#interactive lectern

[its-crisps]

look. my toxic trait is that i loveeee a good fix-it au. nobody dies, they all get to go to therapy, everyone lives happily ever after, so on and so forth.

but it is SO crucial to me that i also indulge in a little toxic old man yaoi for the soul. when they dont like each other even a little bit but still love each other............... THATS the good shit

[youthguk]

Dream eater | jjk (m) | Finale

Jungkook is a Dream eater, and you, unknowingly, are his favorite feast.

· Dream fantasy (slightly) · Smut · Angst · Emotional intimacy ·

wc: 10k

warnings: smut (minors do not interact!), penetrative sex (f/m), intense mutual yearning and vulnerability, depressive undertones, angst

an: this one is for those who have ever felt like the world is generous to you with nothing but solitude.

read part 1 first

The office held its breath like a calculated silence crafted from muted furnishings, diffused sunlight, and the strategic whisper of white noise. Reality waited outside, suspended in the in-between. Your fingers traced invisible patterns on your sleeve, a quiet metronome of anxiety, as you curled deeper into the armchair. The psychiatrist: poised in navy silk and silver frames, balanced her clipboard with practiced precision.

"So," she cut through the quiet, "has it been going well?"

Your pause wasn't hesitation but careful calculation. When you spoke, your voice was a borrowed costume. "Yes. The new place helps. The sleep stabilizers work. No dreams now, dark or light."

She nodded with the certainty of someone who'd mapped this territory before, her professionalism warm but measured.

“That’s completely normal,” she said, each word precisely placed. “For individuals managing both chronic anxiety and symptoms of trauma-related stress, particularly those working in emergency medical environments like you, the mind tends to go through compensatory phases. Initially, it will project the inner distress through nightmares: classic fight-or-flight responses, often fragmented or symbolic. But sometimes, when the body stays too long in survival mode, the brain starts to seek equilibrium by manufacturing comforting dreams. Not necessarily rooted in reality, but emotionally healing nonetheless. That’s your nervous system attempting to self-soothe when the external world isn’t providing the support it needs.”

You fixed your gaze past her shoulder, letting the clinical explanation dissect every phantom touch, every dream-spun promise you'd collected like precious stones.

Doctor’s voice softened slightly without losing structure. “What matters is that you had the clarity to notice when even those comforting dreams began to unmoor you from reality. That takes self-awareness. You acted early. You sought help. Even though the dreams weren’t distressing anymore, you knew something wasn’t right. That’s not common, many people don’t catch it until much later.”

Your nod was mechanical, but your throat held something raw. When it escaped, it wasn't a confession but a wound dressed in words.

“It was getting too real, you know?” Your voice trembled, imperceptible to the world, but here, it registered like seismic activity. "He felt too real," you continued, fingers now dancing nervously. "I've always lived half in dreams, building castles in clouds since childhood. But this was different. I started believing he was too perfect to be my creation. That scared me more than any nightmare."

Doctor lets silence do its work before speaking, her words precise as a surgeon's tools. “You weren’t losing your mind,” she said. “You were doing what the mind does best when it’s in pain. You were trying to survive by creating meaning where there wasn’t any. And while the emotional weight of the dream felt real because to you, it was. You were also wise enough to recognize the risk. You saw the fracture forming between reality and fantasy. And instead of continuing down that path, you stopped. That was brave. It was smart. And it was incredibly hard.”

Your eyes glazed with unshed tears. That floaty, invisible ache just behind the eyes when you’re trying very hard to accept something you’ve already decided to let go of.

The psychiatrist continued, gentler now, the rhythm of her words shifting like someone stepping down from the lectern to sit beside you on the floor. “I also understand why you’re grieving it. These dreams, whether terrifying or beautiful, gave you something you weren’t receiving in the waking world: agency, intimacy, even joy. They gave you back a sense of power, however imagined. And now that they’re gone, you’re being asked to walk forward without that internal place of safety. That’s a profound loss. And it’s okay to mourn it.”

You opened eyes you hadn't realized you'd closed, voice steady despite everything. "I miss him more than I should. Sounds insane, grieving someone who never existed. Like mourning the end of a dance I never actually danced." Your smile was a broken thing. "But it was necessary. I was losing myself. Missing it doesn't make it right."

A weighted silence descended, heavy with the finality of endings. You straightened in your chair, your voice carrying a clarity that hadn't been there before.

"I'm not just leaving the apartment," you said, while doctor watched with patient understanding. "I'm leaving the city entirely, starting fresh somewhere untouched by these echoes of what could have been. It's time."

There was no dramatic crescendo to mark this turning point, only the gentle acceptance of change as natural as seasons turning. In the landscape of your mind, where dreams once painted vibrant possibilities, the tide of reality was already erasing those imagined footprints of Jungkook from the shore, washing them away with each healing wave.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

The hospital corridors stretch before you like a museum after hours - familiar yet foreign. You ghost through them, each step deliberate, waiting for walls to betray recognition. They don't. Fluorescent lights still cast their sterile glow, antiseptic mingles with machine oil in the air, and the nurses' station pulses with its eternal symphony - monitors beeping, radios crackling, shoes whispering across linoleum. But you're no longer part of this machinery. You're an outsider now, swimming against the current.

Eva catches you before you can slip unnoticed to the lockers. She engulfs you in an embrace that feels like both shield and anchor.

"You're really doing it," she says, studying your face with wonder. "Actually quitting. And using vacation days? Who are you and what have you done with my workaholic friend?"

A dry laugh escapes you. "A very questionable vacation. Twelve days of Seoul apartment tours and boxes. I'm so drained I could sleep through the apocalypse."

"Still," you continue, voice soft but steel-edged, "I'm done with survival mode. Done letting life happen to me. Maybe it's time I happened to life instead."

Eva's composure cracks like fine china - not shattering, just showing its precious fault lines. Pride and grief and joy bleed through."I'm so proud of you," she whispers, pulling you close again.

You let the finality wash over you, tasting bittersweet on your tongue.

"Your parents?" she asks, wiping away a rebellious tear.

"They think I've lost my mind. It's in their silences, their careful pauses. They're already planning my defeat - no job in Seoul, crawling back by spring, begging for my old life back."

Eva dismisses their doubt with a gesture sharp as a scalpel. "Please. You'll thrive. You don't just find paths - you forge them." One last embrace, because she's the rare friend who celebrates your evolution instead of fighting it.

"I'll miss you," you breathe against her hair. The words feel insufficient.

You gather your exit pieces - the box of folded scrubs, the name tag you had stopped wearing because everyone already knew your name, the journal no one knew you kept in the bottom drawer, that knows secrets that no clinical report will ever know. The station's familiar landscape blurs as you turn away.

Eva's voice catches you at the threshold. "Wait! Someone came looking for you yesterday."

You freeze. "Oh?"

Her eyes spark with intrigue. "Tall. Dark-haired. Definitely not local. Had this lost-but-gorgeous thing going on. Serious. Handsome. Impeccably polite."

You frown, mind blank. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

"Mystery admirer, maybe?" She shrugs, playful.

"Too late now," you say lightly, but your heart kicks against your ribs.

The door swings open with surgical precision, letting antiseptic air slice through your resolve. You stride forward, each step a deliberate severance from what was.

This chapter is ending, carving space for tomorrow.

Even if a part of you still aches at night for a voice that never existed outside your dreams.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

The train station feels too bright at first, too alive with noise and direction, as if the city itself breathes with a sharper rhythm than the one you left behind. The air carries a different weight here: a mixture of exhaust and energy, distant horns and clipped footsteps, the metallic hum of possibility that seems to hang above every street in Seoul. You step into it like someone waking into a life that was always meant to begin later, the past still clinging to your shoulders, but loosening, just enough, in the face of the sheer immensity ahead.

You don’t know where anything is yet. That thought doesn’t scare you as much as it used to. You take a taxi from the station to the hotel, leaning your forehead lightly against the window, watching the landscape shift from narrow alleys to sprawling boulevards, from modest cafés to high-rises that catch the afternoon sun in fractured glass. Seoul is louder than you remember it from your last visit but also softer in its corners. You pass a woman helping a child fix their mask, a florist watering bouquets in the sun, a man laughing into a phone, his arms full of groceries. These aren’t cinematic gestures, but they comfort you more than anything you’ve told yourself lately.

You’re grateful for the savings you managed to scrape together over the last year. It gives you breathing room, enough to settle into a hotel for now, enough to look for an apartment slowly, without rushing into the first cold room with working plumbing. You wheel your suitcase through the automatic doors, speak quietly to the woman at reception, then take the elevator to your floor, already thinking about how long you can stay before it feels like too much of a pause.

The room is clean and neutral, the kind of space meant to be both comfortable and forgettable. You could unpack, and you know you should, but your body doesn’t want rest right now, it wants movement, wants air, something vast and open to remind it that this change was worth making.

The sea. You came here for the city, yes, but also for that: to see the ocean with your own eyes, not just the imagined one behind your eyelids.

You snatch your coat and flee the hotel room, propelled by restless energy through the lobby and into the first waiting taxi. The destination rolls off your tongue without thought, and soon you're racing through Seoul's arteries, fingertips tracing constellations on cool glass.

The city unfolds beofre you - each turn revealing new dimensions. Not overwhelming, but alive with electric possibility. Glass towers pierce clouds, construction cranes dance their slow ballet, and the Han River cuts through it all like liquid silver. Behind every lit window, a story unfolds. How many others are here starting over? How many hearts are learning to beat in time with this city's pulse? You press your forehead to the window, drinking in the vertigo of new beginnings.

And most importantly: how many things are awaiting you here? You don’t know yet. But for the first time in a long while, the not-knowing doesn’t terrify you.

The car slows as you near the coast, the sound of distant gulls now audible through the crack in the window, the scent of salt in the wind even before you see the water. You step out onto the embankment and the clean air hits you, laced with something older than cities and softer than memory. The sea stretches out in front of you, endless and blue-gray, its waves gently lapping against the shore in steady rhythm, the sunlight skimming over the water like it, too, is just arriving.

Each step resonates with deliberate weight, your hands buried deep in wool pockets. Reality shimmers at the edges like a monochrome canvas of pewter clouds and biting wind, your footfalls a percussion against rain-slicked stones. Yet in this raw simplicity lies an arresting beauty. Not the perfection of dreams, but something sharper. Real.

And it stirs something in you that you hadn’t expected. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sea wind press against your face, and you inhale slowly, deeply, letting it fill your chest with something you had been missing for so long you almost forgot what it felt like…hope, perhaps, or stillness. You exhale, and your lashes are suddenly wet, though you’re not sure when that happened. It’s not sorrow, exactly. It’s something older than grief and quieter than joy.

Standing at the edge of possibility, you feel the stirrings of something new taking root - a cautious optimism that perhaps this world, with all its imperfections and raw beauty, holds promises just as compelling as any dream. The real world stretches before you, not as a pale shadow of imagination, but as a canvas rich with its own kind of magic, waiting to be discovered if only you dare to reach for it.

As the ocean breeze carries salt and promise across your skin, something shifts in the air - a presence that makes your heart stutter in its rhythm.

The voice that breaks through the waves' whispers is achingly familiar, threading through reality with impossible certainty, "Thank goodness... I knew I would find you here."

Time seems to crystallize around you as recognition floods your senses, your body frozen in place as the implications cascade through your mind. That voice one that should exist only in dreams now rings with undeniable reality, shattering every careful boundary between what should be possible and what is.

The truth unfolds with devastating clarity: the dreams you thought you'd left behind have somehow found their way into the waking world.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

You turn around, slowly at first, as though something deep in your bones is already warning you that nothing will ever be the same again after this moment. The movement is small, hesitant, almost unconscious, but as your eyes land on him, your breath catches hard in your throat and the ground beneath you forgets how to hold you upright.

He is standing there, not five feet away, framed by the silver horizon and the wind that whips the edge of his coat just enough to make him look unreal. His face is exactly as it had been in every dream: the soft arch of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the dark, familiar eyes that had once pressed into yours. It is not reminiscent. It is him.

Your figment of imagination has stepped into daylight.

Frozen in place as adrenaline and panic flood your bloodstream, you pivot back toward the sea in one fluid motion that betrays your desperate need to escape this impossible moment; the wind whips against your face, stinging your eyes until you can't tell whether it's the harsh breeze or rising tears that blur your vision as you fixate on the endless waters ahead, desperately trying to deny the reality of what you've just witnessed. The soft sound of footsteps approaching from behind only intensifies your desire to remain lost in this suspended moment of disbelief.

“Y/N,” the voice says, closer this time, lower, gentler, as if you might break if it strikes you too hard. “It’s me, Jungkook.”

The sound of your name on his lips sends shockwaves through your chest, leaving you breathless and disoriented as your mind struggles to reconcile the impossible reality before you. Your body trembles with an involuntary shiver that has nothing to do with the coastal breeze, every nerve ending alive with the jarring disconnect between what your senses are telling you and what you know should be possible. When he introduces himself, matching the exact cadence and words from your dream, your world tilts on its axis, leaving you grasping for any semblance of rationality.

Unable to bear another moment of his presence behind you, you spin around with desperate intensity, instinctively retreating as your wide eyes search his form for any imperfection, any tiny detail that might prove this is just a stranger with an uncanny resemblance. But as your gaze traces every feature, every gesture, every minute detail of his being, you find yourself drowning in the terrifying truth: he is perfectly, impossibly identical to the man who has haunted your dreams.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you ask, your voice emerging as a tremulous whisper that betrays your rising panic as you instinctively retreat from his presence. 

He remains motionless, his stance gentle and open, his expression radiating an almost unbearable hope as he watches you. When he speaks, his voice carries the softness of a long-held secret finally finding its way into the light. "There's no need to pretend," he murmurs, "it's me."

You retreat, shaking your head with sharp denial, your voice barely a whisper as you force out the words, "I don't know what you're talking about." The space between you feels charged with impossible recognition as he draws closer, his movement careful and measured, yet somehow shifting the very air around you. Those eyes that you had explored countless times in dreams now gaze at you with such earnest pleading that your heart threatens to shatter.

His next words unravel what remains of your composure, "I knew you'd come here." A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he continues, "You told me you always wanted to see the sea."

The weight of this impossible reality crashes over you like a wave, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your hand flies to your forehead as your mind struggles to contain the avalanche of questions that make less sense with each passing moment.

Before you can process what's happening, before you can rebuild the walls between dreams and reality, he closes the distance between you. His arms envelope you in an embrace that feels simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar, and in that moment, everything you thought you knew about the world crumbles away.

Tears begin silently as you tremble against his chest, your hands hanging limp while his voice washes over you, low and achingly kind as he murmurs into your hair. His words flow with gentle insistence, repeating that nothing is wrong with you, trying to anchor your spiraling thoughts with promises of understanding. "I know it's strange, hard to comprehend," he whispers, "but this…we…were real. Even in dreams, what we shared was truth. I felt it, and so did you."

Your body burns with a cocktail of panic, disbelief, and that terrifying spark of recognition, while your mind screams in rebellion against this impossible reality. The pressure builds until you can't contain it anymore, and you push him away with desperate force. He stumbles backward, catching himself with grace even as hurt floods his features, though notably absent is any trace of blame in those familiar eyes.

"I don't know what this is," you manage through clenched teeth, each word fighting its way past the tightness in your throat, "but stay the fuck away from me."

Though he remains rooted in place, neither advancing nor retreating, his next words cut straight to your core, "But you said you wanted to be with me, in the real world."

A harsh laugh escapes you, born not of humor but of pure psychological self-defense, while your mind reels at the implications. "I didn't know you actually existed," you snap, wild-eyed with the dawning horror of comprehension. "That's the whole thing. I would've never said such things if I thought... How can any of this be possible?"

Without waiting for an explanation you know you're not ready to hear, you flee. You run because your world was never meant to blur these lines, because love felt safe only in the realm of dreams, and most importantly, because staying means believing, and belief might just be the thing that finally breaks you.

The truth hangs heavy in the air: if you accept this reality, you might never find your way back.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

Trapped within the confines of your hotel room, you find yourself paralyzed by the weight of a reality that has shifted beneath your feet. The world outside has transformed into an alien landscape, while inside, a thick silence wraps around you like a shroud, amplifying every thought until it echoes through the darkness of your dimmed sanctuary. With curtains drawn and television silent, time melts into an abstract concept, flowing past you in unmeasured waves.

Wrapped in twisted blankets, you drift between consciousness and despair, your tears no longer surprising enough to startle you when they fall. Your mind circles endlessly around the impossibility of your situation, each thought a fresh wound that refuses to heal. His image haunts you with merciless clarity - the gentle tilt of his head, the familiar curve of his shoulders, the way your name seemed to carry the weight of countless memories when it fell from his lips.

The bitter irony of your journey to Seoul cuts deep; you had come seeking liberation from fantasy, desperate to build a life anchored in concrete reality rather than dreams. Instead, you find yourself unraveling as an impossible mystery weaves itself into the fabric of your existence. In the depths of your confusion, questions multiply like shadows at dusk: How had he materialized from the realm of dreams into flesh and blood? Had he always existed somewhere in the periphery of your consciousness, or was this some cosmic joke played at the expense of your sanity? The answers remain stubbornly out of reach, leaving you adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

The worst of it is not the confusion. It is the creeping terror that this might mean your mind has betrayed you more deeply than you thought possible.

You wonder if the medication failed, if your resolve cracked, if everything you’ve done to rebuild yourself has collapsed in a single impossible encounter. But even as that fear gnaws at you, another thought keeps rising beneath it like a slow tide: what if it didn’t fail? What if you aren’t sick? What if this isn’t madness? What if it’s something else entirely?

You find yourself leaving the hotel at last, wrapped in inconspicuous clothing that helps you blend into the anonymous flow of the city, your expression carefully schooled into neutrality as you navigate the bustling streets. Though you tell yourself this journey is about finding evidence and stability rather than chasing spectral memories, you methodically schedule appointments at various hospitals across Seoul, driven by an almost desperate need for multiple confirmations of what you already suspect you'll discover.

In sterile examination rooms bathed in harsh fluorescent light, you meticulously answer each intake question, describing your experiences with carefully measured words that strip away emotion, transforming intimate dreams into clinical data points while doctors probe with increasingly specific questions about your sleep patterns, potential auditory hallucinations, and the nature of your dreams. With determination born of desperation, you submit yourself to every available test: blood draws, hormone panels, neurological scans, becoming less a person and more a collection of data points with each new assessment, all while clinging to the hope that somewhere in this maze of medical expertise, you'll find an explanation that makes sense of your fractured reality.

Yet when the results finally arrive, they offer neither comfort nor clarity - only the echoing silence of normalcy. Every indicator tells the same story: your brain chemistry is perfectly balanced, your cognitive functions sharp and clear, your emotional responses well within expected parameters. The medical evidence paints a portrait of someone completely, utterly, terrifyingly sane.

With the sealed envelope weighing heavily in your coat pocket, you leave the final hospital, your chest constricted by the gravity of an unspeakable revelation. Later that night, you find yourself perched on the edge of your hotel bed, still wearing your rain-dampened coat, watching the city lights shimmer and blur across Seoul's endless skyline through unseeing eyes.

A whisper escapes into the emptiness of your room, born not from hope or fear, but from deep exhaustion: What am I supposed to do with this? The truth that emerges in the wake of your confirmed sanity stands stark and undeniable: every moment, every shared breath, every impossible connection you experienced in those dreams belonged not just to your consciousness, but to his as well. Against all logic and reason, he exists beyond the boundaries of your imagination, transforming what you once dismissed as fantasy into an irrefutable reality you must now learn to accept.

You begin by walking the city the way a child learns a new word, repeating the same paths in the hope that something will suddenly feel familiar. You move through neighborhoods that pulse with people, through alleyways softened by hanging lanterns and sidewalk cafés, through subway stations full of faces that blur and never return your gaze. You tell yourself you are not searching for him, not exactly, but that lie collapses each time your heart skips at the sight of someone tall, or someone with dark hair, or someone who walks like he might be dreaming too. 

You don’t know where to begin, not really. His name, as common as it is, feels like a cruel joke in a city this vast. Name Jungkook could belong to a thousand men. It’s a thread so thin it barely exists, and yet it’s the only one you have. You whisper it into search bars, skim through images on social media and alumni forums, but nothing ever feels right. There’s always something off in their eyes, some small piece missing until you’re left with nothing but the ache of absence and the echo of his voice, still curling like fog around your ribs.

You return to the hotel exhausted and hollow, your body aching in places you didn’t know could hold fatigue. You sit on the edge of the bed with your coat still on, the search having stolen the color from the afternoon, and you realize, slowly, that logic will not lead you to him. You do not know how he crossed into this world, how the rules were bent or rewritten or broken entirely, but you understand now that you cannot find him by following maps made for people who never dreamed as deeply as you have.

In a moment of calculated courage, you make a decision that weighs heavily yet feels inexplicably right - to stop taking the medication. This choice emerges from a place of quiet understanding, reinforced by weeks of contemplative silence and the growing certainty that your mind, though once fragile, has become an ally rather than an adversary. Deep within, you nurture a desperate hope that somewhere between consciousness and dreams, you might find that ethereal thread connecting you to him, waiting to be gently tugged back into existence through the veil of sleep.

The nights pass like falling dominoes; first one, then another, each dreamless and heavy with anticipation. By the third evening, your thoughts circle restlessly even as your body remains still, and when sleep finally claims you, the dream unfolds like a flower opening in darkness. You find yourself suspended in a void, devoid of sound or substance or gravity, an infinite expanse that defies classification as room or memory or landscape. This neutral space wraps around you like a cocoon of possibility, time stretching thin and meaningless while you wait, wondering if the connection you seek still exists in this liminal realm.

As you float in this strange between-space, you remind yourself that this defies all conventional wisdom: there are no guidebooks for navigating the intersection of dreams and reality, no maps to follow except the persistent ache in your chest and the lingering warmth of remembered embraces. Then, as if summoned by your thoughts, he materializes before you without fanfare or warning, his presence both impossible and inevitable.

He stands just far enough away to make your heart ache again, not because of the distance, but because of how gently he looks at you, like you might vanish if he moves too quickly. His expression is unreadable at first, but beneath the caution, you see the sorrow. And the hope.

His name slips from your lips with the weight of recognition rather than uncertainty, and when he responds with a single nod, time seems to crystallize around you both. Moving toward him with deliberate grace, you maintain a delicate distance, preserving the ethereal space between your bodies while studying his features intently. Though you search for any sign of deception, any hint that might reveal this as just another dream, his eyes remain achingly familiar, regarding you with the same wonder as if you were the apparition.

