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lucyandthepen · 1 year ago

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get you alone | ljn ( m )

ideally, jeno should have his hands full with teaching. (un)fortunately, he only seems to have his head full of you.

pairing: tutor!jeno x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings & tags: jeno is a college algebra math tutor & reader is failing, written in lapslock, not beta’d in any shape or form so please excuse mistakes, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, folks), piv, oral (f!receiving), use of pet names (kitten, angel, sweetheart), praise, reader calls jeno ‘sunbae’ until she doesn’t, size kink i guess if u squint! word count: 8.5k

a/n : actually this was written for a different fandom but i’ve decided to make it a jeno fic bc idk why not! first time writing in a different perspective so it’s a bit odd for me & i can't say i fw with this style nor am i particularly proud of this fic but she is ... sumn! also i fear i have a thing for the math tutor trope but that’s neither here nor there AHA enjoy !!

if you liked it, please consider reblogging to support (especially because this may get flagged for mature content)!

there wasn’t anything special about your case; at least, that’s what jeno had thought when he picked up your request before he met you. before he met you, you were just another student trying to demystify the painfully enigmatic art of getting through college algebra. before he met you, he had already tagged this case as another charity stint — a good way to get brownie points with the dean’s office and the mathematics and natural sciences department. in fact, thinking of all his tutoring cases as community service made them somewhat palatable, if not a little forgettable. he was quite sure, at the time, that you’d be in and out — both of the tutoring center and his memory. such was the case with most of his other tutees, anyway.

he hadn’t expected you to be… well, you — a pretty little thing, with your sweet smile and your wide doe eyes. on the first day, you’d stood out; you’d arrived at the tutoring center’s lobby in a short dress, knit cardigan, and coquettish makeup, as if every fiber of your being were bidding the spring a solid farewell. multiple heads had turned, including his, as you came up to the front desk and asked for one lee jeno for college algebra. you were eager for summer, jeno had learned as you broke the ice little by little, in part because you looked forward to visiting okinawa with your family, but also because you were eager to get your first semester out of the way. that much, you had in common with most of his other students — almost all of the ones seeking help in college algebra only took it as a depressing core requirement of whatever degree they were doing. you, specifically, were focusing on fashion design; that very vividly explained your attention to your looks. this mathematics class was a thorn in your side, a mandatory thing that was simply supposed to get you through later business-oriented classes in your degree program. for jeno, however, college algebra had become the perfect excuse from the moment he’d laid eyes on you.

the more time he spends with you, the more he thinks you’re exactly his taste. it starts off with little things he finds attractive, things he picks up while he’s watching you fill out the practice sheets he’s prepared for you on quadratic equations or while trying to get you to understand logarithms — your neat, tiny handwriting, almost like print; your habit of boxing your final answers in firm strokes, even if they’re hopelessly wrong; your colored tabs, cascading down the page side of your textbook. but as the weeks wear on, he sees all the little things in between — the way your long eyelashes quiver when you stop and close your eyes as you think for the answer, the upturn of your plush lips when you have the same answer on the practice sheet as he does, the deepening of your artificial blush with a natural hue when you realize you don’t know the answers to his gentle questions. he notices that you refuse to wear anything longer than a knee-length skirt despite the still-strong winds, notices that your tiny palms are always smooth and pink, that your hair always smells of coconut milk. these are things he can’t help but jot down in his memory — that was exactly what you were, after all: memorable.

and the more he remembers about you, the more jeno wants you. yet he’s never made a move, never given so much as a hint of his interest, not only because there are prying eyes all around the building but also because you have never so much as shown a smidge of desire back. in fact, he has to wonder if you’ve ever thought of him in a different capacity — not as a tutor, but as a man. if you have, you’ve never made that obvious; you always talk to him respectfully, the little wall you’ve erected between the both of you remaining steady, and you never let your eyes linger on his face for longer than it takes for him to explain what you don’t know. jeno has had his fair share of female students, and in all of them, he’s seen the same kind of hunger — to few, he’s catered to their whims, if only to pass the time, if only for his own benefit. but you, with your ribbons in your hair and your sweet, sweet mouth, have never once shown that same kind of desire.

he doesn’t know if it frustrates him, but he does know one thing — it makes him want you all the more.

he wants you even now, as you sit across from him, dolled up as usual. even now, as your eyes take on a glassy sheen of defeat, your cheeks puffing out in the way that tells him you’re admonishing yourself once again, he craves you — maddeningly so. and he realizes that it doesn’t really matter if you're not the one to fall first, as long as he can still have you.

“time out,” you beg, your fingers meeting the palm of your hand to signal a break. “my brain feels like it’s going to explode.”

“you just had a break ten minutes ago,” jeno reminds you, though there’s a lighthearted amusement to his voice that makes you smile sheepishly. “at this rate, you’ll be on more breaks than you’ll be taking the time to actually learn.”

“i’m trying,” you groan, your fingers curling against your forehead as you bump your head against your fist. “i just don’t think i’m cut out for this polynomial whatever — trial and error bullshit.”

“you’ll hate me for saying this — but you’ll never know unless you keep trying.”

“funny.” your sigh rustles the papers in front of you gently. “how do you do it, sunbae?”

“hm?”

“you’re not only good at this stuff, but you’re so good you’re able to take the time to teach people like me.”

“strengths and weaknesses — it’s the natural way of the world.” jeno smiles gently at you, and he notes how his chest feels tighter when you return the sentiment shyly. “i could never do what you’re doing in your own degree, try as i might. anyway, you’ll get there. i won’t let you become my first ever failed project, you know.”

“i wouldn’t want to let you down either, sunbae, but—” the back end of your pencil taps lightly against the surface of the table. “it just feels hopeless. i can’t focus on anything. it’s so… so abstract, and everyone here is talking all at once, and i don’t even know what i’m ever going to get out of this class in the long run.”

even when you’re dejected, you look pretty; your bottom lip juts out naturally when you whine like this, and for a moment, jeno can’t say anything in response. he’s too busy wondering what your mouth would feel like on his — on him. when he snaps himself out of his brief reverie, he notices you’re looking around at everyone else — and he has to agree that with the noise level in this whole building, it isn’t the most conducive site for learning, especially when the learner is already so averse to the subject matter.

“i can’t help much in the way of it being too abstract,” he says kindly. “but it’s not a requirement for us to have our sessions here. i know it can be quite distracting, all these voices flying around, so why don’t you look for a place that better suits you, and we can start meeting there instead? the more comfortable you are in your environment, the better you’ll be able to absorb the material, i’m sure.”

“you think?” your pencil comes to a slow halt as you refocus on him, a thoughtful light glimmering behind your gaze. “yeah — yeah, i actually wouldn’t mind that. then, i’ll look for a different place for us to meet, and we can start there next week. how does that sound?”

“whatever suits you suits me,” he responds easily.

he lowers his gaze immediately after you flash him a blinding grin; there are far too many people here, as you both very well know, and if he keeps looking at you and your pretty little expressions any longer, he might just give them something to actually look at.

it had been your idea, not his, so why did jeno feel like he’d dragged you into a compromising situation?

you’d texted him over the weekend that your search for a new venue had been absolutely fruitless; every cafe and study space you’d been to was either too expensive or equally as packed with people, if not both. jeno had seen the preview to your message, but he hadn’t been prepared for what it read out in full when he’d actually opened it.

sunbae, would it be too difficult to just meet at my apartment? i attached a map, so let me know!

it wouldn’t be too difficult; logistics-wise, it was walking distance from campus and almost directly across the train station he takes home. it also definitely promised an environment you were comfortable in, and you wouldn’t have to worry about excess noise from any other tutoring groups. no, the difficulty really only lied in himself — you two, all alone, would certainly mean his mind would be up to no good for the two hours every monday, wednesday, and thursday you would be together.

but for your sake, he’d try to rein it in, with the operative word being try.

your place is as neat and as pretty as you are; he doesn’t know if you’ve cleaned up for him, or if you’re naturally this organized, but he likes it all the same. it smells of toasted marshmallow and expensive perfume, and all your furniture matches. jeno supposes he likes that in a woman — someone able to care for herself, someone who cares about herself. and you’re always just as neat and pretty to match, with your hair always styled sweetly, your makeup always enhancing your features.

the problem is that now that he’s in here, where you live, and where you spend most of your time, jeno’s mind seems to wander too much towards thoughts about what you do in private. he rejects studying on the couch, not just because it’s bad for posture and concentration but also because he can’t help but imagine you pressed into the cushions by his hand. he suggests the small dining table you have, but on the second meeting at your place, he starts thinking about what you might look like seated on the table, your ass hanging over the edge and his face buried between your thighs. whenever you look up to ask him something, he drinks in your lovely, made-up face again, and starts wondering what your makeup would look like ruined before he interrupts that trainwreck of a thought with the answer to your question.

by the end of the week, jeno’s defenses are all but shot, and he realizes that this situation might be optimal for you, but it definitely isn’t doing him and his now constantly straining cock any great favors.

he supposes that your performance has somewhat improved; you’re less likely to trail off when you’re thinking and can actually do practice sets for a lot longer without all the noise and hubbub around you. your only real hindrance is yourself and your frustration; you have a habit of giving into your carelessness that sends you spiraling into despair, and it doesn’t help that when you press your cheek against the surface of your dining table and whine, the comfort jeno offers is noticeably delayed because he’s too busy thinking about his cock between your lips.

“my dad’s going to kill me if i fail this midterm,” you grumble, stabbing the practice sheet with your pencil; it skids sideways, and jeno robotically fixes it back into proper alignment for you, careful not to brush against the arm that’s folded inwards, supporting your chin. “he only agreed to let me take this degree because of the business aspect of it. as if i’ll need to know about—” you check the header of the worksheet. “domain and range when i’m doing actual design work.”

“you’ll never know what might be useful later on in life. i definitely thought this was nonsense back in high school — and then i got this job.”

“and now you’re rolling in dough?” you smile slightly. jeno chuckles.

“i’m a long way away from having myself a scrooge mcduck golden pool, but i make enough to get by very comfortably, thanks to this.”

“thanks to me, you mean.”

“you’re not my only student,” he snorts, pinching your elbow; you cry out exaggeratedly. “focus up. the hour’s almost over, and you should have finished with this much earlier.”

“can you leave it as homework?”

“not a chance.”

you blow out a sharp puff of air. “my mom used to do this thing where she’d give me rewards if i did well with my homework. i wish i’d still get something out of this.”

“what kind of rewards did she give you?”

“chocolates — candy, or sometimes we’d go out for milk tea together, if i did a particularly good job.”

“this is math tutoring, not a trip to the dentist,” jeno says, amused.

“a trip to the dentist would be more enjoyable,” you mutter under your breath, picking up your pencil and doodling an angry face next to the number you’re only halfway through solving. “this totally blows.”

“try to finish this before the hour’s up, and i’ll see if i can get you something nice. out of my own paycheck,” he stresses, prodding at your cheek to shift your attention back to the paper. he doesn’t miss the fact that your eyes light up, childish as the promise is.

he doesn’t know if that’s really what motivates you, but you do manage to finish the worksheet with a few minutes to spare before the clock hits seven, and that earns you some light, solo applause. it isn’t much by way of true praise, but you flush with pride all the same. jeno packs his things in silence as you get yourself a glass of water, and you see him to the door. only there does he notice your eager eyes, your expectant smile.

“what’s going through that pretty little head of yours?”

“are you really going to give me a reward? i did great today, you know,” you respond bluntly.

“you were serious about that?” he laughs.

“absolutely. i earned it.” you raise a slim finger, wagging it in his face. he trails it with his gaze, no shortage of amusement in his eyes. “next monday, i want something sweet.”

jeno takes in the sight of you, keeping your door open with your hip; he wonders if you know what you’re doing to him, what you’re asking of him — if you even know there’s nothing that could possibly be sweeter than you at this very moment. he drinks in the sight of your feigned haughty expression on your pretty features, the unnervingly low dip of your tank top, the tempting hemline of your shorts, and feels like you must be aware of what he’s going to do next.

“if it’s something sweet you want, you don’t have to wait until next week.”

he does it before he can think it through — surely, there’s nothing too harmful about a quick kiss? he angles your chin upward with his thumb and forefinger before you can even react to his words, and he tastes you like that for the first time. you’re just as soft and as sweet as he’d imagined, if not more so.

when jeno pulls away, you step back; there’s shock written all over your face, your mouth still hanging open slightly. your voice is gentle, shaky when you start speaking.

“sunbae, wha—”

“see you next week. rest up over the weekend, or there’ll be consequences.”

he finds it easy to joke with you now, even after what he’s done — finds it easy to wave goodbye with nonchalance as he walks to the elevator, now that he’s gotten one thing out of his system. the look on your face, the growing blush across the bridge of your nose and your temples is indication enough for jeno to feel confident — if you hadn’t thought about him that way before, you were sure to spend the next few days doing exactly that.

it’s exactly a week before your midterm exam, and jeno notices you’re less than focused.

he’d let you stew over the weekend, not expecting much by way of communication; indeed, his phone hadn’t once been jostled by your texts. he’d taken that silence to assume that you’d been wrapped up in thoughts of the kiss he’d left you with, and you did not disappoint on that front; the next monday saw you fidgety, flushed, and constantly faltering in your words. you asked less questions, which normally indicated a problem, but today, he’d let it slide; you definitely had a little too much on that pretty little brain of yours.

he notices you’re still dolled up — your eyelids are shimmery, and your lips are glossy; you’re wearing a tennis skirt that hits all the right buttons for him, too. it’s true that you’re always pretty well-dressed and put together, but today somehow feels different. if before, jeno had always seen you dressed up simply to look good, today it feels a little more like you’re dressed up to look good for him. he knows it’s a little bit egotistical to assume as much, but he also doesn’t miss the side glances you throw at him when you think he’s not looking at you answering your textbook or the way your cheeks glow when you make the slightest bit of eye contact.

still, you try to focus as much as you can; it’s adorable, in fact, to see all your valiant efforts to appear unperturbed. he figures he’ll play along for as long as you will — what matters to him, after all, is that you’re in the game to begin with. you complain less today, focus on your worksheets, and jeno even manages to witness the sight of your forehead creasing up as you concentrate on a particularly difficult item. you’re adorable, in the kind of way that makes him want to pin you down and have his way with you.

you finish your work without a fuss today; you only actually asked for his help twice, which was a feat in and of itself. and again, when the session is over, you walk him to the door.

this time, when you linger, he waits; you’re clearly not good at hiding your true intentions, as it’s become clear you have something you want to say. as you try to piece your thoughts together, jeno reaches into his backpack’s front pocket and extracts today’s gift — an actual chocolate bar, albeit a rather run of the mill one.

“what’s this?” you ask, your thought process clearly derailed as confusion takes over your features.

“your reward. for a good job last week and today — you said you wanted one, didn’t you?”

“but i thought—” you stop yourself, your mouth opening and closing, suddenly wordless. jeno grins.

“not good enough? i picked that up from a convenience store on my way here, so it definitely isn’t anything special, but i thought it would at least be a good motivator.”

you’re turning red, and there’s turmoil in your eyes — he enjoys this, he realizes, the way he flusters you. if he had known this would be the result, he would have made a move much sooner. you shift your weight from one foot to the other, back and forth, obviously weighing out your options too. finally, you say, “alright.”

“you seem disappointed.”

“i’m not.”

“i’ll get you a better brand next time, if you really don’t like it.”

“it’s not that.”

“so what is it?” he doesn’t expect you to say it, and you don’t defy expectations; your bottom lip just quivers, and jeno chuckles low under his breath, stepping forward just past your doorway, just a little bit closer to you. “don’t tell me you wanted something completely different?”

you don’t say so, but he knows; he can tell by the way you tilt your head back, the way your lips part slightly, the gloss still trailing along the seam. he can tell by the way your torso arches just a little bit closer, almost like an accident. he can tell by the way your eyes bore into his, almost pleading.

“what you did last week…” you start, but your voice trails off into nothing soon after. he chuckles again.

“ah, that. i might have gotten ahead of myself.”

“was that all?” you press.

“and what would you do, if it wasn’t?”

“well — do you always like to play games?”

“i have a penchant for playing with my food before i eat it, if that answers your question.” he smiles down at your still-reddening face. “i was giving you a reward, as you wanted. i came up short on options then and there. you’ll let it slide this once, won’t you?”

“you did that just because i did well last week?”

“of course.”

“well, i did well today, too.”

“you did, and that’s why you have this.” he gestures to the chocolate bar in your hand.

“i don’t want this.” your voice is stubborn now, heated and frustrated, and you stuff the chocolate back into his hand. you must not like having to ask for something so blatantly — it’s too bad jeno wants to hear it in those exact words.

“tell me what you really want, then.”

you’re still unable to find the words, but your hands do the talking for you; they press into his shoulders and give you leverage to tiptoe until you’re just close enough to his lips. but you don’t close that gap, your mouth quivering only inches away from his, and oh, jeno wants to toy with you, but you’re just too irresistible this close to him. his warm palms press against your jaw, keeping your face steady as he closes the gap, and this time, he doesn’t just get a brief taste of you — jeno claims your lips with the thirst of a man who’s stumbled upon an oasis in the desert.

you must have thought about this moment long and hard over the weekend, because the nonchalant side of you that’s turned a blind eye to him is completely gone; he drinks in your soft noises and short, breathless gasps — all signs of your eagerness — until he’s drunk on the taste of you. the deeper the kiss gets, the less you can keep up, but you try, and jeno always likes rewarding your efforts, his wide tongue taut and flush against your tiny one in the sweet, warm cavern of your mouth. he licks every inch of it, leaves the mild nicotine taste of himself there, before he pulls away slowly. your eyes are still closed when he creates distance, fluttering open in a happy haze a few seconds later.

