your sharp and glorious thorn

twenties | she/her | 18+ blogmasterlist | notifs blog: kiwisbellupdates

[kiwisbell]

Hard to Love [dave york]

Two negatives make a positive. Or, two people, both alike in loneliness, fall in love where they shouldn’t.

my masterlist! pairing: professor!dave york x f!student!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), professor!dave york AU, dave is not a hitman, teacher/student relationship (and the power imbalance that accompanies this), divorce, obsessive!dave, jealousy, age gap (reader is early 20s/dave is 40s), yearning and pining and longing etc., what do you expect from me by now, dom!dave, so much sexual tension that it morphs into melodrama, seriously i was on something here, forbidden romance on multiple levels, deeply enthusiastic consent from both parties, f! and m!masturbation, reader has no physical descriptions and is able-bodied, law firms get their own warning, fingering, sexting, sending dirty pics, phone sex, pussy pronouns, light light spanking, some free use, dirty talk, liberal use of "sir" word count: ~ 15.5k a/n: hi friends! just wanted to say that there are likely a million conflicts of interest in this fic and none of them are good and also please don’t fuck your professors. that being said, i love you all and i hope you enjoy!! this is just a one-shot for now, but i love these freaks so much that maybe i'll continue writing for them in the future!! thank you as always to @cavillscurls for being my incredible beta and matching my freak xoxo

By mid-September, at least twenty students have dropped the course. 

Your designated seat is in the second row. The windows in the cavernous lecture hall filter greyish light into the room. Dust particles float in the air and it smells of rainwater. People are shaking off their umbrellas as they pour inside, grumbling to their friends, shuffling to their seats. Every now and then, someone walks in wearing heeled shoes, and the click-clack, click-clack echoes throughout the room. 

You see eye bags and yawning mouths and slumped shoulders and you straighten your posture, aligning your pencil parallel to the lines in your notebook. The seats on either side of you have been empty since the second week of classes. 

Whispers crescendo as more students enter the lecture hall. How do you think you did on the test? That was fucking brutal. Do you think the midterm will be as bad? Should we start, like, a class group chat so we can all trade notes? When’s the deadline to drop a course again? Do you think you could ask the professor for an extension on the paper? God, no, I’m not talking to him if I can help it—are you crazy? You hide your printed paper underneath your notebook and tune them out to the sound of the rain pounding against the windows. 

Silence chokes the room as Dr. York strolls in, sliding his bag off his shoulder and unpacking his books. A stack of worn, yellowed texts on God-knows-what. Most times, he doesn't even consult them. You suspect he likes to keep them around for decoration, to intimidate the students. Maybe they're a security blanket. 

“Good morning,” he says without looking up. He turns to the chalkboard as he always does and begins to write a series of websites and books in list order. He never uses the projector that hangs from the ceiling. “I know a lot of you are on the pre-law track, but a lot of you also can't seem to write a grammatically correct sentence to save your lives.” 

A nervous smattering of chuckles. He doesn't appear to be joking. 

“Copy these resources down and study them. You're in university; you should know how to write and how to cite a source. If you're going to stay in this class, don't expect me or my TAs to be lenient.”

The sound of scribbling pens deafens the rainfall outside. Dr. York shucks off his jacket—the facilities management workers have finally turned on the heat in the North building—and rolls his shirtsleeves up with two measured flicks of his wrists. There's a Cartier watch on the left one which he never takes off. When he's reading a passage from one of the weekly case studies, he puts on a pair of glasses. His dark hair is always combed back and rarely gelled. A permanent frown has seared a wrinkle between his brows. He sits on his desk while he lectures. His Ferragamo loafers could pay your rent for a month; they're scuffed at the toe. 

A few girls behind you snicker to one another. You calmly open your books. Dr. York’s voice, rolling darkly over the room like oncoming thunder, sits heavy in your chest as he gives his lecture. He speaks clearly and quickly; stray even a few seconds behind and one will find themself scrambling to catch up to the present moment, sneaking glances at their neighbour’s notes. He goes to the wire and by the time the second hour is over, the sound of the students around you packing their bags is lethargic and winded. You shrug your bag over your shoulder, covering a yawn, and make your way to Dr. York’s desk at the front of the room. 

You wait for a line of brave students to clear from the queue, a great number of them looking dejected. Subconsciously, you adjust your sweater as you step up to the plate. He turns around, assesses you quickly as if he can uncover your reason for approaching with just one clinical sweep up and down your body, and speaks before you can open your mouth. 

“I’m not providing extensions on this assignment, so unless you have a broken wrist or the Black Plague—”

“I’m not asking for an extension,” you cut in, more than a little wounded by his judgement, sliding your paper from between the pages of your notebook and placing it, title page facing skyward, on his desk. “I’m finished.”

