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mssorceressupreme · 6 months ago

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Wanna Be Yours | F.W

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Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention. the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.

Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"

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The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.

Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.

Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.

“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”

“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.

“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.

Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”

“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”

“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”

“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”

George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”

“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in. "S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.

The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets. "Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.

Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't.

From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.

It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.

It was you.

You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.

In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.

“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."

Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.

How had he not noticed you before?

“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.

“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.

Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.

"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.

“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”

Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.

Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.

It was no use. Disaster struck.

You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.

Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.

The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.

Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.

Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"

“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.

Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.

You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.

There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.

You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.

Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.

“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.

“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.” Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.

“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you. “Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly. "Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark. "Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.

“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”

Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.

He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.

The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off. ___

The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.

Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.

Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.

He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”

“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.

“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”

“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”

“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.

That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.

You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.

Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.

You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?

Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”

But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.

Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.

The Hall erupted into laughter.

Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.

“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.

Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”

Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.

“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”

Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.

From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.

“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.

You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”

Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”

“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”

Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”

Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”

“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.

You do shine bright, he thought.

As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.

“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”

Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.

As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."

You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”

Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name. "Y/N." You smiled. "Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.

Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.

You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.

But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.

“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”

And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.

He just wanted to be yours.

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azsazz · 6 months ago

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Scorched & Scarred

Eris x Reader

Summary: You are the only healer that Eris has ever really trusted.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, wounds, blood, gore, scarring, angst.

Word Count: 1680

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You don’t say a word when he appears in your room, swaying in his spot.

You can’t. For one, he won’t hear of it. Wouldn’t deign to respond with merely a grunt of acknowledgement should you bring his state up. He doesn’t want your help, except that he does. He doesn’t want your sympathy, but he has it. He hates it. He hates that he loves it.

Today, is a particularly bad day.

You bite back the gasp in your throat when you blink through the bleariness of sleep. His head is hung toward the ground and he’s hugging himself so tightly that for a moment, you fear that he’s holding his insides in his hands. Even still, you don’t miss the blood dribbling from his nose. Or is it spilling from a split in his lip? Crawled up his throat from his lungs? Nothing would surprise you. There’s a gash on his forehead, like the one he received weeks ago, splitting his brow in two.

“Eris,” you breathe, throwing back your sheets. There’s a bite of cold as your toes hit the floor that you don’t register. You’re already halfway to him, arms outstretched, worry struck across your face.

He flinches. You halt, remembering who it is that has come to see you. The abused eldest son of the Court of Autumn with an affinity for pain.

You need to be gentle.

You need to be you.

You can’t approach him quickly. You can’t set your hands upon his bruised and banged skin until he’s ready, until his breathing has evened out. You can see the way he’s freaking out, the terror behind those amber eyes. He knows exactly who you are, but his father’s threats hang in his head like a broken record, taunting him, telling him not to seek a healer.

Should his father find out he crawled into your chamber like the pathetic male he thinks he is, his punishment will be even worse.

You wait patiently; a gentle hand offered like he’s a scared dog. You know the drill: wait until Eris allows you to touch him, and then you may begin your healing. It doesn’t matter how much fear seeps into your own expression the longer you wait, Eris takes his time finding his footing before reaching his trembling fingers out and placing his hand in yours.

You’re desperate to squeeze him like a lifeline, but you must keep your touch gentle. You slowly guide Eris to the foot of your bed where you help him sit before assessing his wounds. His face is mottled with cuts and bruises. There’s a tear in the shoulder of his silky, olive-colored shirt, the fabric clinging to the wound that oozes blood.

You swallow back the emotion that seizes your throat.

Your hands are tepid against his cheeks. Your power trickles through his body like magma, warming him to his bones. He clenches his amber eyes shut and bites back a whimper, not of pain, but because he hasn’t felt an embrace like this since the last time he was in your arms. He steels himself so he doesn’t careen into your hips where he can rest his head and wrap his trembling hands around your legs to pull you close.

Eris hasn’t been touched this softly in a long time.

In fact, you’re the only one to ever see him like this. Well, besides his father and the fae sadist he sometimes uses to dole out his punishments. You know every cut, laceration, broken bone he’s ever had. You’re the only one he trusts to heal him.

He can feel the words you want to say, the ones you’re keeping locked in your chest. Your hands are soft as they trail down his back, tender, as if your featherlight touch will do anything to stop the intense pain that burns through his body like a lance. Every single touch is a new wound to his skin, another blade dragging down the length of his spine, a stab of something he’s never experienced plunging into his heart.

Eris holds in a scream.

“Say it,” he grits when his tongue can form the words. The pain ebbs slowly, much too slowly for his liking. He sits before you, a broken prince. If his father knew where he crawled off too after the punishments that he received, you’d surely get the same treatment, and Eris can’t fathom the thought of you experiencing anything close to what has been done to him. He can’t even stand when you hit your elbow on the edge of your dresser or when you bite your tongue when he brings you lunch when you’re knee deep in work. Because fae heal quicker than humans, his father expects Eris to continue his days in debilitating pain until the wounds close on their own. Until he learns his lesson.

He trembles when your fingers brush over the bruises on his cheeks, moving fully away from the freckled skin of his back. The wounds are healed over the best you can manage, but there is no fixing the scars that run long lines down his back, from when he was a boy, from before you were a healer.

Your breath stalls in your throat at the same time Eris captures your wrists in his hands, halting your movements. There’s a cut in his lip, across the bridge of his nose that has shifted out of place. Both of his eyes are painted with dark circles beneath them, but they shine amber with anger.

“Say. It.”

You shake your head softly, gently pulling from his grasp. You brush your thumb across his lip, watching intently as the skin knits back together. Eris’ eyes flutter and you catch the painful bob of his throat, the one that makes him grimace and his lashes clump with wetness. “I won’t.”

“You must.

So, it is with a voice shaky with fear that you murmur your worries aloud, “He will kill you next time.”

You admission is like a breath of relief to Eris. He exhales harshly but doesn’t drop the one wrist his fingers are still wrapped around. Of course, you tell him this every time he visits you, and with his appearances to your private quarters for healing become more frequent, it’s only a matter of time until he’s so harmed that you won’t be able to bring him back.

“He won’t,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound like he believes it. He has six brothers. Six heirs to the throne. Six replacements.

You shake your head to yourself, quickly wiping the tear that rolls hot down your cheek before Eris sees.

Your warmth is much different than his. It’s soft, a reassurance against his skin. Healing. The fire that flares through his veins is of something much coarser. He is fueled by hatred and jealousy. Disappointment and failure.

Nothing has ever been easy. Eris keeps his feelings locked up tight. He has learned under the sharp blade of a knife poised beneath his chin. What they didn’t know is that harsh words they sprung cut deeper than any weapon ever could.

Your words are…he doesn’t know how to explain what the minute tremble of fear in your voice means. He stopped being fearful a long time ago, but here you are, fearing for him. That one day they might go too far, might cut his tongue from his mouth or pierce an eye out with the tip of a blade. Like they might let their restrain snap and become the bloodthirsty beasts he always knew they were. That they’ll kill him one day soon.

The way your hands feel against his skin makes emotion clog his throat. He has never felt a touch speak so many words. He’s never been treated softly. He’s been ignored by his mother and abused by his father. Neglected by both.

He doesn’t understand the way you make him feel. The clenching of his stomach, the rapid beating of his heart, the feeling that stirs between his legs when he sees you.

He wonders for a moment how your warm hands might feel wrapped around a different part of his body.

Eris closes his eyes. The tension rolls from his shoulders with each wound that heals. His head bobs and he can’t help but slump into you as the adrenaline wears off and exhaustion weights heavy on his body.

You catch him, cradle him against your body. Your fingers find his auburn hair and rub lightly.

Eris moans against your legs and the feeling vibrates through your body. You carefully keep your thighs from clenching.

“Eris,” you whisper, stroking every part of him that you can. Someday you’ll be brave enough to tell him how he makes you feel. How strong you think he is, how badly he should leave this court and not look back. For now, the terrified feeling in your chest stops you from admitting just that. “You need rest.”

“Stay?” He asks, and a sad smile cracks your lips. He barely even knows where he is, that you haven’t found him bleeding on the floor of his room and are patching him up. All he knows is the caring cradle of your arms.

“Yes,” you murmur, and help him lean back into the spot where you’d leapt from your bed upon his arrival. You help him with his shoes, his belt and the scabbard at his hip, sans weapons.

They always take his weapons.

A noise of surprise catches in your throat when Eris’ hands close around your hips and he yanks you into the plush bed with him. He’s already half asleep, fully clothed, and he releases you just enough for you to slip under the sheets and pull them up around the both of you. By the time you settle, Eris is clinging to you like a lifeline, a thigh tucked between your legs, his arms a vice around your back. You’re entrapped in his limbs, exactly where he wants you. Exactly where you want to be.

#eris vanserra x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris vanserra angst #eris angst

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thegreatgatslin · 6 months ago

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AFTER CLOSING - m. kaiser x f!reader (18+)

tw: afab reader, down bad kaiser, oral (m and f receiving), p in v sex, no protection whatsoever || wc: 0.6k || 18+ under the cut

ex!bf michael kaiser who's started to miss his home country quite a bit after a while as a foreign student - well, the taste of it, at least - and brings his teammates to a new german restaurant/bar that opened up near campus recently.

ex!bf michael kaiser who watches with slight disgust as his teammates ogle the pretty waitresses, who are decked out in traditional german barmaid clothing that leaves little to the imagination.

ex!bf michael kaiser whose eyes widen when he realises one of the waitresses working tonight's shift is you, his ex-girlfriend who he broke up with two months ago, and he can't seem to get over how unbelievably good you look right now.

ex!bf michael kaiser who seems a little subdued when you come over to take their order, averting his eyes. (he's ashamed at how he can't stop staring at how your tits sit in that fucking top, and how he can't get his raging hard-on to die down.) you look him up and down briefly, and leave without another word.

ex!bf michael kaiser whose gaze never leaves you as you flit between tables, hips swaying in that teasingly short skirt, the skirt that barely covers your ass when you bend over ever so slightly - and he catches a glimpse of your baby blue panties, his favourite colour on you.

ex!bf michael kaiser who can't help but raise an eyebrow as you set down his kirschwasser, his cherry brandy, with an oh-so-obvious cherry-red lipstick stain on the rim of the glass. no prizes for guessing who it belongs to.

ex!bf michael kaiser who snaps when he sees oliver aiku, a defender from a rival university, hitting on you. cutting short his conversation with ness, he downs his crimson liquid courage in one go and storms over to you, leaning down to whisper in your ear -

"why don't i stay until after closing and show you a good time, liebling?"

ex!bf michael kaiser who waits for you to close up the restaurant for the night with shaky hands before he practically pounces, his large hands all over you as his tongue explores your mouth, and you let out one of the most pathetic whines he's ever heard.

ex!bf michael kaiser who makes you take him down your tight little throat, scoffing as tears prick your eyes at the uncomfortable sensation. you can take it, he murmurs to you as you gag on his cock. you've done it before.

ex!bf michael kaiser who gets on his knees and eats you out against the counter, sucking fervently on your swollen clit as you tangle your hands in his soft blonde hair, calling out his name in just the way he's missed; this only spurs him on, and he spits on your cunt, sex-drunk eyes locking with yours as he dives back in between your legs.

ex!bf michael kaiser who bends you over the restaurant's bar and fucks you raw until your toes are curling in your black heels. he's got a hand on the back of your neck holding you steady, giving him a clear view of how your ass recoils against his hips in that slutty little skirt of yours.

ex!bf michael kaiser who makes you cum twice more before his sticky seed is filling you up just how you like it, watching his cum drip out of you with no little satisfaction.

that is, until he hears a whimper from you that sounds suspiciously like "more" -

ex!bf michael kaiser who's already pushing his hardening cock back into you, asking you breathlessly, "won't you please take me back, meine liebe?"

a/n: sorry hornyposting again

#✦ lin writes #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk smut #michael kaiser #bllk kaiser #blue lock kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser smut #michael kaiser x reader smut #kaiser smut #oneshot #smut hcs

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allbark-no-bite · 2 years ago

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things friends do.

felix catton x reader (wc: 3.1k)

summary: things friends do include but are not limited to: sleeping in each other’s bed, kissing, sharing beer, fucking each other

warnings: 18+ smut, unprotected sex

author’s note: y’all i have refused to believe that jacob elordi was attractive but saltburn did me in

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You were not in love with Felix Catton.

And Felix Catton was not in love with you.

He was a lover boy, but he was not your lover boy.

The thing about Felix was that he had just about everyone at his disposal. Girls, guys, it didn't matter. Everything belonged to him so long as he wanted it. But it didn't feel that way. You never felt as though you were owned by him. It was just that he was Felix and who didn't want to belong to him?

Of course 'just friends' didn't constantly have their hands all over each other, didn't sleep in each other's bed or see each other inappropriately naked. And 'just friends' definitely didn't kiss each other on the mouth.

But this was Felix.

Not Oliver, or Farleigh, or Veneita. Felix.

—

The party is so electric that you're not sure if it's the music or your own erratic heartbeat thumping in your ears. The place is so packed that at some point the entire bar had become part of the main dance floor in order to accommodate for the dizzying array of overheated, intoxicated bodies moving this way and that. Blue light illuminates the otherwise dark room. Flashes of neon green splash across swaying bodies, highlighting dancers as they navigate the floor.

