#it's been quite a persistent problem over the years)

[shivvyscat]

Stay.

[summary: shiv lets you lounge on her bed after an afternoon together, watching her get ready for an event; lots of gay panic and reader being a simping mess]

[gxg, shiv x f!reader]

• • •

It took Siobhan at least a year of hooking up before she even entertained the idea of you staying at her place for even ten minutes after being done in bed. But you persisted, and you would’ve been fine with being kicked on your ass for another year if it meant getting the slightest bit closer to the redhead.

Your patience paid off though, and now each time you went to see her after an ‘I have the place to myself, come over’ text, you’d get your cuddles, your long talks, and sometimes, you’d get a glimpse of her life, that she would willingly show you. Tonight was one of those days, as you laid naked in Shiv’s bed, watching her sit in front of her vanity mirror, in her cute little satin robe.

“Could you not?” Her silky voice brought you out of your haze.

“I’m not even doing anything.” Shiv raised a brow, looking at you through the mirror with that smirk that made you want to get on your knees and kiss her from toe to head. But you kept your cool.

“You’re ogling. It’s annoying.” Her hands kept working on her face, your eyes still on her.

“Well, you’re the one ogling if it’s bothering you. Look at your own pretty face.” You tease and turn on your stomach, cuddling a blanket as your head is still turned to her direction.

“You little shit.” She laughs, and you grin, wanting to make her laugh again, and again, and then one more time. “Don’t you have anything else to do? I have to be sharp for this thing. Get in the right headspace to deal with those fuckers.” You revelled in the way her eyes lingered for one second longer on your half sheet-covered figure even as she said this.

“Not really.” You lied. The truth is that you had a bunch of stuff you could be doing instead of lounging in this woman bed. But you wanted to be here, for as long as she’d have you, you would be here.

“Yeah, well, I do, so quit it.”

“Why did you even invite me over if you knew you had this thing? I wouldn’t have come if I knew it was gonna be just a couple hours.” Before you even said it, you knew it was another lie. You would’ve come here if Siobhan wanted just a quick release. You would’ve come here if she wanted just a peck on the lips.

“You would’ve.” Shiv smirked. “Besides, I wanted you. Got a problem with that, Y/N?”

“Whatever. Like I said, I had the day free, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? No standing up your girlfriend for this?” She asked, a little teasing, her movements as she fixes her hair as sharp as her tongue. You smile.

“Which one are you talking about?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Roman did say you fucked his girlfriend.” Shiv looks amused as she turns on her seat, grabbing a bottle of lotion from the vanity and leaning down to apply it on her legs. Now you’re really ogling.

“I fucked you. Are you my girlfriend?” This makes her laugh. And once again you bask on the pleasure of that sound being caused by you.

“Come here, smartass.” You raise your brows, eyes full of surprise and subtle excitement. “What? Are you scared? I want your opinion on something.”

“Oh, that’s a first.” You lean over the edge of the bed to grab your shirt from the floor, but she stops you.

“Uh uh. That won’t be necessary. Come here.” You stand up, completely bare as you walk up to her. Once again revelling in the way her eyes travel up and down your body, in that subtle way only she can pull off, and probably only you can notice. She pulls you closer by the waist. “Which of these go best with my eyeshadow and a black dress?” She holds up a few lipstick options.

“Hm… I don’t know. This one?” Shiv scoffs, with a grin.

“Please, that one screams whore.”

“Why do you even have it?”

“For situations where it’s acceptable. Like your birthday party.” She looks up at you with that teasing smile, it makes you smile as well, and your knees feel like they might buckle under you.

“Oh, fuck you, Siobhan.”

“What? Don’t you remember this lipstick all over your body after? I think it looked great. But not for tonight.” She puts the options down. “Come here.”

“What, you ass?” Shiv pulls you in again, making you settle on her lap, your thighs on each side of hers. You are so, so aware of the minuscule amount of barrier between you two.

“Put….” She holds your waist with one hand, and with the other she picks out a lighter option of red. “This one on me.”

“I’m sorry, are your hands not working?” You smile, grabbing the lipstick she handed you, once her hand is free she holds the other side of your waist, her touch firm and gentle at the same time.

“Well, I want you in my lap. You might as well do it for me, no?” You roll your eyes, unable to not smile at her words, her expression, her hands caressing from your hips to below your breasts.

“Pucker up, then.” You reach up for her lips, but before you touch them with makeup, you lean in and kiss her, just a soft contact. As you pull away, she puts her hand on the back of your neck and pulls you into a proper kiss.

It’s hard to keep it going, since you’re both smiling, you pull back with a chuckle. “Do you wanna get ready or not?”

“Yes. Don’t go overboard. Just one layer is fine.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Shut up.” She mutters, trying not to move her lips too much as you put on her lipstick, it’s clear to you that she wants to smile.

“All done.” You put the little tube back on the table and she turns to inspect your work, her hands not once leaving your body.

Shiv hums. “Good.” She moves your hair behind your shoulders. “I’m gonna get dressed….” She says in a lower voice, leaning into your neck, planting little teasing kisses on it. “And you’re gonna be right on that bed when I get back.”

You tilt your head a little to give her better access, sighing softly. “Yeah?”

“Hm mhm. I want you here. Stay.” Shiv says, and you nod. She lightly smacks your ass, making you stand up from her lap. “And don’t get dressed.”

Shiv voice says ‘demand’, but her eyes say ‘plead’. Either way, you’re going to oblige. You’re gonna be here when she gets back. You always are.

• • •

(my first tumblr post 😭 send me requests! I love writing for shiv. let me know your thoughts as well <3)

#shiv roy x reader #shiv roy #succession #succession x reader #fanfiction #self insert #x reader #siobhan roy

[milswrites]

The Trials of Aphrodite Part Four

~ Azriel X Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist

Series summary: Hopelessly in love with Elain, Azriel enlists your help in order to win her over. The only problem? You have been in love with Azriel for as long as you have known him.

Chapter summary: A chat with Rhysand and an unexpected encounter.

Warnings: Angst (not going to give it a level because you guys will come for me and say I'm wrong).

You should have known nothing would get past Rhysand.

Your High Lord had been alive for long enough to know when someone was sneaking around behind his back, even if it was the elusive shadowsinger.

So despite the fact the sudden appearance of the Lord of Night at your door had your palms sweating and heart beating in distress, his arrival wasn't entirely unexpected.

With a long exhale and a quick tap to your mental shields in order to make sure they're in place, you open the door, a synthetic smile working its way onto your face as you greeted your waiting friend.

"Rhys, how wonderful to see you!" you simpered, praying the male wouldn't be able to hear the irregular pounding of your fluctuating heartbeat. Rhysand provided you with his own sickly sweet smile in return, violet eyes twinkling knowingly as he began to speak, "Azriel -"

You didn't allow him the time to finish his sentence, interrupting the Lord in an attempt to draw the conversation away from your rule breaking best friend, "Az isn't here unfortunately, maybe you should try -"

It was Rhysand's turn to cut you off, the male casually raising an inquisitive brow as he did so, smirk only growing wider at your flustered manner, "The market?. . . With Elain?" you blanched at his words, "hmm quite unusual how he seems to be able to talk to her now, isn't it? You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"

"Awh Rhys I'm hurt," you pout mockingly, holding a hand to your heart as you step aside to allow the male to enter, "Here I thought you came to see me, and yet all you want to talk about is Azriel's lousy ability to talk to females."

Rhys scoffed at your reply as you busied yourself with making tea, avoiding his pressing stare for as long as you could until your reluctant eyes finally met his own. Sighing at his persistent glare, you held your hands up in defeat, "Fine, I helped him! He practically forced my hand, what was I supposed to do?"

"He made you?" Rhysand asked unimpressed, your eyes already rolling at the lecture which was no doubt about to ensue. Yet his next words were enough for you to spit out the tea you had just consumed, "Or your feelings did?"

"This has nothing to do with that" you snapped in defense, body recoiling at Rhysand's sympathetic stare, "Az needed me Rhys, of course I had to help him."

Your friend stretched his arm across the counter, resting a heavy hand onto your own to stop the slight tremble which his words had triggered. "At the expense of your heart?" Rhysand questions, his face contorted in empathetic pain, "You don't have to do this Flower. You are your own person, there's no shame in saying no to him."

Your eyes began to water as you stared at Rhys's comforting hand, head shaking hopelessly in denial. "What kind of friend would I be?" you miserably ask, "If I can't overlook my childish feelings in order to make him happy."

"It's not your job to make him happy," Rhysand reasons, gently squeezing your hand in order to pull your saddened gaze to his own, "you being there is enough to do that."

"But I am not enough" you shout, Rhysand's arm retracting in surprise at your sudden burst of anger, "I will never be enough for him. I have offered him everything; my friendship, my happiness, my heart. And what do I have to show for it after five hundred years other than his unreciprocated feelings?"

Rhysand came to stand before you, pulling you into a crushing embrace, lips coming to your ear to whisper words of consolation as you cried into his chest. "It's ok" he promised, cupping your head to press you tighter still into his hold, "You're ok. Feelings pass, it just takes time."

"It's not just feelings Rhys" you wept into his shirt, thanking the cauldron that your tears didn't show on the dark material, "I love him."

"So why?" Rhysand asked, moving his hands to your face in order to wipe your tears and draw your eyes to his own begging ones, "Why are you doing this? Why help him?"

"Because I'm tired of loving" you confessed, hiccupping as you spoke, "I want to move on. And if moving on means I have to help him fall in love with somebody else . . ."

Your friend sighed in defeat, a wave of disgruntled understanding beginning to pool in his violet eyes. "You are so unbelievably selfless" Rhys said with a sad smile as he came to place a soft kiss against your brow.

"Are you mad at me? . . . For helping Azriel go against your orders?" you sniffled, voice wavering as you spoke. Salty tears still making their way down your cheeks. "I could never be mad at you Flower" Rhysand consoled, "I'm only disappointed that Azriel would bring you into this mess in the first place. You deserve so much more."

So you continued to cry.

And whilst you were wrapped within the loving arms of the Lord of Night, you could have sworn you had never felt more alone.

Leaving your house was a trial in itself nowadays. Having to force yourself to vacate the sanctuary of your home in order to stir some feelings inside of you that weren't just hopeless despair.

Yet you were unable to shake your loneliness as you walked through the streets of Velaris without the shadowsinger by your side. Azriel having regretfully told you that he had training to make up for with Cassian after having spent the morning alongside Elain.

So, aimlessly wandering around in a melancholic state, you opted to grab yourself a treat in the hope of lightening your mood. For that there was only one place to go, the charming little bakery which you and Azriel had discovered together many years ago.

It was a difficult decision, choosing what pastry to buy, your hungry eyes scouring over the selection until you saw something you liked. The smiling shopkeeper making polite conversation as you pondered your options. Her words bringing your thoughts back to the male you so longed to forget, "now where's that handsome friend of yours today?"

Your heart twinged at the mention of his name, smile dropping slightly as you focused your attention back onto the baked goods before you, "Oh you know, the life of the shadowsinger is a busy one."

The keeper nodded in understanding, wide grin still plastered across her lips as she spoke, "would you like to grab something for him too? On the house for such loyal customers."

You wanted to say no, to prove that Rhysand's words were true and show yourself that your life didn't revolve around Azriel. Yet the flash of his grateful smile appeared in your mind, the warm buttery feeling of the male hugging you in thanks already growing in your chest.

Yet before you even had the chance to answer the waiting lady, a hurried figure bumped into your side, spilling the contents of their steaming cup onto your shirt.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" flustered apologies flowed from the male's mouth, his hands flying to rub the newly formed coffee stain with a napkin.

You found yourself incapable of answering.

Unsure of whether it was the shock that had stunned you into silence, or the dark ruffled hair and deep hazel eyes of the mysterious stranger. Unfussed by your lack of response, the male continued to ramble, "gods I'm so stupid, I should have watched where I was going. I'll buy you a new top I promise."

Stirring to your senses, you grabbed the male's hands to stop his hastily-done cleaning, allowing a reassuring smile to grace your lips as you promised him it was alright, "Don't worry, I was wondering what this top would look like with coffee all over it."

He barked out a laugh, lifting a hand to muss his short black hair, "I suppose I can only be grateful for running into someone as wonderfully forgiving as you."

It were as if he had you under a spell, his sharp jaw and strong features working to draw you in. "If you wanted my attention you could have just asked me for it" your jaw snapped together as soon as the words slipped out, eyes going wide at your unabashed confidence.

Your words seeming to please the male, a smirk crossing his face as he leaned into reply, "Can you blame me? Getting the chance to run into the most beautiful woman in all of Prythian doesn't come too often."

Unable to stop the blush which flushed across your heated cheeks, your eyes looked to anywhere but his own hazel ones in an attempt to escape the intensity of his gaze.

"I'll tell you what," the handsome stranger started, gesturing his head towards the counter, "I think I owe you a drink after that accident, if you want to join me that is."

All thoughts of getting something for Azriel forgotten, a smirk of your own worked its way onto your face as you reply, "hmm, I'm not sure. I only drink coffee with males I know the name of."

"Deimos" he eagerly replied, the glint of an unknown emotion shimmering within his hazel eyes, "My name is Deimos."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: I would apologise for the lack of Azriel in this part but honestly I think you guys would thank me for it at this point!

Big thank you to @sarawritestories who waved her magic wand and made me love my writing again.

Taglist Part 1:

@a-cup-of-nightshade @yearninglustfully @illyrianbitch @ninaduchess @sarawritestories @annaaaaa88 @antiquecultist @madelyncullen @erencvlt @chaytea06 @dxjaaaa @saltedcoffeescotch @spark1epuffba11s @thestartitaness @amysangel @historygeekqueen @thelov3lybookworm @aaronwarnerobsessedmylove @willowpains @thebeautifulmysteriesoflife @dreamlandreader @sidthedollface2 @leeknows-wife @riorgail @eve175 @evergreenlark @anuttellaa @daily-dose-of-sass @jesus-is-me @tothestarsandwhateverend

#acotar #fanfic #acotar imagine #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #azriel series #azriel oneshot #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: You once again found yourself face-to-face with Eddie not even twenty-four hours after he checked into the motel, and your interactions left you with more questions than answers. (3.8k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, grumpy Eddie, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter two: here today

Bzzzzzz!

Your alarm clock blared its tinny ring at 1 PM. The sun was bright, a welcome change from yesterday’s overcast skies and steady rainfall.

You stretched as you awoke before shedding your oversized shirt and shorts, padding over to the shower and waiting a full five minutes for the cold water to turn lukewarm. The thinning bar of soap formed sad suds in your palm, and you lathered your skin as best as you could.

Despite your best efforts, you kept thinking about your encounter last night—that morning, really—with Eddie Munson. There was a cocky edge to him, evident by his initial refusal to put out his joint, but at least a shred of humanity; after all, he did eventually comply. There was even a semblance of…something that’d you’d shared in your brief interaction.

Or maybe it was just your imagination, the summation of your exhaustion and his high.

The towel scratched as you dried the water droplets from your bare skin, and though the cloth dampened, you could have sworn that it wasn’t wicking any moisture. Dad had been saying for years that he’ll invest in new linens “as soon as business picks up.” But business never picked up enough to do anything more than barely break even for the year, so the ancient towels stayed.

Picking the lint off of your purple T-shirt, you tucked it into your jeans and shoved your feet into your sneakers without bothering to unlace them first. One look in the mirror determined that you definitely needed makeup to look half-decent, or at least awake. There was no earthly way you would sacrifice a minute of precious sleep, so you swiped on some mascara in favor of an intricate routine and quickly fixed your hair. 

You plucked a granola bar from the stash on your dresser: your usual breakfast, tossed into your backpack as you headed out the door towards the lobby. The bus would be arriving in about five minutes, giving you just enough time to get to the stop before the doors closed. Barring any traffic, it followed a consistent schedule; one of the few certainties in life. 

“Hi Dad; bye Dad,” you called out, stopping in your tracks when you saw an obviously irritated Eddie standing in front of the desk, his arms crossed over his chest and his foot anxiously tapping. At least he was fully dressed this time, clad in a faded band t-shirt, ripped jeans, and the same denim jacket he was wearing last night when he’d first walked in. “Everything okay?” 

Dad motioned to Eddie. “Our guest is having some issues with his TV,” he said, his raised eyebrows indicating that the guest was being quite persistent about the matter. “Can you help him?” Before you could answer, he looked at Eddie and explained, “my daughter’s better with this technology stuff than I am.”

