Hiya, I'm Summer. UK based writer of too many fandoms to count, and is often adverse to angsty writings. I'm over 18, so sometimes there will be smut so dni with those if you are a minor or uncomfortable with that type of content. I don't support hate of any kind, nor do I speak out about my opinions on this blog as it is purely meant to enjoy stories. No longer taking any requests due to personal reasons.
Masterlist ÂŹ A03 ÂŹ
Main Blog is @fictionalcomforts
About me
Most Popular Fic ÂŹ Only Need 10 {Andrew Garfield}
Newest Fic ÂŹ The Way I Love You {Coriolanus Snow}
Current Event ÂŹ Kinktober 2024
Past Events;
Kinktober 2021
2.5k Celebration
3k Fic Recommendation
Please do not engage with smut if you are under 16 or 18 in some circumstances (will be specified)
I do not approve of my work being reposted or translated without my prior approval
my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day
I feel kinda dumb asking you this but I just want to check
Minors are allowed on your blog as long as they don't interact with the 18+ stuff right? (I'm so sorry for bugging you)
Not a silly question at all! Never a bother đ
I'm totally happy for anyone under 18 to interact with posts that don't have age warnings. My writing should be enjoyed by all fans, but I obviously want to age protect my more mature fics
A Glimpse Of What I'd Do For You l Coriolanus Snow
Plot - As the First Lady of Panem, it is your duty to protect your husband. Even if it means dirtying your hands. But what is a little blood when the reward is so sweet?
Pairing - Young!President!Coriolanus Snow x Wife!Female!Reader
Warnings - Heavy plot + light porn. They are both mad, but sweet for each other. Murder/execution with guns, blood, body worship (??), nipple play, toxic language (??), light aspects of oral (fem receiving), softdom!corio. I fully believe he would be a total simp for someone on his wavelength
Word Count - 1,288
Check out the rest of my kinktober fics
âDarling, could I trouble you for a moment?â
Words breaking through the tense atmosphere that Coriolanus has cultivated in his private office. Harsh oak furniture, meticulously organised bookcases, swirls of browns and reds with faint hints of a cool gold. The help liked to say the cold of the room matched Mr. Snowâs frozen heart, but even the ruthless President of Panem couldnât help the way his shoulders relaxed at his wifeâs delicate words.
âYou are never a trouble,â he spoke with the push of his sturdy throne-like chair against the floor, punctuating his words. âCome in, my snowdrop.â.
The First Lady of Panem was nothing if not obedient. Perhaps thatâs why Coriolanus allowed you into his kingdom after six months of marriage.
Wordlessly, you rounded the desk to perch yourself upon his navy-blue-clad leg and perfectly placed a light kiss against his lips. The kind of kiss that tempted him to become entangled in your sweet web regardless of duties. Piercing blues too busy consuming his prize, thinking of all the ways to corrupt his pretty petal. Not even noticing you slide a sleek silver tablet onto the desk.
âI have a gift for you, Corio.â
A glossy black screen stared back at him with a barely visible play button. Those pale digits broke from your waist to start the show before returning to their previous position. He could feel the shift of your body and took close note of how you were biting back a smile.
Suddenly a face that has haunted his dreams appeared: Lucy Gray Baird. Coriolanus could feel the bile rising in his throat at the sight of that traitor. Despite the fact she was strapped to a chair with thick masking tape covering her sickening mouth, he felt uneasy.
âWhat is this?â
âFreedom. Keep watching, my love.â
The tense grasp on your waist must have been aching, almost as if he was punishing you for showing him this she-devil. But it was soon alleviated as he saw your graceful figure walk into the cell of Lucy Gray. Stark white gown, as pure as snow, standing there inches away from her. Stoic guards either side of your regal stance, part of Coriolanus compared your image to the Queen being flanked by knights on his chessboard staring down a lowly pawn.
âFirstly, I'd like to say thank you, Lucy Gray. If you hadnât betrayed the only good thing in your life, I wouldnât have my darling husband. Truly, I appreciate it.â
This wasnât his snowdrop. Never had he heard your voice that dominant and cold. Part of him preened at the words being spoken, yet he feared what was to come. Who had he married?
âYou were very difficult to track down. See, originally, I wanted you gone because I knew he loved you, and I donât like sharing. But then I found out that you wanted to destroy him. Drive him insane with your silly little tweety songs. And, well, no one can drive him crazy except me.â
Just as his mind caught up with the intentions of your words, a glistening of his fatherâs legendary pistol came into focus. Pointed between the eyes of the witch who once trapped his heart.
âGoodbye Lucy Gray. No one will remember you, and the Snow family will live forever.â
The bang of the bullet felt like an earthquake, but the image of you, his innocent little petal, with blood seeping into your porcelain dress was enough to silence all thoughts. Screen fading to black as the guards moved to remove the body.
âDid you like my gift?â
It was so small, as if you had made him a cake and were afraid that youâd added too little sugar. This was the wife he knew, and the wife he was growing to love. He always knew you were perfect; that is why he agreed to his marriage, but this was more than he could ask for.
He craved loyalty, obsession, ruthlessness, and compliance. You were everything he would ever need, wrapped in a pink bow. Finally, an equal, someone to love him the way he wished to be loved. Coriolanus would get rid of anyone you wished, and to know he has your devotion makes him feel invincible.