“good enough for you?” he murmurs, tucking a soft lock of hair behind your ear. you hum in assent through your dazed smile, and jeno knows he won’t be the only one looking forward to this coming wednesday.

you’d done really well today.

jeno’s proud of you — prouder than he’s been of most of his students in his career here at the university, actually. you’d finally answered a worksheet almost perfectly, save for a couple of numbers where you’d forgotten to round up, and those things are absolutely negligible at this point (by his books, anyway). you’ve been on your best behavior yet, avoiding all forms of complaint, and he knows fully well why, but he won’t criticize you for your hard work all the same, no matter the motivation behind it.

in fact, you’ve done so good that he doesn’t wait until he’s about to leave to give you your sweet reward — which is why, twenty minutes before he’s meant to go, he’s got you on your couch, your legs spread, each one hooked over his shoulders.

truth be told, you’d been good way before the lesson had started; you’d answered the door in a crop top and the tiniest pair of shorts you’ve dared to wear yet — all clothes that you couldn’t yet wear outside yet, given the weather. selfishly, jeno is thankful for this fact, and if he had to list down other things he’s thankful for, just off the top of his head, it’s that you no longer meet in the tutoring center and that your apartment’s walls seem thick and well-reinforced.

“sunbae, don’t tease me.” your silly little whining voice makes its first appearance of the day, but all jeno does is smile — it’s an almost wicked expression, set firmly between your thighs. “you said i did really well today. don’t tell me you’re backing out on rewarding me?”

“not at all, sweetheart,” he hums, pressing a small kiss to your inner thigh. he likes seeing you shiver at the contact, likes the way you’re chewing on your lip in what appears to be slight agitation. “just thinking of how much of a reward you deserve.”

in all honesty, jeno would like to take every bit of you now; you’re already so ready for him, anyway. he can smell the faint perfume of your arousal, can see the way you’re anticipating the most from him, and a part of him doesn’t want to deny you of that. the larger part of him has dreamed of burying his cock into you, anyway, and why wouldn’t he do that? but something also tells him to wait — or, rather, to make you wait, to make you want him just a little more.

and so, he decides.

his mouth finds your skin again, pressing kisses up your thigh; they get wetter, hotter as his mouth moves up, until his nose and lips are buried against your clothed core. you squirm in response, but his grip on your thighs keeps you relatively steady, even as his tongue presses against thin fabric. the wet muscle pushes sharp against your tiny entrance, the tip meeting slight resistance against your shorts and panties, but he finds a way, burying half his tongue in alongside damp cloth.

you’re already wet like this, and so needy that it might be possible for jeno to get you off just like this, still clothed, but the hunger in him spikes once you call out to him.

“sunbae, please…”

with a groan, his fingers yank the fabric aside, exposing your pussy to the warmth of his breathing. it’s as pink, as pretty, as tiny as the rest of you, as fuckable as he’d imagined it would be, and he wastes no time in pressing his tongue flat against your folds, dragging it up in a wide, messy stripe; the muscle only tenses when it bumps against your clit, his tongue flicking upwards to tease it.

you’re so reactive, even at the slightest things — you whimper, you squeeze your eyes shut, you squirm. you’re begging to be fucked, and jeno’s cock is strained tight against his jeans, but your taste is so addicting that he can’t help but dive back in. his tongue eases between your folds now, spreading them apart until they’re lewd and sticky with his saliva, and the nub of your clit has grown so pronounced now — so pert and lovely that he can’t help but purse his lips around it and suck with excess force.

“sunbae — f—fuck,” you mewl; you almost sound tearful. “f—feels so good…”

jeno wants to tell you how fucking good you taste, how beautiful the sounds you’re making are, but his mouth is too busy; his teeth rake down your cunt lightly, earning him a jerk of your hips, and he has to place pressure down on your thighs again to make sure you’re still enough for him to slip his tongue into your cunt.

he can tell even just by that how tight you’d be around him; your walls are warm around his tongue, and there’s a pressure against the muscle that tells him how good it’d feel for his cock to take its place. as if to simulate his desires, he presses his tongue deeper in, fucks you shallowly with its wetness until your whimpers become little sobs, broken and choked back. his thumb drags across your slit then settles against your clit, and he can feel the thrum of your pulse against the pad of his finger, beckoning him. he complies, easily, thumb tracing circles around the nub that start off slow, only for him to ramp up the pace alongside his tongue.

you’re easily at fault for that; the way you whine for him, call him sunbae, tell him how good it feels over and over — why wouldn’t he want more of you?

he’s not sure which of you really earns the sweet reward today; you cum on his tongue, your cunt trembling against his mouth and your fingers threaded into his hair, but he’s the one who comes out licking his lips like he’s had the best treat of his damn life.

come the middle of next week, jeno finds himself face to face with a test paper — one already clearly marked, with a number circled on the top-right corner. ninety. a stellar grade for anyone, and especially for you.

you know it, and you look absolutely triumphant; you’re practically shining as you perch on your little dining table, your perfectly manicured finger jabbing at the score in emphasis.

“flying colors, wouldn’t you say?”

“color me impressed,” jeno replies smoothly, a genuine smile of pride tugging at his lips; he turns the page over, scanning your responses. you still draw your parabolas a little on the small side, making them a bit difficult to discern, and you’ve still got the habit of not rounding your answers up, but this is tremendous work, and he’ll be the first to praise you for it. “your dad must be filled to the brim with joy now, right?”

“i haven’t told him yet. you were the first.”

“well, i’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

“proud enough to give me a reward?”

he looks down at you in feigned thoughtfulness. here you sit, back in your little tennis skirt, looking up at him with hopeful eyes under those long, curled lashes. for someone who spent the first half of this semester acting ostensibly nonchalant, you’d very easily shown your true colors soon after — not that he really minds. in fact, he’s taken a decided kind of liking to how eager and willing you’ve come to be.

“we’ve only just started our session, though,” he hums out, an idle thumb grazing his chin as he watches your expression turn from bright to cloudy, the beginnings of strategy darkening your gaze. it’s not like he wants to say no; he has no real intention to. but seeing you squirm in want makes him feel good about his decision to hold out a little longer — never mind the ache in his cock even then. “don’t we usually leave the rewards for a later time?”

“i was thinking — since it’s the start of a new lesson —”

“we wouldn’t want you falling behind from the start, would we?”

“i promise i won’t,” you pout. “i promise i’ll put in my best effort next time.”

“next time? sweetheart, don’t tell me you’re thinking to get off scot-free today…” jeno trails off, his hand falling to the nearest surface it can reach — which, logic seems to dictate, is your soft, milky thigh. he feels you tense under his palm, and he bites back a smile, keeping his expression level. “i just don’t know.”

your small hands grip at the front of his shirt, and he hears you, for the first time, doing something he’s always wanted to hear you do.

“please, sunbae?”

how could he say no to you? he hadn’t really planned on it, had only wanted to see you do this, but it’s still too much and beyond his expectation — your misty gaze, your quivering lip. it’s almost laughable that you don’t think he’d notice the way you shift yourself so that his hand, still warm against your thigh, slides up your skin, the hem of your skirt bunched up in the junction between his thumb and forefinger.

jeno chuckles — isn’t this exactly where and how he’s always wanted you? “how could you ask me like that and expect me to refuse, angel? in that case, i have no real choice but to dedicate all our time today to your reward.”

your breathing hitches — in anticipation, in desire, in excitement — as his hand continues its trail upward, deliberately now, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. his head dips down, rests into the crook of your neck, and he inhales the thick, sweet scent of your perfume, your shampoo, of you and all that he’ll take from you.

“just remember, you asked for this,” he murmurs against your skin. “so i’m going to take every bit of you until there’s nothing left for anyone else.”

you’re so willing, so ready even before he can get his full bearings; your hips are rising slightly off the table, and jeno feels like it’s you that’s telling him to move faster. he tugs down your panties, letting gravity take its course until they’re a tiny puddle of fabric on the floor, and he slots himself between your legs. like this, you have no choice but to spread, and you do so without hesitation, your knees locking against his sides as he pulls you in for a tight, hungry kiss. there’s that taste of you he loves, that clean, sweet buzz that draws him in, and his hands are bruisingly tight on your waist as he reclaims your lips.

you already look dazed when he pulls away, which is always cute, but a little unfair — jeno wants you to be aware still when he takes you, and damn, if he doesn’t want to take you right fucking now. he kisses you again, harder and more demanding, as if willing your attention back to him, while his hands explore you — run up your thighs, fingers brushing against the plush curve of your ass. it’s not enough, not by a long shot, and he’s pushing the waistline of your skirt up your stomach with his hands, letting his warmth transfer onto your skin; he chuckles as your stomach sucks inward at his touch, just as you let out a gasp against his lips.

and he wants desperately to hear that noise again; in fact, he wants to know what you sound like in every capacity. his mouth works down your neck, pleased to find that suckling wet and languid on a spot just above your collarbone has you writhing and whimpering. are you sensitive or touch-starved? whatever the reason, he wants to draw all of that out of you, his hands drawing back down to hook under your thighs. jeno drags you to the edge of the table, until your bare cunt is flush against the front of his jeans, and he lets you feel him — a brief tease of what’s to come.

“i’m s—so wet already,” you whisper, as if he doesn’t know — as if you know it’s exactly what he wants to hear anyway. “sunbae, please, i need you.”

“not that,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your collarbone as he speaks. “not sunbae. jeno. call me jeno, angel.”

“jeno,” you exhale shakily, and it’s music to his ears — as if the last thing holding him back from you had shattered.

“that’s it — what a good girl,” he purrs, his hips rocking forward against your pussy before they retract, leaving just enough space for his hand to slip between. slender fingers trail down your folds, sticky and slick. “you are all wet for me, aren’t you? ready to take me deep inside?”

even the way you nod, a tiny movement of assent, drives him wild, yet a part of him still wants to test the limit of your patience, his middle finger stretching to circle your entrance.

“wouldn’t want to shock your tiny little pussy, though, would i? will you let me stretch you out first, kitten?”

“yes,” you mewl, sounding almost tearful. “anything— anything, please.”

jeno drinks in the long, drawn-out keen you set free when his digit sinks into you; he’s already felt your walls against his tongue, but a small part of him is still surprised at just how tight you are. that same part nags that he might not fit easily into you, but whatever that voice is is easily drowned out by a more assertive promise — he’ll make it fit.

“can’t tell you how much i’ve wanted to feel your pretty little hole around my cock,” he presses on, his finger pushing deeper in; he feels you tense a delicious kind of tightness, as if it’s almost too much for you. is it? “ever since that first day you came into the tutoring center, dressed up all cute — did you do that on purpose, sweetheart?”

“yes,” you admit, breathless; the syllable is lengthened into a weak moan as jeno pumps his finger into you, slow, deep strokes that tease your tacky walls open. “wanted — wanted to make a good impression…”

“and you did, didn’t you? kept looking so sweet for me, so pretty every single time — got me thinking about all the ways i wanted to have you. got me so fucking hard every time we’d meet — is that what you wanted?”

jeno doesn’t give you much room to respond, but he can make his own answers to appease himself anyway; he reclaims your lips, already eager for another taste of you, and you comply with the same amount of desire, your soft whimpers melting against his teeth. in the space of pseudo silence, wet, messy noises, he manages to tease another digit into you, and you cry out against his lips as it pushes in, joining the first in how deep it reaches. he absorbs that too, takes in every minute sound you make, relishes the way you pulse around his fingers. even without the noises, he can tell your pleasure’s heightening, with the way you clench around him, your hips rocking pitifully as you’re eager to rut against his palm.

“look at you now.” he’s selfish, but he doesn’t care — he wants to ruin you, and if the telltale squelch of your cunt as he fucks his fingers into it isn’t indication enough, then the way your mouth hangs open as he pulls away, letting his name fall freely from your lips, definitely is. “legs spread, all desperate to feel good for me. what a needy little kitten you are. this good enough for you, angel?”

you shake your head, only to squeal as he pulls you closer, his fingers shoving deeper into you; your hips are re-angled, allowing him to brush the pads of his digits against the rough, sweet spot, and he feels triumph bloom in his chest as you throw your head back, teary eyes squeezed shut.

“no, no, no,” you babble, and he can see the bob of your throat as you swallow hard, clutching at sense to make words. “want — need your cock, want to cum on your cock so badly, jeno — want you to fuck me, stretch me open, please —”

“greedy, aren’t you?” he murmurs, leaning in to nip at the spot he’d left reddened above your collarbone. “go on then — show me how much you want it. show me what a good girl you are, and cum on my fingers.”

“but—”

“come on, angel,” he urges above the squelching noises, increasing surely in volume. his fingers meet resistance when they spread apart inside you, but all it does is create a delicious friction that has you squirming in his hold. “don’t hold back. let me see you fall apart.”

and you do, so prettily, your eyes rolling back and your voice unrestrained. jeno’s fingers ride you through your orgasm, pumping deep and steady despite how slick you’ve gotten, your juices coating his hand and wrist. he watches the flush rise to your neck, stopping at your cheeks, watches the heaving of your chest, the shine of your skin from a thin sheen of sweat, and he doesn’t want to let you come down from this high, but his cock is aching — practically bursting from his jeans — and all he can do is make the silent vow that the next time you look like this, he’ll be balls deep in you.

“that’s my girl,” he coos gently, watching the tension slip from your shoulders; his free hand is at the small of your back quickly, easing you down as your torso falls back, and you’re laying on the table. “pretty little thing, aren’t you? cumming so sweetly for me.”

“jeno,” you groan out weakly, your tiny hand clasping around his wrist. “cock — i want your cock, please—”

“can’t wait?” he’s indecent for sounding amused, but even that does nothing to stay his arousal; how eager you are simply makes him want you all the more. “okay, angel — since you asked so nicely.”

a slight twinge of disappointment runs through him as he pulls his fingers out, but it’s quickly buried by the feeling he gets once he gives you a clear sweep of a once-over; how slutty you look, still half-dressed but already half-ruined, your thighs shaking in an effort to keep them open for him, the remnants of your last climax still leaking out of your hole. the sight of you has him so distracted that unbuttoning and unzipping his pants feels like a fever dream of an act; he barely notices what he’s doing until he’s already bare in front of you, and alertness has crawled halfway back into your consciousness as you push yourself up on your elbows to look at him.

“it’s so—” you have the decency to blush, though there’s a pleased look on your face that tells him you’re not really embarrassed. “i didn’t think you’d be this big.”

“does that worry you?”

“i’ve never had anyone… this big.” pride blooms in his chest — good, he thinks, because if he can’t be as memorable as your first, then he’ll take being the most in something as a prize. “i don’t think — will it fit?”

“does it matter?” he chuckles, and your blush deepens. “no matter what — you’ll take all of me in, won’t you?”

you chew on your bottom lip, as if considering your options, but to jeno, there’s really only one choice — the correct one, and you make it when you nod your head.

“it’ll feel good, though, you know,” he muses. his hand wrapped around his base, he lines himself up with you, the tip grazing against your folds. “even better than just now.”

with just a little more pressure, he has his shaft flush against you; his girth sits against your slit, the tip pressed against your clit, and he starts to rock his hips — into his fist, against your cunt. your hips quiver, and a shiver runs through you as your pleasure spikes again, but he can tell it isn’t enough. your bottom lip is back between your teeth, and your eyes are flitting between his face and his cock. jeno reaches out, eases your lip out from between your teeth, strokes it gently, almost tenderly.

“say it,” he commands in a soft, silky voice.

“fuck me, jeno,” you breathe out, barely missing a beat. “fuck me, fuck my pussy, please.”

and if you ask that desperately, he’ll waste no time; he draws his hips back, dragging his cock down until he’s aligned with your entrance. his eyes are trained on your face, even when he pushes in, so that he can take in your expression — the widening of your eyes as his tip breaches the first wave of resistance, the way your mouth falls agape as his fingers dig hard into your flesh. he’s never seen a prettier sight in his life.

“stretched you out already, but you’re still so fucking tight,” his voice is a soft, melodious croon, a stark contrast to the way he’s forcing past your tightness. “tight and wet, like a good girl.”

“so big,” you whimper, your fingers stretched far enough to tickle the front of his shirt. “can’t — can’t take it.”

“of course you can, angel.” jeno doesn’t give you the time to brace yourself fully before he’s rocking his hips in a little more sharply, his cock now halfway into you. your fingers curl into a little fist, immediately flying back to block the noise from your mouth. “ah ah. don’t get shy on me now; you’ve been so noisy for me all this time.”

but he doesn’t really mind the way you clap your palm over your mouth to muffle your high-pitched squeal as he thrusts in fully, the adjustment period after the last movement close to nothing; he’s too busy focusing on how good you feel around him, how warm and wet your insides are. this is heaven, easily, and jeno wants to stay here for as long as he can.

“god, you’re fucking tight,” he repeats, an appreciatory gaze running over where you’re joined. his thumb stretches over your folds, rubbing them — something of an apology, perhaps, although all it does is stimulate you more, and you shiver at the extra contact. “how deep is it, baby?”