There was a temptation to argue that it was probably just a matter of smacking the side or replacing the remote batteries, but you didn’t have time to waste. “Yeah, sure,” you relented, turning to Eddie and waving him over. “Come on.”

Eddie waited to speak until the two of you were completely alone. “That was your dad?” 

You nodded, shoving your hands in your pockets and keeping your walking pace until you reached his room. 

“So what’s the problem?” you asked as he turned the key in the lock. It stuck for a moment before it fully unlatched, and he opened the door with a shove.

“The reception’s shit,” Eddie muttered, keeping his fingers splayed on the door so you could walk in first. “Every time I try to put on MTV, it’s all static. Tried it last night, too, but I figured it was because of the storm.” He gestured to the now-sunny skies. “But that shouldn’t be affecting it anymore.”

You offered a wry smile, the way you always did when delivering bad news to a guest. “Nothing’s wrong with the reception,” you explained, “there’s just no cable.”

“What?” His brows shot up in disbelief. “How is that even possible?”

“It’s simple.” You shrugged. “Cable costs money, we don’t have money; ergo, no cable.”

Eddie raked a hand through his messy curls. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” His feet could have worn holes in the floor with the way he was pacing. “Where can I watch MTV around here? Like, is there a bar or something?”

“Yeah, I mean, there’s one right down the—” You turned to the window but stopped mid-sentence, your stomach sinking as you watched your bus fly past. You heaved a dejected sigh as tears prickled at your eyes embarrassingly, and you blinked them away. 

It’s okay; I haven’t been late at all this semester, you silently reminded yourself. You could take one of the dollar cabs that runs up and down Jamaica Avenue. It wouldn’t get you exactly where you needed to go, but it would be close enough.

Eddie remained oblivious to your inner turmoil, eyes trained on the TV. “Fuck,” he grumbled, sucking through his teeth. 

“The clock radio plays music,” you offered as you hiked your backpack higher up on your shoulder. “I know it’s not the same as watching videos, but–”

“It’s not about the stupid videos!” he snapped, curling his palm into a tight fist and biting down on his forefinger knuckle. Dark eyes exuded distress, and you couldn’t help but think that his sheer panic mismatched the problem’s minimal severity.

You recoiled at his sudden outburst and took an instinctive step back. He noticed this, his expression instantly softening. His hand unfurled and fell to his side. 

“Shit, I–”

“I’m gonna be late to class.” You composed yourself, straightening your posture and forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “But the bar is right on 144th and 89th.”

He sputtered as he searched for the right words to apologize and explain himself. If you had time, you’d wait for him to unscramble his thoughts, but you were already behind schedule now that your bus was long gone.

You strode across campus like you were on a mission, feet flying over the pavement. The cab had left you at another bus stop closer to school, and that bus had thankfully arrived on schedule. At this rate, you would only be ten minutes late to class. 

Sweat trickled down your back from midday sun’s warmth and your fast pace, but you kept walking until you reached the lecture hall’s double doors. This class was a smaller one, only twenty or so students, so there was no sneaking in unnoticed. 

You shot your professor an apologetic look that she accepted with a polite nod, sliding into your usual seat next to your friend Nora. 

“Is everything okay?” Nora whispered, moving her own bag from the chair. The concern on her face was palpable; if you weren’t able to make it to class, you would have called her. 

“Yeah, just stuff at the motel going haywire as usual,” you reassured her with a small smile, digging out your notebook and a pen. You flipped to the first blank page and scribbled today’s date next to the right-hand margin. “What did I miss?”

Nora shook her head as if to say, nothing. “She just gave back last week’s homework. I grabbed yours, too.” She handed you a sheet of paper with a bright red A+ on top. “I figured if something had happened to you, you could be buried with your most recent perfect paper.” 

She winked, and you rolled your eyes to mask your burgeoning pride. 

Truthfully, you’d worked hard on the assignment. You might have already been accepted to graduate school, but NYU’s prestige didn’t come without a hefty price tag, and you still needed to apply for scholarships in order to afford it. 

Now was not the time to slack. 

You tried to pay attention to the lecture, but your mind constantly drifted to the way Eddie had behaved in his room, having a meltdown like an overtired toddler. The man who had lost his temper over a television channel was starkly different from the one who had readily swapped playful jabs with you the night prior. 

Maybe whatever buzz he’d managed to acquire before you’d interrupted him had made him uncharacteristically pleasant, and today’s outburst was indicative of his true self. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and willed yourself to focus on the case study being presented on the board rather than your own personal Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 

Try as you might, you couldn’t shake the mystery that was Eddie Munson. Guests had had their choice words with you before—there was a reason why you had pepper spray at the ready—but this felt different. When most guests screamed like he had, they were specifically angry at you; it was the reaction you had expected when you’d told Eddie that he couldn’t smoke pot in the motel. Others simply were not in their right minds and didn’t realize that they were shouting at a random woman and not their mom or childhood bully or the monster under the bed. 

Eddie differed from both categories in that he’d recognized his mistake. That he was frustrated at the situation, not at you. That he had started an apology that he might have finished If you had stuck around.

Or maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe he would have continued yelling, face growing red with rage. Maybe he would have stopped his tantrum but stormed out to the bar without a second thought. 

You looked down at your notebook page, still blank except for the date. 

Maybe you should stop playing this game of what-ifs and actually listen to the lecture. 

After your professor handed out the rubric for the final paper and dismissed the class, you and Nora made a beeline for the food cart outside the building. Dining hall food was too expensive and bland; besides, Niko knew both of your orders by heart. 

He greeted you with a chipper smile as soon as you approached the cart. Bacon sizzled in its own fat, drowned out only by the sound of the chopper scraping against stainless steel as Niko scrambled the eggs.  

“Better enjoy this nice weather while it lasts,” he said, fuzzy gray brows pinching together. He grabbed two styrofoam cups from a stack and filled them with coffee. “Temperature’s s’posed to skyrocket this summer.”

You grimaced, pulling a few bills from your backpack’s front pouch. “If food service doesn’t work out for you, Niko, you should look into meteorology.”

He brushed off your sarcasm and adjusted his apron over his protruding belly. He added cream and sugar to the coffees and slid them towards you. “Been doin’ this a long time,” he said, gesturing to the food cart set-up. He took your four singles and handed you back two quarters, doing the same for Nora. “Longer than you two’ve been alive. And some things never change: you kids always have somethin’ smart to say.” 

Your mouth watered as he toasted the rolls and added a slice of American cheese to yours before combining the ingredients into hearty sandwiches. He carefully wrapped them in tinfoil and handed them over. 

You smiled, uncovered the sandwich, and took a hearty bite. Melty cheese oozed out from the roll and clung to your lip, and you collected it with the tip of your tongue. “At least we’re consistent,” you teased, waving goodbye as you and Nora walked to the bus stop. 

“What went down at the motel today?” Nora asked, chewing her food as she spoke. “I mean, I’ve seen you get to class early during a blizzard,” she added with a knowing grin. 

You remembered that day, February winds whipping around you and cutting through your layers of clothes like a knife. The snow stung your nose and cheeks and made it nearly impossible to see three feet ahead of you, but you’d made it to class before the professor had even arrived.

“Nothing really,” you tried to say nonchalantly, taking another bite of sandwich to keep your mouth busy. You don’t want to think about the way Eddie had raised his voice at you this afternoon; more specifically, the shame that tugged at you for being disappointed. You’d had one decent interaction with him and you’d foolishly assumed some kind of mutual respect had been built, but it all boiled down to the basics: he was a guest at the motel who would be checking out on Friday, and then you’d never see him again.

Nora wrinkled her nose, not quite believing you, but any further interrogation was interrupted by the bus squeaking to a stop. You dropped the five quarters into the tray before squeezing your way through the aisle.

“Just…” Nora dropped her voice to avoid drawing the ire of your fellow commuters, grabbing onto a pole to steady herself, “you didn’t need to break out the pepper spray or anything, right?” 

You gave her a grateful smile. “Nothing like that. I promise.”

“Good.” She reached over and gave your hand a small squeeze, careful not to brush up against anyone else. “Because I need my study buddy in one piece.” 

“I’m fi—” The bus lurched forward suddenly, the driver slamming on the brakes just as the yellow light turned red. You tightened your grip on the pole and planted your feet into the floor to keep your balance until coming to a complete stop. The other passengers grumbled and groaned as they shifted, leaving trails of mumbled sorry’s in their wake.

The Metropolitan Transit Authority would likely cause your demise well before any motel guest could get to you.  

It was barely after six PM when you got back to the motel. The sun began to creep down from its pedestal into purpling clouds and teased dusk’s beginning. Horns honked as rush hour traffic dragged along the expressway as though their cacophony would make the other cars evaporate into thin air. 

You had about four hours before your shift started; it was just enough time to work on the paper, take a quick nap, and boil water in your electric kettle to make some Cup Noodles. 

“Hey.”

You looked up to see Eddie leaning against the wall, a cigarette burning between his pointer and middle finger. It was freshly lit, but he still extinguished it under his foot before stepping closer to you. His brown eyes flickered from the ground to your face and back down again. 

“Hi.” Short but polite, your customer-service smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. You could see Mom through the glass door, leafing through paperwork that was almost certainly a stack of past-due bills. 

Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets, scuffing one Reeboked heel against the pavement. “I went to that bar you told me about.” He said it all in one breath as though he expected you to take off running. 

“Oh.” One corner of your mouth quirked up in a hesitant half-smile. “Did you, um, did you get to watch your show?”

He nodded, a forlorn look clouding his eyes. His right incisor dug into his lower lip. “Yeah. Thanks.” He paused, and you started for the door once again before he spoke up. “Sorry, I—you said you had a class today?” he asked, clumsily tripping over his words.

There was no sense in lying; not with your backpack hooked over your shoulders. “Mhm.” 

“Were you…” His tongue swiped nervously over his lips. “Did I make you late?”

You shook your head. “I got a dollar cab.” Not quite a lie, just omitting the truth. At this point, you were willing to let him smoke weed again if it’d result in easy conversation.

Eddie bit the inside of his cheek, head tilted slightly as he assessed your response. He seemingly accepted it at face value, exhaling a quiet, “that’s good,” and fumbling in his pocket for another cigarette. 

You took that as your cue to leave and ducked into the lobby to greet your mom with a quick wave. She returned it with a weary smile, eyes creased at the corners. The soft lines etched into her forehead had deepened over the past few months. The Reagan-Bush trickle-down economy era might have come to an end, but its remnants still affected small businesses and the even smaller people running them.

“How was class?”

“Good.” 

The usual exchange, no real information revealed. The mother-daughter song-and-dance performance of the ages. As long as neither of you disrupted the routine, the music played on.

Ten PM rolled around too quickly, and you plodded into the lobby with a stomach full of sodium-drenched noodles and your tote bag full of books. A street light flickered outside, more off than on, illuminating the sidewalk in a hazy glow every so often.

Mom handed over the register keys and placed a kiss on your cheek before she left to go to bed in the room she shared with Dad. Nighttime was the only time they got to be together uninterrupted, and it was spent sleeping.

That wasn’t what you wanted. When–if–you found somebody to share your life with, you wanted to have conversations with topics besides financial upkeep. You wanted to talk about meaningless topics and make each other laugh. You wanted to lay with your head on their lap, gazing into their eyes and revering in the beautiful silence. Nothing forced or planned. Just being.

You positioned yourself behind the desk, spreading your supplies in front of you. You’d managed to draft the opening paragraph for your essay before sleepiness overtook you and you’d had to nap, and your goal tonight was to revise it to perfection. The upcoming weekend would be spent at the public library, nose deeply buried in every psychology book they owned while you outlined the body.

Red pen marked up your page, commas added and removed three times over. Arrows shifted sentence order, while some sentences were altogether crossed out with heavy lines.

It was perfect. It was all wrong. You loved it. You hated it.  

Maybe I should scrap it altogether and start over. 

Your palm pressed to the notebook page, ready to tear it out and crumple it into a ball with jagged edges that would dig into your skin. 

“Hey.”

In your intense focus, you hadn’t even heard anyone walk in. A rookie mistake; somebody could have snuck up on you and you’d be none the wiser.

Eddie stood there, a folded one-dollar peering out from between his thumb and forefinger. He shuffled to the desk and held out the money, his eyes offering a silent apology. 

“I owe you for the, uh, cab,” he mumbled, lips forming a tight, nervous smile. “And don’t argue with me. I know my bullshit made you late, so…” He flitted his free hand as if dismissing potential concern.

You clicked your tongue in mock disapproval. “You’re not from New York City, are you?”

Eddie shook his head with a laugh, fingers scratching at a stubbled patch along his cheek. “How’d ya know?”

“A New York man knows better than to tell a New York woman not to argue with him,” you teased, capping your pen. “Also, you tried starting a conversation with me earlier, and any New Yorker knows that’s a cardinal sin.”

“Having a conversation?” 

“Making small talk with a stranger.”

His nose crinkled in adorable bewilderment as though the thought never occurred to him. “We’re not strangers. We met last night.”

The innocence of his remark drew a genuine laugh out of you. “I see the same people on the bus every day,” you told him, “and they’re still strangers. Being more than mildly aware of someone's existence doesn’t mean I know them.”

“Fair point,” Eddie conceded, leaning in slightly, “but I’d argue that we know each other’s names, so we’re not total strangers.”

Humming your acknowledgment–but not necessarily agreement–you plucked the dollar from his grasp and tucked it into your back pocket. “I’ll put this towards your bill.” 

“Oh, yeah. About that.” Eddie cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are there any pawn shops around here that’ll buy a guitar?”

“No, sorry.” There had been one down the street but it had already been shuttered for a few years. Guests would go there all the time to hock whatever they could to pay for another night at the motel.   

He let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Shit. Okay.” The playfulness behind his eyes faded. “Um, thanks anyway.”

He turned away from the desk, shoulders slumped. You knew that look all too well; it was the stance of someone who just needed life to cut them a break.

“Eddie?”

He swiveled back around, his curls a half-second behind. “Yeah?”

“Do you know how to re-wallpaper a room?”

“Huh?” Your question caught him by surprise, and he took a moment to collect himself. “I mean, yeah, kind of. I did it for my uncle’s trailer once. But I’m not, like, a professional.”

You smiled. “No professional experience necessary.” You gestured to the various spots on the wall where the paper was cracked and peeled. “If you can make this look presentable, you can stay a few more days. Free of charge.”

His expression immediately darkened, eyes narrowing and crossed arms closing off his body. “I don’t need charity,” he asserted through a tensed jaw.

“It’s not charity; it’s a favor.” The harsh reaction caught you off-guard, but you refused to let him unsettle you again. “Look around: do you really think we can afford to hire someone to install new wallpaper?” 

You didn’t bother to wait for his response before continuing. “We need to fix this place up, and you need a roof over your head.” Shrugging casually, you held onto the hope that he would also view this as a mutually beneficial offer and not a pity handout.

Eddie just scoffed, a rejection in itself, compounded with a growling reprise: “I said, I don’t need charity.” 

Spikes jutted out from his words and pinched your skin, each one a reminder of your uncanny ability to worsen every problem you tried to solve. 

Offering a job to someone you barely knew? He gave you a buck to pay for the cab you only had to take because of him—not exactly the best character statement. The man could be a serial killer who preys on low-budget motel owners and you’d be none the wiser, signing his checks like you weren’t his next victim. 

Maybe next week, you could hire Ted Bundy to change bed linens. 

“Understood.”

He looked at you so intensely his pupils should have bored a hole right through you. Behind his eyes wasn’t an ounce of hate or even anger. 

It was raw shame. 

I’m sorry got caught in your throat and didn’t reach your tongue until he had disappeared back down the hall, out of sight. 

--

taglist:

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #lam

[natalievoncatte]

Lena could feel the weight in her hand. A little extra swing in her fist as she walked, sending a jolt up her arm as she jogged up the steps to Kara’s apartment. She’d decided to walk today, to clear her head a little as she went to see her best friend. She had a lot on her mind lately- usual Luthor stuff like defusing random death traps that Lex left behind, fending off attempts to dethrone her as CEO and challenge her status as he brother’s heir, and cures for intractable diseases and solutions for the energy crisis and thorny ethical issues around the advance project department’s latest AI experiments… and Kara.

