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jqhotchner · 6 days

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CLOSE • A. HOTCHNER X READER

fluff; teasing; banter; fem!reader; cuddling; a massage; crude jokes (one); mentions of oral; protected sex!; they're so into each other; exactly 2k words

an ask for my sleepover event. prompts: i like you so much, it's worrying. cuddling while the other does their work. do whatever you want. first time together.

“Aaron?” You call as you drop your things on the coffee table of his living room. “Honey?”

“In the office!” He answers and you smile to yourself, getting rid of your shoes and jacket. You take the time to grab water and put some ice in it before walking in. He looks up from his paperwork briefly and smiles.

“Thirsty?” You ask, not caring if he really is as you place the water down on a coaster by his left hand. Aaron just smiles, leaning back slightly as you crawl into his lap and lock your fingers together behind his neck as you nestle into him.

“Hi,” you whisper after a few moments of him working, tilting and craning your neck to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers, tracing his free hand to your back, rubbing soothing shapes and patterns along your spine. “Long day?”

You nod and make a soft whining sound. “So long. I hate when we’re busy and I have to wear heels because of the clients we’re working with that day, you know that? My feet hurt.” You remember then that he must’ve had a long day too. “Though, I guess you understand. You have to talk politics. That’s like heels for the mind,” you scrunch up your nose and he chuckles.

“Silly girl,” he sighs, more to himself and the room than you. “Do you want a massage later? When I’m not busy.”

“But,” you furrow your brow and try to lean back, but his arm traps you to him as he keeps writing his report. “You had a long day too,”

“I don’t mind spending my nights off making you feel good,” he reminds you, eyes flicking to meet yours. You take his silent invitation and kiss him briefly. “I like you.”

“Not even love?” you despair, and he laughs, the rumbling of his chest setting free butterflies in your own.

“I like you a lot. Actually, I like you so much that it’s worrying,”

You beam at him, knowing this is his way of saying you mean a lot to him, make him feel out of control of his stoic persona and carefully reigned-in emotions. “Really?”

“Really, pretty girl.”

With that, you let the silence settle, curling into him. His breathing and the soft rustling of paper works almost as a lullaby, your eyes heavily lidded by the time he finishes up and closes the file, his leaning and turning to put it up jolting you back to awareness.

You make a soft whining sound.

“Shh, I know. Did you eat?” When you nod, he sighs, relieved. “Okay, let’s get you ready for bed then.”

“But what about my massage?” You sulk, and he laughs before realizing you’re being serious.

“We can do that. C’mon. Skincare, brush your teeth, get into pajamas, and then I’ll give you a massage.”

By pajamas, he means his clothes. You spend most nights at his place but aren’t officially moved in yet, and you’d taken all your clothes back to yours for washing last time, and didn’t have time to pack any for today.

“Fine,” you drag out the ‘e’, whiny and annoying. He just smiles.

It takes a lot of coaxing and kisses to get you to get ready – one as a reward each time you finish a task; one any time you decide he looks too pretty (which is often, because he’s smiling at you with soft and fond eyes); and one any time he teases or reminds you to finish up.

“Baby,” Aaron huffs out at a laugh, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you back slightly, holding you at a distance. “As much as I love your kisses — I do, really –, if you want that massage you need to hurry up.”

You scowl at him but there’s suddenly much more haste to your movements.

When you flop down on his mattress and turn expectantly to look at him, he’s shirtless. Your mouth dries and you yelp at the sight, covering your eyes. “What?” He asks, and when you peek again he’s in a pajama shirt.

“Nothing…” you mumble, trying not to sound too sulky as you realize the view is gone.

His brows raise but he says nothing, settling behind you. His fingers trace the hem of your shirt. “Can I push this up?”

You nod eagerly and he brings it up to your shoulders.

“Where hurts the most?”

“My lower back,” you complain, guiding his hand. “It’s like… I dunno. But it hurts like a bitch.”

He’s used to you trying to compare things before running out of words and whining, just smiling at you. “Okay, well, the lotion will be cold. Brace yourself.”

It is cold, and you squirm until his warm and calloused hands begin to rub it. Then, you’re deathly still, hyper-aware of his movements and the rolling press of his thumb pressing deep on a corded muscle.

You have to remind yourself to breathe, and it’s shaky when you do. Aaron doesn’t comment on it, methodically working inch by inch and muscle by muscle up your back. When his knuckle digs in by your shoulder, clearly finding a deep trigger point.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

“Too much?” He asks, beginning to pull back.

“No. Hurts. But in a good way.”

Aaron hums and presses back on the spot with a little less force, working and tugging the muscle until you feel it relaxing with the gentle slide of his hand pulling it to relax.

“Oh,” you moan, voice soft and airy. “You’re really good at this. Maybe you should be a masseuse. You’d be home more.” He doesn’t comment, moving to the same spot on the other side. “Actually, nevermind. I don’t want you touching other girls.”

Aaron laughs. “Men okay? I could think of people on my team who would love a massage.”

You pout into the mattress. “But you’re mine, you can’t do that.”

“I’m yours?”

“Mhm!” You chirp, the happy sound melding into another moan as he releases another knot. “All mine.”

Aaron smiles and kisses your shoulder. “All yours,” he agrees, voice soft.

You smile. “Aaron,”

“__,”

“Can you do my legs, too? If your hands aren’t too tired…”

“How tall were the heels you wore?” He questions, shifting quickly to give you what you want, helping you flip onto your back before pushing your knees apart slightly, just enough so that he can slip a hand under your calf and support it on his thigh to give him room to work the muscles. “You’re so tight.”

You try not to flush at the double meaning, since you know he doesn’t mean it, but you fail, squirming to close your thighs.

“Hm,” Aaron smiles, pressing slightly more firmly against the muscle, watching how the surrounding ones twitch at the sensation and force. “You’re sensitive.”

“You try wearing stilettos.” There’s no bite to your voice.

“You think I’d look good in them?”

You consider for a moment. “Yeah. As long as you were confident and didn’t slouch, you’d look hot.”

Aaron laughs easily. “Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, baby,”

You moan softly in lieu of response as he begins working your thighs. It’s so close to where you’re starting to ache to feel him, and it’s also just a really nice massage.

When he lets his hand trace the hem of your shorts (his boxers that you’re wearing as shorts, to be specific), you jolt. “What are you doing?”

“Am I wrong in thinking you want it?”