He frowns, somehow deeper than usual, and his eyes flicker up to yours at last. “Are you sure?”

You lift your brows. “I’m sure. Law school applications are due soon, so I’d like to focus on those.”

He leans back against his desk and folds his arms over his chest. “Most schools’ deadlines aren’t until November. Sometimes December. Your definition of soon is a little skewed compared to other students in this class.”

“I work my best when I have plenty of time to prepare.” You don’t know why you feel so ready to defend yourself. Perhaps it’s his too-righteous-for-thou attitude. 

“You won’t always get plenty of time in the real world,” he says, and oh, your pride prepares a winding swing in retaliation at that.

Your smile is a brief violent slash across your face. “It’s a good thing I work well under pressure, too.”

Should I show you my resume, Dr. York? I’ll glue my internships and volunteer efforts and research assistantships to your smug face.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Rubbing his fingers over his mouth, he observes you with that infernal stare, the pools of his eyes black under the awning of his lashes. He’s stone still for a long while. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the paper on his desk.

“Is this sufficient?” you ask, indicating your assignment, code for Can I please leave now, for the love of God? “Stapled on the left.”

He’s trying to scare you off. In his eyes, you’re just another overeager student trying to land a networking opportunity by way of his good graces. You’re fairly certain Dr. York wouldn’t know good graces if they kicked his dog, but you’d prefer not to make him hate you before the first month of the school year is over. He probably knows many powerful people who could make or break your chance at a good career. It’s best that you keep your interactions with him to a minimum. 

“In my experience, early papers are sloppy and rushed,” he says.

Does he try to diminish every single student he comes across? Does he have to duck his head when he enters a room to keep from bashing his ego on the frame? You level him with your chilliest stare.

“I’m confident with my work, Dr. York. I don’t really have the time to tuck my tail and run off to go fix whatever you think is wrong with it.” Your bag is starting to weigh on your shoulder. The spare change you have in your pocket designated for your morning coffee still jingles around, unused. 

He finally looks down at the title page of your neatly-printed essay and picks it up with the rest of his things. “All right,” he says. “I’ll have feedback for you before the end of next week.”

You blink. That’s it? 

You’ve already wound up your throwing arm for a professionally-worded parry against his next underhanded comment, but it never comes. Instead, he turns, slides his books—with your paper—into his bag, and leaves the lecture hall. You’re left standing alone in the room until the motion sensor lights dim to a slow death.

“OH MY GOD!” you shout. “Ohmygodohmygodohmy—”

A fist pounds on your bedroom wall from the other side. “Can you shut the fuck up in there? Some of us are trying to have sex—not that you’d understand.”

Not even your roommate and her new conquest will dampen your spirits—not when you’ve opened your email to a shiny new internship offer. 

Your eyes skim the bulk of the text, gathering the important information first. We here at Gladwell Family Law seek to uphold an enthusiastic and challenging work environment… Please enter the building through the side door to avoid ongoing construction on Fifth… Fatima will meet you in the lobby to give you a key to the building… You will be working closely with your supervising lawyer John Gladwell on his current case… We look forward to seeing you Monday… 

Your hand is glued to your mouth as you continue to scan your eyes across the screen. In the next room, you hear your roommate’s headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall. 

You've organized your entire schedule around this internship, leaving your Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights free so there would be no class or extracurricular conflicts that could reflect negatively on your time management skills. You've meticulously designed your LinkedIn to tailor to their interests. You've suffered through weekend nights, sipping coffee and drowning out your roommate’s cries of Oh, yes! Fuck me harder! so you could practice every possible answer the interviewer would throw at you. All so you could snatch this position at Gladwell. 

Another email crowds your inbox and your pulse spikes. Maybe you should keep a blood pressure monitor handy. 

From: Dave York

Re: Feedback

You sigh, your cursor hovering over the attachment labelled “Feedback.docx.” Creative. 

Leave it to Dr. York to sour your mood. Dread twists you in your seat as you debate opening the file. It looks like your only bottle of wine will remain corked another night. 

You wince as you click on the attachment. Scrolling through the many track changes to the bottom of the document, you see his final comments in red. A.

A. He gave you an A.

I’m impressed with your work. See my marginal comments for details on how you can improve for your next assignment. 

— DY

The dread uncoils in your stomach and you can feel it well up with frustration. No apology for how condescending he was this morning. You aren't surprised. He’ll forget about you by tomorrow. You just hope he's a little ashamed that he thought so little of you. 

You reply just as coolly: Thank you for the quick feedback. I will take your suggestions into account and look forward to the next assignment. Feeling a little high off your academic success, you add, I hope you have a great weekend. 