âIt may be the best present anyone has ever given me. Let me thank you for it properly.â
Spider-like touches tingled down your spine before feeling the cool air prick your skin as Corio relieved the zip of its job, allowing your dress to pool in your lap. Three abrupt taps on the desk said everything, and within moments, you settled your bare body against the chill of the wood. There was nothing better than feeling his eyes map your body with such hunger. Swirls of lust flush through his eyes as he lightly runs his long digits over the exposed skin.
âWho knew my sweetheart could be so fierce? Those hands werenât made for killing; they are far too pretty. And who would have expected those callous words to come from such beautiful lips? But you did it for me. Everything you do is for me.â
Standing to attention, he traced the expanse of your collarbone with featherlight touches. Eyes wide watching him in anticipation, every touch made your arousal swell. Never would you rush him; he ruled Panem and your heart. He was your purpose. He was yours. Coriolanus intoxicated you. Faint scents of leather and brandy washed over your senses; the heat of his body against your as he placed calculated kisses against your skin made you dizzy. With so little, he made you feel so much.
A gentle moan fell from your lips as the young president found his mouth on your taunt nipple, carefully flicking the tip with his talented tongue. Oh, how you wish that scandalous mouth was somewhere else right now. His appreciation was felt full force. Those large hands groped at your skin as if he were trying to consume you. Leaving a litter of marks and nips across your chest, as if he were an artist and you, his canvas.
âI would do anything for you, my dear. You gave me freedom from that whore, and all I can think about is how lucky I am to have your love. You are my only obsession. So tell me. Name it, and it is yours.â
A sense of shock washes over you; he has never once asked what you wanted in the bedroom. As with many things in his life, Coriolanus was not open to advice or direction. Images flashed of what you wanted but your tongue tangled as you went to voice it. So caught in the moment, it felt impossible to string a coherent sentence.
âI want- I want you.â
âBe specific, my snowdrop.â
He knew what you wanted. Sinking to the floor as one arm curls around the thickness of your thigh, pulling you closer to his body. That smile told you that he knew, he always knows. Coriolanus wanted to see whether your boldness extended past the video.
âTell me, Mrs. Snow, how can I please you? You have pleased me so, and I want to show my appreciation, so tell me. Now.â
The feeling of his breath against the wet patch growing on your panties sent a shiver down your spine, feeding the need for his mouth on you. You needed him carnally. Hands wrapped in those icy locks, pale fingers curling inside, and him acting as if he were a man starved.
âI need your mouth- your fingers. Please Corio. Thank me with your mouth. Worship my pussy with those fingers, please, my love.â
Fingers hooking the corners of your underwear, gently discarding the elegant lace. Stormy blues and a haunting smirk told you that he'd be thanking you for hours to come.
âAs you wish, my love. I am yours to use, as you are mine.â
So I've decided to make a point. I know hundreds of writers on here have been trying to bring this to the attention of audiences, but it doesn't seem to be getting through. So I'm gonna try. These are the likes, comments, and reblog ratios on some of my fics.
I don't get as many notes as some authors do on here for most of my work, but you can see how out of 447 people that it's underwhelming to receive no comments.
Even on my more popular fanfictions, the comments and reblogs don't even compare to the amount of likes on a post.
And here is a fact that might startle some of you;
Likes mean nothing. They mean nothing on any social media app, and at the end of the day, they mean even less here. Writers want kudos, comments, ideas, and constructive criticism. Writers want your thoughts on the work you just read. Even if it's just a simple red heart emoji or a keyboard smash, that tells us so much and gives us inspiration to write similar content for you and others to enjoy. Reblogs are even more important than comments and most definitely likes. Reblogs allow our work to reach different sides and circles of tumblr. If it's on your mutuals dash because you reblogged it, then more people will see it, read it, and hopefully enjoy it. Reblogs matter, because writers are pouring their heart, soul, pussys, and dicks into these fics and are brave enough to post them. For free. You get to read these fics for free. And the least you can do is drop a comment.
Reblog a fic to your blog if you loved it. Even better, Reblog with tags or write your comments with the reblog. We see all of it, and it makes our day. Please, you're wondering why writers for your favorite fandoms are dwindling here. It's because there is no support. If you support your favorite writers, artists, gifmakers, etcetera, then we might just stick around and continue making free content for you all.
Plot - In the midst of the worst Christmas of your life, you meet an arrogant genius who takes pity on your inability to do statistics.
Pairing - Michael Gavey x PsychologyStudent!Reader
Notes/Warnings - As a psychology student who hates statistics, this was just based off how my boyfriend explains it to me. Michael is a bit of a sweetheart in this with streaks of arrogance. Not proofread so I apologise in advance if it is terrible
Word Count - 1,943
Sunday the 10th of December
âAs it helps identify the patterns, the correlation matrix is useful in psychological testing, economics, risk management, and statistics. Calculated as (x(i)-mean(x))*(y(i)-mean(y)) / ((x(i)-mean(x))2 * (y(i)-mean(y))2. This mode- Oh for fuckâs sakes!â
Slamming the monotone textbook of your nightmares closed and shoving it to the opposite side of the oaken table, you breathe a sigh of frustration. Four hours youâve been trying, 240 minutes of your life spent in a lonely library struggling to grasp the difference between a correlation matrix and covariance matrix. If someone told you when you picked psychology that youâd be sacrificing your Christmas to study for some pathetic quantitative methodologiesâ module, you would have switched your career pathway to dogwalker.