“No…” you mumble, suddenly getting shy. “But we haven’t…”

“It’s okay, __, we don’t have to.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to,” you whine, sitting up and curling your legs under you. “I just don’t want it to be like some happy-ending massage porno.”

He snorts. “Silly girl,” it’s the same teasing from earlier, but his voice has dropped and his eyes are more hooded as he looks at you. “You want this?”

You nod before whispering a soft “yeah”, melting into him as his arms encircle you and he kisses you deeply. It’s warm and heady, deep, passionate, hungry kisses that are infuriatingly slow, savoring your taste and plushness of your lips. He leans you back into the mattress with the kisses, body crowding you to flatten to the sheets.

“Aaron, don’t tease,” you whisper. “We can try that another time.”

His lips quirk up into a smile before he brings the kisses down your neck, and you drop your head back to give him more room. He tugs your shirt off the rest of the way, from where it’s still rucked up your torso partially from the massage.

“So pretty,” the words rush out before you can even begin to worry about his reaction, lowering himself to roll your nipples between his fingers and leave kisses on your flesh. “And all mine.”

You smile at the way his words mirror yours from earlier, but you can’t form speech as his fingers trace you over the boxers. It’s soft and delicate, curious and exploratory as your hips cant for more friction and twitch under him.

“Can I?” He tugs the waistband and you eagerly kick out of them the second he tugs again. He laughs at your excitement, biting his lip as he drinks in the sight of you splayed on his bed.

“I want to taste you.”

You whine at the idea, turned on and also frustrated. “Next time.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I do, but ‘m so empty, Aaron,” you whine, hoping it’ll spur him. “Need to feel full.”

“I’ve got you,” he reassures, yanking off his shirt. The view is just as good as before.

You help him pull off the boxers, swallowing at the sight of his cock. So pretty, just like the rest of him. Exactly what you needed.

“Please,” you whine as he shuffles closer and you wrap your legs behind his back, locking him against you.

Aaron pauses and reaches over you to the nightstand, quickly and carefully opening the condom and rolling it down his length. “Gotta treat you right.” He guides himself against you, studying your heaving chest and blown out eyes.

“Well, you can do that by fucking me—”

Aaron cuts off your complaint with a smooth roll of his hips into you, the words dying on your tongue as you sigh happily.

“You know I’ll do whatever you want,” Aaron tells you, as if he’s not fucking into you with slow, purposeful, and powerful thrusts that have your walls fluttering around him. “Tell me to fuck you, I’ll go until I can’t.”

You swallow. “That a promise?”

“For next time,” he teases, head falling back with a silent moan as he picks up his pace. He brings his thumb to your clit, and he’s just as good at working it as he is working knots out of your muscles.

“God,” you whine. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Aaron asks, slowly going a little harder and angling his hips until you keen. “There we go…” he murmurs to himself and your breaths hitch like little sobs in your throat.

“So good,” you affirm, squirming as you get closer and closer to the edge.

“Give it to me. Cum around me,” Aaron orders, and you whine, muscles all quivering and tensing as you fall over the edge.

Your hazy mind can still process his groans and flushed, sweat-slick skin, and the stutter to his hips as he fills the condom and collapses next to you after tying and tossing it into the trash. But you can’t bring yourself to talk, still gasping for air as you come down.

“Hey, __?” He asks and you hum, breath slowly evening out. “I like you,”

You scoff at him, “so much it’s worrying?”

“Yeah, actually.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you roll to your side to kiss it away.

“Well, I feel the same way about you,” you whisper.

really love how the banter and dynamic came out in this one... the prompts selected worked together wonderfully

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jqhotchner · 6 days

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wildflowers

three

it’s been three months since yn had me bed into the hotchner household. she’d loved the place the moment she laid eyes on it.

yn was mesmerized by how big the house was. going inside had only fueled up her awe for the mansion—it’s what she’d call it anyway. aaron begged to differ— aaron told her she could choose any empty room in the house she desired. yn never really having her own room in her life felt excited.

growing up she shared a room with her sisters while derek gets his own room. when she officially moved in with her boyfriend she still felt like she needed her own space, never really getting it—he’d hurt her for even thinking this—even now, with her son she still yet to have privacy. though having oliver changed her life completely, she’d never want to let him go, ever!

meeting aaron son only made her love children more! jack was the most adorable nine year old she’s ever known. he’s polite, smart, and funny. aaron had raised an amazing child. it broke your heart knowing that the poor boy lost his mom. yn didn’t know the details of the situation, but she knew it was horrible for everyone, especially aaron.

yn learned earlier on that aaron wasn’t very open. he’d greet her in the morning, eat his breakfast, said goodbye to jack, and head to work. he’s a very stoic man. she felt bad the first few weeks of invading his space. after opening up to derek about it—regretfully—the next morning aaron sat her down and apologized. she’d blushed from embarrassment, letting him know it’s his home and any time he’s ready for her to leave, she’d go.

aaron let her know that wasn’t necessary. the team had currently been looking for her ex privately and they’re all gonna do whatever it takes to bring this guy in so she and oliver could live their lives in peace and harmony.

aaron explained to her that he’s just not use to have a woman in the house for a while. after his wife passed away, he’s dated here and there, but it never really worked out. yn completely understood that! she’d only ever been with one man her entire life—at least consensually—bill was all she knew.

after that aaron opened up to her more! he told her about his wife and how she had been his first love, talked about jack and how he was the light of his life, even told her things he’d never ever tell dave or the team—simply because they’d make fun and he’s the boss. somethings should remain a mystery to them—

she opened up to him herself. she’s told him about how the night she left, she left to be with bill for three months and had enough. she explained how she’d been scared to go back to her family due to him threatening to harm them. she ultimately went back after everything with kim happened.

she told aaron the true nature of her relationship with kim. she didn’t want derek to know she’d been in love with her. not because she was afraid he’d think ill of her. she knew better than that! but because it hurts to even think about. she felt like it was her fault that kim died! if she’d never been in her life, if she never met kim, she’d still be alive. she vouched for the ‘older sibling’ story instead. sometimes even forcing herself to believe that.

aaron and yn grew closer and closer. aaron felt like a proper family with her around. it’s been awhile since that has happened. even with beth he still didn’t feel this comfortable with someone since haley. still, he’d never cross those boundaries with yn. not only was she derek sister, she’d been through too much for him to make that move. though yn would think otherwise.

she wanted aaron to make a move. she’d been giving him hints here and there but nothing. yn just assumed maybe he didn’t like her in that way. this made her give up soon enough. he didn’t seem the type to be pushed and she wasn’t the type to push others.

when yn got home from work she immediately ran upstairs to her baby boy. she payed the babysitter before saying goodbye and kissing oliver on the cheek.

oliver gives his mom a gummy smile. his first little tooth popping out. yn kisses his cheek lovingly as oliver squeals. “hi, baby! how was my boys day.”

he starts to babble. yn pretends like she understood every word he said. the only words he knew so far was mama, gurt—short for yogurt—no, and baba—for bottle—

“oh, wow! you had a great day, huh?! mama sorry she’s stayed later than usual. someone called in and mama had to work a double.”

oliver didn’t know what she was saying but he looks at his mom as if she hung the moon. the boy loved his mom!

yn never felt so much love before until she had her son. she knew the boy loved her the moment he was born. the way his eyes glowed when she looked down at him while he was in her arms for the first time.

that was the most purest moments of her life! she’d never take it for granted.