“can feel you here,” you mumble out, your small hand pressing just above your pelvis. he feels the tightness multiply as you place pressure, even just for a moment. “your cock’s so much deeper than anyone else.”

your hand falls away, limp, as he draws his hips back; you inhale, long and deep, before letting it out as a broken moan when he pushes back in. it drives him crazy, to start off this slow, when all he wants is to find a pace that has you sobbing, but the resistance of your pussy against his length isn’t easy to ignore. jeno works you open, his jaw set and his grip tight against your frame, and it isn’t long before he’s picking up speed, the slap of his flesh against yours fueling him exponentially, mingling with your cries, steadily increasing in volume.

“that’s it. let everyone hear you,” he eggs on, his thumb now circling tight around your clit; your legs are quivering, threatening to close, but he keeps you steady, one arm wrapped around your thigh. his thrusts grow rougher, more deliberate, and when he looks up from where you’re joined back to your face, he sees your expression as a mixture of incredulity and ecstasy. a thin line of drool hangs from the corner of your mouth, your pretty pink lip gloss smeared, and fuck if he doesn’t want to make sure you look like this every single time he comes over. “let them know who’s fucking you good, angel.”

“j— jeno!” your voice hitches, lilts up as he presses in at a different, deeper angle, and he almost cums right then and there from the way your walls pulse around him. “your cock feels so good, fucking me just right— more, god, more—”

he complies without hesitation, gathering both your thighs and pushing them closer to your chest; you look even lewder like this, folded in half with your sopping cunt presented to him like it’s all his to take, and it is, isn’t it? there’s an increase in the intensity, the vigor in which he pumps his cock into you, and he knows he’s brushing repeatedly against your spot by the way you’re blubbering his name out in a way that suggests you sincerely think no one else in this building can hear you.

“that’s my girl,” he hums approvingly, though there’s a thickness in his voice that has him sounding a little more strained. “such a good girl, with your cunt all nice and sloppy for me. do you like it when i go this deep? does it feel good when i fuck you where no one else can?”

“yes!” you sob out, your hands crumpling the end of your skirt up into tight fists. “jeno, i— cum, i need to cum again, please—”

“i’ve got you, kitten,” his tone is reassuring, a stark contrast to the rigor of his hips. “don’t have to hang on for me, you know; always love seeing you fall apart.”

“m’close, so close —”

“let go, then,” he urges, his blunt nails digging into your flesh. “let me feel that sweet cunt cum on my cock.”

you comply without hesitation, though if you’d done it willingly, he can’t really tell; he has to pin your hips down to stop you from bucking up and causing him to slip out, and you writhe against him as you sob in ecstasy, your walls fluttering before they clench. stray tears leak from your eyes, squeezed shut, and jeno wants nothing more than to eat you up like this — broken, fucked out.

you’re not even fully down from your high when he feels it — that sudden wrenching in his gut that tells him he’s about to follow suit. with a low groan, he peels your thighs apart again, lets you watch him as he bullies straight into your leaking hole. your voice is a staccato, punctuating every deep, sharp thrust into you, and it’s exactly to that melody that he wants to get off.

“tell me where you want it, angel.” he doesn’t trust his voice, sharp and short as it is now. “should i mark your pretty face? your stomach?”

“want it against my pussy,” you whisper out, and jeno almost loses his mind as he watches you spread your folds apart with your forefinger and middle finger, inviting him. “make a mess of it, sunbae.”

he’s barely able to pull out before he’s spilling against you; he ruts against your slit, coating your folds and the insides of your thighs in thick, creamy white. you hold your legs apart for as long as you can until they start to tremble, and he catches them and gently eases them down.

when you sit up to kiss him, you’re still demanding; he feels your hips rock closer, your sticky cunt pressing against the underside of his cock.

“not enough,” you murmur against his lips, and jeno chuckles as you bind your hands around his neck.

“don’t worry, kitten,” he hums back. “we’ve got all afternoon.”

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apollosgiftofprophecy · 6 months ago

Text

Concept: In The Burning Maze, I think it would have been cool if one of the crossword puzzles in the labyrinth had been a mathematical equation.

Specifically, a mathematical equation on mathematical logic, such as negations.

Why? Because Apollo is the god of mathematics and I think it would be funny if Grover and Meg were standing there, staring with horror at:

~(~(p^q))

"What is this nonsense?" Asks Meg, a literal sixth grader who has never before encountered college-level math.

"I...I don't know!" Responds Grover, anxiously wringing his hands. He also has never come across something like this before. "I never went to high school!"

"Is it code for something?"

"The little carrot there looks kinda like a Greek Delta- is Daedalus related somehow?"

"A carrot-what?"

"The carrot!" Grover points at the symbol between the 'p' and 'q'. "It looks like the Delta symbol!"

"Oooh. Okay."

The sentence below the odd thing reads;

Solve my riddle,

Or play second fiddle,

You can find me in education,

For I am the ________!

"...What does that mean?" Grover whimpers.

Meg looks stumped.

"...negation," Apollo's staring at the strange equation. "'Solve my riddle, or play second fiddle. You can find me in education, for I am the negation!'. That's the missing word in the rhyme."

They stare at him. "How do you know that?" Grover bewilderedly asks. "It makes no sense!"

"Math logic," Apollo simply says. "This particular one is...about first, second-year level in college, I'd say."

Grover closes his eyes, muttering; "No wonder I couldn't solve it." as Meg stares first at the equation, then at Apollo.

"What even is a negation?"

"That," Apollo points to the squiggly lines. "It cancels the truth values out, giving you the opposite of what's inside the parathesis."

"...What?"

Apollo huffs. "The 'p' and 'q' both represent something, like two parts of a sentence. The carrot can be upside-down or right-side-up, representing 'or' or 'and' in that sentence."

"Which way is up when?" Grover looked to be on the verge of tears as the realization math did not, in fact, end with numbers or numbers and letters.

"Uh..." Apollo made a 'V' with his hands. "If it's like this, it's 'or'. If it's like this," he made a tiny pyramid with his hands. "It's 'and'. Imagine a line through the center, like an 'A'. That's 'and'."

Grover rubbed at his eyes. "Too much," he whimpered. "Too much."

Apollo gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "In this case," he said. "It's saying 'and'. The negation, well, negates their values, so it becomes-" he pats his pants and looks in his pockets. "Anyone have a pen and paper...?"

Blank looks met his. "Okay, then...then just imagine a squiggly line in front of the 'p' and 'q'. That's what the first negation does. Then the second one negates that negation, taking the squiggly lines away."

Breathing in, he finished with; "So our mathematical answer would be, 'p and q', written with the carrot right-side-up- like the 'A'."

The tunnel was silent.

Then it was broken. "How do you know all that?" Meg demanded, looking extremely confused. "That makes no sense. I thought there were numbers."

"There are," Apollo patiently explained. "But this is a logic problem, and they don't do numbers."

"Never before have I been grateful to not to have to go to college," Grover rubbed at his temples. "Algebra was bad enough. Now this?"

"Hey!" Apollo looked slightly offended. "It's all quite fun, really, when you figure it out! Besides, we didn't even have to solve it!"

"Then why did you?" Meg asked.

Apollo stared at her. "Because you asked me too-!"

"Nope." She blew a raspberry. "None of us did."

He closed his eyes, as if praying for mercy.

"Anyway," Apollo gave both of them the stink-eye. "Math and music were quite intertwined back in the day, so the Muses and I are quite adept at it- Thalia's the geometry queen, and whatever you do, do not say 'Bet you can't solve this in a minute' to Urania. She will make you look stupid."

"Bet that's not hard."

"Oh, shut up."

insert cackle from Meg

"ANYWAY," Apollo gives her the stink-eye. "Ancient Greece was a breeding ground for mathematical minds- Pythagoras, for one, who was my son to boot! Even Hestia enjoys looking over Hephaestus's construction equations in her spare time."

The other two stared at him, as if shocked the gods would find math, of all things, fun.

Apollo awkwardly glanced away from them. He didn't know what their reactions would be if he told them of the many contributions he has made to the world of mathematics. For some reason, silly mortals didn't seem to appreciate the hard work put into them!

Sighing, he said; "Uh, Labyrinth, the answer is 'negation'. We got side-tracked there for a bit."

One hallway in front of them glowed with the answer. Without another word, they quickly speed-walked down the passage-way.

#past alder: don't mind me as i use headcanons as a way of remembering my math haha #present alder: WHEW THIS WAS FROM MONTHS AGO GUYS NO JOKE THIS WAS MY MATH HOMEWORK. NO NUMBERS. ONLY LOGIC PROBLEMS. (ngl it was kinda fun #anyway pythagoras is considered to be an apollo kid so easter egg for u there #and OLD hestia has been said (i believe- don't quote me) to be associated with construction soooo math queen hestia beloved #toa headcanons #the trials of apollo #trials of apollo #pjo apollo #toa apollo #meg mccaffrey #grover underwood #the burning maze #toa herophile

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novascharms · 5 months ago

Text

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 4.3 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

a.n — AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

eleven

sunday, february 9th

you'd read and re-read the stoichiometry chapter in your chemistry book so many times the words had started to blur together. no matter how hard you tried to concentrate, the first sentence refused to stick, so you read it again. and again. the mole-to-mole relationships in chemical equations couldn’t do what you so desperately wanted them to: distract you from your laptop sitting smugly on the corner of your desk, mocking you with its silence.

you glanced at the screen for the hundredth time.

still no response.

your chest tightened, frustration bubbling under your skin. you'd never wanted to scratch your own eyes out more than you did right now. your gaze shifted to the blue pen rafe had given you, lying idle next to your notebook. he’d handed it to you after you’d casually mentioned trying to stop chewing on pens. it was one of those novelty pens with a fluffy pom-pom at the end—a ridiculous detail, but it worked. you hadn’t bitten a pen in days.

you sighed, pressing your forehead to the cool surface of your desk. the frustration and restlessness were unbearable. "just get it together. focus. focus, y/n," you whispered, willing yourself to snap out of it.

"what are you doing?"

the sudden voice made your heart leap into your throat. you jolted upright, instinctively grabbing the first thing within reach—a pack of sticky notes—and hurling it toward the intruder.

your sister's stupidly athletic self ducked effortlessly, a bemused look on her face as the sticky notes fluttered harmlessly to the floor. "don't scare me like that," you scolded, your voice stern, though your pulse was still racing.

"relax," she said, rolling her eyes. "mom said you need to help her and rafe unload the groceries."

you froze. rafe? you blinked, sure you’d misheard. "wait, what did you just say?"

but she was already turning away, her athletic frame disappearing down the hall before you could get any clarification.

you shot out of your chair, heart thudding as you hurried after her. she darted down the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her, leaving you to descend the stairs alone. with each step, the sound of laughter drifted closer, unmistakably rafe’s—deep, warm, and contagious.

your stomach twisted. your nerves were already frayed, and now they were shot through with the sharp edge of memory. friday’s argument lingered, unresolved and heavy. you’d both walked out of that classroom unsatisfied—him with no answers about what happened at the bonfire, and you still clueless about the black eye he refused to explain. his silence afterward, ignoring your text all day, had only solidified your belief that he was done talking to you.

and yet… here he was.

you stopped in the hallway, your breath catching as you caught sight of him. standing in the kitchen with your mom, rafe moved around like he belonged there, putting dishes away with an ease that almost felt intentional.

your eyes locked on him as he reached for the cabinet, your favorite mug in his hand. something about seeing it there, his long fingers gripping the familiar ceramic, made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

you lingered, frozen in place, unsure of whether to walk in or turn back. the kitchen was only a few steps away, but it suddenly felt like miles.

"ah, there you are, sweetie! look who i ran into at the farmer's market!" your mom's voice carried a cheerful lilt as she gestured toward rafe, her grin wide. he turned at the mention of you, his movements calm, but his eyes sharp as they settled on your face. "i came on foot, and he was kind enough to offer me a ride," she continued, her voice full of appreciation that almost made you laugh. for someone you'd barely been able to figure out, it seemed rafe had won your mom over in no time.

he closed the cabinet with a soft thud, his gaze falling on you again, drifting down your frame. you caught the flicker of amusement in his expression as his eyes lingered on your legs, bare except for the well-worn university hoodie your dad had given you and a pair of shorts. his scrutiny was quiet but obvious, and it made your skin prickle, though you couldn’t quite decide if it was irritation or something else entirely.

and there it was—the reason you couldn't get past the bonfire, the reason even standing in the same room as him sometimes felt unbearable. it wasn’t just the way he looked at you, though that was part of it, his blue eyes holding something electric, like you were the only girl in the world. it wasn’t just the way his attention made your heart stutter, like you were under a spell you couldn’t shake. it was the way your mind twisted it all, painting vivid, cruel images of him looking at someone else like this.

looking at any girl like this. every girl. seeing his gaze soften like it did for you, feeling that same magnetic pull that left you breathless, making her feel exactly the way he made you feel. it made you want to throw up.

"how friendly," you muttered under your breath, stepping into the kitchen to busy yourself. your eyes skimmed over the contents of your mom’s shopping bags, your attempt to distract yourself entirely unconvincing.

"are you okay? you’re a little sweaty," your mom asked, her hand brushing your forehead with gentle concern.

"just my period," you replied softly, leaning into the touch as she pulled you into a warm embrace.

her arms wrapped around you, and you rested your head against her shoulder, but your eyes found rafe’s again. he hadn’t looked away, his gaze steady, unreadable.

"i’ll make you a cup of tea, yeah?" your mom offered, her voice soft in your ear.

"mhm, thanks, mom," you murmured.

"do you need a heat pad?" she added.

"already got one," you replied with a faint smile, trying to shake the weight of the moment.

she pulled back, her hand brushing over your arm before glancing toward rafe. "be sure to send rafe down if it cools so i can reheat the water, okay? you’ll do that for her, right?"

rafe didn’t miss a beat, his voice low but certain. "and more."

you felt your pulse stutter, but you didn’t dare let yourself read into it. not now. not again.

it’s only when you’re right in front of the stairs that you stop and turn to him. “you didn’t get my message?”

“i did get your message.” he says it like it’s a minor detail that doesn’t change anything.

“and you’re here.” you state and move up one step because you don’t like that he’s taller than you right now.

he raises his brows, looking up at you, “you’ve never dictated my whereabouts before..”

you cross your arms, “i thought you were mad at me.”

“i think you might be my hill.”

his hill?

“my hill to die on.” he clarifies and you’re quiet for a moment and then another because why why why would he say something like that?

your heart sort of feels like it’s being squeezed.

you don’t say another word as you climb the stairs together, you don’t say a word when you sit at your desk, your chemistry notes waiting, unread and you don’t say a word when he sits on your bed, facing you.

"not gonna talk to me?" he asks, his voice low and even, but you keep your eyes on the notes in front of you, pretending with all the strength you can muster that he isn’t sitting there, watching your every move.

"why’d you even let me into your room if you weren’t going to talk to me?" he asks again, the hint of a smirk in his tone that grates on you.

you roll your eyes, the response instinctual. he was six feet tall—what were you supposed to do? block the door? he wouldn’t have listened even if you’d told him to leave, and you both knew it.

"okay," he says suddenly, standing and crossing the room toward you. he crouches down beside you, his movements deliberate, his presence impossible to ignore now. "you’re still mad i didn’t tell you what happened friday, and i’m mad you won’t tell me what happened at the bonfire. it cancels out. we should just not be mad anymore," he says, as if it’s the simplest solution in the world.

you finally turn to look at him, and he’s close—too close. your eyes drop to the bruise beneath his eye, still swollen and tender-looking, as raw as it had been on friday. your frown deepens, and before you realize it, your hand lifts, fingers reaching toward the edge of the discoloration. but you stop short, your fingertips hovering before dropping back into your lap. you turn away again, determined not to give in to the pull of him.

you try to focus on your notes, the words swimming on the page. then, without warning, he grabs your book and tosses it onto your bed.

you don’t react, not really. instead, you reach for your laptop and pull up the pdf version, scrolling without looking at him.

"are you fuck—" he starts, catching himself when your glare sharpens on him, "—freaking serious?"

you turn back to your screen, your silence louder than any retort.

he closes your laptop with a single motion, holding it down when you try to open it again. your frustration boils over, and you stand, but he pushes you back into the chair, his movements unrelenting.

"you know you’re being a brat, right?" he says, his tone somewhere between amusement and exasperation. you cross your arms, staring straight ahead, refusing to engage.

with a scoff, he turns your chair so you’re facing him. your head swivels away, determined not to meet his gaze.

"i can’t believe this," he mutters, the disbelief laced with dry humor.

he could scoff and huff and puff all he wanted. you weren’t going to say a single word until he told you what happened friday. it didn’t matter if he thought you were being a brat, or if it wasn’t fair to withhold your own truth about the bonfire while expecting him to spill his.

the bonfire was different—separate. telling rafe what you saw would mean telling him why you reacted the way you did, and what was the point of all that when you were determined to weed out these feelings anyway?

because they would pass. they had to pass.

you’d read countless articles that said as much—this infatuation, this pull, was temporary. fleeting. give it ten, maybe fifteen business days, and you’d be fine. you’d be back to normal. telling him would only ruin something that didn’t need to be ruined, would risk losing him prematurely for something that wasn’t permanent.

"jesus christ, fine," he sighed, the frustration thick in his voice as he leaned back and sank onto your bed. he patted the spot next to him, his hand heavy on the comforter. "come here," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

you hesitated for just a moment before obeying, standing and crossing the small space between you. settling onto the bed beside him, your leg brushed against his, the proximity setting your nerves on edge.