To no one's surprise, Felix is in the center of it all. He'd gravitated towards the pole in the middle of the room like a magnet and had taken to it to pay his dues, his slender body rolling to the music with all of his typical charisma.

After a few beers, you're pleasantly buzzed, but you'll probably be toeing the line once you finish the fourth in your hand. Felix is well on his way to a monster hangover, one that he'll sleep off on the floor of your dorm room. Farleigh is right behind him, likely just as intoxicated, but with him you could never tell. Farleigh was always the same catty bitch no matter how drunk or sober he was. You loved him, but he was a bitch.

A heavy weight suddenly staggers upon your shoulders, and you groan against the weight, both you and Felix swaying dangerously to the side as he throws his arm around you. Usually this wouldn't work because he's so ridiculously tall but the alcohol had made him a little less coordinated than usual and he's slouched down to closer to your height. Beer sloshes over the rim of his plastic cup and splashes onto the floor at your feet.

"Having fun, darling?" he asks, half shouting in your ear to be heard over the music.

"Always," you laugh, though it's mostly directed at him.

His skin is clammy with sweat and his breath is coated with the familiar, yeasty smell of beer. "Where's Farleigh?" Felix doesn't even wait for your response before he's shouting for him. "Ay! Farleigh!" There's a cigarette pinched between two fingers of the same hand that's holding onto his cup, and he raises it to get his friend's attention.

His arm still around you, you dodge the spilling liquid heading for your feet. "Felix! Felix, careful!" you scold him, still laughing, so the smile doesn't disappear from his face.

In an attempt to solve the problem, he leans forward and starts to swallow back the remainder of the beer in his cup. He must underestimate just how much he had left to go because it starts to escape past the sides of his mouth, dripping past his jaw and down the front of his open shirt.

You shriek again. "Felix!"

Laughing, he pulls the cup away and brings it towards you. Before you can protest, he's tipping it back into your mouth. He leaves you no choice but to swallow it or wear it across the front of your shirt so you do your best to drink the remaining beer, more nursing from the cup than gulping as Felix was.

It leaves your lips and chin wet, and before you can wipe the excess beer away, Felix does it himself, somewhat roughly dragging his thumb under your lip. He then sucks the digit into his mouth, hardly thinking twice about it. It would have been erotic with anyone else. But this was everyday with Felix. It would have been weird if you hadn't chugged the backwash of his beer.

His attention is just as quickly drug from you to Farleigh. You hadn't noticed the other boy approaching. He gives you a wicked smile, a look in his eyes like he wants to say something but refrains. You tilt your head, prepared to ask him what his mischievous look is all about but Felix interrupts you.

"Farleigh, mate," Felix begins still hugging you close. "The girls are looking a bit bored. What do ya think?"

Across the room, India and Annabel are sitting on a couch together. The piece of furniture itself has certainly seen better days, torn and stained with bodily fluids of varying levels of disgusting. There's a guy with his arm slung around India, but for all she's paying attention to him, he might as well not exist. She's drinking from a bottle of champagne and couldn't look less interested in him.

Farleigh's eyes track from you to Felix, as though making some sort of connection, then he smiles cheshire-like. "Oh yeah, mate. You know, I do think India was actually looking for you earlier." His sinister brown eyes lock with yours, as if waiting for you to object. "Why don't you go put her out of her misery. (Y/n) and I will go busy ourselves at the bar."

Felix grins crookedly, nothing but honest fun shining in his blown pupils. "I will see you two later."

He straightens but not before twisting his neck, body still plastered to yours, and he plants a sloppy kiss to the side of your mouth. His lips taste like beer and nicotine. It's not really even a kiss, just a lack of coordination on Felix's part that he didn't catch your cheek. If Farleigh hadn't been trying to start something in the first place, you wouldn't have even thought twice about it.

It's not the first time Felix has kissed you. Hell, he's probably even kissed Farleigh at some point. Maybe not on the mouth because they were cousins, but that's besides the point. Friends kissed each other all the time. This wasn't anything new.

As Felix removes himself from you, his tall figure walking over to grab India's hand and lead her from the couch, the guy who had been flirting with her for the past hour glaring after them, you level your stare with Farleigh's. "What's that look about?"

Farleigh crosses his arms, looking as full of himself as ever, and rolls his eyes. He really was a bitch sometimes. "Fuck the friend code and fuck him already. You know you want to."

It's your turn to roll your eyes. "I don't want to fuck him, Farleigh."

You don't. Things just weren't like that between you and Felix. Sure, maybe there had been a few occasions where you'd sucked him off and he'd done the same for you in return but that was all purely situational. There were no feelings attached. Just two friends who were close enough to do that kind of thing without it being weird.

Farleigh just scoffs at your ignorance, pushing past you with his shoulder to head over to the bar. "Just like sweet little Ollie doesn't want to fuck him? Please, neither of you look at him all that different."

"Everyone looks at him like that," you argue. "He's Felix."

"No, everyone looks at him like they want his dick in their mouth. You look at him like you'd let him do absolutely anything he fucking wants to you. And honestly, (Y/n), it's kinda sad." He says the last part with faux pity, his voice demeaning.

You scowl at him as he turns back around and walks over to the bar.

Fuck Farleigh. You did not want to fuck Felix.

And fuck him for putting the thought in your head.

—

It's nearing two am by the time you remove yourself from the bar. You're no more intoxicated than you were earlier, having cut yourself off after chugging the last of Felix's drink, but you weren't particularly keen on walking in on Felix and India after tonight so you'd resigned yourself to sitting on a barstool for the remainder of the night.

You keep telling yourself that you weren't bothered by him having sex with her, but Farleigh had put the thought in your head and it wouldn't leave.

Of course you liked Felix. Who didn't like Felix? But did you want to sleep with him? No.

Maybe.

It wasn't like he wouldn't do it if you asked. But Felix would have sex with anything that walked. And you weren't India. You were his best friend. And no matter now many times you two had pushed the line of being just friends, having sex with him would completely ruin the line all together. And then what? There nowhere to go after you start dating your best friend. If it crashes and burns it's game over. And with Felix, that was a guarantee.

You pass India going opposite of you down the hall. One of the straps of her dress is hanging off her shoulder, bedazzled high heels in her hands as she struggles to slip them back on. There's a dark purple hickey at the junction of her throat and collarbone and another lighter one above her breast. You don't say anything to her, just push past her into Felix's dorm.

He's sprawled out across the top of the bed that he never makes, shirtless and only a pair of flimsy boxers to cover his bareness. His head rolls towards you, cigarette between his lips.

"Hey," he greets, smoke spilling from his mouth. "You have a good time with Farleigh?"

You pick your way through the disaster of his room, stepping around empty boxes of pizza and abandoned articles of clothing until you find something that looks wearable. You unzip your dress, only half turned away from him as you pull on one of his shirts. He's seen you naked before and so your ass and the side of your boobs is hardly scandalous to him.

"Farleigh is an ass," you retort, crawling onto his mattress to settle into the empty space at his side. It's without a doubt the same space that India had been just a few minutes before.

Felix frowns, the piercing his brow moving downwards with the expression. "What's he said to you?" His tone is concerned because he knows how his cousin can be.

You just sigh in response, shifting into a more comfortable position at his side. Felix takes another drag of his cigarette while he waits for your response. Farleighs words run through your head again.

"Why haven't we had sex?"

He actually laughs at that one, sitting up on one of his elbows so that he can see you better. The shag of his dark brunette hair hangs over his forehead as he looks down at you. "Do you want to have sex?"

While his tone is amused and humorous, you know he's genuinely asking. Felix would never make fun of you for that kind of thing.

You shrug, looking up into his bemused brown eyes. "I don't know. Maybe?"

This conversation shouldn't be as casual as you're making it out to be, and maybe it wouldn't have been with anyone else, but this is Felix. He's your best friend.

Slowly, he leans down and places a kiss on your lips. It's fairly brief, hardly even long enough for you to kiss him back before he's pulling away. "Then let's have sex," he says, and it's as simple as that.

Felix leans down again, connecting your mouths. Without breaking the kiss, he shifts from where he'd been laying beside you to bracket your hips with his knees. His long fingers find the buttons of his shirt that you just put on and begin to unbutton them, his hands sliding down your sides until you're squirming.

"Felix," you whine, already short of breath from his touch.

"Relax, baby. I've got you," he murmurs into your mouth, sliding one of his hands into your hair, the blunt of his nails scraping against your scalp. It gives him enough purchase to tip your head back and expose your neck to his unrelenting mouth. The hot heat of his mouth pants against the underside of your jaw, the wet muscle of his tongue laving along your throat.

His other hand slides down your hip, then your thigh before coming to your panties. You have to force yourself not to squirm away in anticipation. Thankfully, Felix isn't a tease and he uses two of his fingers to pull your panties to the side. You do, however, jump when he slides them into your slick hole without any hesitation.

The bastard snickers against your throat. "Sorry," he apologizes, kissing apologetically at your jaw. "I guess I should have warned you."

All you can do is huff, your fingers tugging at his tangle of brown hair. He grins at your inability to respond before kissing your mouth again. He swallows the noise that escapes you when he curls his fingers and your back arches off of the bed. He does it again, this time scissoring them to stretch your hole. The burn is more pleasurable than uncomfortable, but it leaves you gasping into his open mouth.

Just when you think that's all he has to offer with his fingers, they somehow slip even further, hitting some part deep inside of you that you didn't even know existed. He curls them and you actually cry out, your knees knocking at his hips to push him away.

"I know, I know," he soothes, using the broadness of his shoulders to keep your legs in place. Felix curls his fingers into your smooth walls a few more times, his thumb circling your clit until you swear you can't take anymore. It's torture, the length of his two fingers inside of you.

Finally, he pulls them away before you can actually start crying. Your arousal coats his long fingers and drips down his wrist, glistening in the darkness of his room. Felix's brown eyes hold yours as he sticks them into his mouth, refusing to look away even as his tongue dips between them. You can barley swallow the spit in your mouth.

Felix grins, leaning down to kiss you. Even if you hadn't wanted to taste yourself on his lips, he doesn't give you much of a choice, his tongue dipping into your mouth. He moans, and it's quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever heard.

Then he's disconnecting your mouths to slide down his boxers. His hard cock bobs free, brushing against the lean planes of his stomach. You've seen Felix's dick before. It's no surprise to you how large he is— incredibly long with a perfectly mushroomed tip— but you've never had to think about it actually going inside of you.

His hand catches your jaw, forcing you to look at his face. There must have been flash of fear in your eyes because he murmurs sweetly, "Look at my face, okay? I want to see you."

You nod as best you can in his hold.

You're not sure if it's on purpose or not but he misses the first try, his cock sliding through your slick and nudging at your clit. Your whole body jolts but his hand at your throat holds you in place.

The second time, his mushroomed head catches at your hole and he slips in, meeting little resistance. He slides in only another inch or so before stopping, his cock already snug inside of you. You whine when he tries to push in further.

Felix kind of laughs, his hand reaching down to circle his thumb at your clit. "M'sorry, baby. You're so tight. Just give me a second."

You swallow, willing back tears. It's not that it hurts, not really, just the fact that he feels so good and you want him inside of you.

Without warning, his hand splays across your stomach and he uses the leverage to push further inside of you. This time your muscles relax enough around him and he slides all the way in.

You moan at the feel of him entirely inside of you.

“There we go,” he groans, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as he holds himself up. Now fully inside of you, he begins rocking his hips, his dick hitting that spongey spot inside of you with every thrust. Felix is breathing heavily into your ear, the squelching of him sliding in and out of you the only other sound in the room.

Soon Felix hits a spot inside of you that makes your toes curl and almost immediately you’re coming, clenching around him as you do so.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Felix thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out just before he can come inside of you. He spills partially onto the bed and partially onto your stomach. When he’s finished, he holds himself up over you avoiding his own release leaking onto you stomach.

When his eyes find yours, he grins, that signature crooked smile appearing onto his face. You can’t help but laugh, your head falling back into the pillow. Felix laughs too. Not because he particularly knows what’s so funny but because you’re laughing.

You’re laughing and he loves you.

He leans over grabbing a tissue from the box beside his bed and wipes you off as best as he can before tossing it onto the floor and laying back down beside you, an arm behind his head You rest your head on his other arm, scooting in closer to his side.

“Are we going to talk about this?” he asks, looking down at you.

You smile to yourself, watching his toes nudge yours instead of looking back at him. “About what?”

“(Y/n), we’ve been friends since grade school and probably kissed a million times.”

Eventually you look up at him, doing your best to not look so sheepish. “Farleigh told me I was worse than Oliver. Can you believe that?”

Felix scoff, his fingers scratching through your hair. “I wouldn’t fuck Oliver.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes playfully at him. “Yeah you would.”

Felix barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I would,” he agrees.

#felix catton x reader #felix catton #saltburn #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #jacob elordi #jacob elordi imagine #felix catton smut

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 4 months ago

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Bullied Yandere x Reader (Prologue)

Wyatt stared down at the shattered remains of his glasses, the lenses fractured into near dust. His throat tightened as he bit his lower lip, slowly lifting his eyes to meet the figure looming over him. Oliver. The guy who had made his life miserable every day since freshman year. Wyatt never understood why. Sure, he was quiet, a bit nerdy — but plenty of other kids were too.