“miss yn?” yn turns around and sees jack. aaron must have just came back from being gone on a case for a few days.

“hi, jack! is your dad back?”

jack nods. “may i ask you a question?”

“sure.”

“i kinda need help asking, dad something. i just don’t know how to approach it.”

yn frowns.

“okay, what’s it about?”

jack sits down on the bed. yn gently puts her son down and hands him his toys. he plays with his rattle while she smile before sitting next to the nine year old boy.

“today in art class we have a project.”

“what kind?”

“we have to make a family tree. we’re allowed to either write down in the box about are family members favorite things or ask for a family photo. i know about my moms family, but i don’t know anything about dads. i wanted to write down their favorite things because i don’t think dad has any family photos. i just—i don’t know how to ask him.”

yn eyes widened.

“oh, wow buddy. that’s tough! have you ever asked about your other grandparents?”

jack nods. “he’d always say that grandpa wasn’t around much. then he got sick and passed away.”

“what about grandma?”

jack shrugs his shoulders. “he doesn’t talk about grandma at all.”

yn sighs. “i think the best thing is to rip it off like a bandaid. explain to him what it’s for! that you have a project and it could help you in the end with your grade. see how that approach works.”

jack nods. “you always know what to say, miss yn.” jack hugs yn tightly.

she felt her heart beat faster than usual. she loved jack hotchner as if he was her own. getting to know the kid the last few months have been amazing! she’d do anything to protect both her boys.

yn kisses the top of his head. “anytime kid!”

aaron sighs as he gets a text from erin. he knew exactly what she wanted! he was aware that he the team wasn’t supposed to to be working on any other case—especially one that doesn’t exist—but aaron wasn’t gonna stop until they found bill.

aaron wanted yn to have a normal life for once. knowing she’s been through so much in her life time. from losing her father to escaping her abuser! life wasn’t on her side.

aaron watched the same thing happened to derek. but he became stronger, tougher, more in control with his life.

not to say that derek doesn’t have his moments of feeling out of control, but yn felt lost every single day. aaron noticed she’s always looking over her shoulder. he hates that she has to deal with the trauma and try to be the best mother she could be. aaron wanted to take away that pain as much as possible!

aaron still didn’t understand the feelings he’d felt towards her. he just knew it was something about yn. though he could never go there with her. he knew how derek is about his family. and he’d never wanted to step on his toes. plus aaron’s older than her, a little bit too much.

with aaron just turning forty-seven, and yn being thirty-five, he knew the age gap was still very risky. this is why he tried to stay as professional as he could with her. aaron knew she’d been flirting with him. he just pretended to be a clueless idiot.

“aaron?”

aaron turns around and sees yn holding oliver. he’d taken a liking to aaron over the last few months! oliver opens his arms towards aaron and he chuckles before taking him.

“how are you, big man?” aaron gently bounces the one and a half year old.

oliver babbles as yn watches with a smile on her face. “im so glad that you two are getting along. i just came to ask if you had dinner? i was gonna order a pizza.”

“that sounds good, yn. i don’t feel like cooking anyway.”

yn nods as she grabs oliver gently. “great! come on ollie, let’s get you bathed and put down for a nap, huh?” yn coos.

aaron stares at her as if she hung the world. he truly was screwed.

#jqhotchner #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x black!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotchner #jqhotchner masterlist #aaron hotchner imagine #wildflower jqhotchner #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader

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jqhotchner · 7 days

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seven hours [dadrry]

summary: y/n and harry finally have some time to themselves.

word count: 7,172

warnings: kissing, teasing, swearing, smut; dirty talk, fingering, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex

a/n: this is heavily based on that gif of harry on stage and waving with a massive grin to the camera, and there was no way in hell that i wouldn’t write what i fantasised in the tags of my reblog lmao. it’s smut (again), so enjoy!

Neya bounces on her toes, fingers clinging to the edge of the kitchen counter as she looks over it, eyes as wide as saucers when she notices her mother packing away two Fredo chocolates in her lunch box. Her eyes meet Y/N’s as she presses a finger to her lips, winking at the young child, and Neya’s smile grows twice as wide.

“Neya, baby. Are you ready?” The sound of Harry’s voice from the other room has them both quickly closing her lunchbox and giggling softly between them both. Neya thinks Y/N sneakily put chocolate in her lunchbox without Harry knowing, but Harry always knows.

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jqhotchner · 7 days

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stars

fourteen

Meet YN Rihanna Fenty-Hotchner

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, Rihanna has been a name we’ve all heard and seen everywhere!

The thirty-five year old musician has made many of us swoon over her music, iconic fashion moments, and many many more. Now the RnB artist is venturing out to be an Entrepreneur, Wife, and Mother.

“I’ve enjoyed the music and I still enjoy writing! I just think it was time to dip my toe into the fashion world more!” Rihanna States.

Over the years she’s been through many struggles and heartbreak. Rihanna rumored to date stars like Asap Rocky, Drake, even Ashton Kutcher. But she’s found love outside of the music industry.

Rihanna and her now husband [Aaron Hotchner] have been dating in private for three years before the star announced her relationship with him nearly a year ago.

“I just thought it was time,” Umbrella star starts. “Aaron and I were in bed and I mentioned to him I was ready to let the world know about our tiny little family. He supported whatever decision I decided to make. With that I slowly introduced my husband and son to the world.

Rihanna talks more about her past relationship and her current one.

“I never actually confirmed anything to the public because it never came up with former partners. If it did, they didn’t want to tell the world we were dating. It felt like they’d be ashamed of me.” She states.