"I want to see you," you say with quiet determination, watching as his expression melts into a complex blend of fear and understanding. "In the waking world, I mean. No more running just us, together, discovering if what we have can exist beyond the realm of dreams."

You describe a seaside café you'd noticed during your wanderings, a peaceful spot where reality might feel more solid, and his immediate acceptance sends your heart racing.

The dream clings to your consciousness as you wake, its residue following you through your morning routine. With trembling hands born not of fear but of an inexplicable certainty, you dress quickly and make your way to the café without bothering with breakfast or fussing over your appearance. The early morning light bathes the nearly empty space in gentle shadows as you claim a window seat, your eyes fixed on the entrance while doubt begins its familiar whisper.

Perhaps the dream was merely a comforting fiction, you think, reality's usual way of maintaining its boundaries with just enough disappointment to keep you grounded.

But then the entrance bell chimes, and there he stands, his eyes scanning the room with an intensity. His gaze finally meets yours all soft, surprised, terrified, and undeniably real.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

The café wraps you in a gentle morning hush, where the soft clatter of cups and murmured conversations create an illusion of normalcy as you sit across from each other at a small round table. Your untouched coffee cools between you while your hands rest on the wooden surface, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between them yet maintaining that careful distance that speaks of your uncertainty. You cradle your mug between your palms, though drinking feels impossible with your heartbeat thundering in your ears and his gaze burning across the table with an intensity that surpasses anything you experienced in your shared dreams.

The reality of this moment strikes you with crystal clarity - here in this sunlit café, there are no ethereal dreamscapes to soften the edges of your encounter, no imagined backdrops to hide behind. Everything carries the weight of absolute certainty, including the man before you, and as you draw a steadying breath, you feel the full impact of this truth settling into your bones.

“I want to understand,” you begin, watching the way his lashes flicker as he listens, alert but unguarded. “I want to hear the truth. About you and what you are. No more metaphors. Just… what does this mean? This ‘dream eater’ thing.”

With fingers intertwined on the table before him, he pauses, his entire demeanor radiating a delicate tension that speaks of carefully chosen words waiting to be voiced. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice emerges like a distant tide, carrying the weight of a truth that has dwelled in shadows for far too long.

“I was six,” he says, eyes focused on a point just beyond you. “It was summer. My parents took me to the ocean. I remember running too far into the surf. The waves weren’t even high, but I slipped. And then I couldn’t find up again. Couldn’t breathe. Everything felt cold and blue and endless. They pulled me out in time. I didn’t die.”

You wait, not interrupting, not even allowing yourself breathing too loudly.

“But something changed,” he continues. “That night, I dreamed for the first time in a way that didn’t feel like sleep. I left my body. I was standing in a hallway outside our house. I could see the lights on in the kitchen. I heard my mom crying. And I just… stood there. Watching. I couldn’t wake myself up.” He shifts in his seat, as if the memory still sits uncomfortably inside him. “After that, it happened every night. I would sleep, and my body would rest, but some part of me would drift. Not always far. Sometimes just outside my room. Sometimes across the city. But I couldn’t stop it. I started seeing people’s dreams. At first, I thought it was just my imagination leaking out. But then… it became clear. I wasn’t just seeing them. I was feeding off of them. Nightmares, especially. They kept me tethered. Satisfied, in some terrible way. If I didn’t find one… I'd wake up physically drained, my body trembling with exhaustion that left me barely able to stand."

You watch him with a quiet kind of awe. The sadness in his voice is undeniable, but so is the control he’s learned to maintain, his effort not to scare you and to not lose you with a truth that sounds more like folklore than fact.

“It’s been like that ever since,” he says. “A life spent half in shadow, never fully present, always watching other people’s pain while never being able to speak my own out loud. I can’t tell you how many times I thought about… ending it. But something kept me going. Maybe it was hope or maybe I just wanted to be seen.”

He lifts his eyes then, and when they meet yours, the weight of that longing settles into your chest. “Then I found you,” he says, softer now. “Not even intentionally. I was drifting like I always do. And I saw you and your nightmare. I didn’t know it would be different. But then you looked at me, for some reason you saw me.”

You don’t know when the ache in your throat began, only that it tightens with every word he says. You see him clearer now, as someone who has spent most of his life enduring an existence no one else could possibly comprehend. And he did it alone.

You lower your hands into your lap, fingers tightening slightly, because you don’t know how else to hold this much tenderness. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “That sounds unbearable.”

His smile is faint and tired, but real. “It was,” he admits. “Until I met you.”

He asks you then, carefully, where you’re staying. Whether you’ve found something permanent yet.

You shake your head, brushing your hair behind your ear as you speak. “I’m still at a hotel,” you say. “Still looking. I’ve seen a few places, but none of them felt right.”

He nods, considering you for a long moment before he leans forward slightly in invitation. “I have space,” he says. “An extra room. It’s quiet and close to the sea. Just until you find something better.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Be my roommate,” he says, without even a trace of amusement. “Nothing weird. No expectations, just somewhere safe to be, where you don’t have to tiptoe around hotel fees and furniture that isn’t yours.”

Your instinct is to refuse immediately, and you do. “No. That’s…no. I barely even know how to explain what you are, let alone live with you.”

“I get it,” he says quickly, not offended. “But think about it. I’m not asking you to move in forever. I’m offering a temporary solution to a problem you’re already trying to solve. You’ll have your own space and your own key. And the second you find something better, you can leave.”

Silence hangs in the air between you, a delicate thread of uncertainty that he follows with his perceptive gaze. “You said you wanted to try and understand,” he adds gently. “Maybe this is how we do that.”

You look at him, and you see not just the boy from your dreams or the man from the sea, but someone who is trying to build something real in a world that has only ever offered him shadows.

And slowly, you nod, because something inside you whispers that maybe whatever this is, it deserves to be followed just a little further.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

The apartment is bigger than you imagined, but it suits him. It’s quiet, clean, tucked into a narrow street where the sea breeze carries its salt-tinged whisper. There's no extravagance, no clutter, nothing performative about the way he lives. It feels like a space occupied by someone used to existing with only half of himself in the world, someone who never quite planned on being seen. The walls are a soft gray, and the furniture looks worn in that comforting way, chosen not for aesthetics but for its ability to hold the weight of someone returning home from the edges of things.

He shows you to the spare room without ceremony. The bed is made, the sheets freshly laundered, and beside the window sits a small desk with a struggling potted plant. You run your fingers along the desk's surface, not because it's remarkable, but because it's real. Tangible. Yours, for now.

That first night unfolds in a gentle silence as you share takeout at the small kitchen table, its surface wobbling slightly beneath two bentwood chairs worn smooth by time. The soft yellow light hums overhead, accompanying the quiet symphony of rustling paper containers and clinking chopsticks, while you both navigate this new territory of shared space that is so different from the ethereal dreamscapes where you first met, where reality's sharp edges were softened by sleep's gentle blur.

When he asks if you like spicy food, the question feels weighted. Your response comes in the form of another question, wondering aloud how he manages to sleep knowing what awaits him in dreams. His only answer is a smile, tinged with both sadness and honesty, and you let the moment pass without pushing further, understanding that some truths need time to fully emerge.

You learn quickly that Jungkook moves through the kitchen with a quiet grace, maintaining order not through obsessive routine but through mindful habits like washing dishes immediately after use, folding towels with understated care, and brewing his morning tea in an unchanging ritual of two bags steeped without sugar or milk. On the second morning, you find yourself lingering in the hallway, watching as he reaches into a cupboard, his sleep-tousled hair and the brief glimpse of skin where his shirt rides up stirring something indefinable beneath your ribs.

As the days unfold, your shared life settles into a rhythm that feels deceptively normal, belying the extraordinary circumstances that brought you together. During an afternoon grocery run, a cashier's casual assumption about your newlywed status draws an embarrassed laugh from him, though his lingering glance in your direction carries weight you both leave unaddressed. Your evenings become a study in comfortable proximity - sharing the couch while half-watching television, the occasional brush of legs beneath shared blankets evolving from moments of startled awareness to natural points of connection. Gradually, conversation flows more freely between you, each word building bridges across the space you once thought uncrossable.

He tells you about his childhood in pieces, like old letters he’s only now learning how to reread. You tell him about your years in school, about how hard it was to stay awake during night shifts and how sometimes you still hear the monitor beeping when you close your eyes. He listens without interruption. He asks questions that aren’t invasive but precise, the way only someone who truly wants to know you would ask.

Some nights, you both forget to turn on the lights, and you stay in the dim kitchen instead, your conversations carried by the glow of the stovetop and the outline of moonlight pressed across the tile floor. Those nights are the hardest to step away from, the hardest to leave behind when you finally retreat to your room, heart still heavy with things unspoken and things that don’t need to be said at all.

Underneath the soft domesticity you've cultivated together like tender shoots in spring soil, there's this thing growing between you: electric, inevitable, and absolutely terrifying. It's in the way his eyes catch on your lips when you speak, in the deliberately casual way he reaches around you for things he could easily grab another way, letting his presence wrap around you like the world's gentlest ghost.

And you're no better. Your laugh has grown soft and honeyed around him, melting into something that feels dangerous in its intimacy. Sometimes you turn to share something mundane like a thought, a joke, the weather, and find him already watching you with this smile that feels like a secret you're both keeping from yourselves.

Neither of you talks about it, but it's there in every shared breath, every accidental brush of fingers, every loaded silence that stretches between you two. It's a dance of maybes and almosts and what-ifs, and you're both getting dizzyingly good at it.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

The evening passes slowly, the kind of slowness that doesn't feel tedious but suspended, as if neither of you are quite ready to let it end. You're both in the kitchen again, though there's nothing left to cook or clean, only the soft remains of conversation trailing from subject to subject: some important, most not. The tea has gone lukewarm on the counter, the dishes were washed long ago. And yet you linger, moving in rhythm around each other with the ease of people who have started, almost imperceptibly, to belong to the same quiet orbit.

He leans against the edge of the counter as you finish wiping the last corner of the sink, and though you could step away, you don’t. Drawn by an inexplicable magnetism, you find yourself lingering in his space, your bodies close enough that the warmth between you feels tangible. When your fingers brush against his while reaching for the dish towel, the contact lingers with deliberate hesitation, and as your eyes meet his, the moment stretches.

The silence that follows is heavy with potential, with everything that could happen if just one of you chose to move, to speak, to say something braver than what either of you are currently allowing.

With unspoken yearning hanging between you like a delicate thread, you both drift toward your separate rooms, exchanging one last lingering glance over your shoulders as you disappear down the hallway like a wordless invitation that whispers of possibilities left unexplored, of the magnetic pull that would draw you back if either of you dared to turn around.

Your room feels cooler than it did earlier, the air thinner, as though it knows the night is not meant for rest. You lie back on the bed, pulling the blanket over your legs, staring up at the ceiling without really seeing it. 

You haven’t taken your medication in weeks now, and every night you go to sleep wondering what that means. You had stopped out of a desire to reclaim something, to prove that you weren’t losing your mind, that all of it was real.

Tonight, your body surrenders to sleep like an old friend, muscles unwinding with the quiet acceptance that even the darkness has grown familiar. But the dream is wrong from the start.

You find yourself in a narrow hallway that stretches far beyond your line of sight. The walls press in close on either side, pulsing with a dim, flickering light that never settles, as though the dream itself is undecided. The floor beneath you is cold, and your steps echo too loudly, like you're being followed even when you aren't moving. The corridor stretched endlessly before you in an unbroken expanse of gray walls that offered no escape, while something unseen lurked in the shadows behind, its steady breathing a constant reminder of your vulnerability.

Like a serpentine whisper materializing from the darkness, a voice slithers through the corridor, its guttural tones wrapping around your spine with the visceral presence of smoke given form and malevolent purpose.

“So this is who you’ve become,” it hisses. “Running. Always running. From responsibility. From pain. From the life you made and then tried to abandon.”

You stop walking, but you don’t turn around. Your breath has already begun to tremble, and the weight of the voice makes it feel as though your lungs are shrinking.

“Do you think starting over makes you new?” the voice continues, closer now, each word scraping against your skin like claws. “That moving to another city makes you less of a coward? You left behind a mess and built yourself a fantasy, and now what? You want him to clean it up for you?”

The accusation cuts through you with unexpected force as you whirl around, searching the darkness for any sign of the source, but find only emptiness punctuated by that voice - sharp as winter frost and twice as merciless.

When it challenges you with "You expect him to save you again, don't you?" the air around you transforms, becoming thick with menace.

Your instincts take over as you sprint through the twisted landscape, where Seoul's familiar streets have morphed into something more sinister. Towering buildings stretch impossibly high into a starless sky while signs pulse between languages in a dizzying dance. Despite the dry air, the ground beneath your feet gleams with phantom moisture, and reality bends and warps around you as you desperately search for escape from this nightmare realm.

Jungkook’s name falls from your lips, first as a whisper then rising to an urgent plea, each call echoing through the empty streets like a prayer cast into the void. But unlike before, no answering presence materializes - no steady hand reaches out to anchor you in this storm of unreality. Your muscles burn with exhaustion as you navigate an endless maze of vacant corners and abandoned alleyways, haunted by memories of how he used to appear just when needed, solid and real enough to banish even the darkest dreams.

The voice pursues you relentlessly, its words dripping with contempt: "Pathetic. Weak. Always waiting for someone else to do the hard part." Before you can react, glacial fingers seize your arm with inhuman strength, dragging you backward into suffocating darkness. Your struggles prove futile as the shadows constrict, and just as they threaten to consume you entirely, consciousness returns with violent force.

Gasping for air, you find yourself tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, heart hammering against your ribs as reality slowly reasserts itself in the familiar shadows of your room. Minutes crawl by as your breathing steadies and the adrenaline ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache of disappointment and self-reproach.

In the stillness that follows, you strain to hear any sign of movement - a footstep, a door opening, some indication that he sensed your distress. But the hallway remains silent, your bed achingly empty, and a heavy truth settles over you like fallen snow: Why were you waiting for him to save you in a dream, you think bitterly, when he's literally sleeping just down the hall?

This realization lingers until dawn breaks as an unavoidable question that demands to be answered.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

You don’t bother putting on a robe or grabbing a sweater. Your sleep shorts cling lightly to your skin, and your top, thin and worn from so many washes, offers little protection from the late-night air, but you don’t feel the cold. Your bare feet pad quietly across the apartment floor, the silence pressing in around you, thick with thoughts you can no longer keep to yourself.

Outside his door, anticipation coils through your body as you pause with your hand suspended mid-air, heart thundering against your ribs before you finally gather the courage to knock twice, softly. The door creaks open with deliberate slowness, revealing him in the dim hallway light: hair disheveled from sleep, a glimpse of ink beneath his thin shirt, his presence both familiar and electrifying.

His eyes widen at the sight of you: barefoot, sleep-mussed, and achingly vulnerable in the darkness of the hallway. His hand lifts instinctively toward you before falling short, voice rough with sleep and something deeper as he murmurs, "Hey... what's wrong? Are you alright?"

You meet his worried gaze with quiet resolve, your whispered response barely disturbing the night air, "I'm fine now, just... can I stay with you? I had a nightmare."

Something shifts in his eyes as he processes your request, understanding rippling beneath the surface before he wordlessly steps aside to let you enter. The warmth of his bed welcomes you as you perch on its edge, his clean soap scent mingled with something reminiscent of twilight, enveloping your senses while he closes the door with careful precision, his gaze heavy when he turns back to you.

You settle onto the far side of the mattress, maintaining a careful distance that feels both necessary and impossible to bear, and he mirrors your position beside you, both of you lying still as statues while sharing the same ceiling and the same charged silence. Your fingers drift across the sheets toward his, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, and when you turn to look at him, you find his eyes already fixed on yours, the air between you suddenly thick with possibility.

The words fall from your lips without hesitation or pretense, "You don't have to hold back."

His breath hitches almost imperceptibly. You see the way his throat works as he swallows, his restraint a physical thing. You reach for him, gently pulling him closer by the hem of his shirt. He lets you, moving toward you without hesitation now, his hand finding your hip beneath the blanket as you meet each other in the middle.

The kiss comes slowly, but deeply. His mouth is soft against yours at first like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again, but you part your lips slightly and that’s all it takes for something in him to change. The kiss deepens, his hand spreads across your waist, then up your spine, pulling you closer. You respond, pressing into him, your hands sliding beneath the fabric of his shirt, finding the warmth of his back, the tension there and the way his muscles respond to your touch.

He whispers your name once between kisses, and you answer with a kiss that lingers a moment longer, your fingertips tracing his ribs as you move closer still. Your legs intertwine beneath the covers, and the warmth of his body fits against yours like something you’ve known before. He shifts, gently nudging your thigh with his knee, and you let him move between your legs, your breath catching at the sensation of his weight, his presence, his full attention.

The sheets tangle around your limbs, and the moment stretches, suspended in heat and trust. He fits against you like something inevitable. Every movement is slow, measured, designed to make you feel all of him: every line, every inch, every pulse of wanting. You gasp when he enters you, your fingers gripping the sheets, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

He’s gentle at first, achingly slow, each thrust a quiet confession. His hand cups the back of your head, holding you steady, while the other drags along the curve of your thigh, your waist, your ribs. His body presses into yours with reverence and hunger.

You whisper his name like a secret. He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged, lips dragging across your skin. You feel him tremble every time you clench around him, every time your hands rake down his back. The tension between you builds, all sharp and aching, until it’s too much to bear.

You push at his chest gently, rolling him beneath you. He watches you with parted lips and wide eyes as you straddle his hips, taking your time to sink back onto him, gasping as the fullness settles deep inside you again.

He looks wrecked beneath you: hair spread across the pillow, hands gripping your thighs like he might lose his mind if you move too slowly. His eyes trail over your body, lingering everywhere his hands already ache to touch.

You lean forward, your breasts brushing against his chest, your stomach flush to his as you begin to roll your hips, slow and deliberate. His hands slide up your waist, slipping beneath your shirt, which you peel off without hesitation. His palms find your breasts, molding gently, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples, coaxing sounds from you that make his jaw clench and his eyes flutter shut.

He groans your name like it’s salvation. You don’t let up. You move faster, panting against his mouth, skin slick against skin. He meets your rhythm, thrusting up into you in short, desperate rolls, your bodies chasing each other toward the edge. You whisper to him breathless, shameless, telling him how good it feels, how real, how impossible it is that anything in the dream could never compare to this.

He answers with his hands and mouth, and his voice, telling you through every touch that he agrees, that this, with you here, is the only thing that has ever truly made him feel alive.

When you both fall apart, it’s with surrender, your body shaking against his, his arms wrapped tightly around you, both of you pressed together like you’re afraid the world might end if you let go too soon.

You stay like that, skin to skin, breath tangled in breath, the covers twisted around your legs, your hands still in his hair.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆࣪ ִֶָ☾.⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾。⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘

The room is dim and quiet, softened by the hush of early morning that hasn’t yet breached the windows. Your body is still bare, still warm, still pressed against his beneath the tangled blankets. You feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, the rhythmic beat of his heart, slow now, steady, like waves after a storm.

In the peaceful aftermath, words feel unnecessary as you share the intimate silence, each breath and subtle movement speaking volumes between you. The stillness wraps around you both like a blanket, heavy with unspoken meaning and shared memories of the night's passion. As your hand rests over his steadily beating heart and his fingers weave gently through your hair with tender devotion, you both exist in perfect understanding, anchored in this moment of profound connection.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice emerges raw and wonder-filled, carrying words that change everything: "I haven't left my body since the night you moved in."

As you lift your head from his chest, your eyes search his face for understanding, trying to process the weight of his words. His expression, though unguarded, holds such depth that it becomes almost impossible to read. When he elaborates in that soft, intimate tone, his confession unfolds: no more drifting between worlds, no spectral self haunting rooftops, no consuming nightmares.

Your heart trembles in your chest as comprehension dawns, and you find yourself whispering the question that could change everything, "Are you saying... it stopped?"

He nods, his hand cupping your cheek now, thumb brushing along your jaw like he needs the contact to keep from unraveling. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. But it’s been weeks. Every night, I fall asleep… and I stay here. In my body. With you.”

His words settle over you with the weight of dawn breaking, and as you inhale slowly, this impossible truth ripples through your consciousness. The curse that had once tethered him to fear and isolation, to a life lived half in shadow, has dissolved.

Pressing your forehead to his, your eyes drift closed as your lips barely brush together, whispering, "So you're free?"

His exhale comes shakily, breaking open like a dam finally giving way as he breathes, "I think I am. You fixed me."

The moment hangs suspended between you, the warmth of his skin against yours, the unwavering certainty in his voice, your bodies intertwined like two threads that have finally found their perfect weave.

"I didn't fix you," you murmur against his skin, "you just found a place you didn't need to run from anymore."

His response comes with a smile that feels like coming home, his arms drawing you closer as he whispers, thick with emotion, "No, I found you."

The silence that follows wraps around you both, needing no words to fill it as you're already living inside the answer, where reality has become more beautiful than any dream you could have imagined, and neither of you has any desire to wake from this perfect truth you've created together.

[dead3ve]

Hii, I have a Charlie Dalton x fem!reader request/suggestion. Maybe something like Charlie tries to impress the reader with his rebellious acts, but what really wins her over are his genuine moments of vulnerability or support of his friends 🌸

Charlie Dalton x fem!reader

Summary: The request! And also, the scene where God calls him.

Warnings: The scene after where God calls him, and Charlie gets the paddle :(, no use of y/n, reader referred to as a girl, wears the uniformed skirt.

The reason for the limited number of female students was because the education board wanted a smoother transition process when making Welton Academy a co-ed school.

Did the new girls excite the boys? Yes. Was it any different? Not really.

Within the first few weeks of the school term, Charlie managed to make the prettiest of the girls laugh. Since then, he had become addicted to the sound.

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Mr. Keating had taken the students out of class to recite poetry and play soccer. An interesting mix of activities. Each student would recite a line or two of poetry and then kick the ball. When Charlie reached the front of the line, he took a confident stance, puffed his chest and he yelled his passage of "To indeed be a God!" He then kicked the ball.

He could hear laughter from several people, mainly from his friends. The laugh that was the most noticeable to Charlie was a ringing, girlish giggle. It bubbled from their chest and made Charlies neck warm under its collar. They had been stood behind him the whole time and he didn't notice how pretty they were. He had been craving the sound of their laugh since that lesson.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

The article in the school newsletter had been a popular topic among the student body. Charlie's plan was going exactly the way he wanted it to. All of the students were seated in the assembly hall, and Charlie had the phone prepared and his dialogue ready. The girl Charlie needed to impress was sat behind him around the other new girls.

