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inkyajax · 1 year

Text

cut me rails of that fresh cherry pie

character: alhaitham

genre: modern university!AU, smut with a dusting of fluff

notes: whew! finally my TA!alhaitham piece is finished!! i worked for just over a month on this and i’m really happy with how it turned out, and i can’t wait to hear your thoughts on it! fun fact: this entire piece was inspired by that singular line about alhaitham taking you to the archives in his story quest ehehe. as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe. | title credit: take a slice by glass animals

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon, rough sex, extremely bratty reader, minimal prep, semi-public sex, use of the word Sir, painful sex, one (1) instance of spanking, one (1) slap to the face, hints of implied trauma, biting, marking, blood, alhaitham is strong enough to lift reader up and fuck her against the shelves, praise, toxic relationship, student professor (TA) relationship (power imbalance), dom/sub power dynamics, undefined age gap between consenting adults, big size difference between alhaitham and reader, size kink, sex as punishment, sex as an emotional release, choking, reader is quite flexible, belly bulge, snowballing

words: 10.9k

synopsis:

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

“So?” you frown, insolence already beginning to bleed back into your tone. Your eyes narrow in assessment, head tilting slightly. This has never been a problem in the past, so why is it suddenly an issue now? “What? You can’t handle a bit of brattiness?”

The back of his hand collides with your cheek, stark and sudden, the sharp sound of skin slapping skin echoing down the vacant aisles.

It’s hard enough that it whips your head to the side, pins of pain lingering on your flesh. Salt stings your eyes, a reflexive albeit frustrating notion, and you blink with conviction, fury incinerating your tears.

The bite of betrayal hurts, and you keep your face pressed flush to the wood, chin jutting defiantly, refusing to look at him.

He grips it easily with a pinching thumb and forefinger and hauls it harshly back toward him. The rest of his fingers wreathe around your jaw, clinched so hard that your mouth puckers.

“Oh no,” he spits, words quietly seething. “I’m about to handle it, right now.”

Sunlight filters through the windows, casting slim strokes of gold across the lecture hall. Your pen taps lazily against your notebook as you watch the last few stragglers shoot their questions at your TA—and, subsequently, get shut down with a mere handful of words as a response—lingering, waiting.

It’s only after that heavy mahogany door closes behind the last student that you finally approach him.

One of the most infamous PhD Candidate students on campus, Alhaitham’s area of study specializes in semantics and pragmatics. He’s renowned for consistently achieving top-of-his-class status, working diligently and dedicatedly on his mammoth four-hundred-page dissertation, and being the hottest man and the hardest marker within the University of Sumeru’s small but robust linguistics department.

Spots in his intimate lectures are highly coveted and extremely limited, rendering them tough to get into, yet you’ve managed to snag a space in every single one.

He is, on all accounts, an exceptionally difficult man to get close to.

But you have been nothing if not persistent in your quest to get him to take notice of you.

And take notice of you, he has.

You had surprised him when proposing that the topic for your year-long research paper consist of studying the ways in which translations of the same piece of Middle Egyptian literature—throughout different time periods, and in conjunction with several different languages from each era—add and/or change the meanings of an individual text.

With it, you had raised several fascinating questions: how does the language chosen within each translation procure a different meaning within the text? How does the translator’s personal background and education play a role in their word choice and placement, and how does this affect meaning within the text? Are their certain syntactic patterns and sentence structures that contribute to this second layer or meaning that is imbued on the text by the translator, and if so, how?

But you always raise interesting questions, and with you he has learned to expect the unexpected.

“So,” you begin as you reach him, hopping onto the corner of his desk and linking your ankles together, limbs swaying slightly as he begins to tidy up. “I need to get into the Haravatat Rare Book Archives. For my final paper,” you clarify.

“Too bad it’s restricted to Undergrad students,” he quips, smugness pulling at the corners of his lips, teal eyes flashing up for a second before refocusing on his task of shuffling papers, the thrill of a potential challenge, of this game the two of you seem to play, glinting in his gaze.

Go ahead, give it your best shot, try and push him further, you might just get what you want.

“It is restricted to Undergrads,” you agree. “Unless they have a supervisor, like a professor, or, I don’t know, a PhD candidate student.”

His hands stop, eyes raising to meet yours again, slow, careful, searching. You hold his stare, bold, steady, egging, and finally, he bites, just as he always does, body straightening to his full height with a soft sigh, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Please, indulge me,” he says as he leans a hip against his desk chair, false exasperation not strong enough to hide the gentle tremor of genuine interest in his tone. “What could you possibly need in the Haravatat archives that’s absolutely, irrevocably necessary for you to complete your paper?”

“The original papyrus copy of the Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor.”

An eyebrow raises, intrigued.

“I have already provided you with a copy of that piece in both its original Hieratic and with Hieroglyph transliteration, which, if I remember correctly, you begged and pleaded and cried for.”

“But it isn’t the same!” The protest leaves your lips in a stringy whine before you can stop it, expression quickly smoothing out your pout half a second later. “You know that isn’t the same as looking upon the original text with your own eyes, translating directly from the actual piece of literature. And—And besides,” you continue, voice speeding up in an effort to avoid being cut off. “The original papyrus copy is missing sections, is it not? I’m having trouble confirming which sections are truly missing; I keep running into conflicting information, so I can’t tell which parts of the copies you’ve given me are fabricated and which are not. That’s crucial information for me to possess!”

It’s flimsy and weak, this little excuse of yours, he knows it is—you both know it is—but that doesn’t stop him from sincerely contemplating it, a hum vibrating in his throat; nor does it stop you from pushing forward, an attempt to move your token piece in this game one space further.

“Please?” you press, notes of hope in your voice. Your fingers, resting on edge of his desk, curl around the wood in anticipation, body leaning forward. “This would really mean a lot to me, Sir. I’d love the opportunity to see the real thing, translate from the real thing.”

“Alright,” he finally agrees. “Tomorrow. Ten PM. Don’t be late.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Shivering outside of the Haravatat Rare Book Archives, you wrap your arms around yourself, idly hopping from foot to foot, gaze wandering across the building.

It’s a mammoth of a thing, made almost entirely of slate marble and ringed with an impressive number of stained glass masterpieces, each depicting a renowned scholar that has studied within the walls of the University of Sumeru.

Beams of silver shimmer among the mosaics, illuminating the teals and greens and glinting off the intricate gold piping, decorative windows almost glowing in the rays of the full moon. Warm yellow light leaks from the slivers of windows above the first floor, evidence of late-night research and study.

Eyes climbing, you dully note the way the light fades, less and less, dimmer and dimmer, which each floor until you hit the final level, entirely dark, your TA’s words drifting through your mind.

“Ten PM?” you had said when he finally agreed to meet you here, surprise evident in your breathy tone. “Isn’t that quite late?”

“I like visiting the archives during the times where I’m least likely to run into anyone else; early in the morning or late at night.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes. Typical of the antisocial scholar with a notorious reputation to actively avoid others as often as he possibly can.

“You’re early,” his voice pulls you from your thoughts and you turn to face him.

“You said not to be late.”

Smirking, he snorts with a nod, eyes regarding you with feeble amusement.

“Well, come on, then.”

✰ ✰ ✰

“Wow,” you breathe as he leads you towards the check-in desk, wondrous eyes sweeping across the interior, all smooth jade and shimmering gold, thick glass cases proudly displaying the artifacts they house, gleaming under the warm light.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” your TA tells you, smugness playing on his lips. “The upper floors aren’t nearly as awe-inspiring. They’re quite drab, actually.”

“Yeah, but still,” you brush him off, gaze gliding across the room again.

The University of Sumeru has the largest, most impressive collection of libraries among all of the universities in the world. Renowned for its remarkable breadth of literature on every topic imaginable, it invites scholars from all across the globe to visit and scuttle through its mazes of shelves, with the Haravatat Rare Book Archives being the most coveted of all.

You think you’re beginning to truly understand why.

It is a convoluted mess of systems, but lucky for you, you have one of the best guides there is to lead you through the tangled, snarled shelves.

Because Alhaitham knows these libraries inside out, upside down, spending way too much of his damn time here—and he knows how to get you into the most exclusive floors, too.

It is, technically speaking, unfair to grant you such special privileges.

Then again, none of his other students have pursued him as aggressively and avidly as you have, so he supposes they don’t really deserve it anyway.

He’d do the same for any other student who demonstrated such a vigorous interest in their studies, he tells himself, attempts to reason with himself. He’d do the same for any student who contained the same sheer determination and dedication to their research that you do, anyone who was as rabid and tireless in their eternal pursuit of knowledge as you are.

He’s sure he would—if any of them actually possessed these covetable qualities.

But the simple fact of the matter is, they don’t. And that’s what truly sets you apart from the rest, isn’t it?

Because you’re at the very top of his class.

Because you linger after each and every lecture, waiting around at your seat until all the other students have gone, to ask him thoughtful questions and spark intriguing debates with him, to show him new ways of thinking, new ways of seeing, and he finds himself pondering over you often, curious about what’s going on in that pretty head of yours today, curious about what your notions and opinions on a particular subject would be. He has yet to find a single student at this godforsaken university that can do what you do.

Because your papers are fucking exceptional—full of thought-provoking points and expertly backed by evidence—and it’s abundantly obvious that you’re a hardworking student, that you take your studies very seriously, despite your inherent playfulness—giggles you can’t quite seem to quell, quipping remarks that are so astonishingly out of place for the classroom that it takes him a moment to respond (no one student has ever succeeded in making him pause like that, either).

Because although Alhaitham can be bold and blunt, scary and supercilious in nature, none of it deters you in the slightest, unafraid to challenge him on his views, unafraid to sound ‘stupid’ in his presence. It’s admirable, how unapologetically yourself you are, how you can hold your own against him, how his brusque personality doesn’t perturb you the way it seems to perturb others; in fact, you seem almost fascinated by it.

And that’s what makes you his best student, his most engaging student, his favourite student.

But it’s still kind of surreal to him, in a ridiculous sort of way, that he’s leading you into the Haravatat Rare Book Archives, your toes on his heels, shuffling your ID and student card between your fingers, plastic scraping together.

The screening process is rigorous, ruthless, the clerk demanding two pieces of government-issued identification in addition to your student card—to verify you are who you say you are, of course, you understand—and requiring you to sign your name in the guest logbook before finally giving Alhaitham that ugly gold VISITOR sticker, which he promptly slaps on your chest, nimble fingers tracing the edges to ensure that it’s secure.

“There,” he says, stepping back a little, as if to admire his handiwork. “Now you’re ready.”

The Ancient and Middle Egyptian literature archives are kept on the top floor of the Haravatat, the dull aisles flickering to life the moment the two of you step from the elevator, fluorescent lights clicking on in slow succession, triggered by your motion, and humming softly to themselves.

“Come,” Alhaitham says, hand encircling your wrist and tugging. “The original pieces of literature are kept over this way, in specialized glass casings.”

“Of course,” you’re nodding to yourself, allowing him to lead you towards the preserved papyrus. “Can’t have humans putting their grubby hands on a piece that’s four thousand years old, even if they are scholars.”

“Exactly,” he smirks down at you.

Smart-ass.

“Alright,” he’s saying as you reach the desired case. “There’s a small writing desk here on the edge for you to make notes and do translations. While you work, I’ll be—What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture,” you say as if he’s stupid, not even bothering to glance away from your phone, hovering above the glass screen.

“Why?”

You frown, finally looking over at him. “So I can translate the text?”

His face falls, shock flattened by disappointment, and he fixes you with a look.

“Hold on a second,” he begins, sarcasm already heavy in his tone. “I brought you here so you could translate directly from the original material, and you’re just…taking a photo?”

At your responding nod, his molars grind, strong jaw flexing with the motion, a dense sigh exhaled shakily out his nose.

“Of the first section, yes, so I can zoom in and translate with better accuracy,” you say easily, and he can’t tell if you’re lying or not. “And then, when I’m done with this section, I’ll go take a picture of the next section, then the next, and the next, and so on, until I’ve finished the entire text.”

“The entire text?” he laughs, but it’s humourless, tainted with incredulity. “Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take you? The semester’s already half over; I thought you only wanted to translate the few key passages you’re analyzing in your paper?”

“I changed my mind,” you shrug, though now he can see it; the mischief tweaking at the corners of your lips and glittering in the irises of your eyes, barely contained.

And, for a moment, you’ve stunned him into silence, yet another first for you to add to your cherished collection.

But then the blood in his veins begins to boil, the heat wiring his body back to his brain, and then he’s snapping at you, tumultuous teal surging in his eyes, churning with fury, but his voice is cold with disappointment.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, y’know that? I should take you home right now—”

“No!” you gasp, phone forgotten in an instant. “No, Haitham, please, I didn’t mean to—”

Little hands paw at his sweater, desperate for his understanding, for his forgiveness, and just like that, all traces of mischief are eradicated from your features, devoured by pure honesty, and his blood calms, authority restored to its rightful place.

You’re too cute when you beg.

“Alright. Whatever. Sit down, do your work, and be quiet.” He casts a pointed glance at the independent study desks. “I’ll be working on my dissertation, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”

Turning away with more vigour than strictly necessary, he stalks towards one of the desks, wholly expecting you to mimic his actions, to obey.

But you don’t.

Because, really, when do you ever?

His head lifts as you pull up a chair from a nearby desk and tuck it into his own, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Your actions halt, a frown materializing on your face. “I wanna sit with you,”

“I should sit you at an entirely different table, alone, for such behaviour. Christ,” he shakes his head, muttering to himself as he bends back to his unfinished dissertation. “A picture. She has the whole piece in front of her, literally at her fingertips, and she’s taking pictures.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat, your lips automatically pressing together in an attempt to stifle it as you take a seat across from him, his jaw clenching once at the sound.

It’s cramped and uncomfortable, the two of you trying to work at a desk designed for a single person, pages overlapping and pens strewn across notes, your study materials leaking into his meticulously organized documents, the toes of your shoes consistently knocking against his as you fidget and fiddle around.

Yet somehow, you both manage, and for a moment it’s almost nice, a synergy of sorts forming between the continuous bumps of your sneakers and his routine shoving of your materials back onto your side of the desk.

But then you shatter the delicate, premature peace with a single question, all wriggling stilled as your voice grows serious.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Mad? No, I’m just—Annoyed, that’s all. I didn’t get you into this place so you could just take a photo of the original text. I could’ve done that for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Now concentrate on your work.”

It can’t be more than five minutes into your joint study session when he feels it again—a gentle yet distinct tap-tap-tap against the toe of his boot. It’s deliberate this time, methodical in the rhythm—one, two, three, breath, one, two, three, repeat.

Expelling a soft sigh, he looks up, searching your form. You’re still bent over your work, murmuring softly to yourself, seemingly oblivious.

“Stop that.”

You look up, a shock of genuine surprise across your face. “Stop what?”

“Stop squirming. You’re hitting my foot.”

“Oh? Am I? Sorry, I’ll stop.”

You don’t sound sorry, though, delinquency seeping through the cracks of the sugared sincerity coating your face.

It starts up again a mere few minutes later, just like he knew it would, except this time, he refrains from reprimanding.

You get this way sometimes, he’s come to learn—desperate for his attention and willing to do anything, including bothering him, to achieve it. He supposes he doesn’t necessarily mind it, doesn’t necessarily dislike it, sometimes even enjoys playing this game with you—this push and pull, this challenge and challenger, this predator and prey—however this is neither the time nor place for such trivialities.

And yet, despite his best efforts to entirely ignore you, to refuse you the attention you’re yearning for in an effort to encourage your productivity, he finds himself subconsciously hooking and unhooking his ankle with yours, engaging with your actions entirely without his own accord.

For the breath of a moment this seems to satiate you, the small repetitive action enough to fulfill your ever-growing needs, enabling the two of you to work in peaceful silence once again.

But something with sharp little teeth gnaws a hole in the pit of his stomach, bile oozing out slow and steady to embrace the surrounding organs in a tight, sticky film, and you’ve since kicked a shoe off, sock-clad foot curling around his calf, sliding up and down the muscle, giggling a little at the way it makes his thighs tense and twitch, the way it makes his hips spasm and shiver, and he can’t stay silent anymore.

“Stop playing around and do your work.”

“But I wanna know more about yours, Haitham.”

“You can know more about mine once you finish yours.”

“No fun,” you grumble, kicking at his shin, eyebrows pushing together as a pout scrunches your face. “No fun at all, you big stoic meanie.”

Nimble fingers rub at both of his eyes, a hefty sigh thick on the back of his tongue.

This is odd. You’ve always been chatty, always been bratty, but this—this is something different. This is something worse.

Something must’ve happened. Something must’ve set you off, triggered a response, awoken a deep-seated need for his attention, confusing it with affection. Something furls up in his throat, and he forces a strong swallow past it, voice grit and gravel when he speaks again.

“Hey,” he says, leg hooking forcefully around you own, halting its movement and garnering your attention with a cute little oh!. “What’s going on with you today? Did something happen?”

His eyes are startlingly sincere as they search your face for an answer, and you blink, floundering for a moment before your features harden again, expertly schooled into a carefully curated expression of carelessness.

“No,” you blow the word out your mouth, as if the idea is preposterous, but your smile is tight, small, stretched painfully across your lips.

There is a time where this might’ve fooled him, but not anymore.

He knows you too well now.

He knows you too well, because you’ve told him, secrets and sentiments spilled in the late-night hours at his office, terrors and traumas whispered in confidence under the dim gold of his desk light, veiled with tears.

Your leg tries to kick its way free, and his own tightens in response, shin pressed painfully to the edge of his seat.

“Are you sure?”

And, for a moment, he’s positive he’s got you, positive he’s broken through to you, crushed those heavy walls of protection to dust and is stumbling through the rubble towards your heart, towards the truth.

Your demeanour wavers, teetering on the edge of honesty, and he leans forward a little further, muscles loosening.

But then you haul it back from the ledge, countenance set firmly in place, leg slipping gracefully from his grasp, and you’re gone again.

“Of course I’m sure,” you say breezily, brushing off his concern as your roll your shoulders once, sitting up straighter.

“Just restless, then.”

“Just want to know more about you, actually.”

“You already know so much about me,” he says, a small jolt buzzing through his veins at the sheer validity of the statement.

“There’s always more to know when it comes to you,” you respond, words melting slightly, sagging under fondness.

Chuckling a little, he shakes his head. “We can talk more about me and my work once you finish yours, okay?” his voice has softened a little compared to the first time he offered this solution, tinged with the hope of compromise. “I promise.”