“Not gonna lie, it brought so many insecurities into my mind. Whenever Aaron and I started dating, he picked up those pieces pretty quickly. I knew he was different from that moment.”

Rihanna explains to us how she met her lovely husband.

“It was so unbelievably crazy, actually! Him and his team had just finished a case and they’d been out celebrating. It was before I made it big. Some guy was flirting and he saw I was uncomfortable and came to the rescue. Since then, I’d never looked back.”

“I think the main difference between the relationships I have with Aaron versus the relationship i had with others is his ability to read me and have patience with me. Others didn’t have that in the past. Instead they treated me like I should be lucky dating them. They made me feel like given me a chance was a privilege. Aaron’s never made me feel like he was special and he was too good for me. If anything he’s shown me we’re good for each other. And that’s why it was so easy to fall for him!”

Rihanna explains her shift in the world now being a married woman and a mom.

“I use to see the world in black and white. We have the good and the bad, bad always outweighs the good, but my husband and son have taught me that I have to look at what’s right in front of me. With my husband being out there, catching the creeps and evil men and women out there, putting them away, once less bad guy is out there. It’s always gonna be someone dangerous, but in the end one less evil roaming the streets is still worth seeing the beauty in the world.”

Rihanna talks about her new identity in the industry. “I’m still Rihanna Fenty, that will never change! But now I think I’m ready for the world to see Yn Hotchner! Wife, Mother, and Philosopher! I want the world to see who Yn is. Not just Ri.” She explains.

“Being pregnant has really opened my eyes to so many possibilities of who I can be, honestly. I have learned so much about my body and my ability as a woman! I’m still young and can have fun, but being a mom and being pregnant, it’s really brought a new light to my eyes.”

We asked her about how big she’s prepared to grow her family.

“Aaron and I want a littler of kids! My husband is a bit older than me, but he’s always planned on slowing down, having multiple little babies out there. I’ve always wanted to have a big family of my own. I’m the only child, so having lots of babies been in my deck of cards for the longest time.

We asked Rihanna [Yn] what she expects in her new career choice.

“I’m almost done with a few skin care treatments for Fenty Beauty! We’re also launching Savage x Fenty, which I believe the fans will love! And with my pregnancy and being a mom, this launch will be for all! I hope the world is ready for what’s in store for the Fenty take over.

#jqhotchner #jqhotchner masterlist #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x black!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch imagine #stars jqhotchner #aaron hotchner x female reader

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jqhotchner · 8 days

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daisy (english profrry x TA!yn)

part one of english profrry is here!!!!!

word count: 6.3k

BIG content warnings: massive, glaring warning for an inappropriate relationship. y/n is a graduate student in this and of legal consenting age, but there's an age gap of four years between her and harry. she is his TA, which means there's a big power imbalance between them. bc this is fic we'll pretend it's romantic and all very consensual but if this is triggering to you in any way, DO NOT READ IT. it's not worth hurting your mental health. also, if anything remotely like this happens in your personal life, IT IS NOT OKAY.

other CWs: small smut scene at the end (m masturbation with descriptions of m receiving oral, slight cum play), y/n alludes to having seasonal depression but it's never outwardly said (just be aware since the descriptions of it could be triggering to some!), a bit of angst but nothing crazy

with all that out of the way, if you still choose to read, I hope you enjoy :) love you all lots!!

masterlist | talk to me

patreon

. . .

Professor Styles is a dick.

That’s what the entire English department said when it was announced that Y/N would be his newest teaching assistant for the spring semester.

They all sneered at her, throwing what they pretended to be caring warnings her way, claiming that he was impossible to work with and he didn’t even actually need a TA, he just liked picking students to embarrass. With their noses upturned at Y/N but not actually offering any kind of advice, she left the small English building shortly after the Dean unveiled the new schedule for TAs, anxiety bubbling in her stomach and thick, salty tears in her waterline.

She knows Professor Styles doesn’t have the greatest reputation on campus. She actually actively avoided taking any classes with him throughout the duration of her bachelor’s degree, and even as she chose to stay on to enter her first year of graduate school, she picked any other available professors over him.

He was known for his less-than-personable demeanor and the way he picked apart students’ essays, leaving them questioning their entire life path. Y/N has never felt much insecurity about her career — she’s always wanted to go into English, maybe opting for a small but impactful job in publishing or editing — but having a professional ruin her writing sounded… well, awful.

In reality, Y/N didn’t have much of a choice when it came to her teaching assistant preferences. She needed a job that wouldn’t take up too much of her time. Her first semester of grad school was difficult and stressful. All of her friends graduated and went on to cool jobs all over the country, while Y/N just stayed in the same apartment. She was homesick for her family and walked through a campus every day that reminded her of a better version of herself — one who had a flourishing social life and excellent grades. Just a few months of working on her masters degree had worn her down.

Despite the slight dip in her grades from university to graduate school (an expected change, her advisor had explained), she was still recommended as a TA for the English department in the spring. She’d really been gunning after Professor Rooney, a kind, middle-aged woman who had spent years working glamorous jobs in the publishing world. She had connections everywhere and was incredibly sweet, and Y/N knew she would feel comfortable working in her sections for the semester. All winter break, she imagined how wonderful it could be; that maybe it was the huge win she needed after such a shitty fall.

But Professor Rooney didn’t choose her. Professor Styles did.

Even with a promise of a reasonable stipend contingent on the completion of her TA position, Y/N’s world felt like it came crashing down just a little bit — but she knew better than to complain or blubber on about not getting her way. Instead, she chose to just get through it.

In the final days of winter break, Professor Styles emailed her to meet in his office the day before classes began. He didn’t ask if she was back on campus or if she had a good break. Y/N wanted to resent that, but chose to swallow it down.

When she got to his small office in the department, she gently knocked on the open door, signaling her arrival. He peered up from whatever book he was hunched over on his deck, straightened his posture, and checked his watch.

“You’re late.” he said flatly, shutting the paperback with a force she didn’t even know was possible. With furrowed brows, she glanced at the lockscreen on the phone she held.

“You said 10:30, right? It’s 10:30 now.”

“On time is late,” he muttered, folding his hands on his desk, “Early is on time.”

She swallowed, her lips parting like a guppy. He rolled his eyes and motioned to the seat on the other side of her desk. Quickly, she took it, placing her tote bag at her feet and making a mental reminder to arrive at his classes five minutes early from this point on.

