#i have it stirring on my mind for some time now
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📄 𝐈𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡
Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader
𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8k (help???)
𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Married couple, Wife!Reader, burnout, overstimulation (not sexually), arguing, angst followed by fluff, kiss and make up, virginal fingering, kisses galore, EVENTUAL SMUT, pregnancy sex, bit of body worship (he loves your pregnant body) cowgirl position, sensory deprivation sex.
𝐀/𝐍: I poured my heart into this one, not that I don’t always do but this one in particular just hits closer to home. And yes it’s a vent fic so very very self indulgent.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’re tired. He’s tired. There’s only so much stress you can withstand before you reach your tipping point. Luckily your husband is here to keep you grounded
It started off with a throbbing in your head and as irritating as it was, it wasn’t bad enough to disrupt your daily routine. But as the week rolled on, the throbbing sensation began to get worse.
You were becoming easily irritated and it didn’t help with the workload you had to tackle. Even Miguel noticed a change in your mood but whenever he would bring it up and ask you about it, you would deflect his questions and tell him you were fine.
You couldn’t bear the thought of burdening him when your struggles especially when he had his own responsibilities and duties to fulfill.
You knew that if you admitted the stress you were feeling, he would insist that you rest, which was the last thing you needed, especially with how much you needed to get done this week.
You tried your best to ignore the nerves that were stretching to their limits now, but it was proven more difficult with each passing day. You would feel a sense of dread as soon as you got out of bed, mentally bracing yourself for the overwhelming day you had to face.
Your mind was preoccupied now as you reached over the high shelf for the spice jar. Your stomach was jutted out with the new life brewing inside of you, making it harder for you to manoeuvre around.
Just as your fingers brushed against the jar you were after, a sudden voice tore through the room, snapping you out of your trance.
“¿Qué dije sobre pedirme ayuda?” Miguel called out before he went over and stood behind you to take the spice jar you were reaching for. “What if something fell on you?”
“I don’t need help,” you insisted, reaching over to reclaim the jar back from him.
Miguel arched his brow in mild amusement. “You’re struggling to reach the spices, and you’re saying you don’t need help?”
“I’m fine, I’m trying to make dinner,”
“I know I know. But I’m here now so you don’t need to do that tonight,” You knew he was trying to emphasise the fact that he willingly took the time out of his day just to be with you.
Normally, you would be beyond appreciative towards his gesture. With his duties back at Spider Society HQ breathing down his neck all the time, it was a rarity that you both had an evening together like this.
He would either be saving the city or in another dimension, and although you would still be able to contact him through your watch, it would never be the same as having his physical warmth with you.
But right now, you were driven by your stress and too wrapped up in getting the job done to be in the right state of mind and properly enjoy the night.
“Why not? I can still cook you know,” you resorted, pouring some of the spice in the pot before stirring the content.
“And yet, I don’t want you to.” He said firmly before he turned you around to face him and rested his hands on your growing belly, silently conveying his concern for your wellbeing. “Now go sit,”
As the food continued to bubble on the stove, you retreated from his touch defensively. His face twisted in confusion as you questioned, “Why the hell are you doing that?”
His face fell further at your change in tone, “Doing what? Touching you?”
“No, treating me like I’m a basket case,”
“I’m treating you like the mother of my child. You’re pregnant and over exerting yourself,” he tried to reason with you. You attempted to conceal how much your senses were firing right now.
You couldn’t tell if it was the aroma of the cooking that was making you slightly nauseous but you were starting to feel agitated.
“I’m pregnant, not paralysed Miguel. I’m fully capable of doing this myself,” you could see the frown forming on his face and he definitely picked up the hostility of your tone.
“I never said you weren’t capable but I don't want you doing too much,” he argued back, his voice growing more insistent, mirroring your frustration. He wasn’t going to let your stubbornness sway him, even if it did irk you.
You could feel the heat of your vexation rising in your guts. You hated being interrupted in the kitchen especially when you were making dinner. Even if you were tired, you were still going to stand your ground and continue until you were done.
Throughout the last few days there had been a build up of tension that you have been bottling up and you refused to talk about it with him, even if he did ask you about it.
You had no safe outlet for your emotions and now you can feel it taking a toll on your daily tasks. It was almost palpable and you couldn’t control the sudden outbursts you were throwing at your husband right now.
A small part of you knew that he didn’t deserve this harsh treatment you were giving him. But that meek feeling of self awareness was quickly overshadowed by your clouded mind that was skewing your thoughts, unbeknownst to you.
Out of bitterness, you twisted the knob to switch off the stove before you turned to look at him. His annoyed expression didn’t falter, rather you could see his brows furrowed more. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Turn off the stove?”
“You wanted me to stop, didn’t you?” Now it was your turn to be confused, though you could still feel the lingering coldness.
He was so adamant on you not cooking so why is he still not satisfied when you turn the stove off? What was his problem?
“What are you trying to prove here?” He asked.
The question hit a nerve, the fact that he was insinuating that you had an ulterior motive just by a simple action. It was almost insulting. Was he trying to sound condescending just to throw you off?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,”
Ouch.
“Oh please, enlighten me,” There was an obvious edge to your tone and he glowered at that. You could tell he was really starting to get annoyed when you saw his fangs started to emerge from his canines, something that was only stimulated in the height of rage or arousal.
“Cut the sarcasm. You’re purposely getting on my nerves and it’s working. Now, are you going to answer my question?” His voice demanded clarity from you and you weren’t sure if anything you said would satisfy him.
“Like I said, I’m doing as I’m told. Why are you getting mad?” You snapped back. You didn’t want to admit that what he said made the shadow of sympathy you felt early crawl back again.
He wasn’t aware of the emotions you were keeping inside of you and probably thought you were purposely reacting this way just to pull his leg.
“You know damn well that’s not how I meant with my words,” he was practically growling now and you could see the crimson in his eyes flicker like a flame.
With a weary sigh you pinched the bridge of your nose— a habit that you both seemed to share. You didn’t have the energy to deal with this argument now, it was clear that it wasn’t going anywhere.
The throbbing in your head was back, but now it felt like a pounding sensation reverberating in your skull. Without another word, you turned to leave the kitchen leaving the half-cooked food behind on the stove.
“Where are you going?” You heard him call out from the kitchen before he took a few steps in your direction.
“To the room, I lost my appetite,” You headed your way up to the bedroom. You didn’t hear his footsteps following after you as you closed the door behind you.
You climbed into bed with the blanket over you and made yourself as small as your pregnant belly will allow you. There was a sense of bleakness that was shrouding you now— the underlying stress you’ve been feeling was still there but it wasn’t as overbearing.
With the silence in the room, you’d think you’d be able to calm yourself down a little from the heated interaction you just had, but instead your mind was still racing. You couldn’t stop yourself from straining your muscles no matter how hard you tried.
You tightened your grip on the blanket and buried yourself deeper into the sheets, trying to block out as much of the lighting from the room as you could. You didn’t notice Miguel entering the room until you felt an additional weight on the bed beside you.
For a long moment, all you could hear was his steady breathing and the occasional bed creaking before he spoke out of nowhere. “Well, at least the silent treatment is an improvement from earlier,”
The sarcasm was uncalled for especially now. It made your blood boil. To make matters worse, he kept going. His voice, that you always loved hearing, now sounded like an irritating ring in your ear. “Are you just going to hide under the blanket until I forget about everything?”
“Stop talking….please stop talking!” you pleaded, your voice was quivering and on the verge of tears. You felt like you were at a tipping point, standing on the edge of something already breaking.
The sensory overload from the argument along with the tension was still present, and you desperately needed silence.
There was a long pause and your pulse was thudding in your ears. Even if you couldn’t see his face, you could tell he regretted his words just from his silence.
“Do you want me to turn off the lights and go?” His tone quickly switched, a soft caress. You poked your head out of the blanket to look at him.
You felt guilt tugging on your heart after everything that had just happened moments ago. Your husband didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of all of this. The least you could do now was end the night on a civil note.
“Turn off the lights but don’t leave me,” you requested. Without wasting a beat, Miguel got out of bed to turn off the lights before he climbed back in to embrace you.
The room was dark but you could still see his silhouette against the Nueva York city skyline from the bedroom window.
“Could you hold me? Please?”
“Of course,” his voice was a soothing balm against your firing nerves. Swallowing thickly, you pushed the blanket away and moved onto his waiting arms as he leaned against the headboard.
You settled onto his lap and you felt his broad arms wrap around you. Your eyes started to leak with your heated tears and before you could stop yourself, you broke into a sob.
“Just breathe, I’m not going anywhere. Take your time,” He muttered against the crown of your head. You rested your head against his chest with his heart thumping softly near your ear.
The throbbing was starting to ease and the relief that followed after came in waves. All that weeks worth of pent up tensity was released in one night through your tears.
With the absence of the lighting along with the silence, it was easier to reach the mellow state that your body was screaming for.
“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” you rambled, a sense of remorse crashing down on you like a storm.
“It’s okay…I feel like we should talk about some things though,”
“Like what?”
“How we should handle potential fights in our marriage. I don’t really like the way we argue and get at each other's throats so quickly,”
You let his words sink in. The mere thought made your heart ache. The situation would’ve never escalated this far if you hadn't talked to Miguel earlier. Instead you let things boil over.
“It’s my fault…”
“Why do you say that?”
“I kept brushing you off when you wanted to be there for me,” you admitted, a bitter irony taunting your confession.
In retrospect, you’ve witnessed Miguel struggle to open up about his feelings while you were still in the early stages of the relationship.
Even during your marriage, it was a huge step for him to finally be completely emotionally open with you. You’ve noticed how much your relationship has flourished since then and how closer you felt with him.
But now the tables have turned tonight, with you leaving Miguel oblivious to the series of weary emotions you were experiencing. You knew it wasn’t healthy for you or the baby growing inside you to carry such stress alone.
“I noticed the way you were struggling the past few days. I just wish you were more vulnerable with me and not feel like you have to put on a brave face just for my sake,” Miguel explained.
“I dont…I don’t really know where to start,” You tried to rack your brain and coordinate how to express the tension you’ve been feeling the past few days. It was difficult to pinpoint on one thing and string the words together.
“Everything just feels so overwhelming and too much for my brain to handle…even the clock ticking makes me want to rip my head off,” you clutched onto his shirt, a feeble attempt to hold onto your crumbling composure. “I don’t know if it’s the hormones from the pregnancy or a burn out. Or maybe both,”
“I’m leaning towards burn out since you’re showing all the signs, you’re easily irritated and I can see you’re overstimulated from the smell of the cooking to the lighting in the room,”
“Maybe you’re right,” you agreed softly. A lot of issues could be contained just by not saying anything. You seemed to be acutely aware of your own hesitation when it came to voicing your emotions.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to share your feelings with Miguel; rather you didn’t know how to and feared the unknown reaction that may follow. You weren’t used to being this vulnerable.
You knew that you would rather hear Miguel share his emotions, even crying on your shoulder, than have him be silent. It was only fair that you took your own advice. Here you were advocating for openness, while grasping onto your own reticence.
“Could you do me a favour?” You asked in the midst of the silence that was shared between you.
“Of course,”
“I understand that you don’t want me to lift a finger especially while I’m pregnant but could you not try to intervene when I’m in the kitchen. I don’t like sitting around and I want to keep myself busy,”
You could sense the hesitance from him as he drew in a shaky breath before he spoke. “…yeah I can do that”
“You already have a lot on your plate,”
“I do, but promise me that you won’t leave me in the dark when you need something from me,”
“I promise.” You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “I’m glad we’re on the same page Spiderman,”
Even if your view of him was obscured by the darkness in the room, you could still see his lips twitching up from your comment. “Mhmm that’s not an excuse for me to be a neglectful husband to you. So don’t act coy with me,”
“Oh I know. I’m just finding an excuse to be a smartass,” you teased him further by kissing along his jaw. Feeling his body tense from your touch, even if it was subtle, was a huge ego booster.
“Was that supposed to throw me off or something,” you could hear the groan he was trying to hide at the back of his throat as he spoke and it made your stomach flutter.
“Maybe,”
“Uh huh, you definitely did that on purpose,”
“I’ll do it again,”
“And I’ll kiss you right back,”
“Alright bet,” Before he could retaliate, you were bold enough to lap over his lower lip with your tongue. A low moan could be heard from him in response.
It was rare for you to initiate such a confident move like this but there was an undeniable spark and you didn’t want it to go just yet. The bleak mood from earlier was now forgotten and was replaced with arousal.
You pulled away to reposition yourself so you were fully facing him on your lap, your legs on either side of his hips.
His grip on your waist tightened in response drawing you closer to him until your bump was pressing against his torso. “You have no idea what you got yourself into,”
Finally with a longing that built in your stomach, you leaned in until your lips met in a fervent kiss. The weight of your doubts and anxiety was now completely diminished as you felt a magnitude that pulled you into bliss.
You felt him run his tongue over your lips and you parted them slightly in response. He took this opportunity to deepen the kiss, completely taking over your mouth with a low groan.
As you pulled away, breathless with desire, you couldn’t help but tease, “Too much or not enough?”
To which he responded, “Not even close to enough,”
“Good, then I’ll keep going. You’re not getting the upper hand here,” you were beaming at your own words.
But your confidence was cut short when you noticed his hand reach over and slipped under your pants and past your panties until his fingers were grazing against your folds.