Your eyes search his own, hunting for shards of dishonesty and coming up empty.

“Now be a good girl, and finish up your translations.”

You grumble a little under your breath, too low for him to make out the content, but obey anyway, picking up your pen again, so he let’s it slide.

As it turns out, though, not even the enticement of future attention is enough to pacify your brattiness—and he was stupid to think it ever would be.

Because then you’re restless again, hungry again, craving again; because you want it now, like some sort of sick compulsion that compels you to act out; because no matter how much he promises you, it’ll never be enough.

Because too much is never enough for a greedy little girl like you, who takes those shards of notice he’s paid to you and chews them up, spits them out, demands more.

It was always only a matter of time.

And his few remaining vines of patience, weak and worn and withering in your presence, are about to decay.

He flinches when he feels it, the tip of your shoeless toe tracing up his calf, circling his kneecap and pushing up his strong thigh, then trailing back down his shin to repeat the process all over again.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you hum, eyes never straying from your work.

A hand snatches your foot just as it reaches his knee again, palm wrapped around the arch, squeezing hard enough to force a yelp from your throat. You look up suddenly, eyes wide and surprised, foot squirming in his grasp.

“Yeah? Is it nothing?”

“I was just…” you trail off, head shaking in short, quick motions. “I didn’t even realize, Sir, I swear—”

“I don’t believe you.”

The heel on his thigh squirms a little, the cap of your pen caught between your teeth oh-so-innocently as you shrug and lean forward, perky breasts swelling almost daintily as you draw in breath to respond, straining against your sweetheart neckline.

“I don’t know what to tell you, other than that I’m telling you the truth.”

Your actions contradict your words, toes pointed tightly and poking at his hipbone, foot trying to wiggle its way along the curve of his thigh, straight to his half-hard cock.

“Enough with the lies. I’ve tried to be strict, I’ve tried to be nice, but I’m at the end of my rope here.”

“Oh?” you giggle. “Can I give it a little tug?”

“Don’t play with me,” he warns, short nails digging into the arch of your foot.

“Or else, what?” you goad, curious to see how far you can take this, how far you can push and prod and pinch before he snaps; a fly teetering on the teeth of a venus flytrap, waiting.

“Or else I am going to move to another table if you don’t cut it out.”

“Why? Am I making it hard to concentrate?”

“No,” he says, defensive, too quickly, cock jumping at his lie. “You’re pissing me off. I have allowed this to go on for far too long.”

“Oh, you’ve allowed it, have you?” you snort, rolling your eyes. “What do you think? Just because you’re one of my teachers you’re suddenly the boss of me, or something?”

“I am—”

“You know what I think?” you reach across the table, two tiny hands clasping his large one, pen skittering from his fingers, leaving an ugly mark across his paper. “I think—”

And it’s the touch that does it, the shock of skin-against-skin, warm and soft and buzzing, that has him ripping himself from his chair in an instant, moving so quick that the metal legs teeter against the linoleum floor, a caustic growl in his words.

“I don’t really give a fuck what you think,”

A large hand clamps around your bicep and yanks, hard, pulling you unsteadily to your feet with such strength that it sends your seat clattering to the ground, legs kicking wildly as you struggle to find your footing.

A gasp catches in your throat, mangled and choked, your gaze snapping to his with a ring of shock tinging your irises, and the corners of his lips twitch.

Good. It’s about fucking time.

He says nothing as he shoves you towards the endless rows of shelves, all shrouded in darkness, keeping a firm grasp on your arm while he does so, his broad chest pushing against your shoulder and forcing you to move forward.

The harsh, pale lights overhead flicker to life one by one as he barges deeper into the stacks, fluorescent tubes creaking from disuse.

Your combined footsteps echo throughout the aisles—his steady, clear and cruel, yours stumbling, toe of your singular shoe catching on the tiles, sock slipping against the waxed floor.

“I—Are you taking me to see those books you promised to show me?” your voice trembles slightly, threads of terror sewn into your question.

He stays silent, his cool, even breaths forcing chills to erupt across your flesh, each exhale against your dampening neck sending another bout skittering up your spine.

“Well, Christ,” you snort, but it comes out as more of a snivel. “The least you could do is tell me where—”

The breath is kicked from your lungs suddenly, a sharp gasp lacerating your complaint as he slams you against a bookshelf, your head whacking against the wooden ledge, book spines vibrating against wood and pages rustling together.

“Ow,” you whine, features twisted in a wince, hand attempting to rub at the sore spot and colliding with his body, your own caged tightly between a wall of muscle and a wall of books.

His breath is coming quicker now, short little puffs that flare his nostrils and heave his chest, rising and falling against your own. His hands, planted on either side of your shoulders, curl around the edge of the shelf, blunt nails audibly digging into the wood.

A steel-toed boot kicks at your ankles, forcing them further apart, a strong thigh slotting between yours and keeping them spread wide.

Your mouth falls open, in shock or surprise or scare, he can’t tell, he doesn’t care, a pitiful little squeak—a poor imitation of what was once words, he’s sure—strangling itself in your throat.

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

The back of his hand collides with your cheek, stark and sudden, the sharp sound of skin slapping skin echoing down the vacant aisles.

The bite of betrayal hurts, and you keep your face pressed flush to the wood, chin jutting defiantly, refusing to look at him.

He grips it easily with a pinching thumb and forefinger and hauls it harshly back toward him. The rest of his fingers wreathe around your jaw, clinched so hard that your mouth puckers.

“Oh no,” he spits, words quietly seething. “I’m about to handle it, right now.”

“Fuck you,” you try to say, but it comes out jumbled, spit collecting in the divots of your lips.

Ignoring you, he continues, smooth and cold despite the sapphire flames licking at his pupils.

“You’re going to learn to respect your superiors tonight,”

“Oh yeah? And how are you gonna do that, Haitham?”

Yanking again, he tilts your head up further, forcing your face to his, wood digging into your scalp. He’s so close you can feel his words waft across your face, can smell the musky cedar wood twining through them, lips nearly brushing yours as he speaks.

“I am going to fuck the brat out of you.”

His breathing is calm and controlled now, his voice low and even the way it gets when he’s made a definitive decision.

Yet despite the sheer severity of his words, sincere and serious, you can’t help the incredulity that bubbles up your throat, spilling past your lips in infuriating little giggles, and the rage in his eyes blazes.

“Something funny about that?” he’s growling as large hands slide up your thighs and under your dress, hem and excess material bunching around his wrists as he pushes up, up, up, until he hits delicate lace, pretty and pink and clinging to supple flesh.

Of course there is. You both know that’s impossible, both know that the brattiness is inherent, rooted so deeply within you that it’s woven into the fabric of your very soul itself, irremovable, irrevocable.

“Yeah,” you say, residual amusement still tickling your words. “I’d like to see you try.”

Rough fingertips sprout through delicate lace, invasive and uncontrollable like weeds as they ravage the fragile fabric and tear it from your body, elastics popping as they snap against your skin.

“You know what’s funny?” he’s murmuring into your neck, nose nuzzling the curve as nimble fingers massage the ruined garment in his palm. “How fucking wet you are.”

Using the thigh crammed between your legs, he keeps you steady, keeps you trapped as strong hands swoop beneath your ass and heft, your limbs automatically wrapping around his body; fingers lacing at the base of his skull, tufts of silver tickling your knuckles; ankles linking at the base of his spine, heels digging into the dimples engraved into smooth muscle.

There’s no romance to it, no kisses or caresses or tenderness at all. He doesn’t bother himself with such trivial matters, head ducking in an almost violent manner, nudging your jaw upward and forcing you to bare your neck to him. Sharp teeth sink into thin flesh, giggles dying to gurgles in your throat.

The hinges of his jaw flex, tightening the grip of his bite, teeth latched deep in muscles and arteries. A yelp cracks loudly in your throat, nails burrowing into his scalp and scraping, contriving a low moan from deep in his chest.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” A theatrical gasp falls from his lips, head pulling back enough to blink at you with feigned surprise. “Trying to get my attention so I’ll fuck you? Is this why you’ve been acting out so much today?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, little tongue darting out to lick at his lips, then the tip of his nose. “Maybe I just wanted to know how much I’m your favourite.”

He laughs at that, a dark, smooth sound vibrating against your neck, and you can feel his lips mold into a genuine smile.

Your desperation is precious, he’s mumbling into your skin, slick tongue sealing his words into the flesh in slow, fat, sticky strokes.

He sucks another claim of ownership into the flesh of your neck, signs his name in broken blood vessels and splats of violet ink, rapidly developing beneath your skin.

Your hips grind into his own, gyrating in quick little circles as he works at etching an impermanent masterpiece into your body, his teeth and tongue as his tools.

The denim of his jeans is caustic against your sensitive cunt, but that doesn’t deter you from grinding keenly on his bulging cock, a hoarse whine spilling from his throat as he looks down, webs of translucent slick stretched shimmering and sticky across the coarse material, shining almost iridescent in the harsh light of the library.

You’re struggling a little, restless in his arms as your hips rut and rock, almost as if you’re trying to fuck yourself on his cock through his clothing.

“Christ, I haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already soaking me right through,” he snorts, as if it’s pathetic, but his voice tapers off into an airy little wisp. “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Jus’wanna—ugh—” you wail a bit, pitchy and petulant, hands squeezing their way between your pressed bodies to scratch at his waistband, fingers hooking in his belt loops and yanking. “S’not enough, Haitham. Need more, Haitham.”

So fucking greedy, so fucking needy, he’s huffing out to himself as he demands you get his cock out, hips drawing back just enough to allow you to shove his pants down, dainty fingers wrapping around the base and guiding it toward your glistening pussy, blunt head bumping against you.

You can’t help but play with it a little, gliding the head along your slippery slit and glazing it in your arousal. Because, oh, it’s so pretty, so perfect, straight and symmetrical and softer than velvet as you roll the shaft a little in your palm, feeling it thrum with simmering blood in response.

That feels good, has you mewling out melty versions of his name, spine arching reflexively as pleasure climbs the notches. But it doesn’t last long, he doesn’t allow it to, hips surging forward with impeccable precision and pushing the head into you.

It stings, thick cock splitting your ill-prepared hole wide open with each slow inch, fragile flesh aching as it stretches around him, stretches for him, a hiss spit from between your teeth as your features crunch in pain.

“Shut up,” Alhaitham snaps coldly. “Impatient little teases don’t deserve to be prepped, do they?”

No, you suppose they don’t, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

“I can take it,” you huff out stubbornly, brows knitted together, though your words wobble a little.

“Oh?” he asks, and he nearly sounds genuine, eyebrows raising in derisive astonishment. “Is that so?”

It only takes one sharp, swift thrust before he’s buried inside you, cunt stuffed full to the hilt, poor little hole spasming as it attempts to adjust to his girth.

It knocks a cry from your throat, eyes squeezed shut as your fingers tangle in the knit collar of his sweater and pull, tugging yourself closer.

Your head falls forward, face pressed tightly against the junction of his neck, trembling breath fractured by whimpers as your cunt pulses, tiny spears of agony slicing through your gut, flesh tearing into tiny fissures.

“Aw, what’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs mockingly into your hair, cheek grazing the crown of your head. “I thought you could take it. What happened?”

“I—I can,” you whine through gritted teeth.

“Yeah?” Alhaitham pulls back a little, shoulder gently nudging your face from it’s hiding place. “Prove it to me.”

A fire of determination sparks in your chest, catches on your heart and embraces it in its flames, the blaze doused in desperation to show how good you are, how good you can be for him.

“Start fucking me, and I will.”

And, for only a second, his true nature breaks through the hard annoyance coating his features—the smile he gives you is nothing short of fucking breathtaking, teal eyes glinting with something akin to pride, appreciation, approval, delighted that you’ve risen to meet his challenge, just like you always do—before that mask is back in place, expression expertly repositioned, and then his hips are drawing back, large hands flexing, fingers digging into your plush skin.

A few of the books fall from the shelves, knocked from their homes by the force of his immediate thrusts, hips snapping hard and fast and ruthless as he grips your body to his.

It hurts, the consistent slam of his cockhead against your cervix leaving it bruised and swollen, spikes of pain rippling through your gut. It only feels as though he’s ripping you open more, each drive of his massive cock into your cunt splitting your core further and further until reaches your soul, carving out a little space just for him, a mold where only he can snap into place, planting shards of himself within you, never to be removed.

“Ha—ah—Haitham!” you manage to breath out, stuttered from his rough movements, the name quivering on your tongue.

“What? Huh? What? I thought you could take it, sweetheart.”

And irrespective of the slamming of his hips and the shuddering of the shelves, he sounds almost entirely unaffected, his slight breathlessness the only indication this is having any impact on him at all.

“What’s the matter, my cock too big for you?”

And, oh, it’s so condescending, the question cooed out through an exaggerated pout, exhilaration shining in his eyes.

You don’t answer, won’t answer, can’t answer, the ramming of his cock smashing any semblance of a response to pieces, nothing more than shards of letters that dissolve into airy little mewls on your tongue.

“That’s cute,” he spits, though his voice fades into something softer, something sweeter, an insult rolled in icing sugar.

That fire, kindled from pride and a fierce need to prove yourself, flares in your chest, and you grit your teeth, resolve hardening.

The words are splintered and breathy as you force them from your mouth, the whole sentence cracked by the piston of his hips, letters flowing into one another, messy and slippery and soaked with saliva as you spit them out.

“C’mon, Sir, you said you were g—g—gonna really fuck me—fuck the brat right outta m—me, yeah? But you’re not doing—you, ah—you’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

A snarl rips from his chest, rattling his ribs against your own, and he surges forward, smashing his lips to yours—an easy way to shut you up—teeth gnawing on your lips.

It’s hardly a kiss, the edges of sharp ivory slicing into delicate flesh, procuring pretty ribbons of crimson that ooze slow and steady, mixing with your interspersed drool and turning it a sticky pale pink. The small gashes stain his mouth, scarlet gathering in the creases of his lips and the curves of his gums, painting him in strokes of you.

“You won’t be able to fucking walk when I’m through with you, you little bitch,” he hurls the words into your mouth, coated in venom so bitter it stings your tongue.

“You better—” you begin, cut off sharp and sudden as he sucks your tongue into his mouth and clamps his teeth around it, biting down hard enough to push a high little cry from your throat.

It’s already swelling, tiny bumps beginning to bulge and bloat beneath the rims of his teeth, still burrowed in wet muscle. You manage to yank it free, wincing as his teeth drag across it, harvesting rows of bloodied saliva.

There’s barely a moment to reflect on it, though, the consistent pounding of his hips keeping you from forming a coherent thought at all, ideas snapped like weak threads with each quick drag of his cock, senses dulled to everything but him.

Dull pain sprouts across your body, the sharp edges of the shelves tilling the beginnings of long, thin bruises into your skin. The wood grinds against the knobs of your spine as he fucks you, hard and brutal, your skull loose and heavy on your neck as it thwacks off the spines of the hardcovers behind you.

“How’s this for really fucking you, huh? You little brat,” he rasps out, eyes hard and eyebrows pinched, dewdrops of sweat decorating his temples, catching in the florescence and glittering like diamonds.

You’re rendered speechless yet again, the harsh, fast rub of his cock against your favourite spot causing your eyes to roll, lids drooping under the heavy weight of pleasure, mewls of his name flowing choppily from your mouth, half-finished and fading into pitchy moans.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” he taunts, though the question is panted out in hot huffs, strings of silver hanging in his eyes, trembling with each brush of his eyelashes. “Can’t speak?”

A sharp whine of frustration breaks to pieces in your throat, face scrunched and eyes clamped shut in concentration as your sloppy tongue attempts to mold wisps of fleeting thoughts into letters.

But it’s no use. Everything feels floaty, dreamy, almost, the edges of your vision gone hazy, softening all of the honed lines and harsh corners of the library.

He’s all you can see, his features the only thing in focus; aquamarine gems glimmering with a type of intoxicating rapture, a brilliant smile sprawled across his cheeks, salt-saturated tuffets of platinum and flint embellishing his forehead and cheeks.

He’s all you can feel; his large hands beneath your ass, grip tightening with the acceleration of his pace, fingertips sowing deep blotches of navy and amethyst into your cheeks; his smooth pubic bone, clit gliding over it with each of his thrusts, slick and sticky and so, so good.

He’s all you can smell, hear, taste—cedar wood and breathless grunts and blood-tinged mint.

“Are you going to fucking behave now?” he asks, pace never faltering. “Guess brats can’t be brats if they can’t talk, now, can they?”

Your head is nodding without your permission, automatic and instinctual, sharp mind and sharper tongue dulled down to one singular aim—to please him. His cock is the only thing you can focus on, now. His cock is the only thing you want to focus on, now, all of the tension and trepidation from the past few days—from the past few weeks—ebbing away, corroded by bliss.

The stress that’s been straining your face releases, expression fully relaxing for the first time tonight—pure, authentic—smoothed out by hedonistic ecstasy.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the softness of his tone contradicted by his merciless actions, the short legs of the bookshelf beginning to creak and wobble, oak scraping against linoleum. “Turns out all you need is a good, hard fuck to turn you into a respectful little girl, isn’t that right?”

“S’right, Sir, s’right,” you slur, words sloppy and stuffed with spit, letters loose and languid on your tongue. “I—It’s—ah!”

It’s so much, too much, emotion welling up in your chest and your eyes, pushed to the surface by his warm pleasure, his warm presence, submerging you in its enticing embrace.

Because it is only here, with your bodies knotted and your breaths twined, where you feel safest, where you find solace, where you are supported, in a way you never before have been, in a way no one else ever has.

It is only here, drowning in him, where you can let go, give in, give up, allowing yourself to be guided.

“I know, baby, I know,” he soothes. “Don’t worry, I’m here to handle it, I’m here to make it all better,”

The words are so fucking genuine, ringing with such sincerity, instinctual tears pricking and nibbling at your lashes as emotion roils in on itself in your throat, forming a hard lump, lodged in the column.

It renders any sort of response incapable, impossible, consciousness overwhelmed and overridden by the pleasure sprouting across your body, every new crop reaping another wave of undeniable relief, undefiable release.

It’s okay, though. It’s okay, because you don’t need to say anything at all, because he already fucking knows—can decipher it through the water glazing your eyes and the feathery little moans routinely fragmenting in your throat; can decipher it through the clutching fingers scouring and scuffing his skin, pressing him closer, holding him tighter.