Oliver's hand shot forward, yanking a fistful of Wyatt's dark hair. A cruel grin spread across his face.

"And here I thought your face couldn’t get any uglier."

Wyatt flinched at the jab, pain throbbing in his swollen black eye and split lip.

Wyatt barely had time to process the sting of Oliver’s words before a fist collided with his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, his arms curling around his midsection. Oliver laughed — sharp and cruel — before turning on his heel and walking away.

You saw everything.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you stood frozen behind the corner of the old brick building. Wyatt's broken glasses glinted in the afternoon sun, shards catching the light like tiny stars scattered on the pavement. He coughed, a wet, painful sound, and tried to push himself up on shaking arms.

You wanted to move. To say something. But your throat felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire.

Wyatt slumped back down, his breathing shallow. His head tilted just enough for his eyes to meet yours. You take a breath and force your legs to move. Gravel crunches underfoot as you step out from behind the corner. Wyatt’s eyes widen for a second before he looks away, his face twisting with embarrassment.

“You okay?” you ask, even though the answer is painfully obvious.

Wyatt laughs, but it’s a hollow, broken sound. “What do you think?” He winces as he shifts, one arm wrapping around his ribs.

You hesitate for only a moment before crouching down beside him. "C’mon," you say, softer this time. "Let’s get you cleaned up."

He doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s too tired. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Either way, he lets you hook an arm under his and help him to his feet. He sways dangerously, and you instinctively tighten your grip to keep him steady. He’s a lot lighter than you expected.

The two of you make it to the edge of the school’s sports field, where an old, rarely-used water fountain sits. You ease him down onto the low concrete ledge beside it and push the button. The water spurts out unevenly, splashing over your hand. It’s cold, at least.

“Hold still.” You take the sleeve of your hoodie and wet it under the stream.

Wyatt watches you, wary and quiet, as you dab carefully at the blood on his lip. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away. His black eye looks worse up close — dark purple blooming angrily beneath his pale skin. His glasses are a lost cause, the broken remains still sitting back by the fountain. You don’t mention them.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmurs after a moment, voice low.

“Yeah, well…” You pause, unsure what to say. Because I couldn’t just leave you there feels a little too cliche. Instead, you shake your head. “It’s whatever. You didn’t deserve that.”

Wyatt huffs out a tired breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Tell that to Oliver.”

You frown, rolling your soaked sleeve up. The silence stretches between you, awkward but not uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” Wyatt says eventually, his voice so quiet you almost miss it. His eyes— the one that isn’t swollen shut — meet yours again.

“You gonna tell anyone?” Wyatt asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He looks away again, his jaw tightening. “About what happened?”

You hesitate. There’s an unspoken plea in his voice, though he doesn’t say it outright. He’s afraid. Not of Oliver — not really — but of what happens after. The whispers. The pitying looks. Being the victim, the weak kid everyone talks about but no one helps.

“No,” you say softly. “Not unless you want me to.”

Wyatt’s shoulders sag with relief. He nods once, quick and small.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The late afternoon sun starts to dip lower, casting long shadows across the field. You wonder if someone’s noticed you’re both missing. If Oliver’s still skulking around somewhere. If this will all start again tomorrow.

Probably.

You glance at Wyatt, who’s staring at the ground, his expression unreadable. His hair falls in his face, messy and damp from sweat.

“Do you… want me to walk you home or something?” you ask, voice careful. Wyatt looks over, surprised. His one good eye blinks slowly, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious.

“You don’t have to,” he says, but his voice sounds less sure than before.

“Yeah, I know,” you say. “But do you want me to?”

There’s a pause and then he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

You help him up again, slower this time, and he leans on you more than he did before. His ribs must really hurt, but he doesn’t complain. You both walk in silence at first, feet crunching over gravel and then shifting to the uneven sidewalk that leads away from school.

The streets feel quieter than usual, like the whole neighborhood is holding its breath. The warm hum of a distant lawnmower drones somewhere far off, blending with the faint sound of a radio playing Nirvana from an open garage down the block. The air smells like asphalt and summer dust, even though it’s barely spring.

Your shoes scuff against the sidewalk, and Wyatt stumbles once, catching himself with a muffled grunt. You slow your pace to match his, pretending not to notice.

The sun dips lower, turning the sky shades of burnt orange and dusty purple. Neither of you talks much — the silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s just… there.

When you finally reach his house, it’s smaller than you imagined. A squat, one-story home with chipping blue paint and a rusted-out bike leaned against the front steps. The porch light flickers, buzzing faintly. Wyatt hesitates at the bottom of the steps, shifting his weight to one foot like he’s not sure he wants to go inside.

“You… wanna come in?” he asks suddenly, his voice quieter than before. He sounds surprised at his own words, like he didn’t mean to say them out loud.

You blink, caught off guard. “Sure”

The inside smells like old carpet and something vaguely sweet — cinnamon, maybe. The living room is a cluttered mess of VHS tapes stacked by the TV and a half-finished puzzle spread across the coffee table. A faded poster of 'The X-Files' hangs crookedly on the wall, and there’s a worn bean bag chair shoved into the corner next to a stack of comic books. It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Wyatt to live. Somehow, that makes you smile.

“Uh… my room’s back here,” Wyatt mumbles, leading you down a narrow hallway. The carpet squishes weirdly under your shoes. A closed door on the left has a crooked sign on it — 'Keep Out' written in what looks like red marker. It’s smudged, like he tried to make it look like blood but gave up halfway through.

Wyatt pushes the door open, and his room is exactly what you imagined, too. Posters of 'Star Wars' and 'Indiana Jones' cover the walls. There’s a battered bookshelf overflowing with graphic novels, action figures, and a boxy old computer humming faintly in the corner. A baseball cap hangs from the bedpost, and his desk is buried under a chaotic pile of homework, D&D rulebooks, and floppy disks.

“Sorry it’s a mess,” Wyatt mutters, his ears turning red. He limps over to his bed and sinks down with a quiet groan. “I wasn’t really expecting company.”

“It’s cool,” you say honestly. You wander over to the bookshelf, tilting your head at the rows of comics. 'X-Men,' 'Spider-Man,' even a few older 'Fantastic Four' issues. “You’ve got a serious collection.”

Wyatt gives a tired half-smile. “Yeah. My uncle gives me his old ones when he’s done with them. He used to work at a comic shop.”

You nod, impressed. You spot a well-worn 'Dungeons & Dragons' Player’s Handbook on the shelf, the spine barely holding together. “You play?”

Wyatt’s face brightens a little. “Yeah. Well, I DM. Or I did. My group kinda… stopped showing up.”

You don’t have to ask why. You can guess. Oliver’s probably got something to do with that, too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hum of the computer and the distant sound of a TV in another room fills the quiet. Then Wyatt looks over at you, his voice quieter than before.

“Thanks for helping me. Back there.” His fingers pick at a loose thread on his blanket. “Most people just… watch.”

You shrug, but the weight of his words sticks with you. “I'm sure you'd do the same for me.”

Wyatt gives you a look like he’s not sure if you’re serious, but then he nods. A small, almost hopeful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

The quiet stretches for a moment before Wyatt shifts on his bed. Then, with a slight groan, he pushes himself upright, glancing toward the small TV in the corner of the room. His fingers brush the remote on the nightstand, and he grabs it, flicking it on.

"Hey," he says, his voice light. "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

"Sure," you say, glancing at the old TV screen. "What've you got?"

Wyatt scrolls through the VHS tapes piled on the shelf beneath the TV. His fingers move through them methodically, pausing occasionally to read the titles, his brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, he pulls out a worn copy of Jurassic Park, the case battered and faded but still recognizable.

"How about this one?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he holds it up.

You grin, unable to help it. "Hell yeah!"

Wyatt chuckles softly. He slides the VHS into the player with a satisfying click, and the TV buzzes to life with that grainy, old-school static.

The opening credits roll, the familiar music filling the room. You settle back against the wall, arms crossed, and watch as Wyatt leans back in bed, his eyes a little unfocused. He winces every so often when he moves, but it’s clear he’s trying to keep his attention on the movie. Every now and then, he lets out a quiet sigh, but this time, it’s not from pain. It’s more like he’s trying to let himself enjoy something for once.

The familiar sounds of the movie fills the space between you. For a moment, it’s like everything else melts away. You look over at Wyatt, and despite everything, you notice the way his eyes flicker with genuine interest as the T-Rex roars on screen. His face softens, his hands gripping the edges of his blanket as if trying to hold on to the moment.

Maybe it’s silly, but you start to wonder how many times he’s watched this movie.

"Hey," you say after a moment, breaking the quiet. "How many times have you seen this?"

Wyatt doesn’t look at you immediately, but his lips twitch upward in the faintest of smiles. "Oh, I lost count." He hesitates, his gaze flickering over to you. "I used to watch it alone in my room. Pretend I was, like, part of the team trying to survive. Kinda stupid, huh?"

You shake your head, smiling at him. “Nah, not stupid. I think it’s kind of... nice.”

Wyatt’s eyes flicker toward you, and for a split second, you think he might say something else. Instead, he just shrugs.

You glance at the clock. It’s getting late.

“I should probably call my parents,” you say. “Let them know I’m gonna be late getting back.”

Wyatt nods but doesn’t say anything. He seems content to let you handle it, lost in his thoughts as he watches the movie.

You step out of the room and make the quick call, your voice soft as you tell your parents you’re going to be a bit longer. The conversation is brief, and after hanging up, you return to Wyatt’s room. The soft hum of the movie and the occasional rattle of the VHS tape are the only sounds filling the space.

Just then, you hear a car door slam outside, followed by the sound of footsteps on the porch.

“Shit,” Wyatt mutters under his breath, and his hand shoots out to pause the movie. His eyes widen slightly, and you can tell he’s not ready for whoever’s coming through that door.

The front door creaks open, and you hear a familiar voice call out. “Wyatt? You home?”

It’s a woman’s voice. You can tell from the tone she’s probably had a long shift at work. Wyatt sighs softly, and you can see his shoulders tense.

“She’s home early,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You stand still for a moment, unsure if you should leave, but Wyatt doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to kick you out. Instead, he pulls the blanket up higher around his shoulders, clearly trying to hide himself.

The door to his room opens slowly, and standing in the doorway is a woman in her late forties. She looks tired, her hair pulled back in a messy bun and her clothes a bit wrinkled from a long day’s work. Her eyes soften when she spots Wyatt, and for a moment, she’s just watching him.

“Wyatt,” she says, her voice gentler now. “You okay?”

Wyatt doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he just shrugs, face tilted away from her. You notice her gaze flick to you for the first time, and she offers a tired, polite smile. It’s obvious she didn’t expect anyone else to be there.

"Uh, yeah. Just hanging out," you say, feeling a little awkward under her gaze. "I didn’t mean to... intrude."

She shakes her head, stepping into the room. “No, no. It’s fine. It’s good for him to have someone over. It’s been... quiet around here.”

Wyatt doesn’t meet her eyes.

His mom’s eyes linger on him for a moment, before she nods toward the TV. "Jurassic Park, huh? You two like that one?"

You grin. “It’s a classic.”

Wyatt snorts softly, a laugh that’s more of a resigned exhale.

His mom chuckles, though there’s something soft and tired about it. "You and your movies, Wyatt. Just like your dad used to."

At the mention of his dad, Wyatt stiffens, and for a moment, the room feels like it’s holding its breath again. His mom doesn’t seem to notice the shift, busy unpacking her purse. You glance at Wyatt, but he’s looking at the TV now, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. It’s clear that conversation is over for now.

“Well,” his mom says after a moment, “I’m gonna get cleaned up. You two... just hang out. I’ll make something for dinner in a bit, if you’re staying."

Wyatt nods absently, but she pauses at the door, glancing back at him one last time, as if checking if he’s really alright.

"Alright," she says softly. "I’ll be in the kitchen. Just let me know if you need anything."

She leaves the room, and the door closes behind her, leaving just you and Wyatt again. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Wyatt picks up the remote again and presses play, the familiar sounds of 'Jurassic Park' filling the room once more.

“Sorry about that,” he says quietly, not looking at you.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

Masterlist

#oc x reader #x reader #male yandere #yandere x you #yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines

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idkwhylou · 2 months ago

Text

𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

masterlist | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders.

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud.

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands.

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy.

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor.

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood.

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts.

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood.

A marriage ?

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still.

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender.

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold.

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken.

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!”

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose.

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine.

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment.

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur.

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable.

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real.

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all.

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense.

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair.

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy.

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march.

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name.

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments.

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed.

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white.

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return.

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to.

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure.

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down.

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk.

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him.

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman.

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched.

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his.

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen.

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter.

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes.

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze.

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his.

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher.

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his.

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find.

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired.

That simple.

That final.

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured.

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played.

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | next chapter

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator ll #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #general marcus acacius #arranged marriage #pedro pascal characters

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obsessedhoneycomb · 4 months ago

Text

Mind The Gap - Keeping it private

Back then at Lake Como

Toto Wolff x fem!reader

-> masterlist

Summary: Your first weekend vacation with Toto at the beginning of your secret relationship.