Unfortunately, you arenât a bloody psychic so here you sit with red rimmed eyes, frizzing hair from repeatedly tugging at it, and longing for being home watching The Polar Express. A string of swears partnered with the shuffling of papers acted as your soundtrack for the next few minutes as you attempted to build back up your confidence.
âYou made it this far; you can do this! Once this module is done, you can get a pint and burn your calculator.â
Just as you leant to grab the textbook, a voice broke through your bubble of academic frustration.
âDonât think youâd get very far burning a calculator after a few pints, Iâve seen how you handle your alcohol.â
Jumping backwards in your chair, eyes frantically assessing the source of the teasing words. There he stood, Michael Gavey. You had only met him in once during Freshers, but after minimal contact with him, you understood that he looked down on your choice of degree. Mutterings of how it is a pointless degree for vapid girls who would become housewives or receptionists within years of graduation. Mousy hair that had no clear style, smudged glasses, and an oversized maroon jumper that made him appear wider than usual.
Perhaps it was your lack of sleep, but Michael Gavey seemed to be far better looking than before.
âWhat the fuck Gavey?! Could have given me a heart attack, and I know you are smart but you arenât a bloody doctor.â Clutching your chest to emphasise the theatrics of your startled self, a small huff left your person with the final word.
With a soft chuckle, the lanky boy slid into the chair opposite before resting his judgmental eyes on your figure. Assessing your appearance as if you were one of his equations. Those denim blues flickering between you and the scattered papers filled with incorrect or half-complete statistical equations.
Moments passed in silence, and with each second you grew more agitated with the piercing gaze from the bespectacled boy. âWhat are you even doing here Gavey? Is Christmas too simple and mainstream for you to celebrate?â
âI would ask you the same question, but from what I recall you seem to embrace the simple. Or does that only apply to your choice in degree?â
That fleeting thought of attraction was zapped from the air as his words bit at your confidence. Usually, a quick-witted response would fall from your lips, but after days of struggling, it was difficult to view yourself as anything but a student heading towards failure.
It was clear to tell the atmosphere had shifted, a tense weight fell between the pair of you. Watching as his calculated smirk fell, understanding that perhaps his words might not have been appreciated in this moment.
âWhat do you want Michael? Iâm too busy to be belittled today.â
âWell, I was planning on asking you to be quiet. Iâve had to listen to your ridiculous murmurings for the past 2 hours. Not to mention the constant echoing of you abusing those poor books.â Straightening himself in the padded wooden seat, attempting to appear unphased by how defeated your voice sounded.
Even though Michael would never admit to it, he always harboured a modest crush on you. He remembers the way you walked around the different Fresher events with such confidence, despite not knowing anyone prior to starting University. Eyes following your figure as you made the rounds before making your way to his table of one. That was when he messed up. Something about your presence made any semblance of a filter disappear, and the insults flew from his lips before he could bite the words down. All he could do was stare as that kind spark in your eyes faltered and you muttered a discouraged goodbye before walking away from his lonely table.
Since that day, he kept an eye out for you. Never once daring to speak again, but always glancing at your corner table during dinnertime just to catch a glimpse of that jubilant smile. Yes, he thought any subject outside of mathematics-based degrees were pointless to society. Although for some reason, he never wanted you to feel anything less for your choice of pathway. Everyone else on your course might be a half-wit, but not you. Never you.
Suddenly feeling sheepish, you make a move to pack away. âOh, I apologise. Truthfully, I thought I was the only one who stayed back for Christmas break.â
Hand reaching across to grab the textbook currently resting before the boy, you were met halfway by a larger colder hand. âDonât leave on my account, especially before I can explain to you the different applications of correlation matrixes.â
Rearranging the position of his chair to minimise the space between the both of you, as he fumbled through your plethora of mock questions and attempted answers. All whilst your mouth parted with puzzlement, leaving you to watch his movement with questioning eyes.
âWhy in the world would you help me?â
âFigures it could balance out my karma for slagging your subject. Plus, I canât sit here knowing you are desecrating maths and not intervene.â
And with the rippling sounds of the pages followed by the subtle knock of the textbook cover, the pair of you began an unlikely partnership.
Monday the 18th of December
The next seven days were spent in that secluded corner of the century-old building with Michael explaining statistical concepts in his velvety tones. At the start, he found it difficult to not mark his superiority or mock your questions that seemed elementary to him. Eventually, he grew to understand that you really did care about understanding the methods entirely, and that your questions spawned from craving knowledge rather than sheer stupidity. Awkward explanations turned into two-way conversations during study breaks, and silly jokes. If anyone were to enter the library, they would hear the duo of laughs ricochet off the walls of books. Perhaps they would think that two friends were sharing inside jokes, but if anyone saw the pair of you, they would see two fools infatuated with one another.
It was true, within the past week Michaelâs crush only grew and you started to realise that Michael might be the unexpected highlight of university. Since Freshers, you felt drawn to him, and maybe at the start it was purely a physical attraction that was shut down by his mean-spirited comments. But this version of Michael, where he feels comfortable and lets down his arrogant guard, this is the boy that you wish youâd known from the beginning. Heart fluttering when he praises you, chest aching from giggles at his nerdy jokes, and fingertips lingering slightly too long on his veiny hand.
