pick you. Yes. Now you can prove your intelligence and superiority to the rest of the class, and to Farleigh.

“Farleigh.” Your hand drops back down to your side in defeat and he turns to look at you. He just winks. He winks. The annoying fuck, you could probably strangle him right now-

“Well, Emily wasn’t the only poet and writer in her family. Her sister, Charlotte, wrote Jane Eyre, which was hugely successful. But Wuthering Heights was critiqued for being too clumsy or, rather, not well structured.” He explains, sounding like a fucking Britannica article. It was the exact thing you were going to say, and it pisses you off. You rest your elbows against the desk and put your chin in your hands, sighing dejectedly.

Mrs. Chasteen nods and writes this on the board, summing up the information into bullet points. “Correct. Very good.” She caps the marker again and turns back to the class. You raise your hand quickly, and she calls your name.

“I think Farleigh’s forgetting to mention Anne Brontë. She was probably the least popular out of the three sisters, but her works are seriously underrated. Her last novel, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, was one of the first feminist novels. She paved the way for other female authors and gave women a voice.” You explain, and Mrs. Chasteen looks surprised at your level of knowledge. You can feel Farleigh’s bristling energy next to you. You smile contentedly, watching as your teacher writes what you said about Anne off to the side.

“And have you read this book?” Farleigh suddenly asks. You turn to face him, unafraid of his challenging. “No, I have not. But I did a project over the Brontë sisters last year, and my research went quite in depth.” You explain, and he does one of those Olympic winning eyerolls. “Having extra information like that comes in handy, you know,” You grin as his eyebrows furrow, glaring sharply at you. “It’s not like it matters. We’re not even talking about Anne. She asked about Emily.” It seems like you two have forgotten completely about the rest of the students in the room, the teacher, and everything else in the world as you begin to argue. It just comes naturally.

“If I’m not mistaken, you mentioned Charlotte. She asked about Emily,” You mock him. He opens his mouth to say something back, then closes it and looks down.

“Alright.. anywho, now we’re going to read a short introduction to the book to give you all an idea of what you’re getting into.” Mrs. Chasteen explains, giving you and Farleigh a stern look.

Throughout the rest of the class, you and Farleigh remain silent and refuse to speak to each other, though you were instructed to discuss with the person next to you. You look out the stained glass window, watching the raindrops patter onto the cobblestone, the puddles illuminated by the golden light shining from the lanterns, the chatter around you drowned out by your own thoughts about the rest of today.

Your overthinking is interrupted by your teacher’s voice.

“Okay everyone, that’s it for today. I will see you all tomorrow. Could you two stay for a moment, please?” She turns to you and Farleigh as you’re gathering your things, gesturing for you two to come up to her desk. You both glance at each other before nodding and heading over after you’ve swung your bag over your shoulder.

“So… you two seem very.. competitive. You’re both very intelligent, make no mistake.” You wonder where she’s going with this. “Which makes me curious– May I ask which universities you two intend on applying to?”

“Oxford.” You both say at the same time, after which you immediately turn to each other with wide eyes. What? No. It can’t be. You’re seriously fucked if he applies to Oxford. They rarely ever take two people from the same school.

“You’re applying to Oxford?!” You both ask, once again, at the same time. He looks almost personally offended by you, with his upper lip pulled up and his eyebrows knitted together in a familiar scowl.

“Oh- Haha, well. What a coincidence,” Mrs. Chasteen chuckles nervously, glancing back and forth. “I went to Oxford. It was quite lovely there, and the professors–”

“No, you can’t. I’m applying to Oxford.” You point at yourself, and he scoffs. “Who says I can’t?” Farleigh asks, his voice dripping with sass. “Me.” You reply. He rolls his eyes and facepalms with exasperation.

“Well, the chances of you both getting in aren’t… impossible. If they see two exceptionally good students who are at the top of their class, they won’t mind if you’re from the same school. They only see the talent,” She goes on to explain, trying to stop an argument from breaking out again.

“Logically, they would pick the top student, though. Not students,” You emphasize the s at the end of students. Mrs. Chasteen continues. “You never know. And backup universities are a great option, if–”

“I appreciate the suggestion, but I’ll only be applying to Oxford. It’s Oxford or nothing,” You reply, your voice full of determination. “Me too. Oxford’s been my dream uni since I moved here from the states,” Farleigh adds. You turn to glare at him and he glares right back.

“Well then. That’s fine, just please try not to take up any more class time with your bickering.” She raises her eyebrows at you two. You nod. “Yes, miss.”

“And who knows,” She says, pushing her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose, “You two might work better together. Two smart brains are better than one,” You shudder at the word together. You and Farleigh working together? Absolutely not.

“Think about it.” She points a finger and you reluctantly nod, just to give her some temporary satisfaction. “You’re excused,” She dips her head and you hear Farleigh let out a little sigh of relief. “Thank you, miss. Have a good day,” He nods shortly to her before turning on his heel and heading for the door. You follow suit.

Shit. You forgot about the rain. Before English class, you had made it inside before the downpour had really started. Now the raindrops covered every inch of the ground. You have to cross the courtyard to get to your next class, which is in the west wing of the school. You awkwardly stand in the arched corridor, listening to the rain, slightly shivering as you try to make a decision. The weather is always bipolar in London. It’s September, and the other day it was sweltering. Now it’s freezing and rainy.

Farleigh turns around and raises an eyebrow at your hesitation. “What are you doing?” He asks. You glance down. He’s holding a black umbrella. How is he always prepared for everything?

“Well I don’t have an… umbrella,” You mumble, gesturing to the one in his hand. “Am I supposed to care?” He replies. Of course. Why did you think he would care?

“You asked me what I was doing,” You throw your hands up. “I was answering your question!” You exclaim angrily. He rolls his eyes. “What’s your next class?” He asks hesitantly.

You pull out the small yet important paper from your pocket with your classes on it, looking down and squinting. “Biology,” You reply, looking up and watching all the other students bustling around, chatting excitedly or holding umbrellas over their head as they walk through the courtyard. You look back to Farleigh, who seems to be thinking something over in his head.

“Alright, c’mon.” He nods to you, walking out into the open area, holding up the umbrella. You step forward without questioning it, just thankful for the rare act of kindness. “I’m headed to the west wing anyway,” He says as you walk side by side, as if he has to make it clear that this is not him being generous to you. It’s simply convenient.

You wish you didn’t have to stay so close to him, but if you want to be covered fully from the rain, you sort of have to get closer to him, your head brushing against his shoulder due to your almost embarrassing height difference and your feet almost tripping over his. You both remain silent, with only the sound of the rain pelting against the umbrella to keep you company.

You eventually reach the west corridor, and he’s quickly stepping away from you and wrapping up the umbrella. You begin walking to go find your class, before you hear his voice call after you.

“No ‘thank you’ or anything?” He asks. You turn around and groan internally. “...Thank you.” You respond, very reluctantly and quietly. “You’re welcome,” He smiles sarcastically and you roll your eyes before turning back around, quickening your pace to make it to your class on time.

A week later, your first calculus assessment of the year is already upon you. It doesn’t help that you share that class, of all classes, with Farleigh. Math has always been your most difficult subject. You’ve never been quick to understand it, it never comes naturally for you. But if you put in the time and work, you can make it seem like it’s effortless.

Apparently for Farleigh, it is effortless. He makes it clear that he never studies for tests or quizzes. While it infuriates you, you also find it hard to believe. How can he ace everything when he claims he doesn’t even try?

You sit down at your desk, fishing your pencil and calculator out from your bag. You nervously chew on the eraser, waiting for the papers to be passed out.

“First assessment of the year, good luck everyone. If you fail, there will be no corrections, so hopefully that makes you feel better,” Mr. Bailey says as he passes out the tests. His sarcasm somehow only makes the situation worse. You spent hours studying for this last evening, although he claimed this was all ‘mostly a review’ from your precalculus class last year. Right. Review. You should know this stuff by now.

As soon as the paper is on your desk, you begin working, starting with the problems you know how to solve. You get in that zone, completely unbothered by your surroundings or any distractions, just working, switching between writing down numbers and formulas to typing into the calculator.

You get stumped on a question and glance up to check the time. Your eyes wander from the clock over to Farleigh, who seems completely relaxed, one hand running through his hair and fiddling with his dark curls and the other working a problem out.

“Eyes on your own tests, please,” Mr. Bailey sternly calls out. Your eyes dart over to him, where he sits behind his desk, his gaze directly upon you. Fuck. Now he’s going to think you were cheating. But what were you actually doing? Staring at Farleigh? No. You were just… observing. You go back to your test, flipping the paper over to start the graphing section.

“That’s time. Pencils down, I’ll come by to pick up your papers.” Mr. Bailey announces, standing up and starting down the rows of desks and picking up everyone’s tests. He says something to Farleigh but you can’t make it out, but you see Farleigh grin. It seems that Mr. Bailey has already chosen his favorite student. You never even stood a chance.

Once he makes it to your row and picks up your test, you begin to pack up your things. “I’ll have these graded by tomorrow. Please don’t complain to me if you fail. That’s on you.” You scoff quietly at your teacher’s harsh remarks as you make your way to the door. Thank God that was your last class of the day. Now you can head back to your dorm.

Farleigh falls into step next to you. “So, how’d that go for you?” You stare straight ahead, focusing on the path ahead of you. “Good. Honestly, it was easier than I expected.” You reply. It’s half truth. It was slightly easier than you were preparing yourself for, but you usually prepare yourself for the worst. But you can’t let him know that you still struggled.

“Really. Hmm,” He hums, and you glare up at him. “What?” You study his expression. He must think you’re lying, based on his little smirk and raised eyebrows. “Nothing. It’s just… we both know math is not your strong suit,” He pauses and you stop next to him. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be good at it.” You scowl up at him and he just grins.

“Unlike you, I actually study.” You continue walking, hoping he’ll leave you alone, but he follows you. “Aw, you actually need to study? Sad.” He pouts and you actually feel the urge to strangle him.

You turn around abruptly and he stops in his tracks. “Alright. Lovely talking with you. Bye!” You wave with a fake smile. Farleigh looks a bit surprised by your reaction. There’s only so much of his insults you can take.

“Bye,” He quietly mutters as you turn back around, walking quicker and more determined, putting some confidence into your step.

You groan and flop onto your bed once you enter your dorm. Suddenly, you realize how sleepy you are as your eyelids feel heavy You cover your face with a pillow and sigh, wishing you could rest. It sounds wonderful. But you have work to do. Reading, studying, the list goes on.

You chose this boarding school because you heard it was most similar to the Oxford experience, campus wise. It was also named the most prestigious secondary school in London. You often become very homesick, though, and you long for the comfort of your parents and your real home. At least it’s preparing you for university.

You groan once again into the pillow before sitting up and pushing the idea of sleep away. It’s time to get to work.

The next day, you wait to get your calculus test back. Mr. Bailey is handing them out while you overthink and prepare yourself for a failing grade. What would you do if you actually failed? You think you would rather be pushed off of a tall building than receive an F on a test.

Suddenly, a paper lands on your desk. You quickly glance down and see ‘97.5’ written in red ink at the top of the paper. Your eyes widen and you feel relief wash over you. Thank the Lord. You grin and pick up your test, inspecting it closer and going over your errors.