After all, he must be equally antisocial, grading a student’s paper on a Friday night instead of drinking stale beer at a bar and crunching peanut shells underfoot. A shard of sympathy sings in your chest. 

You decide to uncork your bottle of wine in the end. 

Georgia Gladwell’s stern face peers down her glasses at you from her framed picture in the lobby. She sits above your new desk, her arms folded, surveying your every move as you methodically unpack your bag and settle into the swivelling chair behind the receptionist’s desk. 

A shiny new key to the building jingles on your ring. When you aren’t shadowing your supervising lawyer John on his case, you’ll be manning the phones at the front desk, familiarizing yourself with the firm’s clients, environment, and routine. Everything is pristine, sterile, and faintly smells of eucalyptus. Smooth jazz pours slowly from the speakers. The effect it has on you is instantaneous: having missed out on your morning coffee trying to decide on the perfect First Day outfit, you feel your eyelids drooping. Perhaps it’s a psychological tactic—to imitate a spa day so that the stressed parents in custody battles and angry ex-spouses will feel disarmed. 

You twirl a pen in your hand as you finish reviewing your contract. The pay is typical of a work study, but your scholarship has assured that you won’t need to work three jobs to make it through the rest of your undergrad. At least the other baristas don’t bother you much; they seem a little afraid to approach you most days, in fact. But friends are a luxury good these days and you can’t seem to find one to save your life. You suppose it’s mostly your fault.

Signing your name, you slide the pen through the clipboard with a finalistic flair and rise to find John in his office. Failing to calculate an appropriate walking speed, you nearly barrel right into someone’s back as he emerges from an office nearby, clapping his hand in another man’s for a firm handshake. You gasp, stumbling backward to avoid a collision course as you come face-to-face with Dave York in the narrow hallway. 

The sound of the office door closing makes you jump out of your skin. The plaque on the frosted window reads: 

John Gladwell, Esq.Family Law Attorney

Shit.

You clutch the clipboard close to your chest and give him your most polite smile. “Sorry, Professor.”

A suit jacket is draped over his forearm and his silver watch gleams at you, the rising sun reflected in its face. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows and his hair is dishevelled, as if his fingers have spent a good amount of time abusing it. His lips part, his brows drawing together as he assesses you, something circling the pupils of his dark eyes that you can’t extract. He’s handsome in this light, unkempt and a little golden, and maybe it’s your imagination, but he smells of eucalyptus.

He clears his throat, courteously dips his head, and your spine locks. 

You aren’t sure why his vacant frown stings, but you look down and curl your fists around the clipboard as if to squeeze some of your pride from the cork. He doesn’t remember you.

It’s all right, you tell yourself, bitterness oozing. It’s only been an entire weekend. He probably sees a hundred students a day. 

“Was it helpful?” 

His deep, rasping voice chills you. When your eyes flick upward tentatively, testing the waters of how much of your embarrassment to give away, you feel his gaze peel you apart, layer by layer. It feels less like he’s trying to remember your face and more like he’s trying to dig his way inside it.

“I’m sorry?” you say weakly. Twice now you’ve apologized to him for nothing.

“My feedback,” he says, and your bones feel like they could melt under the temperature of his voice. There’s a distinct melody to it; it recedes from the tide and pushes back in, always coated in the warm, sticky nighttime one feels on the coast. It’s humid and it sits on your skin like dew. “Was it helpful?”

You swallow. He remembers. “Oh. Yes. Very helpful, thank you.”

“You write well,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”

He sounds so close to conversational, to pleasant, that your neck begins to ache from the whiplash. “I’ve wanted this internship for months,” you reply. “I’ve pretty much organized my entire life around it in the hopes I’d get to shadow an attorney here.”

He loosens his tie slightly and you notice that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. A bullseye tattoo sits between his thumb and forefinger. 

“And…” You lick your lips, anxiously tapping your fingers on the back of the clipboard. “It looks like I’ll be shadowing yours.”

He rubs his hand over his jaw and you notice the beginnings of a beard he has yet to tame. “I’d prefer if you didn’t say anything about this. Don’t really need all my students knowing their professor can’t hold a marriage together, let alone a class.”

You’re taken aback by the fractal of vulnerability lodged in his expression, the slight wince accompanying his request. “I don’t have anyone to tell,” you say earnestly. “And I wouldn’t if I did.” 

Something inside you hums at the way his eyes flicker across your face, up and down your body, as if scanning lines upon lines of print. What does he see when he reads you this way? “Thought you’d have more friends than you can count.”