Warnings: 18+, smut, age gap, curse words, fluff, love

Word count: 2.0k

A/N: Oh my, this feels soooo much personal. Touches me on so many levels, maybe the most out of all of my writings because I have a strong thing for older men and I’m finally at the point of my life when I don’t feel ashamed by it but I’m embracing it. Enjoy this another part of my Mind The Gap universe. :)

Song inspiration: Found by Zach Webb, Cinnamon Girl by Lana Del Rey, Do I Wanna Know by Hozier

———

Escaping the chaotic world around you, Toto decided to take you to Italy for your first weekend together. Of course you were nervous, it was a long time you were with a man alone like this, since you two promised to each other to take it slow and just go on the dates in secret. Which was very hard, but Toto tried his best to be creative by taking you to places where you could just talk, cuddle and kiss like teenagers. Sneaking in one of his Mercedes, thank god for tinted windows.

Stepping out of the car on the driveway of your rented villa, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Beautiful view of Lake Como in front of you. The sun was perfectly clear in the sky, the scenery made by God's creation.

“I take it that you like it.” Toto joked as he got your bags to the house.

Still you were speechless, following him inside, feeling the pebbles on the ground under your feet. Pool outside with a little terrace and roses everywhere. Was this some kind of dream? Probably yes, but you were living it.

While downstairs was the kitchen and huge living room, when you got upstairs there was a nice bathroom with bathtub and spacious bedroom with a whole ass balcony to look over the lake. You stood there to capture that moment with your eyes. Suddenly, Toto was behind you, pressing himself against you, hugging you.

“Impressive, huh?” He whispered while kissing your neck.

“Absolutely.” You were breathless not only from the view.

“Come on, let’s cook something for dinner, you must be starving.”

———

Seeing him swaying through the kitchen was mesmerising. You never took him as a chef but the way he just chopped the onion like Gordon fucking Ramsey got your mouth gaping in surprise.

“What?” The onion was sizzling on the pan along with some olive oil when he caught your expression.

“Uh, I don’t know, I didn’t think that you can actually cook.”

“Time taught me how to take care of myself in a good way. Yeah, I’m rich, I can buy the whole restaurant, but there's beauty in being able to feed myself.”

The way he talked, it didn’t stop to amaze you. You tried to chop some tomatoes for him, but even though you had a certain cooking skill, it was nowhere close to him. He chuckled as he saw how you’re fighting with a knife, sliding over the tomatoes. “Here, let me help you.”

Standing beside you, he held your hand which clasped the knife, guiding you to slice that tomato the right way. Still you weren’t completely used to his close presence, so your breath hitched every time his scent hit your nose and his warm chest hugged your back.

“The trick is that you must relax your wrist a little and do this little whoop and swish and… yeah, just like this, mhm. You’re a natural talent, love.” He smiled when he saw how you’re now chopping tomatoes like a pro.

You chuckled in happiness, feeling great. “Maybe I just need a little guidance.”

“I’ll guide you through everything, if you want me to.” With those words he looked into your eyes as you turned your head toward him. The tension between you was palpable. Every time he locked his eyes with yours, your heart nearly stopped in your chest, your insides clenching in excitement.

The smell of the onion brought you back to reality. “The onion, Toto.”

“Fuck, sorry, yes.” He blinked a few times and turned to the stove, his face holding a wide smile.

———

After you shared a delicious tomato pasta, you sat at the terrace, watching the lazy waves over the lake, sun setting and shining over the surroundings.

As you took a sip from your wine, you couldn’t help but look at Toto. Sun rays were touching his cheek, emphasising his eye colour, the wrinkles on his face making him attractive even more.

His hand was holding yours, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles occasionally. He felt peace. Calm. Like if the storm inside him got finally over. Like if he finally docked his boat to the long awaiting shore.

“I’m so happy we got this weekend off. I needed it.” He finally spoke and you couldn’t help but love how his lips were moving.

You took another sip of the wine, because you knew you’d need it because you felt that this night will be the night.

“Yeah, I’m also glad. No more hiding and we can just enjoy ourselves.”

With a soft hum, he grabbed your glass and placed it on the table. Looking into your eyes for a moment, he searched for a hesitation or discomfort. But he found none. “Sorry for my eagerness, but I wanted to do this when we were back in the kitchen cooking.” And he captured your lips in the most searing and longing kiss. If you could melt you surely would on the spot. Your body reacted by moving closer towards him, while his hands pulled you onto his lap. The way he kissed you with such intensity, it made you breathless.

“Breathe, baby.” He whispered in between the kisses.

It made you chuckle. “It’s hard when you’re like this.”

“Mmm, let’s make it even harder.” He got up from the sofa while holding you under your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his hips. Still your lips were connected when he carried you to the bedroom, only to place you on the bed. He pulled from you for a bit to see you, to take in your flushed face and your body in the dim light of the space.

“Toto, please.. don’t make me wait.” Your sweet plea got him back onto you, this time savouring the skin on your neck. It was his new favourite thing - to make you gasp. It was like you weren’t properly loved by a man.

Few minutes later, all the clothes you both wore were scattered around the room, Toto nearing your aching pussy and you spread your legs even more for him. He couldn’t help but admire your intimate parts. You were like a goddess to him. Spreading your lips with his fingers, you moaned desperately and he placed a kiss on your clit.

“F-fuck…” you choked out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when his tongue slid through your inner lips ending sucking on them. He really was a man with many talents. Your hands were in his dark hair, pushing him even closer to you. With each lap of his tongue, your insides clenched, and when he added two of his fingers to curl inside you, it was nearly time for you to see heaven.

“God- Toto- I’m gonna-“ but he only managed to hum against your wet folds and you fell apart, screaming his name like crazy, his large hands holding your hips at how wildly you trembled.

Toto moved up to meet you in a hungry kiss and you could taste yourself from his mouth, divine.

Your hand wandered between your bodies to wrap around his hard cock. Soft gasp escaped his mouth and you chuckled at how sensitive he was. “You’re such a tease, baby. But for that would be time later. Now I want you. I’m aching to be inside you.”

Few reassuring glances later, he slid into you so easily like you were born just for him to fit in. Stretching you so heavenly, choked moans left your mouth the same as your eyes were widening, holding his gaze.

“Christian… fuck…” you whispered, your hands dipping into his shoulders and his eyes darkened even more that they already were.

“Say it again.” He didn’t like his middle name much, but the way you moaned it… oh, it made his dick twitch in pleasure.

“Christian. Christ-“

You couldn’t even complete the sentence at how hard he started to thrust into you. Slaps of your naked bodies filled the room, filthy sounds of your wetness ringing through his brain, making him feral with need. As he moved he couldn’t help but run his hand over your breasts, enchanted by your soft skin, pinching your hard nipples hearing your moans intensifying.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking much.” Looking at your face twisted in pleasure, he managed to choke those words that made you smile even more.

“Being such a good girl to me.. oh yes, oh god..” Toto was so deep in your pussy that your brain went blank. He struggled to catch his breath, feeling how close he was. You started to move your hips to match his pace, his mouth falling open in surprise.

“Sweetheart.”

“Fill me, Christian. Claim me with your seed.” Your filthy gasps was everything he needed to fall over the edge of his pleasure. Loud groan with your name echoing through the walls, his hips moving harshly against you, the thick stripes of his cum filling your cunt.

He collapsed onto you, his hot breath on your shoulder making your skin get goosebumps. This was something you were craving your whole life. To have a man who actually knows how to handle you. How to make you see stars.

Settling next to you, he pulled you close to him, as if he wanted to imprint you into his flesh. “Woman… you are amazing.”

“You’re the one who’s amazing.. fuck, I haven’t felt like that ever.” You laughed softly.

He kissed your cheek with a mischievous smile. “Oh, you’re gonna feel many things. I’m not done with you yet.”

———

In the morning, your blissful sleep was interrupted by Toto’s phone ringing. Holding onto his hand, you didn’t want to let him go, but he just slipped from the bed. The buzz of the water at the lake was soothing, and you just hummed with a smile on your face.

“Why are you calling me on Saturday? I said I’m on my vacation and I won’t be available until it's an emergency.” Toto paced through the bedroom, naked in all his glory and you just admired his body from where you laid on the bed, wrapped in sheets.

“Call me on Monday. Then I’ll be ready to hear about your shit.” He ended the call, throwing his phone somewhere on the sofa in the corner of the room, standing there, in the morning light of the balcony doorway, ruffling his hair frustrated. You chuckled softly, nuzzling your cheek to the pillow. His eyes finally fell on you. You. A gorgeous woman, who made his heart skip a beat, who became his whole world. He took in how you laid there, simply and relaxed, with that soft expression on your face, your naked body he devoured the night before, wrapped in the delicate silk covers. The core memory he'll be thinking about for the rest of his life.

“Christian…” your whisper ran a shiver down his spine. You got to like to call him by his middle name. And he strangely loved how you moaned it last night.

“What is it, princess? Like seeing me all mad in the morning? With my dick on display?” He laughed softly and it made you burst into laughter.

“Well, it was a romantic and epic scene and you just ruined it by the dick thing.” You talk into the pillows with laugh.

Toto walked to the bed, crawling back to you, his large arms wrapping around your torso, kissing your temple. He just held you against his chest, that moment was only yours.

“I love you.” He whispered into the silence of the room, the chirping of the birds being heard in the background.

You bit into your lips, fighting the tears of happiness. Closing your eyes, taking a deep inhale and exhale you just “I love you too, Toto.”

———

Please don’t use my writings without my permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

Tags: @chilling-seavey

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lucydixon · 3 months ago

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Favourite sleeping positions

Rory Culkin Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog A/N: I got an ask for the LOC boys, and it was suggested that I do another for all the Rory characters, which is only fair. So here it is.

Happy Reading <3

Øystein "Euronymous" Aarseth - Lords of Chaos I think Øystein is a huge fan of spooning. There's just something about having your body pressed flush up against him. The way he can cup your tits in his hands while you both sleep? the warmth of it in the winter months and the bitter cold? He can hold you in a way that just feels so protective and safe to both of you, and he's got great access for lazy morning sex. It's the best of both worlds.

Charlie Walker - Scream 4 Charlie is just happy to be in bed together. He'll sleep in any position you want for as long as you want. I do think he'd need to be touching at all times, though. So, you'd be cuddling all night for sure, and he'd probably have a death grip on you.

Jack Thurlow - Jack goes home I feel like the two of you would never go to bed at the same time. He's always up late smoking or writing, or both, so you usually start off alone in bed, then he slips under the covers hours later. I think he'd reach out for you and maybe pull you a little closer and sling an arm around your waist, but wouldn't be huge on cuddling.

Clyde - Electrik Children Clyde likes to sleep in a few different positions, but spooning is probably his favourite. He'd love burying his face in your hair and waking you up with his lips on your neck in the morning. I think he's the type to fall asleep literally anywhere, so I can see him really enjoying just lying down with his head in your lap while you guys are hanging out on the couch or at the skatepark.

Oliver Sway - The Song of Sway Lake Sweet boy keeps you clutched to his chest all night without fail. He doesn't care how warm it is, he just wants to be close to you. I think he has frequent nightmares about his dad and losing you the same way and knows that if he wakes up with you in his arms, he'll have a much easier time getting back to sleep, just knowing that you're right there, breathing.

Danny Cooper - Intruders Danny would be fully wrapped around you every night while you sleep. I could see him enjoying being the little spoon sometimes, feeling your arms around him and your tits flush against his back. I maintain that this guy is a freak in the sheets, so y'all are probably always sleeping naked.

Mike - 5lbs of Pressure Mikey's favourite position to sleep in is having an arm around you while your head rests on his chest. I think he wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes you haven't moved an inch, or that you've somehow managed to snuggle even closer to him, he wouldn't be able to contain a big, giddy grin. He'd keep himself up just thinking about the future with you and what it's going to be like when the two of you can sleep like this every night, and not just whenever he can get away from Leff.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

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hyukalyptus · 8 months ago

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office hours — professor!soobin x gradstudent!reader

cw. chubby!reader, reader is an adult grad student, minimal age gap, clear consent, petnames (babe, baby, honey, darling, good boy), mommy kink, face sitting, unprotected penetration, creampie, cunnilingus, handjobs, ending is cheesy, "epilogue" of sorts involves christmas vibes, kissing, please lmk if i'm missing anything. NSFW/MDNI notes. i would feel irresponsible if i didn't acknowledge this is a romanticized portrayal of a professor-student relationship. while the relationship in this story has clear consent multiple times, irl relationships like this can be inappropriate and exploitative bc of the authority imbalance. you deserve a healthy, consensual relationship. prioritize ur well-being and autonomy. relationships should be built on mutual respect, equality and clear consent. this is a work of fiction and should be read as such. shoutout to @silvergyus for sending the prof!soob pic <3 wc. 11.6k

“Which brings us to Le Chatelier's Principle in real-world chemical reactions,” Professor Choi says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This will be review for most of you, so I won’t go into too much detail.”

Chemistry is your favorite thing in the world. It’s real-life magic. And Professor Choi sees it that way too. His olive green chinos are wrinkled from walking from his office. The sleeves of his white button-down are pushed up so he can write freely on the whiteboard while his burgundy tie sways with his scurries.