You hear someone coming up behind you. You quickly flip your paper over, hiding the grade from whoever is lurking over your shoulder. But it’s too late.

“Not bad…” A deep, American voice chuckles quietly. You turn around in your chair, and to no surprise, Farleigh is standing there with his arms crossed. He’s already seen your grade.

“Stop looking at my grades,” You hiss. “Relax, I was just curious.” He smirks at your frustration and holds up his own test. You see a ‘98’ scrawled up at the top along with a ‘good job’ next to it. You huff in response, turning back around.

“That’s not even much better than mine,” You mutter. “What’s that?” He asks, leaning over your shoulder, his breath ghosting over your neck. You shiver and remain silent, unable to repeat yourself for some reason.

“Sorry, who got the better grade?” Farleigh questions, his voice lowered. You let out a small sigh, ready to admit your defeat. “You.” You reply quietly.

“Right.” And then he’s gone, probably heading back to his own desk. What a bitch. You roll your eyes and pinch the space between your eyes, shaking your head. Yeah, he got .5 more points than you, and it doesn’t seem like much. But for Farleigh, it’s a huge win. But you’ll get him back. You always do. And you’re going to be the one who makes it into Oxford, you are sure of it.

#farleigh start #farleigh start x reader #farleigh x reader #farleigh x you #farleigh saltburn #saltburn #dark academia #academic rivals

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rosewaterandivy · 1 year

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2. make plans to break plans

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumass reader

Warnings: no use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of high school, cursing, dumb group chats & contact names, references to Vine memes, mention of a broken engagement, sad girl hours

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.1K of Steve and Reader’s ~feelings~; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

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Then - Fall term, November

The end of the day finds you hunched over your keyboard, furiously typing back a reply to some helicopter parent. You blow out a puff of breath and hit ‘send’ as your door creaks open.

“Hey,” Steve greets pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He sets his hydroflask down on your desk with a clang and leans against a nearby desk. “You ready?”

“Yeah, gimme just a sec,” you say, logging off for the day. Turning back to your desk, you give him a small smile and shove a few things into your backpack. On Tuesdays and Thursdays the two of you worked at Tiger Library, aka extended tutorial sessions in the library. The extra pay was decent and it allowed you both time to keep up with any grading or lesson planning that had gone neglected during the week.

You rearrange a few items on your desk before swiping a stack of essays to hopefully grade. Steve hits the lights after you, while you nudge the door open with your hip, elbow pressing down on the door handle and balance a backpack dangerously close to slipping from your shoulder.

“Gimme,” he tuts, index finger looping around the strap sliding from your arm, “S’okay, I got it.”

You hum in assent, turning to take the stairs down to the first floor, Steve hot on your heels. “Thanks,” you try to keep your voice level and impassive passing through the corridor. Steve keeps a respectful distance as you stride through the doors of the library.

Something is wrong, but he can’t guess as to what. You’d been off all week; since your weekend bender, really. Nance had dropped you back at The Hideout to get your car and once she’d returned she beelined directly to her room and didn’t say a word.

Nancy rarely has such a visceral reaction to anything, so whatever you had divulged to her was enough to crack the surface of her rage. Having been on the receiving end of it before, Steve knows it’s endless.

But the question remains, why haven’t you said anything to him? You’re friends, thick as thieves and have been for god knows how long. Yes, you’re an unfiltered, oblivious dumbass with poor emotional regulation skills, and he hates that at times. But you are his friend; and Steve currently wants to throttle himself for allowing you to go radio-silent for the better part of a week.

He sighs, for what feels like the millionth time today, he’ll let you be.

For now.

Students have claimed tables and chairs for the evening, notebooks and laptops scattered here and there. Chairs pulled up as teens arranged themselves amongst their cliques, catching up on the latest gossip since the final bell rang.

Making quick work of Vickie’s computer you set up shop, decidedly ignoring her post-it reading ‘Dumb & Dumber - don’t mess with my shit!’ Steve slides in the circulation desk behind you, depositing your backpack at your feet. Silently, you prize the post-it from the monitor with two fingers and pass it to Steve who reads it with a snort.

He snaps a quick photo to send to the ‘elite meeting’ group chat and tosses it into the trash. Queueing up the collaborative playlist for the night, you call out, “Okay team, this is our final Humanities night at Tiger Library before the fall break, so you know the drill.”

The students turn to the circulation desk, conversations falling to a murmur. Steve crosses his arms and leans back against the built-in bookshelf, he gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “Ask either of us a math or science question and you will be vacated from the premises.”

A few laughs and snickers ring out here and there.

“Yeah,” you concur, “Harrington will suplex you into next week and I’ll post it to the school’s socials.”

That shuts them right up.

“Furthermore,” you continue, “The collab playlist is live for tonight and if any of you turkeys forces me to listen to anything that would make your friends and parents ashamed to know you,” you pause, eyeing a few kids menacingly, “I will force everyone present to listen to ska for the rest of the session. Got it?”

Steve shudders and shakes his head, “That is not an idle threat, by the way. She’s done it before and it was god awful.”

Announcements made, you and Steve sign off on a few seat-time papers for the credit recovery kids and settle in for the night. You open your texts to find a notification from Eddie in the group chat. Reading through Harrington and Buckley’s responses, you tap out a reply to Eddie’s question.

💫elite meeting💫

bandcamp 👿: why is my paladin not at Hellfire you schmucks?

god’s fav 😎: spill the tea, sis.

dingus 👽: ooh, if he’s breakin out the yiddish he must be pissed!

trouble 👁️👄👁️: it’s like you don’t even read your emails eds.

god’s fav 😎: whaddup, i’m eddie, i’m 28, and i never learned how to fuckin read ✌️

bandcamp 👿: shut up.

During tutorial nights, someone from the group would be assigned to take care of dinner for whomever else was stuck on campus. Nancy had made a laminated chart and stuck it to the loft’s fridge, y’know, like any completely sane person would do.

You huff a laugh and open your insta feed, clicking on the invite in your messages. ‘Steve has invited you to eat at Chipotle today!’ You select your regular order, tacking on some chips and queso for good measure.

After a while, a student shyly approaches the circulation desk with a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye and a worksheet in hand. You give her a reassuring smile and invite her to take a seat. As you’re reviewing the questions she’s struggling with, Eddie storms into the room searching for Mike.

“Wheeler,” he bellows, startling the students from their conversations, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The student at your side jumps in her chair at the sheer volume of his voice. “Oy, Munson,” you hiss, “Can it!” He fixes you with a perturbed glance and strides over to Mike’s table to tear him a whole new asshole.

Managing to get the students back on track, you talk through the more complex passages of the text with the girl, directing her back to the questions when appropriate, and send her off with a friendly wave.

Returning from his circuit around the library, Steve dramatically slumps into the chair at your side, letting out a long-suffering sigh. He shoves his glasses up to his hair in an effort to scrub at his eyes. “What’s got ya down, clown?”

He blows a raspberry and rolls his eyes at your quip. “See that table by the windows?”

“Yeah,” you nod, noting the giggling group of girls, freshmen, if you had to guess. Sneaking side-long glances at Steve before blushing profusely and turning back to their friends. “Ooh, they seem struck by you!” you tease, letting your voice twang in a southern affectation.

“Don’t encourage them!” he admonishes, “They wanted help with geography, I don’t even teach that,” he sulks.

“Steven,” you gasp, “Don’t tell me you never learned to read a map, you are an educator!”

Steve fixes you with a glance, “I’ll have you know, it all gets very confusing in Europe after the dissolution of the Soviet Bloc.”

“Don’t you teach AP World: Modern?”

“Yeah, you know that.”

“A-are you indoctrinating the students, Steve?” you needle him, earning an exasperated huff in response. “Snowflake,” you tsk reproachingly, “Trigger warnings! War on Christmas!”

The taunting continues until Eddie approaches the desk. With a too-wide smile directed at Steve, you cut your eyes across the library to where Wheeler sits trembling like a leaf.

Mike looks well and thoroughly abashed after whatever Munson just lectured him about. Sinking as low in his seat as he did during the parent conference facilitated by Assistant Principal Bauman. Munson had clearly laid it on thick.

Chains jangling against his hip, he sits on the desk. “Hey there, big boy,” he purrs winking at Steve, causing him to blush and sputter. “Light of my life,” he croons addressing you, “A thousand apologies for young Wheeler there,” he nods at the dejected teen in question, “It will not be happening again.” Raising his voice to a louder pitch, hollers out, “Not on my watch!”

“Yeah,” you goad him, waggling your brows, “On god, no cap?”

He stares at you as if you’d grown another head, and leans down to your level. “What fuckin’ Tik-Tok nonsense is that now?”

A notification pings from someone, Steve probably; grandpa that he is, he refuses to silence his phone like a normal person, no matter how many times you show him the focus or do not disturb function.

He throws his keys at Eddie, who catches them before the ring of metal can brain him in the face. Steve pouts as Eddie jangles them triumphantly walking out the door, “Be back in five, hot stuff!”

Steve sends you an annoyed look, “Please tell me that wasn’t directed at me.”

You take a loud sip from his hydroflask and grin, “No, you’re big boy and I’m hot stuff,” you chide. “C’mon now.” Like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“So,” he mutters escorting you to your car later that evening. “Are you ever gonna spill what went down the other night?”

“Huh,” you kiss your teeth with a wet click, bag slung haphazardly across your arm. “Thought Nance would’ve cracked by now.”

“What d’ya mean?”

You kick at the rocks scattered along the blacktop, refusing to meet his eyes. “Well,” you sigh. A grunt, a huff of breath before you tug at the strap of your backpack and admit flatly, “He, uh, ended it.” You hold up your left hand and wiggle your fingers in proof, and sure enough, no engagement ring in sight.

Steve never truly understood what people meant when they said the phrase ‘seeing red’ until now. Granted, he’d been knocked on the head more than most in his time, but even with the concussions he still had enough sense to know that you were the real fucking deal. And any asswipe that thinks he can do better than you is sorely mistaken.

He should know.

Willing himself not to vibrate with rage, he slings an arm across your shoulders and pulls you to his chest. You sniffle and press your forehead to his neck, he smells clean and comforting like cypress and vetiver with the faintest whiff of laundry detergent.

“M’sorry honey,” he soothes, voice soft and low, subtly rocking from side to side as you fail to stop the tears from falling. “I gotcha, it’s okay.”

Naturally, you completely lose your shit in the school parking lot while Steve holds you. And truthfully, you’re more frustrated than anything because you’d been trying so damn hard to keep it together this week. You thought you’d been doing pretty well, too, until Harrington used his dumb best-friends-forever powers of perception.

Unbeknownst to you, everyone’s been desperately trying to keep their cool.

Nancy was tight-lipped about the cause for your bender last weekend, but occupants of the loft were distinctly aware of how rigidly she held herself after dropping you off. Completely glued to her phone in case you needed anything at all and going so far as to out-law rom-coms for seemingly no reason.

His anger is simmering now, bubbling just under the surface because hell if he’s going to let you see how affected he is. True, he was never the biggest fan of your fiancé, well, ex-fiancé now, but he seemed like an okay guy.

Clearly not.

A wet sob claws its way from your throat as Steve draws you closer, his hand cradling the back of your head. He’s doing his best to comfort you, but there’s only so much he can do in the parking lot of Hawkins high school.