“Right, so you’re my TA, then?”

She nodded, “Yes, for the spring semester.”

He hummed, though she couldn’t tell if it was a sound of approval or discontent. He moved his computer mouse over the surface of the university provided mouse pad, making his computer buzz to life. With an awkward silence settling between them, the sound of the mouse clicking was the only thing that filled the dim office.

“You just graduated from the English department last spring,” he said, eyes scanning over what she now assumed was her student file, “3.8 GPA. That’s fine.”

She blinked at that, resisting the urge to balk at him. 3.8 was .2 away from a perfect GPA. It was more than fine.

“You didn’t take any classes with me during your time as an undergrad.”

“Um, your sections were always full—”

“I don’t really care what your reasoning is,” he cut her off, continuing to scroll down the screen. A lump formed in her throat but she tried to swallow it down. Nothing sounded more embarrassing than crying in front of Professor Styles. “And now you’re getting your masters in English with a concentration in Feminist Literature. That’s an unusual one. Why?”

She’s surprised he’s bothered to ask her a question, so it takes her a moment to form a cohesive answer on her tongue. She’s flailing a bit and she knows he can tell, based on the unamused expression on his face.

“I’ve read a lot of literature where there’s a female main character and she’s just used to state a point or some sort of backwards lesson that was considered modernized for the time,” Y/N speaks softly, picking at her nails in her lap, “I’m interested in studying that more.”

“What kind of literature?” Professor Styles instantly fires back.

“Well, I wrote my undergraduate thesis on The Scarlet Letter, but I’ve also been thinking about basing my graduate capstone on Ophelia from Hamlet.”

He makes that annoying humming noise again, and she’s still unsure if he’s pleased or thinks she’s an idiot. She wasn’t unused to the latter — a lot of snobs in the English department thought it was stupid of her to care for critiquing older pieces of writing from an argumentative, feminist perspective, even if they acted like The Odyssey was an “absolute must-read” for everyone.

(It’s not. Y/N thinks The Odyssey is dumb and boring, but she’ll never say that, especially not to Professor Styles.)

“Right, well,” he lifts a white ceramic coffee cup to his mouth and swallows briefly. She glances down to see he’s drinking hot black coffee, and her lips furl into a quick, involuntary wince. “You’ll be with me three days a week. You are to attend the daily lectures — Mondays and Wednesdays are the shorter section and Friday is the long, three-hour one. Helping out with grading and holding office hours will be your primary tasks. If you fall ill or need to take a day off, I need at least 24 hours notice. If I receive any complaints from students, you’re out. Otherwise, it should be a fine semester. Any questions?”

She shakes her head, hoping he’ll show some inkling of delight at her quick ability to understand and process. Instead, his lips remain in a flat line and he nods, taking another sip of his coffee.

“You can go now. See you tomorrow.”

She scrambles to leave his office as quickly as possible.

. . .

Professor Styles barely speaks to Y/N for the first few weeks.

It’s unsettling in a way, especially because she doesn’t know if she’s doing a good job. She thrives off of reassurance, but every time she hands him a neat stack of newly graded papers or drafts, he simply waves her off with an, “alright, thanks.”

If she’s being honest, it makes her want to try even harder, though she’s not entirely sure why. She has the urge to claw her way to the very top of Professor Styles’ repertoire of students and assistants — a need for perfectionism that can only be quelled by the person least likely to give it to her.

And it’s driving her absolutely insane.

She wants to ask, straight out, “am I doing an alright job? Do you need anything more from me?”, but she’s positive that will only make her glow with insecurity. He’d probably laugh in her face and call her a baby for needing his acceptance.

It eats her alive as she sits at the front of the lecture hall, watching his female students stare at him with hearts in their eyes as he discusses the politics of Ursula Le Guin. It bugs her only more than he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen, always impeccably dressed with long, ring-clad fingers.

Grumbling, she realizes that she probably looks just as pathetic, so she quickly straightens her posture and runs her fingertips over the mousepad of her laptop so it glows back to life. She’s supposed to be going over the grades of the students’ first essays — her and Professor Styles were meeting after class to discuss them in the event that anyone needed additional assistance for the upcoming paper.

She busies herself with that until he ends class, creating a list of a few names that would potentially need to be met with one-on-one. He doesn’t say anything as he gathers his own materials from the lecture, and she follows him out of the hall and to his office just as silently, carrying her laptop in one hand and her tote bag on her shoulder.

Professor Styles’ office is always cold and dark, never failing to send a shiver down her spine when he unlocks the door. Today, her shoulders shudder involuntarily and she pushes her sweater sleeves down to cover her hands. With a rumple in his eyebrows, he sits down.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Y/N snaps her head up in surprise. She doesn’t mean to look shocked, so she quickly revises her facial features in an attempt to look collected.

“Oh, it’s just cold,” she says, waving him off nonchalantly, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. I think this winter has been especially brutal.”

His reply especially dazes her — she’s unsure if that’s an attempt at making small talk, something Professor Styles has never done with her before, but she instantly nods her head, as if she’s speaking with a toddler who’s expressing their emotions for the first time.

“Yeah, I think so,” she says softly, “The snow is awful to walk through.”

“Do you live far from campus?”

She shakes her head and sets her laptop and planner on her side of the desk, across from Professor Styles and his things.

“No, just a 10 minute walk or so, but I don’t have a car.”

He hums at that — that stupid, unassuming hum that contributes absolutely nothing to the conversation. She wonders if she’s in her head about it, but she feels his eyes linger just a beat longer on her face before tearing them away. He licks over his teeth as he taps on his laptop to wake it back up.

“Right, then. Did you go over their grades?”

As she pulls her things out from her bag, she tries to ignore the small pit of disappointment in her tummy from Professor Styles shifting their conversation back over to class.

. . .

That weekend, Y/N thinks she’s hallucinating as she meanders up and down the aisles at Target.

She’s not really looking for anything in particular. Sometimes she just comes here for something to do. Her bank account isn't exactly flowing in a way that permits her to buy all the cute home decor she gazes at, which is why her basket currently consists of the following: pads, a new pack of her favorite gel pens, cookie dough, and a lip balm that she’ll probably put back before she checks out.

It’s another harsh, cold day out, the freezing temperatures refusing to let up as the days of the month flit by. This is Y/N’s least favorite time of year — when winter sticks around despite the holidays being long gone. All that’s left between now and spring is pesky snow and fake Hallmark holidays, and she yearns for the days where she can walk to campus and admire the tulips peeking out from the damp soil. By then, she’ll be closer to returning to her hometown for the summer, where she’ll likely get a job for a few months working in the local library or bookstore.