Kara was on her mind. She had a way of sneaking into Lena’s mind at the most inopportune moments, like a board meeting, or a symposium, or her TED talk. It was really a TEDx talk; the organization wasn’t *quite* ready to invite Lena to the real deal, no matter how many photo ops she did with Supergirl or cancer research facilities she paid for. That didn’t stop Kara from following her around saying “thanks for listening to my Ted talk” for three weeks after the fact.

She had been thinking about Kara so much that it had finally been noticed. Sam flew in from Metropolis earlier that week for a catch up lunch, and as usual, after business was handled they shared a bottle of wine and things grew informal.

“Lena,” Sam said. “I’ve been talking for five minutes and you’ve been holding that glass of rosé and staring at it for the entire time. What’s going on?”

Lena almost dropped the glass when she heard her name. “Oh, right. Yes. Wine.”

She took a sip, hoping Sam would drop her question, but she persisted.

“I know that look. You were miles away. What is it? Did the cure for cancer pop into your head?”

“No,” Lena said. “It’s nothing, I was just lost in thought.”

“Mmm,” said Sam. “I’m sure.”

“What?”

Sam smiled enigmatically and finished her wine. “I’d better get going. I’m taking a red eye back to Metropolis.”

“Sam, you’re flying on a Lexcorp charter. It doesn’t work that way.”

Sam snorted and left Lena sitting there, wondering what that was about. Of course she’d been daydreaming about Kara, about her hands specifically- she’d nodded off last weekend and woke to see Kara at her ease, brow furrowed and hands moving wildly as she painted something. Lena had remained still and watched, fascinated by Kara’s hands, the skill and dexterity she showed.

It was that day that Kara had passed her the key she now carried in her hand. A key to Kara’s apartment. Unfettered access. Lena didn’t have to knock (she would anyway) and could stop by when Kara wasn’t even there. She hadn’t said anything but she’d been holding back tears the entire ride home; Lena had no problems with *access*, but trust was another matter. That was what the key was. It was a talisman of trust, Kara’s confidence in her given form.

Lena did knock before she turned the key and swung the door open. She was expected, but part of her worried that Kara wouldn’t be alone. It seemed odd to Lena that Kara hadn’t started dating again- her best friend had taken the whole Mon-El thing very poorly, and it was bizarre to begin with, so Lena understood why she’d stay single for a while, but it had been years.

Years of kindling a soft, secret hope, a desire so fragile and so brittle that Lena rarely dared think of it, afraid that the tiniest brush of longing would crumble it and with it break something inside her permanently.

The apartment smelled like cookies. Burnt cookies. Kara was in the kitchen, brow furrowed, bent in concentration over a cookbook, eyes darting to a mixing bowl. Foul smelling attempted cookies practically filled the garbage can.

“Hey,” Kara said, cheerfully. She gave Lena a soft, gentle smile that seemed only for her, and brushed a loose gold curl from her eyes. “You’re early.”

“I wanted more Kara time,” said Lena. “I was hoping to get a few minutes alone with you before the few shows up. Just us.”

Kara looked at her curiously, then turned to her project.

“I can’t get this right. I cream the sugar like it says, but they keep coming out wrong.”

Lena moved closer, stopping her hand from seeking the small of Kara’s back. When she saw the carton of cream on the counter, she busted out laughing so hard she snorted.

“What?” said Kara.

“Darling, you don’t put actual cream in it. Here, let me help you.”

For the next half hour, Lena and Kara made cookie dough, laboriously, by hand. Every step brought them closer together, literally. By the time they were scooping out evenly sized blobs of it together, they were hip to hip, both floured and sugared, hands greasy with butter.

“I’ll pop them in the oven,” said Kara. “You go clean up and relax.”

“Alright,” Lena said.

She ended up on the couch. Game night would begin hours later, and Lena turned on a nature documentary. (She had her own distinct username on Kara’s Netflix.)

Lena must have dozed off, because the alarm on the oven, along with a warm, pleasant, homey smell, woke her up. She padded on her stocking feet into the kitchen to see how the cookies came out.

Kara had already taken them out and was holding the tray, hot from the oven. Something was off. It nagged at Lena’s mind.

Then it hit her. Kara seemed to realize at the same time.

She wasn’t wearing oven mitts. No heating pad. Not even a dish towel. Kara was holding the hot tray, fresh from the oven, in her bare hands.

Lena yelped. “Kara! You’ll burn yourself!”

Kara started to move. A cry rose on her lips, then died. She stared at Lena with such softness, her eyes full of hesitation, but more than that, a kind of longing that echoed Lena’s own soul.

“I’m tired of lying to you,” Kara said, still holding the tray. “It doesn’t hurt. I can barely feel it.”

They stood for a frozen moment that lasted an eternity, the truth just on the wrong side of revealing itself. Lena already knew, but she didn’t want to acknowledge it. Say it.

“You’re Supergirl,” Lena whispered, soft and breathy.

Kara nodded, starting to choke up. She put the tray down almost violently and stepped back.

“I’ll understand if you need time, if you’re angry, if you don’t want to continue our friendship-“

She didn’t finish her ramble. Lena crossed the space between them in three quick steps, firmly took Kara’s face between her palms, and kissed her.

Pure terror gripped her. What if she was wrong? What if this was a mistake? Why wasn’t Kara moving, responding, reacting?

That question responded when hands that could crush diamonds moved her her body with surpassing tenderness, turning the awkward kiss into something more, Kara guiding Lena as their bodies molded together and Kara kissed her back with hopeful desperation, drawing it out as if she was afraid to let it end for fear it might never be repeated.

It was, intimately and immediately. Lena was shocked but pleased when Kara let Lena push her back against the counter, bending her back lightly, almost climbing her. Kara almost shocked Lena when her hand slid up her side and found her breast even as Lena grabbed a double handful of steely buns and squeezed.

Then someone coughed and they jerked apart.

Alex stood by the door, arms folded.

“I’m going to go ahead and text the others so they know game night is cancelled,” she said, smirking. “Next time, hang a sock on the doorknob or something.”

“This is my house,” said Kara.

Alex rolled her eyes. “I’m leaving now.”

As the door slammed shut, and Alex could plainly be heard blurting, “Jesus Christ,” Lena turned back to Kara.

“Should we talk?” she said, her voice small. “What is this? What are we doing?”

Kara swallowed, hard. “What do you want it to be, Lena?”

Lena couldn’t answer. She just stared.

“I know what I want it to be,” said Kara. “I want us to be an us. I’m so tired of wanting you so bad it hurts, but being scared to touch you a certain way or look too long or too openly or be afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. I’m tired of hiding so much from you.”

Lena licked her lips.

“The truth is, I’ve wanted you for years.”

Kara’s gorgeous eyes lit up with unbridled delight, and with shocking quickness, Kara had Lena in a bridal carry. Lena instinctively curled up in her arms, practically wrapping herself around Kara’s body.

“What do you want to do now?” said Kara. “I don’t know how to do this part, Lena.”

Lena smiled. “I think what you do now is carry me back in the bedroom and cream your sugar.”

“You want to make more cookies? Why… oh.”

“Oh indeed,” said Lena.

Lena didn’t make a habit of it, but this one time, she let Kara talk her into cookies for breakfast.

#supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl #supercorp fanfic #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #karlena #supergirl fanfic #ficlet

[obsessivevoidkitten]

To Reject a Vampire

Male Vampire Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader (CW: Non-con, vampire, biting, blood drinking, depressed reader, mind control, smut, blowjob, forced imprisonment, dead dove: do not eat, general yandere behavior) Word Count: 3.4k  (Vampire comm that took me way too long.) 

You were walking back home late one night with your friend, Jaime. You had known each other since childhood and remained inseparable. In fact, the two of you even lived right next door to one another. He had left for college for some years, but had returned as soon as he had become a registered nurse. The two of you often hung out when you were both off work and that sometimes led to walking to the gas station a couple blocks down the road to grab some snacks. You were both laughing from recounting a particularly funny memory you both shared when the sounds of laughter and chatter between the two of you suddenly died down into silence before he spoke. "Hey… there's something I wanted to ask you…" Oh no. Not again… "Have you maybe reconsidered us dating? I know you said no before but-" This was an ongoing problem with Jaime, the only thing really marring an otherwise near perfect friendship. He kept persistently asking you out. This had been going on for years now and your frustration finally got the better of you, making you snap. "NO!" You yelled interrupting him, "NO! NO! NO! NO! NOOOOO!!! It isn't happening! I am totally and completely uninterested in having any type of non-platonic relationship with ANYONE! Stop. Asking. It is NEVER going to happen. Not in this world or the next. Not in any way, shape, form, nor fashion! Get. It. Through. Your. Thick. Skull." You were panting after your outburst. A few seconds passed and you realized how harsh you had been as his face went from stunned silence to utter broken despair. You could practically hear his heart shatter. He often got a bit dejected when you had rejected him in the past, but this time you were much more harsh. With a sniff he started sobbing and running off towards home, leaving you to walk home alone in the quiet night. Sighing you slowly trudged home, sure that Jaime just needed to sulk for a few days before your friendship resumed with the both of you pretending like this awkward episode never happened. And, more than likely, that is just exactly what would have happened. Had a chance encounter on his way home not irreversibly changed Jaime forever. And not for the better. As Jaime was running home his tear filled eyes blinded him to the danger that was stalking him from the shadows. A sneaky predator who loved the taste tormenting his prey imparted, and how much sweeter when his meal was already flavored with the sweet marinade of sorrow and heartbreak? Suddenly Jaime was tackled into a dark alley that he was passing, the vampire easily dragging him back into the void where no eyes could pierce, firmly clasping his hand over Jaime's mouth to keep him quiet. The unknown assailant put his nose into the crook of Jaime's neck and inhaled deeply, savoring the mouthwatering scents of all the negative emotions Jaime had been experiencing that night. The current one being abject terror as the figure behind him didn't even acknowledge his vain attempts at struggling. "I'd tell you not to struggle, but it is really much more fun when you do," mused a deep man's voice. Jaime, whose first thought was that he was getting mugged, now thought that he was going to be raped as his attacker licked and kissed his neck in the same manner one's lover would. And he flailed all the more vigorously. Unperturbed, the man now violated Jaime in an altogether different and unexpected manner. Sinking long fangs easily into the soft flesh of his neck before sucking him nearly dry. It was amazing how thoroughly a vampire could drain a victim. Jaime died, but his murderer was not quite done with him. He loved sowing discord and chaos in any way that he could manage it, and having seen the spectacle early of you rejecting his victim he knew there was ruination and mayhem to be had by creating a fresh, unguided, love-sick vampire. So he bit open his wrist a bit and let the blood flow into the parted lips of our dear departed Jaime. Within an hour he would no longer be so dear nor so departed. And the unknown vampire stepped into the shadows and was never seen there again, happy with his meal and the knowledge that he had certainly derailed more than one life that night. When Jaime woke up hours later, just as the sun was rising, he had a major migraine, a sharp pain in his neck, was chilled to the bone, and felt like he was starving. His memory was spotty, he thought maybe he had been mugged, but he still had his phone and wallet on him. Maybe just assaulted by some crazy person. Whatever had happened he was alive and okay, so he shakily got to his feet, dusted himself off, and made his way home. By the time he had reanimated you had been in bed for hours. Though you hadn't really slept well. You felt so guilty for exploding on him like that. Sure, he kept asking you out, but it wasn't too often and you could have gone about rejecting him just a bit more gently. He had been really hurt, what if he didn't blow it off and resume your friendship like he usually did? After a few days had passed with no contact from him you began to get a bit more anxious, though it was still technically within the normal timeframe of when he usually started talking to you again after you turned down his advances. Still, given the way you had lashed out at him you figured that you should maybe be the one to check up on him instead. Jaime had a reason for not talking to you, what with his transition into a blood feeding immortal taking up most of his time. At first he had no idea at all what was happening to him. He felt cold and feverish and was beyond fatigued. He called off work from the first day, thinking he had a minor flu of some sort. All his senses were disorienting him. His body was adjusting to more sensitive vision, sense of smell, and even touch. The second day he felt better, but had an insatiable hunger, no matter what he ate nothing seemed to satisfy him. He ate a huge breakfast before work and at lunch he ate a lot as well. Some of his coworkers at the hospital even joked about how he was inhaling food that day. Jaime had no clue why he felt like he was starving no matter how much he ate. As someone in the medical field any number of possible causes went through his mind. Nothing really fit. A more concerning symptom was that whenever he was around a wounded patient, whenever he had to do a blood transfusion, or even just whenever he got the faintest whiff of blood his hunger flared up. His senses flared in sensitivity. He could almost have sworn he could hear the heartbeats of those near him. He realized he was craving the blood. It scared him, the thought made him nauseous. Admirably he managed to push away his quite literal blood lust for a couple days, but eventually he could fight his need for blood no longer. It was late at night at the end of his shift and he was beyond certain the coast was clear so he snuck into the storage room where the blood packs are kept and sunk his teeth into one, unknowingly growing fangs as he pierced it and sucked it dry. If the obvious signs hadn't been enough to clue him in on what he now was then innate instinctual knowledge that filled him with his first ingestion of vital human essence did. He was a vampire. A million thoughts raced through his mind, but his first priority was sating his hunger. He quickly grabbed some bags of blood and stuffed them into his coat for later before leaving for home. He was oddly excited, eager to test out what new abilities he had. A day later, when both of you were off work, you finally got a text from him asking to hang out with no mention of what had occurred between the two of you the other night. You breathed a sigh of relief, now things could go back to normal. The two of you had arranged for you to come by his house in a couple hours so the two of you could hang out, order pizza, and play video games. Just like the good old days. Things went entirely normal with no odd deviation or indication that Jaime was now a creature of the night. And it set the pace for your friendship to resume as if nothing had ever happened. Or so you thought, in the weeks since the two of you first started hanging out again Jaime had steadily been experimenting and training with his new found abilities. He had learned that he had an absurd tolerance to pain, extremely quick reflexes, and unholy strength. But, most importantly, he learned that he could compel anyone to do his bidding. He had plans to use this technique on you, but it wasn't quite perfected yet. Though every time he used it he got more and more effective. All he needed was practice and time. So while you went about life and continued your longest running friendship in blissful ignorance of what was to come he was readying himself for the day he could make you love him. When that day arrived it started like any other, you two hanging out at his place on a day when you were both off. But it definitely didn't stay that way. Jaime was at the point with his skill where he no longer even needed to issue commands verbally, he just needed good eye contact to assert his will over another being. "Hey is something wrong? Why are you staring at me so intensel-" You instantly went still and quiet. It was like you were trapped in your own body unable to do anything. When Jaime asked you if you would go out with him you wanted to say no but your lips were not your own and you said yes in a monotone voice. Jaime wore a shit-eating grin as he scooted closer to you and kissed you deeply. You were repulsed and afraid, why weren't you pushing him away, why weren't you slapping him, why were you returning the kiss? You wanted to scream and run away but you could do nothing to control your own body. Instead you wrapped your arms around him and made out with him. Jaime was thrilled, he bit your neck carefully and fed from you as you clung to him. You felt a sharp pain in your neck but could do nothing against it as he tasted your blood. For you it was hell, like a much worse and very real version of sleep paralysis. For Jaime it was heaven, he had never felt closer to you than in that moment. His beloved was finally in his arms and could do nothing to leave them. But he most certainly was not satisfied with that alone for long. Jaime carried you bridal style up to his bed. He very carefully undressed you, as if you were the most delicate doll to ever exist, and stood for a moment admiring every inch of your exposed body. You wanted to shout for help. To cover up. To run. To fight. ANYTHING but lay there under his unwavering gaze. But no matter how hard you tried to fight it you simply couldn't, you were a hostage in your mind, able to see and feel everything but do nothing. The first thing he did, after disrobing, was to attend to your sex. He touched your crouch carefully, as if afraid to hurt you. Like you might shatter at the slightest rough touch. He ran his eager hands, shaking with excitement, over every inch of you. He stroked your cheek tenderly and played with your hair, felt over your chest and thighs and hips. When he had thoroughly explored you and there were no more areas for his hands to discover he decided he needed to go deeper. The vampire took two lubed fingers and slowly worked them into you, gently prying your entrance open and stretching you to be ready for him. He savored every sensation and fold inside you, hard as a rock as he imagined his cock where his fingers were. You couldn't even cry as he violated you, you were denied even that emotional release. And this remained the case even as he slathered his cock with lube and aligned it with your entrance and made his way inside you with his slightly above average dick. Jaime was torturously slow as he "made love" with his dear partner. You just wanted this nightmare to be over, you wanted to believe that at any moment you would wake up sweating in bed like you would from any bad dream. You had to stare wide-eyed, made to take it all in, as he looked at you lovingly. He kissed you deeply, and once more you were made to comply, parting your lips so that he could move his tongue inside. Jaime happily rubbed his tongue against yours as he worked towards filling you with his hot seed. As he approached his climax he gripped your hip painfully and picked up the pace, really drilling you as deeply and as forcefully as he could, his balls slapping into you with each painful thrust. Right before he came he slowed down as much as possibly, wanting to draw out the sensation for as long as he could. Slowwwwwwly pulling out before sliding just as slowly back in, repeating this a few times before thrusting forward and emptying his balls into you as he bit the side of your neck that he left untouched earlier. You came too just as he did, your body now betraying you even further than it had already and in the most humiliating way. He drank a bit before sliding his dick out of you and kissing your cheek. "That was amazing babe! I love you so much!" And as a puppet pulled by its strings you replied, once more in monotone, "I love you too." And the illusion was shattered. It wasn't real. He may have had you, he may have even had your vocal chords, but he didn't have your emotions. And he soon learned that no matter what he tried, even though he could get you to do almost any action, he couldn't force you to love him. Jaime tried for weeks to force love for him into you, keeping you locked away in his house whenever he left for work. You tried to leave, of course, but simple orders lingered in you even when he was no longer present. You couldn't leave or get help in any way. All of your existence now amounted to was enduring his increasing frustration with being unable to make you love him interspersed with periods of anxiety while waiting for him to get home from work and torture you all over again. You were no longer aware of exactly how long you had been trapped, the days all kind of blended together. Most days he had work at the hospital and those days were all largely the same with little to no variation. Jaime would get up and make you breakfast in bed, insisting that he was trying to spoil you. You, in a mix of depression and defiance would not take a single bite and just stare at the plate that he brought to you on a tray with your favorite morning drink. Inevitably he would get frustrated, snap at you, force you to eat against your will, and slam the door as he went off to work. Then you were left alone, it was probably the only almost decent part of your day, but everything just seemed so hopeless. Inevitably the blood sucking parasite would be back and you couldn’t leave no matter how hard you tried to. At each attempt it was like someone seized your body and squeezed you into immobility until you submitted. When your “lover” got home he would fawn over you, often giving you a little gift. A small gesture you supposed was meant to somehow make you forget everything and fall helplessly in love with him. A small sweet treat, a flower, a tiny teddy bear. Anytime he tried this tactic you always ignored it or threw it across the room. Either way the result was the same. Jaime would snap, he would not even bother forcing you mentally as he grabbed your weak arms and bit painfully into your neck. “No please! I’m s-sorry!” You would cry, always regretting your action but never being able to stop yourself from denying his gifts when he offered them. And for the next part he would use his ability of compulsion to make you stop fighting. In his fury he wanted to hurt you a bit, but not TOO badly, and he enjoyed, for a moment, the fantasy that you were a willing participant. Most of the time he would then have you remove your clothing before sliding himself inside you, biting and kissing and sucking your neck as he did so, whispering how you were all his and about how much he loved you softly into your ear. Sometimes he would instead utilize your soft lips, jamming his hard cock down your throat, making you service him. The heat of your wet mouth combined with the sight of you looking up at him with his cock in your mouth was almost enough to make him blow his load immediately. You were just so beautiful. No matter the method that he chose it always ended the same. After his finished unloading into you his mind would clear and then be filled with rage as you were unable to reciprocate his love and enjoyment of the forced intimacy between the two of you. Jaime would angrily shove you aside, leaving you to clean yourself up, while he slammed the door to the bedroom and went to go make dinner. When it was ready of course he always found you laying where he left you, sobbing. Then he would, roughly, force you to your feet and drag you into the bathroom where he would run you a bath. This is where he would feel really guilty and suddenly turn soft. Every time. Gently shampooing your hair and cleaning your body, tenderly attending to the bites on your neck, happily babbling about how much he loves you and he knows you’ll love him eventually, you just need more time to adjust was all. Jaime would then clothe you himself and carry you down to dinner. You wouldn’t eat willingly, too catatonic by this point in the evening to do much of anything, but that was okay. Jaime was still in his sweet phase, all the anger having left earlier. He would feed you himself but compel you to swallow with his vampiric power, he always made your favorites. He had diligently learned to cook them perfectly for you over the years even though he otherwise did not enjoy cooking. After dinner he would always make an effort to spend some time with you, not getting angry when you were still, and when it was time for bed he would carry you up in his strong arms and lay you down as if you were made of the thinnest glass, a complete 180 to how he treated you when he first got off work. He would snuggle up to you from behind and hold you close, ending each night by telling you how much he loved you and saying he knew deep down you loved him back and one day you would be so happy with him. You hoped he was right, you hoped you could just be happy waking up in his arms, because if not this cycle of abuse juxtaposed to tenderness would never end.