Feeling the air that brushed against your slickness was enough to humble you. You didn’t realise how soaked you were until you felt yourself suction around him greedily as he pushed both his middle and ring finger in.
“You’re saying that now, just wait until I’m inside you,” he was taunting you, completely throwing you off but you would happily let his fingers do all the talking now, even if it was at the expense of your pride.
Your hand immediately reached to grapple onto his biceps to keep yourself steady. If it wasn’t for your restricted mobility from your bump, you would’ve started rolling your hips to ride on his fingers.
But instead you allowed him to do all the work. Your head rested on his shoulder and you moaned into his neck as the pad of his thumb rubbed against the sensitive nerves of your clitoris.
He dragged his fingers out, now wet from your arousal, and slowly ran it over your folds. The first thing you felt after he pulled his hands away from your cunt was his hard on, pressed against you.
You would’ve started grinding against him with how needy you were if he didn’t hold you still. He held you by the side and moved you off his lap so he could remove his pants and boxers before lying down flat on his back.
You didn’t need the light to know that his dick was standing on its end with beads of precum leaking from the tip. You removed your own clothes and felt the cold air slap on your cunt.
“Ven acá amor,” his voice was inviting and you’d be a fool to deny him.
You let him guide you, given his enhanced vision that allowed him to see in the dark. Both hands were on your rear, spreading your cheeks before you felt the tip nudge into your folds.
“Oh God-” you whimpered. You felt yourself stretch to accommodate him, sinking yourself lower until you were balls deep. Your hips flushed against him with your stiff clit pressed against the top of his groin,
“No divinity. Just your husband’s dick inside you,” A wide grin spread across his face. His hands were all over your growing belly, feeling the warmth of you and the occasional kick of the baby.
“Que bonita,” he said in awe. A sense of pride washed over him knowing he was the one who knocked you up, the woman he loved and the mother of his future child. “Muy linda tu barriga,”
You seemed to be more sensitive to his praises especially given the fact that you were getting cock drunk now.
Ever since your bump was starting to show, Miguel never missed the opportunity to praise you. He wanted you to feel proud of your physique and not be hesitant on your changing body.
His hands reached over to hold your waist before he piston his hips up and took control of the pace. You could tell he was holding back from going rough, handling you with extra care.
The feel of him thrusting inside was enough to knock the senses out of you until you were high from bliss. He was making sure you felt every sensation in full capacity, feeling every crevice of his dick being caressed by your silky walls.
His hands reached over to the back of your neck to pull you in until your lips met again. The kiss was disoriented and breathy as he was still trying to maintain his pace.
Each brush of his lips on yours was feeding into your ecstasy. You pulled away and nestled into his neck, taking in his dick so well.
“That’s it, let me make you feel good. Let me make you forget about your problems, amor,” he whispered lovingly in your ear.
“Miguel…” you couldn’t form a proper response, your moans of pleasure drowning out your voice.
He was so good at making feel this way, reaching optimal pleasure from his touches. With the absence of the lighting you allowed yourself to just physically feel everything he was giving you.
His broad head nudging into your cervix.
His soft whispers fanning against your ear.
His hands all over and worshiping you everywhere he could reach.
“God, you’re so easy to please,” You could tell he was reaching his peak. With one final buck from his hip, he dragged his dick to reach the depth of your cunt before he reached his climax.
You felt the contraction of your walls around him as he drenched his balls inside of you. His grip on you loosened and his dick slipped free from your grasp before deflating onto his thighs.
You whined from the sudden withdrawal and the muscles of your walls relaxed. There were still remnants of his cum that was sticking between your thighs but you would deal with that later.
Miguel kissed the top of your forehead before letting out a deep sigh. You both lay together in each other’s embraces, basking in the afterglow with your breaths merging together.
Amidst the tranquil intimacy, your stomach let out an unexpected growl, reminding you that you skipped dinner.
Miguel chuckled softly, “So, have you still lost your appetite?”
You huffed. “Well it’s suddenly back now that I’ve worked it up in other ways,”
Hot take: cooking together in the kitchen is NOT romantic 🙅🏻♀️🗣️ move out of my fucking way and let me work
𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @monarchberrysblog @strawberryjuice9 @lazyjellyfish300 @quack-ie @ghost-lantern
@ginanet @superstar-t20 @roreadsfanfics @francesca-the-1st @vanillapinkrose
@dfffghio @migueloharastruelove @nerdyninjaprincess @unhinged-reader-36 @maiyart
@nediks @ahcrie4help @cl3stevu @kodo1221 @boobsbeesbongos
@emelie-s-h @pretty-pink-princesss @safixiovi
Just a heads up, this may be the last Miguel fic I’ll be posting for a while. Writing for him doesn’t feel the same anymore and my hyperfixation for him is slowly wearing thin. Im not sure yet though, but savour this as much as you can I guess. That and I feel like my writing isn’t good enough for the fandom anymore :p
Also reminder that I will be interacting and reblogging fic from my second account @lmaoyouwhore
#★— ayrus writes#♦︎— sinful encounters#❤︎ scientist husband ❤︎#← he’s backkk!!#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o’hara smut#miguel o'hara smut#miguel ohara x reader#miguel ohara#miguel o’hara spiderman 2099#miguel o’hara x you#miguel o’hara fanfiction#spiderman 2099 spiderverse#miguel spiderman#spiderman 2099#spiderman 2099 x you#spiderman 2099 x reader#spiderman 2099 smut#spiderverse miguel
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SR Azul Ashengrotto - Apprentice Chef Voice Lines
Summon Line: I'll be learning to cook under the tutelage of a professional chef.... What a fantastic class this will be. I'll have to make the most of this opportunity.
Groooovy!!: To my taste, the dish seemed merely adequate... However, it seems I was still able to receive a fairly high evaluation.
Home: Proper health and safety is essential.
Home Idle 1: If the risotto used for the rice croquette is too hard, the texture will be wrong, and if it is too soft, it cannot be sculpted into balls. This is difficult to get just right...
Home Idle 2: According to Silver-san, taking in nutrition is also a form of his training. But he can't fool me with his flattery...
Home Idle 3: I've tried various recipe substitutions before, such as frying chicken without deep-frying, or using soy beans instead of meat... However both the flavor and texture would always fall short of what I was hoping.
Home Idle - Login: Even those in management should try to gain experience out on the floor sometimes. That way the employees can't possibly have anything to complain about, wouldn't you say?
Home Idle - Groovy: Fantastic, with this, I should receive top marks... Fufufu... You see!? Even I can create delicious meals if I put my mind to it!
Home Tap 1: I've been able to gain an understanding of ingredients and various meals thanks my interactions with the chefs who work at my mother's restaurant. I am using that knowledge as my foundation as I strive to learn even more.
Home Tap 2: For some time, I would eat mostly only health food, as it was an easy way to count calories... It was to the point that I began to utterly dislike it.
Home Tap 3: I must keep a careful watch on the oil's temperature. If it becomes too hot, it's possible that the croquettes will burst open mid-fry.
Home Tap 4: The Mostro Lounge offers a special rotating menu. Especially since costs can be reduced by purchasing seasonal ingredients.
Home Tap 5: Gurk...! I only paused stirring for the slightest moment and the rice started sticking to the frying pan... I need to quickly recover from this mistake.
Home Tap - Groovy: Did you enjoy that? How wonderful. Now then, what should I receive in return for this dish...? Fufu, I kid.
Requested by Anonymous.
#twisted wonderland#twst#azul ashengrotto#twst azul#twst translation#twst masterchef#mention: silver
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my heart’s been borrowed and yours has been blue
just a lil something, completely self indulgent and inspired by miranda and steven in s2 of sex & the city 😔🥺
warnings: angst😤; a little fluffy; soft!rafe because i personally LOVE him
you did it without thinking.
it felt as if your body had a mind of its own and while your brain yelled at you to stay put and act normal, your heart simply didn’t allow it. your feet pounded against the street pavement, each step echoing the racing of your heart. you didn’t dare to look back, afraid that if you did, you’d crumble under the weight of your memories with him rushing back. the sound of your breath filled your ears, drowning out the chaos of the main street.
rafe.
the name echoed in your mind like some sort of haunted melody. you didn’t expect to see him, not after so many months without a single glimpse of his perfect face. you’d broken up months ago, you were supposed to be over him. and yet, despite all your attempts, his presence still stirred something within you.
this wasn’t how it was supposed to work out.
you rounded the corner, trying to convince yourself that it was fine. so what if he was back in town? so what if he didn’t call you? so what if you two promised to stay friends and yet…it’s none of your business. you should be thankful.
but seeing him out of the blue, it was like a sucker punch to the gut, except it felt like it came from a hundred directions at once. maybe you just needed a minute to process all of it. maybe a venti latte and some retail therapy would do the trick.
except they didn’t and hours later, here you are, stuck to your couch wondering how the hell you are supposed to step foot outside knowing there’s a possibility you might run into him again.
your brain always goes into overdrive when you think of rafe cameron. and now you’re stuck here, overthinking every little thing. should you text him? would that be too desperate? but what if he's thinking the same thing?
and if he isn’t?
there's a sudden knock on your apartment door, the sound cuts through the haze of your mind, jolting you back to reality. you reluctantly peel yourself off the couch and shuffle over to the door, wondering if that amazon package you ordered this morning is here already.
you glance towards the peephole, debating whether to check who it is or simply ignore it. after a moment of internal deliberation, curiosity wins out, and you approach the door cautiously.
you peer through the peephole, half expecting to see a stranger or maybe the mailman with a package. but to your surprise—it's rafe.
holy fuck.
your breath catches in your throat as you take in his familiar face from up close, a jumble of emotions stirring inside you.
what's he doing here? how did he get your new address? you moved from your parent’s home just a month ago.
for a beat, you’re frozen. no one taught you how to proceed in these kinds of situations, but you are fairly certain letting an ex-boyfriend, the one you’re still in love with, inside your personal space is a big no-no.
should you open the door? pretend you’re not home? smash your head against a wall and pray it knocks you out instantly? before you can even begin to form a plan, there's another knock, this time a little more insistent, as if he knows you’re on the other side.
“i can hear you breathing.”
panic sets in.
summoning whatever fake bravery you have left, you take a deep breath and reluctantly twist the doorknob. with your hands trembling like crazy, you swing the door open, revealing rafe standing there.
you gulp, feeling like your throat's suddenly decided to go on strike “yeah-uh. hi!”
his hands are clutched behind his back and his eyes take turns between your face and the door. there's a slight furrow in his brow, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline and the curve of his nice cheekbones.
“that was a shitty thing you did. running away from me on the street.”
you feel a crazy amount of guilt wash over you. he’s not wrong. running away like that was cowardly, but did he expect you to run into him with open arms?
“i didn’t run?”
his lips, usually set in a determined line, now quiver ever so slightly, “you ran.”
the weight of what you did hangs over you like a dark cloud. could you have acted any more immaturely?
“well, i wasn’t expecting to see you-“ you manage to blurt out, your voice shaky, “and-and, i-“
“it really hurt my feelings.” rafe's finger points accusingly at his chest, and you feel like you’re about to shrink into the floor under the weight of his disappointment.
you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. you can feel your eyes starting to sting with unshed tears and you use every remaining strength inside you not to cry in front of him. you’ve embarrassed yourself enough.
“i don’t deal very well with ex-boyfriends?”
his expression softens slightly, and he leans his weight against the doorframe, his eyes searching yours.
“hey, sweetheart, this is me.” his hand moves again and he gently places it on his chest, right over his heart, as if trying to convey the sincerity of his words “rafe.”
but he’s not your rafe anymore.
that’s the one thing you want to tell him. you chew on your lower lip wondering if honesty would do you any good right now. if it would erase all these months, weeks, days, hours, without him.
a moment of silence stretches between you, and then, after what feels like an eternity, you finally manage to utter a response.
"yeah..."
rafe's gaze remains fixed on you, “i held you while you were sleeping.”
if you weren’t crying before, you are now. it's like a dam has burst inside you. tears stream down your face like a leaky faucet, nothing strong enough to hold them back. they're not the dainty tears you see in movies, but big, ugly cries that leave your mascara streaked and your nose running.
you try to speak, but all that comes out are choked sobs and sniffles. it's embarrassing, really, how out of control you feel. but you can't help it even as your front neighbor comes into view.
you do quick 180 and bolt back into your apartment, hand pressed against your forehead as if holding it will stop the raging headache you’re about to experience. you don’t have to look back to know rafe’s following you, trailing inside and swiftly closing the door with a soft click.
"i’m sorry," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. "i’m really sorry. i’m so sorry-“
rafe's hands reach out, his palms open as if he's dealing with a wounded animal.
"hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle reassurance, "it's okay.”
“i hadn’t seen you in so long,” you confess, your words tumbling out in a rush, “and i missed you and then i did that shit-“
his hand envelops yours, his touch grounding you. "hey, breathe," he urges softly, “it’s okay.”
tears well up in your eyes again, blurring your vision as you struggle to hold back the sobs threatening to escape. "’m sorry," you choke out, voice breaking with each syllable. "i'm so sorry, rafe."
“it wasn’t that shitty, okay?” rafe's expression softens further, the way it does only for you.
“it was! i’m a shitty person.”
his thumb gently brushes away your tears as he shakes his head slowly. "no, you're not.”