It’ll be good — she’ll get to see her friends and spend time with family and save up some money, and maybe the hopefulness of life warming up in a few months will be enough to get her through this semester.

And as she’s daydreaming of brighter days, that’s when it happens — when she thinks she must be fully hallucinating, because as she strolls down one aisle in particular, Professor Styles is standing there, his bottom lip pinched between his fingers as he stares at space heaters.

She’s never seen him off campus. Sometimes that happens since a lot of professors live close by, so it’s not unheard of to pass by an advisor or faculty member at the supermarket or through the park. But seeing Professor Styles here feels… illegal, somehow, especially given his casual, dressed down attire. He’s wearing what looks to be a cozy sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts, despite the temperature nearing the 20s today. (Y/N is bundled up in three sweaters, a jacket, a scarf, gloves, and leggings beneath her jeans.) White socks go just above his ankles, and the running shoes on his feet make her wonder if he’s insane enough to actually be working out in this weather.

She must be analyzing his form for a beat too long — maybe it’s the shock from it that still hasn’t worn off — because he feels her gaze, eyes veering to his peripheral, realizing that his teaching assistant is standing there as if she’s waiting for permission to enter the aisle.

“Hey,” she blurts out when she realizes she’s been caught.

Confused by her frank, laidback greeting, he lifts his head to face her. “Hey.” he echoes awkwardly.

“Um, sorry.”

He quirks an eyebrow and Y/N’s body heats with embarrassment. “Sorry?”

“Sorry… I-I should’ve just walked away when I saw you,” Y/N quickly attempts to revise, but she realizes it’s just making her sound stupider, “I was just surprised to see you here.”

“In a public store?”

“Right,” she nods curtly, turning on her heel, “Have a good rest of your weekend—”

“Wait, did you need something down here?” he rushes out, almost as if he’s fearful she’ll leave. She pushes the thought down but parts her lips nervously, eyes scanning over the contents on the shelves. She doesn’t need anything, she was just putting off having to brave the cold weather on her walk home.

“Yes,” she says slowly because, once again, she’s suddenly stupefied and enamored by the prospect of small talk with Professor Styles, “I needed… lighters. For my candles.”

He nods, a quiet “ah,” sounding from his lips, and they stand there like they’re doing some sort of parallel play; Y/N pretending to look at the long, safety lighters while Professor Styles continues to look at space heaters. She wonders if he for some reason is pretending, too, but then he’ll squat down to look at the features on one box, making a tsk-ing noise with his mouth, and straighten back up to analyze a different model.

When he finally decides on an option that’s best fit, he grabs the box and places it in his cart. Quickly, Y/N plucks a random display of lighters and throws them in her basket.

“Hope you found a good one,” she mutters out dumbly, feeling the need to interject one last sentence into their silence. He glances down at his cart, then at her basket, and then, finally, at her.

“It’s for the office,” he says. “You said it was cold.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“This should help with that.”

“Sure, yeah. I have one at home, it helps a lot with the draftiness.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

“Maybe you can get an extra lamp in there, too. Spruce it up a bit.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows, “What do you mean?”

Y/N wishes the ground would swallow her up whole.

“Nothing! I just meant— like, sometimes it’s a bit cold, and with the weather, it can get dark, too. The winter’s tough, don’t you think? That’s all I meant, I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re right,” he says with a decisive nod. “You’re the only other person that really spends time there besides students. Do you want to help pick one out?”

“Sure, okay.”

They walk in silence to the lighting display, which is filled with a myriad of different options. Professor Styles looks semi-overwhelmed by it all and Y/N has to bite her lip so she doesn’t smile too widely at his confused expression. She points to a simple, inexpensive standing lamp.

“I think something like this would be good, in the corner or something. Just for some extra brightness.”

“Is that the one you like?”

Y/N doesn’t have strong lamp preferences, especially when it comes to a space that she’s not even living in, but for some reason, it seems important that she says yes. So she nods her head, flashing him a small smile. He returns it, and she realizes that’s the first time he’s ever smiled at her.

“Okay. I’ll have this stuff set up for when you come in on Monday.”

She swallows, feeling the mountain of adoration in her stomach grow. She shoves it down.

“Thank you, that’s really kind of you,” she says.

“Sure. I’ll see you then. Have a good rest of your weekend.”

She hides in the lamp aisle for another 15 minutes, until she’s positive he’s left the store.

. . .

Professor Styles and Y/N are working in their typical silence when he says something that makes her jaw nearly drop to the floor.

She thought that after their short but personable interaction at the store, things would change a bit. Maybe he would feel more comfortable talking to her outside of monotone grunts or the occasional “are they failing my class?”, but things remained the same. When she came in that Monday, the space heater and lamp were both on and running as he promised, but it was as if nothing happened.

It irks Y/N to no end.

She assumes that he sincerely doesn’t care for her, which she supposes is fine considering kindness or approval aren’t part of the job description. That’s why she’s shocked when he says it a few weeks after the weekend they saw one another in public.

“I think you should ask to change your advisor to me.”

Y/N chokes on her spit, hurriedly coughing into her hand so she doesn’t spray saliva all over his desk. Once she recovers, he’s staring at her expectedly, as if what he said was completely and utterly sane.

“Sorry?” she asks, “Why would I do that?”

She doesn’t mean it to sound rude, but it’s a genuine question. Typically, there’s some type of rapport between a grad student and their advisor, and she and Professor Styles have absolutely none of that.

Professor Styles clears his throat and folds his hands on his desk. “Because I got my masters degree in the same thing, so I spent four years studying exactly what you’re studying. I think you’ve been doing very well as my TA and I would like to advise you.”

“Why would you ask me why I was studying that, then?” she blurts out, confusion apparent on her face. “The first day we met, you told me it was unusual.”

“It is.”

“But you studied it.”

“I did.”

“So why would you say that?”

Professor Styles sighs as if this is the most boring and obvious conversation he’s had all day.

“I wanted to hear you defend it. See why you’re interested and make sure it’s not all bullshit.”

Y/N shakes her head, “So you were playing some kind of mind game with me? For fun?”

“It wasn’t a mind game, Y/N. I just wanted to know why you’re interested in it.”