#yandere terato #yandere teratophilia #yandere vampire #vampire man #male vampire x reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader #male yandere x reader #male vampire x gn reader #My OCs #My OC Jaime

[grandlinedreams]

Hii Salem! Thank you so much for effort everytime <3

Can I request something about Law x insecure yn? Something like yn has seen Law and Robin a few times together and yn thinks that Robin is much prettier, taller, intelligent and more suitable for Law than her and for this gets sad about not being enough for Law

OUGH sorry this took so long to get to bb, I hope that I did this justice for you!!

[Heads up!: a little dose of angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship]

The problem isn't with Robin.

You like her, you really do. She's kind and intelligent, beautiful ㅡ and a wonderful addition to her crew.

The problem is with you.

You tell yourself over and over that you're better than this, that you won't let the little green monster rear its ugly head inside you, that jealousy has no place in your relationship with Law.

But watching Robin and Law be deep in conversation with each other still makes you wonder. Would Law be happier if you were like that? Taller, smarter, prettier?

You're strong in your own right and you're by no means dumb, nor have you ever had reason to doubt your own beauty ㅡ and yet. Law deserves the world, even if he doesn't think he does. He deserves someone who can give that to him ㅡ even if it isn't you.

Your dismal mood persists even as you try your best to shove it down, the dimished cheer and way your smile doesn't quite meet your eyes unnoticed by all but the one person who often knows you better than you do.

Law waits until after dinner to confront you about it, finding you in the lounge, idly watching the fish swim around in the tank. "Something is bothering you."

It's a statement, not a question ㅡ and a silent demand for an answer. He won't pry if you truly don't want him to, but he also doesn't like the idea of you being upset.

You watch a fish flit beneath an arch of rocks, iridescent scales shimmering before you sigh softly. How do you even go about this? You don't want to make this a bigger issue than it has to be ㅡ especially when the problem is only in your head. "If there's anything I can change to be a better partner for you, I'd like to know."

The buzz of the fish tank seems to grow louder in the silence that follows. Your stomach twists. Why had you said anything? Perhaps this is what does it, what pops the bubble you've been happily living in for the better part of a year ㅡ your own thoughts and self-doubts.

Law watches your expression crumble further, the knit of your brow and press of your lips as you stare at the fish, and he frowns. Had he done something to make you think you weren't enough? The idea alone is absurd, even more so for the fact that you think he'd want you to change for him ㅡ to diminish what makes you inherently you for the sake of your relationship.

As if all of your little quirks and habits weren't the exact reason Law developed feelings for you in the first place.

"No," he answers at last, settling a hand on your head. "I don't want you to change anything."

You turn towards him. "Butㅡ"

"If I didn't think that this would work out in the long run," he says softly but firmly, "then I never would have said anything. I want you as you are now, not a watered down version." He pauses. "Provided you still want me as I am?"

You blink. "Of course I do."

Law's lips quirk before his hand at your head slips down to press to your cheek, watching as you lean into the soft, subtle comfort. "Then there's nothing to worry about."

#ㅡmine. #one piece scenario #one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader

[skirter01]

Hand in the Cookie Jar (Dp x Dc)

It had just ticked over to 5:00pm when Jason finally decided that homicide was justified. He flicked off the sheets like a man crazed, and big-foot stomped his way to the front door, ever in the image of a childish temper tantrum. Although, in his defence, it was more than warranted. Apparently some ill educated, simple minded, selfish pleb of an individual couldn’t quite seem to comprehend that the world didn’t revolve around them, and had been persistently slamming a door, a window - slamming something! In the apartment next door. And Jason – who had been trying to catch an hour or so of shut eye before he’d be grappling across the city all night kicking rogue ass  – had been slowly, for the past 20 minutes, losing his fucking patience. 

“Fucking stupid fuck.” He grumbled, snatching a crumpled black shirt from the back of the lounge and working it over his shoulders, before shoving a pistol down the back of his shorts. For…reasons.

For the past year since he’d moved into this apartment in the narrows, Jason had enjoyed the relative serenity of not having a neighbour, with a corner apartment and an empty room on each side for his only company. However, a week ago that had changed. He hadn’t seen who had moved in, nor had he had a problem with them up until today, but this…slamming of doors? Unacceptable. Not everyone worked 9-5 and slept on a regular schedule. Someone was due for a reality check. 

He swung the door open with far more force than necessary, his agitation at the reigns, fully prepared to give a mouthful to the selfish asshole next door, only to stop in his tracks completely at the sight of a half naked, wiry brunette with his hand halfway through the wooden front door of the apartment next to his. 

His hand…in the door? 

What in the mother-

The guy in question, who’d been whispering a bucketload of non-Alfred approved expletives under his breath at said door, abruptly stopped at the sound of Jason's door opening and looked over, frozen, like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. 

Green met blue…no, blue met blue, wait what. Jason blinked. Blue eyes? But hadn’t they been…?

“Well this is awkward.” Door guy muttered flatly, then looked down at himself, as if suddenly realising his state of undress. “Although, I guess the NASA shorts weren’t gonna win any fashion awards anyway.” 

Jason’s eyes narrowed, “Stuck?” 

Door guy’s eyes snapped to his hand, as if he’d forgotten it was still halfway through the door. “Ah, that,” he pulled back his arm, bringing his hand out of the wood. Jason’s hand darted to his pistol. “I was just…practising a magic trick. Hard industry it is out there in the magic world, just refining my skills before the–“

“You’re a meta.” 

“No shit sherlock.”

#danny fenton #jason todd #dp x dc #danny is a menace #let them be neighbours

[prettyboykatsuki]

keep me close to you | i. yoichi

✮ tags ; childhood best friends to lovers / idiots to lovers, reader is implied to have grown up a tomboy, stereotypical shoujo manga tropes rip, reader wears makeup, a lot of sexual tension, kissing, confessions 18+

✮ wc ; 3.6k (i don't know. don't ask me.)

✮ a/n ; the worlds most self-indulgent horseshit in the world. sorry! but im not at all actually. this is the very typical 'i didn't see you that way until i realize i did the whole time.' bc i love that trope and i love isagi ok....

reader in this kind of feels awkward in her femininity and that appears in the fic more than once!! please be forewarned.

✮ synopsis ; isagi has never seen you as much more of a friend. so he thought at least.

Isagi is in love with you.

He isn't sure when that happened. He'd love to be know but in all truth - there was never any big eureka moment that made such a thing apparent. If Isagi had to think of all the moments he maybe, sort-of, possibly loved you, they come up to him as bits of nothing-much memories.

That's exactly the problem, really. A long few years of little nothings, accumulated over time, Isagi finds that his whole life has been made up of you. There was no grand gestures of confessions or singular standout moments for him to mull over.

But there was rough-housing with you back when your hair was a little shorter and your chest a little less noticeable. And there was plenty of bike races to the store for ice-cream, and lots of bonding over music you both liked. Isagi remembers sitting on your floor in the 6th grade and watching you play video games much better than he ever could.

A lot that stuff persisted into your teen years, and even into adulthood. Isagi has never thought of it as weird. Play fighting or bike races or being reckless together felt natural - and in some ways, you were the only person who ever brought that out of him.

It was normal. You were friends and you got along as friends. Isagi never thought about it any more than that.

Just a few months ago, you got a boyfriend. Said boyfriend didn't think your friendship with Isagi was entirely appropriate. He had approached Isagi first. You talked to Isagi after, said you'd still hang out but no more rough-housing and that was that.

Isagi had heard about your boyfriend, though you didn't talk about him much. And after meeting him, it was easy enough to conclude that he was genuinely a good guy. Objectively good for you, accepting of your personality, kind and thoughtful. A good stable job There was nothing bad he could say about him. He wished there was.

"Just the being touchy. I know you two don't think anything of it since you've been friends for so long," He leans in, friendly, as he pats Isagis shoulder "But you wouldn't like if your girlfriend was being touchy with another guy right?"

Isagi had nothing to say. He'd never thought about. Never had a proper girlfriend, though he was interested in a few girls. He'd lost his virginity out of the country and had some hook-ups and talking stages. Never a girlfriend.

Would it bother him? He couldn't say. He didn't know who to think of. There was not a hypothetical girl he could conjure to give him a conclusion. Ultimately dazed, Isagi had replied with something along the lines of "Yeah man, I get it," and then left for practice without turning his back.

It bothered him for weeks. He couldn't do anything without pondering that very question. He couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd described you as his girlfriend. You'd always been a friend, and Isagi knows you as a girl. But you're you before that, and he's never quite put both things next to each other.

But he'd never even thought to look at you as a girlfriend. He brushed off such comments and so did you. You were his friend. One of the very best. You'd know each other until you die, and in a way - this is just proof of your next stage of life. You'd settle down with a partner and so would he and everything would be fine.

But, the thing was - he'd never actually conjured up the future. There was never any assured belief that you'd go and find someone to nest with so soon. It felt unnatural. Disorienting. There was an order to this strange and mad world and your relationship went against it.

Even in thinking that, it'd take Isagi weeks to figure out the extent of his feelings. Weeks of practicing, of going on group dates with his team, of drinking. Weeks of missing you. Being conscious of the sudden absence of his very best friend in the world. You still saw him but it was no longer every other day. And you still called and texted, still told him stupid stuff about your life.

But he'd go on Instagram and see pictures of you from someone else's account. You'd be wearing something he'd never seen you in before. It was pretty. You were prettier. He'd never thought about that before, if only to say that you were and always had been. And plenty of guys had noticed in highschool, too. He'd never thought about it then either.

Isagi had never really considered a lot of things. It didn't dawn on him that he loved you until Bachira pried the information out of him one night on the road.

("Yocchan is stupid,"

Isagi leans on the bench in the locker room and frowns, throwing a confused look Bachira's.

"What the hell? For what?"

It's not Bachira who tells him the information - but Rin, who walks towards his own locker with a tired expression and a towel around his shoulder.

"You're in love with her, you stupid jackass.")

Right. It'd been Rin who told it to him straight, and Rin would know a thing about love. Apparently he'd been with the same girl since highschool and he knew a thing or two. For Rin to tell Isagi such a thing made Isagi really think on it, and when Isagi finally sat down and thought about it - it was clear that he was head over heels in love.

Isagi is in love with you. It has been a tremendous pain in the ass trying to live with this information. It made sense - it really did. It made sense that everything suddenly felt so wrong. It made sense that he never new anything about love and that he could never keep a relationship.

When he thought about it, he'd never stop comparing everyone to you. If it were you—you'd be clumsy at fancy restaurants but it'd still be so much fun to go. If it were you—he might've cared much more about valentines day chocolates. It would've been so novel, so lovely - to imagine how hastily you would've made them. Not obligatory friendship chocolates but something just for him.

If it were you, he might've wanted to buy you expensive things. They'd be different. Clothes and shoes but game consoles and concert tickets. If it were you, he'd always take his sports car. He might've liked the way you fawned over them, with that wide-eyed sense of adventure he's spent his whole life getting to know.

Yes if it were you, Isagi might've gotten angry. Now that he knows, the idea you're getting so touchy-feely with another guy makes him sick. He knows he has no right to feel that way, but he can't exactly help the feeling either.

From the start, if Isagi had realized love started and ended with you, then maybe he would know a thing or two about love by now. He might've cared more about everything, had he realized it even a little sooner.

A few months ago would've sufficed.

Isagi is in love with you.

He has no idea if you feel the same, but in a way that doesn't change anything.