Sparks of passion fill his eyes as he lectures. And he never disappoints with his cheesy jokes. Although you seem to be the only one that laughs at them—maybe you’re the only one that gets them. Not many students in his class are the experts in chemistry you are. You took it as a break from your intense course load and the elective credits are a nice bonus.

Most of your professors are so old they barely know how to turn on their laptop and are so deep into their tenure they’ve given up. If you bothered showing up to their office hours, you’d be lucky to find a professor, let alone a helpful one. So you’ve become a frequent visitor in Professor Choi’s office hours, talking about advanced chemistry he can’t wait to teach but it’ll be at least five years before he can. In the meantime, he’ll settle for nerding out with you in his office for a few hours every week.

“Great class today, everyone,” he says. “Have a great weekend and don’t hesitate to visit me during my office hours with any questions!” That sentence started out as a normal speaking voice but ended up a shout over the shuffling of the desk chairs and backpacks. You’re typically the last one out, but you save your questions for his office hours tomorrow.

“Hi,” you say, lightly tapping your knuckle against his office door.

Turning around in his chair, his lips form a pout in surprise at seeing you. “Were you waiting outside? Sorry that meeting ran a little long—” He shuffles to organize his desk.

“That’s okay.” Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, he rests his hands on his thighs and looks up at you. Did he just look you up and down? Don’t be ridiculous.

“What can I do ya for?”

“Right,” you start. “Can I…?” You ask, motioning toward the spare chair, waiting for his nod before sitting. “You know Professor Vaughn’s class?” You barely catch it, but his eyes roll. Professor Vaughn is the worst professor you’ve had. Boring, harsh, impatient. It doesn’t help he teaches one of the most complex forms of chemistry. “I’m not really getting this week’s content and was wondering if you could help me.”

“Of course.” He smiles. And it’s devastating. The sparkle in his eyes and those dimples. Craning his neck to look at your notes riddled with red question marks, he nods. As soon as he sees the title of your notes, he says, “Let’s think about this from a quantum mechanical perspective. If we assume that the π-complex is forming, we’re talking about a stabilization due to delocalization π-electrons, right?”

In what feels like no time at all, an hour has passed and the conversation has been the complete opposite of Professor Vaughn’s lectures. Questions led down rabbit holes, leading to other theorems and more questions. As he glances up at you through his glasses, there is an undeniable tingle in your stomach.

It’s not like you haven’t noticed how attractive Professor Choi is. He’s tall, lean but undeniably strong, he has the most perfect silky black hair and the prettiest brown eyes, and his pout—indescribably cute. And again—those goddamn dimples. He’s the perfect mixture of sexy, handsome, and pretty. You’d never think of doing anything with a professor, but you can’t help your mind wanders during the slower lectures.

How long have you been staring at each other in silence? Too long probably. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, looking at his watch. “My office hours have been over for a few—”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” you say, stumbling as you stand, attempting to gather your things as quickly as possible. But he shakes his head, trying to shrug it off.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I, uh, I just have my emails waiting for me.”

You nod, shoving everything into your bag and heading out the door. What was that? You’re probably overreacting, you think to yourself. He’s charming because of his looks, there’s no way he’d— No. Don’t even finish that thought.

"How is it that someone who scored the highest in my theoretical chemistry exam is turning basic lab work into a spectacle of incompetence?" Professor Vaughn boasts over your right shoulder. No doubt his thick eyebrows are furrowed.

As your hands tighten around the test tube, you know exactly what to do—you always do—but everything slips through your fingers in his class.

"I’m trying to get the reaction to stabilize," you stammer, eyes darting between your hands, the chemical reagents lined up on the table, and your notebook.

Professor Vaugn’s expression hardens as he steps closer, looking down his nose at your station. "Trying is for high school sophomores. If you’re still trying, you’re behind."

Taking a deep breath, you carefully add three more drops to the mixture but the reaction goes wrong. Again. A plume of white smoke rises from the beaker, and the liquid turns an unexpected, muddy brown.

"Unbelievable," Vaughn mutters loud enough for everyone to hear. Everyone knows you’re the best student in your class. Well, everyone except Soren, who’s so jealous of your intelligence they can hardly stand it. They simply smirk. "I expected more from you."

Your heart sinks. You checked those calculations three times. Maybe it’s your shaky hands. Or the pressure of him looming over your shoulder. Or the other stuff on your mind.

"Are you going to sit there and guess again, or would you like to double down on failure with your next attempt?" Vaughn sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I’m not guessing, Professor. I—"

"Can’t manage a basic reaction?" Vaughn interrupts with his icy voice. "I’m beginning to wonder how you even made it into this program."

"I’m perfectly capable. The solution is just—"

"Wrong. Yes, we’ve established that." Vaughn’s lips curl into a patronizing sneer. "Maybe chemistry isn’t the field for you if this is the best you can manage." That got everyone’s attention—it would be an interesting sight to see you fail. It so rarely happens. Sure, you’ve been doubted before but have always proven yourself. Today would be no different.

You take a deep breath and count to yourself, One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

As you block out Vaughn’s piercing gaze and the weight of the other students’ eyes, you carefully remeasure the chemical, adjusting the proportions this time, methodically double-checking your work. You add the reagent once more, slowly, and watch as the solution begins to shift.

A moment passes. The reaction stabilizes and the solution turns a clear, pale blue.

"Finally," Vaughn mutters. You don’t even have to look at him to know he rolled his eyes. He turns to walk away but pauses. "Barely acceptable. Next time, you won’t be given the luxury of so many failures."

Bursting through the door upon dismissal, you can’t get to the restroom fast enough, barely making it to a stall before tears stream down your cheeks.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five,” you whisper to yourself.

Sometimes, chemical reactions need to be dealt with instantly, but that’s an overwhelming amount of pressure. You give yourself five seconds before you absolutely have to deal with it. Same thing here. Cry. Count to five. Wipe your tears and move on.

But it’s difficult to move on this time. You’ve counted to five a few too many times today. But the only person you want to talk about it with is—

Professor Choi, Are you available to meet me in Lab 270 tomorrow afternoon? I’ve been struggling with some reactions and could use some help. I’ll be there from 2:00—4:00. If not, no worries!

Sniffling, you hit send on your email app, shove your phone in your bag and head home.

The next day drags on and on. Did he even get your message? Expecting an empty lab, you’re surprised to find Professor Choi waiting for you behind a laptop wearing a cute tweed jacket with suede elbow patches. His eyebrows are furrowed as his focused eyes study the computer, but they brighten at the sight of you.

Initially surprised by your confusion, he squeezes his eyes shut and says, “I didn’t respond to your email, did I?” He’s already got the lab station set up. How long has he been waiting on you? “So, how’s Professor Vaughn’s class?” Did someone tell him about yesterday? God, you hope not.

“Fine,” you deadpan. Shaking your head, you say, “I’m sorry…I’m just kinda stressed.”

“I can go if you need some time by—”

“No,” you say, softening your tone. “I’d really appreciate your help.”

And he’s more than willing, letting you ask whatever you want, never interrupting or talking over you like most of the men in the program. He gives you space to explore ideas and theories, listening closely instead of answering everything for you.

And he’s so damn sexy when he’s the one doing the ranting. The way he talks with his hands, ones that are so big with fingers so long you wish he would wrap around your—

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” He asks.

Oh shit, did you say that out loud? What a fucking nightmare. “Uh, sorry, just…talking to myself. Too many thoughts racing around the ole dome.”

A slight pout forms on his lips as he continues his rant. Now, the only thing you can think of are his lips wrapped around your—

“Ah!” Your hand slips toward the Bunsen burner and, great, now you’ve got a nice burn on your thumb.

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” He stands quickly. “Let me see.” His fingers graze your palm, igniting a fiercer burn than the actual flame just did. “Run it under cold water, okay?”

In the meantime, he straightens up your station before meeting you at the sink. “Is something wrong?” His words make you jump. “You seem distracted.”

That’s all it takes. The floodgates open. You rant about the sexist piece of shit Professor Vaughn and his power moves to intimidate you when he knows you’re the best student in the program. About how embarrassed you were in lab yesterday. Last semester when you raised your hand to correct an equation on the board and he gave you a firm talking to about respect after class.

He watches you carefully, handing over a towel for your hands as you take a steadying breath, fighting back tears.

“Did I ever tell you why I started studying chemistry?” he asks. You sniffle, shaking your head. “My grandfather. He was a baker.” His voice softens, and you look up to find his eyes full of kindness. “Every Saturday, he’d make me work in his bakery. I didn’t mind—it felt like magic, you know? But really, it’s science. It’s all precision, measurements, timing.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Once, I tried baking a cake for my mom’s birthday, followed his recipe exactly. Measured the flour, the sugar, the cocoa. When I pulled it out of the oven, it was hard. Flat. I was sure he’d be disappointed, calling it a waste of time and ingredients. I was terrified. But he looked at it, smiled, and told me to try again the next day. When I asked why it didn’t work, he said I needed to ‘feel my way through it.’”

You sit there, the sting from your burn now fading, but your heart’s still aching, wanting something from him—a hug, a kiss, even just a pat on the shoulder.

“If I’d gotten it right the first time, I’d never know what overmixed batter looks like. Or that I like more cocoa than he did. Or that you should coat berries in flour.” His smile creeps up to his eyes. “Seeing how failure could make you better—it made me curious. I wanted to understand why some things worked and others didn’t, why I needed to feel my way through it, to get into the details.” He makes eye contact with you again. “That’s why I went into chemistry. Baking taught me the magic is in the little things—if you’re willing to screw up and keep going.”

Nodding, you smile back. His words hang in the air for a moment, like they’re meant to settle, but something’s missing.

“All I’m saying is, its okay to fuck things up, okay?” he says, his candidness drawing a chuckle from you. “How else would you learn?”

The world’s drained of color—only hazy shades of grey and beige are left. Your palms press against a cold marble countertop with the faint sound of running water echoing in the distance. The reflection of the mirror looks like you, but not quite. The woman in the mirror has her lips painted a dark, sultry brown, a shade you’d never choose. And the outfit is far too dressy for a lecture. Shadows fall where there shouldn’t be any.

The hallways are unfamiliar, yet you know it's the same building you visit almost every day. It's blurry, like you’re walking through a memory that isn’t yours.

You look down at the saddle shoes on your feet clicking against the tile floor, unnervingly filling the emptiness. It feels like someone else is controlling your body but you don’t question it. You can’t. Your hand raises, knuckles brushing a wooden door before it creaks open on its own.

On the other side of the door, Professor Choi faces a green chalkboard. Has that always been in his office? Hurriedly scribbling down equations, he glances between the board and the notebook in his hand. When he looks over his shoulder at you, his eyes soften and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Come in,” he says gently, setting his notebook aside. His voice wraps around you, making the room feel smaller, closer. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your spine tingles. “I know,” you reply, but the words sound hollow, like you’re speaking from somewhere else.

“Here,” he suggests, holding a piece of chalk out to you. The way he gestures toward the board is magnetic. As you take it from his hand, your fingers brush his. “What do you think of this?” An unfinished equation waits to be solved. His presence looms behind you, close but not quite touching as you reach up to solve it. Your heart pounds, every stroke of the chalk on the board heavier than it should.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough around the edges. You turn to face him and he’s closer than expected, his warmth radiating against your skin. The air is thick with something unspoken. You step closer, tentative at first, then quicker, more certain. Your lips almost brush his, but he pulls back, his breath catching.

He looks down, your name a whisper on his lips, soft and pained. “I—” His eyes flicker up to meet yours, then fall back down like the weight of your gaze is too much.

“What?” You ask, your voice barely more than a breath. Your eyes dart between his, lingering on his tempting mouth. He leans in again with desire in his eyes. He wants to kiss you. You can feel it. And for a moment you think he might.

But he pulls away, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “I don’t think we should be doing this,” he says, his voice strained, as if saying the words is physically painful for him.

“Why not?” The question slips from your lips before you can stop it, frustration and longing lacing your tone.

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, or—”

“Why would I feel like that?” you interrupt, your voice impatient. Your heart races, pounding in your ears, drowning out reason.

“I’m your professor,” he breathes out like it’s a curse. His words only fan the flames of the tension building between you. There’s nothing wrong with that, you think to yourself. It’s not like you’re fresh out of high school—you’re a grad student, close to starting the same PhD he earned barely three years ago. He’s no more than five years older.

“I don’t care,” you insist, stepping even closer, your lips a breath away from his. “I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes darken, his resolve faltering as his gaze drops to your lips. “It’s a mistake,” he whispers, but his voice trembles with indecision, trying to convince himself more than you.

“Make the mistake,” you urge, your voice soft but sure. Your hand reaches for his tie, tugging as light as you can just to bring him that much closer. “You said it yourself, it’s okay to fuck things up.”

There’s a beat of silence, so thick it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath, waiting. And in that moment, the space between you seems to collapse, the weight of everything unsaid pulling you closer.

The millisecond before your lips touch, you breathe awake.

You bolt straight up, feeling around your soft bed sheets, breathless as your heart pounds from the vividness of it all. For a moment, you linger in the feeling, brushing your fingers over your lips, feeling the warmth of the almost kiss. But reality sinks in and your stomach drops.

Reaching for your phone, you check the time. Great, it’s almost time for his class. But there’s no hazy world to hide in. Skipping class might be an option but an exam reminder drags you out of bed.

