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michaellangdonswhore · 8 months

Text

warnings: again, smut. put me in a fucking hospital.

word count: 5.5k

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You were, by far, Jonathan Crane's least favorite student.

You knew it, and it was complete bullshit. You were always on time, always in every class, and always completed the work. You had always had such good grades in every class, but not with him.

While not giving you the worst grade imaginable, you were never able to get over an A-, which pissed you the fuck off. Obviously, to any other normal student studying psychology, they'd take the A-, but not you.

And again, nothing over an A-. There was the frequent B+, sometimes B, and when you really pissed him off he would go as low as a B-.

You've done everything you could to get him to like you. You would ask questions, clearly put extra effort into the homework, and even applied to laboratory studies that he ran. You hated not being liked.

However, at this point in the year, you had given up on trying. You still did everything you were supposed to do, because you wanted a good grade, but you hadn't bothered participating or showing any interest anymore. You had decided to focus more on your other classes. Due to this, you had been working late into the night, causing you to be exhausted for your 8 AM lectures with Crane.

You were exhausted, trying to pay attention. Your head hurt so much for looking at a screen for so long last night.

Crane is flipping through a slideshow, and you find yourself dozing. It's not that this stuff bored you, you had just already learned it back when you took AP Psych your sophomore year of high school.

You snap back into reality when you hear your name being called.

Crane is singling you out with an annoyed expression on his face. You turn red because everyone, all 400 other people in the class, are staring at you.

"I'm sorry. Is this boring you?" He puts his hands on his hips.

"No-" You begin.

You're stammering. You normally don't have such a rough time with public speaking, but being downright exhausted and being singled out for nearly falling asleep in class is extremely embarrassing.

He pauses for a moment and stares you down.

You feel as if you were naked, as if you were completely exposed to him. You didn't like him looking at you like that, like he was taking into account every imperfection.

"As I was saying..."

Thank god.

He resumes to what he was talking about before and you're more alert, heart pumping full of humiliation. You're taking notes now, typing quickly and probably annoyingly loud (you can tell because he keeps shooting you small glares every time you hit the spacebar).

Finally, the hour is up and he reminds everyone about the homework due that Friday. You collect your stuff and head out the door. You don't realize, but he watches you leave.

Everything you do irks him.

Maybe it was because your first paper challenged his psychological beliefs, or because your intelligence challenged him in general. But literally everything about you pisses him off.

Your loud typing, your questions that challenges his lectures, how you turn everything in on time, how you flawlessly converse with the other students. He is so desperately waiting for you to slip up.

As previously stated, you were putting less effort than before into his class. He picked up on this. You were turning your papers and chapter readings in the last minute, you weren't asking questions, and you were even falling asleep.

You had three days to complete a portion of the assignments given. You completely forgot about it.

Due to your tiredness and your weakening desire to try for the class, you had forgotten to write down the homework in a planner that you always checked daily.

Crane is a quick grader, and usually he always grades your homework first; more specifically, as soon as you turn it in.

You realized you didn't do the work as soon as you woke up that morning for your 8 AM class. You had never ever missed an assignment. Ever. And you had no time to do it and make it to his class on time. You were freaking the fuck out.

It's okay. Maybe he hasn't graded it yet.

But no. He was such a strict grader. He was harsh.

Whatever. You may as well hope for the best.

To distract yourself from your predicament, you talk to the boy who sits next to you in the class. It's just smalltalk about the workload and about an upcoming test.

You stop talking when Crane clears his throat. You shift back in your seat and open your laptop.

"It's a Friday. It's 8 AM," Crane begins. You think this is going to be the introduction of a psychological speech. "For all 399 of you that did your homework last night, go enjoy your Friday morning."

People being looking around and whispering, not sure if this is a trick, but you know it's not.

You're freaking out. Your heart is racing and you cannot believe that he would actually do this to you. Usually teachers will just give you a bad grade and call it that, but to single you out and have the entire class leave except for you is an all time low.

"I'm not messing with you," Crane continues. "Go. You know who you are."

He's looking at you dead in the eye and you stay put as people slowly get up to leave, looking around to make sure others are doing the same. You avoid his gaze, looking at your computer screen.

Soon enough, everyone is out of the large lecture room, some looking back to see the one person who didn't do their work.

Once the door is shut, and everyone is completely out of sight, Crane locks both of the doors and looks up at you.

"Are you deliberately trying to fail my class?" He questions. "I thought you wanted to be outstanding."

You can't find words to say. He scoffs and moves to his desk, shuffling through papers and bringing out a decently large stack to over to you. It feels like hours pass by as he walks up the steps to you and drops them onto your desk.

You look at them, confused.

"This is the homework that was due at midnight." He explains.

"It's never so much..." You stammer. You can feel his hatred burning into your skin.

"It's what's due next Wednesday, Friday, and the following week too. Let's see if you can get this done by.... hm," He checks his watch. "By the end of the period?"

"All of this?" Your eyes widen.

"When's your next class?" He asks.

"You're my only one today." You continue to avoid his eye contact.

"Then you can stay." He says. "Until you finish all the work."

"But-"

"I can't trust that you'll do it." Crane says, taking a step back from you. "You need to complete it. In front of me."

"Please, Professor," You try to defend yourself. "I've been-"

"I can assume what you've been doing, you've almost fallen asleep in my class." He scoffs.

You feel your cheeks heat up with embarrassment over him getting the wrong impression. Does he really think that low of you?

You take a deep breath. You'll just have to deal with this.

"Do you have a pencil?"

He grabs a black pen from his desk and looks up to you, motioning to sit in the front row. Close enough. You swallow your pride and grab your things and the stack of paper, walking down to the seats in the front.

The class itself is an hour, but it took you almost five to complete the amount of homework he gave you. The readings were long, and the quality of work was demanding. You were eager to do well, to prove yourself.

You hate that he hated you.

His eyes were on you the entire time you did your work. The silence was loud, but you pushed through it. You got three weeks of homework done, and proudly put the stack back onto his desk.

"I'll see you Monday, Professor," you smile, then walk away.

After that, you tried harder; harder than you tried compared to every other class you took. You did this, not to get him to like you- but to get back at him with the fact that you knew your shit; you were a good student. You sat in the front, did side research, and spent nights studying for his endless quizzes. And he wanted to fail you to make you stop what you were doing, but you were getting all the answers right and you both knew that. He wouldn't want you taking anything to the next level.

With you in the front, it made it harder for him to not be distracted by you. Mid speech he would find himself locking eyes with you, disrupting his words and leaving him stammering for a brief moment. Ever since you've upped the eye contact, you've gained more control of the situation.

You arrived in class that Wednesday; the situation in which Crane forced you to stay and do two weeks worth of work in front of him occurred around three weeks ago. You're sitting in the front in between two empty seats; no one likes to sit in the front in Crane's class. It's usually only filled with around three to four people. Crane isn't in class yet, which is weird considering he's always there early, before anyone else even gets there. The class is almost about to begin and he's never been late.

Soon enough, it's one minute after the class is supposed to start and he's still not there. You start feeling antsy, wondering where he is.

Finally, he walks in; two minutes after class is supposed to start. So unlike him.

He places his briefcase on the desk and begins setting up his computer while everyone takes out something to take notes with.

"Now, you all know what I specialize in, I hope," He states, not breaking eye contact with his computer.

He specialized in phobias. Apart from dedicating his time to teaching you, he was a therapist mainly for fears.

"I'm sure we all know what exposure therapy is, correct?" He asks. Pretty much the whole class nods in unison. "Good. For those of you not on the same page, it's the type of therapy which someone is exposed to their fear or trauma."

He begins flipping through his slideshow, giving more and more information and lecturing about it, but you can't help but notice it's an almost bias review.

You're left with homework to write a review on some boring documentary on the history of exposure therapy and a pretty long excerpt of the textbook you all were reading.

So, you did your work and followed all of the instructions. You wrote a review on exposure therapy.

The next Monday, you get to class and you sit in the front row. There's a big stack of paper on Crane's desk, and you assuming that you're getting a pop-quiz, but no, that's not the case.

Crane's waiting for everyone with his shoulder rested on the large stack of papers. Once the time hits 8, he begins.

"I printed out all of your outlines," He begins. "I've made some comments and given some feedback. We'll spend the class working on them."

He starts calling out names and one by one, people receive their papers. You're sort of anxious- you left a pretty negative review on exposure therapy, something that he seemed so passionate about.

"Y/N Y/L/N." He says, saying your voice with more of an annoyed tone than the other students. You get up and grab your paper from his hands, tugging harder due to his firm grip. Clearing his throat, he continues calling out the following names. You go back to your seat, nervous to look at the paper. When you sit and look at it, your stomach dropped.

There's nothing on the front page. Then you look at the second.

See me after class.

There is literally nothing but a see me after class.

Oh my god.

What did I do?

Was he offended at all by what was written? Surely, that wasn't your intention... yes, you wanted to piss him off, but you had some respect for him. You didn't want to actually maybe- make him insecure about his work?

Class seemed to take hours to go by; you didn't even know what to do about your paper. He gave no other feedback other than to see him after class. How were you supposed to work with that?

You looked around at your classmates typing away. You're annoyed that he actually helped them.

See me after class.

At least give me feedback on my fucking paper.

Everyone then realized the time and began to pack up. Crane stood up from his desk and took his glasses off.

"Remember, papers are due Friday!" He manages to get out before people start heading out the door.

You put your things in your bag, trying to act out to your classmates as if you were leaving. You felt so embarrassed. You hated how he kept embarrassing you and how he had the power to do that. It was infuriating. You felt him staring at you as you packed your stuff up, moving slower, nervous that he would call you out.

You took your time, though, waiting till everyone was out of the room.

With everyone else there, you felt so confident. You were one of the smart ones and you at least had witnesses, but alone with him? You were completely inferior. He could quite literally ruin your life with a bad grade and could easily tarnish your image, being the head of Arkham and all that.

"I found your paper quite interesting," He says, emphasizing quite.

"I'm sorry-" you begin. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Offend me?" He scoffs. "You think you offended me?"

"I just- I know this is what you do, right?" You stammer.

"I'm interested in your point of view." He says. "About the pain, how it's long term. I'm interested as to why you seem so against it."

You shrug.

"What's your biggest fear, Y/N?" He asks you. "What is it? Failure?"

"I'm not trying to fail."

"Oh, yes, you've proven that." He clicks his tongue. "Sitting in the front, turning things in quickly, wearing shorter skirts. Don't think I don't notice what you're doing."

"What?"

"You write intensely about the struggle that people with PTSD-"

"Wait," you interrupt him. "What did you say?"

"I'm trying to discuss with you what you've written."

"Professor, my clothing choices have nothing to do with me wanting to do well in this class," you say. Now you're offended.

Instead of apologizing, which is what you think any decent person would do, he looks you up and down and scoffs.

"You're wearing tights."

"What?"

"Surely, those must be uncomfortable. You're not wearing those to satisfy yourself," he says.

You grow red, and angry.

He keeps humiliating you.

"Who are you trying to impress?"

"Will you stop?" you groan in frustration. "Why don't you just let me get by like you let everyone else get by? I do everything you ask!"

"I want to know who you're trying to impress."

"I'm not trying to impress anyone," you hiss, finally looking up at his crystal eyes.

You know it's disrespectful, but you turn to walk away and to leave.

"No, no. We're not done."

You ignore him, walking towards the door, but he quickly beats you to it, shutting it and locking you in.

"I said we're not done." He said, completely composed. "Sit."

"I want to leave."

"Your biggest fear is failure, yes?" He questions. You don't nod or shake your head, but it is pretty much true; you hate failing. You need to succeed and be good at everything you do. "Sit. I can very much make that fear come true."

"I do everything," you repeat. "Everything. I do it on time, I'm here always, I'm prepared for everything."

"Can you just fucking-" He pushes you down onto the seat next to his desk. "Sit?"

You weren't expecting him to physically force you to sit down, but you could pick up on the pent up frustration he had with you.

"The off the cut sweater, no bra-" He points out.

You weren't wearing a bra. You were surprised he had picked up on the fact- you could've been wearing a strapless, but no. He was right.

"Are you even wearing underwear?" He whispers.

You're flushed.

What the fuck was going on?

You thought he hated you.

And yeah, you knew he was an attractive man, that's what made this whole thing pretty exciting, but you never thought you would be sat down with him leaning over you saying things like this.

"Let me see."

"Professor?"

He grabs you off the chair and pushes you onto his desk, spreading your legs for you. Everything was moving too quickly; this all felt like a fever dream.

He tugs at the middle of your tights, ripping them open to expose your- and he was right- bare pussy. He lets out a chuckle.

"You're not trying to impress anyone?" He questions, again, peering up at you.

You try moving your thigh to cover yourself, but he forcefully keeps them open.

"Who was that boy you used to sit next to... Tim, is it?"

To be honest, you really didn't know that kids name. He was just someone you sat next to out of habit since you had picked that seat the first day of classes. But you hadn't been sitting with him for weeks at that point.

"Is Tim who you're trying to impress?"

"No!" You argue, still trying to fight the grip of his hand off your thigh. "I told you... I'm not trying to impress anyone."

"Hm." He says, placing two fingers on exactly the right spot of your clit, slowly rubbing in circles. . "You're not even trying to impress me?"