Mr. Nolan was speaking in his calmy-furious way. Then suddenly, a phone was ringing. The silence turned into confused murmurs and chuckles in the assembly hall.

Charlie turned around in his chair to look at the girl. He sent them a wink and stood, phone in hand. The wink had made their stomach flutter and breath hitch. The girls around them had laughed and hollered at the interaction. But when he stood, the butterflies stopped. The butterflies turned into a nauseous feeling. This wasn't going to end well. That was when they heard Charlie's charismatic voice.

"Welton Academy, Hello?" The girl's knee was bouncing, "Yes, he is. Just a moment." The back of the girl's neck was sweating.

"Mr. Nolan, it's for you." Charlie moved his arms to gesture the phone towards the stern man stood on the stage before the lectern, "It's God. He says we should have more girls at Welton."

The girl's brows drew together as laughter erupted. They turned and looked around at some of the other students. They saw Charlie's friends, Neil and Todd and two redheads. Their postures were shrinking and their faces falling. Hands covering faces in shame.

While the hall was loud in laughter, Charlie sat back down. He turned to look at the girl to see their reaction. His brows also knitted together at their reaction.

There was no smile or laugh.

A frown. An awfully confused, gorgeous frown was what Charlie saw instead.

When Charlie caught their eye, the girl's gaze pulled away and lowered towards their skirted knees. They were considering whether or not the rebellious boy was worth the girl's attraction. They were wondering what he had done to himself and his friends.

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The girl had asked Neil Perry what Charlie had done when they were in the boys' dormitory hallway of Welton. He'd told them about the cave and the poetry.

Then he told them about why he probably pulled this stunt to impress them.

"What?" The girl's brows raised and pulled tightly together. They had grasped Neil's arm, wanting sincerity. "You're joking, right?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," Neil spoke with the needed sincerity, "He's liked you for a while now. I'm sorry I had to tell you." A small, apologetic smile was on Neil's lips.

The girl had turned away from Neil and slammed their back against the wall. They'd winded themself, a breath escaping them as they stood in shock.

The boy they liked was trying to impress them. He was trying to impress them by being a dumbass. Their heart fluttered. They turned to look at Neil with red cheeks.

"Do you mind if I stick around until he comes back?" The girl spoke quietly with a red face.

"You're welcome to," Neil gave a sad smile at their red face, "But he might be upset. Facing Nolan..." Neil didn't want to bring up 'the paddle' around the girl.

"Thank you, Neil." They gave him a sad smile back. Then they excused themself to wash their face under a tap. They were flustered from the conversation.

When they were walking back towards the boy's dorms, Charlie was walking slowly down the opposite end of the hallway, he went to turn into his dorm, but Neil began to talk to him in the doorway. The girl could no longer see Charlie, and because Neil said he might be upset they stopped, not wanting to overstep. Whatever was said ended with Neil smiling. That made the girl's heart flutter.

Once Charlie's door had closed with a solid clunk, the girl's feet moved quickly. They had stopped in front of Neil. They were frantic with their questions.

"Is he okay? What did Nolan say? What did Nolan do?" Their voice was growing in volume as they spoke. They were getting nervous. The girl's head was turning between Neil's face and Charlie's closed door.

Neil had to take the girl by the arms to calm them down. "He's going to be fine, okay?" Neil spoke softly, with confident reassurance. "If he's at study hall tonight, one of us will come and get you. You should rest, okay?" This made the girl release a relieved breath.

"Thank you, Neil," The girl pulled away, stepping towards the exit of the boy's dormitories, "If you get to speak to him, tell him I'm worried."

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When Neil and the girl walked into the common room where the boys usually held study hall, they were shocked to find it so quiet. The boys had fallen silent because Mr. Keating was there.

"Phone call from God. If it had been collect, that would have been daring." Mr. Keating finished the sentence with a smile. The boys laughed at his comment.

When Mr. Keating walked out of the common room, silence turned to the girl. The boys dispersed around the room, all the while, the girl stared at Charlie who was sat on a plush, leather recliner. When the girl took some steps towards him. He was looking towards them with hopeful eyes.

"You know that was really stupid, Charlie." The girl spoke quietly with little conviction.

Charlie pulled his gaze away from their face. He couldn't bear to see the disappointment. Charlie looked at the tip of the girl's shoulder instead as he spoke in an apologetic whisper, saying "I thought it would've made it you laugh."

The girl sat on the arm of the couch, facing Charlie. Charlie's gaze failed to meet theirs until they ducked to see his brown eyes. The girl knew he was sorry. Sorry for almost exposing his friends. Maybe even sorry for himself.

"You make me laugh. Just not when you're hurting your friends in the process." Charlie had placed his elbow on the arm of the couch next to the girl's knees in order to cup his face in his hand . He wanted to look at the girl.

"I'm sorry," Charlie was still speaking quietly. Both to preserve his emotional control and to keep the girl by his side, not wanting to scare them off, "It won't happen again." He finished the sentence with one of his winning smiles.

The girl's heart fluttered, and they smiled back. They had to look down at their lap, or else they would have been too overwhelmed by him. That was when they realized there was a bongo drum on the floor by Charlie's recliner. They picked it up and released a breathy chuckle.

"This is what makes me laugh, Charlie." They spoke while looking down at the instrument. They had missed Charlie's story and what the bongo drum was used for, but the girl knew it would have been funny.

Charlie then told them the story of what happened in Nolan's office. He told them about the paddle. Charlie made the girl frown in pity for him and then laugh with joyful tears in their eyes. For the rest of study hall, the two were sat in their own world on the leather recliner. Sudden, girlish jolts of laughter were heard, pulling students away from their books and pens. The boisterous voice of Charlie Dalton was a constant distraction.

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At breakfast the next day, in between staring at the girl and eating from his plate, Charlie was planning on how to ask the girl out on a date.

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[unhappycylinder]

Sonorous (Charlie Dalton x fem!Overstreet reader)

Word Count: 5.8k

Summary: While dropping your brother off for his 3rd year at Welton, one of his best friends catches your eye.

Warnings: Drinking (you know I had to include Chet’s party), slight violence, kissing

---

“Tradition, Honor, Discipline, Excellence,” the booming voices of hundreds of Welton Academy pupils and alumni rang out through the small chapel. Mr. Nolan stood at the front, aged hands resting on the sides of the lectern, Welton’s crest displayed proudly across the front. This was your third year attending a Welton introduction ceremony, your third year sitting in the uncomfortably ancient pews with your parents while your brother and his peers were welcomed with watchful arms into the halls of America’s finest preparatory school.

Knox had found his seat next to you after leading the ceremony with the banners which represented the four pillars. His suit, which your parents had purchased for him at the beginning of his freshman year at Welton, was now ever so slightly too tight on his young adult frame. The seams squeezed at his shoulders, the leg of the pants threatened to expose the top of his socks as he sat, and the button in the front took just a little more effort to close. Examining your brother it finally hit you that he was growing up, and so were you.

Knox and you had always been close, especially as children before your parents sent him away to Welton, and you to Henley Hall. Now, seeing him all grown up, the body of a man replacing that of the boy you once knew, you realized that your time with him was limited, that your childhood was coming to an end.

Seemingly sensing your anxiety, Knox turned to face you, his eyes meeting yours with a sympathetic gaze.

“You okay, Overstreet?” he whispered, mouth curling up into a smile as he called you by your last name.

“Never been better, Overstreet,” you feigned a smile. Knox merely rolled his eyes, his hair falling in front of his forehead as he turned his attention back to Nolan. You watched him, catching him stop and giggle at something, or rather someone, before he could return his attention to Nolan. Curious, you leaned in front of your brother, tracking his gaze to a boy sitting several rows up from you, turned around with a giddy smile flashing across his face. 

His hair was dark blonde like Knox’s and his cheeks rounded into rosy apples when he smiled, his eyes full of mischief and wonder. As you scanned his face, his eyes dropped from Knox’s to yours, his already rosy cheeks flushing an even deeper crimson. Flashing quickly between you both, you could see it click in his brain that you were Knox’s sister, his eyes widening at the realization. In a move that you would learn was characteristic of the boy, his eyes locked with yours again, giving you a quick wink before turning back around to Nolan.

You blushed…you blushed hard. Knox gave you no reaction, seemingly having shifted his attention back to Nolan before your interaction with the boy concluded. Fixing you hair and settling back into your seat between Knox and your parents, you tried your best to pay attention to the presentation at the altar, your mind refusing to acknowledge anything other than the boy on the other side of the room.

–

“Wonderful service Mr. Nolan,” your father greeted the principal at the door.

“Ah thank you Mr. Overstreet. Knox is one of our brightest, we look forward to another impressive year from him,” he gestured to your brother, who was standing directly behind you.

“Thank you sir,” your father and brother said in unison, eliciting a chuckle from your mother. 

With a nod, the four of you said your goodbyes to Nolan and left the chapel.

“Knox, y/n, we’ll pull the car around so you can grab your things,” your mother said, following your father towards the parking lot just outside of campus.

“Alright we’ll be here,” Knox answered, turning to you.

“Another year at Hell-ton, you must be thrilled,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into your brother’s arm.

“Unimaginably,” he retorted, eyes scanning the fields around the chapel where hundreds of families were hugging their boys’ goodbye.

“Ah,” was all Knox said before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking towards one of the fields.

“Oh?” you asked, beginning to walk behind him, “Okay?”

Your brother turned around to face you as he walked backwards toward a group of men chatting in the field, “my friends. You met Neil last year I’m pretty sure, but I don’t think you’ve met anyone else”

“No I don’t think I have,” you responded, keeping pace with your brother as he turned around and briskly walked toward the group. You were about to speak up before the nasaly voice of one of the men cut through the air

“Knoxious!” You winced at the nickname, chuckling to yourself as you and your brother finally reached the group of boys.

“Dalton,” Knox said, walking through the group to embrace the shorter man who had winked at you earlier. You stood a few steps behind your brother, glancing between the five men. The tallest of them, a rather thin man with hair that stood up in an almost militant fashion, and a shorter ginger man next to him stared at you mouth agape. You broke the tension with a small wave, which the shorter one reciprocated, lifting his hand ever so slightly.

“So this your girlfriend, Knox?” The boy from the chapel asked, sauntering over to you with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Ew Charlie no, that’s my sister,” Knox responded, turning to face his friend who was now mere feet from where you stood.

“Sister, huh? I never would have guessed,” Charlie said, staring you directly in the eyes, “you see she’s good looking and you’re-”

“Alright alright,” Knox said, stepping closer to you two.

“Charlie Dalton,” the boy said, extending a hand to you, making you blush again. This time he absolutely noticed, as a smirk threatened to spread across his face at the sight of it.

You collected yourself, “Y/n Overstreet,” you replied, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Her handshake is stronger than yours, Knox,” Charlie joked, turning around to face your brother, who was rolling his eyes.

“That’s enough Dalton,” Knox said, stepping towards you and gesturing for you to come closer to the rest of the group. Charlie let go of your hand and turned to face the group with you, his shoulder so close to yours that it threatened to brush against you as your brother introduced you to the rest of the group.

“So thats Neil, who you already know,” Neil offered you a gentle smile and wave, which you returned, “and thats Pitts and Meeks,” he said while pointing to the tall man and the ginger, both of whom still stood with their mouths agape…

“Shape up boys, say hello to the lady,” Charlie quipped, snapping the pair back to reality. They both blushed before timidly waving, turning away to gossip amongst themselves, you couldn’t help but laugh.

Knox pointed to the last boy, a shorter blonde kid who was obviously new to the group, as he avoided talking to any of them, let alone you.

“This is my roommate, Todd Anderson,” Neil chimed in, patting the shoulder of the boy next to him, who looked up briefly before turning away again.

“Anyway fellas, this is my sister Y/n, she goes to Henley”

“Oh good school,” Pitts spoke up with a smile

“Yeah…” you replied awkwardly. Meeks smacked Pitts with his shoulder, making the taller boy wince.

“Pittsie here has never seen a woman before,” Charlie joked, “that’s why he doesn’t know how to talk to them. I on the other hand-”

“No Dalton,” Knox proclaimed, “not my sister, she’s off limits”

You giggled at Knox, “16 years and I’ve never once seen you be protective of me, Knox, what’s gotten into you?”

“Y/n there’s some sort of unspoken rule that your friends are never supposed to flirt with your sister, which Dalton doesn’t seem to be aware of,” Knox replied, locking eyes with his friend who stood against your opposite shoulder

“What, what?” Charlie asked breathily, shrugging his shoulders, “who says there’s any flirting going on here?” He asked before swinging an arm over you, pulling you closer to him.

Pitts and Meeks ooh’d at Charlie, spurring him on. You looked to your right, locking eyes with the boy as he pulled you in closer. Smiling up at him, you giggled as he shot you another wink, sending butterflies through your stomach.

“Charlie I swear to God-” Knox began before he was cut off from a voice behind you.

“Overstreets!” Your father’s brash voice rang out from their parked car no more than 100 feet from you, “Come get your things Knox!”

“You got lucky this time, Dalton,” your brother said, pointing a finger at his friend before marching off towards your parent’s car.

“Its a shame you’re off limits,” Charlie said while removing his arm from you and shoving his hand back in his pocket, “I was gonna say I’d sure like to do this again sometime”

“What, taunt my brother in front of all your friends?” You smirked at him, “who says I wouldn’t want to do the same?”

Charlie smiled at you, nibbling his bottom lip between his teeth. He simply nodded at you as you jogged away after your brother. Cheers from the other boys could be heard from behind you as you ran. Turning around, you caught sight of the four other boys shaking Charlie’s shoulders and teasing him while he just smirked at you, eyes never leaving you as you followed your brother.

–

“So you’re telling me the plan is to sneak into your brother’s party…which is in your own house?” You asked Ginny, turning around from the vanity where you had been applying your makeup.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” Ginny shrugged

“Oh god, Ginny, this is gonna be a night for the books,” you chuckled as you turned back to your friend’s mirror.

“So what about this Charlie boy?” Ginny squeaked, a taunting tone in her voice letting you know she knew of your crush on your brother’s friend

“How do you know anything about Charlie?” you stared at the mirror, it was your best attempt at maintaining a poker face while your best friend interrogated you

“Y/n, last year you hardly ever called Knox when he was at school. And now you guys are on the phone like everyday, and you always ask him how Charlie is. You don’t expect me, your best friend, to wonder who the guy you’re always asking about is?”

“I’m not always asking about him, Ginny, I just thought maybe I should take a greater interest in my brother’s social life…that’s all”

“Oh what a load of bull!”

“Ginny!” You squealed, still looking at the mirror.

“You know I’m right! Cause if I wasn’t, you wouldn’t still be facing away from me trying to hide your blush!” She exclaimed. Embarrassed, you turned around, hands covering your face.

“I don’t know what blush you’re talking about,” the muffled words sounded from behind your hands. Erupting in a fit of laughter, you moved from the vanity seat to the floor where Ginny was sitting, giggling with your best friend as you daydreamed about the boy you had met only once before.

– 

Hey Little Girl was blaring on the speakers in Ginny’s living room; the party was now in full swing and you and Ginny were both fairly certain that nobody would notice if you slipped downstairs to enjoy the antics. As you exited her room and made your way down the stairs into the kitchen, the last thing you expected to see was your very own brother, Knox Overstreet, slumped against the counter taking shots with Chet Danburry’s teammates.

“Shit!” You whispered, flipping around the kitchen wall and turning to Ginny.

“What? What? What is it?”

“Knox is here, did you know he was gonna be here?” 

“Knox?” Ginny asked, leaning in front of you to peek her head around the corner.

“For God’s sake Ginny don’t look!”

Ginny slammed her back against the wall next to you, “damn it really is him!” 

“Why on earth would Chet invite my brother to a party? How does he even know him?”

A lightbulb must have gone off in Ginny’s head, because she turned to you with bright eyes and exclaimed, “he came over for dinner a couple weeks ago! I heard him talking to Chris, uhhh and they seemed to hit it off…so maybe she invited him?”

“Chris? Like Chet’s girlfriend Chris?” You exclaimed. Ginny only nodded, a smirk flashing across her face, “oh Knox!”

Keeping a watchful eye on your brother the entire night, you and Ginny worked your way around the party, flirting with the boys who clung to the walls and chatting with the girls you had known in elementary and middle school. Whenever Chet and Knox were both clear of the kitchen, you would sneak in and snatch drinks for you and Ginny, giggling as if you were the only ones breaking rules that night.

After what felt like hours of mingling, flirting, drinking, and playing the game of avoiding your older brothers, the roar of the party had finally died down and you and your best friend found yourselves propped up on the kitchen counter watching the stragglers mingle in the living room. The football team had congregated around the bar, still taking shots and cheering for Chet whenever he did something mildly average, and the rest of the partygoers were scattered around the coffee table and the many chairs and couches which surrounded it. Your buzz was beginning to wear off as you found yourself scanning the living room for your brother, who you quickly realized you had not checked up on in at least half an hour. Next to you Ginny was nursing a crystal glass of gin, her eyes locked on the ripples it made when she shook the vessel. She was out.

A panic starting to settle in, you turned to the window behind you and peered through the curtains in case your brother had ended up outside somehow. Just as you glanced through the glass you heard commotion behind you.

“...Sander’s brother! And he’s feeling up your girl!” One of the footballers said, drawing your attention to the large group of athletes who now stood facing the couch behind them. Suddenly, Chet launched forward toward the couch, his arms raising as if he was about to punch someone. You launched yourself off the counter, taking a few steps across the kitchen to watch the situation unfold. As Chet began throwing punches at someone next to the couch, you noticed his girlfriend, Chris, sleepily standing up next to him.

“Chet, stop!” She screamed as soon as she was awake enough to realize what was happening. Her screams spurred you to move closer, a decision which would reveal that the victim of Chet’s brutal swings was your very own brother.

“Knox oh my god!” You screamed, jumping over the couch and grabbing onto Chet’s jacket, pulling him off of your brother.

“Chet stop you’ll hurt him!” Chris squealed, grabbing onto her boyfriend’s shoulder as he stood up.

You crouched down to your brother, cradling his head in your hands as you examined his wounds.

“Next time I see you, you die,” Chet threatened, holding onto Chris like she was nothing more than an object.

“Why don’t you fuck off Chet,” you responded, making the men around him chuckle.

“Oh yeah? That the type of man you are, Overstreet? Your little sister’s gotta finish your fights for you?”

“Leave him the hell alone,” you stood up to face him, “and next time, maybe don’t let your girlfriend black out alone on a couch.”

Chet scoffed and led Chris away, her muttering gently apologies to Knox as she walked away.

“Y/n?” Knox questioned faintly, you turned around to join your brother on the ground once again, “What are you doing here? How’d you get here?”

“I’m here with Ginny, Knox,” you lifted up his hair to look at a bruise that was now forming on his temple, your heart breaking for your poor brother, “we’re gonna get you back to Welton okay?”

“Thanks,” he said quietly, “for sticking up for me y’a know, Charlie was right about you,” he slurred his words lightly as his eyes grew tired.

“Charlie?” You questioned, “he was right about what?”

“He won’t shut up about how you probably beat my ass,” he laughed, his eyes now fully closed.

“Charlie…” you wondered out loud.

–

“Welton Academy, hello.” The tired voice of an old man spoke on the other side of the line.

Clearing your throat and shooting a quick glance to Ginny, who was sobering up as she sat next to you in her father’s office. Putting on your most mature voice you responded.

“Good evening sir, I apologize for calling you so late but I was wondering if I could have a word with Mr. Charles Dalton?”

“Ah…Dalton. Well you see its after hours and the boys are all asleep right now…if you call back in the morning–”

“It’s urgent sir,” you feigned seriousness, “I’m his mother you see, and I’m afraid there’s been a um…”

Ginny smiled up at you, shrugging her shoulders.

“An incident, yes, in the family. And um, well, Charles must hear about it immediately.”

“Might I relay the message to him?”

“I’m sorry sir, but it’s quite sensitive and I feel as if I should deliver it myself,” you nodded your head, Ginny bit her hand to prevent her laughter.

The phone laid silent for a few painstaking minutes as you paced around Mr. Danburry’s desk, you and Ginny spiraling over how to get Knox back to Welton without causing a scene.

“Mom?” Charlie’s nasaly voice echoed on the other line, lacking the same sleepy tone as the older man.

“Charlie!” You practically squealed.

“Huh?” Charlie sounded perplexed over the phone, “wait, Y/n?”

“You recognize my voice?” You asked, butterflies filling your stomach.

“Well of course I did, how could I forget the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard,” you could sense his smirk through the phone.

Ginny cleared her throat, turning your attention to her, snapping your awareness back to the issue at hand.

“Oh right, um, Charlie,” your voice grew serious again, “I need your help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said seriously, concern growing in his voice, “what’s wrong, what can I do?”

“I’m at the Danburry’s and um Knox is here”

“Okay,” he chuckled, “what’s the problem with that?”

“Well, you see, Chet sorta attacked him and…well…he’s not doing too hot and I don’t know how to get him back to Welton”

“Oh shit,” he squeaked on the other line, “is he doing okay?”

“Yeah I mean Chet beat his ass but-” Ginny grabbed the phone from your hand, “but then Y/n grabbed him by the collar and put him in his damn place,” she practically screamed into the receiver.

“Atta girl, Overstreet!” Charlie cheered for you, making you blush as you returned the phone back to your ear.

“Anyway Charlie, can you help?”

–

“Okay and then just a left up here,” Charlie whispered, groaning as he supported half the weight of your brother. You had decided the best way to get Knox back to his room was to just carry him, you and Charlie each hoisting one of his arms over your shoulders. Knox began to groan as you reached the top of the stairs,

“Knox shhhh,” you said quietly, trying your best not to wake any of the pupils, or God forbid the teachers, who lived in this hall.

Charlie chuckled at you both, turning the corner and gently opening the door to Knox’s room. His roommate was sound asleep in his bed, and you and Charlie made quick work of laying your brother down, removing his shoes and jacket, and tucking him into his bed.

“Sleep good darling,” Charlie joked, placing a gentle kiss on your brother’s forehead. 

You and Charlie exited Knox’s room, closing the door as quietly as you could as you giggled to yourselves.

“Thank you so much,” you whispered

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Charlie said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “let me…let me walk you home”

“Oh no its okay, really,” you blushed, “I mean you live right here,” you pointed to his room.

“Y/n you’re crazy if you think I’m letting you walk back to Henley Hall by yourself”

“Charlie I’ll be fine”

“Dead poets honor, I’m walking with you,” he said sternly, taking a step closer to you.