“i am! you would’ve never done something that shitty.”
the nagging feeling that you’ve let him down once again is eating you alive.
he raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "what do you call showing up here, in your apartment, in the middle of the afternoon and calling you shitty, huh?" he asks, his tone teasing yet affectionate.
you can't help but let out a shaky laugh, “t’s not the same.”
rafe reaches out, gently cupping your face in his palm as he brushes his thumb gently across your cheek. “yeah, it is.”
without even questioning it, you lean into his touch, closing your eyes as your allow yourself to bask in the warmth of his embrace. for the first time in months.
“i miss you,” you confess, “whenever something happens, i just want to tell you about it.”
“so, tell me.” the tender smile softens the lines on his face, "’m right here.”
you feel a rush of relief, a weight lifting off your chest as if he's just granted you permission to exhale. and yet, tears still well up in your eyes, blurring your vision and spilling over onto your cheeks in hot.
“i have a date.”
a knot forms in the pit of your stomach, tightening with each syllable. your voice quivers with uncertainty, the words tumbling out like stones from a crumbling cliff. you don’t have to look to know your hands are shaking like leaves in a storm. you’re pretty sure if you held them up, they'd look like one of those ridiculous earthquake simulations.
rafe nods, doing his best to stop the cheeky grin growing on his face, as he shakes his head understandingly, “looking forward to it, are ya?”
but you only sob harder.
"hey, hey- sweetheart. it's alright.” he says gently, his voice soothing you better than any depressing song on your playlist, “just jokin’ around.”
but you can't shake off the feeling of shame, the burning embarrassment of admitting to something you wish you hadn't. of letting someone take you out, someone who isn’t rafe, your rafe.
"i just... i thought it would help me move on, y’know?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
"i get it.” he tries to smile at you again, but it looks sad, and it makes your heart hurt. his hand reaches out to brush away a stray tear from your cheek, “i’m not mad.”
but you are. at you. at him.
the words linger in the back of your mind, gnawing at your insides. you want to scream, to lash out at him for being so understanding, for not fighting for you the way you wish he would.
you push his hands away from your face, your voice cracking. that’s all it seems to do since he walked back into your life ten minutes ago.
"that's it?" you exclaim, "you're just okay with it? with me going on a stupid date with someone else?"
it was like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him, and he didn't know how to stand back up.
rafe’s jaw is set in a firm clench, "i just want you to be happy.”
“but i'm not happy!" you retort, your voice rising in volume as tears continue to stream down your face. "i'm miserable, rafe! and you're just standing there, doing nothing!”
his chest is rising and falling heavily, as if he’s trying to contain himself.
"i'm doing nothing?” he asks so quietly; you take a double take to make sure it’s still him. his eyes flicker with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. it feels like staring into a wildfire, all fierce and untamed.
you swallow hard, suddenly feeling the weight of your words crashing down on you. the way rafe looks at you, it’s like he sees right through you.
"i’m here, aren't i? i’m listening, okay? i'm trying to understand."
but his words only fuel the fire of your frustration.
"i need you to tell me that you still care. that you don't want me to go on that date because you want me for yourself."
you could see the anger draining out of him, leaving behind this raw, broken man. he slumps forward, shoulders drooping. his eyes go from blazing with intensity to just... empty. like he just flicked off a light switch behind them.
it’s heartbreaking, honestly, to see him just fizzle out into nothing.
“’course i want you for myself," he whispers, "but i can't force you to choose me. you left me.”
it’s a devastating sight, really. to see someone you love so deeply, someone who’s always been so strong, just fall apart like that. it’s like watching a building crumble to the ground.
and the worst part is, you know you’re the one who caused it. you’re the reason he’s standing there looking so broken, so lost. and you hate yourself for it, hate that you couldn’t be what he needed, hate that you had to go and ruin everything.
“i left because i didn’t feel good enough,” your voice is hoarse from screaming and crying, “not because i stopped loving you.”
for a moment, the silence between you is deafening, stretching on through time. it’s like neither of you knows what to say.
and then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, something shifts in his expression, he looks as if you have hit him.
“i never wanted you to feel that way,” he murmurs, stepping closer to you. “i never wanted you to doubt how much you mean to me.”
his words hang in the air, like they’re carrying the weight of all the things you two never said, all the things you wished you could take back. as if he’s putting it all out there, laying his soul bare for you to see, finally showing you everything he’s been keeping bottled up inside.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers, the words a solemn oath sworn in the quiet of the night. “’m sorry for not being there when you needed me.”
“i’m sorry too,” you choke out. “i’m sorry for pushing you away.”
and then, without another word, without another moment wasted on regrets and what-ifs, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. it’s like coming home after a long time.
and yeah, you might have a shit ton of things and problems to sort through, but rafe cameron is worth that and more.
#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron au#rafe cameron fluff#rafe angst#rafe cameron angst#rafe x reader#rafe fic#rafe cameron obx#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron x female reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x kook!reader#obx rafe cameron
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Kissing On My Tattoos
warning: eehh, naur warning. Maybe just a sprinkle of a moan in there, but nothing harmful :)
Roman texting you while you're on a date has never been out of the ordinary. Especially if you had no interest in the guy.
A smile lit up Roman's face every time his phone buzzed, knowing it was a message from you, signaling that you weren't enjoying yourself.
Baby Girl💕: Can you come pick me up when he drops me off?
Biting his bottom lip, Roman typed the following words,
Sure thing baby girl. Just let me know when you get home.
His brown eyes brightened, he couldn't wait to see you. Just the thought of you made his heart race which he hated but loved at the same time. He just wanted to have fun. But you, oh, you yearned for something deeper, something more profound, especially with him.
When he confessed his attraction for you but made it clear he wasn't ready for anything serious, it broke you, leaving a bittersweet ache in your heart. Yet, you understood. Some people couldn't fathom the idea of commitment. And Roman, he was one of them.
He did put an offer on the table though, he put forth the idea of ya'll becoming friends with benefits. No strings attached whatsoever.
You were very hesitant and you thought about the offer for at least 2 weeks. You were putting your feelings on the line and knew it wasn't worth it but you really wanted to be with him. And if that was the only way you could have him, then so be it.
It's been 3 months since you've agreed and to be honest, you have enjoyed it. Besides the fact that Roman always.. and I mean always flirted with other girls in front of you. But hey, that's what you signed up for.
Before you knew it, you were dipping your toes into the waters of other men's attention. After all, if Roman was playing the field, why shouldn't you? The plan was simple: keep him around until someone else came along who truly made you feel the way he did.
Roman had picked up on it. Your absence hadn't gone unnoticed, not with you off on dates with other guys. And weirdly enough, he was feeling... jealous? Roman had never really been the green-eyed type, but lately, something was stirring inside him. He knew he shouldn't be, given he'd been messing around with other girls while fooling around with you. But still, that twinge of envy lingered.
He wanted you all to himself, plain and simple. Yeah, he knew it was selfish and unfair, but that's just how he felt, and nothing could shake that.
Lately, he'd been keeping his distance from the other girls he'd been seeing. It was like he was slowly cutting ties with them, realizing that his heart belonged to you and you alone.
Slipping into a black tee and his favorite Nike sandals, Roman checked his phone after getting a text from you.
Your date didn't go as planned, and now all you wanted was for Roman to bring back that smile to your face.
___
"Thanks for picking me up Ro, tonight was horrible.."
You collapsed onto his bed, sprawling out on your stomach. His scent enveloped you, his cologne mingling with the familiar smell of his sheets. You melted into the mattress, feeling completely at ease. Your muscles relaxed, and so did your mind. It was pure bliss.
He settled on the edge of the bed near your feet, releasing a heavy sigh.
"No problem, baby."
Internally, you melted. When he called you baby, it sent shivers down your spine, but you quickly reminded yourself that you probably weren't the only one he called that.
Before long, he was stretched out beside you, shirtless now. He propped his hands behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling. His mind seemed to be wandering, lost in a swirl of thoughts.
He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else having you, touching you, holding you, kissing you...None of it. The idea alone made him want to scream in frustration.
You noticed the look on his face.
"What's wrong?"
You hopped onto his lap, settling with your legs on either side, facing him.
"Nothing..."
"Don't lie to me."
He grinned and his hands found their way to your thighs. Instantly, your skin prickled with goosebumps, a familiar sensation whenever he touched you. Your body responded in ways that defied explanation or words.
He licked his lips, nearly making you squeal with anticipation.
"It's...just that I don't like seeing you with other men. It drives me absolutely in-fucking-sane," he expressed sternly. You could tell by the look of his face, he was serious. In fact, it almost felt like you were in trouble just from the way he looked at you.
Holding back a smirk you said,
"Well, I don't like seeing you with other women, but you're the one who came up with this Friend With Benefits crap,"
"I know, I know.." he sighed, running a hand over his bearded face.
"So, what are we going to do?" you asked. You honestly enjoyed this. He was finally giving in to his feelings.
His hands lazily trailed up and down your silky skin, relishing in the way you responded to his touch, your breath catching in your throat.
"We're going to be together because the thought of you being with someone else is eating me up on the inside,"
You awed him, grasping his hands in your own and placing them above his head. Leaning forward, you captured his lips with yours. The kiss was laced with a passion you've never felt before. You both took your time exploring each other's mouths, tongues fighting for dominance before he finally won.
As Roman's tongue teased a sensitive spot in your mouth, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan, feeling a warmth pooling between your thighs.
Planting kisses along his shoulder, you traced the inked patterns on his skin, marveling at the details they whispered about his culture, his life.
When you found that sweet spot, he groaned, his grip on your hand tightening as you continued to hold them above his head.
"Baby.." he whispered breathlessly as you sucked on his sweet spot. You showed no mercy, nibbling and sucking until he was putty in your hands. Every stroke of your tongue against his inked skin sent shivers coursing through his body.
"Now, we aren't going to be together just because you say so. I really want you to drop those women, all of them. Prove to me that you want me and only me.." you murmured against his neck before sitting up, meeting his gaze head-on.
Roman pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes squinting slightly.
"Okay...I will."
Lightly slapping his chest, you glared.
"I'm serious, Roman. You're playing games and I'm not down with that anymore. I'm through being fuck buddies. Either you give me all of you or nothing at all."
Roman sat up, encircling his arms around your waist, pulling you close. He rested his forehead against yours, his desire burning beyond the physical; he wanted to claim you as his own. You were the only one who stirred these feelings within him, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing you just to play the field.
He was a fool for your pretty eyes and that smile. How'd he expect himself not to fall?
"I'm not lying, baby. I promise, I will drop them all for you."
He brushed his fingertips along the curve of your cheek, his minty breath teasing your lips as he inched closer.
"I don't have to worry about another woman's lips on your body?" you questioned, a hint of uncertainty in your eyes.
He tenderly kissed your lips, catching you off guard for a fleeting moment.
"Nope. I don't want nobody but you kissin' on my tattoos, baby girl.." he whispered, then leaned in to place a kiss on your temple.
---------------
Hope y'all enjoyed this small little one shot!
And please go read my last two one-shots if you haven't already. I enjoyed writing them and want you to enjoy reading them! Love ya'll, Muah!
Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @mzv11 @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx
#roman reigns#wwe#roman reigns fanfiction#wwefanfic#romanreignsimagine#roman reigns x black reader#roman reigns fluff#fanfiction#romanreignsoneshot#roman reigns x reader
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jamie and reader looking through baby names :((
[ what’s in a name ] j. drysdale
paring : Jamie Drysdale x fem!reader
summary : Jamie and his girlfriend try to find the perfect baby name
warning(s) : none really
author’s note : this is very dialogue heavy btw. it’s very conversation based. also kinda short oops
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Baby Drysdale is due in a month and they still don’t have a name. The nursery in their new house is Voorhees got done before they found a baby name.
There was a time where she knew what she wanted her baby's name to be. She was also ten. Now she’s an adult and is in charge of naming an actual human being.
Today is the day though. She and Jamie are going to sit down and pick out their baby’s name. Baby Drysdale will have a name before coming into the world if it’s the last thing they do.
Jamie sits at the kitchen island with a notebook while she runs around the kitchen to cook dinner. She’s been craving a baked dish so she’s making lasagna for them.
“Do we want a neutral gender name?” Jamie questions. “Since we don’t know if the baby’s a boy or a girl. We can come up with names for both a boy and a girl if you want too.”
She gently stirs the large pasta noodles as she thinks. “I think gender neutral is good,” she replies. “I do have one request though.”
“What?”
“If we have a girl, her middle name is Marie for my mom.”
She looks up to look at her boyfriend and Jamie smiles at her. “Absolutely,” he says. “I won’t say no to that.”
Her mom died about three months before they found out they were expecting Baby Drysdale. It’s like she sent them the little angel growing in her daughter’s belly. That is why Baby Drysdale’s middle name will be Marie if they are a girl.
Jamie scribbles down the idea. “Okay, we have a middle name,” he comments. “If we have a girl. What about if we have a boy?”
She wracks her brain as she tries to think about a middle name if Baby Drysdale is a boy. “What about your brother or dad?” she asks. “Maybe a grandfather that meant a lot to you? Any of their names?”
Her boyfriend sighs behind her. “I mean, my dad’s name is Gary and my brother’s name is Charlie,” he replies. “I wasn’t super close to my grandfathers so I wouldn’t want to name our baby after one of them.”
“I like Charlie as a middle name,” she comments. “Would he mind if we stole his name?”
Jamie laughs. “I don’t think he’ll mind,” he tells her. “He would probably love it.”
“Then Charlie as a middle name if Baby Drysdale is a boy,” she says.