As the snow falls outside, the pair of you sat with only the sound of your nervous drumming and the scratch of Michaelâs pen across your mock examination. Studying his side profile, getting lost in the way his lips purse with satisfaction when he ticks off a correct answer, if you didnât know better, youâd say he was proud of you. Several moments trickled by in silence, waiting in anticipation to see whether the hours spent together had actually taught you anything. There was the unspoken discomfort of what happens next. If you had passed with flying colours, does that mean you and him go back to strangers? Could you pretend to be less than friends again with all these newfound feelings? Truthfully, part of you wished you failed so he would have to keep tutoring you.
âAnd you did it. Congratulations, you have officially conquered statistics.â Sliding across the paper marked 86% with a little smile into your expectant hands. Those stormy blues meeting yours to watch the excitement unfold.
âI did it? Oh my god, I did it!â
Waving the paper in the air before bringing it to your chest, eyes sparkling with happiness as the weight of failure floats off your shoulders. Michael could only match your exuberant smile, leaning his chiselled chin on the palm of his hand to watch the subject of his dreams glitter in front of him. He knew the doubts that clouded your judgement were bullshit. In his eyes you were almost as smart as him, only in a different way. Watching your seated celebrations as he commits the image to memory, with fear of today being the last day of closeness between you two. Michael half expected you to drop him after realising you understood the concepts. That you would finally recognise you are worth more than someone like him. Someone of a higher class, someone more muscular, someone who isnât a social pariah.
Those thoughts were halted by the feel of your jumper-clad arms being thrown around his neck, drawing him close. Snapping out of his daydream just as you bridged the gap between your lush lips and his own. Michael felt you melt into him, arms softening in their hold but your lips still continuing the connection with passion. This kiss was all consuming, built up with each second of vulnerability shown throughout the moments together. He noted that you tasted like spearmint gum, and it perfectly complimented the constant chocolate that lurked on his tastebuds.
Somehow it felt like the pair of you were joined for eternity, feeling as if the cool of his lens would be ingrained on your skin. Reluctantly the two young students separated, faces flushed and chests heaving in a desperate attempt to fill your lungs. The realisation of your bold move flashed in your brain, panic arising in your stomach at all the possible scenarios that could happen next, but those fears settled as you saw the soft look hidden behind those glasses.
âThank you, Michael. I couldnât have done any of this without you.â
âWell, it does help that Iâm a mathematical genius. But truthfully, Iâve enjoyed teaching you and would happily continue our study sessions.â Despite his clear words, Michael was still recovering from the shockwaves in his body from the taste of you on his lips. Mentally he was cringing at his entirely unromantic words, but all you did was smile.
âAs much as I would like that, Iâd prefer if our relationship went beyond studying? Perhaps we could go for a celebratory pint or get dinner together.â Awkwardly twiddling the hem of his sweater between your fingertips as you avoided his eyeline. âYou know, like a date? Only if you would be happy with that, of course.â
âIâve come to realise that if I was a correlation matrix, and youâd be the variable thatâs highly correlated with my happiness. So yes, Iâd love to take YOU on a dateâ
Laughter erupted in your belly at his cheesy line, and he fought the urge to pull in for another kiss. Instead, he chose to intertwine your warm hands with his. âA genius, a gentleman, a teacher, and now a comedian? You, Michael Gavey, are an adventure I canât wait to explore.â
WHAT DO YOU MEAN " If someone told you when you picked psychology that youâd be sacrificing your Christmas to study for some pathetic quantitative methodologiesâ module, you would have switched your career pathway to dogwalker."
i have quantitative methodologies next semester don't do this to me i am so fucking scared right now đ
great fic btw! I wish i had a michael for help too :(
Plot - In the midst of the worst Christmas of your life, you meet an arrogant genius who takes pity on your inability to do statistics.
Pairing - Michael Gavey x PsychologyStudent!Reader
Notes/Warnings - As a psychology student who hates statistics, this was just based off how my boyfriend explains it to me. Michael is a bit of a sweetheart in this with streaks of arrogance. Not proofread so I apologise in advance if it is terrible
Word Count - 1,943
Sunday the 10th of December
âAs it helps identify the patterns, the correlation matrix is useful in psychological testing, economics, risk management, and statistics. Calculated as (x(i)-mean(x))*(y(i)-mean(y)) / ((x(i)-mean(x))2 * (y(i)-mean(y))2. This mode- Oh for fuckâs sakes!â
Slamming the monotone textbook of your nightmares closed and shoving it to the opposite side of the oaken table, you breathe a sigh of frustration. Four hours youâve been trying, 240 minutes of your life spent in a lonely library struggling to grasp the difference between a correlation matrix and covariance matrix. If someone told you when you picked psychology that youâd be sacrificing your Christmas to study for some pathetic quantitative methodologiesâ module, you would have switched your career pathway to dogwalker.
Unfortunately, you arenât a bloody psychic so here you sit with red rimmed eyes, frizzing hair from repeatedly tugging at it, and longing for being home watching The Polar Express. A string of swears partnered with the shuffling of papers acted as your soundtrack for the next few minutes as you attempted to build back up your confidence.
âYou made it this far; you can do this! Once this module is done, you can get a pint and burn your calculator.â
Just as you leant to grab the textbook, a voice broke through your bubble of academic frustration.
âDonât think youâd get very far burning a calculator after a few pints, Iâve seen how you handle your alcohol.â
Jumping backwards in your chair, eyes frantically assessing the source of the teasing words. There he stood, Michael Gavey. You had only met him in once during Freshers, but after minimal contact with him, you understood that he looked down on your choice of degree. Mutterings of how it is a pointless degree for vapid girls who would become housewives or receptionists within years of graduation. Mousy hair that had no clear style, smudged glasses, and an oversized maroon jumper that made him appear wider than usual.