"i’ve been… i’ve been in a shit mood all week, you know?" he began, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. he exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "and i guess i’ve been kind of a buzzkill. just… i’ve had a lot on my mind. about sarah, about soccer, my dad… and about you."

your breath caught at his admission, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts.

"it’s not like i can’t talk about it with my friends," he continued, his words slower now, more deliberate. "it’s just… i don’t have my thoughts straight yet. haven’t even worked through it myself, you know? but topper…" rafe broke off with a frustrated sigh, his jaw tightening. you could practically see the scene playing out in his head. "topper doesn’t like it when i don’t talk about shit. he’s always on edge, scared i’ll slip into… old habits if i don’t deal with my crap. so, he pushes. and pushes. and i was already pissed off, already had too much to drink, and he kept getting in my face, asking me what my problem was."

rafe’s hands flexed, his fingers pressing into his thighs like he was trying to contain the memory. "so i tell him to fu—to piss off," he corrected himself, glancing at you briefly. "but he just kept going, and i was done. i was ready to walk away, ready to just leave. and then…" his voice faltered, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you.

you frowned, leaning closer without even realizing it. "and then what?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

he turned to look at you, and the guilt in his eyes made your stomach twist.

"rafe," you pressed, your heart pounding. "what did he say? was it about me?"

he looked away, his hand dragging across his face like he could erase the tension in his features. "the details don’t really matter," he said, his voice low and evasive.

"no," you said sharply, shaking your head. "no. i want to know. tell me."

"it’s stupid," he muttered, his tone filled with reluctant anger. "he’s stupid—"

"you got into a physical fight over it. it can’t be that stupid," you argued, your gaze fixed on his.

rafe hesitated, his lips pressing into a tight line, as if debating whether to tell you.

"rafe,"

he exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. "he said…" rafe hesitated again, his voice quieter now, tinged with anger and something softer—regret, maybe. "he said i should cut off ‘that goody-goody, prissy bitch’ because i was in a way better mood before i met you."

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. your shoulders sagged, and your gaze dropped to the floor. you took a shallow breath, exhaling slowly as the weight of his admission settled over you.

"and then?" you asked quietly, your voice steady but barely audible.

"y/n—" he started, but you cut him off, your head snapping up to meet his eyes.

"and then?"

rafe sighed, running his hand through his hair again, the strands sticking up messily. "i told him to come again. i don’t even remember what he said next, honestly. all i caught was sarah’s name and something muffled before i… slammed him into a wall and kneed him in the face. he got one punch in, but i fractured his nose and he looks like shit, so… i’m pretty pleased with that part."

a dry, humorless laugh escaped him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to smile. his words lingered in your head, sharper than the bruise on his face, harder to ignore than the ache settling in your chest.

"i'm sorry..that this all happened." you said and he shook his head, "it's not your fault. don't apologise." it felt a little your fault. or maybe a lot. you can imagine that if you never tutored rafe in the first place, this wouldn't have happened.

your gaze stayed fixed on the floor, avoiding his entirely, but rafe wasn’t having it. he leaned forward, lowering his head until his eyes found yours. "topper’s an asshole," he said bluntly. "and honestly, i’m probably gonna kick his ass again the next time i see him."

a small, unwilling smile tugged at your lips. "don’t do that," you whispered, the diplomat in you rising instinctively.

"no?" he asked, grinning in a way that made your heart flutter and your stomach flip. "don’t think he deserves a matching one?" he gestured toward his own black eye, the faint shadow of a bruise still etched into his face.

the truth was, topper probably did deserve it. but you bit your lip, shaking your head anyway, even as you silently agreed.

"he’s not wrong, though," you admitted quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

rafe rolled his eyes with a sharp exhale. "fuck him and fuck whatever he has to say about you. he doesn’t know a thing about you."

you nodded slowly, your heart both heavy and a little lighter at the same time. "hmm… doesn’t change that i’m pretty prissy. and, you know, a serious goody-goody," you said with a wry smile. "maybe not the bitch part though."

rafe pulled a face, a mix of disbelief and irritation. "just because you’re not downing a beer crate every weekend or hooking up with half the town doesn’t make you prissy—or a goody-goody. topper’s just being a dickhead, and he knows it."

his words made you freeze. your breath hitched, your body tensing almost imperceptibly, but not enough to escape his notice.

rafe’s brows lifted, his tone shifting as a teasing grin spread across his face. "unless…" he started, leaning closer, his voice playful. "you are secretly an alcoholic?"

you let out a small, breathy laugh despite yourself, shaking your head and turning away. you didn’t want to have this conversation—not anymore.

"then…" he pressed, undeterred. "some boyfriend? or… boyfriends? that i should know about? or girlfriend?"

your pulse quickened, and you bolted upright, crossing the room in a hurry. you stopped at your bookshelf, your fingers brushing over the spines of the books as though you were searching for something specific. "um, no," you muttered, your voice clipped and quiet.

behind you, his voice came, laced with that maddening curiosity. "how long has it been?"

you froze, turning your head just enough to glance at him, wary. "how long has what been?"

his knowing smirk deepened, and the glint in his eye told you he already knew the answer—or thought he did. "how long has it been since you’ve gone fourth base, teach?"

your brow furrowed, and you blinked at him, the term pulling at a distant, foggy memory from freshman-year sex ed. "fourth base?" you repeated in a whisper, trying to piece it together.

he stopped moving, his gaze locking on yours with a mixture of disbelief and something softer—was it pity? "wait," he said, the realization dawning on him. "you’ve never…" his voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging thick in the air.

your cheeks burned hotter, and you blinked rapidly, refusing to answer until you were absolutely sure of what he meant. "is that…hands stuff?" you asked, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

his jaw slackened, and his shock only deepened. "you’ve never had se—"

"shut up!" you snapped, spinning away from him so he couldn’t see your mortified expression. "i’ll have you know that it is completely normal!"

"okay, yes, but…" his tone shifted, almost as if he were genuinely concerned now, which only made it worse. "you’ve done, like, third-base stuff, right?"

the way he threw these terms around so casually grated on your nerves, especially since you had no idea what half of them meant. you glared at him, crossing your arms defensively. "enough with the baseball analogies! speak english!"

he chuckled softly, and the sound only added to your irritation. "okay, fine. have you done… you know, under-the-clothes stuff?" he clarified, his voice gentler now, but it didn’t soften the blow.

your silence stretched too long, and you saw the understanding flicker in his eyes before he even whispered, "shit…"

he hesitated, then asked, almost cautiously, "have you even had your first kiss?"

you turned sharply, glaring daggers at him. "of course," you snapped, though your voice lacked conviction. "i’ve kissed… two guys." the last part came out so softly it barely registered, even to you.

"repeat that?" he asked, leaning forward like he didn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. his eyes were wide, filled with something you couldn’t name—disbelief? Amusement?

"two guys," you hissed, louder this time, but it still didn’t sound like much.

"oh my god," he said slowly, nodding as though he were processing groundbreaking information. "so… two boyfriends?"

you shook your head quickly. "one boyfriend. the other was…" you hesitated, cringing inwardly. "seven minutes in heaven."

that did it. rafe’s quiet laughter bubbled up, low and persistent as he shook his head. "seven minutes in heaven?" he echoed, his grin widening.

"stop!" you demanded, but he was already smiling too broadly to take you seriously.

"who were the guys?" he asked, and you stared at him, debating whether or not to answer. finally, with a shrug, you muttered, "danny watson."

that made him stand up, his eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. "danny watson?" he repeated, his tone bordering on incredulous. "the one who’s always wearing a fanny pack?"

"he’s really nice!" you argued, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. "and smart! and—whatever, i don’t have to explain myself! i also dated jeremy dunn in freshman year. very, very briefly."

"so, basically…" he said, grinning like he’d cracked the case, "you’ve never been kissed."

"yes, i have!" you shot back, standing taller as though it might add weight to your words. "maybe they weren’t the perfect, romcom kisses, but they were real kisses."

he raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. your defensiveness only made it worse, but you couldn’t help yourself. the way he was looking at you, like you were some sort of anomaly, made you want to claw back every ounce of dignity you had left.

how many girls had he kissed? the thought burned in your chest. if cora was right and he got with a different girl every day, that had to be at least seven hundred girls in the past three years. you even gave him the benefit of the doubt and limited it to weekdays. still, the sheer number made you dizzy.

and here he was, standing in your room, acting like your two measly kisses were some kind of tragedy.

"they weren’t real kisses," he said, his voice low and certain. "you wouldn’t be talking about them like this if they made you feel even a sliver of what a real kiss should feel like." god, here comes the kissing connoisseur.

"okay, enlighten me," you said, exhaling a sigh and trying to sound disinterested, even though your pulse had quickened, and your curiosity was clawing at you.

he shifted, leaning casually against your desk, his arms crossed as he faced you. "unless your first is with someone you really like, it’s gonna be shit. and even if it is with someone you really like, if you’re both bumbling idiots—and let’s be honest, you probably are—it’ll still feel like shit."

your mind flickered back to those two kisses. they hadn’t been bad. they were just…kisses. no fireworks, no earth-shattering revelations. kind of like when your grandma kissed your cheek—sweet, familiar, forgettable. that wasn’t bad, right? you loved your grandma.

"but once you’re older, and you’ve got your eye on someone?" his voice softened, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. "imagine you’re at a party. you’ve been watching each other all night, and you just keep moving closer, little by little. it’s not even intentional—it’s like there’s this magnetic pull between you, like the universe is plotting to pull you together."

you were holding your breath now, your eyes fixed on him. on his lips. on the way his hands gestured subtly, like he was weaving a spell with his words. without realizing it, you leaned forward slightly, the space between you shrinking inch by inch.

"then, you’re face to face," he continued, his voice almost a whisper now. "there’s this quiet kind of flirting, just between the two of you. your breaths mingle, and then…hands start to move—into their hair, onto their waist, wherever. suddenly, you can’t tell where you end and they begin. it’s like you just…become one."

his eyes locked on yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe. his legs shifted, spreading slightly, and it felt like an unspoken invitation to step closer. your teeth caught your bottom lip as you fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance. but it wasn’t working—you kept inching forward, drawn to him like gravity.

"it feels like electricity," he murmured, his voice thick with intensity. "your whole body is buzzing, like you might actually catch fire the second your lips touch."

his hand reached out, catching the hem of your sweater and tugging gently, pulling you into his space. your breath hitched audibly, and your nose brushed his as your bodies hovered just short of touching.

"and then you finally kiss," he whispered, his hands ghosting over your waist, so light they barely registered. "and it’s like the rest of the world disappears. you forget where you are because nothing else matters. it’s just…you and them. that’s it. it should make your head spin, your knees weak, and leave you completely and utterly incapable of pulling away."

his lips brushed yours then, a fleeting, teasing touch that sent a jolt through your entire body. you froze, caught in the electric moment, and realized with startling clarity that if he pulled away now, it might actually kill you.

"if it didn’t feel like that," he whispered, his voice feather-soft and tantalizing, "then it wasn’t a real kiss."

and then he kissed you.

your mind screamed, finally, finally, finally, like you’d been waiting for this moment your entire life. his lips were soft but firm, demanding but gentle, everything you’d imagined and somehow so much more. a wave of heat spread through you, leaving your skin tingling, your head reeling. your hand trembled as it came up to his face, the other fisting in his shirt, desperate to pull him closer.

just as you started to lose yourself completely, he pushed you back suddenly. the abruptness sent you stumbling into your bed with a startled shriek.

the door swung open. "what was that shriek?" your mom’s voice came, cup of tea in hand as she stepped inside.

"she’s in pain," rafe interjected smoothly, stepping forward to take the tea from her before you could so much as catch your breath. "it’s really…getting to her."

you blinked rapidly, trying to reorient yourself as your mom frowned, concern etched across her face. "oh no, sweetheart. do you need stronger pills? i might have something downstairs."

"y-yeah," you stammered, your voice shaky. "that…that’d be great. yes."

your mom leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before straightening. "all right, then." her gaze flicked to rafe, her smile warm but pointed. "rafe, not that i don’t love having you here, but she should rest. i’ll send you home with some dessert."

you watched helplessly as she ushered him toward the door. rafe shot you one last look, a flicker of amusement and something else in his eyes, before she closed the door behind her.

a.n — honestly yn kinda getting on my nerves now….

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap.

taglist — @rafeysworldim19 @my-name-is-baby @pogueprincesa @fveapplestall @chalametlover444 @slutglimreqpers @uaremyhopeworldwide @junxe3

let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist & interact with post to remain tagged <3

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cxrsed-angel · 5 months ago

Text

Office Hours with Dr. Richards| Reed Richards x fem!reader

gifs by: @/skarsgards-bill and @/a7estrellas

wc: 1k

summary: you've been struggling in your intro to physics class and decide to see Dr. Richards at his office hour for help with the homework he assigned.

a/n: just a short little fic I literally wrote hours this after seeing the trailer and seeing him at the blackboard. and im working a pt 2 but idk not beta read. hope you enjoy it :)

warning: no smut, professor and student flirting and inappropriate touching and jokes.

You stand outside his office, staring at the large, solid wooden door, fidgeting with the bottom of your short skirt—the skirt you purposefully wore to meet him. You had been struggling with your Intro to Physics homework and didn't want to fail, but you’ve been nervous about going to his office hours because Dr. Richards is hot. Easily the hottest professor on campus and that might have contributed to you having a hard time concentrating in his class, and physics was already a confusing subject on its own.

Dr. Richards

You look at the plaque on the door. You've been standing outside the door for a bit, grateful there is a window on it. You take a deep breath before knocking on the door lightly. After a few seconds, you hear his voice through the door.

“Come in.” You slowly open the door to his office. His office smells like cedar mixed with his Tom Ford vanilla tobacco cologne. His bookcases are filled with books, and his desk has papers lying across it. You see him behind his desk, on his computer, looking as handsome as he does in class, black-framed glasses resting on his strong nose.

As you enter, he greets you, and the way he says your name makes your stomach do flips, and maybe some butterflies join in, too. You pull out the chair opposite his desk before sitting down, resting your school bag on the floor by your chair.

“Your email said you were having some trouble understanding the assignment,” he asks as he leans back in the black rolly office chair, closing his laptop, removes his glasses, and setting them down on his desk.

You nod, pulling out your notebook for your notes from his lectures and the paper you've been using to do the equations for the homework. “Yes, I feel like I may have gotten in over my head with this class. I'm totally lost on everything. Math has always been my weakest subject.”

Dr. Richards nods, leaning over his desk to view your work. He smiles a bit. “I don't believe that. Let's take a look, huh?”

You turn the page more towards him so he can see it. He grabs a pencil and looks over your work. You’re focused on how good he looks in his white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the attractive grey streaks on the sides of his hair, and how handsome he looks focused on your work on the paper. You’re sure more than half of it is wrong.

You really were struggling, and you really did suck ass at math, so attempting this intro to physics class was a bold choice, but you needed a math core, and it fits into your schedule. You considered dropping it, trading it for college algebra, or an easier alternative, but that went out the window on the first day when you saw how attractive Dr. Richards was. You decided you could stick it through and take advantage of your lack of math skills to see him during his office hours.

“Oh, okay, I see, here and here, you used the wrong equation, which gave you the wrong answer here, and when you plugged in that number in-.

“I fucked up the whole thing.” you finish his sentence, feeling a bit of pride as you see him crack a smile at your comment.

“Well, I wouldn't put it that way, but you just got off on the wrong foot at the start. Here, you can come around here so you can see.”

You shift your chair around his desk, sit next to him, and look over his shoulder a bit to see the paper, taking in his cologne and the opportunity to admire him this close. Maybe you were sitting closer than necessary, but he didn't move, so you stayed close. You catch his eyes drifting down to your legs, your skirt that was riding up your thigh a bit as you sit. But his gaze returns to the paper, and he explains how to do it again. After explaining it, he hands you the pencil, his hand touching yours, feeling his hands linger on your fingers. You take the pencil starting to redo it. You feel him scoot back away from you, returning to the work on his desk.

“Let me know when you're done, and I'll check it.” You nod, doing the equation as he explained it before.

You work on the problem, silently listening to him type on his keyboard. After a few minutes, you finish looking at it; you were just hoping for the best.

“I'm done, but I'm not sure if it’s correct.” You slide the paper over towards him, and he leans over you again, looking over your work. After a few seconds, he nods, smiling.

“No, it is. See, I knew you could do it. Good job.” You smile a bit, feeling the heat rise on your face. “Good girl. See wasn't too bad.” He grips your knee in a reassuring way. His hand lingers on it for a few seconds, rubbing it with his thumb. The second the word “good girl” slips out of his mouth, and the feeling of his hand on your knees makes you feel a bit dizzy and hotter, turning you on and affecting you more than you anticipated.

“Thank you. I just hope it doesn’t go out my head during the next test,” you joke nervously as you look at him.

Dr. Richards shakes his head, “It definitely won't. Were there other problems you were having trouble with?”

You shake your head and start putting the papers back in your folder. “No, this was it.”

“Well, here,” he hands you some papers. “These are some practice problems you can do. Physics is like exercising; You have to do a little bit each day to see results. You can't do one chin-up and expect to see results the next day, right?” He jokes, giving you that very charming smile that makes your body get warmer.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. It took months of squats for me to actually get an ass-“ You pause, realizing who you were talking to. A flash of heat rushes to your body, embarrassed beyond belief. “I'm so sorry, oh my god.”