“I don’t know what that means, but yes sir,” you nodded, eyes locking with Charlie’s as you two stood no more than a foot from each other in the dark hall for a secon longer than normal. Charlie’s gaze dropped to your lips, his pupils growing darker as he examined them. Your heart beat picked up, and so did your breathing, as your eyes scanned his face, your mind racing with curiosity.

Just as Charlie’s eyes began to close and his face approached yours, a door handle rattled behind him, snapping you both to attention.

“Shit we gotta go,” Charlie whispered, his hand snaking around your waist to spin you around and usher you around the corner and down the stairs.

Once outside you felt a weight leave your shoulders as you and Charlie heaved a sigh of relief. During your escape his hand had traveled from your waist to your hand, his calloused fingers interlaced with yours. Slumped against a tree outside Welton’s gate, you and the boy giggled as you relived the details of your narrow escape from the all-boys school.

“Come on,” Charlie tugged at your hand, standing up from the tree, “lets get you home.”

You used his hand to help pull you away from the tree. As you began walking he threatened to unlace his fingers from yours, but you strengthened your grip, shooting him a quick glance which rested somewhere between pleading and commanding. Charlie simply responded with a simple smirk and the relaxing of his hand into yours as you walked down the empty road.

“So…” Charlie began, “what were you doing at Chet Danburry’s party?” You could sense a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Oh you know, flirting with football players, taking shots, playing strip poker…” you joked, Charlie’s eyes widened as his cheeks blushed, you couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Oh really now?” Charlie quipped back, his hand swinging yours, “I wouldn’t suppose football players would be your type then, would they?”

“Most definitely not Mr. Dalton, how dare you suggest such a thing,” you tauntingly reprimanded him.

“Then what would be your type?” Charlie smirked to himself, your hands now swinging quicker between the two of you.

“Hmmmm let’s see,” you pretended to ponder, “I’m particularly fond of boys who go to a certain private boarding school in Vermont…Welton? You may have heard of it,” you joked.

“Oh yes, very prestigious institution,” Charlie retorted.

“And within that category, I must say I’m rather partial to a Welton man who is funny, outgoing, never follows the dress code, has a reputation as a rule breaker,” you sighed, “definitely someone who would help me carry my idiot of a brother back home after getting his ass kicked. Oh, and absolutely someone who would walk me home after helping said brother home,” you scanned the forest to the side of the road, “and I like light brown hair too”

Charlie stopped walking, his hand ceasing to swing with yours. Before you could even process the confusion, the boy who had occupied every single one of your thoughts for the past month was suddenly directly in front of you, his free hand firmly grasping the side of your face as his lips crashed into yours feverishly. His hand let go of yours and slipped around the back of your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as his tongue worked to part your lips and let him inside. Your heart raced as you kissed him back, closing your eyes and sliding your hands up around his neck. You played with the hair on the back of his head as you pulled him closer to you, deepening the kiss even more. As suddenly as it began, your feverish makeout session with Charlie Dalton ended. 

“I’ve been dreaming about doing that for so long Y/n, you have no idea”

“Trust me Charlie,” you said breathlessly, “I do.”

He pulled you into a tight embrace, placing a sweet kiss to the top of your head.

“We can never tell Knox about this,” he whispered.

“Nope, never,” you said into his shoulder

–

“Good morning sleeping beauty,” Meeks joked as Knox groggily walked into Mr. Keating’s classroom. He was obviously hungover and entirely drained after last night. As he walked by Charlie’s desk in the back corner, his friend grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled him back.

“Hey, you okay?” Charlie asked him, genuinely worried about the state of one of his best friends.

“My head hurts like a bitch and I have no idea how I got home…but yeah I’m okay,” Knox palpated the scab forming under his hair. 

“Don’t worry your pretty head Knoxious, we made sure you got home safe,” Charlie slapped his friend on the back.

“We? Oh god how many of you guys were there?��� Knox sighed, glancing around the room at all his friends, “and how did you know I was there? I snuck out, didn’t tell any of you where I was going”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” Neil said without looking up from his books

“I can tell you for certain I was sound asleep in my bed,” Meeks responded

“Me either,” Pitts chimed in,

As Knox’s attention of the group turned to Todd, the final member of the group, Charlie bagan to panic.

As Todd stuttered, Charlie spoke up, “Y/n.”

“Y/n?” Knox looked back at him, confused.

“She called me, man,” Charlie held his hands up innocently, “told me she didn’t know what to do, so I helped her out.”

“Dalton I told you not to mess with my sister,” Knox rubbed his temple.

“We saved your damn life, Knox. She innocently asked for my help, and I’m a gentleman, so I obliged,” Charlie smirked.

“God dammit Charlie, you can’t date my sister,”

“Who said anything about dating?”

“Charlie, she likes you, everybody knows that. But she’s off limits–”

“Take your seats, gentlemen,” Mr. Keating projected as he waltzed into the room, slamming his poetry book down on his desk, turning to face his students, “Mr. Overstreet, Mr. Dalton, everything alright?”

“Yes captain,” both boys said begrudgingly, Knox taking his seat in front of Charlie. 

–

As the Dead Poets walked down the hallway past the main office, Mr. Nolan opened the door abruptly, “boys. I have a call for you.”

“For me?” Knox questioned, pointing to himself, but Nolan was already in the office. Shrugging, all six boys entered the office, crowding around the small phone on Nolan’s desk. Mr. Nolan gave them a knowing look before closing his office door behind them.

“Hello?” Knox asked into the phone.

“Knox?” You questioned, confused as to why your brother and not the boy you asked for was on the other end.

“Y/n?” Knox covered the phone as he turned to the other boys, “its Y/n”

“Yeah we gathered that much,” Meeks retorted

Knox rolled his eyes at him before uncovering the phone, “why are you calling? Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah no everything’s fine, I was um,” you panicked, not wanting to expose your intentions, “I um just wanted to check in with you….how are you?”

“Check in with me?” Knox questioned, once again glancing around to the boys.

“Here, give it to me,” Charlie muttered, grabbing the phone out of your brother’s hands, “he’s keen…how are you Miss Overstreet?”

You squealed his name over the phone, making Charlie move the phone away from his ear as the other boys all turned their attention to Knox who was fuming.

“Who all is there?” You asked 

“Oh you know, just everybody,” Charlie laughed, blushing as he played with the phone cable

“Dear god, why?”

“Nolan didn’t exactly specify who you were calling for so we uh, we all just filed in…who are you calling for?”

You whispered, not wanting everyone to hear, “you of course, but Knox can’t know that.”

With a nod, Charlie covered the phone, handing it to Knox, “she’s calling for you, wants to know if you think your parents would let her try out for a play”

“A play?” Knox questioned, “Y/n since when have you been into acting?” your brother asked, grabbing the phone from Charlie

“Since um….recently? I don’t know, I figured I should give everything a try in high school. You never know I might have some undiscovered talent” you bluffed.

“Talent, huh? Well I don’t see why you shouldn’t try it. You’re not graduating or anything so you might as well do some non-academic stuff while you can.”

Charlie chuckled at his friend who had taken the bait.

“Yeah yeah, good thinking Knox. Okay well I gotta go, love you, tell everyone bye!” You hung up the phone, leaving Knox standing confused in an office full of all his friends.

“She’s never mentioned acting before…” Knox muttered as Charlie smirked, “what are you looking so smug for, Dalton?”

“What,” Charlie shrugged, smirk growin, “what?”

Knox scoffed as he led the group of boys out of Nolan’s office and back down the hallway.

–

“Why can’t I talk to her, Knox? What’s the harm in that?” Charlie argued with his friend in his room, Cameron seated awkwardly at his desk as the heated exchange continued.

“Because she’s my sister, Charlie! Everyone knows how you are with girls, right Cameron?”

“Not getting involved…” Cameron waved them off, keeping his nose buried in his chemistry book.

“The point, Charlie, is that she’s off limits.”

“Why?” Charlie was pleading at this point.

“Because she’s my sister! How many times do I have to say it?”

“So what? I’m your best friend! And I like her, I really really like her!”

“Come on Charlie you barely know her”

“Yeah but I want to change that, I want to get to know her, I want to know everything about her,” Knox rolled his eyes, “Knox I know I have a reputation with girls, I know, but I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never really liked a girl like this before…she’s special”

“Yeah, Dalton, she is. And that’s exactly why she’s off limits”

“So it doesn’t matter that she likes me…her feelings don’t factor in at all”

“Of course they do, but as your friend you just can’t date my sister. Its like a rule”

“Says who, Knox?” Charlie was yelling at this point, unbelievably frustrated at his friends stubbornness.

“I don’t know,” Knox scrambled for words, “but its a thing, and you can’t break it!”

“What if I love her,” Charlie said softly

“What if you what?”

“What if I love her?”

“Charlie you don’t know her,” Knox’s tone matched Charlie’s

“The parts of her that I know…I love”

Knox sighed, placing his hands on his hips as he paced around the room. Cameron turned around to watch the interaction, playing with the end of a pencil in his mouth.

“You mean it?” Knox finally asked after what felt like eternity.

“Yeah, Knox, I mean it.” Charlie nodded, heart pounding.

“Okay”

“Okay?” Charlie questioned

“Okay, then, if you love her, tell her. Tell her how you feel and if she feels the same then there’s nothing I can do about that. Love is a whole other thing, Charlie, I can’t get between that.” 

“So-” Charlie began

“But,” Knox interjected, “if you ever hurt her you’re a dead man.”

“I never will, dead poets honor,” Charlie smiled at his best friend.

“Dead poets honor,” Knox nodded, leaving Charlie’s room with a pat on his friend’s back.

“Dalton gets the girl, what’s new?” Cameron scoffed as he turned back to his schoolwork.

Smacking him across the back of his head, Charlie responded “get your head out of your ass, Cameron”

–

“I don’t actually have to try out for a play do I?” You asked innocently, pulling away to search Charlie’s eyes for an answer

“No,” he laughed, holding you close by your waist, “I think Knox has realized that was a cover by now…at least I hope he has”

“He’s a bit of an idiot…kinda stubborn,” you giggled

“You’re telling me,” Charlie laughed as he pulled you closer, resting his head on top of yours.

The two of you stood in a quiet embrace, eyes closed as you inhaled each others’ scent, warmth and endearment filling your body with each breath.

“Y/n I gotta tell you something…” he sighed, anxiety threatening to get in the way of his confession.

“What’s up?” You asked calmly, pulling away to look up at Charlie

“Um,” he began, eyes searching the sky in an attempt to avoid your gaze, “God I know I shouldn’t say this…and I know its way too soon…and I’ve only really seen you a handful of times…”

You nodded, gaze never leaving Charlie as he stared around you and his adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“But there’s something you need to know, and for the sanity of both myself and your brother, I just need to tell you.”

“Charlie you’re stalling,” you said, growing more anxious as he blabbled

“I love you,” he said with a sigh, closing his eyes as his head craned up to the sky.

“Hey,” you chuckled, your hand traveling up to caress his cheek and pull his gaze down to meet yours, “I love you too”

“You do,” he snapped out of his daze, his facial muscles relaxing as he looked down at you, “really?”

“Really, Charlie. Yeah its soon, and yeah I don’t know everything about you, but the parts I do know I love,” you smiled.

“That’s exactly what I told your brother”

“You talked to Knox about this?”

“It was either I tell him how I really feel or he kills me”

“I’m glad you picked option A”

“Yeah I am too…I was so scared you weren’t gonna feel the same”

“How could I not?” You laughed as you embraced him, his strong arms wrapping around your shoulders as you nuzzled into him.

[queenshelby]

Chemical Reactions (P. 9)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy as J Robert Oppenheimer x Student Reader

Warning: Age-Gap, Infidelity, Smut

Words: 2,678

Note: The fic is spoiler free and my own fantasy and imagination. It is not historically and scientifically accurate.

Previous Parts: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8

THIS PART IS DIALOGUE HEAVY AND PART EIGHT WILL BE SIMILAR, BOTH PARTS ARE NECESSARY THOUGH TO EXPAND THE STORY.

Two weeks later...

Just as General Groves had anticipated, the following week, you made your way to Robert’s final lecture at Berkley which was held in front of an audience of about fifty students.

The lecture itself was not relevant to your thesis but you knew that you had to see him, in an aim to clear things up.

You managed to get a letter to him through Professor Lawrance in the past few days, hidden within your thesis papers and, even though Lawrance told you as well that Robert was no longer your supervisor, you insisted for Robert to read it, seeing that her was the expert in this field.

After you begged, of course, Lawrance agreed to provide the paper to his colleague and, whilst you hoped that Robert would respond to your letter, he did not. At least not until now which is when you sat inside the lecture hall and he handed out some papers to everyone.

“I suggest that you read page two carefully Miss Y/LN” he told you quietly when, finally, he approached you amongst the other students and, of course, you knew what he meant by that and skipped right ahead to the page he mentioned.

“Thank you doctor” you told him as he moved on and handed out the remaining papers to the other students while, at the back of the hall, you could see two men watching the lecture and Robert’s interactions with you. They were spies for sure and you knew that, when hopefully getting to see him, you had to do so without being seen yourself.

Robert though played them well. He was nothing but professional towards you and the note he had hidden on page two was not noticeable to anyone but you.

“Meet me at Lawrance’s office. 3 o’clock. We need to talk” it said and, of course, you already knew what this was going to be about. He was going to tell you exactly what General Groves had already told you, namely that he could and would not see you again after today.

He would also tell you that your security clearance had been denied and that, at least for now, you had to forget about him.

Whether you could do that or not, however, was something that you had already thought about for the past week or so, ever since Lesley Groves’ conversation with you and you came to the conclusion that you could not.

Not after the letters he had sent you, telling you how much he desired you and enjoyed your company, and not after the passionate night you shared.

Of course, love was not something you believed in even though Robert referred to it on two occasions now and love was not yet what you felt for him. But what you felt was something more than just some intellectual and physical attraction. It was desire in its purest and most primal form which had developed into an addiction of some sort and this addiction needed to be fuelled in order for you to function mentally and physically. You thus decided that you needed Robert in your life and this was going to be a challenge.  

You were crazy for him and, clearly, he was crazy for you as well, going by what he had written to you and it were those letters which went through your mind just as Robert made his way to the lectern and began his lecture on naturally occurring atoms.  

“Concentrate Y/N!” you then said to yourself as Robert had started reading for the lesson and just as he spoke so passionately about physics, you took your pencil and slowly ran it down your neck and then to your collarbone, subtly squirming like you enjoyed the feel, though your face was serious. There was something extremely sexy and desirable about this man talking about atoms and your mind again wandered to the night you shared.

You could feel his eyes on you, glancing at you, as he went through some chemical reactions and him talking like this sent goosebumps all over your skin. You enjoyed the feeling and brought the pencil back up, now running across the seam of your lips in purposeful absentmindedness until he lost his train of thought and paused before picking up on his speech again.

This is when you decided to tune it down. You did not want Robert to be thrown off guard and knew that, after class, you would finally be able to catch a moment with him after not having seen him for almost four weeks.

***

At 3 o’clock and after shaking off the two men, who had been following you, by sneaking out of the lavatory window, you made your way too Dr Lawrance’s office which, unsurprisingly, was unlocked that day.

Thus, you made your way inside without knocking which happened to startle Robert who had already been waiting for you.

“Jesus” he cursed, afraid that it was one of General Groves’ personnel who had followed him or even you to Lawrance’s office. He was clearly paranoid and concerned about meeting you there, but he knew that he had to see you regardless.

“Has someone followed you here?” he asked nonetheless and you shook your head while, finally, approaching him and, in a haste, pressing your lips onto his.

“I missed you” you moaned against his lips while Robert kissed you passionately, only ever allowing you to pull away in order to breathe, which is something that continued for at least five minutes until Robert took a step back.

“We need to talk” Robert then said after your lips drifted apart and you slowly looked up at him with wide open eyes and a parted mouth before, wordlessly, reaching beneath your skirt and taking off your panties.

“We do, but that has to wait!” you determined, causing Robert to gasp with suprise and shake his head.

“We can’t Y/N…” Robert began to say but, as soon as your lust filled eyes met his, his grip on your waist tightened and he stopped talking.

“I suppose we can…” Robert then corrected himself, stammering out the words and you could feel his gaze boring into you and, just as you felt as though your lust for this man couldn’t have been any greater, he pressed his lips onto yours again for another passionate kiss.

As you were kissing, you slid your hands up his thighs and reached for the zipper of his pants. You pulled it down, undid the button and belt and then his briefs-bound cock pushed out of the opening.

“On the desk” Robert simply groaned as, eventually, you reached into his briefs and grabbed him, pulling his erection free. The gurgling noise he made at that meant that he was absolutely focused on what you were doing to him, so you let yourself lift your eyes and take in his flushed face, staring at your hand like it was God's salvation for his mortal soul.

“Not yet” you teased before licking your lips and descending on him, causing Robert to swear.

“Fuck” he cursed as, without warning, you engulfed him completely.

The feel of his length in your mouth and the weight of it was almost as good as the punched-out moan he made as you worked your tongue up and down his shaft for a moment before taking him in all the way again until he bottomed out.

Then you pulled back and took him in again, building up to a brutal pace.

Robert was grunting with every thrust into your mouth. He could not hold back as you sucked and swirled your tongue around the head, making sure he would never forget this moment with you, especially if this was going to be the last time for you both.

“Stop. No more” Robert eventually groaned before pulling slightly against your hair and, just as he did, you removed your lips from his pulsing hard shaft and stood up.

“I need to taste you and I need to be inside of you. It has been weeks” he then told you while pulling you over towards the large cedar study desk which, clearly, belonged to Dr Lawrance.

“Then have me Robert” you told him as he stared at your body intently. “Fuck me like you own me” you then demanded and Robert took a handful of your hair and pulled your head back playfully so that you would stare up at him. Your eyes went wide for a moment as you let out a little gasp before returning to the lidded hungry stare you had before.

Robert then leaned forward and kissed you hard on the mouth and your mouth tasted sweet and your moans against his mouth were whorish and wanton. He drank from your mouth and all thoughts of his marriage and the project slipped far into the recess of his will as he lifted you up on to the desk.

He then kissed down further, along your long neck and just above the v-line of your blouse before he kneeled in front of you and you wrapped your fingers in his hair.

As he was caressing your clothed body, you popped open some of the buttons on your blouse, thus allowing Robert to push it down and thereby exposing your breasts. He cupped the right one with his hand, gently twisting the nipple between thumb and forefinger. It instantly grew hard to his touch.

Robert then spent a moment or two with his mouth on each breast. Tasting every inch of your flesh, before he slipped lower and the heady aroma of your open sex filled his nostrils so that he was possessed by a strong desire to taste you.

As he lowered himself further, he took hold of your legs behind each knee and spread them apart as he pushed your legs up and your skirt back so that it was curled up against your stomach. Robert then kissed your left thigh and looked up at you. Your cheeks were flush, mouth parted, eyes unfocused but intent.

"You must be quiet" he managed say and you faintly nodded before he lowered his mouth onto your sex. You tried your best to muffle your squeal, but as his tongue worked its way into you, more moans and cries escaped your lips.

You tasted as sweet as usual, and he devoured you. He worked his tongue as deep into you as he could before wiggling it back and forth up over the length of your slit, and then sucking gently on your engorged clit.

You bucked and squirmed in response to his ministrations, but Robert held you down as his mouth locked onto you. Your fingers wrapped into his hair and you grinded yourself against his tongue as best you could.

You began a long slow whine that slowly built in intensity, punctuated by quick movements of your hips as you pressed your mound against his mouth. It almost sounded as though you were crying, and for a moment his concentration broke, and he was tempted to stop, but your grip on the back of his head told him otherwise.

“Don’t you dare stop!” you moaned just before Robert flicked his tongue quickly over your clit and your body began to shudder. Your whine became a steady cry, followed by convulsions, and finally a great big gasp, as your body went slack.

"Oh god” you then panted before pushing his head away, unable to take anymore. Your hair was mussed and your makeup had smeared a bit.

“Yes, my love?” Robert teased before standing straight and, of course, you rolled your eyes at his joke just like you usually would.

“You are so sure of yourself, aren’t you?” you teased as Robert finally brought you to your feet.

“Yes” he answered with a grin before kissing you again to let you taste yourself on his lips.

“Now turn around and lean against my desk” Robert then demanded before he spun your small frame around and bent you over his colleague’s desk.

“That’s Dr Lawrance’s desk, not yours” you pointed out before Robert stood himself behind you. You were limp and behaving more like a rag doll than an active participant, but after eating you to orgasm, Robert knew that he had to have you. He had been aching for you for weeks.

“I suppose it is Lawrance’s desk, but I am sure he would not mind us using it” Robert then said which made you giggle.  

“Very well then professor, I am all yours” you teased as Robert flipped your skirt onto your back and reached down between your legs, feeling that you were still slick and ready for him.

“You are indeed” Robert groaned before he lined himself up with your entrance without pushing into you just yet.

“Don’t tease” you demanded as you lowered your head to the desk and pushed back a little against his teasing cock.

“Please Robert” you then begged and, with that, he finally pressed into you slowly.

“I missed this a lot’ Robert groaned again as, finally, he took hold of your hips and pressed harder, to which you whimpered and moaned in pleasure.

“So did I” you gasped as he filled you.

"You are so very tight” he then told you as your channel gripped his length like a firm velvet fist. He could feel every inch inside you and, slowly, he began to rock his hips, small movements at first, then bigger ones, until he was fucking you in earnest.

You mewled as his member opened you and made your channel adjust to his size. He held your hips and pressed hard against you as you grunted with each thrust while, eventually, his cock was swelling.

"Oh god" you repeated as he fucked you in a steady rhythm until he briefly pulled out of you and turned you around.

“I missed having you inside me” you told Robert as you sat up on Lawrance’s desk again and spread your legs wide.

“I need you Y/N. I need you so fucking much” Robert said as he stepped in between your legs and re-entered you while you propped yourself up on your elbows and wrapped your long legs around his hips.

"I need you too, Robert. God, fuck me, make me yours” you moaned incoherently while your eyes were desperate and intently locked onto his. He leaned forward and kissed you in response, pressing his tongue into your mouth while you moaned against his lips, over and over again.

His own orgasm was building, but he did not want to stop just yet. Thus, his thrusts became more insistent and, with that, he drew you closer and closer towards climax as well.

“I am close” you said as if you were reading his mind while you leaned back and looked at Robert through lidded eyes.

“So am I” Robert told you as he felt your legs lock tighter around him and, just as you decided to hold on to for dear life, he pressed himself into you hard.