He's seated on his couch, alone in his apartment - and thinking wistfully that he probably has been this whole time.

He looks around his apartment, feeling a little sorry for himself. He's drinking. Even this tipsy, his mind is clouded with memories. You looked at this place together and you helped Isagi move in many months ago.

A place with a good view of the city, Isagi stands to his feet and watches near the cool glass of the window.

It takes him a while to hear his phone ring. When he does, he almost feels like he's hallucinating when he sees your name on the other side. He stares, wonders if the kami like playing malicious tricks on him, and then picks up.

He speaks slowly.

"Hello?"

He knows your crying, even though you're trying harder to hide it. That desperate sniffle that you get is an easy tell.

"Yoichi," You mutter, soft and sad "Can you come to the park?"

"At this hour? It's late. Your boyfriend is gonna be pissed."

You hiccup on the other side of the line. Isagi wants to run to you as soon as possible.

"Just come," You sniffle again, a little sadder. You're crying this time forreal "...I want to see you."

"Okay. Are you alone?"

"Mm,"

"Stay on the phone with me. I'll come soon. Stay on the line."

"Okay."

__

Isagi comes to find you at the park like you've asked. He keeps you on the line the entire Uber ride there and then as he comes through the playground to find you.

Somehow, he knows exactly where you'll be. It's the park you two grew up coming to. It's dark out, damp from the night, and Isagi finds you tucked in the same corner you always are.

You still fit there somehow, just beneath the slide. It's a big space, enough for two people. So, wordless, Isagi climbs into the little box and sits next to you. Close but not close enough, he hangs up the phone and turns his head to stare at you.

"I'm here," He says, mostly because he doesn't know what else to say.

You look up at him, obviously having been crying. You're wearing a sweatshirt and shorts, but your face has some light make-up on it like you were on a date. He forces himself not to frown as you gaze at him - pouting.

"You're here." You repeat, like you don't know what else to say. You lean your head on his shoulder. It's the most natural feeling in the world, but right now - it makes his breath hitch "Thanks for comin'"

"Are you gonna tell me what happened?"

"Well I don't want to."

"Can you really say that after crying like a baby, begging for me to come over, huh? All I want to see you—"

You elbow him without mercy.

"Shut up you jackass. Sorry to interrupt your late night jerk-off session with my tears."

It's not said with any malice, a joke - but there's insecurity laced in. Sorry for making you come see me, you want to say he's sure. He shakes his head.

"I could've been hooking up with a girl."

"Yeah? It's a miracle anyone would wanna get your dick wet, you should go back and finish the job,"

"Can't," Isagi mumbles, trying not to look at you closely "Some girl is making my shoulder wet instead though."

"Sorry," You croak, so horrifyingly sincere Isagi doesn't know how he's keeping himself upright "I can move."

"I was kidding," He says, hurriedly "It's fine. It reminds me of when we we're kids."

You huff a laugh.

"You only remember annoying stuff."

He mumbles something in agreement before there's a brief bout of silence. He speaks again first.

"Gonna tell me what happened?"

"We broke up," You mumble. Isagi feels his heart race, immediately riddled with guilt afterwards. "He broke up with me."

"I thought things were going well?"

"They were," You sniffle. It's the first time in your lives you've opened up to each other about something like this. You've talked about it, but it was always more him talking and you listening. He'd never heard about your crushes before.

In such a vulnerable, innocent position. Alone with him, confiding in him. He wants to stay with you forever "He was really good to me."

"So what? Why'd you break up?"

"I didn't love him. I liked him. And I thought I'd come to love him, but I didn't...I just couldn't love him. He knew it too, so he broke up with me."

"Was he mean about it?"

You laugh.

"Course not. He's one of the nicest guys I've ever met in my whole life. Told you, he was good to me."

"So then...? Are you sad about hurting his feelings?"

You nod, almost meek.

Isagi loves you more than life itself, he thinks.

"I wanted to love him. I thought I could."

"Why couldn't you?"

A brief pause of silence. You're debating on what to say before you seem to settle on something.

"Already someone else."

"Someone else? You love someone else?"

A whisper of hope. So small Isagi almost can't bear it. You nod.

"And what about them?"

"Doesn't love me back."

"How long?" His voice is shaking. He has no idea if you can tell. You laugh.

"A long time."

"Do I know him?"

You laugh again, a little throatier. More melancholy. Isagi feels like he's looking into an abyss. A dangerous place to fall in if he's not careful. He's already in love, already too deep. But he already steeled himself not to hope too much.

"You do know him, I guess."

"Tell me about him," Isagi almost urges. He has to be sure. He has to be sure this isn't one long dream, and that everything is real. "What he's like."

You look at him surprised.

"I thought you hated when I talked about stuff like this?"

"Changed my mind."

"Weirdo. It's nothin' special. We've known each other a while. We get along well. He likes the stuff I do and I like being around him."

"When'd you realized you loved him?"

"Middle school? Probably."

Ah. You've known each other a little longer than that, haven't you?

"You're being awfully secretive about it. Nothing more specific?"

You frown at him.

"Piss off. Go back to not caring about it. It's a dark part of my past and I already gave up on it forever ago."

"What if..." Isagi swallows. He's really the dumbest guy in the entire world for this. It could always be someone else. He knows that. "If your feelings were returned? What then?"

"I've never thought about it," You say, not even considering it might be the case "I'd be happy but I don't see the point in getting my hopes up. His type in girls is like...cuter I guess."

Isagi wants to knock himself out. Idiot. He's gone and ruined his own chances. He wish he could go back and kick the ass of his highschool self. If he called you cute right now, you'd definitely think he was trying to coddle your feelings. You are cute to him.

He can't get the words out.

"And you don't think you are?"

You shoot him a surprised look then burst out into laughter.

"Well, no. Daisuke used to say it but I don't know. Most guys wouldn't think of me as...cute? Sexy maybe? Apparently some of the guys from department see it that way."

Aah. Isagi hates this. He hates hearing that guys name without honorifics. His first name, at that.

"You should listen to the guy you used to date and not whatever knuckleheads you go to school with."

"Are you saying I'm cute, Yoichi? Started feeling bad?"

"It's not pity, alright? But you're not..not cute."

You pause before breaking out in genuine, unruly laughter. Isagi adores the sound of your voice, adores every inch of you as you giggle yourself into a fit.

"You'll never get a girlfriend like that. You have to at least be able to pretend."

It's not pretending. He wants to tell you that you're cute. The way you laugh is cute and the look you get playing stupid claw machine games is cute and the way you get excited by the 7/11 carrying your favorite things is cute. It's never been different and you still look so delighted. Everything about you is cute. Isagi wants to say all that, and that he finds you sexy too. For different, ordinary reasons those stupid guys in your department could never begin to know.

But words are useless - inconceivably pointless to try and make you understand.

"You're cute," He says first, staring at the place in front of him. Then adds "That's not pity."

"So you know how to smooth talk too?"

"It's not that either."

"Then what is it?" Your voice is wavering.

Now or never.

"A confession."

Isagi feels you tense. Feels you freeze. You start to stutter another joking, lifting your head from his shoulder to turn away but Isagi is quicker. Quick to hold your shoulder, to turn you towards him, to hold your cheek and make you look his face.

"Yoichi?"

"Is it me? Am I the person you like?"

You shake your head trying to look away.

"I don't want to answer that."

"I like you," Isagi grips your shoulder tighter, presses his forehead against yours as he holds on for dear life with hope "I only figured it out recently."

A bout of silence passes before your voice sounds again. It's shaking so hard. Isagi can hear how hard your heart is beating.

"This is fucking mean." You whisper. He frowns at you.

"Do I look like I'm joking? Huh? Does it even kind of seem like that?"

"But since when?" You're arguing. Isagi just confessed his undying love for you and you're arguing with him about it. It's so you. "I'm not even your type."

"No one is my type but you, you idiot." Isagi is exasperated explaining this. It's embarrassing but he's a lot of time to reflect and this is as true as it gets "Every single time I'd ever tried dating someone else or doing things with them - I didn't care. I just did it without thinking. But I always thought if it was you...I'd always want it to be you."

"You're not attracted to me." You assert, maybe trying to compensate.

"Fuck you, I couldn't tell you that you were hot to your face. You kicked my ass every time I mentioned the fact your tits got bigger in highsc—"

You shove him with your shoulder.

"Because you talk about it like that you shitty jock." You hiss.

"Then what do you want me to say?" Isagi mumbles, looking at you "I think you're sexy. What else is there?"

"God this is so embarrassing,"

"I'm being serious," Isagi adds, pouting, face flush with heat "You're just...you've always been attractive I guess."

You give him a small frown. Isagi thinks it's the cutest thing in the world. He wants to kiss you absolutely fucking stupid.

"Are you sure? Like really sure?"

He snorts, laughing humorlessly.

"I've been agonizing about it for weeks. Yes I'm sure."

"What if I told you to kiss me? Could you do it?"

Isagi stares at you in disbelief. He turns himself slightly, staring at you before reaching his hand out towards your cheek. You make a soft noise of surprise as he brushes his thumb underneath your eye. Your face is so hot it's burning against the palm of his hand. He lets his hand settle on the back of your neck before leaning into kiss you.

He kisses you hard but slow. Passion imbued into each tiny movement, drawing as deep as he can go without pushing his tongue between your lips.

You let out a soft moan that makes him pull away, eyes widened. Humiliated you try to shove him away, but Isagi manages to catch you by your wrist.

"Is it starting to click or do you need me to prove it one more time?"

"Ugh. Fuck, you're so,"

He grins wolfishly as he stares at you, watching you shrink so slightly under his gaze. He's not used to winning against you in any capacity with the exception of soccer. It feels good.

"I'm so?"

"Annoying."

"That's it?" He leans in again, lips brushing your cheek and pressing a kiss to it before moving down. He presses kisses down your jaw, relishing in the way you squirm. "Nothing else to add?"

"You're enjoying this too much, Yoichi," You reprimand, though you don't make any effort to move "Are you fishing for compliments?"

"I'm wondering if you find me sexy too, that's all."

You pause before leaning in. He watches the gears turn in your brain before turning your voice low.

"Wanna touch me and find out yourself?"

He pulls away instantly in shock as you blink at him innocently. There's an air of smugness about you. He feels his face burn red immediately, blood rushing up into his brain. He tucks his chin looking away from you. His brain feels like it's full of static.

He's embarrassed. By what you've said but more by how naturally everything falls into place. By how effected he is by something so simple. It usually takes so much more to get him like this.

"What the hell was'at..."

"Karma. Don't be all cocky. I've known about my feelings way longer than you."

"Didn't think you'd know jackshit about stuff like that though."

"Just cause I spare you my sex stories doesn't mean they don't exist."

Isagi feels a pang of irritation as he scoffs.

"I don't want hear about them now either."

"I thought you weren't the jealous type?"

"I just wasn't that into any of those girls."

"But you're into me? Enough that you get jealous?"

Isagi laughs at that.

"Yeah. I'm way more into you than you're ever gonna get through your head anyways."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Means I wanna get all lovey-dovey with you and embarrass you all the time."

You flush and Isagi feels like he's won. Instead of feeling elated or cocky, this time he just feels a little dazed. He stares at you through lidded eyes.

"I'm so into you," Isagi mutters, leaning his head against your shoulder "You're never gonna get it unless you look in my brain,"

You pause momentarily, leaning back enough that Isagi sits up. He looks at you curiously before he feels you tap foreheads. You close your eyes and hum, before peeking just one open.

"I looked," You say softly "I still win,"

Isagi groans internally. God. God you're so fucking cute. It's so you and it's so cute and he loves you.

"Can I please kiss you again?"

"You don't have to ask every time."

"No takebacks."

Isagi leans in again, to kiss you a little softer this time. When he pulls away, the look on your face makes him want to do it all over again. You'll be here all night if he doesn't get a hold of himself.

"You wanna come over to my place?"

"Isn't a little early for that?"

Isagi knocks your foreheads together.

"Not like that. It's late and the trains aren't running. I don't want you taking a cab,"

"I'm a big girl, Yoichi," You say sardonically "If you want me to stay over, just ask. You're still my best friend, dummy." You add the last part a little softer.

He grabs your hand.

"Then stay with me."

You nod.

"Okay. And we can have sex if you want."

"Fuck yeah."

#isagi x reader #bllk x reader #isagi fluff #bllk fluff #writing tag

[inkyajax]

cut me rails of that fresh cherry pie

character: alhaitham

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

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

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

words: 10.9k

synopsis: 

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And take notice of you, he has.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An eyebrow raises, intrigued.

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

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

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

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

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

✰          ✰         ✰

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said not to be late.”

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

“Well, come on, then.”

✰          ✰         ✰

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

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

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

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

You think you’re beginning to truly understand why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” he smirks down at you.

Smart-ass.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re too cute when you beg.

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

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

But you don’t.

Because, really, when do you ever?

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

“What do you think you’re doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you mad at me?”

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

“Stop that.”

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

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

“Oh? Am I? Sorry, I’ll stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop playing around and do your work.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows you too well now.

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

“Just restless, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was always only a matter of time.

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

“Yeah? Is it nothing?”

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

“I don’t believe you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am—”

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

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

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

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

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

Good. It’s about fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Start fucking me, and I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? Yeah? Show me.”

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

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

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

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

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

And it gives it to him, almost instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...About, baby?”

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Head tilting, he frowns slightly. “What—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t answer.

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

“Fucked out?”

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

“Your fault,” you say simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[empressdede]

Into The New Year

You & Jimmy find out how you’ll make it into the new year

Tagging: @whatdoeseverybodywant @theninthwonder @harmshake @gomussy @raya-hunter01 @jeyusos-girl @2-muchsauce

________________________________________

Y/N really did not want to go to her friends Into The New Year party, you weren’t in the mood to celebrate the holidays anymore, having to miss Christmas and staying on the road was starting to take a toll on you.

You missed home.

And you didn’t blame the other wrestlers for trying to party their life away to distract themselves from the same problems you were facing but you just weren’t feeling it.

“C’mon Y/N your the only one who’s gonna be stuck at the hotel feeling miserable. We get it, your homesick but your not the only one.” Rhea stated and the entire women’s locker room was agreeing with her.

“At least come. Spend 30 minutes and if you hate it, you can go back to the hotel room and we’ll leave it at that.” Your friend, Renee stated.

You didn’t want to argue about it anymore, and they were right, what was popping in for half an hour going to hurt?

So that is how you found yourself, getting ready with the girls and taking in the scenery of the girls dancing around it made you smile. Maybe this isn’t so bad. So you let the moment sink in and got out of your head to enjoy it with them.

________________________________________

The music was starting to take over and Y/N was starting to let go. Renee was persistent on making her feel better and damn if she wasn’t succeeding.

Y/N tossed a drink back, three shots in and let herself wine to the music.

“Okay girl, I see you.” Bianca had cheered and it brought a smile to her face.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, Renee had convinced her to come because she had plans of her own. She made Y/N wear her best clothes and gassed her head up to dance her heart out because she needed her distracted. And the rest of the locker room had no problem getting on board to help distract Y/N.

“What are you waiting for?” Renee asked Jon. He’s been watching you all night, but he hesitated to make the approach because he refuses to make a fool of himself, even if nobody would remember it. He would and that’s not something he wants engraved in his head.

“What are you talking about?”

“I seen you been watching my friend all night but if you trynna make a move on her, it ain’t gon happen with you sittin’ over here in the corner.”

“Renee-“

“I threw this damn party for you! You know how hard it was to get Y/N to come out here?”

Jon let a small sigh, because she’s right. Everyone knew how much Y/N carried on her face how upset she was for the holidays and to see her out here was literally his one in a million chance.

“I wish Josh never told you about my small crush on her.”

Renee rolled her eyes. “Jonathan; even if Josh didn’t tell me, a blind man can see you like her.”

“Cap” he replied and that caused his brothers to laugh at him. Everyone knew he had a crush on her, he wasn’t as discreet as he thought he was being.

“Aye man, quit being a pussy and go dance with her. No disrespect, but allat ass she throwing, Go catch it!” Josh stated and pushed his brother towards your direction.

I guess it’s now or never Jonathan thought to himself as he walked over to you.

He watched you gyrate your hips on Bianca to Up Down by T- Pain, and he watched you caress her hands over your body as the both of you wined slowly against each other.