She bites her lip and looks down at her laptop screen, which has since gone dim since they began talking. If she’s being truthful, she’s grown tired of Professor Styles. Up until now, she was positive she was doing things wrong and he just didn’t care enough to correct her — only to find out that he wanted to work with her even more. It made zero sense.

“Are you going to do it, then?” he asks, tearing her from her thoughts. Her expression pinches as she rolls her lips into a thin line.

“I don’t know.” she answers in a watery voice. “I like my advisor, and I assumed you didn’t like me very much.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

“You barely utter three words to me on a daily basis and never tell me if you’re happy with my work.”

Professor Styles scoffs, leaning back against his leather computer chair.

“You need regular approval from me to know whether or not I like you?”

“Yes,” she admits, anger building in her chest until she can’t help but blurt out what she’s thinking, “It’s how I work. If you were a good professor, you would’ve asked how I best function at the beginning of the semester. Instead, you ignore me for fun.”

“You don’t think I’m a good professor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean that. I think you are. I just don’t think you’re the best at managing teaching assistants.”

He shrugs, but she notices a slight wince in his features. “We can’t all be good at everything, can we?”

“Right,” she mumbles, drumming her fingers on the edge of his desk. When he doesn’t reply, she shuts her laptop and stuffs it in her bag. “I’m gonna go then. I’ll see you next week.”

He’s silent as she gets her things together and pulls her jacket on, wrapping her scarf around her neck and zipping it on top of her sweater for extra warmth. As her boots carry her across the length of his office and to the door, he stands from his seat.

“Y/N,” he says, and she turns to look at him. “The deadline to change your advisor is next Friday. I hope you’ll still consider it.”

. . .

That evening, all Harry can think about is his sweet, quiet TA. The one who he undoubtedly offended earlier today — he cringes at the thought of it, replaying their conversation over and over in his head. He can’t stop thinking about the upset look on her face. When she asked if he was playing mind games with her, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness. He never meant to hurt her, not one bit.

He sighs as he runs his hand through his hair. He’s had reruns of some shitty sitcom on since he got home from work a few hours ago. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, but even a laugh track and ‘90s era merriment couldn’t distract him from thinking about her.

He considers the things she said about wanting his approval. He’s never been well-liked in the English department, likely because of his rough exterior. He’s not immune to the things he hears from students and faculty, about how he’s grumpy and someone to be feared, even if he didn’t even intend to come off that way. In all honesty, he never wanted to be perceived in that matter — but once his reputation began to precede him a year or two ago, he figured there was no use in trying to convince people otherwise.

That's how it had always gone, anyway — in high school, when he started experimenting with different styles of clothing, everyone assumed he was gay. He'd desperately tried to refute those claims, even if he wasn't completely sure of his sexuality himself. But no one cared — they'd already made up their minds, and it seemed useless to attempt to change their ways of thinking.

And when people spoke here, mumbling about how mean and terrible he was... well, what was the point?

Y/N was the only person he cared to win over, and it was eating him alive.

So much so that he made the blind decision to maybe, possibly cross a very clear boundary between professor and TA. Despite Y/N being of legal, consenting age (after looking at her student file, he found that he’s only four years older), he still attempted to prioritize maintaining a professional relationship with every one of his students and TAs.

He couldn’t help himself with her, though. He knew it was bad — he could feel his heart thumping quickly in his chest, the logical part of his brain telling him to stop while he’s ahead, but he couldn’t. Not as he grabbed his laptop, logged into his work email, and composed a message to her student address. Not when his fingers danced over the keyboard and resisted the urge to implore her to start fresh with him. Not when he clicked ‘send’ without even proofreading to make sure it sounded appropriate, not creepy or weird.

He pushed his laptop away and got up to pour himself some wine, attempting to rid himself of any lingering guilt.

. . .

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Today

Time: 9:57 p.m.

Hi Y/N,

I wanted to apologize for how I acted today. It wasn’t kind of me and you deserve far better than that. I understand if you have no interest in changing your advisor. Please know that whatever you decide, your TA position will not be in danger, should you choose to continue working with me.

Thank you for all of your hard work. You’ve been doing an excellent job and I’ve very much enjoyed having you this semester. Have a good weekend.

x Harry Styles

. . .

On Monday, Y/N’s mind is whirring.

It’s not because the semester is nearing midterm season, although that’s part of it. It’s because Professor Styles emailed her an apology at almost 10 pm on Friday evening, and she’s repeatedly read it over at least 50 times since receiving it.

She didn’t reply because she wasn’t sure what to say — and, most shockingly, he didn’t sign it as Professor Styles. Instead, he ended the message with a kiss, for crying out loud, followed by his name. His name!

It’s all she’s been able to focus on for days, to the point where she contemplates not showing up to his lecture on Monday. But she’s better than that — she’s stronger, and she’s smarter, and she doesn’t want to hide.

She avoids Professor Styles’ gaze all throughout his lecture, instead focusing on grading first drafts for the class’ midterm paper. She knows she’ll have to sit with him in his office afterwards, and her stomach churns at the thought. In some way, she feels ashamed that she said anything to begin with. Her comments about him not managing TAs properly have made her shrivel into a mortified version of herself, and she’s shocked he didn’t fire her on the spot.

Worst of all, she hates the way her heart jumped into her throat when his name popped up on her screen on Friday night. She craved the feeling, hoping he would, for some reason, do it again, even though she never responded. She wasn’t playing hard to get by any means, but the fact that her brain even veered in that direction proved one thing to be true: she has a big, fat crush on Professor Styles.

The knowledge sits like a rock in her stomach, especially as they walk in silence to his office after class. The air between them feels awkward, but she’s not sure that there’s ever been a time where it hasn’t felt odd between them. When he unlocks the door, she quietly steps inside, her heart skipping a beat at the space heater and lamp already turned on.

Usually, he keeps the door open while they work. Today, he shuts it, the soft click of the lock making her jump.

“Can we talk?”

Y/N’s throat dries but she nods, gripping the strap of her tote bag close to her arm. She turns to face him, and for the first time ever, she notices that he looks… nervous.

“About last week. I’m sorry, but I’m even more sorry for emailing you that on Friday,” he rushes the words out like he wrote a script out and was waiting to perform them, “It was completely inappropriate, and I got the hint when you didn’t reply.”

“The hint?” she peeps out, her voice squeaky and embarrassing.

“Yeah,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “About not wanting me to advise you and… you probably found my email to be weird, right?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. “No, no. I.. I actually haven’t given much thought to the advisor thing, but I didn’t think it was weird. I just didn’t know how to respond.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why’s that?”