Trudging across campus, your stomach sinks lower with each step. How can you look him in the eye? Dropping your bag to the floor with a thud, you hang your head low. Let’s just get through this exam and get outta here.

“How’s your hand?” Professor Choi’s voice shakes you out of your thoughts. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding his hands up. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.” Looking at you like you’re the cutest puppy he’s ever seen, you can’t bring yourself to speak, but you hold out your hand. The second his fingertips touch yours, you flinch and jerk it back.

“Um—” you start. “Better, thanks.” Turning away from him, you distract yourself with a random notebook from your bag.

“...You okay? You shouldn’t be nervous about the exam.” When you look up, you’re met with eyes that appear…hurt?

“No, it’s not that.” That’s not a good answer. “Just…” What would you even say? I had an incredibly vivid—and delicious—dream about you last night and now I need to know how your lips feel in real life? “Cramps.”

“Ah.” He nods and leaves you alone, awkwardly walking to the front of the class to make some announcements and general good wishes before the exam. With your fist pressed to your chin, you refuse to look up, hanging your head low even as he slides you your copy.

There’s a bright green post-it stuck to it with a note, It’s okay to fuck it up! Your heart races as your eyes dart around searching for him. When you find him, he gives you a soft smile. You return the smile but rush to unstick it before anyone sees, storing it in your notebook for safe keeping.

As you return to your apartment, the post-it stares back at you like you’re the guiltiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. It’s practically calling you a whore. And you can hardly take it anymore. You can’t bring yourself to face him for class a few days later—although skipping feels like a cardinal sin. Soon enough, though, your email dings.

From: Choi Soobin, PhD I noticed you were absent from class today. I hope everything’s okay. The lecture notes are attached for your reference. Feel free to stop by my office hours with any questions. Professor Choi

Did your heart just flutter? Why are you walking toward his office? When you knock on the door, he stands—more like stumbles—to greet you, “Hi!”

“Hi, Professor Choi…” You linger in the doorway, clutching your notebook tight to your chest. “Sorry I missed class—”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah—”

“You’re not overwhelmed with coursework, are you?” His eyes search yours, and there’s a softness in his voice that makes it hard to look away.

“No, no, I’m alright. I just…had a migraine this morning,” you say, shrugging slightly. “It’s gone now, though.”

He nods, easing into a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His gaze doesn’t waver and the intensity makes your pulse quicken. “So, I’m guessing you’re here to go over questions from the lecture?”

“Actually, it’s Professor Vaughn’s class I’m struggling with. His lecture today was…brutal.”

“I’m shocked,” he says sarcastically. “The man’s got a gift for making simple concepts sound like Greek.”

“Exactly,” you laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing. “I thought it was me, but he seems to take pride in making everything harder than it needs to be.”

“Trust me, it’s not you,” he says, a glint of warmth in his eyes. “He’s terrible. And annoying. And boring. And I’d tell him that.”

You raise a brow, skeptical. “You wouldn’t.”

“Well…” He breaks into a grin. “Maybe after I reach tenure. Though he may be retired by then.”

“Or dead,” you say matter-of-factly. He looks at you awkwardly then you both laugh, genuinely. There’s an ease to it.

He gestures to your notebook. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“I can’t believe I’m laughing at that,” you say, a giggle escaping your lips.

“You always laugh at my bad jokes,” he replies, staring at your face a little too longingly. If you were anyone else, he might find some excuse to touch you. Maybe brush a piece of lint off your shoulder, lightly touch your arm while he laughed at something you said, or something as casual as a fist bump.

If he were any other guy, you’d be much more obvious, making it crystal clear you want him to kiss you right now. But you can’t. You don’t even know how he thinks about you. You’re probably just another student to him.

“Well, those are all my questions,” you say, awkwardly packing your bag.

“Yeah, you can, uh…head out…” he trails off as you start to rise from your seat.

You’re searching for something to say, something to let you stay just a little longer. But nothing comes. He watches you walk toward the door, the silence hanging in the space between you.

“Pens!” His voice suddenly burst out, loud enough to make you stop mid-step. “They, uh—I went to a conference last week and they gave me a ton,” he says, scrambling to gather a handful from his desk.

You take them, your fingers brushing against his in a way that feels far too intimate. His eyes lock with yours, the touch sending a ripple of tension through you. “But you’re, uh…picky about your pens, aren’t you?” He asks, his voice softer now, almost unsure.

Laughing quietly, you say, “Yeah, but…that’s okay.” Your words are heavy with subtext you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. “Well, goodbye.” You offer him a smile, stepping back toward the door. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah. Goodbye,” he says, but his feet shuffle forward as if he’s moving without thinking. Awkwardly reaching for a handshake, he realizes your hands are occupied. Instead, he reaches around you for the door handle, but he gets a tad too close and your brain scrambles.

Before you can hold yourself back, you drop the pens, letting them clatter to the floor as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips meet his in a rush, warm and soft. While your eyes close to savor the feeling, his widen in shock before he relaxes into your touch and wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer.

It’s everything you’ve been holding back—unspoken feelings unraveling in a heartbeat. His lips move against yours with a hunger that surprises you, the world melting away as you lose yourself in the moment. You feel weightless, your pulse racing as his hands grip your waist a little tighter, as though he’s afraid to let you go.

When you finally break apart, breathless and dazed, he presses his forehead to yours, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re never gonna use those pens, are you?” he asks, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to anchor himself in humor, trying to bring himself back down to earth.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you admit, your heart still pounding. “They’re garbage.”

Before you can think, you kiss him again and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His mouth crashes into yours with an urgency, like he’s wanted to kiss you since the second he laid eyes on you. His lips are soft, but his kiss is demanding, making up for all the lost moments between you. For those few minutes, nothing else matters—you bask in one of the greatest kisses either of you have ever had. But not for long.

Reality catches up too quickly. You pull away suddenly, breathless and wide-eyed. “Oh my god—” you gasp, backing up, your fingers graze your lips trying to make sense of what just happened. “I’m so sorry—”

“No,” he interrupts quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t be. I—” He’s stumbling through his words, just as lost as you are but neither of you regret it. “I wanted—”

“That was…” You can’t even finish your sentence. It was everything. Too much, too fast, too real. But you can’t take it back.

“I—” He’s trying to find the right words, to reassure you, to tell you he felt it too, that he wanted it just as badly. But he’s as flustered as you are, his voice rough and unsure.

“I’ll just…go throw myself off a bridge now,” you mumble. You can’t even look at him as you make a beeline for the door, your face burning with embarrassment. You think you hear him say something, but the blood rushing in your ears drowns it out.

You leave the room quickly, your heart about to burst through your chest, trying to process what just happened. The kiss lingers on your lips, a mix of exhilaration and terror swirling inside you. It’s too much to handle.

But, hey, there’s one bit of good news. At least he kissed you back.

What the fuck are you supposed to do now? Drop his class? It’s too late in the semester for that. And you need those credits. Wait until the end of the semester to talk to him again? Can you go that long without his lips on yours again?

Back at your apartment, you rummage through your books to find the university’s code of conduct, hurriedly searching for anything related to “appropriate relationships,” “faculty-student relationships,” “consensual,” blah blah blah, whatever the university has coded sleeping with a professor.

The University strongly urges those individuals in positions of authority not to engage in conduct of an amorous or sexual nature with a person they are, or are likely in the future to be, in a position of evaluating.

Your eyes read over the words, “strongly urges” once more. Not totally against the rules, you suppose. Even if you did wait until the semester was over, you’d need to report it. You wish you could talk with him about it, but bringing this up is tricky. Is it moving too fast? You can’t text him, you don’t have his number. And using your student email to send a message to his faculty email that says, “Oh, by the way, I checked the rules and we’re in the clear to have sex!” is a terrible idea.

Maybe one kiss in his office doesn’t mean anything. Oh, but it was everything.

After much deliberation, you convince yourself to attend his class a few days later. You’ve brought the code of conduct along, as well as a bright pink post-it sticking out of the book. To avoid any form of small talk with him, you wait outside right until the start of class.

Along the way to your desk, you silently plop the code of conduct on his desk and scurry away. When you work up the courage to look up at him, he’s flipped to the marked page. Highlighted on the page is the paragraph that “strongly urges” people in positions of authority not to sleep with students.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. The message couldn’t be clearer, he thought. You’re practically telling him to leave you alone. But when he finally reads the post-it, his heart flutters. Written in your handwriting, it says, It’s okay to fuck it up! complete with a smiley face.

As much as he tries to fight it, he glances up at you to catch your gaze. And just as the slightest smile appears on his face, a big one appears on yours. You hide it with your palm as you start at the blank page of your notebook. Blinking, he shakes his head and begins his lecture. But how can you concentrate now?

You’ve gotta give it to him, he delivers his lecture perfectly. If it were you, you’d barely be able to think. Hell, you barely can throughout the whole thing.

Now that you’ve gotten that smile of permission, you finally let yourself daydream.

Has his ass always been that cute? Has he always been that tall? Has his voice always been that deep and sexy?

You don’t even know what he’s talking about, but that’s okay, you can always stop by his office hours. “What do you think?” He asks.

Oh shit, he’s looking at you for an answer. He can always rely on you to keep class moving along when everybody else is dead silent. You shake out of your thoughts, panic-reading the board to come up with something. It's similar to your discussion you had the last time you went to his office hours. The time that ended in that gorgeous kiss. Throwing together an answer, his eyes brighten as he cheers, “Exactly!”

Oh my god. He’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You could just gobble him up.

“So, I suppose we should talk about…” Professor Choi trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like it’s obvious what he’s getting at. And it is. But you stay quiet. You wanna hear him admit it. You raise an eyebrow, playing coy.

You decided to press your luck by visiting his office outside scheduled office hours—right after class—to simply test the waters and gauge his reaction to the code of conduct and that kiss…that incredible kiss.

“You know…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you, sighing like okay, fine, I guess I’ll say it. “I like you and you like me, right?” His voice dips just slightly, enough for you to notice the hesitation. “Unless I’m totally misreading—”

“No! You’re not…misreading anything,” you’re quick to say, along with a chuckle. Phew—he was worried there for a second. So goddamn cute. “What do you wanna talk about?”

He exhales a small laugh, but his smile is strained, cautious. “I want to make sure you don’t feel…weird about this.” Hand sliding nervously along the edge of his desk, he traces the wood grain before his eyes flick up to meet yours. Truth be told, he’d never do something like this with a student. Never want to make anyone feel pressured. But he never thought he’d feel like this. Giddy and blushy like you’re his first crush.

“Why would I feel weird?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious. You’ve thought about this—about him—far too much for any of it to feel weird.

“I’m just terrified you feel like you need to do something about this.” You’re taken aback, confusion visibly etched across your face. “You know, because I’m your professor or because I’m in the department and I know your plans for a PhD here.” His voice softens, vulnerability creeping in. “I don’t want it to feel like I’m pushing you into anything.”

“I don’t,” you say gently. “It’s not like that.”

He nods, though the tightness in his jaw doesn’t disappear. “Because if you ever even remotely feel like I’m pressuring you, I want you to tell me. Immediately. I mean it.”

“No,” You shake your head, almost too fast. “I mean, it doesn’t feel like that. Not at all. I’ve thought about this…about us, a lot.” Your voice falters for a moment as his eyes widen, softening in a way that makes your stomach flutter. You weren’t expecting him to look at you like that—so open, so relieved.

His fingers twitch as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out to you. “Yeah?”

You nod again, more confidently this time. “But I think we should wait until the semester’s over. Before we…you know…do anything.”

He smiles gently and leans back, visibly more at ease. “I think so too.”

But you didn’t realize how fucking difficult it would be to get through the last six weeks of the semester. Every class you sit there, thighs pressed together thinking about the dirtiest things you want him to do to you. Every office hour you went to, you could practically swim through the thickness of the tension between you two.

It didn’t help how cute he was being. Post-its he’d leave on every exam of yours—You’re gonna do great! You’ve got this. Trust your instincts.—encouragement no other student got. You kept every one of them in your bedside table drawer.

When finals week finally arrives, it wasn’t just about exams; it was about counting the hours until you could finally be with him. Or at least talk to him like he wasn’t your professor. As he handed over your final exam, the familiar green post-it note was stuck to it: Happy Finals Week!

Your internal scream was so loud, you’re worried your classmates heard it. You’d pre-written a post-it to stick to it once you returned the exam. It had your phone number, a smiley face, and the words: Since you’re not my professor anymore.

After a full day of checking your phone every twenty seconds, you started to give up. Was he just playing you? Did someone else see the note? Did he change his mind? But finally, you receive a text.

hi! this is soobin (professor choi lol). i was wondering if you wanted to get dinner or something?

soobin!! omg yes i would love to get dinner with you :) how’s tomorrow?

how about right now? if you want, of course! no pressure we can totally wait until tomorrow it’s up to you

You squealed into your pillow, kicking and giggling like an idiot. Should you be flirty back?

i can be ready in 30 min. 364 oakridge drive. it’s an apartment building- i’ll meet you downstairs.

be there in 45 :)

Like a perfect gentleman, Soobin meets you at the passenger door, swinging it open with a charming smile before gently closing it behind you. The slow walk up to his front door makes your stomach stir. He has to fumble through his keys to unlock it.