She pours the cooked pasta into a strainer in the sink so she can start layering the dish. “Now we need a first name,” Jamie says. “Especially a name that goes with both middle names we picked out.”
There’s movement behind her and she glances back. He is grabbing is laptop and bringing it back to the island. “What are you doing?” she questions.
“I am going to find a list of names and we are going to go through it until we find one we both like,” he says as he types something. “And the baby’s name isn’t going to be something basic and common either. We’re going all in.”
She laughs and layers the dish. “Alright,” she sighs. “Hit me with some names.”
“We got Avery first on the list,” Jamie tells her.
Avery Marie or Avery Charlie. “I’d like it better as a girl’s name,” she admits. “Avery Marie sounds very pretty.”
Jamie scribbles that done. “I agree,” he replies. “Next we have Taylor.”
She thinks about it as she licks some sauce off her finger. “I like it,” she says. “For both.”
More scribbling as she throws a layer of foil on top of the dish. “Next we have Wyatt,” Jamie says. “I will say that I am not a fan of this name. It doesn’t go well with either middle name.”
“Agreed. Next.”
There’s a moment of silence between them as she puts the dish in the oven and timer. She walks over to Jamie and wraps her arms around him from behind so she can see over his shoulder. “How about Silas if Baby D is a boy?” he asks. “It just popped up at a separate list at the end.”
Silas Charlie. “I love it,” she replies. She watches Jamie write it down.
“So I think we have our names,” Jamie comments. “Avery if Baby D is a girl and Silas if Baby D is a boy.” He looks up at her.
Without realizing it, tears well in her eyes. “We have our names,” she echoes. The tears spill onto her cheeks.
Jamie turns in the high stool and faces her. “Baby, you don’t have to cry,” he coos as he uses his thumbs to dry her tears. “This is supposed to be a happy moment.”
“I know,” she laughs. “I can’t help it. I’m a very emotional person right now.”
He pulls her into a hug and rests a hand on her belly to give the baby a hug. “I love you both,” Jamie says. “Emotions and all.”
She laughs and rests her cheek on her boyfriend’s head as he gently rubs her belly.
༺═──────────────═༻
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You comfortable with writing about reader having a semi mild belly kink towards schlatt? I just wanna feed him and take care of my tsundere teddy bear between my girlbossing times 🥰🥰💕
Only if you’re comfy ofc! ^^
yes of course! i’ve got a perfect idea for this!
"ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ'ꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏᴍᴀᴄʜ"
jschlatt x fem!reader
summary: just cooking for him, like all the time. but he absolutely loves it.
warnings: fluff, reader is possibly an influencer or streamer or something
a/n: im cooking the best i can chat its past midnight (ps i don't mind the time that you send these! i'll still see them <3)
good god, it's freezing outside. you think to yourself as you reenter your shared apartment. the warmth you're met with inside allows you to shrug off your wet, rained-on jacket and hang it up on the hook, then slip off your shoes after. two sets of paws patter towards you, jambo and [REDACTED] greeting you happily at the door by rubbing up against your legs.
"hi, my babies," you coo to them, but your thoughts are interrupted by a string of profanities ringing through the walls. Jay must be streaming tonight. might as well make something warm for dinner.
you nod and travel to the kitchen, clearing a bit of counter space and pulling out the cutting board. jambo and [REDACTED] follow close behind, and sit next to the kitchen radiator as they watch you get ready to cook.
you figure you have at least two hours, if not more, until Jay is done streaming, so that should be enough to cook a warm dinner. you first pull out chicken, and put it in a pan for the oven. as the oven preheats, you get out your pot and get chicken broth out of the cabinet to bring it to a boil.
you cut up vegetables, including carrots and celery, as well as some chopped parsley. you put it all into the pot of broth, and when the chicken is done, you cut it up into cubes and toss it in as well. it smells amazing, and you add a tiny bit of onion and minced garlic into the mixture.
overall, it took about an hour and a half to cook up, which was enough time for your boyfriend to stalk his way out of his office to greet you in the kitchen.
"what'cha cookin', toots?" he asks, startling you as he wraps his arms around your midsection and rests his head on your shoulder.
"chicken soup, my mom's recipe," you giggle and rest your head on top of his as you stir the soup.
"smells fuckin' delicious," he says, standing up straight and giving you a kiss on the cheek before walking over to grab a water bottle out of the fridge. "i've got about an hour of stream left, that good for you?"
"yep, take your time baby, i'll be here." you turn to smile at him.
later, he meets you for dinner at the kitchen island. you plated the soup nicely, the fancy soup spoon and all.
he sits at the barstool next to you, where you waited for him.
"you didn't have to wait for me," he tells you, a tiny bit of confusion in his voice.
"i wanted to," you reply, a smile on your face. "you know i love eating dinner with you."
you ate mostly in silence for the rest of the time you sat, it was comfortable and warm, just like it always was with the two of you. as much as it didn't look like it on streams, or on the podcast, or to anyone you knew, it was always like this. the apartment was never rowdy or upbeat, the two of you and your cats lived comfortably and quietly with one another.
just like now, after dinner and the dishes that Jay so kindly helped you with, where you both laid in bed with the cats curled up between your legs. you laid on top of Schlatt, your head on his stomach and your arms around his torso, with jambo and [REDACTED] both curled up with each other between your intertwined legs.
it was like a quiet, quaint, happy little family. you wouldn't trade this for the world.
"i love you," you mumble, "..so much." you nuzzle into him further, wrapping your arms around him tighter, drifting off as you listen to his breathing.
"love you too, toots." he says, one of his hands coming down to caress the back of your head.
this was absolutely everything and anything you could ever want.
pls is this bad or what
© property of xoxoluka. do not repost.
#jschlatt x reader#jschlatt fanfic#jschlatt x y/n#jschlatt x you#jschlatt#schlatt x you#schlatt x y/n#schlatt fanfic#schlatt x reader#schlatt#fluff#jschlatt fluff#schlatt fluff
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cherry wine stains 8.0
playing it a little differently and rewinding back to their school years but with an Aegon POV this time.
all previous parts in pinned.
"I like your knee-high socks."
"I like the chain you wear like a crucifix."
"Strange way to describe it."
"I don't know. It just - it hangs around your neck like the absence of something."
Her words dissolve like sugar into the cup of his mind.
Clever people don't realise the riptide of their soul is not being fed until they meet another clever person. Aegon's currents slow to a whispered crawl as his eyes trace Amara's profile, creating images in the tangle of her windswept curls.
She's left a lipstick print on his mother's favourite mug. When he sees it, his soul unhooks from where he keeps it folded away, right there at the base of his neck where the silver chain fastens.
Later, he'll kiss that print, see if the measure of his mouth is enough.
Helaena told him in private: You can't! You can't, you can't, you can't! You ruin everything!
The frantic protests of a younger sister who thinks - knows - that her older brother getting involved with one of her friends is going to end up in a loss for her. He's dated one of Helaena's friends before (it ended in the kind of operatic disaster you only ever see on Eastenders).
He does not want to date Amara as much as he wants to pry her open like a game of cat's cradle and weave apart the strings that keep her mobile. Half the time, Aegon suspects she isn't truly awake. Some part of her is drowning in slumber, deep as Briar Rose. He catches that moment sometimes, as she blinks at him with those sleepy eyes.
The texture of her thoughts - when she gives them up - slips like satin over his fingers.
"Do you want a smoke?" He flips the mint-green box in his palm and grins.
Her gaze is longing. "I told my mother I'd quit. Besides, aren't menthol cigarettes banned here?"
He shrugs, slipping one between his pinched lips to hold it steady. "Nothing's banned if you squint."
"Flawed logic," she laughs.
"She said to a drug dealer."
That makes her laugh harder. He likes making her laugh. Feels worthwhile somehow. Not much in his life feels that way these days.
The younger siblings are all growing up, leaving school, moving onto greener pastures, where the chaotic drudgery of the council estate turns into a crystalline vision in the rearview, something to put into personal statements and add what rich tossers would call flavour.
They don't need him like they used to. He and his mother have raised them to become self-sufficient and now Aegon has to figure out what he wants to do with himself because where the kids are going, they won't want to admit what their brother does - has done - for a living to ensure their survival. He predicts he'll be the family embarrassment every Christmas, the uncle that shows up drunk, with a sliver of something in his eyes that suggests he could have been something once.
He knows he won't end up that way. His need to be someone, get somewhere, is far too aggressive. But he does fear no longer being needed by the people who have relied on him so long he can no longer extricate himself from the identity of protector.
Maybe it's why he likes making Amara laugh.
She doesn't have siblings. Her eyes still dart around, nervous, as if aware her protection in this world is lacking compared to that of others. Her parents won't always be around. When they are gone, there won't be siblings to divide her grief up with. It'll just be her.
If his subconscious is turning her into his new surrogate sister, it doesn't reconcile well with the instinct that stirs when her skirt rides up an inch.
Alicent's stained glass lamp flickers, bulb on the brink of permanent death. Aegon reaches over to ensure it is screwed on properly and it affords them a last burst of weak light. Amara reaches out her hand under the dappled glow of its illumination, slipping her fingers under the violets, yellows and greens, as the crook of her elbow turns rose pink.
"I've always liked your mother's taste in furniture."
"Yeah? Take it. She wants to throw it out."
"No. If she's decided it's dead, it should go. I'll just be keeping the corpse if I took it."
Aegon's eyes wrinkle at the corners, smile disguised by the inhale of the cigarette. "It's not organic material. There's no corpse."
She glances at him, as if aware of his mockery despite the affection he delivers it with. "I think some inanimate objects come alive if they are loved enough. Alicent's had this lamp since I've known her. It's lived with her, and now it'll die. We shouldn't interrupt the process."
No wonder Helaena adores her.
They are both odd creatures, his little sister, and this intense, doll-eyed mirage that turned up at their doorstep one day, hungry for oven chips and love. She reached out her cold hands to Alicent, and found herself overwhelmed with the warmth and affection given in return.
He's known her so long, she should feel like a sibling.
What does it say about him if he can't stop wondering what it must feel like to graze his lips over her stomach and tongue that bellybutton ring she got in a short-lived fit of rebellion?
Aegon flicks aside the cigarette, mouth acidic with guilt.
He isn't the kind of person who wants. Other people want. Aegon goes out and gets. There isn't enough time to submerge in the feeling of want and understand the true depth of craving the human soul can achieve.
But he sees the whorl of soft hair at the nape of her neck and the feeling crawls up the rungs of his ribcage like a creature possessed. He pictures being small enough to curl up in the soft folds of her clothing, to soak in the scent of her until he passes out from exhaustion.
That feels like enough wanting for today.
"I'll see you downstairs, yeah?"
If she looks disappointed, it's just wishful thinking on his part. She knows he's not going anywhere. He'll be in the living room with the rest of the family who've put on Shrek and are split into two groups - the half that sings along, and the half that won't.
"I'll be down in a bit."
"Cool."
A sudden gust of wind lifts her hair, and the flimsy ribbon comes loose. He catches it before it finds freedom. She turns, expectant, waiting for the inevitable return of her almost-lost property. He pulls it between his fingers, wonders if it also carries life inside the woven thread, the way she claimed his mother's lamp does.
The weight of her hair rivals Isolde's.
Irish myths were a rooted part of his childhood, laced into Alicent's quiet voice every bed time. She swears the Hightowers are mostly, if not fully, Irish. But she could never be sure of how far back, or of the intricacies of any bloodlines. Rich people have the luxury of unfurling a family tree across the polished mahogany of their dining room table. They get to find their eyes, noses and mouths in the faces of people who lived too long ago to care what has become of their DNA.
Poor people make do with maybes and perhaps because most of the time, the lives of their ancestors are of no interest to anyone but themselves. Unless a mining forefather was crushed in a collapse and the resulting riots tore down a political establishment.
So, his mother pulled them back to times so ancient, the ancestors became common for all, their bloodlines too distant to maintain individuality.
If Tristan and Isolde are in Aegon's ancestry, that past life becomes tangible when he runs his fingers through Amara's hair and tames it into a braid he's practiced on Helaena a hundred times.
"There's something mythical about your hair," he says, and then cuts himself short because he deals drugs for a living, and whatever fancy thought this was about to be would make more sense from someone more booksmart.
She cranes her neck back and gives him the brightest upside-down smile. "That's the best compliment anyone's ever given me."
Aegon bites the inner corner of his lip and nudges her to look straight so he can keep braiding.
Once her eyes are off his face, it splits into a smile. Warmth drains down his spine like gold egg yolk poured from its shell. Once the braid is done, he rests his chin on the top of her head, and passes it off as brotherly with a goldfish-squeeze of her cheeks.
He lingers, inhales deep, smells her, turns her scent into binary code that he will decipher in isolation later.
"Don't be too long. You'll catch your death out here."
#aegon ii targaryen#modern aegon#aegon ii x oc#aegon x oc#aegon ii fanfic#aegon ii fic#aegon x amara#scalyfreakswrites#house of the dragon#aegon targaryen#cherry wine stains part eight#modern hotd au#Spotify#alicent hightower#hotd oc#helaena targaryen
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【Funny Story Time】
I wrote an article for my 6 pictures
I tried to machine translate a paragraph and modify it.
But it's too long. I give up.
During Links meal breaks, the chains sometimes share anecdotes from the past to improve their understanding of each other ......