“Oh god, yes! That’s it” you almost screamed as, all so suddenly, you climaxed again. Your orgasm hit you like freight train and just as your walls began to convulse around his shaft, he exploded deep within you, filling you with his seed. He was thrusting hard with each spurt, and you wrapped your arms around him as it was his turn for his body to shake.

His orgasm was intense and, within seconds, his cum seeped from your channel and down his shaft, eliciting a final groan from Robert when he took a glimpse at where you were still connected.

“We really do need to talk” Robert then eventually said as he pulled out of you and felt the tension loosen inside of him as he momentarily closed his eyes and relaxed.

“Yes we do and now I can. I just needed to get this out of my system first before I could put together some logically thoughts” you said before reaching for Robert’s handkerchief and using it to clean yourself up.

“Do you mind if I keep that?” you then asked, causing Robert to chuckle.

“Not at all” he then said, pulling up his briefs and pants, before he leaned over and kissed your forehead. “Your security clearance…” he then began to say but you interrupted him.

“I know, General Groves came to interview me” you told Robert while adjusting your skirt. “He told me that you were instructed not see me again, but here you are, engaging in some intimate relations with me” you chuckled, still out of breath.

“General Groves should use his words more wisely as he did not say that I cannot see you again. He simply said that I must not engage or liaise with communists and, since you are not a communist, I do not see an issue with seeking you discreetly” Robert then pointed out while caressing your face.

“Discreetly, huh?” you chuckled before asking Robert what he thought was happening next.

“What do you mean?” he asked gently while looking into your eyes.

“With us, Robert. Where do we go from here” you wanted to know.

“Well, I will continue to try my luck and convince Groves to get you clearance for the project and, in the meantime, I will come here and visit you whenever I can” he explained.

“Robert, the General has already read your two letters to me. So, how do you expect to make contact without them noticing?” you asked, seeing that, no doubt, Robert was being watched.

“I will find a way my love. I promise” he promised you while cupping your face with both of his hands.

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to end it?” you argued, but Robert shook his head.

“I can’t do that” he told you.

“Why?” you queried, seeing that seeing you would be risky.

“Because I need you in my life Y/N” he then determined and a surprisingly warm and fluttering feeling crept up inside of you. It was a feeling that was unfamiliar to you and you could not describe it.

[scarletttries]

NSFW Headcanon Request: Steven Grant (Moon Knight)

Steven Grant + Professor Kink/AU: (prompt list here)

- Steven Grant thought there was no greater joy or honour in teaching young minds about ancient Egyptian history, and then he started teaching you.

- He had seen flocks of enthusiastic young people come and go from his halls over the last few years of teaching, and sure he'd had a few favourites here and there, but nothing compared to the first time his eyes locked on yours from behind his lectern. It was embarrassing how quickly he tripped up his speech as his eyes lingered on yours, unable to look away from the unique sparkle that flickered so clearly in them. He tried to remember where he got to in his introduction, blush rushing up his cheeks as his heart sped up far more than his usual presenting nerves, and when he watched you smile at the way he fumbled through his first attempt at a joke he started to think maybe this is what love at first sight must feel like.

- When you found him after class and asked one of the most creative questions he'd ever heard from a student in his years of teaching he couldn't quite believe how exhilarating it was to talk to you, butterflies stirring up inside him as if he'd made an instant old friend. He bit back his tongue as the thought of asking you to continue this conversation over dinner crossed his mind, trying to remind himself of his position as your professor despite how easy it was to view you as his true equal.

- You had been feeling more than a little frustrated that you had to take at least one history module as part of your studies, but at least Ancient Egypt had been your favourite time period when you were learning history in school. And when you noticed your adorably handsome professor stumble over his words with a sly smile when he caught your eye, you were pretty sure you'd never miss a lecture again.

- You'd find reasons to talk to him after class or during his office hours, and he'd send you articles or podcasts he thought you'd find interesting, telling you to call him any time to discuss your thoughts. He wanted to pretend that the power imbalance wasn't any part of his blatant attraction to you, but he couldn't ignore the way his pulse raced every time you called him professor. And finally as the spring turned to summer and you started wearing your favourite short dresses to his class, watching the way your legs would float down the stairs as you found a seat about halfway back, he knew he wasn't going to be able to wait until you graduated before he finally told you how he felt.

- It wasn't unusual for him to ask you to come to his office out of hours, usually just for an academic discussion over a cup of tea that inevitably turned to the two of you sharing more and more personal stories. But on this day you were greeted by a glass of wine and a bouquet of roses, rather than an academic text. He looked almost pale as he stumbled through the sweet confession that he had never felt like this before, and even though he knew it was improper, he couldn't bring himself to wait another minute to tell you how he felt.

- As he stares at you with the most hopeful eyes, you'd lunge forwards, wrapping your arms around his neck before landing your lips on his, finally giving him the sweetest relief of knowing how it feels to kiss you. He'd be so gentlemanly that first night, insisting he takes you on a real date so he can prove this isn't just a torrid love affair to him. You'd reluctantly agree to wait a little longer to rip his clothes off, surprised by the nervous giggle he'd let out in response, grabbing his keys so he can take you somewhere far enough away that you won't see anyone else from the university.

- A discussion over drinks with your fingers intertwined would feel more natural and comfortable than any interaction sweet Steven had ever had, as when you whisper in his ear that your ready for 'his private office hours, Professor' he'd be on his feet so quickly you'd have to stop him for tumbling over himself.

- That night, and every moment after, his office becomes his favourite place to be close to you. He takes so much joy in bending you over his desk and flipping up the skirt he's spent all lecture admiring. He makes sure to sink to his knees and run his tongue over your slit until he can feel your arousal dripping down his chin, wanting to treat you the way only an older man will, a tinge of insecurity running through him when he sees you talk to any of the idiot boys your own age around campus. When he starts slamming into you from behind he'll insist you call him professor, a swift palm slapping your ass if his first name leaves your lips. Sometimes he'll have you sit straddling his lap in his expensive leather armchair, instructing you to ride his thigh until he can see a glistening trail forming across his corduroy slacks, feeling both powerful and completely under your control.

- As much as he pretends there isn't something so fucking hot about being in a position of authority over you, when you come into his office asking for extra credit, you can guarantee he won't exactly have you writing an essay for him. Instead he'll take something else he wants from you, tossing all the papers off his desk and lifting you onto it, pulling off your clothes deliberately slowly so he can graze you with a dozen teasing touches before he instructs you to lie back and stay still for him. Still fully dressed he slides open a desk drawer, pulling out a small vibrator you're pretty sure he stole from your dorm room.

"Given you're already a star pupil, you're going to have to be really good for me to get some extra credit love."

"I'll do anything you want, Professor." Your voice quivers as he runs a finger slowly up your inner thigh, watching your chest rise and fall in response.

"I'll give you ten percent on the assignment for everytime you come for me." Before you can negotiate the details his fingers are rubbing over your clit ever so gently, and your body seems more than ready to give him anything he asks for. It takes almost all night, the first two coming quickly as he works his fingers over your entrance, only slipping his fingers inside for number three when your legs start twitching and trembling with every slight change in his movement.

"You're doing so well, gorgeous, already 30% through your extra credit assignment. But we've still got a long way to go." You can see the mischievous glint in his eye and swallow hard, already starting to feel overwhelmed by the way he expertly manipulates your body. Soon his tongue is nestled between your legs while his fingertips tweak your nipples, the extra sensation quickly driving you to the 50% point, starting to feel a bit unsure of how much more of this your overstimulated body can take. As you try and catch your breath, coming down from your latest high, you suddenly hear the buzz of vibrations as Steven slides the small device over your slick entrance, even the softest setting feeling overwhelming when you're already so wet and sensitive. You feel Steven start using his considerable strength to keep your hips pressed firmly against his desk, no respite or escape as the pressure inside you starts to climb again. Tears prick in the corner of your eyes as you start think there's no way you can come again, and you whimper out his name so softly you almost don't think he hears you, until you feel the intensity between your legs shift up a gear, making your whole body spasm in blissful agony.

"Now now, good girls don't call their professors by their first name. You're going to have to be more careful or I'll have to start counting again from zero." You can tell from his grin that he'd do it, finding unparalleled joy in forcing orgasm after orgasm out of you and watching you struggle to hold yourself together as you leak more and more across his desk and flinch at even the gentlest touch. You bite back your tongue as he works to make you cum twice more, finally pleading with him to give you a break, to let you take 80% on the assignment.

"Come on sweetheart, you're so close to full marks, I know you can give me just a couple more. You're doing so well for me. I just want to feel how good I've made you feel." You hear him unbuckle his belt as he coos softly at you, waiting for you to tentatively nod your head before his whole body is onto top of you, keeping you exactly where he wants you as slams into you with no mercy until finally you give him everything he wants and more.

- Luckily you have a chance to get him back a couple of weeks later, when your makeout session gets cut short by another student coming in to ask a genuine question. Steven doesn't think twice about the way you hide under his desk to give him some privacy, that is until he realises his trousers are still undone and you're planning on taking full advantage of that. He keeps his eyes trained on the student in front of him as he feels your tongue lap as his tip, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair in a desperate attempt to remain composed. He manages okay as you run your tongue over the length of him, but when you give him no warning and slide him between your lips straight to the back of your throat he has to stifle an uncontrollable groan and awkwardly blame it on a stomach ache. His hips start twitching in his seat as you suck him as hard and fast as you can without making a sound, and as you start to feel his stomach muscles tense under your touch you notice Steven shooting you a startled look whenever he thinks he can. You don't pay him any notice, choking him back and running your hands over his lap and stomach until you watch his eyes clench shut and feel the taste of him spilling over your tongue, impressed by how quickly he blames his reaction on the fact that he must be coming down with something. When finally the student leaves and you two are alone once again, Steven sinks to his knees with the biggest smile on his face, telling you 'Just how brilliant you are, even if you will absolutely be the death of him.'

- With his own student days being far more tame and isolated than he would have liked, Steven feels like he's making up for lost time in the sweetest way when he sneaks into your dorm room for the night, or finds some weak excuse to attend a student party just so he can spend the night somewhere fun with you. He'll find excuses to bring you to the events in his calendar too, saying he's making a tradition of bringing his best students to events, even if it's always just you held tight by his side in a dress he genuinely forgets how to breathe around when he first sees you.

- While he may have a huge professor kink thanks to you, and gain some thrill in sneaking around with his reputation on the line, he also can't help but daydream about a time after your graduation when the two of you won't have to sneak any more and he'll be free to walk hand in hand with you everywhere to two of you want to go.

[slut4calum]

Hasanabi: Teacher's Assistant

Halfway through junior year, and the finish line was starting to shimmer in the distance. Just push through this final year, the mountain of exams, the stress-fueled ramen nights, and then it would be freedom. Freedom from textbooks, freedom from professors' drone-like lectures, freedom from the constant pressure to prove yourself. But for now, there was only the present, the slightly stale air of lecture hall B-12, and the prospect of three more hours grappling with the intricacies of 17th-century French literature.

My first class, European Romanticism, was familiar territory. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, was practically an old friend after two semesters of dissecting Byron's angst and Wordsworth's musings on daffodils. The next two classes, however, were uncharted waters: Medieval Art History, where I desperately hoped the professor wouldn't quiz us on the difference between Romanesque and Gothic arches, and Advanced Genetics, where the potential for complex Punnett squares already had my head spinning.

By the time I stumbled into my fourth class, PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization, I was ready for a nap. But the exhaustion evaporated the moment I saw Dr. Kemp. He was tiny, a sprite of a man with twinkling eyes and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. As he outlined the syllabus, his voice was a warm rumble, like well-aged whiskey swirling in a glass. And then, the door creaked open, and my heart did a triple flip.

"Ah, Mr. Piker," Dr. Kemp welcomed, "Nice of you to join us. Class, this is your TA, Hasan. Hasan is working on his PhD in political science here, Hasan, what are your office hours this semester?"

The man who walked in was…well, breathtaking. Dark hair tousled by invisible hands, eyes that held the glint of mischief and intelligence, and a smile that could charm the sunrise. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah, pretty packed schedule this semester, so just email me if you need to meet up, and we'll find a time."

That was it? No booming baritone introductions, no grand plans for interactive seminars? Just a mumbled email address and an evasion of office hours? Disappointment flickered across my face, quickly masked by a cough. Dr. Kemp chuckled.

"First day and already zoning out, Ms. Y/N? We have a lot to cover this semester, globalization is a tangled web, isn't it?"

He launched into a whirlwind explanation of the coursework, detailing everything from intricate trade agreements to the rise of populist movements. I tried to focus, tried to decipher the complexities of cultural homogenization and international power struggles, but Hasan kept drifting into my vision. His hand resting on the lectern, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the playful glint in his eyes as he met Dr. Kemp's gaze. My mind was a chaotic dance floor, Professor Kemp's words mere background music to the silent symphony of possibilities playing out in my head.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. Charts of global trade flows morphed into Hasan's sculpted jawline, intricate political maps became sketches of his smile. Finally, the class ended, the sweet release from academia and its alluring distractions. As everyone shuffled out, I lingered, hoping for a chance encounter, a stolen glance, anything to break the spell before it consumed me whole. But Hasan was already gone, swallowed by the labyrinthine corridors of the university, leaving behind only the faint echo of his name and the intoxicating image of him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes holding mine for a single, lingering moment.

My legs finally stumbled out of lecture hall B-12, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders like a damp backpack. My notebooks bulged with scribbled notes and half-formed insights, remnants of the academic marathon I'd just run. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, urging them shut, but the phantom heat of Hasan's gaze still pulsed beneath my skin. Could his name become a mantra tonight, a whispered incantation against the inevitable sleep that beckoned? Would I dream of power dynamics and trade imbalances, or would his face, framed by that dark, tousled hair, be the only image etched in my subconscious mind?

Dinner in the cafeteria was a blur of lukewarm pasta and whispered gossip about the new TA. My roommates peppered me with questions, but my answers were mumbled monosyllables, my attention already caught in the web of possibilities Hasan had woven around me. Even the rhythmic thrum of the washing machine sounded like a heartbeat, my chest pounding a primal rhythm against my ribs.

Finally, curled up in my bed, surrounded by the familiar chaos of textbooks and half-eaten candy wrappers, I felt a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation. Junior year might be about finishing lines, but with Hasan lurking on the horizon, the only finish line I could see was the one blurring the edges of my consciousness, pulling me toward a dream where textbooks and exams dissolved into the intoxicating haze of his smile. One thing was certain – this semester, at least, was going to be anything but smooth sailing.

The Tuesday morning sun peeked through my blinds, but the usual jolt of caffeine-fueled urgency was missing. Today, with only CJ 290: Criminal Theories on my schedule, the pressure valve hissed a sigh of relief. Professor Evans, a woman with a penchant for dissecting motives and questioning morals, was never one for early morning torture sessions. I lingered in bed, savoring the luxury of stolen minutes, my mind a tangled mess of globalization, trade agreements, and, more persistently, Hasan's captivating eyes.

My day unfolded in a leisurely waltz, devoid of the usual academic frenzied pace. I drifted through a bookstore, getting lost in the labyrinth of dusty spines and the promise of new worlds, then indulged in a leisurely lunch in the park, watching squirrels chase each other across the sun-dappled grass. But even the chirping birds and rustling leaves couldn't drown out the persistent hum of his name in my head. He was a phantom presence, whispering possibilities around every corner, making the mundane seem vibrant with anticipation.

As dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, I found myself drawn to the familiar warmth of the campus dining hall. My heart did a somersault when my gaze landed on a familiar figure seated at a corner table. It was Hasan, his head bent over a book, his brows furrowed in concentration. My breath hitched, and I instinctively ducked behind a towering stack of trays, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs. Should I approach him? Strike up a conversation about trade agreements or political philosophers? But the words caught in my throat, choked by the sudden shyness that bloomed in my chest. I watched him from the shadows, a voyeur to his book-filled world, content with simply stealing glances of his coffee-sipping lips and the way the light played on his dark hair.

He was gone by the time I gathered the courage to emerge from my self-imposed exile. The dining hall was bustling, the hum of conversation washing away the quiet intimacy of my stolen observation

. I left with a pang of disappointment, the taste of his unspoken presence lingering on my tongue, a sweet-sour mystery I couldn't quite decipher. As I lay in my bed, I couldn't help but think of him. His tall, muscular body, piercing brown eyes, and the way his voice commanded attention in the lecture hall. I had been his student for the past semester and every time I saw him, I couldn't help but feel a surge of desire.

I know it's wrong. He's my TA, someone in a position of authority. But the more I tried to suppress my thoughts, the more they consumed me. I finally gave in to my fantasies. I closed my eyes and imagined him in my bed, his hands roaming my body, his lips on mine. I could feel the heat between my thighs as I thought of him undressing me, his touch igniting every nerve in my body. I ran my hands over my breasts, imagining his lips on them, sucking and flicking my nipples. My breathing became more rapid as I thought of him trailing kisses down my stomach, until he reached the place I craved him the most. I could practically feel his tongue teasing me, his fingers exploring every inch of me. My own fingers moved faster as I imagined him entering me, making me moan his name.

As I reached my peak, I couldn't help but scream out his name. I collapsed back onto my bed, panting and flushed. But my mind couldn't stop there. I needed more, I needed him. I imagined him holding me close, whispering dirty words in my ear as he continued to pleasure me. I wanted him to be rough, to dominate me. And in my mind, he did just that. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, the shadows behind my eyelids danced with the image of his smile, a silent promise of encounters to come, of a semester forever teetering between textbooks and stolen glances, between academic pursuits and the intoxicating allure of a TA with a name that was becoming my own personal forbidden fruit.

The Wednesday morning sun rose, casting a golden hue over the campus as I made my way to my first class of the day, EN 370: European Romanticism. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, greeted us with his usual enthusiasm, diving into the depths of Shelley and Keats with fervor. But my mind wandered, drifting back to Hasan and the tantalizing possibilities he represented. HY 346: Medieval Art History followed, the lecture hall echoing with the professor's passionate discourse on the intricacies of cathedral architecture. Yet, as I scribbled notes on flying buttresses and pointed arches, my thoughts strayed once more to the enigmatic figure of Hasan, his presence a magnetic pull that defied the boundaries of the classroom. BIO 243: Advanced Genetics brought with it the complexities of Punnett squares and genetic inheritance, but even as I grappled with alleles and phenotypes, Hasan's image lingered in the recesses of my mind, a persistent whisper of distraction amidst the academic clamor.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived as I stepped into PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room, a soothing undertone that hinted at the depth of knowledge and experience lying just beneath the surface. "Good morning, everyone," he began, his voice carrying the weight of years spent navigating the intricate web of global politics. "Today marks the beginning of a journey into the heart of one of the most pressing issues of our time: globalization."

As he spoke, each word seemed to carry with it a sense of urgency, a call to action in the face of a rapidly changing world. "Globalization," he continued, "has reshaped the political landscape in ways we are only beginning to comprehend. From the rise of transnational corporations to the erosion of national sovereignty, its effects are far-reaching and profound." His words hung in the air, a silent invitation to delve deeper into the complexities of this modern-day phenomenon.

But even as Dr. Kemp expounded on the intricacies of trade agreements and cultural exchange, my attention was inexorably drawn to Hasan. His presence at the front of the room was like a magnet, pulling my gaze away from the professor's lecture and into a world of tantalizing possibilities. I found myself captivated by the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lips curved into a half-smile as he listened to Dr. Kemp's words. I couldn't stop staring at Mr. Piker, wondering if he knew what I had done the night before. I tried to focus on the lecture, but my mind kept drifting back to the thoughts from the previous night.

"Hasan," Dr. Kemp's voice broke through my reverie, bringing me back to the present moment. "Would you care to share your thoughts on the role of globalization in shaping political ideologies?" Hasan's eyes met mine for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that crackled between us. "Uh, yes, of course," he replied, his voice steady despite the hint of surprise that flickered across his features. "Globalization has undoubtedly had a profound impact on political ideologies," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "It has facilitated the spread of ideas and information on an unprecedented scale, challenging traditional notions of sovereignty and identity." His words were measured, his tone confident as he delved into the complexities of the topic at hand. And yet, despite his obvious expertise, there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of the man behind the TA facade.

As Hasan spoke, I found myself hanging on his every word, caught in the magnetic pull of his presence. His voice was like a siren's song, drawing me deeper into the labyrinth of his thoughts and ideas. I couldn't tear my gaze away, couldn't shake the feeling that we were connected in some inexplicable way, bound together by the invisible threads of fate.

The rest of the class passed in a blur, the minutes slipping by unnoticed as Hasan and Dr. Kemp dissected the nuances of globalization and its political ramifications. I scribbled notes furiously, my mind racing to keep pace with the torrent of information flooding the room. But amidst the chaos of academia, one thing remained constant: Hasan's presence, a beacon of light in the murky depths of my subconscious.

As the class ended, I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment wash over me. Relief that I could finally escape the confines of the lecture hall, but disappointment that I would have to wait until next week to see Hasan again. I lingered for a moment, watching as he gathered his belongings and made his way to the front of the room. Our eyes met briefly, a silent exchange that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving me to navigate the swirling currents of my thoughts alone.

As I made my way back to my dorm, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that a door had been opened to a world of possibilities I had never dared to explore. Hasan had awakened something within me, a hunger for knowledge and connection that transcended the boundaries of the classroom. And as I lay in bed that night, the echo of his voice still ringing in my ears, I knew that this semester would be unlike any other, a journey into the unknown with Hasan as my guide.

Two weeks passed in a whirlwind of lectures, study sessions, and stolen glances. Despite my best efforts to focus on my studies, Hasan's enigmatic presence continued to linger in the back of my mind, a constant distraction amidst the academic chaos. But as the days flew by, the impending exam in PSC 419 loomed larger and larger on the horizon, a stark reminder of the need to buckle down and prepare.

The next time the class met, the atmosphere crackled with nervous energy. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room as he handed out the exam papers, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anticipation and gravity. "Alright, class, you’ll have 50 minutes to complete this exam," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You may begin."

As the minutes ticked by, the rustle of papers and the scratch of pencils on paper filled the air, each stroke a testament to weeks of diligent preparation and late-night cramming sessions. I kept getting distracted by Hasan sitting at the front of the room, his gaze flicking across the rows of students, no doubt looking for any signs of cheating. Every time our eyes met, I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and excitement swirling in my chest.

Despite my nerves, I managed to focus on the exam, my mind racing to recall the intricacies of globalization and its political effects. But as I flipped through the pages, answering each question to the best of my ability, doubt crept in. Had I studied enough? Had I missed any crucial details? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a constant companion as the seconds ticked by.