You stay silent, for a brief moment.

"Not in this way..."

But it's past that point now. He's already touching you, rubbing faster, and your exposed pussy is laid out right in front of his face. You're embarrassed and self conscious. He's too close for comfort.

"Yeah?"

The fingers once on your clit are now entering you. You still can't comprehend the situation.

But for him, he was putting you in your place. It was enough of the looks in class, the semi sexual and revealing clothing, the obvious need for his approval and to show him she was as smart- maybe even smarter than him himself.

"Is that why you're letting me touch you like this?" He asks, using the two fingers to pump your pussy.

It's out of your control but you're getting wetter the longer and faster he fingers you. It's beginning to show, beginning to drip down his fingers and onto his wrists. He notices this, then stops and looks.

"Disgusting," He huffs before licking his fingers clean.

"That's disgusting," You repeat at him, glaring a little, but you can't help but want his finger- more of him back inside you. You feel empty, desperate for his hands back on you.

"I don't see you asking me to stop."

You're silent, again.

He smiles, kneeling back down and spreading your legs open again, this time with a more forceful grip. He doesn't use his fingers this time, devouring you with his hot mouth and basically digging in.

He was really good at this. To be fair, no one had ever actually eaten you out, but you had never felt anything like it. He moves his fingers towards you again and fucks you with them as he sucks and licks at your clit. He was freakishly good. You felt something drip down your thigh; you didn't know if you were sweating or if you were fucking leaking. By the sound of it, probably the second one.

He removes his fingers and dives deep into your pussy more, making obscure sounds as he does so. He stops and looks up at you.

"Take your shirt off. I want to see your tits," he demands.

You comply; he's already seen a lot.

"Fuck, they're perfect." He says, now standing over you, playing with them and poking and twisting at your hardened nipple. He's pushing his hardened clothed dick into your bare pussy, giving you some friction has he sucks on your neck and plays with your nipples.

He grabs your hips and flips you over, putting you on your stomach and leaning you over the desk.

He kneels back down, eating your pussy again; he can't get enough of it. He can't get enough of the small whines escaping your throat and the way you leak and how you shake when it feels good- or when the pleasure becomes too much.

He adds his fingers in again, this time three, and you let out a louder, but not too loud, moan than usual.

"Professor-"

"You can take it." He assures you. "You better take it. If you can't take this how can you take my cock?"

You just weren't used to it- you had been fucked, but not for so long. He keeps licking and devouring your clit while pumping in and out of you. You feel so full- on the brink. You feel hot, and god you feel good. You don't even realize it, but you're riding his mouth and his fingers.

"You know, I wasn't going to let you come," Crane begins between breaths, keeping his face close to your pussy so you could still feel him. "But now that I think about it... I want you cum drunk on my dick. I wanna make you cum over and over again until you're a fucking mess."

He goes back to sloppily and messily eating you out again. It was so dirty; the noise, what was leaking out of you. You then felt that familiar feeling and you couldn't stop it; no matter how wrong this felt or how humiliated and exposed you felt, you couldn't stop yourself from moaning like a mess and cumming all over his mouth.

You needed a second to recover, but he stood up and grinded his clothed dick against you. You weren't ready for the friction, wincing over the contact with you sensitive clit. He grabbed your neck and pulls your back to him, kissing you, continuing to grind.

He unbuttons his pants and undoes his boxers, his large thick cock springing out, begging to be touched. He pushes one of your legs up onto the desk to give him better access to you.

"You're fucking soaked," He says as he teases himself some more, collecting what's came out of you as some lubricant.

He keeps rubbing your clit and the outside with his dick, back and forth. It feels good, but it's not enough. He pushes harder with his dick on your clit, continuing to hump you.

"Professor, please," you look back at him, trying to guilt him into giving in and fucking you, but it's not that easy.

"Shut up, and let me take my time." He says. He continues this for a little, before getting a new idea. "I want you to cum on my cock without me fucking you."

"What?"

He pulls you towards him then on his lap on the chair next to his desk.

"Grind on it." He demands, holding you in place by your hips. "Get it soaked."

You hesitate, but he's impatient. He pushes you down and moves your hips for you until you begin to do it with him. You grind your pussy against his cock, stimulating your clit once more. It didn't feel as good as his mouth, and god it probably didn't feel as good as his dick would feel inside you, but it felt good. And you were so fucking horny, you were on the brink of cumming again.

"Yeah, yeah, you got it," he praised you, rocking your hips back and forth. He digs his nails into your hips, definitely leaving some cuts in your skin, but you didn't care. You were so close. He begins to bounce up, pretending to thrust into you, adding to your pleasure. "That's it, you- oh fuck, yes, cum on my fucking dick."

You're dripping onto him as you ride out your high, clenching around nothing. It seems to last for a while, wrapped up in all the pleasure combined with his dirty talk.

He angles his cock towards your entrance and pushes into you- he feels hot and he's sensitive due to teasing himself. But no- he doesn't want to cum yet. He wants to put you in your fucking place. And even if he does cum, he has no issue continuing and even fucking a baby into you. Then, you'd have to walk around with the shame.

He gently picks you up, but then harshly slams you up and down repeatedly onto his cock. You've had no time to readjust after cumming a second time, and you were extremely sensitive.

"Slower, professor, please," You cry, burying your face into his shoulder. "It hurts..."

"Shut the fuck up."

He grabs you by the neck and pounds up into you, rubbing your clit as well to add to the sensation.

Yes, it feels good, but it's so overwhelming you can't help but tear up. Crane notices this and it goes straight to his head.

"Are you fucking crying?" He scoffs. "Fucking crying for me?"

He picks you up, keeping you firmly attached to his dick, and throws you over the desk again. He's fucking you deeper and at an animalistic pace; like he fucking needs this.

"Keep crying for me. Keep fucking crying."

He harshly grips your tits, twisting your nipple in the process.

"Fucking perfect tits, perfect pussy, perfect everything. You fucking strive for perfection- but you're letting me fucking ruin you. Is this how far you'd go for a good grade?" He laughs, fingers deep in your clit.

You can only moan in response, but this doesn't satisfy him.

"Fucking answer me."

"Yes," you cry out.

"Yeah, you're just a fucking whore who'd sleep her way to the top if that's what it took." He says, tugging your hair back, your sweaty bodies pressed closer together.

His words are filthy, but you're fucking cumming again.

He's laughing, mocking you for doing so.

"You fucking like being treated like a bitch, don't you?" He says, fucking you through your third orgasm. You don't know how he's not tired. As you expect, he doesn't give you a fucking break. You're worn out at this point; almost numb.

"Professor, I don't know-"

"You don't know if you can keep going?" He questions. "Yeah, you can. I'll fucking make you keep going. What was that... your third orgasm? Let me see if I can double that."

"Professor..."

"I'll stop when you give me three more."

You feel like you're going to pass out; the pleasure had become too much, but you were so fucking sensitive that a fourth one had come quickly. Your pussy was so swollen and red, but he had not gotten off of you.

"You're fucking..." He brings you back to the chair and places you on top of him. "You're fucking leaking all over me, fucking hell. So wet... do you hear yourself?"

You could hear yourself. It was disgusting. It was filthy.

"Aren't you embarrassed?" He asks. He slows down his pace, and you know he's teasing you. "Embarrassed that you're whoring yourself out to me like this? To a professor that so clearly disliked you? This is what you do for my approval."

He slows his pace some more.

"Would you do this for any other professor, Y/N? Let them fuck your pussy till you have nothing left to give? Bounce on their cock the way you do for me?"

"No, professor," you shake your head, trying to bounce faster but he keeps your hips in place, restricting you. He had succeeded- made you cum drunk and fucked you stupid, but this wasn't enough. He needed more. "No, no, only you. I'd only do this for you."

You're squirming around on his dick. He's stopped moving at this point, just staying in you.

"Stop fucking moving around. Don't you want to impress me?"

"Have I not?" You begin to regain some of your strength with this somewhat of a break he was giving you. "Have I not impressed you, professor?"

You give him puppy eyes as you gain some control of the situation, his grip loosing and you bouncing on his cock at a pace you like.

"I want to impress you, professor," you say seductively. "I want to- fuck!"

You start chasing your high again, you didn't even realize that you'd ever be able to cum this many times.

"Fuck!" You repeat. Crane is letting you take control, enjoying the show of you riding his cock, using him for your pleasure. "Do you like this, professor? Do you like when I fucking bounce on your dick like this?"

You had never heard yourself like this, or ever expected to talk like this. You had never felt so confident.

"Have you imagined this professor?" You continue. He's obviously at a loss for words, not expecting this side of you. "Have you imagined fucking me? Have you imagined bending me over your desk and eating me out till I came all over your face? My tits? Putting me in my fucking place?"

His hands found your hips again and he's helping you ride his cock. He's loving the words coming from your mouth.

"God, I think you wanted this more than I did," you laugh. You're so close. You wanted him to talk, but his reactions to your words were enough for you. "Make me cum again, professor, please. I- fuck!"

He's pushing into you and bouncing you up and down quickly and you're riding out your fifth orgasm.

He pulls you off of him and lays you out on the desk again, licking up your sore pussy. He hums while doing this, telling you how you taste so good. You're so- so sensitive, though, and you can't help but cumming on his tongue again not even seconds later, letting out a string of incoherent words.

That's six.

You look at him, but he's positioning himself in you.

"You said six-"

"I say a lot of things. I want you to cum on my cock again." He says, kissing your neck. "Last time. I promise."

He pumps into you, at a softer, but still quick pace. You feel so incredibly numb, but he still manages to work you up quickly while fondling your breasts and pressing hot kisses into your neck.

"Ah- fuck." He pants, fucking himself into you. "Fuck... gonna cum in you. Want you to fucking carry me around for the rest of the fucking day."

You don't object- your hearing was probably a little impaired at this point.

"Yeah, you want that, don't you. It's like a fucking award to you."

He's holding you closer now. You both are so sweaty and sticky.

You're about to cum again, but he grabs your throat tightly.

"Fucking wait for me. Don't be impatient."

As hard as it is, you listen to him. He speeds up, becoming sloppy before he cries, "Fuck, cum! Cum all over my fucking- ahhh, yes, fuck."

He shoots hot loads into you as you clench around him, milking more out of him. He doesn't stop, continuing to fuck you until every last bit of his seed has marked you. Even after he's done, he gets a few more strokes in before he pulls out, showing the combination of you and him leaking out of your pussy. He pushes you onto the floor and presents his dick in front of him.

"Clean it."

You obey, wrapping your mouth on his cock and licking away the filth that the two of you made. He groans and pulls you off of him.

"You'll get me hard again." He says.

He puts all his clothes back on and hands you your sweater. Your nipples are hard, poking through them now.

"I look forward to your next draft of your review." Crane says calmly, as if what just happened didn't happen.

"You- um..." you stammer, brushing your fingers through your hair. "You didn't give me any notes."

"I didn't?" He questioned. You shook your head. "Well, stay again after class next session. I'll go over it, personally, with you."

"Oh." You blush. "This wasn't a one time thing?"

"Y/N..." Crane looks at the floor. "I'm your professor."

You felt awkward. Of course it was a one time thing; how could it not be?

But then he looks back up at you.

"You don't want to fail my class, do you?"

#jonathan crane #dc scarecrow #scarecrow #the scarecrow #batman imagine #the batman #batman #the dark knight #cillian x reader #cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader #cillian x y/n #cillain murphy #jonathan crane smut

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apollosdaydreams · 2 months

Text

Sexting?

Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warnings: Age gap!! Both are of age, Reader is about 26 while Cillain is 47 none just fluff :)

No hate to his family and his wife, Yvonne, this is purely fictional.

You were leaning in to Cillian wanting to be with him until he had to leave to film another scene. You both were just playing on your phone, enjoying each other's company when you felt Cillian’s chest begin to vibrate when he started to talk.

“What's sexting?” He asked.

You quickly turned around so you could be facing him, you were now slightly flushed. You could tell he was trying to hold back a smile. You quickly rolled your eyes at him, knowing that he knew what sexting was.

“I'm not having this conversation with you.” You said, while turning back around, leaning on his chest. He smiled into your neck, his hands rubbing up and down your body. His hands stopped on your hips, pulling you close to him. He glanced down at your phone to see what time it was.

“Well I have to go.” He said, while sitting up. You slightly pouted as he moved.

“I’ll see you later, love.” He said winking, walking out the door.

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darkshelbyfiction · 6 months

Text

The Nanny Diaries (Part Two)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Innocent Reader

Warning: Dark Cillian has an innocence kink...Smut...Infidelity...Dub Con

Two days had passed since your encounter with Cillian in the living room and, whilst you tried to pretend that nothing had happened, your guilty conscience couldn't help but torment you night after night.

On one hand, you remembered your boyfriend back home while, on the other hand, you remembered how Cillian made you feel when he placed his fingers inside your virgin depths .

It was so sinful yet oh so pleasurable at the same time. Your heart raced whenever the memory of Cillian's touch swept through your body like waves lapping gently against sandy beaches.

You could not get this encounter out of your head and when, one early morning, you woke up earlier than usual, still struggling with the turmoil of these conflicting feelings, you noticed that something seemed different about him today. There was an air of expectancy around him, almost demanding attention.