Your face feels hot under his scrutiny. “It’s mostly just me. I’m busy, so… you know. I mean, there’s my roommate, but she’s occupied most of the time. And she’s sick of me playing my study music until three a.m.”

You swear that’s a smirk on his face. “Studies show sleep is actually good for your health. You should try getting some.”

You tsk at him. “Don’t think I haven’t caught you micro-napping at your desk during class breaks, Dr. York.”

“Call me Dave,” he says. “While we’re here, at least.”

You hesitate. It’s bad enough that your supervising lawyer is handling your criminal law professor’s case; if you make even one misstep, it could mean your chance at a career. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”

His frown morphs into something softer, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. His intense gaze should frighten you. It should turn you on your heel. Instead, you want to lean your ear in and hear more of his voice. You want to open your eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you realize where they’re heading. “About your divorce. It must be hard.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, and it sounds close to a question, as if the words sit too heavily on his tongue and he’s trying to swirl it carefully around them. “I thought you would be different. And I judged you.”

You shake your head. It's nothing. You haven't figured out what about him makes his presence so suffocating. “I have to get my contract to John, so…”

Wordlessly, he steps out of the way, and you feel distinctly like prey being eyed by a lion as you knock on John’s door. 

“You deserve to be here,” says Dave. He's close enough that his breath wraps its warm fingers around your neck. You cannot suppress a shiver. “Don't forget that.”

“I won’t,” you say, your back to him. And you won’t let anything compromise this.

You learn things about Dave York over the next two weeks. 

He's rarely jovial; you’d go so far as to call him a grump. He has no patience for latecomers and even less tolerance for whisperers. He writes on the chalkboard because he seems averse to all kinds of technology. His cell phone flips open like a jewellery box and fits in his breast pocket. He gesticulates with his hands as he talks and rarely sits still. He's an engaging lecturer. It's no wonder his course has a reputation. 

The sound of laptop keys clicking irritates him and the sound of pen scratching across paper soothes him. He rarely strays from a black or blue suit, though you think he'd look charming in brown. He plays with his cuff links when he's thinking. His soon-to-be-ex-wife is Carol. She rarely stops by the firm, but when she does, her own lawyer in tow, she makes her meetings with Dave and John quick. You keep to yourself in the corner of the room, scribbling notes in your own shorthand. 

Carol seems lovely, but there's a chill between her and Dave. Neither of them seem inclined to show affection; if you didn't know they'd been married six years, the polite handshake they share at the beginning of every joint meeting would never give it away. 

He has no children. Carol has two daughters, and they had been living with their father until she realized she’d fallen in love with him again. If Dave thinks she's been unfaithful, he doesn't seem broken up about it. 

No love lost, you wrote in your notebook, underlined in bold red pen. 

As for Dave, he keeps his distance from you, mostly. He chews on the inside of his cheek or bounces his leg when he's feeling restless or impatient. He doesn't speak to you, the shadow, during his meetings with John. You do a decent job of making yourself invisible. 

Sometimes you watch him from afar, your notebook balanced in your lap or the phone tucked under your chin. It's so strange, you think. He's perfectly polite to everyone in the office and he treats John as one would any colleague. But he seems so detached. He can glance at every single face in the room and it feels like he's sizing them up to swallow them whole. 

It's hard to picture him in love. 

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

You jump at the sound of his voice and scramble to gather the papers you scattered across the table. Night fell some time ago, and you really don’t have much of an excuse for staying so late in the office when half the city is already asleep. 

Dave leans against the doorframe to the conference room, jacket folded over his arm (does he ever wear the goddamn thing?) like a waiter’s towel. His frame is illuminated by the dim hallway light, which occasionally flickers out when it senses no bodies nearby. You can hardly see his face in the darkness, but you know yours is starkly lit by your screen, your features on display for him to take apart piece by piece. 

“I should be asking you the same thing,” you reply. “John left hours ago.” 

He prowls toward you and lowers himself into a chair, leaning forward on his knees. “I was planning tomorrow’s lecture, actually.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, home?”

His mouth twists and your eyes are helplessly drawn to it. “Don’t you?”

“You’re down to the wire, Professor.”

“Mm. I like the thrill.” Your pulse hastens and you have the sudden urge to button your blouse to your throat. “Doesn’t seem like you enjoy it so much,” he adds, glancing at an unfinished personal statement on your laptop screen. The cursor has been blinking at you from the left margin for nearly twenty minutes now.

“My LSAT wasn’t as hard as this.” You rub your brow. “I should be wowing them with my achievements, but I’m stuck wondering if I have anything meaningful to say about myself at all.”

He frowns. “You’re an exceptional student.”

“Can you repeat that on record for me?” you say miserably. “It’s just… I’ve spent my whole life working toward the next goal, winning the next scholarship, getting the best grades. None of them would want me if they knew how little of a life I really have.”