He pulls back briefly to look down at you, searching your face for any signs of discomfort. “Wanna crash at the loft?” He asks, voice hushed, as if he’s afraid to spook you. You glance over your shoulder to your car parked a few spaces away, eyes wide and wet.

Steve feels like he’s lost all language. Doesn’t know any words because you’re stuttering, cursing, and sobbing against his chest like he’s never heard before. He’s at a complete loss as he shepherds you toward his car, opening the passenger door and sliding you into the seat. He has to pry your fingers off from the way you’d latched on to his shirt.

As the door closes, he grabs his phone and types out a quick missive to let the roommates know what’s coming.

🫰freeloaders🫰

steeb🖕: nance, a heads up would’ve been nice

bucko 🤠: 👀

nwa 🔪: oh shit.

dumbass🤘 : stop talking in code nerds

steeb🖕 has changed the name of this group from 🫰freeloaders🫰 to 👊 fight club👊

steeb🖕: trouble is crashing with us, it’s bad guys. like, defcon 1

bucko 🤠: isn’t that the lowest level of defcon?

steeb🖕: not the time robs

nwa 🔪: her fiancé broke it off, that’s why she got shitfaced. didn’t want me to say anything until she was ready

bucko 🤠: what a piece of shit

dumbass🤘: i’m gonna need his name and address, ss# is a plus but not a necessity

bucko 🤠: eddie NO

steeb🖕: eddie YES

nwa🔪 has ‘liked’ this message

“Sorry–” you whisper hoarsely, “I’m–sorry–”

Steve’s mouth falls open, so fucking helpless and confused. “There’s no need for that,” he assures you, “You didn’t do anything hon.”

You’ve barely gotten out of the shower, hair damp and dripping on the tiles of the bathroom. You stand in the doorway, dressed in an oversized Warped Tour shirt from ages ago, one bare foot scratching the adjacent ankle.

Steve had to coax you to shower after arriving at the loft, your face puffy, smeared with tears and snot. Once you had been safely stowed in the shower, Nancy went into crisis-management mode. Delegating tasks to everyone in proximity to her and speaking in hushed tones with your parents on the phone.

Robin was in charge of securing a sub for you tomorrow (and, let’s be honest, one for Eddie, Steve, and herself as well), Eddie was researching moving companies and doing some mild internet sleuthing about your ex, just for his own research purposes, which left Steve on babysitting duty.

You start crying again, hiding the tears in your palms and dropping to the floor, curling up. Shit. Shit. Shit. Steve’s losing it. Can’t even keep you happy for two seconds–which he knows is the easiest job in the world because you have attention span of a goldfish and will laugh at anything.

He’s still perplexed when he drops to the floor with you, splaying his legs around your body, wrapping his arms around your back. His shirt is basically soaked through, sopping with your tears but that doesn’t deter you. You burrow into his chest, hands crawling up his shoulder blades, fingertips digging in enough to bruise, and you cling to him like a lifeline. Steve’s chest swells in pain for you, a hurt he feels down to his bones. You’re shaking with sobs and shivery hot in his arms.

Unable to soothe your tears, Steve gets to work and slides an arm down underneath your legs to secure you against his chest. “Okay honey, hold tight,” he breathes, scooping you up as he rises from the cold tile floor. You press your face further into his chest, sinking so deep into his hold he thinks you might fall right into him. Another choked sob as you nod.

He carries you down the hall and into his bedroom, all dark and quiet. Steve lays you down atop his sheets where you continue to sob fitfully, eyes blooming with fresh tears. He reaches over your body, takes the far edge of the sheet and pulls it around, tucking it beneath your back. He does the same to the other side and soon enough, you’re wrapped snugly in its cocoon. Only your head is visible.

And he knows you’re sad, and it’s very fucking real. The kind of sadness he felt when Nancy crushed his heart to smithereens back in high school. That, but times a thousand.

“How’s that?” he says, breaking the silence now that your cries have died down. “Better?”

You blink at him after a while. Your head jerks a few times, eyes pointedly cutting to the open space on the bed next to you.

Steve shucks his shirt, volleying it to the hamper, and slips in chuckling at the way you inch your body closer to his. His arm falls to rest against your hip, “Okay honey,” he whispers over the top of your head, “Better now?”

“Mmhm,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest once more. “Stevie,” you rasp, voice muffled, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” he says right away, fingers sketching along your side, a crease of worry forming between his brows. “‘Course I’ll stay honey, long as you want.”

Steve spends another couple of hours with you, settling down in hopes that you’ll eventually drift off to sleep. He pulls a movie up on his phone, something with little emotional labor because you’re more than likely spent for the week. He lays next to you on the bed, propped up by a pillow or two, his free hand tracing calming circles against your hip. After the credits roll, your swollen eyelids begin to slip shut.

He stays for a little longer, just until your breathing evens out and he knows you’re asleep. As gently and slowly as he can, Steve gets out of bed careful not to jostle you awake and makes his way to the living room. Everyone’s awake and lost in their own little world, it’s quiet save for the sound of clacking keys and mouse clicks.

Settling against an armchair, he clears his throat and says, “She’s asleep, for now.”

“How’s she doing?”

He shrugs, because isn’t that the million dollar question. Steve couldn’t begin to guess at that thoughts rattling through your brain. But he tries anyway, “Uh, not great.”

Silence settles around them once more. Steve stares wordlessly at the ceiling and grits his teeth loud enough for everyone to hear. He inhales a deep, steady breath and it feels like the only one he’s taken in hours.

And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to fall back on a familiar feeling. To push past all the anger and hurt; the tinge of his own failure he tries not to associate with you, struggles to do that most days, too.

Behind the darkness of his eyelids, there is strangely so much light.

A semblance of hope.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #fanfiction #stranger things #reader insert #the kids aren't alright - rosewaterandivy

156 notes · View notes

wyn-n-tonic · 1 year

Text

Well Read

Pairing: Teacher Ben (SNL) x f!reader Word Count: 3.0k+ Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Naughty teacher fantasy talk. Breeding kink. Author's Note: The brainrot settled in fast on this one. The gif is just a gif, there are no descriptions of reader.

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Masterlist

Thunder rattles the old windows in the half rotten frames of the classroom. The glass panes barely hanging on as rain leaks through the small openings around the window air conditioning unit you had to buy with your own money.

It’s been three years and barely hanging on, having been run for eight hours or more every day all school year long.

Ben laughed the first cold day when he walked in and heard the heavy hum, even laughed until you turned it off and let him feel for himself that it’s the only airflow in the otherwise gas range oven that is your classroom.

Everybody has already gone home, it’s well passed three and all the kids who aren’t in electives or detention have left to go live their lives.

Not you, though. Your planning hour was spent breaking up a brawl between hormonal teenage boys fighting over… fucking PokeMon cards because it is apparently still the fucking nineties. No planning hour means now you’re here well after work.

Because that’s the rule this year—work stays at work.

The other half of that is that home stays at home but that doesn’t stop Ben from pushing through the door before knocking.

His own backpack is slung over his shoulder, lunchbox in hand, and he asks if you’re almost finished. “Come on, I want to get dinner started.”

“Then go get dinner started.”

Not cold but not warm either. Flat. Voice pressured down from a day of shit just building higher on shit.

“We drove in together, sweetheart,” he reminds you. “Your car’s in the shop.”

“I'll take a Lyft,” you shrug, only glancing back up at him long enough catch the way his face falls. “I'll see you at home, I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle and you hear the sound of his bags falling on a desktop; hear his footfalls coming closer until his large hand is covering yours. He takes the pen out of your hand and lifts your chin to look up at him with the other. “Let’s call it quits today, it’s been a tough one and I think that you could really use a nice dinner and an even bigger glass of wine.”

“But—“ You gesture to the pile of essays that need to be graded; the blank test template you need to make copies of. There are no more words left in you today, they’re defeated out by the storm and the air conditioner and the bells and the fighting and all the talking back.

Ben smirks. “Mark all of them with an A, give the kids a break because you need a break, sweetheart, let’s go home.”

“That's not fair, Benjamin,” you tell him. “That’s not fair to the kids who put the work in on these essays to give everybody the same score.”

He closes my planning book next and takes my hand. “You know what’s not fair? That you don’t give yourself a break—ever. It’s not fair that I had to put a hard rule down on work stuff being brought into our home the moment we moved in together.”

"Please just let me bring this home today, Benny,” you practically plead. “I’ll finish while you’re making dinner and then I’m all yours, I’ll take a break.”

Eyes hardening, he shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, because your idea of a break isn’t what you actually need. What you need”—he bends down, voice lowered—“is a hot bath, a glass of wine and to get every thought absolutely fucked out of your brain.”

While he lets those words settle into your ears, he takes your hand and examines your nails. “I like this color,” he says, the pad of his rough thumb swiping over the polish. “Brianna’s getting better at this every time and if you don’t think you’re a good teacher because you put yourself first for one night, I want you to think of the very huge impact you have on students like her just by letting her do your nails during study hall.”

Laughing, you tell him you doubt that. “You're her favorite teacher, she said you’re the first one to not make her read dumbass shit she’s not interested in.”

“No, you’re her favorite,” he insists, coming around the desk to start packing up my bag for me. “She told me that you let her paint your nails and listen to music even if it has curse words.” He stops, looks down at you. “I also think she’s trying to set us up… should we let her know we’re getting married?”

“Oh, are we getting married, Benjamin?” You ask him, arms crossed. “People who are getting married usually set a date, we’re just engaged.”

“For now.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

Deep breath. “It will be if you don’t get your ass in the car and let me take you home.”

Wine in hand, you watch him work from the doorway, wondering how long it will take him to notice you there. On nights that he cooks, the routine is always similar; he puts you in the bath with a very large glass of wine and a book and he takes to the kitchen with headphones in his ears and two deep lines of concentration between his eyebrows.

No headphones are in tonight, though. Instead, his audiobook plays loudly from the speaker beside the stove. On the way home, he asked if everything was okay other than the school day getting to you. Even with confirmation that you were fine, he squinted his eyes and tried to study you—to read you.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” He asks, not looking up from the task at hand. “Or are you going to come over here and kiss me?”

Taking the glass from your hand, he takes the final drink and sets it to the side. “We'll refill that later. How do you feel?”

“Better.” And you can finally appreciate the way his pants are hugging him today; the soft slope of his belly slight but visibly accentuated by the way the belt cuts into him. “You haven’t untucked your shirt.”

“Was I supposed to?” He laughs.

“I mean… you’re home but”—palming the thick bulge over the black polyester, you push closer—“I’m glad you didn’t, I haven’t gotten to appreciate how handsome you look today.”

“That’s okay, I’m sure there will be another fan cam tomorrow,” he whispers, fingers brushing along the swell of your cheek. “Do you want to eat and then”—lips drawn tight, he rocks his head back and forth in suggestions—“or do you want to do that and then eat?”

“You,” you tell him, fingers hooked into his waistband to pull him further as you stand up on your tiptoes. “My head hurts and I want you and everything else comes second.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. He switches the burners off with enthusiasm and follows you through to the living room, large hands crawling up the t-shirt that you stole just to land on your bare hips with wide eyes. “Are you not wearing panties?”

“Wanted to make your job easier for you.”