Black card (card) party in the backyard (backyard)

Shorty got the black bra showin’ (black bra showin’)

Tatted up (Tatted up) ass fat enough ('Nough)

She a bad bitch and she already know it (Yeah, she know it.)

Bianca seen him walking towards the two and she nodded him over so that they would be able to switch.

As the song melodies changed, Y/N bent over to twerk against Bianca and that was the perfect time for Jimmy to slide in when Bianca stepped back.

His hand gripped onto your hips and pulled you back into him repeatedly, the motion mimicking back shots. The tightness of the hands against your skin made you turn around to see who had trade places with Bianca and when you seen Jimmy behind you, you felt your heartbeat pick up.

The FINEST man on the roster was catching her back it up and she was not gonna let the opportunity slip through her fingers. The liquor running throughout her body gave her the courage to continue with the dance.

Whole bank account, I blow it (I blow it)

Go do a show then (Do a show then)

Bring some mo’ in (Bring some mo’ in)

Y/N’s hands were placed on her knees and continued to twerk against his hips. Bianca and Rhea who were the closest to the two watched the interaction and started to holler in excitement to hype you up.

As they gassed you up, you started to throwing it back on him so crazy. A hype crowd started to form around the two of you and any nervousness that the both of you had dissolved and the energy that began to transpire was what they fed off of.

“Aye! Fuck it up Y/N!” Renee hyped up as she watched you continue to bounce off him.

Throwin that ass for days

Booty going up, down

I ain’t got no problem spendin all of my money

Trynna see what’s up now

I can do this all day like it ain’t nuttin’

As the song ended, Y/N straightened herself and pressed her back against his chest as another song started to play.

“You mind if I steal you away for a second?” Jimmy whispered in your ear and who were you to deny him anything?

Your hands grabbed onto his that was still gripping onto your hips and lead him outside to catch your breath and give yourself just a little bit of privacy to talk.

The second they were outside, Jimmy let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re impossible you know that?”

You bit back a smirk as you turned to face him, tilting your head to side with faux confusion shining through your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought we said that we didn’t want anyone to know about us?”

“WE didn’t say anything. You didn’t want anyone to know about us and I didn’t come to dance on you, you came to me Jim. So what’s really the problem?”

He stepped closer to you, “It’s starting to piss me off watching you shake ass for every dude in there.”

For almost seven months now, you and Jimmy have been sneaking around with each other to chase a high only the two of you can bring to each other. There was a point of time, you found yourself getting irritated that Jimmy kept flirting with almost anyone he could -even if it was playful- and he loved to remind you that it didn’t matter because he was single and so were you. After that, you made sure to keep anything you felt to yourself because when it was your turn, you didn’t wanna hear a word either.

“I’m single Jimmy.” You reminded him with a small smirk etched onto your face. “So it doesn’t matter if it pissed you off or not.”

“Wanna bet?” ________________________________________

A soft moan left Y/N’s mouth as her back arched off the bed, shivering from the kisses Jimmy was placing down her body. He was teasing her, making her really crave his touch.

His eyes stayed glued to hers as he continued his way down until he was facing exactly where he wanted to be, in-between her legs. He moved his head directly above her pussy and used his fingers to pull her panties to the side And separate your lips apart to blow air on your clit.

He hasn’t even touched you yet and you were soaked. You felt yourself tense up but quickly relaxed as his tongue slid up and down your clit.

"Oh fuck" you hissed in pleasure as your head fell back. Jimmy didn’t waste no time burying his face between your legs. He flicked his tongue against your clit in a premeditated way that he knew was going to make you cum fast. Jimmy didn’t want to wait to teach his lesson to Y/N, he needed you to recognize now just who you were dealing with.

He locked one arm around your thigh and pushed two fingers into you, thrusting his fingers in and out of you and pushed his face deeper, sliding his tongue up and down her slit.

"Fuck Jimmy…wait" you panted out, bucking your hips trying to run from the immense pleasure he was giving you but he wasn’t haven’t none of that. Your moan got stuck in your throat as your back arched off the bed and you tried to push his head away from you.

Jimmy pulled himself away from you for only a second, placing his lips back on your clit to suck on it as the pace of his fingers quickened.

"Ohhh shit Jimmy" you cried out and your hand slid to the bed to grip onto the sheets, this feeling was your favorite feeling in the world and it made Jimmy’s chest fill with pride when he felt your legs start to shake. He knew it was only him that could make you feel like this and he wanted to prove his point.

Your moans filled the air, growing louder and louder and it sounded like music to his ears. Jimmy didn’t give a fuck who heard you, he hoped they heard you because as you continued to call out his name he came up with his New Year’s resolution: letting the whole world know who made her feel like this.

Jimmy moaned against her, the vibrations caused you to slightly jump and it forced him to tightened his hold on you so you could stay in place and returned his attention to your clit, sucking on it hard as his fingers tapped against your g-spot. Your thighs started to shake even more, giving Jimmy exactly what he’s been chasing since he started. That quick release from you.

"Jimmmyyyy" You cried out loudly as you came in his mouth, clenching the sheets tightly. Your heart was beating so loud and fast and your head moved from to side as the euphoric feeling took over. "Fuckkkk."

Jimmy chuckled as he pulled away from you, giving you some time to catch your breath.

He hovered over your body, placing both his hands on both side of your head and leaned down to kiss you, sliding his tongue into your mouth, causing you to moan as you tasted yourself on him. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his right hand moving to trail down your body and stopped at your panties. When you felt his hand, you lifted your hips to help him pull them off you.

Once they were completely off you, he pulled away from the kiss and pulled his shirt over his head. "Face down, ass up mama, don’t make me ask you again."

As you assumed the position, you heard shuffling behind you and you knew he was getting completely naked. Anticipation of whatever was come had you shaking with excitement. You loved with Jimmy got like this, you love pushing his buttons to have him give it to you better.

"This won’t stop me from giving Tez that dance you know?” You teased, a sultry tone in your voice.

Jimmy bit his lip as he stared at her deep arch and shook his head at her letting out a dark chuckle that caused you to shiver, "Damn baby, now I’m really finna fuck you up."

Your clit throbbed in anticipation and you gripped the sheets to prepare the insertion, and no matter how much you guys have done this over the past seven months, nothing could’ve prepared you for the feeling of him slowly pushing into you, stretching you out and filling you up.

"Shit"

"Oh my fucking Go-" you gasped, pushing back to break your arch just a bit but Jimmy quickly pushed you back down; holding you in place as he thrusted slowly until he felt you relax to let him all the way in.

"There we go princess, let daddy in." He cooed out

Jimmy began to pick up speed and your moans started to fill up the air. The clapping sounds of their skins bouncing against each other soon mangled into her moans as he kept fully pushing into her. He was going to break her back in tonight, wasn’t nobody getting a dance from her but him tonight.

Jimmy watched with slight amusement as he watched you move forward slightly every time he pushed himself all the way in. He chuckled and gripped on your hips and brought you back to him to fuck you harder.

"Where the fuck you going Y/N?"

You let out a cry, one of your hands reaching back to press against his stomach to push him back but he smacked your hand away from him. "Huh, I can’t hear you." He pressed, slapping your ass as he continued to fuck you. "You runnin’ from me?"

You shook your head, pressing your face into the sheet to let your loud moans out. Jimmy chuckled at you, keeping on of his hands on your waist and the other to grab onto your hair to force yourself back up. He pushed himself against you and pressed his lips against your ears and whispered darkly "I said I can’t hear you."

You felt your eyes roll to the back of your head as he pushed himself deeper into you. It took a second for the words to fully register before you stuttered out, "No Daddy, M’not running." You slurred out.

Your head fall back against his shoulder so he let go of your hair and wrapped his hand around your neck instead, drilling brutal strokes into you. You cried out at the feeling, one hand reaching to grip onto his forearm and dig your nails into his skin.

"Fuck baby, thassit. Daddy making you feel good?"

"Yeeesssss, oh my fuck- feels so gooood."

Nothing could prepare you for the unexpected orgasm that ripped through you. A loud cry leaving your lips as he helped you ride the high out, grinding into you and rubbing onto your clit. The way you squeezed around him caused him to groan out. He wasn’t gonna cum yet. Not tell you came to an agreement with his New Year’s resolution.

"Fuccckk" you sighed out and Jimmy pulled out of you

"You okay mama?"

You tiredly nodded your head.

Jimmy laid you flat on your back, letting his eyes drink in your current state. Low eyes but a sated expression on your face. He leaned in a pecked your lips twice.

"Good, cause it’s my turn now." He mumbled against your lips before pushing himself back up again. He grabbed both of your legs and placed them on his shoulders.

"And Imma keep going till you forget about anyone else but me."

And he was a man who kept his promise, he definitely knew that coming into the new year he had to change the dynamic of their relationship by any means necessary.

_______________________

Happy New Years My lovelies. Let 2024 bring my nastiest side yet😭😭

#jimmy uso #wwe #empressdede #empresswriting #jimmy uso x reader #black reader #intothenewyear #jimmy uso x black reader #the usos

[cuubism]

I'd love something about Dream who's very aware that he's way too intense romantically while also being not intense enough sexually because he's ace. His partners usually prefer it the other way around. If that's something you'd be willing to write (if not that's okay too)

hmm yes, we can always do ace dream. though we didn't quite reach 'aware' 😂 human uni au is what popped to my mind

--

When Hob gets back from class, Dream is lying facedown on the couch, one long arm trailing morosely down to the floor, face smashed so deeply into a pillow that Hob can only see the tufts of his hair. He seems to have been there for some time, and doesn't move when Hob comes in.

"Horrors insurmountable today?" Hob asks as he puts down his bag and heads to the adjoining kitchen to grab a snack. He'll probably need to grab one for Dream, too, now that he thinks about it. Doubtful he's eaten.

Dream just makes an mmph sound against his pillow. Then, once Hob's returned to the living room with a plate of apple slices, Dream pops his head up, lines all over his cheek from the pillow, fluffy hair going every which way, and says, "How much do you care about sex?"

Hob nearly trips and flings his apple slices everywhere. "What?"

"In general," Dream persists, heedless of Hob's shock. "Do you subscribe to the belief that individuals past puberty, particularly men, think about sex constantly, or is that an exaggeration? Which do you think is more important in a partnership: compatible personalities, or compatible sex drives? And why?"

"What is this, a sociology assignment?"

"Answer, please," Dream insists.

Hob sighs and gives in to the mad questioning. Joke's on him for having an insane roommate. "I thought about sex all the time when I was thirteen, maybe. Right now I'm just thinking about how I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm fucking starving but we're playing Twenty Questions instead of eating. And as to the second one, I don't know, Dream, I think both are probably important."

"So you think about sex an amount you would consider 'frequent'," Dream presses.

Hob's cheeks heat. Sex is not really a topic he wants to discuss with Dream of all people. Those two thoughts don't meld together into anything good for polite company. "I don't know, I guess!? Doesn't everyone?"

Dream lets out a despairing wail and thumps his head back into his pillow. "I am outnumbered."

Hob still has no idea what the hell he's on about. He finally gives up and just starts eating the apple slices. He offers one to Dream, holding it by the corner of his eye until he finally sees it and takes it, turns his head to the side just enough to start nibbling on it.

"You'll choke if you eat that lying down," Hob warns.

Dream begrudgingly pushes himself up, collapsing against the back of the couch, and goes back to nibbling on his apple slice.

"So," Hob continues, awkwardly, when Dream doesn't say anything else, "sex life not going so well, then?"

Dream glares at him, though it's not very intimidating considering the apple halfway into his mouth. "Too well, by most standards," he finally sniffs, and eats the rest of the slice.

"Oh, yeah?" Dream having sex is another thing Hob doesn't really like to think about. Why'd he bring that up again?

"Indeed. I have suitors falling over each other to bed me," Dream says.

Do all classic literature students talk the way Dream does? Hob doesn't know. It's been two years that they've lived together and he's still yet to definitively figure out if it's an affectation or just the way Dream is. He's leaning towards the latter.

Unfortunately, he can believe Dream's statement. Dream is a snitty little prick most of the time, but he's also unbearably beautiful.

"So what's the problem, then?" he asks.

"I don't want them to bed me," Dream says.

Hob's not following. "Say no, then?"

Dream rolls his eyes. "I don't want them to bed me, I want them to want me." His voice loses some of its determination halfway through the sentence, and he looks away.

Ouch. "Sounds like they do want you?"

Dream snorts. "Only so long as it suits them. Only so long as I fit their parameters. Today I spoke to Cori--"

Ah, yes, Cori, Dream's most recent ex-boyfriend. Dream's had a lot of ex-boyfriends, but Cori really tops the list, and not in a good way.

Now that Hob thinks about it, all of Dream's relationships kind of go the same way. Dream comes home after the first date bouncing off the walls with stars in his eyes insisting this person's the one, and within two months the thing's somehow torpedoed into the Underworld and Hob's scraping Dream up off the bathroom floor.

He's starting to see where the initial line of questioning might have come from.

"--and he, at last, was straightforward with me when no one else has bothered to be all this time. I demanded to know, truthfully, why he ended things, and he told me that I 'care too much, but won't put out'--"

Hob winces.

"--which does not make sense, as we had sex frequently? I do not know what else I am meant to be 'putting' and where. I said as much, and he laughed, and said--" he imitates Cori's voice with a surprisingly passable American accent-- "'It only counts if you at least pretend you want to be there, doll. Next time try initiating occasionally.' He left before I could question him further."

Hob doesn't like the picture this is painting. And Dream is looking at him beseechingly, like Hob might be able to explain the bizarre encounter. "So... now you're trying to figure out if your understanding of sex is wrong or something?"

"I felt that, as a neutral observer to the situation, you would be appropriate to survey," Dream says.

(Neutral is a stretch, Hob thinks.)

"So I ask you, Hob Gadling, as a man demonstrably unbothered by 'hookup culture'--"

"Are you calling me a slut?"

"--what do you think is the correct amount that one should care about sex? Because I--" he breaks off, twisting his fingers in his hair, suddenly anxious-- "I do not know what I am doing wrong."

Hob moves to sit beside him, lays a hand lightly on his arm. He's about to say, you're not doing anything wrong, except... that may not precisely be true. At least in terms of how Dream is actually handling it with his partners.

"How much do you care about sex?" he asks.

"Not as much as I am supposed to, evidently," Dream says. Hob just waits for him to elaborate. "Not very much. I prefer not to think about it." He looks at Hob, weary. "Now you will tell me that this is abnormal."

"I don't know what's 'normal'," Hob says. "But it does sound different from how Cori felt about it."

"I suppose," Dream says, sadly.

Hob doesn't particularly like where the intersection of 'I don't care about sex' and 'we had sex all the time' lands him. "If you don't care that much, why keep doing it?"

"It is what is done, is it not?" says Dream. "Besides. I do not mind so much. But even when I do participate, it is still not good enough. Or so it seems."

It's because they're picking up on the fact that you're not really enjoying it, Hob thinks. No one wants a partner who's not engaging. Least not anyone decent. But not saying anything and then just dipping out suddenly is kind of a dickish move, in his opinion.

"Do you want to participate?" he asks.

This seems to give Dream pause. "Mostly I would prefer to do other things. Like. Dates. Only that does not seem much appreciated either." He twists his hands together. "Perhaps Cori is right. I. Care too much."

"No." Hob takes Dream's hands and untwists them. "Cori's a dickhead. You just need to find someone who's on the same page as you, that's all."

"But it seems that book is rather empty," Dream says. He hasn't taken his hands back from Hob.

"Well, was there anyone that you did like having sex with? Or has it always just been--" he can't help but cringe-- "you just putting up with it because you thought you were supposed to?"

"Calliope," Dream says instantly, and Hob lets out a relieved breath. At least it's not all bad. "Because, no matter that it ended poorly... I felt that she truly liked me. And not. Just sex."

"Okay, see?" he says. "You just have to find someone like that."

It... hurts, to try to push Dream into someone else's path. But Hob's long accepted that Dream doesn't feel that way about him. Dream rarely seems hesitant about trying to date anyone he is interested in. Surely if he felt that way about Hob, he would have made it clear by now.

"Someone," Dream echoes, looking down at their joined hands.

"Just because what you want isn't common doesn't mean it's not out there," Hob says, trying to be encouraging. "And hey, if you know now, you can avoid the whole 'not on the same page' rigamarole, hm?"

"Yes," Dream says. "I suppose so." Finally he takes back his hands, instead taking another apple slice from the plate Hob's left on the coffee table and chewing on it slowly.