Perhaps it was your lack of sleep, but Michael Gavey seemed to be far better looking than before.
âWhat the fuck Gavey?! Could have given me a heart attack, and I know you are smart but you arenât a bloody doctor.â Clutching your chest to emphasise the theatrics of your startled self, a small huff left your person with the final word.
With a soft chuckle, the lanky boy slid into the chair opposite before resting his judgmental eyes on your figure. Assessing your appearance as if you were one of his equations. Those denim blues flickering between you and the scattered papers filled with incorrect or half-complete statistical equations.
Moments passed in silence, and with each second you grew more agitated with the piercing gaze from the bespectacled boy. âWhat are you even doing here Gavey? Is Christmas too simple and mainstream for you to celebrate?â
âI would ask you the same question, but from what I recall you seem to embrace the simple. Or does that only apply to your choice in degree?â
That fleeting thought of attraction was zapped from the air as his words bit at your confidence. Usually, a quick-witted response would fall from your lips, but after days of struggling, it was difficult to view yourself as anything but a student heading towards failure.
It was clear to tell the atmosphere had shifted, a tense weight fell between the pair of you. Watching as his calculated smirk fell, understanding that perhaps his words might not have been appreciated in this moment.
âWhat do you want Michael? Iâm too busy to be belittled today.â
âWell, I was planning on asking you to be quiet. Iâve had to listen to your ridiculous murmurings for the past 2 hours. Not to mention the constant echoing of you abusing those poor books.â Straightening himself in the padded wooden seat, attempting to appear unphased by how defeated your voice sounded.
Even though Michael would never admit to it, he always harboured a modest crush on you. He remembers the way you walked around the different Fresher events with such confidence, despite not knowing anyone prior to starting University. Eyes following your figure as you made the rounds before making your way to his table of one. That was when he messed up. Something about your presence made any semblance of a filter disappear, and the insults flew from his lips before he could bite the words down. All he could do was stare as that kind spark in your eyes faltered and you muttered a discouraged goodbye before walking away from his lonely table.
Since that day, he kept an eye out for you. Never once daring to speak again, but always glancing at your corner table during dinnertime just to catch a glimpse of that jubilant smile. Yes, he thought any subject outside of mathematics-based degrees were pointless to society. Although for some reason, he never wanted you to feel anything less for your choice of pathway. Everyone else on your course might be a half-wit, but not you. Never you.
Suddenly feeling sheepish, you make a move to pack away. âOh, I apologise. Truthfully, I thought I was the only one who stayed back for Christmas break.â
Hand reaching across to grab the textbook currently resting before the boy, you were met halfway by a larger colder hand. âDonât leave on my account, especially before I can explain to you the different applications of correlation matrixes.â
Rearranging the position of his chair to minimise the space between the both of you, as he fumbled through your plethora of mock questions and attempted answers. All whilst your mouth parted with puzzlement, leaving you to watch his movement with questioning eyes.
âWhy in the world would you help me?â
âFigures it could balance out my karma for slagging your subject. Plus, I canât sit here knowing you are desecrating maths and not intervene.â
And with the rippling sounds of the pages followed by the subtle knock of the textbook cover, the pair of you began an unlikely partnership.
Monday the 18th of December
The next seven days were spent in that secluded corner of the century-old building with Michael explaining statistical concepts in his velvety tones. At the start, he found it difficult to not mark his superiority or mock your questions that seemed elementary to him. Eventually, he grew to understand that you really did care about understanding the methods entirely, and that your questions spawned from craving knowledge rather than sheer stupidity. Awkward explanations turned into two-way conversations during study breaks, and silly jokes. If anyone were to enter the library, they would hear the duo of laughs ricochet off the walls of books. Perhaps they would think that two friends were sharing inside jokes, but if anyone saw the pair of you, they would see two fools infatuated with one another.
It was true, within the past week Michaelâs crush only grew and you started to realise that Michael might be the unexpected highlight of university. Since Freshers, you felt drawn to him, and maybe at the start it was purely a physical attraction that was shut down by his mean-spirited comments. But this version of Michael, where he feels comfortable and lets down his arrogant guard, this is the boy that you wish youâd known from the beginning. Heart fluttering when he praises you, chest aching from giggles at his nerdy jokes, and fingertips lingering slightly too long on his veiny hand.
As the snow falls outside, the pair of you sat with only the sound of your nervous drumming and the scratch of Michaelâs pen across your mock examination. Studying his side profile, getting lost in the way his lips purse with satisfaction when he ticks off a correct answer, if you didnât know better, youâd say he was proud of you. Several moments trickled by in silence, waiting in anticipation to see whether the hours spent together had actually taught you anything. There was the unspoken discomfort of what happens next. If you had passed with flying colours, does that mean you and him go back to strangers? Could you pretend to be less than friends again with all these newfound feelings? Truthfully, part of you wished you failed so he would have to keep tutoring you.
âAnd you did it. Congratulations, you have officially conquered statistics.â Sliding across the paper marked 86% with a little smile into your expectant hands. Those stormy blues meeting yours to watch the excitement unfold.