Well, sometimes it's not so much the anecdotes that are shared as it is the puzzles or the creepy pasts that are shared on reflection. (And some people seem to enjoy it.
It was a spring-flowery afternoon, and the sun was just right, and mixed with the sweet aroma of the chef's well-cooked courser milk soup, it had to be said that it was a very good soothing respite for Links, who had just finished a hard-fought battle, both physically and mentally.
Everything was just right, so Warriors let his guard down and picked a conversation that had left him a bit exhausted for the next week (Oh! Don't get me wrong, it was actually quite an interesting process and development /grin/)
Huh, how could he be blamed, after all the Warriors, who was more social than the other Links, was relatively adept at grasping the melodrama of the atmosphere, knowing when to be quiet and when it was better to have a chat.
They all understood that the team was, with the exception of certain ones, clamshells that had come to life one by one. (Or maybe some of the outgoing ones are actually clamshells.) (Aha! A new way of flirting with oneself is born.)
Anyway, this is why Warriors wave his spoon smugly (like a tiny flag): "...... When we triumphed, the streets were filled with petals and ribbons, and people clustered in the streets and upstairs and on the rooftops, and though, trampled by the war, both the roads and the .. were somewhat depressed ...... Well! That part doesn't matter now!"Warriors stirs the soup and takes a small sip (any more and we won't be able to start a conversation today, Wild, the
boy's food is gaggingly good), "...brave soldiers walk the streets of Castle Town, their footsteps without the thunder of applause that rises up at the first moment, and my beloved Epona kicks and stomps (and here it's being torn apart by sunlight) down the stone streets, edged in gold, and the streets are filled with the most beautiful and beautiful things in the world.My beloved Epona was kicking and stomping along the stone streets edged in gold by the sunlight (glared at by a certain few here), flowers were thrown from all over the place to send blessings to the soldiers, and the fallen flowers covered the whole road, Aaannnnnd!Of course~ I received the most bouquets of flowers~ No matter which way I looked, the screams were like the rising of the tides that rose up and down, and went on and on and on~"
Warriors grunts and laughs as he speaks, lifting his bangs and skimming the ends of his hair.
Gee, he's always showing off his hormones that have nowhere to go.Legend smacked his lips on his spoon, the delicious food immediately soothing his prickly nerves caused by the teasing, but ......
Putting aside some of his "preconceptions", Warriors was indeed a strong general with leadership qualities, and under the circumstances, it was only natural that he would be welcomed to protect the people, lead the soldiers, gather the divided world, defeat Ganon, and bring safety to the people.With this in mind, Legend picked out the fruit in the soup and took a bite.Looks like he's popular, that's really good. Well, yummy.
(Wild has fine-tuned for everyone's tastes, the golden apple chunks added late in his bowl are soft, crunchy and sweet after micro-cooking, rich in flavor, he had asked for some seeds long ago, but Wild said that this golden apples are produced by probability,. Hummm, Legend who is the hottest apple supplier in Hylia and Loria' smiles but does not say anything.)
But ......Legend chewed another bite of apple chunks, looking at him like this is really unpleasant ah.Legend was disgusted by the image that appeared in his mind of Warriors riding horses and throwing flying kisses to stir up a cheering crowd of cold shivers, ah, can not think about it, a little stomach.[I'm not sure if this paragraph is translated correctly (because I read it myself as if something was wrong, but I don't know what went wrong).]
The Chef of Peace, who had been listening to the story since a moment ago and had somehow become a bit dazed, came back to his senses and looked at Legend, who was blushing a bit darkly, in puzzlement.
【If you want to know the full text, let me know, and maybe I'll translate it intermittently.】
Eggs①: (Three photos taken by Wind) (Price:?)
Confused by the first delivery of the bouquet
Link)
(Link, who was surrounded by civilians, gave flowers and scattered petals to celebrate shyness and cover his face)
(Link who was frightened by the enthusiasm of the people and hid in the Zelda King)
Eggs②:
A week later, another tea break.
Wars looked at Time, who was being chased and intercepted, and drank a cup of sweet and sour fruit tea contentedly.
Offensive and defensive potential is also different, sapling, soldiers are not tired of cheating, plan and then move, is also for the trick. (Completely strung together.)
Wind? Wind curled his lips as he held a small part of the empty cookie bag. Wars really held a grudge.
#legend of zelda#linked universe#loz link#lu legend#lu wild#lu warriors#lu chain#lu time#link#lu wind#lu fic#lu#loz#the legend of zelda
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Does Heaven Even Know You’re Missing
Paring: Established Bucky X Fem!Reader (Sugar)
Summery: Just a snippet Sugar and Bucky. Steve is alive. Part of the Sugar AU. Inspired by a song of the same name by Nickelback
Warnings: Nightmares, comfort, fluff, no use of Y/N, Not beta'd all mistakes are my own
Word Count: ~1005
Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3
Read Too Sweet here
Whimpering, you heard whimpering as you stirred awake which caused you to jolt upright and look around. Looking at your phone after you snatched it from the bedside table it read 4:03am. You felt him thrashing a little next to you and the whimpering got louder. Quickly you turned and leaned over him, he was squirming, there was a very evident sheen of sweat over his entire body.
He had been working on staying in bed for the whole night, it was proving to be a difficult task these last couple weeks. A difficult mission seemed to have rocked him in some way he refused to discuss with you. He didn’t want to scare you, but he was scaring you more by hiding it. He was a stubborn man, proud and terrified you would look at him differently if you knew everything going on in his tangled web of a mind.
He had told you once that the first time he stayed in bed all night was the first time you stayed over, he didn’t start in bed and end up on the floor in the living room like always. You brought peace to his soul, calmed his racing thoughts and soothed his worries. With you in his arms, he felt safe.
You quickly pulled the blanket down and off him so he wouldn’t feel confined, you touched the lamp stand, casting a dim amber light over you two. His eyelids were fluttering as his eyes moved frantically under them. You touched his cheek softly and stroked it gently.
The first time he had a nightmare in bed with you, was scary. You had to call Steve to help. Now you have a routine, you didn’t leave. His grip on your waist wouldn’t allow you to anyway.
“Bucky,” you cooed softly, “Bucky,” you stroked his cheek gently again and you felt his grip tighten momentarily on your waist. His fingers flexed and gripped the soft fabric of your night dress. He moved and turned over you, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling deeply.
One, two, three, four, five deep breaths later he collapsed on top of you. His weight was comforting and his intangible murmurs as he came too were almost relaxing. You gently stroked his hair and rubbed his shoulder.
“Just say you’ll stay and never go,” he mumbled into your ear, his hot breath fanning over your neck. “Never leave me here alone,” your heart broke at the desperation in his hoarse voice.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured softly into his ear as you kissed his temple. “I’m here forever,” you hugged him tightly. He whimpered into your neck and shifted so you were tucked safely next to his large body, cradled into his chest.
“The day I finally felt alive,” he said, his voice trembling as he gripped your mid section tightly, holding you tightly to his chest. “Was the day you fell into my life,” he whispered into your hair, his hot breath fanning over your scalp.
“Bucky,” you said softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he snuggled closer.
Sleep didn’t come easy again, every twitch of him against you made you wake up. Every deep breath made your breath hitch. You were afraid he was slipping again, back into his mind. You feared he was caging himself into his mind, screaming for help he wouldn’t dare ask for.
You felt hot tears well up in your eyes and your breath stuttered out as you tried to calm yourself. He was the one who was having nightmares, he was the one scared and here you were crying because of how it made you feel. You felt selfish. You cared so deeply about him, you fought so hard to make him realize you were there, forever. You weren’t going anywhere.
“Sugar,” his voice was coarse and thick with sleep. “Honey,” he cupped your tear streaked cheek and turned your face toward him adjusting so he was propped up on his arm. He peered down at you, his eyes swimming with so many emotions you couldn’t place just one. “What’s the matter?” He asked softly.
You brought your hand up and stroked his stubble covered cheek and let the tears come freely. “I’m worried about you,” you whimpered out. You hated how emotional you were, you were so quick to cry when emotions got high.
“Ssssh,” he pressed a firm kiss on your forehead. “I’m fine sweetheart, it was just a nightmare.” You took a few deep breaths and tried to compose yourself.
“It’s more than just a nightmare,” your voice was small, fragile. “You’re slipping again,” you didn’t want to sound like you were accusing him of anything. Something in his eyes broke, you were prepared for him to do what he would usually do, put a wall up and ignore it until it exploded out of the seams. His shuddering breath caught you off guard.
“I am. I’m sorry I tried to hide it,” he said softly, he was half lying on top of you, his big hands holding your head and stroking your face, his hot breath fanned over your face as he stared into your eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll leave. If you knew about the things I’ve had to do. The things I’ve done.” You went to speak, he shushed you again. “Not before. Now. The things I do on missions. I’m not sure I’m a soul you can save my sweet angel.”
“Bucky,” you placed your hand over his and slipped your fingers between his. “I’m not leaving. I promised you.”
“Heaven is going to come for you one day. When they realize you’re missing,” he murmured and rubbed his nose against yours.
“I traded an eternity to come and hide away with you,” you whispered back, relaxing under his weight as he settled.
“I’m never gonna give you back,” his voice was soft, and he pressed a gentle kiss on your lips. You were his sugar, his sweet angel, his everything.
Feel free to send me a message if you have a request or would like more, or would like to be added to the tag list ❤️
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky imagine#bucky fanfic#bucky x reader#fluff#marvel#bucky x you#Bucky Barnes x Sugar#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barns x reader#bucky barns imagine
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Watching the She-ra reboot after 5-6 years
Hey remember that show in 2018 that came out on Netflix during Tumblr's Twitter era and stirred up enough toxicity to turn you into Dave the Skeleton in the highschool science classroom?
Well BUCKLE IN for a RIDE cause I recently watched that show for the first time after avoiding it for YEARS, after seeing the fans and the haters be so devoted to either the fans praising it like a godsent deity or haters devoting their whole life to finding something wrong with every aspect of the show that it makes you wonder if they realized that they've become the Catra that they sought to destroy, I decided to avoid even touching the show and went about my life in other fandoms.
Well years have passed and like a Hallmark movie time abruptly went on and the drama soon faded, the tides have settled, the war has ended, and neither side remains the same. The fans have grown up, matured and enjoy the show as it is and the haters have lost all that sweet sustenance back in 2019 and have went the ways of the DoDo. With everything finally settled, I joined in on the rush of new fans recently that started rewatching the series and wanted to display my thoughts as well as a first time watcher ^^
I went in well aware of all the criticisms in mind, and having seen the original She-ra, and I just gotta say that my worrisome thoughts on watching it was completely washed away from the start of the show. I was worried of Adora being that one marysue character that is from the bad guys side but is actually a good a guy with the personality of white bread and with flaws of just being "a little bit QuiRkY" but she completely shooed away those fears. She is a well balanced character with a unique and well done backstory, her character breaking away from the steriotypical chosen ones and her having flaws that don't take away her being a good person but instead have their own charm and relatability that makes her very fun and down to earth. She is so golden retriever coded and I love it. What I like most though is that she wasn't "random main character comes in to lead everyone to victory out of nowhere" , instead of making her the unsaid leader, they made her the main character who is the muscle of the group and part of the heart and has to learn overtime and understand their ways instead of making her the leader. It makes way for her to pave and earn her way as being the main character instead of it being given by default by making her the leader and I love that break away. And that break away also helps to counter the fears I heard about the white savior trope by making Adora the way she was and making Glimmer and Glimmer's mom the queen the actual leaders of the rebellion that they helped start.
Love the best friends squad, I love Glimmer's growth and her bond with Adora, I like how she went downhill and built herself back up again as a person as it was very realistic with her being so young and having to replace her mom as queen. Bow is my spirit animal, period, but I really want to know more about his huge family. I imagine that because they are all historians they must go to the academy or similar academies that Bow was meant to go to and I can see why they wouldn't question him not being there as 12 siblings is A LOT to keep track of. Swiftwind is great but he shall always be known as Horsie and the queen's sacrifice hurts everytime I see it, I love how she owned up to her own flaws. Shadowweaver messed up being a mother figure 3 times, she needs parenting classes fr, 'nough said. I love all the princesses but Mermista is my personal favorite. Also why is aunt cast named Castaspella, I can't even say it without dying of laughter 💀🖐️
Now I know some of you are sitting at your computer with 5 monsters in hand and sweat anxiously dripping from your forehead as you dramatically hover over the keys just WAITING to write a five page essay response if I even dare to utter the name Catra and her relationship with Adora. So, I'ma give you my opinion.
Honestly, their romance was the end goal since the beginning and the story made that clear and honestly I like Catra's growth as a character from her knowing she has anger issues and actively working on it to better herself, helping to save others and helping to save Adora in the end. Her realizing that pushing others away to protect herself only harms her and everyone around her in the end and her realistically taking it slow and steady to better herself as a person for herself and for Adora is something a really like. Yes their relationship was hella toxic, especially in the middle (but I do like how Adora recognized that and punched Catra when they were in the portal). The build up was great, the middle ground of her doubling down was great, and I think her growth at the end was great and that the two are happy and not in a toxic relationship with eachother anymore at the end. I think what truly makes it odd is although the redemption was great the time constraints made it so they couldn't flesh it out to help answer and address the past actions that were caused by her, they did so great with her slowly becoming better and better, and so it wouldn't have come off as bad as it did if they had just a bit more time to address everything with that instead of being forced to dive right into it which definitely left a- well- less than good impression to it's audience. But they tried their best with what they could do and honestly for a show as surprisingly dark as this I'm just glad they aren't in a toxic relationship anymore and are happy in the end and that Catra got redeemed. It definitely wasn't trying to romanize abuse, however it came off as such due to constraints and them rushing the ending which gave plenty of ammo to people who already hated the show to have a reason to hate it more. In my opinion if you don't like it that's valid, if you do like it that's valid, me personally I'm not a romance person so I couldn't care enough either way.