Those initial spikes of pain have morphed into sparks of pleasure now, tiny little cinders wrapped in barbed wire, scraping against the walls of the capillaries as they rush through your veins, leaving your limbs tingling. Desire flares in your chest, stuffed full and scorching, as they collect at the core of your body, blossoming into a blaze of heat.

“Oh, oh, Sir,” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut before springing open again.

“That’s better,” he teases, though you can see it, the genuine pride shimmering in his eyes. “Look at that, look at how much of a good little girl my cock turns you into.”

“Uh-Uh-huh,” your head lolls dumbly before a stinging slap echoes throughout the vacant aisles, his hand colliding with your skin. A raised outline of his palm and all five fingers sears itself into your flesh, shocking some semblance of wakefulness back into your stunned stupid brain.

“I want you to cum on my cock, sweetheart,” he demands as his forehead falls forward, pressed to your own. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes!” you nearly weep out in a high, stringy whine. “Yes, Sir, please, Sir, please!”

He placates you with a quiet hush, blunt nails digging deep crescents into your plush ass while he shuffles your weight, his knees bending slightly as he re-angles his hips, cock drilling fast and strong into your cunt, shaft jabbing against your favourite spot.

That fire he ignited furls in on itself, coiling into a firm, concentrated ball of ardor, twisted tighter and tighter and tighter with each grind of his cock until finally, it bursts, hot droves of ecstasy flooding your body.

It’s so potent that it whites your vision and wipes your brain, breath stalling in your throat as pleasure wrings your body, and you cum so hard, so much, more than you ever have before, warmth gushing out of you in heavy torrents.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it—just like that, make a mess for me,”

And he sounds almost as if he’s in awe, eyes drifting down to where you’re connected, watching as your cunt throbs and spasms around him, watching as streams of shimmering slick glisten on his cock, flowing down his balls and soaking the waistband of his jeans, stretched taut around his thighs. A thick but neatly trimmed sprout of dark curls mops up the remaining wetness, matted and glimmering with your essence.

Muttering, low and sharp, lures you back to reality, misty daze beginning to dissipate, still gauzing up the edges of your vision and encasing your brain in a soft cloud. It isn’t clear how long you’ve been drifting for, sweetheart neckline of your dress clinging to your body and sopping with sweat, apex of your thighs aching as Alhaitham jackhammers into you, jutting hipbones carving out the perfect place for themselves in supple flesh.

“Goddamn it,” he’s groaning, brow furrowed and hands slick with frustration as they attempt to readjust you again, hoisting you up further and tightening his grasp. “I can’t fuck you properly in this position.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, your cum still dribbling down his cock, cunt giving weak little pulses as he pounds into it, every drag of his cockhead against that plush spot procuring another pitiful gush of juices, filmy and sticky, shocks of overstimulation quivering your blood.

There isn’t a moment to ask, though, because then he’s hauling you away from the bookshelves and slamming you down onto the nearest independent study desk, flailing limbs knocking a small table lamp to the floor, skewed light casting crude shadows of your forms on the wall.

A loud cry lacerates your throat as you thwack against the surface, eyes shut tight and nose crinkling as spears of pain shoot up your spine, nestling into the base of your skull.

But he doesn’t seem to care, your discomfort hardly a nick in the fabric of his plan.

Large hands skim along your thighs, molding flesh as they go, hooking beneath your knees and tugging your languid legs from around his waist. A simple jab to each has them reflexively straightening, Alhaitham smirking at the soft whimper of surprise that slips from your lips as he places one ankle on his shoulder, then the other, sharp eyes holding your bleary gaze the entire time.

That’s the only reprieve you’re afforded from his brutal fucking, merciless hips picking up right where they left off the moment your ankles are hooked securely over his shoulders, feet curling around his neck, the tips of your toes routinely bumping together.

“Fuck,” he nearly whines, head rolling back, defined jaw and prominent Adam’s apple on full display.

The fingers burrowing into your hips twitch, grip relaxing then tightening, a feeble attempt to keep your body from sliding away from him, the pumping of his hips shoving you further up the desk, slick skin squealing as it rubs against lacquered wood.

A hand comes to collar your throat, long fingers curling carefully, one by one, as they cuff your neck, while the other stays clamped around your waist, stern and unyielding, fingertips submerged in plush tissue.

Impossibly, this position is so much deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach, a palm slapped flat between your hipbones to feel the bulging head pressing through your flesh with each rut of his hips.

Because he’s so fucking big, cute little hole still straining to swallow down his girth, raw cunt stretching in an attempt to take him, to be good for him.

His fucking has turned vicious, every ram of his cock jostling your entire frame, the hand latched firmly around your neck clutching in retaliation as his grip tightens, using this point as leverage to hold you down, to keep you still.

Your vision begins to blur at the edges as your air supply diminishes, precious little sounds strangled to pitiful little squeaks, wrung out by the palm flattening your windpipe.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice simultaneously close and far, wisps of words wavering in the atmosphere around you, caressing your flesh before they vanish. “Good girl, take my cock, such a good girl for her teacher,”

“Yours,” you babble out, the word tangled in threads of spit, muddled and sticky. “Yours, yours, yours, Sir, yours.”

“Mine,” he whimpers, the vice grip on your throat letting up for a moment, the tips of his fingers stroking the line of your jaw, possessive. “My good girl.”

Your entire backside is going to be scraped and slapped raw by the time he’s through with you, dainty hands wrapping around his wrist, holding onto him for stability. And, God, you’re so fucking gorgeous as you stare up at him with such unadulterated devotion, glimmers of admiration in your eyes as you beg him for more, more, more!

“Greedy,” he chastises, the scold nothing more than a huff, voice hoarse as it bows under pleasure. “You want more, huh?”

Christ, yes, please, yes, give me more, Sir, I need more!

And although you’re sure you’re saying them, boiling up your throat and brimming past your lips, the string of pleads is nothing more than indistinct noise to your ears, reverberations shaking your ribs.

His thighs are slamming into the edge of the desk, sharp wood leaving a crease in his skin, muscles flexing and shifting in a desperate attempt to stabilize himself. Rusting metal rakes against the linoleum, its creaky wail twining through the empty aisles, chased and promptly devoured by your cries and his groans.

But you’re barely paying it any attention at all, slushy brain turned amorphous, nebulous, evaporated into a tiny ecstatic galaxy of half-finished rhapsodies, full of him; clusters of his gorgeous noises burst into stars, supernovas of his name blooming across your flesh.

You must be begging for something, babbling on senselessly, nothing more than a cluster of indistinct shudders in your chest, because then he’s speaking to you, the contracting of his fingers nothing more than a blunt pressure.

“You want my cum, baby?” his voice breaks through the universe he’s birthed in your skull, clear and curt. “That what you want?”

Yes, your head is nodding in quick little movements, chin bumping against his forearm. Yes, yes, yes!

“Yeah? Yeah? Show me.”

“Oh, God, Sir,” you nearly sob, feet curling around his neck, gripping him closer, muscles in your legs pulled taut. “Please, please, gimme your cum, Sir, need you to stuff my tummy full of it, Sir, stuff my whole body full of it, Sir, I want it s-so bad!”

A sardonic little laugh huffs past spit-slicked lips, as if you attempt was downright pathetic, as if he knows you can do so much better than that.

“Aw, c’mon,” he scoffs. “That’s the best you got? Show me, baby, show me how badly you need it.”

Nothing more than a mass of pulsating pulp now, your mind can hardly comprehend what he’s saying, unable to stitch together any semblance of meaning from his words, but that’s alright, because it doesn’t have to.

Because your body knows. Your body knows exactly what he’s asking for.

And it gives it to him, almost instantly.

It’s so immediate, so intense that it strikes a scream from your throat, shatters the cosmos he had instilled within you and sends scorching glints of starstuff shooting through your veins, ripples of flesh quavering inward, towards your core, only to be dispelled yet again, forced back the way they came by the incessant snapping of his hips.

The hands curled around his wrist clamp, grip so strong it makes the bones in your fingers ache, stiffly frozen in tiny claws as your orgasm wracks your body, a sticky stream of unintelligible sobs flowing from your lips, hitching in time with his hips.

They’re so dense, so thick, so fucking heavy that they clog your throat, obstructing what little, narrow gaps for air you had left, and you feel like you’re drowning in them, in your desperate pleas for his cum, residual flares of starstuff melting your flesh from the inside out.

Clouds of bliss have formed at the corners of your vision again, and everything feels abraded, overexposed, hypersensitive, nerves gnawed raw to their frayed roots by the pleasure, sweet little cunt sore from such strenuous clenching.

And finally, finally he gives you what you want, the vicious throbbing of his cock the only thing your hazy mind can concentrate on, can grasp ahold of, shreds of focus melding together in an effort to pay attention to it.

Faintly, you can hear a moan fracture on his tongue, lips molding into an involuntary pout at the pleasure muffling your ears and misting your eyes that eclipse his gorgeous sights and sounds from you.

The pressure on your windpipe lets up, wheezy air rushing into your lungs in razored little breaths, Alhaitham’s big body suddenly blanketing your own, his elbows resting on either side of your head. Slim fingers caress your skin, brushing back sweat soaked strands of hair, teal eyes tender as they study your face, careful and courteous. His chest vibrates against yours—warm little tingles that zip through your flesh—and you struggle to listen, muted static fading in and out as your ears begin to tune into his frequency.

“...About, baby?”

“Hmm?”

He laughs, and it’s a fond little sound, mirth-infused breath wafting across your lips, nimble fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek.

“I said, what are you pouting about, baby?”

“Couldn’t see you,” your mumble out, forehead crumpling cutely with the distasted scrunch of your nose, lashes fluttering rapidly as if to accentuate your point. Drops of crystal escape the corners of your eyes, pushed forcefully from their home by your hard blinking and rolling into the hair at your temples. “W-Wanted’a see how pretty you look when you cum.”

“Well,” he begins softly, though there’s a self-satisfied smirk on his face, corners of his mouth twitching slightly, threatening to spread into a full-grown smile. “I’m sure you’ll get another chance soon.”

As your fucked out mind chews on his words, features still chiseled in a deep pout, he stands slowly, taking your rigid hands between his palms and smoothing out your crimped fingers one by one, massaging each joint as he goes.

He’s saying something else to you, something about how lucky you were to be on such a high, vacant floor, something about how you should both right yourselves before one of the monitors wanders on up and catches you, but none of that matters to you; not when his softening cock is slipping from your abused little hole, and thick dollops of his cream are drooling out with it, and if he doesn’t do something soon, it’s gonna be wasted!

“Haitham! Haitham!” you whimper loudly, body thrashing weakly beneath him.

“What?” he asks, sounding just as alarmed as you feel, fingers halting their ministrations as wide eyes scan your face.

“Your cum!” you practically weep out the word, features screwed up in in distress, as if the thought of wasting even a single drop physically pains you.

Head tilting, he frowns slightly. “What—”

“It’s leaking outta me!” you whine, lidded eyes springing open with some effort, beseeching him. “Don’wanna waste any of it! Do something, please, do something, make it stop!”

Another one of those fond chuckles pries past his lips, head shaking a little and muttering to himself about how you’re still his little fucking brat, aren’t you? as he kneels between your thighs, your knees still slung over his shoulder.

You’re still murmuring to yourself, wrecked little complaints that keep slurring together, and Alhaitham hushes you, a thumb stroking the silky skin of your inner thigh. A sharp gasp slices through your words as his tongue pushes into your cunt, tip curling in an attempt to scoop out his cum, the cutest little squeal mangling itself in your throat as your hips wiggle.

“Hey,” he says sternly, fingertips denting plush flesh as the grip on your thighs tightens, your squirming halted immediately. “Stop moving or I won’t give you any at all.”

“M’sorry, Sir,” you say as seriously as you can manage, ghosts of giggles still bubbling in your throat, haunting your words. “I promise I’ll behave, please gimme some.”

“That’s a first,” you hear him grumbling to himself, words slightly garbled by the cum he’s storing in his cheeks. “Maybe I should feed you my cum more often.”

You aren’t afforded a moment to respond to his musings, though, because then his tongue is plunging back into you, hollowing out your cum-stuffed cunt in an almost meticulous method, twisting and twirling and lapping up every last bit of the viscous substance.

You’re pushing yourself up eagerly as he rises, desperate to meet him, arms wobbling a little as you strain, legs falling off his shoulders to pillow his hips.

Large hands wrap around your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the dips of your collarbones as he stabilizes you, tugging you closer to his body and slotting his lips against your own, opened wide and waiting.

He practically shoves his cum into your mouth, tongue grinding in repetitive little rhythms against your own, each stroke depositing another coating of his cream, now diluted by your interspersed saliva, on the slick muscle.

It’s the closest thing to a real kiss that he’s given you all night.

And you can’t help but moan into him, sucking his tongue further into the heat of your mouth, lips puckering tightly around it in a feeble attempt to slurp and swallow down every last drop, bitter and tart and strong, just like his favourite blend of dark roast coffee. Your own tongue twines around his, starved and scrupulous and licking it clean, before the tip dips into the crevices near his molars, sopping up any remaining notes.

“Fucking greedy little girl I’ve got myself here,” he’s mumbling as he finally frees his tongue from your kiss, saliva shimmering on his chin.

“Can’t help it,” you shrug, suddenly feeling shy, cheek tucked into your shoulder and resting against his knuckles. “You just taste so good.”

His gaze softens, melting under your scalding sincerity, and his index finger crooks, tilting your chin up.

“You’re precious,” he admits after a beat of silence, eyes skimming your features in a way that feels light, faint, dainty, as if staring too hard, or observing too assiduously, might break you.

Blinking curiously, your head tilts in his grasp, a question written in the movement.

But he doesn’t answer.

“Here,” his arms hook beneath your own, hauling you off the desk and onto unsteady feet. “Let me fix you up a little. You look all...”

“Fucked out?”

“I was going to say dishevelled, but yes.”

“Your fault,” you say simply.

“It is my fault, which is why I’m fixing you up, brat,” teal eyes flick up from his motions, hands still fussing as he holds your stare, the satisfied little giggle spilling from your throat procuring a small grin from him.

He’s nearly finished righting you when the elevator dings, sending a startle through the both of you, combined gazes flicking towards the chrome doors just as they slide open to reveal a man.

“Uh,” the man begins dumbly, the patch sewn onto his shirt delegating him as library security. “The library’s closing in about ten minutes, so start wrapping up whatever it is you’re working on.”

Despite Alhaitham’s fussing, you still look absolutely fucking wrecked—lips swollen and stained with blood, cheeks and neck streaked with salt and sweat, sweetheart dress still damp and clinging to all your curves and contours—and he’s sure the guard can tell exactly what you were just doing, the man’s beady eyes busy glueing themselves to your body, pupils sucking up every fine detail, singeing them into the tissues of his brain for later use.

A thread of protectiveness surges through Alhaitham’s veins, and his arm curls around your front, shuffling you behind his shoulder; a shield of sorts, a nonverbal warning to the guard and his grubby gaze.

“We’ll be out before closing,” he promises, voice strong, stern, curt, snapping the guard from his perverted reverie.

The guard mutters some nondescript jumble of an approval and nods to himself, Alhaitham waiting until he’s shuffled back into the elevator before he turns towards you, tiny fingers burrowed in the hard muscle of his bicep, clinging to him as you totter on your rickety legs.

And he can’t help the adoring little snort that tickles the back of his tongue as he stares down at you, lashes clumped together in thick spikes and that shimmer as they flitter.

“What does he mean, the library closes in ten minutes?” you ask as Alhaitham finishes tidying up your combined study materials, hands still twisted in the fabric of his sweater, hindering his movements slightly.

“He means that the library closes in ten minutes,” your TA responds dryly, sardonic amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What? Wait!” you cry, voice streaked with high panic, fingers flexing against him and yanking him closer. “But I barely started my research! I—I’m not even close to finished!”

A strong arm twines itself around your hips, heavy palm curled in an almost possessive manner around the bone as he supports the majority of your faltering weight, exhausted body fusing into his touch and allowing him to guide you toward the exit.

“Well, then I guess we’ll have to come back, won’t we?” he responds coolly, smoothly, leaning down to murmur in your ear as the pair of you reach the elevator. “And you better not be such a fucking brat next time.”

“I mean,” you’re saying nonchalantly as you step through the chrome doors, mischief dancing on your lips and glittering in your eyes, both arms wrapped around his waist squeezing him closer, tighter. “If that will be my punishment again, then I can’t make any promises.”

It’s impossible to impede his head as it droops to plant a doting kiss to the crown of your head, pausing for a breath before sowing a few more along your hairline for good measure, doused in affection.

Because it’s then that he realizes that the brat that resides within you—inherent, instinctual, in a way—hasn’t actually been sated or tamed at all, but merely lulled into a sort of complacency; a sweet slumber that it’ll be snapped from the moment something doesn’t go your way, or you don’t get what you want.

It is untameable, insatiable, nearly uncontrollable, always ready to resurface at the best of times, the worst of times, the most unpredictable of times, to dare and challenge and defy, and that’s exactly why he loves you.

#alhaitham smut #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham thirst #genshin smut #genshin impact smut

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fredwkong · 2 months

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Alphaworld File 3: Diary of an Alpha Transformation (1 of ?)

Click here to read Alphaworld in posting order.

An undated journal. It is heavily bedazzled on the covers, though many of the gems appear to have been scraped off or stepped on. There are several stains yellowing the coloured paper of the cover, mostly sweat.

Inside the front cover, there is a space where the owner is encouraged to write their name. Two names occupy the space, one on top of the other. The lower layer is written with a purple marker, neatly spelling the name “Ronaldo Herrera.” There are multicoloured sparkles drawn around the name, and glitter has been sprinkled over it. Some of the glitter appears to have been scraped off with a knife, and there is a 3 centimetre tear at the top interior of the page, as if someone was about to rip it out. On top of the first name, the name “RONNIE H” is scrawled in crude capitals using a pencil. The pencil was applied with sufficient force that graphite scrapes are visible from where they were brushed off the page.

Journal entries flow into each other without dating, but editors have split entries based on context and labelled them “Day One, Day Two, Day Three…” despite the fact that more than one day clearly proceeds between some entries. From this point onward, journal entries are transliterated directly, with marginalia and other notes on the text rendered in square brackets [] to distinguish them from the main body.

[Day One]

OMG, I’m soooo happy to be back on campus! Staying with my parents is such a bore! They don’t let me stream any of my shows, they say drag race is of the devil, and the town is so small that I’m, like, the only twink there. I can’t even get any dl dick all holiday because country guys are all totally masc for masc. My hole is toooootally desperate.