All his soothing words make the days and the nights and everything that is hard better; they make everything that is good great. Three years ago when this idiot wandered into your classroom to introduce himself as your new neighbor, he caught you on a similarly bad day and it annoyed the shit out of you. Especially after he made fun of all your maps.

Now, he’s pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it to the side after throwing you into the never made ocean of sheets and blankets that is your bed. Your shared bed in your shared home.

He starts to pull at the button up, untucking it slowly and struggling with the buttons out of nerves. That bulge of his is already so much larger than when you groped him in the kitchen and the belt buckle is moving with every shallow, belly breath he takes.

“Come here,” you say, pushing yourself up to your knees and moving forward towards him. “Let me help.”

Even when he’s the one in charge, this confident man with his soft brown eyes, he fumbles under nerves like he’s half expecting you to lash out in impatience. It’s what his ex did and you’re not a fan of her for it—or anything else for that matter—but there’s something about the relief of safety that washes over him in these moments that warm you up to the tips of your ears.

You can trust him with your bad days just as much as your good; he can trust you with his insecurities just as much as his confidences.

“You know,” you start, buttons easily coming undone with the work of your fingers. “Sometimes I think about coming into your classroom on your planning period and having you take me right there on your desk.”

“On my desk?” He asks through a smile. “Baby, you know how much trouble we’d get in.”

“Only if we get caught, Mr. Ben,” you whisper against his lips as you push the fabric off his broad shoulders. “Come on, I’ve always had a hot for teacher fantasy.”

“You are feeling better,” he smiles. “Maybe you don’t need me to fuck your brain empty after all.”

He does it to make you beg and, despite knowing this, you fall for it every time—whine for him every time.

A soft push meets your shoulders and he nods back to the pillows in encouragement.

“Don't take your belt off yet,” you beg him as he follows you up on the mattress but he only laughs, says he has to because he’s been aching after you for hours and needs a little relief now.

Hours but you’ve only been home for one, maybe two. “Are you saying this isn't just about making me feel better?”

He shakes his head, lips pursed, and he throws the belt over to the side as well. “You’re ovulating,” he says, “and the only thing I have thought about since I woke up and checked our fertility calendar is how badly I’ve wanted to get you home and put a baby in you.”

Oh god, that explains so much.

Laying back under his guidance, you spread your legs open for him and watch him take you in. Years now and it doesn’t get old; soft brown eyes studying you in silent awe, mouth open with the occasional smirk pulling up a corner of his lips. It’s like he’s reading how you want it from him and you hope he never stops.

Leaning forward between your legs, he takes a deep breath and then spits on your aching center, eyes up towards you as it falls. He doesn’t wait long after that—doesn’t play with his food as he likes to joke.

Everything is on fire already as he lays an open mouthed kiss to your core, soft moans vibrating into you and up through your own throat as you grab for his hair.

He’s a ravenous kind of lover when he wants to be but tonight he seems more focused on taking you apart slowly with the warm press of his tongue between your legs.

Not long and you’re crying for him, actually crying. Softly sobbing his name out as his nose rubs against your clit with his tongue buried deep into your entrance for more than just a taste.

You can feel him smiling with every shuddering breath as you grasp for purchase on the sheets and pleasure floods your brain.

Then he takes his mouth away, face shining with your slick as your eyes meet with some kind of electric charge between you as your chests rise and fall in time with one another.

“I feel like I should probably take your temperature,” he says finally, large hands held out as if he’s weighing his options. “Make sure your cute body is the right environment for implantation right now but—“

He goes on but you’ve tuned that out, focused in on the deep wells his fingers make as they curve over in a half closed fist. Everything about him is so gentle, including those hands and the way they hold you—the way you know they’d hold your baby.

“You're not a science teacher,” you finally say. “So save the lesson and let me make you a dad.”

It was one of the first things he ever told you—maybe the second or the third date—when you talked about your dreams and does life now look like what you wanted when you were younger. He’d said his biggest dream was to be a dad. Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen in love with him on those words alone but there was something about him that just made sense and fit perfectly into all your big dreams and big plans too.

You could see a future with this man—a family and years of happiness in those soft brown eyes.

Pants off now, he fists himself as he crawls back onto the bed. You just had sex two nights ago and, yet, somehow you feel like you haven’t been full for him in weeks. The thunder hasn’t stopped either and it’s amplifying how intense it all feels with him right now but, then, it always does when he talks about the big, life altering things he wants with you.

Slowly, he pushes in, grip on your hips tightening with every aching inch he gives to you until he’s fully seated. Those hands run up the expanse or your body beneath your shirt as he gathers the fabric and gently pulls it over your head as you lift up towards him. Only then, after a quick look down your body to the place you’re both connected, does he lay himself down on you.

Face still shiny with what you’ve given him already, he smiles into the small, closed lipped kiss he presses into you.

“Your mustache is soaked,” you tell him when he pulls back, trying to ignore the pulsing inside of you.

Those lines of concentration back between his eyebrows, he nods and starts to pull out of you before pushing back in with a groan. “And this needy little pussy is why.”

“Is pussy an appropriate word for a highly educated English teacher to be using?” You ask, goading him into coming back down and pressing that tongue of his into your mouth this time. “Such profanities are unbecoming of such a man—“

“Your cunt,” he interrupts you, one hand coming up to rest around your throat, “is so wet that I can feel it pulling me deeper and all I’m doing is just sitting here, looking at you and trying not to bust early.”

“It's okay if you do," you shrug. “You've already given me an orgasm.”

But he shakes his head and leans back down, tells you to open your mouth and spits there too before pushing his tongue flat down on yours. It catches you off guard just enough that his first real thrust is even more of a surprise and that grip he holds on your throat moves to cradles the back of your head.

The sounds in the bedroom are lewd and only covered by the sound of the rain and thunder that continue to shake the walls of your home.

He’s not rushing, though. Not trying to run through you like just another task. The care he takes with and the concentration he places into you are the reasons you find yourself over the edge in such achingly efficient time. But that doesn’t mean he follows you over and calls it a night.

No, he takes his time until you’re nothing but jelly in his hold. Eyes glazed over, curls wrapped around your fingers and begging for breath and God and him with every thrust that feels like it goes deeper and deeper.

“Are you going to make fun of me if I tell you I love you?” You ask against his lips as his concentration and pace both start to falter. “Because ovulating or not, you would’ve still fucked me like this just for having a bad day and I-I—oh fuck—” Your muscles are seizing up beneath the surface of your skin and it pushes a moan straight into his greedy mouth.

“I would never make fun of you,” he breathes out heavily. “I would fuck you like this even if we couldn’t have kids; I will fuck you like this on every good day or bad day you have for the rest of your life if that’s what you want.”

Languid and slow, the way his tongue moves against yours is confusing your interpretation of his rhythm between your legs even as it picks up again. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him, alive and on fire beneath him and around him with his soft kisses and hard thrusts.

A deep sigh of relief finally leaves his lips as he swells inside of you and warmth rushes through you and out around him to start pooling and cooling beneath your bare body.

Being finished doesn’t mean he leaves though. He stays inside of you, twitching and thrusting occasionally as he continues kissing you with his hands hooked around your shoulders and every ounce of his body weight pressing down into you.

This man treats you with an intimacy you never knew could exist. Not for you, at least. He is hungry and in love and both insatiable for and always satisfied with you. He reads you like he wrote you; knowledge of your body and your brain and your heart encoded so deeply into him and you know—you feel it deep down in the pit of your being—that this will only grow as you do and your family does.

"Did that help get all the thoughts out of your head, sweetheart?” He asks, laying his forehead against yours.

A few deep breaths is all the confirmation he needs until, finally, you say, “I think I forgot to turn off the air conditioner.”

#lol what to tag this as?#teacher ben my beloved #teacher ben (snl)#mr. ben (snl)#teacher ben x reader #teacher ben x you #teacher ben fanfiction #mr. ben x reader #mr. ben x you #lmao wtf #snl #saturday night live #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #o writes

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rhaenerystargaryen · 1 year

Text

so bad so good

pairing: modern!dilf!daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis: can you resist your teacher?

warnings: age-gap (reader is 18+), dom/sub dynamics

wc: 920

you couldn't believe it. looking at the paper infront of you it was marked big and clear. the bright red 'F' mocking you as you stared at it with tears in your eyes. how could this have happened? wiping the tears before they could fall down your cheek you raised your hand.

"yes, y/n. do you have a question?" mr. targaryen asked from behind his desk, "if you do come up," he said. slowly you got up from your desk and made your way towards his.

"yes," he stated looking you up and down. 'fuck' you thought, you really shouldn't have worn this short of a skirt. the ac vent blasting now above you made you shiver and led your mind elsewhere.

"miss y/n do you have a question or not? i do not appreciate people who waste my time by staring off into space," he didn't even bother to look at you, busy grading papers.

"um yes sorry, i have a question about my test," you spoke nervously, hands reaching to tug your skirt further down.

"what about your test?" he now looked at you, pulling his glasses off.

"i-i don't understand," you held your test so he could see, "why i got an F," your eyes refused to make contact with his as you looked around the classroom.

"you didn't get an F. you earned an F. there is a difference," his hands were crossed against his chest.

"but i don't understand. i studied so hard for this test. you told us it would be multiple choice, but then you give us a whole essay prompt," your tone had lost its nervous background and had shifted to be harsher.

"miss y/n if you are not happy with your grade i suggest you try other study methods, in order to be more prepared next time. until then, i will not have you march your way up to my desk, complain about EARNING a grade, and mouthing me off. is that clear?" the whole class now had an ear and one eye on you. feeling shameful that you even brought up the topic you shook your head 'yes' and slowly made your way back to your desk.

---------------------------------—————

the bell rang shortly after and as you got up to leave, mr. targaryen's voice rang loudly in your ears, "miss y/n please stay after class."

rolling your eyes, you made your way to his desk, "yes?" after the way he had humiliated you today, you felt nothing for him.

"i was thinking and i've come to a conclusion about your test," he spoke casually.

"and that is?" you questioned.

"that i will let you make up the test," your eyes lit up.

"but--not in the way you think," your eyes dropped.

"i want you to meet me after school, i have a task for you," he crossed his legs, taking off his glasses.

"sure...i'll see you after school mr. targaryen," you turned and made your way to the door, "bye."

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

the school day had just ended and you had not forgotten what mr. targaryen told you earlier today. you were nervous for what he had in mind, but it couldn't be too bad. right? he seemed like a civil enough person to not humiliate you further.

"mr. targaryen...?" you entered the classroom looking around.

"y/n, just close the door behind you and come here," he ordered.

shutting the door, you walked over to where he was sitting. his shirt had now been unbuttoned a tad bit and his glasses lay somewhere on his desk.

"that's an awfully short skirt to wear-" his question caught you off guard.

"wha-" he interrupted you to add, "especially on a cold day like this...you never know where the wind will blow."

your cheeks were burning with embarrassment as your hands went to tug your skirt down.

"nuh...don't do that," his hands stopped yours, wrapping around your wrists, encaging them.

looking up at him with terror in your eyes, he chuckled.

"cmon now...y/n," he whined, "don't think i haven't noticed how you look at me...dirty girl," his hand slapped your ass suddenly, making you yelp.