Dr. Richards laughs, probably the hardest you’ve seen. He shakes his head, “No worries, but exactly my point. You have to work out consistently to see results.” He winks, making your heart race faster. You're not sure if he was winking at your ass comment or if that was just in your head. You nod, laughing nervously, unsure what to say. You get up from your chair, getting up to move your chair. You scoot it back across his desk, bending over to do so. You don’t see Dr Richards taking an obvious look at your ass peeking out under your short skirt. He clears his throat before looking back at your eyes. “Thank you again, Dr. Richards.” You smile, walking towards his door. He smiles back, nodding.

"Remember, my door is always open. You can come in here anytime, or you can email me. I'm here to help you succeed. I don't mind going over problems. It's better you come now than the day before the midterm.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you so much. See you in class.” You turn around and walk out of his office, closing the door. You are already mentally scheduling the next time you'll use his office hours next week.

divider by: @/cafekitsune

#reed richards x reader #reed richards fanfiction #reed richards oneshot #ppcu fanfiction #reed richards x fem!reader #angel writes

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roanniom · 2 years ago

Note

King Steve flirting with inexperienced never been flirted with reader

Smartest

King!Steve Harrington x tutor!fem!reader

Read Part 2

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, PIV/unprotected sex, teasing, coercion but consensual, King!Steve is a manipulative douchebag and is his own warning

“You’re really good at this stuff,” Steve says, watching for your reaction as you scribble math equations across the notebook paper. He can see embarrassment bloom across your features and he has to suppress the zing of triumph he feels. It’s so easy.

It makes him want to push it.

“It’s kinda hot.”

The pencil stops in its path and your eyes shoot up to his, brow raised.

“I’m not…that’s…you’re messing with me, Harrington,” you finally settle on in what you hope is a dismissive tone. Steve notes the way your hand writing becomes more shaky. He sucks on his teeth for a second before chuckling.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to be modest. Hot girl like you must be raking in the compliments.”

You shake your head but don’t look up from your work. Well…his work. The homework that you’re doing for him even though you were supposed to be tutoring him so he doesn’t fail algebra and miss out on basketball.

But his hand is suddenly on your knee.

“Look at you ignoring me. What, you tutor a football player that’s stealing all your attention? Nothing left for me?”

“I…I don’t tutor the football team,” you answer, dumb in spite of your high IQ. You look up and Steve’s grin is big, glad he could finally distract you. He’d gotten bored with the repetition of watching you do his homework. He’s got nothing else lined up today, might as well have some fun. It’s not like his parents are home and it’s a shame to waste a big empty house.

“Thought I was your favorite pupil,” Steve says in a mock whine, giving you puppy dog eyes that seem to short circuit your brain.

Bingo.

You can do his homework later.

“Y-you are,” you admit shyly. It makes Steve smile at you again and your heart bursts, the shriveled up crush you’ve been nursing for years finally being watered and rehydrated. You can hear your heart beat in your ears.

“Good. Because you’re my favorite hot tutor,” Steve says with a wink. You swallow visibly at that and Steve laughs. “You’re still acting like nobody’s ever called you hot before and I call bullshit.”

“No….nobody’s ever called me hot before,” you say in a small voice. Steve’s eyes widen for a second. He’d been pressing on that point, not really thinking too hard about whether or not it could be true. It was just mindless flirting. And pretty lazy flirting, to be honest.

He takes the space of a second to wonder if he feels bad about your clear inexperience and insecurity. Instead, he feels a dark, sour tinge of excitement. Your obvious interest is an opportunity. He doesn’t take any time to analyze whether he should be ashamed of that thought.

“Do you like it when I call you hot?” Steve asks. It’s not a question. Not really. Not when he knows the answer is yes. But he’s angling for something as his hand slides up from your knee to your thigh. You drop the pencil fully and give your attention completely to him.

“Y-yeah. I do.”

“Do you like it when I do…this?” Steve ask, lifting your arm and delivering a kiss to the inside crook of your elbow. You squirm but a smile starts forming on your face.

“Yeah.”

“And this?” Steve asks, moving up to kiss your bare shoulder, just beside the spaghetti strap of your sun dress.

“Uhuh.”

Steve moves to the edge of his seat so that his knee moves between your thighs under your skirt. You squeak a bit at the new proximity. One of Steve’s large hands grips your waist, pulling you to him so he can mouth at the side of your neck.

“What about this?”

The feeling of his lips on your skin lights you on fire and you find it hard to keep responding.

“Oh…” Your thighs try to close, a sudden twinge of need at their apex urging you to seek out friction. You end up squeezing your legs around his knee which has pushed between them. Steve pulls back and smirks.

"Oh," he teases. He slides his hand over the slope of your hip, to your stomach and down to your lower abdomen over the fabric of your skirt. Steve’s heavy lidded eyes find yours. “You seemed to really like that, huh?”

“I….I….” you stammer, unsure of what to do with your hands so you drop them to rest shakily on his forearms. Steve leans forward again, dropping his wet open mouth to the curve of your neck and sucking.

“Oh…fuck,” you whimper broke my. Steve chuckles against your spit-slicked skin.

“How am I supposed to learn from you if you’re going to set a bad example like that?” he asks wryly. You blink at him, watching as his hands move to the buttons at the neckline of your sun dress. Your chest rises and falls more rapidly as your breathing speeds up, both with arousal and anticipation.

Steve undoes the top button with deft fingers. Instead of shrinking away, you arch your back almost imperceptibly towards his hands. Steve definitely notices.

“Ohhhh,” he says teasingly. “Or does the tutor want to learn a thing or two from the student?” His voice is lilting and light, but his eyes are dark. You look away for a second before looking back at him. Eyes the tentative. Nod small. Steve nods back along with you. “Okay then. We’ll first of all, we have to have the right workspace, don’t we?”

When you nod, Steve surprises you by standing up and swiping all the books, papers, and writing utensils off the dining room table and onto the ground in one broad sweep of his arm.

“Steve!” you squeal out in surprise, slapping a hand over your mouth. You know his parents are out of town and the two of you are alone, but when he grabs you and manhandled you to sit on the table, you suppress the startled shriek that tries to come out. Steve pulls you to the edge of the table and bullies his way between your legs, your thighs bracketing his hips. Steve’s hands return to the buttons of your dress.

“Then we have to gather the right materials. See what we’re working with, right?” He pauses, looking at you for confirmation as if you have any idea what he’s saying. You nod mindlessly and Steve proceeds to rip open the last few buttons, exposing your bra clad breasts. He hums in satisfaction as you cringe in embarrassment over the exposure. But all embarrassment leaves you when his big hands close over your breasts, squeezing and groping appreciatively.

“Mmmm yeah. These’ll do,” Steve hums before leaning in and kissing over where they swell out of their cups from the squeeze of his strong hands. You gasp when he yanks the bra down to expose them fully. Steve’s brows life. “These tits’ll definitely do.”

Next thing you know, Steve is kissing and sucking his way from one breast to the other, leaving you a twitching mess in his arms. You feel a hardness press into your apex beneath the skirt of your dress and it occurs to you that he’s turned on just like you are. Which is a stupid thought since he’s literally sucking hickeys all over you right now, but your lust addled mind can still barely comprehend that this is happening right now.

When you begin rolling your hips into that hardness, Steve takes notice.

Pulling back, lips wet, he grins at you.

“Me playing with these tits not enough for you?” he asks, one hand still fondling your breast. Lucky for you, he doesn’t seem interested in a reply. Instead he flips your skirt up, showing the dark wet patch that’s bloomed in your panties and - more importantly - the erection clear in his tight jeans. “That’s alright. It’s not enough for me either.”

You blink slowly as you watch him grind his hard on against your clothed pussy. The friction catches on your clit and you gasp, unable to take your eyes off the outline of the shape pressing against you. Steve takes your hand and brings it down between your bodies, squeezing to make you grip his cock.

“Feel that? You did this to me,” he says, almost accusatory if not for the chuckle. A possessive thrill of pride runs down your spine and you squeeze at him, making him grunt in appreciation. Steve looks up at you from beneath his lashes in a faux display of boyishness. “Gonna help me out here?”

You nod feverishly.

“Yes…I…please–,” is all you manage to get out before Steve’s mouth is on you. The kiss is deep and possessive and aggressive and you feel absolutely devoured. His hands feel like they are everywhere at once, paradoxically, as he pulls at you and grips you and grabs you. So distracted see you by his mouth and tongue that you barely register a moment of cold air hitting between your legs before the warm slide of something hot and thick rubs against your opening.

“Now for the big lesson,” Steve says, the corner of his mouth curving lasciviously. The fat head of his cock teases at your clit, making you sink your nails into his arms. He’s big. Huge even. And that’s the last thought you have before he’s begin to slide himself inside you, splitting you open.

“Steve!” It comes out in a rush with all the air he punches out of you with the penetration. Steve kisses your neck and hums.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

He bottoms out and there’s nothing but your ragged breaths to fill the silence for a moment before he’s pulling out, causing you to reel again.

“I know it’s big, baby, I know,” he coos. The taunting cockiness should put you off, but for some reason it heats you up even more. One his hands finds your clit and you let out a moan at the expert circles he begins to rub in.

Your walls relax with the stimulation, and your increasing wetness makes it easy for Steve to begin fucking you in earnest.

“Taking it so well, baby. Fuck.”

His words ring in your ears and it feels like everything begins and ends with Steve in your line of sight.

“Oh…oh…” you moan with each inward stroke. You’re rocketing towards a climax better than your most lavish fantasies.

Steve Harrington is fucking you. On his dining room table.

Your arms are around his neck, but eventually he pushes you down so your back is flat against the wooden surface. With his hands on your hips, Steve holds you steady so he can piston his hips at a break neck speed. Your entire body rocks against the table, Steve’s eyes focused on the bounce of your breasts with the force of each thrust.

“This is so much better than homework, fuck!” he groans out. You let out a breathless laugh at that and Steve looks down at you. “This is what you wanted, right? For me to fuck you all this time?”

The embarrassment surges up again but he hits a spot deep down inside that makes you whine instead. Steve takes it as confirmation.

“Bet you’ve been wet every time you’ve come over here. Just hoping I’d fuck this - fuck. This tight little pussy.”

“Yes. Yes, Steve.”

“Yes, Steve,” Steve mimics your pathetic, breathy confession. He’s close himself now, and his fingers are sure to leave bruises from the force of him squeezing you. “Next time I should just bend you over while you’re doing my work and fuck you. How’s that sound?”

You don’t say anything, too far gone at this point, and Steve laughs.

“Probably wouldn’t be able to keep doing my work with my cock in you. Makes you too brainless apparently.”

You’re practically drooling as you gaze up at him with hazy eyes, seconds from your orgasm. You being so out of it is what’s doing it most for Steve.

“Christ, look at you. Smartest girl in school and here you are, fucked stupid. It’s so. Fucking. Hot.”

And you - someone who until today had never been called hot ever - find yourself breaking into a million pieces with his words. Your orgasm crashes over you and you spasm around him, back arching off the table as you let out a massive cry.

~*~

Over time you are able to build up to a point where you don’t go as brainless. Eventually you’re able to kind of still do his homework as Steve fucks you.

But inevitably during every tutoring session there comes a point where Steve hits that place inside you just right, and his filthy words filter into your ear - and you go dumb.

Just the way he likes it.

~*~

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Hope you enjoyed! Please reblog and comment to let me know!

Read Part 2

#steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington smut #king!steve harrington #king!steve harrington smut #king!steve harrington x reader

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delliebre · 1 month ago

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Hey, you're such a huge inspiration to me and I'm obsessed with your artstyle. I'm currently studying concept art and I want to learn/understand how to create form and lighting and genuinely how to start and finish an artwork. Do you have any speed paints or progress videos of your works? If so, I would love to understand your thinking process

Thx♥️♥️

hiiii

tysm!

big thing, concept art, my first inspirations in digital. Good luck!

Here is a look at the beginning of a work and the finish.. I have a youtube channel where I have uploaded full timelapse, but there is no recent I don't think there. The last timelapse from 2023? My YT is: nonnydoge

Set in the core of what you need to paint and then work at it. Simple. Jk it is not that simple but it is my thought😵‍💫

Light is your #1. Keep your light in mind always. When you are in control of your light, you are in control of your logic, then you are in control of your forms easily.

Looking down at a table and looking at side of the table will give you a different "color" of the table

yeah these are not the same table but I am too lazy to open blender rn. But you will get the same effect in variable strength regardless. The table is brown, but at a different angle, the angle most flat, will show you a paler, whitish, top. This is fresnel effect. This effect shows us how perspective is important to keep in mind with light and form.

you will see nothing without light, and it is your responsibility as the painter, creator, mark maker to make every stroke adhere to the logic of your light. You need to think constantly, it is a good workout.

But it is like math, that, when you know the formulas, equations then are done swiftly, though you still need to dedicate time to solving them. This is what skill in art gets you. Fast logic.

It is the logic of our world, so it is not like you need to invent. Though you are adding any light sources you want, light, and how light will act, can be logically added to your scenes with confidence.

I am sure you have already seen that art, the one with a ball lit from above accompanied with arrows and words telling you how light is affecting it. I dismissed this when I was starting; I found it boring. But, it is all you need, truthfully. It is giving you the answers to light's logic. It is super simple.

Once you know the core shadow, ambient light, diffuse light, core light etc.... you are set, really. Of course, we need to practice a lot, but that is the truth to light. There is not much to it, and it is easily manageable because it is logical.

did this a while ago for fun. I recommend taking an image and doing something like this. Labeling what you see, how you find light is affecting the subject, how the environment is providing context.

one of my favorite stages of the art process is doing this to my own paintings, though I do it in my head. Following my light paths, checking the logic I set up and see if it makes sense. I do a lot of work from imagination, so it is important I know the logic and can effectively check my self and my work. With reference, because the light is found out for you, instead of directly copying, do the checking process in your head. The answers are true as it is a photo, though be careful as photos can be heavily edited so studying from life is the best way to check.

It is like algebra and being presented with a solved problem, and instead of copying it, you analyze and compare to your formulas

Finishing an artwork requires evaluation and correction. Starting an artwork requires you to develop context that logic must hang to. Throughout a render, responsibility is key. And patience!

That is how I think while I paint.

texture, angle, local color, environmental light and colors, circumstance of the material etc. are all important to understand when painting any subject. Yes light is essential, but so is perspective as said at the beginning.

I hope I have helped somewhat!

#ask

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andy-15-07 · 1 month ago

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hello! would it be possible to request a Joel fic where Joel is the readers father? Maybe the reader has some kind of problem at school or goes with Joel to his work or something?

Toolboxes and Troubles

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 996 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

“Get in,” Joel said gruffly, pulling up to the curb in his old Chevy.

You didn’t say a word as you climbed into the passenger seat, backpack slung over one shoulder. The door creaked shut, and the truck rumbled into motion.

Joel glanced sideways. “You wanna tell me why your school called?”

You shrugged.

“Y/N.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Joel let out a slow sigh through his nose. “Well, unfortunately for you, I ain’t leavin’ this truck ‘til I know what’s goin’ on.”

You crossed your arms and looked out the window. “It was stupid.”

“You get in a fight?”

“Not a fight-fight. I mean, I didn’t punch anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

You muttered, “Just told Ashley Timmons she was a piece of garbage for makin’ fun of a kid in our class. Then I knocked her phone outta her hand. She cried. Drama ensued. Principal called you.”

Joel was quiet for a moment. Then, he exhaled and said, “Good.”

Your head whipped toward him. “What?”

“I said good. Someone shoulda told Ashley Timmons she’s a brat a long time ago.”

Your mouth fell open. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad you stood up for someone? Nah.” He shot you a side glance. “Next time, don’t touch her phone. They’re fancy and expensive now. If it’d broke, I’d have to work overtime to pay for it.”

You relaxed in your seat for the first time since you got in. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“I do,” Joel said, smirking. “Now c’mon. I gotta finish up this job downtown. You can sit in the truck or help me haul lumber like old times.”

“I’ll help,” you said, grinning. “You gonna pay me?”

“I’m feedin’ you dinner, ain’t I?”

“Child labor,” you mumbled.

Joel chuckled. “Tell it to the labor board.”

The construction site was warm with the early Texas sun, and the scent of wood and dust hung thick in the air. Joel grabbed his toolbelt from the back of the truck and handed you a pair of gloves.

“Gloves?” you raised an eyebrow. “Am I gonna be working working?”

“You wanted to get paid, didn’t you?”

You rolled your eyes and followed him onto the site.

Joel pointed to a stack of 2x4s. “Bring me two of those at a time. And no droppin’ ‘em like last time. My knee still ain’t forgiven you.”

“Once!” you shouted. “I dropped them once! And you were in the way!”

He laughed as he knelt to secure a beam, muttering, “Always an excuse with you.”

You hauled the wood over, panting a little. “Your job’s hard.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t glamorous, but it’s honest. Puts food on the table. And it teaches you stuff. Like math.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Joel looked up. “You still strugglin’ in algebra?”

You sighed. “Mr. Gomez talks like a robot. I don’t get what the hell he’s sayin’ half the time.”

Joel set his drill down and stood. “Watch your language.”

“Sorry.”

He walked over and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Alright. Teach me what you’re learnin’.”

“Now?!”

“Sure. Let’s see what I remember. Impress me.”

You groaned and dropped onto an overturned bucket. “We’re doing quadratic equations.”

Joel whistled. “Damn. Alright, go on. Hit me with it.”

You explained, fumbling your way through a messy explanation involving “a’s,” “b’s,” and “the square root of something.”