He studies you for a moment, his thumb gliding across his mouth, his dark eyes inscrutable. Leaning toward you, he folds your laptop shut and the room is bathed in darkness. The only light to be seen filters upward through the floor-to-ceiling windows from the streetlamps outside. Even the jackhammering and shouting has stopped. For a moment, you catch his scent as he pulls away, cologne and leather, the bridge of your nose stinging with him. 

“Not like this,” he says softly. “Not now, and not tonight.”

“Dave…”

He shuts you up with a look, his brows lowering, his eyes burning you to the spot. It’s infuriating. You can’t seem to reel even a sliver of him into you. He’s impossible to study. You try to cast your line once more and your hook is caught in the air between you.

“You have a life,” he says, “and you’re gonna do incredible things with it. But you’re not sleeping. You’re living on coffee. This isn’t how you get there.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Has he been watching you, too? “You don’t know me.”

“I know me,” he says. “I know working myself to the bone and letting the work swallow me alive. I ruined my marriage before it even began.”

Your heart squeezes. You can hardly imagine this Dave reaching for his wife’s hand, cupping her face, laughing with her, kissing her. You wonder if he used to bring her flowers or arrange picnics or pay for her shopping trips. Did they have an all-consuming love? Did they fall into one another’s arms and kiss in the pouring rain and dance in the middle of a crowded restaurant the way they do it in the movies? Does he mourn what he could have had? Does he regret the small, sweet things he never did for her?

“Are you… still in love with her?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “We were friends for a long time. When she left Rob, I was there. And she loved me as hard as she could, until I stopped being there, and she couldn’t anymore.” He traces the contours of the wooden table, his eyes downcast. “I don’t blame her for any of it. How could I?”

You shake your head. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe you weren’t made for one another.”

“You think?” He scoffs like it’s a ridiculous thing, to think for even a second that he isn’t guilty. “You believe in meant to be?”

“I think if you believed it, you would have tried harder to keep her,” you tell him, and his head slowly tilts, considering, watching you so closely that you wonder if he can sense the minute shift in your breathing. 

“And you?” he says. His voice rattles your ribs. “Have you ever been in love?”

You pull your lip between your teeth and he doesn’t miss it. “I’m hard to love,” you tell him.

A muscle twitches above his brow and you wish you could know what it means. “Then nobody’s tried hard enough.”

Pressure stings behind your nose and you hurry to gather your papers before he can see your eyes well with tears. You try to say something like, I should be on my way home, but you don’t make it past the first couple words before you’re choking on the rest. 

You shrug your bag over your shoulder and Dave’s hand curls around the strap. “Let me take you home,” he says. “It’s late.”

“I’ll take a taxi,” you say, with more bite than you intended. “Thank you, Dr. York.”

He takes a step forward and it’s too close. Too warm. Your coat scratches like wool and the hairs on the back of your neck rise as he slowly slides the bag off your shoulder. “It’s late,” he says, and it’s stern, cool, but you’re burning up under his gaze, a popsicle abandoned on a hot pavement. 

“Okay,” you whisper. You can’t manage much more than that.

The seats are leather and you’re afraid to touch anything in case you scuff the interior of his car. He closes the passenger door after you and you're suddenly overcome with the panic of being caught inside your professor’s vehicle. You hug your bag close to your chest and refuse to touch a single control on the dash. Dave settles into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition. 

You begin to laugh and he eyes you quizzically. “You listen to the Pet Shop Boys?”

He turns down the volume. “Is that disturbing?”

“I took you for… I don't know, a Hadyn or Grieg sort of guy.”

He pins you with a look. “Not everyone over forty listens exclusively to classical music.”

“You're telling me you don't have a CD collection hidden in this car somewhere?”

He chuckles and pulls away from the curb. “No comment.”

The ride back to your apartment is quiet. Occasionally you provide him with a Turn right up here or a Left at the next light, and he makes the turn with grace, his watch ticking away the minutes. Your head lolls to the side as you watch the city pass by outside the window, bars lined up around the block and grates steaming and streetlights glowing red. Your heartbeat slows to the steady purr of the engine and your panic ebbs. You're safe. Here, in the dark, covered in a coat of night and smelling his cologne, the world feels like something you can conquer. Maybe it won't swallow you after all. 

“Up here, on the right,” you tell him, and he pulls up to the curb outside your brownstone. “Thank you, Dr. York. I mean it.”

“Dave,” he says again. “You're not the most difficult passenger I've had.”

You laugh. “No. I’d put money on Colin.”

“Yeah?”