"mr-mr. targ-" you were at a loss for words as you felt your body losing control. hands going to prop yourself up on his shoulders.

leaning in close to your inner wrist, he placed delicate kisses along them. this felt so incredibly wrong. it was wrong. but it felt so damn good. having his hot breath fanning your arms, hands cupping your ass.

"y/n," you looked up, "have i ever told you how beautiful you are?"

no, no, no you couldn't fall for this! rushing to push him off of you, he sensed your every move and placed an iron grip upon your wrists.

"am i making you uncomfortable y/n?" his question made you second guess your actions. you were enjoying his affection, but him being your teacher made you feel so uneasy.

"n-no mr. targaryen," your knees felt weak and you could feel the wetness pooling in between your thighs. who knew you'd get so worked up over a few kisses?

"good girl," his grip loosened, but he kept you close. pulling you into him so that you now sat on his lap.

"look at me baby..." his voice made you feel insane. this was insane.

caressing your cheek with his thumb, his touch was so delicate. you immediately relaxed in his lap, slumping into his touch. how did it get this bad?

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ninebluehearts · 2 years

Note

hi! hope you're doing well. if its okay I'd like I'd like to request something where the reader is a student in jonathan levys class and he convinces them to not drop out please, can be platonic or romantic. thank you :))

Hello! I'm doing well, thank you for asking! How are you doing? 💕

Warnings: Hurt/comfort

There was something about this semester that was just rubbing you the wrong way. The first semester was easy; you loved all of your classes, you were getting decent sleep, everything seemed like a movie. But after the holidays and everything being so cold and dark, you just couldn't seem to fall back into your old routine.

Your therapist mentioned something about seasonal depression, but you barely even remember that session; you just couldn't seem to focus as well as you used to. Therefore making your grades suffer.. Even the Dean pulled you into her office and asked if everything was alright, mentioning how you were once a 'A+ average' and now it was rare for you to even get a 'B.'

You were sitting in the back of your philosophy class and though your eyes were fixed on the board, you couldn't seem to pay attention to any of the writing on it. This was especially unusual for you since this was your favorite class. Jonathan Levy's class.

Though it was forbidden, you couldn't help but at least day dream about the man. Could anyone really blame you? The way he adjusted his glasses whenever he was stressed, how he always licked his fingers before plucking your paper out of the stack of assignments and handing it to you, or especially how he always wore the most flattering outfits..

He was truly a sight for sore eyes.

And that was another reason you wanted to drop out. He already has an ex-wife and a kid and he was twice your age. There's no way you could keep coming to his class and pretending there wasn't any tension between the two of you. And that was what made things ten times harder; You knew he liked you back.

"Alright guys, that wraps up our unit on the history of modern philosophy. Make sure you review the unit's key points and study them well, because we have the unit test tomorrow." Jonathan put his hands up and sighed, listening to the chorus of groans filling his classroom.

You used to be annoyed when people would do that, but now you couldn't help but drop your hand into your hands and join them.

Jonathan handed out worksheets to all of the passing students. "You guys have got this. You've been working hard these past few weeks." But when he got to you, his smile dwindled. "Miss l/n, could you actually stay behind for a moment? I'd like to have a word with you."

You simply nodded, walking over to sit on top of one of the tables in the front of the classroom.

Once the last student walked out, Jonathan shut the door behind them, then made his way over to you. "So.." He began, leaning against the table, standing right next to you. "How are you doing?"

You shrugged your shoulders. "You?"

"I'm alright, thank you for asking. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about your last paper.." Jonathan adjusted his glasses before pulling a printed copy of your latest essay out from behind your assigned homework. "It's not bad. I'll start with that. You have the right idea, I just think that you could do a better job of conveying your ideas through your writing, ya know?"

"Mhm.." You hummed, not trusting your voice at the movement. It was getting hard trying to swallow around the lump of emotions in your throat. You really did try on that paper, but you will admit, it was rushed.

"I can even help you work on this and homework, if you'd like? I just don't want to test you on something you don't fully understand." Jonathan had set the papers down next to you, now standing up straight with his arms crossed, giving you his full attention.

Now's the time. You thought to yourself. But god, you really didn't want to disappoint him.

You cleared your throat, pushing yourself off of the table to stand face to face with him. "While that is very appreciated, Mr. Levy, it will not be necessary.. Considering that I will not be moving onto the next unit. Thank you for your time." You tried to grab the papers from the table, but Jonathan put his hand down on them, pausing your movements.

"What do you mean? Of course you're moving onto the next unit. You just need-"

"I don't think you understand, Mr. Levy-"

"Please, Jonathan." He said, then gestured for you to continue.

You breathed out a sigh, your shoulders sagging. "Right, Jonathan.. I don't think this whole college thing is for me. I'm gonna go home and focus on myself for while.. Maybe I'll come back in a year or two."

Jonathan stared at you for a long time, his eyes fixed on yours even if you wouldn't even look at his. "No."

"No?"

"No." Jonathan said simply, shrugging his shoulders before removing his glasses to clean the frames on his wool sweater. "I can't just let you quit. You'd never forgive yourself and quite frankly, I wouldn't either."

The tears you'd been holding back finally fell, making you turn your entire body away from him. "I've already made up my mind. I can't do this anymore." You bit down on your lower lip, trying to quiet your sobs.

Jonathan grabbed a tissue off of his desk then hooked his fingers under your chin, guiding your face up to meet his. "Hey." He mumbled, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his sweater. "It's gonna be okay. I don't want you to just give up. Let me help you." He held the tissue up to you, a small smile growing across his lips.

You knew what the tissue symbolized.

If you took it, you'd agree to stay. But if not.. Well, you honestly couldn't imagine a world without him in it. So, you took the tissue from him and blew your nose, shaking your head as you tossed the tissue into the trashcan. "I don't know if I can do it.." You mumbled, your eyes fixed on your shoes.

"Hey, come here." Jonathan wrapped his arms around your upper back, laying his head on top of yours. "I've got you."

You wrapped your arms around his waist, your face buried in his chest as you finally allowed your sobs to escape. "Thank you." You whispered, only hugging him tighter.

Jonathan nodded, his thumb gently rubbing your shoulder. The next few months were gonna be rough, but Jonathan would be damned if he was gonna let you get through them alone.

#💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙thoughts #jonathan levy #jonathan levy x y/n #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy x you #jonathan levy fic #scenes from a marriage fic #scenes from a marriage #scenes from a marriage headcanon #jonathan levy headcanon #oscar issac #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac headcanons #oscar issac hernandez estrada #jonathan levy imagine #thanks for the ask!#college fic

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triple-asstro · 1 year

Text

Salaì Chapter One

word count: 2.2k

pairing: 2012!leo x reader

tags: double agents, casey jones is a little shit, meet-cute, eventual romance

summary: A new vigilante named Salaí has taken the streets of New York, sending an increase in missing and injured criminals. This seemingly new vigilante shocks the turtles in town and with the help of Reader, they try to figure out who this vigilante is. Surprise, its Reader, knowingly leading an investigation against themself. Hopefully, no one falls in love.

song: What You Waiting For? - Gwen Stefani

The Vigilante.

The newest name ‘terrorizing’ New York, along with many others. As the broadcast from the TV echoed into the classroom, you barely kept your eyes awake; the bland yellow-coloured walls and blinding white lights singed your sight. Your teacher insisted on playing the news to end class off for a reason still unknown, but it was a unique closing to a three-PM class. Before you could blink, the bell rang throughout the classroom and sent everyone scrambling out of their seats and stuffing whatever they had on their desks into their backpacks. The sound drowned out the teacher warning everybody to be careful these next few weeks of October. As everyone poured out of the doors, you instead hung back until you could approach the teacher’s desk.

“Mr. Jackson?”

“Hm?” he muttered, removing his glasses and placing them down on his oak desk.

“I was wondering when are getting our grades back on our paragraph essays?” you asked, fidgeting with your fingernails.

“Oh, I haven’t gotten to grading those just yet, but I will promise to you I’ll get it done by the end of the week.” he chuckled. “I’m sure you did just fine. No need to worry.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure you did just alright,” he said, as you slowly nodded and glanced towards the TV. “Are you worried about that vigilante?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s worrying to know that it could hide anywhere.”

“Well, you simply have to be careful. New York is a scary place to traverse through, especially during the night.”

“Okay, I will,” you said, nodding towards him before walking through the doors. Navigating the long grey corridors was significantly easier when they’re aren’t millions of kids trying to push and shove to get to their next class before the dreaded second bell. You pushed the entrance doors open, breathing in the fresh autumn air and walking down the steps, auburn leaves crunching with every step you took. You walked towards your bike, parked against a single steel streetlight, and sped off into the city. New York isn’t exactly the cleanest of cities, but the way the air flowed through your ears and the occasional beautiful nature that you saw on your way home truly made it something you didn’t particularly want to part with.

As you made a sharp right, passing by P.S. 001 Alfred E. Smith, you stopped at your house. It was a normal tan-bricked building with fire escapes decorating the front and circular windows with radiators that looked like they were going to fall out at any second. This was your home, on 9 Oliver Street. You walked up the steps and opened the door.

The room still comprised the same black and white chequered floor and the everlasting scent of hand sanitiser and smoke. Passing by the snotty receptionist who had a gaze that could snipe eagles, thin brows that could count as toothpicks and a tiny button nose. Don’t let that appearance fool you, however, Ms. Bowley is the vilest person you’ve ever met in your life. With a mouth as foul as a sailor's and a snobby attitude, it’s best to keep your distance.

You quickly got aboard your elevator and pressed your floor button, watching as the steel doors close with a clang and the elevator went up, up and up. As the elevator ascended, your mind wandered onto the broadcast shown on the TV. Has it gotten that bad? Were they really terrorizing New York? The news made it seem like they were murdering people but, that’s far from the truth, news reporters always dramatized the news. You nodded your head in concurrent as the elevator dinged. The doors opened to reveal a scrawny boy, possibly in his mid-teens, with scruffy black hair and two of his teeth missing.

“Casey,” you annoyingly sighed. Casey was a kid that would get into loads of trouble, even unintentionally. It was hard to handle him and even more difficult to tolerate.

“Hey, it’s my main dude!”

“Your ‘main dude?’ Christ, when did you get out?” you chuckled, playfully shoving him before walking down the rundown hallway.

“A few hours ago, felt a bit sick.”

“Yeah, right ‘a bit sick’ Even I’m doubting that. How many times have you called out sick?”

“Eh, I don’t know. I’m not really a math guy, more of a TV guy.”

“You saw the TV broadcast too?”

“Yeah, they’re totally overreacting. You have nothing to worry about, dude. Just have to be more careful, that’s all.”

“I know, it’s just - oh never mind,” you said, waving your hand down and spotting a familiar red door. “Well, I’ve gotta go, someone actually has to do some math.”

“Alright, ‘math guy’ See ya later!” Casey said, bidding farewell, and raced back down the hallway while you entered through the red door. With a thud, it slammed closed as you let out an exhausted sigh. The lights were all on again, its ugly yellow fluorescent lighting filling the room and shining the mono-yellow wallpaper. You kicked off your sneakers and trudged towards your room, your feet feeling the beige carpeting tickle your skin and when you finally got to your door, you closed it shut, leaning your forehead on it.

Great, now your mind won’t get off the vigilante…

“Guys, we need to have a team meeting!” Leo exclaimed. Not one brother turned their head towards him.