"Where is Lorna?" you asked when you stumbled into the kitchen and noticed that the house was rather quiet.

"Lorna went shopping," came Cillian's reply, casually sipping coffee from a white china cup. "She said she needed some space." His voice sounded slightly more distant than usual - perhaps even tired.

"And the kids?" you wondered aloud, feeling somewhat responsible.

"She took them to her mother's house for the day," Cillian responded nonchalantly before offering you a cup of coffee as well.

As the two of you sat alone together in the kitchen, there was suddenly an eerie silence that hung heavily in the air. You felt yourself beginning to blush, unsure what exactly was going on. You were certain, however, that you did not want things to escalate further between you and Cillian, no matter how tempting it might be.

"So...", began Cillian, breaking the heavy silence. "How is that boyfriend of yours?", enquired Cillian lightly, taking another sip of his now cooling coffee. This question sent shivers down your spine – you knew deep down that if you didn't resist the alluring charm which radiated off Cillian right then, your life would crumble beneath you.

"He is fine. We spoke last night and he is going for a trip to Boston next week to visit his aunt," you replied, attempting to sound calm despite the sudden knot forming in your throat. It pained you deeply knowing that this relationship was merely sustained through phone calls and occasional Skype sessions. Yet here you stood in front of a man whose mere presence threatened to tear it apart entirely.

"Did you tell him? About the other night?" he continued, leaning closer across the table with his elbows resting upon its surface. The heat emanating from him caused you to tremble slightly. With your own hands clasped tightly in your lap, you fidgeted nervously, aware of just how close they really were.

"No, I didn't," you finally admitted hesitantly, biting your lip. In reality, telling your boyfriend was indeed weighing heavily on your conscience ever since that encounter in the living room. But fear kept you silent. Afraid of losing someone precious in your life because of an irresponsible decision fueled by lust.

"I suppose that's a good thing. I wouldn't want Lorna to find out about it either," commented Cillian thoughtfully, running his index finger along the rim of his empty coffee cup. "But you know..." he added softly, lowering his gaze to meet yours intensely. "Denying yourself what you want isn't exactly healthy either ," he continued slowly before reaching for your hand and tracing his thumb across the top of it.

Your skin burned where his fingers grazed, sending shivers coursing throughout your entire body. Unable to look away, you found yourself powerless underneath the weight of his intense gaze.

"I know, but what happened the other night was wrong, very wrong," you managed to stammer out, finding courage amidst your panicked state. As you pulled your hand free from his grasp, he smirked deviously.

"Morally, maybe. But you still enjoyed it, didn't you?" questioned Cillian, raising a skeptical eyebrow before taking another sip of his coffee. Even though you were terrified, part of you also desired the rush of adrenaline that surged through your veins during those moments spent with him.

"Yes, I did, but that doesn't make it right!" you snapped defiantly, refusing to admit any enjoyment from such acts. "You are married!" you exclaimed, pointing towards the ring on his finger, causing him to chuckle.

"I am married, yes," he conceded light-heartedly. "But that only just makes it more interesting," he quipped confidently, leaning even closer towards you. As the warmth from his breath brushed against your cheek, you caught a faint hint of mint lingering in the air, adding a mysterious edge to his allure.

"Maybe it's time you stopped fighting your urges," Cillian whispered seductively, tilting your chin upwards with his index finger. His eyes bore into yours, making you feel dizzy and weak in the knees. His proximity left little doubt in your mind regarding what he wanted and when you looked downward at his crotch, you saw the obvious bulge that told you everything.

Cillian noticed the direction of your gaze and gave you a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling playfully as you were left speechless by his advances.

"Have you ever touched your boyfriend down there?" he curiously probed, drawing your attention back to his own. Feeling your cheeks burning red, you shook your head silently in response and Cillian reached for your hand gently guided it towards his clothed crotch. 'Touch me,' he commanded huskily, his voice thick with desire. Uncertainty consumed you momentarily, leaving you frozen in place unable to comply. However, his guidance prompted your hand to explore his hardened length tentatively. Glancing up at him, you found that his eyes held a mixture of lust and control, evoking feelings of vulnerability within you. 'Good,' he breathed approvingly, reassured by your submission.

"You are very hard," you observed quietly, examining his condition, uncertain why you mentioned it, yet fascinated by the situation.

"Are you surprised?" he inquired with a devilish grin, his expression both taunting and inviting. 'Well, you do have quite the effect on me," he confessed truthfully, unable to hide the admiration etched across your features.

"Come on. Lets go to the bathroom. I want you to stroke me until I cum," Cillian said boldly, his eyes ablaze with passion as he stood up and asked you to follow him.

Nervousness washed over you as you trailed behind him, wondering whether you should truly give in to his demands and, when you finally reached the bathroom, he turned to lock the door securely.

"Come over here," he demanded, gesturing toward the marbled countertop nearby. Once you approached he unzipped his jeans and exposed himself fully to you. His member stood tall and proud, begging for your attention, already oozing a slight drop of precum. You swallowed audibly at the sight of him, intimidated yet oddly excited.

"Now take my cock in your hand and begin stroking me," instructed Cillian firmly, maintaining eye contact with confidence. His words reverberated around the lavish room, casting a spellbinding atmosphere full of eroticism.

Feeling flustered, you hesitated briefly before obeying his command, grasping him gingerly in your palm. His skin was smooth and warm, sending jolts of arousal through your body as you started moving your hand up and down his shaft in accordance with his subtle encouragement.

"Good girl… slow and steady," murmured Cillian appreciatively, watching your every movement with hooded eyes filled with raw sensuality. Encouraged by his praise, you quickened your pace, feeling an increasing sense of excitement building inside of you.

The intensity of the situation was heightening rapidly, consuming you completely. As sweat trickled down your brow, the rhythm became faster, your heart racing alongside. His eyes glared hungrily at you, conveying a powerful mix of domination and lustful satisfaction.

"Keep stroking me like that," purred Cillian huskily, his accent thickening the air. Your hand moved steadily, gliding up and down his rigid rod. Sweat dripped down your forehead, your breath becoming heavier as the anticipation grew stronger.

"Almost there," you heard Cillian mutter, his tone low and laced with desire. Your pulse raced, mirroring the rapid beat of your strokes against his flesh. Every touch seemed to ignite a new wave of ecstasy, amplifying the electric charge humming between you.

"Fuck! That feels so good," moaned Cillian hoarsely, closing his eyes as he braced himself against the vanity.

Increasing the tempo of your movements, you felt emboldened by his reaction. The pleasure he derived from your ministrations fuelled a hunger inside you too, feeding off his energy.

"I am cumming... don't stop now," he groaned raggedly, a pleading note evident in his voice.

You could see the mounting pressure in his face as you relentlessly stroked him, witnessing firsthand the extent of his surrender to the carnal act. And as his breathing grew erratic, you couldn't help but wonder if this was something forbidden – a dangerous game played against morality itself. Yet the exhilaration was undeniably thrilling, filling you with an almost primal desire to continue pushing boundaries further than ever before.

"Here it comes!" Cillian cried out suddenly, arching his back sharply. His grip on the sink tightened as waves of pleasure washed over him. Hot semen spurted forth onto the marble surface below, creating an obscene artwork that reflected the nature of their tryst. Watching this display sent a shockwave of arousal shooting straight to your core, awakening a fierce yearning within you.

"Fuck, that felt incredible," uttered Cillian roughly, catching his breath. Panting heavily, he reached for a nearby towel, wiping the evidence from his hands and genitalia just as the front door opened unexpectedly.

"I am home," Lorna yelled out from the hallway, wondering where you all were.

#cillian murphy #cilliean murphy smut #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fic #cillian x reader #cillian x y/n #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillain murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you

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babybluebex · 9 months

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rememories | tommy shelby x fem!reader

summary: the lee family trashed your betting room, including your most prized possessions, and tommy does everything in his power to soothe you and right the wrongs that the rival gang caused. pairing: tommy shelby (peaky blinders) x fem!reader tags: s1!tommy, tommy being a sweetheart, your daughter's name is thomasine (thanks @lost-in-sokovia for that one), no real warnings for this other than like angst? brief emotional distress? idk author's note: it's come to this lol. i'll be fixing my cillian masterlist later and reblogging it, so y'all can read all of my old tommy fics (and a few other cillian characters lmao) but i hope you enjoy this one!

The backroom was in total disrepair. Chairs were tipped over, things were thrown from tables, coins scattered everywhere and marks of bludgeonings on the walls. The poor little room was merely a shell of itself, its personality and life battered away. You could still hear your husband’s jaded laughter as he made fun of John for wanting to marry Lizzie Stark, but mere minutes ago now seemed like a lifetime away.

Scudboat sat as Arthur poured him whisky, and he explained how the Lees, “the whole lot of ‘em”, came in and destroyed the betting backroom. He was ambushed, he said, or he would have done a better job defending it. You held Tommy’s hands as fear made your own shake, and your husband sighed. “Find what can be salvaged,” he said, narrowly missing John’s angry fit as he kicked a box over. “Anything is better than nothing.”

“This is terrible,” you sniffled, and Tommy extracted his handkerchief for you. It was one that you had bought for him right after you had gotten married and just before he went to war, and you were always amazed that the silky cloth made it as far as it did. You dabbed at your eyes, scowling at your dark makeup that came off, and your heart beat fiercely against your ribcage for a moment. “The children. Was Finn here for this, Scudboat? Or Thomasine?”

“Nah,” he said. “Finn was off in town; Thomasine ain’t come home from school yet.”

“Oh, Tommy, they can’t see the house like this!” you whimpered and clutched your husband’s arm. “It’ll upset Thomasine too much. I’ll fetch her from school and keep her away from the house for a while until this is mostly fixed.”

Tommy nodded wordlessly in agreement, and he began to take off his cap, but he quickly stopped. He was fixated on something on the floor at his feet, and you looked down to match his gaze, only to be greeted with the big leather book that held your most prized possessions: your photographs. You kept the album in the betting room because it was always filled with people, witnesses in case something happened, and, really, who would want to ruin Tommy Shelby’s wife’s photographs?

Your knees crunched on glass as you lowered yourself to the album, and you took it in your shaking hands. The dark green leather was stained black with spilled ink and oil, obscuring your gold-foiled name on the spine, and you opened the book with a creak of the old pages. You didn’t want to have to assess the damage, but the first page already had you weeping pathetically again. The first photograph, the first one ever taken of you and Tommy, sitting and laughing together as Ada tried out her new camera, years and years ago at fifteen and thirteen. It was gone. The page was yellowed all around where the photograph should be, but the picture itself was gone. You wanted to throw the book across the room and scream; you weren’t concerned with material things, many girls from Small Heath were the same way, but those photographs were your pride and joy. The next page was a formal picture taken of Tommy wearing his Army uniform, his lanky seventeen-year-old build a little too small for the uniform that he would grow into. The corner of the photograph was torn but, thankfully, mostly intact.

The third page made you press the book to your chest. Your wedding photographs. You and Tommy had gotten married quickly, two days before he had to go to France, and, in your haste, you hadn’t been able to afford much. You could only afford a single copy of each photograph: one of you in your Sunday best that was your wedding dress, one of Tommy in his uniform, and one of you together. All three photographs were torn to shreds, settled in the spine of the book, waiting for you to find them. Those wedding photographs were the most important thing in the world to you, and now they were gone. Not even pasting glue could fix it. “Tom!” you sobbed, pressing the back of your wrist to your mouth. “O-Our wedding photographs! Th-They’re all ripped up!”

Your husband’s attention went from Scudboat to you, and he walked over to you and knelt down next to you. He took the small bits of photographs in his fingers, examining them intently, and he sighed heavily. “Fuck, love,” he whispered, and your sobs grew heavy. If Tommy was resigned to fate, then there was no chance of them being fixed. “I’m sorry.”

“We-We don’t have any extras, do we?” you stuttered. Your mouth felt dry as your fingers tried to match the ripped edges of photographs up, but they were too far gone. “Tom, d-do we have any others? Th-These aren’t the only ones we have, right?”

Tommy sat down next to you and put an arm around you, and he watched you frantically sob for just a second more before he used his strength to pull you into his chest. The photo album fell out of your hands, and you clutched your husband as you wailed in sorrow. Your wedding photos were gone.

“Mummy?” you heard a little voice call from the doorway, and you turned to see your wee daughter, Miss Thomasine Sophia Shelby, standing at the door. She was holding her school books in her arms, the pink ribbon in her hair coming loose. Thomasine was born just after Tommy come home from France, five years ago, and she looked like a Shelby, dark hair and bright eyes, but she had her father’s smile. “Mummy, why’re you crying?”

You sniffled and wiped at your eyes, not caring that you streaked your makeup to hell and back, and you mumbled, “People came into the house, did us over. I-I’m just sad, that’s all.” You didn’t want to worry your daughter with the real reason why you were so upset, because, truly, you felt silly for being so distraught at fucking photographs. It felt ridiculous for you, as a grown woman, a mother, to be crying over photographs.

Thomasine ran to you and sat her small body in your lap, and she wrapped her small arms around you. “Don’t be sad,” Thomasine told you, and you laughed humorlessly. “It’s okay, Mummy.”