Joel scratched his head. “That don’t sound like math. That sounds like a headache.”

“Exactly.”

“But you’re tryin’. That counts.”

You smiled. “You think so?”

“Darlin’, I barely graduated. You’re already smarter than I ever was.”

You beamed. “Don’t tell Sarah.”

“She already knows.”

A little later, you were sitting under the shade of the truck’s open tailgate, sipping a Coke Joel had pulled from the cooler.

“I hate school sometimes,” you said. “The people mostly.”

Joel sat beside you, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag. “Yeah. People can suck.”

“Language.”

He smirked. ��Smartass.”

You laughed, then fell quiet. “Do you ever wish things were different? Like… that Mom hadn’t left?”

Joel sighed and looked out at the dusty skyline. “All the time.”

“Do you think it was my fault?”

His head snapped toward you. “What? No. No, baby, don’t ever think that.”

“She left right after I started kindergarten. I always wondered if I did something wrong.”

Joel shook his head, eyes soft. “She left ‘cause she wasn’t built for this. For bein’ a parent. For staying put. That’s on her, not you. You were the best thing to ever happen to me. Still are.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re a good dad.”

He smiled. “I try. Don’t always get it right. But I try.”

You rested your head against his shoulder. “Thanks for picking me up. For not being mad.”

“I’ll always pick you up, kiddo.”

On the drive home, the sky was painted in gold and orange streaks. The radio hummed an old country tune Joel mumbled along to.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I’ll be okay? Like… grow up and not be all messed up?"

He glanced at you, serious. “You’re already more grounded than most adults I know. You’ve got heart. That’s what matters.”

You nodded slowly.

"And if you ever get lost," Joel added, "I’ll come find you."

You grinned. “You’d track me down?”

“I’d knock down every damn door in Texas.”

You leaned back against the seat and watched the sunset blur by. “You’re kind of a softie.”

Joel laughed. “Don’t tell the guys at the site.”

That night, you both ate frozen pizza on the couch, watching some dumb movie you’d seen a dozen times. Sarah called from her mom’s place, and Joel passed the phone to you.

When you hung up, he looked over. “You feel better?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I think I just needed a day with you.”

Joel smiled and put an arm around your shoulders.

“You can have a hundred of ‘em if you want.”

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physicallyimprobable · 1 year ago

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what's the 3-dimensional number thing?

Well I'm glad you asked! For those confused, this is referring to my claim that "my favorite multiplication equation is 3 × 5 = 15 because it's the reason you can't make a three-dimensional number system" from back in this post. Now, this is gonna be a bit of a journey, so buckle up.

Part One: Numbers in Space

First of all, what do I mean by a three-dimensional number system? We say that the complex numbers are two-dimensional, and that the quaternions are four-dimensional, but what do we mean by these things? There's a few potential answers to this question, but for our purposes we'll take the following narrative:

Complex numbers can be written in the form (a+bi), where a and b are real numbers. For the variable-averse, this just means we have things like (3+6i) and (5-2i) and (-8+3i). Some amount of "units" (that is, ones), and some amount of i's.

Most people are happy to stop here and say "well, there's two numbers that you're using, so that's two dimensions, ho hum". I think that's underselling it, though, since there's something nontrivial and super cool happening here. See, each complex number has an "absolute value", which is its distance from zero. If you imagine "3+6i" to mean "three meters East and six meters North", then the distance to that point will be 6.708 meters. We say the absolute value of (3+6i), which is written like |3+6i|, is equal to 6.708. Similarly, interpreting "5-2i" to mean "five meters East and two meters South" we get that |5-2i| = 5.385.

The neat thing about this is that absolute values multiply really nicely. For example, the two numbers above multiply to give (3+6i) × (5-2i) = (27+24i) which has a length of 36.124. What's impressive is that this length is the product of our original lengths: 36.124 = 6.708 × 5.385. (Okay technically this is not true due to rounding but for the full values it is true.)

This is what we're going to say is necessary to for a number system to accurately represent a space. You need the numbers to have lengths corresponding to actual lengths in space, and you need those lengths to be "multiplicative", which just means it does the thing we just saw. (That is, when you multiply two numbers, their lengths are multiplied as well.)

There's still of course the question of what "actual lengths in space" means, but we can just use the usual Euclidean method of measurement. So, |3+6i| = √(3²+6²) and |5-2i| = √(5²+2²). This extends directly to the quaternions, which are written as (a+bi+cj+dk) for real numbers a, b, c, d. (Don't worry about what j and k mean if you don't know; it turns out not to really matter here.) The length of the quaternion 4+3i-7j+4k can be calculated like |4+3i-7j+4k| = √(4²+3²+7²+4²) = 9.486 and similarly for other points in "four-dimensional space". These are the kinds of number systems we're looking for.

[To be explicit, for those who know the words: What we are looking for is a vector algebra over the real numbers with a prescribed basis under which the Euclidean norm is multiplicative and the integer lattice forms a subring.]

Part Two: Sums of Squares

Now for something completely different. Have you ever thought about which numbers are the sum of two perfect squares? Thirteen works, for example, since 13 = 3² + 2². So does thirty-two, since 32 = 4² + 4². The squares themselves also work, since zero exists: 49 = 7² + 0². But there are some numbers, like three and six, which can't be written as a sum of two squares no matter how hard you try. (It's pretty easy to check this yourself; there aren't too many possibilities.)

Are there any patterns to which numbers are a sum of two squares and which are not? Yeah, loads. We're going to look at a particularly interesting one: Let's say a number is "S2" if it's a sum of two squares. (This thing where you just kinda invent new terminology for your situation is common in math. "S2" should be thought of as an adjective, like "orange" or "alphabetical".) Then here's the neat thing: If two numbers are S2 then their product is S2 as well.

Let's see a few small examples. We have 2 = 1² + 1², so we say that 2 is S2. Similarly 4 = 2² + 0² is S2. Then 2 × 4, that is to say, 8, should be S2 as well. Indeed, 8 = 2² + 2².

Another, slightly less trivial example. We've seen that 13 and 32 are both S2. Then their product, 416, should also be S2. Lo and behold, 416 = 20² + 4², so indeed it is S2.

How do we know this will always work? The simplest way, as long as you've already internalized the bit from Part 1 about absolute values, is to think about the norms of complex numbers. A norm is, quite simply, the square of the corresponding distance. (Okay yes it can also mean different things in other contexts, but for our purposes that's what a norm is.) The norm is written with double bars, so ‖3+6i‖ = 45 and ‖5-2i‖ = 29 and ‖4+3i-7j+4k‖ = 90.

One thing to notice is that if your starting numbers are whole numbers then the norm will also be a whole number. In fact, because of how we've defined lengths, the norm is just the sum of the squares of the real-number bits. So, any S2 number can be turned into a norm of a complex number: 13 can be written as ‖3+2i‖, 32 can be written as ‖4+4i‖, and 49 can be written as ‖7+0i‖.

The other thing to notice is that, since the absolute value is multiplicative, the norm is also multiplicative. That is to say, for example, ‖(3+6i) × (5-2i)‖ = ‖3+6i‖ × ‖5-2i‖. It's pretty simple to prove that this will work with any numbers you choose.

But lo, gaze upon what happens when we combine these two facts together! Consider the two S2 values 13 and 32 from before. Because of the first fact, we can write the product 13 × 32 in terms of norms: 13 × 32 = ‖3+2i‖ × ‖4+4i‖. So far so good. Then, using the second fact, we can pull the product into the norms: ‖3+2i‖ × ‖4+4i‖ = ‖(3+2i) × (4+4i)‖. Huzzah! Now, if we write out the multiplication as (3+2i) × (4+4i) = (4+20i), we can get a more natural looking norm equation: ‖3+2i‖ × ‖4+4i‖ = ‖4+20i‖ and finally, all we need to do is evaluate the norms to get our product! (3² + 2²) × (4² + 4²) = (4² + 20²)

The cool thing is that this works no matter what your starting numbers are. 218 = 13² + 7² and 292 = 16² + 6², so we can follow the chain to get 218 × 292 = ‖13+7i‖ × ‖16+6i‖ = ‖(13+7i) × (16+6i)‖ = ‖166+190i‖ = 166² + 190² and indeed you can check that both extremes are equal to 63,656. No matter which two S2 numbers you start with, if you know the squares that make them up, you can use this process to find squares that add to their product. That is to say, the product of two S2 numbers is S2.

Part Four: Why do we skip three?

Now we have all the ingredients we need for our cute little proof soup! First, let's hop to the quaternions and their norm. As you should hopefully remember, quaternions have four terms (some number of units, some number of i's, some number of j's, and some number of k's), so a quaternion norm will be a sum of four squares. For example, ‖4+3i-7j+4k‖ = 90 means 90 = 4² + 3² + 7² + 4².

Since we referred to sums of two squares as S2, let's say the sums of four squares are S4. 90 is S4 because it can be written as we did above. Similarly, 7 is S4 because 7 = 2² + 1² + 1² + 1², and 22 is S4 because 22 = 4² + 2² + 1² + 1². We are of course still allowed to use zeros; 6 = 2² + 1² + 1² + 0² is S4, as is our friend 13 = 3² + 2² + 0² + 0².

The same fact from the S2 numbers still applies here: since 7 is S4 and 6 is S4, we know that 42 (the product of 7 and 6) is S4. Indeed, after a bit of fiddling I've found that 42 = 6² + 4² + 1² + 1². I don't need to do that fiddling, however, if I happen to be able to calculate quaternions! All I need to do is follow the chain, just like before: 7 × 6 = ‖2+i+j+k‖ × ‖2+i+j‖ = ‖(2+i+j+k) × (2+i+j)‖ = ‖2+3i+5j+2k‖ = 2² + 3² + 5² + 2². This is a different solution than the one I found earlier, but that's fine! As long as there's even one solution, 42 will be S4. Using the same logic, it should be clear that the product of any two S4 numbers is an S4 number.

Now, what goes wrong with three dimensions? Well, as you might have guessed, it has to do with S3 numbers, that is, numbers which can be written as a sum of three squares. If we had any three-dimensional number system, we'd be able to use the strategy we're now familiar with to prove that any product of S3 numbers is an S3 number. This would be fine, except, well…

3 × 5 = 15.

Why is this bad? See, 3 = 1² + 1² + 1² and 5 = 2² + 1² + 0², so both 3 and 5 are S3. However, you can check without too much trouble that 15 is not S3; no matter how hard you try, you can't write 15 as a sum of three squares.

And, well, that's it. The bucket has been kicked, the nails are in the coffin. You cannot make a three-dimensional number system with the kind of nice norm that the complex numbers and quaternions have. Even if someone comes to you excitedly, claiming to have figured it out, you can just toss them through these steps: • First, ask what the basis is. Complex numbers use 1 and i; quaternions use 1, i, j, and k. Let's say they answer with p, q, and r. • Second, ask them to multiply (p+q+r) by (2p+q). • Finally, well. If their system works, the resulting number should give you three numbers whose squares add to 15. Since that can't happen, you've shown that the norm is not actually multiplicative; their system doesn't capture the geometry of three dimensions.

#math #numbers #human interaction #this took the better part of a day to write oops #although to be fair I haven't exactly been focused #Also hi Pyro! Welcome.#that silly fast food emoji post went wild #I've gotten 30 followers just from that one post #which isn't that many in objective terms but like it's 40% of my current count so #hello everyone #I might start reblogging things again now

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lexisecretaccx · 1 year ago

Text

High School Sweethearts pt.1 - Chris Sturniolo

PT2, PT3, PT4, PT5, PT6, PT7, PT8, PT9, PT10, ( rest of the parts on my Masterlist)

A/n: This is gonna be a series but PLSPLS bear with me bc I am struggling in school right now! This series reminds me of the K-12 Album tbf lol🤍🎀

(Chris sturniolo x Fem reader, skater Chris, nothing much atm, maybe a bit suggestive in a dream but not much else tbh.)

The bell rings, causing me to lift my head swiftly. I look around at the class and the other students are packing up so I copy, but just as I lean down to place my pencil case into my bag, a book slams on my desk making me jump out of my skin.

“You aren’t going anywhere y/n. Sleeping in class again?” My teacher Mr Rockwell looks down at me, his face cold and stern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night and..” he picks the book up off the desk, “no excuses. Good thing this is the last period because you can stay behind for detention. An hour and a half.” I sigh as he walks away before picking up a sheet of paper and placing it on my desk.

I place my face into my hands out of embarrassment, I’ve never had detention with this teacher before, I’m usually alert in his classes. “No more sleeping!” Mr Rockwell slightly yells from across the classroom and I pick up my pen before sighing and studying the page. Algebra. Math has never been my strong suit.

Mine and the teachers heads both shoot to the door as it opens with a squeak, a brunette boy walks into the room and up to the teachers desk, “You’re late again. Once more and there will be serious issues.” I hear Mr Rockwell say, before the boy replies “yeah sorry, see my brother had to..” “Excuses again! What’s the matter with the students in my class.” He mutters, leaning past the brunette to look at me.

My face flushes with embarrassment as the boy turns to look at me, he mustn’t have noticed there was anyone else in the class, I am seated right at the back to be fair. He smiles at me softly, before turning back to the teacher. I swear I recognised him, I think he was one of the triplets in our grade.

“Sit down.” Mr Rockwell mutters, handing the boy the same piece of paper he gave me. To my surprise the boy sat right next to me, probably to try copy me. “If you’re trying to copy me, you’re out of luck because I haven’t got a clue either.” I whisper and I look over to the boy, his eyes studying my face. “Do I know you?” He whispers back.

“I don’t know.. do you?” I ask in confusion because I haven’t ever spoken to him or his brothers, “yeah you’re the girl who sits at the front in science.” He chuckles and looks at the teacher at the front of the class and then back at me.I’m surprised he knows who I am, I didn’t know he was in my class.

“Oh yeah..” I laughed lightly. I look back down at my paper to try and make some sense of it, and I fail at that.

The teacher stands up and his chair squeaks against the floor, causing me and the boy to jump as we look up. “I need to go.. grab something from one of the other classrooms I’ll be 10 minutes minimum.” He spoke monotonously and walked out the class. I immediately look to the boy and he has the same confused expression on his face as I do.

“What was that about?” He looks to me for an answer, “I dont know but at least I don’t have him staring me down anymore,” I laugh, “what’s your name? Sorry I dont remember it.” I feel guilty, due to the fact that he knows who I am, I mean I know who he is but not enough to know his name, does he even know mine?

“Oh uh im Chris, and don’t stress it y/n u won’t be forgetting my name soon enough.” He smirks to me before his eyes focus on the equations in front of him. He knows my name. “What do you mean by that?” I laugh softly and he shrugs.

“Maybe you’ll remember me as the boy who stole the answers for this algae-bra shit.” He stands up whilst looking at me, “it’s Algebra, Chris, and you aren’t stealing answers, what if he comes back?”

“Chill, I’ll take the blame for it anyway.” He opens the drawer in the teachers desk and ruffles through some paper until he smiles and grabs a piece of paper, closes the drawer and walks back over to me. “You thief.” I joke with him as he sits back down and scoots his desk closer to me so we can share the paper.

We finish up with the paper and the teacher still hasn’t returned, Chris puts the paper back into his desk and we try to wait it out for the 25 minutes we have left. “Can we just leave now?” He rolls his eyes and taps his pen on the desk. “I wish but no. What if he comes back and we’re gone?” I watch him as he stops tapping his pen and leans down to his bag.

“Live a little y/n. He’s been gone for most this detention, it’s his fault if you leave early.” He packs his things into his backpack. “Plus I’ll write a note on his board and let him know we left ‘at the right time’” he does finger quotations and smirks, “fine.” I sigh.

He hops out his seat and grabs both our papers and places them on the desk, as I pack my things away. He writes on the board ‘sorry for being in detention or whatever but we did the work (it’s on ur desk) and left, love u teach xx - Chris’ “there.” He smiles proudly and I roll my eyes “you’re not funny.” I stand up.

We both sneak out the classroom and Chris leads me the way. We hear voices coming from a storage cupboard and he looks back at me before we go to move forward again but before we can start moving, the door swings open and a girl walks out, she looked about late 20s or something, she went down the hallway in the direction we were headed.

Chris turns to me and raises one of his eyebrows as if to say ‘what the fuck was she doing in there’ . About a minute later someone else stumbles out of the cupboard, my mouth drops when I realise it’s Mr Rockwell. He walks down the corridor towards his class which means he was gonna pass me and Chris. Chris pulls me behind a locker and my back is pressed right up against him.

Mr Rockwell passes us, and thankfully doesn’t see us. I let out a sigh of relief and Chris grabs my arm before we are running down the corridors and out the double doors. Chris leans against the brick wall, breathing heavily.

“I’m never doing that again.” I breath as I smile at him, “You know we will,” he smirks at me before checking his phone. “Shit I was supposed to be home like half hour ago I should go.” “But detention doesn’t end for what.. another like 10/15 minutes? Why would you need to be home before it ends?” I ask tilting my head slightly as he smiles and looks at his feet.

“Your detention doesn’t end for another 10/15 minutes, mine ended like 45 mins ago.” He looked at me, “what, why didn’t you leave when you should’ve then?” I am really confused now. “Didn’t want to leave you on your own.” He shrugged before grabbing a skateboard off of a rack. “Oh thanks.” I smile “You skate?” I try to hide my blush from his comment and bring my focus to his board.

“Uh yeah, do you?” He smiles down at me due to our height difference, “no but I tried once and I got scared.” I laugh, he laughs too before dropping his board onto the ground, “I’ll teach you sometime.” He starts to skate away, “see ya y/n!”.