“You haven't noticed him digging through the trash bin each night to see if someone accidentally dumped an important receipt?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head as if doesn't know whether to laugh it off or check his pockets for an important receipt. “I can honestly say I’ve never noticed that.”

A passing car bathes his face in light and it dances in his eyes. For a moment, you're struck by the fact that you can see him so clearly. He isn't obscured in the shadows or giving you that impenetrable stare. He looks deeply human, maybe for the first time, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a scar on his nose and a five o’clock shadow. 

Your hand trembles as you reach for his arm and gently squeeze. His eyes follow a path from your shoulder to your fingers. 

“I know you’ll figure it out,” you say. “Everything with Carol. You're a smart man.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Tell me something.”

You don't know why you agree so quickly. “All right,” you say, your fingertips tingling. His jacket is rumpled where you touched him. 

“Why did you take my class?”

You smile. “Because I need the credit.”

His grin is lopsided, almost boyish, and it makes you flutter. “Good. An honest lawyer.”

It feels like his eyes are writing his name into your skin. “You never answered my question, you know. You never told me if you still love her.”

“I figured you'd think I’m an asshole,” he says, “if I told you I never did.”

Frankly, you're surprised to learn he thinks anything of your opinion at all. You open the passenger door. “That's not why I think you're an asshole, Dr. York. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You know he's watching you the entire walk up to your door, but you don't turn back to look. 

The weeks chug forward, overcast and gloomy, and midterms are fast approaching. The libraries are overcrowded from morning through evening and nothing much has changed about your dismal sleep schedule. Only now, you meet Dave outside his office every Friday after class and he drives you both to Gladwell. 

He chipped away at you until you were nothing but flesh and bone, even though you'd put up a fight. I can take the bus, Dr. York. I really don't mind. 

Well, I do, he replied. It can be dangerous. 

You sound like my father. 

He levelled you with a glare. Defiant, you folded your arms in front of your chest. We're going to the same place, he said. Stop being so proud. 

My pride is my proudest feature.

He just opened the passenger door and stared you down. If we keep arguing, we’ll be late. 

That convinced you. You slid into the passenger seat of his Audi and begged him to let you pay for coffee. All was well until he slid his card in front of the machine while you were making small talk with the barista. 

Dave, you protested, I don’t want to owe you any more than I already do. 

He took your coffees from the barista with a curt nod and shouldered the door open for you. You owe me when I say you owe me. A coffee and a car ride aren't going to set me back. 

Must be nice, you grumbled, plucking your latte from his hand. Your fingers brushed as you touched the cup and the contact nearly jolted you into dropping it. 

Ever since Dave caught you in the height of your writer’s block in the conference room that night, the air has felt different around him. Charged. You don't know what to make of it. The pair of you have been perfectly skirting the edges of professional, ignoring one another during lectures, tolerating the quiet during the drive to Gladwell. But your skin electrifies when he draws near. You lean forward from your shadowy perch in the corner of the office when he speaks, your pen drooling ink through the pages of your book. He asks you about your day and you stumble over your words, where you’d once been cool and composed in the face of his righteousness. Your pulse spikes when you pass one another in the hallway or when John CCs you on an email to Dave. 

It’s the smallest moments that slot together into this jagged, confounding image of him. It’s him pulling a pen from the inside of his jacket when you sheepishly admit that you’ve forgotten yours. It’s him offering to read the first draft of your personal statement just because he thinks you’ve got a real shot, that you have what it takes. It’s the silence of just sitting with him in the conference room, the Newton’s cradle on the long glass table tick-tick-ticking away, lulling you to sleep or insanity, listening to him typing on his laptop while you study until your eyes melt off your face. He makes it easier, somehow.

It’s Monday now, and you’re yawning widely as you step off the bus. It lets you off a stop early thanks to the construction and splashes you as it drives off for good measure. The cold rain pelts your umbrella as you hurry down the block. You have two minutes until you're officially late. 

The muddy rainwater soaking through your pants is starting to make you shiver as you wait at the crosswalk. Someone bumps into you from behind and you grit your teeth, holding onto your umbrella for dear life as the wind picks up and nearly carries you to the other side of the street. 

Outside the firm, you pick through each of the keys on your ring until you find the right one and practically shove the door open. The lobby is peaceful and quiet and your ears pop as you shut the door against the torrent outside. You store your umbrella with the others, take off your waterlogged coat, and pat your pockets for your wallet. 

Panic zips up your spine as you dig your hands into each of your pockets only to find a gum wrapper and lint. Your wallet was in your coat pocket. You're sure of it. You always keep it where you can easily—

Recalling the stranger who bumped into you at the crosswalk, you feel your blood freeze over. “No,” you croak. “Nonono. Fuck, fuck, this can't be happening.”