I’m so happy that Ollie across the hall got me this journal! He made it look soooo cute with all the stones! He’s, like, okay for a fellow bottom, even tho his massive crush on me is, like, totally obvious. Sorry babe, this dick is for decoration only lmao! Maybe we could get tag teamed by a big dick boy sometime, that’d be pretty hot. I've never bottomed alongside a transmasc dude.

Anyway, I just stopped at the dorm to drop off my suitcase and get out of my het drag, there’s a whole lotta frat parties starting tonight and if I wanna end my dry spell I’ve gotta be there! I just had to live my Sex and the City fantasy by putting down a few lines in the diary first!

[a doodle of an open-faced journal with scribbly lines on the page in rainbow colours]

[Day Two]

ZOMGGGGGGG [written in double-tall bubble letters across a quarter of the page, filled in with pink highlighter]

This term is gonna be SO AWESOME.

Campus is suddenly full of massive muscle men who are totally desperate for me! I was, like, totally the target of a dominance contest at the party last night, and it was SO HOT.

So I walk in, right? And I’m dressed in my usual, my lil slutty crop and my littlest shorts. Here, I took a pic before I left so you can see how cute I was.

Anyway, I’m cute, I’m obvious, I’m ready to have any guy absolutely wreck me. Like, last night, I would have taken a bicurious frat bro fucking me raw, my hole was so neglected. So I am a blaring neon sign: I’M A FAG [written in rainbow marker colours]

And as soon as I walk in, this GOD [a doodle of a massive man is in the margin, a perfect X shape covered in cartoonishly bulging muscles] comes up to me and is all, “Hey boy, I’m Nate.” He. Is. PERFECT. Gorgeous grey eyes, windswept dirty blond hair, a tank top hugging pecs the size of my HEAD. And his voice gets me tooootally weak in the knees. I can't believe he's LOOKING at lil ol me, even if I do look like a twinky slut.

But before I can even say anything to Nate, there’s another MASSIVE arm draped over my shoulder, and ANOTHER massive guy is whispering in my ear, like, “Name’s Lee. Want a drink?” I look over, and he’s just as hot as Nate, with shiny black hair and this perfect sexy smile like a J-pop star. But, like, if a J-pop star was 250 pounds of pure muscle and sex.

I swear all the air went out of the room. Suddenly, Nate and Lee were glaring at each other over me, and all these frat bros were staring.

BTW, when did all the frat bros get so cuuuute? Like, not as sexy as Nate and Lee, but they’re all totally cut this term and I think they’ve got some skincare going? Like I wanna go back sometime lmao.

Lee, like, GROWLED as he glared across me. I felt a li-ter-al rumble from his chest. Nate started totally flexing his big pecs, I thought his shirt was gonna shred in the middle. They didn’t even SAY anything, it was so totally primal. I think I got a whiff of Lee as he tucked me closer to his chest, and I realised he totally doesn’t use deodorant. He smelled totally HAWT.

Anyway, I have two perfect men fighting over me, and I’m not letting either of them go, so I go, “Boys, I promise my holes are big enough to share.” I totes flashed my dimples at them. [doodle of a smiley face]

They kept glaring at each other, but finally Lee was like, “I get his hole.” Maybe he, like, won the contest or whatever? Because Nate looked down at the floor and said, “Fine.” And I mean, fine with me! I love getting stuffed from both ends! What a way to come back from vacay!

We didn’t stay at the party long, just long enough for Lee to get me a drink and Nate to carry me around the dance floor a bit. I checked on Lee while we were dancing, and he was, like, totally making out with one of the frat bros. Like, a guy I knew was straight. I blew him freshman year when his gf was away. I guess Lee’s just like that, lmao.

We ended up upstairs. I think Lee’s in the frat? But we weren’t in his room, which was kinda hot. Lee and Nate sandwiched me between them as soon as we were through the door. I was tooootally surrounded by massive muscle as Nate made out with me and Lee sucked on my neck. I felt, like, high, with Nate’s big cock grinding into my belly through his jeans while Lee felt up my cute ass.

“You guys kissing would be so hot,” I gasped as Nate pulled off my shirt and Lee took off my shorts.

They both hesitated, I could feel it. “Oh c’mon,” I moaned, “you’re both tooootally hot, and you haven’t touched at allllll.”

Suddenly, Lee picked me up and threw me on a random frat bro’s bed. “I guess your mouth IS gonna be busy,” he said, which was SOOO hot, and then he started slicking up my hole.

Pretty soon, both hunks were balls deep in me. They were SOOOOOO big [doodles of massive, soft cocks cover the margins of this page] and I took ALL of them. Lee filled me up SO good, rubbing my prostate like he was fingering me. And Nate tasted, like, perfect. And the whole time, Nate kept pulling back just far enough that I could watch him and Lee kissing over me.

FUCK, they made me look like a little doll between them! I think once they were in me, all the dominance stuff went away, because they were TOTALLY making out. Nate’s, like, SO noisy, and Lee kept on doing that growl thing like he’d done before, which made me moan around Nate’s cock, which made him even noisier.

I came handsfree right before Lee flooded my ass and Nate filled my mouth with cum.

By the time our clothes were back on, Lee and Nate were back to playing their weird dick measuring game, keeping me between them as we went back to the party. I think Nate left pretty soon, but I danced for a bit longer and made out with a few frat bros. They really ARE super cute now, and they all seemed totally into me. Guess they finally got over being raging fucking homophobes lmao.

Anyway, I got home and crashed as soon as I’d cleaned all the cum and sweat off. Now my hand’s all crampy from writing for so long lol. Oooh, I should go tell Ollie all about it!

[Day Three]

I was, like, SO right.

The last few days have been AWESOME!!!! [jagged star doodles all around the word] I swear there are soooo many hunks on campus all of a sudden! One of my profs this term is a tooootal musclestud.

So I’m taking this class on fashion history, and when I looked it up, this Prof. Romano guy was listed for it. He was cute, one of those cute tweed aesthetic guys. You know, a fag who studies fashion. Like, OMG, that picture must be SO OLD.

I show up for class all ready to sit in the back row, but then I see this MAN standing at the podium. Like, total Italian stallion, with the dark waves and the stubbly jaw. He was, like, BURSTING out of his blazer. I could watch his pec bounce through three layers of fabric.

So obv I run down and sit in the front row. I’m not the first fag to have the idea, there’s already like 3 other twinks down there, but I’m totally the cutest. As the rest of the class comes in and sits down, these two GORGEOUS boys walk in and go up to the prof. They’re totally shredded, and dressed in complementary button-ups. And the muscle-god prof pats each of them on the head! Then they go sit down in some chairs behind the podium, and I can see their boners in their cute slacks.

The prof clears his throat, and it’s this DEEP, RESONANT sound. I got a total eargasm just listening to the rumble. “Good morning, class,” he says. And then his next words are TOTALLY burned into my brain:

[written in shaky block letters across a whole page] “You will call me Alpha Mario.”

And then he says, “I am your professor, and I will see you all for extra credit,” while rubbing himself through his pants, like half the class isn’t ready to have his babies. My cock was ROCK FUCKING HARD in my jeans. [doodle of a leaking penis]

He introduces his TAs as Beta Max and Beta Owen. IDK, maybe it’s a kink thing? He’s clearly their dom or something, they were totally devoted to him all class. I’d happily be Alpha Mario’s Beta if he’s hiring, lmao! [hearts are doodled around “Alpha Mario”]

Anyway, that’s just one ep in the PORN SHOW that is my life these days! Ollie’s room has been, like, a revolving door of cock since we got back, and I usually take two or three loads a day out on campus. This group of straight computer science geeks actually begged to fuck me yesterday, so I was dripping all the way home.

They were surprisingly buff for nerds, too! I should point out to Ollie that we gotta hit the gym if we wanna keep up with all the boys on campus this term. Can you imagine? Us at the gym! [The rest of the page is covered in stickers of the laughing emoji]

[Day Four]

Went to the gym today! Not to workout, but I had this new outfit idea and I thought it might get me noticed if I just hung out in the locker room. OH BOY, was I right!

Last few days all my clothes have been feeling super tight, so I’ve been doing a lot of [scribbled in rainbow marker] SHOPPING. It’s too bad, all my old clothes were suuuuper cute, but I’ve started giving some of my old faves to repeat fuckbuddies. One of the guys who used to push me around for being faggy, this guy called Brendan, has been coming over for the last few nights. I never realised how cute he is before!

Anyway, the first night Brendan came over he throatfucked me, but last night he told me he really wanted to feel my fingers in his hole, so I started fingering him! It was soooo hot that my cock ended up totally hard and before I knew it HE was blowing ME while I rubbed his prostate. He’s been texting me all day, begging to service my cock again. Lol, he just sent a voice message all like, “Please, Ronaldo, I’ll do anything to make you cum again!”

My point is I gave him a pair of my old booty shorts. They fit him perfectly, even though he NEVER had an ass as nice as mine before. He’s been wearing them all day today, just like I told him. It’s so hot, knowing he’s showing off like a fag even though he used to be a straight homophobe.

Fuck, I was writing about MY clothes! I’ve been so distracted by hot beta boys the last few days. I thought it was kinda time to change up my style, plus I looked super hot trying on some more dude-type clothes, so here’s the pic of me I took while I was hanging out at the gym.

I had guys HANGING OFF OF ME after a few minutes. It was totally hot, they wanted to do anything I said. Before long, I had a bunch of hot guys kissing me all over and all the cocks I could want to suck. Guys kept running out to grab their hot friends to join us, and all these guys were focussed on me.

At one point one of the staff came in, and I could tell it was to tell us to stop. He was a cute guy, really filled out his work polo, you know how gyms always hire swole dudes and curvy gurls to work at the front desk. I just gave him this LOOK from the middle of my pile of dudes, and I could feel his straightness melt away as his cock started leaking in his preppy shorts.

But just as I was about to cum, my cap got ripped off my head and I was dragged out of the pile by Nate, the guy from that frat party. I swear, he got even BIGGER since last time, he held me up by my shoulders like I was a paperweight. He was totally growling at me, too. He said something like, “I hate when they’re half done,” whatever that means, and then he yelled at all the other boys to get back to work.

Once we were along in the locker room, Nate shook me like a doll. “All the ex-het Betas can treat my gym as neutral ground, but it’s MY territory to you and the other half-done Alphas, you got it?” [note: Alpha and Beta are capitalised in the original text, although Ronnie does not seem to have been aware of the Alpha Phenomenon]

I was like “What are you talking about?”

Nate said, “You’ll get it.” Then I started smelling this INCREDIBLE smell. It was like really sharp cedar cologne mixed with fresh sweat. There was something else too, and it made me feel totally out of it.

Next thing I knew, I was on my knees swallowing Nate’s cock again. “Yeah,” he was saying while he fucked my throat, “this’ll speed you up. You’ll probably never submit again after this, so I’m gonna enjoy it.”

I just stayed there, taking him all the way into my throat. I feel like a week ago it would’ve been totally hot, but today it felt different. Nate using me made me MAD [underlined several times]. I felt like I should do something about it, like punch him or steal one of his boys, but the smell coming off of him kept me docile.

Nate came really quietly, which made me madder. My throat is an incredible tool, okay? Any guy should be screaming when I blow him, especially a noisy top like Nate. Then he patted me on the head like I was a little boy and said, “Head home. Drop a load in that guy who lives across from you, he should be progressing well too.” Then he just. Walked away.

I was gonna stay here all night just to spite the asshole, but I’m super horny again and I don’t wanna go back out. Maybe I’ll go see if Ollie’s got any visitors tonight or if he wants me to fill his holes for him.

[Day Five]

[From this point, entries are written in a noticeably heavier hand. Lowercase Es and Os become jagged.] Fuck, last night was fucking awesome. I knocked on Ollie’s door, and he answered in nothing but a thong, showing his bottom growth right through the fabric. His legs have been getting so hairy and thick, he looked super slutty. Plus his room smelled like sex and cum. I’ve been sleeping out, but seems like Ollie’s been taking house calls.

“Ronaldo?” he said, blinking up at me in surprise. I think we used to be a matching pair of little twinks, but guess I’ve had a growth spurt.

I shoved through the door. What was he gonna do, stop me? I was like, “Where’s your lube?” It came out of my mouth so deep, in a crazy manly register. “I wanna finger you.”

Ollie fuckin’ moaned when I said that, and stumbled over to his night table to grab it. He keeps his lube right out in the open, proud of how much cock he takes. I was already dropping my jeans, my cock was getting super hard and I hate feeling it strain. It deserves to be seen anyway.

Once I grabbed Ollie’s lube, he stood against the wall and presented his ass for me. Fuck, just remembering the look of all that hair on his fat ass is making me leak again. Okay I jerked a bit, should be able to write. [there is a stain on the page here]

Ollie’s hole was still loose from his last dick appointment, so I pushed three fingers in nice and easy. Ollie was moaning, all, “When did your fingers get so thick,” and “What’s happening to us, Ronaldo?” so I roughed up his G-spot a bit until he wasn’t being so articulate anymore.

“What’s happening to us is we’re gonna rule this school,” I hissed at him. I’d realised that it wasn’t gonna be enough to finger him and make him blow me. I needed to shoot inside his ass right fucking now. “Fags are in fucking charge here now.”

Fuck, wait, I need to text Brendan and get him over here. I need him milking my cock so I can focus on writing.

[There are several crude doodles of dicks, asses, and cum splatters in various marker colours before the entry continues on the facing page]

So anyway I slammed Ollie against the wall and shoved my cock into him. My cock’s so much fucking bigger now, too. Like it’s really filling up Brendan’s mouth while he sucks on me. I had enough cock to really saw at Ollie's asshole, and I felt him cum handsfree onto the wall.

“That’s it,” I growled in his ear as I had to hold him up. “This is what you’ve wanted ever since we became neighbours, right? Ollie wanted to get Ronnie’s big alpha dick in his hole.” It felt good to call myself a

[in massive letters on its own line] ALPHA

Ollie didn’t really say words at that point, just lots of “Yes” and “More.” I could hear his voice getting deeper with every thrust, too.

By the time I was getting close, Ollie’s room reeked like ME. It wasn’t a bad smell, but I knew any boy who came in here would be able to tell that all this musk and spice wasn’t just Ollie. It would take weeks for this to be really Ollie’s territory again now that I had marked it. “Fuck, show me that man pussy,” I ordered him, and threw him down in his bed.

Switching holes felt like the most natural thing in the world. I’m fucking built for topping, I can’t believe I thought I hated it. I fucked Ollie through a couple more orgasms and then let myself fill up his man pussy with what felt like 3 loads.

I fell asleep still inside him.

FUCK. I just came in Brendan’s mouth, and it felt totally different. Like, I marked Ollie’s room, but I didn’t mark HIM. His holes are open for anyone to fill. He can own other boys for all I care. But Brendan? Brendan’s fucking MINE. He’s mine he’s mine he’s mine. MY Brendan. [scribbled hastily] I need his hole NOW.

[written later]

I took a pic of Ollie before I started fingering him. I bet he looks totally different now, like me. Gotta go, MY Brendan’s gonna show me how to do a gym session.

To Be Continued...

#alphaworld #male transformation #mental change #male tf #muscle tf #reality change #musk tf #dom tf #hairy tf #gradual change #all fwkong

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whokilledjared · 1 month

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the sluttiest thing a man can do is be himself. (& takes on social media)

Hi.

I'm lonely.

The moment I got "two weeks off school" in sophomore year, life went to 4x speed & I can't turn it off no matter how hard I try.

Maybe COVID-19 adolescence did numbers on me. Somewhere between the iPhone 5c and ChatGPT, 14-hour screen times have live-streamed to me a steady, homogenous death of culture.

Nothing is cool anymore. Nothing is sacred. Every movement is a trend, and every cult classic a sequel.

The value we place on things being beautiful, on being "cool," and our gatekept appreciation of how hard these things were to find: it's been co-opted, or perhaps stolen. It's been stolen by the new merchant class. "Disruptors" and "innovators" turning our lives into a burgeoning black mirror prequel. Soon, we'll graduate too, and we'll wring every morsel of value in each others' lives dry for cash.

Plain and simple, I think we're being manipulated.

Your dates are an algorithm. Your music is a social signal. And Zuck knows when you sleep.*

God. What the fuck are we doing???

“Individuation is becoming the thing which is not the ego, and that is very strange.” — Carl Jung

Recently, I deleted Instagram. My first impulse was to post a story or something, announcing my departure. But then, I thought that would be lame.

I got rid of my account, too. Kinda. Over 1 year, over 800 followers removed, and what remains of me is a little grey icon, and "JM_0000000010" where my name and face used to be.

yay.

There were many people I wish I could have been friends with, but I wonder, too, why I find myself so drawn to the validation of others. Does social media affect me worse, or do we all just choose to ignore it, languishing in private?

At any rate, this last year has almost felt like re-learning how to be a human being.

Personally, I think one of the biggest markers for maturity is when you become willing to disappoint the people you know in favor of what feels right to you, when you start to unravel the stories you’ve told yourself (or been told) about who you are and what you should be. In short, the sluttiest thing a man can do is be himself.

And sometimes, I think about every college student that has ever lived. My grandmother, my dad, and so on. Just consider for a moment all kids who graduated before 2010:

What was it like for the ones in 1940? To walk around, before a campus had computers? In 2006: To meet someone pretty, but forget their number? In 1999: To cram into dorms, and watch Seinfeld live on-air?

Would I, like my dad in 1988, have braved cold night, brisk wind, & landline phone-call just to knock and see if my friends were too busy to hang?

What stories could I tell if there was even the slightest chance of getting lost on the way home from a party?

Humans are social creatures. We crave our friends like water. To me, the clearest difference between Dasani and Instagram is that one of them comes in a bottle.

Yet despite these distractions and comforts we have in 2024, somehow, we still have engineering students. People who carve out time in their day to sit down, look at paper, and solve differential equations. But then, that's not so hard, is it? It just takes time. Precious, fucking, time.

At Meta, leagues and leagues of these engineers power behavioral scientists, who are competing for the highest salary. Their benchmarks? Your FOMO. Guilt. Anxiety. Obsession. The worse you feel, the more you engage with their content. The more you engage with their content, well, you're starting to get the point.

Try something for me: Open up Instagram, but don't tap anything. What happens? How many little animations? How many tiny nudges prompting you to get lost? Our home-pages are billion-dollar diving boards, hoisting us over engineered catacombs of subconscious quicksand.