As I gathered my belongings and made my way out of the lecture hall, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. The weight of Hasan's gaze lingered on me, a silent reminder of the unspoken tension that simmered between us.

Friday came, and I anxiously awaited the exam results, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. When Dr. Kemp finally handed back the papers, my heart sank as I saw the red mark glaring back at me. Hasan had failed me. Confusion and frustration swirled in my mind as I scanned through my answers, unable to comprehend where I had gone wrong.

Desperate for answers, I sought out a classmate to compare notes. To my disbelief, our answers aligned perfectly. Each question meticulously answered, every concept grasped with precision. With newfound resolve, I confronted Hasan, armed with evidence of my innocence.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I made my way to Hasan's office hours, determined to confront him about the unjust grade. As I entered his office, the air seemed charged with tension, the weight of our unspoken conflict hanging heavy between us. Hasan's eyes met mine, but there was no warmth in his gaze, only a guarded wariness that sent a chill down my spine.

I launched into my argument, laying out the evidence of my innocence with a conviction born of righteous indignation. But instead of engaging in a rational discourse, Hasan's demeanor grew increasingly defensive, his rebuttals growing more vehement with each passing moment. It was as if he were grasping at straws, desperate to deflect blame and avoid accountability for his actions.

As the minutes ticked by, it became painfully clear that Hasan had no intention of acknowledging his mistake, let alone rectifying it. His refusal to even entertain the possibility of an error left me feeling helpless and betrayed, a pawn in his reckless game of academic manipulation.

But then, as I prepared to leave, Hasan's tone shifted, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "There might be another way to resolve this," he said, his eyes locking with mine in a knowing gaze. My heart raced as I realized the implication of his words, the sudden surge of desire mingling with the lingering anger and frustration.

In that moment, I saw an opportunity to turn the tables, to reclaim control over the situation and emerge victorious. The thought of using my newfound leverage to secure a better grade both thrilled and terrified me, the line between right and wrong blurring in the heat of the moment.

With a tentative nod, I accepted Hasan's proposition, a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I realized the power I held in my hands. As we drew closer, the air crackling with anticipation, I knew that this was a gamble I was willing to take, consequences be damned. For in that fleeting moment of forbidden desire, I saw not only a chance to right a wrong but also a glimpse of the intoxicating allure of surrendering to temptation.

With a sense of both trepidation and excitement, I agreed to Hasan's proposition, feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. As we drew closer, the air between us crackled with anticipation, the tension palpable as we stood on the precipice of a decision that would alter the course of our academic and personal lives.

Hasan's gaze bore into mine, dark and intense, as if searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. But all I could feel was a fierce determination, a resolve to seize control of the situation and emerge victorious, no matter the cost. The lines between right and wrong blurred in the heat of the moment, overshadowed by the intoxicating allure of forbidden desire.

Without a word, Hasan closed the distance between us, his touch sending shivers down my spine as he brushed his fingers against my cheek. In that moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of us locked in a silent dance of longing and anticipation.

His lips met mine in a searing kiss, igniting a firestorm of passion that threatened to consume us both. With each touch, each caress, the boundaries that had once separated us melted away, leaving only the raw intensity of our desire.

As our bodies entwined, the air around us crackled with electricity, charged with the urgency of our shared longing. Hasan's hands roamed my body with a hunger that matched my own, igniting a wildfire of sensation that blazed through every nerve ending.

In that moment, all thoughts of exams and grades faded into obscurity, replaced by the primal need to surrender to the irresistible pull of desire. As Hasan's lips trailed down my neck, his touch setting my skin ablaze, I knew that there was no turning back.

With each passing moment, the intensity grew, building like a tidal wave ready to crash over us both. And when it finally hit, the sheer force of our passion left us breathless, tangled together in a web of tangled limbs and whispered promises.

Hasan's fingers found their way between my legs, trailing along the wetness that had welled up there. A gasp escaped my lips as his thumb circled around my clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve ending.

"You like that?" he growled in a low murmur against my ear.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form any coherent words as desire consumed every fiber of my being. The intensity grew with each passing second, building like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Hasan's fingers explored my depths with a skill and finesse that left me breathless. The way he teased and pushed against my gates of pleasure, driving me to the edge of madness, was exquisite. My body clenched around his fingers, begging for release, but he held back just enough to keep me teetering on the precipice.

"Just like that," he taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. "You want me to fuck you so badly, don't you?"

I moaned in response, unable to form coherent words as desire coursed through my veins. The urgency within me grew with each passing moment, demanding satisfaction. But Hasan knew exactly how to wield power over me, to keep me desperate for him.

"No," he replied with a mocking tone. "You're not going to come yet." A flicker of frustration crossed my face as I struggled against his firm grip. He chuckled at my futile attempts to break free from his hold.

"Don't worry," he continued, his voice dripping with seduction. "I'll make you scream my name when I give you what you crave." His touch intensified, fingers pressing deeper inside me as if testing the strength of my walls.

The anticipation was unbearable, my body trembling with a mixture of impatience and ecstasy. "Fuck," I moaned, frustration coursing through my veins like wildfire.

Hasan smirked, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "Not just yet," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slowly pulled his fingers out of me. My breath hitched in disappointment as I felt the ache deepen between my legs. "You're going to have to beg for it properly."

My hesitation mingled with defiance as I locked eyes with Hasan. He knew exactly how to push all of my buttons - the power he held over me was intoxicatingly dangerous. But even amidst the haze of desire, there was a flicker of reluctance deep within me.

"Please," I whispered hoarsely, barely able to form the words amidst the overwhelming need coursing through every inch of my body. Hasan chuckled darkly at my plea before pressing his lips against mine in a searing kiss.

With a swift movement, he lifted me up effortlessly and threw me over his desk. Sharp and dirty furniture scraped against my skin as I landed with a thud. The air crackled with anticipation as Hasan positioned himself at the entrance of my wetness.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice dripping with seduction. My heart raced in response, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through me like electricity.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form coherent words amidst the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume me. The uncertainty mingled with desire as Hasan pressed against the entrance of my core.

"Fuck," he growled lowly, gripping my hips tightly. "You want it rough, don't you? You want me to fuck you hard and fast?"

My breath hitched in response as I nodded frantically, unable to resist the magnetic pull that drew me towards him. He began to thrust into me with a force that made the desk move forward with each thrust.

"You like that, huh?" Hasan taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You like how I'm taking you so fucking hard?"

My mind was consumed by a mix of pleasure and frustration, but I couldn't deny the raw hunger between us. With each powerful thrust, my walls clenched around him tightly, desperately begging for more.

Hasan's eyes locked onto mine as he picked up the pace, his grip on my hips growing tighter with each passing second. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, filled with moans and curses that echoed off the walls.

I could feel myself teetering on the edge once again, desperate to surrender to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through my veins. But Hasan knew exactly what he was doing to me - he chased my sweet spot relentlessly, and I could feel myself edging closer and closer to the brink once again.

And then it happened. The intensity intensified until I exploded in ecstasy, crying out Hasan's name as waves of pleasure crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Hasan's thrusts grew more intense, his grip on my hips tightening as he fucked me harder and faster. The friction between us was unbearably intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure cascading through every inch of my body.

My mind spiraled with a mix of guilt and desire, torn between the forbidden desires that consumed me and the rational thoughts screaming for moderation.

"Fuck," I moaned, unable to contain myself. "You're so fucking good at this."

Hasan's eyes smoldered with dark amusement as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against mine in a hungry kiss. "That's right," he whispered huskily. "You love being fucked. You love how I use you for my pleasure. God youre such a whore, letting your TA do this to you, all for a good grade. You're my little slut, aren't you?"

He growled, his voice low and husky. I moaned and came again, my pussy clenching around his cock.

"Yes! Yes! I'm your little slut!" I cried out as he pounded into me hard and fast.

I moaned and writhed beneath him, my body responding to his dominance. "Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder!" I cried out as he pounded into me with a force that made the desk creak and squeak.

The door to the office was locked, but it didn't matter. The sound of our bodies slapping together was loud enough to be heard outside. Hasan's hands gripped my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with each thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me.

"Fuck, Hasan," I moaned. "You feel so good inside me." Hasan grunted in response, his eyes locked on mine as he continued to pound into me. His grip on my hips tightened, and I could feel him starting to lose control.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned. "Where do you want it?" I bit my lip, considering. "Inside me," I finally said. "I want to feel you fill me up." Hasan grunted again, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared his climax.

He thrust one last time, burying himself deep inside me as he came. I could feel his hot cum filling me up, and the sensation sent me over the edge as well.

I came hard, my pussy clenching around his cock as he continued to thrust into me. I was panting and shaking as he slowly pulled out of me. He sat back on his heels, looking down at me with a satisfied smile. "That was amazing," he said, stroking my hair gently.

I smiled back at him, feeling a sense of satisfaction and contentment. "Thank you," I said, my voice still shaky from the intensity of the orgasm. He leaned down and kissed me gently on the forehead. "You're welcome," he said, his voice low and husky with desire. “I think someone earned themselves a 105%,” he winked at me as we left the building.

[carriedawatermelon]

Ronancetober, day four. In which Robin is herself, Nancy is, too, and they are very much not sisters. Feat. Boston marriages, Robin karaoke, queer community, and dildos as doorstops.

(T/soft M for discussions and implications here but nothing actually explicit.)

prompt: historical or mythical

Nancy sneaks in toward the end of Robin’s lecture, finding a spot in the back row of the auditorium when someone steps out to use the restroom. Robin’s beside the lectern, gesturing emphatically at the image on the screen, the light of the slide projector catching briefly on her fingers when she steps toward the front of the stage. 

It’s one of Nancy’s favorite things, to see her like this, confident and excited and moving, always, legs taking her across the space available to her and body leaning while her hands work. She’d been told to rein it in for her dissertation defense, and she had, but now, tenure track and published in multiple prestigious journals and popular with the students, she does as she pleases, mostly. 

She wears what she pleases, too. Today it’s an oversized tweed jacket and navy pants, a white button-down underneath. It’s been almost fifteen years since Nancy met her in Starcourt, throwing fireworks and telling wildly inappropriate stories in her Scoops Ahoy uniform, and a lot has changed, but her fondness for jewelry hasn’t, a silver chain on her neck and several silver rings on her fingers, flashing as she dips in and out of the lights. Her oxfords have seen better days, scuffed and creased, but Robin’s always been hard on her shoes, tripping and stomping and once upon a time, doodling. 

As Nancy leans forward in her chair, Robin clicks to a new slide and says, like the audience is in on the joke, “Now I know this looks exactly the same…” A triumphant grin flits across her face at the laugh she gets, and Nancy grins with her, proud. 

Nancy waits after the lecture, a small line of people forming to speak to Robin. She watches from a distance as they interact, grateful that the lighting in the room lets her stare without Robin catching on. She’s easy, confident, hands just as busy, occasionally running through the mop of hair on her head or shifting to rest in her pockets where Nancy knows she keeps a few coins to flip between her fingers. The people talking to her are, for the most part, women—students who nod and nod as Robin talks, a few colleagues Nancy recognizes who must say nice things, based on the way Robin’s hands go to her pockets. Her special interest is the translation of women from the Greek classics, the subject of the lecture, and she’s so passionate about it, so thoughtful and creative and invested. 

She looks like she’s exactly where she belongs. 

As the last person shakes Robin’s hand, she walks down the aisle.

“Have time for one more question, Professor?”

“Nance!” Robin drops the bag she’d been packing and moves forward to hug her, pressing warm lips to her cheek. Nancy sneaks her arms under her blazer and holds her close for a second. “What’re you doing here?”

“Interview canceled and I thought I’d come see my very favorite Classics Professor give a talk.”

“I’m sorry Professor Dennis isn’t on the schedule for the day. I’ll tell him you missed him.”

“Ha, ha,” she says with a kiss to Robin’s cheek. “Well I made reservations at that Italian place if you want to tell Professor Dennis to meet me there.”

“Nope!” She grins and grabs her bag. “I don’t, actually, thanks for asking. But I do want tiramisu.” 

-

Rosa’s fortieth is a blowout, a bar full of queers taking shots and whistling at drag queens, filling their tip buckets. The music is loud and the people are, too, in each other’s space laughing and drinking and dancing. It’s like they’re in college again, except a version that many of them never really got to experience, queer and unashamed. 

Robin and Nancy are in it like everyone, Nancy laughing as she licks salt from Robin’s neck and steals a lime from her mouth, blushing at the applause they get when she goes back for a kiss. They never stop touching, hands on waists or fingers linked, Robin holding Nancy from behind as they watch the show, kisses that are as close to thoughtless as they’ll ever be. 

When the stage clears and the bar shifts to karaoke, they settle at a high top in the back, Nancy’s hand wandering up Robin’s thigh and her lips wandering her neck. It’s rare enough, the freedom to do this without risking themselves, that Nancy wants to take full advantage, and she’s had enough tequila that she can without caring too much. These are their friends. This is their family. The most they get are teasing words and smirks, all undercut with obvious joy, with obvious solidarity—Look at you. I see you. I know who you are. I know who you are to each other.

After a few rounds, someone calls out Robin’s name, and then a chorus starts, and Robin goes, smiling, to the stage. She’s in black jeans and a black leather jacket open over a black t-shirt, her Docs beaten to hell. There’s lipstick on her cheek and down one side of her neck, and her hair’s even messier than usual from where Nancy’s run her hands through it. 

When she stands in front of the mic stand, drunk enough for her lips to pull into her cockiest smile, Nancy wants to get on her knees. 

She doesn’t, but she does bite her bottom lip so hard it hurts, and Robin’s smirk only grows. 

She sings Johnny Cash, I Walk the Line, catcalled the entire time by their rowdy friends. Nancy doesn’t mind, staying close enough that Robin can see her, winking occasionally in a way that makes Nancy weak, but far enough away that a line of people fills the space in front of her. It’s the attention she deserves, and it makes her heart settle, to see her getting it. 

Nancy worries every single time Robin travels alone, thinking about every gas station restroom and every sneering idiot at every roadside diner. She saw what it did to Robin, to have to choose between being comfortable in herself and being accepted by so many of her professors and peers and, later, colleagues. She’s chosen herself since she understood what that meant, brave and brilliant, and it has cost her but she hasn’t wavered. 

Now, the things that have put her at risk in the world in so many ways get her half-joking swoons and compliments low enough not to interrupt her but loud enough that Robin’s cheeks go a little pink and yep, someone’s bra, which makes Robin’s eyebrows climb to her forehead, lips twitching as she drawls the lyrics without pause. 

When she finishes, taking a bow and stepping into the crowd, her eyes are on Nancy, who pulls her into an absolutely filthy kiss. 

“Alright, Wheeler, we got it! She’s taken!”

“Damn right,” Nancy calls back, pulling away and letting her own cocky smile spread at the way Robin’s eyes flutter open slowly, her hands reaching for Nancy’s waist on instinct. 

“Yep,” Robin agrees, too soft for anyone but Nancy to hear, the next song already playing. Nancy turns them both to face the mic and leans back into Robin, who wraps her arms around her and whispers alternatingly vulgar and adoring things to her until Nancy drags her to the back hallway. 

-

“One of my students told me today that her great-grandmother’s sister was in a Boston marriage.”

Nancy’s fingers are drawing patterns on Robin’s bare stomach, her head resting on her chest. They’re naked and sated and too lazy to get up and turn the light off. 

“One of your queer kids?” She says, listening to Robin’s heart.

“Yeah.” 

This happens a lot, Robin being who she is, visible the way she is. Students find her and talk to her, and she listens, has pamphlets and referrals to a counselor in the student center she trusts for when she needs them. She supervises the gay and lesbian group on campus, brings Nancy to the holiday party. 

“She says she found letters, when she was in high school. Her grandmother had this whole trunk of stuff in her attic that nobody had ever bothered to go through, I guess, or they sure as shit would’ve burned these.”

“That bad?” By bad she means, of course, gay. 

“Apparently. To my student anyway. Her grandmother and mom talk about her Aunt Elizabeth and her best friend. They hadn’t seen the letters and Mia didn’t show them, but when she asked, they had these stories, talked all about how close they were.”

“Were they like sisters?” Nancy asks, in her best oblivious heterosexual voice. 

“They were,” Robin snorts. 

“How sweet.”

There have been many times when they’ve been mistaken for relatives or close friends, almost never able to correct any of those mistakes safely. It makes Nancy want to set fire to something every single time. 

“I hope I would’ve been lucky enough to be in a Boston marriage with you. The very un-sisterly kind.”

“Our queer great-great niece would find our love letters in a trunk. Maybe a picture. Holly’s kids and grandkids could hang it on the wall and talk about our close friendship.”

“I think I’d look good as a dandy.”

“Oh, you absolutely would.”

“‘Robin was very practical. She wore pants!’”

“What were Victorian strap-ons like, do you think?”

Robin groans. “Oh god, I don’t want someone finding our strap in a trunk.”

Laughing, Nancy turns up to kiss her chin. “No, no, we’d obviously make a plan. The other best friends would take care of it. But if someone did find it, they’d explain it away. A cleaning accessory.”

“A hat display.”

“A door stop.”

“A badly made rolling pin,” Robin stutters, laughing at herself. 

“Oh my god,” but she’s giggling, not trying to hide it. “A dildo, but one they used exclusively to prepare themselves for the husbands they were looking for. Together, of course. Like best friends. For practice.”

“For practice,” Robin wheezes, shaking Nancy’s body with her laughter. “Of course. They fucked platonically. Like,” she can barely get it out. “Like sisters.”

They’re still giggling a minute later, Robin pressing her lips to the top of Nancy’s head. 

“I don’t want anyone to assume us away,” she says, voice softer. Her fingers link with Nancy’s and she brings them to her lips. “I don’t want anyone to erase this.”

There are pictures—Nancy laughing in Robin’s lap, Robin’s arms tight around her waist and her eyes full of love; Robin kissing her cheek at a birthday party, bodies pressed close; a particularly beautiful shot of them dancing at Max’s wedding. There are letters—pages and pages from the months they spent apart when Robin was researching abroad in grad school and when Nancy’s been on assignment, nothing remotely platonic about any of them. And there are their friends, a whole community of people who know them, who’ve spoken about them and taken other pictures, the same way Nancy and Robin have for them. 

“Even if they wanted to,” she whispers into Robin’s skin as she presses herself up, moving until she’s looking down at pools of blue, “there will always be a Mia. There will always be people who know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She tastes like Nancy, still, and Nancy licks at her bottom lip before settling back on her sternum, Robin’s fingers moving across her back. 

[irrealisms]

it's different this time, there's water liner notes

fic here if you haven't read it!

the original title for this fic was the (possibly) last summer, from this margaret atwood poem. this has been true for a couple months, since it was just a fic idea that i probably wasn't going to write. i was so excited for it! i love They are hostile nations & i haven't gotten to use it for a fic title yet! and i Do still very much recommend it both qua poem and as a pairing for this fic

(i got the fic idea after the first vitalasy stream on s6; it changed from "fic idea i probably won't write" to "yeah okay i need to write this" after the second one)

but then i was struggling with Writing Happy Things and batting around ideas of what specifically they're doing in the fic and got the idea for a Funnest Room Competition Take Two, and soooo recently i had been thinking and talking about the vitalasy & zam conversation i transcribed, where zam is convincing vitalasy to come down a 1x1 hole and vitalasy mentions the moment from s4 where zam jumped down a similar 1x1 in order to kill herself on dripstone and vitalasy followed immediately and died as well, and zam says It’s different this time, there’s water and I’m down here. the way that this is a physical representation of the ways it's different: in s4, when zam wanted to prove her love to vitalasy, she killed herself, in a microcosm of so many of the problems in their relationship. in s6, she tries to recreate something that vitalasy loved. it's safe; there's nothing there to kill herself or anyone else. you can't take fall damage or die on dripstone. there's water. and-- in the original Funnest Room, vitalasy's room had a secret entrance which led to a room with a lectern. the room with the lectern (and what was hidden behind the lectern) is, i think, familiar enough to all eclipse fans that i don't need to belabor the point too much, but it's a similar concept: making their base again, but it's different this time. no dripstone, no secret passages. they're trying again, but this time they're doing it without the problems that tear them apart. so. new title

btw have new fans seen the OG funnest rooms. they're so incredibly ugly. i love them so dearly. look at these and know that they all three have even more details that i couldn't get in the screenshot, such as "an end crystal" and "concrete powder being repeatedly shot up and then falling back down"

look at them. aren't they wonderful. anyway back to the fic

i...sort of considered either "zam-and-subz conversation about eclipse" or "zam coming out" having more of a presence. but it was never more than sort of; i was pretty solid early on that i didn't want this to be a reconciliation fic, i wanted it to be a post-reconciliation "tentatively learning to love each other again" fic. all the big dramatic moments are in the past. now: a moment of happiness, together.

something i wanted to make clear is that it's a very temporary moment of happiness. vitalasy is only on the server for very short periods of time. zam and subz have other plotlines and alliances going on (or, in subz's case, lifesteal public) that they can't & don't want to drop. the server itself is going to end. but....it's still real? and what it symbolizes in their relationship, that they're repairing it and getting closer as friends again, is going to keep being real.

the idea to intersperse some of the most painful moments of s4 is one i went back and forth on a bit but eventually decided in favor. they have a lot of very genuinely hurtful history that is sort of coloring every interaction. in the present day, they're able to move forward from it, but it's not...small? it was really bad, they all hurt each other a lot.

related to moving forward. something i said on discord about this fic: "i have written two Not A Fix-Its that do canon divergence from s4. i have broadly maintained my stance that they are doomed from the moment they got together & you cannot fix them. but it turns out that you can fix them and the way to fix them is by going forward instead of backwards."

uhhhhh i'm not sure how obvious this is but all three of them are sort of on high alert trying to Be Careful and Manage everything so everyone stays happy and nothing explodes horrifically. this is most obvious from vitalasy bc he's the one whose pov we're in but rest assured: zam and subz are doing it too. this will get better with time as they get used to each other & nothing continues to happen.

which: i do think that in fact it will not explode horrifically! not only have all of them grown as people since s4, there's also a thing of... eclipse federation only went as bad as it did in s4 because their long-term season goals were fundamentally opposed and vitalasy had important reasons that he could not tell zam the full truth about things. neither vitalasy nor subz have long-term season goals in s6; none of them have material reasons to lie to each other or keep secrets. i think they'll be fine.

change vs staying the same is another big thing. subz isn't a builder anymore, zam is. zam's a girl. but also there's the same hammock, the same familiar friendship. the things that are the same, the things that are different. once again this ties into the title & where it came from & why it applies to the fic.

uhhhhh zam gives subz slime blocks bc they were the walls of subz's funnest room. what zam may not know is that they were ALSO the walls of the post-s4 vitalasy&subz house. anyway that's a thing

vitalasy's cat isn't referred to by name because its name is vitalapuss and vitalasy is a PG streamer who tends to avoid the name. sorry vitalasy.

vitalasy smiles a LOT in this fic and there are two references to vitalasy's face hurting from smiling. this is because i watch vitalasy pov when he streams on s6 and when he puts on facecam he is ALWAYS smiling so so so big and occasionally mentioning how his face hurts from smiling so much. lifesteal makes him happy 🥺 (this in turn makes me happy)

similarly: vitalasy cubito often spins when Particularly happy and i so rarely get to include this bc i usually write vitalasy miserable. but he gets to spin here!!!

behind the scenes fact: i wrote the entire first draft of this fic a week ago in a single 6-hour sitting, from 11pm to 5am, while incredibly sick and off-and-on feverish. and then a week later (today) i did a bit of vod review, did 50 words of edits, and posted it. halfway through writing the first draft vitalasy tweeted that he was going to upload again accompanied by a gif of eclipse federation. i take nothing but Ws forever

discord message by me at 3am: "i cant believe he did this. he Heard me writing eclipse federation happy ending and was like Not to worry. i will make this real for you"

also i mentioned this earlier but i struggle SO MUCH with writing happy things. i'm proud of myself for both this fic and my previous one (memory foam, the tgcf fic, not the previous lifesteal fic) for being happier than my usual? in both of those fics there's still very much The Past Horrors but i'm expanding my repertoire! and from the reaction i think i did a good job of it ^w^

for eclipse fed particularly though there's also a thing of.... the reason i didn't see myself writing happy things for them wasn't just bc i'm bad at writing happy things, it's also bc they were doomed when they were together and incredibly unhappy when they fell apart and i couldn't imagine a path from where they started to a happy ending. certainly not in s4, and s5 didn't really give me hope there, either, with zam refusing to talk to vitalasy about the previous season, and then with subz and vitalasy both banning themselves off the server and quitting content creation (cutting off the possibility of any future reconciliation or even further interaction within the context of the lore). and then, well, s6 happened. vitalasy and subz are back; vitalasy and zam had a genuine conversation about s4 which went better than i could have imagined. this happy ending hasn't happened for them, and it may never, but i have genuine hope for them and the future of their relationship on lifesteal in a way i never have before, even when they were together the first time. i'm-- genuinely, truly so glad to have been wrong.