Once inside, he slips his shoes off quietly, revealing cozy patterned socks that make you smile. Meticulously, he hangs his jacket on a coat tree and places his keys in a speckled clay catch-all that rests on a table next to a houseplant. As he walks toward the kitchen, he glances over his shoulder, his voice low and inviting. “Do you want a drink or something?” The warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat.

You’re drawn to this softer side of him. In class, his tone is bright and dorky. In his office, it’s casual and laid-back. At dinner, it was sweet and charming. But now? Now it’s sultry, almost sexy. Like he can’t wait to be with you but would never, ever pressure you.

“Hot tea?” You suggest with a steady voice, despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, switching on his tea kettle. In the meantime, you take a look around his much neater than expected apartment.

The mid-century modern furniture is impeccably arranged—a sleek sofa, a low coffee table, and a stylish armchair with an even more stylish decorative pillow. Perfectly nurtured plants thrive around the room, adding a green vibrancy to the minimalist backdrop, breathing life into the space. A gallery wall above his expensive-looking couch features travel photos, beautiful art, and a few subtly science-inspired pieces. In the corner across the couch is a sleek electric fireplace underneath a huge TV.

“Who’s this?” you ask, your heart swelling as a fluffy gray cat glares at you through one half-open eye. Her perfectly groomed fur and regal posture make her look like she owns the place. Just then, Soobin steps into the living room, holding two steaming mugs of tea, filling the air with a warm spice.

“That’s Molly…short for Molecule,” he says. “Don’t worry, she’s sweet.”

Extending your hand toward the cat, he starts to sniff you. “Hi, M—wait,” you pause, looking up at Soobin with a teasing smile. “Molly, short for Molecule?” He nods, his grin widening. “You’re adorable,” you tell him. Has anyone ever blushed quite like he did just now?

He stares down at his feet, clearly caught off guard. “You’re,” he starts. “Well, you’re cute too.” His sincerity makes your smile grow even stronger.

“Can I sit?” you ask, nodding toward the couch.

“Oh,” his smile falters for a moment. “Yes, of course. Make yourself at home.” You plop down on his couch, settling into the surprisingly soft cushions. Molly clearly doesn’t think the couch is big enough for the two of you, so she strides over to probably the nicest cat tree you’ve ever seen.

You sip your hot tea and your body finally relaxes. As you reach to sit it on the coffee table, he politely asks, “I don’t mean to be a square, but can you use a coaster?”

“Of course,” you say, complying with the request. “So, tell me,” you begin, clearing your throat. “How’d I do on my final?” Humming, he stands to rummage through his messenger bag slumped over a dining chair. You gasp, “A ninety-seven?” Thumbing through the pages, you find a single red X on possibly the easiest question you’ve had on an exam since high school: What is the atomic number of oxygen? “Are you kidding me?”

Any attempt to mask your embarrassment is impossible. It only deepens when you look up and catch him already watching you—lips pressed tight, failing miserably to hide a smug, amused smile.

“I, uh…” You scratch the back of your neck. “I got that one wrong on purpose. You know, so as to not raise any suspicion.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, did you now?” You nod. “That was on the exam just so Toby wouldn’t get a zero.” You nod begrudgingly. “And you put 10! That’s not even close. That’s—”

“Neon,” you grumble. “Yeah I know…” you say, avoiding his eyes as he laughs playfully.

“Neon’s a noble gas and oxygen is a—”

“Reactive nonmetal,” you cut him off. “I know, okay?” You shove his shoulder playfully, but your grin betrays you. “It was a high-pressure environment. Sitting in an exam room with your professor watching you."

"I barely looked up from my laptop,” he reminds you.

"Your presence is distracting enough," you shoot back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Ah, so my intellectual aura threw you off?”

“I dunno…is that what you think, professor?” You ask cheekily. “Maybe it was something else.” You’ve tossed the exam onto the coffee table, moving closer.

“Like what?”

“Just…you. You’re distracting.” You smirk, the words slipping out almost involuntarily, like they’ve been waiting on the tip of your tongue.

Intrigued, he tilts his head and asks, “What about me?” There’s something magnetic in the way he looks at you—like he knows the answer but wants to hear you say it, to savor the way it sounds coming from your lips.

You hum, tracing the lines of his body with your eyes, mapping out uncharted territory before exploring it. You don’t want to move too fast, but every fiber of your being screams for more. He’s not lighting a fire inside you—he’s setting the whole forest ablaze. Sure, your imagination has been running rampant since he returned your feelings six weeks ago, but now that you’re here, he scrambles every thought.

“Your eyes…” you say while yours flick over his face, taking in every curve, every freckle, every lash. “They’re so pretty.”

A smile—small but real—tugs at the corners of his lips. The kind that’s private, meant just for you. His eyes darken as he leans in, the space between you shrinking. You glance down, noticing the way his long fingers curl around the mug handle. There’s something almost hesitant in the way he holds it. You take it from him gently, setting it atop a coaster as quietly as you can.

“Your hands…” you whisper, fingers barely brushing his knuckles, tension coiled under his skin. They’re hands that have worked, experimented, written things down—hands you want on you. Guiding one to your thigh, the squeeze he returns sends a shudder through you.

Everything between you is electric. Your breaths come faster now, more desperate. Every inch you move toward him is a test, a slow-motion collapse of restraint.

“Your legs…” A soft breathless chuckle escapes as you glance down. His lips part like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. Boldness surges through you like a current and you hike one leg over both of his, straddling him. The shift is seismic. His hands move to your hips, gripping you, afraid to let go. The heat of his touch spreads through you, anchoring you in place, though it feels like everything around you is spinning.

“And your lips…” you murmur, leaning closer, your breath mingling with his. “Oh my god, those fucking lips.” You can’t stop staring at them, just a breath away now, soft and wet. Your pulse races.

You cup his face, lifting his chin until his eyes meet yours again. His pupils are blown wide, the desire in them unmistakable. Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, and the moment stretches, suspended. You lean in just enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

And he does.

It isn’t tentative—it’s dam-breaking. Like he’s been starving for it, holding back for years. His lips are soft but urgent as his hands tighten around your hips to pull you closer. You taste jasmine tea on his lips, a subtle sweetness mingling with the spice of his cologne—clove, pepper, something dark and addictive.

“Holy shit,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t believe I had to wait so long to kiss you again.” You kiss him again and he moans sweetly into your mouth. Just as the kiss deepens, he retreats, his breath ragged. “You okay?”

Nervously nodding, he says, “Yeah,” but his eyes flicker away. He tries to kiss you again, but you place your hand on his chest, gently stopping him.

“Wait,” you say, eyes searching his face. “What’s going on? Am I being too—”

“No,” he says, almost a little too urgently. “It’s not that. It’s just…” His hands fall to the couch. Bracing to tell the truth, he squeezes his eyes shut before adding, “I need to tell you something.” You sit back on your heels, still in his lap but giving him room to speak.

“What is it?” You ask softly.

“There’s this thing… I haven’t—uh…” He stumbles over the words, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Soobin?” you ask, your voice gentle but steady. That’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name. It feels utterly…vulnerable. “Are you a virgin?” The question is delicate. Shutting his eyes again, he takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says. “Well, not exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. What is that even supposed to mean? “It’s just…it’s been a while. And before then, I hadn’t had a lot of sex. And I haven’t had any…recently.”

“How long?” you encourage, your eyes softening.

“A year.”

You hum softly in acknowledgement, watching his confidence falter. Instead of pulling back, you lean forward, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along his neck. He trembles under your touch, a soft gasp escaping his lips, your hands moving all over his body, claiming him.

“Oh, Professor Choi,” you whisper, your voice dripping with heat and promise. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

As your breath slows, you sit up and let your hand linger over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. “Tell me,” you start. “What do you like?”

“Um,” he swallows, trying to force the lump down his throat. He’s so hesitant but he finally says, “Touching.”

“You touching my body or me touching yours?”

He exhales shakily. “The first,” he says, confirming with a squeeze to your hips.

You hum against his ear. What are you gonna do with him? Tease him forever? Let him have his way with you? You ask, “Why don’t you take my shirt off for me?”

Gracing his hands over your arms, he grounds himself again before asking, “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” You nod, guiding his hands to the top button of your blouse, letting him slip it through the buttonhole. One by one, he exposes more of your skin, his heart thumping harder with each passing second. Pushing the silky fabric past your shoulders until your top half is only covered by a bubblegum pink mesh bra, leaving almost nothing to the imagination—except for the red embroidered hearts over your nipples.

After easing the shirt out from your trousers, you reach back to pull at the sleeves, letting the shirt fall to the floor. He slips his finger under one of your bra straps, pulling it to the side, but you stop him. “Wait. It’s your turn.”

Tugging on his tie, you slip it through the collar and unbutton his dress shirt. Seeing his body bare in front of you for the first time, you’re practically drooling. You indulge in running your hands all over his body, lean with subtle muscles, from his chest to the bottom of his abs.

“How come you got to touch me if I didn’t get to touch you?” He asks innocently.

“You’re right,” you chuckle. “I’m sorry.” You smile and sit up to press your palms against his and let your fingers intertwine. Your heart melts and you fear you may throw up. “Did you want to take my bra off first?” He nods. Fumbling fingers reach behind you to snap it off, letting it fall to the couch. As he sees your bare tits, his eyes widen and he lets out the cutest little Oh.

He’s hesitant to do anything. You have to guide his hands to massage your tits—and they’re the perfect size for you.

“You’re so…soft,” he says, looking up at your eyes, like he’s not sure if that was okay to say.

“You like them?” He nods eagerly. Experimentally swiping a thumb across a nipple, it hardens at his touch while you let out a sharp gasp.

“You like that,” he says matter-of-factly. “Can I taste?” Nodding, you lean forward, welcoming his lips. His body finally relaxes as he moans against your skin. Circling the tip of his tongue around your nipple, he’s teasing you. And oh my god do you love it.

One of your hands threads through his hair and you stuff the other down your pants, but he grabs your wrist softly.

“That’s not fair,” he whispers and you concede, keeping your hands to yourself. With one hand, he stuffs your tit back in his mouth while the other plays with your other nipple. His hot, wet mouth on one nipple and his teasing fingers playing with the other sends waves of pleasure through you that may send you over the edge.

If you don’t do something to ease your need, you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to take this. You resort to grinding against his hard cock, making his hips buck.

Lifting your legs off his, you swing around to sit next to him, palming his cock over his trousers. Desperately clawing at the waistband, you unbutton and unzip his pants, encouraging him to kick them off. He stands to slip them off and as you reach for the band of his boxers, he stops you.

“Your turn,” he whispers. And you comply. But not without a show. Standing slowly, you push him to the couch and turn your back to him. As you push your pants down, your ass looks delicious in your thong that matches your bra—mesh bubblegum pink with red trim. When you turn back, he’s fisting himself over his underwear.

“Nuh-uh, that’s not fair,” you say. Returning next to him on the couch, you feel him over his boxers and your mouth waters. Goddamn you can’t wait for him to be inside you. “Do you have any lube?” He nods and shortly returns with a barely used tube.

While he stays standing, you sit up on the couch, running your hands across his muscular thighs and perfect pelvis. Looking up at him, his eyes are bright, darting all over your body like he’s afraid to miss something. He fiddles with his waistband, flipping the elastic over softly. A small smile flicks across your lips before you tug his boxers down his legs, leaving trails of kisses along the way.

Encouraging him to sit down, you look down at his cock, long and hard and dripping with precum. Finally, you drag your fingertips up and down his cock before squeezing him. He moans like you’ve never heard a man moan before. Laying your head on his shoulder, you sprinkle kisses all over his skin, finding a spot behind his ear that makes him squirm.

He hisses and—almost involuntarily—wraps one of his hands around yours to use his long fingers to guide your hand up and down. There’s something magical about someone with so little experience telling—no, showing—you what to do with his body. It’s electrifying. He hasn’t been touched in so long that he’s desperate to get off and can’t waste time with words. But no words need to be shared. His movements tell you what speed he likes.

Snaking his other arm around you, he stuffs his fingers in your hair and clenches his fist, subconsciously tugging the strands. His lips are right against your ear, breathing rapidly and heavily and he can hardly take it anymore. You watch his chest rise and fall as he clenches your hair, moaning getting quicker, he squeaks and whines.

Hurriedly pressing his lips to your temple, you can’t take your eyes off his cock as he shoots short spurts of cum all over his stomach. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath before he gives you a sweet smile.

You don’t let up with kisses all over his body. Sprinkling kisses here and there while he cleans himself up with a hand towel he’d brought with him when he got the lube from his bedroom. Once he’s clean, he slouches down the couch.

“Will you sit on my face?” His eyes are ever so sweet and innocent, like he’s finally able to test all his fantasies. “Please…” You hum like you’re only considering it, but we all know you’ll say yes. “Please, mommy?” Everything halts.

“Mommy?”

“F-fuck—” he sits up, ears turning redder than you’ve ever seen them—anyone’s ears for that matter. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first—”

“No, no…” you say gently, cupping his jaw to make him look at you. You can’t help yourself—you press your lips to his again and you lose yourself in his intoxicating kiss. But you break it and say, “Keep calling me that.”