âI did it? Oh my god, I did it!â
Waving the paper in the air before bringing it to your chest, eyes sparkling with happiness as the weight of failure floats off your shoulders. Michael could only match your exuberant smile, leaning his chiselled chin on the palm of his hand to watch the subject of his dreams glitter in front of him. He knew the doubts that clouded your judgement were bullshit. In his eyes you were almost as smart as him, only in a different way. Watching your seated celebrations as he commits the image to memory, with fear of today being the last day of closeness between you two. Michael half expected you to drop him after realising you understood the concepts. That you would finally recognise you are worth more than someone like him. Someone of a higher class, someone more muscular, someone who isnât a social pariah.
Those thoughts were halted by the feel of your jumper-clad arms being thrown around his neck, drawing him close. Snapping out of his daydream just as you bridged the gap between your lush lips and his own. Michael felt you melt into him, arms softening in their hold but your lips still continuing the connection with passion. This kiss was all consuming, built up with each second of vulnerability shown throughout the moments together. He noted that you tasted like spearmint gum, and it perfectly complimented the constant chocolate that lurked on his tastebuds.
Somehow it felt like the pair of you were joined for eternity, feeling as if the cool of his lens would be ingrained on your skin. Reluctantly the two young students separated, faces flushed and chests heaving in a desperate attempt to fill your lungs. The realisation of your bold move flashed in your brain, panic arising in your stomach at all the possible scenarios that could happen next, but those fears settled as you saw the soft look hidden behind those glasses.
âThank you, Michael. I couldnât have done any of this without you.â
âWell, it does help that Iâm a mathematical genius. But truthfully, Iâve enjoyed teaching you and would happily continue our study sessions.â Despite his clear words, Michael was still recovering from the shockwaves in his body from the taste of you on his lips. Mentally he was cringing at his entirely unromantic words, but all you did was smile.
âAs much as I would like that, Iâd prefer if our relationship went beyond studying? Perhaps we could go for a celebratory pint or get dinner together.â Awkwardly twiddling the hem of his sweater between your fingertips as you avoided his eyeline. âYou know, like a date? Only if you would be happy with that, of course.â
âIâve come to realise that if I was a correlation matrix, and youâd be the variable thatâs highly correlated with my happiness. So yes, Iâd love to take YOU on a dateâ
Laughter erupted in your belly at his cheesy line, and he fought the urge to pull in for another kiss. Instead, he chose to intertwine your warm hands with his. âA genius, a gentleman, a teacher, and now a comedian? You, Michael Gavey, are an adventure I canât wait to explore.â
Michael Gavey x Fem!Reader (07/12)
What happens when Michael, known Oxford genius accidently challenges the female Einstein of Cambridge? A weekend of proving who's best.
Academic rivals, smut with a touch of fluff and angst.
Lando Norris x Driver!OC (10/12)
Koenigsegg has joined the championship with Sigrid Keoghan as their principle driver. The 21-year old experiences the ups and downs of being a new driver, with the added bonus of an ex-one-night-stand popping up as her Orange-clad rival.
Rivals, series, fluff + angst + smut all in one
Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader (08/12)
What if Aegon did manage to run away? Escape the pressures of the Greens? Perhaps he would be able to find love.
Pure fluff because Aegon needs some love
Spencer Reid x Professor!Fem!Reader (11/12)
After the death of his mother, Spencer finds himself accepting a job at Oxford University. Attempting to start fresh, he meets a fellow professor who helps him feel whole again.
Series, fluffy with a dash of angst, age gap, comfort for Reid
Aemond Targaryen x Distant Targ!Fem!Reader (08/12)
Follows Y/N Targaryen, granddaughter of Saera and Aenys Targaryen (I will give a detailed plot later, its too much to write here)
Series, badass reader, fluff + angst + smut
Plot - All you want is one night with Corio, the real him.
Pairing - Young!Coriolanus Snow x Best Friend!Female!Reader
Notes/Warnings - Corio is ooc in this, but the idea is that he is slightly hinged for her and he is aware of his redflags. Possessive? Mentions of deaths. Reader is lowkey just blind to Corio's darkness. First fic back so let's see how it goes!
Word Count - 1,443
9pm
âYou promised!â
âAnd when exactly did I promise this?â
He watched as her fists clenched the corners of her skirt, breath dripping with exasperation. Calmly watching from the comfort of his leather chair, nursing a glass of amber whilst his eyes followed the milky fabric adorning his best-friendâs figure. Almost 30 minutes of her attempting to convince him to leave his opaque penthouse.
âLast year, when you were too busy on my birthday, you promised me that I could choose whatever I wanted to do for one da-â Stilling her movements, frozen as realisation washed over her. âYou sneaky fucker! Not once have you forgotten a promise between us.â
Corio wanted to laugh as her face scrunched with faux anger, but all he did was cock his eyebrow as a gentle smirk settled on his lips. âOf course, I didnât forget. However, this little song and dance has been quite amusing.â
Resting his drink to the side, he rose to full height and reached his delicate hand out towards the girl. âI will agree, purely on the premise that nothing we do could harm either of our reputations.â
A smile brighter than freshly fallen snow crept onto her face.
âYou have my word.â
1am
Corio may have noticed the ache in his legs if he didnât have such a captivating distraction hanging from his bicep. After aimlessly strolling through the Capitol, the myriad of hues illuminating their faces as they spoke of the most mundane aspects of their adult lives to giggling at memories of their youth. Having known one another since the tender age of 10, there is little left unsaid between the pair. Perhaps only one thing.
âIâve missed you Corioâ
Shifting his head to where her figure was pressed against his side, their tandem steps slowed. Only those who understood the inner works of Coriolanus Snow could see the cogs turning behind those azure eyes. Flickering across her face, attempting to decode her words.