I get home and throw my notebook down onto my desk, one of my pages is folded over, I hate when that happens. I turn to the page to unfold the corner and there’s writing on the page ‘know you would want this - Chris’ below that was his phone number. I smile to myself at his slightly messy handwriting and pick up my phone.

I add his number to my contacts and open up imessage. ‘How did you write that in my book without me noticing😂’ I press send. He replies with ‘gotta keep an eye on your stuff y/n😉’ we text back and forth for a bit before I go to sleep.

“You’re so pretty y/n.” I smile as he leans over me and smirks, “can I?” His hand plays with the seam on my panties. “Yes.. please.” He starts to kiss my neck, “fuck Chris…”

I sit up quickly, breathing fast. “What the fuck.” I mumble to myself before wiping my eyes and laying back down. Come on y/n you barely knew the boy before today and now you’re dreaming of him? I sigh heavily.

I’m never telling anyone about that.. ever..

A/n: omds I kinda like this.. I’m gonna try to make it a series but I won’t be able to update frequently! I love this storyline tho and I know where I’m going with this so bear with me!

Taglist: @blahbel668 @mattsleftnipple03 @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @hysteria-things @sturniologurl4l2008 @jakevwebber @braindead4l @mattybearnard

—💋——📷——‼️——💌———❤️———💌——‼️——📷——💋—

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolos #smut #chris sturniolo fanfic #matt #chris

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b33zlebubz · 1 year ago

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RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER ONE - school, life, and a punch to the face TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC) MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

If hell is real, you’re pretty sure you’re dead.

Time drags on; seconds feeling more like hours and hours feeling like an eternity—punctuated only by the shriek of the occasional bell. It’s a familiar limbo you’ve grown to tune out in favor of your daydreaming, interrupted only by the end of a period or the sound of your name being called from across the room. Your pencil taps idly against the desk with the beat of your heel against the floor. Untied shoelaces pull taught under your feet when you shift to lean forwards, squinting at the equations scribbled across the whiteboard by a wrinkled, dark hand. Numbers and letters swirl together.

Mrs. Hall. An elderly, frail, equally as tired woman—worn down by decades of bullshit brought on by stubborn, unmotivated students much like the kids behind you, whispering and snickering in a way that made your eye twitch with deep irritation. Still, you’re not much better, your mind lost in thought staring at rain that pounds against the ground of upstate Texas until the sound of your name stirs you from the depths of your own brain. When you look up, confused, Mrs. Hall stares back at you with an expecting stare—and a few students are turned around to stare at you.

You’re also pretty sure if hell is real—it's the American Public School System.

“Uh…”

“The three X’s in number five,” Mrs. Hall taps the equation on the board with the marker. “On the homework.”

“Right. Sorry,” your tired eyes flicker down to the chicken scratch on the paper in front of you, scanning the crumpled paper for the answer you hastily scribbled down earlier that day. “Three, square root of two, and negative one?”

“Incorrect.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, scratching at your neck as you try and fail not to notice when one of the boys behind you stops whispering mid-sentence and stares daggers into the back of your neck. Shit. Fuck.

That’s the last time you do someone else’s algebra homework. Math, in all its forms, was your academic Achilles heel.

The rest of fourth period escapes you. After what feels like a lifetime and a half of talking and scribbling on your paper, the bell rings out across the classroom. Like Pavlov’s dogs—the students instinctually rush to life—shoving chairs and throwing backpacks over their shoulders, eager to get on with the day.

You're quick to sweep your things into your backpack and high-tail it towards the door of the classroom before a certain boy behind you can notice you've left already.

Mrs. Hall says your first name again. You stop in your tracks, not missing how your fellow student sends you an angry look as he strides past to leave—crumpling the homework you did for him the night before to add to the effect. He must be telepathic, because you swear you can hear his voice without him even saying anything.

"You're dead."

Your feet shuffle towards the door, "can't talk, gonna be late—"

"I'll write you a pass."

"I have lunch next, though."

"No you don't." Mrs. Hall scoffs, shooting you an unamused look from over her rectangular glasses. "You think I don't know your schedule by now?"

You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the next, "worth a try."

"Sit," she gestures beside her.

You hesitate, almost arguing further, but you sigh instead. Getting lectured actually sounded much better than whatever hell waited for you out in the hallway the second you walked outside. You let your backpack fall from your shoulders as you drag it over with you to collapse into the chair beside your teacher's desk. Your eyes flicker up to where her frail hands card through some papers.

"You graduate in two months, dear." She reminds you, as if you haven't been scratching the tallied days into a spare notebook like you're on death row. "Your test scores are average but all the homework seems to be…lacking. If you even do it at all."

Average. A word that's been thrown around a lot regarding your name, which you intended to stick with. Average meant nobody would stick their nose in your business—that you could blend in with the crowd and avoid any and all weird glances and low whispers. You made the mistake of showing off once, to snap back at your dickhead classmate; only to end up doing his bidding for the rest of the semester.

You figure Mrs. Hall won't take very well to being told that the reason you aren't completing your homework is because you're too busy doing Ben Davis's under the threat that he won't smash your face against the lockers again. Broken noses are a special level of hell, but it still isn't as low as the torture that is highschool.

"Maybe I joined some sports," you quip sarcastically. "Don't have as much time as I used to."

She only deadpans at you.

You stare innocently back at her. If you play dumb enough, maybe she'll finally give up.

"I'm not attacking you. Just worried. If you need some extra time because—" she lowers her voice and the bracelets around her tiny wrist jingle as she waves it about, "---because of your family life, or anything…I'm willing to give it to you."

Your brow lowers, annoyance beginning to nip at your nerves as you sit up a little straighter.

Pity. You've long grown tired of it. You weren't some fragile orphan—no. You were an adult who, in two months, would finally be free from the clutches of your frustrated social worker and the slew of whatever excited, naive couples the system dumped you on. People have been tip-toeing around you your whole life, and it never fails to make your fists clench.

"My grades are average, you said," you say, stern—poking the score on one of your tests with a pointer finger. "I don't need help."

"I don't doubt you don't need help, sweetheart. But you're a smart kid. Really smart, if you put the effort in. I'm just saying if you ever need any extra—"

"I'm fine. If you really wanna help, you won't make me late to my next class."

Mrs. Hall seems to freeze, stunned at the bite her otherwise quiet student seems to bear. The clock ticks above your head, the rain pitters against the window outside and, for a moment, shame floods your senses; but it fades as the seconds pass and that concerned look on her face deepens.

You're the first to look away, picking up your pack and turning for the door. "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hall."

"Wait."

You stop, tossing your head back with a sigh. "What?"

"Tie your shoes, sweetheart," she says, her voice kind as she turns away to tap your stack of tests on the desk. "You'll trip walking around like that."

You only frown and duck out the door.

The rest of the school day passes in a familiar haze. You space out throughout two of your classes, goof off for the rest, and get your shit handed to you the second school is out. Ben takes the time to lecture you as well after he levels you in one punch—and you sit rubbing your jaw, bored, as he goes on and on about how you did that shit on purpose and next time, you're fucking dead.

He needed a perfect score to pass the class. In a low moment of pain, you promised it to him despite the fact that your algebra skills had much to be desired. Still, with a little bit of extra effort—you managed to make it through most of the second semester without a black eye.

You're the one that always bleeds; but a part of you finds it funny how he always finds a way to talk himself into angry tears, storming off somewhere distant while kids scramble to get out of his way to avoid the same fate as you.

And, as always, you pick yourself up, wipe the blood from your face onto the sleeve of your jacket—and walk away.

Because that's all you can do.

The rain settles deep in your clothes as you make your way home, music loud in your earbuds. It's silent and gray, as it has been all week, and your thoughts are mere static as you drag your feet back to your front doorstep. Your bed is calling for you after such a shitty day and the bruise forming on your left eye is just making the blankets seem all the more welcoming.

You barely notice how your door is already unlocked when you enter.

Inside, the house is just as silent and empty as the rest of your street. Rain drips to the floor in a steady rhythm as you pad across the living room of the house, dropping your backpack to the floor. Muscle memory leads you to the bathroom—where things are, as usual, spotless.

You've seen plenty of bad homes and residencies during your time in the system. Most of them blurred together in a long string of things you wished to forget; either by the caretakers' fault or your own. This house, though, was high on your list of favorites. Your folks were never around, and if they were, they were asleep. When you weren't working; you usually had the house to yourself.

"Fuck," You breathe, prodding at the swelling flesh around your eye. You run some water over it and the irritation dulls slightly as dried blood turns the water pink. Excuses run rampant through your mind as you scramble for a way to explain the injury---because you're pretty sure they won't believe you if you said you tripped again.

That's when you catch movement from your doorway. Shuffling.

You whip around just as the movement disappears, and suddenly the quiet house turns eerily silent. Your eyes lock on the doorway as the sink continues to run and water continues to drip from your clothes.

Nothing.

You turn the sink off.

Your brow furrows, eyes locked on the cracked door of your bathroom as your hand grabs hold of the first weapon you can get your hands on—a shower curtain rod. One foot after the other, you peak around the corner.

Again, nothing.

Out of some itch of paranoia—or just completely on coincidence—you happen to turn your head to the wall next to you. Instead of an empty corridor like you expected, you're met with a face.

A face that immediately lunges at you the second your eyes widen.

You stumble to the side with a yell just for the individual to grab your arm, and the curtain rod falls to the floor with a clatter. You struggle as he yanks you to the side and around the corner and, before you have the chance to react, cold metal is pressed to your back.

"Don't fuckin' move," a voice hisses in your ear, and you stiffen.

You wheeze, struggling against his hold, "who–"

"Your gardian fucking angel," he sneers, shifting to clap a hand over your mouth. You thrash again—but it's useless. The gun presses painfully into your side. "I said don't move."

A thump echoes through the room, and suddenly you see why.

You fight to keep your breathing under control as you stay firm against your captor's geared chest, still as a statue. Your heart slams against your ribs and your ears as you listen to each heavy footstep against the floor, and your eyes widen whenever a second soldier creeps down your hallway. Standard camo and green clothes shuffling as he walks.

You catch the long muzzle of a rifle over the soldier's shoulder, and suddenly you find yourself leaning into the gun pressed into your back. The hand on your mouth tightens, silently shifting you away from the door.

The shifting of gear and the click of the rifle echo in the silent house as your nails dig into the skin of your captor's wrist. You watch a muscle in his stubbled jaw twitch near your face as the sound of your first name echoes through the hall, sing-song and taunting.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Think. Think. Think.

“If y’know what’s best for ya’…” A thick Scottish accent taunts from down the hall as he nudges the curtain rod with his foot, causing it to scrape against the wood floors. “You’ll quit puttin’ up a fight and show yourself.”

You glance over to meet your captor’s gaze. A flicker of anger crosses his eyes, nose wrinkling into a scowl. He has a scar across his cheek.

Then, suddenly, he shifts, pulling you further away from the doorway. His grip on your shoulder is deathly tight as it digs into your clothes. He lifts his finger from the trigger of his gun only to bring it to his lips in a silent command to stay quiet, stay with me.

Panic burns bright and all-encompassing through your veins. For whatever reason—all your body will let you do is shake and listen.

He ducks around the corner, pulling you with him. You have to force your feet to move.

The Scottish soldier stops just at the end of the hall, hulking frame and what must be at least thirty pounds of gear making him a jarring sight against the flowered wallpaper of your foster home. He must have an earpiece of some kind; because you hear him whisper every so often as he sweeps the hallways.

"They're here," he mutters. "Little fuck's just good at hiding."

It's tiny and muffled, but in the deathly silence of the house you can make out two voices in his earpiece that reply to him. One female, the other male. You can't decipher what they say but their responses make him growl in frustration.

"C'mon, we don't got all day…"

Tense, your captor shoves you along to another room. He signals something down the hall, where you spot more movement in the house. More soldiers—these ones dressed in similar, dark garb to the man who still presses a gun to your side. They have bigger weapons, concealing helmets.

Startled, you trip over your shoelaces.

Your captor scrambles to grab you before you clatter to the floor. He curses just as the Scottish soldier whips around, gun pointed and ready.

There's a solid two seconds of complete silence. Your gaze meets with the Scott and his eyes widen. Then, he spots the other man with a gun pointed at you.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

You scramble to your feet and bolt. The Scott is the first to grab you, and he's met with teeth deep in his arm. He yells out as you kick free, gagging on the metallic substance that floods your mouth.

There's shouting. Movement. Gunfire lights up your house with noise and lights as you wipe your mouth, stumble, and fly down the stairs in a blind dash for your front door.

Instead, you run directly into something solid—Landing you flat on your ass. Again.

Panting, panicking, your eyes rake up dark figure; past two giant boots, a geared chest, and hands that clench a rifle in their grip to meet a masked face and bored eyes. You scramble backwards against the wall with a yelp. The sound of yelling, gunfire, and heavy footsteps flood the rest of the house as the masked man's eyes widen at you. You stare at each other; you, sizing him up and him, confused.

"Graves?!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Commander! We lost the kid!"

"Does anyone have a visual??"

"L.T.!"

The skull-faced man finally leaps into action at the sound of what must be his rank—because he's suddenly moving faster than you can realize more soldiers are flooding around the corner. In a flurry of practiced movement, he grabs them.

You yell out as he knees one of the men and shoots the other. Blood splatters across the walls and your clothes. Then, he fires twice more at the soldier unconscious on the ground—and the house goes quiet other than your pounding heartbeat.

The towering man before you shifts, and the floorboards creak under his feet. He rolls his shoulders and let's out a breath as he stands, slowly, up to his full height. He turns, and the same blood that splatters across the walls runs in tiny rivulets across the skull of his mask. His voice thick and low when he speaks.

"You broken?"

Your shaking hands lower from your ears as your eyes then rake across the corpses at his feet, but it's no use. Through the ringing in your ears, your racing mind is unable to put together what he says for a few minutes. It's even more impossible to tear your eyes away from the blood splattered against the patterned wallpaper.

You swallow and shake your head.

"Good." Nonchalant, he lowers his gun and shouts down the hall.

"Johnny, you with me?"

"Over here, L.T.," grunts the Scottish voice from down the hall. "That little shit Graves—"

"Let 'em go. We'll deal with 'em later. We got what we needed."

Johnny curses in response, but mutters a begrudging "copy" as he saunters over—nursing the clear bite mark in his arm.

Then, the Lieutenant's eyes shift in your direction. His hand twitches, almost reaching out to you, and you pull your legs closer to your chest against the wall. Blood soaks your untied laces. You clamp a hand over your mouth as you will your breathing to settle. It doesn't.

He freezes. Then, to your relief, he turns away and presses a finger to his ear.

"Bravo 0-7 to Actual; five shadows have been compromised on the property. Looks like the Shadows got the word the same time we did. Could be others, too. Things got bloody, but…" The lieutenant's eyes meet yours again as he speaks. Through the bloodied skull mask, his gaze holds a calm resolve that's probably supposed to be comforting, but it only makes your skin prickle.

"...we got the kid."

It's quiet, but you can hear static before someone speaks on the other end of the communication device.

"Copy that, Bravo. We'll clean up the mess," A female voice replies. "Bring 'em home safe, boys."

"Roger that."

#kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty reader insert #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader

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undead-supernova · 9 months ago

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Brutal! / Masterlist / 18+

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 - tbc

Playlist

pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

plot: it's all fun and games, all soft kisses and gentle words until the past is revealed and new perspectives are learned

contains: talks about past sexual trauma, eddie reliving trauma, confident!reader

note: this chapter is different than the others and it is on purpose. when we erase the stories and feelings of victims, we erase the possibility of recovery and healing. especially those of us who are forgotten amongst recognition.

please do not read this part if the subject of sexual assault is triggering for you

song inspo: Seven by Phinehas

wc: 4.1k

special thanks to @jo-harrington for helping to edit and @littlexdeaths for your lovely divider. i appreciate you both for being so encouraging and lovely friends

You didn’t want to admit that what happened at the party had upset you.

Well, not the part where Eddie made you cum. That had been heavenly—euphoric. It couldn’t even be considered a state of bliss. It was more like an inferno, the lascivious flames pulling you further and further into the blaze.

But there were his words in your head again, the ones hurled at you before he realized his mistake.

Are you using me?

If we even fuck, is that it?

Will the chase be over for you?

The water rushed down your neck, the steam billowing throughout the tiny bathroom as you turned up the heat again. You had to let it scorch your skin, had to let the sting pull you back down to a state of normalcy.

There was a memory that you dared not touch from freshman year. One that still crept up every now and then, in half-asleep states and furious daylight. A growling beast, one with a four-letter name and a specified interest in IPAs as if he was the Christopher Goddamn Columbus of beer.

You shut your eyes, convinced that his hands were pressing in on the grimy tile behind you, stretching the wall to tear the veil and grab you. Like that one scene in A Nightmare on Elm Street, he was always trying to split you in two.

Further and further he pushed, so close to gripping your throat. So close to suffocating you once more and pulling you back down to the shadows.

Knock, knock.

You gasped, jumping back and almost slipping before steadying yourself.

“Hey, Eddie’s here!” Aron called from behind the door.

“Okay!” you shouted back.

You placed a hand on your chest to still your thrumming heart before you really processed her words. Letting out a scoff at your own absentmindedness, you shouted, “Be out in a minute!”