You sniffled and soothed your hand down Thomasine’s hair— the ends of her long hair were turning a little ginger, just the same as her father’s tended to do in the sun— and you kissed her forehead. “Thank you, love,” you whispered. “Hug your father, he’s sad too.”

Thomasine crawled out of your lap and into Tommy’s, and Thomasine started to suck her thumb as Tommy stood up and settled his daughter firmly on his hip. He offered you a hand to stand up, and you sniffled as you gathered the soiled photo album up in your grip and stood up on your own. “If you find any of ‘em,” Tommy called to the room, and he gestured to the album in your arms. “Bring ‘em to her, don’t waste time. Yeah?”

You hardly slept that night. After securing the house and making sure that there wasn’t any other part of it that the Lees had touched, you had tried to go about your life normally, but it was difficult to pretend like you didn’t know that, at any time, rivals could enter your home and slaughter every last one of you. You put Thomasine to bed after dinner, and your girl fell asleep quickly, but you yourself were awake for hours. Tommy had taken your photo album and put it away in his wardrobe; “If you keep it, you’ll fret over it forever.” He was right, of course, because, when the sun came up, you had tugged it out and was trying to sort through the scraps of photographs on your bedroom floor. The room was cold and part of you wished that you could be in bed, holding your husband close, but you needed to do it for yourself. You had managed to salvage a single photograph by the time Tommy was blinking himself awake, and you sniffled as you beckoned him over. “Tommy, look!” you exclaimed. “I-It’s Thomasine!”

“Jesus, woman,” Tommy sighed groggily. “Have you been at this all night?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed. “Her baby picture, look!”

Tommy reached down for you and he took your hand, and he helped you stand up, his hands going to hold your cheeks. “I know you’re having a hard time with this,” he whispered. “But obsessing over it is only going to make it worse. They’re as good as gone, darling.”

“B-But—” you sniffled, and Tommy shook his head.

“You have to let it go,” He told you firmly. “Come back to bed, you don’t have to be awake for hours.”

“Oh, Tommy,” you sighed, shuffling back up to bed. Your joints hurt from sitting on the floor practically all night, and your vision watered up as you watched Tommy gather up the album and photograph scraps and set them back in his wardrobe. “What am I going to do? All of my favorite memories are lost.”

“You still have the memories in your head, love,” Tommy told you, sitting next to you. You leaned into him and pressed your cheek to his warm chest, and you sniffled as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I just…” you mumbled. “Our wedding pictures is the thing I’m most upset about. We were so young, and that was before everything went to shit, and we were so happy…”

“We’re still happy,” Tommy assured you. “We’re happier now, because we have Thomasine. We’re a complete family now.”

“You know what I mean,” you said. “We were poor kids, and-and looking at those pictures gave me hope that you’d come home when you were in France. They were my lifeline for a long time, and to have them ruined like this…”

Tommy’s lips formed into a thin line, and he rubbed your back comfortingly as you finally laid down and tried to settle into sleep. Your sleep was thin, hardly even deep enough to call proper sleep, but you finally woke up and got out of bed when you heard shouting down in the bottom of the house. You were used to that, but you still felt like you ought to make sure everything was alright, so you pulled yourself from bed and went about groggily getting ready for the day, slipping on a dress and spraying on perfume before descending the stairs.

The noise seemed to be coming from the back room, the ruined betting room, and you carefully pushed back the plush curtains and opened the doors to see a sight. Your eyes first landed on your husband, dressed in his old uniform. It certainly looked too small for him, tugging a little at his chest, but you clenched your teeth together at the sight. How long has it been since you saw him in the pea-soup-green uniform? Five years, at least. “Tommy,” you said softly. You couldn’t help yourself from stepping closer to him as his head snapped to look at you, and his hard gaze softened in the way it always did when he saw you. He never subjected you to his steely gaze, and, whenever you saw it, it always reminded you of what a feared man he was.

“Fuck, love, what’re you doing down here?” Tommy asked. “You’re supposed to be asleep still.”

“Heard shouting,” you said softly. The other men were bustling around the room as you smoothed your hands up Tommy’s chest, and your eyes went all watery again. “This isn’t happening, please, no.”

“What’s wrong?” Tommy asked. “Talk to me, darling, what’s the matter?”

“How long have you known?” you asked, sniffling. “Leaving us like this, how could you?”

“What?”

“The uniform, Tommy!” you cried. “You’re being called to the war again, why else would you have this shit on?”

Tommy grabbed your cheeks and kissed your forehead, and he angled your head to the side. Arthur stood there, behind a massive camera, angled at a blank space on the wall, and your breath caught in your throat. “What is this?” you asked.

“I’m not being called back,” Tommy explained. “I got to thinking about our wedding pictures, and I went to see the photographer who made them. He said the film was too old and that they couldn’t make you new copies, so the next best thing was to retake them.”

“Oh?” you asked. You sniffled and wiped your nose, and you gently reached out to touch the camera. “We… We’re retaking our wedding pictures?”

“With a few adjustments,” Tommy said. “Back then, I couldn’t afford to even get you so much as a bouquet, but now… Well, I took your measurements to a dress shop, and even though the dress was pre-made and only adjusted to you…”

“Tommy?” you whimpered.

“I got you a wedding dress, love,” Tommy told you. “Better than the flour-bag Sunday best that you had on.”

You gasped, covering your mouth with your hands, and you sobbed once before flying to your husband and crushing him in a hug. “Oh, Tommy!” you cried. “Thank you! Can I see it?”

“Pol’s got it in the kitchen,” Tommy told you. “Go put it on, why don’t you let me see it?”

The dress was beautiful. Eggshell-colored silk that fell below your knees with long sleeves and deep neckline, very fashionable and pretty, and it fit you like a glove as Polly helped you into it. She primped you a little, fixing your hair and patting red rouge onto your lips, and she upturned a vase next to the stove and handed you the bouquet of wildflowers that Thomasine had picked a few days earlier. You felt timid and almost nervous as Polly escorted you back to the betting room, and you cleared your throat once you passed the threshold, afraid that, if you spoke, your voice would give up on you.

Tommy looked to you in an instant, and he gave you a small smile as he stepped towards you. “Aren’t you a sight?” he said in his rumbling timbre, putting his hands on your hips, and he kissed your lips for a moment before he added, “Thomasine might get a brother before the day’s over, if you keep looking that beautiful.”

“Oh, shut up,” you giggled, and he steered you in front of the camera as you smoothed down your dress. You were suddenly nervous, and you clutched Tommy’s hand as Arthur cranked the camera, preparing it to go off. “Tom?”

“M’right here, pet,” Tommy said, squeezing your hand. “Just smile; everything will be fine.”

By the time night fell, you had a whole slew of new film, new pictures to replace the ruined ones. Recreations of your wedding pictures, an updated picture of a smiling Thomasine, even one of Tommy kissing you when the camera went off on accident. Thomasine was tangled in your skirts then, gazing up at her daddy, and you looked at the film as you sat by the fire that night, smiling and admiring it. That was your favorite memory; you, your husband, and your daughter, smiling, laughing, loving. It was perfect.

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #peaky blinders fanfic #cillian murphy x reader #cillain murphy x you

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liliesdiary · 5 months

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˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Step Dad Jackson Rippner & His Good Girl ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

inspired by: 🎀

💌 @slut4thebroken 💌

your fic made me so wet <3

(older Jackson Rippner)

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barrykeoghanstan · 7 months

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Friend: You're unhinged

Me: No, I'm not. I'm just saying it would be hot as fuck to let each of the Shelby brothers + Micheal to have their way with me

Friend: ......

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weirdworldofwinnie · 6 months

Text

Oasis in a Desperate Land of Dark Desire - Part Five: Party

Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Wife Reader NSFW 18+ only

Summary: The Oppenheimers' host a party at the house and Robert is as crowd pleasing as usual, especially with the ladies, while you find yourself doubting the relationship and in the midst of a sudden surprising rumor going around.

Word Count: ~4,548

Warnings: Age gap, period stereotypical gender roles, slight infidelity and talk of, gossip, martial angst

Usual disclaimers apply, obviously NOT based on complete real life historical accuracy, i.e. characters such as the Thompsons are made-up and as a whole, this fic is essentially very much a dramatization and AU fantasy/fiction with Cillian as Oppenheimer, Josh Hartnett as Ernest Lawrence, etc.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Tag List: @forgottenpeakywriter, @frozenhuntress67, @immyowndefender, @szde8-blog, @bypurple, @irenethewoman, @uniquetacofun, @noirrose21-blog, @gridmouse86

If you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

May 1943

The yard was brightly awash in sunlight as you found yourself on your hands and knees digging in the garden plot, preparing to plant and transplanting a couple shrubs. You weren't above physical labor and it was nice to be productive outside of the house and in town; anything involving the earth directly was refreshing.

Life in Los Alamos had smoothed out into a sort of normal routine with Robert working and you studying while keeping house and babysitting the Thompson children multiple times a week. It was a bit isolating day-to-day, but you didn't mind much considering how important this venture was and there was less pressure on your end at least once everyone was settled. Since the kitchen had been remodeled, tonight would be the largest gathering at the house since Robert's 39th birthday bash last month (which marked the occasion by a fine meal of steak and asparagus for dinner and a large cake, lit with an array of candles and nearly everyone in attendance wore shiny party hats). For this evening, the scientists and their significant others were just looking to converse but more importantly relax and have a fun time, so you made sure everything was set and enough drinks were to be served with Robert having shown you how to prepare one of his dry martinis correctly, which you'd be serving to the guests.

At six o'clock, the Thompsons arrived first with their two boys and you led them inside. Little Duncan immediately spotted the batch of sugar cookies you had baked earlier on a whim.

"Cookies!" he yelled, racing to the plate on the coffee table and hungrily grabbing at several with his chubby hands, causing his mother to chastise him with a shocked scold.

"Manners, please!"

But in his excitement, the plate went crashing to the floor and you cringed, quickly bending down to clean up the cracked halves and cookie crumbs scattered onto the rug. Thankfully you had no shortage of serving plates, used to the occasional broken dishware by now.

"No, no, it's okay," you assured the toddler as his bottom lip wobbled and you handed him a cookie which he gobbled up guiltily.

"Duncan, what do you say?" Mrs. Thompson asked sharply.

"Tank you," he mumbled around the mouthful and you smiled, swiftly chucking the plate into the trash.

"I'm so sorry, he can be very careless often," she apologized, but you waved a hand dismissively.

"It's alright. He might as well take the rest since it's likely they will go stale before I alone have the chance to eat them all."

"Doesn't Robert enjoy your baking?"

"Oh, he doesn't really eat and he isn't as fond of any dessert without chocolate in it."

"He still hasn't been eating much?" she asked out of mild concern.

"Well, always rather minimally. He only has a real meal if it's a special occasion or I coherence him to... He usually just has his morning coffee and toast, maybe an orange. I like to think he is just too preoccupied with life and work to consider the normal consumption of food. He's just mentally too full."

"That is still peculiar, though. Good for you to put up with it, heaven knows how annoyed I would get if I cooked and baked all day and my husband ate a measley fraction with hardly any appreciation."

"No, he is grateful about it," you corrected, but she raised a skeptical brow and then you were distracted by more guests arriving.

Once night fully fell, you took up precedence in the kitchen at the counter making drinks and assuring there was enough martinis and appetizers to go around. From the sounds of it, the atmosphere was getting a bit rowdy out in the main party area of the living room: music resounding from the record player, Richard Feynman banging on his bongos, and the sound of shoes dancing the fox trot.

"I see Oppie has put you on drink duty tonight."

You turned to see Dr. Ernest Lawrence standing a few feet away with his signature smirk and you smiled, gesturing with a glass to his direction.

"What, you actually want one?" you teased a bit sarcastically and he winked, the room lights glinting off his round glasses.

"You bet." He accepted the cold drink and took a sip, nodding in approval.

"Never had a better martini," he praised and you took a sip of your own, swirling the strong flavor on your tongue as he leaned against the counter, causally observing about how it was a good turnout.

"It's nearly as many that came for his birthday," you agreed with a nod.

"It's nice to be able to get out of the work atmosphere of the laboratory for a hot minute and relax," he commented.

"I bet. Robert's not giving you too much grief over there, is he?"

"No, just the usual frustrations that I can't talk about, pardon it. You could partly guess it though; it started with my Rad Lab, the unionizing and differential ideas... But I will say as much as we respect each other, Oppie needs to not act so much like a Communist sometimes; it's detrimental to all of us and especially him, the damn brilliant fool," Lawrence said rather bitterly and you raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean by that oxymoron?"

He shook his head of whatever thoughts he had and finished his drink too hastily, giving you back the nearly empty glass. His fingers brushed your hand for a few seconds, causing both his and your wedding rings to briefly clink together, before he pulled away and smiled again.

"Thanks for the drink, Y/N." He walked out of the kitchen and absorbed into the wider huddles of people in the lounge as you looked on curiously.