“Hey.”

The gentle rumble of his voice startles you. Ducking your head, you squeeze your eyes shut and hope he will go away. You're too humiliated to turn around and face him. 

“Hey,” he says again, his voice achingly soft. “You're shivering.”

You sniffle, hugging your arms close to your middle. “Just cold.”

“C’mon.” You could melt under the heat of his palm, your body guided by his hand on your elbow. He takes you in as you shamefully meet his gaze, his frown deepening at the sight of your tears. “You’ll catch a cold like this. Come with me.” 

His soothing rasp beckons you forward. Your feet carry you to John’s office and Dave shuts the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and draping it over your shoulders. His fingers curl gently around your arms, rubbing them up and down through the soft material of his jacket. The gesture is tender, so giving, and this couldn’t possibly be the cold, detached Dave York who spends his Friday evenings grading papers, who drove his wife away because work always came first. He swipes the pad of his thumb under your chin to nudge it upward, to make you meet his eye.

“Tough day at the office?” he teases.

A weepy laugh stumbles its way out of you. “You could say that.”

He clicks his tongue, his eyes scouring your body. “Vivian keeps spare clothes in the lounge. If you don’t mind advertising for Gladwell Family Law.”

“I’ll advertise anything if it means getting out of these clothes,” you tell him, your fingers trembling as you pull his jacket taut around your shoulders. It smells like his cologne and you’re hit with a dizziness that forces you into the closest chair. Dave returns with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt emblazoned with the Gladwell crest, and he stretches his hand toward you, palm-up, an offering. 

Your fingers glide along his lifelines, his calluses, closing at last around his knuckles. His brow wrinkles, his eyes fixed to where your hands meet, following the road back to your face. You feel your lips part subconsciously, searching for something to say, but the cold and the wet bleed the energy from your bones. 

You think of how this must look, and the urge to pull your hand away is quelled by the tender way he pulls you to your feet, steadying you with his other hand on the small of your back. For a moment, your faces are so close that you can count the freckles on his jaw—there's another tattoo just behind his ear—and your head feels stuffed with him, smell and sight and touch. 

A shiver starts at the apex of your spine and hits every knob on the way down. Dave’s head moves, his strong nose inches from your temple, and you're reminded of a lion sniffing at its prey, nudging its way around the body. You could claw at him, fight back, but you're frozen, deerlike, and you aren't sure you even want to run. 

He abandons the kill, stepping back with a sharp inhale and squeezing your hand. “Bathroom,” he rasps. “You can change in there.”

Right. You hurry past him, taking the change of clothes from John’s desk, your hand slipping from Dave’s. Locked safely in the bathroom, you peel yourself out of your clothes and step into the freshly-laundered sweatpants. The methodical act of dressing is a welcome distraction from the fact that soon you'll have to emerge from the bathroom and face Dave York once more, knowing that for a moment, you'd thought about kissing him. 

Stupid. The weight of his big, warm hand on your back still lingers, severing you at the waist, dismantling you for parts. If John had been in his office, none of this would have happened. And if John had walked in on the two of you, you could say goodbye to your internship. You're upset, and stressed, and Dave was there. He always seems to be there. But this—whatever this is—cannot continue. You cannot let it. You’ll cut your feelings at the roots and let them wither underground. Dave York is not an option, for more reasons than you can count. 

You freshen up in the bathroom and meet him back in John’s office, your soiled clothes bundled into a damp ball. “Hi.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets and stops pacing, turning to face you where you stand cautiously in the entrance. “You look…”

“Professional?” you offer, performing a halfhearted twirl. 

He rubs his jaw and there's something burning in his eyes that you can't—don’t want to—unravel. “Warm,” he says. 

You swallow hard. The air is sinking over your head and beginning to choke you. “I guess… we should wait for John.”

“Yeah.” His voice has retreated into his chest and the low rumble makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “Listen, I—”

“Dave,” you say weakly, hugging your old clothes to your chest, “let's just… I shouldn't have…”

“Honey,” he says. Your heartbeat is throttled into submission as he steps forward and takes the bundle of clothes from your arms. “Just tell me what happened.”

And you're so grateful for the change of subject that you sigh, lowering yourself into a chair. Dave sets your clothes next to his bag as if he expects to take them home with him. 

“Someone stole my wallet,” you tell him, looking down at your folded hands. The embarrassment sings through your cheeks. “God, I need to cancel all my cards, replace my ID… I even lost the keycard for this building.”

Dave leans on John’s desk, towering over you, his forearms taut with muscle. You wet your lips. 