Maybe you always felt like you were being split in two, now more than ever. Having these emotions that you’d pushed down for the sake of survival. Changing yourself to fit the way you wanted others to see you. That mask, all gnarly and scary just to prove to yourself more than anyone that you were no longer the fool.

It made you wonder if you’d been putting this mask on for Eddie. But things would be better with him.

They always were.

It started with midterm study time, you swear. You really tried, pulling up a three hour long video of Cozy Fall Oldies Muffled In Another Room Next to a Fireplace While it Rains to help keep both you and Eddie focused. Going back and forth, you took turns helping the other with flashcards. While you were honing in on 20th Century Lit, he was groaning through his Algebra I equations.

Within twenty minutes, Eddie decided it would be more motivating if you gave him a kiss every time he got the equation right.

Though you rolled your eyes, you indulged him. Whatever got him to study.

“What happens if I get an answer right?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“That’s up to you,” he replied with a shrug, looking back down at his TI-84 calculator. But you noticed the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips as he quickly glanced back up at you. “We could always play Strip Study.”

“‘Strip Study’, huh?” you teased.

“Yeah, it’s a good game. Very helpful in trying times.”

“And what are the rules to this so-called Strip Study?”

“Well…” he trailed, setting the calculator down before shifting closer to you on your twin-sized bed. Counterintuitive to the point of your study date, Eddie pushed aside your textbook and came to hover over you. You refused to move, challenging him with your faux expression of disappointment. It was impressive, seeing him this forward. Above all else, however, you were quite amused.

“If you answer correctly,” he started, slowly pushing you down into the mattress. “then you’ll just have to take off a piece of clothing.”

You snorted, shaking your head at him. He mocked you, shaking his head right back, tickling you with his curls. “And that’s supposed to be for my enjoyment?” you pondered.

Eddie leaned down, taking the opportunity to leave a kiss on your neck. You could’ve sworn you heard him take a deep breath, like he was desperately inhaling your scent. There was a part of you that wished to do the same.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll take off a piece of clothing. How does that sound?”

“Hm,” you hummed as your fingers traced his collarbone before you pushed him back. He shivered as you crawled on top of him, his dominance cracking in an instant. Without thought, you grabbed his wrist before bringing it up to your mouth. You closed your eyes momentarily to breathe in his cologne, his being. You made sure to meet his eyes as you lightly bit down on his skin.

He was opening his mouth to fill the silence, but you quickly leaned down, gently ghosting your lips against his before whispering, “Not a chance.”

Immediately you sat up and scooted away, grabbing your textbook before he could retaliate.

He laid there for a moment, a heavy sigh leaving his lips before sitting back up and giving you a look. Was it annoyance? Disappointment? Who could say.

“You really hate me, don’t you?”

Shrugging, you felt around for your TV remote before turning up the music. “I hate the thought of you failing your Algebra midterm because I gave you a free peep show.”

When you looked back at him, he finally wore a grin. “It would be a metal way to go.”

“Well, maybe if you pass your midterm I’ll let you have a look,” you challenged.

You were amazed when that is what got him to shut up and get back to work.

After a few hours of real studying, Eddie dramatically collapsed on top of you, burying his face into your sweatshirt. He planted a swift kiss over your belly before sighing.

“Okay. Nap time.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “I think you earned it.”

“I think that’s the longest I’ve ever studied.”

You peered down, watching his mahogany eyes soften, drooping ever so slightly. Without thought, you ran your middle finger across the stray hairs of his now too-long bangs to keep away from his eyes. You pocketed the thought to trim them for him.

“I’m proud of you,” you said quietly. And you meant it.

Though his words had stung, he’d done nothing but apologize for them. You’d had several conversations with him owning up to his mistakes and asking you those questions he hadn’t thought to before. You told him about Sam, about Blake and John and Meghan and Maggie—all of which got a little too close for comfort. Those were the ones who’d actually given you their names, had made it a point to introduce themselves before their hands wandered. Before they called you a slut and walked away.

He’d listened the entire time, nodding while trying to hide his frustration. You knew he’d do anything to avenge you—he said as much before you’d shushed him with kisses. Kisses that promised that he was forgiven. That you were thankful for his efforts. That you were starting to fall desperately in love with him.

There was just one other instance you hadn’t divulged yet.

“Yeah?” he asked.

But that could come later. Much later.

You nodded. “Yeah.” Eddie let out a soft hum. “Get some sleep.”

For now, you focused on the way Eddie’s eyelids shut and the gentle smile on his lips loosen. For now, you focused on someone who you couldn’t quite admit was the most important person in your life.

As Eddie fell into his half-asleep daze, he could vaguely picture a certain kind of monster. One who slips into dreams, coating the edges of the scene with a fuzzy filter. Not Freddy Krueger, per se. One with a better grip on how to lure men to their deaths. Maybe like a siren, with jagged teeth and turquoise eyes that brought sailors to their knees along rocky shorelines and brutal seas.

But what happens to a man when he is less than interested in their attempt at temptation?

Eddie, as steady as his breathing was, began to descend into some dream that felt like a memory inside an alternate reality—could the two coexist? Because there his van was, parked on a beach. The air was thick with salt, digging into his forearms like thousands of tiny push pins scraping along the first few layers of skin. He had enough sense to wait in the back of the vehicle. Waiting for what, he could hardly remember. Waiting for who, well…

The moment the recollection stirred, there was a pounding on the back doors.

“Munson, come on!”

When he looked out the window, he saw Charlotte Stevens. She was a regular, scoring weed here and there when she ended up fighting with her aunt and uncle. He only knew because her parents died in a car wreck only a month after her senior year—Eddie’s second—began. He let her yap off to him about her problems whenever she came by. Some of his “clients” were chatty, growing quiet over time when Eddie told them to go see a different therapist and slammed the door on them.

But it was Charlotte.

She was lonely. Heartbroken. Sure, she was part of the popular crowd, but he knew better after his few interactions with Chrissy Cunningham. A lot of those girls did what they had to in order to survive. It didn’t make them a villain. He really thought Charlotte was the same way. He cut her some slack, watching the light in her eyes wither and die. Saw how the school year thinned out her dirty blonde hair, living off of half-eaten salads in the cafeteria.

After all, he was heading off to college soon without his close friends. Who didn’t need a near-stranger to lean on?

“You’re late,” he said as soon as the door swung open.

He wasn’t prepared for the sunlight pouring in, eyes catching on the sight of pavement and grass. Were they no longer at the beach? Where were they?

And why did it feel so…familiar? Like that day behind The Hideout. It was where she usually met him, feeling too paranoid to do it literally anywhere else. He could vaguely see the rutty door to the bar behind her. His refuge. His escape.

Charlotte huffed, her white tank top clinging to her body while sweat dripped down to her cut-off jean shorts. “As if you have anything else going on.”

“Do you want your weed or not?” he snapped.

“Geez, what’s gotten into you?” she asked as she sat opposite him. Eddie made sure their knees didn’t touch.

He wasn’t one to make connections with these people. The less he knew, the better. Even with someone he took pity on. Because, believe it or not, tragedy never truly made someone nicer. He’d seen enough damage done to the redhead that lived across from him. After her brother died, she changed everything. And she was definitely no longer interested in casual conversations without an insult or two thrown in.

Needless to say, he knew when to leave well enough alone.

“Do you care?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Not really.”

Exactly.

“Okay, well, it’s fifty even,” he said absentmindedly, trying to locate his metal box.

“Maybe I could pay a different way.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked back up at her. Of course she’d try to cheat the system now. “Trust me, Stevens,” he said. “There’s nothing I need more than money right now.”

And when she put her hand over his, he realized just what she was proposing.

“Are you sure about that?”

Eddie pulled his hand away. “Uh, yeah.”

“Come on, Eddie.”

Something evil twisted in his gut at the sound of her saying his name for the first time.

“Hate to sound like a douche, but I’m not interested in you. So, yeah, nice try. I’ll take that fifty bucks. Now.”

She moved suddenly, quick to pounce as she threw her hands on either side of his head, caging him in. Like he hadn’t said a word. Like he was prey.

Charlotte was a siren; he was sure of it. Waiting for him to slip, to give in to some desire that was nothing but an unlikely daydream. Her breath fanned over his cheek, invading his nostrils with the scent of her spearmint. Those teeth, smacking gum as she promised that it would be worth his while. Pinning his hands to his sides as he suggested again that she just pay him and leave. But Charlotte couldn’t take no for an answer, straddling him instead.

“I’ve always wanted to see what the freak felt like.”

That’s when Eddie wondered: what if these sirens didn’t even have tails, had nothing to do with what lied undiscovered and unencumbered by the rules of mythology? What if that was what made them lethal?

“That’s fucking weird,” he replied through his teeth.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to fuck one of the popular girls. I saw you looking at Chrissy with googly eyes all year.”

He had. He didn’t feel ashamed of that. Back then, he didn’t feel ashamed of much at all. Especially when he was finally escaping this town. Who cared who he did and didn’t fawn over now that he was searching for new faces?

“And you think you’re Chrissy? That’s fucking hilarious, Stevens. Funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard,” he growled, fighting against her grasp again. Instead, she moved her hips against him, trying to get him hard.

But it wasn’t working. Eddie was far from aroused. If anything, he felt like he was going to puke. Maybe if he conjured enough willpower, he’d be able to spew all over Charlotte and get her to leave him the fuck alone forever.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m better.”

Just as her hands reached for his belt, there was a pounding against the van. It was so violent, so powerful that the car began to shake. Eddie could’ve sworn they were going to flip before the rumbling stopped and the back doors ripped off their hinges.

Standing there, in a thin black dress littered with glitter and stars, was you. The ends of your nails were sharpened into charcoal claws, one hand wrapped around a bejeweled whip. A shiny crown sat atop your head, gleaming in the scorching sun.

He caught your stare, piercing him with the fierce fury that clouded your eyes. But you immediately looked at Charlotte, frozen on top of him.

“It’s not what it looks—” he choked, trying to catch his breath. But it was failing him. He was failing.

But there you were, cracking the whip before shooting it forward, snaking around Charlotte’s throat and dragging her down to the bed of the van. Her forehead smacked against the metal box Eddie had been searching for.

You let her cough, let her head bleed before curling your fingers into claws.

“You better wake up, Eddie,” you said as you stalked forward.

He watched in horror as you jumped on top of Charlotte, shoving your nails into her wrists to keep her right where you wanted her.

“Wake up,” you repeated.

Eddie jumped out of the van, barely catching a glimpse of you ripping into her throat before the light consumed him.

“Wake up!”

Eddie gasped for air, his eyes flying open to see your face above him, eyes alight with concern.

“Woah, hey,” you whispered, hands coming to pull him back down into your grasp. He immediately relaxed, falling into your arms once more as you began stroking his hair. “Eddie, hey.”

“Fuck,” he said, trying to fight the tears welling in his eyes. “Fuck.”

His vision clouded, the blurry images of his dream flashing each time he blinked. He couldn’t shake what was really there, what really happened.

Because that wasn’t how it ended.

There was no one to save him back then. No Gareth or Grant or Jeff.

No you.

Dragging his hands down his face, Eddie wondered when the distorted voices would dissipate. They came in all crackled, like Charlotte’s voice over the intercom during homeroom. It echoed in his head every other night, locking him in his cage of beige cinder block.

“Hey, you’re okay. It’s just me.”

But here you both were, in your prison cell. And instead of beige cinder blocks, it was decorated. Prints of famous paintings littered your walls, covering up most of the beige with genuine color and vibrancy. It was a museum of your own curation.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

And if it was decorated, then it wasn’t really a cell, was it? No, it was a home.

“Bad dream?”

And he liked the thought of home.

“The worst.”

With you.

“Wanna go on a walk? Sometimes it helps me to just, like, walk around campus.”

He’d give anything to have that forever.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Campus always felt different after negative experiences. College seemed to darken with something untoward. You started to notice the way your unhappiness contrasted those who walked along the same path with their friends. A pearl of laughter from a stranger on the phone with their mother. The brushing hands of a honeymooned couple. The sight of cackling men throwing a football on a grassy patch.

It could hide that girl hiding her head in the brick to suppress her sobs. The guy running across your path, breathlessly saying Sorry, excuse me as he races to his next class. A certain boy next to you who hadn’t spoken once since you left.

The sun had poked through the clouds, illuminating campus with vibrancy. But when you looked over at Eddie, he kept his head low, fiddling with his fingertips.

He was more solemn than usual, seemingly deflated after the dream he’d had. All you wanted was to grab his hand, keep him from picking his nails or his skin. Remind him that it was just a dream.

Instead, you kept walking. Kept whatever distance he was setting, letting him take the lead. You caught him sneaking a glance at you every once in a while, always returning his somber gaze with a smile.

He never smiled back.

You wound in and out of pavement and grass, looping around the library and the food hall before turning around and heading back. And as you rounded the last corner back to your dorm, Eddie finally spoke.

“How did you…get to be so confident?” Eddie asked.

His question caught you off guard, causing you to stop.

Not only that, but his question caught on a spiral of barbed wire like cloth. The wire that you’d used to cage your insides from anyone and any thing unwanted. It tugged at something you’d been dreading to bring up with him. Especially after the other night.

And just like that, you had to shred what was left of his poking.

“You know men,” you started with a fake smile, letting the mask consume you. “Can’t keep their hands to themselves. No means yes and all that. Nothing for you to worry about.”

You waved your hand around, turning away to keep walking but Eddie caught it, pulling you back to face him.

“Hey, you don’t have to brush that off, you know. You didn’t deserve that.”

His eyes poured compassion into yours, breeding a kind of fear that you’d never experienced before. This exposure to your innermost hurt without even a scalpel. It caused you to wonder if it was even fear. The wire now scraped along your ribs, each stroke against the bone growing gnarlier than the last.

And it was in that torture that you snapped.

“Oh, I know,” you said with a strained chuckle. “You don’t have to act like you know anything about it, though.”

You could tell your harsh tone surprised him, his eyes widening with each word you threw out. But it didn’t stop him from his expression changing, eyebrows narrowing. Something fell over his features, a darkness you hadn’t encountered before. There was decay behind his stare, his gentle nature starting to crack.

“You don’t have to act like you’re the only one who’s gone through something like that.”

A huff left your nose as you jerked your hand away. “Yeah, one in six. I’m well acquainted with my gender’s statistics.”

“At least you have a number,” Eddie fired back before looking at his feet. “At least…at least you don’t drive yourself crazy going back and forth from one in six to one in thirty-three.”

And then it clicked.

Are you using me?

Like, if we even fuck, is that it?

Will the chase be over for you?

“Eddie?” you asked, like the question you wanted to ask had already been spoken. “You’ve…you’ve…”

“Um. Yeah. Some girls aren’t as willing to ask permission as you are.”

And it was in that moment that you both realized how trauma had different effects on different people. Still mirrors, only with different colors reflecting off of your shattered edges. Yours came out all fiery red, all flames and guns blazing. His was something more somber, a devastating blue that desperately hid in the background.

“When…”

“Last summer.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

His furrowed eyebrows softened, eyes turned glassy as he asked, “Did you?”

You were at a loss of words. How could you even begin to think of what to say when all you could picture was the worst. Eddie, suffocating at the hands of a girl. Unable to escape, unable to run. Just like you had.

But Eddie never donned a mask. He’d never truly hidden himself away, not really when you were the one begging him to come out of his shell. And he was always out there, still taking chances on himself. Even when he slipped up, he still found ways to try again.

Could you say the same for yourself?

“Eddie,” you started, closing your eyes to make it easier. “you are so much more than what happened to you. And because no one gives a shit to say this to men, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you went through something like that. Especially when all of your friends were gone. When I got r—” You stopped yourself, unable to even utter the word. “When that happened to me, I ran into Aron for the first time and she helped clean me up and… Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is you should’ve had someone be there for you. And I wish that person had been me.”

Eddie whispered your name, shaking his head as the tears spilled over. It was a broken kind of sound, like he was pleading for help. Pleading for reassurance, pleading to forget.

“Come here,” you whispered, feeling choked up yourself.

That’s when he fell into you, tightly winding his arms around your waist and burying his head into your neck. You felt the sudden release of tears and snot, the release of something buried down inside him coming to the surface.

You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. But you went back to that September night, feeling Aron’s arms cage you in as if she could hide you from the monsters that walked amongst you. So you gave that to Eddie. Your hand came up to press his head further in, obstructing any light from either side of you. An obsidian of solitude for him, your fingers weaving into his hair. Scratching down his scalp until you felt him shiver, felt his locked up posture fall into something resembling ease.

“You’re okay,” you cooed. “I’m here now. I promise.”

Another strained cry erupted from him, louder this time. You tried to suppress your own tears, but there was no use. You could still be strong for him and share his sorrow.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” you asked.

He leaned back a fraction, puffy eyes meeting yours. You watched him hiccup, trying desperately to take a deep breath. Moving with him, you exaggerated your breath to help him move with you. His stare continued to pierce through you, indecision falling over his features before something seemed to click.

And with his first successful steady breath, he finally spoke.

“Please.”

If you are a victim of sexual assault, I hope you know that you can love again and that it will get better with time. I'm rooting for you. You don't have to be afraid. And you do not have to shut yourself off from letting love in.

I know I keep popping in and out to post things so thank you for continuing to read if you're still here. I've spent months wanting to post this chapter, but there was a lot of shit going on in my personal life — but I had to return to give y’all this.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #tw sex assault #Eddie munson/you #Eddie x you #Eddie x reader #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson x y/n #Eddie Munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson/reader #boring! series

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