My homepage is my FOMO, my envy, and my crushes. The pain and struggle of trying to be someone who I am not. My little existential crises, bundled-up, packaged, and shipped with a like button.

To abandon your social networks entirely, however, requires a safety net of close friends. After all, your friends are online, and you'd be miserable without them.

This is the problem with our monkey brains. Millennia of sociological natural-selection have made us quite great at feeling terrible. We're damn good at making tribal status games to play with, too.

Seeking refuge in quirked up septum piercings and boygenius listeners, my time in counter-cultural, alternative "scenes" between St. Louis and Tampa has shown me that even the weirdest of folks and the most removed can accidentally find themselves reduced to nothing more than high-school popularity contests. Even if I love them. Even if they're amazing people. We're human.

We can't "quit social media" as much as we can't "quit bottled water" Sure, we can, but it's inconvenient. And even without a bottle, we're still drinking water.

So I lost touch with my friends. I got no new updates on their lives. I forced myself into the inconvenience of not having a phone to reach for in fleeting moments of boredom. Suddenly, I was out of the loop. Suddenly, I was bored. And suddenly, nobody missed me. My only friends were the ones I had the time to text. Everyone else ... does not exist.

Weekends have become more valuable than ever. Without the empty social calories of seeing my friends' pictures, I find myself planning hangouts as often as my schedule allows. I have more lunches, more study sessions, and more is done in the company of less.

And I have the time to breathe.

And in this calm, I think I found my answer: it's my misplaced ambition. These fears of anxiety and people I thought I would miss, they seem represent something I want to see more of within myself. Something I want to develop, lean into more deeply, as an individual. And I think that's quite normal; to look out into the world and feel attracted to things we want to see more of. This is, I think, how everyone develops their own definition of beauty — and of coolness. It's largely the intersection of what we find most interesting, and what we want to see more of in the world. Because beauty and coolness, by definition, are rare and hard to find. If they were everywhere, nothing be beautiful, nor would anything be cool.

When we all turn into wrinkles and cataracts, bad backs and heart attacks, for a brief, glorious moment, our lives are going to flash before our eyes. In this moment, you'll see your story. The ultimate progression of you.

How much of that will be skibidi toilet and reaction clips? How much of that will be arguing on the internet? Can you tell me, just how much of your life will you have skipped over to pacify your intentionally-lowered attention span?

That girl whose number you couldn't find Those passing questions over coffee that you couldn't search on Google The boredom of a subway ride

Those are not inconveniences, they're what the older generations refer to as "life."

* (oh, but if you can't sleep, consider this aside: Google knows the angle you walk at, how fast you're walking, and they've got crowdsourced pictures of everywhere around you at all times of the day. fun bedtime thoughts <3)

#scene #alternative #social media #social justice #instagram #college #coming of age #writing #blogpost #blog takes

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revasserium · 3 months

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college fencer!zoro headcanons; not nsfw but a bit risque below the cut, fem!reader, in the same universe as death before decaf, prev fic knowledge not required but helpful. enjoy ;)

college fencer!zoro who is just as shit at studying as you’d always expected, falls asleep in any class that doesn’t have to do with sports and food (though you were truly shocked at how many subjects your uni has that do involve either one or the other), but comes with you to every single one of robin’s academic decathlon contests, just because he knows its important to you.

college fencer!zoro who tugs off his shirt the first time you bury your face in his pillow to complain about the upcoming anatomy quiz, smirking when you blink up at him, cheeks dusting pink, a question in your eyes as he lets out a protracted sigh, glancing away with, “well — you’ve got a live model right here so…”

college fencer!zoro who realizes he’s bitten off way more than he can chew when you press him down onto the tiny twin bed, a trio of colored skin-safe markers in hand, your eyes glinting in the dull light of his feeble dorm lamp, tracing a delicate finger along each muscle group before reciting the name and function out loud and labeling the name on his bare skin; he tries not to think about the softness of your thighs as they straddle his waist, or the way the curve of your ass shifts just above where a gnawing tightness is gathering between his legs.

college fencer!zoro who spends the rest of the night forcing you to name the different muscle groups in your upper thigh while he traces them over with his tongue.

college fencer!zoro who glowers at anyone who tries to partner with you in practical applications, even when you roll your eyes and tell him that you’re supposed to be learning about how to treat a variety of body types — not just him; who pins you with a look and asks, completely seriously, who the fuck else you think you’ll be treating for the rest of your sports medicine career, who, when you ask him what he means, only cocks his head and says, “as if i’d let you touch anyone else.” before stalking away.

college fencer!zoro who never lets you out of his sight at frat parties, sticks close even if he’s drunk enough to laugh at someone else’s jokes, who makes a habit of grazing the tips of his fingers along the bend of your waist just to remind of you of his presence, who only grins when the rest of the fencing team teases about being secretly whipped, responding with, “yeah, and?” in such a casual tone that no one else dares to say anything else about it; who tells you that jealousy looks good on you whenever you pout at him talking to another girl, but will let you talk to other guys so long as you know you’ll feel it in the way he sinks his teeth into the skin of your neck later on that night.

college fencer!zoro who calls you when he’s five minutes late to your date, admitting that he’d gotten lost somehow on the campus that both of you have been frequenting for the past three years; who grumbles an apology when you finally find him clear across campus, in the entire opposite direction, and you’ve definitely missed your reservations, but still insists on going on a date anyways; who laces his fingers between yours and lets you pull him into a shop with pink walls and too many neon signs and the fruitiest cocktails he’s ever tasted, but who will still smile sweet and wide as you look over the menu with contented, eager eyes, because your happiness has always been more important to him than any missed reservation.

college fencer!zoro who, in the midnight dark, shifts to pull you into his chest and murmur into your hair, “stay with me…” to which you reply with a sleepy, “yeah… ‘m not going anywhere…” and him, “good. cause forever’s a long time and i don’t plan on spending it alone.”

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postmarq · 1 year

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Autumn at Marquette University

#marquette #marquette university #fall #autumn #campus marker

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aclowntiny · 9 months

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A Date Like No Other- Basketball Player!Mingyu x Female!Reader (College AU)

Inspired by the famous tumblr post 😄 also I’m quite tempted to do a part 2 for this one if anyone is into that hehe

Word Count: 3600 | College AU, Basketball Player!Mingyu, Humor, Fluff | Warnings: drinking mentioned, one suggestive comment, one minor swear

He was the guy on campus everyone would have sold organs to go on a date with. The sports guy. The really tall guy. Handsome, plays on the school team, movie love interest guy.

You were the weird girl hardly anyone talked to, and you just liked him because he drew on your notes with you.

History was boring you- you’d already answered the questions and they read the pages out loud at a snail’s pace, sending your eyes diving into the pages lest you want to rip your hair out and coat your long thin institutional table in it. Saving that, you reached into your backpack and pulled out a green ultra fine marker, popping the cap. You reached over and doodled a frog sitting in his funny little amphibian hunch on one of the multitudinous papers strewn about the table before the guy sitting next to you glanced over, a huge smile spreading across his face before he suppressed laughter.

"I've been frogged!" That, of course, had him almost snorting in aborted amusement.

Wait...did that mean? "Oh, sorry, those were your notes, huh?" You asked in response, hand hitting your head lightly. "I got them mixed up, sorry for defacing your property. I can get you a new sheet if you were going to turn that in-"

"Nah," your neighbor, whose name was Mingyu if you remembered from roll call, held up a hand of both restraint and reassurance, "it's fine! I'm going to keep it. I love him. I think he needs a hat, though."

"Oh, I got it." This time, it was a brown marker you grabbed, quickly outlining and filling in a tiny cowboy hat for your creation. "There we go, how's that?"

This time, a full snort. "He looks handsome to me. What's his name?" Mingyu whispered as your professor drew a tad bit closer.

"Uh, Clint Eastwood?" You shrugged, having not exactly thought that far- in fact, not at all, the whole shindig starting at full zero thoughts, head empty.

"Well, I'll take him with me to every class I have," Mingyu replied, glancing fondly at the doodled frog before taking his pencil and drawing a fly between two pieces of bread, "and feed him, too."

At that, you exhaled a quietened laugh, smiling back as wide as he'd done.

"What? Wouldn't that be what a frog eats?"

You had to admit that it would be.

From that day on, you two added one or two things onto Clint Eastwood's page every class session. He had a top hat at the ready for dressing up, a little garden of flowers, a very badly drawn horse to ride, a soccer ball to play with, and a plate of the takeout Mingyu had just really wanted that day. You didn't even know what his major was. Maybe it was just sports. Could one go to school for simply basketball? Who knew? You guys didn't really talk, just drew and whispered and laughed about your froggy little world. Either way, to your simultaneous amusement and annoyance you found yourself really able to see the hype behind the legendary Kim Mingyu. For all the popularity, he was a good guy. And you know what, he was cute. But, like, heart cute. The face cute was just a bonus.

"Hey (y/n), do you ever go to any games? I've never seen you at one," Mingyu mused as you strode out of class, backpacks loose over your shoulders.

"Well," you paused, letting your expression be cut by a half-joking, half-serious wince, "no offense, but I'm not a huge sports person? So I haven't gone because I don't have anyone to go with and it hasn't seemed worth the money. Not because of the game, just because of how much they charge for the ticke-”

"Hey, don’t worry, I get it," he laughed, "well, my little sister could use someone to go with, and the ticket would be on me. I save on buying them for myself because, well, you know."

"You're too busy slamming dunks or whatever it is basketball players do," you supplied.

"Depends on your position," Mingyu just chucklef in response, pushing the big silvery-painted fire exit-esque handle of the history building's double doors open.

"Basketball has positions?" You burst out incredulously, squinting both in confusion and at the onslaught of sunlight assaulting your eyes as you emerged past the threshold.

Another laugh. "Come and find out."

The game was made more fun by knowing a player- it gave you something to care about as your eyes followed Mingyu's run along the smooth floors, the way he leapt to toss the ball to some guy just as tall or even taller than him. He really played with passion, passion and a clear sense of fun if his remarks on the court were any indication. His sister was pretty cool, too. She looked like a fashion model straight out of Seoul, but she was fun and sassy, not afraid to tease her big brother about the shot he missed when he ran up and greeted you at the sidelines or shoot a questioning look between you two as you told him to do it for Clint Eastwood, whom Mingyu replied was his good luck charm before shuffling back off on sneakers that squeaked against the floor.

Even though you didn't actually hang out with him the whole time, just at celebratory victory ice cream after, you came to history lecture the next session feeling closer to Mingyu, and he must have felt the same as he started talking to you instantly. You rarely initiated conversation, but always welcomed it.

He thanked you for coming to the game as if he hadn’t paid for it, then asked what your major was. You told him and bounced the question back. Turns out it was business, not sports. That history lecture was just GE you both had to get out of the way. The most interesting history lessons to you weren't generic national history or war maps, but all the odd sideline stuff like how some people believed huffing toilets might have helped them during the Black Plague.

"They what?" Mingyu asked, eyes widening and mouth agape as class commenced.

Maybe that was why people didn't really talk to you.

Such reflection was inaccurate, however, as you mindlessly doodled a ridiculous-looking bug-eyed dog on the now-shared note paper and Mingyu chuckled and gave it a collar, smiling when your glance upward met his eyes.

The moment you rose from your seat after lecture, notebook shoved back into your backpack and pencil case into one of the side water bottle holsters or whatever they were called, Mingyu started talking to you again, this time about how glad he was that he didn't join a fraternity like his teammate Johnny.

"Yeah, because see, this one guy just got so drunk he didn’t know where his car was and his girlfriend lost her nose ring, then another guy was sick and they threw him outside and he woke up in the cold locked out of the house, and the houses stink, too, like they smell so bad…”

"Yeah," you muttered, taking each of your bag straps in your hands this walk, palms sliding over the rough fabric, "dude, you couldn't pay me to live in one of those."

“…they’re practically taking after those Black Plague people!” He joked, bringing a smile to both your faces as he mimed taking a sniff, waving his hands in front of his nose and bursting into laughter.

“Except they should know better,” you added, shaking your head in amusement, “they need to get smart like you and I.”

He didn’t laugh, just nodded in approval. "Right? And everyone there has already hooked up with each other. I'm so tired of all that, too. That's not the kind of date I've been looking for, you know?”

In a sense, you did not know, being that none of your classmates had even hardly made conversation let alone a risqué pass, but you got it. Being as popular as Mingyu was, you’d seen how fellow students threw themselves at him sometimes. Had to get uncomfortable, especially if his facial expression at a few of them said anything. They weren’t usually very original, either, poor guy. He was just a clear end goal, and someone who loved his sister and his little drawings and celebrated with ice cream as often as cocktails and laughed at toilets didn’t deserve that. Mingyu wasn’t an ideal, he was a real person. Someone who just needed to have some damn fun for once.

“Sure. You need some- no, you deserve some- creativity. If it was up to me, I’d take you on a date like no other,” you joked, chuckling as your gaze rose back up to his eyes.

“You would?” At the sight of Mingyu’s eyes widening, you wondered if your phrasing had inadvertently crossed a line. Sure, you were totally willing, but- “Alright, just name a time.”

“Wait, really?” This time it was your turn to gape, one hand dropping off your backpack strap to fall to your side. Your heart picked up its pace. Never in a googolplex of years would you have thought Mr. It Boy K. Basketball would want a date with you. Being his friend was surprising enough.

“Yeah, of course. I think it’d be fun,” Mingyu beamed at you, “and I trust you. My sister likes you, too. If…if you really meant it, that is.” He added that last bit as his own gaze dropped and one hand reached up to rub the back of his neck.

Giggling shyly at his sudden sheepishness as well as the situation’s sheer absurdity, you tilted your head his way, smile melting back out of the shock. “Well, thanks, that actually…really means a lot. Get ready for an epic time, then!”

He cocked a brow, turning down between a row of potted trees toward the food court. “Have something in mind already?”

Actually, you did have something you always wanted to do if you could get someone else- it would look too weird to be the only one. Why not do it with Mingyu?

“Be afraid,” you nodded, smirking in satisfaction.

“Well then, how should I dress?”

“Just casual is fine,” you shrugged and teased, “we can’t all afford black tie, Mr. Business Major.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled, still giving that wide smile you’d come to anticipate seeing, “Friday night?”

“Friday night,” you repeated.

“Get ready for Friday Night Showdown!”

“Um, (y/n), this is the grocery store.”

Your lips turned upward proudly as you rotated from a fist pump into a Vanna White pose before the mart. “I know.”

“Are we…” Mingyu paused, clearly searching for words. “Fighting in here or something?”

“We are not,” you replied cryptically, looking all the more satisfied as you passed between the automatic doors, Mingyu at your side.

“Am I doing your shopping?” He looked at you with still-raised eyebrows, though amusement colored his expression.

“That would be messed up!” You denied, shaking your head. “Though admittedly funny.”

“Don’t get any ideas for date two!”

Your heart flipped at Mingyu’s easy smile, how casually he said that…the way he flushed and looked away the moment the words left his mouth. He was already thinking of your next date? Hope he likes seafood, you internally joked.

“Yeah, no shopping tonight unless you wanted some snacks. Because tonight,” you skipped over all the central aisles of kitchen supplies, soap, and dry goods, making a beeline for the meat section… well, more specifically the fish counter, “is all about the face-off.”

In a split second you caught Mingyu’s eyes dart down once more past rows of cans, bottles, jars of just about every color you could ask for, dancing over their numerical markers as if to say farewell to actual shopping. Then, his gaze was back on you, your gestures, over your shoulder to the tank at the end of the fish counter. The tank full of lobsters with big claws and small patience. His eyes met yours again. He knew. You could see it.

You nodded. “Oh yeah. Pick your champion.”

He twisted his cap around backwards, revealing his face, those big, innocent brown eyes, once more. “Uh, quick question: how do you suggest I keep mine straight from the others?”

He was asking in earnest. That was another thing you liked about Mingyu: not only did he possess childlike wonder beyond what somebody in his age and station in life probably should, he was also a bad liar in the purest, kindest of senses. He really, truly, had never had a grocery store lobster beatdown date, and he couldn’t fake interest if he tried. So now he wanted tips, advice you could give him as if you had already had loads of grocery store lobster beatdown dates. All you could do was smile back at the tall basketball player and every small kindness he’d shown you thus far. The way he’d simply seen you.

“Good question. Don’t they have different colored wristbands?”

He arched a brow, clearly fighting a snicker. “Different what?”

Pantomiming a band with one hand grabbing the other, you stuttered. “You know, the… the claw restraints! The wristbands!”

“I don’t think they have wrists, (y/n),” Mingyu teased, reaching over and ruffling your hair.

Well, of course you realize this means war. “Alright, you are on,” was all you said, eyes narrowing.

He perked up at that. “What’s the bet?”

“Winner gets to pick the next activity,” you reply, sauntering a few steps closer to the lobster tank and pointing to one with a purple band over its claws that was clearly ready to throw- well, for lack of better terminology- hands, “and I choose this one.”

“Well, in that case,” Mingyu returned to your side, arm pressed against yours as he peered into the tank, “the logical choice would be to pick the one in red in front of yours. May the best crustacean win.”

And at that, his competitive stare melted back into that boyish look as he turned to you. “…did that sound cool?”

It almost came out as a snort, you burst out laughing so violently. “That was legendary,” was all you could wheeze out.

“Ha ha! I can’t believe it!” Mingyu grinned and bobbed up from his bent tank stare like an excited puppy, pumping the fist that wasn’t holding the mart beer can he’d bought as his lobster shoved yours away in victory.

The pair of crustaceans had been locked in claw-to-claw combat, tussling very slowly over nothing in particular but their proximal frustrations, and Mingyu’s had apparently vented harder, shoving yours back after some aggressive minutes. Mingyu had gotten into the fight, nudging you when something extra exciting happened and even providing commentary on sideline fights between sips.

First drawing a fly sandwich, then that. Truly, who'd've thunk?

“Neither can I," you mock-pouted, crossing your arms, "purple always wins."

"Says who?" Asked Mingyu, who leaned down closer to you, face mere inches from yours.

"Says me," you shrugged, feeling warmth spread across your face.

"Well, you know what?"

You could feel warmth of his breath ghosting faintly over your cheeks, your lips. "Wh- what?"

"As much as I enjoy a good bar," he leaned back a bit, clapping, "I did need something else. Something new. This was fun! Wanna go play basketball in the park? I bet we'll have the court to ourselves!"