I would love you right, Hob thinks, unwanted, unbidden. It's not a productive thought, and it's a painful one, too.

"Perhaps I will take a break," Dream decides, though doesn't sound entirely happy about it.

"Could be good," Hob says. "Get your head on right."

"Yes," Dream agrees. "This has been. Illuminating. I thank you for your counsel. I suppose I will have to also thank Cori, 'dickhead' though he may be."

And with that he retreats to his room, still seeming a little off-kilter. And Hob can't help but feel like he's gone wrong somewhere, said something wrong, though he doesn't know where, or what.

#i don't actually know if you specifically wanted dreamling or what whoops #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #ask #anonymous #ace dream #left it on a cliffhanger goddammit but they just didn't seem emotionally aware enough to confess their feelings then XD

[spiteless-xo]

Eren Jaeger is charming.

You rationalize to yourself that it’s because he works in sales—when he smiles at you, when he flirts, when he touches your arm—you’re supposed to fall in love with him. He wouldn’t be good at his job if you didn’t.

And of course, Eren’s girlfriend is stunning.

Dark-cropped hair to highlight her sharp jawline, a body crafted from hours at the gym and careful attention to diet, and tits bigger than your head. She’s beautiful, she’s perfect, and the two of them look flawless together in all of Eren’s photos hung in his office. The two of them seem like the ideal couple. They're madly in love and aren’t afraid to broadcast it to the world.

The only problem is, she’s not you.

But when you start to see the cracks in their flawless public facade, you find an opportunity to tilt things in your favour.

Your boss asks you to stay late a few nights each week to help do some filing while the bookkeeper is on maternity leave. It’s not rocket science and you’re able to figure it out without direction, but it takes a few hours and you’re usually the last person to leave each night.

Usually.

Recently, you’ve noticed that Eren has been staying at work late. He’s typically the type to clock out the second the clock hits 4 pm, so his change in behaviour leaves you curious.

His office is nowhere near the filing cabinets, but if you take the long way back to your desk at reception, you get to walk past his office. His door is always closed but he keeps the blinds on the window open, so when you make your way past you catch glimpses of him staring angrily at his computer screen, or his phone, or resting his chin on his hand as he scribbles on some papers.

What could he possibly be working on so late at night? Sales were down this year due to supply-chain issues, so he should be leaving work earlier, not staying late.

Your curiosity grows like a weed and you find yourself staying late on nights that you don’t need to. Keeping yourself occupied with busy work and walking past Eren’s office as many times as you can. You know that your persistence will eventually yield more information.

One night, your patience pays off.

When you walk down the hall toward Eren’s office, you notice that his door is sitting half-open. It's unusual—he always closes it when he works late.

You slow your steps, approaching his door carefully and cautiously and praying that your shoes don’t make noise on the tile until you’re close enough to his doorway to hear his deep voice mumbling into the phone.

He’s arguing with someone, that much you can tell, even when you can’t make out exact words. His tone is harsh—angry—and you quickly realize that he’s talking to his precious girlfriend. The one he posted a picture of on Instagram yesterday—her sitting at a cafe, wrapped in a dark red scarf with just a simple hashtagged caption.

Eren spits out each syllable of her name like he can’t tolerate how it feels on his tongue. His voice gets louder but you still can’t quite make out what he’s saying over the rushing of blood in your ears. You bite your tongue and hold your breath, desperate to know more, and accidentally find yourself pushing the door open further as you lean against it.

Dark green eyes meet yours instantly, but his tone doesn’t waver as he speaks on the phone. He wraps up the conversation quickly, throwing his phone down onto his desk when he hangs up.

He doesn’t look at you after that and you make slow, cautious movements toward him as you apologize profusely for eavesdropping. You explain that you’ve never heard him speak like that to someone before and you were just worried it was something serious.

Eren grunts in response and covers his face with his hands, resting his elbows on his desk as he breathes out with a huff.

You move closer—soft, slow steps like you're afraid he might run off—until you’re making your way around to the back of his desk. You seat yourself on the wood, crossing your legs until your knee brushes against his arm and he finally looks up at you.

He looks defeated and you feel a sick sense of victory brewing in your gut.

You offer him some words of comfort and a soft smile as you reach out to rest your hand on his shoulder. You’re surprised when he melts into your touch, gaze wavering slightly as he looks up at you.

Feeling bold, you gently stroke down his arm, running your hand up and down along his bicep, feeling the firm muscle underneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt. You swear you can see his breath catch in his throat when you bring your hand back up to his shoulder, fingering softly at the collar of his shirt.

He thanks you for being kind and asks that you keep this to yourself. He doesn’t need Karen from accounting to know the details of his relationship problems.

Of course, Eren. Your secret is safe with me. Always.

He smiles up at you and rests his hand on yours. It’s warm and heavy against your skin and when you intertwine your fingers with his, he doesn’t pull away.

You can be charming, too.

#eren jaeger x reader #cw cheating #dealership au #ive always thought i'd be fun to write a fic with little to no dialogue #especially because my fics are usually very dialogue-heavy #eren #aot #tiff.fic #eren.drbl

[periprose]

Ps5 Peter Parker x reader inspired by this?

It's one of my favorite MerDer moments on Grey's anatomy 🙈😭

Peter explains something about physics or an idea for a gagdet...

🤣 this image really cracked me up lol thanks for the ask!! I've set the fic to take place in the first game, Peter and Reader are Otto's assistants at Octavius Industries. Please ignore the science mumbo jumbo in this fic.

/

Otto's lab was really cold this time of year. He barely had the funds to make rent in Manhattan, let alone provide optimal heating and other luxuries.

Still, you shiver, searching through your locker for your comfy, oversized jumper. You're just pulling it on when Peter pops up from behind you.

"Hey."

"Jesus!" You flinch and then rub your eyes. "Hey, Peter. How do you get behind me so fast? That's the third time this month I didn't even see you come in."

"Uh... I just have good reflexes, I think." Peter's mouth twists a little, as he tries not to laugh at your jumper. "Are you sure that's up to lab standards? Where's your lab coat?"

"Ah, Otto doesn't mind. He knows I'm cold." You explain, and Peter sighs.

"Well, he never gives me special treatment."

"Probably because you're not as cute as I am." You joke, but Peter nods and you feel a callous level of attraction towards him for being so nonchalant in terms of flirting.

You never really know where you stand with the guy. He's a naturally witty person and you refuse to read into anything any deeper, just for self preservation.

"Hey, I can't disagree with that." Peter laughs that quiet, soft laugh that makes you smile on your own. "Here, I got you a cup of coffee. That should help warm you up."

You look down and see, sure enough, Peter's holding a coffee cup tray, loaded with three cups, surely your usual orders- for you, extra black espresso to stay awake, for Peter, usually some kind of healthy tea hybrid, and for Otto, a large, creamy Italian coffee blend that's particularly expensive (Peter always jokes that Otto wastes funding on things like this).

"Oh, I'll pay you back." You reach back into your locker for your wallet, but Peter stops you with a raise of his hand.

"It's free of charge. No worries." He hands you the cup gently, and your hand skirts across his. You think for a moment.

"Nothing is ever really 'free of charge', Peter." You give him a side glance. In the last couple of months you've known this guy, you've figured out when he has an ulterior motive.

"... Alright, alright. You got me." Peter starts pulling you along by the hand, towards one of Otto's offices filled with white-boards and desks and equipment. You take a sip of your coffee and notice that it's still quite hot- Peter must've been really fast to make it so.

Not that you're complaining, and now that you're warmer you do feel more inclined to listen to him.

"Okay. You know how Otto's neural interface for the experimental arms have been glitching out?" Peter's got a firm look on his face, as you sit and listen.

"Yeah. It's a poor prototype, I think he asked us to leave it alone? He said he'd deal with it." You shrug. "I've moved on to his requests for a tighter, stronger arm. You know I deal with hardware."

"Yes, but even so, the neural interface problem still persists. Otto's lying." Peter looks at the whiteboard, and sees that half of it is covered all over with erratically drawn diagrams and equations. It's fine, he knows he can write what he needs in that space.

"Okay, look." Peter begins drawing a diagram of the neural interface's circuitry. "See how the voltage is really high?"

"Yeah- but isn't that what Doc wanted?" You grimace. "Last time I brought up the voltage issue, he told me to mind my business and continue with soldering. He wants so much power for some reason."

"Right, that's what I'm talking about. Notice how Otto keeps having those outbursts?" Peter sighs, a deeply upsetting look overtaking him. "He's getting a bit aggressive as of late, and I think it's because he can't figure this out."

"You're telling me. Just yesterday he chewed me out for clocking in a bit late." You sniff. "Okay, I was fifteen minutes late, but still."

"I've been there, you don't even have to justify it." Peter laughs, and begins drawing squiggly lines. You can't help but notice how his strangely muscular arms are tense and visible through his lab coat as he scrawls, and you take a sip of your coffee, savoring the view. Looking isn't illegal, you try to rationalize, but you quickly banish these thoughts as Peter looks back with a sly glance, to make sure you're paying attention.

"This is the electricity flow... and it should be heading this way, but the neural interface is made incorrectly and the flow of energy is heading back this way... towards the-"

"The battery of the arms, not the interface." You suddenly realize, and take a scrap piece of paper off the desk, scribbling down notes. "Hmm... maybe the wiring used for the arms is absorbing too much energy? Or the batteries are too big?"

"Maybe, but neural interfaces are tricky business." Peter winces as Otto yells at something in the background of the lab. "I told Otto not to get too involved with it- it's far too easy to accidentally mess with your brain, and then suddenly you've got anger issues or worse-"

"Dementia." You finish his sentence with an equally grim expression. "Okay. I hear you, but how are we supposed to fix it, exactly? I can only think of using different, smaller wires, or a less cost heavy battery- but then it won't move at the speed Otto wants it to."

"Yeah." Peter's shoulders slump a little, and you feel bad. He's always just one dude trying to take on the entire world's problems.

"Peter, it's not your problem, really. You can only do so much- the man has made up his mind, he's going to have to take the brunt of the problem." You try to console him, but Peter has that determined Parker Pride you've seen far too often, and you know he's not going to let it go.

"Wait, wait. Okay..." Peter starts frantically drawing on the board, and seeing that he's running out of space, without missing a beat, begins to draw on the wall.

"Peter! You're drawing on the wall!" You admonish him, and to your shock and utter horror, but not to your surprise, he keeps going. "Now you've completely lost it- it'll take two seconds to erase the board-"

But Peter isn't listening, in that overly stubborn, inventor way that you know you've done before. He's too lost in his own thoughts, and you know that spark will disappear if he takes a moment to stop drawing.

"I'll clean it. It's fine. We got to get a move on." Peter points to the new diagram on the wall. "Look at this."

Peter's drawn a rudimentary depiction of the robotic arm prototypes you've built for Otto, but the battery pack has been split up into several, smaller batteries that extend over the course of the arms. Something about the way the arms move in Peter's drawings look a lot more... smooth, silky, like a cephalopod.

An octopus.

But you are amazed at Peter's capabilities, either way. "Using multiple different batteries, so the energy isn't drawn away from the neural interface in a great capacity?" You blink, a bit amused at Peter's eager expression. "It would work, I think, but only if Otto is willing for a slight decrease in power."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. We don't need to sacrifice power at all." Peter draws a set of gears, interlocking through the squiddy looking arm, and you clap your hands, clambering up out of your seat, finally enthused by his idea.

"Peter Parker, you genius!" You shake his arm excitedly, and he turns a bit pinker as he watches you, grinning. "Otto wanted the arm to be almost entirely synthetic material- but if it has rotating gears, the less it will jerk around. It'll be faster, smoother-"

"Thus requiring less power anyways, and less power will be redirected into his neural interface. And, hypothetically, no more angry Otto." Peter grins, and you smile up at him. "I mean, it'll still take some tinkering to figure out, but incremental improvements are still improvements, right?"

"Definitely. Plus we can always try to convince him about solar power again." You joke as Peter snickers.

Peter opens his mouth, about to say something to you, but he stares for a moment too long and hesitates, especially because in the nerdy excitement, he had gotten so close to you, and he was a liar if he said he had never checked out his cute co-worker. Any second now, you should be teasing as you usually do- but your eyes are wide and Peter gets the sense you've been swept up in this too.

He's never been so... close. He can make out individual eyelashes, tiny scars, imperceptible to normal people, but not to him.

And his phone buzzes with some kind of alert. He looks it over with bright, concerned eyes, while you take a moment to step back, much to Peter's mild irritation.

"Ah... must be MJ?" You ask, trying so very hard not to sound like a jealous girlfriend, just a curious colleague. You have nothing against MJ- you just feel that she and Peter are so meant for each other, and this is exactly why you've been trying to protect yourself.

Who are you kidding? You and Peter are both so busy- you'd never have time to be his doting, adoring girlfriend. You just have to remember him as a friend.

Already you feel the walls coming into place, your expression turning neutral, your heart becoming steely, when Peter looks at you again, surprised.

He can tell you're holding yourself back- and he doesn't like that. He wants you to come back to him, to be close with him again, and it drives him nuts that it has to be your choice, but he respects that.

"Not MJ. We broke up a while ago." Peter swallows, hoping he's saying the right things. "Uh... I don't think we're going to get back together. She's dating someone else now."

"Oh." You squeeze Peter's shoulder as comfortingly as you can. "Peter, I'm sorry. I would've been less of an ass if I'd known."

"No, don't be." Peter fixes a firm, kindhearted glance at you, taking your hands, the warmth of his own making you feel especially treasured. "You're great."

There's a teeny bit of hope working it's way into you, into your silly, girly heart despite all the steel around it, and Peter has a soft smile reserved just for you- you know that smile, you've seen it before when he comforts you when an experiment goes poorly, or when you've had a Eureka moment.

He rubs your hands. "Jeez, you're cold! I know women are usually freezing in the workplace- different body temperatures on average and all that- but I'm going to have to talk to Otto about making it warmer in here."

"Lest I die of hypothermia, right." You snort, and Peter snickers, but he still stays close, as if he's using this as an excuse. "Well, at least I have your hands."

Peter's phone buzzes again, another alert, which he apologetically takes a moment to read after letting go of you. Something about Fisk's thugs making their way through Grand Central Station- he shouldn't leave right now, but he can see your curiosity is piqued.

"Just a news alert. Nothing big." Peter lies, and you don't quite buy it, but you don't want to pry at this moment after he's complimented you and been so nice to warm up your hands.

Otto bursts through the entrance of the room, sighing.

"Will you two lovebirds stop canoodling with each other and test out the circuitry? You know, like I'm paying you to do so with very limited funds?" He barks, and then inhales. "Sorry. Just... try to stay on task. And I know you're young and all... but stop drawing on the walls!"

He leaves, grumbling about youth being too romantic and wishing they would understand sensibility.

You're about to refute whatever Otto said, so Peter doesn't feel uncomfortable, when he speaks first.

"I take it he isn't a romantic." Peter jokes as he grabs some paper towels, and you laugh, feeling that Peter's flirting was more genuine than you thought.

#peter parker x reader #ps4 peter parker x reader #ps5 peter parker x reader #ps5 peter parker #ps4 spiderman #spiderman ps4 #spider man #spider man x reader #peter parker x you #ps5 peter parker x you #ps4 spider man x reader #ps4 spider man x you #ps4 spiderman x reader #ps5 spider man x reader #ps5 spider man #otto octavius #ps5 peter parker fluff #ps5 #ps4 #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #spiderman #ask #requests #insomniac games #insomniac spider man #insomniac peter parker x reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To a Tea 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc. 

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU 

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk. 

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you. 

Summary:  A demanding customer grows increasingly needy.

Character:  Raymond Smith

The title is a pun, don’t @ me.

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved. 

You don’t often miss work, but that week, a burst pipe throws everything off. A morning spent waiting on your landlord, then the next few hours for a plumber, has things a bit off kilter. Even the next day, you’re not quite back on point. 

The patched wall next to fridge reminds you of the disaster and a dingy smell persists. You hope it doesn’t cling to you as you set off for your shift that day. If you can, you want to pick up some hours from others if their up for grabs. Harry doesn’t like Saturday’s, maybe he’ll hand over some. 

You try to leave your problems behind as you catch a bus down to the city centre. You get to the tea shop five minutes before the hour. Jenna’s wrapping up the opening tasks as you go to leave your things in the back. You tie on your apron and unlock the front door for the first customers of the day. 