“Leo, this is the fifth team meeting we’ve had this week… If this is about your stupid TV show-”

“No, this isn’t about that, and Space Heros is not a stupid TV show.” he declared, all of them begrudgingly trudging their way towards him near the TV, one of them having to be dragged there by his orange-coloured bandana.

“Alright, what’s this about?” Raph remarked, crossing his arms across his plastron.

“This,” Leo said, turning around and turning on the TV.

Welcome, New York! Today’s going to be a sunny day with only a 7% chance of rain-

“Uh, Leo, did you want to show us the weather forecast or?” Donnie inquired.

“Oh, wait-” Leo stammered, pressing a button on the remote, making the broadcast speed until it resumed again.

Our top story this week, is a new vigilante possibly looming over New York? Recent sightings by neighbours living in Monroe Street report sights of an unknown figure speeding around buildings at night, getting into altercations with local civilians.

It was like a speedy lil’ monster, and - and it had this black gas mask with colourful dots around its face, only showing its bloody eyes. Creepy fucking thing… It could be aliens for all we know!

With further reports of additional vigilantes parading at night, could this be a potential crime syndicate happening in our sacred town? Chelsea Cameron, Channel Six News.

“Do you see what’s going on? We weren’t on patrol that night, so that means-”

“Someone other than us is out there? Another vigilante?” Donnie asked.

“No, I think it’s something worse. If this person is harming others, it could be another villain.”

“Woah, hero boy. First of all, we don’t know if this person is actually hurting others. For all we know, it could be the news making up a bunch of bullshit.”

“Yeah, brah. We don’t know for sure.”

“And what if we wait? So that they can harm another innocent civilian? No way, man. I’m going to patrol for it tonight.”

“Tonight? Like tonight-tonight?” Mikey asked, Raph shooting him a look, a certain look that made him shut his mouth.

“Yes, tonight. You’re all more than welcome to join.”

As Leo walked away from the TV, his ocean-blue bandana flowing slightly in the air, the rest of the brothers discussed with varying levels of ambivalence. Of course, this was new, but for now, it didn’t seem like something to fuss over. But deep down, they knew that no matter how much convincing they tried, it wouldn’t budge Leo, the fearless leader he was.

What is the kinetic energy of a bowling ball weighing 5.50 kg travelling 8.55 m/s? Ek = ½ mv2 Ek = ½ (5.50)(8.55)2 Ek = 201J

As the bowling ball tumbles down the lane, it slows down due to friction. At the end, the bowling ball is travelling at 8.37m/s. Calculate the kinetic energy. Ek = ½ mv2 Ek = ½ (5.50)(8.37)2 Ek = 193J

Determine how much work was done by the bowling ball. WD = EK EK = 12m(vf2-vi2) EK = 12(5.50)(1932- 2012)

You kept tapping your pencil on the worksheet, racking your brain for any sense of direction. Fractions haven’t exactly been your strong suit, never have been and never were.

“How do you times fractions with decimals again, Mr. Murakami?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Math isn’t my strongest warrior,” he said, pouring the ramen broth into a bowl. The ravishing smell agitated your stomach.

“It’s alright, Mr Murakami. I think I can figure this out,” you said, feeling a sudden realisation hit you as your pencil kept scribbling faster than ever before.

Determine how much work was done by the bowling ball. WD = EK EK = 12m(vf2-vi2) EK = 12(5.50)(1932- 2012 ) EK = 12(5.50)(193-201) EK = -8J

Ha. You smiled to yourself in pride as you slammed your notebook shut, shoving it back into your bag. Seemingly in sync, he placed a bowl of appetizing ramen in front of you, practically begging you to devour it.

“Thank you, Mr Murakami,” you said, slightly bowing your head down to him before slurping up the delicious noodles with a satisfied grin on your face. The warm broth filled your stomach with satisfaction, as it always did. Doing your homework here instead of in your room was more satisfying and more nutritious than the snacks you stored in your fridge.

A crash echoed from behind Mr Murakami, near a door which lead to the back alley. Mr Murakami would only use that door to throw away any leftovers he had, with your help, of course. Racoons and rats frequented that back alley for food, but they would only make a small clamour, not an echoing racket. A lingering suspicion burrowed into your head, debating in your head whether to check it out.

“You heard that Mr Murakami, right?”

“Yes, perhaps the racoons brought more friends to eat.”

“Right… Wait here, I’ll check it out,” you said, hopping off of the stool and approaching the backdoor. With a silent creak, you opened the door and peered into the New York night. The deep midnight blue filling the sky made it difficult to make out anything until you pulled out your phone, shining the flashlight towards the two dumpsters across from you.

The light shone on a figure with broad shoulders and a wide back, tinted in fern green. It looked human, or the next best thing to one as it lay face-first on the pavement. If you were being completely honest, this was the most detailed cosplay you’ve ever seen in your life. Everything from the brown shoulder and elbow pads to the deep blue bandana.

“Uh hello there, are you okay?” you awkwardly asked, the figure lifting his head and showing his light blue eyes. You widened your eyes in surprise, as he stood up and froze in shock. You both held eye contact for what felt like an eternity before you spoke up.

“Woah, your cosplay looks awesome.”

“Uh… what?”

“Your ninja cosplay,” you stated, pointing towards his bandana, your other hand resting in your hoodie’s pocket. “I’ve never heard of a ‘ninja-turtle’ costume, but it’s ingenious. Massive props to you.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms across his detailed plastron. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”

“No problem. Also, if you need to eat something, you can just go to the restaurant. The gyoza there is cheap but good. You can even go in your cosplay if you want to.” you chuckled, stopping once you saw his solemn expression. “It’s a joke, don’t worry.”

“Right. I’ve gotta go, but it was nice to meet you..?”

“Y/N,” you said, reaching your hand out to shake his. His hand felt strangely scaly, but that just added to the amount of detail you were praising before. “Yours?”

“Leonardo, but my friends call me Leo.”

“Okay, Leo. Have fun at your convention,” you said, as he ran away, disappearing in the blink of an eye. You sighed, observing the night sky and its beautiful specks of stars decorating it before you felt your watch buzzing. Looking at the face, you saw the clock light up: 23:00. Groaning, you rummaged through your bag before pulling out a black gas mask with bright pink, blue and yellow blobs decorating its visage. You strapped it across your face, tucking your hair away, only leaving a small section to drape down the eyes as you pulled your phone out of your pocket and set a timer for an hour. One hour of vigilantism and then you were done.

As you heard the sirens echo from not so far away, a new idea popped into your head. A new name, the name that would ‘terrorize’ New York. It was perfect, simple and leagues better than ‘The Vigilante.’

Salaì.

#tmnt 2k12 #tmnt #tmnt fic #tmnt x reader #leonardo x reader #2012!leo x reader #2012 leo x reader #2012 leo

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minniesmelody · 2 years

Text

The busy bean

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: Eddie Munson x Barista!GN!Reader

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Y/n works a part time job at a popular coffee spot in Hawkins, a certain someone comes in and reunites with them.

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: slight bad words? Not really but like ‘damn’ and stuff

𝗣𝗢𝗩: first person - Y/n

•••••

It was a fall Friday afternoon in Hawkins, so the coffee shop wasn’t as busy today than usual, Monday’s are worse, especially in the morning.

I can’t wait to finally save up enough money from this dumb job so I can afford collage.

Literally bored out of my mind here and this job can be a little stressful at times, from the espresso machine getting clogged up to raging customers yelling and complaining that their coffee was too sweet or had too much ice.

‘Ding’

Sound coming from the front door of the coffee shop, telling me someone has entered the shop.

“Hi, welcome to The busy bean coffee shop, what can I get cha?” I said, looking up at the customer afterwards.

Well I’ll be damned.

Eddie Munson.

I remember being in high school together, same grade and everything. I faintly remember being paired up a few time for projects and assignments in Mrs. Clicks history class. I do remember the essay we worked on together that was about the first World War, and when I say ‘we’ I actually mean ‘me’ since he was only present for 50% of the project and put about 5% of effort.

“Yeah um- can I get a coffee, like just a small black coffee and one of you’re chocolate chip cookies?” He said, not even looking to see who I was, instead looking down and pulling out some money out of his wallet.

I didn’t even respond, just getting a small sized cup and started pouring some pure black coffee into the cup and placing a lid on it.

I turned towards him now to reach down and grab a chocolate chip cookie out of the glass case, also filled with other sorts of sweet treats.

“Wait…do I know you?” I looked back up a him, left eyebrow raised and a finger pointed at me.

“Kinda yeah, we were in Mrs. Clicks class together, we got paired for a few assignm-“

“Y/n! Oh my god, it is you, wow” he said with a giggle “what are you doing working here?”

I smiled from seeing how happy he was to see me again, I was a bit of a loner and only left the house when I felt like it or when it was necessary like work or something.

“I uh, yeah no I uh I’m kinda working here to save up some money so I can afford college, my parents don’t have much money after their divorce so you know-“

“Oh I am so sorry about that, but that’s good, you’re working yourself to get to college, lots of people skip college or don’t even think about it”

I nodded “yeah so, what are you still doing here? In Hawkins I mean”

His face fell a little at what I just said.

“I um, I’m kinda still in school, I failed…twice so”

“Oh”

“Yeahhhh but I’ve been trying really hard this year, can’t wait to finally walk that stage and flip everyone the bird and run like hell out of here”

I giggled a little at his response. “Certainly sounds like you are determined this year”

“ right…um anyways how much do I owe you?”

“Sorry right right” I started messing with the cash register until I got his total “that will be 3.35”

He handed me four one dollar bills, I went to give him his change back until he stopped me and said “keep the change”

I won’t even lie I blushed a little at that.

“Also, do you have a marker? If so is there any way I could get you’re number? I’d like to catch up sometime if that’s okay with you of course”

“I- Uh yeah hold on” I said, looking around the supplies needed for orders until I grabbed a marker from the little bin of them, almost knocking down the cup of straws in the process. Grabbing his cup and writing my number, drawing a little star next to it.

“Amazing, thanks Y/n, I’ll see you around hopefully and I’ll definitely be calling soon” Eddie said, grabbing the coffee and the bagged chocolate chip cookie.

Maybe this job isn’t as dumb as I made it out to be.

•••••

A/n: another kinda sort fic but I haven’t really seen any coffee shop Eddie fics so I definitely wanted to write something including him and barista reader <3

#eddie munson #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #imagine #fanfic #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things imagine #eddie munson masterlist #stranger things smut #hellfire club #aesthetic #coffee #coffeshop #barista

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rwprincess · 2 years

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Fluff Piece: Part One (Stranger Things Fred Benson x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.3K

A/N: So, you might recall me complaining 'why isn't there any Fred content?' and like...I believe you should write the fic you wish to see in the world, so here it is. Also, I tagged folks who seemed to share the sentiment and are looking for Fred content.

Synopsis: You join Hawkins’ High’s Weekly Streak staff in order to save your grade, but you stick around because you find yourself falling for senior staff member and editor, Fred Benson.

CW: failing grades, slight anxiety and self-doubt/deprecation (next to Spooksville, this is probably the most wholesome thing I’ve written)

fluff piece

a news story or report which is unimportant, extra.