About an hour later, you took a break from the kitchen to go converse with a few lady friends and couldn't help but notice Robert seated comfortably on the sofa, bumping knees by being sandwiched in-between his close friend Dr. Ruth Tolman and her husband Richard. She was blonde and attractive, whip smart, and currently listening intently and hanging onto every word and expression he made while conversing and you felt a small prick of unexpected... envy? You knew Ruth personally and she was a pleasant intelligent woman in a challenging field, which made Robert deeply respect her, but it also reminded you of the comparisons and why he admired her. She was significantly older than you (and even had ten years on him) and was trailblazing in her occupation while you were struggling through obtaining a nursing degree despite being plunked down in the middle of government sanctioned nowhere and shoehorned into housekeeping and hosting. You clenched the drink in your hand, nails driving into the glass as you watched them, distracted from your conversation with the ladies, and Robert was animatedly explaining something as she leaned closer, a tinkle of laughter reaching your ears. You excused yourself from the gaggle of women and drifted closer while trying to remain somewhat inconspicuous and watching carefully as he focused intently on her, completely oblivious of you standing no more than eight feet away.

"The damn brilliant fool."

Maybe Lawrence was right? You weren't sure why you were feeling so protectively paranoid all of a sudden. It had to be nothing, but you still felt a tiny smidge of annoyance seeing how much she was clearly enjoying Robert's presence tonight and vice versa (given a few drinks of course) but many women in general were not immune to his strange charm, so it was to be expected. Hell, they had been positively fawning over him at his birthday last month and many in town marveled at his leadership, gentlemanly qualities, and magnetic charisma despite his eccentricities and intimating intellect.

Robert could talk for hours about nearly any academical subject, philosophy, Greek mythology, politics and ideologies (although that was a bit stamped out here due to the secrecy and military oversight), religion, science obviously, any personal matters and interests (except sports), and basically anything that warranted an opinion. And people always listened, no matter if they had precise knowledge in the subjects or not, and the appeal was undeniable to most women you knew, heterosexual or not. He was something special, that was for sure, and you were afraid Ruth might be taking advantage of this as she placed a manicured hand softly on his knee, laughing with him.

You retreated back somewhat to avoid awkwardness in case either him or her noticed you staring (which they never did) and considered checking up on the state of the kitchen, when four-year-old Douglas came excitedly running over, weaving between the legs of the adults.

"Mrs. Oppen-hemmer, come look at what I found!" He abruptly took your hand and pulled you away to the front door and outside into the front yard, plunking himself down on the rock pathway. The glowing yellow lights from the windows and house made shadows cast across the ground in eerie splinters and dark patches on the ground.

"What is it?" you asked, squinting in the dimness to see exactly what he was so invested in and he poked at a black bulbous miniscule shape lodged in the space between the slabs.

"Oh, it's just an arthropod. A common ground beetle, I believe," you told him, disguising disgust as he kept poking at it with interest until you gently batted his fingers away.

"Don't bother it too much," you told him and he sighed, rolling onto his side and staring in fascination that was lost on you, but whatever humored him was fine.

You went to take a seat on the front step, listening to the bubble of conversation, music, and glasses clinking inside the house as you absentmindedly watched the little boy, ruminating on a few past snippets of conversation you remembered having with friends and family, who were commenting critically at the time on your rather fast relationship with Robert before you practically eloped.

"You're making a mistake with a premature marriage, you need to prioritize your education first, a man second."

"Well, didn't you pick one of the highest hung fruit of the land. Dr. Oppenheimer, I must say! You make the rest of us seem subpar."

"But Jean and him make such a impassionate, powerful couple. He calls her his truest love and has proposed marriage to her before you, so he'll only be settling for you if you accept him, don't forget that."

"Sweetheart, listen to me. You know I love you and will accept whomever you choose, but think about this dearly before you exchange vows. A physicist, this older man's a physicist. What on earth are you going to have in common with a scientific genius like that? He'll support the hell out of you with his teaching, I understand, and I like that he's a wealthy born New Yorker, but... and I say this with love - love - you're just not perhaps up to such standards? I want the best for ya honey, I do, but you couldn't match with, say, a businessman instead? Someone who doesn't have his brains up in the high clouds, all this theoretical talk of dark matter and black holes... Do you even understand any of that? You have as much in common with his interests as the moon and he'll never have use for you intellectually, only fundamentally. My daughter's not Marie Curie, forgive me."

That last one had been from your father and you had been personally affronted, insisting angrily that it didn't matter, for Robert didn't only love scientists with very high IQ scores, for goodness's sake.

"Father, he doesn't need me for his fill of physics, he has many outlets and he's not only a man of science; he so dearly loves poetry, art, classical music, equestrians, global and national history, Hinduism - he can read Sanskrit for God's sake! - and any matter of politics..."

"He's too good for you, sweetheart. That man has more knowledge than an encyclopedia, you'd need an index just for reference in his causal conversations. Now, come home back east if this whole college venture doesn't pan out in California... Remember the Paulson's? Jack has a son who just turned twenty and is majoring in finance, he'd love to meet ya, someone closer in age and caliber."

"But I'm not into finance, I'm pursuing medicine and psychology."

"You'd just be a quack in that field, I'm telling you. Follow the market money, not dilly-dallying in dating theoretical physicists and Freudian psychiatry. You need a man who knows his numbers in a practical sense, who will make a stable husband and you a nice homemaker. You're my only child, so I'll be awaiting grandchildren."

It was safe to say your father could be a bit... pushy and simple-minded. You hated the way you were easily boxed in, setting up your life already yet scoffing at when it was too good. You weren't a chemist nor would you be a bank teller (besides, your father was only so fixated on that because he almost lost his entire fortune due to the Great Depression) and yet being only a housewife seemed to be selling yourself short. Since the war began, you saw the need for help in the medical field and if psychiatry wouldn't have you, then you could at least become a nurse with the hopes of eventually excelling to physician with extra schooling. But of course, Robert had obtained his doctorate years ago and his younger ex-girlfriend Jean had graduated from Stanford recently while you were stuck here.

"He's too good for you, sweetheart."

You swallowed, beginning to wonder if that was possibly coming true... Did he only keep you around for the sex, usefulness in the home and kitchen, and for probable inevitable breeding of children? He didn't truly respect you, did he? Were you just an arm piece, the beautiful secure wife to come home to after he, the theoretical celebrity, saved the world? If you had none of those aforementioned qualities and were a "mere, plain waitress" like he would say about his brother's fiancée, Jackie, would he discard you as quickly as last week's newspaper?

Were you only a lovely wife and nothing more?

"We can't all be the spirited intellectual fancy Communist Miss Tatlock," you mumbled unhappily to yourself, hardly noticing that Douglas had come over and was standing in front of you, leaning his body from side to side as he stared at you.

"Okay?" he asked and you blinked, wiping your face quickly to hide the blatant emotion. You hadn't even realized you'd been shedding tears.

"Oh, yes, I'm okay."

He held up his hand gently curled into a fist with his thumb up and wiggled it around.

"I do this when Momma sees me fall, but I'm not hurt. Thumb means okay!" he explained proudly and you laughed, making your own 'thumbs up' and he giggled, bumping his knuckles to yours and making a goofy face, to which you did back, making him giggle in turn.

"Can we play a game?"

"What do want to play?" you asked and he scrunched up his face before exclaiming.

"Hopscotch!"

"Oh, but we don't have the sidewalk chalk for that and besides, it's too dark," you tried to tell him, but he had already made up his mind.

"Lemme go get Dunky and we can play together!" he proclaimed, using the nickname for his little brother and he dashed into the house, coming out a moment later with Duncan in tow behind him.

The boys however proved chalk wasn't necessary and rather only their imaginations as they used the pathway, tossing a rock, jumping, and counting happily. Douglas led the game, his brother following and inadvertently copying his footsteps, and when they insisted for you to join in, you considered the fact that you were in one of your best dresses and worried to be seen as too silly.

"C'mon!" Douglas shouted, doing a gregarious hop a few feet forward, nearly stumbling over his own shoes, and you hoped he wouldn't injure himself and make you liable. You glanced down at your high heels and shrugged.

Oh, screw it.

You removed them and carefully joined the boys all the same, doing a bit of hopscotch until you bored of it and sat back down, slipping your mildly sore feet back into the heels, and were amused at their energetic antics.

"Want to adopt them? I'll ask," Robert's lightly sarcastic voice made you startle and you glanced over your shoulder as he came out of the house and took a seat down beside you.

"I'm kidding," he smiled and you waved a hand fondly over at them.

"They're good boys," you stated as he looked on, sighing wistfully.

"They still haven't felt the sharp sting of the world's cruelty yet nor were they born cruel," he observed.

"I sure hope they never become like that, although as long as we are at war, who is to say?" you replied quietly and he looked at you fondly.

"You're good with them, they trust and like you quite a lot," he remarked, gesturing to the kids with his martini glass.

"I suppose we have formed a fast kinship somehow and I do my best," you replied humbly.

"I can tell. The Thompsons will be leaving soon, why don't you call them in? I believe it is way past bedtime for the young ones."

"Boys?" you called, gesturing and after a moment, they came hurrying up.

"How about you find your mother, okay? I think it's time to go home for bed," you told them and they whined a bit, insisting they weren't tired.

"You don't want to get in trouble, do you?" Robert asked sternly.

"Nuh-uh," Duncan replied, sticking his bottom lip out and Robert patted him on the back, sending them inside and as soon as they left and you and Robert bid goodnight to their parents, he went back outside and sat down in one of the chairs in the yard and you joined, breathing in the smoke from his tobacco pipe. You wondered why he was out here instead of being at the center of the party inside, it was unlike him.

He glanced to you, wary, and the question that came out his mouth next caught you unprepared.

"Have you ever considered having an affair on me?"

You stared at him, any emotional warmth evaporating in the cool night air.

"God, no, what? Robert, you know I have always maintained I'm not interested in other men. Why... Has someone said something?"

"There's a fresh rumor going around that you have a mutual interest in Ernest Lawrence; I heard from one of the women back in there declare that you were clearly flirting with him in the kitchen over a drink."

"A rumor? That's just a bold faced lie! I wasn't flirting in the slightest, we were merely having a plain conversation!" you exclaimed, standing up but his hand caught your waist, gripping at your dress and you sat, glaring and breathing heavily. How dare she... You had a hunch it was the same wife from the first week here who was snarky to you when you were doing the laundry.

"It was just a passing comment, nothing to get worked up over," he quickly backpedaled as you grew visibly angry.

"But that could spread like wildfire in this bunch. I have to speak to that wretched woman!"

"I already told her and those around us that it was utter absurdity. You barely even interact with Ernest causally and I've never picked up romantic inclinations between the two of you," he assured, but you shook your head in disbelief.

"I just can't believe this blasphemy!"

"I couldn't either, which is why I came to you to confirm," he replied.

"I'm glad you did. I would never think of flirting with a married man and all I did was give him one drink as a hostess in our own house. Does he know about this?"

"I spoke to him just before I came out here. He's a bit punchy from the martinis, so he laughed for a minute straight at that accusation, and then when I asked him if he personally considered you to be a pretty woman, he told me that I am a 'pretty man'," Robert answered, uncertain of the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth and you stifled a laugh.

"I see. Well, he's not wrong there, you are dashing."

"Thank you," he murmured and you checked your watch, noticing it was getting late and the guests were beginning to leave. Robert noticed your restlessness and placed a cautioning hand on your arm, squeezing comfortingly.

"Let's avoid confrontation. You just wait here until they're gone," he advised and you pursed your lips, but let him go be the one to bid goodnight and usher everyone out.

After several minutes of watching small groups of friends, acquaintances, and pairs of couples exit down the path to the road one by one, you finally stood and walked back into the house, forcing a smile at a few stranglers left - Robert's men - filing out and helping a couple up from the table as they could barely stand up and walk, having had one martini too many. As you turned around in the hallway, none other than Ernest Lawrence himself bumped into you seemingly out of nowhere and he looked decidedly drunker than you'd ever seen him.

"Excuse me," you muttered, starting to duck around him when he grabbed your wrist and leaned down so swiftly to lock lips, his glasses banging into your face as he smashed onto your mouth with surprising force. You instinctively shoved him back, blinking in shock as he stumbled slightly and steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

"Fuck, get away from me!" you hissed in shock.

His eyes were a bit glazed and he shook his head, wiping his mouth sloppily of your lipstick with the back of his hand.

"No wonder Oppie married you straightaway, the girl can serve a mean martini and a decent mouth-to-mouth," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a compliment, now get the hell out of our house," you ordered, pushing his broad back towards the front door and he didn't resist.

"It's Oppie's world... you and I are just living in it," Lawrence grumbled as you shoved him out, slamming the door, and feeling grateful that his wife had already left with others.

You went quickly to the bathroom and rinsed out your mouth and smeared off the ruby lipstick. You thoroughly washed your face over and over with cold water, frowning when you glanced up with your mascara running and saw Robert's shadow in the mirror behind you.

"I feel as though I've been set up. Your best pal Lawrence just stole a kiss before he left, I thought you'd like to know!" you exclaimed loudly as you wiped your face of makeup with a cloth and he made a noncommittal gesture.

"He was drunk, forgive him."

"You're not upset with this whole nonsense?"

"He never would have done it otherwise if he wasn't under the influence, that's the loosest he gets and frankly I think it's good for him to step outside his stiffer cautionary boundaries. But I'll speak about it to him tomorrow if he even recalls. You have nothing to worry about unless you happen to fancy him, then we do have a problem to fix."