[black-amortentia]

A Shower of Sparks | Festivities - Snolidays 2023

Severus Snape x Professor!Reader | Warnings: Secret relationship, fluff and maybe a little angst because FEELINGS, I finished and edited this through a migraine, so please forgive any failings!

This is my story for week four "Festivities" of Snolidays 2023! This is the final part, and we get to see a little more from Sev's POV this time. Though all parts can be read independently, there is a bit of a story linking them all together.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

--

Although half the students had gone home for the holiday, the Christmas feast was elaborate and mouthwatering as ever. Roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin juice, and a variety of other delights. The Great Hall filled with a hum of conversation instead of the usual cacophony, which was bittersweet to Severus. While less noise was less likely to give him a headache, it made his conversation with you more likely to be overheard. He would have to be careful of his words.

Being careful around you had grown increasingly difficult.

Not that you had noticed. Severus was always a master of his emotions, even when you were alone. You thought nothing of his silence, pulling him into your conversation with Professor Sprout.

“What about you, Severus? Do you miss spending time with your family during the holidays?”

“No.”

A quick, terse answer, as usual. It was a part of your subterfuge, making a show of how Severus was just as impatient with you in front of everyone. Though this interaction served as a reminder that you knew nothing about Severus’s family. If you thought about it, how much did you really know about him at all?

Under the table, Severus’s hand found your thigh. The perpetual chill of his hand seeped through your clothes, his hand just resting there. A few soft movements of his palm stroking up and down. At first, you thought he was simply in a hurry to be alone. When you saw him take a bite out of the corner of your eye, you realized he hadn’t finished his meal. You reached for the jug of pumpkin juice, brushing his shoulder with your own.

When the feast wound down, Dumbledore approached his owl lectern. “As another successful Christmas draws to a close, I invite you all to assemble outside on the lawn for a final Christmas surprise.”

The hall erupted into murmurs of surprise and curiosity. You shared glances with your fellow teachers, but it seemed this surprise was for faculty as much as for the students. None of you had the foggiest.

As people filed out of the Great Hall in, you fell into step beside Severus. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Severus slowed his steps, allowing others to fetch hats and scarves and scurry outside. Neither of you spoke until you were alone.

“Yes?” Severus drawled. His hand went to your waist, eager to touch you while he had the opportunity.

“This seems like the perfect time to give you this.” You withdrew a small package wrapped in brightly colored paper. Severus raised an eyebrow as you presented it to him.

He faltered, looking down at the object between you as if it would bite him if he moved too quickly.

Gifts? Severus knew it was Christmas, but he had not expected there to be an exchange of gifts. Severus wasn’t even sure when he’d last received a gift.

“Don’t just stare at it. Open it before someone catches us.”

Severus pulled apart the wrapping paper, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor when he saw what was within. A pair of soft, black leather gloves with an elaborate design of a snake embossed on the back. Severus was speechless. His lack of response brought a smile to your face. You had hoped to surprise and impress, and it seemed to succeed.

“I have nothing for you,” he said quietly.

You waved your hand. “I don’t care about that. I just saw these and thought you might like them.”

Severus stared down at the gloves, coming to his senses and pulling them on. He’d been wrestling with his feelings for you, struggling to understand what he wanted, what he could have with you. Wondering what you truly felt for him. Surely you didn’t care deeply for him. He wouldn’t deserve it, even if you did.

Your relationship had grown deeper over the holidays, but this gift made it clear. You really did care. Enough to keep him in your idle thoughts, enough to bring him gifts and cheer, even when he thought he did not want such things.

There was something Severus knew you wanted, something he hadn’t been able to give you. Out of fear, of a desire to protect you, he held back. Severus wasn’t sure if he could do that any longer. Maybe the best thing he could give you in return was a piece of himself.

“My mother.”

“Hm?” You turned to him, questioning, as you retrieved your scarf.

“You asked earlier if I miss my family during the holidays. I miss my mother.”

You paused your movements, your hand darting out to take his. This was the most Severus had ever opened up to you, and you would not take that for granted. “I would love for you to tell me about her.”

Footsteps down the hall caused the two of you to break apart. You flicked your wand, vanishing the wrapping paper on the floor, and busied yourself with your scarf.

A few Gryffindor boys walked past, heading for the lawn. “I think Snape’s trying to catch someone under the mistletoe. Only way he’s getting a kiss,” one of them joked, not as quietly as he seemed to think.

“Hold your tongue, McLaggen, or next time it will be house points,” Severus snapped, his voice dripping with malice. He shot you a disparaging look, driving his point home.

Frowning, you ducked your head, stung by his cruel tone. Severus preferred to keep things private, but sometimes it felt like he didn’t want the relationship at all. Staying secretive, holding you at arm’s length, sometimes pushing you away. Even those times when you were alone together, when he showed you the side of himself he kept hidden from everyone else, Severus felt closed off. You always respected him and knew he had his reasons, but sometimes it left you wondering.

What exactly were you to Severus Snape?

With the moment you were sharing thoroughly ruined, you finished bundling up. “Don’t want to miss the surprise,” you commented, following the students out to the lawn.

But your eyes said it all. All the hurt and uncertainty contained within your gaze. Severus picked up on your emotions, but his Legillimency confirmed it. Flexing his fingers in his new gloves, he followed silently after you.

Severus had once ruined the most important relationship in his life by saying the wrong thing. Was he on the path to making the same foolish mistake?

The lawn was dimly lit, students and teachers milling about. Severus stood just behind your shoulder, black cloak concealing his movements. He took your hand, lacing your fingers together. His breath lifted your hair when he whispered your name. “Perhaps we can speak later?”

You squeezed his hand gently in return. Severus didn’t hear your whispered response. He had come to a realization. If this continued, he could put you at risk. Severus had seen the Dark Mark on his arm growing stronger. He couldn’t let you be a weakness, or let you fall into danger because of him. No matter how much you meant to him, it would be selfish to keep you without telling you the truth. A truth he could never tell you.

But he couldn’t keep you at arm’s length forever. Severus knew he would lose you. Sometimes he already felt you slipping away. You deserved more than a man who only gave you part of himself. Would it be better to end things now, before he made it more painful for both of you?

Severus had to decide.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. The crowd fell silent, looking to the sky.

A crimson firework shot up over the turrets with a trail of golden sparks, exploding in a massive sphere of red and gold that lit up the night. The sparks became a red and gold Gryffindor lion in a ferocious roar. When it faded, a similar display followed for each of the houses and finally the Hogwarts school crest hovered above the sky.

While everyone watched the skies, Severus watched you. Eyes sparkling in the light of the fireworks, lips curved into that smile he delighted in. The way you held his hand in the darkness, sharing the moment together, even in secret.

Severus decided.

With a swift tug on your arm, Severus turned you around and pulled you against him. His lips found yours in a searing kiss, hand snaking around to the small of your back. Forgetting all about the fireworks, you leaned into Severus. You didn’t care if someone saw you, just as Severus didn’t seem to.

There was something different about this kiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it. It somehow held more than your past intimate moments. More emotion, intent, care, more of everything Severus. When you finally broke away, he held your gaze, eyes filled with a resolve you’d never seen before.

“I love you.”

Severus’s voice was barely a whisper, and you felt the words more than you heard them. It didn’t diminish their strength in the slightest.

“Sev…”

“I have many things to tell you.”

Severus could never tell you everything, but he could tell you some things. You deserved all the truth he could afford.

“I want to hear all of it.” Maybe you weren’t expecting the story you would hear, but it didn’t matter. Nothing would change your mind - or your heart. “I love you, too, Severus.”

Abandoning the fireworks, Severus led you back to his quarters. He had every intention of giving you the truth he owed you, but maybe after one more kiss.

A reminder of what he would fight for in the times ahead.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

A Case For A Big, Central Pulpit by Tony Felich

As for the pulpit in particular- it is big, central, and strong, for a reason. It is meant to promote the preaching of God’s inspired, inerrant, sufficient, and authoritative Word as the central activity of the Church. The pulpit is bigger than the preacher. The pulpit requires the person who brings the Word to stand up and step into it. It demands the preacher consider the solemnity of the role he is exercising when preaching the Word, leading the congregation in prayer, or otherwise leading elements of the worship liturgy.

We had the opportunity to build a new sanctuary fifteen years ago and we opted for an Old School style complete with wooden pews, kneelers, choir in the back, digital pipe organ and a big central pulpit. This post is not trying to convince anyone they should do what we did, but rather to offer an explanation for those who wonder and even an encouragement for those who worship in older buildings that have a similar set up. The various features of our church architecture and layout are based on things we see as biblically important. Our building looks a certain way for a specific reason. Our choice of furnishings and the particular layout of the pulpit, baptismal, and communion table are purposeful.

It is not that other types of church buildings or layouts are unbiblical or wrong. For example, it seems the big, central, wooden pulpit is often rare in newer church buildings. Many modern churches opt for a large stage for a worship band and a portable stool or chair in front of a Plexiglas lectern for their casually dressed pastor to sit and teach or “talk with” his congregation. I do something similar on Sunday nights and in other teaching venues. Certainly, the Word of God can be taught or preached in different set ups. Jesus taught in various settings throughout his ministry, as did the Apostle Paul. The Bible doesn’t prescribe the arrangement of furniture in a church worship setting.

The pastor, sitting with small Plexiglas lectern on Sunday morning, definitely communicates casual, informal, personal interaction. It seems such a setup is intended to make the pastor come across as non-threatening, even a bit less authoritative. The pastor in that posture is about to have a conversation or fireside chat with his family and friends, it would seem. I suspect this approach might be a reaction to the yelling, pulpit-pounding, white-suit wearing, hanky in one hand, fire and brimstone preacher. The stool and lectern approach is meant to put people at ease as they listen to a “message” from the Bible. The pastor’s choice of casual dress while teaching or preaching Sunday morning tells the congregation- “Hey, I’m one of you! Let me tell you what I’ve learned this week.” I think much of the trend toward a casual set up for teaching and preaching Sunday morning has come from current generational pressure. Millennials and Gen Zs are characterized as being skeptical or dismissive of authority. The traditional big, central pulpit with the pastor wearing a suit or robe is a bit offsetting to a generation that doesn’t acknowledge levels of authority readily.

Let’s be honest-whatever your set up, something is being communicated. Our intention is to communicate importance and authority by the chancel arrangement we have. The most important activities of the church are signified by the furnishings we have the pulpit, the baptismal, and the communion table. The ministry of Christ’s church is the ministry of the Word and Sacrament. Our furnishings are meant to make a statement about the priorities of the church.

As for the pulpit in particular- it is big, central, and strong, for a reason. It is meant to promote the preaching of God’s inspired, inerrant, sufficient, and authoritative Word as the central activity of the Church. The pulpit is bigger than the preacher. The pulpit requires the person who brings the Word to stand up and step into it. It demands the preacher consider the solemnity of the role he is exercising when preaching the Word, leading the congregation in prayer, or otherwise leading elements of the worship liturgy. Yes, the big, central pulpit is meant to exude authority-the authority of the preached Word primarily. This authority is not based on the preacher, but on the Word that is preached. In our church, the pastors wear robes so the congregation’s attention is not on his clothes, but rather the role he is filling for that hour. Some will say, The robe distracts me…it reminds me of when I was Catholic.” Possibly. But I am guessing a good number might say, “Skinny jeans on Gen Xers, untucked shirts, and preachers in sneakers are distracting too”. The pulpit manned by a minister in a robe communicates reverence and authority. But this article is not really making a case for robe-wearing, so forgive the rabbit trail!

Back to the big central pulpit set up. Preaching is proclaiming the word of truth and exhorting the congregation to believe and obey. The pastor is commanded to “preach the Word” (2 Timothy 4:2) as part of his essential shepherding duties and the central pulpit arrangement can serve to encourage this practice. The central pulpit set up is a reminder to the pastor and the people about God’s authoritative Word. There is a sense in which pastors come and go, but the big, solid pulpit from which the Word is preached, will remain for generations. A preacher “filling the pulpit” is a great way to describe what a faithful pastor should be doing. He should know what the pulpit is meant for (preaching the Word) and do the task. In other words, many important messages can be relayed by architecture and setup.

To be clear, I would rather go to a church that has a modern set up with the stool and Plexiglass lectern where the pastor believes and preaches the Bible faithfully than a church with a traditionally arranged big, central pulpit, but the pastor does not believe or faithfully teach the Bible. The essential priority for a biblical, healthy church, is a right view and teaching of the Bible, which can be done with no pulpit at all. My purpose here is to offer explanation for a big central pulpit set up like ours and possibly provide some ideas to share with your church members if you have a similar arrangement.

Dr. Tony Felich is a Minister in the Presbyterian Church in America and serves as the Pastor of Redeemer PCA in Overland Park, Kansas.

[myewcraft]

Wildfolk Update

This pseudo update serves as a replacement/overhaul of villagers. The primary goal is to make interacting with "villagers", known now as wildfolk, significantly less of a chore and hopefully more fun.

Wildfolk

Wildfolk are humanoid animals that completely replace villagers in the overworld. Wildfolk come in multiple different species depending on the biome their village generates in.

Blubberfolk - Cold non-mountainous biomes like snowy plains or taigas, based on walruses

Merfolk - Ocean or swamp biomes, based on fish

Featherfolk - Temperate biomes like forests and plains, based on birds

Slitherfolk - Hot biomes like deserts and badlands, based on snakes

Mountainfolk - Mountains, based on alpacas and rams

Cavefolk - Very rarely underground, based on beetles

Trading

Wildfolk trade by being thrown emeralds, like throwing gold to piglins, which they will exchange for items based on their job. For example a farmer would give the player a large bunch of crops when given an emerald.

Wildfolk do not accept anything other than emeralds, which means that emeralds are far more rare as they can't be obtained from trades like they can in vanilla.

Jobs

Wildfolk can have jobs just like vanilla villagers, with their job being determined by a job block. In the list below the job block is put in parenthesis next to the jobs name, and the bullet point below it is what a wildfolk can give in exchange for an emerald.

Farmer (Composter)

Crops; only way to obtain your first corn, which can then be planted and grown by the player.

Butcher (Smoker)

Raw and cooked meat, leather and feathers.

Cartographer (Cartography Table)

Maps to structures and biomes. Tries not to provide the same map twice.

Cleric (Brewing Stand)

Golden apples, or potions.

Fletcher (Fletching Table)

Tipped arrows or more rarely enchanted crossbows and bows.

Librarian (Lectern)

Enchanted books and bookshelves.

Mason (Stonecutter)

Stones; like normal stone, diorite, or terracotta.

Lumberjack (Woodcutter)

Logs. Usually of local types but more rarely of farther biomes.

Tailor (Loom)

Colored wool.

Blacksmith (Anvil)

Iron, coal, copper, and more rarely enchanted iron equipment.

Engineer (Autocrafter)

Redstone, redstone components, and mechanical brains.

The wandering trader is a unique wildfolk job that is not assigned by a job block. Instead there is a small chance each morning for a wandering trader to spawn, with its species being random instead of based on the biome they spawn in. At night, right around when the player is able to sleep, wandering traders will despawn.

Wandering traders provide items from their travels when given emeralds. These items include saplings and logs from biomes outside the current biome, mob crates of various mobs, flowers from other biomes, and some hard to get blocks like coral, sea lanterns, and froglights. They have a much wider trading pool than other jobs making trading with them much more random.

Zombiefication

The chance for wildfolk to become a zombie wildfolk when killed by a zombie can be modified using a gamerule. Whether or not wildfolk are even targeted by zombies can also be disabled or re-enabled with a gamerule.

When a zombified wildfolk is cured, they will show their appreciation by giving the player an emerald. They will not provide another emerald for being re-zombified and re-cured unless they have spent a minimum amount of time as a villager before becoming a zombie again.

Design Goals

Vanilla villagers have a problem in that they make getting certain resources much easier as long as you are willing to engage is lengthy and tedious trading processes, essentially encouraging boring gameplay. Needing to trade large amounts of sticks in order to get a mending book for instance just isn't really fun despite being the most efficient way to do so.

Wildfolk instead make trades less common due to emeralds being harder to get but more substantial as each emerald gives a large chunk of materials. In a sense each emerald is like a goodie bag with loot that can be influenced by choosing which wildfolk job you want to trade with.

This encourages more of a gameplay style where instead of trying to outright replace collecting certain types of items by trying to mass produce emeralds like vanilla encourages, instead you will find emeralds naturally in your time playing and can choose to trade them in order to get items you might need more of at the moment or don't enjoy getting.

[admiralbroom]

6 and 50 for your lamb c:

Ooo thanks for asking!

6 - who raised your lamb?

Finn and their siblings were raised by their three mothers, who did not have names until about five minutes ago lol. Harri acted as the main social leader for the herd, giving announcements and sharing news. Whenever there was a disagreement between the lambs, she would be the one to find a resolution. Harri also formerly served as the herds representative when communicating with other hidden herds, until a few too many herds were hunted down and it was decided that they should stay isolated. Nadia was the logistics expert of the three of them, planing out expansions for their settlement and organizing foraging missions. She was the one who kept everything running, ensuring the fields stayed productive and the water ran clear. Nadia attempted to teach her children these same skills for when the siblings likely took over leading the herd, but Finn was the only one who really paid her lessons any mind. Arassi was the most reserved of the three, interacting the least with the rest of the herd. In her younger days, she’d been a part of a small militia of lambs, prior to the group being split into smaller herds to make them harder to find. These smaller groups had no need for fighting, as they felt it was easier to hide than to fight the people hunting them down, leading to Arassi being one of the few lambs in Finn’s herd with any sort of self defense training. She began to see prophetic signs in the world around her, and was able to hone her clairvoyant skills and served as the herd’s oracle. Almost a year before the herd was found, she was able to predict that they would be destroyed, whittled down to nothing. Harri tried to keep it a secret within their family, believing that she could avoid their fate, but Arassi knew otherwise. The rest of the family was glad to ignore it, but Finn wanted to be prepared as best they could be for whatever was to come, and Arassi began training them in self defense, despite Finn’s scrawny size.

Finn loved their family and was loved in return, and they miss each of them dearly, in spite of everything that happened.

50 - Freebie

Despite an initially icy start, Finn is extremely close to Ratau. Once it became clear Ratau was genuine in his attempts to help Finn lead the cult, they started to see him as the father they never had. They regularly go to the lonely shack to ask advice and just talk with him, and Ratau visits the cult often (even more so once they add a knucklebones table to the longhouse). When the Red Fox attempted to attack Ratau, Finn teleported him to safety, fighting and killing the Fox on their own. They gifted the fox’s pelt to Ratau as a cloak, a permanent symbol that none are to harm with those The Lamb holds close. (Side note: Finn kept the Fox’s skull as the centerpiece for the temple lectern, his ears as decoration for their wool, and gifted his jaw to Chemach for use as a relic)

Thanks for reading through my brain vomit, I hope it’s somewhat comprehensible! Also: if anyone knows what I’m referencing with Finn’s backstory you get a cookie 🍪

[ocimumglobal]

Digital Podiums: Revolutionizing Presentations in the Modern Era

In the age of rapid technological advancement, traditional tools are being replaced by smart, tech-savvy alternatives. One such innovation that has significantly impacted the realm of presentations and public speaking is the digital podium. Whether in educational institutions, corporate settings, or public venues, digital podiums are transforming the way information is delivered and received. Let’s delve into the features, benefits, and reasons why digital podiums are becoming indispensable in today’s world.

What is a Digital Podium?

A digital podium is an advanced version of the traditional lectern. It integrates various technologies, such as touchscreen displays, built-in microphones, and audio systems, to enhance the presenter’s experience. Designed to offer seamless integration with multimedia content, digital podiums are the perfect blend of simplicity and sophistication.

Key Features of a Digital Podium

1. Touchscreen Interface

One of the standout features of digital podiums is the large, interactive touchscreen display. This allows presenters to:

Navigate through slides effortlessly.

Annotate content in real-time.

Access multimedia files with a single touch.