âDonât be silly. We see each other constantly; your office is barely 20 steps from mine.â
 The young woman bit back a sigh. In all the years she had known Snow, he excelled in many things but struggled with matters of the heart. âNo, I see Coriolanus Snow constantly. Future President of Panem, prodigy Gamemaker. I can barely remember the last time I had a conversation with the real you, Corio, before tonight.â
Stilling completely, allowing her arm to slip from the loop of his. It was a rare occurrence for the young man to be devoid of words, only having ever been rendered speechless by the very same woman only a touch away. In all truthfulness, he yearned for her presence. He longed for the sound of her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with delight when indulging in dessert, her uncanny ability to understand his thoughts, and most importantly, the way she allowed him to be himself.
He missed her too.
Perhaps it was his silence, or perhaps it was the cool air that unsettled her. Bubbles of anxiety began to rise in her stomach, fearing that she had overstepped or somehow offended the blond. âI only mean that you have sides to you. Whilst I like all of them, the one I care about most is the real you. Iâm sorry, but I miss my best friend.â
âI barely know the real me anymore.â
It was truth. Being betrayed by Lucy Gray, the blood on his hands, the character he has had to play since; it was exhausting. The darkness swirling inside of him corrupting his daily thoughts, paranoia and greed clouding his mind. It was all too much to expose to her.
She embodied life, a breath of fresh air in a world torn apart by capitalism and violence. Coriolanus could never understand why she cared for him, why she befriended him. But he could never jeopardise losing her. The darker side of him wishes to lock her up in the Penthouse, so her sun only shines for him. Keep away the prying eyes of men who wish to glimpse the sweetness of her smile. But alas, he cannot. An innocent fragment of his soul forbids his darkness from tainting her, even if he must create distance to do so.
âAfter all that has happened, the Corio you know barely exists anymore.â Those stormy eyes refusing to meet her gaze by fixating on the gleaming silver ring adoring his finger. âIf only you knew, you wouldnât look at me the same.â
The warmth of her hand sliding into his captures his focus. âIf only I knew about what happened during the games? If only I knew about Lucy Gray, and those people you killed? If only I knew how dark your soul feels? I know Corio.â
Snapping to meet her gaze, he feels as if she had knocked the air out of his lungs. How could she possibly know? Why would she be standing here with him? Was she going to hold this over him? A flurry of thoughts stormed behind his eyes, as she only tightened her hold on his large hand.
âDid you really think you could lie to me? I know you better than I know myself. When you came back from District 12, I could see behind those lies you were spewing. I saw the hurt she caused, the trauma you had witnessed, and how it broke the light inside of you.â
For the second time tonight, Coriolanus was speechless. Perhaps she didnât know whose blood coats his hands, or the exact details of what happened those years ago, but she knew enough. And she was still standing there in front of him.
âAnd you still care about me?â
âI will always care about you Corio. Now come on, I want to take you somewhere!â
And with that, she pulled him further into the night.
2:45am
Neither of them had uttered a word since their conversation.
Laid side by side on the refreshing emerald blades of grass as they look towards the stars above, only their subtle breathing filling the air. Despite the silence, the interlocked fingers expressed a thousand words.
A hitched breath broke the still atmosphere of the hilltop.
âDo you love me?â
Her words stopped his heart mid-beat.
âWhat? Of course, I love you. You are my best friend.â His words flow smoothly, as his thoughts run erratically to concoct the perfect lie.
The grass shuffles as she turns her head to face him. âNo, do you love me like I love you?â
Corio continues staring straight towards the constellations, knowing that her alluring eyes could weaken his resolve in mere seconds.
âBecause the way I love you is more than someone who loves a best friend. Almost as if you are the only person who makes my heart dizzy with joy. If you donât love me the same way, itâs okay. Just needed to finally tell you.â
The breeze acts as a ticking clock, emphasising the lack of response from the young man and amplifying the anxiety building in the woman as she faces the stars once more.
Its almost too quiet to be heard, a whisper in the wind, but she hears it clearly. âI do love you the way you love me.â
Turning in unison to face one another, his free hand reaching to caress the toasty skin of her cheek. Â Gentle strokes of his chilled fingers, drawing without destination on her skin as the blond builds the courage to speak once more.
âThe way I love you terrifies me. You are the only one who brings me happiness, the only one who knows my sorrows, the only one I would sacrifice for. I obsess over you. I want to hold you and protect you. I wish to possess you. All because I love you the way you love me.â
Searching his irises for any fragment of dishonesty, her smile grows as she finds none. Inching closer to the man who has held her heart for a decade, his minty breath invading her senses.
With lips mere millimetres apart, a light whisper leaves her mouth âIâll be yours Corio, for as long as you are mine. We can possess one another.â
As if those were the only words he ever craved, he intertwined his lips with hers. Soaking in the feeling of ecstasy as his hold on her tightens. She embraced the overwhelming sensation of complete bliss, revelling in every single second as her fingers interlock with his porcelain-locks.
Her lips fit with his so perfectly, it was clear that they were made to possess each other. And now that Panemâs king had his Queen, nothing could break him.
TIPS FOR WRITING IN AN ENGLISH UNIVERSITY SETTING from someone whoâs been through it!
This post is written with fanfic in mind, specifically about Michael Gavey as a Maths student at the University of Oxford.