Now to address some things I know some people are waiting for, but in speed run fashion. Mara's She-ra design was the fault of the designers not agreeing on what they wanted her to look like, I was expecting her to have brown flowing hair not blonde, I get the stripping of individuality message they tried to go with, it just needed better designers and better execution but that's as deep as it goes. It's not that they are racist, they are more along the lines of "you need a more organized team cause her design changes every five seconds like wtf" kind of situation. I'm glad they didn't automatically forgive Hordak or accept him but I'm glad he was changed enough to not be a killer that's mass murdering people anymore and as long no one is dying by his hands anymore and people don't automatically forgive him then that's fine by me, whatever keeps others from dying a horrible unnecessary death.
Overall, in conclusion, love the show, great depth, great characters, love the humor and amazing magical girl transformations, awesome rep, stronk princess punching things, would most definitely recommend, especially now with all the wave of chaos it's initial release sucked in now evaporated. (Seriously there are full tags and blogs deticated to hating a show about glowing princesses fighting aliens, it's okay to not like a show but come on people there is more to life than that 💀) Enjoy it, have fun, and I hope you have a great day/night! ^^
#she ra and the princesses of power#she ra#she ra spop#spop#spop adora#spop she ra#she ra adora#she ra glimmer#she ra bow#she ra mermista#she ra catra#she ra hordak#tv shows#netflix series#netflix tv series#netflix tv shows#netflix shows#netflix#tv series#princess#princesses of power#princesses
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Taken - Zutara - Part 8
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When Katara wakes, she feels sick. She doesn't know if it's because of hours of continuous healing, or because of the dark dreams that swam through her mind. Dreams of Zuko waking, only to blame her for his banishment, to curse her name as he has her tossed from the ship.
When she wakes, she finds neck aching, her legs sore. Slowly, she stretches, rubbing the itch of sleep from her eyes and turning to her patient, her friend. Zuko is still asleep, his features relaxed and breathing even. A blanket had been tucked around him, and her coat draped over her. She reached over, lifting Zuko's blanket to peer at his wound. Still pink and raw, but no signs of bleeding. She hadn't failed.
She could faintly hear voices in the hall, and slowly stood. The walls of a ship were thick, and for her to hear anything, whoever was speaking had to be quite loud. Any louder, and they could wake the sleeping Prince.
Opening the door, her gaze landed on her father and Iroh, the former falling immediately silent. Her father looked at her with worry, but she only gave him a cold glare in return.
"Prince Zuko needs his rest," Katara said, voice as firm as the ice she wields. "You're shouting does not help with that."
"I just wanted to check on you," her father said. "The general was refusing me entry."
"As he should." Turning Katara gave Iroh a slight bow. "If you would, General, could you stay with Prince Zuko? I need a word with my father." Iroh gives her a bow, moving towards the door. She reaches out a hand, making the man pause in surprise. "And General... When he wakes, I will be informed. Immediately."
This time, Iroh's face twists with guilt, and he bows his head deeply to her. "Immediately, Princess."
Katara waits until the door to Zuko's room is shut tight before turning to her father. "General Iroh is fully aware that I need to be able to concentrate when healing wounds so deep. He is also aware that I need to rest after healing something as lethal as that. So please. Tell what you could possibly need from me right now?"
Her father was visibly surprised. He took a step back, putting distance between himself and her stern gaze. "You... You came onto the ship so quickly. As if it were natural for you. I just... I wanted to make sure that you could leave. That you weren't... taken, again..."
Taking a deep breath, Katara turned towards the galley. She vaguely remembered where it was. "I need food. We can talk while I eat."
Her father followed her, eyeing each soldier they passed. The soldiers eyed them both in turn, but didn't stop them. When they arrived, the cook passed them trays of food. Her stomach growled as she breathed in the warm scent of spices and herbs. Two dumplings, rice, gruel, salted vegetables, and some sizzle-crisps. She could see a few bottles of spices and oils on the benches. Perhaps a bit to eagerly, she took her tray to sit at the end of a bench. Her father followed, looking a bit dubiously at his own tray.
"Zuko became a dear friend to me while I was in the Fire Nation," Katara says as she stirs a few spices and oils into the gruel. She takes a bite of a dumpling, trying to hold back excited squirms as she tastes a seasoning other than sea salt. "He's the one that brought me home. So you don't need to worry about him just taking off with me." She didn't voice her suspicions about his banishment, but there was something else that needed to be said. "But... Dad, I don't belong here."
Her father frowned, having only poked at the foreign food before him. "Of course you don't belong on this ship, Katara. You belong with the tribe."
Taking a deep breath, Katara shakes her head. "Dad... I don't belong in the tribe." Before he could argue, she raised a hand. "I'm not saying I'm leaving. This is... my home... But I'm... Different. I spent a long time in the Fire Nation-"
"Three years is not a long time!"
"Nearly four," she corrected, poking absently at her gruel. It was a familiar dish from the palace. It was nice to have it again. "And that's a long time when you're eight."
There was silence for a moment, before her father spoke quietly. "Are you going to ask them to take you?"
Katara took a breath. "No. Not... Not yet. There's a chance that I can... become a part of the tribe again. But that will take time. I'd like to at least ask for a few things. Spices, for one. Some materials, if they have any."
Her father eyed her tray, then his own. He took a bite of a dumpling, as if to see how good it could be, only to cringe at the taste. His surprise was clear. "You actually like this?"
"A lot," she said. "Eat the rice and gruel plain. They made plain so people can add their favorite spices and sauces."
Her father follows her direction, blinking at the taste. He watches as she eats her own heavily spiced gruel. "I noticed you weren't eating much... Is this why? Our food is to..." He trailed off.
Katara smiled weakly, which was answer enough. As she finished, she noticed a few small injuries amongst the soldiers sitting across the room. They were whispering, glancing at her. With a glance at the door, making sure that Iroh hadn't sent for her, she gestured for the men to come forward.
The first to move was someone she sort of recognized. He'd been holding the coat Zuko had given her after she woke. He had a wrap around his arm, which covered a series of unusual welts and punctures. Leeches, apparently. With a bit of fresh water from the kitchens, she soothed the bites until they were nothing more than specks. It set off a wave of soldiers coming forwards, lining up for simple healing.
Her father watched on, watched as each soldier bowed their respects, some even giving her some of their own breakfast. There was not a one that hesitated to come forward for her help after the first. There were no hasty retreats, no nervous twitches at each move she made. She knew that her father would notice the difference from these Fire Nation soldiers and the people that were supposed to be her tribe.
In the end, her impromptu healing session was cut short, the medic puffing into the galley. Immediately, Katara stood, giving the soldiers a polite bow. Every single one returned the gesture.
"The Prince is awake," the medic said, even as Katara started to move past him. The man scurried after her, her father a few steps behind. "But he is speaking with General Iroh, and-"
Speaking was to gentle a word. The slightly ajar door of Zuko's room let her hear his voice as it bounced through the metal hall.
"Uncle!" he was shouting. "I told you I didn't want to-"
"You needed healing, Prince Zuko!" Oh, dear. Even Iroh was shouting. "I could not lose you. We had nowhere else to go, so I came to the one person I knew could heal you. Princess Katara-"
There was a flash of fire, and an enraged shout. "You know I don't want her here!"
Katara felt her chest grow painfully tight. Zuko didn't want her here. Perhaps she had done something. Perhaps he had been punished for removing her from the palace. But the least he could do was tell her that to her face. And that very thought left her blood boiling.
Throwing open the door, she marched into the room. "And tell me, Prince Zuko, why is that?"
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crying again lol ok
#purrs#and posting online abt it so i get immediate validation / support instead of asking for help from anyone im close to i know. but god fucking#damn it to hell. ok im going to be candid about this because it hurts so fucking bad. five years ago i met someone so important to me. and I#miss her so so so so much. and every space here i have a memory with her in. and she left in July and she’s gone. and im sobbing my eyes out#FOR WHY because it was over 6 months ago and im happier and she’s happier and we’re all happier. but i think im getting some aftershocks#being here for the first time without her exactly 5 years to the week we met: when she was so important to me. she was the whole reason i#even saw myself as something. and she’s fucking gone. she left. but she’s not dead like LMAO idk why im crying so hard when i could just#text her any time and tell her that i miss her. but idk. it’s just everything is stirring memories and they’re painful to think about now or#at least today because she’s gone and it all changed. i was just saying that i feel like im not having any emotions and tonight the grief ju#just rammed into me like a train and my fucking counselor sucks ass and won’t even help me work through it and everyone is busy and tired an#and im a staff coach so im not supposed to be having a fuckjng mental breakdown over **** pacing around in my bathroom at 1:23am but ive be#been thinking about her so much and remembering all the formative interactions i had with her here and missing her so much i want to explode#and die and p*ke and whatever. so stupid to cry about it but i fucking miss her. and i hate that she’s not here. and i’m trying so hard to b#be her but i have to be me but i can’t not have what she brought here and im just crashi ng and burning and can’t be honest and im having a#breakdown and crying so hard and i don’t know what to do. i ithink i’ll be fine after some sleep and reflection but my heart is like seizing#on itself right now and nothing takes my mind off it and i just keep crying LMFAOOOOOO. i hate it here#delete later#like how can you look at me like that and then fuck off to ****** 4.5 years later. you know? im about to punch a hole into the hallway#and i have to be quiet bc ppl are trying to sleep but it’s making me fucking crazy.#retreat tag
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❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞
❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞
✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)
✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.
✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings
✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two
“You’re late,”
Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness.
Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks.
And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there.
And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall.
As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large.
“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture.
Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt.
And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out.
You got a B.
A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88.
You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds.
“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare.
Academia was truly hell.
And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,”
You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly.
Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—”
“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?”
“I am, I wanted to—”
He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—”
You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?”
“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze, “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,”
You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—”
“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,”
“I wasn’t—”
“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,”
And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—”
“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.”
The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease.
But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist.
“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin.
“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.
Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?).
You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do.
“See you soon.”
Oh, he would.
“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours.
Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to.
Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it.
“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?”
And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip.
No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal.
“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside.
“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—”
“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,”
“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,”
You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—”
“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,”
You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle.
You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall.
“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,”
“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips.
“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,”
“You will,”
“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,”
“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs.
“You learn fast.”
And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism.
Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again.
You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it.
And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top.
You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck—
It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good.
You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought.
And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss—
And you clearly needed sleep.
“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it).
You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’”
“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action.
“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you.
“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you.
“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—”
“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?”
And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—”
“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch.
“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—”
“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?”
“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck.
“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—”
“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,”
And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.”
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm.
What the fuck was that?
You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up.
It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working.
You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you—
You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you?
God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade.
Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory—
And then you heard him say your name—
Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?”
“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together.
“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him.
And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall.
Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream.
You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—”
“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today — and a deep royal purple one no less, “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—
You needed to get out of here.
You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head.
“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed.
“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,”
He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,”
God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together.
You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment.
“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”
“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,”
And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom.
But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves—
What the fuck were you doing?
But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor.
You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—).
You needed to stop doing that.
But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right?
Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment.
And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he.
But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back—
But why did his smile look so strained?
There must be something wrong with him.
Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you.
Why had he stopped you?
It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands.
But this, this felt different.
You were different.
But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism.
He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile.
And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm — but not the one he was looking for.
Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you—
There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?”
And it was you.
“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips.
“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?”
“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,”
He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease, “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?”
“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”
“I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,”
“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?”
He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?”
“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,”
“No, but—”
“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it.
And he didn’t want to pull away.
He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—”
“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?”
“But—”
“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,”
And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire.
“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?”
And there’s only one answer — you.
He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours—
RING. RING. RING.
He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there.
A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together.
But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager?
Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you.
And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM.
Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—
And you.
“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him.
His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind.
“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”
And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better.
But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.
He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face.
He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you.
“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,”
“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”
He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip.
And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard.
Fuck.
That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office.
But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms.
As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped.
But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings.
And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to?
It was that time again.
Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart.
Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board — his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name.
God. Fuck.
Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes.
But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.
Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear?
As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes.
“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?”
“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“
“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,”
And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips.
“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—”
“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,”
“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up.
And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture.
Double fuck.
Why was this so difficult?
You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore.
For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting.
But you didn’t know how to go in.
The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him.
Or wouldn’t.
But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it.
You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”
And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?”
“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?”
You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?”
“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?”
“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword.
He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross.
“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there.
“But?” You wait for it.
His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,”
You pause a moment, “Really?”
“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,”
“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his?
And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,”
Your breath catches, “Really?”
He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,”
“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take.
“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,”
“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises.
“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—”
“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,”
He stares, “What do you—”
“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,”
“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?”
And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”
“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,”
And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,”
“I would say it depends,”
“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk.
“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?”
He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—”
“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,”
“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours.
“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips.
“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.
“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more.
“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?”
And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again.
“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.”
~~~~
The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore.
And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks?
Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations.
And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head.
“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you.
“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.”
“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples.
You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave.
It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good.
Maybe it was for the best.
The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with.
Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all?
Oh, great, you were becoming existential.
You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best.
Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.
And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike.
“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile.
“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn.
“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?”
“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?”
“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’”
And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,”
“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,”
“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?”
You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page:
99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this.
You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction.
“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?”
“You had some spelling and grammar errors,”
“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin.
“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow.
“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,”
“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,”
It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again.
“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,”
“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly.
“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,”
And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips.
“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,”
“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?”
And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?”
Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned.
“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—”
“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested —
You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in.
Fuck, indeed.
✧ read part 2 now
✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!
✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,
#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader#suguru geto smut#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru smut#geto suguru imagines#geto x reader#geto smut#geto x you#geto suguru fanfiction#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#dividers by @/saradika
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it's genuinely frightening me how terrible my attitude has become when it comes to studying, like idgaf that i have a huge super important super difficult exam tomorrow in less than 12 hours and i cant be bothered to revise anything because ik so damn bored out of my mind ive tried washing my face walking around a bit, distracting myself for a bit to get back to studying but i cant bring myself to even look at it or even go through the topics in my head
#what is it called when your lack of care is alarming to yourself#i mean i know anxiety and i know the nausea and violent acidity that comes with it#and there is none of it right now#i feel so extremely understimulated i might cry i cant even sleep#and because none of this actually affects my scores in a “big way” no one is going to say i have a problem#which means i am never getting that adhd diagnosis#bc whatever i have clearly isnt impacting my life in a “significant” way#i feel like i need to beat my head against a wall to stir myself into action but im here trying to sleep unsuccessfully#i will have wasted time and ill regret it probably but most of all i hate everything about myself right now#and this sucks in extreme ways because i dont hate the subject i dont hate studying i hate the situation right now i hate exams#i hate that this is my last major exam i have no possible way to improve my performance#i hate that i sound like im making excuses#i hate that im honestly never getting that diagnosis#most of all i hate that im gonna be fumbling tomorrow and something is going to be just out of my minds reach#and if i was on some sort of medication that stopped me from becoming a literal zombie i wouldve studied better and id have remembered#i fucking hate that marks dont really matter to me much especially in my field#i hate the absolute helpless feeling i have right now#and the helplessness i will have in the exam hall tomorrow#it isn't so bad as it was a few years ago but my own behaviour has gotten rotten more and more and i honestly couldn't hate myself anymore
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The eye of the hurricane. I like to think Cassandra sometimes called the brothers by the nicknames their dad used, given they were probably pretty close before his passing.
BEGINNING || PREVIOUS || NEXT (SOON)
MASTER POST
Man oh man, this one was way messier and off model than my last few updates but whatever, we got to keep this ball rolling! Life's been crazy so I've had to take some unwanted breaks in between updates. Thanks everyone for your patience as always!
One thing I wanted in this flashback was to really get a sense of how the brothers worked as an experienced team with Leo at the helm as a proper leader. It's something we never got to see much of in Rise and I felt it was important to include since half the team is already gone by the time of Replica. Team Dynamics Ted Talk under the cut!
We know from Casey Jr that Leo stressed the importance of listening to your team. A big part of that also means knowing how to communicate with them in general.
With Michelangelo, he keeps it short and succinct, trusting his brother to know what he's doing when in his element. This trust goes a long way with Mikey, having spent years of his youth as the baby striving for the respect he felt he deserved. Leo knows it's best to not bog Mikey down with details, allowing him to improvise as needed. This unspoken freedom has only grown over time as Mikey has dipped deeper into spiritual arts that, frankly, go completely over Leo's head.
The greatest sacrifice Leo has ever made was read Donnie's Big Book of Bad Guy Codes. While he doesn't remember ALL the numbers, he has memorized the ones that matter and it has helped tremendously in avoiding miscommunication with his genius brother. More importantly it silenced any of Donnie's usual belly-aching. As Leo's "twin"/"equal" the two still butt heads from time to time. Donnie respects his brother's authority (mostly) but will still push the boundaries of what he's allowed on a semi-regular basis. Give Donnie an inch and he will take the mile and then find a loop hole that allows him to go twenty miles more. This is partially due to him often being the one left behind at HQ, making the turtle just a TAD stir crazy. Leo does his best to keep him in line regardless.
Big brother Raph will forever and always be big brother to Leo. As such he holds a place of authority in Leo's heart and is someone he still regularly seeks counsel from in both the ways of leadership and more. Raph is always happy to support his younger brother and does a surprisingly good job (albeit after years of practice) of walking the line so as not to step on his brother's toes in the process. At least not since the secret of "the Key" blew up in their faces several years ago. They don't talk about that anymore. Leo is the leader now and he's done a great job in recent years as far as Raph is concerned. He trusts him to make the right call. The two have a close bond and regularly use mind meld to quickly communicate rather than speak ...this will be important to remember for the future.
Hope that overall feeling came through for this group!
#rottmnt replica#replica#rottmnt#save rottmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#kathaynesart#unpause rottmnt#pregnancy#labor pain#labor#birthing#tmnt#rise of the tmnt#rise leo#rise mikey#rise donnie#rise raph#profanity#is cooch profanity?#I don't know I just found it funny
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bambi eyes (1) r. cameron
[Warnings] soft!dark!rafe cameron x reader, daddy!rafe x little!reader older!rafe, crimeboss!rafe, rafe takes advantage of traumatized reader, DUBCON, dd/lg, sex trafficking, sexual slavery, sugar daddy rafe, stockholm syndrome, spoiling kink, unprotected sex, forced? age regression, little editing, 18+ READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
A/N: My first Rafe fic :)
word count: 4.4k
In which Rafe finds a "healthy" outlet for dealing with his daddy issues.
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Rafe finally felt he deserved to be back at Tannyhill. The house had remained empty over the last five years, Sarah wanted little to do with her real family anymore, Rafe made the tough decision to send Wheezie to a boarding school in Georgia and now she was starting college there. Rafe had cleaned up his act and gotten clean, mostly clean, and managed to save Cameron Development from complete ruin.
As soon as the police were off his tail, and he’d brought back some legitimacy to the Cameron name, he could develop the true relationships he needed to become unstoppable. It started with Barry, then gangsters from the mainland, and then Rafe's gained connections with the cartels. He then rebuilt the empire the Camerons once had in the Bahamas and now he owned ten times the amount of properties they used to own there.
He could achieve everything Ward never could have. He could be better a man than his father ever could.
After half a year in Nassau, Rafe was finally back in Kildare, and he had plans to make Tannyhill the ultimate fortress. He had finally acquired the last missing piece of his American dream – you. He eyed you in his rearview mirror, passed out in the backseat of his truck, before parking in front of the huge, white house.
There were already white moving trucks parked nearby, men in black clothing unloading new furniture he’d purchased and “merchandise” he’d acquired from the Caribbean Don he’d been working with. That Don is who he purchased you from, picking you out in a lineup of twenty girls.
The Don clapped his hands together before he said, “Just tell me which ones you would like to have a closer look at. I’ll have them stand and turn for you. If you have something in mind — perhaps a certain skin tone, curviness, hair color, I can make a suggestion.”
Rafe responded that he didn’t have a preference and that he would know you were the one when he saw you.
Looking through one-way glass, Rafe noticed aspects of each girl, including the tiredness behind their eyes and the elegance at which each of them moved their bodies. The Don had each girl stand and spin for him. There was not a single falter or misplaced step until Rafe saw you. When it was time for you to spin, you almost tripped over your own foot. You fixed yourself quickly and fixed your gaze forward however, Rafe noticed your eyes began to wander. It felt like you were looking right at him. Like you could see him.
“One of my favorites,” He said in thick Creole, “She’s quite an angel if you’re looking for someone who’s a little tamer. Good hips, natural hair, the breasts and ass are real too. I’m sure you’ll notice. For you, since you’re a friend, fifteen thousand for the whole night.”
The Don wanted Rafe to become a new investor in his trade and possibly bring girls to Kildare in order to expand his clientele. He wanted to impress Rafe, and let him have a night with one of his well-trained girls, although Rafe was looking to make a final purchase.
He hadn’t had a real conversation with you yet, he was in such a hurry to get back to the States that he had to keep you drugged for the time being. It would be better this way, he convinced himself, since he would be able to have the house ready before you came to. He got out the truck before opening the back door. Although you stirred slightly in your sleep, Rafe knew he wouldn’t wake you as he pulled you across the seat and wrapped you in his arms. Bridal style, he carried you up the patio and through the front doors.
An elaborate security system now kept track of everyone coming and going from the house. He had so much more than his father ever would have, but that also meant he had so much more to lose. He was a different man than the last time he was here. Much more mature. He used to throw meaningless parties so he could appear well-known, favorited by all, and hook up with girls who only cared about getting free drugs from him. This time things would be different.
“Hey, hey, careful with that!” Rafe barked at one of the men carrying a white tea table that he’d spent thousands on. He was attempting and failing to carry it and the two matching chairs that it came with. Rafe should’ve known what quality movers he was getting when he let Barry put his men on the job, “You think I’m paying you to break my shit?”
Rafe carried you up the winding stairs of his childhood home, imagining you feeling like this place was yours, just as much as he did. He thought he’d feel slightly more melancholy, looking at the familiar yellow walls, the elegant chandeliers, and period furnishings. Instead, he felt a weight lifted off of him. Your bedroom was one of the old guest rooms, only a few doors down from the master, and unlocked with his fingerprint.
The large room was freshly painted white, a twin-sized canopy bed was placed on the farthest wall, and Rafe placed you on top of the cloud-like comforter. You were still wearing one of his button-ups and a pair of his briefs that fit you more like shorts, Rafe not having had the time to dress you in the way he actually wanted to.
“Put it over in that corner, carefully,” He spoke to the mover carrying the table, although his eyes were focused on you.
“Mr. Cameron-”
“You’re dismissed. Tell Barry I’m expecting him tonight at nine.”
As the man turned to leave, Rafe quickly followed to shut the door behind him. He took another glance around the room, deciding that the table set was the perfect edition. He could bring you your breakfast there in the morning and, who knows, maybe you’d come to like the expensive tea set he also bought you.
Rafe spent a good amount of time just watching you sleep and obsessively thinking about what might he say to you when you awoke. His anxious thoughts didn’t go away when he stopped doing drugs, they worsened in fact, but you were his new medium to focus on. You were healthy for him.
He spent all the time he had between his meeting with Barry, caring for you, “Daddy’s going to take care of you,” He brought you to the bathtub and gently scrubbed you clean, shaving all the areas he preferred to be hairless, even taking the time to braid your hair so that it was out of your face. He quite liked you like this, like his very own doll, someone he could mold into a perfect Kook princess. Women in the real world often perplexed him, especially women like Sarah, who took the luxuries they were provided for granted.
You’d appreciate everything that Rafe could offer you, he knew that, and you’d be obedient as well. He brought you back to the main room once you were dried, and clean and your skin was moisturized and scented with vanilla. He laid you on the soft carpet in front of your bed and dressed you in a white nightgown and then took his time rolling white knee socks up your leg.
He could take his time, pacing himself, as he ran his fingers over every inch of you. He’d been rock hard ever since he undressed you originally, and he debated whether to take a quick sample of you.
You have plenty of time, Rafe, he reminded himself.
His phone vibrated a short while later after he tucked you back into bed, and he clicked the notification. Video of the driveway appeared on the screen, and Rafe saw Barry climbing from his car, “Daddy will be back very soon,” He spoke although you couldn’t hear, placed a kiss on your forehead although you couldn’t feel it, and shut the door quietly although you wouldn’t wake.
As soon as Rafe opened the front door, Barry was already shouting, “Country Club! How you been, man?” Rafe’s hand was already out to shake his. Truthfully, and sadly, Rafe would consider Barry his oldest friend. “You happy about all the money I’ve been making you?”
“Thrilled,” Rafe spoke sarcastically, leading Barry to his father’s old office. He thought back to the days when he had to creep through this room and steal because Ward didn’t trust him. Now, it was all his, “Speaking of …”
Swiftly, Barry pulled a roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and dropped it in Rafe’s hand. Leaning against the oak desk, Rafe began to count, “That’s what I got for the boats. Those cars are going to take a little bit longer to sell.”
“And why’s that?”
“Those cars are classics, man, so I have a little bit of a bidding war going on,” Barry explained.
“I said I wanted them moved quickly,” Rafe sighed. He needed to get rid of as many of his father’s old things as possible if he wanted this place to be really his.
“I’ll get you everything by the end of the week,” Rafe nodded, continuing to flip through the bills, although normally this would be about the time he’d throw a tantrum, “So … heard you got yourself a beautiful girl-”
“Your guys run their mouths.”
“But it’s true?” Barry flashed his gold tooth, “You whipped, Country Club?”
Rafe opened the safe behind the tall bookcases, punched in the code, and safely tucked away the twenty-thousand dollars.
“Don’t worry about it, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near her anyways.”
Barry scoffs, “That breaks my heart, Rafe. I’m tired of these Pogue girls and the mainland chicks are even worse. In the old days, we used to share. You won’t help a brother out?”
Rafe smirked, “Like you said, that was the old days.”
You felt weighed down by whatever you were lying underneath, your eyelids were so heavy it took you a full minute to blink them open. You moved each limb slowly, trying to get blood flowing through them again. You saw sunlight reflecting off porcelain walls and felt creamy soft blankets enveloping you. You should feel comforted.