2. Integrated Audio System

Digital podiums are equipped with built-in microphones and high-quality speakers, ensuring clear audio delivery to the audience. Many models also include noise-cancellation features for a professional-grade audio experience.

3. Compatibility with Multiple Devices

Modern digital podiums support connections with laptops, tablets, and USB drives. This ensures flexibility and ease of use, regardless of the presenter’s preferred device.

4. Internet Connectivity

Wi-Fi and Ethernet connectivity enable users to access online resources, stream videos, or download additional materials directly from the podium.

5. Adjustable Design

To cater to presenters of different heights and preferences, many digital podiums feature height-adjustable designs. This ensures a comfortable experience for all users.

6. Robust Security Features

Digital podiums often include password-protected access and encrypted data storage, ensuring that sensitive information remains secure.

7. Multi-Language Support

For institutions and organizations with diverse audiences, digital podiums offer multi-language interfaces, making them accessible to users worldwide.

8. Built-in Lighting

Integrated LED lighting enhances visibility for documents or notes during presentations, especially in dimly lit environments.

9. Recording and Streaming Capabilities

With built-in cameras and software, digital podiums allow presenters to record their sessions or stream them live. This is especially beneficial for hybrid and virtual events.

10. Durable and Sleek Design

Constructed with high-quality materials, digital podiums are designed to withstand frequent use while maintaining a modern and professional appearance.

Benefits of Using a Digital Podium

Enhanced Engagement

Digital podiums make presentations more interactive, captivating the audience’s attention with visuals, videos, and real-time annotations.

Time Efficiency

By consolidating multiple functionalities in one device, digital podiums save setup time and allow presenters to focus on delivering their message effectively.

Accessibility for All

Features like adjustable height and multi-language support ensure that digital podiums are user-friendly for people of all abilities and backgrounds.

Professionalism

The sleek design and advanced features of a digital podium enhance the presenter’s credibility and make a lasting impression on the audience.

Environmentally Friendly

By minimizing the need for printed materials, digital podiums contribute to sustainability efforts and reduce paper waste.

Applications of Digital Podiums

Educational Institutions

In classrooms and lecture halls, digital podiums revolutionize teaching by integrating multimedia content, enabling virtual lectures, and facilitating interactive learning sessions.

Corporate Meetings

For business presentations, digital podiums offer a polished and efficient way to communicate ideas, showcase data, and engage stakeholders.

Conferences and Seminars

Digital podiums are ideal for large events, ensuring seamless transitions between speakers and consistent audio-visual quality throughout the sessions.

Houses of Worship

In religious settings, digital podiums enhance the delivery of sermons and announcements with audio-visual support.

Public Venues

Digital podiums are increasingly used in public addresses, exhibitions, and cultural events, offering versatility and efficiency in diverse scenarios.

Top Considerations When Choosing a Digital Podium

1. Ease of Use

Opt for a digital podium with an intuitive interface that minimizes the learning curve for users.

2. Compatibility

Ensure the podium is compatible with the devices and software commonly used in your organization.

3. Portability

If the podium needs to be moved between locations, consider a lightweight and mobile model.

4. Customization Options

Some manufacturers offer customization features, such as branding and color choices, to align with organizational identity.

5. Warranty and Support

Choose a reliable vendor that provides a comprehensive warranty and excellent customer support to address any technical issues.

Future Trends in Digital Podiums

1. AI Integration

Future digital podiums may include AI-powered features such as speech-to-text, real-time language translation, and personalized content recommendations.

2. Advanced Analytics

Data analytics capabilities will provide insights into audience engagement, helping presenters refine their techniques.

3. Enhanced Connectivity

With the rise of IoT, digital podiums may integrate with other smart devices to create a cohesive technological ecosystem.

Conclusion

Digital podiums are not just a tool; they are a game-changer in the way we communicate, teach, and present. Their versatility, combined with cutting-edge features, ensures that they remain at the forefront of modern presentation technology. Whether you’re an educator, a business leader, or a public speaker, investing in a digital podium is a step toward enhanced professionalism and efficiency.

#DigitalPodium #PresentationTechnology #TechForEducation #SmartLecterns #CorporatePresentations #InteractiveLearning #PublicSpeakingTools #ModernClassrooms #TechInnovation #SustainablePresentations

[queenshelby]

The Law Student (Rewritten)

Part One: Starting Out

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (20) & Reader (30)

Note: This plays in 1996, just before Cillian drops out of law school.

Today was your first day as a lecturer at the University of Cork, and you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness.

After completing your law and teaching degrees, you started working at a local law firm. You had a successful career, but your soul craved teaching and interacting with young minds.

As such, when the university at which you had studied yourself reached out to you with an irresistible offer, you couldn't turn it down.

Even though you had never lectured at a university before, you were still confident in your abilities. You knew that this where you wanted to be right now in your life and the only issue was that your ex, James, was employed there as well. 

You had been married to James for several years , but eventually, things went south and you both mutually decided to part ways. It was an unpleasant breakup that left you both drained.

James had never really forgiven you for leaving him for bigger and better things, and he constantly reminded you of the time you both spent together. You were thirty now and rented a nice apartment in the center of Cork.

You had no children with James and, luckily for you, he was a science professor rather than a professor at law, so you knew that you wouldn't see each other often. His faculty was far away from yours and, keeping that in mind, you accepted the position the university had offered you. 

*** The First Lecture ***

Your first day at the faculty  finally arrived and you stopped by to check your lecture schedule. You noticed a lecture hall number for which you had to find your way.

Arriving at the given classroom number, you glanced around the area. You felt intimidated as you entered the ancient gray lecturing hall with its high ceiling, tall windows, wooden benches and old, but friendly-looking, portraits mounted above.

A wave of anxiety came over you. The room was almost filled to capacity. Students sat scattered throughout the hall, laughing, chatting, and seemingly relaxed.

They reminded you of a wave of colors, with some sporting all black, while others wore bright, vibrant pinks and oranges.

Their expressions reflected excitement, mixed with anxiety, and you could sense the tension due to the first day of the school year.

For every person in the room, there was a unique set of circumstances that had led them to attend this lecture. This reignited your dedication towards mentoring and teaching these young minds, which eased your nerves.

Retaking a deep breath, you flashed a charming, confident smile and walked over to the lectern.

"Hello Everyone, my name is [Your Name], and I will be your Law Professor this semester," you announced, projecting your voice while placing your notes calmly down.

A sudden eruption of chatter and movement ensued as the students received this information. You took a moment to soak it all in, making sure to scan the room for any familiar faces and, of course, there were none. 

During the first year, you knew that the students would mainly be under your supervision as you taught the introductory law course, Law 101 and Law 100. You were well aware that around thirty percent of your students would not continue into the second year and you also realized that not everyone was cut out for studying law, so you made an effort to make the subject interesting for your students.

"Unfortunately for you, you will be stuck with me this year as I will be covering off all of the introductory law subjects and, whilst some of the coursework may be dry, I promise that I will make your learning experience here as enriching as I can," you continued. "What I need from you is dedication, passion, and an open mind."

You paused for a moment, drinking in the environment, and stared into the eyes of the sea of attentive young faces.

"As part of this journey, I would also like to get to know you a little better, so I have prepared some questionnaires for you all to fill out. This will help me gauge your understanding levels and any unique, personal interests or experiences you might have."

You then pulled out some sheets from your briefcase.

"Now, if you would take these out and pass them forward to the nearest person to you, and once filled in, pass them back, we can proceed to understanding who you are better."

A collective scribbling of pens ensued as students started filling out the questionnaires.

It was amazing to see the diversity that lay here before you. Each entry was a life, a story, a legacy that had individual values, fears and expectations and, after all of the students handed back their papers, you dove straight into the lecture content for which students were required to read thirty pages from their textbook. 

As you were speaking about the material covered, you noticed that a group of young men in the second row were not paying much attention to what you had to say. Instead, they were actually looking at a magazine while happily discussing its content .

You recognized their behavior as being disengaged from the lecture and, just as you were about to lower your rating for their participation, you noticed that the young man on the far left of them was pushing the magazine away.

He was staring at you now as if he was a deer caught in headlights. He knew that he had been caught for not paying attention and as you followed his line of sight, you noticed how adorably flustered he was, all pink cheeks and disheveled hair.

"Now that I have your attention, can you tell me why the judge 's rulings in this scenario would establish the doctrine of foreseeability?" you asked, addressing him directly, causing even his fellow students to put the magazine aside. 

He looked bewildered, slowly gathering his thoughts and in that moment.

Fumbling his way around the answer, his vulnerably and clearly unpracticed nature showed as his hands gripped onto a textbook placed upon his lap. The vulnerable energy exuded by this raw and real response captivated you.

"Uhm ... Mhm. Yes, well, I suppose the judge's ruling," he stammered , followed by a deafening pause while you waited for the continuation of his answer. He glanced around nervously at the other students as if seeking validation for what his answer might be. "What case was this, Miss Y/LN?" he then asked, raising his right eyebrow in genuine confusion and you couldn't help but feel even more captivated by this young man, who still seemed to be embarrassed from being caught.

He had a subtle accent that hinted at coming from the country.

"It was Hart v Hart," you explained with a smile.

"Right, sorry. It was Hart v. Hart," he repeated as he furrowed his brows and continued to examine the pages spread before him. "In Hart v. Hart, the judge  ruled that if a person engages in an inherently dangerous activity, such as driving under the influence of alcohol, then that person can be held partially liable for any harm that results from their actions even if the other driver was actually at fault," the student then explained nervously, making you realize that he had, indeed, read the prescribed reading. 

"Yes, that's correct, uhm...I am sorry, I need to really memorize all of your names. I promise, I will try," you replied, not recalling his name. 

"Cillian," he answered, holding your gaze firmly while pushing his hair back with his free hand.

The moment our eyes met, you noticed that his were the most captivating deep blue eyes you had ever seen. He flashed you an enchanting smile, and you couldn't help but become conscious of your own smile as your cheeks turned a light shade of pink.

You recovered quickly, clearing your throat and stating, "Thank you Cillian,"  as you darted your gaze back to the students before you, trying to easily move on from this moment.

As soon as you were finished with the lecture, he approached you while his friends walked out of the lecture hall, giggling and whispering to each other as they watched their friend 's interaction with you.

Cillian now stood before you, looking a tad bit intimidated as he ran his hand through his hair nervously.  

"Cillian, right?" you  asked to confirm, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Yes," he replied with a smile, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.

"How can I help you?" you asked, your curiosity welling up due to his lingering presence, as you noticed the intense look in his eyes.

"Well, I just," he stammered. "I am sorry about earlier Miss Y/LN ," he said sincerely, averting his gaze, manifesting in a newfound confidence that, surprisingly, didn't intimidate you at all.

"It's alright. It happens," you admitted with a chuckle.

"So we are good?" he asked, lifting his gaze back to yours.

"Yes, we're grand," you confirmed with a smile, finding his nerves endearing.

The way he was fidgeting before you reminded you of a curious young boy rather than a young university student.

"Okay. Good," Cillian murmured, the relief washing over him. He smiled again, exposing his dimples. "Then, have a good day, Miss Y/LN," Cillian stammered, glancing at you one more time before walking away to follow his friends. 

*** Cillian's POV ****

"Someone has a thing for our new professor," his friend Ben teased as Cillian walked over to them, and they left the building together.

"Don't be an eejit ," Cillian replied, playfully shoving his best friend as his cheeks burned up. "I was just trying to be polite ," he muttered, feeling flustered at being put on the spot.

Ben and the others laughed, enjoying the spectacle of their now clearly flustered friend.

Ben shook his head amused. "Suuuure!" he drawled, skepticism oozing from his tone. "You could have fooled us, because you sure looked like you could hardly take your eyes off her," he continued, teasing him relentlessly.

"She's our teacher for fuck sake," he retorted and it was rare for Cillian to get flustered like that, but there was something about you that drew him in.

"And she is one good looking MILF," Ben quipped and they all burst into laughter at his comment, but Cillian couldn't help the feeling of annoyance bubbling inside of him. He couldn't exactly say why, but the thought of his friends objectifying you made him angry.

You were smart and confident, and Cillian had to admit that your intellect intrigued him, but it was more than that. He couldn't explain it and tried to simply ignore his attraction towards you, hoping it would go away. Cillian knew that he had to focus on his studies and his future career prospects even though his passions were laying elsewhere. Law was not for him but, even at twenty years of age, he had yet to realize what his real calling was.

His father had always been proud of Cillian and supported his education, but at the same time, he, like many fathers of his generation, believed in the importance of material success. Law was a well-paid profession and, at least in his father's eyes, Cillian not having chosen a suitable career path yet was a source of concern.

His mother, on the other hand, had recognized the fire in his eyes at a young age.

She sensed his innate desire to create and to perform. Even at fifteen, he would spend hours, almost obsessively, learning musical pieces and theatre scripts. He found beauty in unfolding stories told through music and film and, by sixteen, he was performing with a band - an unstable career path, one that wavered with uncertainty.

His heart and soul belonged to art and performance, but the fear of letting his father down haunted him a little so he went to law school instead. 

*** Your POV ***

The fact that law wasn't his calling also became evident to you when you began to read the questionnaire Cillian had submitted.  It contained answers that demonstrated genuine interest in the subject, but at the same time, you noticed that he had written entire paragraphs about his passion for theater and music.

You smiled at this realization.

You chose to believe that some people simply haven't yet found the courage to pursue what they truly loved and you pondered about how often this happened when it came to students choosing courses and careers in college.

Most of them were at an age where they were experimenting and discovering who they were, what they liked, and what they weren't particularly fond of.

It was during this period of self-discovery that many of them realized that their passions lay elsewhere - that their more practical choices were not aligned with their true callings.

As you continued to read through Cillian's questionnaire, you realized that his passion for acting became apparent in his answers. The cases he chose to delve into on the questionnaire were cases that were made more interesting due to their underlying personal and emotional aspects rather than just the black tops and white bottoms of legal principles.

He related these cases to his own experiences in story telling. For instance, in answering a question about an interesting case of tort law, he wrote about "The Deer Hunter" movie and the emotional turmoil the character had to go through due to his experiences in the war. He then compared this scenario to what happened in the case and his answer grabbed your attention not only due to the co-relation between the movie and the case, but also because it pulled at your heartstrings and made you feel something profound and unforgettable.

Cillian had a way with words, and you found yourself reading through Cillian's answers multiple times, simply because they were so much more than just the mere facts.

He weaved stories within stories, connecting the dots between fiction and reality, between law and life. You recognized a young, fresh, and overflowing talent in him, although clearly, this talent was not going to be one in law. 

*** The following two weeks ***

Over the next two weeks , you spent a considerable amount of time crafting the perfect lecture content for your students, ensuring it catered for their different learning styles.

You designed a series of hands-on workshops for your students and introduced practical lessons to illustrate the concepts learned in your lectures. It was important to you to teach them in an engaging and interactive manner so that they would have greater retention and overall understanding of the concepts.

For each workshop, you created different scenarios where students would have to analyze, argue, and debate the legal issues presented before them.

This allowed them to think critically, discuss differing viewpoints, and most importantly, experience firsthand what it was truly like to be a lawyer.

In doing this, you incorporated your own past experiences as well. This allowed you to connect with your students on a personal level while teaching them valuable communication skills that they could use for their future careers.

Cillian, for instance, showed remarkable passion for this type of activity, demonstrating an ability to argue thoughtfully and eloquently, while always remaining respectful when disagreeing with his classmates and you couldn't help but praise him for his particpation.

"Dude, you are trying way too hard," Ben teased Cillian after the workshop which was a comment you overheard but chose to ignore.

Instead, you observed Cillian share a look of irritation with his friend. "I am not even trying, seriously," he replied flatly with an eye roll that made you stifle a giggle.

"Yes you are. You are trying hard to impress our professor, whom you still have a massive crush on. You are nowhere near as engaged in Torts and Contracts," Ben retorted, poking fun at his best friend, causing him to blush with embarrassment.

"Shut up man. I am not having a crush on her," Cillian muttered, trying to downplay it while you found this exchange rather amusing, overhearing it while still grading student assignments.

You had heard some rumors amongst your peers that a couple of your students may be having a crush on you and you heard from others that this wasn't really unusual. Many students had innocent crushes on their teachers and, while you could understand how that might happen, you had to remind yourself to always maintain a professional distance.

Keeping your distance from Cillian, however, soon proved much harder than you anticipated when he started to struggle with some of the course content in another subject for which it was recommended that you tutor him.

By the fourth week, you already tutored three other students for subjects you did not, yourself, teach to them and singling Cillian out from tutoring because of his little crush didn't strike you the right way. Thus, when he asked you for help during the break in your next lecture, you did not hesitate.

*** The Beginning of Tutoring ***

"I've been having some trouble with contracts and torts," Cillian said, running a hand through his hair, looking nervous and uncertain. "And my lecturer in those subjects recommended that I seek additional help."

"Of course," you said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'd be happy to set up some tutoring sessions for you. I think it's great that you're taking the initiative to seek help in areas where you're struggling," you said, maintaining a professional tone.

Cillian nodded, looking relieved. "Thank you, I really appreciate it. I want to do well in this program, you know," he stammered  , his eyes flickering nervously around the still-bustling lecture hall. "I can't afford to fail any subjects," he added, biting his bottom lip.

His vulnerability struck a chord within you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy towards him. You understood the pressure that students faced when it came to academic performance, and you admired Cillian's determination to succeed.

"Of course, I completely understand. How about we start on Thursday?"  you suggested, favoring an informal approach. "I'm available from four until six-thirty, so we should have plenty of time to go over any areas you're struggling with without feeling rushed."

Cillian nodded, grimacing slightly. "Yeah, that'll be grand," he replied, managing a weak smile. "I'll see you then, Miss Y/LN," he added, before gathering his belongings and rushing off to his next class.

You couldn't help but watch him leave, taking in the sight of him as he walked confidently through the crowd of students. The way his hair fell onto his forehead and the determined look in his eyes stayed with you even after he had left.

You let out a long sigh, trying to shake off the odd sense of familiarity that washed over you. The idea of tutoring Cillian ignited a spark of excitement in you, mixed with a pinch of anxiety.

You were nervous at the prospect of spending two extra hours alone with him every week, given what you had picked up from the rumor mill about his crush, and, to make matters even worse, no matter how much you tried to deny it or push it away, the truth was that you, yourself, had started recognizing a certain level of fascination towards Cillian. It was a fascination you knew you shouldn't have. Not only were you ten years older than him, but he was also your student. 

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[fate-magical-girls]

The Queen supports the King's interests, the King supports hers. His studies into beetles were impressive before, but now, with someone actually encouraging him and and a steady supply of information, he's been making some amazing discoveries.

The time comes when he wants to share his knowledge with the public at large. He has a trained corps of royal inspectors overseeing his current field trials, but he needs people to know that this is more than just some royal vanity project. With the Queen's encouragement, he forces himself to be bold and contact the Dean of the capital university asking to do a guest lecture on natural philosophy.

The Dean is flabbergasted. He has no idea why the King would want to come and lecture at the university, other than the fact that he's bored and making a mockery of the university's institutions amuses him. And the worst part is that he can't deny the king's request. The university operates on a royal charter and the prestige that comes from generations of royal patronage. Angering the King is the last thing he wants to do, even if the King has a reputation for eccentricity. With a shaking and reluctant hand, he drafts his proposal for the time and place of the lecture, as well as the ceremony involved in welcoming the royal couple.

The King writes back, and the dean is pleasantly surprised that all of his requests are for practical things like terrariums and magnifying scopes and protective gear for the students. He also asks to eschew the ceremonies beyond food and drink for the attendees. It's not his royal status that's important, but what he wants to say.

The Dean is relieved that the king's visit won't be a spectacle, but also confused as to what exactly the king so desperately wants to lecture about. He would never call a royal uneducated, but he's not sure the king will have anything useful to say that the university doesn't already teach. Until the day of the lecture, he prays that the event will be brief and won't humiliate the King, the university, or the students.

The King arrives without much incident, dressed modestly, with only the rich black fabric of his clothing and the jeweled icon hanging at his side as indications of his status. He barely even greets the dean, his head buried in the stack of papers he carries, muttering and memorizing lines. The queen, dressed more magnificently, but not much more so than any other rich patron, is the one who greets and thanks the Dean for arranging the event, as well as the one who checks over the security measures to make sure they're adequate, but not glaringly obvious. Already the royal couple confirms every rumor the Dean has heard about them, and he only expects the worst.

Imagine his shock when the king steps up and deliver a brilliant lecture on beetles, their role in the world, practical applications of information about beetles toward agriculture, and the usefulness of the discipline of natural philosophy as a whole. Perhaps the only ones more shocked are the students. They've spent their entire lives, almost, not hearing more than the smallest peeps from the King during public events, and here he is now, giving an entire lecture. Not only is he truly an expert in his field of study, but he's also a competent speaker, pronouncing his words in loud and distinct tones, delivering his points succinctly without being droll, shepherding the students as they interacted with the exhibits.

After the lecture is over, he fields questions from the students, many of whom gained a new appreciation for beetles. He's cool as a cucumber answering technical questions; he only freezes up and chuckles nervously when students ask him how he came by his discoveries, or other details about his life as a royal.

The lecture is much more successful than the Dean could have expected. Once the students have settled down, he goes to the lectern to thank the King for sharing his knowledge and asks him if he has any final bits of wisdom he wants to share. The King breaks out into a cold sweat. He keeps silent for so long the Dean worries he's done something to offend his monarch. Then he blurts out that the Dean looks like a fish with his gawking eyes, and that the Dean's collar is too tight and has made his neck extra sweaty, and that the Dean's robes don't match his shoes. Once he finishes speaking, all color suddenly drains from his face and he hurries off, muttering something that sounds like an apology. The Queen supervises the closing ceremonies, and she does so with her usual grace, making the attendees forget about the King's outburst.

The King feels awful after he gets home, of course. He always gets so nervous during these formal pleasantries, and he never knows that he did something wrong until after he's done it. With the Queen's help, he works on setting things right by writing the Dean a letter thanking him for his patience, apologizing for his own behavior, ensuring no insults were meant and offering to buy the Dean a new collar...and also asking if these guest lectures can be a regular event for interested students.

(Thanks to @spiralcass for helping me come up with this idea)

I think the funniest dynamic for arranged-marriage royalty would be a queen who came here 100% prepared to murder her future husband and rule as a widow queen in her own right, only to discover that the king is autistic as hell and responds to her wish to rule with "oh thank god please do, I don't want to be bothered by these people. I can just tell them to go bother you instead, if you really want that. I've got beetles I wanted to study."