“Because I felt guilty about what I said to begin with! A-and you could’ve fired me if you wanted to, but instead you apologized and said that I’m doing a good job—”

“You are.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims frustratedly. “I didn’t know how to respond to that.”

“To me being… kind?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at her, the crinkle between his brows deepening.

“I’m just not used to it, Professor Styles.” she says with a sigh.

“Harry,” he corrects.

“What?”

“My name is Harry. I don’t want you to call me Professor Styles.”

Y/N ignores the quickening of her heartbeat and shifts her stance from foot to foot.

“Why are you doing this?” she eventually blurts as she crosses her arms over her sweater-clad form. She’s not sure if she detects an inkling of pity in his face, but if she does, she wants nothing more than to run for the hills and never return. For some reason, the thought of Professor— Harry feeling bad for her makes her shoulders shudder, a prickly sensation tip-toeing down her spine, as if shame is completely and utterly eating her alive.

His lips part in a quiet sigh. “I just… I spent the weekend thinking of you and feeling awful for the way I’ve treated you.”

Thinking of you.

I spent the weekend thinking of you.

Her stomach turns as his words echo throughout the chambers of her brain. But then there’s a click — like the second part of the sentence just ekes its way through, planting a seed of self-doubt and insecurity. And she backs away like he may explode at any moment.

“You shouldn’t— no, that’s alright,” she shakes her head, gaze set low on the carpeted floors of his tiny office.

“Y/N—”

Again, she cuts him off with a shake of her head, raising her eyes to look at him. His expression is pained and she wonders if hers is any better, though she assumes for different reasons: He doesn’t want to get fired for torturing another grad student. She has an inappropriate crush on the professor she works for.

“It’s all good. Call it even?” she rushes out, leaning over to grab her things from her chair, “Fresh start on Wednesday. Don’t mention it again, alright?”

She’s gone before he can stop her.

. . .

Harry accidentally falls asleep in his office that evening.

It’s half because he’s absolutely swamped with work, too fearful to email Y/N and add things to her grading pile after the way she all but ran away earlier today. He’s terrified he made her uncomfortable.

He doesn’t want to return to the quiet loneliness of his apartment, where he’s constantly faced to force the reality of his life: A man in his early 30s with a job that he likes, but no one actually likes him at it. His entire family resides in London and with the exception of a few friends from his schooling years, he’s alone. Especially in the romance department.

His heart aches for Y/N. He realizes it’s a bit dramatic, even slightly taboo given the nature of their professional relationship, but he likes her. He likes her so much that he doesn’t want to go home and think about how badly he messed things up, so he falls asleep face-down on his desk, his cranium wedged between piles of pens and a Post-It list of to-do’s.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for. The soft, golden light from the lamp is still just barely bathing the circumference of the room, but as he blinks his eyes open, he realizes that it’s silent. He can see through the small frosted window that the hallways are dim, which means it’s most definitely sometime in the evening.

He feels… somewhat guilty but charged as he wakes from the fog of his sleep, eyebrows furrowing as he stretches his arms out. His neck already aches from the discomfort of his sleeping position and he groans, lifting a palm to sort the knot out.

And that’s when he realizes it — why he feels as if his body is buzzing, his hands sweaty and his throat dry. He’d woken up in the middle of a sex dream and, like a pathetic teenager, the star of it had been his crush. Y/N.

He scoffs to himself as he glances down at his crotch where, sure enough, his length is painfully hard beneath the constriction of his trousers and underwear. He swallows, eyes flickering closed. He can remember the exact details of his dream, even if they send a bead of guilt dripping down his chest — they’d been in his office, just like this. She was between his legs, knees pressing into the carpet of the floor, her eyes rounded and expectant as he toyed with her, pretending to guide his cock between her lips only to take it away at the last minute. She pouted every time, a plushy lipped-frown punctuating the words he hadn’t even realized he’d been dying to hear: “Please Professor Styles, stop teasing me.”

At the realization, he’s sent into a frenzy. He doesn’t even think to check whether the door is locked (or maybe if he’s locked in the building, no less), before he’s clawing at his belt and zipper, yanking the fabrics down to reveal a pair of swollen balls. His length stands hard, his eyes nearly rolling back just from the feeling of looping his fingers around the base. He can’t remember the last time he was this pent up just from his own imagination, but it’s not a difficult place to return — not as his head leans back against his office chair, allowing his dream to pick up and take form in full consciousness.

So much pre-cum is bubbling at the tip that he doesn’t need much of his own spit to lubricate himself. He bites his lip hard to prevent himself from groaning out too loudly, envisioning the way she’d finally suckle around the tip of his cock, looking up at him with proud eyes. He’d gradually help her go deeper, but she’d be excited, willing to bruise her throat for him. She was so good — in his dreams, in real life, she was always so, so good.

“So good, Professor,” she’d pant out, popping off to lick a stripe up the side of his cock. With spit-swollen lips, she’d venture down to his balls, rolling them in the palm of her hands before taking each one into her mouth. In reality, he gasps at that, tugging them in his own hand.

But what really gets him there is an impossible thought — one that has nothing to do with the silly wet dream his brain conjured while he slept. Her in her own bedroom, her naked form wrapped up in her sheets while he gazed over lovingly, pressing soft kisses along her shoulder and down her arm. She’d giggle breathily before flipping onto her side to face him. And she’d say it — I love you — and it’d feel like heaven.

That’s what pushes him to finish all over his hand, cum dribbling over his fist as he pants and gasps like he’s just discovered masturbation. His orgasm encompasses his entire body, a few beautiful, peaceful moments of complete pleasure that causes all of his muscles to tighten deliciously. Of course, he envisions her taking all of his cum, licking it up eagerly over his digits, making a show of it — she’d open her mouth, pretty pink tongue out, and he’d watch as she swallows. He shudders at the thought of it, quickly snapping his eyes open and grabbing a tissue from the box on his desk to clean himself up. He’s immediately back to his grumbly state as he does, irritated that he allowed himself to lose control in such a finite way.

He tosses the dirty tissue in the garbage can and stands up to tug his briefs and pants back up. The clink of his belt buckle is the only sound throughout the small room, so he jumps when a knock sounds on the other side of his closed door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, someone knows, I must have said her name, I’m such a fucking freak—

His eyes widen when the person speaks: “Profess— Harry? Are you in there? It’s Y/N.”

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