There it was again. The reason everyone liked him. Movie love interest vibes, even beneath the oddly-tinted fluorescent lights of commerce. A smile like a boy on the body of a man. Probably not something they usually imagined to see over a lobster tank. Over hoops in the park, though? That tracked, even if it was a bit of a one-eighty from his breath fanning your face.

Beside any of that, he had won the right to choose.

"Sure," you smile, "let's keep your winning streak up."

And with a hand clasped around yours, that athletic strength was tugging you out the grocery store door to a rush of evening wind and the sound of mutual laughter.

Basketball really was that man’s passion. Just about the only thing about it you knew about the sport was what a slam dunk was, but what different shots scored different points? You wanted to throw a three-pointer, but what was a three-pointer?

You learned what it was, what an assist was, that elbowing was illegal or something like that because every game had a reason to send the players to sports jail like grown-up cops and robbers.

You got the ball in the basket twice with no help, and that was achievement enough. Mingyu had ran across the court to high-five you both times as if you’d just won him a game. When you messed up the angle of another throw, he got behind you and, trying your best to focus with his chest flush against your back, you tried again and sent the ball sailing without the betrayal of the previous throw’s dramatic arc.

“So can we give Clint Eastwood a basketball now too?” Mingyu asked out of the blue, dropping to the concrete at your side, legs crossing and knees brushing.

“What,” you chuckled, “do you have him with you or something?”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled a small white square out and unfolded it to reveal the piece of lined notebook paper with margins full of marker and pencil scratch, most notably your hatted frog friend. He kept those notes in his pocket?

With the one not holding Clint, he ran a hand through his short black hair. “I do like to have him with me,” he answered with a tentative smile.

You twisted slightly, feeling your spine pop from its prior exertion, and remembered his words from the basketball game as he’d visited your seat, making you laugh with a failed attempt at spinning the ball on his finger. “As a good luck charm?”

He shook his head. “I think we’ve added something almost every time we’ve been together. He’s like a log of all the memories we share.” With that, he scooched closer to your side, his jacket falling over the folds of your own clothes slightly. “And I like our memories, Frog Girl.”

What could you say to that? “Frog Girl?” You just giggled, eyes on his.

“That’s right,” Mingyu nodded, “I can’t believe I would never have talked to you if you hadn’t drawn a frog.”

“Ah, college,” you sighed, tilting your head, “the golden years, and yet it’s so easy to ignore everyone else.”

“Well, no longer,” Mingyu shot back, gaze honing in on…well, you weren’t sure, but you liked it, “I figured out what I want to do with my victory wish.”

You smiled at the phrase ‘victory wish’, a term that was just so him. “I thought that was this.” For emphasis, you waved a hand along the court, feeling the night breeze that much more on the skin of your palm.

“Nope,” he shook his head, smirking as his eyes fell back on yours, “I didn’t say I was using it then, I just asked if you wanted to come out here and you said yes."

Well, coat you in flour and call you a biscuit. "You evil genius, you." At that, you gave a grin and a shake of your own head, unable to resist feeling a bit impressed. Man plays games, he picks up some strategy. You'd have to remember that.

"I prefer to think of myself as a nice genius," Mingyu said, and then, switching tones completely, doing another one-eighty to one sweet enough to make your heart swell, he continued, "and about my wish: can I kiss you? I can't think of a better way to end Friday Night Showdown."

Deathly afraid of saying something stupid, you answered by shifting from your crossed legs, folding them to the side as you sat up, knee resting slightly on the edge of his leg as you pressed your lips to his. The slick of his sports jacket between your fingers felt cool as you gripped it to hold both yourself and Mingyu in place as he surged forward into you. For his speed, his eagerness, his kiss was surprisingly soft, not digging too deep but just firmly holding you, treasuring you as if the feeling of your lips was about to fade. Oh, buddy, I'm not going anywhere, you murmured in your head against the feeling of his ever-so-slightly chapped lips.

And as he pulled away, separation painfully slow, deliberate, Mingyu looked you dead in the eyes, blinked at the sudden return of hazy park streetlight, and said “Wow.”

You nodded. “Wow.” Can’t believe how well those lobsters worked, you wanted to say. "You're full of surprises, Mr. Basketball."

“Mr. Basketball,” he mused, gaze briefly drifting from yours, then back. “I wasn’t sure you were going to be that into me, being so funny and smart and artistic and stuff, but I just couldn’t help myself. And boy am I glad for that,” he grinned.

For that, all you could do was kiss him again.

No more hoops were shot that night, only words tossed out with new glee as you, now wrapped in Mingyu’s jacket, pointed out lesser-known constellations, like the Dutch giraffe one or the Poop Deck. After all, you had a reputation to keep up on that date, and everyone had already seen the Big Dipper.

#seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x female reader #female reader #college au #humor #fluff #let me know if y'all are into part 2 I have Ideas™ lmao

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writeonwhiskey · 5 months

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the skz house: ch 2

Summary: Welcome to Sigma Kappa Zeta, the most popular fraternity on campus. When you, down on your luck and looking for a place to live, see their ad for ‘IN-HOUSE STAY’. You're one of the four girls chosen and find that your duties for the rest of the school year will be cooking, cleaning, and pleasing your assigned house members: Hyunjin & Bang Chan.

[ Read Chapter One Here ]

Chapter Two: Of Ex's and Teslas

The thought process you go through to choose a room winds up being pretty simple, after all. In your interactions with Chan, it felt as if he were just going through the motions and accommodating you, whereas Hyunjin made you feel safe and welcome. Compared to the quiet version of Chan you’d experienced in class since the start of the semester, he seemed a little intimidating and blunt today.

How had you ended up paired with them when one hardly seemed interested in speaking to you? As you sit on your bed you start to wonder how they chose who would be assigned to who. Was there some ranking system? Rock, Paper, Scissors? Drawing names out of a hat?

The door to the room you’re waiting in opens and you sit up straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap.

A small smile crosses Hyunjin’s lips as he sees you sitting there.

“You chose me for your first night?” He places a hand to his heart as he closes the door behind him. “I’m touched, y/n.”

His presence throughout the day had put you at ease. You feel that spending the night with him will continue to help rid any lingering discomfort.

He walks in the room and throws himself down on the bed, landing on his stomach. He props his head up on his arm and stares at you in silence for a moment before shifting his gaze to the sheets on your bed.

“Nice choice,” he says with a nod. He looks back to you. “How are you feeling?”

You take a deep breath and open your eyes wide, shaking your head softly.

“Weird,” you reply.

Hyunjin suddenly sits up on the bed with his legs crossed beneath him.

“What do you want to do to fix that?” He asks.

You think it over for a moment. He’s patient, leaning back on his hands as he waits.

“I would like to organize my schedule with yours and Chan’s. Getting this new version of my life under control will help, I think.”

“Let’s do that then. I’ll be right back.” He gets off the bed and leaves the room.

While waiting for him to return, you pull up your class schedule on your phone. You send a text to Chan, asking him to send his too.

When Hyunjin returns he has a large, monthly whiteboard calendar in hand. He walks to your bed and hands it to you, along with four small square adhesives. You take it from his hand and he then pulls out several different colored dry erase markers from his back pocket. A smile breaks out on your face as you stand.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll send you my schedule. I’ll be right over there with my headphones on but let me know if you need me, okay?” He points to his desk.

“Can you help me put this up first? It’ll be crooked if I do it,” you furrow your brow.

He laughs softly and takes the whiteboard back from your hands. He places it face down on the bed and puts the adhesives in each corner.

“Where do you want it?”

You walk around the edge of the bed and gesture at the empty space on the wall there. He holds the whiteboard against the wall, moving it up and down until you agree on the placement height. He leans back, checking the leveling before pressing it to the wall. He forces down the left side as you press on the right. After a minute you both step back.

“Good?” He asks.

You both turn to look at each other and this is the closest you’ve ever been to his face. His blonde hair is tucked behind his ears, with a couple loose strands framing his face. His dark eyebrows draw your attention first, then his beautifully shaped eyes with barely-there lashes. Beneath his left eye is a freckle you hadn’t noticed before. Your eyes then fall down to his plump, pink lips and without even realizing it, you lick your own.

“Perfect,” you smile again.

He goes to his art desk, pops in his headphones and absorbs himself in whatever he’s working on.

You let out a sigh, feeling confident you made the right choice for the night.

You busy yourself with organizing this new chaos into something that at least kind of makes sense to you. Every so often you turn back to look at Hyunjin—he’s in his own world, moving his pencil across his drawing pad. One time when you turn to look at him, he’s looking at you too. You both giggle and shift your eyes around the room before returning to what you were doing.

When you’ve finished getting the entire month of October on the calendar, you feel satisfied. The only thing left to add is the cleaning and cooking schedule whenever you figure that out.

You check your phone for the time and see that it’s almost 9:30pm.

You grab your bag of toiletries from the shelf in the closet and walk to Hyunjin. You lightly place a hand on his shoulder and it startles him. He takes out his left earbud and tilts his head up.

“I’m gonna shower,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he squints his eyes. “You don’t have to tell us your every move or ask permission to do anything. You live here too, now.”

“It will take some getting used to,” you shrug. He nods his understanding and puts his earbud back in.

You exit the room and walk down the hall to the last door on the right. You hadn’t got a full look at the girls bathroom yet, so you’re not sure what to expect. When you open the door, you’re taken aback by the amount of space inside. There are four sinks total, two immediately to the right and left as you walk in. Just after the sinks on either side of the wall is a bathroom door that you assume leads to the toilets. Against the back wall are two glass shower stalls with a large bath tub between them and a window directly above that.

The door to your right opens and out walks one of the girls from earlier. She’s the one assigned to Felix and Lee Know. She looks at you and offers a smile.

“Y/n, right?” She asks. You nod. “Allie.”

She goes to the sink to wash her hands.

“How’s it going for you?” You ask, sitting your bag down on the counter.

“Honestly?” She asks, looking at you through the mirror. “It’s fucking strange, bro.”

You laugh and nod your agreement.

“I feel super out of place but Hyunjin has been really sweet.”

“That’s good. Felix and Lee Know have been super welcoming,” she says as she dries her hands. “Here, take down my number so we can figure out cooking and cleaning stuff. I’ll start a group chat with the other girls.”

You take out your phone and put her number in, thankful to be on the same page.

“Towels are in this cabinet,” she points to the one at the end of the counter. “Oh, and one of the other girls is taking care of breakfast for everyone tomorrow. She’s already offered.”

“Awesome. Thank you, Allie.”

“You’re welcome. See you around,” she says with a wink and walks out of the bathroom.

You place your hands on the counter and lean forward, looking at your reflection in the mirror. Your mind unwillingly drifts to thoughts of your ex-boyfriend. What would he say if he knew about what you got yourself into? What would your parents say? You’d be dead. You can’t tell anyone about this, but at least there may be some sense of camaraderie with the other girls. No one but them will understand or relate to what you’re going through anyways.

______________

After your shower, you return to Hyunjin’s room clad in pajama pants and a shirt, but he’s not there. You go down to the living room and see Felix, Lee Know, and Allie sitting on the sectional, watching something on TV. Lee Know has his arm around the back of the couch and she’s leaning towards him slightly. They seem comfortable. You walk past them and into the kitchen to grab a water bottle from the fridge.

As soon as you enter, you see the refrigerator door is already ajar. A familiar looking, muscular armed is holding it open. When he steps back from the fridge and closes it, your assumptions are confirmed. It’s Chan. He’s holding a plate of sliced watermelon.

You feel your heart rate pick up as his eyes land on yours. It feels awkward, but you don’t know if you should say something or not. Should you explain why you chose to stay with Hyunjin over him? Does it matter? Does he care?

“Enjoy your night,” he says casually before walking around you and out of the kitchen.

You’re not sure what to make of him so you try to shrug it off and retrieve a water bottle from the fridge.

Once back in Hyunjin’s room, you toss the water bottle on your bed and get your backpack ready for tomorrow mornings class, swapping out the books inside. When you stand, you see there’s been a few additions to the calendar, undoubtedly by Hyunjin. On October 3rd it now also reads BANG CHANS’ B-DAY. And on on October 25th, LEE MINHO’S B-DAY.

Shit.

Today is October 1st. Will they be doing something for Chan’s birthday? Should you get him something? You don’t know him well enough to pick out a thoughtful gift.

You plop down on your bed and check your phone. Allie has started the group chat with the girls and you send a message back with what days of the week you’re available to prepare meals or help out around the house.

The door swings open and Hyunjin walks back in, wearing pajamas and towel drying his hair.

“Let’s watch something,” he says. He takes his laptop out of his backpack and tosses it on his bed.

“Like what?” You ask. He could mean porn for all you know.

He shrugs, “We’ll pick a show and it’ll be ours to watch together.”

His words make you feel warm.

He sits down on his bed and opens the laptop. When he looks up to see you haven’t moved he pats the spot next to him. You move over to his bed, bending one knee on the mattress but keeping the other foot on the ground. He goes to Netflix and starts scrolling through the options.

“Anything you want to watch?”

You purse your lips as he continues to scroll, seeing what catches your eye.

“That one,” you point to the screen and he stops scrolling.

“‘It’s Okay To Not Be Okay’?” He reads the title.

“I’ve heard its good.”

“Alright, let's check it out.” He moves the laptop up on the bed and lays on his stomach, looking at you expectantly until you to do the same.

He presses play on the show and though you’re trying your hardest to concentrate on it, you can’t help but be overly aware of how close you two are. On his bed. You feel butterflies in your stomach as you sneak a glance at him from the corner of your eye. You force yourself to pay attention to the show and soon enough, you’re feeling more at ease.

You laugh and share moments of surprise as you watch the show together. When it ends, he looks over at you.

“Another one?” He asks.

“I’m kind of tired, actually,” you say.

“Okay,” he closes the laptop. “That was pretty good, though. Don’t watch any more episodes without me.”

“I won’t,” you reply with a smile. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” his tone is sincere.

“What really brought all of this on for Sigma Kappa Zeta?”

“Hmmm,” he says, rolling on his side to look at you. He props his head up on his left hand. “It started out a while back…Class of ’95, I think. It was kind of like an experiment at first. They wanted to see how the members lives and future prospects improved if they weren’t worried about running around chasing women. Certain rules and guidelines have definitely changed since then but…yeah, I guess that’s how it began.”

“So it was all driven by the male need to get laid?” You turn on your side to face him too.

He laughs, “Not really…for some, it’s just the companionship. Having a woman to do things with, flirt with, it doesn’t have to always be sex. Just being around someone you’re attracted to can help you relax and release endorphins or whatever.”

“So it only matters if the men are attracted to the women, not the other way around?”

He moves his right hand to middle of your back and swiftly pulls you flush against him.

“Are you saying you’re not attracted to me?” His voice is low and soft as velvet as he speaks.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. Your faces are close, noses just centimeters apart. Your eyes once again fall down to his plump lips. He closes the distance between you and nuzzles your nose with his.

“Hmmm?” He hums.

“I—I was just asking,” you finally say.

He tilts his head up slightly and his lips land on yours. It’s a soft and innocent peck of a kiss, but it causes the butterflies in your stomach to go haywire.

He breaks the kiss and lays flat on his back looking up at the ceiling.

“That’s dopamine and serotonin coursing through you right now,” he says, turning his head to the side to look at you with a smug smile on his face. “Feels good, right?”

“You jerk,” you say, pushing his shoulder as you laugh.

“Hey, I’m just trying to give you a thorough explanation.” He replies.

You sit up and start to move towards your bed, but he grabs your hand before you can.

“It also feels good cuddling up to someone when you sleep.” He’s looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes and a puppy dog pout. He’s exceptionally good at controlling his facial expressions.

You can’t help but smile at his antics and sit back down on the bed. He puts his laptop on the nightstand and then moves the comforter down. You lift your hips up so he can pull it down from where you are and tuck your legs underneath it. He gets up to turn off the light before climbing back in bed. He then lays on his back and wraps an arm around you, pulling you towards him.

You turn on your side and rest your head on him, placing your hand on his chest. You expect the closeness to feel awkward, but your body instantly relaxes against him.

“Thanks for adding those dates to my calendar,” you tell him.

“Of course,” he replies. “I gotta tell you something, though.” He places a hand on your leg, above the blanket, and pulls on it so its hooked across his waist.

“Yeah?”

“I hate calendars and schedules,” he declares. “I’ll stick to our days, of course…but outside of that I don’t like having things planned. Just looking at that thing gives me anxiety.”

You slap his chest and he chuckles. You appreciate him even more, right now. The fact that he could care less about calendars and planning, but jumped straight into action to appease you and bring you some sort of comfort says a lot about him. You snuggle closer to his body.

“We’re gonna have some issues then because I can’t live without planning,” you say.

You share words back and forth until you start to doze off. Hyunjin lightly rubs your arm and the soothing movements eventually lull you to sleep.

______________

You wake up the next morning on your back with Hyunjin curled up to your side, his arm strewn across your stomach. You don’t remember when this switch up happened in the middle of the night, but it brings a smile to your face. You’re in a good mood, waking up next to him. He was right—it did feel nice to cuddle up with someone for bed. By the time you and your ex had moved in together, that rarely happened. This is only the first night though, so you wonder if the butterflies will eventually wear off. Or maybe knowing that your time with him is limited will keep the spark going.

Your alarm is going off and your phone is all the way on your bed. You have to lift Hyunjin’s arm off you, to which he mumbles in protest before rolling over to his other side. You grab your phone from the bed then sit back next to Hyunjin and silence the alarm. There’s a loud knock at the door, causing you to jump in surprise. Hyunjin doesn’t budge.

“What?” His shout is muffled as his face is partially in mattress.

“Coming in,” you hear Chan’s voice on the other side of the door.

He walks in the room, looking from Hyunjin, to you, then your untouched bed. He nods his head softly for some reason, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You can, however, imagine what he’s assuming. He knows what you’re here for though, so even though you hadn’t had sex with Hyunjin last night…it shouldn’t have been a surprise if you did, right?

“We both have a class this morning, we’ll ride together,” he says to you. “Get dressed and come downstairs.”

For a moment you wonder how he knows your schedule, but remember it was included on your application. You also think that this could have been sent in a text message and been just fine, but you nod your acceptance.

“Stop talking,” Hyunjin groans into his pillow. “Get out.”

“I’ll be down soon,” you say softly.

When Chan is gone and the door is closed, you get up from the bed and find clothes to wear for the day. You try to keep quiet as not to disturb Hyunjin, but a foghorn could probably sound and he wouldn’t even flinch.