"No, I do not find him as fetching as you. Quite honestly, I'm tired of tonight and wish to go to bed. Goodnight, Robert." You dried your face and brushed past him to change out of your formal dress wear and he stood, watching.

"It feels different when it's the opposite sex, doesn't it?" he inquired in a passive aggressive tone and you snapped, throwing your heels into the closet harder than necessary.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, when it's me and Jean or me and Kitty or-"

"Don't bring up those other women to me, you'll regret it. Please shut up and come to bed when you're ready," you ordered grumpily and slipped into bed in just your bra and panties, covering your body with the sheets and rolling over so you didn't have to see him. You were tempted to ask about Ruth, but that potential fuel for an argument would have to be saved for another day and besides, she was just a long time friend. She never had spoken a bad word about you and was always so supportive to Robert... Perhaps it was only the alcohol that had infected everyone's judgement tonight.

You thought uncomfortably about Ernest's warm drunken mouth suctioning onto yours and you glanced over your shoulder at Robert removing his shoes and relaxing back on the bed, striking up a cigarette and sighing when a terribly naughty thought came to you. What if you stirred up expectations and purposely fed into this "rumor" (or perhaps actual one-sided attraction on his part, you weren't so sure now) just to unnerve Oppie, give him a taste of his own medicine? You had lied a bit earlier about not being interested in other men, of course you glanced at times when someone caught your attraction, but you never actively sought them out and certainly not Lawrence. He wasn't half bad looking, but the idea of provoking this further was tempting yet you knew it was impossible without consequences and you hated to offend his wife. People would find out and you'd be painted in a bad outlook, and you certainly did not wish to be the adulteress of Los Alamos, flirting and hooking up with every male scientist who so as looked at you. Of course, when a man cheated, it was typically not completely condemning of his character, whereas a woman would be splashed with a bold scarlet letter on her chest for the rest of her life. Of course, you wouldn't even be having these thoughts if Robert hadn't said anything and Lawrence hadn't done what he did.

You felt a sudden tug on the sheets and gritted your teeth, yanking them back from your husband who was trying to get comfortable beside you.

"I hope you're not cold," you remarked snappily and he huffed, rolling over very close despite your standoffish attitude and he was likely quite drunk, although he was never one to show it obnoxiously since he took alcohol unusually well.

"I'm not the one lying here nearly naked. Our nights have been so dry, even Sundays, and you know I'll have less and less time the farther we get along in the project. Have you considered we haven't had proper intimacy since my birthday?" he bemoaned.

You ignored that fact, mildly annoyed he apparently needed sex more than once a week and after this evening's events you were hardly in the mood without imagining Ernest's lips on yours.

So much for thinking everything was going well and undramatic... Couldn't even a simple get-together be decent and clean around this place? You supposed not.

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infinitegalahad · 9 months

Text

AMERICAN PROMETHEUS AND HIS ATHENA - CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Identifying! Reader Summary: In the fall of 1939, You are an incoming freshman at Berkeley. Despite your love for literature and the pressure of your parents, you begrudgingly enroll in a Physics course. There you meet J. Robert Oppenheimer; your professor turned into your best friend and most importantly, your lover. Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Nothing major, minus the huge age gap. The reader is 18, and Oppenheimer is at least thirty. Everything is legal and consensual. If this bothers you, please do not read it; thank you! Notes: gonna be a long note, so strap in folks. so i have this tendency to get hyperfocused on a piece of media, get my little gremlin hands on any piece of media about it, devour said piece of media, and then poop out 5k+ words in under 24 hours due to my obsession. this happened two years ago with safin from no time to die, and let me just say that it goes to show that history is a sick cycle. not sick, I'm just literally insane. lol, anyways! here's some lore. last Sunday i saw oppenheimer and thought it was a masterpiece! i also love cillain murphy too, so that's a massive bonus. the next day, i bought american prometheus. i started reading it on tuesday, and finished it on Friday. if you haven't read it, please go read it. the book is impossible to put down, and a lot of characterization of robert and other characters come from the movie, but mainly the novel. this fic is heavily researched. this fic is also very dark too, and the content is...yeah. the age gap is very massive and while legal, very taboo, so please keep this in mind. there will be dark content in this story so be warned. trigger warnings will be in the beginning of every chapter. this is on my tumblr and ao3 as well. here is a playlist i made while writing this , if that does anything. my masterlist is also at work too; the new and updated version will be out next chapter. <a href="url">add yourself to the taglist if you are interested</a>. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy.

There are people talking, and while they are close, their voices are nothing but mindless mutters.

Despite how much they had to drink, the buzz managed to slow their thoughts yet made them somewhat aware of their surroundings. If you tried, not like they really wanted to, you could point out every little detail around them–all small things, meaningless and unimportant, in the vast growing universe.

The uneven vintage ski portrait on Hatomi’s side of the room, the dim light covered by the French literature nights on the window sill, the light of the moon in boxy shapes across the aged wooden door, your feet sticking out underneath the blanket and the cool air bringing goosebump to your toes, the heat of your flashlight against your cheek; it’s all so small.

You’ve known Hatomi, your roommate at Berkeley, for the last week. A Japanese American from Davis, she’s a lover of literature like you, albeit you’re more into Russian and American literature than French. Both of you have concluded that you are different but are different enough to put those said differences aside to be friends. Hatomi, unlike you, is smiley and bright, the type to make a conversation not as awkward. She’s made many friends, some of whom are yours, and you’re thankful for her. In your orientation week at Berkeley, she’s helped you break out of your shell, and you’ve gone around campus and to parties to get out and meet people.

As thankful as you are for Haotmi, you are not very thankful about her bringing in some guy into the room without making it clear and having full-blow sex. Hatomi tries to keep her moans contained, but the slapping and grunts from the man beneath are not in any way contained or quiet. He’s as loud as possible, and you can identify him from one of the many parties you’ve been to, but all of them in your state become a gradual blur.

There’s a visible outline of the two through your quilt. Hatomi’s on top, and said the man is on the bottom with messy hair. He’s got a hand on her hip, and she nudges forward, her body moving forward. It makes you feel even lonelier than you already feel, but it's not intentional, but it’s certainly a jab. Hatomi cries his name, an emphasis on the end of his name.

You haphazardly try to catch his name, but end up forgetting it, the alcohol from earlier helping sing you to sleep.

–

It soon became a cycle—the whole lot of it.

You’d wake up at seven for your eight in the morning English class. Then you’d head to your philosophy class from nine-thirty to ten-thirty before heading to lunch at eleven. After that break, then comes your Greek class from twelve to one. Then it’s physics.

It’s not that you don’t like physics. Actually, you love it—the concept is fascinating. The movement, gravity, and being a small thing in the grand scheme of the infinite universe is a topic you could dive into for hours on end. And not to mention, you have a burning hatred for the mathematics of it. You know you can do introductory algebra, but that’s where you draw the line. Calculus and all of that is too advanced. You can do it; at the bare minimum.

Your class is not that big. It’s your smallest class with ten students, all intrigued by a fascinating professor.

The first time you met him, he stood by the chalkboard with a huff of smoke following behind him. He wore a dark gray tweed suit and had thick, coarse hair which was wild, maintained with gel. He was tall but not towering and rather slender. With the bluest eyes you had ever seen, you knew that this man was a character; not to mention, he also looked intelligent.

And that he was.

Dr.Oppenheimer was the reason you started actually to love physics. Not like, love. He was not an easy teacher; he was complex but rewarding. He took the concept of physics and made it more interesting than it already was, adding another dimension to it that you didn’t think was possible.

Instead of the class being a lecture, Oppenheimer discussed the fundamental forces and philosophy. He, like you, enjoyed how physics interacted with the classical world. With a cigarette in one hand and a piece of chalk in another, and in his velvety voice, Oppenheimer taught something along the lines of the cosmic universe or the quantum tunnel and would look to his students for their input, arguments, questions, or their voice to the topic.

You know, or thought he knew, that you weren’t the best at physics, but could always add a philosophical or insight on how physics affects both in the modern and classical world. Sometimes in class, the two of you would dive into a conversation. Oppenheimer would give you a serious loo, staring directly at you with his bright blue eyes. You could have sworn they were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, in which you were. As you challenge you, Oppenehiemr would stare, blowing the occasional puff of smoke. You could see him smile, but maybe that was a part of your imagination.

Physics was complicated, but not only did you enjoy the class for Oppenheimer, but you also look at Oppenheimer. You would not have said it initially, but he did come and was attractive to you. He looked serious, older, and cold; which all remained true, but he was also intelligent, and that was the most attractive thing to you. His intelligence made him overall even more handsome than he already was. With this new found elevation, you soon began to find everything he did attractive. It became a slight distraction, but it was enough to make you leave class with pink cheeks and smile to yourself all giddy. The fantastical thoughts of “what if” played in your mind, making going to sleep a little easier than it usually it.

–

On Monday, Oppenheimer deemed that your class was heading into the “most brutal” and “nightmare-causing” fundamental force of Physics; Quantum Mechanics.

He also declared it was one of his favorite micro topics in Physics and, in his mind, “not too difficult if you truly look into it.”

Everyone got a horrible gut feeling in their stomachs.

Oppenheimer was blunt and did not sugarcoat, which was a fair warning to his class. Quantum Mechanics took everything that was horrible about Physics and made it increasingly worse. Wavefunctions, Eigenstates, Quantum Measurement, and all the new equations hit you like a frictional force. And it began to show on your assignments.

Your normal average in the class was an A- (with Oppenheimer giving you an E for “exceptional effort”) hanging off the side of a cliff, but this new topic dragged your average down with massive magnetic force. Soon, your average became a B-. Homework assignments and reading responses leaned towards a B, while your test and quizzes averaged at failing or border failing. You felt relieved that one of your quizzes on Bra-Ket Notation came back as a C+.

Oppenheimer was writing on the board, finishing a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle equation on the board. He looked at the clock, knowing that class was going to end soon. Putting his chalk down and burning the small amount of his cigarette on the ashtray, he reached for a large stack of his papers. Most had red handwriting with circles, arrows, and question marks. A heavy wave of anxiety hit the class as a perpetual sigh raised.

You could have sworn Oppenheimer stared directly at you. The vast blue eye started to haunt you, but you convinced yourself it was your mind playing tricks. You turned to one of your neighborhoods and sighed, shaking your head.

“I understand you are all eager to receive back the recent test on the basic equations of Quantum Mechanics. I have taken my time grading each one and you will see why it looks like a long time,” Oppenheimer noted, with a tinge of dark comedy and sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t look up at the class as he walked around, gently putting each paper on the desk. Each paper he put down made a student who was having a good day a very not good day.

Between the heavy sighs and whispers between the students, you gulped as Oppenheimer passed your desk. He looked down for a split second and put your paper down. He pointed to the red writing right where you had written your name before moving on. Gathering yourself, you grabbed the test, and not your shock, was disappointed.

Out of forty-five points, you had only gotten nine. It was a new low you had hit in the class. It seemed like it would keep getting lower. Everything was far from right, and he gave those points only because you tried by writing a passage by each equation explaining what you had tried to replicate, knowing it was very wrong.

You skimmed the front, noticing the red writing on top. He wrote your name in cursive, and you would hear him say it, asking you to “please” meet him.

And then the bell rang. People talked amongst themselves and gathered their things as they headed out of the classroom. You sat there and sighed, visibly upset. You weren’t going to cry, but you felt like it. You tried not to show it as you began to gather your books, covering the physics test, preparing to get up.

“Y/n.”

You freeze and look up. Oppenheimer has been leaning on his desk, looking at you like a dashing Spectre. He puts his hands in his pockets and slowly begins to walk towards you.

“Is this a good time to talk?”

Hearing the word talk made your stomach turn. You look up at him and clasp your hands together, nodding. You feel your left leg begin to shake.

“Yes, Dr.Oppenheimer.”

Oppenheimer made his way over and stood beside you, leaning on the side of a desk, looking down at you. He took a quick glance at your shaking leg before looking back at you.

“You’re not in trouble.”

You didn’t verbally acknowledge him, but you took a contained sigh and stopped shaking your thigh, paying full attention to the attractive older man.

“I want to preface this conversation that you, Y/n, are one of this class’s most active and enjoyable students. Your participation and observation add onto the lesson, helping others around you, and even myself, learn more about Physics,” Oppenheimer said with high praise. He had a regalness to his soft voice. You felt your cheeks burn, containing your smile as you quietly thanked him. You watched his hands fidget inside of his pants pocket.

“As talented and educated as you are in Academia, especially Physics, I notice you don’t do well on tests and exams. Everything else is excellent, and your effort is always there. However, with tests,” Oppenheimer moved his hand downwards, “It’s all negative. When I got your first test, I found it hard to believe it was your work. But then it all made sense.”

“Now understand, Y/n, I am not mad or upset. I am worried. I can see there is an act of force, which is your anxiety. I do believe this is something we can work on–” Oppenheimer clearly explained. He saw your shoulders lower, relieve your tension had disappeared, “--Together, outside of the academic setting.”

“Like one-on-one?” You questioned.

Oppenheimer nodded, “Yes, just the two of us. It would be an hour and a half to an hour, nothing more and nothing less.”