Pushing away the blankets holding you down, you pulled yourself up, strong enough to get onto your hands and knees. You stepped off the platform, off the bed, touching your toes against soft carpet but quickly your legs gave out. You whined as your knees hit the ground, surely bruising your skin, and let yourself fall back on your bottom.
Something fell down with you and turning your head slightly you found a teddy bear. You grabbed it by its arm, examining its chestnut fur and the pink bow tied around its neck. What? That was the question forming in your mind. You looked back at the bed you’d fallen out of and your eyes darted around the room. Three doors, a wall with big windows and long curtains, a table with chairs, a toy chest, a tall armoire, and a bookcase. This room did not belong to you, even in your wildest dreams, you’d never been somewhere so nice.
You noticed details in the wallpaper; small pink flowers decorated each wall, and white trim lined all the edges. All the furniture was white as well with elegant designs, and your original thought was that you must be in a castle.
You attempted to stand again and managed to get straight up on your wobbling legs until there was a small click, and the door began to open. You quickly stumbled back before you were sitting back on top of the mattress.
“You’ll go with Mr. Cameron now. To America,” Master said, “And you’ll remember your manners, won’t ya? Don’t want to end up like your friend.”
Mr. Cameron stood in front of you now. You remembered him being tall, but you didn’t remember feeling so small in front of him. With hands holding a tray in front of him, his mouth parted as his blue eyes raked over your figure.
You gripped the comforter tightly as he stepped closer, “You’ll have to take it easy,” He said first, walking over to that small table and placing the tray down, “Let me help you.”
When he came towards you, he held out both of his hands. You felt like you usually did, terrified, but there was always a voice in the back of your head telling you to obey. There would be worse pain than a bruised knee if you didn’t do as Mr. Cameron said. You grabbed ahold of his hands, allowing him to help you up before his hands moved to your hips as he steadied you.
“How do you feel?” He asked, a genuineness in his tone that you weren’t expecting.
Your lips parted and you realized you hadn’t spoken in so long. You also hadn’t had anyone ask you that question in a long, long time, “I’m … okay,” You spoke quietly as he searched your face. He was staring so intently that you grew insecure, turning your eyes away.
“I brought breakfast,” He began to guide you over to the table. You took slow steps, one in front of the other, holding onto him tightly when you felt you might fall. He set you gently down in the chair before taking the seat opposite you. You could see out the windows from this seat, your eyes finding a long dock and the ocean. When he cleared his throat, your eyes snapped back to his, “I’m not much of a cook but there’s a lady who works for me …she makes great pancakes, french toast, anything you could want really.”
You stared down at scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, and a pancake with a chocolate chip smiley face and a whipped cream nose. He started to pour you a glass of water, pushing it towards you, “Drink something,” He said, “You’ve been sleeping for a long time.”
You were really thirsty, you realized, and you took the glass he poured for you. When he didn’t pour himself one, a question rose in your mind, “Will this … make me sleep again?”
He immediately shook his head, “No, no. Drink, please.”
You were thankful, welcoming the nourishment. As you devoured the glass of water, he began to cut up the pancake into small pieces. You watched his concentrated face as he meticulously poured the syrup. Your mind didn’t stay on his interesting behavior because you were focused on eating next.
“My name is Rafe,” He said, “But you’ll call me Daddy.”
You paused, your mouth full of pancakes, “Okay? Nod yes if you understand,” He added.
You nodded your head, starting to chew again, and a smile seemed to pull at his lips. That’s what he must like all his girls to call him. “Good, that’s rule number one …This is your room, from now on. I’ll show you around the house after you settle in more. For now, you need permission to leave this room. Yeah?”
Again, you nodded, before swallowing your food. Rafe reached across the table with a napkin, wiping syrup from your chin, “I’m sorry,” You said, feeling embarrassed.
“No need to apologize,” He assured you, “From now on, I’m going to take care of you.”
Take care of you. You weren’t positive about what he meant.
Your hands moved to your lap, “Can I ask … how many girls you take care of?”
His head tilted, and he seemed amused, “Just you, sweet girl.”
“This whole room is just for me?”
“Yes, and this whole house will be just for us,” He answers, “Here, that reminds me. I was going to wait until dinner but . . . I can’t wait.”
You watched as he reached into the pocket of his khaki pants, pulling out a silver necklace with a beautiful, pearl pendant. Still, you found yourself struggling to wrap your head around what was going on. Rafe stood, coming closer in order to put the necklace around your neck. You heard a small click before Rafe pulled his fingers away. Your fingers reach up to feel the pearl, “You’ll always keep this on. Okay?”
You nodded.
“Tell me.”
“I’ll always keep it on … Daddy,” You remembered to add. Something lit up in his eyes, and he took your chin in his hand and tilted it up further.
“Smart girl, Bambi,” He stated, “That’s what I’ll call you.”
You nodded, although you weren’t sure why he picked it for you. It was better than “whore” or “slut” which seemed to be Master’s favorites. Bambi sounded … cute, which certainly wasn’t a way you would describe yourself, “Daddy … why …all of this, uhm, for me?”
“You’ll have everything I want you to have. And Daddy wants the best for you, understand?”
“Y-Yes, uhm … thank you.”
“C’mere, let me give you a tour of the room” He gripped underneath your arms, helping you stand. The human closeness, his warmness, wasn’t something you were expecting. You couldn’t fully let your guard down though, you were still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s good to have, uh, a routine,” Rafe explained, before showing you every item in the room. He clearly had been involved in picking everything out which you didn’t expect, “You’ll wake up by eight, make your bed every morning. . . your dirty laundry will go here and all your clothes are in here, if I have something specific picked out for you to wear, I’ll hang it here, you won’t wear any panties when you’re dressing for bed …and here’s the bathroom,” When you saw yourself in the mirror for the first time, your eyes widened in disbelief. Your hair was neatly braided, white bows wrapped at the end of each braid, and the nightgown made you look like . . . a doll. In the mirror, you could see Rafe lean his mouth down to your ear, “Do you like what you see?”
“I look …I think I look pretty, Daddy.”
“You do, sweet girl; that’s why I chose you.”
This was right. Rafe couldn’t have made a better decision choosing you. He had more rules to introduce you to but didn’t want to overwhelm you. He left you to brush your teeth while he took your tray of food back to the kitchen. When he returned, he found you peeking inside the toy chest, letting the top shut a little too loudly after he seemed to frighten you, ‘It’s okay, all these things are for you. I wasn’t exactly sure what you might like.”
He kneeled down with you as you took a look inside. There were quite a lot of stuffed animals, some puzzles, coloring sets, and some dolls. “My, uh, my sister Sarah, she used to love American Girl dolls. Have you ever heard of those?” You shook your head, picking up one that was dressed like an 80’s aerobic instructor, “They have all types of dolls. I should order you one that looks more like you.”
Rafe noticed you perk up at that. “One that looks like me?”
Your reaction made him chuckle, “Yeah, why not? If you want anything at all, you can just ask me,” Rafe could tell you didn’t believe him, although you still nodded in agreement, “I know you can’t be entertained forever by these things, but it’s better for your brain than watching TV all day. And we can watch movies together.”
“That would be nice-” Rafe leaned in to kiss you, his intrusive thought winning after staring at your lips. Rafe was surprised by how gentle it was and how gentle he still wanted to be with you. You were reacting so well to everything, he didn’t want to take the chance of ruining this. When he pulled away, you immediately started to lift your nightgown, attempting to expose yourself to him.
“You don’t have to do that,” Rafe gently grabbed your hand, pulling it away from your dress.
“I thought you wanted me …”
“ I do, I definitely do,” Rafe laughed awkwardly, “Let’s wait a little while longer. I want to undress you myself.”
You nodded eagerly, “But I … I could use my mouth?”
Rafe couldn’t believe someone could sound so innocent even while they were offering to give a blowjob, “Not before I taste you first, sweet girl.” Sexually, Rafe liked to be in complete control. He’d decide when they were ready, what positions, and who tasted who. His mind was starting to wander a little too far. He needed to remain composed for the time being, “For now, I want you to play. I need to work for a few hours, but I will bring you lunch, and we’ll eat together, okay?”
“Okay…thank you, Daddy,” You agreed, and Rafe happily placed a kiss on your forehead.
“You’re welcome, Bambi.”
Rafe tried to concentrate on work, he had a million things to arrange now that he was back in Figure 8, but his eyes would wander to the live footage on his computer screen from Bambi’s bedroom. She spent a while going through the toys he bought for her, and then she neatly made up the bed, before deciding on the American Girl dolls. Next thing Rafe knew, he was in virtual meeting with his Cameron Development team but was actively scrolling through the American Girl doll website in another tab.
Like he promised, Rafe took a break in the middle of the day to each lunch with you. Lana, Tannyhill’s newest household manager, prepared grilled sandwiches. Rafe joined you by the window seat where you had made yourself comfortable with two of the dolls and your teddy bear. You asked about Figure 8, of course, and Rafe gladly gave you the basics.
That night, after dinner was enjoyed, Rafe laid beside you in bed. You chose a book to read together, a chapter book called Bridge to Terebithia, “I have to admit, I’m not much of a reader. But this should be easy enough, right?”
“When you were little, did you always have …this?” You asked, a few pages of reading later, “Books and clothes and seats by the window.”
“I guess I did, yeah,” Rafe answered, “It was not all rainbows and sunshine, though.”
“Your father, was he like Master?”
“Yeah, basically. He was not a good man,” Rafe closed the book, turning his eyes to you “And he’s not your Master anymore, okay? It’s me and you now. Just me and you.”
You tilted your head, nuzzling more into the pillow, “If I’m bad, you won’t send me back?”
“No, not ever,” Rafe said steadfastly.
“You’ll punish me?”
Your words made him pause, and he could sense your worry, “I’m not going to hurt you, not in any real way,” Rafe’s hands found your waist, he gripped the bare skin beneath your nightgown, before his fingers roamed over your bottom, “You know how to be a good girl, right?”
You nodded, staring back, “Then you have nothing to worry about,” Rafe kissed you again, this time deeply and with the purpose of fully tasting you. He squeezed your bottom tight, pulling your front further against him so he could buck his hips against you. The book fell unread and to the wayside as Rafe roamed his hands over you.
He should wait, he told himself. It was only your first day here, but you were all that he had been waiting for. The idea that he could have you anytime, anywhere, and anyway he wanted you excited him more. A moan escaped you, and Rafe knew you were overwhelmed with the sensations, but he liked the idea of you feeling too much. He wanted fear in your eyes, fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, and then he wanted you to fully surrender to him.
Rafe buried his face in your neck, kissing and sucking until you cried out. Rafe knew you were a good girl because you had obediently gotten into bed for the night without your panties. He wrapped a strong arm around your back, easily flipping you onto your back. Rafe pulled away, breathing heavily, as he looked down at you.
“You okay, sweet girl?” Rafe asked, noticing your eyes were still closed. As you nodded, Rafe said, “Open your eyes for me.”
Rafe parted your legs further, reaching down to feel between your lips. Gently, he stroked up and down, feeling wetness at your entrance, “Tell Daddy how you like it.”
“I . . .” As he dipped a finger inside, your eyes shut again, squeezing tightly. This was a look of pleasure, Rafe noted, “Daddy-ah!”
“I think you want it gentle, hmm,” His index finger moved in and out slowly as his thumb caressed your clit, “I can be gentle, don’t worry.”
Rafe moved painfully slow, watching how every movement of his would change your facial expression. Once you were squeezing around his fingers and soaking the sheets, Rafe pulled down his sweatpants. He pressed his length against your entrance, watching your face as he pushed inside. You took a breath of air, your mouth forming an “o” shape as he slowly eased his way in and out.
He pressed his body closer to you, your arms instinctively wrapping around his back, and he tucked his head beside yours, his breath caressing your ear. He was gentle like he said, but he had to test your limits and see how deep he could go. Your whimpers told him what he needed to know and he felt your nails begin to dig into his back.
“Daddy, d-daddy, daddy,” You moaned his name, sounding a bit delirious as you repeated it over and over.
Rafe rocked harder against you, “Tell me. Say thank you for saving me Daddy.”
“Thank you–” Your voice came out barely above a whisper but Rafe could hear your small voice in his ear, “Thank you for saving me, Daddy.” Your hips writhing beneath him, needing more of him, was the final thing that sent Rafe flying towards the edge of the cliff.
He wanted to focus, to make himself last longer, but he needed you in that moment. His thrusts became shorter, and he sank deeper inside of you as he reached his peak, “Jesus,” Rafe gasped as you squeezed him tightly, your warmness pulsed around him, “Fuck.”
He resisted his desire to stay inside of you forever, pulling out and slumping beside you. Rafe’s eyes were wide, and he found himself staring at the ceiling for a moment to process what happened.
“Was that . . . good?” Your voice brought him back down to reality.
“Perfect, sweet girl,” Rafe took you in his arms, and you cuddled into his chest. Again, he whispered, “Jesus.”
Please let me know what your thoughts and predictions are! Reblog with a comment to be added to my taglist!
Part 2
#dark fic#rafe x reader#rafe obx#rafe cameron#outer banks#dark!rafe cameron#black!reader#rafe cameron x black!reader#rafe cameron smut#obx fic#outer banks smut#barry outer banks#rafe smut#rafe fanfiction
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