University structure
At Oxford, you are there typically for three years. Youâre not usually referred to as âfirst yearâ, âsecond yearâ or âthird year/final yearâ as nouns, and are more likely to describe yourself as being âin my first yearâ etc. The only exception is your first few weeks at uni when youâre known as a fresher. Your first week in your first year is known as âfreshers weekâ, and its lots of social activities around the uni and beyond.
OXFORD IS NOT A CAMPUS UNI. University housing and buildings are scattered around the city of Oxford, and so using terms like âon campusâ are not applicable.
Term starts in early October, and most exams are wrapped up by June.
Housing
Oxford is one of four English universities that use the college system (the others being Cambridge - also called âThe Other Placeâ - Durham, and York) and for the sake of simplicity, you can think of this as a replacement term for âdormâ (a term not typically used). You can find a list of all the colleges on the universityâs website.
Within the college building, there are usually single rooms with en-suites, but some rooms have to share a communal bathroom.
University students do NOT have roommates - no one shares a bedroom. There are also some room types in a flat-like set up, with a cluster of a few rooms (2-8 typically) and a shared kitchen. This is less common at Oxford.
Students sometimes stay in university-provided accommodation for the duration of their studies, whilst some choose to live in private accommodation from their second year onwards. If they do this, they are still associated with their college, and by default their college does not change. Private accommodation usually means a regular house shared with a few other people - this is standard across all universities in the UK, not just Oxford.
Classes
Generally speaking, subjects that donât require lab work have a pretty simple weekly structure of one lecture and one seminar per module. Lectures are observed silently, and seminars are for discussions. Even the boldest or more socially unaware individuals do not interrupt lectures (in my four years, I never ever experienced anyone interrupting or asking a question, and so if youâre going to write Michael doing that, be aware it is a huge taboo unless the lecturer has asked for participation). Students usually take 2-3 different modules per semester, and during the academic year, there are two semesters across three terms.
Reading week is a week of usually in late October/early November where there are no classes for a week and it is a time for self-study.
Most modules have at least one assignment (what Americans would call a term paper) due before the Christmas break in December, and then at least one exam after the break ends in January. Some modules on some courses have other assignments or contributors to grades (like group presentations) but this isnât all that common. It is very rare for things like âextra creditâ to be earned, if at all.
Unless reading a combined degree (like Politics and Economics), you only take one subject. There is nothing like a âmajorâ and âminorâ. When doing a combined degree, you take half your modules on one degree, and half your modules on the other, so itâs an even 50/50. You cannot choose any subject to do a combined degree for, and they are pre-set courses determined by the university. For example, you couldnât do a combined degree of Maths and Geography just because you wanted to.
You donât talk about what course youâre studying, you say what course youâre reading (which is why Michael says heâs âreading Mathsâ not studying it).
University culture
Nightclubbing isnât much of a thing in Oxford. If you want a uni with great nightlife you go to Birmingham, Nottingham, Sheffield, Newcastle, London - not Oxford or Cambridge. Instead, students are much more likely to spend time in one of the dozens of pubs in Oxford. College parties (I.e university accommodation parties) donât tend to be much of a thing either unless theyâre organised by the social events committees in those colleges.
Elitism is an enormous problem at Oxford. For example, in 2015, 45% of all freshers were from private schools, while only less than 7% of children in the UK are privately educated. Classism is an issue that is so unbelievably rampant in places like Oxford that I canât even begin to explain. But like many forms of prejudice in the UK, itâs rarely overt. It comes in the forms of exclusion from social activities (think a working class student not being able to go on a ski trip with course mates), social rules only familiar to the rich being the order of the day (having the right type of suit for a formal dinner).
Oxford is a place where lifelong connections are made that spill into entertainment, business, and (most worryingly) politics, but best believe that if youâre not from the right background, those connections are not yours to make. In fact, the likelihood of you even know theyâre going on in the shadows is high.
Obviously, classism and elitism are themes of Saltburn, but please donât take them too seriously, as itâs crucial to remember that the writer/director grew up in these very private inner circles of elites. As such, her spin is wildly⊠wild. Sheâs an incredibly unreliable source for basing any kind of opinion about these issues on.
Thatâs all I can think of right now! I highly encourage other people who have been through English universities to add on with advice you think you would helpful to writers đđ«¶
And if youâve got any specific questions, let me know and Iâll help if I can!
My university is incredibly close to Oxford (both structure and location) and we have tutorials which are essentially guided discussions about that weeks set topic. It's always limited to less than 6 individuals, and is compulsory. For instance, I'm doing a psychology-related masters and I have a tutorial for each module weekly, where I read a set study plus two additional "self-searched" studies to discuss.
Just thought it could be something to add as it's less of a thing at other universities in the UK besides Oxbridge (and a few others including mine).
Undergraduate degrees usually use the classification system for grades. First class (1st) is the highest you can get (70%+), followed by 2:1 (60%-69%), then 2:2 (50%-59%), finally third class (40%-49%. During undergraduate, most universities say anything below 40% is a fail.
At Masters they use the same grade boundaries but a first is called a distinction, 2:1 is a merit, 2:2 is a pass. Anything below 50% is a fail.
Before Uni Qualifications
If you want to mention secondary school qualifications, use the terms GCSEs (taken at age 16) and A levels (taken at age 18). Usually people take 8-10 subjects at GSCEs, and 3-4 at A level.
Both of these use the A* to D grading system, usually anything below a C is considered a fail.