You go to the bathroom to get dressed, brush your teeth and throw your hair up into a ponytail. It’s 8:00am, but the house is still relatively quiet when you make it downstairs. Chan is sitting on the sofa staring down at his phone. You hear movement in the kitchen and the smell of breakfast cooking.

“Did you eat?” You ask.

“Not big on breakfast,” he replies, sparing a glance up at you before returning his attention to his phone. “Go get yourself something.”

You think back to the statement of them not being demanding yesterday. He sure seems pretty damn demanding. Everything he’s said to you this morning has come out as a command.

You walk down the hall into the kitchen and see Rhiannon—she’s with Changbin and Seungmin—making breakfast. She’s multitasking like a champ. Scrambling eggs, frying bacon, and making waffles. There’s even a plate of freshly cut fruit on the counter.

You’re not sure if Chan is expecting you to sit and eat or grab food and go. You feel more conflicted than you should about making the decision on your own, but you don’t want to ask him to clarify. You grab a paper plate from the pantry, put a waffle on it and some eggs and bacon on top. You smother it with syrup and thank Rhiannon, telling her you’ve got lunch covered for the day.

“Let’s go,” you say to Chan when you’re back in the living room.

He stands from the couch and looks at the plate in your hand. For a moment you think he’s going to say something about eating and making a mess in the car. He instead just nods and leads you both out of the house to the long driveway. There are four Tesla’s parked in it—red, dark blue, black, and white. He walks to the red one and you follow.

When you’re both inside and buckled up, he starts the car. You fold the waffle into a sort of taco and eat as he drives.

“How was your first night?” He asks, eyes trained on the road. “Were you guys up late?”

You look over to him. The way he says it sounds a bit criticizing and you wonder if there’s some rule they didn’t cover about sleeping schedules or getting to bed at a decent hour.

“No,” you shake your head, “we just watched a show, then went to bed.”

He nods his head, but does not respond. He continues driving in silence as you eat, feeling so fucking confused about his behavior. The drive to the school only takes about ten minutes. When he parks, you turn to look at him again.

“Did I do something wrong, Chan?” You ask, confused.

He’s looking down at the steering wheel and it feels like an eternity passes as you wait for an answer.

“No,” he says flatly.

You’re not convinced by his answer. Granted, you don’t know him well at all and it’s not as though you’re expecting him to roll out a red carpet to welcome you, but…in this clusterfuck of a situation he could try to be a little less cold. You’re trying your best to go along with everything and act like it’s normal, he could at least meet you half way.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, y/n.” He speaks again after another moment of silence. “I’m just in my head a lot these days, don’t mind me.”

How could you not mind him when you’ll be living with him, sleeping in the same room as him?

“Okay,” you reply, for lack of anything better to say.

You both exit the car and start walking towards the campus entrance.

“Y/n!” A voice calls from behind you.

You know that voice.

Chan continues walking a few paces, but you stop and turn around.

There he is, jogging towards you. He’s wearing the t-shirt you got him of his favorite band. You used to love the sight of it on him. Now you want to rip it off him and burn it.

“Did you block my number?” He asks when he comes to stop in front of you. He glances over your shoulder and you turn around to see Chan standing there. One hand gripping the strap of his backpack and the other in his pocket, watching both of you.

“Yes,” you reply with ease, turning back to face him.

“Where are you staying?” His gaze continues to shift from you to Chan. “And did I see you get out of his car?”

“It really isn’t any of your concern, honestly,” you shrug. “You made that very clear last week.”

He sighs and puts his hand on your shoulder, bending down slightly to look you directly in the eyes.

“I never wanted things to go this way. I can still see myself having a future with you, I just think we both need some freedom right now.”

“Oh?” You push his hand off your shoulder. “And by freedom you mean you kicking me out of the house we were supposed to share and being able to fuck the girls in your DM’s? And then what? You want to get back together with me when you’ve had your fill of them?”

You can’t help the way that your voice rises as you speak to him. Your fist is clenched at your side as you feel the anger you’ve been suppressing for the past week coming back to the surface. You had been able to keep yourself preoccupied with focusing on other things like finding somewhere to live and the SKZ house. Having him speak to you now reminds you that you haven’t truly dealt with or buried those emotions yet.

You feel someone come up behind you and glance over your shoulder. It’s Chan.

“You good?” He asks you, but his eyes are on your ex. He reaches forward, lightly grabbing the back of your arm and pulling you back towards him.

“What is this?” Your ex asks, a confused look on his face.

“I’m fine,” you reply to Chan before turning to face your ex once again. “And you don’t have the right to ask me anything anymore. It’s none of your business.”

Before he can say anything else, you look at Chan and nod. You both turn around and resume your walk into the building. Chan’s hand slides down to yours and he gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s a comforting gesture, the most kindness you’ve felt from him thus far.

“I’m sorry,” you say once you’re in the hall. “That was—“

“Your ex. I know,” he finishes for you, dropping your hand. “Remember our house rules.”

And just like that, his kindness is gone. He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else as he walks off towards his own class.

You want to shout an expletive at him, but you refrain. You have two classes to make it through today, you can’t have your thoughts clouded with your ex or Chan right now.

As you wait for the professor to arrive and give his lecture, you contemplate everything that’s happened in the past 24 hours. You glance around at your classmates, wondering what they might say if they knew what you had signed up for—what you agreed to be a part of. Would they judge you? Criticize you? All your three years at this school and you’d never heard about what happens at the Sigma Kappa Zeta house…maybe your secret is safe.

The three hour lecture seems to drag. Your next class feels even longer. It’s 2:00pm by the time you’re leaving campus and you contemplate texting Chan for a ride to the house but can’t bring yourself to do it. He only had one class this morning and was probably long gone from campus, so you don’t want to inconvenience him by asking him to come back for you. It’s only about a thirty minute walk from campus, so you start to leg it.

As you walk, you’ve just barely made it a few minutes from campus when a dark blue Tesla pulls up to the side of you, driving slowly. You spare a glance over and see Seungmin in the driver seat. He flashes a brilliantly white smile and jerks his head, motioning for you to get in the car.

“I thought that was you,” he says as you climb in.

“Seungmin, right?” You ask.

“In the Tesla,” he replies with a wink.

“Thank you,” you reply with a smile. “Did you have class?”

“Practice,” he says, gesturing to the back seat.

You look behind you and see a sports bag, cleats, mitt, and baseball bat on the floor in the back.

“You’re on the team?” You ask, surprised.

“Team Captain,” he says with a nod.

“That’s awesome. I’ll have to watch you play some time.”

“That might be frowned upon.” He says with a sad look. “You might fall in love with me.”

You let out a loud and unexpected laugh and he grins. You continue making small talk the rest of the way home. He’s majoring in sport business, has been playing ball since he was a kid and is hoping to play professionally in the future. He’s easy to talk to, and extremely sarcastic.

“You hungry?” You ask as he pulls into the driveway.

“Starving,” he says, putting the car in park.

“Anything in particular you want?”

“Hmmm,” he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Ichiban noodles…there’s a bunch in the pantry.”

“I got you,” you say with a nod as you exit the car.

You enter the house together and see Felix, Allie, Changbin and the fourth girl, Charlotte, in the living room with their laptops and books strewn around.

Seungmin takes off up stairs and you head straight for the kitchen to find the biggest pot you can. The meal is quick and easy to throw together, you add a few eggs to the boiling water so they cook up before adding in the noodles. To top it off, you chop up some spring onion and sprinkle it in. You announce that the food is ready and send a text to Hyunjin and Chan as everyone who’s downstairs clamors into the kitchen to serve themselves.

Hyunjin:

i won’t be home til later.

Hyunjin’s response is quick.

Chan doesn’t reply at all.

You eat outside in the backyard with the others. It’s your first time seeing there’s a pool and jacuzzi on the property. They have corn hole set up on one side of the yard, and horseshoe on the other. This place screams frat house with all the games out here and in the basement.

“Do you guys do anything for each others birthdays?” You ask, recalling Chan and Lee Know’s upcoming birthdays.

“It depends,” Felix says in his deep voice. “If there’s a holiday around the birthday, we might combine it all into one event…we might do something small, or big…depending what that person likes.”

“What about for Chan and Lee Know this month?”

“Chan will murder us if we do anything for him,” Seungmin says.

Changbin and Felix nod their agreement.

“He must not like getting old,” Seungmin adds with a shrug and smirk.

“Lee Know on the other hand,” says Felix, “since it’s right around Halloween, we’re definitely gonna do something. Have any of you been to our Halloween parties?”

“I went to the one last year,” Charlotte says. “Can’t say I remember much from that night.”

“So it was a good time then,” Seungmin teases.

“They’re epic,” Felix continues. “You guys can help decorate and plan, of course.”

You’re happy for the invitation to help. Though, you start to wonder what you could do for Chan. Maybe something nice to get him to soften up to you. Or take his mind off of whatever has been bothering him and making him feel cold.

Changbin and Seungmin get into a debate about themes for the Halloween party and you excuse yourself to the kitchen. Allie helps you gather everyone’s dishes and take them inside. She unloads the dishwasher as you rinse off the dirty ones and reload it.

Everyone goes back to their laptops and notebooks in the living room after the lunch break and you join them. You could at least find comfort in knowing that homework would remain a top priority at the house, even with all the extracurricular activities taking place inside.

You look at your phone when it buzzes.

Hyunjin:

ur back with me thursday

do NOT watch the show without me

i’ll know if u do

You:

I won’t xx

You set your phone down on the coffee table. When did they decide this? After your morning with Chan, you had kind of been hoping you’d be with Hyunjin the first three days to further acclimate yourself to the house with someone you at least got along with and could converse easily.

But, no. You’re not that lucky. And you have no idea what to expect the next three nights you’re going to be in Chan’s room.

[ read chapter three here ]

a/n: more soon :) share your thoughts!

#stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #bang chan #bangchan fanfic #skz fanfic #hyunjin fanfic #the skz house #skz #skz x reader #skz x you #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x reader #bangchan x you #bangchan x reader

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gildedoak · 1 year

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Imagine being a young adult and your foster mother (who is part phoenix and has already lived several lives) is reborn in a burst of flame. The woman who raised you is now a helpless infant, and has no memories from her previous life. This tiny chick with fuzzy feather down and a tiny lick of flame on her head is both similar and so very different from the woman you once knew.

As a phoenix and a wizard, your mother had her share of rivals and enemies, and she tasked you with protecting and teaching her new incarnation. There is a box of letters you are to give to the child when she is older.

You too have celestial blood, but you wonder if your developing powers are going to be enough to protect her until she is old enough to fend for herself. You live on a pirate city that floats upon the Celestine Sea; is it going to be safe enough?

What a tremendous weight that would be.

IN A NUTSHELL, I HAD DEEP THINKY THOUGHTS ABOUT THE NUMBER OF PROTECTIVE WARDS THAT GARTHY HAS ON THE GOLD GARDENS.

Brennan described that while on the property of the Gold Gardens, Garthy is practically untouchable. The buildings are placed to form a giant celestial rune. Technically the ground is considered hallowed? The amount of magic it took to activate said rune must have been enormous. Garthy probably had it built piece by piece, adding new sections of the campus as they also added more and more golden geometric tattoos on their skin.

Having a reincarnating phoenix daughter/mom/best friend would warrant that level of magical security.

MEDIUM: Copic markers, Sakura microns, and metallic watercolors

#my art #garthy o'brien #ayda aguefort #dimension20 #dimension20 fanart #d20 fanart #pirates of leviathan #Fantasy High #Fantasy High Sophomore Year #copic markers #FEELS #Dungeons and Dragons

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foryiujeans · 1 year

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cupid’s arrow.

synopsis. a wall full of hearts and arrows written by mysterious cupids of ships around the school, what happens seeing your name with a certain someone?

pairings. crush!sung hanbin x fem!reader.

warnings. none.

word count. 3.0k

general taglist. @forsobeans

“cupid’s wall is finally here!”

you've never seen the campus so busy. large groups of students hanging around and just having a good time. you arrive with zhanghao and ricky, both of them who were staring quietly at the students. you, on the other hand, you were holding onto your phone for dear life.

within seconds you're caught up in the crowd, loosing all sense of direction as you're swept up in a sea of excited students.

“y/n!” matthew waves you over the second he spots you looking lost. a relived smile adorns your face when you see him, thankful to have found a friend when the three of you were confused by the sudden crowd.

“we’re sitting over here." yujin takes your hand to lead you to safety.

you spot gyuvin and gunwook first, the latter sending you a friendly wave as you reach them. you’re fully aware of the other presence at the table, you can feel his gaze on you but you don't get a chance to even quickly glance his way before your attention is diverted.

"scoot round." matthew laughs, indicating for them to make some room. zhanghao guides you to sit next to him, offering you a drink, which you accept right away.

ricky was standing, gazing at the people who were crowding over a wall and writing on it, “what’s with them?”

“it’s cupid’s wall,” jiwoong said, “you basically draw a heart and write two people you ship which may become true.”

the boys really wanted to check the cupid’s wall out after the crowd has cleared less. you were for sure thought it was nonsense but since they made it sound more interesting, you guessed you had to check it out as well, with your crush.

in the corner of your eye, you saw sung hanbin was conversing, joking around and talking with zhanghao who was doing his presentation on the spot with his laptop opened on the table. the sound multiple of footsteps were heard as it went away. you head lit up and saw that the cupid’s wall had no one there.

“oh cool, they all left. let’s go!” gunwook raced gyuvin to the wall and took the markers and pens that they had placed to write on.

zhanghao went after you, standing beside you as you both scanned the wall with names and hearts written on it. the introverted boy had nudged your side, catching your attention.

zhanghao x y/n.

you and zhanghao are best of friends since middle school. he had taught you how to play the violin and tutored you for the subjects that weakened you while you tutored him his weak subjects. the brunette only laughed at the two familiar names someone had written while you held onto a small smile, chuckling.

"hi y/n." the familiar voice made your heartbeat panic.

"hello hanbin."

you tried not to let your flustered state show at how endearing he was-but nonetheless still annoying.

you softly push at his shoulder which caused him to rock backwards as he was bending over with his hands on his knees to be leveled with you who was crouching. he let out a big smile, not wanting to laugh in the quiet atmosphere of the school, although tempting because of your actions that he found ridiculously adorable. shoot, he even found your deep-sleep-drooling face adorable, proved by the countless pictures of you in his phones gallery. he looked at the boys who were writing names and hearts in one same area.

"i saw your name with hao’s?" he asked me, referring to the cupid’s wall.

"ah, we’re just friends,” you sheepishly answered and frowned at the second, “i don’t know who wrote that.”

he pursed his lips into a thin line, his hand holding onto his bag, “you’re not gonna write?”

the moment you shook your head, hanbin only lets out a small laugh and ruffled your hair. the warm feeling in your stomach was about to burst and you know it. he then stared at his other friends in front of him who were pointing at names and laughing with each other.

“y/n, look!” yujin grabbed your hand and wanted to show you what he wrote. more like they wrote.

sung hanbin x y/n l/n.

the huge amount of your name and hanbin’s were scattered in the same area with pink and red hearts around it. the boys had written all of them in one big red heart with both of your names in pink hearts inside. the blush on your face was pretty visible to which gyuvin and taerae had teased you about.

with a nod, you quickly pull your hands back to break out of the visions. internally cursing yourself for being stupid enough to think that the lover in the visions had been you-just how delusional were you now? sure, you've always been a head in the clouds type of person, falling in love with the possibility that everywhere you go, the next person you meet might just be the love of your life. eye contact with the cute dog walker at the park turns into getting lost in their eyes while walking under the stars. a brush of hands with the hot barista at the local coffee shop turns into holding hands while reciting wedding vows.

and though hanbin was indeed good-looking, even with his face half hidden under the shadow of his hood, this wasn't the same. he was a friend, and you thought he only liked being friends with you. ut was silly to have thought of the possibility of being in his future in the first place, but even more ridiculous to say it out loud.

you immediately shake off the thoughts when you catch him staring.

"so?" he leans forward, looking at you like he has some big secret to share. "what did you see?"

"um, your love life will be just fine."

"yeah?"

"yeah." the small piece of lint on your sleeve becomes so interesting when trying to avoid his intense stare.

the moment of awkward silence between the two of you excluding the noises the others were making in the background was heard. it was only him staring at you with an adorned smile on his face while you were avoiding it.

“i saw it.”

"oh." you swallow the lump in your throat. "i’m not sure why it's there either."

he knew you liked him, you were just denying it.

if he does detect your lie, he doesn't say anything about it. instead, his expression morphs into something softer. "love can be found everywhere, Y/ N," he murmurs.

and how do you answer? it might be too soon for him to know about your feelings, but it's also too soon for your heart to be speeding up the way it does. for you to feel a small burst of butterflies in your stomach every time he so much as stares at you for a moment too long, and for this cover story and the re-enactments to feel more tangible than the abstract concepts they're meant to be.

"besides, i’ll be such a good date for you." hanbin releases you and steps back, smile turning shy as he holds out a hand. "or boyfriend?"

the wave of silence between the two of you didn’t even make you realise that the others were already gone.

hanbin breaks into a soft smile. "you know, i’ve always wondered what you keep thinking about. when you get lost in that world in your head, what do you see? what do you think about?"

"it’s different every time," you murmur, trying to ignore the way your palms feel all too hot intertwined with his. "but these days... it's you."

you don't tell him that it's also getting to know him, falling for him, and imagining how you should be the one doing all those things with him like in the reading. it’s picturing a love that flourishes ever so slowly, one that silently rests between the two of you, growing steadily until a day when it becomes the only thing you can hear.

and though you leave all that out, your answer seems to be enough for him.

"me?"

"yeah," you say softly, avoiding his gaze that was staring into your eyes.

your words feed the twinkle of hope in his eyes as well as the one that seemed to have been blossoming in your own heart for a while now. maybe you can finally admit it; this would be the last time you see him, so maybe it wouldn't matter what happens now.

you know it when he leans in, breath but a whisper at your ear as he says, "you’re really bad at lying that you love me, y/n."

now you don't have to look into his future to know that all the scenes you'd seen were about you. Now you can picture it — hanbin looking up from your laced hands on the table and seeing your smile, face no longer out of focus. pulling away from your kiss in the orchard has you seeing your own gaze, surprised but content. and then there's this very moment when you see yourself in hanbin’s eyes and you just know.

cupid’s wall really did brought two together.

a/n ! thank you so much for reading and giving me requests. i’m thankful that you guys enjoyed reading it and giving all the notes and support. i do not own any characters, music or pics given, will definitely work harder for the next ones !

signing out, miaaa hihi !