At first, it’s a trickle. Never very much at all. The early risers who often come alone or if they aren’t, they don’t speak much or very loudly. The smell of fresh baking and the slow rising sun add to the lazy din. 

“Thought the special was strawberry today,” you comment as you transfer macarons from a cooled tray to the display. 

“Eh, it was but we didn’t have enough jam,” she shrugs. “Changed the sign, is all.” 

“Ah, thought my mind was lagging again. Everything’s been off since yesterday.” 

“Eh, how’s the apartment, anyhow? Marilyn said it was something about a leak?” 

“Burst pipe,” you explain, “they took out the wall above the sink, buncha clanging all day. When I tell you this place is like heaven.” 

She chuckles, “can be.” 

“There’s a formal tea booked in the Marigold Room at noon,” she intones, “forgot to mention that. With Mother’s day coming up, suppose we’ll get more bookings.” 

“Suppose,” you go to check the schedule hanging on the wall. “Party of twelve, wow.” 

“I’ll man the till. Honest, since those ladies at New Years, I’ve hated doing them.” 

“No problem, Harry should be here, shouldn’t he?” 

“Well, he’s... called in.” 

“Again?” You whine as you face her. 

“Are you really surprised?” She scoffs. 

“No one else to cover? Not even Louisa?” 

“Nah, she’s on holiday still.” 

You huff, “fine. Not much of a choose then, is it?” 

🫖

The tea room is as close to raucous as you’ve ever heard it. You have your back to the rest of the shop as you balance the stacked serving trays with an array of sponge cake, fruit, and biscuits. It’s the typical assortment for a tea party booking. 

You’ve already served the tea and the sandwiches, and dessert is the last bit, along with any further pots needed to be steeped throughout. With a partner, it isn’t hard to keep up, but alone, it’s rather overwhelming. Jenna does her best to assist but there aren’t many lulls around lunch time. 

Beyond that, the tourists are chatty. You could hardly get away to fetch each course as they wanted to chat about the culture and your suggestions of what they should do next. It’s nice that they’re friendly but still stressful. 

You put the trays on the cart and roll it around the counter. As you do, you nearly skid to a halt. In the rush, you hadn’t noticed him. Your eyes meet Raymond’s as he watches you. Intent, intense. You give an apologetic smile and nod in acknowledgement. Jenna wanted to deal with the main room, she’ll have to wipe down his table and do her best. 

You roll behind the wall and into the Marigold room. You present the tray and grab it by the ring at the top, lifting it onto the centre of the table. You roll around to gather the empty plates and cups, taking two pots for refill. 

You come back out and see Raymond standing, just as he was. He sees you too. Watching, hands folded, knuckles white, jaw set. He’s usually patient but you don’t know how long he’s been waiting. 

You roll behind the counter and sigh, clearing off the cart as Jenna steams a tea latte. 

“Can you wipe Raymond’s table?” You ask. 

“Who?” She furrows her brow. 

You glance over your shoulder toward the man in question and she follows. She rolls her eyes, “I tried, I wiped the the table. He didn’t sit.” 

“Hm, well... did you wash your hands first?” 

“Christ Almighty, what is he a child?” 

“Jen, he’s just... you know, my mom’s the same. He can’t help it.” 

“You can deal with him. I won’t be arsed,” she sniffs, “he was rude and you know I don’t got time for those ones.” 

“Jenna, I’m kinda up to my eyes,” you dump the used bags from a pot. “I know he can be prickly but just wash your hands and redo the table.” 

“Ugh, fine,” she sneers, “but you owe me.” 

“Let’s call it even,” you retort as you pour boiling water into the pots mouth. 

She shakes her head and huffs, “guess it is.” 

🫖

It’s nearly three in the afternoon. It’s quiet. Harry’s on his phone instead of doing the cups and your wiping the empty tables to keep yourself moving. The door opens and you glance over to make sure Harry’s alert. He’s not. 

Doesn’t matter. It’s him. Raymond. You stand and clutch the cloth tight in your hand as you greet him. 

“Be right with you, Raymond,” you assure him. 

He barely looks at you as he goes to wait next to his table. You go behind the counter and mutter under your breath in Harry’s direction, “...dirty cups.” You wash your hands and make sure to clink some of the empty porcelain in an effort to draw your coworker’s attention. He’s still entranced by his phone. 

You take the disinfectant wipes and go back out. You approach Raymond as he checks his watch. 

“How are you today?” You ask. 

He grumbles and shrugs, “fine.” 

“English Breakfast, black,” you declares as you finish wiping up, “usual.” 

“So you remember,” he challenges as he steps close, closer than ever, before sidling around to sit. 

“Of course, I always do,” you smile. 

“And last time?” 

“Last time...” 

“Twice.” 

You’re confused. What is he talking about? 

“I came on Tuesday and you weren’t here. Then on Thursday, you didn’t even say hello.” 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, Raymond, it was a busy day. Tuesday, I had a personal emergency so I didn’t even know you’d been in--” 

“I’ll have my tea now,” he interjects tersely. 

“Right, tea,” you confirm and spin around. 

“Crooked strings,” he remarks dully, “again.” 

#raymond smith #dark raymond smith #raymond smith x reader #dark!raymond smith #drabble #series #to a tea #sweet and spicy #the gentlemen #au

[thedarlingdearestdead]

Meditation:

Summary: Anakin has trouble meditating, you help distract him.

Warnings: Smut - but it is kind of censored. R18.

Word count: 1,660

“Anakin, I can feel your disquiet.”

His eyes open easily from his placement on the floor. He was cross legged and had maintained his peaceful state for a time after your entrance, but something about his signature told you that he was not so deep in meditation. 

You could sense the turmoil within Anakin, like a storm raging beneath a calm surface. His emotions were a maelstrom, and you knew that if not controlled, they could lead him down a dangerous path. Obi Wan had seemed worried about him since Ahsoka left, you did not think he was wrong to do so. 

You looked at the pain in the eyes of your old friend. You saw his grief, his confusion, his restlessness. You knew Anakin too well to think that he had been meditating, maybe he was trying, but he long since given up on the practise. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, looking over at you sullenly.

“Because you’re being too loud.”

He glares at you and moves to get up. “Fine, I’ll give up.”

“Don’t be stupid Anakin, I’m not here to make fun of you. I want to help.”

He settles back down but doesn’t move back to his spread out cross legged arrangement, instead his knees remain up in a guarded, almost foetal position. 

“I don’t think anyone can help me.” His voice is low and dark, his eyes closed and mind stormy. You could almost feel the heavy weight of his burden through the force, though you knew his shields would be hiding much of the extent of it. 

You take a deep breath and try to center yourself, reaching out to Anakin through the Force. You feel the resistance in him, his shields firm and unyielding. But you persist, gently pushing against them. He does not waver however. 

“Anakin, get up.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re obviously not doing anything here.” 

He doesn’t move. 

“Don’t make me fight you, Anakin.”

He looks up at you with disdain, so you give his knee a light kick. 

“That hurt.”

Anakin's reaction was more of annoyance than actual pain, and he finally unfolded his legs and sat up, still visibly troubled. His emotions continued to churn beneath the surface, like a tempest held at bay. When he stands he raised his eyebrows at you, expectant and petulant, you roll your eyes. 

“Come on, I need your help with something.”

Knowing that he is in need of a distraction you hadn’t bothered to fix-up your lighter from your last mission. It had suffered some hit and made a concerning growling sound as you landed, but you figured it could wait. Anakin was always good with the mechanical world, and he did quite like to show off.

Anakin's expression shifted from sullenness to curiosity. "What do you need help with?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of interest.

You offered him a small smile, relieved that he was willing to divert his attention from his ‘meditation’, even if just for a little while. "I've got a problem with my ship. It's making some strange noises, and I thought you might be able to take a look at it. You know how much I trust your mechanical skills.”

He grunts. “Lead the way then.”

You lead Anakin through the winding hallways of the Jedi Temple, the two of you walking side-by-side in silence. As you make your way to the hangar, you can feel Anakin's restlessness ease slightly. You know that he is still troubled, and you worry about him, but you also know that sometimes the best way to help him is to distract him.

When you arrive at the hangar, Anakin heads straight for your ship, a battered old freighter that you've had for years. He runs his hand over the hull, inspecting it with a critical eye. "What kind of noises?" he asks.

You shrug. "I don't know, just strange ones. I thought maybe one of the engines was acting up."

Anakin nods and disappears beneath the ship, emerging a few moments later covered in grease. He wipes his hands on a rag and looks up at you. "Yeah, it looks like you've got a loose coupling on one side.”

“Oh do I?” You say a bit dumbly. 

“Hmmm, pass one of those-“ He gestures to the table at his side but you already had the tool in your hand. He takes it without another glance. 

You stand back and watch him work, admiring the way he moves with such fluidity and precision. He seemed to get lost in the task at hand, his focus entirely on the ship. For a moment, you forgot about all of the troubles that had been weighing on him. Watching him work was a reminder of the Anakin you knew before all the darkness, before the war.

As he finishes up, he stands and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Alright, that should do it. Start her up and see if it's running smoothly."

You nod and make your way to the cockpit, taking a seat and starting up the engines. You hear a smooth, steady hum and grin, turning to look back at Anakin who had followed you inside. "Looks like you fixed it," you say, grateful for his help.

Anakin nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Told you I had skills," he jokes.

You chuckle, feeling the tension in the air ease a little bit more. “Never doubted you for a second.”

Anakin’s expression grows serious again, and you can see the turmoil churning behind his eyes.

“Is everything okay, Anakin?”

He hesitates, looking down at his feet. “I… I don’t know. Everything’s changing, and I don’t know where I fit in. I’m trying to listen to the order, to the force, but both voices are so loud. I can’t hear either of them properly.”

“Hence the meditation?”

“Hence the attempt at meditation.”

The Jedi Order was in a state of upheaval, and Anakin was caught in the middle of it all. The war had taken a toll on him, and the loss of Ahsoka had only made things worse.

"I wish I knew a better way to help you."

He shrugs, "You do help me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiles ever so sadly into your eyes, and like magnets your lips find each other. 

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant almost, but it quickly deepened as the two of you moved closer to each other. Anakin's hands found their way to your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours. It was a comfort to know that you could provide him with some solace amidst the turmoil that surrounded him.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing heavily. Anakin's eyes were dark with desire, but also with something else, something deeper that you couldn't quite place.

“Do you still want to distract me?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You know how to fix a ship, Y/N.”

“Then yes, let me try distract you.”

Anakin grins and pulls you in for another kiss, his hands running up and down your back. You melt into his touch, relishing the feeling of his strong arms around you. For a moment, everything else fades away, and it's just the two of you in your own little world.

But clearly you underestimated his need. He presses you against your ship, growing hungrier by the second. You can feel the heat between your bodies rising with each passing moment. Anakin's kisses become more urgent, and his hands are now exploring every inch of your body. Your own desire is quickly building, and you find yourself responding to his advances eagerly.

You break away from the kiss, gasping for air. "Ani, we can't do this here," you say, trying to catch your breath.

He looks at you with a mix of frustration and longing, his eyes dark with desire. “I need to.” he whispers, his voice husky.

"Someone might walk in," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Anakin looks around the hangar, checking to make sure that you're alone. "No one's here," he says, moving in to kiss you again. You can feel yourself weakening at his touch, your resolve crumbling under his persistent advances. His mouth moved lower down your neck. You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan. His hands move down to your hips, and you can feel how much he wants you.

You press yourself against him, revelling in the strength of his embrace.

His tongue finds its way into your mouth once again, tracing a path along your teeth and lips. Every nerve ending in your body is standing at attention, begging for release.

His hands pull you against him even harder. His erection digs into your thigh, making you gasp with pleasure. A whimper escapes your lips, and Anakin growls, pushing himself further into you. You dig your fingers into his broad shoulders, loving the feel of his muscles under your fingertips. You let out a low moan, your head lolling to the side as his tongue sweeps across your sensitive skin.

It feels too good. It feels right. It feels so overwhelming. 

You would let him do anything he wanted to you. You give him full reign as he unzips your pants, slips his hand under your tunic. 

Your thoughts turn hazy, and you give into your lust. There's nothing holding you back anymore; your emotions run rampant through your body. Everything becomes one big blur of sensation, leaving you unable to think.

When you are both finished, and he is standing over you, face flushed and sweaty, hair curling deliciously around his eyes. You can finally feel him relax. The tension, the shields which had been so reinforced had fallen. He is yours. 

#anakin x reader #star wars anakin #clone wars #star wars prequels #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker #star wars fanfiction #star wars fandom #anakin smut #star wars

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

I (22F) was roommates with a friend (20F) and got in a huge fight with her over my boyfriend (26M) being in our shared room.

I've been friends with her since the beginning of uni before we were roommates and we shared a room in an apartment with two other friends (more mine than hers). We have different personalities, I tend to be direct and confrontational while she's usually more quiet and a bit of a pushover, but we got along because of similar family and financial situations and shared interests.

I also have a long distance boyfriend who I met while he studied abroad at my uni, and though we were only dating for less than half a year at the time, we were very serious (and still are) about our relationship and made plans for him to stay with me for a couple months close to winter break. I told my roommate about this and she gave a hesitant response that she wasn't comfortable with him sleeping in our room but I persisted and she told me okay.

Of course I compromised. My friend had disclosed some of her previous trauma with men with me before, so I tried to compromise by saying he won't be staying at the apartment overnight and won't be in the room when she's there. However, a month before he was scheduled to come she goes back and says she wasnt comfortable at ALL with him being in our room. She knew she was being unreasonable and apologized and told me she would think of another compromise before my boyfriend got here that we could both agree with.

I thought that was stupid but I was tired with other personal problems and school that I just agreed to listen to her compromises. She proposes something even more tedious saying that he couldn't be in the room past eight pm and that the closet door had to be shut if he was in the room, and I was tired of the whole thing so I agreed to that compromise.

I kept it for the first week. I forgot to close the closet door now and again but she didn't seem to mind or notice. She acted super uncomfortable around my boyfriend which bothered me a lot, and because of her eight pm rule I had a hard time spending time with him so i spent a lot of nights sleeping on the livingroom floor just so I could be by my boyfriend.

One night, my boyfriend and I took a nap on my own bed for once when my roommate was getting home late, and I didn't wake up in time when she came in around midnight. She saw us in the room and was shocked. I was honest with her and I told her I didn't agree with her "compromise" and it wasn't fair to me when I was paying rent on this room too. She started crying so my boyfriend and I left for the living room to spend another night out there AGAIN.

My roommate packed some things the next day and spent that night at a friend's dorm from what I've heard. She then confronted me saying we should talk so I agreed and we had two mutual friends with us to make sure everyone was being fair. She said that I surprised her a lot that night and that she felt wronged that I suddenly did that without notice. I told her quite bluntly that she needed to grow up because she wasnt the perfect roommate either and barely did any chores around the apartment. A bit harsh, but she's a bit childish in that she's immature and sensitive, and it was true that she didn't do much.

She ended the conversation shortly after in tears saying it wasn't "productive". My friends let me know what I said was out of line and I agreed with them and apologized to her afterwards, but she said she didn't want to have another discussion until the semester was finished so we walked on eggshells around eachother for a couple weeks until winter break.

The conversation after winter break wasn't any more productive than before. She said some things that implied I bullied her into agreeing on the initial compromise and that I was insensitive to her trauma and her "safe space". It wasn't fair to me at all, because it was my home too and I'm allowed to be comfortable in my own space with my loved ones and I would never do this to her if it was her mom or potential girlfriend so I don't understand why she was giving me this much shit for her rigid "compromise". It was MY APARTMENT too, and I told her as much that I tried my best to compromise when I could've just had my boyfriend staying in my room the whole time instead. And then she insinuated that my boyfriend and I made her feel "unsafe" and that I hurt her on purpose. It's true that I didn't feel sorry about breaking the compromise, but it wasnt a fair one to begin with. The conversation didn't get better from there until it ended.

Now we barely talk to eachother. We live in another house together that we signed the lease for before this all went down, though this time in separate rooms. She actively avoids me and though I honestly don't care about that it is making the house a bit of a toxic place. It's been like a year since this whole thing started and I'd like to put it behind but thats hard to do when she acts like I'm the bad guy. Am I really the asshole here? My friends have been sympathetic but haven't given me a straight answer so I want to know.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole