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jj-one · 29 days ago

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EPISODE 1: HELP! MY HOT GIRLFRIEND CAUGHT ME CRYING AFTER GIVING HEAD! (NOT CLICKBAIT)

this is smut, do not interact if under 18

jisung thought tutoring the hottest girl on campus would ruin his GPA— not his pants. one month later, he’s somehow getting called ‘pretty’ mid-thrust and offering you pocky as a post-orgasm snack.

pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut, fluff, jisung is a loser with a capital L, humor sprinkled in bc i’m unserious asf, lots of references to anime and other dumb stuff, lowkey perv!jisung, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), piv, protected s*x, kinda subby!jisung but he’s still a whore lol words: 5.4k (wasn’t expecting it to be this long… guess i yap too much)

[ note. ] — i had to make another nerd!ji fic bc i literally cannot stop thinking about him 😣 feel free to read my other fic for more context since it’s set in the same universe but i wanted to make a smut ver so here we areeee <33 also, i will be making more parts eventually, hence why it’s labeled as ‘episode 1’ so stay tuned for more !

Jisung thought for sure that was going to die a virgin. Not in a sad, self-loathing kind of way, but more in a “yeah, that checks out,” kind of way. The type of peaceful resignation one might have while unplugging a broken router for the eighth time before crying into a bowl of instant ramen. Because guys like him— guys who quoted Dragon Ball Z unironically, who panicked when girls sat next to them in lecture halls, who built custom keyboards for fun and screamed at League. They didn’t date girls like you.

And they most definitely didn’t sleep with girls like you.

Still, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing. Constantly, shamelessly, unhingedly.

He’d never known what it felt like to have warm walls wrapped around his cock. Never heard those broken whines girls in hentai would make— unless he counted the ones he accidentally let out when he edged himself too long. His hand was simply never enough, no matter how many times he convinced himself he could “recreate the pressure.”

The bottle of lotion and box of tissues on his nightstand weren’t even hidden anymore— they sat like holy relics beside his gaming PC, ready for immediate access the second he closed League and opened incognito mode.

Porn never fully satisfied his craving though, he always wanted more. Even the best JAV compilation or doujinshi fan dub couldn’t compare to the real sickness consuming his brain: you.

You, with the glossy Instagram that he scrolled through like it was the damn Louvre. You, wearing micro bikinis in pool selfies with captions like ‘hot girl summer’ while he rots in bed, sweating and crying at the curvature of your ass.

You, biting your glittery, gel pen in class, leaning across the desk to ask for help, accidentally flashing a glimpse of cleavage so dangerous it made him pause mid-equation like he got hit with a stun grenade. Stalking your Instagram, seeing you in the tiniest baby tees and mini skirts. It was the perfect gooner material.

He’d stroke himself under the covers while biting a t-shirt to keep quiet, muttering your name between gasps like he was summoning a spirit. Fantasies playing out in his head that ranged from soft and romantic— like kissing you breathless during office hours— to completely feral, like bending you over his anime pillow while you called him “pretty boy” and ruined his life.

It didn’t help that you flirted with him now.

That you asked him to tutor you.

That you sat so close during study sessions he could sense your perfume from a mile away and taste the salt from the fries you always stole off his plate.

You laughed at his jokes, called him cute, even once said he had “nice hands,” and he nearly evaporated on the spot. Had to excuse himself to the bathroom with a boner and a prayer.

Every night ended the same. Him, fisting his cock in pathetic desperation at the thought of your pussy swallowing him whole, whispering ‘please’ like a man on the verge of religious enlightenment.

And every night, after he came all over his own stomach, out of breath and guilt-ridden, he’d sigh dramatically and say,

“I’m going to die alone. I know it. I’ll be the guy with the Zero Two body pillow and the unopened condom pack from 2017 that he keeps in case of a miracle.”

He did not, under any circumstances, expect you to be that miracle.

Never in a million years did he think he’d actually have a chance, let alone be dating you. You were just too perfect. The literal girl of his dreams.

Popular. Gorgeous. Cool in the kind of way that made any and everyone want to be around you without knowing why. You had that magnetic charm about you, an easily contagious laugh, a confident stride when you walk, and that dangerous habit of licking your lip gloss mid-sentence like you were in a CW drama.

And yet, somehow, here he was, currently horizontal on his bed, shirtless, breathless, with you on top of him wearing his oversized Bleach t-shirt and not much else, grinning like you’d just won first place in a science fair and a dance battle.

“Are you glitching?” You asked, poking his cheek. “Do I need to unplug you and plug you back in?”

“I- uh- w-what? No- yes? No.” He stuttered like every word had just magically left his vocabulary, he was definitely malfunctioning.

You laughed, head dropping onto his bare chest as he laid stiff as a board, arms hovering midair like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you even now. Even after dating you for a whole month.

“A month,” he whispered, still stunned by the timeline. “That’s like… thirty days of you voluntarily being seen with me.”

“Thirty one,” you corrected, lifting your head to smirk down at him. “Don’t forget the bonus day where you kissed me in front of the vending machine and the entire basketball team clapped.”

“I thought I was going to throw up.”

“You looked like you did throw up.”

Jisung covered his face with both hands and groaned.

God, he still didn’t know how this happened. When you had asked him to tutor you in stats, he assumed you were just kidding— or high. But you weren’t. You’d actually shown up. You’d flirted, sat on his lap one time when all the seats were taken at the library, and then acted like it was no big deal while his soul left his body.

And now here you were. Straddling him. Teasing him. Literally wearing his t-shirt with the anime print on it and calling him “baby” in the kind of voice that should be illegal.

“You’re so tense, Sungie,” you murmur, lightly dragging your fingers down his chest. “I know you like it when I touch you. You make these cute little gasps like a baby bird.”

“I-I don’t sound like a baby bird,” he mumbled, absolutely sounding like a baby bird.

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Chirp.”

Jisung squeaked.

You lost it, giggling into his neck while he covered his blushy face with a pillow. “Oh my god, stopp- why are you like this- why did you choose me,”

“Because you’re smart, and sweet, and you get all flustered when I call you hot. And because,” you sat up again, hips rolling ever so slightly and watching his pupils blow wide as you rocked against his clothed erect, “you say things like ‘This is just like my fanfic’ under your breath and then deny it.”

He groaned at the sudden friction, arms falling limp at his sides. “You heard that?”

“Babe, I hear everything. Like right now, I can hear how bad you want me to ride you.” You bit your lip, feeling your wetness growing at a rapid pace as you continuously grind on him.

Jisung whimpered. “Okay. I- this is really happening, right? This isn’t like, some kind of VR dream or like a… cursed hentai plotline where I wake up and you’re actually a sentient toaster?”

You blinked. “What the hell kind of anime are you watching?”

He slapped a hand over his eyes. “Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that..”

You kissed him then. Slowly. Tenderly. Like you had all the time in the world and like you couldn’t believe your luck either. Because yeah, you were the cool girl, but Jisung was the first guy who actually listened when you talked. Who remembered your favorite boba order. Who’d stayed up until 3 am tutoring you and still walked you to your dorm with sleepy, nerdy affection twinkling in his eyes.

So yeah, you were gonna roast him forever— but you were also gonna ruin him tonight.

“Hey, baby,” you whispered, reaching down to tug his sweatpants lower.

Jisung was in the midst of catching his breath like he’d just run a marathon. “Y-yeah?”

“After I make you cum, will you tell me all about the sentient toaster anime?”

“…Maybe.”

“Okay,” Jisung panted, curling into your side like a baby koala clinging to its mother, “that was better than every hentai I’ve ever seen.”

You snorted into his shoulder. “High praise coming from the man who owns a $300 body pillow.”

“She was limited edition!” He quickly defends himself.

You playfully roll your eyes, kissing his flushed cheek. “So are you, Sungie. So are you.”

And yeah, Jisung still thought he was going to die a virgin once upon a time.

But now, wrapped in your arms with kiss marks littering his neck and your laughter still echoing in his ears— he was just really, really glad that he’s been proven wrong.

The moment you straddled Jisung and kissed him again, something shifted in the room.

And not just him having an outer-body experience for the sixth time in an hour.

You pulled back from his lips to look around, and the first thing you said was, “Okay, I have to say it- your room is the most aggressively virgin-coded space I’ve ever been in.”

“I told you not to look too closely!” He whined, burying his face into your neck as you giggled and craned to inspect the chaos surrounding you.

“Let’s see…” you started ticking things off on your imaginary list. “Anime wall scrolls? Check. Neon RGB light strips that make your room look like a gaming dungeon? Check. Is that Hatsune Miku in a glass case next to middle school spelling bee trophies?”

He groaned. “They’re collector’s items—”

“You were runner-up in 8th grade and you framed it.”

“I peaked early, okay?!”

You laughed so hard you fell forward onto his chest. “I love you.”

He froze. “Wh-what?”

You blinked. “I said I love you.”

He looked like you’d just offered him a lifetime supply of ramen and also stabbed him in the heart.

“…I love you too,” he whispered, barely getting it out before he hid under the covers.

You tugged the blanket back down just enough to see his red face. “Hey. Don’t hide. I wanna see you. Look so pretty when you blush.”

“PRETTY?!” He yelped.

You nodded in confirmation, brushing hair off his forehead. “Mmhm. Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. Especially like this- messy hair, pink cheeks, all breathless under me…”

He made the most broken noise you’d ever heard.

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them, like he was trying not to crush you or himself with how desperate he felt. His eyes were dark now, glazed and locked onto your every move as you slowly ground against the bulge in his sweats.

“This is real, right?” He meant to ask that in his head but blurted it out instead, voice slightly cracking. “This is really happening?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Feels pretty real to me, baby.”

At this point Jisung was spiraling.

Not just emotionally. No, that happened daily.

This was a full-system shutdown.

You’d tugged your shirt off without warning and smiled down at him like it was the most casual thing in the world, and now his hands were hovering awkwardly mid-air like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to touch you or if he was being Punk’d by the gods of horny delusion.

Your skin. Your smile. Your fucking tits.

And worse— worse— as your fingers brushed through his messy brown locks and your thighs shifted over his hips, his brain suddenly screamed,

‘I can’t believe I’m about to get pussy before Jeongin.’

Jeongin, his slightly cooler, slightly taller, still-a-virgin roommate who had three rotating Discord kittens and a suspicious amount of cologne but somehow still never scored.

Jeongin, who walked around shirtless after push-up sessions and said things like “it’s not rizz, it’s charisma” unironically. Jeongin, who once said “I want my first time to be passionate and respectful” but also accidentally downloaded a virus trying to pirate a hentai dating sim.

Jisung had always assumed if one of them was gonna make it out of virginhood first, it’d be the guy with the Uzumaki clan symbol tattooed on his ribs and a social life.

But no.

It was him. Han Jisung. The guy who owned a limited-edition anime titty mousepad and squeaked like a kettle when a girl touched his arm. And now? You were grinding up against him slowly, teasingly, and he was barely clinging to reality.

“Y/n,” he whimpered, clutching your waist like you’d float away. “Can I- can I eat you out? Pleasepleaseplease.”

You blinked rapidly.

“…You wanna—?”

“So bad,” he choked. “I think about it all the time. Like in class. And when I watch those ‘how to’ videos online. Like, the diagram ones, not the porn ones, though I watched those too- but like educationally! For science!”

You stared blankly.

He was sweating.

“Okay,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You’re really cute when you beg, y’know that?”

He nearly ascended.

You barely had time to giggle before he flipped you gently onto your back, hair falling into his eyes as he ducked down between your thighs like a man on a mission from God. His hands trembled as he slid your shorts down, breath hitching at the sight of your soaked panties.

“Oh my god,” he breathed out. “It’s real.”

You snorted. “What were you expecting? A hologram?”

“I don’t know!” He cried. “I was starting to believe you were some kind of high-level succubus sent to punish virgins.”

You cupped his flushed face. “Wouldn’t be the worst punishment.”

And then he locks in— eyes meeting yours as he sticks his tongue out, licking a long, fat stripe across your clothed slit. Soft. Slow. As if he was trying to memorize you with his tongue, the heat of it makes you jolt. He’s not just tasting you— he’s learning you, tracing intricate patterns with his tongue like he’s trying to decode you one flick at a time. Every motion is precise yet hungry, like he’s writing a love letter in Morse code directly to your pussy. His glasses slipping adorably down the bridge of his nose, solely focused on pleasing you.

You gasped at the feel of him against you, the pressure of his mouth sent heat curling low in your belly, it was torture. Too much and not enough. You needed to feel him without the barrier of soaked lace clinging to your folds, and he must’ve read your mind, because he groaned like he was the one being denied. He kissed your pussy like he was thanking it, mouthing over your clothed core before dragging open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, leaving your skin slick with spit and bites to your inner thighs. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, everything about him felt so warm.

His teeth grazed you— playful, hungry— and your hips twitched as he whispered something nasty under his breath, half to himself, half to your cunt. By the time he slid your panties down, your thighs were trembling, tossing the flimsy fabric aside carelessly, like he didn’t care where they landed, only that they were gone. Then he buried his face between your legs like you’d been starving him for his entire life.

His tongue slipped between your folds, hot and greedy, lapping up everything you gave him like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He flicked up and down with obscene precision, wet, messy, relentless— his nose bumping your clit as he moaned deep in his throat, like he needed this, like the taste of you could make or break him. You were soaked, legs shaking, lips parted in a silent cry, and all he did was keep eating like he was trying to crawl inside you with his tongue.

You were loving the way it feels, every bit of you being hit with electricity. Your fingers tangled in his hair the second his mouth met your pussy, gripping tight, yanking just enough to make him groan into you like he was grateful for the pain. He never slowed down. If anything, it made him hungrier, tongue flattening against your slit before flicking up again, sloppy and fast and fucking filthy.

“God- fuck, you’re so messy,” you gasped, thighs twitching around his head. “You like that? Being my dirty little mouth toy?”

He moaned. Moaned. Into your pussy.

Nodding obediently, even as you tugged harder, grinding him closer. His glasses were long gone, hair disheveled, chin dripping with spit and slick as he slurred out something unintelligible against your clit. His tongue working overtime like he was trying to spell your name in cursive with every flick.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled, words caught in his throat. “I could live here.”

You threw your head back with a laugh— and then a sharp gasp as he got bolder, messier, more desperate. His hands kept you spread, his tongue curling and licking and worshipping like this was the only chance he’d ever get. He was sure that he’d jizz his pants just from giving you head— sure it’s pathetic, maybe even tragic. But he couldn’t help it. You were just too hot, too perfect, too fucking unreal, and the taste of you on his tongue, the feel of your thighs squeezing around his head, it was better than anything his fist or filthy imagination had ever given him.

Your fingers remain tangled in his hair, holding onto him for anchorage. He looked up at you with glassy, pleading eyes, the lower half of his face glistening with your arousal and rosy cheeks. “Tell me I’m doing okay? Please? I read five articles about this. I practiced on a peach.”

You gasped. “You practiced on what?!”

“Nevermind. Just- keep calling me pretty. I swear I’ll die happy right here.”

You tugged his head back down, voice ragged and ruined.

“Then make me cum, pretty boy.”

And he did.

Like a man with something to prove.

Like a nerdy little virgin who had just found his true calling.

Your eyes closed shut at the feeling, falling apart at the seams. Every stroke of his tongue making your insides tighten. You suddenly couldn’t remember how breathing worked, all you saw were flashes of white invading your vision, cumming so hard that you almost saw stars. You cried out, high and broken, hands grasping at his head as you came hard against his mouth.

Jisung moaned through it— loud and messy— tongue never letting up, licking you through every twitch, every gasp, every last jolt of overstimulation until you were tugging at his hair for dear life and gasping for air. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes half-lidded, face absolutely drenched, and smiling like he just beat the final boss of his entire life.

Somewhere in the past twenty minutes between Jisung nuzzling your thighs like a man starved and moaning like he was the one cumming, you had apparently blacked out, transcended the mortal plane, and been reborn as a puddle of girl.

Now, you lay sprawled across his unmade bed, fully clothed from the waist up and violently ruined from the waist down, chest heaving, eyes wet and glassy, one sock half-off your foot like a casualty of war.

And Jisung?

Jisung was cuddled up beside you like the world’s horniest golden retriever, chin resting on your shoulder, looking so smug and soft it was almost offensive.

You could still feel the ghost of his tongue between your legs.

“You sure you’ve never done this before?” You croaked out, blinking up at the ceiling like it had answers.

Jisung tilted his head innocently. “What, that? Nah. I just… researched. A lot. And I… uh, practiced on a fruit.”

You turned your head slowly. “Was it the peach again?”

“…It might’ve also been a mango. For tongue agility. But I named it after you, so it was romantic!”

You tried to snort, but it came out as a wheeze. “I can’t feel my legs, Jisung.”

He beamed. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still taking it as one.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then your nose, then your forehead like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire nervous system with his mouth.

“I feel like I just unlocked a secret side quest,” he victoriously cheered. “‘Satisfy hot girlfriend until she sees God.’ Bonus XP for oral stamina. Am I your favorite now?”

You blinked at him, still fighting for air. “I don’t even know my name right now. You’ve ruined me.”

Jisung squeaked and tucked his face into your neck, practically vibrating with joy. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“You should. I saw the afterlife. It was just a video game buffering screen.”

He laughed, then rolled onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe this is real. You’re real. Your thighs are real. I had a girlfriend and head privileges all in the same night. I feel like I need to call my mom.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. She deserves to know her son peaked.”

You smacked him lightly with the nearest pillow, still grasping for air, still dazed.

And then he smiled at you— so big, so genuine, so sickeningly in love that your tired heart clenched.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat, y’know,” he mumbled, brushing hair from your face. “Just say the word.”

You looked at him, the boy with anime figures on his shelf, lotion still on his desk, and love in his eyes, pulling him in for a kiss.

“Next time,” you whispered, “I’m returning the favor.”

Mindlessly reaching into his sweats, the second your hand wrapped around his length, you froze.

“…Jisung.”

“H-huh?”

You gave a blank expression. Looking down. Looking back up.

“This is- you’re.. how is this even—?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” he cried. “IT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE, I’M ONLY 5’7!”

You stared at him like he just told you he had a second life as a Marvel superhero.

“Oh my god, I just assumed you’d be, like—”

“Average?!” He gasped, scandalized.

“No! I just- I mean- look at you! You’re this cute little nerd with anime socks and a keyboard with cat ears.. how are you packing all this?!”

You were in utter disbelief, there’s no way your sweet, stammering little boyfriend had been walking around with a dick that big and had no idea what kind of weapon he was carrying. Just raw, untapped dick potential— XL stats on a man who still apologizes when his knees crack too loud. Poor baby had been lugging around a whole third leg, and didn’t even know the first thing to do with it ;(

He simply shook his head, fully tomato red now, flailing beneath you like he was about to spontaneously combust. He watched you like he was afraid to blink. You pumped him once, slowly, watching him shiver under your touch. His lips parted. His back arched. You hadn’t even gotten started and he already looked completely ruined.

“Can I ride you?” You asked sweetly.

He nodded so fast his head could nearly fell off. “Yes. Yes, oh my god, yes- please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” You cocked your eyebrow.

“I’ll uninstall League right now if you ask me to—”

You giggled as you rolled the condom down over him, letting his hands greedily grab at your thighs. He was panting, forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat, like his brain was overheating just from the anticipation.

Then you finally lowered yourself, sinking down onto him, gradually, feeling the way you take him so easily from being soaking wet. Jisung mumbles something illegible under his breath as your cunt swallows his cock whole. It didn’t take long for you to reach the end of him since you were already so ready for him, staying in the same position to feel all of him inside you. His cock was splitting you open so nicely, it felt like you were in utter paradise.

And he made the sound.

Like his soul physically left his body, floated into the air, and gave you a salute on the way out.

“F-fuck.. you’re tight, I can’t—” he clutched your waist, eyes fluttering. “I’m gonna die. This is it. This is how I go.” He desperately bucks into you, wanting to feel more movement from you.

You move your hips to match his rhythm as you gain your balance, pressing both hands on his shoulder blades. You bounce slightly up and down on his cock, feeling your walls being filled up by every inch of him. You shifted from grinding on him real slow to picking up your pace indefinitely. Jisung threw his head back against the pillow from the pleasure, the sound of his balls hitting against your ass with the combination of it jiggling as you rode him like a bunny was enough to make him want to burst on the spot.

You leaned down and give him a chaste kiss. “Best way to go, huh?”

He nods vehemently. “Please don’t stop. Ever. I’ll cancel my Crunchyroll subscription for you. I’ll stop buying figurines. I’ll even delete my Genshin account.”

“Okay, now you’re being dramatic.”

He groaned helplessly as you continuously rode him like your life depended on it, breath hitching with every drag of your hips. He was so sensitive, so overwhelmed with it all that he couldn’t stop moaning into your mouth, mumbling broken, incoherent things like, “You feel soso good,” and “I can’t believe I get to have this,” and “Am I still breathing? No? Cool.”

You kissed down his jaw, showing no signs of stopping. You knew this was going to be one of those moments you’d both play on loop in your heads for a long, long time. “Still pretty, baby.”

He pants out. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You simply keep moaning as you kept bouncing on his cock, he was thrusting back into you, going even deeper. Your eyes reaching the back of your skull from the way he was hitting all the right spots. It wouldn’t take long before you started screaming his name and showering him with endless compliments.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Ji.” You were a broken record at this point, nothing but your whines and his grunts filling the room. You felt tense, your clit was throbbing, the pressure build up making you dizzy. Jisung couldn’t keep his eyes off you for a second, the way your tits bounced through your shirt, the way your long acrylics dug into his skin, he wasn’t even sure how he was still alive.

This was better than any of those fake scenarios that he’d absentmindedly create in his head, better than finally beating a level that he’d get stuck on for hours. He was in pure heaven, and he felt his high approaching any minute.

“I-I think ’m gonna cum,” he desperately choked out, rocking into you like a dog in heat.

Jisung was wrecked beneath you. Hands fisting into the sheets, mouth agape, his eyes rolling back every time you sank down fully and clenched around him.

“Fuck, please- please, I-I can’t,” he whimpered, voice shaky, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. His stomach tightening with every motion, trying so hard not to lose it.

You leaned forward and cupped his face, riding him a little harder, the slap of skin soft but steady. “You said you could take it, baby,” you whispered, voice syrup-sweet. “You begged for this.”

“I know, I- just- pleaseplease can I cum?” he panted, nearly on the verge of tears. His voice was raw, wrecked, like every second you didn’t let him was a cruel punishment. “’m so close, I’m- I’ll be good, I swear, just let me.. please—”

You seal his lips with yours, just to quiet the begging, grinning against his mouth as his hands fumbled for your hips again. He moaned into the kiss, his hips twitching helplessly under yours.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you beg,” you airly chuckled, pulling back just enough to look down at him. His eyes were wild, glazed over, the pretty sounds he made were like music to your ears.

“Th-thank you,” he sobbed, the gratitude in his voice borderline ridiculous. “’m gonna- I’m- oh my god—”

And with that, he finally let go. Releasing every last drop of his seed into the condom, muscles tensing up, gripping you like you were his only tether to reality. He looked down to see your arousal creating a white, creamy ring around the base of his thick cock, almost about to cum again just from the mere sight alone. Your legs felt like jello, you were weightless, collapsing onto his sweaty, sticky chest as you try to catch your breath, brain all foggy in your post-coital daze.

You didn’t expect him to cry.

Okay— not, like, full sobbing. But a little misty-eyed? A little “what did I do to deserve this?” A sparkle in his gaze as you lay draped across his chest, both of you blissed out and glowing in the soft, RGB-lit afterglow?

Yeah.

He was trying so hard not to sniffle.

“You okay, baby?” You murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw.

Jisung nodded, eyes wide and glassy. “I just… I thought my first time would be like, awkward. Or disappointing. Or I’d accidentally sneeze into someone’s mouth and get banned from touching boobs forever.”

You laughed against his skin. “Definitely didn’t happen.”

“No,” he grins, wrapping his arms tighter around you, “this was better than anything I could’ve ever imagined in my head. Better than my first SSR pull in Genshin. Better than when I tried the seasonal spicy chicken ramen and lived.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “That’s a pretty long list of victories to beat.”

“You’re the only victory that matters.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned playfully, “who is this smooth man and what has he done with my sweaty, anime-obsessed virgin boyfriend?”

He huffed, burying his face into your hair. “He’s still sweaty and obsessed with anime. He just… also happens to be madly in love with you.”

You smiled into his chest.

“Also,” he added, completely deadpan, “I think I saw the shadow realm.”

You snorted. “When?”

“When you said I was pretty and grabbed my—” His voice cracked. He covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, I can’t say it. My ancestors are watching.”

You giggled, shifting to lay next to him and intertwining your fingers with his.

And for a while, it was just quiet. Safe. His hand slowly brushing over your side. Your heartbeat syncing with his. The faint whir of his PC fan still spinning in the corner because, of course, he never actually shut it down.

Then he jolted upright suddenly, as if he remembered something urgent.

“Wait.”

You blinked up at him, amused. “What?”

He slid off the bed, naked except for one, singular sock and scurried to his cluttered desk. You watched, dazed and curious, as he fumbled with drawers and cracked open a cabinet that definitely shouldn’t have had food in it.

Finally, he turned around triumphantly. Holding out a white, rectangular box.

“Pocky.”

You stared. “…Seriously?”

“I always imagined I’d give my girlfriend Pocky after her first time with me,” he said solemnly. “Like a weird little anime reward.”

You sat up and grinned. “You are a weird little anime reward.”

He climbed back into bed beside you and opened the box, pulling out one, white chocolate-dipped stick and offering it with both hands like it was a sacred gift.

You bit it gently from his fingers.

“Mmm. You’re such a good boy,” you purred with a playful smile, “giving me snacks after ruining me.”

He short-circuited. Almost choking on his own Pocky. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I hope so.”

You kissed his cheek, then his nose, and then— just to mess with him— you whispered, “Still thinking about how big you are, by the way.”

Jisung made a noise so high-pitched it could only be heard by dogs. He flopped face down into the sheets, flailing helplessly while you laughed and straddled his back.

“You have to stop saying things like that,” he muffled into the pillow.

“Why?” You asked sweetly, brushing his hair back. “You’re my pretty boy. I’m just appreciating what’s mine.”

He peeked up at you, still pink, still glowing.

“…Promise you’re mine too?”

You leaned down and pressed your lips against his, soft and slow.

“Always.”

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #han jisung smut #han jisung x reader #stray kids smut #skz imagines #skz scenarios #han jisung imagines #han jisung scenarios #skz fluff #han jisung fluff #han smut #han x reader #han jisung x you #skz fic #skz fanfic #han jisung oneshot #stray kids oneshot

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crepezinhos · 4 months ago

Text

Anatomy Practices

POV: While walking around the cafeteria in search of a table to sit and eat your lunch, a man unexpectedly rose from his seat and bumped into you with great force, all his worksheets skyrocketing out of his binder and gliding in the air. You decided to help the man out and knelt down to grab some of his fallen sheets, but it was inevitable to ignore how the woman he repeatedly drew over and over in all the sheets resembled you.

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is a Yandere, Suggestive SFW Oneshot

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Contains: Obsessive, disgusting and creepy behavior, stalking, invasion of privacy and implications of masturbation.

— Artist!Sunday x Artist!Reader

— AU is: Modern College

The Cafeteria during second lunch was when it was most chaotic. Having students coming in and going out of it at the same time made its paths extremely trafficked and unorganized, especially in the lines for food.

Knowing how much effort and time it takes to set yourself in a table, you preferred to bring your own homemade lunch and avoid the waste of time in the line for food, especially when you considered its mediocre quality compared to your food. But even with this gimmick of yours, you’ve still lost almost 5 minutes walking around in search of a isolated table where the concentration of sound and people wasn’t so dense and deafening.

When you finally found yourself walking between halls and tables that weren’t too crowded, you sighed in relief. Finally having your arms and backpack free of random bumps felt amazing. It felt even greater to know you didn’t have a tray in your hands that ran the risk of turning everything on top of it around if you bumped too hard on some—

POW!

Unexpectedly, the man that was sat in one of the tables you were passing through got up from his seat and immediately rushed in the contrary way, resulting in a hard bump between you two.

Although neither of you were impacted enough to fall in the floor, the same couldn’t be said for the binder the man held in his hands and the glasses in his eyes, that immediately slammed into the floor with its many papers inside it brutally flying away from it. You weren’t exactly bothered with it since nothing happened to you, but the man was immediately bothered with it as soon as he realized all his stuff fell so horribly on the floor.

“Shit!” He cussed while kneeling down in the floor with a worried expression, beginning to pick up those sheets.

Leaving him alone picking it up would be the optimal option for you, but also extremely rude. The both of you had places to be and you assumed he was heading to class seeing how he was leaving a tray with half-eaten food in the table and carrying his materials in his hands, which was more important than your lunch according to your sense of empathy. So you knelt down after he did more slowly, looking forward to speed up both your routines.

“I-I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t realize lunch was over and I’m late to class!” He refused to look up to you while he tried to reorganize his papers, even if he was without his glasses, so you couldn’t quite recognize who you bumped with… but you were pretty sure of who he was thanks to his flapping cranial wings.

Sunday Oak.

“No, no! It’s ok!” You started reaching down for his papers too, especially the ones that had slid behind you.

You grabbed a group of 3 sheets that luckily remained together and turned upside down even after the fall, and due to pure curiosity, you decided to take a quick peek at them. After all, you knew exactly how Sunday Oak did his art and it provoked your curiosity. He’s a weird nerdy guy that lives a few apartments away from you and shares two art classes with you. You were always a bit annoyed at him because of how he always outshone everyone else’s artwork and set high standard for the teachers, but you had nothing personal against him, and truthfully, you had a lot of respect and admiration for his art. It was sensible, humane, emotional and beautifully rendered, and Sunday himself was a very respectable man. Even if you weren’t a professional yet, you could proudly say he was a genius in ascension.

Unfortunately, your relationship with him does not go any further than that. You’d see and interact with him daily, and although he seemed to enjoy these little moments, he always seemed to avoid you at the same time. You never understood why and maybe there was nothing to understand, but you still wanted to use this opportunity to try getting to know more of him.

So you finally took a look at the papers you picked.

…

Oh?

What the…

You couldn’t exactly say you were surprised to learn that Sunday Oak had a like in drawing NSFW. He has the maturity for it. But you were surprised at one thing.

The paper you were staring at was covered with multiple doodles of a single naked woman either posing or being fucked by something… a woman that looked exactly like you.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t analyze it too much because the papers were suddenly latched away from your hands, accompanied by a scared gasp before the act.

“M-Ms. Y/N..?!” Sunday was looking at you even more nervous now, as if he had finally realized who he bumped with. “I-I’m sorry f-for cussing a-and not talking to you, I didn’t see it was you! A-A-And you don’t really need to help me with these! I-It’s ok! It’s my business! Y-You can go!” He clutched those papers against his chest as if it was his own heart.

“No, no, no! Please, allow me to help you!” You couldn’t help but pause to giggle at his extreme anxiety. “You must know how much I like your works anyway, so it’s an honor for me to help you out.” You winked at him, and his eyes simply widened even more along with his cheeks growing a pink tone.

“You… what?” His voice was barely above a whisper as he tried to process what you said.

“I… really like your works.” You repeated with no hint of embarrassment, although the man now looked like he had fully frozen.

“Y-You do..?” He asked again, still not blinking once and his wings clinging closer to his face.

“Yeah!” You shrugged your shoulders while leaning down again to go back at picking up the fallen papers, but Sunday did not go back to the work for a few seconds.

“O-Oh… Thank you.” Finally he went back to collecting his papers again, but in a way slower pace as yours. You could even feel his eyes peeking at you every now and then, but you decided to ignore them.

Instead, you tried focusing more on what you were picking. Assuming he was flattered with what you said, you thought it was okay to keep looking at his doodles, but when he finally realized you were still peeking at them before giving it back to him, he finally broke the silence between you two again.

“I-I… Uhh… You’re not exactly supposed to be looking at these works, Ms. Y/N. They’re very personal.” His cranial wings worked together to cover his mouth as he took another group of sheets you had grabbed for him, quickly censoring the artwork stamped on it from you.

“I’m sorry… I just really find it interesting how this woman you like to draw really looks like me.” You explained your reasoning to him honestly, but seeing how embarrassed he was when you pointed that out, it immediately hit you that you should definitely take your words back. “Don’t me get me wrong, I really like these! I think you draw the female body beautifully! There’s no need to be ashamed of it! Or at least with me! And we all draw a few naked people here and there every now and then anyway…” You shrugged your shoulders lightly, although you were also starting to feel a little embarrassed too.

“Oh, uh…” Sunday looked down, deciding to fix the position of his glasses for no apparent reason. “T-Thank you… again.” He smiled, but it was surprisingly eerie, as if there was something else making him happy. “A-And… uhhh… I-It’s not you.” He whispered very lowly, head leaning down even further while his wings covered half of his eyes now, avoiding any eye contact with you.

“What did you say?” You leaned a little closer to him, but he only repelled your proximity.

“I-It’s not… you…” He said with little to zero confidence in your perspective, but maybe he was just having a hard time talking about something so personal.

“Oh!” You paused to think about what he said since you didn’t catch it at first. “Well, then, is it an OC?” You tried acting a bit more curious and excited about his work to make the conversation less awkward.

“Uh… yeah! An OC. It’s just an OC.” You could hear him whisper that phrase a few other times but you decided to ignore it. “S-Sorry if it bothers you that she’s… uhh… very similar to you…” His hands involuntarily started clutching on the piled sheets.

“That’s ok! As long as she isn’t an OC for some sort of porn movie, I’m ok with it!” You laughed at your own pun, and he decided to laugh along too, but you could sense how untruthful it was.

“N-No… it’s just… uhhhh… anatomy practices.” Sunday decided to start moving again and collecting those sheets before he had a heart attack in front of you.

“Cool! You’re great at it! I think I could fit to be your muse for her if you’d like.” You winked at him with a little smirk, obviously punning with him, but the way his wings spread when you said that and the way he looked at you told you he didn’t sense the irony.

“M-My… muse..?” His eyes shone brightly as he looked up to you, his body almost entirely stiffened again.

“Pffffttt… no! I’m just messing with ya!” You gently punched his shoulder, which immediately made Sunday wake up to reality and fix his glasses again.

“O-Oh… Sorry.” His wings quickly curled back to his face again and he went back to his mission.

You decided to follow his actions and go back to helping him out, but your attention was surprisingly caught by another detail in his artwork and you were too curious to let it go. When you grabbed a group of two pages, for some reason they glued to each other. It didn’t have any hint of glue or tape on it, so you decided to investigate.

“How old are these pages, anyway? These are the crunchiest pages I’ve ever seen!” You giggled as you forced those pages away from each other, a gluey noise following their separation. “Some of them even have stains…” You said, running your fingers on top of a stained spot in one of the sketches, signaling there was once a pool of something on top of the naked woman he had drawn.

Sunday’s skin tone dropped to a pale tone again as you did so, more than he did before when he realized he was talking to you.

“Uhh… T-They’re very old indeed… A-Almost 3 years practicing the female anatomy…” He scratched the back of his neck, as nervous as a liar. “B-But it’s just water..! Sometimes incidents happen, don’t they..?!” He asked as he pointed to the stain you were touching, trying his best to achieve your validation.

“Yeah, of course! Stupid water… always ruining the most beautiful sketches…” You handed him the pages, and he quickly took them, taking a closer look at the stains and analyzing them, before shoving them down the pile he was making.

“Yeah… haha…” His laugh sounded more honest now, sighing in relief.

“But do you ever glue some pages together sometimes? This doesn’t look like water’s work…” You had to stop helping him out to separate a pair of pages again.

“Uhhh… y-yeah..? I-I… Sometimes I feel too embarrassed to acknowledge some of… uhhh… my sexier products, so I glue them together…” He shrugged his shoulders and finally started putting his feet in the floor to stand up again.

Your missions with him was done. All his sheets had been collected. All that he needed to do now was reorganize them and put them back to his binder, which was something you probably would not be able to help him with.

“Really? But these are beautiful! You shouldn’t do that to them!” You stood up again, following Sunday, and putting your hands on your hips confidently.

“Y-You think so..? T-Thank you…” Sunday hugged his binder tight, looking at you a little weird again.

“Yeah! Keep it up!” You nodded your head, but unfortunately it started to click you how much time you’ve used of your precious lunch break, so you quickly started to tidy up. “I’m sorry for distracting you, Sunday. You should rush to your class.” You scratched the back of your neck as you told him those rude words, trying to laugh it off.

“N-No.” He rose a hand to you, as if he was trying to stop you from walking away. “I should be the one apologizing. I was the one who bumped into you a-and so I’m the one that wasted your time.” But Sunday quickly put his hand back to his hinder in embarrassment, his cheeks growing a little pink again.

“It’s ok! No need to worry!” You shrugged your shoulders, your joyful smile coming back to your lips for a quick moment. “Anyway, see ya in Ms. Ruan Mei’s class!” Due to your need to eat, you didn’t give Sunday a to answer you and immediately walked past him, leaving him standing in the corridor.

…

“See you.”

…

She noticed me.

She noticed my art.

She likes my art.

My art of her.

Does she truthfully like it? Or is she just being the kind, joyful, optimistic woman she is? Her pure innocence made it seem fake for a moment, but somehow that’s just not I view it. It sounded real. It looked real. I want it to be real.

And she wants me to keep up. Is she sure she wants me to keep up with these? If she was aware that it was truly her or the things that I’ve done to get the references of those arts or even how abysmal my feelings are for her, would she still want me to keep it up?

After so many nights I’ve spent stalking her everywhere she went, whether it was inside or outside the campus, secretly taking pictures of every angle I could get of her in every sort of outfit she had, even when the outfit was nothing but her beautiful skin, and recreating it all with my pencil. After so many times I’ve snaked inside her apartment when she was out and got my hands on her material, clothes, products and even underwear simply to savor it with my hands, marking my territory on it.

How disgusted would she be to find out those stains in my arts were not water, and instead my own very essence? The product of the many times I couldn’t resist the temptation of my own work and messed it up with shameless masturbation? How badly would she regret to once have told me to keep up with this abnormal side of mine if she knew it?

A side that is so personal and sinful to me, that was never supposed to be seen by anyone but me, got complimented and touched by its own victim.

I could even feel it in my body when she touched those stains. Was she flirting with me? Did she figure I was lying all along and accepted it? Does she enjoy pathetic guys like me? With secret, disgusting and pathetic habits like this?

She really meant it when she said she wanted me to keep up, didn’t she? Don’t you worry, Y/N. I’ll keep it up. I want to do these just as much as you want it too.

I’ll draw you in every position imaginable.

I’ll draw you in every fantasy imaginable.

I might even start adding myself to these artworks.

Taglist: @gaboplaydespacito

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

#sunday x y/n #sunday x you #sunday hsr #sunday x reader #hsr sunday #sunday smut #yandere honkai star rail #yandere sunday #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere hsr #hsr smut #hsr x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n

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spatialwave · 6 months ago

Text

stress relief.

➸ ask: “Heyy <33 | have a req for a jayvik fic, the reader has noticed they've been quite stressed lately and recommends a form of Relaxing they do (Basically just getting high) and convinces both Jayce and Viktor to take part in it.. Can be fluff or smut??” ➸ pairing: jayvik x fem!reader ➸ tags: mdni! drug use, nsfw, smut, pwp, poly sex, double penetration, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, jayvik established relationship, modern au, viktor wears a prosthetic leg, no use of y/n. ➸ word count: 6.3k ➸ a/n: i only realized when writing this, that i don’t have a ton of jayvik x reader fics like i thought i did! so, here’s to more!! hehe <3

Your fingers moved skillfully over a typewriter, a vintage one, which you often pointed out to anyone who admired it. Did it often cause you more hassle than writing on your computer? Of course, it did, but the nostalgic sounds of clicking and the aesthetic had become a part of your routine, even if it meant struggling with it or groaning when you had to pull out the paper to correct your mistakes with whiteout and place it right where you left off. A tedious task for a small mistake, but one that you struggled with no less.

The sounds of your constant typing reminded Jayce and Viktor of your pursuit of passion, sharing your poetry and fiction works with the world. This was a creative field of work, as opposed to theirs, which left them strained and sore after a day’s work.

It’s not that they ever compared the two in terms of struggles, but you were able to indulge in a stress-free environment more often than they could. A luxury in their eyes, but all you had done was master the art of stress relief.

In the form of smoking so much weed that you were able to melt into the couch after a day of writing that left your brain foggy, or sometimes even smoking before work to resurge enough creative energy to finish a chapter. You were nearly done with your first fiction novel since graduation, and your roommates, Jayce and Viktor, were lagging behind in their own professional efforts.

You met them both in college; you were in your second year, and they were in their fourth year of mechanical engineering and far from being done with their post-secondary education. It was the luck of the draw, or so Jayce called it when you stumbled into them while hurrying between classes and accidentally knocking their first prosthetic arm prototype to the ground where the pieces scattered.

Never in your life had you ever felt so bad, quickly dropping to your knees and helping them gather the pieces of their hard work, apologizing every second while the two men told you it would be okay. Or, at least, Jayce was telling you it would be okay.

You still think fondly back on Viktor's look. His eyes narrowed as he stared at you, watching you and Jayce scramble to grab everything before the rush of students stampeded over them into non-existence.

It took one apology and a smile to win over Jayce’s heart and a few days of getting to know Viktor—and a few drinks—to win his. Though, you had been oblivious to the deeper feelings that blossomed in their heart.

Why would you think otherwise? They were the two in the relationship.

It was by your fourth year and their sixth that the three of you ended up in the same apartment together, the rent cheap enough split three ways that you’d all be fools to let the opportunity go to waste. You learned quickly that living with two men, let alone engineers and inventors, was going to be a lot. It took a few long months to get used to, but by the time you resigned your first year’s lease and you were freshly graduated, you could be blindfolded and walk over their disassembled creations without as much disturbing their work.

You were thankful that they were able to find a laboratory on campus, but it left your apartment quiet most days and well into the night. The sounds of their bickering had become the soundtrack to your life; instead, the sounds of your fingers against the typewriter echoed through the otherwise empty apartment.

The only other sounds were the distant television you hadn’t bothered to turn off and your senior cat's purring, which lay atop your bed.

You hummed a quiet melody, a song that you couldn’t name that Jayce had been playing on his phone earlier that morning when he was cooking breakfast. Waking up just in time so you could sneak it and ask him to triple the servings for you and Viktor.

The rattling of the apartment door startled you from your daze, not having realized that you’d been staring at the same sentence over and over for the past five minutes. Your eyes flickered to your phone, a finger tapping the screen to check the time and only then realizing you’d been writing for the past four hours without a break. The moon was high in the sky, and the birds would be chirping in only a few more hours.

Slowly, you got up from your desk, arms stretched above your head and groaning as your stationary position caught up to you, leaving you sore and desperate for a smoke before the night got ahead of you.

“Jesus,” you said as you stepped out of your room, pulling down the sleeves of your sweater over your hands absently as you watched Jayce and Viktor kick off their shoes at the front door. They were so exhausted that they looked like they might fall asleep standing if they didn’t hurry. “This is the fourth night in a row; you guys are digging early graves at how little sleep you’re getting.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re doing it,” Viktor mumbled, struggling with removing the shoe from his prosthetic leg, which Jayce quickly dropped to his knees to help him with.”

“Don’t blame you, all that work and still no grant. Yikes.” You returned with a playful flicker in your eyes, smiling as Viktor rolled his eyes at you. Jayce frowned as he rose back to his feet. “Kidding, guys. It’s called a joke; don’t give me those looks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the taller man mumbled, scratching at his stubbled jaw as he walked into the apartment, passing you and groaning as he b-lined for the living room so he could collapse onto the couch. Viktor was close behind, leaning on his cane as he walked, but you weren’t far behind.

“Bad day?” You asked sheepishly, regret forming a knot in your stomach when you noticed how stressed they were, both sitting on the couch.

“Bad week,” Viktor corrected as he leaned forward, rolling his pant leg up to reveal the well-worn prosthetic that needed an upgrade. They’d been so focused on their work that he hadn’t bothered to worry about his own needs, knowing that once this project ended, he’d be able to call the final prototype his own. A leg that would finally implant into his limb so he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of the ill-fitting prosthetics any longer.

You watched as he struggled for a minute, and before Jayce could offer, you were on the floor in front of him, hands already reaching for his leg. Carefully pulling the prosthetic down his thigh until it came clean off, he sighed in relief. This was a common routine that you helped with when Jayce was otherwise busy. Or falling asleep on the couch.

“Thanks,” he murmured, shifting as you put aside the leg carefully.

You returned to the armchair next to the couch, eyes looking between both men who had seen better days. The bags were so heavy beneath their eyes that you feared it would take days for them to finally catch up on their sleep—then an idea sparked.

“You two need a better nightly routine, something to help you decompress from the day instead of passing out in exhaustion the minute you get home,” you said, offering the opportunity for a suggestion.

Jayce glanced at you, raising a curious eyebrow. Viktor was the first to speak, “That doesn’t sound like a healthy habit to you? What a shame. I thought we were the epitome of self-care.”

“Let her speak,” Jayce nudged him with an elbow, eventually leaning against his boyfriend until his face was nearly buried against his neck. “You have anything in mind? I’ll be honest. Sleep sounds like the only good idea.”

“Smoke with me.”

Jayce perked up, peering out from the comfort of Viktor’s warmth as he stared at you with uncertainty, “Like… weed? I don’t know. I haven’t done that since I was a freshman, and let me tell you, it wasn’t a good experience.”

“No one told you to smoke that much, Jayce,” Viktor chided, having been there to witness it firsthand. His amber eyes flickered to you, shining in interest, “I suppose it doesn’t sound like a horrible idea.”

“Because it’s a great idea.” You beamed, sitting up and leaning forward to pet your cat that had made her way into the living room, taking her rounds to each person to receive her nightly pets before nestling away on her cat tree.

Viktor glanced at Jayce, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, love.”

You watched as the two of them spoke softly to each other, a small smile on your lips at the affection they carried for each other. Even on their worst days, they loved each other with all they had. You hoped for a love like theirs someday.

“Fine,” Jayce huffed, pulling away from Viktor and running a quick hand over his face, “At this point, I’ll do anything to get my mind off of work. I think I’m going crazy,” he snorted a weak laugh, eyes flickering over to as you bounced up from your chair and hurried off to your room to roll.

You returned just as Viktor pulled a sweater over his thin frame, hanging over the sleep shorts he now wore. Jayce had just slipped into some sweats after his quick trip to their bedroom to rid themselves of their day clothes. Two sets of eyes watched as you sat back down, a joint held between your fingers that you showed off like a prized possession.

“Ta-da!” You exclaimed, “As simple as a few puffs, all your worries will melt away. It’s old reliable for me, especially after a long day. Makes for the best sleep of your life.”

Viktor was watching you carefully as you spoke, unsure if it was the exhaustion or lingering feelings that left him admiring you. His hand on Jayce’s thigh dug into the cotton fabric of his sweats, going unnoticed because Jayce was staring at you with the same look. Admiration, awe—affection.

Glancing around, your eyes landed on the balcony where you often spent your evenings with a joint and your cellphone, doom scrolling through social media until you were ready to sleep. You crinkled your nose, looking at the boys, “We need to go outside, or else the apartment will smell like—”

“I don’t care,” Viktor said, gaze flickering to Jayce, “do you care?”

Jayce didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes focused on the joint in your hand, and he was more than ready to say fuck it and let things go how they needed to go.

“No complaining tomorrow when we have to air out the apartment,” you smiled. You’d never been able to smoke in the comfort of your own home before, so this was a treat. Even better than you had been able to wrangle your favourite boys into the mix, too.

Once lit, the joint was passed around the circle three times. Viktor handled it well, having been an off-and-on cigarette smoker throughout the years, usually when his stress levels peaked. Now, it was only when he had enough alcohol in his system. Jayce coughed up a lung each time, and it was the most endearing thing you’d ever witnessed.

Even if it was rather unpleasant for him at first.

You finished the rest, an experienced smoker, so it was almost like nothing to you. The lingering effects of the high made you sink into the armchair, but not before you grabbed everyone some emergency water and snacks, if you could even stay awake.

Fifteen minutes passed, and everyone’s attention was focused on the TV as the shared high began to climb. Viktor was feeling great. His mind was emptied, and the usual pain in his leg after a day of wearing the prosthetic was gone, leaving his body relaxed and eager to sleep long enough to hit double digits.

You glanced at Jayce, seeing the way he sunk into the couch, legs spread wide apart and a lopsided smile on his lips as he watched the trashy reality show play out. You were almost certain you’d never seen them look so damned relaxed, at least since you lived with them.

Jayce caught your stare, head tilting slowly until his gaze met yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat for a brief moment. It had been a long time since you shared a high with anyone, let alone your best friends, so the emotions and feelings coursing through you were new. You couldn’t ignore his half-lidded eyes, staring even as he made room between him and Viktor.

“You look lonely,” Jayce said, a chuckle erupting from his throat, “Come on. When’s the last time you cuddled with us?”

Viktor sighed heavily through his nose, everything around him feeling slow as he watched you slink over hesitantly. He looked at Jayce, smiling, “You say that so confidently; you know she never has before.”

You plopped down on the couch between them, and immediately, your senses were filled in the best way possible. Jayce’s body to your left warmed your body, and you could smell the faint cologne that Viktor used every morning. The scent lingered on his skin.

“That’s not true,” you hummed, looking to the television as you crossed your legs and relaxed back, “Last year when we went to that gala for the university, I got hammered, and somehow I woke up sandwiched between you two in my bed.”

Jayce laughed, a loud laugh that hadn’t warranted that reaction from your words, but everything was funny to him. He could get used to the feeling.

“Ah, right,” Viktor looked at you, smirking, “That was Jayce’s doing, just so you know. He was worried you would get sick, so he wanted to stay with you and begged me to stay.”

“I didn’t beg,” he said through his laughter, “You gave in very easily and enjoyed it. Don’t lie.”

“I did not,” Viktor argued, pale cheeks turning a soft pink. You looked between the two of them as they bickered, a big smile on your face. However, the implications of their words settled into your stomach, and you forced yourself to look back to the TV before you could let your mind wander where it didn’t need to.

There was no need to let yourself build up a desire, knowing very well that it wouldn’t come true.

“Yeah, you did,” Jayce turned to face you both better, easily throwing his right leg over both of your laps, and you were quick to rest a hand over the clothed limb. The touch sent a shiver up his spine and a heat in the pit of his stomach that he hadn’t expected, and he hoped you hadn’t noticed because Viktor certainly had.

“Hardly,” Viktor hummed, unable to feel an ounce of annoyance when his heart began pounding in his chest when he saw how Jayce reacted to your touch. How those hazel eyes were glued to your face, and all of the discussions they’ve shared in the past about you came to the surface.

“Stop arguing,” you whined, pointing to the television, “You are missing the best part of the show. They’re about to answer the ultimatums, and let me tell you that whatever you had in mind is never what happens.”

You were received by silence, and you quickly looked between the two men again, blinking a few times in quick succession as you saw the way they both stared at you. You felt a chill crawl up your spine and absently dug your fingers into the fabric covering Jayce’s leg. Sinking back into the couch, you attempted to force yourself to relax and not overthink it, but it was hard when you could see them sharing looks.

“You know, when you get high, you usually just laugh at crappy television and snack on whatever you have until you fall asleep,” you mumbled, your cheeks burning.

“Mmh,” Viktor hummed, “Where are our manners?” He teased, and his voice sent goosebumps along your skin. He nestled himself against you as he spoke, his cheek resting on your shoulder as he focused on the television. Meanwhile, Jayce leaned back against the nook between the arm and the back of the sofa, his arm extending behind you as his fingers ‘absently’ played with the ends of your hair.

You were on high alert, which was surprising for how much you smoked, but you could sense something was happening. You were just trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t what you were imagining in your head, but the way Jayce brushed his fingers through your hair and how Viktor’s left hand rested over your bare thigh left you wondering if you were dreaming again.

Viktor’s fingers brushed between your thighs, a daring touch that reminded you that this was no dream, and in this reality, the two men were certainly coming onto you.

A laugh bubbled up from you, one that you weren’t able to hold down. Your hands flew to your face, which had begun to burn a bright red, and you avoided their curious looks.

“You guys are being horribly obvious. I hope you know that.” You mumbled behind your hands, refusing to move them.

Viktor chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, “Or maybe it takes you being high to finally notice.”

You turned your head to look at Viktor between parted fingers, “What do you mean by that?”

Jayce spoke up from the other side of you, smiling rather shyly as you looked over at him, “You’re… pretty clueless, you know that? It’s cute.”

You swore you could hear your heart slamming against your ribs, the feeling overwhelming as you stared up at Jayce and felt your stomach twist in uncomfortable knots. Your eyes flickered back to Viktor, noting the confident smile on his lips as he reached out and tucked some of your hair behind your ear.

“How does it make you feel?” Viktor asked quietly, his reddened eyes scanning your face, “Knowing how we feel about you.”

“Well,” you murmured, licking your lips as you inhaled a shaky breath, “I suppose I don’t exactly know how you feel about me… it’s difficult to answer without knowing.”

Jayce shifted beside you, his leg moving from your laps so he could instead guide you until you were rested back against his chest, his body still turned completely towards you and Viktor. You nestled back into him, sighing at how his body felt so nice and warm like it was enveloping you.

Meanwhile, Viktor shifted and leaned towards you, smiling as he nuzzled himself into you and pulled his leg onto the couch that perfectly fit you three. He buried his face against your clothed chest, peering up just enough to meet your gaze.

“Would you like us to show you?” he asked his eager hand dipping beneath your sweater, thin fingers brushing against the skin of your stomach. You didn’t care if the weed was allowing them to better act on their instincts. All you knew was that the four hands beginning to grasp at your body was enough to make you say—

“God, yes,” you breathed, the sound catching in your throat.

Jayce was quick to act on your consent. From behind his lips attached to the side of your neck, he left gentle kisses that earned you a shiver. Meanwhile, Viktor leaned himself between your spread legs. His eyes were half-lidded and glossy as he stared at you with a knowing smile.

You didn’t have time to question him for staring because he swallowed the words on the tip of your tongue as he pressed your lips together in a bruising kiss. Your lips parted with a gasp, and he took advantage of the opening, his tongue delving into your mouth and tasting the red licorice flavour from the sweets you had indulged. He moaned into your mouth, hands on your hips underneath your sweater and grasping over your flesh, rougher touches compared to the fluttering kisses from the man behind you.

The stubble on Jayce’s jaw tickled your skin as he nibbled on the shell of your ear, his heavy breaths cascading your neck with warmth.

“How excited are you?” He whispered into your ear, a squeak muffling into Viktor’s eager mouth as a hand slipped between your bodies and pushed into your shorts. Thick fingers pushed past the fabric of your panties, easily spreading through your wet folds. “Fuck,” Jayce huffed, swallowing thickly as he circled your needy clit with short circles.

“I told you she’d like it,” Viktor mumbled against you, pulling back as a string of saliva connected your lips. He grinned, lifting a hand and brushing his thumb against your swollen bottom lip, “You like it, don’t you?”

Your body was on fire, Jayce’s fingers toying with your cunt, earning a few whimpers that you tried to muffle, but to no avail. Half-lidded eyes stared at Viktor as you nodded, watching as he leaned back and looked down between your legs underneath the fabric. He could see his boyfriend’s fingers working through your folds, the slick sound loud enough to reach his ears.

Nimble fingers grabbed at your shorts and underwear, yanking them down your thighs until they slipped past your ankles and were discarded to the floor.

Viktor’s eyes sparkled as he watched, licking his lips as Jayce used two fingers to spread you open.

“She’s dripping,” Jayce murmured, the sound of his voice easing your nerves as you relaxed against him, fingers grabbing at his thighs. You closed your eyes, unable to look at Viktor in your flustered state.

“I can see that,” Viktor purred, his fingers toying at your entrance that Jayce had opened for him. You whined as he pushed in a finger, a second one joining much too easily, “So good. Taking my fingers so easily. I bet you’ve dreamt of this, haven’t you?”

Your back arched at his touch, Jayce’s index finger returning to your clit, a ministration that made your hips shake in tandem with Viktor’s fingers thrusting in and out of you. Your mind was hazy, and you couldn’t think straight, eyes fluttering as you fucked yourself along his two fingers that pumped so deep you were beginning to babble out their names incoherently.

Viktor curved his fingers, pushing on the fleshy pad of muscle inside your pussy that coaxed out a strangled cry from your lips. He didn’t relent, the two men wanting to hear more from you as they worked together. They couldn’t concentrate on anything, fixated on the way your cunt tightened around Viktor’s fingers and how your nails dug into Jayce’s thighs as your climax neared.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, a gasp escaping between parted lips. You attempted to push your thighs together, but Jayce was quick and held your thighs apart.

“Be a good girl,” he breathed into your ear.

Viktor’s free hand moved so he could rub quick circles over your swollen clit, fingers still pumping in and out of you at a relentless pace. Your eyes cracked open, hips twitching violently as heat spread down your thighs and up your abdomen. You locked a gaze with Viktor, and your heart lept into your throat at the way he stared at you—animalistic. Hungry.

“Come for me,” he whispered, fingers curling as he did his best to bring you to your release.

It worked well, especially with Jayce’s lips pressing heady open-mouthed kisses to your neck, hands grabbing at your thighs and keeping you nicely spread.

“Oh my god,” you cried, thighs tensing and toes curling as your orgasm hit you hard. You clenched impossibly tight around Viktor’s fingers, hips stuttering as heavy breaths and moans fell from your lips. Viktor kept fucking you with his fingers, a slower pace to meet with your release until you were spent.

Your hands moved to your face, covering your cheeks that were red from embarrassment. You were still twitching, sensitive from their synchronized touches, and you didn’t dare look at either of them.

Jayce smiled, pressing a chaste kiss at your temple, “That was so hot.”

Viktor chuckled, fingers leaving your cunt, and you whined at the emptiness. He noted the reaction, his gut hot and cock twitching under his shorts.

“Show us your pretty face,” he chided you, voice soft as he grabbed at your wrists. He tugged your hands away from your face, smiling at the way you pouted at him, “Since when are you shy?”

“Since my roommates in a relationship decided they’d rather fuck me instead of sleeping,” you mumbled, shifting and feeling a familiar hardness on your lower back. Jayce grunted, his tanned cheeks red as he twitched, the slight friction on his erection making him eager to make your statement come true.

“We haven’t fucked you yet, though,” Viktor hummed, smirking as he lifted his fingers to his mouth, wet with your juices. He licked them clean and sighed, “Do you want us to?”

You answered quickly, a prominent yes. Within minutes, the three of you had made it to their bedroom, rather clumsy in your efforts. Your back fell against the bedsheets that had been tucked into the mattress so neatly, and your clothes were ripped from your body almost instantaneously.

Viktor was leaning back against the pillows, centred almost perfectly in the middle of the bed, and you were on your knees in front of him. Eyes heavy as you tugged down his shorts and briefs while he tossed his sweaters aside. Jayce settled behind you, also on his knees, and he towered over your smaller frame.

Golden eyes watched you both in awe as you felt Jayce’s bare muscled chest pressed against your back and his cock pushing between your thighs—grazing against your still-wet cunt. You could feel how big he was, and as you stared down at Viktor, you noted his, too.

You didn’t want to think about it, wondering how you would take them. You weren’t much of a go-getter in terms of sex, usually relying on your toys late at night when you needed some relief.

“You’re nervous,” Jayce murmured, calloused hands running up and down your sides. They settled over your breasts, feeling the heaviness of them in his hands as he pinched at your nipples until you gasped.

“A little,” you answered quietly, swallowing down the nervous lump in your throat. You leaned to the side enough that you could tilt your head and meet Jayce’s eyes from behind you. His eyes carried a gentle look, different than the fiery gaze from Viktor.

Jayce smiled, ducking his head closer until his lips brushed against yours, “Don’t be. There’s no reason.”

Your eyes fell closed as you eagerly accepted his kiss, whimpering into his mouth as he tasted you carefully. His tongue pushed past your lips, and you opened yours, tongues dancing together effortlessly. He moaned into you, arms wrapping over your waist as you shared a passionate kiss with a bit too much tongue, but gods, you didn’t care.

Especially when you knew Viktor was staring, leaning back and smirking. Cock twitching and pre-cum beading along the tip as he began to stroke himself.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jayce whispered, pulling from your lips and staring into your eyes as your stomach twisted. You hadn’t heard that in a while. “I want to fuck that pretty face of yours.”

And they both did.

Both of them leaned back against the headboard, eyes fluttering as you sucked them both off. Working your mouth along their cocks one at a time, your hand stroking the one your throat neglected.

“Ah,” Viktor whimpered, a hand tight in your hair as he guided you along his cock, amber eyes heavy as you looked up at him, “Fuck, you’re good at this.”

The praises kept you going; it was like a rush of confidence. You took them both deeper than you thought was possible, their cocks fucking your throat until you had to pull back, gasping for air. You could feel how close they both were, and when Jayce roughly tugged your hair back with a growl deep from his chest, you knew you were good enough to be fucked by them.

Finally.

What you hadn’t expected was how.

The three of you were on the bed, with you sandwiched between them and your back pressed against Jayce’s chest. You looked up at Viktor, your leg hooked around his hips and breathing heavily, unsure where this was going but knowing that you’d do anything. You’d take anything; you needed them.

As Jayce kissed over your bare shoulders, Viktor moved closer, hand at the base of his cock so he could direct it to your entrance. You whined when the tip pushed inside, teasing.

“Viktor,” you breathed, your hands reaching out to grab at his waist so you could tug him closer, “fuck me. I need you, please.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest, “Mmh, you’ve been so good. How could I say no to that pretty face of yours?” He murmured, closing the distance between your lips so he could pull you into a searing kiss.

He pushed inside you with one quick thrust, reaching the hilt as you choked on your breath, the sound captured by his lips. “Ah, fuck,” you croaked, your cunt stretching from his length. You whimpered into his mouth, licking inside until your tongues slid together, and he gave you time to adjust to his size.

Jayce reached around you, the familiar feeling of his finger on your clit easing you. The pain of being stretched, a remnant of the past, as you pulled from Viktor’s lips, “Keep going.”

He obeyed quickly, panting as he shifted so he could fuck you, pulling out half-way and pushing back in. Careful movements until he knew you could take it, quickening to a hard pace that had you moaning out his name.

You reached back behind you, looking over your shoulder at Jayce as your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him. You thumbed at the tip, the pre-cum coating his cock as you pumped him in repetition with Viktor’s thrusts. He huffed at the feeling, his forehead pressed against your shoulder blade as the heat in his abdomen tightened.

“Your pussy feels so good,” Viktor’s voice pulled you down from the clouds, a quiet mewl bubbling up from your throat at the praise, “You’re being so good. Taking me so good… can you take us both?”

Both you and Jayce stilled, tensing at the prospect. Jayce’s cock twitched in your hand, and you stared at Viktor wide-eyed, heart slamming against your chest.

“Both?” You whispered, thankful when Viktor slowed his movements, “I… I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You don’t have to,” Jayce murmured into your ear, his breath heavy from your hand that had nearly stroked him to completion, “It’s okay if it’s a no.”

Viktor hummed in agreement, leaning forward and ducking to press his lips against your jaw, gentle kisses. You closed your eyes, lips parting as quiet sounds of pleasure came from you. The idea of it made your cunt clench around Viktor’s cock, both of them inside you at once.

Stretched impossibly thin.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes fluttering open to look into Viktor’s gold orbs, “I want you both. Fuck, I think I need it.”

Jayce grinned against your ear, your hand eagerly guiding his cock to your already-filled entrance. “Easy now, love.” He said, the pet name making your heart flutter, “One step at a time. I don’t want to hurt you.

Viktor began to slowly push himself in and out of you, slow movements so pleasure filled your senses before you’d be stretched beyond your comfort levels. You squirmed when you felt Jayce’s cock prod at your entrance.

“Let me fuck her,” Jayce mumbled, talking to Viktor, who reluctantly pulled himself out. Your cunt was empty for all of a second before another cock pushed inside you. Stretching you more than Viktor had, but not as long. Gods, you had no idea how you’d make this work.

You leaned forward against Viktor, whimpering as Jayce’s hand grabbed at your hip, digging into your flesh as he fucked you enough to wet his cock.

“You ready? Viktor asked you, his hand caressing your cheek so you were forced to look into his eyes. You nodded, your stomach twisting.

Your eyes closed, and you did your best to relax your body. Your body leaned back against Jayce now as Viktor had to shift his body and position himself until his cock was pushing at your entrance, unsure if this would work.

Then you cried out loudly, choking on a strangled gasp when the head of his cock pushed inside, and your cunt stretched wide to fit him. Jayce was quick to act on your pain, a finger on your clit and lips at your ear, kissing and whispering soft praises in your ear. Anything to calm you, and it worked.

“Shit,” Viktor hissed under his breath, his gaze focused down between your legs, watching as his cock penetrated you and joined Jayce’s inside your tight cunt. You were so wet that it was easy to slide right in, but he was careful and slow, eyes glancing at your face every so often to gauge your reactions.

You clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin and only realized you had been holding your breath until you felt him fit inside you fully. Your eyes fluttered open, looking at Viktor with eyes full of unshed tears.

“Fuck me,” you whimpered, nearly begging. The fullness between your legs was more than you could imagine, but the pleasure was beginning to outweigh the discomfort.

Viktor dove forward, his lips crashing to yours as Jayce moved first. He pulled his hips back, his cock moving out of you slowly and rubbing against Viktor’s, a whine from your lips swallowed down by Viktor’s tongue. As Jayce pushed back in, Viktor pulled out—an electric rhythm that made your head spin.

Both men groaned, breathing heavily as they fucked you slowly. Jayce’s forehead, sticky with sweat, was pressed against the nape of your neck as he focused on his movements. His cock twitched inside you with each forward press of his hips, the sensation of your tight cunt swallowing him while rubbing along Viktor’s had his release close to the edge already.

None of you could speak, the sounds of their slick cocks fucking you in languid movements loud in your ears. Heavy breaths, deep grumbles in their chests, and names rolling from your tongue through pleasured mewls.

Your hips met their rhythms, and not once was your pussy empty. Stretched so deliciously far that you felt your juices dripping down your thighs and wetting the bedsheets beneath your hips.

“I don’t think I’m going to last much longer,” Jayce broke through the silence you shared, his voice shaky as his teeth dragged along your shoulder and focused hard on keeping his release at bay. His finger over your clit had only helped in pushing you further toward your orgasm, fleshy walls clenching tight around the two cocks that took their turns filling you.

“Me neither,” Viktor pulled from your lips, a moan catching in his throat as he stuttered his hips forward, “God—fuck.”

He was the first to fall over the edge, gasping as he buried his face forward against your neck, kissing you as he spilled inside. Jayce was right behind, unable to keep himself from pushing into you, so both cocks stretched you, hot cum sputtering inside you and leaking out as you milked both men dry.

Only a few more tight circles on your clit sent you over, hips twitching and causing both men to groan at the overwhelming feeling of you fucking yourself on their cocks as you rode out your climax. Electricity shooting through your body, loud cries of pleasure falling from your tongue until you were limp and whimpering, shifting so they could both pull out from you.

Once it emptied, you could finally breathe, your body able to relax from the limits you had pushed yourself to.

“You did so well,” Viktor breathed against your neck, hardly able to speak. His mind was swirling, the weed and exhaustion only dizzying him further as he groaned, “Fuck, I’ve never felt better.”

Jayce hummed in acknowledgement, letting out a heavy sigh as he rolled onto his back and ran a hand through his hair. He wore a lopsided grin as he tugged you towards him so you were tucked forward against his side and Viktor followed, clinging to you from behind and burying his face in your hair.

“Maybe we’ll do that again sometime,” he eventually spoke, slurring slightly from the tiredness that had begun to consume him.

“Might have to give me a few business days to recover,” you murmured, your face nuzzled against his chest as the three of you lay atop the sheets. Much too tired to even bother pulling the sheets above your bodies.

Viktor chuckled, inhaling your scent deeply as his fingers traced patterns along your stomach absently, “Maybe I will buy you a strap. You can join me in fucking Jayce one of these days.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jayce argued, half-asleep.

“You get used to it.” You giggled, eyes closed as sleep began to win you over.

You sighed quietly, the sounds of both men snoring softly as they fell into deep slumbers after a week of overworking themselves. Your heart was so full of love as they held you close—it was addicting. Jayce and Viktor were addicting. Whatever this was blossoming into was a dangerous game, but you knew you could trust them with your heart.

Your favourite boys.

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jupiterpilgrim · 9 months ago

Text

The Pleasure Equation: When the Nerd Solves Everything, Including You

Nayeon x Male Reader

word count: 8.2k

a/n: Yo, my first published smut. I hope you like it. Feel free to tell me what you think.

—

You're lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering why, in the 21st century, universities still think pairing people for projects is a good idea. Plus, you're terrible at this subject. Advanced Calculus? They might as well call it "How to Ruin My Weekend." The only saving grace is that your partner, Nayeon, the biggest nerd in class, will handle most of it. For you, it seems like a golden ticket: she does the work, and you pretend you helped. It was the perfect plan. What could go wrong?

The doorbell rings. Of course, it’s her. You were expecting it—you could almost time Nayeon's nerdy punctuality. And, as always, she looks like the picture-perfect good girl—cardigan, glasses, skirt, that innocent, serious air of someone more interested in spreadsheets than in people. The kind of girl most guys wouldn't look at twice. But you, well, you had to look. It was obligatory since she was going to carry your weight in this project.

You open the door, and there she is, laptop under her arm, shy smile and everything you imagined. The nerd who's here to save your semester.

What you didn’t know—and God knew you were about to find out—is that Nayeon had planned a different type of study for this project.

She walks in with that confident stride that only people who are either extremely smart or who know the subject is your lifeline have. And honestly, you’re not ready for the energy she brings.

“Hi,” she says, glancing around your house, skipping any small talk.

“Hey, Nayeon. Nice to have you here.” You try to sound more enthusiastic than you really are. “Want anything? Water, juice, tea?” you offer, hoping to buy yourself a few more minutes of procrastination before facing the project.

“No, thanks.” She looks at you over her glasses, almost as if she’s analyzing your soul. “I think we should just get started. The sooner we finish, the better.”

“Yeah, better,” you think. And with that, off you go to your bedroom. Yes, the bedroom, because it’s the only place in the house that seems even remotely presentable. There are piles of books (that you haven’t read, just skimmed for the basics), notebooks with ridiculously short notes you took, some clothes scattered here and there... oh, and your unmade but perfectly comfortable bed, where you sit on the edge. It was a clinically tidy room compared to the living room or the kitchen.

Nayeon doesn't seem to care about anything. She sits at the desk chair and opens her laptop.

The project, of course, is about "Modeling Algebraic Functions for the Optimization of Industrial Processes." Or something equally mind-numbing that only Nayeon seems to understand. You’re more lost than someone trying to solve a Rubik's cube in the dark. And it’s all because of your dad, who, in his non-threatening way, persuaded you to follow the family career path. Damn Engineering (and tradition).

Nayeon, as always, is already deep into the work, fingers flying over the keyboard while her glasses slip to the tip of her nose, balancing dangerously between focused nerd and, well... ¿sexy? nerd?

Not that you’d admit that.

She glances at you, and for a second, you almost feel like she expects you to say something useful. Which, of course, would be a grave miscalculation. Literally.

“So, I thought you could start with the part about differential equations,” she says, making the suggestion with the ease of someone asking you to hold a cup, when what she’s really offering is a grand piano. “And then the graphs…”

You pretend to be genuinely interested. Which means nodding in a way that could be mistaken for understanding if someone looked quickly, but in reality, you're utterly lost.

“Oh, sure, differential equations…” you repeat, as if the words held any special meaning. They don’t.

Nayeon sighs and goes back to typing, clearly aware of the level of uselessness you're operating at. She’s probably already mentally dividing the entire project, calculating how many extra hours she'll need to cover for the fact that you're, essentially, dead weight.

“Maybe you could review the introduction,” she suggests, polite but with the patience of someone talking to a child who still doesn’t know the difference between shapes.

You scratch your head, pretending to read the introduction she’s already written. One, two lines. Everything looks very... professional. You attempt to seem helpful:

“You know, I think you’re... um... doing great with this. Maybe... maybe I should focus more on the creative part of the project, like... the presentation design?” you suggest, smiling, as if making a PowerPoint full of silly animations was an undervalued talent in academia.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Design?” Nayeon asks, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “In an Advanced Calculus project? You want to fill the presentation with glitter and stars, is that it?”

“Hey, glitter makes everything better,” you reply, defensive, but unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe throw in some memes to lighten the mood… People love memes... I guess.”

“I’m not sure if you're joking or if you've completely given up on life,” Nayeon mutters, with a short, dry laugh, returning to the keyboard.

You shift on the bed, trying to find a position that seems less like a desperate student and more like someone slightly focused on the project. The silence is broken only by the sound of her typing and your occasional murmur of fake approval: “Hmm, sure, that makes sense…”

It doesn’t.

Then, out of nowhere, Nayeon looks at you again, but this time with a different kind of curiosity. There’s something in her eyes, something that goes beyond pure calculation—and we’re not talking about the equations.

“You live alone, right?” The question comes casually, almost innocently. Almost.

“Uh, yeah, I do,” you answer, a bit confused by the sudden shift. “Why?”

“Just... curious,” she replies, but the smile she gives is far from innocent. “It must be nice living alone. I bet you can do whatever you want, right? No one around to hear...”

“Yeah, kind of,” you say, scratching the back of your neck. “Like... I can have pizza for breakfast without being judged. And play video games late. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

Nayeon laughs, but in a way that makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, like she knows something you don’t.

“And... what do you mean by ‘do whatever you want’?” you ask, hesitant but unable to resist the curiosity.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, looking away for a second. “Just thinking... it must be interesting. Having that kind of freedom.”

She pauses and looks directly at you again, her fingers sliding slowly across the keyboard, as if the project was now the last thing on her mind.

“Tell me something... what’s your type?” The question lands like a stone thrown into a calm lake, sending ripples of confusion through you.

You almost choke.

“My... type?” you repeat, as if it’s a math problem with too many variables.

“Yeah, like... what do you find attractive in someone?” Nayeon continues, her voice far too casual for the situation. She leans forward slightly, her eyes locked on yours.

“Well, I dunno.” You shift uncomfortably. “I guess... someone fun, you know? Someone who can make me laugh.”

“Hmm. And me?” Nayeon tilts her head, her glasses now low enough to reveal her sharp eyes behind them. “Do I make you laugh?”

You freeze, because the right answer to this feels like a trap.

Sure, Nayeon’s made you laugh plenty of times, especially when she freaks out over losing half a point on a test. But that doesn’t seem like the kind of "laugh" she’s asking about.

“Uh, yeah, of course!” you respond, quickly. “I mean, in a good way. Not that I’m laughing *at* you, but... you know what I mean, right?”

She smiles, and you’re not sure if she’s satisfied with your answer or just amused by your nervousness.

“You know,” Nayeon continues, “I think I prefer guys who... know what they want. Guys with attitude.”

You nod, trying to process what’s happening.

“Oh, sure. Attitude is always good, right?” you reply, having no idea where this conversation is heading.

She looks at you in a way that feels almost predatory, and you realize that, somehow, whatever control you thought you had over this situation (even a little) now belongs entirely to her.

“Do you have it?” she asks. “Attitude?”

At that moment, you realize two things: first, Nayeon isn’t interested in solving differential equations today. And second, you probably should’ve agreed to do the graphs.

You feel the pressure of the question like a multiple-choice exam where all the answers seem wrong.

"Now?" you stammer, as if time itself is about to collapse. "Uh… I don’t know, I think we’re in the middle of a project, right? I wouldn’t want to interrupt…"

"Interrupt?" She lets out a short laugh. "I think work went out the window a long time ago, don’t you?"

With that, she stands up, closing the laptop, and starts walking slowly around the room, as if inspecting the space, or maybe just teasing you on purpose. Every step she takes seems more choreographed than anything you’ve ever seen on stage.

Suddenly, she stops, untying her hair and shaking it loose.

"You know," she continues, turning her gaze back to you, "I thought of a way to make things more interesting."

Your brain, of course, is already in full panic mode, but your mouth, as always, insists on trying to sound casual.

"Really? Interesting how?" you ask, hoping the answer isn’t something like "Russian roulette."

She crosses her arms. You realize that, at some point, you completely lost any chance of controlling your own fate.

"A game," Nayeon says, with a sly smile. "Let’s play a game. What do you say?"

"What kind of game?" you ask, already regretting letting curiosity win over survival instinct.

"Oh, don’t worry, nothing too crazy," she replies, shrugging as if the suggestion were perfectly innocent. "Something fun, to relax, since the project clearly isn’t going anywhere today."

She steps closer to you, with that conspiratorial air of someone about to suggest something really dangerous.

"What do you think?" she whispers, lowering her voice. "You up for playing with me?"

"Err... depends on the game, right?" you reply, trying to sound laid-back.

Her eyes gleam behind her glasses, and the smile on her lips is pure provocation.

"Let’s see… How about something simple?" she suggests, her eyes never leaving yours. "Questions and answers. To test what you've been learning in the course."

"Just that?" you ask, half skeptical, half curious.

She speaks with a lightness that contrasts the intensity of her proposal:

"Of course not. For every question you get right, I’ll take off a piece of clothing."

You blink. Blink again. And then a third time, just to make sure you heard correctly.

"What?" you blurt out, a laugh escaping before you can control it. "You’re kidding, right?"

Nayeon crosses her arms, that crafty smile still on her face. Apparently, she’s not kidding.

"I’m dead serious. And if you manage to make me take off everything, I’ll give you a prize."

"A prize?" You try to keep your composure, but all you can think about is that maybe studying Calculus isn’t so bad after all. "What kind of prize?"

Nayeon doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she lifts her skirt just enough to reveal a glimpse of her panties — white, of course, because even in this, she has to be precise and teasing.

You swallow hard, your eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. Suddenly, the temperature in the room rises by five degrees, and it has nothing to do with global warming.

"Hm... okay, let’s go," you respond, trying to sound casual, but in reality, your mind is a complete mess. Who knew the class nerd had this side to her?

"Great." Nayeon giggles before adjusting her glasses and kicking off her shoes to, let’s say, get more comfortable. "First question: What’s the basic principle of algebraic function modeling applied to industrial process optimization?"

You stare at her. Of course, it wasn’t going to be an easy game. Your brain tries, with herculean effort, to remember what the hell that means.

"Hm… I think… it’s using equations to simplify a complex process?" you guess.

She smiles.

"Well, close enough. You got the general concept," she says.

She starts with the most innocent pieces, of course. The cardigan that you barely noticed she was wearing, because let’s be honest, your focus was more on the project — or on how not to do it... Well, at least that’s what you thought. Now, the focus has definitely changed. Every button that opens feels like a small personal victory. And before you know it, the cardigan is on the floor. She looks at you with a sly smile.

"Shall we continue?"

"Damn right, I’m enjoying this!"

"How do you define an improper integral?"

You blink. Of course, she’d come up with one of those questions you never knew the answer to.

"An… improbable integral?"

She laughs, a clear, almost musical sound that fills the room. If Nayeon were the type of person who enjoyed academically torturing others, she was definitely on the right track.

"I’ll give you a hint," she leans forward, just enough for you to see part of the top underneath her perfectly white blouse. "It has something to do with limits."

Limits. Of course. Yours are being tested in a different way. You vaguely remember the professor mentioning something about this, between naps.

"Oh, right! It’s when the interval goes to infinity, right?" you venture, your heart already beating faster.

"Correct!" She claps her hands, feigning innocent excitement that definitely doesn’t match the way her hands move toward the buttons of her blouse. One button, two, three... and soon, Nayeon’s blouse is off, revealing a black camisole, tight enough to show that she had planned all of this meticulously.

You exhale a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Now, you’re invested in the game.

"Next question: What are the three most common methods to solve a system of linear equations?"

Linear equations? Of course, you slept through that class. But then… things start to click.

"Elimination, substitution, and… matrices."

"You’re getting the hang of it, huh?" she says, her voice almost a purr.

Without hesitation, she leans back a little and, with a slow, sensual gesture, removes the black camisole, now revealing a delicate white bra, almost the same shade as her skin.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, but somehow, you’re starting to enjoy the game, and oddly enough, math too. Well, this is definitely a more rewarding way to learn something you don’t like.

"Now an easier one," she teases, as if giving you a break. "How do you calculate the area under a curve?"

You swallow hard, not because of the question, but because Nayeon is crossing her arms in a way that’s far from casual, emphasizing even more what’s... well, on display.

"Definite integrals," you answer quickly, perhaps with more enthusiasm than necessary.

She gives a small round of applause, but this time doesn’t make any immediate move to take off anything else.

"Very good! But... are you sure you want to continue?" she asks, tilting her head, as her fingers rest on the zipper of her skirt.

You’re not sure if you want to continue the game or skip straight to the “prize,” but whatever it is, you need this girl naked. But for that you need to concentrate, but how would you do it? It's certainly not easy. Not when she runs her fingers, provocatively slow, to the zipper of her skirt.

“Alright, just one more, then,” she says, with a false lightness that only adds to the tension in the air, “a simpler one, I promise. If you get it right, I’ll take off one more piece. If you get it wrong… the game’s over.”

Your mind is racing, a mix of nerves and pure curiosity. After all, how did you end up here, being quizzed by Nayeon, The Nerd™? And now, The Nerd™ was about to strip.

Weird world.

“Okay… ask the question,” you say, trying to seem calm. Just trying.

Nayeon raises an eyebrow, still toying with the zipper of her skirt, but not pulling it down at all, just… waiting. “What’s Stokes' theorem?” she asks.

You almost laugh. Not really, more like a nervous chuckle that escapes before you realize… crap, you actually don’t remember.

“Erm…” you begin, desperately searching for some vague memory of a class you definitely slept through.

Nayeon doesn’t miss the look of panic on your face.

“Ah, struggling?” she asks, her voice sweetly sadistic. “How about a hint?” She leans in, the skirt still untouched, but in a deliberate move, she adjusts her bra, already more revealing than it should be, giving you a clear view of her generous cleavage.

You clear your throat, dying a little inside but trying to maintain your composure.

“Uh, it has to do with surface integrals, right? Something about flows… and vectors…”

“Exactly! Flows and vectors,” she repeats, satisfied. And then, in an almost innocent gesture, as if she were merely taking off an uncomfortable shoe after a long day, she pulls the zipper of the skirt, which slides down her legs, hitting the floor like it didn’t even matter, revealing her bare legs and white panties. Her thighs are even more perfect than you imagined—toned, lightly defined. Your throat dries up as if you’ve just run a marathon, but the only thing racing is your heart.

Honestly, you’re never really prepared for every time she gets more and more exposed. She places a hand on her hip, looking at you with that expression that makes you wonder how you never realized this before—that yes, Nayeon, the “nerd” of the class, was a girl far more complex than any Stokes theorem.

“So, what now? Want to continue or… are you satisfied?” She pouts adorably, challenging you, and you know, at that moment, that she wants you to keep going. After all, she’s having way too much fun.

You take a deep breath, determined, even though your mind is light-years away from any coherent thought.

“Sure. Next question. I’m going to win my prize.”

“What a determined guy,” Nayeon chuckles softly, with that teasing air, as if you were on a quiz show and not in some sort of erotically torturous strip game for the brave. “Alright then… explain the principle of superposition.”

She knew you had no idea. You knew that she knew. But what did it matter? What mattered was that your eyes were glued to every movement she made. She tilted her head, playing with the strap of her bra.

You think for a moment. Superposition… electric fields… sure, you got this.

“It’s when, hmm…” your voice cracks, but you force yourself to sound confident. “It’s when the sum of the effects of multiple causes is equal to the sum of the individual causes. Each field acts like the others aren’t even there.”

She leans in, subtly, fiddling with the strap of her bra, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Exactly,” she says, letting the strap fall with a slow motion from one shoulder. And then, from the other. “Congratulations.”

The bra falls to the floor.

You try, honestly try, to keep your focus on what’s happening, but there’s a problem. Actually, two, and both of them are right in front of you, fully exposed. No matter how much your mind insists that you need to concentrate on the game… you simply can’t.

“J-just one more question, right?” You stammer, desperately trying to focus on your shoes, the wall, anything but… well, Nayeon, and the fact that she was now practically naked.

She leans forward slightly, arms “casually” crossed, and you’re convinced she did this just to make sure your brain imploded. One of her breasts lightly brushes against her arm, and your mind screams something between HELP and THANK YOU.

"Exactly,” she says, and there’s a hint of malice in her voice, that tone that indicates she knows by now you’re one step away from a complete meltdown. “One last question. If you get it right… you win your prize. If you get it wrong… you’ll do the entire project alone.”

Your head throbs, struggling to focus on anything besides her smooth skin and the hair falling loosely over her shoulders.

“Alone?” you repeat, dumbfounded. A simple word, but you can barely get it out.

She bites her lip, enjoying herself. And then, in the most seductive voice possible, she drops the bomb:

“Of course… if you mess up now in the final minutes, you’ll have to do it all on your own. But if you get it right, you’ll see what’s under this,” she pulls at the side of her white panties slightly, just enough to let your imagination spin. “And who knows what else…” Her voice is a caress wrapped in pure temptation.

Yeah, it’s worth the risk.

Focus, you tell yourself, as if that’s remotely possible. Here you are, in a state of complete mental confusion, and Nayeon is there, almost naked, suggesting there’s just one question left before… well, paradise. And hell, too, because clearly, you wouldn’t survive doing this fucked-up project alone.

“Alright, let’s go,” you force the words out. “What’s the last question?”

Nayeon smiles in a way that says, I got you. And of course, she did. She leans in again, this time closer, her panties still firmly in place, but for how long?

“Ready for this?” she murmurs, with the tone of a final temptation. “What law of electromagnetism describes the relationship between the circulation of a magnetic field along a closed path and the electric current passing through the surface enclosed by that path?”

You freeze. Your mind is almost there, trying to grab the answer from some corner not focused on the fact that Nayeon is practically naked in front of you.

“Uh…” you begin, Nayeon sways her hips as she waits. “It’s… it’s…” you struggle. Nothing. Your mind is completely blank, a screen of static.

Nayeon sighs, as if she’s genuinely disappointed. Of course she’s not. She’s having way too much fun for that.

“Need a hint?” she offers, with a smile as sweet as it is devastating.

You nod desperately. Anything, for God’s sake, anything to help!

She whispers softly, “This law introduced the concept of ‘displacement current.’”

You blink, and then, as if by some miracle, the answer comes to you. But before you can speak it aloud, Nayeon leans in again and your traitorous eyes glance at her exposed breasts.

You almost forget the answer entirely, but a slip or whatever that was makes you say, “Ampère-Maxwell’s Law,” your voice trembling, unsure if physics is about to save you or be the last nail in the coffin of your sanity.

Nayeon looks you up and down.

She approved.

Slowly, as if savoring the moment, in a exaggeratedly calculated movement, she pulls her panties down, revealing everything.

Her curves are so smooth they seem hand-carved by some Renaissance artist with a thing for naughty nerd girls. Her entire body is a work of art, every inch of her pure perfection, and as she moves closer, you feel like you’re about to lose control for good.

Nayeon sits beside you, her legs slightly apart so you can see her tight little pussy. She looks you up and down, the same look that used to seem like someone fully focused on her studies, now carrying much more obvious intentions.

"Do you like what you see?" she asks, her voice low and seductive.

You swallow hard, trying not to seem as out of control as you really are.

"Yeah... Very much..." you respond, your voice rougher than usual, and before you know it, Nayeon is leaning in closer, her body heat practically radiating onto you.

"What are you waiting for, then?" she whispers, her lips just inches from yours. The suggestion lingers in the air, and your body seems to move on its own. Your hand rises, hesitant, until it reaches her breasts, your fingers feeling the smoothness of her skin and the firmness that makes you forget about any equation or college project. You squeeze lightly, and Nayeon lets out a soft sigh that drives you even crazier.

She leans in more, her lips brushing yours in a gentle kiss. When she pulls away, her eyes are gleaming.

"I’ve always liked you, you know?" she confesses, lightly biting her lower lip as her hand slides down your chest. "I've always thought you were really hot… and smart, too. You just needed a little help focusing on what matters. You’ve got potential, you just need to get rid of the distractions."

You chuckle nervously, still trying to process what’s happening.

"I never imagined you were like this… You always seemed so… well-behaved." The words come out with difficulty, your mind still reeling between what you thought you knew about Nayeon and what you're discovering now.

She laughs softly, amused, her eyes half-closed as she replies.

"You can’t judge a book by its cover," she says, her voice almost a whispered secret, as if she’s letting you in on something few people are privileged to know.

She then pulls your hand to her waist, and you squeeze, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body under your fingers. Nayeon’s body fits against yours in a way that feels almost orchestrated. Her hands, agile and confident, slide down to your thigh, in a way that makes your breathing quicken even more.

And then you feel her touch on your groin. It’s a slow tease, and she looks into your eyes with a smile that’s almost victorious.

"Do you want me to suck you off?" she asks, her voice thick with desire.

Your heart is racing so fast you can barely think of a coherent response, but you nod, without hesitation.

"I do." The word escapes your lips, more of a groan than a response.

Nayeon smiles, that wicked smile you would never have associated with the girl who sat in the front row of the class.

"I’ve been dying to," she murmurs, the heat between you two rising with each second, promising much more than just an intellectual debate.

Nayeon kneels between your legs and prepares to take off her glasses. At that moment, it seems like the last facade of the “well-behaved nerd” is about to fall along with them. But you, in a sudden impulse of something even Freud would hesitate to analyze, reach out and say, almost automatically, “No, leave the glasses on. I like you like that.”

She stops, her fingers still hovering over the frames, and smiles in a way only someone about to change your fate could.

"Really?" She tilts her head, clearly liking the idea. Not just liking it—loving it. The kind of smile she gives you is one of someone who’s just gained a new strategic advantage in the game.

"Can you… do it… with the glasses on?" you ask, and honestly, now that the words are in the air, the question seems less weird than it should.

"Of course. If that’s what you want," Nayeon replies, the smile gaining an edge of provocation that makes you wonder if she hadn’t planned this all along.

She reaches for your pants and pulls them down along with your underwear. Nayeon touches your cock, and the sensation makes you realize how small her hands are. With incredibly soft fingers, she grips it firmly, as if evaluating something rare, a treasure she’s just found. Her eyes, still behind the lenses, look up at you.

"Wow..." she murmurs, impressed. "It’s so… big and thick.”

If you had any chance of keeping your composure, it vanished with that sentence.

"Your hand… is so soft," you manage to say, your brain desperately trying to keep up with what’s happening.

Nayeon smiles.

"Oh, if you liked that, just wait until I put it in my mouth."

And that’s exactly what she does. Nayeon spits into her palm, the quick, indecent sound echoing in the room, and starts stroking you, her touch now sliding with the ease of something well-lubricated, almost clinical—if it weren’t absolutely pornographic.

And then, with little warning, she swallows.

Just like that. As if she’d been trained at some secret school of forbidden pleasure, her mouth wraps around your cock, warm, wet, and with a desire bordering on voracious. She looks up at you from below, her glasses still firmly in place.

You writhe in pleasure. Nothing else matters. Not the project, not life’s worries. Just Nayeon, and the way she sucks, kisses, and takes you deep, with a dedication that would make anyone believe she’s indeed “studying” something.

"I’m going to use my breasts now," she says, stopping briefly, her voice slightly hoarse, as she adjusts her breasts, squeezing them around your cock.

Ah, Nayeon’s breasts. Warm, soft, and incredibly seductive, they create the perfect “pillow” as she starts giving you a titjob. And the glasses? Still there, perfectly framing her face, turning this whole thing into an improbable, yet wonderful fantasy.

The sensation of her breasts pressing against your cock is a next-level delight. Nayeon, with a mischievous look and a voice barely above a whisper, asks, "Are you enjoying this, babe?"

You can only groan in response, the sensation so intense that words refuse to form properly. Her breasts move up and down, creating a warm, sweaty pressure that’s almost indescribable. She adjusts the rhythm.

"This is..." you manage to say, your voice hoarse and breaking. "Fuck, this is amazing."

The pleasure builds, a rising heat that seems to have a life of its own as Nayeon keeps working her magic. Her breasts, pressing and rubbing with delicious intensity, create waves of pleasure that only get stronger.

As the rhythm quickens, Nayeon gives a satisfied smile. Her breasts continue to move up and down, the sensation around your cock hot and wet, and you feel the pressure and heat mounting.

You start to squirm, the sensations growing more and more intense. The pleasure is so overwhelming it feels like your body is on the verge of exploding. Nayeon adjusts the pressure and pace, making every touch and movement you feel even more intense.

“Am I making you feel good?” Nayeon asks.

You can only nod, the feeling of being on the brink of climax almost overwhelming. Your moans become more frequent, and you can feel yourself nearing the point of no return... something Nayeon hadn’t anticipated.

Then, just as the pleasure reaches an almost unbearable level, you cum. The first spurt surprises her, landing on her face. She stays there, wide-eyed and gasping, her glasses now smeared with your semen. She accepts what happened and keeps stroking you, and the second, weaker spurt drips down onto her breasts, slowly trickling. She finishes the job by rubbing your cock on her chest, spreading your cum all over her breasts until they’re thoroughly messy. When she stops, you exhale, feeling like you’re in paradise.

“Fuck… that was so damn good, Nayeon…”

She stays still for a moment, her expression a mix of surprise and indignation. The intensity of your orgasm seems to have caught her so off guard that even she needs a moment to process it.

“Why did you cum?!” Nayeon asks, removing her glasses, her voice filled with a mix of irritation and unfulfilled desire. “You haven’t even fucked me yet!”

Breathless and slightly embarrassed, you try to defuse the situation.

“Well, take it as a compliment,” you say, a sheepish smile forming on your face. “You’re just too hot for me to handle.”

Luckily for you, this makes Nayeon smile, the irritation melting into a flush. She relaxes, though still with a teasing edge.

“Tsk. But next time, don’t cum on my glasses,” she says, her voice softer now. “But if it felt good for you, I guess I can forgive it. Just know that I’ll make sure you get hard for me again,” she says with an authority that makes her even more irresistible.

Nayeon moves closer, slowly, like a predator about to capture its prey, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of challenge and mischief. You feel the air shift as she approaches, as though the entire room is holding its breath for what’s about to happen.

“Take off your clothes,” she commands, her voice low but filled with an authority that makes you obey without hesitation.

In an instant, you’re naked, sitting on the bed, vulnerable, your heart pounding faster. Nayeon watches you, a smile spreading across her lips, like she’s admiring a masterpiece she’s about to perfect. She sits beside you with a calculated calm, and before you know it, her lips are on yours—soft at first, then more intense, as if she’s learning every inch of your mouth.

Between kisses, her hand starts exploring your body, moving slowly, until it reaches exactly where you want it most. Her fingers wrap around your cock, and the touch is... electrifying. It’s not just any touch; it’s the kind that knows exactly what it’s doing. She strokes you lightly, almost teasingly, while her lips pull away just enough for her to whisper in your ear:

“Remember that time in class when the professor asked me to help you with an assignment?” She pauses, her lips brushing lightly against your ear. “All I could think about was how much I wanted you to fuck me until I came.”

The effect of her words is immediate. Your entire body reacts before your mind can even catch up. Your cock pulses hard in her hand, almost as if it’s following an unspoken command. She feels it and giggles softly, a sound just as provocative as every move of her fingers.

“Look at you…” she says, her voice full of amusement and a hint of mockery. “You’re getting hard for me again, aren’t you? What a naughty boy.”

Your heart races, and you can hardly respond. All you can do is gaze at her while your desire skyrockets. Her hand moves slowly and deliberately, teasing every part of you, while her eyes stay locked on yours, as if savoring every second.

“How badly do you want to fuck me?” Nayeon asks, her voice soft but filled with a promise you know she’ll fulfill.

“So much,” you reply, almost breathless, anticipation taking over every inch of your being.

She smirks—that dangerous smile that says, "Exactly what I wanted to hear." Her lips return to yours, but this time there’s more urgency, a hunger building with every passing moment. Her hand moves with more intention now, and your excitement grows at an unimaginable rate.

“I knew you were like this…” she murmurs between kisses, her lips nearly glued to yours. “Such a horny little thing, always wanting more.”

She tightens her grip slightly, making you squirm, the pleasure coursing through you with every squeeze, every word whispered like a secret shared only with you.

“You like this, don’t you?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Her eyes glint as her hand continues its strategic work. “You like me teasing you.”

“Yes,” you manage to say, your voice shaky with desire.

Nayeon pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her smile blending amusement with seduction.

“Good, because I love teasing you…” she says, then leans down, as if she’s about to do something even more daring. Her lips brush against your neck, lightly biting as her hand slides lower, teasing and gripping, leaving you on the edge of collapse.

“Think you can handle another round?” she asks, her voice now full of challenge.

“There’s only one way to find out,” you respond, trying to keep your composure but knowing you’re completely at her mercy.

“Let’s see then,” she whispers against your skin, and before you know it, she’s moving down, her lips traveling across your body, and you lean back onto the bed. She leaves a trail of kisses and bites along your chest and stomach, making her way lower.

She looks up at you, her eyes dark with desire, and with one final mischievous smile, she leans back up just enough to brush her lips against yours without fully kissing.

“Are you ready to fuck me now?” she asks.

And without a doubt, you are.

Nayeon lies back on the bed, slowly pulling you on top of her until you feel the warmth of her body against yours. The way she molds perfectly beneath you feels like she was made for this. Your hands trace the contours of her breasts, fingers pressing gently against her skin as you slide into her slowly, savoring every second. Your lips meet hers in a slow, intense kiss, tongues moving in sync with the rhythm of your hips—thrusting in and out, deepening with each stroke.

She moans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through your whole body, making you speed up a little while still keeping control. Nayeon breaks the kiss, throwing her head back, eyes closed, and you take the chance to kiss her neck, tasting the salty sheen of sweat. "You like this, don't you?" you whisper in her ear, your voice low and husky as you keep thrusting, feeling how tightly she clenches around you.

"Fuck… yes," she breathes out, her nails now digging into your back, scratching you with a mix of pain and pleasure. "Fuck me harder."

You obey without thinking, picking up the pace, each thrust deeper and more deliberate. Her moans grow louder, almost turning into screams, and it only drives you to go harder. You kiss her again, this time with more urgency, sucking her lower lip between yours as your hips move in a nearly frantic rhythm. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room, mixed with her broken moans and your own heavy breathing.

"You're so fucking hot," you say between kisses, softly biting along her jawline as you lose yourself in the sensation. "So tight… fuck, Nayeon."

She opens her eyes, looking at you with a mix of challenge and pleasure, her face flushed and sweaty. "Come on, fuck me harder… don’t stop," she pleads, pulling you down for another kiss, this one desperate, as if she needs every touch of yours to survive. You oblige, thrusting harder, while her moans turn into muffled cries as your mouths stay connected.

But then, you decide to switch positions. Science, after all, is about experimentation. You position her at the edge of the bed, Nayeon's legs lifted and spread wide, her pussy on full display—pink and pulsing, inviting. The sight makes you lose control for a moment as you grab her thighs, pulling her closer to you. With one hand, you line up your cock, the tip already slick with excitement, before sliding it inside, feeling the warmth wrap around you completely. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room, mingling with both your moans.

Nayeon looks up at you, a wild gleam in her eyes, completely different from the girl everyone thinks they know. "You're such a filthy pervert," she growls through gritted teeth, her voice low and dripping with lust. "Fucking your study partner like this, so dirty… Do you see what you've done to me? The little nerd everyone thinks is so innocent, and look where I am now, all spread out for you…"

The sound of her voice, the moans slipping out as you fuck her harder and deeper, only makes you lose more control. "Innocent?" you mutter, your breathing ragged. "You pretend to be the good little student, but with me, you love being a slut, don’t you?"

She lets out a wicked laugh, cut off by a louder moan as you thrust even deeper. "I fucking love it. I love how you make me forget everything… I love being your little slut. I’m all yours, and you can do whatever you want to me."

Your movements grow faster, each thrust pulling louder moans from her. You grip her thighs tight, pulling her into you with each thrust, your eyes fixed on the sight of your cock sliding in and out, completely soaked. "Look at you," you growl, your voice dripping with taunt. "So depraved… No one would guess that the nerdy girl from class is here, begging to be fucked like a whore."

Nayeon lets out a long, drawn-out moan, almost a scream, her body arching beneath you, fingers gripping the sheets tightly. "Yes! Fuck me harder, fuck! I want you to know this is what I love… I love being the little nerd only you can fuck like this. Faster, harder!"

You don't hesitate, your hips slamming against hers in a frenzied pace, the heat and pressure of every thrust consuming you both. Her legs tremble, and you keep pounding with force and precision. "Admit it, Nayeon," you say through gritted teeth, picking up the pace. "You love being my little slut…"

She opens her eyes, staring at you with an almost possessive intensity. "Fuck, yes! I’m your slut. Fuck me more, fuck my pussy like I’m only yours…" You lower yourself onto her, kissing her hard, pouring every bit of your heat into her through the kiss as you keep thrusting, and between desperate, erratic kisses, she gasps, "Take me from behind now. I want you deep inside me, you filthy pervert!”

You pull away from her, and Nayeon promptly positions herself on your messy bed, arching her back, ready. Your approach is almost reverent. You position yourself behind her as you lower your head slowly, your eyes tracing the sight she offers—her wet pussy, swollen with excitement, and just above, her tight little ass, teasing you. She’s so exposed, so vulnerable, yet there’s a confidence in her, like she’s fully aware of what’s coming. And that’s exactly what turns her on.

Before making a move, you let your warm breath brush against her skin, sending shivers through her body. Nayeon lets out a shaky sigh, and her back arches even more. “Don’t make me wait…” she murmurs, a mix of urgency and need in her voice.

With a sly grin, you lower your mouth, and your tongue finally touches the slick entrance of her pussy. The taste is addictive, just as you suspected. You start with soft, long licks, gliding along the length of her lips, savoring every drop of her juices. Nayeon responds immediately, letting out quiet moans, her breathing already quickening.

“You… know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?” she asks, her voice broken by little gasps.

You chuckle lightly between licks but don’t answer. Your hands firmly grip Nayeon’s ass, keeping her in place as your tongue slides deeper, exploring her sensitive folds. Each time you graze the entrance of her pussy, it clenches, almost begging to be filled, but you refuse to give her everything at once. Instead, you decide to tease her even more.

Sliding your tongue upward, you slowly trace circles around her tight little asshole, making it wet with your saliva. The reaction is instant—Nayeon’s body trembles, and her moans intensify. “Oh my God… keep going… please…” she whispers, her voice a desperate plea.

You alternate between quick, gentle licks, sometimes focusing on her swollen, slick pussy, other times on her sensitive ass, driving her to the brink of losing control. Your tongue dances between the two spots, teasing and pleasing her at the same time. With every new touch, Nayeon’s moans grow louder, more urgent.

“You… you like this, don’t you, you pervert?” she asks with a muffled voice, her hands gripping the bed sheets tightly.

“I love how you taste,” you murmur against her skin.

She lets out a breathy laugh, somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. “Of course you do, I’m… delicious.” And you can’t help but agree. Your tongue continues to explore, licking deep into her pussy and then sliding up to her ass, enjoying the way her body reacts to every touch. Your fingers dig into her ass cheeks harder, leaving red marks on her pale skin.

Nayeon’s moans mix with uncontrollable whispers, each word escaping between ragged breaths. “Please… you’re killing me,” she begs, her voice thick with pleasure, her eyes half-closed in pure lust. “Fuck me… just fuck me already!”

Her plea is desperate, loaded with an almost imperious urgency, and you, with a mischievous smile, position yourself behind her, watching as she pushes her ass higher, her slick pussy begging for more. “You sure you can take it?” you tease, your hands already gripping her hips, but before she can even respond, you pull her back, aligning yourself with precision, the head of your cock brushing against her lips.

“Just do it, fuck,” Nayeon shouts, her tone commanding but dripping with so much desire that you can’t resist. In one swift motion, you thrust into her, and the wet heat of her pussy envelops you completely. Pleasure shoots through you like an electric current, and she arches her back, pushing against you, as if begging you to go deeper, faster.

You start slowly, savoring each thrust, each inch sliding in and out of her, but soon the pace picks up, driven by the uncontrollable moans pouring out of Nayeon. “Faster… harder,” she moans, her voice faltering with each deeper thrust, and you don’t hesitate. Your hands sink into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her steady as you speed up, the thrusts becoming more intense, more brutal.

“Look at you, so prim and proper in class, but here…” you say between thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. “Here you’re just my little slut. The nerd who loves being fucked like a whore.”

Nayeon moans loudly, her voice breaking into wicked laughter. “Is that what you want, huh? To know the nerd loves being fucked like this, like a depraved little slut… Make me scream, fuck!”

With each slap to her ass, she moans louder, her pale skin turning red with every hit. “Hit me harder,” she begs, her eyes gleaming with pleasure, her voice a mix of desperation and ecstasy. And you oblige, slapping her harder, leaving red marks as you bury yourself deeper inside her.

“You’re an unbelievable slut,” you growl, picking up the pace, each thrust drawing louder and more desperate moans from her. “You pretend to be so good, but look at you now… begging for more.”

“I’m your slut,” she screams, pushing her ass back against you even harder. “Do whatever you want with me… I love being fucked like this, fuck! Make me yours, make me cum.”

You keep going, your thrusts becoming frenzied, your hips moving with an uncontrollable speed and intensity. “Fuck, look at you,” you taunt, feeling your own pleasure building. “You love being treated like this, like a desperate little whore. Scream for me, Nayeon.”

“Yes, yes!” she screams, her voice thick with pleasure, almost hoarse. “Fuck me until I can’t take it anymore, babe!”

Her body trembling as her climax approaches. Suddenly, she arches her back, pushing her ass harder against you, and her voice cracks as she screams, “I’m... going... to cum!”

Her pussy clenches tightly around your cock, pulsing and shaking as she’s overtaken by the orgasm, her whole body shuddering in ecstasy while your relentless thrusts continue. But you don't stop. Her pleasure only drives you further, each thrust pulling everything out of her, Nayeon’s body writhing, each scream feeding your own growing desire.

“Yeah… Fuck me, make me yours,” she keeps begging, even in the middle of her own climax, completely surrendered to the sensation.

You can feel your own orgasm building, heat rising fast, pressure mounting. “I’m going to cum,” you warn, your voice rough and broken, unable to stop as the final thrusts send you both over the edge.

The feeling of her pulsating pussy around your cock pushes you to the brink, and with one last frustrated groan, you pull out. Nayeon gasps for a moment, recovering from her orgasm as she kneels down on the floor, almost like she already knows what to do – and, honestly, she does. Her eyes lock on you, her face slightly flushed, and her mouth already open, waiting eagerly like the diligent student she is.

You grip your cock with one hand, still throbbing, and bring it to her lips. With her mouth wide, Nayeon wraps her lips around you once more, sucking softly with a gentleness that almost belies the fevered desire etched across her face. You pull out of her mouth, stroking yourself quickly, feeling the pressure mounting further.

Nayeon waits, obedient, with her tongue stretched out, her eyes hungry and fixed on you, knowing exactly the effect that has on you. When the moment hits, the first spurt of cum lands on her warm tongue, and Nayeon doesn’t even blink. She takes it all in with pleasure, as you empty yourself into her mouth, your body shuddering, nearly out of control.

She keeps her mouth open the entire time, her tongue coated in your cum, and when you finally finish, she closes her lips, licking them as the taste spreads. With perfect manners, she shows you her full mouth, eyes full of playful mischief, and then, without breaking eye contact, she swallows it all in one gulp, her throat moving slowly.

“See?” she says with a satisfied smile, as if she’d just passed a test with flying colors. “I swallowed it all without spilling a drop.”

But, of course, Nayeon, ever the overachiever, wasn’t finished. Before you can catch your breath, she leans in again, taking your sensitive cock into her mouth, sucking with an intensity that makes you moan involuntarily. The jolt of pleasure is so sharp that you try to pull away, your body trembling, but she holds you firmly, her mouth working at a pace that borders on cruel.

“Fuck!... I can’t take any more!” you try to protest, your voice breaking, but Nayeon just hums in response, pulling you out only long enough to say, “Not yet,” before closing her lips around you again, sucking you until, finally, she decides she’s satisfied.

When she releases you, you’re left gasping, almost paralyzed from the intensity of it all. Nayeon smiles sweetly, victorious, wiping the corner of her mouth with her fingers before saying with calm satisfaction, “Mmm, Now that was delicious.”

—

As you desperately gulp water from your bottle, the silence that follows your impromptu "study session" lingers heavily in the air, a strange return to reality. Nayeon had stood up, her hair still slightly messy and a small smile playing on her lips, before heading to the bathroom. She walked with the confidence of someone who had just solved a particularly tricky math problem.

And now you're here, staring at the bathroom door, listening to the sound of water as she washes her face and cleans her glasses, removing any trace of... well, *you*. Then, because life loves to remind you that nothing is ever simple, your mind starts to wander. What, exactly, just happened? Oh, right. You were working on a project. A project that, incidentally, hasn’t moved an inch forward.

Nayeon steps out of the bathroom, picking up the discarded clothes from the floor, dressing herself piece by piece, taking her time, like you were a couple with decades of shared intimacy. She finishes by adjusting her glasses, almost like she’s putting a crown back on after a victorious battle. She sits back down in her chair, opens the laptop as if nothing had happened, and lets out a satisfied but determined sigh.

“Alright,” she says, as if she hadn’t just left you weak-kneed. “Let’s get back to the project.”

You stare at her, incredulous. As if it were possible to get back to the project after that.

And then you realize you’re still naked. You quickly slip on your boxers and pants.

“To be honest, I don’t think I can focus on my part right now,” you admit, your voice still a bit hoarse.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” She smiles that smile—a mix of mischief and... surprisingly efficient academic prowess. “As long as you keep fucking me, of course. I have to be rewarded somehow.”

You’re speechless for a moment, because, well... you don’t exactly have a counterargument. In fact, it seems like the best deal you’ve ever made in your life.

“Deal,” you say, trying to sound cool, as if you weren’t absolutely thrilled by the arrangement.

Inside, though, you’re jumping for joy.

She adjusts her glasses, watching you for a moment, and you notice that glint in her eyes—a mix of ego, intelligence, and... something else that makes your heart race. Or maybe it’s just the recent sex.

Hard to say.

“But,” she cuts through your thoughts with a serious tone, “no one can know about this. We have to meet in secret. No telling anyone.”

“I swear I won’t tell.”

You wonder how you ended up in this situation, but the answer seems obvious. Who in their right mind would turn down a request like that?

She smiles, satisfied, and turns her attention back to the laptop, as if everything were perfectly resolved.

“Besides,” Nayeon adds, without looking up, “if you need help with any other subject, you can count on me. After all, I think we work well together, don’t we?”

You just nod, but there’s something about her—something between the proud nerd and the bold confidence—that drives you wild. Wild with desire, of course, but also something deeper. And as you watch her, so focused, adjusting her glasses like she’s planning the next phase of a secret mission, you realize that you’re falling for the class nerd.

Yes, she’s hot. Yes, she has a way of disarming you at every turn.

But it’s more than that. It’s as if every time she looks at you with that “know-it-all” air or talks about a complicated academic concept, your mind equates it with something incredibly sexy. And suddenly, your love life has turned into an equation you can’t—and don’t want to—solve.

And, of course, the fact that she’s amazing in bed doesn’t hurt, either.

“Should we meet tomorrow?” you ask casually.

Nayeon doesn’t even look up, just gives a small “mm-hmm” of confirmation, her fingers still typing away.

“Your place again. Same time. Clean up your room... And answer the door in your boxers.”

She glances at you slightly, smiling, and you know exactly what that smile means. And, well, you’re not in any position to complain. In fact, if studying had always been like this, maybe you'd have been the best student in class.

—

As you walk Nayeon to the door, you can’t help but think that maybe you’ve uncovered the true secret to academic success. And who would have thought it was a sexy nerd with glasses who secretly turned out to be a naughty girl who liked sneaking off for sex?

As she leaves, you can’t help but smile when your eyes meet one last time. Not just because of the deal you’ve just made, but because, for the first time in a long while, you’re genuinely excited to "study" with someone. Suddenly, the academic world seems a lot more interesting.

You close the door, but something lingers in the air. Maybe it’s the smell of your sweat—you still haven’t showered, after all. Maybe it’s the trace of Nayeon’s perfume. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginning of one of the most unexpectedly erotic adventures of your life.

-----------

A/n: Please forgive any typos or grammatical errors, English is not my first language. Thanks for reading.

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neuvilette-tea-party · 3 months ago

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Un coeur en demi-teinte (part 1?) Yandere x F!reader

Yandere Priest character and art by @meo-eiru. I love that man despite any logic or survival instincts.

There will probably be 2 or 3 chapters total (maybe idk), this chapter is more to set the scene.

Warning : none... For now

Father Micah walks peacefully among the stalls of the market, politely smiling at the passersby greeting him with respect, sometimes even bowing their heads to him a bit.

“Hello, Father.” They say.

Micah pursues his groceries, occasionally caressing the heads of some children running to him in awe, following him around like a celebrity.

He is a celebrity here, and Micah is deeply respected in this town. People come to him for his blessing, for his forgiveness, and advice. They come lost and destroyed but after a discussion with him, they leave the monastery rebuilt, new, serene...

People look up to him each time they are in trouble and follows blindly his opinion.

People were skeptical about this new technology called Phone Marty and some protested the installation of one in the town hall, descending the streets with signs, screaming that this object would bring decadence and destruction to the town. Micah intervened in favor of it and even agreed to put on a show to call the Bishop of the region in front of a public with a smile. He had a small speech arguing that this was the future and the town should follow, that he saw no ill in this piece of technology and the townies had nothing to fear about it.

Micah was not in the least surprised of the townies reaction. He chosed this city for a very specific reason after all.

The city is isolated between steep mountains and the first train station of the town is very difficult to access and was built 80 years later compared to the rest of the country. This city is like a bubble, blocked in the past and Micah saw an opportunity here.

To rule unquestioned on a small bastion.

With careful planning and politics, the young Priest carved himself a place in the town and gained immense popularity and influence over the population ruled by old rigid traditions.

Micah calculates his move carefully, even going against the Church’s wishes sometimes to base his power over the entire town. He fought for mandatory vaccines for children, getting vaccinated himself as an example, and helped eradicate the smallpox from the town that took so many lives before.

He fought for a mixed school for adolescents, choosing to trust them while their parents thought it would pervert an entire generation and the nation was distrustful of the process. He held the class in an isolated room of the Monastery, welcoming for free any young who trusted the project, allowing the young girls and boys to meet organically while the town slowly lost population due to low birth rates.

His project was fruitful.

A larger range of young earned their diploma and married soon after with their school sweetheart, bringing new babies to the town. The Mayor who did not believe in his idea and fought against him had to come personally to present his excuses and ask to work together for the betterment of the town

Micah accepted as he won what he wanted.

Power.

Power to reign supreme over the town.

Any new decision needed the young Father’s approval, any new Mayor needed his support to win. Micah decided what to do with the town, whom to accept and whom to ban from the town, which new law to install, and which one to repel.

Micah could model the town at his will, making it his personal kingdom and Eden’s garden for his personal enjoyment. People believed any word he said and he earned that power. People followed his lead like a dog obeys its Master and he used this power wisely.

Micah had everything to be happy.

Or what he thought he needed to have to be happy...

But as the years passed by, a growing hole appeared in his soul, devouring any sentiment he had in his heart. He felt dissatisfied and like something crucial was missing in his life.

Until recently, that is!

Until...

“Father Micah?” A young woman’s voice pulls him out of his reverie before a stall.

“Yes young Lady?” He politely smiles at her.

She blushes hard and searches for something in her pockets, taking out an envelope that she hands him, the face bright red. He considers it for a second before taking it gently. The envelope smells like rose and lavender.

Perfume cost a fortune in this day and age but this young woman still used it on her letter for him.

She bows to him, still red, and runs away to a circle of other young women waiting for her in the distance. Surely her group of friends.

Micah observes the envelope of a delicate pinkish color.

A love letter.

Another one.

He turns away from the girls and crumples it in his fist, throwing it away as he leaves the Market for the Monastery.

He has no use for this love or any love that came before it.

Micah crosses the town until a paper pinned on a pole catches his attention. On it, the portrait of a young woman he knows very well is drawn, offering a large sum of money for her capture.

“We still did not catch that witch?” Someone asks behind him.

He turns to an old man, taking support on a cane to stand still.

“The sheriff did not warn me that they did at least.” Micah explains, taking the paper in his delicate hand “So young... Who could have known such a monster was acting among us...”

“That angel of death! I hope she burns in hell!” The old man spit on the ground.

“This is a terrible thought, sir. Such desire could bring you down with her, be careful.” He warns.

The old man sniffs, but ultimately nods.

“Did we find new victims?” He asks.

“I cannot reveal such information, sir. The Sheriff trusts me with it.” Micah retorts gently

“You are the light of this town, Father. You should not let us in the dark like that, if even you start having secrets we are done for. Surely you know something!” The old man begs.

Micah pretends to look around them before leaning to the ear of the old man and starts whipsering.

“We think a recent death in the Monastery hospital might be due to poisoning...”

“Hell! She found her way in the Monastery hopsital?! This witch has no limits! She deconsecrates the church and the souls of the victims!” The old man rages.

Micah presses his finger on his lips.

“Of course, this info is strictly confidential for the investigation. I would not want it to spread in the town and cause a mass hysteria, can I trust you?”

The old man’s eyes start glimming mischeviously.

“I will be as mute as a tomb, Father.”

“Good. Go now, I must prepare for the Mass tonight.” Micah politely enjoins.

“Of course father. Another mass to pray for her victims’ souls?”

“I will hold as much as it is needed. Until we capture and judge her for her deed.”

The old man nod and walk away.

Micah smiles to himself.

The old man lost three grandkids to that woman and his hate for her is deep.

His hate for you...

Of course, he is going to spread the word to the town, enraging the spirits even more, starting a new witch hunt in the Mountains and the forests nearby.

Micah tears your poster off the pole and walks to the Monastery. He crosses it to gain his apartment, a small house in the garden of the Monastery, isolated and peaceful.

His castle in his kingdom.

He opens the door and locks it behind him immediately.

“Rosebud? (Y/n)? I am home.” He announces.

You open a door and come running into his arms, pressing you against his taller frame.

“Father Micah...!”

“Did anyone see you?” He investigate.

“No! I remained hidden like you ordered me to.”

“Good. You must not leave this house under any pretenses, you are not safe outside.”

You part from him, sighing.

“I know Father, I know... Did you talk to the Sheriff?”

“He is busy with a new case, unfortunately.” He explains, putting down the groceries on the table, “I will plead your case do not worry. But the spirits are boiling and vengeful, a new victim has been discovered.”

“I did not kill them! I did not kill anyone! You know that, Micah, don’t you?!” You beg with eyes wet with tears threatening to spill.

“I believe you, (Y/n). I do. But you know how the town is, you know how they think. It will be hard to clear your name of any suspicion.”

You lower your head defeated.

“I see...”

“I am with you in this trial, my child.” He takes your shoulder in his hand to squeeze it gently, a reassuring smile on his face.

“I know... Thank God at least you believe me... If you did not, I do not know what I would have done...” You sob, “I would be lost forever...”

“Dry your tears, my darling. I am working on it, do not fret.” He promises, pulling you to him to die his nose in your hair.

You smell delectable, just as he loves.

You press your feminine curves against his body in a desperate search for support, wiping a tear away.

Micah smiles to himself again.

Poor little lamb... So lost and fragile.

So adorable

So intoxicating

His darling

His rosebud.

His...

He cups your cheek to make you look at him.

“Come on now. I must prepare for the evening Mass, do you need anything?”

“Will you be gone for long?” You grab his hand desperately.

“No. 2 hours at most, as always.”

“Come back to me soon...” You beg, “I feel so alone in here.”

“I promise, my darling.” And he kisses your forehead tenderly.

Not your lips.

Not yet...

This is for later

For when you will totally be at his mercy, under his power.

Then he will break his vows and delight himself of your soul and body.

He will eat you up

Devour you until you beg for his mercy

And maybe he will stop

Or maybe not

He is a capricious man and he is demanding.

You did not know what kind of hell you entered when you got down that wagon train, when you entered that secluded town as an outsider...

But you are Micah’s hell

His obsession

His rosebud

His darling

He will have you, wether you like it or not

After all he reigns supreme.

And unquestioned.

#micah #yandere priest #yandere priest micah #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #male yandere #male yandere x reader #male yandere x you #male yandere x y/n #yandere fanfiction #yandere priest x reader #fanfic #meo eiru #neuvilette tea party

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endearng · 4 months ago

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Loner to lover

Pairing: young!Spencer Reid x professor!reader Summary: Running away from your problems is said to be irresponsible, but it just might lead you to where you need to be; to whom you must be with and, utterly, to the one you're supposed to be. WC: 10.1k Warnings: jealous spencer (a warning of its own) unspecified age gap; infidelity; smut in the form of soft and vulnerable sex between two virgins - (p in v), creamp*e (sorry), softdom!spencer, dacryphilia if you squint. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I had to use the frightening 'L/N'. Sorry sorry sorry. Also I just know Spencer is a little shit when encouraged so... he's a bit insistent here............ anyways I love this do much and I hope you enjoy reading it as well. | Masterlist

Spencer remembers the time when you first met. The reason, happenstance and the enormous range of mixed feelings that it brought him.

Early twenties. Collecting BAs for fun. Dr. Spencer Reid thought of a social life second, third, fourth... whatever position behind his education. His responsibility and intelligence were mere details compared to his application to his studies, which was a trait that made him singular to every single one of the professors whose classes he chose to take. Quick and smart remarks, useful contributions, thought-provoking ideas, you name it; there wasn't a single good student expectation that Spencer couldn't meet. In the academic world, the young man was highly recommended and wanted by any and every superior who wanted a good insight on their research, and that was saying a lot — society's greatest minds would compete for that brilliant brain in hopes to have his attention and participation on their projects. Spencer Reid, to his colleagues, was a walking experiment: that guy was able to keep up with his classes, the research programs he was invited to be a part of (they were jealous of this particular information, because they had to almost literally fight their way into a internship) and, on his free time, he had the nerve to feed his curiosity and come up with even more ideas of his own.

A brilliant, lonely heart amidst a crowded sea of people who were mainly too focused on themselves to notice him, unless it was to compare themselves to the absolute success he was among the academic world.

Given his mild demeanor, it is no surprise that his professors would trust him anything and that he easily won their hearts over — he remembers attending dinners at their places when they were particularly close to him; Spencer was not a stranger to a safe proximity to his mentors, after all, they were his only friends. So, it was with a dreadful surprise that he received the news that his favorite professor and advisor, Dr. Brown, would retire. Immediately, Spencer thought, with a frown on his face, that nobody could replace him. Plus, it would be disencouraging to go to those classes with someone he didn’t even know. The news had dampened his mood, to say the least, and he was ready to protest.

"Don't worry, Reid," said Dr. Brown, kind eyes wrinkling in the corners as he smiled, sitting on his chair behind his huge desk, "Dr. L/N is a great person, in more ways than one. I'm sure you will be thrilled to work with her."

"I'm not sure. It takes me some time to get used to certain situations."

"I know, but I'm sure you've had to adapt to some unexpected events at some point," retorted the older man, psychologist mode in full swing, "This is no different. And, if I must say, not entirely unexpected. There's only so far a man can go without losing his mind.”

"I suppose so," Spencer muttered, feeling a bit selfish — it wasn't fair of him to put his thoughts before the older man's needs.

Dr. Brown looked at his pupil, who avoided eye contact for most of the time. The professor had taken an almost paternal liking to Spencer as they grew closer after the younger man stood behind in the classroom wanting to ask different and plenty of questions about the spectacle he had just watched, his first one. It was rare, for Mr. Brown, to have and hold a student's attention so uniquely, and it was as rare for Spencer to have someone explain things and welcome his curiosity so openly. Science had bonded them together — being men of science, they knew better than to argue with its effects.

"I was thinking, Spencer. If you're not so busy, you could keep leading the experiments in our lab, helping out our new professor." At that, Spencer's expression turned a bit sour, to which Mr. Brown chuckled, "Trust me, you'll have nothing to worry about. In fact, I think you two are greatly alike."

Spencer let nothing out but a hum of agreement, perking up slightly at that remark. He wanted to ask what the older man meant, but stopped himself, asking instead, "When does she get here?"

"I believe she is settling in her studio as we speak. You'll meet her tomorrow. I wish I could introduce the two of you, but, unfortunately, I leave at 3 a.m."

Exchanging goodbyes and wishes of a safe flight, Spencer left for his dorm, where he busied himself with the papers of the guest professor. Of course, he would not betray his ritual of researching the guest professor to know about their academic background, as well as their field of research, stylistics and projects to check if something would raise his spirits. It didn't matter that he wasn't pleased with the replacement.

Dr. L/N. You were, apparently, a great researcher for the Psycholinguistics area—a branch that made you known in fields such as Education, Criminology, Psychology, Linguistics, Communication... The list was endless. If he was honest, he felt a little baffled—and embarrassed—that he hadn't done any research on your contributions thus far. A mind like yours should get a recognition beyond any borders. Once he got a glimpse of your brain and what it could do, he was gone. Your resume was impeccable: you had studied in different institutions in countries, proficiency in multiple languages, uncountable papers and mentions of your name in studies in all the areas above.

He doesn't remember falling asleep or turning off his laptop. However, he remembers that, in dreams, he finds someone, but, strangely, he can't make up a face.

(...)

Walking through a bustling crowd of people always made you winded, the noise and the inevitable bumping too overwhelming for you to handle on top of being somewhere new. So, you preferred to sit and wait in a small, more secluded hall in the building that Dr. Brown said you would find his lab. After the morning rush, the corridors were filled by distant echoes of louder professors or students, which made you calmer; to think you weren't completely alone. Traveling to help out a friend was a much welcomed distraction from what you had left at home, something you weren't quite ready to access just yet. You could remember your shrink's voice as she said that, at times, it was useless to think so ahead of the future.

Unbeknownst to her, you agreed wholeheartedly. It was useless. The moment you could have done something for yourself was already lost, long gone, buried by endless hours of work and occupations to keep you from breaking a dam of lonely despair.

Speaking of the past, you slid your golden ring off your wedding finger, letting it fall inside your coat pocket as you made your way through the halls. Upon seeing a door with Dr. Brown's lab small logo on it, you cracked a small smile, remembering the story behind it: you and a bunch of other students trying to come up with a nice, thoughtful gift to encourage the guest professor's new interests. When you opened the door, you found a tall, thin man sitting by the computer desk, apparently engrossed until he heard the click of the lock, finding your eyes with equal parts startle and wonder, lips parted gently, surprise etched all over his pretty face.

The young man had innocent, almost bambi-like eyes. It was the first thing you had noticed about him. Staring at you, hazel eyes so expressive that you were sure he could speak through his glance alone.

After the initial surprise, you thought you knew who he was, having heard all about Dr. Brown’s new favorite student and mentee. Spencer Reid, who seemed to study for leisure, deeply intelligent and reliable. No wonder he was in the lab, settling everything so that he would be helpful. It was a faithfully vivid image, much like the one that had settled into your brain when your colleague had described who he was working with.

"Dr. L/N."

"Dr. Reid."

Your unison voices mingled in the air. You walked up to where he was, holding out a hand for him to shake. Dazedly, he stood up, taking your hands in his, which made you smile at him, appreciating his politeness. Spencer, on the other hand, felt frozen.

Whatever it was that he, at some point, imagined you would look like, it was nothing compared to the real thing. All your features seemed to be mathematically, precisely calculated to form one of the most beautiful and soft complexions he had ever laid his eyes upon. You spoke again, no longer blocked by his own voice, so gently that it was almost as if he was being physically touched by your voice. Your accent was not strong, but it was perceptible, something that he attributed to your multilingual abilities. "Sorry to barge in like that. It's nice to meet you. Dr. Brown told me a lot about you," you revealed, still smiling.

"It's okay. Nice to meet you too.” Tongue-tied. He felt illiterate, close to a woman who he was not supposed to have certain types of thoughts around. You breathed out a huff of amusement at his widened eyes.

There was a bit of an awkward silence when you both noticed that none of you had let go of the other's hand yet. With a clear of your throat and his fugitive glance, you both composed yourselves, retreating from your touch. "He said," you started with a chuckle, "and I quote, that you are now his eyes, ears, hands and brain in here. So, beforehand, I want to say that I truly appreciate your support and help." You said, politely, to which he smiled nervously with a shaky nod.

"It's no problem, really. Dr. Brown is one of the greatest here and it'd be naive of me to not accept his request."

You grinned, agreeing. "Yeah, he is a great man. Well, I believe you are more familiar with all the devices than I am." You said, motioning to the set-up behind him. "I do have these back at my university, but yours is a bit different from what I can see. I suppose they work the same way, but, to be honest, I don’t want to mess anything up."

Spencer blinked, scientist mode on full swing. "Yeah, yeah." He nodded, looking at her again. "You don't have to worry, I was just checking the last details before starting the experiments. Everything is already settled, but I can talk you through it if you want to conduct the experiment by yourself at some point.” He trailed. Curiously, he added, “If I may ask, what made you interested in this research?"

Your heart's happiness bursted into sparkles in your eyes as you smiled, glad that he asked you about it. You talked him through it, giving him specific details as he sat and listened like you were the most brilliant brain in the entire world. As you talked, he remembers feeling his lips twitching up in a small smile. Once you were done, encouraged by your honesty and heartfelt explanation, he revealed with a faint dust of pink on his cheeks, "I know. I, um, I searched and read some of your papers last night.”

"Really?" You asked, cordial.

"I try my best to get to know my professors' fields before meeting them. It's a way I found to keep my brain entertained and to get ready for what's coming next." He admitted softly, mentally patting himself on the back for not stuttering.

"That is a good approach. I must say I wish I had that kind of mindset when I was your age."

"It’s okay. You've been doing a great job."

Silence. Understanding from both parts.

"But... to answer your question, I have been really interested in working with language lately, more than usual, at least." You chuckled softly. Spencer couldn't stop his own grin at your enthusiasm, eager to hear your voice.

You agreed once he offered to show you how their device worked, sitting on the chair in front of it. Spencer motioned for you to go ahead and place your chin on the small stand. He took notice of your hands when you placed them on the desk, bitten nails and small, red spots on their edges. It concerned him, but he brushed it off, thinking it could have been a simple nervous habit, knowing he had no business asking or worrying about you. You were his professor, after all. "Whenever I lead this experiment with my students, they always tell me they feel like they are at the ophthalmologist."

Spencer chuckled. "Yeah. It does feel like it. You can't even move an inch."

You followed the instructions on the computer screen so that the device would follow your eye movements. It worked quickly, which made you pleasantly surprised and it was hard to hide it from your tone, "This is faster than any other I have tried before."

"Welcome to our university."

As you worked on the experiment, answering to the commands on the scream silently, the device following your orbs, Spencer took his time to study your features. Your hair was neatly up in a ponytail, dainty earrings adorning your ears that matched your gentle features. All your sharpness, if you had any, was in your eyes. An intense gaze that made him falter a bit, as if his brain had the need to stop for a second to store the sight of your gaze on him to remember it for good. Your movements were calm and collected, and, ironically, you looked rather young to be a doctor.

Once you had finished, you didn't pull away immediately from the device. The computer could no longer pinpoint where your eyes were, because then they were directed at Spencer instead glancing at him as if studying him, taking him in to remember his features like a quote that you knew by heart. As he turned to look at you, he started explaining how to save a volunteer's progress and, honestly, you were only half listening, focusing on his mild mannerisms, voice and use of language. You nodded here and there, absentmindedly storing that information. You two departed after exchanging some more information, mostly him guiding you through the campus, talking about each department and what was the fastest and best way to get to the building you were staying at.

Spencer remembers going home with renewed interest. He couldn't help but think about the way you portrayed yourself, the way you talked and moved, almost as if you were an ethereal being that was placed on Earth by an unfortunate mistake. Even though he had been unable to come up with a face for you last night as he read your thoughts, you had been an enchanting surprise. Unable to stop the thought, he gave it some indulgent room: you would, somehow, be a distraction. And he was crazy to get to know in which way.

A couple days went by without Spencer seeing you. You were quite busy yourself with the lectures you were planning and teaching. That morning, though, he had found you teaching Dr. Brown's previous class. It was surprising, and mildly irritating, to see that the class was the most crowded it had ever been. Taking a good look around and listening to a few comments that bothered him to no end, he found out the reason. Some of them wanted to simply see you. The thought was like being bathed in scorching water. He chose to sit in the front, because he thought, petulant, that you would know and remember his face and his face alone. As you entered the classroom and greeted the students with a warm good morning, you were pleasantly surprised to see Dr. Reid in the front row.

After neatly arranging your belongings on the desk, you started your class on the dot. “Hello, everyone. I am professor L/N and I am here to take over Dr. Brown's class.” You started, voice precisely clear. “Now, I understand that some of your colleagues might be running late for some reason. I don't mind if you are late at some point, but try not to make it a habit because it might disrupt our class. I do tend to start my lectures on the dot in respect to those who managed to get here on time. Today, we will talk about…”

You spoke gently, but you had your boundaries set and clear, which made Spencer squirm a bit. Seeing you so sure of yourself, so assertive, made something stir deep within him. Besides, the dumbstruck look of the many students gave him enough clue that he was not the only one feeling a little affected by you and your ways. As you went on and on about the topic, you gestured with your pretty hands, making smart remarks and cracking some light jokes that made everyone a lot less nervous around you. The new, pretty professor.

The topic, behavior, sounded redundant, at that point, because he had studied that subject over and over again, tiringly, exhaustingly, but there was just something about the way you spoke, about your mannerisms that he couldn't look away. You had a way with words, and he was fascinated by how you managed to make some more complex subjects so understandable to students, even if you sometimes drifted deeper into a certain concept, only to go back to them later. He couldn't even speak. The class was relieved while he was troubled.

“Huh, that's odd. Half of you are not in the roll.” You commented, turning the lights back on. “Is this correct?” You muttered to yourself, afraid that maybe you had the data of another class instead.

A girl suddenly spoke up, “Many of us are auditing.”

“Oh?” You wondered. “How many of you?”

Quickly calculating, Spencer bitterly noticed that about 70% percent of the class raised their hands. He wanted to think that it had to do with the fact that these people weren't around for Professor Brown. You smiled, warmly. It was a punch to the gut. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the lecture.

It was when the students slowly exited the class that he was able to reach you, gathering your papers and looking content. Sharply gentle eyes, impeccable posture and pristine clothes found his gaze and he found that he didn't want to look at anything else. He didn't seem to be ready to have that small heart attack every morning. He felt equal parts of embarrassment and a flutter on his belly. He approached you calmly, and as you greeted him, there was a warm look on your face. "Hi. Good morning, Dr. Reid.”

“You did a great job,” he blurted out, voice a bit strained. You only pretended you didn't notice. “Good morning.” He remembered to greet you back. Nice.

Your voice was low as you muttered a soft "thank you."

"Of course." He said, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

"I never asked... What is your field?” You inquired, curiously, grabbing your bag and walking side by side with him, exiting the room.

Spencer had that answer nearly tattooed on his brain. “I have PhDs in Chemistry, Engineering and Mathematics,” he started, nonchalantly, as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I also have a BA in Sociology and Philosophy. This is my third one, Psychology.”

“How old are you?” You blurted out, baffled.

“23. I, uh, I graduated from school at the age of 12.”

You stood there, speechless. Of course you knew that that was possible in some countries, but the casualness in his tone got to you more than his exceptional educational background. “That is… unreal.” You whispered. “You are so young and… and… You are still absorbed with learning.”

He chuckled, shrugging, delighted by your compliment. “Yeah, I guess… Not many people would make the same choices as I would.”

Your entire body froze, including your hidden hand, because his words had hit a particular spot within you. You gave him a nod, agreeing. “Well, it is still impressive.”

“I appreciate it.” He said, looking down and missing the slight dejection on your face. Nevertheless, his heart fluttered at the praise coming from you.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, you started again, “If I may ask, why did you switch from STEM to Humanities?” You asked, now mildly amused as he looked at you, taking the stairs with him to the office. Occasionally, your shoulders brushed.

“Curiosity.”

“Is that all?” You asked, puzzled.

“I was always surrounded with a wide access to books and overall knowledge. My mother was a Literature teacher.” He explained, a small smile gracing his face.

“That must have been nice. You must know a lot about the classics. They are my favorite kind of Literature.”

“They were good distractions, I guess… I wasn't, uh, the most popular kid growing up.” He trailed off.

“Me neither,” you said.

Spencer noticed that you walked with a hand on your pocket, but couldn't say anything about it, too much more focused on the way he seemed to be bathed in a newfound confidence around you. As you reached the office, he quickly placed his belongings on the leather couch by the door. With a low whine of disappointment, which caught your eye, he announced, “If you'll excuse me, I have to get a few books from the library.”

It was better than saying, hey, I was too distracted by you that I forgot that I also have responsibilities.

“Oh, sure. Go ahead. I'll be here.”

“Thanks.”

The door closed with a soft click, and you found yourself all alone again. Taking a look around, you busied yourself by analyzing your surroundings. There was a wall covered by huge, tall, dark shelves, cramped with books. The piece of furniture reached the roof with all sorts of technical literature. A small glass cabinet on the opposite wall showcased trinkets from all over the world, kids drawings and family pictures. A leather couch, cushions and an equally dark wooden desk adorned the room as well. A white light brightened the room, illuminating his titles, and a yellowish one lightened a painting on the wall, made by Dr. Brown's daughter, of the beach they visited frequently. It made you irrationally jealous. The reminder that other people had constant remnants of love was a stab to your chest, and you looked away from the bitter/sweet reminders.

Suddenly, your eyes got a glimpse of Spencer's belongings: technical books, a satchel bag, his coat and a small notebook. You wondered what he would write about in there, whether it was some sort of planner or he just thought out loud on those pages. You fought the urge to touch his stuff, deciding to sit on the couch after shrugging off your coat and laying it close to Spencer's things.

Still plagued by an annoying flicker of envy, you picked your ring, analyzing it with fierce focus between your fingers. The material, white gold, was supposed to adorn your hand for the rest of your life. The only personal thing about it was that it had been custom-made, by demand, just for you. A wedding band was supposed to hold, to be a souvenir of the deepest commitment of love. But as fate would have it, it had been nothing but an object. It held no meaning, since you and your husband easily slid it off when it was convenient.

There was a small date carved on the inside part of the ring. Neither you or Oliver wanted any stronger reminders of each other. To you, he was merely tolerable, and you struggled to feel anything but sorry for him. Despite the fact that you were helplessly coerced into marriage, you despised him for never having the guts of chasing a life, instead busying himself with living the fleeting pleasures that his parents' money provided him, spending his endless vacations overseas, sleeping around. A typical bohemian. A bon-vivant. The fact made you bitter. How does one possess every kind of mean and doesn't care to improve themselves as a person?

Inevitably, you were pulled into a strong stream of memories.

The sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the dining room that held uncountable and expensive decorations. What caught your eye, though, is a much too long and large table with endless chairs. You remember thinking it was over the top, since neither you or Oliver would plan to have guests over. Swallowing your remarks, you smiled to your father and exchanged a look with your sister-in-law, not bothering to look at Oliver and therefore missing his awestruck look. It was the first time you were visiting the big house with its endless rooms, windows and useless areas. You ignored the subtle meaning of it: you were supposed to carry on your families’ names. The mason had been your parents’ gift, so you decided to stay quiet about it, not commenting on the tacky, outrageous muchness of things. You had learned the hard way not to fight back when it came to their decisions.

From a very young age, you were special. A charming, intelligent, quick-witted child who busied herself with studies and books who had a series of leisure time activities to go through during her free time. Hence, you grew up exceptional. You were always the center of attention somehow; being the first grandkid from both sides of your family granted you a few privileges, you held their entire focus, entertaining them with your particular and curious behavior during their gatherings. Whenever they showed up, your parents would remember some new ability for them to show you off. Playing the piano, chess, languages… You were always in the top of the class, in the best schools, surrounded by kids your age that belonged to the best families.

It was with a deep, heartbreaking sadness that you realized that you had their attention for your potential and everything you could add to their name. Nobody ever played with the first child.

Beautiful, graceful, wistful, clueless little you.

Your family’s connections and endless activities for you had been how you met Oliver in the first place. A smart, easy on the eyes boy who became a smooth talker as he grew older. You were friends from a very young age, but nothing more. You were always too caught up on working on yourself and your abilities in order to charm everyone that romance was something you couldn't even begin to fathom — it was nothing but a strange and distant feeling. You kept things platonic between you and him, spending time, mostly listening. Oliver would tell you all about his interests, and when the age came, he would tell you, rather technically, how his endeavors with other girls went.

You never thought of Oliver as more than a friend. In fact, his manners grew to annoy you, like a small barb in your shoe, if you were totally honest — not that you would dare to. You simply endured his existence, saving your reviles for yourself, because, growing up, you never knew what it was to freely express yourself. How lacking it was to grow up not knowing what it was to speak your mind freely without a strong reprimand of some sort.

Such painful dawnings had only taken place at the age of 20, when your parents and Oliver's had agreed to marry the both of you. Unable to fight back, you simply watched it happen. It was so damaging and traumatic that you could barely remember the times you had spent together, everything was just a big knot of confusing memories to which you felt more like an spectator than an actor. Over the course of the years, Oliver and you would make public appearances, but you had told him, on the first night after your marriage, that he was free to do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't ruin your image. No. Not the one you had dedicated your entire life building.

Throughout the entire thing, your sister-in-law had been your anchor. A distant one, that sits in the bottom of the sea, as you navigated through your own life. Being too close to you was a sad reminder of your situation and she was aware of that. She had her friends and connections, unknowingly, check on you, though. She was all in for pretending her sad excuse of a brother didn't exist. Theresa and Oliver were polar opposites: a hard-working woman and a sluggish man.

Eventually, as you both moved through the world, engrossed in your true passions, Oliver had truly found someone. Someone you didn't bother learning the name of. Someone, you preferred to think, that didn't know about you and that if she did, she truly didn't care. The feeling was mutual. You, on the other hand, delved deeper into your studies, busying yourself to the fullest. It was nice, in a way, because that way, you were shielding yourself from the world and your inevitable, eternal struggle of a loveless life in the only way you knew how: through being someone.

It was far from a solution, but that's where it ended. It had been years since the last time you heard your name coming from someone else's lips. You didn't dream of it happening anytime soon. You didn't let it happen, anyway. Every advance was cut before it turned into expectations.

A small gasp erupting between your lips broke you out of your reverie when you heard the lock being harshly handled, which made you bolt straight to the door, dropping the ring on the floor. Opening it, you saw Spencer struggling to balance a huge pile of books and a tray with two cups of coffee. He thanked you softly when you offered to help him, your skin touching his briefly, jolts of something unknown coursing through both of your bodies. Pulling away, you placed the books on the desk, searching his eyes as he blushed like crazy.

“I got you coffee… I don't know how you take it, so I got it black with two sugars. There are many options these days, which can make choosing one a challenging decision, since there are undeniable and endless possibilities of you being allergic to some of the ingredients. Of course, there are also chances of cross-contamination. Now that I think about it, I should have probably gotten you tea. Oh, my God. Do you even drink coffee?” He finished, almost panting.

You stifled out a laugh. His ways were endearing. “It's okay, Dr. Reid. I'll drink it. I'm not allergic nor prefer tea over coffee. Okay?”

“Okay.” He said, puppy eyes finding yours again.

“Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He said, smiling softly.

It quickly turned into your go-to order.

—

Students came and went, and you made conversation with them, which made you all the more endearing for Spencer. You asked about their day, how they ended up there, and you looked genuinely interested in their answers. It could be a stretch, but Spencer felt that, much like himself, you wanted to make connections — but not the professional kind. You wanted to belong somewhere, from the way your eyes held an intimate and unwavering hint of sadness when you heard their answers, but none of them had the nerve to ask you back. It was expected, though, because no one would think of a professor as a friend. The entire time, you were being addressed as such or as Dr.. You couldn't blame them. That was who you were, too lost in that character to remember who you actually were. If you had been someone, that is.

As Spencer sat behind the computer, ready to access today's tests, you chatted with a freshman student. Glancing at the clock, the girl with excited mannerisms almost shrieked, “Oh, my God! Is it that late already?! I have to go to my piano class.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you said, sounding a bit deflated. “It was nice to meet you, Dana. I'm really happy you've helped us.”

“Anytime, professor! Bye!” She said, walking through the door and closing it behind her.

You turned to Spencer, a hint of longing in your expression. “Are you leaving as well?”

“Not yet. I want to go over our results for the day.”

“Oh!” You exclaimed, approaching him to lean by his side on the desk, supporting your weight on one arm as your other hand touched the back of his chair. He could smell your perfume, something uniquely different, aromatic and so fitting. “Does it compare results automatically?” You asked, turned to look at him.

“Unfortunately, no,” he muttered, unfocused, eyes scanning all over your face, focusing especially on your lips. “I have to do that myself, which is why I'll take longer to leave. If we leave this for the last minute, it'll be much more stressful.”

“Slow and steady it is, then.” You said, grinning. “I'll stay to help you.”

—

Spencer remembers when he started feeling a lot stronger about you.

You were in the office, decorating it as your own. Spencer took notice of your belongings, trying to catch a glimpse of everything that made you yourself. There were abundant novels in many different languages filling the tall shelves, some souvenirs from different parts of the world, your titles… The analytic part of his brain took notice of the lack of family pictures and overall personal items. It was achingly professional and distant, the way you were setting your space. He couldn't help but chime in, “Is that all you're putting up?”

With a lopsided grin, you tried to justify, sensing his intentions. “I don't like cluttering.”

He didn't answer, sensing that it might be sensitive unknown territory. You unboxed a wood chess board, placing it on one of the bottom shelves. He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “Just in case someone wants to play,” you said, as you forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

The next day, Spencer walked through the office door with a box in hands. He hid it between the sofa and the wall. As you arrived, you talked briefly about the research, which was now coming to an end. Flopping down on the floor, crisscrossed and barefoot, you sighed, smiling as he updated you. “You know, I don't think I've ever been happier.”

“Yeah?” He asked, curiously.

“It almost feels unreal, how kind life's been to me lately.” You revealed, voice trembling a bit with emotion.

“Somehow, that's hard to believe.”

“Is that so?” You asked, playfully. Spencer had to swallow before your mischievous smile. A new expression on your face that he found that he quite liked.

“I mean, look around. You have everything some people think it takes to be happy.”

“You're right. Some people. I don't.” You retorted with a dip of your chin.

“What would make you happy, then?” He inquired, eager to find out. To become it.

You breathed in, closing your eyes. “I'll let you know once I figure it out.”

Should he say it? Would it be indelicate? Insensitive? Too much? Too straightforwa— “You sound a little hopeless.”

“Maybe I am.” You said, almost shrugging. Like it's not a big deal.

“You shouldn't be.” He retorted, sitting down in front of you.

“What makes you so certain?”

“You're young.”

“If anything, that only feeds despair, to some extent.” You said, distantly.

Internal battle at full extent, once again. “You know… I… I have been keeping an eye on you.”

You tilt your head the slightest bit, gaze unwavering. “What do you mean?”

Spencer struggled to form coherent thoughts, to articulate his own ideas before blurting them out rather excitedly. “You seem so… different. It's almost like you're out of this world. It's fascinating, actually. You're very deep in your own little world. Even the way you speak tells something about loneliness. So well, eloquently—”

“Susan Sontag.”

He smiled, satisfied. “See? How would you remember a quote by heart if your mind was filled with some things else?”

Against your will, you agreed. “You're right, Dr. Reid.”

Silence. He stood up, walking to grab the box behind the couch. He came back and sat in front of you once again, but this time, his knee brushed yours and neither of you mentioned it. You welcomed the warmth. Spencer hid the one coloring his cheeks. “Call me Spencer.”

“What is that?”

“Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“You need some life around here.”

You giggled, absolutely delighted when you saw the box, containing an orchid Lego set. Spencer fought against his every instinct to just pull you into his arms at the sound that twisted his insides instantaneously. It was the first time he had heard you laugh, a rich, funny sound that seemed to have erupted from your own soul. “Is this for me? Because, you know, this might be the best thing I've ever gotten.”

“Oh, really?” He asks, feigning sarcasm. “I could've sworn it was the original piece on your wall.”

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“You're welcome.”

Despite your position, your posture was as elegant as it had ever been. He placed the pieces between the two of you. Eventually and almost silently, like a personal prayer, he learned how to call you by your name upon your insistence. With a soft look in his eye, he relented. Everything about him seemed to tell you that he was there to help you build the set. That it was alright, because he was there.

You two stood up, one at a time, once you had finished the set. Standing by the window, you glanced at the pretty plastic orchids that now were placed on your desk, right next to your name, a funny little piece amidst such a formal environment. He followed you after a brief moment of doubt. “You know, Spencer,” you uttered and he thought he might be addicted to the chain of sounds that makes up his name falling from your lips as he watched them, mesmerized. “Thank you so much for this. It's a nice feeling. Like I have a friend.”

You both shared the intimacy of a glance with each other. You decided to elaborate, too shaken by the thought of your loneliness being palpable. “You're right… I've always been a bit on the lonely side.”

He was pleased to see so much honesty from your end, and happy to see something of himself in you. He swallowed, trying to control these thoughts and keeping his composure. “I think you're very easy to get along with.”

“That's the first time I hear that.”

Spencer couldn't help the wince that came with the stabbing pain he felt at your revelation. “It's true. I…” Who are these people? “I think you're very easy to like.”

You thanked him again, quietly, lowering your gaze to the space between the two of you. Seemingly under a spell that had been casted by the way you let your guard down, ignoring the nervous pit on his stomach and not taking the time to process the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings running through him. You stood so close, if he could just— “Looking from up here, all people look so tiny.”

“Considering the extent of the universe, we are pretty tiny.”

You snorted, shaking your head softly. “Proportion changes perspective, huh, Spencer?”

Losing control over his words, utterly lost, he continued, “I also… I find you pretty… pretty.”

Your eyes glanced up to meet his. Spencer tried to read your expression, desperate to see if you were surprised, disgusted, uncomfortable or if you welcomed his words. Instead, he found a hint of longing in your eyes that he couldn't begin to understand. “I… I don't know what to say.”

Compliments were a sensitive, unknown territory for you. You only knew what these were if you outdone yourself in whatever earned you attention. Sighing, you looked at him, almost guilty.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn't have said anything.” He cringes, avoiding your gaze.

“It… It wasn't.” Deep breath. “It's just that… you're…”

Were there words in the English language for these feelings?

“I know. I didn't… I don't expect you to say anything in return,” he says, almost dejectedly. The truth is out and he can't take it back. “I just wanted to come clean. And I think that it's not just looks that draw me to you.”

You stood there, speechless.

“You're not mad? Or… or offended?” He tries.

You looked at his widened, scared eyes. It made you want to soothe him — the instinct disconnecting your mouth from any sense of ethics or decency that ran through your brain. Taking another deep breath, scared to death, “I’m actually flattered. You're a very beautiful person, inside and out, but… but… I'm your professor, Spencer, and older than you.” You said, voice wavering slightly as you got to look into his eyes again.

“Somehow… when I think about you… neither of these seem to be a problem. I can't—not think about you.”

His words crafted a small crack. There would forever be a memory in your brain of the exact same moment when his words settled in. You fell to pieces, and as you did, you felt yourself losing control of your own actions, of your sense of ethics or principles. Before you thought it through, as you felt every sense of reason leaving your body, you tilted your head up, a silent, welcoming consent of his lessening distance. Spencer, who looked almost pained with so much want, let out tiny puffs of breath as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't believe you were seemingly taking a risk like that, but he found that he couldn’t and didn't want to hold back any longer. The young man, very carefully, cradled your cheeks, bravely holding your glance as he caressed the soft skin of your cheek with his thumb. Time stood still when you closed your eyes, slowly, and he tilted your chin up the slightest bit, angling you just the way he needed. The touch, the existence of you was so intense and overwhelming that it made him shiver, and he was failing to keep his hands from shaking. Following the stream of whispered truths, you added, “I want to give you something to truly think about. I need your permission.”

Softly, Spencer brushed his lips against yours as he closed his eyes. It was gentle, tentative, almost experimental. The touch, albeit subtle, calmed his every nerve, and his shoulders relaxed at the contact. A shaky exhale left his lips when you pulled him in, placing your hand on the nape of his neck, the feeling grounding and safe. When your lips interlock together, it's a moment of realization; he doesn't think that he wanted something so badly without even knowing what it actually was.

Your touch is tender, as if you were both afraid that harshness would steal one from the other, relishing in the moment and in the rush of sensations that were unknown to the both of you. Spencer was so afraid that you were going to pull away and run, but he just couldn't control himself as he slid his tongue into your mouth, basking in the small satisfied sound that you made, his hands gripping your waist. You, on the other hand, felt as if you had been pushed into a sea of hot, scalding water. No touch had ever made you feel like that, and your desperation had you now tightly gripping at his vest, trying to get him impossibly closer to you. Your bodies pressed against each other set a trail of fire between the two of you, and the kiss gradually became more urgent. Violent, even.

When you pull back, he doesn't let you go far, his face only inches away, barely registering that you actually needed to breathe so great was his need to feel you against him once more. Panting, you leaned your forehead against his, not ready to open your eyes and see his face. You'd be lost.

“At least now I have something proper to think about.”

Flustered at him using your own words against you, you couldn't meet his gaze. You tried to say something, but all the courage pumping through your veins seemed to have found a way out of your system, leaving you helpless, utterly defeated into silence. A small feeling of guilt started to grow inside you, and you were warring against it. You had just kissed a student in your workplace when you were trying to have a fresh start. Spencer, noticing your turmoil, was quick to engulf you in a hug. The action, so simple, worked like a balm to your nerves, and you allowed yourself to take a deep breath, inhaling his scent, which had just become your favorite. You didn't want to let him go, neither did you know if you would ever be able to.

Resting his chin on your shoulder, he cradles the back of your head. Under the sofa, lies a small, shiny object that was long forgotten due to both its irrelevance in your life and the first moment of genuine affection you've ever experienced.

—

You remember how it felt like to lose control of yourself.

It had been days since the secret kiss you shared with Spencer and it had been the last time you saw him. Your days were filled with endless phone calls with lawyers and Theresa, desperate to find yourself free from your doom excuse of a… marriage? It seemed offensive to even relate that word to whatever you had been forced upon doing. Your nights were spent by your bedroom window, watching as people came and went, noticing with heartbreak how distant you seemed to be from everyone. You were a stranger in many ways, but above all, you were a stranger to yourself. Every little manifestation of action or thought made you inevitably remember all the people and their behavior that shaped you into whatever you are today.

And then there was Spencer. Spencer, whose touch was making you feel constantly equal parts guilty and entranced. Spencer, who was spamming your email inbox, wondering where you were. Spencer, who was the only person you truly allowed yourself to think about. The sight of him haunted your nights and the ghost of his voice echoed inside your head when you were sitting around in the empty studio. It was supposed to be refreshing, really, how his mere existence made a new flicker of hope bloom in your chest that had been unknown thus far. It was bold to call it hope, but you preferred to do that because there was no other word, no other feeling that you knew well enough to associate it with the memory of him.

You had forgotten the sound of your voice. The only thing your apartment walls heard in the time span of three days and three nights had been the following string of words:

“Theresa, are you there? Can we talk?”

—

Spencer remembers how it felt to miss you like a lost puzzle piece.

It had been days and your silence was upsetting him like nothing ever had. Sick of replaying that moment over and over, he decided to find you instead. It was late at night as he walked your street after pondering whether he should or not confront you about your silence. There wasn't much to discuss. It was just a kiss — secretly, he was scared that you would argue so —, but the lack of news from you had him feeling on edge. A tall building, endless windows. On the fifth floor, he could make a figure staring out into the city, and he couldn't begin to explain where the strength came from to run up to where you were. There was only one apartment per floor, so he knocked impatiently on your door.

501.

Upon hearing the sound, you stared, a bit scared, at the door. Opening a small slit, you saw him and your entire body froze. You closed it immediately, fear etched into your features as if he was an impending threat. As if he could cause you any harm.

“Please,” he cried, resting his forehead on the door. He tried not to compare the stiffness of the object to the softness of your skin. A clear of his throat. “Please. Nobody's seen you for days. I… I haven't seen you in days.”

There was a minute of mortifying silence, but he decided to wait. What was another moment if he had waited for you for so long? Spencer let out another plea, this time, calling you by your name.

You let him in, but you couldn't meet his gaze. Nevertheless, he noticed your bloodshot eyes. Speaking your name softly, he inquired, worryingly, approaching you. “What happened to you?”

You took a small step back, straightening your posture once you realized how close he was getting to you. The action made your heart shatter. “Don't,” you pleaded, soft-spoken as ever.

“Look at me.” He croaked, pleadingly, timorous.

Reluctantly, you met his eyes. They were confused, questioning, and it was a first on his expression. You felt guilty for doing this to him. “I can't do this to you, Spencer. I can't.”

“Please… Talk to me. Don't shut me out.”

“We can't do this. I'm your professor, and, and…”

“Are you seriously pulling the professor card? I'm not one of those undergraduate students. I'm me. It's me. We've been so close and when I think something finally might happen, you disappeared. It wasn't fair.”

Each of his words were stabs in your already hanging by a thread heart. Rip the band-aid.

“I'm married.”

There was a moment of stunned silence from his end. You knew how cruel it was to use your formal marital state to avoid him from coming any closer, but you tried not to dwell on it. This was it. Spencer deserved better. And for the first time in your life, you couldn't be better. His silence made your stomach churn painfully, aware of the ache you were causing him, and desperate to be the one to soothe the damage you had done.

Spencer, on the other hand, stared at you blankly. Almost skeptically, even. You'd have analyzed it better if you weren't too busy with your own turmoil about him. “I don't see him anywhere,” he finally said, defiantly.

Surprise took over your features, and before you could form another painful remark, Spencer approached you decisively. “Where is him, huh?”

Cutting you off as you opened your mouth to speak, once again, he scowled. “Damn him. I would do anything just to have you around.”

The crack was now big enough that he could see all parts of you from where he stood. Right then, though, the glimpse he caught before you violently smashed your lips against his was enough to haunt him for a lifetime. Your gaze, so utterly tired yet determined, looking at him as if he was the only thing in your entire world — perhaps he was. The kiss was demanding, fueled by sheer animalistic hunger. You had been hungry your entire life, deprived of the simplest pleasures and there he was, ignoring all your lackness. You failed to think of a motive for his actions, but you decided that you utterly didn't care. To feel seen like that was enough of a reason for you.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, exploring every inch with a neediness that surprises even him. You gripped at his shirt's collar as his hands tangled in your hair, tightly, almost afraid you'd disappear. Neither of you recognized your own actions, everything was far too new for you to know how to act properly, losing yourself in each other, consumed by the unique, addicting taste of your kisses and the heat building between you. The sizzling, almost bothersome feeling in your core, combined with the intensity of his kiss left you feeling lightheaded. He pulls away, reluctantly, squeezing his eyes shut, as if refraining from doing something. You rest your forehead against his. Uneven breaths mingle together as you had your eyes on him, waiting for the final blow, when he would look back at you. “Let me in,” he croaked. “I wanna be yours.”

Don't.

“You deserve so much more than this. Than what I'm able to offer you,” you whisper in a ragged breath, closing your eyes, hands now softly holding his head.

“I'll take anything you are.”

You winced, a helpless crease finding its way between your brows. “You don't get it, do you? I can't. I can't do this to you. I don't know how to do this.”

He softened, hands never leaving your skin and eyes never leaving yours. “You don't have to know anything. I don't know it either. I just wanna be yours tonight.”

Silence.

“Is it because of him?”

You promptly retorted. “No. It's not because of him.”

“From now on, it's me.”

Spencer crashed his lips to yours, barely giving you time to let his words sink in. Seemingly trying to convey his emotions, his willingness to beg for you to let him in, his devotion to be yours in that moment. Brushing your fear of not getting him to stay, you gave in, too blinded by the sheer strength of the burning within you. Spencer kissed you deeper as you slid your tongue inside his mouth, ravishing and relishing in the taste of him. A small moan broke through you when he gripped your tighter, leading you to the nearest surface — conveniently, the bed. Spencer barely had time to take in his surroundings when he got there, too busy with you and the strong pull between the two of you, but his body unconsciously and seemingly knew exactly where to take yours.

You had now entered a land reserved for only the two of you. You looked at him, softly placing you on the bed, kissing all over you, as if you were something worth looking at, worth worshipping. The tears streamed down your face freely, and he kissed each of them as they bloomed again. “Let it all out. I'm here.”

Intertwining your fingers on the nape of his neck, adjusting so that he was between your legs, you looked at him intently while he lowered the straps of your cami top, eyes never leaving yours, lips caressing your collarbone gently. The action made you shiver, and you were under his trance, taking whatever he wanted to give you, signaling over and over that you allowed him to be yours, just like he asked to be. In hindsight, he was making you his.

Gingerly, you leaned up to reach his jawline, kissing and nipping at the soft skin, trying to find an outlet for all the overwhelming feelings and fire inside you. He moaned softly, basking in the feeling of being marked so gently, already satisfied with the mere thought that he would have something of yours to remember. It was when you were undoing his shirt, not so accidentally brushing your fingertips against his fiery skin that a wave of pleasure, embedded with a persistent feeling of guilt, crawled its way into your thoughts. You were like a helpless being caught between the fight of two violent ends, and you found that you loved it. You loved being at their mercy. You loved being at his mercy.

Quickly getting rid of your top, Spencer leaned even lower, brushing his skin against yours, which elicited a series of goosebumps to erupt on your skin. You clenched your hands after retreating them from his body, desperately trying to find something that could ground you instead of feeling everything all at once. He was overwhelming, and he had barely touched you. “I never knew I could feel like this,” you breathed out, unable to keep the truth from him any further when he skimmed his fingertips against your ribs, touching with the most desperate of delicacies.

Grinding against you, he whispered, rushed, “Do you feel how much I want you? I see you and I want you. Let me in.”

Spencer's words, albeit simple, were hitting many unreached places within you. Without breaking eye contact and a bit clumsily, you two got rid of the remnants of your clothes, baring yourselves to each other in more ways than one. Spencer, still accommodated between your legs, eased himself so easily into you, making you hold on tightly to his arms, you two both letting out strangled noises at the feeling. You, beneath him, around him, enveloping his length in the most pleasant wet warmth, sucking him in, gripping, squeezing, never letting him go. A broken sob erupted as he mumbled, “I missed you so much.”

You could barely find your voice, too lost in the sense of him on top of you. The taste, the sight, the smell of him inebriated you like no drug ever could. “Ah—I missed you too,” you whimpered. “You… have no idea.”

“Show me, then.”

Desperately, you pulled him in for another searing kiss, trying to convey how much his absence had made you feel, how guilty you felt by putting what it felt then like an unnecessary distance between the two of you. Trying to get closer, impossibly closer than you ever had been before. The sensations were shattering, and you found that you didn't want to be put together again. No, you were gladly ruined for the rest of your life. Scratches down his back, bites on his lower lip and an endless stream of whimpers left your lips complemented the exhilarating experience as he watched how you reacted to him.

Lowering your gaze to where your bodies met, you were met with an exquisite sight, how he pulled away just to shove his cock back inside you making you dizzy as he had his way with you. Following your line of sight, Spencer moaned as he saw the mess between you two, how his skin began to stick to yours as your arousal glimmered on his skin. Fully sheathed again, you cried out, “There's—mmmm—so much of you in me.”

“Will you remember me?” He asked, resuming his thrusts, violently shaken by your words. He wanted to give you all of him.

Struggling to speak, your entire body trembling with the force of his strokes, you stuttered, “I could never forget you.”

His hips halt their movements. He asks, pointedly, with a stark gaze that burned its memory into your very soul, "Say you'll remember," he whimpered with a small sigh. It was difficult to tell if it was from neediness, impatience, frustration or anything else.

It was not the time for semantics, but you smiled despite yourself as the tears started to to steadily roll down your cheeks, and you replied with a shaky breath, "I'll remember you forever."

Spencer pushed in again, swallowing the strangled moan that left your lips as he kissed you intensely and your tears kissed his cheek as well. Your bodies embraced one another, as if they needed each other to exist. The moon and the sea. You tried to hold on to him, hands curling against the skin of his back and legs circling around his waist. Spencer, on the other hand, had a desperate hold on your waist, which would probably lead to faint marks of his fingers. You found that you didn't care, the astounding feeling of him against you, so forcefully and simultaneously lovingly, could use all the memories to tell you later it had been real. That you had been yours as much as you had been his that night.

The pleasure building within you was new, almost scary given its force to shake everything inside. Spencer was equally reeling, trying to prolong the moment as much as he could, too caught up on the existence of you to let it go anytime soon. With a mewl of his name, you let go, pleasure coursing through your veins and spreading through your body like being bathed by the sultriness of your moment together. The fever reached your heart, and with tearful eyes, you watched him as he released inside of you, eyes dazedly searching yours and his lips singing your name like a prayer.

On top of you, in that place of sheer veneration, your bodies tangled together like an abstract painting. Neither you or him made mention to move, too content in the feeling of sticking to the other.

"I'm not leaving,” he muttered after a while, nuzzling your neck.

"Spencer..."

"I'm not leaving. You'll wake up in the morning and I'll be here.”

—

Tonight, you aren't watching strangers from the windows of your office nor from the ones in your studio apartment. Instead, you are walking home with Spencer, hand holding hand, a firm, fierce, steady grip that never faltered.

You now exist, hearing your name being called several times a day. And so does he, the one proudly uttering said name, whenever he gets the chance. A small, simple reminder that you belong together.

dividers by @cafekitsune <3

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write-tama · 1 year ago

Text

"hank.. what am i feeling right now?"

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ connor anderson (rk800) x officer!reader

sypnosis ; connor is very interested in an officer who just joined the police force. after being told the news that they would be joining the team, connor just had to make an acquaintance with them. anything to hear their voice.

containing ; use of you/yours and they/them pronouns! connor struggling to process emotions. hank being a proud father.

author’s note ; hihi! havent written for connor in SO long so i thought this was a cute little way of them meeting each other.

04.12.24 | 1.9k words

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Everyone knew about the infamous RK800.

The last most developed and intelligent android produced by Cyberlife.

A machine built to hunt its prey and to always accomplish his mission.

But now?

A confused man sitting at his desk, elbows on the surface as he ran the fourth diagnostic this morning.

Connor was never really taught how to feel his emotions, considering that he was forced to compress them from the moment he was made. If he were to feel any sort of emotion, it was either to the scrap factory for him or a hard lecture from Amanda.

But Amanda was gone, and androids were free to express any emotion they pleased.

It’s been weeks since Markus hit the headlines for his famous android revolution. He worked with the government extensively to pass bills in order to settle android rights for the country. Connor, on the other hand, continued to work with the DPD as a full-on detective under the supervision of Liutenant Hank Anderson. Hank was more than just a coworker, but a father figure to Connor. And that brought Connor joy, an emotion Connor was well aquainted of.

But not the feeling he was experiencing now.

Connor couldn’t get his mind off a certain someone who had joined the team a bit before the revolution. You had joined a week prior, and honestly, you were kind of regretting it. As android and human tensions rose, you were on duty 24/7. Originally, you were supposed to start easy with basic patrol around a part of a city, but because you were so impatient in doing the “big kid stuff” you found yourself frequently in the middle of the android and human discourse. Your shifts nearly lasted twelve hours, and you would be absolutely exhausted.

Things are different now. Sure, there were still some situations between the two sides, but it was definitely peace compared to literal boycotts. You sat at your desk idly scrolling through your past cases, making sure that all the information was correct and accurate. On the other side of your desk was a tablet full of notes you had taken after some cases you had to deal with. What you didn’t notice was the android detective constantly glancing at you, watching your every move to see if maybe, at some point, you would notice him.

A loud groan echoing from the desk in front of Connor made him jump, immediately turning his attention to his lieutenant taking a seat in his chair. “Fucking hell..” Hank sighed. “Fowler does nothing but my bust my balls these days, huh?” Connor stared at his partner with his hands folded in his lap and eyebrows furrowed.

“Is everything okay, Lieutenant?” Connor asked, tilting his head.

“It’s nothing too serious. Fowler just wants me to take the rookie on our next homicide case. He insisted that they would be a perfect addition to the team or whatever.” Hank groaned. “Now I’m responsible for two of you fucks.”

Connor, admittedly, felt his thirium pump racing. You? As part of the team? It was almost like he could overheat and shutdown momentarily right now. “I think they would be a great addition to the team.” Connor stated, biting back from smiling. “They have an excellent track record of solving cases in an orderly and timely manner, has caught every perpretrator with their undercover skills, and had a reputation back in their training classes as one of the top students.” He explained. Hank looked over as he was slouched in his seat with arms folded across his chest.

“Jesus, Connor, you sound like some creep searching up their name on Google.” Hank scoffed, half smiling. Though this caught Connor a little off— was he being creepy? He didn’t want to leave a bad impression on you, especially now that you're about to meet for the first time. His face scrunched up in anxiety, feeling as if he made a mistake. Hank immediately took notice and sat up. “Ah— I was just joking, Connor. I’m sure you have uh.. Good intentions.” Hank reassured, though he never said he was exactly good at it.

Hank looked over to you, seeing that you were preoccupied with work despite the fact you haven’t been on a case in a few days now. Hank looked at Connor. “Well.. Why don’t you introduce yourself to them.” Hank suggested, nodding his head over to you.

Connor immediately jolted his head up, a little wide-eyed to even suggest such. “O-Of course.” Connor stuttered out. Connor never stuttered, and though Hank was in a mood after his exchange with Fowler, he certainly didn’t leave that unnoticed.

“Did you just stutter?” Hank asked, a little amused. “Are you.. Nervous?”

“Of course not, Lieutenant,” Connor replied as steadily as possible. “I am an android.”

“Connor.”

“Yes?” Connor replied, mindlessly.

“You’re a deviant, for fucks sake.”

“Oh.”

Connor, to avoid anymore embarassment from the man he deemed his father figure, swiftly got up and started to approach you. Hank watched in pure amusement, not even wanting to stop the boy from probably embarassing himself even further, but at least Hank had some faith in him. He is Detroit’s best god damn detective.

“Hello, Officer (l/n). My name is Connor. It is nice to meet you.” Connor said, putting his hand out for a shake. You looked up from your computer screen only to be met with the most chocolate eyes you’ve ever had the privilege of being in the prescence of. He smiled politely, but behind that smile he thanked Elijah that androids could not sweat, otherwise you would’ve felt the claminess of his palm.

You took his hand and shook it firmly. “A pleasure to make your aquaintance. My name is (y/n).” You smiled generously, and wow, did Connor felt like his pump couldn’t get any faster.. He cleared his throat before darting his eyes to the unoccupied chair that sat next to your desk.

“May I?” Connor asked, gesturing towards the seat.

“Of course, I’m not doing much anyway.” You nodded. Connor took a seat, and for some reason, he struggled to even maintain his balance as he sat himself down. He nearly had to think about how to fold his hands before placing them firmly on his laps and looking at you. Thankfully, you barely realized any sort of struggle as you looked away to take a swig of your morning coffee.

“So..” you said, clasping your hands. “Am I in trouble or anything?” you joked. Connor immediately shot his head up, worried he had made the wrong impression.

“Oh, no— I—” Before Connor could sputter out an explanation, you tilted your head a little and started laughing.

“Relax! I was just kidding!” You playfully waved off. Connor’s shoulders immediately relaxed as a breath he didn’t even know he was holding back escaped his lips. You looked at him curiously, a smile still resting on your face.

“I’m sorry. Usually, I am not like this.” He said, shaking his head a little in embarassment. He was always on his A game and constantly prepared. Why were you the reason for this disruption. “I.. Uh..” He couldn’t think of anymore to say. Suddenly, he got a message through his LED.

NEW MESSAGE:

HANK: tell them u think theyre pretty.

Connor blinked a bit, registering the text message. Hank was at a perfect view watching this unfold. The back of your head was visible but he could see all of Connor’s reactions, who desperately tried to maintain a polite smile.

“I think you’re very pretty, (y/n).” Connor complimented.

“Oh— ah—” A subtle blush began to form on your cheeks as your eyes widen a little, not expecting a compliment from a handsome android such as Connor. “Why thank you, Connor. I wasn’t expecting that as our first conversation.” You chuckled a little. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Thirium was rushing through his circuits and to his cheeks. The faintest color of blue appeared dusted on his face. “Thank you.” He maintained a calm, neutral voice. They stared at each other for a minute, sort of registering the sort of corny first conversation the two of you had.

“Ah.. I almost forgot to mention.” Connor snapped back to reality. “I came here to introduce myself sfter I heard that you were joining our team on our next investigation. It’s good to make an aquaintance with our future team member.” Connor smiled politely.

“Why thank you. I am very excited to work with you and Lieutenant Anderson.” You nodded. “Though I will miss working with Gavin and Chris’ team.”

Ah, that’s right. You used to work with Gavin. It almost left a bad taste in Connor’s mouth knowing that Gavin probably spat some awful opinions about him to you. Though from the looks of it, you were enjoying your conversation with him which eased him.

“I promise we will a provide a welcoming and safe space in our team, and of course, to make sure you don’t come into harms way.” Connor assured. Though he was mainly promising this to you personally. God forbids Connor seeing you get hurt.

“Why thank you, Connor.” You said, tilting your head. Connor was rather intriguing to you— an android acting this way around you. His LED constantly switched between yellow and blue as if he was making sure to process every word you uttered. Yet he was so human— he would scratch the back of his neck, fidget with his fingers, and shuffle a bit in his seat. You would think someone as advanced as him would at least be able to have a composure, but he was different. It was something you admired about him.

“(l/n), in my office!” Captain Fowler called from the balcony of his room. You looked over to Connor before sighing.

“Well, boss is calling me. I’ll talk to you afterwards?” You suggested as you stood from your seat.

“Of course.” Connor replied, shielding his excitement. He stood up from his chair as well. “I’d be happy to talk again, (y/n).”

“Likewise.” You winked. With that, you left your desk and headed straight to Fowler’s office. Connor stood shellshocked. Did you just.. Wink at him?! Connor’s eyes slowly drifted to Hank, who was chuckling heartily. He gave Connor an assuring thumbs up as Connor made his way back to their desks.

“You’d be a shit detective if this is how you acted all the time.” Hank snickered. Connor grinned a little before taking a seat back at his desk.

“I know.” Connor sighed, leaning a little back in his chair. He at you through the glass walls, noticing your upright posture and the way you listened intently to Captain Fowler’s words. He looked over to Hank before thinning his lips.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asked.

“What is it, son?”

“What am I.. Feeling right now?” Connor asked, a little lost on how to explain it. “I can only think about them— only envision them when I close my eyes. I get nervous and its like my programming has reduced to 0s and 1s.” He sighed, hell, even a little frustrated that you had this affect on him.

Hank with a wide smile, shook his head and looked at Connor with a knowing stare. Connor looked up, both lost while desperate for an answer and maybe even a cure. Hank sat up and made sure to look at Connor right in the yes.

“Connor,” Hank sighed, grinning. “Son, that feeling your experiencing is called love. And your plastic ass better get used to it.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

thank you so much for reading towards the end ! im sorry if its a little messy-- i quickly had to post this before hanging out w some friends but i just wanted to get this out of the way rq! reblogs, replies, and even likes are so so appreciated <3

#detroit become human #connor detroit become human #connor x reader #connor x you #connor rk800 #connor dbh x reader #dbh connor #dbh rk800 #rk800 x reader #dbh #detroit become human fanfics #hank anderson #connor anderson #4k800 #connor 4k800 x reader #dbh 4k800 #4k800 x reader

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yeoldenews · 13 days ago

Note

I'm not sure if you'll know the answer to this, but for the regency era, how common are contractions in letters and speech? Not the "Wm." for William kind, but your standard "couldn't," "wouldn't" and "shouldn't?" Thanks!

All common English contractions did exist by the Regency period. However, there is very limited period documentation or scholarly research as to whether they were viewed as "proper" English or not at the time.

Contractions were first used in the English language sometime in the last half of the 16th century, and by the late 17th and early 18th centuries were approaching what most people today would probably consider over-use.

By the time the Regency era rolled around however, many older uses of contractions had already fallen, or were in the midst of falling, out of favor. 'Tis, 'twas, ne'er, e'er, e'en, tho', thro', etc., were mostly confined to poetry by the early 19th century (though 'tis seems to have hung on a little bit longer than the others).

The last half of the 18th century had also already seen the almost complete disappearance of the most common use of English contractions in the 17th and early 18th centuries - using 'd in place of -ed - as seen here in an example from the 1736...

The frequency of use of contractions in the Regency period specifically, seems to have varied greatly from person to person. Jane Austen herself used very few contractions in her novels compared to some of her contemporaries. Couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't do not appear at all in Pride & Prejudice, Sense & Sensibility or Emma, and all other contractions were used very sparingly.

In P&P, I counted one appearance of "I'm", one of "you'll", one "won't", two "can't"s, three "shan't"s and six "don't"s.

I compared this to Evelina, by Frances Burney (published in 1778) which (just in Volume One) includes: 14 occurrences of can't, 4 of won't, 35 of don't (vs only 15 of 'do not') and 11 of shan't (3 spelled shan't and 8 sha'n't).

Though couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't all appear in Evelina as well (in an archaic forms which included a space between the modal verb and n't: could n't, would n't, should n't), I did notice they are used much more by lower class characters than by upper.

There seems to be some evidence that negative contractions (those ending in n't) began to be considered improper English in the latter half of the 18th century, and subsequently generally fell out of favor with the upper classes.

The Grammatical Wreath... by Alexander Bicknell, published in 1790, specifically cautions against using contractions in correspondence with social superiors.

"And be careful in not omitting any letter belonging to the words you write; as, I've, can't, don't, shou'd, wou'd, &c. instead of I have, cannot, do not, should, would; for such contractions not only appear disrespectful and too familiar, but discover ignorance and impudence."

This very interesting paper (which you can view in full if you have a free JSTOR account) analyzes the grammatical trends found through 50 years (1730s-1780s) of the correspondence of writer Elizabeth Montagu. The author marked a significant falloff in the use of negative contracted modal and auxiliary verbs over the course of Montagu's letters. In the 1730s Montagu used un-contracted negatives 62% of the time and contracted 38%, but by the 1780s Montagu used no contacted negatives at all.

Granted these are only the letters of a single person and, as the author notes, could have many other explanations (age, change in social class, familiarity with the correspondent, etc.), it does seem to reflect what I've personally observed in writing from this period.

So the answer to your question is - yes, contractions existed and yes, they were in fairly common use - with the asterisk that how they were viewed by society is not terribly well documented for the Regency period.

So I'd personally say feel free to use them in any Regency era stories you may be writing, but do so sparingly with very proper or upper class characters.

If you're aiming for very authentic period flavor, you could also try throwing in some contractions that have fallen out of use over the past two centuries - shan't, mustn't, needn't, mayn't, etc. I'd especially recommend using 'shan't' in place of 'shouldn't' where appropriate, and also remembering that if you're using 'can not' instead of 'can't' it is always one word - cannot.

One thing that is period authentic, but I won't personally recommend to any Regency era writers (unless you want to throw some meta commentary on the chaos that is the English language into an epistolary) - is that no one really agreed where to put the apostrophe in wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't until well into the 19th century. It's very common to see the n't separate as in the examples from Evelina, but I've also seen wou'd'n't, would'nt, wou'd'nt, etc. etc. etc., sometimes multiple different ways within a single paragraph.

Hope some of that was helpful. I had fun digging into it!

#*I am not an expert in the history of English grammar I just read a lot of old things #so if anyone has more expertise please feel free to chime in #regency #regency era #history #1800s #1810s #grammar #english language #jane austen #linguistics #sociolinguistics #asks #long post #long posts

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sitepathos · 7 months ago

Text

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 11: The Interview

Note: Didn’t really plan on making a chapter like this, but I thought we were overdue some filler before we got into some real drama. Enjoy!

You let out a loud agitated sigh as you power down your computer and slouch in your office chair.

Since you got back from Metropolis, you’ve been working on a free update to thank all your players for their support and voting to make Salvage Rights the Indie Game of the Year; working on an update that’ll satisfy the players and be easy to develop and implement was difficult enough, but all the drama with the Waynes made it even harder.

It’s been four fucking years since you left Gotham! Even when you moved back to Goodsprings, you couldn’t help but think about all they’d done to you, from Bruce acting like you’re an intruder in his “perfect” house to Damian being your personal demon. You’d managed to put hundreds of miles between yourself and them, but they still managed to have a hold on you. Sure, you knew you were in a home you owned fair and square, not Wayne Manor, but there were still instances where you caught yourself looking over your shoulder to make sure no one was behind you or peeking around corners to make sure a room was empty before you walked in.

Even with the Megamycete constantly reminding you, it took you the better part of a year to get it through your head that you no longer needed the survival tactics that had kept you alive in Wayne Manor as you’re the only one in your house.

It’s taken the last three years, but you were finally ready to move on with your life, look towards the future and leave Gotham, Bruce Wayne, and his merry band of bastards behind. You published your game, people loved it almost immediately, and you had been rewarded for your efforts with fame and fortune.

You finally free and could actually be happy for the first time in years.

Now, he and his children come and plague you, trying to drag you back to the place you hated from day one.

He made it clear that he never considered you his son (hell, what he said the night those three bastards kidnapped you proved that), always showering Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian with a fatherly love you had slowly realized would never be meant for you and shoved you aside in favor of showcasing the children he was proud of. Eventually, you were forgotten by both Bruce Wayne and the larger world as no one in Gotham’s media class ever asked where you were, why weren’t you with them at this party, or when was he planning on throwing you your own introductory gala like his other kids.

As time went on, you took steps to separate yourself from him, never telling anyone who your father was and only accepting Gould as your proper last name (although if you ever found some guy to marry you, you’d definitely be open to changing your last name).

Then, that son of a bitch shows up and ruins everything, your face plastered all over the news, primarily in Gotham and Metropolis, and you can’t go anywhere without people staring, whispering, and bombarding you with several questions (many of them being if you could set them up with your “siblings”).

You were finally living the life you’d dreamed about and he had to go and ruin it! You’d known that Bruce Wayne is a miserable motherfucker who can’t stand to see anyone around him to be happy (you’d listened in on plenty of arguments between him and the others whenever one of them tried to strike out on their own to figure that out), but you never thought that he’d be so petty he’d try to drag you, the son he never wanted, back when he saw you happy for once in your life.

You look down at your hands and imagine what it’d feel like to have them wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him and seeing him realize that despite his strength as Batman, he was powerless compared to you; the relief you would feel as you saw the life leave his eyes as he accepted that the son he never wanted was the instrument of his destruction.

You revel in the brief sensation of satisfaction that passes through you from your daydream.

(You may get your wish,) the Megamycete says, bringing you out for your fantasy.

“How do you figure?”

It doesn’t answer, but you feel sensations of anxiety and apprehension radiate from it.

“What’s wrong,” you say, getting a little afraid.

Over the last four years, you’d never known the Megamycete to be afraid of anything.

So, seems like things are about to go from bad to worse in your life.

(We reached out to the Bats. They know of both our existence and our bond with you.)

“What,” you exclaim, standing up from your chair. “You told them? Why?”

(We thought we could reason with them for you. They—)

“How could you do that? Now they know about you! They weren’t going to stop coming and my only ace in the hole is you! I’ve lost that advantage thanks to you! For a sentient mushroom that has the knowledge of thousands of people, that was a pretty stupid thing to do!”

You’re pissed. Really pissed.

You had a feeling that the night with Bruce at the Gala wasn’t the end of things and all of his children visiting you proved it. The Bats have made it clear they’ll do whatever they must to accomplish their goals and for whatever reason, they’ve decided you’re their goal.

Sure, you went overboard a little demonstating your strength when dealing with Jason and Damian, but that they had no idea your strength came from the Megamycete and that was only the surface what you were capable of. If they decided to come at you in force, they were in one hell of a surprise when you fabricated hardened mold armor right in front of them and do to them what you did to Joker. You know they’ve fought plenty of villains with powers, but the mold is stronger than all of them combined and you’d make them regret ever meeting you as you tear them apart and scatter their intestines across the ground.

But now, thanks to the Megamycete, they know that you’re not alone and who knows what else?

(We are sorry,) it says, its tone remorseful. (We thought we could persuade them to leave you alone. We were wrong.)

“Yeah, no shit! If they weren’t listening to me, what made you think they would listen to you? Hell, you know how Bruce feels about metas, knowing I’m one probably made things worse! He’s probably making some cage to hold me right now!”

You tap into the roots scattered around Gotham and focus on Wayne Manor, but are surprised to find you’re unable to connect.

(They have started removing our roots. We have accelerated the growth of the surrounding roots, but they are taking steps to prevent their regrowth.)

“So, we have no idea what they’re planning. Great, that’s just great. Terrific job, man. Really, just superb.”

(We thought we could help.)

You exhale a sigh and wave a hand through your hair, trying to come up with a plan on where to go next.

“How did it go down, exactly? What happened?”

The Megamycete uploads its meeting with them into your brain and it flashes before your eyes, from the Megamycete torturing some of them by turning into their dead ones to them learning about you killing your would-be murderers and Joker and Harley.

You thought you hated Bruce Wayne enough, but apparently you don’t hate that man enough.

How someone can be so delusional is astounding to say the least. Honestly, he deserves to be thrown in Arkham and studied, along with all the others.

They ignore you for most of your life and treat you like shit and now that you’re finally happy, they want to drag you back to Gotham.

And why?

Because they “love you?”

Bullshit.

They feel guilty and they just want to feel better. You know no one in that damn house is capable of feeling real love and once they feel better about themselves, they’ll go right back to ignoring you.

(They are truly delusional. They think their past behavior does not matter and you should be brought back to their fold.)

Yeah, you got that from Jason. The bastard wasn’t able to get away from Bruce and Gotham (because despite all his bluster, all he wants is that man’s approval) and because he couldn’t do it, he thinks you shouldn’t be able to.

Selfish, all of them.

“You fucked up. They were going to find out eventually, but thanks to you, we’re gonna have to deal with them sooner than we expected.”

(We know. We overestimated our abilities and brought trouble upon you. We apologize. Truly, we do.)

You understand where its heart was in the right place, but it still doesn’t change the fact that the Bats are probably going to be breaking down your door any day now.

Just then, there’s a knock at your door, making you freeze.

Shit, are they already here? Are they in regular clothes or are they in their capes and cowls? Are they really that desperate to bring you back to Gotham that they’d really raid your house in the middle of the day for anyone walking by to see?

You tap into the roots surrounding your house and see not Bruce Wayne or any of his kids darkening your door. Instead, you see a black haired woman dressed professionally standing on your porch.

“Who the hell is she?”

(We do not know. She is definitely not a resident of Gotham as we do not recognize her.)

That certainly doesn’t make you feel better. You know Bruce is resourceful as hell and isn’t afraid to use any dirty trick in the book to get what he wants.

(She does not appear to have ill intents. She is too delicate-looking to pose a threat to you, nor is her purse large enough to hold a weapon large enough to harm you.)

Looks can be deceiving. After all, Bruce is a member of the Justice League, where Martian Manhunter is and you can see Bruce using the alien to transform and trick you into lowering your guard. When that man gets obsessed over something, he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

Still, you can speculate to the moon and back, but until you open the door and talk to the woman, you’ll never know for certain. Sure, it could be related to your current Bat problem, or it could be something else.

So, you walk through your house and up to your door.

“Who is it,” you call out.

“Lois Lane, Daily Planet,” she responds. “I’m here to ask Y/N Gould for an interview.”

Lois Lane? You’ve heard Bruce and the others say that name when talking about Metropolis and Superman and you’ve seen the name when reading a few news articles for school assignments, but you’ve never seen any pictures of her, so you had no idea the woman standing on your doorstep is the very woman famous for being one of the very few reputable journalists left in the world.

You unlock the door and open it just enough to stick your head out to see her face to face. You look into her eyes and see no ill intent or hidden motives.

“Mr. Gould, I presume,” she asks, a gentle smile on her face.

“You want an interview with me? What for?”

“Your relation with Bruce Wayne. As I’m sure you know, he’s the most famous man in Gotham, if he so much as sneezes in public, several news articles are written to publish it. Gotham’s media has always covered whenever he adopted another child, but out of nowhere, he appears at a video game awards ceremony and claims you’re his son and you call him a sperm donor. No one can forget when Damian Wayne appeared at a gala and was declared Bruce Wayne’s biological son. It made quite the stir when you pushed him and made it clear you had nothing but animosity towards him.”

Oh yes, you can remember the many days of fawning Damian got when he moved into the manor, leaving you bitter since all you got was a few minutes of people asking about your mother before forgetting about you in favor of all the others.

“What is it you want,” you say, trying to remain polite. “I lost years thanks to Gotham and Bruce Wayne and I’m not eager to lose any more dwelling in the past.”

“I want to hear your side of the story,” she says with a determination that surprises you. “You clearly suffered due to him and I want to help you tell your story to the world.”

You’re actually speechless at that. You know pretty much all of Gotham worships at the Alter of Wayne and his influence expands far beyond the city’s borders, leaving very few people willing to hear anything that would portray him in a negative light. It’s very safe to say Gotham is a cathedral dedicated to both Bruce Wayne and Batman.

To hear that someone with a reputation and influence like Lois Lane would want to listen to you and help you tell others your life’s story is nothing less of a shocker.

“I can’t say you’ll like what I have to say, Ms. Lane,” you say as you open the door wide and stand in the doorway. “I know Bruce Wayne is an institution of Gotham, but I can tell you that wasn’t my experience.”

“This isn’t about my opinion on Bruce Wayne or any of his children. This is about what you experienced during your stay in Wayne Manor.”

“And how much are you wanting to know?”

“Everything. Or, as much or as little you’re willing to tell me.”

Her words strike you to your core. It’s been years since you’ve had anyone really interested in what you have to say. Sure, Alfred was always willing to listen to you, but you learned early on that you had to hold back on how you really felt about Bruce Wayne and his children as any criticism you had about them was a failure on his part.

The poor man did the best he could, but those people are clearly beyond any form of help outside of being locked in padded cells.

“Come in, please,” you say, steeping aside so she could enter your home. Once she’s in, you close the door and lead her to the living room. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water, soda?”

“Anything’s fine, thank you.”

She sits on the couch while you rush to the kitchen and prepare two glasses of ice water, a crystal pitcher full of more water, and a small bowl full of grapes and load it all onto a tray and carry it back to the living room. This is the first time you’ve ever had a guest and you want to make a good impression.

“So, where would you like to start,” you ask as you sit in your favorite chair, your glass of water in hand.

“I’d like to ask about your mother, if that’s alright,” she answers, pulling out a writing pad and pen from her purse. “I managed to find newspapers relating to you around the time you moved to Gotham, but they were very few and none of them had anything regarding your mother or your past.”

You stifle a chuckle at the thought of being one the front page of a few newspapers no doubt rotting in the Gotham Gazette’s archives. You were probably the center of news for all a week before Bruce adopted Tim and stole the spotlight, leading to the tradition of you being pushed further and further back whenever Bruce collected another troubled kid.

“My mom was Maria Gould, a famous writer known for romance novels set during the Age of Sail.”

“That Maria Gould,” she asks, looking up from her notepad in shock. “I didn’t know you were related to her?”

“You know her?”

“I was an avid reader of her books.” She gives a small chuckle. “I actually use to daydream of interviewing her when I first started at the Daily Planet.” He smile then shifts into a sympathetic frown. “I remember reading about her death in the paper. I knew it said she had a son, but I didn’t see the connection until now.”

“She died on my sixth birthday. It’s been sixteen years since that day and I can still remember it so clearly.”

That day haunts you to this day. You got to school so happy and excited for Momma to come pick you up after school, thinking about how much pizza you’d eat and what presents you’d get.

You had no idea that when you told her bye that day, it would be for the last time.

(Your grief is still so profound, even after all this time.)

That day ended in the loss of your Momma and your life went from bad to worse when Alfred picked you up and brought you to Gotham to live with that bastard.

“I can tell you loved you very much,” she responds, her expression sympathetic.

“Yeah,” you say, suppressing a tear. “Yeah, I did.”

“So, did you have any idea who your father was? Did she ever tell you or did you ever ask?”

“Yeah, I did ask when all my friends were celebrating Father’s Day and I realized I didn’t have a Daddy like my friends. She said that she didn’t know who he was. She didn’t say it, but when she said she was “young and dumb,” I later found out that meant she got drunk and had sex with a guy she didn’t know.” A ghost of a smile graces your face. “She said when I came along, I set her on the right path.”

“I say you did,” she responds, returning your smile. “Being a parent often makes people turn their lives around.” She jots something down in her pad before looking back at you. “So, when did you move to Gotham?”

“Immediately after the funeral. The sheriff drove me back home to pack up most of my stuff and when we got to the house, Alfred was waiting for me.”

“Wait, Bruce Wayne didn’t pick you up himself?”

“No, Alfred said he was too busy with work and couldn’t come.”

“His firstborn son loses his son and he couldn’t even make the time to get you,” she angrily mutters to herself as she writes. “And how did he react when he saw you?”

“It was almost like he was staring at a stranger in his home.”

You can still remember how you felt when you met Bruce Wayne for the first time; it was the first time you’d ever felt like someone didn’t like you and it really hurt.

“He barely said a word to me before telling Alfred he was going out.”

“Doing what,” she asks, clearly getting angrier and angrier by the second.

For a brief moment, you entertain the idea on ousting Bruce’s dirty little secret and telling the world that he’s Batman. He’d be drowning in so much attention and legal battles that he wouldn’t be able to bother you ever again.

But then, the rational part of your brain convinces you that by telling everyone Batman’s secret identity would invite a lot of trouble your way. After all, all of Bruce’s kids are vigilantes, so many would automatically assume you were one as well, leading you to being dragged into Bruce’s legal and publicity quagmire.

Also, there’s the very real possibility that all of Bruce’s enemies would come after you seeking revenge and while you were more than capable of dealing with whatever came your way, you’d really rather not deal with it altogether.

“I don’t know,” you say. “He said he had work to do, but this is Bruce Wayne we’re talking about. Chances are he was in some sleazy club with a girl on each side and one on her knees if you know what I mean.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” she agrees. “Now, a week after you moved to Wayne Manor, Bruce adopted Tim Drake. Did you two get along?”

You bark a bitter laugh. “He took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth his attention. If you ask me, there’s always been something wrong with him. He’s always watching people, taking note of everything they do and obsessing over finding out his secrets. If you ask me, he’s not right and his parents knew it. That’s why they were always leaving him behind when they went to dig sites or parties.”

She’s definitely interested in that as she seemingly writes down everything you said, word for word.

She stifle a chuckle at the thought of Tim Drake being asked what the fuck’s wrong with him every time he goes anywhere.

“What about Dick Grayson? Everyone in Gotham says he’s everything a good big brother should be.”

Yes, you remember the celebration he got when the Gotham Gazette named him the World’s Best Big Brother for the tenth year in a row.

A celebration you weren’t invited to.

“He was a brother to me. When I first moved in, he always carved out time for Tim, but couldn’t give me the time of day. After being blown off a few dozen times in favor for of his other siblings, I eventually stopped asking him.”

“What about Jason Todd?”

“He gave me a black eye when we met.” She gasps at that. “Yeah, he’s a brute. He’s always going on about Jane Austen, but underneath that veneer of an intellectual, he’s Crime Alley trash. Honestly, Bruce should’ve just left him in that part of Gotham. With his poor anger management and proclivity for violence, he’d fit right in. Animals belong in the wild.”

“What about your half brother, Damian Wayne?”

“That little shit pulled a sword on me and nearly tried to take my head off.”

“He what?”

“Yeah, an actual sword. I was able to get out of the way, but he gave me a scar on my cheek. It took me a few years, but I was able to find a way to make it invisible, especially when I looked in the mirror. Every time I saw it, it reminded me of how little I mattered in that house.”

“What did Bruce Wayne do? Surely he knew about it?”

“He was in the room when it happened. All he did was carry him out while he was yelling insults about me and my Momma. And Dick said he had a difficult upbringing and I should forgive him.”

“Forgive him for almost killing you,” she exclaims, her eyes wide as saucers and a look of disgust on her face. “You can’t be serious!”

“I wish I was, Ms. Lane, but Dick’s made it clear that Damian’s his favorite and had he managed to kill me, I’m sure Dick would’ve just taken him out for ice cream and told him that he can’t go around killing people.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You know, he had some nerve calling my Momma a ‘whore’ when I know the secret about his mother.”

“You do,” she asks, leaning forward, her pen and pad ready, indicating you have her full and undivided attention. “Everyone’s asked Bruce about the identity of Damian’s mother and the details relating to the birth, but he’s told us nothing. Are you willing to shed some light on this?”

For a brief moment, you actually ask yourself if this is right. With all the things Damian’s done to you, is it really acceptable to tell the dirty little secret regarding his conception? After all, if you were in his shoes, you’d kill to ensure your secret never saw the light of day.

(But he would not hesitate to tell the world your secret if your situations were reversed,) the Megamycete chimes in. (And does he not deserve some comeuppance for his many transgressions against you?)

You have to admit, it has a point. And besides, this’ll give the Wayne Family a massive shitstorm they’ll have to deal with and your mind’s immediately made up.

“I know her name, but I don’t want her coming after me, so I’m afraid that part of the secret stays with me.” Lois nods, so you continue. “His mother raped him.”

She gasps and you know you’ve passed a point of no return now.

Then again, daring to defy the “great” Bruce Wayne was a point of no return, so this is just adding fuel to the fire.

“She drugged his drink and got him to agree to sleep with her, all for the sole purpose of getting pregnant because she believed him to be of a superior quality.” You lower your voice to mutter, “I can tell you she was greatly misled.”

After that, the interview breezed by, asking about how Steph and Cass treated you to the conditions you were kept in. You told her everything, about how Damian would go out of his way to make you miserable to how Bruce couldn’t be bothered to do anything for you and it was Alfred that kept you alive. In fact, it was only the poor butler that seemed to care about you and you were confident that had you died, Bruce would just be pissed about the inconvenience your death caused him, from having to find a place to bury you to making up a story to tell the media.

It was only when you told her the story involving Damian and your Momma’s pen did you realize that not only was she crying, but so were you.

You knew how that memory made you feel, but had forgotten how much it pained you until you told her every detail. Funny how the brain tries so hard to suppress the worst moments of your life.

“Why do you think they treated you like this,” she asks, trying to keep her voice even to disguise the fact she’s obviously upset. “From everything you’ve told me, it sounds like they really didn’t see you as a Wayne.”

“Because I was the consequence of Bruce’s stupidity. He got drunk and did something stupid, leading to me, and he didn’t like that he was forced to live with him and ruin his family’s image. And because I was normal.”

“Normal?”

“Yes, normal. I had a normal life with Momma while all of the have colorful backgrounds. And I’d like to think that I’m average looking and averagely intelligent with nothing special about me, compared to everyone in the Wayne Family, who always thing their the best looking and smartest people in the room. Plus, I wasn’t damaged goods until Bruce Wayne came into my life. I guess the tragic death of my Momma wasn’t enough for him to make him love me.”

Those words cause you to let out a choked sob as more and more memories of your time in Wayne Manor start surfacing, memories you’d prefer to keep buried.

“I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day,” you say, wiping your eyes and standing up.

“Yes, I think I have everything I need,” she says, doing the same thing.

“Is there anything I can get you before you go, Ms. Lane,” you ask as you lead her to the front door. “Maybe a drink or a snack for the road?”

One of Alfred’s many lessons was how to be a good host and he’d flip out if you didn’t offer her something.

“No, thank you, Mr. Gould, you’ve given me more than enough.” She hesitates for a moment before getting close to you, her arms at both your sides. You freeze up, thinking the worst is about to happen when you realize she’s hugging you. “I’m so sorry for your loss and what you had to go through growing up. No one should ever have to experience such neglect.”

Outside of Alfred, it’s been years since anyone’s hugged you. Last time you were hugged by anyone not the butler was when Momma first died; Goodsprings is the type of where everyone knows everyone and you’re pretty sure you had the entire town giving you hugs before and during the funeral.

“Thank you,” you whisper, returning the hug.

“I know it doesn’t undo the damage he’s done, but I promise this story will make everyone see who Bruce Wayne truly is.”

And with that, you two separate and you wave goodbye as she gets in her car and drives off.

(You made the right decision to tell her everything,) the Megamycete says as you close and lock your door. (We must say, we are surprised you chose not to tell her their roles as Gotham’s vigilantes. Surely the benefits of exposing them outweigh the projected consequences. Or at least balance out.)

“Believe me, I was plenty tempted, but having the enemies of Batman knocking down my door would be more trouble than it was worth. Sure, I could kill them all, but it would only be a matter of time until I was put in a situation where too many people would ask too many questions.”

“We see your point. Besides, her story will no doubt cause more than enough trouble for him and his band of misfits.”

A part of you makes you wish you were back in Gotham so you could see the backlash Bruce is about to be hit with.

Granted, it’s a small part, practically microscopic, but it’s still there.

“I understand, but—“ Bruce says before hearing a click, indicating the call has been ended.

“Another bad phone call, Master Bruce,” Alfred says as holds out a cup of tea.

“Yes,” he sighs, putting his phone in his pocket and taking the cup with one hand and rubbing his temples with the other. “The Humanitarian Ball. The event organizers said they didn’t want ‘cruel and heartless monsters’ bringing a bad name on their event.”

Ever since Lois Lane’s article titled The Forsaken Gould of the Wayne Family came out two days ago, he’s experienced set back after set back; in less than forty-eight hours, Wayne Enterprises’ stock has lost half its value, many large companies have dropped out of their business deals, and more than a few people have withdrawn their invitations for high-profile events.

But none of that compares to the massive gap between you and him getting even larger. He knew that he’d wronged you, but being able to read it in black and white just drives the point even further.

He just wishes that it could’ve stayed between you, him, and your siblings. His family may be celebrities in Gotham, but he prefers to handle the family’s drama behind closed doors.

He’s held his family together through thick and thin and he’ll continue to do so.

And he’s had a hard time doing that over the past two days.

He’s read and reread that article ever since it came out, unable to go a single day without looking at it. He had no idea that he made you feel like you were a mistake he felt embarrassed over or that because you weren’t anything like them, you weren’t worthy of his love.

He knows he’s failed you, but he wants to fix all of it! He wants to embrace you and never let go and to put you up on a pedestal for all of Gotham to bask in and know that you’re the most treasured member of the Wayne Family.

But until they find a way to rid that mushroom in your body and bring you back home, they can’t start fixing their mistakes.

The media’s had a field day with the article ever since it came out, hounding them every time they go out in public, asking them how they could sleep at night knowing they kept you in tiny guest room on the other side of the manor or about how Bruce could treat the son born from Talia drugging him with such love while treating the son born from a drunken one-night stand with such disdain.

He was shocked to learn that you knew of them being the Bats, but to learn you knew the truth regarding Damian’s birth…

Just how much did you know? Did he ignore you so much that he didn’t know you were nearby whenever he talked about anything, even sensitive information that he only talked to Alfred about.

Were you practically invisible to him the entire time you lived here?

Of course, Damian’s pissed that people are calling Talia a rapist and asking if he knew. All this made him a powder keg ready to go off, but what made him really go off was when one of his more elitist classmates made the snide remark that Damian was right to treat you like he did because you came from “some low class author” and simply weren’t worthy of being a member of high society, his son broke the boy’s nose and said he wasn’t worthy of saying your name.

He really wished Damian would’ve let him handle it by framing his parents for tax evasion and illegal business dealings (of course, he still did it, that little shit should’ve known better than to think he had the right to even think about you). They already have enough problems on their plate, they don’t need to add assault to it.

Dick really took it hard when he read that you didn’t think of him as a big brother and Lois Lane had called for him to be stripped of his status of Gotham’s Best Big Brother.

If there’s one thing Dick holds dear in this world, it’s his status as the family’s big brother and would bend over backwards for any of his siblings, be it driving them to the other side of Gotham or helping them with a case.

Dick already felt bad when he realized he’s always ignored you in favor of his other siblings, but that article pushed him over the edge, making his oldest son lose his trademark energetic behavior, choosing to spend all his time in your old room. And if Bruce is very quiet and he creeps close to the door, he can hear Dick’s muffled weeping and apologies.

His heart breaks for his oldest. If he could, he’d undo his and his children’s wrongdoings towards you and bare the memory of it if it meant you being here, where you belong, and not hating them.

Jason also took it hard; Jason knows that he has a problem with his temper and has tried everything under the sun to keep it under control, but his upbringing in Crime Alley and his torture and death at Joker’s hands have left marks on him that he’ll be dealing with for the rest of his life (and Bruce would pay any price to undo them). Jason regrets taking his anger for him out on you when he returned, thinking you were another “replacement” like Tim when he sees you and him had so much in common, you’re practically related.

Tim’s sequestered himself in his room, glued to his computer desk; he’d been in your old room almost everyday ever since they learned of their neglect towards you, thinking the almost bare room would provide some glimpse into your mind that he can use to get into your good graces and make you return home. After the article, many of them tried to rationalize that this Megamycete was twisting your mind and make you hate them so much, but that’s when Tim admitted that he found an old journal of yours, going back to when you first moved in and detailing everything they’d done to you, the last entry detailing Damian throwing your mother’s pen into the yard while it was raining.

He hates how he handled that situation; at the time, he thought you were just making a big deal over some silly little pen (fuck, that was how he really saw it back then), but you were just protecting the only thing you had of your mother, uncaring what it would cost you. He’d like to think he’s do the same thing had someone tried to take his mother’s pearls (you really are his son, aren’t you).

When Tim said he had your journal, they all tried to get it from him, Damian going as far as to bring out his sword and threaten to take it by force (Bruce really needs to consider confiscating that sword due to all the trouble it’s caused). Hell, Jason actually begged to be able to read your journal, but his son would not surrender the book and has been hoarding all the information for himself.

The girls have been silent since reading it, which is never a good sign since Steph is always making noise. He tried to comfort Cass when she read that you don’t consider her a person because of the way she looks at people, like she’s trying to find strengths and weaknesses before attacking them (apparently you also know of her upbringing as a weapon), but his second daughter wouldn’t accept his gestures, signing that you had a point and that she’d never break free of her origins as a living weapon.

And Damian… His youngest has been eerily quiet, but it doesn’t take his detective training to realize he’s fuming on the inside (it seems to be a prerequisite in this family to deal with emotions in unhealthy ways). Bruce had asked him if he was angry that you had exposed the secret of his birth and all his youngest said was that it was his penance for his transgressions against you (his heart breaks that his youngest thinks he deserves this as some sort of punishment).

He was already having a hard time containing the fallout of the world finding out his firstborn son is you, not Damian, and that he’s basically not acknowledged you at all in the last decade, but this article has made it next to impossible to find a convincing lie to tell the media that you came back willingly when they ultimately bring you back home.

“This fucking Megamycete,” he growls, setting the teacup on a nearby table not so gently. “It’s ruined everything.”

“How do you figure, Master Bruce,” the man responds, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s making him lash out, do these things. I know we wronged Y/N and he has every right to hate us, but he shouldn’t be capable of this, should he? There’s no way he’d ever say these things willingly.”

“Do you think you know Master Y/N to make such an assessment?”

That makes him pause.

He has no illusion that he never took the time to sit down with you to have an actual conversation, but his blood still courses through your veins; he’d never do something like this, nor would Damian or any of his other children.

Did your hate for them… for him run that strong? That you despise them so much that you’d expose and put them all on display for the world to see?

Would you go as far as exposing their secret identities?

“What do you think, Alfred,” he says after a moment of silence. “You obviously know him better than all of us. Would he ever do something like this?”

“I think that he wishes to exact revenge for the many years of neglect you all inflicted upon him and that this is his opening volley,” the man says with no hesitation or restraint.

That makes him flinch.

“So, you’re saying he hates us,” he asks, afraid of the answer the butler will give him.

He knows you have every right to hate him, god knows he’s made his children hate him on several occasions, but if you hate him… hate them enough to do something like this…

He knows he’s not strong enough to handle it.

“I think he’s dreamed of making all of you pay for what you’ve done to him for years. And with this Megamycete within him, I say he’s more than a match for you and the children.”

“You’d think he’d attack us?”

“When I held Master Y/N in my arms, I could see the fury beneath his tears. Master Damian use to take delight in giving Master Y/N a demonstration in his combat prowess. There’s no doubt in my mind that Master y/N wishes to return the favor.”

He won’t allow that. He’s hurt his children in multiple ways and his children have hurt one another in multiple ways over the years and every time it happened it created a rift that was never truly repaired, merely covered over. There’s been enough pain and misery in this family to last several lifetimes.

He’s fought tooth and nail to keep his children together and he’s not about to let one slip away.

He understands you want nothing to do with him or your siblings, but like it or not, you’re his son and his children belong in Gotham, under his roof.

“Have the tests on the root samples finished yet?”

“Yes, they were finished just a little while ago. I’m afraid to say that none of the toxins you have in stock had any noticeable effect on them.”

He curses at the news. He had hoped the toxins he keeps so deal with Poison Ivy would be as effective on the Megamycete, but that is unfortunately not the case.

“What about the in-depth analysis on the blood sample?”

“From what the analyzer could tell, the Megamycete seems to behave like a benign cancer, slowly eradicating Master Y/N’s native cells in order to replace them with unstable mold versions, which are able to be manipulated and altered into whatever he desires.”

That certainly makes coming up with a strategy on how to counter your abilities; sure, he has a few ideas based on a few villains and heroes that have similar abilities to you, but until he sees what you’re capable of firsthand, he won’t have anything concrete.

The thought then leads to him having an idea, one he’s eager to act on.

“I’m going out, Alfred.”

“And where are we off to, Master Bruce?”

“I’m going to see my son.”

Tag List: @space1crow @lunaluz432 @type-ink @bat1212 @eyeless-kun @deathbynarcisstick @orbitingtraveler @1s3v3n1 @nosyrobin @roseytheteacup @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick @hellcatsworld @bellethesleepypotato @prettyboys247 @marsmabe @exactlynumberonekryptonite @paolexsstuff @fantasyhopperhea @c0l1fl0r @ellaprime7 @starryperson @kore-of-the-underworld @kiarst @vanessa-boo @moxiemy @ratchetprime211 @greatwhisperspaper @tatsuri-zomushiki @bunbunbread @starsdotalk @luna57765 @solelifauna @jsprien213 @diejager @lizz-lrm @v0idl1nq @chericia @wizzerreblogs @tinybrie @lilyalone @thickasthievingtoads @creativechaosx @randomlyappearingartist @ferchu0406 @kik1010 @butterflycardigann

#from gold to mold #yandere batfamily #male reader #batfamily #batfamily x male reader #batman #dc x male reader #yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere barbara gordon #yandere cassandra cain #yandere damian wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere dc #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere alfred pennyworth

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ghstyles · 19 days ago

Text

$5 | Windows Facing

The Sigma boys host a kissing booth

Windows Facing Masterlist

Main Masterlist

«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«

The crisp autumn air carries the sound of music and laughter across campus as Y/N and her roommate Maya make their way back to their dorm after their afternoon classes. Fallen leaves crunch beneath their boots, and Y/N clutches her psychology textbook to her chest, discussing their upcoming midterms.

"I still don't understand why Professor Jenkins expects us to memorize all forty defense mechanisms," Y/N sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, rationalization and intellectualization are practically the same thing."

Maya, with her dark red hair and perpetually amused expression, nudges Y/N with her elbow. "That's such a rationalization."

"See? You're proving my point," Y/N laughs, adjusting her scarf against the October chill.

As they round the corner onto Greek Row, they're met with an unusual sight: a line of girls, at least twenty deep, snaking from the front porch of Sigma house onto the sidewalk. Above the doorway hangs a large, crudely painted banner that reads "SIGMA KISSING BOOTH - $5 - ALL PROCEEDS TO CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL."

“You’ve got to be kidding me" Y/N mutters, slowing her pace to observe the spectacle.

Maya's face lights up with recognition. "Oh! Louis mentioned they were doing a fundraiser today. Didn't realize it would be so...popular."

"Of course it's popular," Y/N says, rolling her eyes. "They're literally selling the opportunity to kiss frat boys. It's like a petri dish of bad decisions and mononucleosis."

Despite her disdain, she can't help but notice the booth set up on the porch. It's decorated with red and pink streamers, and behind it sits Niall, collecting money with an enthusiasm that suggests he's enjoying this charitable endeavor immensely. Beside the booth is a whiteboard listing the "kissers" on rotation:

HARRY 1-2 PM

ZAYN 2-3 PM

LOUIS 3-4 PM

LIAM 4-5 PM

NIALL 5-6 PM

A note at the bottom reads: "Limited time only! Get 'em while they're hot!"

"We should stop by," Maya suggests with a mischievous grin, checking her watch. "It's almost 3 – Louis is about to start his shift."

"Absolutely not," Y/N says firmly, trying to steer her roommate away from the commotion. "You've already been 'kissing' Louis for free for weeks. Why would you pay for it now?"

Maya shrugs. "It's for charity. Plus, I'm curious how he kisses other girls compared to me."

"That's...a concerning level of curiosity," Y/N remarks, but Maya is already dragging her toward the line.

"Come on! It'll be fun. You could kiss Harry," Maya teases, knowing full well about the antagonistic relationship that had developed between Y/N and Harry

"I would rather kiss a toilet seat," Y/N retorts, but allows herself to be pulled along, if only to humor her roommate. "Besides, according to that board, Harry's shift is over."

"Pity," Maya says with exaggerated disappointment. "I've heard he's the best kisser in the house."

"From who?" Y/N asks before she can stop herself.

"Everyone," Maya gestures widely to the line of girls. "I bet his line was the longest"

As they approach, they can see the current proceedings. Zayn is seated on a stool, looking impossibly handsome and slightly bored as he gives a quick peck to a giggling sophomore. Behind him, leaning against the porch railing and drinking from a water bottle, is Harry, evidently finished with his shift.

He spots Y/N immediately, his eyes lighting up with that familiar mischievous glint that always precedes him saying something that will irritate her. He pushes off from the railing and makes his way over, running a hand through his already tousled curls.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, his British accent more pronounced as it always seems to be when he's trying to be charming. "If it isn't psychology girl. Come to make a charitable donation?"

Y/N gives him a saccharine smile. "Just escorting Maya. I prefer my charitable acts to not involve potential communicable diseases."

Harry clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know my lips are pristine. Certified disease-free."

"By whom? The CDC or just your own inflated ego?" she counters.

Harry grins, dimples appearing in full force. "Want to find out for yourself? I could make an exception and extend my shift."

"Hard pass," Y/N says, though she feels an annoying flutter in her stomach at his suggestion. "Besides, I don't have five dollars to waste."

"For you, I'd make it free," he says, leaning closer. "Consider it a scholarship for the academically gifted but romantically challenged."

Before Y/N can formulate a suitably cutting response, Louis emerges from the house, checking his watch.

"Time's up, Zayn!" he calls, then spots Maya in line and breaks into a wide smile. "Well, hello there, Red. Come to support the cause?"

Maya waves, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Just doing my part for the children."

Louis winks at her before turning to Harry. "How'd you do, mate? Beat my record from last year?"

Harry shrugs, his eyes still on Y/N. "Sixty-seven kisses. Not bad for an hour."

"Sixty-seven people willingly put their lips on yours?" Y/N asks, genuinely astonished. "Were they blindfolded first?"

Harry laughs, a rich sound that Y/N reluctantly admits (to herself only) is rather nice. "You know, most girls on campus would consider it a privilege."

"I'm not most girls," she retorts.

"No," he agrees, his tone shifting to something more sincere, "you're definitely not."

The unexpected compliment throws her off balance momentarily.

Louis claps Harry on the shoulder. "My turn to shine. Though I notice you've still got some energy left for verbal sparring with our favorite psychology major."

"Just trying to convince her to contribute to the cause," Harry says innocently.

Louis looks between them with amusement. "Right. The cause."

As Louis takes his position at the booth and Zayn heads inside, the line shuffles forward. Maya moves with it, leaving Y/N standing awkwardly with Harry.

"I should go," she says, gesturing vaguely toward their dorm. "Papers to write, defense mechanisms to memorize."

"Or," Harry suggests, falling into step beside her as she turns to leave, "you could stick around. I'm done with my kissing duties, but I was going to help Niall count the money later."

"Tempting as it is to watch you struggle with basic math, I'll pass," Y/N says dryly.

Harry chuckles. "You know, one day you're going to run out of clever ways to insult me."

"I doubt that very much," she responds, though there's less bite in her tone than usual.

They've reached the sidewalk now, away from the crowd. Harry stops, causing Y/N to pause as well.

"Seriously though," he says, his playful demeanor slipping just slightly, "it is for a good cause. The children's hospital helped my cousin when she was little. It means a lot."

The sincerity in his voice catches Y/N off guard. It's a glimpse of the Harry that exists beneath the confident, flirtatious exterior, the one she occasionally spots in class when he thinks no one is watching, diligently taking notes and asking thoughtful questions.

"That's...actually really nice," she admits. "The fundraiser, I mean. Not the method."

Harry's smile returns, softer this time. "The method works, though. We raised over two thousand dollars last year."

Y/N glances back at the line, which has only grown longer. "I can see why."

A comfortable silence falls between them, perhaps the first they've ever shared that wasn't charged with their usual antagonism.

"I should really go," Y/N says finally, shifting her textbook in her arms. "Good luck with the rest of the fundraiser."

Harry nods, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five-dollar bill. "Here."

Y/N looks at it, confused. "What's this for?"

"Consider it a donation in your name," he explains. "Since you refused to participate directly."

She hesitates, then takes the bill. "I'll drop it in the collection box on my way out."

"Or," Harry says, that mischievous glint returning to his eyes, "you could just take the kiss you paid for."

Y/N arches an eyebrow. "Technically, you paid."

"Semantics," he shrugs, taking a small step closer. "The money's going to the same place either way."

For a brief, crazy moment, Y/N actually considers it. There's something in Harry's expression, a mix of challenge and genuine interest, that makes her wonder what it would be like. Sixty-seven girls today alone couldn't be completely wrong, could they?

But then she thinks of the line of girls, the public setting, and her own stubborn pride.

"I think I'll just make the donation," she says, stepping back slightly.

If Harry is disappointed, he hides it well, nodding with a small smile. "Your loss, psychology girl."

Y/N turns to walk away, but pauses after a few steps. "Harry?"

He looks up, eyebrows raised expectantly.

She sighs before turning back to him, “you can kiss my cheek” she grumbles

Harry's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his usual cocky demeanor momentarily replaced by genuine shock. He recovers quickly, a slow smile spreading across his face, not the practiced, charming grin he flashes at everyone, but something more genuine that reaches his eyes and makes his dimples appear.

"Well, well," he says softly, taking a step toward her. "Psychology girl full of surprises."

Y/N immediately regrets her impulsive offer, but her pride won't let her take it back. She straightens her shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant despite the warmth creeping up her neck.

"It's for charity," she says primly. "And since you technically paid, I suppose it's only fair you get something for your donation. And I dont think youd want Louis or Niall kissing you"

"How generous of you," Harry murmurs, closing the distance between them.

He moves with a deliberate slowness that makes Y/N's heart beat faster. Standing this close, she can smell his cologne, something expensive and woodsy that she's secretly noticed before in class but would never admit to liking. His eyes, green with flecks of gold in the autumn sunlight, hold hers with unexpected intensity.

"Last chance to back out," he says quietly, giving her an opportunity to retreat that she hadn't expected from him.

Y/N swallows but holds her ground, turning her cheek slightly toward him in silent permission. She's acutely aware of the line of girls still visible on the porch, some of whom have noticed this interaction and are watching with undisguised interest.

Harry leans in, one hand coming up to gently brush her hair back from her face. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. His fingers are warm against her skin, and she finds herself holding her breath as he moves closer.

His lips press against her cheek, soft and warm. It's not the quick peck she was expecting, but something more lingering, respectful of the boundaries she set, yet somehow managing to feel more intimate than a simple courtesy kiss. His stubble grazes her skin lightly, and she catches another hint of his cologne, mixed with something that's just distinctly him.

The kiss lasts only seconds, but when Harry pulls back, Y/N feels oddly disoriented, as if something fundamental has shifted between them.

"Thank you for your contribution," Harry says, his voice lower than usual, a hint of something unreadable in his expression.

Y/N clears her throat, desperately trying to regain her composure. "I expect a tax receipt," she manages, though her attempt at their usual banter falls slightly flat.

Harry laughs softly, still standing closer than their normal conversational distance. "I'll see what I can do."

From the porch, Louis calls out, breaking the moment: "Oi, Harry! Need you back here, we've got a line situation!"

Harry glances over his shoulder and waves acknowledgment, then turns back to Y/N. "Duty calls."

"Can't keep your admirers waiting," she says, finding her footing again.

Harry studies her for a moment longer, as if trying to solve a puzzle. "You know," he says thoughtfully, "for someone who claims to find me insufferable, you blush very prettily when I'm near."

Before Y/N can formulate a suitably cutting response, Harry takes a step backward, his usual confident smirk returning.

"See you in class tomorrow, psychology girl," he says with a wink, then turns and jogs back toward the house, where the line has indeed become somewhat chaotic.

Y/N stands rooted to the spot, her hand unconsciously touching the place on her cheek where his lips had been. She's annoyed to find that her heart is still beating faster than normal, and even more annoyed that Harry was right, her cheeks are warm with a blush she can't seem to control.

"Ridiculous," she mutters to herself, clutching her textbook tighter and turning resolutely toward her dorm.

As she walks away, she realizes she's still holding the five-dollar bill. After a moment's hesitation, she changes direction and heads back to the porch, where she wordlessly drops the money into the collection box before Harry can notice her return.

Maya, now at the front of the line and witnessing this entire interaction, gives her a knowing look that Y/N pointedly ignores. She'll have enough explaining to do when her roommate returns to their dorm later, no need to give her more ammunition by acknowledging what just happened.

As Y/N finally makes her way back to her building, she can't help glancing over her shoulder one last time. Through the crowd, she catches Harry's eye, he's been watching her leave. Instead of his usual teasing expression, there's something different in his gaze, something that makes her stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with annoyance.

She turns away quickly, but not before seeing the small, genuine smile that crosses his face, one that suggests their dynamic might be shifting in ways neither of them had anticipated when the day began.

Taglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstylezzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhund

#ghstyles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x y/n #windows facing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #one direction #louis tomlinson #zayn malik #harry styles writing

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afraidparade · 3 months ago

Text

"Violet Hyacinths"

(hi surprise bozo i decided to render this sketch and then also write an entire accompanying piece because. i love ghostswap and i love pathetic human pazu)

Characters: Theo & Pazu (Ghostswap AU) Word count: 5,233 Genre: G/t, Hurt/comfort, Angst Content warnings: Suicidal ideation, depicitions of CPTSD, abusive behavior

__________________________

Theo gazed in wonderment at the tremendous spread of flora covering the entirety of the table before him. Granted, at his size, everything seemed tremendous by comparison, but he assumed that the quantity and variety would surely be impressive to even a normal-sized human. Leisurely drifting between each specimen, he inspected them curiously. It was rare of him to be afforded alone time these days — Pazu usually demanded his accompaniment wherever he went, though dismissed him today, muttering something about “not wanting to be nagged when he was already in a bad mood” on his way to class — so the little specter drank in the tranquility while he could.

He briefly considered the irony of this moment he considered a respite, seeing as his existence up to this point had been so profoundly solitary, it had nearly driven him mad. Luck would have it that the only being – living or dead – on Earth that could actually understand him would take a discomforting amount of pleasure in seeing him suffer, but…beggars couldn’t be choosers, Theo supposed. And besides, it wasn’t all for nothing! Pazu had promised to exorcise him and finally set his weary soul free from this mortal plane. That willingness to help… eventually…meant that he had at least an ounce of goodness in the depths of his soul, right? So being the subject of a young man’s twisted whims in the meantime didn’t seem so bad compared to an eternity of loneliness. Sometimes. Usually.

A faint smile rose to Theo’s face as he hovered closer to a personal favorite of his. Several long stalks sat in a plain glass vase, each bursting at their peaks into concentrated puffs of small flowers with curved, pointed petals. To the best of his ability, he cupped one of the blossoms in his hands, though he only felt the faintest coolness of resistance as his palms phased through the corporeal object. At his diminutive size, just one of the small blossoms seemed about as big as he was. And though he lacked the lungs to inhale or the senses to smell, he mimicked the motion anyways. It was an act of hollow nostalgia for memories he didn’t possess, though it was nice to believe that he had done this in the life he must have once lived.

Recalling the names and attributes of all the floral species was difficult – especially when Pazu refused to share that information, as he seemed to interpret any pondering question from the ghost as some insurmountable burden not worthy of his precious time. But he recalled this one, as it was one that Pazu had finally relented to talking about after a long bout of nagging insistence: the hyacinth. Such a lovely name for such a lovely flower, he’d thought. And the dusty violet hue of this particular bloom was simply ethereal, though Theo sheepishly recognized that this could have been the effects of a personal bias, as he seemed to take on a spectrum of blues and purples within his own wispy form. He’d made his affections for the flower known at one point, to which he was met with a scoff and an, “I don’t see why. The scent gives me migraines, and the clusters are an eyesore.” Yet they remained a repeating staple in Pazu’s florism hobby, so perhaps he’d simply felt contrarian at the time.

As if on cue, Theo could hear the soft clunking of keys fidgeting with the main entrance, the swift opening swing of the dormitory door, and the even swifter slam that followed. The little wisp shot back from the object of his admiration rapidly, all too aware that Pazu would kill him (well, in a manner of speaking) if he was caught touching anything of value to the human. He’d expected to see the raven-haired man appear around the corner at any second, possibly with a narrowed, scrutinous gaze, already suspecting Theo of messing with his personal projects. Or perhaps with a mischievous smirk, all too eager to delve into yet another and all too hands-on “exorcism experiment.” Neither appeared. Nothing appeared. Come to think of it, had there even been any sounds at all since the calamitous abuse of the dormitory door? There certainly hadn’t been any footsteps, so perhaps Pazu had…opened the door, realized he’d forgotten something, and then left again?

Just as this reasoning began sounding like a solid theory in the ghost’s mind, a quiet noise from the small entryway caught his attention. From his current angle, it was beyond his line of sight, but it had sounded like…breathing? Or, maybe choking? Concern spiked within the little apparition’s spectral heart, prompting him to approach the wall corner that obstructed his view of the door.

“Er…Pazu? Is that you?” Theo called softly, words heavied by trepidation. In lieu of a verbal response, there were more of those muffled little noises, more noticeable now with the closer proximity, and increasing in sporadic frequency. This did little to assuage the specter’s worries, so he resolved to quicken his advance toward the entryway until he breached the border of his obstruction. He tried again, “Pazu?”

Well, it was certainly Pazu. Theo would be lying if he said he hadn’t, for a moment, thought that perhaps an intruder had broken in. But beyond recognizing the figure hunched against the back of the door, his understanding of the situation ended there. Opting for black clothes as he so often did, and with a fluffy tangle of short jet waves, Pazu’s crouched form resembled some sort of shambling shadow of a puddle, as he seemed to have taken up residence in a corner of the floor. Two bony hands clenched fiercely against his head — one grasping at the hair above his temple, the other clawing against the flesh of his face — and the only eye visible from within the dark mess of shadows and limbs and hair was blown wide, staring feverishly, unblinkingly, downwards into nothing.

Then Theo realized what the sounds he’d heard before were. ‘Breathing’ might not have been the proper term; they were more so airy spasms than they were proper breaths, wet and wheezing and incomplete. They wracked Pazu’s entire bundled frame, which, for the first time, appeared awfully small to the stunned ghost floating above.

For a long moment, Theo was stunned into silence. In the weeks (Months? His concept of time had eroded long ago) that he’d known Pazu, he’d known a collected, calculated, and confident force of better-than-you bitterness. And, sure, maybe he was prone to the occasional fits of awkwardness or a childish tantrum, but certainly not…this. It would have almost seemed dream-like in its absurdity, if only ghosts could dream. Thus, Theo forced himself to accept this disquieting sight as reality, pushed his apprehension as far down as it would go, and wafted cautiously into the entryway.

“Pazu! What- what happened to you?” Theo fretted, lowering himself to be within the trembling figure’s field of view. There was no reaction or intelligible response from the other, though it did seem for a moment as though Pazu had been attempting to quietly sound out words between fits of hyperventilation. His knees were tucked all the way up to his nose, subduing the already voiceless whimpers and blocking any attempt Theo could make at reading lips, but he swore he could make out a strained:

“Do… Doh… Don’t… Don’t…”

The worry on Theo’s features deepened as he began to wave an arm around, attempting again to catch the human’s attention. “Hey, come on! This isn’t like you, just…calm down and tell me what happened, okay?”

Still nothing. It had become a habit of Theo’s to hover just out of arm’s reach from Pazu, given the other’s tendency to pluck him out of the air and reduce his existence to a stress toy whenever he got bored. Now wasn’t the time to be wary of such impulses, though. The wisp inched closer, lacing his fingers together nervously as he approached the despondent giant.

“Did something happen?” he chanced the gentle query, only to be met with more formless whispers that remained void of any recognition.

Theo swallowed, then tried again.

“Did someone…hurt you?”

As if shocked back into reality, Pazu’s form went rigid and his visible eye shifted into alarmed focus, pinning itself on Theo in an instant. The ghost tensed reflexively, but no hand darted out to grab him this time. Instead, the noirette’s face scrunched into a vitriolic grimace at the sight of the other, before burying itself completely into a cradle of folded arms and tucked knees.

“Go away,” was all he muttered, but the bite of his words was choked away by a tightness in his throat, giving his voice an uneven half-spoken-half-whispered quality. Theo faltered, but didn’t comply with the command. Certainly, Pazu’s flaws were innumerable — and often intolerable — but goodness, Theo didn’t hate him. Leaving him in this state simply wasn’t an option, nor something he considered even briefly. Pazu’s hiccuping gasps still rattled the entirety of his thin frame, and despite him obscuring his face, his frantic partial sobs were still audible. Though this side of his personal tormentor was unfamiliar and confounding to him, Theo had already decided that this wasn’t something he could turn away from.

The little ghost steeled his resolve and pressed further. “I- I’m sorry. I know I’m probably not who you want to see right now. I mean, another human would probably be, ehm, better equipped to handle something like this, right? But I—“

“Go. Away,” Pazu repeated, louder, sharper, through gritted teeth. It appeared as though forcing out the warning took a great deal of strength from the hunched man, as his tremors intensified immediately after. Like a performer who’d been balancing on stilts for a terribly long time and, after straining to maintain a proper posture for so long, now teetered and trembled in a desperate attempt to keep from tumbling to the ground. “Just piss off. I don’t care where. Leave me alone and quit being a pest.”

Theo’s brows creased at the stinging words, but they did little to dissuade him. He reconsidered his approach for a moment. Right, less rambling this time. Straight to the point.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” his small voice affirmed decisively. The hiss of a sharp inhale came from the shambling mass of shadows, knuckles paling as he clawed harder at his scalp. Theo was close to him now, just inches from the twitching forearm that clamped his body tightly together. He reached a translucent hand outwards, unsure if the touch would soothe his living companion at all, but determined to try. Shifting to a gentler tone, Theo continued, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, and maybe a dull little ghost like me won’t be able to understand it. But if you try opening up about it, well…maybe I could help in some way! If you just tell me what happened–”

And that’s when the clamp came undone, limbs unfurling explosively and swinging outward. Whether or not Pazu actually meant to strike Theo was debatable, but he had regardless, and with no small amount of force.

“Nothing happened!” he roared in a cracking retort, “Is that what you want to hear? Will that make you leave me the fuck alone?! Nothing! Literally, in every sense of the word, nothing happened!”

It took the dazed ghost several moments to reorient himself; he’d tumbled backwards through the air with a yelp once Pazu had swatted at him, colliding with the nearby wall at a momentum that was too great for him to pass through it. He hovered limply as he bade the world around him to stop spinning and shook his head in hopes of rattling his senses back into place. They did, eventually, and Theo was able to properly see the entirely foreign expression on the human’s face clearly now. His bloodshot eyes were wide and aimless, glistening with the remnants of tears that were now smudged in every direction across his cheeks. His jaw clenched into a trembling snarl, as if the words he’d spat were so unpalatable to him that they’d made his bile rise, and reddish streaks and indents burned angrily against the dark skin that he’d evidently been gripping rather fiercely.

“It was only a noise! Some vibrations in the air as someone dropped a— something, I don’t know! And that’s all it took for my stupid brain to produce some stupid chemical and activate some stupid instinct, and now I— I’m…!” His eyes welled up as the words died in his throat, and he gagged against them, before puling, “It’s all so stupid! It’s all nothing!”

“H-hey, woah! Whatever you’re feeling clearly isn’t ’nothing,’ Pazu!” Theo redoubled his efforts to reason with the student, already closing the distance that Pazu had created, “It’s okay to…to feel things, you know? I’m sure it doesn’t feel okay right this second, but if you’re sad, or angry, or scared, then—“

“Would you FUCK OFF already?!” Pazu shrieked the interruption as his hand scrabbled for whatever was closest to him — in this case, the phone that had tumbled out of his pocket — and in the same motion, hurled it with terrifying accuracy at the tiny specter. The projectile phased through his airy form (Thank the heavens, Theo prayed inwardly), but he flinched at the attack all the same, cringing doubly as he heard it smash against something delicate in its collision. He chanced a brief glance behind him to survey the damage, allowing a crestfallen breath to escape him at the sight of broken glass, a growing puddle, and a tangle of stems and damaged petals on the ground. For all the disdain Pazu seemed to harness regularly for just about anything and everything good in the world, his flowers maintained the privilege of being the only things he showed excessive care and tenderness for. Yet the calamitous shatter seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed it.

“Spouting all this asinine therapy-speak like you even care. Hah…ahah! I know you hate me!” Pazu’s voice had taken on a quavering mania as he chattered between rapid, uneven breaths, “And why wouldn’t you, right? Dug this grave my own damn self, right? Bet you enjoy seeing me writhe like some pathetic little insect, right?!”

“Pazu—!!”

“Everyone hates me, and everyone should. Hah, it’s— it’s so much better this way. The only reason anyone wants me around is to use me, but oh, oops! Turns out they can’t be bothered to put up with the ‘me’ they’re using. And you’re just like them, you know? U-using me just because I’m the only one you CAN use. Hah! It’s funny, isn’t it? A damn comedy! I genuinely can’t tell which of us got the worse deal out of all this, and you’re dead!”

His shoulders shuddered then, a sob at first. But when they persisted along with arhythmic puffs and wheezes, Theo realized that he had begun a strained, hybrid process of something between laughing and crying.

“And that’s the fucked up thing!” Pazu continued, voice fraught with a manic desperation, “I think about it sometimes. How much I envy you. How much simpler it would all be if I were dead. No need to try and play the same stupid, useless game as everyone else. None of those horrible, pesky memories to bog you down. Nothing to tie you to any responsibilities. Just…floating, free and alone.”

He sniffled then, an ugly sound. “World’d probably be better off if I were a ghost instead. Not like anyone actually wants me around.”

There was a heavy pause. Theo’s hands clenched unsurely, measuring his next words with considerable trepidation, and Pazu kept his gaze lowered and obscured.

“…Pazu—“

“Shut up. I’m not actually about to kill myself.”

“What? No, I wasn’t— I mean, that’s good, of course! But…” he dared to inch closer then, drifting forward while the other consciously averted his gaze. The spirit sighed, abandoning his jumbled words and starting again, “Look, I know you’re not particularly keen on taking my advice. And it’s not that I can blame you — I, ah, don’t exactly have lived experience to draw back on — but regardless. Please at least listen when I say this.”

“Once you’re dead, that’s all there is. You’ve no future, no potential for change. Being a ghost isn’t some sort of grand ‘round two’ where you get to try everything over again, Pazu. It’s…perpetuity. Stagnation. Regret you can never, ever act on. But– but being alive!” Theo’s face lit up in a weary smile, as if suddenly realizing his somber tone may be resulting in the opposite of his intended effect, “Being alive means always having the opportunity to strive for something better. To change, and to grow!”

“And look, I can’t possibly know what you’re going through right now, or understand what you…might have been through before…a-and it’s not my intention to pry. But as long as you’re alive, you’ll always have the promise of waking up to a brand new day. Ah…this all probably doesn’t mean much coming from a dead guy, huh?” he added with a sheepish chuckle, “I guess I just…I want you to know that I’m here. And I may not say the right things, but you can always talk to me if something is troubling you, okay?”

Pazu huffed, lifting his reddened gaze again with an almost insulted incredulity. “‘Always?’ Don’t patronize me. The only reason you’re still with me is to ultimately get away from me. I’m not an idiot. I don’t need your conditional altruism.”

Theo smiled sadly. That wasn’t something he could deny, and they both knew it. “That…is the arrangement, yes,” he spoke slowly, measuring his words with great care, “I’m not supposed to exist as I am now in the first place, and I get the feeling I shouldn’t stay. But today — right here, right now — I am here. And if you only focus on a future you’ve already decided is empty, you’ll never realize what’s here with you in your ‘now.’ You’re not alone, Pazu.”

He drifted closer, trying again to reach out a small, wispy hand. “You don’t have to be alone.”

“Touch me and I swear I’ll find a way to kill you a second time.”

The threat felt tired, and lacked any real bite.

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

Theo rested his palms softly against the other’s face. Despite his verbal reluctance, Pazu didn’t stop him. It was strange, the wisp thought; every other corporeal object felt like near nothing. Tangible static, at most. Maybe it was due to the mysterious paranormal abilities the human possessed, but Theo could actually feel him at the touch. He was warm — a rather foreign sensation to the lifeless wisp at this point— and though it seemed that he’d regained most of his senses, Theo could feel the aftershocks of a full-body tremble beneath his palms every so often.

Admittedly, the disparity in size and power between the two had made Pazu out to be some omnipotent giant in Theo’s mind. This entire time, he had merely been subjected to the whim of hands larger than the entirety of his spectral form, and any attempts at reasoning with him were either sneered at or flat-out ignored. In this moment of vulnerability, though, any trace of that looming threat seemed wholly nullified. For the first time in Theo’s existence, Pazu was just a normal human.

It was a strange thing, trying to cradle the face of someone a hundred times larger than oneself. The best Theo could manage was resting his hands against either side of the bridge of Pazu’s nose, tracing calm circles occasionally, and even daring to touch his own forehead to the other’s. He could feel a piercing glare affixed to him — bloodshot, glistening, and swirling with emotions Theo couldn’t understand — but he elected to ignore this, closing his own eyes instead and focusing on his efforts to subdue his volatile counterpart.

“I’ll leave when the time is right, Pazu. But for now, I’m here with you. And regardless of what you believe my motives are or how you think I regard you, I don’t want to see you hurting. You don’t deserve this,” he soothed. Pazu clenched his jaw, but didn’t respond. “You’ll get through this. I know you can. Just take some deep breaths and try to relax yourself, okay?”

There was a prolonged pause — perhaps an inward battle as Pazu debated how petulant he was willing to be in that exact moment — before he eventually relented and reluctantly followed the specter’s instructions. He breathed against his palm, still clasping at his face, and continued until ragged gasps eased into slow, tired puffs. His shoulders dropped slowly as Theo continued to calm him, and a sobered exhaustion eventually replaced the manic vitriol in his features.

It was quiet. It was over. And neither seemed to know what happened next.

It was after several moments of this peaceful uncertainty that Theo could hear the rustling of movement, and could subsequently feel a warmth against his back, delicate at first. A glance over his shoulder revealed that Pazu had raised a hand to pinch Theo’s frame between his forefinger and thumb, and at first, the ghost was foolish enough to believe it might have been the larger’s approximation of a hug. But then the grip tightened and applied forward pressure, eliciting an undignified squeak from the ghost as he’d suddenly been reduced to little more than a spectral rag. Pazu dragged him along as one would a tissue, swiping away the moisture from his face with little care for the other’s panicked wriggling, before eventually dismissing him with a flick of his wrist and a disinterested, “Get off of me.”

It took Theo a great deal of weightless tumbling and wobbling to find his footing (so to speak) after being tossed aside, the unexpected ordeal disorienting him thoroughly. Pazu began rising to his feet as the ghost was left shaking the wet residue from his limbs, frowning at its unwillingness to piece apart from his body.

“Ugh— Pazu, really! You couldn’t have used your sleeve, or – I don’t know – anything that wasn’t me?! Do you realize how hard it is to clean yourself off when water phases right through your—“

“God, shut up already. My head is killing me,” Pazu grumbled, sounding much more like his usual self already, albeit somewhat exhausted. He had strode to the scene of broken glass and scattered flowers, narrowing his eyes and huffing a sigh as he collected his impromptu projectile. He turned the phone over in his hands a few times, seemingly checking for notable damage. Based on his lack of reaction to the object, Theo assumed that it had, at least, come out of the tantrum relatively unscathed.

“Somehow, you’re so annoying that it’s legitimately sobering. I’m almost impressed.”

“Oh? Oh!” Theo’s face lit up as he considered the remark, his previous gripe dissipating as even the bluish glow of his form seemed to intensify with his delight, “Thank you!”

“That—“ Pazu spun around with an expression of blank bewilderment. “That wasn’t a compliment, you freak.”

——————

The dormitory door clattered open noisily as its resident shouldered past it, staggering slightly as he hauled a hefty-looking plastic bucket into the living space and snickering to himself all the while. The glowing speck trailing him — perceptible to his eyes only — appeared much less amused, striking a deep frown and fretting his hands in jittery, nervous motions.

“Pazu!” the ghost chastised in a quavering tone, “You mustn’t speak to others that way — especially when they’re your peers, and doubly so when they manage your living situation! You should go back and apologize to that young man right away!”

Pazu snorted, kicking the door behind him closed with a haphazard, unbalanced motion. “Oh, please. The RA can’t actually do anything to me. He just likes going on power trips and yelling at anything that moves.”

“But you didn’t have to bring his mother into it!”

He shrugged, flashing a toothy, self-congratulatory grin. “Well, he’s the one who overreacted over a tiny bit of spilt water in the hallway. I don’t escalate, Teddy; I just give what I get.”

Theo groaned, throwing a worried glance to the door again, as if the dormitory RA would come bursting through with an eviction notice at any moment. It wasn’t as though he personally needed a roof over his head, but Pazu losing his home would surely cause even further delays to his research in exorcism, a process that already seemed to be taking quite some time. And for goodness sake, Theo did care about the boy. Not that Pazu ever made it easy to do so.

A ruckus from within the dormitory drew the wisp’s attention back to his living counterpart. The bucket — apparently a special order Pazu had placed with the wholesaler that he normally sourced his flowers from — had sloshed more puddles onto the floor as a struggle to lift it onto the table ensued. Thank goodness the delicate blossoms had been covered by a thin, opaque tarp cinched gently around the stems, Theo marveled, as he was certain that half of their petals would have been knocked clean off by now. The obscured flowers did leave him to wonder what plans Pazu had that required buying a single variant in such bulk, as he tended to source from a variety of species with a preference for more petite arrangements. It was nice to see him like this again, though; since the other day’s bizarre outburst, Pazu had seemed quieter than usual, and at times it even felt as if he was outright avoiding Theo. Though the recent vulgarity and mischief wasn’t exactly soothing, the familiarity of his old personality was comforting, and witnessing the resurfacing of the passion he held for his flowers eased Theo’s anxieties in some small way.

In the time it took for the tiny specter to drift across the room to the table, Pazu had finally managed to settle his haul on its surface, his lanky frame deflating slightly from the effort.

“So…what did you end up getting this time?” Theo queried, assuming his typical position of hovering just above the noirette’s shoulder. He’d been staring down at the covered bundle of flora, but after a gap of silence with no response, he turned to glance at the face beside him, only to realize he was being stared at. Pazu’s visible eye was widened, yet blank, and just as Theo had begun to wonder if he’d somehow said something to upset him, he cleared his throat.

“It’s…not really any of your business. I don’t even particularly like this one, so I don’t even know why I’m bothering with it— I mean, maybe you’ll like it, since you have terrible taste and all. Not that I got them for you, obviously,” Pazu stammered in a way that was very unlike him. He picked at the twist tie securing the protective tarp slowly, his thin fingers rigid and clumsy as if stricken with sudden stage fright, then clicked his tongue and muttered, “Ugh, why’d you have to draw attention to it? This would’ve been easier if you weren’t so nosy—“

Both the living and dead occupants of the dorm flinched in shock at a sudden banging at the door. The muffled voice of the RA carried through the barrier, prattling on sternly about needing to speak to Pazu immediately and how “this was the last time” and other such heated threats. The subject of the summons gave a mildly frustrated huff, whereas Theo launched himself into a full-blown panic.

“See?! I told you to apologize! Now you’ve gone and gotten yourself evicted!” the spirit caterwauled, eliciting an exasperated roll of the eyes from the giant beside him.

“Cool it, Tedster. He said it was the last time last time, and I had him crying three minutes into our little chat,” Pazu muttered. A wicked smirk snaked its way across his face as he added in a hushed, sing-song snicker, “Bet’cha I can get it down to two.”

He yanked the plastic sheet away from the bucket as he walked towards the entrance, crumpling it into a messy bundle and tossing it haphazardly into a corner, presumably to be dealt with later. Theo began to drift after him, already dreading the idea that he’d likely end up as Pazu’s makeshift fidget toy again (he tended to meet this fate any time Pazu needed to deal with what he deemed to be an aggravating situation, which was…admittedly, quite often), but he was halted by the dismissive wave of a hand.

“Stay here. I can only handle a single goody-two-shoes talking my ear off about ‘responsibility’ and ‘morality’ at a time.” There was a high-pitched lilt to the words he emphasized, and Theo was certain that it was an attempt at mocking his own lectures. He would have been keen to point out that he, in fact, sounded nothing like that, but kept his mouth shut. As Pazu neared the door, he made a low noise as if he’d just recalled something, then turned and pointed an accusatory finger at his undead captive. “And don’t touch my flowers. I swear to God, if I come back and see you getting your gross dead-ness on them again, I’ll—“

“You’ll find a way to kill me a second time. Yes, I recall,” Theo finished the threat, almost dutifully. He hadn’t meant it as a means of back talk, but upon realizing it may have come across as such to Pazu (and reminding himself for the umpteenth time to think before he speaks, damn it!), he stiffened, bracing for an icy glare that promised later punishment. But the student’s expression was surprisingly blank, lacking even the faintest trace of hostility. He blinked, glancing at the bundle on the table, then back to Theo.

“Um…right,” he replied, then simply, “Thanks.”

And this was what utterly confounded Theo beyond anything else he’d seen as of late. It seemed an odd response to their banter, and completely out of character for the normally cold-hearted recluse. Come to think of it, had Pazu ever thanked him for…well, anything? Why now?

The door gap in the doorway narrowed in Pazu’s absence, and the beginnings of a royal chewing out could be heard (Theo could just barely make out a “You know I can hear you talking to yourself, right?”). Though as it finally clicked shut and the spirit was left in silence, it dawned on him that he’d never gotten a good look at the flowers beneath the now discarded tarp. Madly curious as to what could have possibly sparked such odd behaviors in his living counterpart, Theo turned his attention back to the table. And then he understood. A beaming smile rose to his face, and the spectral aura around his form glowed a bit brighter.

The container before him was practically overflowing with petals now freed from their restrictive covering, each hyacinth a bursting with a dazzling violet hue. He would never know — he would never be bold enough to ask, really — but Theo felt certain now that he knew what the earlier thanks had been for.

#idk how i feel about either of these pieces. but HEY i finished something #grah writing my number one enemy #ghostswap au #oc: theo #oc: pazu #g/t #g/t ocs #giant/tiny #g/t writing #size difference #writingtag #hurt/comfort #gt community

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haikyu-mp4 · 9 months ago

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Attuned

word count; 608 – gn!reader

Anyone who knew Tendo well noticed how attuned he was to others. The way he understood emotions and subtle body language was something you admired, and he left you speechless in many cases with his emotional intelligence and everything that came with it. Including the cute little tilt of his head as he observed.

“Tendo, do you know which vending machine is closest?” you asked him in the break between classes, eyes squinting slightly as the bright lights of the classroom only seemed to worsen your pounding headache.

And just like you could expect by now, Tendo tilted his head curiously, or perhaps in understanding, before pointing over his shoulder. “The one that leads towards the gym is pretty close, and you’d get a breath of fresh air as well.”

You smiled thankfully, bowing politely before heading in that direction.

“Tendo, did you do the homework?” you half-whispered, nervously pinching the fabric of his loose windbreaker that he had yet to put in his locker.

“Well well, what do we have here?” he teased, but as his eyes darted over your chapped lips, the crease between your brows and the slight glass of your eyes, his head tilted to the side. “It’s not my best, but feel free to use it.”

You breathed out a heavy sigh of relief as if you hadn’t been sure he would give his homework to you (he would even give it all to you and be left with detention).

“Thank goodness, you’re a lifesaver.” The pinch on his jacket turned into a grip, so he put a hand on your upper arm to coax you into relaxing.

“If we’re getting a detention, it better be for something cool, right?”

“Satori!” His head turned like a dog to a squeaky toy when he heard you call his name.

“What’s up, buttercup?” His thumbs were tucked under the straps of his backpack, and the way he stood so straight made him look even taller than usual.

“Nothing! I just happened to cross your path and thought I’d say hi.”

Slowly, a bit unsurely, Tendo’s head tilted to the side. He noticed how your cheeks looked pinker than usual, making him hungry for a fresh peach. He noticed how you were slightly leaning on the pads of your feet, effectively swaying closer to him. He noticed how your eyes smiled with your lips, and when adding all these together, he let himself wonder if maybe you liked him too.

“Y/n?” a familiar voice said from behind you, making you turn around swiftly, only to part your lips in surprise.

“Satori?” His head was tilted slightly, just like when he observed you, and his hands gestured in no particular pattern as he kept talking.

“I was wondering- you‘re coming to our game this weekend, yes?”

You nodded, flashing him a toothy smile. “Yes, indeed I am.”

“Excellent!” Giggling at his nervous stature, you had him blushing before he even got to the point. He was easily comparable to a cartoon character at this point. “Let’s grab a milkshake before the bus leaves?”

This time, you copied him, head tilting slightly the other way. “That’s a great plan, I’d love to! Will it just be us?” And Tendo would forever melt at the memory of how you leaned in closer, eyes so bright.

“Yeah, the rest of the team is lactose intolerant,” he lied but followed it with a laugh so you’d know he was joking.

And with a great laugh, you agreed on a time for the date. Because when you find someone who sees you the way Tendo Satori does, you hold on tight.

masterlist

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heaven4lostgirls · 1 year ago

Note

hi!! i was curious if you would write something that starts out with barty x reader and evan is just friends with both of them before feeling like he’s impeding on their relationship (a little bit angsty if you’re comfortable with that) but barty and reader tell him that he’s not impeding at all and they’re actually very interested in him joining their relationship (totes no worries if not!!)

pairing: poly!rosekiller x reader

summary: request above!

word count: 1.8k

a/n: thank you for your your request, this somehow came much easier to me than i thought it would? (i’m blaming the fact that they have been consuming my every thought since last week) not proofread btw

evan’s not sure when it started, when it started feeling less like evan hanging out with two of his close friends and more like evan third wheeling two of his closest friends.

he dislikes it, the change. it makes him feel silly, why does he want to spend this much time with two people who obviously have no obligation to him outside of friendship? (and why does he wish that would change?)

he watches you and barty stroll ahead of him in the streets of hogsmeade, inhibiting himself from increasing his walking speed to catch up to the two of you, to join in the boisterous laughter that you two share.

instead, he lets himself watch longingly of what he so wishes was his future. his eyes travel along the landscape of the small town, always finding his eyes making their way back to your shared figures ahead of him.

your hair catching the orange glare of the setting sun, comparable in brightness to the smile on barty’s face as he listens to you babble nonsensically about a novel you had been reading.

evan allows himself only a single moment to mourn, mourn a love he had never really had in the first place, but nonetheless mourn the loss.

he knew he could never tell either of you of his feelings, he had watched the both of you fall in love, the shared glances, lingering touches and lovesick gazes.

all of which he longed to experience yet knew that neither of you would ever reciprocate his feelings. so he tortured himself in spending his free time with you both, to limit suspicion, but ever so slightly, pulling away, tending to walk behind the both of you, instead of with, sitting behind the two of you in class but always paired with another classmate for projects. studying with the two of you in the library, but always leaving early with one or more excuses.

barty and you had noticed, of course you had, but chalked it up to evan only adjusting to the shift in dynamic between your trio. you both missed him dearly but never asked for him to stay in fear of pushing him further away.

and thus, in a viscious cycle, the three of you drifted further apart than ever before, each party too afraid of admitting that they missed the other and impeaching on unconscious boundaries.

however, as you and barty walk down hogsmeade, evan trailing behind the two of you like a glorified guard dog rather than your best friend, you murmur to your lover, “we need to talk to him” with a sad look.

barty turns to you with furrowed eyebrows, “what if he doesn’t want to talk?” he says and you can’t help but turn and pitifully look back at evan’s bored yet slightly sad expression.

“we have to try, i-we can’t lose him” you emphasize and barty nods in understanding before placing a hand on your cheek.

“we’ll talk with him when we reach the castle, okay angel?” he says with a soft murmur, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead. you hum in acknowledgement before closing your eyes.

evan’s heart clenches at the sight of the two of you, so perfectly fit together, how could he ever compete? not that he wanted to, but he knew deep down that he would never be what either of you wanted nor needed and it was better to cut his losses than to have his heart broken unexpectedly.

as you reach the castle, you all make your way to the slytherin common room and up to barty and evan’s shared dorm. evan is about to make an excuse about studying in the library to avoid being alone with you two but before he can make his escape, your voice breaks the silence in the empty dorm.

“evan.” your tone is soft and calming, yet evan’s heart drops to his stomach, clenching painfully as he closes his eyes in an “oh fuck” moment.

he turns to you with a fake smile, beckoning you to continue, hoping whatever you’re going to say, it isn’t what he thinks it is.

“what’s going on?” so it’s exactly what he thinks it is, he doesn’t have to play into this, he doesn’t have to give you the answers you seek- “what’s what?” he asks as he shrugs, faking nonchalance at the situation.

you and barty share a look that has evan clenching his jaw, “you’re pulling away from us!” you accuse him. the silence that follows is defeaning, the only sound is evan’s sharp intake of breath.

“we don’t have to talk about this-“ evan says quickly as he looks alarmed at the both of you before barty scoffs.

“yes we fucking do” and there’s a ‘don’t argue with me’ tone in his voice. evan only avoids his gaze as he looks at his shoes and shrugs once again.

“it doesn’t matter-“ he says again with an avoidant tone, barty only growls in annoyance. “yes it fucking does evan! we miss you!” barty states loudly and evan can’t help but flinch as he meekly looks up and meets barty’s gaze.

you clench your jaw in hope that it stops the tears from welling in your eyes. “did we do something? to-make you uncomfortable?” your voice breaks midway and evan’s wide eyed gaze jumps to yours in alarm and worry at the tears in your eyes.

“no!-no.” he shakes his head with wide eyes, “fuck.” he says as he looks down again and blows out a breath as he rakes a hand through his messy blonde hair.

“it’s just-“ he blows out a frustrated breath. “i can’t do this” he shakes his head as his voice wobbles, you look at barty whose gaze is swimming in worry.

“evan” barty starts softly, in the same tone he uses just for you, evan flinches as he hears it and shakes his head again, this time more frantically as he pulls at his roots.

he looks at barty in an almost manic movement, looking comparably to a rabid animal backed into a corner. “don’t-“ he starts as he chokes up, “don’t use that fucking tone” he says as he wraps his arms around himself. “not-not when you use it with her, not when i know it doesn’t mean the same as thing” he stammers out as he backs himself more into the wall.

“evan” barty’s eyes soften and you look at him again before deciding to walk closer to evan, “is that what this is about?” you ask softly, your heart clenching as he withdraws from you further, not letting you come any further towards him.

“what else could it possibly be about!” he cries out and looks at the two of you, gaze jumping from both of your figures as tears fall steadily past his pale cheeks.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did-”

“evan..”

“-and i tried to pull away but it just kept getting worse and you guys started noticing but didn’t say anything-”

“evan.”

“-i was trying to get over it, it was only a small crush! i would have never broken that boundary between the two of you-”

“EVAN!” the yell breaks evan out of his rambling as he looks at barty in shock.

“why didn’t you tell us?” you ask softly as your lip wobbles, your arms finding their way around your midsection in an attempt to self soothe your anxiety.

“tell you?!” evan cries incredulously as if the idea was implausible. “yes” barty says stiffly. “because you two are together?! and you don’t feel the same! which is understandable because i’m not really anything you should want but!-”

“who said we didn’t like you?” barty asks sternly and evan’s almost ramble is cut short as he looks at barty dumbfounded before turning his gaze to look at you as if to ask ‘did you just hear what your boyfriend just said or am i going insane?’ to which you look pointedly at him.

“well?” you prompt with a quirked brow, still somewhat shaking from the fear bubbling under your skin.

“well- i mean- nobody? but it’s implied when two people are in a committed relationship that they’re not really on the market anymore-“ evan starts before you butt in,“we’re not.”

you say helpfully before evan nods in acquiescence, “see!-so you would never-!”

“that doesn’t include you love” barty says with a huff, but you can tell by his voice there’s a small smile on his face as he watches evan struggle to come to terms with what your boyfriend is saying.

“you-? you two- want me?!” he asks, eyes widening and posture tensing. barty and you turn to each other with shared smiles before you turn to evan with a small shrug with a grin blooming over your face, “always have” you admit shyly and watch as evan blanches.

“uh-“ evan looks between the two of you, speechless.

“i’m going to walk up to you now love, i’d appreciate it if you’d let me hug you love, because if you don’t it might just break my heart” barty jokes with smirk before taking slow and cautious steps towards evan’s figure in the corner of the dorm.

evan allows himself to be comforted by the familiarity of barty’s arms around him, he melts into the hug as he exhales a breath of relief. he opens his eyes to meet your gaze behind barty’s back as you watch the two of them with a gentle smile on your face.

evan taps barty’s shoulder in a gentle touch to ask if he can let him go, barty pulls away slowly before looking into evan’s gaze, “i’m not good with communicating what i want, for that i’m sorry, but as far as i’ve been concerned, you’ve been mine since fourth year.” barty admits with heat in his gaze and evan’s mouth drops open as the other boy pulls away nonchalantly and walks back over to his bed on the other side of the dorm.

“you like me” evan states dumbly as he looks at you and you can’t help but have a small laugh at his expense before walking over to him in less cautious steps in comparison to barty, “seems so” you murmur as you stand in front of him with a small smile, letting him have the freedom to make the first move, should he choose to.

he blows out a breath before nodding and placing a hand on your cheek as he gazes into your eyes with adoration, leaning down and pressing his forehead to yours. he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before you’re pulled into a comforting embrace. you slowly wrap your arms around his waist.

you both stand in a comfortable silence before barty’s voice breaks the silence, “can you two come and do that on the bed before i go and complain to regulus about being neglected?” he complains from the middle of his bed.

you two pull away and share a humorous glance before you walk hand in hand to his bed.

#juliwrites #marauders #poly!rosekiller #poly!rosekiller x reader #evan rosier x reader #barty crouch jr x reader #evan rosier x barty crouch jr #evan rosier angst #evan rosier fluff #evan rosier hurt/comfort #barty crouch fluff #barty crouch jr angst #barty crouch jr hurt/comfort #rosekiller blurb #rosekiller x reader #my sweet rosekiller

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smellysluna · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter Two | Again, And Again, And You

Chapter Two: A Fresh Start

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Word Count: 5,5k

Summary:

You've lived through countless timelines—each one shaped by monsters, magic, and the unbearable weight of knowing too much. Until you wake up in a version of reality where none of that ever happened. No dungeons. No deaths. Just high school… and him. Sung Jinwoo—quiet, intense, and impossibly familiar—is here too, and maybe this time, it'll be you who changes his world.

Notes:

I— I think I went overboard with the length of this chapter I mean like— ... just enjoy

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The world felt different when you woke up.

Not in a way you could explain—everything was where it should be, everything looked the same. The sun rose like it always had, painting gold across the ceiling of your room.

And yet, your chest felt hollow. As if you'd just surfaced from drowning.

You sat up in bed, a sharp inhale cutting through your lungs. Your hands trembled slightly as you touched your face, half-expecting to see blood, ash, or time etched into your skin. But you were young.

You were… young.

You stumbled to the mirror and stared.

The person staring back at you was barely seventeen. No shadows under her eyes. No scars on her neck. No weight of a thousand lives hanging from her shoulders.

You blinked rapidly, as if to wake up again. But this was the dream. Or rather, the end of it.

The world had been reset.

He’d done it.

Sung Jinwoo had done it.

You didn’t cry—not right away. But your knees gave out slowly, and you sat there on the floor, heart pounding like a drum, repeating one truth over and over:

You’re free.

At first, you didn’t try to find him.

You told yourself he wouldn’t remember. That this life was his reward. That he deserved peace without the weight of old memories.

But still… a part of you wanted to see him. Just once. To confirm that he was okay. That he still existed. That it hadn’t all been a dream you made up in the space between lifetimes.

So, you enrolled in the same middle school.

Sliding into the role of a transfer student wasn’t new to you. A few forged documents, a timely uniform delivery, and voilà—new student, perfectly ordinary. You’d even knocked your age down to fifteen on paper. Technically, you were almost seventeen, but what were a couple of years between friends? It wasn’t like anyone was going to card you in homeroom.

Besides, you were already ancient compared to everyone else. Maybe not in body, but mentally? Please. After a few dozen lifetimes, you were basically the wise old sage in a room full of toddlers. If anyone asked, you just had an “old soul.” They didn’t need to know it came with the emotional baggage of a thousand respawns and a suspiciously encyclopedic knowledge of stock market crashes.

Enrolling in middle school felt like sitting through an onboarding presentation for a company you'd already secretly run twice. You knew the rhythm, the roles, the script—even if everyone else thought this was your first day on the job.

A crisp uniform, a clean transcript, and your real name on the roster—check, check, and check.

Sung Jinwoo had already sparked a school-wide glow-up rumor before you stepped foot in class.

He used to be awkward, they said. Kind of forgettable, quiet in a way that made people skim past him in the hallway. But something had shifted.

He came back after summer with cleaner hair, straighter posture.

Suddenly, people realized he was hot.

Like, surprise lead-role-in-a-drama hot.

His smile was easy now. His voice low and warm. Rolled-up sleeves. That thing guys do where they lean back in chairs just enough to look effortlessly cool without actually falling.

He helped teachers carry supplies. He saved a bee from a classroom once, apparently. People said he smelled like clean laundry and citrus and the sun.

Even the guys loved him.

“Bro, I’m not gonna lie,” one classmate had said loudly once, voice carrying across the lunch tables, “we thought you were just, like… a weird shut-in last year. We were so wrong. I’m sorry.”

Jinwoo had just laughed, easy and warm, and clapped him on the back like it really wasn’t a big deal.

It made him even more likable.

Because that was the thing—he didn’t act like someone who’d suddenly realized he was hot. He just was. And somehow, that made people fall even harder.

Girls confessed to him. Often.

Sometimes it was a letter slipped into his locker, folded with trembling care. Sometimes it was a bento left on his desk, wrapped in pastel cloth with a note tucked beneath. A few were bold enough to ask him face-to-face—he always looked surprised when they did. Not because he didn’t expect it, maybe, but because he genuinely didn’t know how to react.

He wasn’t cold. Just… unreadable. He’d thank them, bow slightly, offer a soft smile that somehow didn’t give anything away. And then he’d return to whatever he was doing—scribbling in the margins of his notebook, sipping his strawberry milk, or talking to the guys. Sometimes they’d walk away giggling. Sometimes in tears. It wasn’t clear if he was just oblivious or expertly polite, but either way, nothing stuck.

Until the day you walked in.

It was morning—barely past 9:00.

A math class in full swing, the room draped in fluorescent chill and the quiet scratch of pencils. The teacher’s voice filled the space in low, practiced rhythm, chalk tapping steadily against the board. Outside, the sunlight was pale and clear, leaking through the windows in sharp, angled beams.

And then the door clicked open.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t nervous.

Just… smooth. Deliberate. The kind of entrance that didn’t need permission. You stepped in with a quiet sort of confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder, uniform crisp, expression unreadable. Composed in a way teenagers rarely were.

You didn’t look around for approval.

You just scanned the room once, calm and quiet, the kind of quiet that made people straighten up without knowing why. You nodded when the teacher finally noticed you standing there—a slight tilt of the head, perfectly polite—and stepped aside like you hadn’t just walked into the middle of a math lesson, like this wasn’t two months too late for transfers.

The chalk stuttered on the board. The teacher cleared his throat. “Ah—yes.” A pause. “Everyone, please welcome our new student, (y/n).”

Chairs creaked. Neck cranes followed you. A ripple of whispers. Half-curious, half-nervous energy filled the air.

“Please find a seat.”

And across the room, Jinwoo—half-slouched in his seat, pen resting against his lower lip—looked up.

He blinked.

Like something inside him had missed a step.

For a second, just a second, something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Not interest. Just… confusion. That sharp, uncanny déjà vu with no image attached—only a feeling. A breath held in the dark.

He’d never seen you before.

And yet—something about you tugged at him.

A flicker. A scent of familiarity buried deep under layers of time and dust and forgotten things. He shoved the thought down immediately. It was impossible.

You walked past him—two rows back, your steps soft, unhurried.

He followed the sound without meaning to.

Jinwoo blinked again.

Then, very carefully, leaned back in his chair, tapped his pen twice against his notebook, and muttered under his breath:

“…No way.”

He caught himself a second later, eyes darting to check if anyone had heard.

Then—quick recovery.

He straightened slightly. Pushed his bangs back. Sat there like the embodiment of casual disinterest, the boy too cool to be caught off guard.

Too cool.

Like someone who’d practiced smoldering in the mirror but was now deeply unsure what to do with his hands.

You caught his eye, just briefly, as you scanned the room for a seat.

He looked away immediately. Not too fast. Just… mildly interested in the far wall, apparently.

But after that—

You felt it.

His gaze, brushing over you more than once. Lingering when you weren’t looking.

Not with curiosity.

With confusion.

Recognition.

Like a name that danced just out of reach.

Like a face he should know, but couldn't place—a phantom glimpse from the past. Every time his eyes lingered on you, that sensation crept back. Stronger. More insistent. Unsettling.

You didn’t expect to cause a stir.

At least, that was the plan.

But apparently, mastering the art of not trying was the secret to suddenly becoming the main character.

First, the grades.

Then, the moment you effortlessly corrected a teacher. Graceful. Polite. A tilt of the head, a glint in your eye that said, I’m right—and I’m not even trying to be smug about it.

It started off harmless enough.

Third-period history. The room hummed with the familiar buzz of the late morning sun spilling across desks. The air was warm, thick with the chatter of half-listening students and the teacher’s monotone lecture on post-war reforms.

You were taking notes quietly—head down, pen gliding smoothly—until he said it:

“And of course, women didn’t really play a role in those reforms. Most of them stayed at home. The important decisions were all made by men.”

The words hung in the air for a second. Just long enough.

You blinked. Looked up.

A soft click of your pen stopping. No drama. No raised voice. Just a slight shift in your posture as you lowered your hand and spoke up.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, calm and even. Not rude. Just… precise. “I think that’s not entirely accurate.”

The room stilled.

Mr. Han blinked over his glasses, clearly surprised that anyone had spoken—especially the new girl.

You tilted your head, like you were still weighing how best to phrase it, before speaking with calm certainty:

“Several female activists were instrumental in shaping the educational reforms and labor policies during that time. Especially in Seoul and Busan. Kim Bok-dong, for example, continued her advocacy even post-war. Also, the Women’s Union had seats at the negotiating table in 1946.”

You didn’t smile exactly—but there was something in your expression. A light behind your eyes. Confident, without needing to flex it. Like this was just a fact, not a fight.

There was a pause.

A long one.

A pencil rolled off someone’s desk. A chair creaked. Somewhere in the back, a girl made a sound like she’d just witnessed a plot twist in a drama.

Mr. Han cleared his throat.

“Yes. That’s… a good point,” he said slowly, adjusting his collar. “I stand corrected.”

You nodded, jotting something else down in your notes like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Two rows ahead, Sung Jinwoo blinked slowly, the faint scratch of his pencil stopping mid-word.

He hadn’t been paying full attention—his gaze had been half out the window, half on the margin doodles in his notebook—but your voice had cut clean through the hum of classroom monotony. Calm. Precise. Just a little sharp at the edges, like the glint of a blade in sunlight.

New girl. Hair tucked behind one ear, eyes still focused on your notebook. As if none of it had mattered. As if a whole classroom hadn’t just silently re-evaluated you in real time. The girl next to you was staring. Someone two seats down had actually scooted closer.

But you? Unbothered.

Jinwoo’s gaze lingered.

There was… something.

Not familiarity exactly. But weight. Like gravity in reverse. The kind that pulls at memory, tugging on something buried under centuries of silence and blood and shadows.

The way you’d held the room just now—it reminded him of her.

The Founder.

The one who'd stood tall even when monarchs threatened war. The one who'd never bowed.

The one he’d never figured out.

But that was impossible.

She was gone. Had to be.

He was the only one cursed to remember.

He shook the thought from his head like mist from his shoulders, turning back to his notes.

It didn’t make sense.

Just another strange feeling in a life full of them.

Still…

His pen tapped against the margin once. Twice.

Then he scribbled something down that wasn’t related to history at all.

Your name.

He wasn’t even sure he’d meant to write it.

But there it was.

And the smallest crease formed between his brows.

What had started as a quiet correction soon spread like wildfire.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t even looked smug.

But you’d dismantled a teacher’s outdated view with the elegance of someone flipping a chess piece onto a checkmate square. And you did it with a grace that made the girls around you swoon.

“I think I stopped breathing,” someone whispered to her friend outside the classroom. “She didn’t even flinch.”

From there, it snowballed.

People admired your calm. The way you carried yourself like you knew exactly who you were. Your quiet confidence, the way you listened—actually listened—and spoke like your words mattered. Like theirs did too.

Before long, you started noticing a shift. Girls who usually stuck to their own groups were suddenly finding excuses to hang around, like they were magnetically drawn to whatever vibe you were giving off. No one was trying too hard—they just wanted a bit of your coolness to rub off.

The whole thing still felt a little surreal. A few weeks ago, you’d just been the new girl—the one slipping into class unnoticed, blending into the background. Now, you had a group of girls who were, for lack of a better word, attached to you. They weren’t bad, though. In fact, they were kind of fun. They’d drag you along to lunch, chat about the latest drama, and occasionally ask for your opinion on the most important issues, like which lip gloss had the best scent or whether the cafeteria’s pizza was worth the risk of food poisoning.

Today, they were gathered around your desk, laughing about something one of them had said—some story about a teacher who accidentally wore mismatched socks to class. You found yourself grinning without even thinking about it. There was something so effortlessly easy about the way they included you, like you’d always belonged here.

“You know,” one of them said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t know how you do it. You’re so chill. I mean, way chill. It’s like you’re just, I dunno, above all the drama, you know?”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-flattered. “I wouldn’t say above it. Just… trying to survive it.”

“Survive? Girl, you’ve mastered it,” another chimed in, nudging you playfully. “I swear, you’ve got this whole ‘cool, collected vibe’ going on. It’s like you’re a movie star or something.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. It had been a while since anyone said something like that to you, especially not with such earnestness. Was it really that obvious? You’d always figured you were just… trying not to screw things up. In some strange way, you were almost relieved. You were just so tired of being the outsider.

"I don't know," you said, glancing out the window for a second, a little too aware of how your words sounded. "I guess... I’m just happy I can finally be, I don’t know, normal for once."

They all stared at you for a second, as if the idea was so foreign that they didn’t know how to respond. And then they laughed. Not in a mean way, just a soft, understanding laugh.

"Girl, you’re like way past normal," one of them teased, and you swatted her arm lightly, laughing along.

But there was something warm about hearing it. Maybe you didn’t need to be anything extraordinary. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself.

It wasn’t a bad way to be.

The bell rang for the end of lunch, a mix of relief and slight reluctance hanging in the air as everyone packed up their things. You, however, were still caught in a bubble of conversation, a few girls chatting animatedly around you as you all made your way to your next class.

For a moment, it felt almost like before—like you were part of the group but still slightly outside it. You could feel their eyes on you sometimes, the way they’d smile at you like you were a little secret they were all proud to keep. But there was something different about it now. You weren’t just the new girl anymore. You were... someone they all wanted to be near.

It wasn’t a bad thing.

And yet, as the laughter died down and the group started to disperse, you caught a glimpse of someone at the edge of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Jinwoo. His presence, always so quiet, still seemed to draw attention.

He wasn’t quite looking at you, but you could feel it—a pull, like his gaze was hovering just on the edge of your peripheral. His eyes flicked to you briefly, but then he quickly turned away, scribbling something in his notebook as if it was the most important thing in the world.

You weren’t sure why it made your stomach tighten, or why your pulse seemed to quicken as you walked past him.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen him around before. He was the school’s “heartthrob,” after all. Everyone knew who he was. But this? The strange tension that seemed to hang between you and him whenever your paths crossed—this was new.

You stepped around him, almost brushing past him, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the hallway’s stale air.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The world continued on around you—students chatting, shoes scuffing against the linoleum—but it felt like everything slowed down.

He shifted, turning slightly, as if deciding whether or not to speak. And then, just as you were about to move on, you heard his voice.

“Hey,” he said, the single syllable low and almost hesitant.

You stopped, caught off guard by the sound of his voice. It was strange—almost like he'd been practicing saying it to you in his head, over and over, before actually letting the word slip out.

You turned, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah?"

There was a beat of silence. Jinwoo seemed like he wanted to say more—something else was on the tip of his tongue—but instead, he just gave a small shrug. "Never mind," he muttered, and with that, he turned back toward the hallway, his shoulders tense as if he’d said something he wasn’t ready to say.

You stood there for a second, blinking in the sudden awkwardness of it all. His footsteps echoed as he walked away, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had almost spilled out.

But before you could dwell too long on the thought, you were pulled into another conversation by one of the girls from your group, and Jinwoo’s strange, brief interaction was lost in the noise of the crowd.

Because while Jinwoo had become the school’s heartthrob, you had become something else entirely—mysterious, magnetic, untouchable.

The girls didn’t leave you alone.

You were always surrounded. Walking anywhere alone required a strategy.

And Jinwoo?

He looked like he wanted to say something.

He’d lean forward, hesitate. Start to stand. Then pause as someone asked you a question or grabbed your sleeve to drag you to lunch.

He’d sit back like nothing happened. Scribble something in his notebook that wasn’t schoolwork. Bite the inside of his cheek like he was annoyed with himself.

Like he knew you.

Like he’d met you in a dream, once, and the memory had just now caught up.

And still… nothing happened.

Until one afternoon during break—

It wasn’t a dramatic escape. Just you, slipping away while the girls weren’t paying attention.

The school rooftop had always been… yours. Not officially, of course. Just in that quiet, unspoken way places become sacred. It was where the noise below couldn't reach. Where people weren’t buzzing around you with expectations or praise.

Where you could breathe.

You leaned against the railing, arms resting atop it, eyes cast over the schoolyard far below. The spring breeze was light, brushing against your skin with a gentle sway.

You let yourself just be.

No running. No fighting. No pretending.

You were starting to get used to the feeling.

Just the faint sound of distant laughter from the classrooms below, the wind rustling through the trees, the gentle hum of life continuing like the world hadn't ended again and again.

You closed your eyes for a second. Felt the sun warm your face.

This was something you never got to enjoy before. Not really. Not with everything you had to become.

Unknowing to you somewhere from the courtyard, he saw you.

He’d been laughing at some dumb joke Sungil cracked—something about the cafeteria milk again—and his eyes drifted lazily toward the sky.

And there you were.

On the rooftop.

At first, he didn’t think much of it.

You were always slipping away lately, weren’t you?

But there was something about the way you stood. The stillness in your shoulders. The calm. Like someone who’d earned it.

His mind flickered to that moment in class.

The way you spoke to the teacher—controlled, sharp, like you’d negotiated boardroom wars before.

The confidence. The dry wit.

Your name.

It had nagged him when he first heard it. Felt oddly familiar. But he’d brushed it off.

Coincidence, he’d told himself.

But now, watching you from below, everything clicked.

You weren’t a classmate he remembered having in high school.

He knew this place. Knew the names. Knew who lived and who died.

But you? You didn’t belong here.

And yet… you were here.

His chest tightened.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

He was supposed to be the only one. That was the price to pay.

But those eyes...

Those familiar knowing eyes. The ones that used to make him hesitate even when he was the strongest hunter alive. Like you were seeing something he hadn’t caught up to yet.

He stood so abruptly that the contents of his lunchbox went everywhere.

“I—uh, bathroom,” he said quickly, already turning.

“Again?” Sungil snorted. “You good, man?”

Jinwoo didn’t answer. He was halfway to the stairwell already.

He didn’t know how fast he was going—only that his legs carried him up two flights of stairs like muscle memory had kicked in from another life. The closer he got, the more erratic his heart pounded, not from the run, but from the what if.

What if it’s really her? What if I’m not the only one anymore?

His hand hit the door before he could slow down.

Your eyes flicked to the door before he could even burst through it.

He looked out of breath. Wild-eyed. Like he’d run from something—or toward something—he couldn’t quite believe.

And you just smiled.

The same calm smile you’d given him a lifetime ago, back when everything had been louder, heavier, soaked in shadows.

“I was starting to think you’d never notice,” you said softly.

Jinwoo froze.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something—but nothing came out. Just stunned silence. The kind where the world shifts under your feet.

There you were.

The queen of that former world.

The founder of the most powerful guild in Korea.

The girl who protected him in ways he didn’t understand during the war.

The woman who stayed when everyone else turned their backs.

Now here, in a school uniform and wind in your hair, looking at him like no time had passed at all.

He laughed—but it came out hollow, overwhelmed.

“How...?” he finally managed, voice rough.

“How are you—why do you—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the questions. Because how does anyone ask something like that?

How does he ask the past why it followed you here?

And how were you supposed to answer?

You exhaled, softly. Not as if you’d been holding your breath, but like your lungs didn’t quite know how to fill themselves properly. Like you were learning again. Like the weight in your chest was finally being seen by someone else.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked past him, eyes settling somewhere in the distance—on the soft sprawl of the city below, or maybe a memory that lived just above the skyline.

“It’s hard to explain,” you said after a long moment. “And I’ve never... I’ve never said it out loud before.”

Jinwoo didn’t interrupt. Didn’t press.

He just waited, steady as stone, and softer than anyone else had ever been.

Your hands tightened on the railing, knuckles pale. “I don’t know about you. But to me… Time just… reset. Over and over again. I always woke up in my bedroom. Same ceiling. Same air. Same parents calling me down for breakfast like nothing had changed.”

You smiled, but it was hollow. It ghosted across your lips like something you didn’t believe in anymore.

“The first few times, I thought I was crazy. I mean, who wouldn't? One moment I’m dead, and then it’s morning again. The same morning. The same goddamn birds chirping outside my window.”

Jinwoo’s fingers curled into his palms.

You looked at him, something quiet flickering behind your eyes. “And it didn’t stop. No matter what I did. No matter how far I ran or who I saved or who I lost. Time just... snapped back. Like it was mocking me. Like I wasn’t enough.”

Your voice began to tremble at the edges, like a surface cracking.

“At first, I thought maybe I could fix it. That there was a point. That if I just made the right choices…”

You laughed—but it broke halfway out of you. Became something else. Something brittle and wet.

“But then… it just kept getting worse. The gates opened sooner. The monsters got stronger. And then—” You shook your head.

“And then Jeju happened,” you said softly, your words barely above a whisper.

Jinwoo felt his breath catch.

He remembered the insistence you had on him joining the force. “Just a hunch”, you had said.

“I don’t… I don’t really talk about it,” you murmured. “I haven’t. Not in any of my lives. Not once. I just—” You laughed a little, but it broke into a sharp inhale. “I thought maybe if I ignored it hard enough, it would stop existing.”

You leaned your weight forward against the railing, your shoulders trembling.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d moved past it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Jinwoo stepped forward, slowly—carefully. The rooftop wind moved around him like it knew not to interrupt.

You didn’t look at him.

“I remember the smell first. That’s always how it starts. Rot. Blood. Salt in the air. Like the sea was crying too.”

A pause.

“And then the screaming. I can’t forget the screaming. I still hear it when I sleep.”

His hands hovered near your back, unsure. Like he wanted to touch but didn’t want to break the moment.

“I wasn’t even on Jeju,” you whispered, turning slightly toward him now, eyes wide and far away. “I wasn’t one of the hunters. I was just… in a boardroom. Watching.”

Jinwoo’s throat tightened. He just stood there, arms stiff at his sides as the wind swept the rooftop.

“I saw it all. Every feed. Every scream. I watched the lines go dead. I watched people I knew blink out like they were nothing.”

Your eyes met his. Wet. Unflinching.

“And then they came for us.”

You tried to keep the tears back, but your shoulders betrayed you, trembling like a glass that had held too much for too long.

“They weren’t supposed to make it off the island. That’s what we thought. But they did. They crossed the sea like it was nothing. The cities weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready.”

Your knees gave out—but he caught you. Instinctively. Easily.

Your body stiffened for a second—but then you sagged into him. Gave in. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could hold you together with sheer will. Your face pressed to his chest, and your hands clutched at his sleeves like lifelines.

You clutched at the fabric of his uniform. “I didn’t even try to run. I froze. I just—stood there, staring out the window, watching people screaming in the streets. And when I saw it… when I saw it coming for me…”

Your body jolted as you broke. Sharp, silent sobs racking through your chest.

Jinwoo tightened his hold. One hand on your back. One cradling the back of your head. Steady. Anchoring.

He felt the tremble of your breath. The way you tried to be quiet, like your pain was an inconvenience. Like you were used to being alone with it.

“It was so fast,” you gasped. “But I still remember every second. I remember the glass shattering. I remember its claws. I remember thinking—this can’t be how it ends. Not again. Not like this.”

Jinwoo’s heart shattered.

And then you collapsed fully into him, and the weight of it spilled out.

Tears soaked his shirt. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He just held you. Like the world had ended in your arms, and he was the only piece left holding you to it.

He held you tighter.

“And Kamish,” you choked. “Kamish destroyed the world once. Not just a city, not just a squad—the world. I watched from behind screens, from underground shelters, from bunkers that were supposed to be safe. And every time, we thought we were prepared. We never were.”

You looked up, eyes red, voice barely audible. “I tried, Jinwoo. In some lives, I became a hunter. I thought maybe if I just… knew enough, trained enough, I could do something. Anything. But I wasn’t strong. I didn’t make a difference. I just kept watching the world end.”

Your legs folded beneath you, but this time Jinwoo followed you down, holding you even as the rooftop's cold bit through your skin. You cried harder now, like something ancient inside you was finally breaking open.

He didn’t speak. His jaw was tight. His eyes burned.

Because this—

This wasn’t a pain he could fight.

Not with blades. Not with power.

You had been alone. You had carried it all with you.

And now, shaking in his arms, you were finally letting someone see it.

He held you tighter, tucked your shaking frame into his arms like a vow.

“I’m here,” he murmured, so quietly it almost got lost in the wind. “I’m here.”

He pulled back only slightly, enough to look at you, to study the tear-streaked lines of your face. Even now—eyes red, shoulders trembling—you looked so… innocent. So light. How could someone so weighed down still look like freedom?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You shattered again.

Sobs that cracked something in the air.

Sobs that sounded like a locked door finally being opened from the inside.

Jinwoo kept his jaw tight, eyes burning. He’d thought he was alone. That he was the only one cursed to remember the horrors of what came before. But you—god, you had remembered everything. And you hadn’t even asked for it.

He’d never understood it before, not fully. Not even when he met you the first time. Why you looked at him the way you did. Why you spoke like someone who had nothing left to fear.

But now he knew.

And something inside him shifted.

No more.

Not ever again.

Not if he could help it.

Then—

Ding.

The shrill chime of the school bell rang through the rooftop silence, jarring against the stillness that had wrapped itself around you both like a fragile cocoon. You pulled back slowly, your hands unclenching from his sleeves, your breath still trembling against the place where your face had been buried in his chest.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom,” you said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Jinwoo nodded, though his throat was too tight to speak. He watched as you walked away, your steps still a little unsteady, the wind tugging gently at your sleeves like it didn’t want to let you go.

And then you were gone.

He made it to class a few minutes later, the teacher already speaking, his voice a dull drone against Jinwoo’s pulse still thrumming in his ears.

You came in shortly after.

Eyes dry. No trace of red.

No puffiness, no shine. Nothing.

Your face was calm.

Your smile soft, easy—like you hadn’t just shattered in his arms minutes ago. Like you hadn’t cracked open and bled every secret from behind your ribs.

For a second, he wondered if he had imagined it. If somehow, he had projected the weight he felt onto you.

But then—he looked down.

There, on his uniform. The faint but unmistakable mark.

Tear stains, darkened into the fabric over his heart.

You had cried.

And the evidence of it was his to carry now.

He stared at the mark, and looked over his shoulder. You shot him an easy smile across the room, and something inside him twisted.

How many times had you done this before?

How many lifetimes had you broken like that, in silence?

How many tears had fallen that no one ever saw, because you wiped them away before they reached the surface?

His chest felt heavy. Drenched in a grief that wasn’t just his own.

You had been alone for so long.

Too long.

And if he wanted to restore what the world had taken from you—

That light, that freedom in your smile—

He knew he’d have to leave you alone again.

Just for a little while.

But he promised himself—

He wouldn’t take long.

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Taglist: #open

@snowy-violet @minh907 @o-qi-shisme @shineinouzen15 @awwwia @hannya-writes @tanspostsblog @lovelyevil @misakicchi @gina239 @livelaughlovekuni

#solo leveling #solo leveling spoilers #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #only i level up #solo leveling fanfiction #jinwoo x you #jinwoo x reader

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supernotnatural2005 · 4 months ago

Text

Blinding Lights

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: The annual trip to vegas, the city of all things sin and matrimony 👀

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings/tags: Swearing, drinking, implied spicy times, friends to lovers, FLUFF.

Prompt: Accidental Marriage

AN: Yup, we're going there again 😅 the good ol' "friends to lovers". But hey sue me, it's an enjoyable trope 😜. This is another submission for my @jacklesversebingo card.

Main Masterlist

Bingo Masterlist

"Aha! Vegas, baby!"

"Hell yeah!"

Sam shook his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he watched the two of you practically vibrate with excitement as you stepped out of the car. It was the same every year—like clockwork. The second you and Dean set foot in Sin City; it was as if nothing else in the world existed.

Your eyes sparkled under the neon glow of the Vegas strip, reflecting the flashing lights of massive billboards advertising everything from world-class shows to all-you-can-eat buffets. The scent of warm asphalt mixed with the smoky, slightly stale air of the casinos. It was loud, chaotic, alive—and judging by the way you and Dean grinned at each other like kids on Christmas morning, it was exactly what you had been waiting for.

It had started years ago; a tradition Dean had set in stone after one particularly gruelling hunt. What was meant to be a one-time trip to blow off steam had somehow turned into an annual pilgrimage. A few days of indulgence, no monsters, no case files—just booze, gambling, and in Dean’s case, the occasional fling.

Sam wasn’t as wild about the whole scene as his brother, but he could appreciate the break. Maybe play a few hands of poker, enjoy the high-roller perks that occasionally came with hustling a few unsuspecting tourists. But what always caught him off guard was you.

If anything, you were just as bad as Dean—if not worse.

At first, it had been surprising. You’d always been a hell of a hunter, sharp as a knife, level-headed when it counted. But Vegas flipped a switch in you, and suddenly, you were throwing back shots like a seasoned pro, calling Dean’s bluff at the poker table, and somehow managing to charm casino staff into handing out free drinks like they were candy. The influence between the two of you was dangerous—borderline reckless—but damn if it wasn’t entertaining to watch.

Sam had seen you two fuel each other’s competitive streak before, but here? It was a whole new level. Whether it was betting on who could win the most at blackjack, seeing who could sweet-talk their way into VIP sections, or even just a ridiculous contest over who could score the best hotel suite upgrade—neither of you knew the meaning of ‘taking it easy.’

"Alright," Sam sighed, adjusting the strap of his duffel as he trailed behind you both. "Just… try not to get arrested this time, okay?"

Dean smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "No promises, Sammy."

You shot Sam a wink. "Yeah, where’s the fun in that?"

Sam exhaled through his nose, already resigning himself to whatever chaos was about to unfold.

Vegas, man.

As soon as you stepped into your upgraded suite, you stretched your arms overhead, sighing in pure satisfaction. The room was gorgeous—high ceilings, sleek modern furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Vegas Strip, glowing like a sea of neon under the night sky. The plush king-sized bed looked like something out of a five-star fantasy, and the sheer space alone made it feel like pure luxury compared to the standard motel rooms you were used to.

Dean, meanwhile, was still grumbling as he dropped his duffel onto the couch.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, looking around the room in awe and then shooting you a narrowed look. He was just pissy because you won the little competitive game of — ‘who could get the free upgrade’.

“Hey, I won this fair and square" you shrugged with a smug smile before plopping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

Dean scoffed, crossing his arms shooting Sam a look who just held up his hands like he wanted no part in it. “Fair my ass.”

You grinned, sitting up and tilting your head in mock innocence. “What? It’s not my fault the guy couldn’t stop staring at my tits."

"Yeah, because pulling down your top and leaning over the counter totally wasn’t planned." Dean shot back, rolling his eyes. You had to bite your lip from bursting out in laughter. Petty Dean was something else.

"Meanwhile, I actually had to use skill to negotiate. But nooo, all you had to do was flash some cleavage, bat your lashes, and boom—you’re living like royalty while Sammy and I are stuck in a standard-ass room.”

“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game,” you teased, then arched a brow. “Besides, you do realise you just confirmed the corruption and irony of the male hierarchy, right?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. Blinked. Looked at Sam, who was failing miserably at hiding his laughter.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled in defeat, muttering to himself, “still bullshit,” as he continued to nose around the room, clearly still sulking.

Once the boys left to go check out their ‘standard’ room, Dean lingered in the doorway, casting one last longing glance at the spacious background before you smirked and slowly closed the door in his face.

With the place officially all to yourself, you decided to finish exploring, and that’s when you saw it.

Oh, sweet heaven on earth.

The bathtub.

Not just any bathtub—a deep, oversized whirlpool tub, complete with jets and a selection of fancy bath salts sitting neatly on the edge. Your eyes widened in absolute delight as you all but floated toward it, running a hand along the cool marble.

It felt like it had been a lifetime since you’d had the chance to soak in a bath. Even when you had the option, motel tubs were…Questionable at best. You weren’t about to risk whatever horrors lurked in those drains, so showers had become your norm—mildly warm, rushed, and never truly satisfying.

But this?

This was your chance.

No hunts, no monsters, no worrying about saving lives. No last-minute research, no stitches to sew, no near-death experiences.

Just you, a massive tub, and all the time in the world to finally pamper yourself.

Hell. Yes.

After soaking in the tub until your fingers pruned and the tension in your muscles melted away, you finally dragged yourself out, wrapping up in a plush robe as you wandered over to your suitcase.

For once, you had the chance to ditch the usual hunter’s uniform—no jeans, no flannel, no scuffed-up boots. Just something that made you feel good. Normal.

Your fingers skimmed over the fabric as you pulled it out—a little black dress, classic and timeless, but with just the right touch of allure. The delicate lace trim along the hem and neckline added a hint of elegance, while the way the fabric hugged your curves made you feel undeniably confident. It was the kind of dress that demanded attention without even trying.

You stepped into it, letting the silky material glide over your skin, adjusting the thin straps before smoothing your hands down your sides. It was a far cry from the rugged, practical outfits you usually wore on the road, and damn, it felt nice.

Next, you slid on a pair of black heels—just high enough to give you that extra sway in your hips but still comfortable enough for a night out.

Turning to the mirror, you took a moment to focus on your makeup—something bolder than your usual go-to. A sultry smoky eye, dark lashes framing your gaze, paired with a soft nude lip. Just enough to make a statement without being overdone.

Your hair followed suit—soft waves cascading over your shoulders, effortless but polished, framing your face just right.

With one final glance in the mirror, you smirked. Yeah. You looked good. And you were damn well going to enjoy tonight.

And judging by the way both Dean and Sam reacted when you stepped into the hotel bar, you’d made the right choice.

Dean was nursing a whiskey while Sam sipped a beer, both dressed shaper than usual—Sam in a crisp, white button-up with the sleeves rolled up, Dean in a black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, exposing just enough skin to make you roll your eyes at his predictable charm.

At first, they were talking, relaxed, until they both caught sight of you approaching. Sam's brows lifted slightly in pleasant surprise, but Dean?

Dean leaned back in his chair, giving a slow, appreciative once-over, his lips curling into that signature smirk of his.

“Well, damn,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “Didn’t know we were gettin’ all fancy tonight.”

You smirked, stepping up to their table. “Figured it’d be nice to dress up for once.”

Sam nodded, offering you a genuine smile. “You look great.”

Dean, however, had a different kind of gleam in his eye. He leaned in, his smirk deepening, an eyebrow arching suggestively.

“In your dreams, baby,” you cooed, patting his cheek mockingly.

Sam snickered as Dean huffed out a humourless chuckle, leaning back in his chair. But the thing was… he didn’t have to dream.

You and Dean had been down that road before. More than once.

Late nights after hunts, when the adrenaline was still pumping and neither of you felt like wasting time picking up strangers, you’d found comfort in each other. It was an unspoken deal—blowing off steam, nothing more. No feelings, no complications. Because at the end of the day, hunters didn’t get happy endings.

You weren’t naïve. You knew better than to hope for something more. And so did Dean.

Still, as you slid into the seat across from him, you caught the way his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind those green eyes before he knocked back another sip of whiskey.

Clearing your throat, you reached for the bottle on the table, pouring yourself a drink. “Alright, boys,” you said, lifting your glass. “Here’s to a great night.”

Dean clinked his glass against yours, that smirk never faltering.

“To a damn good night,” he echoed.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he joined in. “As long as neither of you end up in a cell, I’ll count it as a win.”

You and Dean exchanged a grin, mischief dancing in your eyes. Yeah, tonight was going to be interesting.

The pounding in your skull was the first thing you registered. The second was the taste of regret on your tongue, bitter and stale like the whiskey you clearly had too much of. A low groan slipped from your lips as you forced your eyes open, squinting against the intrusive morning light.

The room was a disaster. Pillows scattered across the floor, empty bottles knocked over on the nightstand, and—oh, fantastic—your bra was hanging off the damn wall light fixture like some sort of drunken trophy. Your dress, meanwhile, lay crumpled in a heap by the bathroom door, and not far from it, Dean’s shirt.

Shit.

A slow, sinking realisation settled in, and with a heavy sigh, you finally turned your head.

Dean was right there, sprawled out on his back. His chest rose and fell in deep, steady breaths, his mouth slightly open, a soft snore escaping as he slept like he had no damn cares in the world.

You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned.

You had promised yourself you’d stop indulging in the oldest Winchester. The last time, things had started feeling… complicated. Unwanted feelings creeping in, making you second-guess the whole thing.

Guess drunk you had a serious inability to deny him.

With another groan, you forced yourself to sit up—immediately regretting it as your head swam and your stomach lurched. Ugh. You needed something greasy and coffee stat. And some damn privacy so you could at least wash last nights shame off you.

So you grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked it into Dean’s face.

"Get up, Winchester."

He let out a grunt, his brow furrowing as he shifted slightly but not quite waking.

You grabbed another one.

WHUMP.

Dean groaned, lazily swiping at his face before cracking one eye open. His brow furrowed as he blinked at you, bleary and clearly just as hungover as you. "What the hell…?" His voice was rough with sleep, and he grimaced, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Then, realisation dawned as he shifted under the sheets and noticed he wasn’t wearing a damn thing.

A slow, cocky smirk spread across his lips.

"Knew you couldn’t resist me, sweetheart," he drawled, voice still hoarse but undeniably smug.

You scoffed, reaching for the closest thing you could throw at him—an empty bottle this time. Dean yelped, flinching as you took aim, but lowered it back down, satisfied with your threat instead.

You slid out of bed with a grumbled “ass” and immediately regret the movement as your hangover protested.

"Damn, sweetheart. If that’s how you treat ‘em the morning after, no wonder you’re still single.” Dean chuckled, running a hand through his messy hair as he stretched.

You flipped him off over your shoulder as you headed toward the bathroom. “Bite me, Dean.”

His smirk widened as his gaze drifted over your retreating form—lingering on the deep, reddish-purple bruise in the perfect shape of his mouth on your bare ass.

Leaning back against the pillows, he let out a low, satisfied hum.

“Pretty sure I already did.”

The scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon did little to soothe the pounding in your skull as you and Dean trudged into the diner like two barely functioning zombies. You were practically clinging to your massive sunglasses, shielding your eyes from the fluorescent lights that felt like tiny daggers stabbing into your brain.

Meanwhile, there was Sam—already seated in a booth, nursing a coffee, not a hangover in sight. The fucker had even been on a run.

He looked up as you both slumped into the seats across from him, his dimples appearing as he let out a low chuckle. “Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.”

Dean groaned, dropping his head against the table. “Why are you so loud?”

Sam just shook his head, amused, as the waitress approached with her notepad.

You wasted no time reeling off your order. “Bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, hash browns—extra crispy. And coffee. Black. In the biggest cup you’ve got.”

When the waitress turned to Dean, he simply muttered, “Yeah, I’ll have what she’s having.”

You smirked, nudging him under the table. When Harry Met Sally references weren’t lost on you, and Dean’s slow realisation of it only made it funnier.

Sam just shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee before setting it down and giving you both a once-over. “You two look like shit.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” you grumbled, shoving your sunglasses up into your hair. “We don’t even remember what happened last night.”

Sam’s brows lifted, something flickering in his gaze—something knowing. He hummed, lips twitching in amusement, but before you could question it, the waitress returned with your plates, effectively derailing the conversation.

For a few minutes, all that mattered was shovelling greasy food into your mouths, trying to absorb the alcohol still wreaking havoc in your systems.

And then—

“Oh my God, there you are!”

A stranger—a man probably in his early thirties—grinned down at you, looking entirely too chipper for you.

Dean blinked up at him. “Uh… do we know you?”

The guy laughed. “Dude last night was insane. Seriously, that wedding? One for the books. You two are hilarious.”

Your chewing slowed. You glanced at Dean, then back at the guy. “...What wedding?”

The man’s smile faltered, confusion knitting his brows. “Uh… yours?”

Your stomach dropped.

Dean coughed on his coffee. “Sorry, what now?”

“Oh, man, you guys really don’t remember, do you?” The guy pulled out his phone, tapping away before turning the screen to face you.

And there it was.

A video—clear as day—of you in the middle of a crowded club, a veil perched crookedly on your head, clearly wasted as you stood on a table, arms thrown wide, screaming at the top of your lungs:

"I’M MARRIED, BITCHES!!!"

The video cut to Dean—also wasted—grinning like an idiot before grabbing you and dipping you back dramatically, kissing you deep like something straight out of a goddamn romance movie. The entire club cheered.

The next clip? The two of you wreaking absolute havoc, leading a conga line, starting a round of body shots, and hyping up the entire place like the unhinged duo you apparently had become.

The video ended, and you and Dean sat in stunned silence, staring at the phone in abject horror.

Fuck.

Back at the hotel, you paced the room like a caged animal, running your hands through your hair, trying to make sense of the absolute shitstorm your life had apparently become. Sam sat in one of the chairs, sipping a bottle of water like this wasn’t the worst day of your existence, while Dean was still in shock, slumped on the bed, staring blankly at the wall.

“Like, how did this even happen?” you fumed, throwing your hands up. “How is this even legal?!”

“Well, when two people—”

You shot Sam a look of death before he could finish his snarky remark, and for once, he had the sense to shut up.

Then, as the realisation hit you like a truck, you turned on him, narrowing your eyes. “Wait a damn minute. Where the hell were you?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “…I was the witness.”

Silence.

You and Dean slowly turned your heads toward him in unfiltered shock and disbelief.

“You what?!” you screeched.

Dean shot up from the bed, throwing his hands in the air. “How could you let this happen?!”

Sam held up his hands, clearly not appreciating the hostility being thrown at him. “Look, I tried to stop you both, okay? But then you," he pointed at Dean, "went on this whole rant about how in love with Y/N you are, something about how she was the girl you’d always wanted to marry.”

Your breath caught, and Dean’s head snapped toward Sam, eyes widening in horror. “Dude, what the hell?!”

Sam ignored him, continuing with a shrug. “And then you threatened to break my iPod if I got in the way.”

You weren’t listening anymore, though. You were still stuck on that part. The part where Dean apparently called you the girl he’d always wanted to marry.

Dean was panicking. His ears turned pink, his mouth opening and closing as he scrambled for damage control. “No—it was nothing, is nothing.” He shook his head, flailing his arms.

“I was drunk! Blackout drunk, apparently! No one listens to drunk me—that’s just crazy!” He let out a forced laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, but he wasn’t looking at you. Because the truth was, if he ever did allow himself to dream of a normal, white-picket-fence kind of life, you were the face that had filled the once faceless woman in that dream. Always had been.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice even, like your heart wasn’t racing out of control. “Right. Obviously.”

An awkward silence settled over the room before you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “What are we gonna do?”

“We could get a lawyer?” Dean gestured to Sam, who frowned.

“I didn’t even finish law school,” Sam huffed humourlessly, and Dean sighed like that was ever going to be an option, “but I might know some old contacts…”

You narrowed your eyes at the two of them. “And then what, huh? What lawyer in their right mind is gonna help a supposed deceased serial killer and a fraudulent criminal?”

Sam winced. “Okay, fair point.”

You took a deep breath, then grabbed your jacket.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dean asked, his voice laced with worry.

You ran a frustrated hand through your hair. “I’m going to every damn chapel in town to figure out how the hell we get out of this mess.”

Before either of them could stop you, you stormed out, slamming the door behind you.

The room was left in tense silence.

Dean deflated, rubbing a hand down his face before turning to glare at Sam. “Man, why did you have to go and say that?”

Sam frowned. “Because it’s the truth?”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, she didn’t need to know that.” He let out a heavy breath, running both hands through his hair. “You probably just freaked her the fuck out. Y/N doesn’t do love, and neither do I. That’s why it works.”

Sam gave him a look—one of pity. “Dean… you shouldn’t have to go through life alone.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “I’m not alone. I have you. I have Bobby.” His voice softened, almost bitter. “I had her.”

The weight of that realisation hit him like a truck.

Sam sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, voice hollow. “And it’s a stupid fairytale.” His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. “People like us? We don’t get the husband and wife, the kids, the house. It all ends the same for us.”

A quiet beat stretched between them.

Sam wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he deserved more, but looking at his brother—shoulders hunched, hands curled into fists, bracing himself for heartbreak—Sam wasn’t sure Dean would ever believe it.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the horizon, the sky a swirl of deep blues and purples as you sat on the stone wall outside the Bellagio, watching the fountain show dance in the glow of the Las Vegas lights, your thoughts swirling as fast as the water before you.

The cool breeze did little to calm the fire of frustration in your chest. You’d been to every chapel in town, and every single one confirmed what you already knew—it was a legal marriage. The papers were real. The priest had done his job. You were bound to Dean in a way you never expected.

The thing was, deep down, you didn’t even know what you were running from anymore. Though one thing run true.

Hunters didn’t get married. They didn’t have families. They didn’t get to live out some idyllic, picture-perfect life because—well, they weren’t supposed to. They fought, they survived, and most of the time, that meant watching those they loved die.

So, the ones who did have families… the ones who thought they could have that normal, happy ending? You couldn’t think of a single one who didn’t lose it all in the end. Their families were gone. Their homes destroyed. There were no happy endings for people like you.

Still, in the quiet moments—when the rush of a hunt faded away, when the liquor finally took the edge off, when you could almost imagine what it would be like to just let yourself breathe—you had thought about it. Maybe Dean was the guy in your Vision. Maybe he was the one waiting for you at the altar. But that was just a pipe dream. A fantasy you couldn’t allow yourself to get lost in.

As you sat there, your fingers gripping the rough edge of the stone, the sound of footsteps broke through your thoughts. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Sam. You’d known he’d come looking for you.

Without a word, Sam settled down next to you, his legs dangling off the side of the wall as he gazed out at the fountain too. He didn’t push for you to talk, but you could feel the concern radiating from him.

“Why’s being married to Dean such a bad thing?” Sam asked bluntly, getting straight to the point. Although his tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge of seriousness there, too.

You couldn’t help the slight twitch of your lips, and shook your head. “It’s not bad, Sam,” you muttered, voice low. “It’s... complicated.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Complicated, huh? You two practically are a married couple already.”

You let out a small laugh at that, more out of disbelief than amusement. Yeah, you and Dean did have that vibe, didn’t you? Always arguing, always looking out for each other, always circling each other in that maddening dance of will-they-won’t-they. Everyone could see it but you two.

You could feel Sam’s knowing smile before he even spoke again. “You know you love him, right?” he asked softly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You let out a long breath, staring out at the water again. “I don’t know how to do love, Sam,” you admitted, the words coming out heavier than you intended. “Everyone I’ve ever loved is gone. All that I’ve known is loss. There’s no happy ending for people like me. There’s no happily-ever-after for us.”

Sam’s gaze softened, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for saying it. It wasn’t his fault, after all. But it was the truth, in your opinion.

Sam was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “I get it. Believe me, I do.” He shifted, his eyes downcast as he relived something only he truly understood.

“Loving Jessica,” he began and your gaze snapped over to him, surprised he was bringing her up, “having her love me back... that was one of the best feelings in the world. And then... I was lying to her. I was lying about who I was, about what I was involved in. And look how that ended.”

Your heart squeezed at the way Sam spoke about her—how much she meant to him. You knew her story. You knew what that loss did to him. You’d seen it all too many times: love, then bloodshed. It always ended the same way.

“But” Sam continued, his voice steadying, “you and Dean, you both know the risks. You already know what comes with this life. The danger. The blood. The loss. But you’re still here. Still fighting. Still breathing.” He turned to look at you, his gaze more direct now. “So why not just take the chance? Why not go for it?”

You turned your head to meet his eyes, studying his expression. He was sincere. And for a second, you almost wanted to believe him. Maybe it was worth taking the chance. Maybe you didn’t have to keep running. After all, life was short, right?

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head as you watched the water dance in the glow of the neon lights. “You make it sound so easy.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe it is.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “You really believe that?”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the fountain. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But I do know that letting fear make the choice for you? That’s not living.”

Your fingers gripped the rough edge of the stone wall beneath you. Fear. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? Not just the absurdity of being legally bound to Dean Winchester, but the weight of what it could mean. The possibility of something real. And the possibility of losing it.

“You sound like a damn fortune cookie.”

Sam laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Yeah, well, if I start talking about how life is a journey, feel free to punch me.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head before letting out a reserved sigh, like you still couldn’t quite let go of the fear and Sam turned to you more determined.

“Look, from where I’m sitting, you two have been doing this dance for years. You rile each other up like no one i’ve ever met,” You chuckle at that because it’s the truth, “you look out for each other more than anyone else, and Dean—” Sam let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Man, you should see him when you’re not around. He’s miserable.”

Your heart clenched, and you hated that it did. Hated that it mattered.

Sam leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You love him and he loves you.” It wasn’t a question, he was stating a fact.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sam scoffed, and it irked you, because you stubborn, in denial brain just wanted him to get it.

You tore your gaze from the fountain, looking him dead in the eye. “Look, I don’t get to keep the people I love, Sam. Us hunters… we are just cursed with that burden.” Your voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of everything you’d already lost.

Sam’s expression softened, was no less determined as he look at you; his teasing gone. “That’s crap,” he said. “You’re not cursed, Y/N. And neither is Dean, or any of us for that matter. You’re not alone. Not unless you choose to be.”

You exhaled shakily, pressing your fingers against your temple. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it is.” Sam turned to you fully, sincerity in every word. “Dean loves you. You love him. The world is already a goddamn mess—why not hold on to something good?”

The way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, made your chest ache.

You sat in silence for a long moment, watching the water rise and fall in a choreographed dance. The truth was, you’d thought about it before. Let yourself imagine it in the quiet moments, in the spaces between hunts, between drinks at some rundown bar, between stolen moments of passion in the sheets, where it always felt more than just a need to blow off some steam.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe you’d been running from something that was already yours.

“He’s not the best at this whole ‘feelings’ thing, but trust me, he’s all in. He’s just... scared, I think. Scared you’ll walk away.”

You looked away, eyes stinging for reasons you didn’t fully understand. You loved him, too. You always had.

“Why can things never be simple?” you asked softly, more to the universe than to Sam.

“Because what is life without a little challenge,” Sam teases and you shoot him a look. “Dean’s worth it. And so are you.”

For a second, everything felt still. The fountain’s music was just background noise to the buzzing in your head, the pounding in your chest. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe you didn’t have to be afraid of something good.

You took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s time I stopped running.”

Sam clapped you on the back with a grin. “I think you’re starting to get it.”

“Hey.”

You watched Dean’s head snap up from where he was leaning over the bar, his focus pulling from the slow drag of his finger tracing the rim of his glass. His eyes, tired and unreadable, softened the moment they met yours.

"Hey." He returned, voice just as soft, just as uncertain. He sat up straighter as you approached, slipping onto the stool beside him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, thick with all the words left unsaid, tension crackling between you like a live wire.

Dean broke first. “You want a drink?”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "God, no." You grimaced. "I don’t even know how you're drinking that." You gestured toward his whiskey, still untouched except for the way he’d been absentmindedly spinning it in his grasp.

Dean smirked, lifting the glass slightly. "Never heard of hair of the dog?"

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head. And for just a moment, it felt normal again. Easy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the weight of everything you’d been avoiding pressed back down.

You exhaled, staring at the gleaming oak surface of the bar. "I’m sorry I walked out earlier." Your voice was quieter now, careful. "I wasn’t mad at you."

"I know," Dean murmured. "I get it. I do."

But you shook your head, fingers tightening slightly against the wood. "I don’t think you do."

Dean frowned, his head tilting in that way he always did when he was trying to figure you out. You turned toward him, finally facing him, and the vulnerability in your eyes made his breath catch.

"Dean…" You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "I don’t get to keep the people I love."

Dean’s brows knit together, his grip tightening around his glass. "Y/N—"

"I don’t." You let out a shaky laugh, but there was no real humour in it. "Every time I let myself believe in something, it gets ripped away. And I thought… if I could undo this, if we could erase it like it never happened, then maybe I wouldn’t have to face what it really means.”

Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his jaw locking. "And what does it really mean?"

You met his gaze then, your walls crumbling, your heart in your throat. "That I'm scared. That this—" You motioned between the two of you, voice almost breaking. "—this is everything I ever wanted. And if I lose it? If I lose you?"

Dean’s face softened, something breaking open in his eyes. "Sweetheart…"

"I’m tired of running, Dean." The words came out on an exhale, years of hesitation slipping away. "I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t want this. That I don’t want you."

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable, but you could see it—the way his whole body reacted to your words, the way he leaned in just the slightest bit, like he was being pulled toward you.

And then, his hand found yours, fingers threading together like they belonged there.

"You got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that" he admitted, voice rough, edged with something that made your heart pound.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and before you could say anything else, before you could second-guess, Dean closed the distance.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if he was savouring it—savouring you. His lips were warm, whiskey-smooth, his touch gentle but grounding. He kissed you like you were something precious, something his.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless, your forehead resting against his, a slow smile tugged at your lips.

"Okay," you murmured, your heart still racing. "But if we're gonna do this, really do this…I want a ring on this finger." You wiggled your left hand for emphasis.

Dean let out a startled laugh, his head tilting back slightly before he grinned at you, his eyes twinkling.

“And not something subtle,” you added, your tone teasing with a raised brow as you leaned in closer.

“Oh yeah?” Dean leaned in too, his grin never faltering as he played along.

"I want something big and flashy, like I’m some damn Kardashian or whatever." You tried to hold back your laughter, but his amused expression only made it harder.

Before you could speak again, Dean captured your lips once more, silencing your laughter. You melted into him, the warmth of his kiss overwhelming.

"Anything for you, Mrs. Winchester." His voice was a soft murmur against your lips, the words feeling more natural than either of you expected.

You laughed, shaking your head, but the ache in your chest was the best kind of pain. Because, for the first time in a long while, you weren't running.

AN: I don't know about you guys, but I'd love to see that video 👀😂, I hope you all enjoyed this one. Let me know what you think 💕

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel @piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy @impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes @rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28

#jacklesversebingo24 #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #spn #spn fanfic #sam winchester #jensen ackles #spnfamily #supernatural fanfiction #abbalina writes

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