Hearing “just the two of us” made your mind go to wild places. You bit your tongue and squeezed your clasped hands together. You smiled, “Yes, of course. I think this would help a lot.”

“Now tell me, what is your availability? I understand you are busy.”

You shrugged your shoulders. You were busy but also could make time for a lot of spare time.

“I can do any time work, preferably if you are okay with Friday afternoons,” You brainstormed, thinking about your schedule, “I know you teach a graduate class in the morning, and I have Greek at the same time.”

Oppenheimer furrowed his eyebrows, intensely studying your appearance.

“Friday afternoons?” He questioned, “Don’t you want to be with your friends and not have to worry about work? I understand your drive, Y/n, but I don’t want it to mix with your limited downtime. I hear you are an excellent student, and this is a very fixable grade. I rather you create a balance than an offset.

While an average first-year would rather skip meeting with a Professor on Friday Afternoons, it didn’t bother you. Getting your grade up in Physis was very important. Education in your family was everything and meant a lot to you. Seeing a C with A’s and A-’s made you feel incomplete. You needed to feel complete.

“Dr.Oppenheimer, thank you for your concern. I insist that Fridays work as well. Mondays through Tuesdays, I’m either studying or leading other study groups for my other classes. If you are worried about my social life, I can assure you that I do get out of the dorm and library with my friends,” You reassured the older man, “Besides, the whole party scene is really not my scene. I’ve seen enough parties at Berkeley to be okay with missing them. If Fridays don’t work, I will work with your time.”

“Fridays work well for me as they work well for you,” Dr.Oppenheimer concluded. He looked at the clock above his desk before looking at you, “How do Fridays at 5 pm sound?”

“Perfect timing, Dr.Oppenheimer. Shall we meet here?”

Oppenheimer rubbed his index and middle finger on the temple of his head, “Well if you are comfortable, I’d rather congregate at my house rather than the classroom since we will be out of the Academic Day.”

Taken aback by the bold move, your lips made a subtle “o” shape. You squeezed your hands together, contemplating. His house, where he slept, ate, and did other things that were not fit for the academic setting? This made your imagination run wild—the idea of being in his house, just you and him, fed into your fantasy.

“My house is on Shasta Road. It’s right off the campus. It’s a short walk. However, if you are not comfortable, especially late at night walking home alone, then I can–”

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You insisted. He stopped speaking and looked at you, waiting for you to speak.

You stuttered, feeling the heat up your throat to your face, “It is okay. Friday at 5 pm at your house is perfect. The walk will help me clear my mind before tackling the equations.”

Oppenheimer studied your features for a second before coughing and putting his hands together, “So, it’s settled. We will meet tomorrow then. Thank you for your time, y/n.”

As Oppenheimer began to head back to his desk, you stood and gathered your books, ready to head to your Greek class. You could feel how hot your face was, but you couldn’t imagine how red and embarrassing you looked.

“Thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer.

Scurrying to leave the classroom in a flustered state, one of your books falls over. It makes a loud slamming noise into the ground. You’ve got a solid amount of books in your hand, varying in topic and weight. Turning around, you are about to awkwardly bend down to pick up the book, but Oppenheimer has beaten you to it. His presence scared you at first. He’s holding the ivory, aged book, examining the cover and back. You stand two inches away from him as you cradle your books, not wanting to say something to disrupt him.

“Sentimental Education. Is this for class or pleasure?” Oppenheimer inquired. He looked back at you as he placed it on top of your books. He saw the one below, your Greek textbook, was sticking out and about to fall. He made sure to push it in to balance the books and make sure you didn't fall over.

Not that you were complaining about falling over since he would have to catch you. You cursed at your wild imagination.

You let out a long uhm before declaring it was for class. More specifically, your English class of The French Adventure: Word, Sound, and Image taught by Mr.Chevalier. But it was unimportant. It was a good book, albeit obscure. Oppenheimer probably thought you were some idiot for both failing a test and reading some silly book. He probably wondered why you were even in a physics class to begin with.

“Do you like it?” He questioned.

“Yes, a lot,” You expressed, “It’s the second book we’ve read, but so far my favorite. It was ahead of its time,” You go red, “And even for this time. I don’t know what I’m saying even, my parents made me read it in high school.”

Oppenheimer made a noise of approval, placing his hands on his hips, “Well, it shows that your parents wanted you to be well-rounded, and here you stand at one of the best public universities in the world. So I would say you do know what you are saying since I fully agree.”

The compliment made you want to make some happy noise, but you bite your lip. You nodded your head and naked it, knowing it came out as a mumble. Everything you said felt super embarrassing.

“Y/n, I understand you have class,” Oppenheimer cut to the point, “But if you ever want a book recommendation, come to me. I’ve been looking for someone who understands.”

“Understand?” You asked, dumbfounded.

“Someone who both understands and enjoys art.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. You smile and hold your books closer, “Well, I should-”

“You should-” Oppenheimer highlighted, hands on his hips, “I shouldn’t keep you.”

You wanted to protest that he should, but you didn’t. As you made your way to the door, you looked back. There he stood in his slender and regal form, hands on his hips. For a cold man who never looked happy, he did. You could have sworn his eyes had a spark to them that made them brighter. You felt brighter too.

On your way out, he froze and looked at you again, and gave a small smile.

You smiled back.

–

It’s 4:50pm.

Your mother always said it was better to be very early than to be very late. Those words guided you through life, following you from home to high school to Berkeley.

After class, you spent the hour getting ready. Taking a shower, you made sure to look your best with low effort. You didn’t want it to appear that you were trying to look good, even though you wore it. Putting on something very casual, you made sure to wear yourself nicely and even added a sweet touch of Chanel Coco perfume that your father had gotten for you in France for your high school Graduation.

You walk up the hill and spot the house, recognizing the numbers on the mall box. The house is well sized and has the architecture of a craftsman. It’s hidden by numerous large plants and bushes, which you take a second to admire as you walk to the door. Eventually, you reach the door and hesitate to knock. Check your watch, it’s 5:52pm. If he’s busy, you can wait.

There’s no point in knocking since you can hear the lock on the door unlock. As you put your hands behind your back, the door opens and it reveals Oppenheimer. He looks weirdly normal and this comforts you. He swaps his flannel suit jacket for a white oxford button up with dark slacks. The top button of the shirt is unbuttoned, and in one hand he has a cigarette, in which he is trying to successfully hide.

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You greeted with a small smile, squeezing your hands behind your back.

You could swear you saw a small quirk at the side of Oppenheimer’s mouth. He stands to the side.

“Y/n, welcome,” He greets. You quietly thank in as you walk in, standing to the side as you clutch onto your brown leather alligator bag with your textbook and notebook.

“How was the walk?”

“Not bad. It’s nice outside. I’m sorry if I’m early, it’s a bad habit-”

“No need to apologize. It is a good habit. It will serve you well,” Oppenheimer praised once again as he led you into the kitchen. You hadn't been alone with him, let alone in his own house, but he was different. Around others, he was cold and calculated to a tee. But around you, something felt warm and strangely comforting.

When walking to the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his house. It feels rather empty, and in a way, very melancholic.

The kitchen is simple and small. For a California one story however, the kitchen can fit more than two, maybe three.

“Sit,” Oppenheimer subtly commands. It’s not an intentional command, but upon hearing this, you immediately sit down on the nearest chair. As you pull out your textbook and notebook with some pens and pencils, you can see Oppenheimer rummaging through the fridge and grabbing two glasses.

“Do you drink?”

You're in the middle of opening your notebook. You look down and lick your lips.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t respond and proceeds to make whatever drink he is making. You sit there and swing your legs back and forth, waiting in silence minus the shaking and pouring.

“Speak to me,” Oppenheimer announces. You look at his back as he makes the drink. Once again, he’s slender, but yet strong and vibrant in his appearance, “Go to the first page of your test. Read the equation.”

You feel lucky Oppenheimer’s turned since your cheeks, like yesterday, have gone to a light pink.

Obeying his words that feel like a command that you are more than happy to accept, you grab your test and open to the first page to read the first question.

“Consider a particle in a one-dimensional potential well of width of L and infinite potential barriers at its edges. The potential inside the well is given by V(x)=0 for 0<x<L0<x<L and V(x)=∞V(x)=∞ for x < 0 x<0 and x>Lx>L,” You read out, “The Hamiltonian operator for this system is H; where x is the mass of the particle. Find the allowed energy eigenvalues and corresponding eigenfunctions for this system.”

“A fundamental. Now, tell me your answer.”

You get your pen and calculator out, placing it at your side. “I started with the Time-Independent Schrödinger Equation and substituted v(x) for the kinetic energy term. Then I tried to solve and it, uhm-”

Not only were the calculations for your test both difficult to answer and hard to process, but having Oppenheimer stand right behind you further proved to be a brain block. He was only an inch away from you as he had leaned to look at your paper, a hand on the back of your sheet which scraped your warm back. You had been so caught on the equation that you hadn't noticed he was an inch behind you, breathing down your neck. Thank god there had been a table since your legs began to shake; a combination of raw anxiety and pure adrenaline.

You started to write the equation into your calculator, pressing down on each button. Scribbling away at your notebook, you felt his warm breath down your throat. Just as you wrote the solution, you felt him smell behind your ear and into your hair. You had sprayed some perfume there, which was a habit of yours. He leaned into, gentle and careful not to touch you, taking in the airy and smooth feminine scent. Not protesting, you finished your solution and let him bask, all while basking his cold yet comforting presence.

“The corresponding eigenfunctions are: ∣ψn⟩= Asin⁡(nπxL)∣ψ n ⟩ =Asin( Lnπx ),” You gulped. You felt his warm presence move back, yet his hand remained on the chair. You pushed a piece of hair back, “I guess it’s not too different from my old answer. It’s right, it’s just-”

“The math piece of it,” Oppie pointed out, “Well, there was no issue here. With your calculator of course.”

“Yes,” You chuckled to yourself and looked at the big device. It really did help.

“Use it more,” Oppenheimer said, “Don’t be scared too. Math is not everyone’s strong suit; including mine.”

You smiled at him as he sat in the chair next to you.

“I don’t know if you drank from our conversation earlier, but I made you a martini,” Oppenheimer said. You looked at it and picked up the drinking, examining the liquid.

“Oh, thank you. I do, just the…better stuff,” You thanked with a small confession. You took a sip and let the strong liquid ooze down your throat. It was excellent, in which you proceeded to drink more.

Oppenheimer leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see that, but you did.

For the next hour, the two of you talked about your test. Each question you read out, and he helped you with the math, but overall you were able to solve most of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. He seemed pleased, and you were as well.

Once you had finished going over the test, you sighed and leaned back leisurely from both Oppenheimer's presence Martini.

“Well, thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. This has been short, yet helpful.”

He crossed his arms as he also leaned back, “Of course, I’m pleased to hear.”

There was a silence before you looked at your watch and grabbed your books.

“It’s 6pm. I’m sure you’ve got things to do, I should go-”

“I’ve only got dinner to make. Chicken, peas, and potatoes,” Oppenheimer said. He smoked another cigarette, which made you wonder how many he smoked a day. You focused on his chapped lips and the way they lightly held the cigarette, sucking in and dragging out ashen smoke.

“Say, would you like to stay for dinner? There's plenty for two.”

The task made you blink a few times to make sure this wasn’t one of your fantastical thoughts late at night as a way to soothe you to bed. You opened your lips in an attempt to create a coherent response.

“I can make you another Martini, even show you.”

You knew you were red, but it clearly to him did not matter.

“Yes, I’d love-would be happy to stay for dinner, Dr.Oppenheimer.” You said, very flattered.

A slow exhale released a veil of smoky allure, as if the very air itself surrendered to Oppenheimer’s fiery elegance.

“If you are staying over for dinner from now on, please, call me Robert.”

#carrie writes #cillain murphy #cillian murphy x reader #oppenheimer #oppenheimer x reader #robert j oppenheimer #robert j oppenheimer x reader #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy fanfiction

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the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf · 9 months

Text

You're waiting for a train... (8)

A Son's First Hero; A Daughter's First Love

Robert Fischer x reader

description - Y/n's conversation with Robert is filled with more reality than should be in their dream.

word count - 3k

warnings - self-harm, physical violence (fake), tears, shitty parents, Robert Fischer's trauma.

a/n - so sorry this part is so late but I wanted it to be perfect so I've been working on it lot's and now I'm really happy with it!

Previous Part Series Master list Master list

If you want to be added to the taglist - here

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I furiously wiped away the unforgiving tears. Fearing my weakness would be obvious to those around me. I had to pull myself together and set out on the task at hand. Dad said Fischer would remember me but, in your dreams…well…anything’s possible.

“Eames. I need some help.” I pulled myself up onto the table where he was busy working. He looked up at my cheeky face, already excited for whatever idea spilled out of my mouth.

“Is that so?”

“I want to show my dad that I can do this.” I spoke.

“You know you don’t have to.” His voice gave away a sympathetic lilt. But my sincerity lingering in my eyes made him abandon his qualms about my well-being. Instead, he braced himself for the details of my plan.

“We both know that he may be the one dreaming, but we control the visual.” He smirked, sensing my direction. “Yes, he saw my face. But maybe, for this moment, we could just…alter it?”