#zb1 #zb1 oneshots #zerobaseone #zerobaseone imagines #zb1 fics #zb1 imagines #zb1 x reader #zerobaseone fics #zerobaseone x reader #hanbin x reader #sung hanbin #sung hanbin x reader #sung hanbin imagines #hanbin imagines

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leatherfaceish · 1 year

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FATAL ATTRACTION HOTLINE

You fall victim to a hotline serial killer on campus, unbeknownst to you that it’s your classmate Mickey attempting to fulfill his desires.

RATING — MATURE & EXPLICIT PAIRING — mickey altieri x gender-neutral! reader GENRE(S) — drabble, ghostface! au, 1997! au, stalker! au, college! au, crime, smut, thriller WORD COUNT — 4k WARNINGS — mature content, heavy (seriously) dark humor, intense situations, manipulation, weapon used: knife, petname used: baby, humor towards suicide as a distraction, dumbification, stalker! mickey, mickey is an ass, reader dies btw SMUT WARNINGS — sexual content, dub-con (consent is given), prey/predator dynamic, biting/marking, dry & clothed handjob, unprotected intercourse, creampie, double orgasm, spit as lube, hair-pulling, dark! mickey is basically feral for you RELEASE DATE — APR 13TH 2023

AUTHOR’S NOTE — i think this is the most fucked up thing I've written to date, and yet it's kind of tame? lmao but the reader's entire thought process being like "i want to see how this ghostface FUCKS." absolutely took me out. and i wrote it. also yes i changed the title because i’m worried this site will have a field day with this one.

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | FEEDBACK

“Calling at such a late hour?” The robotic voice seemed to lean into the microphone, almost cackling at the time you’ve dialed the hotline written on the bathroom stall. “You must be desperate.”

"When was the last time you felt something?" Your finger tapped at the numbers on the wall, the stall seeming to fit you just right in the moment of your weakest. "Like really—feel."

"Jumping head first into the suicidal thoughts tonight, aren't we baby?" Their voice made your heart nearly skip, but the tears along the corner of your eyes were hot enough to keep you grounded.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." It felt like a joke to them, your brow furring and teeth gritting almost seeming to be heard by them over the phone. "Did you even read the message on the wall?"

"The writing?" You questioned, eyes finding the marker written words along the wall again. "It's fading."

"It's been there for a few years now."

A junior, or a senior.

"Do I really need to tell it to you straight? Can't you read it for yourself?" You could hear the smile on their face by now, even if a box that changes their voice was held over their lips.

You wanted to speak every syllable you could make out before they could say anything else, but they were already ahead of you.

"A disclaimer from left to right: A sexual experience that ends in demise. One you'll never forget, and no one else will either!"

You sat quietly, reading along with them until you realized just what you had called into. From first glance, the number seemed to be from someone who had once been in your position. Sitting in the abandoned dorm's bathroom stall crying your eyes out, up to your neck in the negatives of life and school, and so miserable that you just wanted one person to speak to that understands.

"I didn't read that part." You spoke just above a whisper.

"Let me guess: You thought this was just a suicide hotline? Someone to listen to your problems and give you advice or the answers you're looking for, maybe even some hope?" They couldn't hide the laughter in their voice, almost cherishing your innocence and stupidity. "Someone who would make you leave the call feeling better about things?"

"Is that not what you do?"

You could hear them losing their patience, the huff before they spoke seeming to make your head rush. "Read the fine print again."

Sexual. This hotline was for sex. But why was suicide mentioned?

"Are you a guy?" The question to you seemed so small and quick, but they weren't playing short.

"Is that your preference? Men?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"The sexual part, baby." Their voice didn't grow faint for a second, almost as if they held the phone even closer to the voice box to make things more apparent. "It's the 90's, you could be into anyone these days."

"So, you are a man." A conclusion, and his laughter on the other end.

"I can only provide dick. Such a shame, isn't it?" You almost couldn't help the cackle that left you, his interest peaking.

"Why were you crying?" Finally, he seemed sincere.

"Bad day."

"One of many in this school."

"You're a student?"

But his shortness made itself up in other bits—like now, when he ignores your dig into his personal life.

"Do you understand who you've called?" He seemed to teeter on his sanity, voice raising a volume higher than before to make his point. "What I am going to need from you now?"

"Don't hotlines have consensual guidelines?"

"I'm no normal hotline." His teeth sounded gritted, his patience leaving him fully. "You dialed the number." His voice returned soft, his sing-songy tone almost mocking. "You even pressed the dial button. And here you are, clueless."

"C-Clueless? How does this even work? You feed some sick person a bunch of nonsense until they do what you ask?"

"Have I asked you to do anything for me?"

You almost had to rethink the entire conversation, but he had never truly pried so much. Even now, minutes into the conversation, you could hang up and move on. Maybe even call a real hotline.

"Let me guess, you're considering hanging up?

"What if I do?"

"That would only piss me off, baby. Think harder. How can I be so sure of this working?"

Your mind was blank, only listening to his robotic voice in your ears like a guide.

"I don't understand."

"Sex for a faked suicide." He cackled, speaking slowly. "That's who you called. You set yourself up, all because you want to die so badly. Wouldn't you prefer to go out shaking and orgasming than cold and lifeless?"

"How do you know what I want?"

"Sitting in that lonesome bathroom crying all night isn't going to solve any of your problems. But talking to me, letting me take control of your life and your fate could." He spoke rapidly, like gun-fire—as if he had been waiting a long time to say these things to someone who was dumb enough to call. "Stall three from the door, right?"

The conversation turned predatory, his voice growing darker and shorter as he spoke on.

"Look at that—" He said the three words just above a whisper, your shaking body listening like the world was in slow motion. "I can even see your shoes beneath the door."

It was a dream, you felt like you weren't conscious as you noticed the swaying black dress cut roughly at the end. One that of the grim reaper, or better known to your town as the outfit of the Ghostface killer.

"P-Please…"

"Please what?" You could hear his grin, could feel his energy through the door and through the mask he wore like it was a fire. "Tell me what you want, baby."

"I-I can't…"

"Want me to make it go away?" His voice returned to the annoyed tone it sometimes held, a tilt of the Ghostface mask letting you see the white face through the crack of the door towards side of the lock.

"How?" Your voice was a whisper, but in such an empty space, the bathroom seemed to echo the word off every wall.

"Tell me you want me." His voice was stern. "Tell me you want me to do it."

"I-I want you to—" Your voice shook. "d-do what?"

"To fuck you. And then to let you go."

Every racing thought has brought you here. Every mention of wanting to end your life, negative thoughts in your mind like they lived there—it all carried you to this one, unhinged solution.

"And if I say no?"

It was the loudest sound in so long, the clash of the pager against the crack of the door where you could once see his mask peeking through. Even with a squint of your eyes, you knew the phone number across the screen was your cell number.

"I know who you are." Another smile behind his mask, a hefty breath through the voice box, and the killer seemed to be in heaven. "I'll kill you either way. So, why not agree to the fun part?"

The tears falling down your face had grown hotter as you shook in fear, splashing onto the tiled floor of the old bathroom in tandem with a dripping faucet. As everything grew silent, and your mind fell even quieter—you spoke.

"I want you to do it."

"Where do you want it done?" That rough tone again, he wanted quick answers.

"I-In my dorm."

"Live alone, huh?"

He pulled the pager back, slipping it into his pocket and pressing his hand against the lock of the door to feel the coin-slot ridge. All it needed was a turn, and then you were all his.

"How do you like to be fucked?" This was clearly his favorite question, a light tone of excitement in his voice as the dark eyes of the mask peered through the crack of the door once more.

"D-Deep. It's better that way." You spoke in cut words, still shaking as you heard his breathing stutter from what you said. "I like to feel e-everything."

"Everything?" He repeated, only the question was rhetoric. "I'll make you feel everything."

And there it was again, that rise in his voice that told you he was up to something. With so little words being spoken, you could only make out his movements—and without skipping a beat, you knew just what he was doing.

A clean knife prodded into the line of the lock outside of the door. A safety feature added to help those outside get in when necessary, even if it was against the safety of the one inside. You could hear the sharp object click in, turning until you saw the lock slip from inside the wall back into the door. And just as the thin door squealed open, you found yourself face to face with death.

"This—" The robotic voice was somehow louder with the door open, a short step into the single stall making you shake more from his presence. "isn't your dorm room, is it?"

Your head shook rapidly, going along with what he said in order to not cause any harm to yourself. You wanted to scream, every fiber of your being truly wanted to—but you knew the knife in his hand would slice your throat with ease if you did.

With every sexual experience comes the part where your stomach is twisting in anticipation, such as now.

"Then let's go there, shall we?" He spoke kindly, a façade making your body ache with the idea that he's not all that bad, as he offered you his gloved hand.

The fabric of his glove was thick, enough to keep blood or any liquids from soaking in and staining. Your hand cupped his palm, his fingers taking hold of yours with a tight grip. Just as it crossed your mind again, that he's not so bad, your neck was met with the sharp metal blade.

"This is how this goes. We walk out, hand-in-hand—all romantic like—and we make a b-line for your dorm room. Any attempt to run or get help, and you die on the spot."

"O-Okay…" The knife trailed the skin of your throat, begging to press into your flesh and retrieve some reaction from you that's pure pain. But the man seemed to linger his touch lower, his free hand falling upon your waist like it had been there before.

He was stern, uncaring of your tears being wiped away by your own touch, and most certainly rushed as he pulled you forward at a fast pace. "Good."

You had almost forgotten the journey you normally made out into the abandoned dorm. Lined off with caution tape, and only one door that allowed you in and out without being seen—the eeriness of the building being so quiet and stuck in time was just as scary as the killer walking you along its halls.

"Take it easy." The voice box over his mouth seemed to click with his words, sounding faulty as he pressed you forward and out the door of the old building. "This won't take long."

There were thumps and bumps all across the ground as you walked by housing holding sorority parties. The man's grip tightened every time you walked by someone. Anyone getting particularly close made you cling to him in a loving way. Anything to make you appear normal. Anything to keep you alive right now.

"Walk slower." The louder music was coming from your own dorm, a party that had started long before you made a move to the abandoned dorm still going strong. "Costume party. What idiots."

He was right, a sea of costumes immediately melting the two of you into the party like you had been there the whole time. From pulls on your waist, to jolts of your body forward to rush you into corners, you had finally gotten through the most packed floors and into your dorm room.

The cool air made your skin rush with goosebumps, a moment in time seeming to stop everything as you spun to face the masked man. He was skilled, clicking your door shut and locking it—all with the knife he once held to your throat returning to his hand.

You could hear his voice box click, hear the thumping of your own heart in your ears almost louder than his voice.

"This is where you want to die?" He asked, pointing the shiny knife at your small bed in the middle of the room. "Right here? On your own blankets?"

You bit at your tongue, eyes growing glossy as he took a step towards you every time he spoke. It wasn't until he was right in front of you, the faintest hint of his cologne moving into your nose, that you could even comprehend what was happening.

Tears seemed to pour slower, but your body needed more air. You seemed to stifle, sniffling in deep breaths and trying to swallow it all down into your lungs as fast as you could.

One sniff, and you felt nothing. Another, and you smelled something familiar. One more deep breath, and that hard-to-miss smell of someone you know finally broke through.

The white mask was tight on his head, held in place as he tilted his head slightly in curiosity. Your sniffling had stopped, glossy eyes matching with what would be his glowing brown irises within the eyes of the mask.

"M-Mickey?"

He didn't move. He didn't have to. It was simply meant to be—that you found out.

"Now you really can't live after this, baby."

He spoke with such confidence, his knifeless hand raising the Ghostface mask up and off his head until his chiseled face was in your view. His wide teeth, fang-like canine in your sight, and it was truly your fellow student Mickey Altieri.

You took in his clean appearance, the sweat dripping down his temples and jawline from the thick mask he had worn for nearly an hour now. His outfit was just the same as the costume shown on the news for the last few years—banned, then unbanned, and now favored by many.

"I finally got you right where I want you." The man had a squeak to his voice when he was excited, a Cheshire grin on his face. It all made sense now, how you knew his emotions even without being able to see him before.

You wanted to breathe, suck in his scent and reassure yourself that he would never do something like this. The lighthearted film major with an affliction for gore and horror—you should have known he was a red flag deep down.

But his lips attached to your own, moved to taste you with his tongue and suck the oxygen from your lungs like he could steal your soul that way. His lips tasted metallic from the voice box that had been pressed against his mouth most of the night. He swayed you side to side until his arms were wrapped securely around your waist and there was no way you could leave him.

And when the breath was finally returned to you, you could truly see the craziness in his bright irises and blown pupils.

"Tell me you want me." His lips pecked at yours between his sentences. "Tell me you want me to fuck you. Just like before!"

His pink tongue poked out between his lips to press into your skin, lapping at the dried and salty tears along your cheeks all the way down to your collarbones. There, you felt his teeth. Pearly whites leaving a small bruise on your neck as he awaited your magic words.

This was it. There was nothing you could think of past this. And there was no running far enough away from him.

"M-Mickey." He halted at his name being said slowly and softly, his eyes turning warm as they peered up at you from below your chin. His gentle smile, the one that made your heart skip a few times before you knew he was capable of this, it still gave you butterflies. "I want you to be the one."

"Oh—" His body language was confused, but his eyes were wild. Looking between your gaze and the mark he left on you, you could see him hesitate from reaching to grab his knife and cut you right there. "Oh—fuck, I thought I'd never here you say those words."

His hands were shaking, leaving the thin fabric of his costume where he rubbed his sides to grab hold of you again. His fingers were tight against your clothing, pulling at whatever he could get off of you right then and there.

It was his sense of giddiness that almost made you forget he planned to kill you afterwards. How his tongue stuck between his aligned teeth every time he saw more skin. The animalistic sounds he made as he licked and kissed at you until his weight pressed you into the mattress.

"You taste just how I imagined." The man cooed, losing all of the cool and collective he once had with his voice box.

His hand slipped down, the knife covered by his costume now poking into your side as he felt at the wetness growing between your legs. His coated fingertip raised towards his mouth, your juices making his eyes clenched shut in euphoria as he moaned.

You didn't want to admit that his fingers dipping back down against you felt good, or that how he appeared now—so out of his mind from your taste and your unclothed body beneath him alone—made your head spin. The man had been tailing you all along, stalking you until he knew what headspace you were in, that you would soon call his hotline and make yourself his victim.

It was meant to be creepy, but as his hand took your wrist and pressed your cupped hand against his hard length—you couldn't regain the sense to feel scared.

"Look at what you do to me." His head hung, eyes staring at you darkly as he used his fingers to press your hand into him until he was grinding against your touch. You could feel the stain of precum spurting through the fabric of both his underwear and the costume, sucking in a deep breath when you felt him twitch when you rubbed him on your own accord.

The man was going insane—even if he was already previously.

"I want you." He groaned, his weakened neck laying his head onto your shoulder as you kept your rhythm against his clothed cock. "I want to feel your insides."

"Then why don't you?" He hissed at your words, his hips thrusting into your hold until he was rutting against you. If he didn't slow down now, he wouldn't fuck you like you want him to. "Mickey."

His name made his hips stutter and stop, eyes finding yours again. It was almost like he forgot why he was here, so drunk on you that he just wanted to fill you up. You could see him waver, bite down on his tongue, and then be sent into overdrive.

Mickey moved quickly, pulling at your hips until your body was facing flat against the mattress and your head was buried against your pillow. You could hear his costume being ripped in certain places, feel his body heat closing in on your backside—but what was most appalling was the feeling of his fingers pulling your underwear down your legs until they hung at your ankles.

It was almost rewarding, feeling his tip at your wet entrance. The saliva from his mouth had drooled enough onto his fingers when he was collecting your wetness to add to it all, and every inch of him that slipped into you made a squelching sound.

"Fuuuck—fuck, fuck, fuck!" His words got louder and louder, his cock being held by your walls trying so hard not to fill you with his cum just from one pump in. Mickey was at a loss, your body heating up just right until your warmth made him feel alive.

"This is what I wanted." His motion to pull out was cut off by his tiny rut back into you, just a small feeling of needing to fuck you fast dissipating when he remembered you like it rough. His head fell into your neck when he slammed into you harshly, feeling you clench around him like never before. "This is all I wanted…"

"M-Mickey." You cried with his words, short but sweet to him as he filled you up only to pull out and thrust back in with such vigor that your entire bed was shaking. "Do what you want to me, Mickey."

His hair was a mess, the discarded Ghostface mask being shaken off the side of the bed from his hard thrusts and landing on the floor going unnoticed by the two of you. So lost in each other, everything seemed to slip away.

If only he had you sooner.

The hand at your waist lifted, the weight of his body holding you down into the mattress and giving him enough space to fuck you deep and fast. You could hardly form words, and he couldn't make any other sounds except moans.

It wasn't until his free hand pulled at your hair, enough to raise your head to let you speak, that you remembered the entire premise of this transaction.

"Do you like me now?!" He asked with a boiling anger in his voice but a rumbling orgasm approaching. "All those times you turned me down. And you could have had this."

"I-Is this how you do it?" You spoke through broken cries and gritted teeth. "You wait for some poor girl to call your hotline, whaling into the phone about wanting to die. All so you could talk her into letting you fuck her first before you kill her?"

"The perfect way to die." He groaned, pressing himself deeper into your walls as they clenched around him sporadically in the race towards your orgasm.

You could feel his hot seed start to fill you, his thrusts running messy just as your body shook and went firm. Orgasms taking over both of you at the same time, you wanted nothing more now than to find a way out of this.

"Mickey?" His hand was still in your hair, but your head had fallen back onto the pillow. "I-I just—"

Your skull felt his strength, head lifted back up from the cool pillow with the sharp knife on your throat once more. You could feel drips of blood falling down your neck and staining the pillow.

"Just want to stay alive?" Mickey had returned to his unhinged stature, almost as if it had never left him for a second. "Baby, baby, baby." He cooed, his thumb pressing into the side of your cheek with his fist that held the knife. "I got my end of the deal…"

"Please—"

"You've gotta get yours." The knife was piercing, the blade having been recently sharpened finely until it could cut through almost anything. As you felt more blood leaving your neck, you could hear his soft voice in your ears—almost as if he were God himself speaking to you during your final breath.

"And just so you know—" There it was, one last time, that huge Cheshire grin in your peripheral. "You were my first."

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