Your English teacher had roped you into working on the school newspaper, the Weekly Streak, for extra credit. A couple of chapters unread had led to a poor grade and she was always proselytizing the benefits of the newspaper, trying to recruit 'new blood,' usually to no avail. But you needed the boost to your GPA. You reasoned that at the very least, you could try it. And she had tried to sway you with some flattery by saying you could bring a 'new and unique voice' to the Tigers' publication. You figured that most of the people on staff had wanted to be here, that this was one of their interests and they were serious about it. You, however, could appeal to the average student with your views.

“So, what is it exactly I’ll be doing here? Am I writing articles or reviews, or--” you trailed off, not really sure of the scope of the school paper.

"Well, I wouldn't just throw you to the wolves!" Your teacher cackled, as if it were an absurd suggestion. She led you forward and indicated a boy with large glasses and sweater vest over perfectly crisp, ironed khakis. "No, I'll have you shadow one of our best, hardest working staff members, Fred Benson." It seemed like the guy had been volunteered for this task right now. He looked surprised and Mrs. Callahan was laying on the compliments thick, trying to butter him up and get him to agree.

You offered your hand forward to introduce yourself and he took it warily, but politely, and did the same. He eyed you up and down, unsure and possibly disappointed, it was hard to tell. "Well, I will leave you to it, I'm sure you'll show her the ropes!" your teacher encouraged as she turned to leave.

"Wait!" You called out to her, suddenly nervous. Maybe it was Fred's unwavering and serious gaze that made you feel like you were on fire, or maybe it was just the prospect of having to work to prove yourself to a stranger when neither of you seemed to really want you to be here. "You're not staying?" You asked, pleadingly and wide-eyed.

"Oh, no. I have a lot of essays to get through. But you're in good hands," she indicated Fred again and you glanced back up at his stone-serious expression. You had expected to do some articles and turn them in, but here you were being judged already, and by the look in his eyes, not lightly. As soon as your teacher had left, he rounded on you.

"What kind of experience do you have, exactly?" He asked, his withering stare making you feel like he could see right through you, as if he were some prophetic Greek god that could weigh and measure your internal worth, seeing all your faults and failings throughout the cosmos. You swallowed hard.

"I…I don't really know. She, I mean, Mrs. Callahan, just asked me to join and I thought, why not?" This was clearly not the answer he was looking for.

"You thought, 'why not'?" He punctuated every word dryly, tilting his head. "You really don't have a clue about the hard work and dedication it takes to run this paper, or to even contribute, do you?"

You gulped again, feeling small in his presence, which was ironic given his slight frame. "I guess not," you mumbled in return. There was a moment of palpable silence and it seemed as though he was waiting for you to fill it, so you continued, "but I'm willing to learn. I mean, I'd like to learn."

"Good," he replied in kind, "let's start by setting you up with the right materials, then." He took you to their stock-cupboard to gather notebooks and pens, then showed you about the working space and what items you would be using before whisking you away to your first assignment, to follow his lead and take notes for the interview he was conducting with one of the other club leaders.

As you reviewed your notes together to craft your article, Fred bluntly asked you, "Why did Mrs. Callahan ask you to join?"

"Honestly, I'm having doubts about it now but she said something about bringing a 'unique voice' to the paper?"

"And what do you get out of it?" His question caught you off-guard. What would be a 'normal' reason to join an extracurricular activity? "Usually people don't join our staff to see, 'why not.'" He echoed your term from earlier, but more in a mocking tone now.

"Look, I'll be straight with you. She offered me extra credit if I would join and submit some things. I've fallen a little behind lately and…I need it." You shrugged, shrinking further down in your seat, not wanting to be seen or even be present anymore. Fred scoffed in response.

"I can't believe her. She's always trying to get people to join but doesn't take one minute to think about the work that goes into this; not just anybody can do it, you know."

"I see that now," you acquiesced. "It's already way different than I expected."

"You know, you can just go."

"What?"

"I'll submit it under your name, you can get the credit, I can keep the paper how I like, everyone wins." It was an interesting proposition, and while it felt like disagreeing with him put more burden on both of you, you refused.

"No. I'm going to stick with this.Mrs. Callahan has her reasons to ask me to do this and even if I started to make up a grade, I want to stick with it. I want to earn it, okay? She put her trust in me and asked me to do something. I agreed, so I'm going to do it." He looked at you with that weighted gaze again, but somehow seemed to deem you worthy this time.

"All right then, let's get started."

In a matter of weeks, Fred had won you over. His serious demeanor often dropped and you found him making stupid jokes and off-the-wall puns. Sometimes it seemed they were just to make you smile. You no longer felt intimidated by him, though you still aimed to please. You took all of his notes and meticulously worked to become a better writer and reporter. Mostly, though, you found that you oddly wanted to be there because of Fred. Other staff members were nice, sure, and you liked being able to attend different activities to report on, to get out of your bubble, but your favorite moments were those when you and Fred would spend time together, secluded after hours where he'd roll his eyes at your suggestions that maybe the basketball could win a game or you would laugh at one of those idiotic word-plays he'd toss out and he'd smile at you with those perfectly-straightened teeth as you tenderly set a hand on his forearm, only to jerk it away half a second later to tuck in your lap as you looked away. Fred wasn't your usual type; he wasn't the kind to be in a heartthrob magazine and then have his picture tacked to your wall, anyway. But he was real. He was real and sincere and didn't seem to hold back whether his passion or criticism were brutally honest or not.

Meanwhile, Fred appreciated how studious you were, your eagerness to learn, although he never told you that. He had high expectations for all of his staff and eventually, you seemed to pass the test, too. While he lamented that there wasn't really 'hard-hitting news' to be had at Hawkins High, he always wanted each of you researching, digging. However, your supervising teacher insisted on some 'lighter fare,' and you once caught her arguing with Fred about it.

"This is exactly why I asked Y/N to join, so there could be a different perspective and something that isn't so serious."

"What, you want her to waste her work and her…her talent on some fluff piece?" He countered. You were astonished that Fred would challenge an adult in this manner, but also that he was standing up for you and thought you had 'talent.' Again, something he had never expressed to your face. You felt a tight squeeze in your chest and a familiar heat creep up your neck, its flushing pink betraying your internal thoughts. You were flattered in general, but a compliment from Fred, any attention from him these days, really, had you reeling.

"Yes. We need to be a well-rounded publication. I'd like to see something beyond pessimistic coverage of sports games and I'm sure our readers would, too." She left quickly after dealing that blow and you scrambled to make it look as though you hadn't heard the confrontation and busied yourself at a desk as she approached, "Y/N, I'd like you to work on some sort of slice-of-life article this week. Think of a topic and run it by the editor, please." She emphasized the word loudly so that Fred would know it was an assignment for the both of you. You dared to glance up at him in the doorway to the smaller office where they had had their spat. He had a cold gaze and red face directed at her back.

"Fred, I---" you started gently, treading lightly. His expression softened as he turned to you, the ire for Mrs. Callahan burning out almost immediately.

"Whatever topic you want to do is fine, I'm sure. Just…just go ahead." He walked away with balled fists, head hanging low in utter defeat. You were tempted to go after him but felt he would prefer to deal with this alone. The best thing you could do is get to work. Fred wordlessly submitted your work back to you a few days later. It wasn't marked up much, but you didn't take this as an inherently good sign. You approached him quietly as most of the other staff left on assignment or to go home. "Fred? There's not a lot of notes here. Does that mean you enjoyed it or?"

He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "No, I didn't like it. It was just well-written. Not many mistakes. But it's a banal topic that I didn't really care to write about." His words stung you. You were used to his critiques by now, but they'd never so bluntly been 'I didn't like it' or have an air of 'you've wasted my time' before.

"Oh. Well, I could do something else, but I thought you said any topic would be fine."

"I did. And it was. It's fine. I'm sure it's what other people want to read, 'normal' people as our faculty advisor so kindly put it. She's made it clear that a bunch of nerds can't be the only ones contributing to the paper anymore. We need 'other voices'," this time he did sarcastic air quotes, "to appeal to a broader base. So, write whatever you want, I guess. That's the direction we're taking now."

His crestfallen expression nagged at you the most. This newspaper, while small and humble, was his baby. All of his great effort and care went into it, that much was plain from day one. That fire, that passion to always make it better and not settle for less just because it was some rinky-dink small Midwestern town's high school newspaper was one of the things you admired most about Fred. And now you were taking an active part in tearing that down, without even meaning to. "I'm sorry that that's what you feel like it's come to, I mean, I know how much you---I wish I knew how to fix this. I could talk to her, maybe? Get us back on track?"

"What for? This is what she wants and what she keeps pushing for. Besides, you don't have to be sorry. It's not like you wanted to do this, anyway. You're just here to make up assignments, right? Well, then you'd better do what she tells you to. Make the grade and then get out, while you still can. Feels like a sinking ship at this point."

"Fred, I---"

"No, really." Another humorless laugh rose and caught in his throat, "What's keeping you here anyway? You gave it a try, that's all you wanted out of it, right?"

"No, no, I like working here, I--"

"It's okay. You don't have to lie anymore," he cut you off and you returned his abrupt answer with a confused look. Lie about what? you thought, then he continued, "I think…I think I'm just gonna go home."

"What? But we're behind on the Chess Club piece and the preview interviews for the play."

"What does it matter anymore?" He shrugged and blinked away the wetness from his eyes before leaving the office, looking utterly heartbroken.

You stewed on possibilities to even try to cheer him up, to work on something that would satisfy Mrs. Callahan and also be good enough for Fred, but you kept coming up short. You let yourself get caught in the fatalistic spiral and found yourself thinking, 'well, if it's all coming to an end anyway, why not be risky? Why not tell him how you feel?' It was always a horrifying proposition before; You'd get tongue-tied trying to admit any hint of your feelings towards Fred, save the random compliments you had blurted out and then instantly regretted. But, you might not be working with him much longer, and then when would you have the chance? Alternatively, you could just write it, you were much better at that than speaking, anyway. A smile crept on your face as you decided to be both bold and sneaky at the same time: 'I'll give him a Fluff Piece.' It seemed like a ridiculously easy solution to all your previous pondering, so you began drafting, How To Tell If She's Really Into You, and laced it with your own real emotions, hoping he would read between the lines and see the parallels between your article and your interactions.

Tags:

@waiting-to-stop-fixating @firey-phoenixs @slut4boomerang @schoolrumor @detectivereadera @foggyparadisekryptonite @davemillersbiggestfan

#stranger things 4 #stranger things #no spoilers #fred benson stranger things #fred benson #fred benson x reader #fred benson x fem!reader #look at that wholly adorable baby boi. how could you not love himmm?

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nuagederose · 9 months

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As the Seasons Grey | Chapter Forty-Three: Build God, Then We’ll Talk

ao3 link

All week long, Alex kept his eye on Christine, especially when he brought it back in to show her the framing: he also insisted on the inclusion of her signature at one point. He even gave her a brand new pen just for that, and the pressure was especially on her when she did it during class as well. She took off the cap and pressed the tip to the very bottom of the page: careful not to make the frame fall down the wall onto the floor, she lightly signed her name at that very bottom corner on the right.

“Christine has this untapped talent in art,” he explained to the class. “Hence why I've been rather intense about that in particular lately. She just... has it. You know, it's like when you meet someone and they have this utterly beautiful singing voice, and you wonder where it's been all your life. It's just like that.”

She lifted her hand and turned back towards him so everyone in the class could see the drawing as he had perched it against the blackboard. He brought it with him every day that week, and she knew that she had done something to him for him to do that.

“This should be in the Guggenheim,” he declared as he ran his fingers through his black hair. “I really mean that, too. This feels historic. It should be seen where everyone can see it.” He then tapped his pencil on the edge of the podium. “Five hundred word essay on French art! Due next Wednesday.”

“French art?” Christine asked him.

“Yeah! Go read about French art and tell me how you feel about it. Any era you'd like, be it the Renaissance or the modern era—bonus if you can get it to correlate with literature, too. Mr. Hansen offered to help me grade papers so my load's a little lighter this time around.” He rubbed his hands together and took off his glasses. “You all think you can do it?”

“Maybe,” Eric replied with a straight face.

“Oh, come on, Sluggo, it's at least five hundred words! It'll take you twenty minutes. Just tell me how you feel.” He waved his finger in the air as if to dismiss everyone.

“Does that include me?” Christine asked him in a low voice, and Alex glanced up at the drawing.

“I think what you did was plenty,” he replied to her, also in a low voice and with a wink to boot, to which she gasped.

“Alex, for real?”

“For real. A plus plus plus for Miss Peck.” She pressed a hand to her chest and mouthed “thank you” to him, and she scurried over to her book bag and scooped it off the back of her chair. Eric waited for her to put her coat back on, but then she caught a glimpse of Alex picking up the drawing and looking on at it. She hoped that he would take it home and put it in a good place where Captain Howdy wouldn't be able to find it. Christine ran her fingers through her ponytail and then she and Eric walked on out of there and to the hallway.

“I have to pick up Lou again,” he told her.

“Again?”

“Yeah. He's going to be over at Washington Square Park, though. Not that far of a drive this time around.”

“May I ask what he’s doing over there?”

“He’s got car trouble and… just enough change to get a single bus ride back to the park. He called me and said he doesn’t have that much money on him to make it all the way back to Queens. You know, with the feeder buses and whatnot.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

They walked out to the parking lot, where the clouds hung low over their heads. Christine shivered and tugged the lapels of her coat up to her ears.

“Are you cold?” he asked her.

“A little bit, yeah,” she replied with a shudder and another shiver. Eric fumbled the keys but he caught them before he dropped them on the ground; when he reached the driver’s side door, he was quick to unlock the doors for the two of them. They climbed into the car at the same time, to which Christine shivered some more.

“Goddamn,” she muttered.

“I hope Lou can boogie over to us quickly,” Eric said as he fired up the car. “It’s too cold.”

Even though they made their way back to the street and they reached the archway within no time, they still had very little heat in the actual car itself.

“Let’s get out of here,” Eric grumbled as they pulled up to the curb and climbed out onto the sidewalk together.

“Yeah, it’s actually warmer out here than it is in there,” Christine declared as she joined him on the other side of the car. The fountains were silent for the winter time, but the water still swirled around before them, and they moved around enough for Eric to pick up a few flat stones from the concrete on the way over to the outer rim. Christine shivered and tugged her hood over her head: she hoped that Louie wouldn't be long as she could feel more snow upon them.

“I can't believe he put you on the spot like that,” Eric declared as they reached the water's partially frozen edge. He held the stone between his index finger and his thumb, and he skipped it across the surface: three skips before the head of the fountain at the center of the water.

“Who?” she asked him.

“Alex. He made you sign that drawing right in front of everyone. Totally put you on the spot.”

“He didn’t put me on the spot,” Christine assured him with a shake of her head. “I promise you, I wasn’t put on the spot.”

“If he put you on the spot, you’d be cursing him out, I would think…” His voice trailed off.

“He's very particular, Alex is,” she confessed to him.

“Come to think of it, I would imagine,” Eric replied as he skipped a stone out across the water. “I would imagine you are, too.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that I am particular,” she said. “I like you with the white buttons on your shirt.”

“You like the white buttons?” He adjusted the lapels of his sweater underneath his jacket: he wore a black knit sweater with bright pearly white buttons the width of a cucumber medallion.

“Yeah. I don't know, it's a good look for you. The white buttons bring out the pale round shape of your face. It's like how I imagine Alex looking really good in a white shirt.”

“A plain white shirt or a shirt shirt? Like one that buttons up?”

“Either one,” Christine said. He showed her a little smile as he skipped the third stone, which brought four skips out before it sank on the other side of the fountain head.

“Excellent!” she decreed.

“I’ve gotten ten skips on this fountain here,” he told her. “Lou’s the skip master, though, at thirteen. No idea how he does it, either.”

“Does he like… flick his wrist really quickly or something?”

“I think so? I’ve watched him do it before and I can’t hardly watch him do it because his elbow blocks it.” He brushed off his hands and tucked them into his coat pockets, and shivered a long slow hard and deep shudder there next to her.

“Would you call yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend at all?” he then asked her.

“Who? Me and Alex?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know what I would call us, to be perfectly honest,” Christine reluctantly confessed. “He's got a fiancée already and I'm the other woman. But he's never called me the other woman, though.”

“But it is obvious, though.”

“Oh, yeah. Between me and him, absolutely. But neither of us have said anything about it, though—probably because we can't. Whenever we get together, we just talk about stuff, rather than relationship stuff. When there is relationship stuff, it's usually about how his wedding is coming up but he would rather be with me, but he can't make up his mind, though.”

The two of them congregated by the railing of the fountain, just so they could peer into the freezing cold dark water right beneath them. Through the sparse pockets of ice crystals, they could see their own reflections gazing back at them. The feeling of snow lingered in the air over their heads, and Christine knew it was upon them.

“How do you feel about him getting married?” Eric finally asked her.

“I don’t want him to get married,” she replied. “You know, because we’ve had the misfortune of encountering her.”

“Right, right.”

“But at the same time, there’s this huge part of me that feels like I don’t deserve him. He’s perfect and everything I could ever ask for in someone else.”

“He reminds you of Chris,” he followed along.

“He reminds me totally of Chris, yeah,” she said as a few flurries fluttered down from the cold gray sky. “Even down to the nappy, kinky, slightly curly hair and the unusual nose. I’ve also just never… felt worthy of the time and attention of other people, either. Everyone else is good-looking and interesting except me. I have to fight to gain the attention of people, like it's not enough to just be boring. No guy—especially no guy like him—would ever want to be with me, it’s crazy to even think about.”

“You know, if it’s any comfort, I often feel that way,” he assured her.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. What girl wants to be with a short stubby half-Mexican boy with long black hair halfway down his back? Like it baffles me.”

Christine turned her attention towards him and the somber look in his brown eyes.

“This girl,” she said with a point to herself. “At least, be friends with each other. You know, you and I are going to California for some time in a few months.” And his face lit up as she said that.

“Indeed we are!” he chirped. “I’ve got almost enough money saved up for our little trip, too. Just waiting for my next refund to come through.”

“Beautiful!”

Something caught her eye right then, and she gazed past him to see the black newsboy cap over the head of black hair and a black pea coat on the other side of the fountain. A part of her wondered as to why she was there, especially when she lived further up along the spine of New York, but she would have to save that question for later.

“What?” Eric turned his attention behind him.

“Valentina!” Christine called out to her. “Valentina! Hi!”

“Hey!” she called out to them. She skirted around the side of the fountain and fixed the lapels of her coat all the while. “What're you guys doing here?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Christine declared once she came within earshot. “We're waiting for a friend to come in on the bus.”

“I'm waiting for that same bus, too,” Valentina replied. “Marlene wants me to come and help her with some things.”

Christine then glanced over to Eric, who still folded his arms over the railing around the fountain and kept his attention fixed on those cold waters. They were leaving for California in June, and Alex's wedding took place in July. Not enough time once she put some thought about it and when she realized that the gray sky overhead only lasted for so long before it turned blue again. The hourglass only had so much sand in it.

“I have to think of a plan to interrupt that wedding,” she told her, to which Valentina showed her a smile.

“You’ve come to the right person. And we’ve got time, too.”

“Not that much, though,” Eric pointed out.

“Yes, but we really do have time,” Valentina insisted as she joined the two of them there. “First things first, do either of you know if you're invited or not?”

“Not at all,” Christine replied with a shake of her head.

“Okay, that's going to be a touch more difficult. We can always sneak in—especially if it's an outdoors wedding.”

“It's going to be Fourth of July weekend, so I reckon it'll be outdoors.”

“Okay. And I assume there's going to be booze there.”

“Knowing how Alex likes his wine, absolutely,” she decreed.

“You're gonna drink him under the table?” Eric followed along with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Val's one part Ukrainian and three parts Romanian, she can do it,” Christine assured him.

“I was also think of doing it to her, but I imagine it having a better effect on him,” Valentina said with a chuckle.

“Or you could do it the night before and give him a hangover,” Eric suggested. “And one such that he won't want to partake in it.”

“Hey, yeah! The night before during his bachelor party.” “But it's going to be a bachelor party, though,” Christine pointed out. “No girls allowed.”

Valentina held onto the brim of her hat and raised her eyebrows, and Christine gaped at her.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously! Eric is going to introduce Alex to his new friend Victor.”

Christine rounded Eric with her arm outstretched.

“You're Batman,” she told her.

“I am Batman!” Valentina declared with a chuckle.

“Dude—”

“Dude.” They gave each other a high five.

“I assume the other Sundaes are going to come along, too,” Christine quipped.

“I'll ask Sabrina if she wants to partake in the fun. You know, 'cause she and I are so close. I have no idea if Marlene and Colette are going to have time then, but I'll ask them, too.”

The bus lumbered up from behind the corner behind her and she hastily gathered herself.

“Looks like that's my ride,” she told them.

“What else are we going to do once we drink Alex under the table, though?” Eric asked her.

“Chris is gonna come in and make it all better for him,” Valentina declared as the bus came closer to the back of Eric's car. “He'll be far removed from his bride to be, and he'll hopefully have his feelings invested in the right place. It's simple, but we can only hope that it's airtight.”

The bus pulled up to the curb and the door squeaked open. She held onto her hat as she neared the open doorway, and at the same time, Louie almost stumbled right out of the back half of the bus. He flashed the driver a wave as he strolled on over to Eric and Christine.

“I just think of what Nelly said about them,” she confessed to him. “How they’re trouble.”

“Who, the Sundaes? The four girls who sat behind us in Mr. Hansen’s class?”

“Yeah. I remember her distinctly telling me that, too. But it’s weird, though, it’s like she had a change of heart or something. In fact, when she came back to school the other day, I mentioned to her that I spent the night with Valentina and she never bat a lash.”

“Interesting. I also hope it can all go according to plan and you can get to Alex in time, too.”

“I hope so, too. My one fear is that he can actually see through her disguise, or that neither of you can get into that party…” Her voice trailed off as Louie entered within earshot. She also had the pervasive fear that anyone from the outside, be it Louie or anyone else, figured out as to what they were doing.

#Spotify #as the seasons grey #as the seasons grey fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic with art #chapter 43 #alex skolnick #eric peterson #oc art #traditional art #traditional drawing #artists on tumblr #badgalnirvhannahart #testament #testament band

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