“Ah, come with me my young Picasso.” He led me to a three paned mirror he’d set up on a rickety desk which would give way at the slightest touch. He firmly pressed my shoulders down into the even flimsier desk chair. “Let me teach you the art of disguise.”

“So, he won’t recognise me at all?” I managed to whisper out. And grasped the hand heading for my face.

Eames smiled down at me and squeezed my hand in a gesture designed to evoke a feeling of security. “We’re not changing your whole face, just mushing it up.” He spoke. “It’s like when you see a face in a dream; you know it’s a face, but you can’t quite make out the features.”

“Like a silhouette.” I softly agreed. My mind flitted back to the man from my own dream. How his indiscernible features had subtly begun to meld, and I already felt their final product. His eyes were now as familiar to me as ever.

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*Eames pov*

I’d offered Y/n time to psych herself up for her next role in this so-called game. She couldn’t ever throw herself in, she required prep and time to create her character which would be placed into the subjects story. But as I walked away, I chanced a glance at her form which had simply walked into the room, no character necessary.

But I needn’t dwell on it for too long; I trusted Y/n. Speaking of which my firm walk was directed towards a certain leader who I needed a few words with.

Cobb and Ariadne stood locked in thought. Cobb fiddled with an object out of sight, but his hunched shoulders betrayed his nerves. If he had been stood to my liking, he would have been destroyed in the corner sobbing his little heart out. I approached from behind, a droll cough announcing my presence and more importantly, my desire to talk.

“May we have a moment, my darling.” I shot a smile Ariadne’s way. She responded to the over-enthused expression by retreating quickly. Cobb did not meet my gaze which had tracked on to him. He grasped his object even tighter with each new hand placement. He clearly already knew the topic and could feel my reaction.

“You have some nerve.” I spat.

“She nearly put this whole mission in je—” He defended with a surprising amount of conviction.

“No don’t give me that!” I fumed at his official attitude. Scoffing at his apparent corporate nature. “She made a mistake. We’ve all made them.” I tilted my head towards him in an unspoken statement. “But for some reason she is held to a higher standard than us all.”

His mouth opened in silent argument, but his false words would give away no sound. I went to turn, feeling my anger was misplaced due to the severity of this mission. For Cobb and Y/n. But I just couldn’t. I came back and leaned in further so I could attempt to meet him face to face.

“It’s all well and good you accusing her of being a child, but don’t you forget that she entered into our world a child.” My voice kept its hushed tones, but the severity seeped through it. “Whether it was her choice or not, you still let her do it.” My finger was shoved into his face, and he minutely flinched at this. I calmed myself, feeling relieved at releasing that before we continued on this mission. My head hung low when even I felt the sincerity of my words. I loved Y/n like she was my own sister, but I couldn’t deny how sick I felt when she was here with us. And now with this new revelation, I feared that Cobb, Arthur, and my self’s efforts at protection would not be enough.

I now leaned against the table, complimenting Cobb who had ignored his object in favour of supporting his hunched frame on the desk. I broke the tense silence between us.

“Do you know why she liked talking to Fischer and didn’t immediately run off.”

“Please enlighten me to the inner thoughts of my daughter.” Cobb huffed out in severe annoyance.

I took a beat, almost relishing in his cocky attitude.

“Because for once she wasn’t in the shadows anymore.” I stormed off away from the man in shameful realisation.

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*your pov*

I had placed myself centrally in the door frame, staring unforgivingly at the locked steel door. Breathing was tricky in my emotional state but the little gasps every so often at least confirmed the living state of my body. I’d altered my clothes to seem more faded and dishevelled. Cuts and bruises adorned my body, but I had forgone the use of the dreams mechanics to create that specific look on my skin. My nails still had specs of my blood underneath from where I’d dragged them down my smooth skin. Feeling pain on my unblemished skin in this fake reality spurred on my adrenaline. The lack of numbness would work in my favour. There was something about squeezing into my flesh until it speckled with purple and blue which tricked my mind into believing this reality. Then maybe I could believe what was about to happen.

Footsteps clacked up to my frame, and I turned to see Arthur, adorned like a true criminal. Gun cocked, mask prepped. I couldn’t help but bite my lip seeing his body constrained in that that dusky brown leather. My mind was flipped back to our first solo mission and the memory of embracing him and feeling that jacket beneath my fingertips. He had delivered a swift kiss to my hairline but had left in another second hoping it would slip my mind.

His hand reached to clasp my forearm, but he faltered. His eyes instead met the side of my head and eventually his lack of movement confused me so I turned to see what was the issue. His face spoke a thousand words yet his lips delivered none of them. He eventually decided upon a few.

“You don’t have to do this.” I understood the hidden end of his sentence. We both knew it was more than the simple task at hand.

“I know. But I do.” I assured him with a little smile. Hoping it would convey enough normalcy to calm his nerves. He once again took my arm and I slightly winced at the contact. His steely gaze landed on our point of contact and look of regret spilled over his features as his thumb lightly traced my skin. His hand landed on the look but before he could turn it another though bubbled up.

“Are you okay?” He looked up at me piercing through his gaze.

“Yes.” I firmly said with a softer edge. “Do you trust me?” I teased but there was a slant of sincerity within it.

“Forever.” He stated and he punctuated the end by ripping open the door, mask on, and dragging me inside.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

“Thought we’d bring you a little treat.” Arthur grunted out through his fake voice. I stumbled alongside upping the part of the damsel. The act was tied up through a calculated throw to the ground and a well-timed yelp from me. As soon as my body crashed with the floor, Robert scrambled towards me and lifted me up. We found ourselves in a position we’d been in many times before. As he took my hands to gently place me in a more comfortable position, I finally let my eyes flit up to his. But once our gazes locked a flicker of familiarity danced across his features.

My heart dropped.

The flicker burned out.

“Miss, are you okay?” He looked over my body. Took in my tattered clothes, my physical anxiety. As he landed on my various cuts and bruises, his expression darkened. It confused me to see him as he brushed his fingers over my injuries. As if willing them away with a darkened anger bubbling up. His conclusion of who I was settled on his soul.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I stuttered out. “Well, as fine as I can be.” Laying it on thick. I added a few extra shakes to the mix but he mistook this for me being cold. He quickly ripped off his jacket and softly wrapped me in it. The gesture floored me where I forgot my character as I sunk into the fabric and let my head fall to my shoulder to breathe in the unique scent.

“Why have they taken you?” Okay good, he has already assumed I’m a fellow victim.

“They’ve had me for months.” I whispered out as if trying to evade my captors wrath. “I was taken because of my father’s debt.” His face fell at the mention of my father, sensing a shared trauma between the two.

“Turns out I’m not even worth ransom.” I spluttered out a laugh amongst my crocodile tears. Seeing this he brought up his hand to wipe them away, not bearing to see me in pain.

“They could’ve killed me. They probably should’ve.” I said. “I guess they just like something pretty to look at.” My head hung. “That’s all I am; to my colleagues, to men,” My breath caught in my throat. “and to my father.” The lump in my throat dropped and I managed to muster up a sympathetic sob. Upon hearing this he carefully gathered me in his arms. Instead of waiting for permission or fearing consequences; he sensed what I needed and had relished in giving me it. I let off a few minutes to fulfil my tears and let them drip onto his shirt. But as I lay in his arms I could no longer differentiate anymore and struggled to decide whether I was lying or not.

I pulled away when I felt dried out. I giggled at the wet patch that had formed on his chest.

“I am very sorry.” I continued laughing, pointing at his shirt. He laughed once he looked down and noticed. “I dread to think how much it cost.”

“It was sacrificed for a worthy cause.” He cupped my cheek and felt the dried up tear tracks.

“It’s nice to talk to someone for once.” I spoke.

“Really?” His face fell upon hearing this.

“Yeah, even before this I didn’t really have anyone.” I shook my head to wipe away his sympathy. “I worked for my dad, but I never really felt taken seriously. Like I was a part of it. Rather just a moveable doll to be used for whatever.” I giggled out at the almost lie I had forced myself to tell.

Robert chanced a look when I had let my eyes fall to the floor. His brow furrowed at the strain of taking in my various features which were so blurry. But it was something about my voice that struck a deeply hidden part of his mind. My dulcet tones had seemed to pierce our intricate layers.

“I feel like I know you.” My heart struck cold. And the most base bodily movement ceased. “You’ve been in my mind a lot recently.” I turned to face him. My lip trembled at the possible subtext of the words he was speaking. We seemed to be locked together for an eternity, neither feeling comfortable in pulling away.

“Anyways,” I brushed off his previous thoughts by trapping him with my dozy smile. Each time I smiled he became transfixed, and it was addicting. “Apparently you’re an old hand at the father stuff.”

He nodded his head through a teeth gritting smile.

“They talk a lot when they think I’m asleep.” I feebly gestured to the locked steel door. And I turned back to see the life had left his bones once he’d considered what I’d said.

“Well, his ability at business could not be faulted. Absolute inspiration and a hard-working and powerful individual. But in the father department, there was a lot to be desired.” He shifted his position so we were now turned to face one another, with our knees gently kissing.

“Growing up, seeing my dad like that was transcendent.” He laughed thinking back fondly. “He was a god.” His head fell. “but I didn’t want a god. I wanted my daddy.” His voice took on the note of child as if that desire had halted the ageing of his heart.

My fingers creeped toward him, betraying any logical strategy in my head, and I linked them together in a silent show of comfort. His eyes crinkled when our hands met and he spoke his thanks through a gentle squeeze.

“You know.” The words fell past my lips before I could stop. “Sometimes, I think my dad is afraid of how much I love him.” I waited until he looked at my face before continuing. “But I don’t know how to do anything else, because it’s all I’ve done for the past 5 years.” I smiled through the pain at how foolish I could be.

“If he truly doesn’t want me in my life.” I searched around the room to find the end of my comment. “Then I don’t know how to live like that.” I gasped out through an unconvincing laugh.

“My love is wasted on him,” Robert hooked on and decided to alleviate me by sharing some of his own. “It only serves to hurt me more.”

“I get that.” I offered him another smile and I was greeted with the sweetest relief of his own cheerful face, even if it is only for a moment. “But love is meant to hurt. It is only the deepest wounds which have the most lasting pain.” I spoke inwardly, forgetting the conversation I was supposed to be having.

“I don’t think I’m capable of love.” He shocked me back to him with this statement. My brow furrowed at the lifeless face he beheld. He met my concerned face. “Well, those are the traits you learn. You watch from a young age, your parents and their displays. I don’t think my parents ever gave me that.” I shuffled closer so our sides met. I hoped the proximity gave him comfort. I knew my next move but I doubted everything about it. Finally conceding I lifted my hand to grasp his chin, and tilted his face towards my own. And I met it with my other hand.

“I see your capability.” I began with a whispered tone. “I see it in your eyes.” My sincerity seeped even further through my disguise. “That longing desire to be loved that only comes when one has a great amount of love to offer.” Our lips were inches away and with a slight lean we would be locked in a kiss. My neck strained to go further but I had to stop. I was being risky enough as is it is.

“Maybe we both need to realise the burden of our love for our family.” Robert softly stated and as soon as those words hit my ear, the world stopped. We’d both felt it too. The tiny sparks dancing between each point where our bodies met.

The door was ripped open and Arthur stormed in. He grabbed my arms and began to drag me away. Robert firmly protested. Trying to run after despite the threat of being shot. He pleaded with them for my safety and as I was forcibly thrown out, I noticed something in his eyes. Something I’d seen before but never this intensely.

“just do what they say.” I spluttered out before I was safely behind the door with Arthur.

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Once Arthur had removed his mask, we both stood as I caught my breath from the stressful exit. He placed his hand on my shoulder in a bid to calm me down.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah. Perfect.” I gasped out.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Not hurt, or he didn’t –” His eyes ran over me during his uncertain questioning.

“No. Course not. All fine.” I half-way grinned up at him. We stood in silence, as Eames walked past all ready for his role as Browning. He opened the door and went in.

“I heard you in there.” He said through a small laugh.

“Oh really?” I tried to tease but my heart wasn’t fully in it.

“Yeah. It was a bit flowery, no? Bit poetic.” He laughed out. I joined in the humour but my eyes remained stoic.

“Yeah, I guess.” I became uncertain in my skin and my erratic hand movements betrayed this. “I don’t know he liked it.” I tried to show Arthur the humour behind my words and he seemed to buy it’s surface. After the laughter died out we walked back to the group. Despite the insincerity of our discussion, it felt like I had Arthur back. I liked it.

Once we reached the group, Dad immediately ran to meet us.

“Sweetheart, well done. Thank you for that—” He reached out for my arms but I never broke my stride and simply brushed past him. Arthur followed my lead.

Cobb was left standing aimless, before grasping his rejected hand into a tight fist.

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a/n - What do you guys think of the chapter? Is Arthur redeeming himself? What about Eames defending poor y/n? Are we liking Robert and y/n's interactions?

taglist: @jonsncws @h-l-vlovesvintage @theethy @fashionki11a @felicity1994 @bearchermer @idkyoutellmesmh @mimimarvelingmarvel @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away @neotanpopper @deliriouslybi @folklorde24 @thefandomdiaries07 @viarosemcmissile @noirrose21-blog @thepoeticfirefly @xoxo-gothic-girl @skeletonwrite

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