“M-mommy?” You hum. Before you give him what he asked for, you shove your tit in front of his lips. He doesn’t need to be told what to do. His plush lips wrap around your hard nipple while he thumbs the other. It feels like fucking heaven.

“That’s my good boy.” He lets out the most pathetic whimper you’ve ever heard in your goddamn life. His eyebrows furrow, looking up at you through his lashes. “Are you my good boy?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly. “Yes, mommy. Of course.”

“Soobin,” you breathe in disbelief, dropping your head back. “You’re so sexy, I swear to god.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. “That’s you.” He smiles. “Will you please sit on my face now?” He slouches down again without waiting for an answer. “Please.” You hike your leg up to rest your foot against the back of the couch, gently hovering over him. But he wraps his hands around your hips to yank you down. As he flicks his tongue over your clit, you might be embarrassed by the volume of your moan, but there’d be no reason to.

“I thought you said you didn’t do this a lot?”

“Well,” he takes a deep breath. “This was always what I was best at.” You chuckle. “Wait, no—” he shakes his head. “I’m good at the other stuff too. I hope.” Returning his tongue to your clit, you gasp and fall forward, bracing yourself against the back of the couch. He seizes the opportunity to get fully entranced in your taste.

There's an impossible contrast—your body melts, muscles soft and pliant as you surrender to the pleasure but, at the same time, goosebumps prickle along your skin, sharp and electric. Warmth and vulnerability layered with a thrill that leaves you shivering, somehow both at ease and on edge.

But then he snakes his hand behind your ass to tease your asshole with his pinky. And it's overwhelming. Your knees are so weak you can hardly hold yourself up. The way his hands feel on your body, touching you in all the right places, flicking his tongue perfectly, moaning so temptingly along with the built up tension—it is so much. So. Fucking. Much.

It builds in your stomach—teetering on the edge and god you only hope he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. But you can’t form words to tell him that. But he knows.

And then it happens.

You feel like you’re floating—or falling may be more accurate—as your orgasm washes over you, thighs quite literally quivering around his face as you come undone on top of him. For him. Unable to hold yourself up any longer, you roll and plop to the couch and he sloppily replaces his tongue with his fingers. You make a mental note to show him exactly where your clit is later. How is it that he found it so easily with his tongue but missed it with his hand? You guess he was right—oral is what he’s best at. Your chest heaves with your deep breaths as you come down from your high, watching him smirk at you.

“Oh my god,” you say breathlessly. There’s a beat of silence. “What the fuck?”

“What?” He chuckles.

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I told you I’m good at it.”

“Where’s your bedroom? This couch is too small for what we’re about to do.”

Once he shuts his bedroom door to keep Molly out, he pulls you by your waist to press his bare body to yours and kisses you again so romantically it takes your breath away.

“Wow,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You go straight back in for more kisses. But you break it— “But not literally, though. Please keep saying stuff like that.” You giggle together, slowly falling toward the bed until you’re gently laid on your back and he’s over top of you.

“Can I, like, kiss all over your body?”

“Of course,” you say. “You don’t need to ask.”

And then he does exactly what he wants. Starting at your lips, he moves to the corner of your mouth, trailing behind your ear and down your neck. The way his breath tickles your neck sends shivers down your spine and you need more, more, more.

As you lay there, simply basking in the feeling of him taking his time exploring every inch of you with the softest lips you’ve ever felt, you can’t help but be giddy. He’s tentative in some areas and eager in others. After he kisses the sensitive skin under your breast, he carefully observes your reaction. When he delicately presses his lips to your pelvis, his eyes flutter up to yours nervously.

“Soobin,” you say breathlessly. He hums against your tummy, shaky hands running up your thighs. “I need you please.”

“You need me?” You nod. “Where do you need me, mommy?” You groan, arching your back, not even knowing where to start. You need him everywhere.

“Inside me,” you say. “Please, I’ve been thinking about it for so long.”

“Have you?” He asks innocently, using his fingers to play with the folds of your pussy so casually, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I should be the impatient one.” But you know why he’s taking it so slow. He’s nervous as hell right now.

Aligning his cock with your entrance, he slowly pushes himself inside you. And it's utterly exhilarating. For both of you. He falls forward, framing your face with his forearms, digging his nose into your neck.

“Fuck…” He whispers shakily. Your nails drag down his back at his inexperienced hip rolls. “Oh my god, what are you doing to me?” Despite his inevitable desperation, his thrusts are controlled. He’s trying his very best at least. But his cock is so fucking perfect, you figure he’d make you feel good no matter what he does. Although, a little part of you thinks about how good he’ll be at fucking you in a few months after a little practice. Or lots of practice.

He whispers swears, your name, and mommy…over and over again. Then he sits up, looking down at your body. Awkwardly fumbling as if he wants to say something, his mouth isn’t cooperating with his brain. He slowly comes to a stop, sliding out of you and barely touches your calf.

“Can you, uh…would you mind, um—”

"Do you wish to see me on my knees? Is that it, darling?"

“Yes, mommy…please, I’ve never—”

“You’ve never had someone on their knees for you?” You ask and he silently shakes his head. “You’ve been such a good boy for me. Of course I’ll get on my knees for you.” You oblige to his request, turning yourself around and arching your back to give him a perfect view of your ass. He groans at the simple sight of your body. He swipes his hands over the swell of your ass, squeezing here and there.

He clears his throat and asks, “What do I do?”

“Oh,” you chuckle lightly. “Just get on your knees and guide yourself in. Make sure it’s the right hole,” you say light-heartedly, trying to ease the tension a bit.

But when he’s finally inside you again, it’s heaven. And he indulges in himself a bit—thrusting faster, harder, making your ass jiggle. The lewd sounds of his cock in your wetness and his hips smacking your skin makes it all the more erotic. But it doesn’t take long before—

“I like it better the other way, I think,” he says matter-of-factly. “Is that okay?”

“Of course that’s okay, babe,” you say, flipping back over and spreading your legs. And he slides right back inside you, letting his head fall back. But your tits bouncing are simply too tempting not to look at. They’re why he prefers it this way, so why not look at them as much as he can? He retreats a bit, opening his mouth like he wants to ask you something but he’s too shy.

“What is it, baby?”

“I was just wondering if you…if you could—would you want to be on top?” His tone is genuinely sweet. “Like what position do you like?”

“Missionary’s my favorite too,” you say. “But I would, hm, I would really like to be on top for a bit.” Switching quickly, you align yourself over his cock and sink down on him so, so, so slowly, letting out a big sigh of relief. “Oh my god, Soobin. Are you fucking kidding me?” You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full before. The feeling stretches all the way to your toes. “I need to hump you like crazy for a bit,” you say with a chuckle. He nods like that’s perfectly fine with me, mommy.

And you do exactly that—bounce on his cock as fast as your body lets you, relieving that built-up tension. Over the last few months, you wanted to jump his bones every time you were in the same room and that feeling never let up, like there was a tension thermometer in your body that was constantly stuck at boiling.

But perhaps it was a bit more painful for him because an occasional rut up into you isn’t enough anymore. He holds your hips to keep you in place, fucking up into you as fast as he can. Head dropping back, he groans, your name leaving his lips.

“Mommy?” His eyebrows furrow, looking utterly pathetic. “Let’s switch back. Please.” Hiking your leg over his hips, you land roughly on your back. Gently grabbing your hands, he pins them above your head, aligns his cock at your entrance, and slides inside you, rolling his hips so deliciously. As he kisses you, he swallows your moans. Trailing down your neck, he whispers, “Please tell me I’m making you feel good, Mommy.”

Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you say, “Fuck, you’re making me feel so good.”

Slowing his thrusts, he asks, “What else would you like me to do?” Smiling up at him, you rub his thighs. Waiting for an answer, he covers your collarbone in kisses, making his way back to your ear. After nibbling gently on your earlobe, he whispers, “Tell me how to make you feel even better.” Oof. Shivers.

“Rub my clit,” you say. He sits up, fumbling with his fingers. “Use your thumb,” you giggle. “Wait.” Reaching for his hand, you let spit pool in your mouth before wrapping your lips around his thumb. Sucking on it, he looks at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then he follows your instructions, rubbing your clit with his thumb while he fucks you, listening intently to every instruction, every a little to the lefts, up a little bit mores, and he never gets impatient.

Your back arches impossibly high and you say, “I’m close, babe. Don’t stop.” You rub your own nipple, but he moves your hand out of the way, wetting his thumb with his own spit before circling it for you.

Everything has been building to this moment. Staring at him in every lecture, longing for his touch. That kiss in his office was just the start of your addiction. Attending his office hours didn’t help, but you couldn’t stay away. You needed to be closer to him. To feel heat radiating off his body. To smell his spicy cologne. To watch his fingers wrap around his pen and wish they were wrapped around something else.

All of it was for this moment right here. Cumming around his cock for the first time. You can’t wait any longer. There’s a white hot burning in your belly that’s getting more furious by the second. His name leaves your mouth in a yelp before fireworks explode inside you.

Your legs shake around his waist as he fucks you through it, not changing a single thing. Overwhelmed with pleasure, you grab his wrist to stop him from rubbing your nipple to make sure it’s the most perfect orgasm you’ve ever had—not too much and not too little.

And it’s neither. Instead, it’s perfection. You knew it would be. It seems to last forever but somehow not long enough. As soon as you finish, you miss it.

Catching your breath, your vision clears up as you look up at him with a smile. He shyly asks, “How was that?”

You take a deep breath and say, “Oh my god, that was so good.” Rubbing soothing strokes up and down your thighs, you can tell he’s getting impatient. But still—he’d never pressure you in a million years.

Bending to kiss your neck again, he whispers, “Can I cum inside you?” You nod frantically.

“Please.”

“I have condoms if you want.” You think about it for a second. Really. You would love nothing more than to feel him fill you up. But it’s risky. “Mommy…” His hips slowly start moving again, encouraging a decision from you. “What are you thinking?”

“Cum inside me, please. Wanna feel all of you,” you say, rubbing his back. He smiles, pressing his lips to yours in a passionate kiss that sends your head reeling. He sits up and squeezes your thighs over and over, adoring the way your body feels in his hands. Soft and squishy and intoxicating. Licking your own thumb, you pinch and rub one of his nipples, making his mouth drop open. He didn’t even think of having his own nipples played with.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps. You praise him, Cum inside me, baby. You’ve been such a good boy for me. I want you to feel so good for me, okay? And he’s rutting his hips into you roughly, using your body for his own pleasure. You simply can’t get enough. You want him inside you forever and ever. “You’re…” he trails off. “You’re gonna make me cum, Mommy.”

“Go ahead. Cum for me.” Like it’s a command, his hips stutter and his cum fills you up, warm and sweet and heavenly. Swears and other inaudible words you hope are compliments spill out of his mouth. Falling forward, he digs his face into your neck once more, twitching until he comes to a stop, taking deep breaths.

You expect a warm smile to echo his warm cum filling you up but he stays put. In fact, he doesn’t move or say anything for quite some time. So much time passes that his cock has slipped out of you on its own, his cum leaking down the swell of your ass.

You finally break the silence, “Are you okay?” He nods awkwardly. “Look at me.” He shakes his head. “What’s wrong?” He still won’t budge. “Soobin, what’s going on?”

“I’m embarrassed,” he whines.

“Huh? About what?”

“Calling you mommy,” he finally sits up. “I was just caught up in the moment—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“Honey,” you giggle, sitting up with him. “I told you I liked it.”

“You weren’t just saying that?”

“I don’t think I would’ve came that hard if I didn’t like it.”

His eyes brighten before adding, “I guess so.” It genuinely was one of the strongest orgasms you’ve ever had. Surely, he has to know that, right? But wait—

“Was it good for you?”

“Oh my god,” he’s finally relaxed a little, peppering your face with kisses. “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had, I swear.” He stands, walking into his en-suite to get you a towel, damp with warm water. “So…” he starts awkwardly. “Should we, like, report this to the dean?”

“Is that your way of asking me to be exclusive?” He blushes as you brush some of his hair behind his ear. “Because my answer is absolutely.” You press your lips together. “Although, can we hold off for a while? Just until next semester starts?”

“Be in our own little world for a bit?” He smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re taking a break until next semester, right? Are you working right now?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I got a bunch of scholarships to pay for school,” you say proudly.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Because I’m the smartest person you know,” you say cheekily.

“No lectures until next semester, so I’m pretty much free.” He smiles, clearly wanting to say something more, but bites his tongue. “Can I ask you something?” You nod. “This may be moving way too fast, but do you maybe wanna spend the holidays here? With me?”

The next few weeks are a whirlwind. Both of you admit it’s too fast. But neither of you care. The fireplace roars as you decorate his Christmas tree together, wrapped presents, baked cookies, everything you could think of that ooey-gooey couples do.

And of course, nightly sex is a bonus. You simply can’t get enough of each other. And you just about lose it when you walk into the kitchen on Christmas morning. He’s standing at the counter wearing a Santa hat, flannel pajama pants, and a black tank top making your favorite tea.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning,” he says with a smile. You take a plate full of chocolate chip waffles from him. But not before he kisses you. Cupping your cheek, he pulls you into perhaps the sweetest kiss you’ve ever had. You can feel his smile on your lips.

And everything feels absolutely perfect. You think you may be dreaming, but he feels so very real at this moment. And his voice is clear as day, “Merry Christmas.”

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