“I’ll handle it,” he says, and fuck, you want him to. You want to crawl into bed and sleep for days and let him handle everything. He'd field your calls, order you brand-new cards, pick them up himself. He'd intimidate the goddamn mugger himself into giving you back your wallet if he could. You know it. You know he would. 

But you're shaking your head, wrenching your shears around the root. “I wasn't careful, and I’ll take care of it. You've done enough for me, Dave.”

He assesses you, sizing up your stubbornness, calculating how far it will go. You can see it play out in his face, all the way to the end. He knows you'll never budge. “All right,” he says at last. “Then come out for a drink with me.”

You blink up at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry?”

“A drink,” he says, “after I’m done here.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Is that… appropriate, Dr. York?”

He tilts his head to the side, and your body reacts under his gaze, your posture straightening, perspiration tingling on your temples. His eyes flicker down to your mouth and there’s so much intention in his lowered eyes that you free your bottom lip from between your teeth. “It’s just two colleagues,” he says, so quietly you can barely hear, “getting drinks together.”

“Just two colleagues,” you echo, and you may as well be in a trance, watching him rise from the desk and stand a mere two feet from where you sit. You crane your neck backward to look him in the eye and he seems pleased. 

“Meet me at the front desk.”

The gentle command blooms from your core, warm and sap-sweet, and you’re beginning to worry that the roots have multiplied beyond your control. You nod your head and rise from the chair, your eyes catching the watch on Dave’s wrist. 

“John will be here soon.” You’re leisurely in your visual pursuit up his muscled forearm, his broad shoulders, the angle of his jaw, his nose, the plush softness of his mouth. “You didn't have to get here so early. Why did you?”

He isn’t subtle in the way he watches you, either. There’s something voyeuristic about his eyes dipping between your collarbones, catching the hard peaks of your nipples under the fabric of your borrowed shirt. It’s more than wanting to undress you. You’re halfway convinced he wants to eat you alive. 

His nostrils flare and you’re more than convinced you’d let him sink his teeth into you.

“Do you want me to answer that?” His voice rumbles deep in his chest.

Yes. Please, yes. 

Tell me all the ways you want me. Tell me how much it’s killing you not to touch me. Tell me you show up early each day because you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of me.

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “Not yet.”

His tongue darts out across his lower lip. “Good,” he says. “You’re a good girl.”

Impulsively you nod again, more desperate in this moment to please him than to get far, far away before John walks in on you both. “I’m not dressed for the bar,” you say, and it feels pathetic before you can even finish the sentence.

The corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. He can barely get out a syllable in response before John opens the door and steps into his office, briefcase in hand. “Good morning,” he says breezily, frowning at the bundle of clothes on the floor next to Dave’s bag. “Everything okay in here?”

Your blood chills as reality rudely intrudes into the space between you and Dave. You’re being astronomically stupid, letting him stand so close to you, letting him say the things he does. Letting yourself fall into him like he’s some bright star, when you know giving in will only ruin everything. 

“All good,” you say pleasantly. “Got splashed by the bus on the way here.”

You retreat to the shadows with your notebook and pen and promptly ignore him for the rest of your work day. He and John are beginning to close in on agreements with Carol and her lawyer, which means that soon he’ll no longer be tied to Gladwell. And you’re happy about it. You’ll be glad to see him free of the stress that’s been straining his brow. But a part of you aches at the thought of having to part ways with a cordial smile and a handshake. A part of you wonders if he’ll just slip away someday without so much as a syllable. Maybe whatever exists between you, whatever green thing has started to poke its knotty fingers through the earth, will be killed by the frost. It will be winter soon. 

He’s wearing his glasses now, flipping through a paperclipped pile of papers from the bank, thighs spread wide in his chair. Your body hums at the sight and your pen quivers in your hand. You can’t let this continue. You can’t.

But God, you revel a little in his attention and you hate yourself for it. Every time you yawn, stretch, give your input to John, ask him to clarify something, Dave’s hand curls around the arm of his chair. He clears his throat, adjusts himself in his seat, watches you when John isn’t looking, the tip of his pen chewed to mulched plastic. He watches as you leave the room and he watches as you return. 

His desire is warm and it’s sunny and you can’t help yourself but stretch yourself out in it, filling every little nook and cranny. 

He meets you in the lobby, opens your umbrella over your head to shield you from the rain, and guides you into the passenger seat of his car. By now, you’ve filled it more times than you can count. It’s second nature to meet him out in the staff parking lot every Friday and settle into the cool leather. But you hold yourself more reserved now, his blazer draped warmly over your shoulders, refusing to fiddle with his air conditioning or the volume of his music. 

One afternoon, you were digging through the CD collection in his glove box on the drive to Gladwell. And what is this, Dr. York? you said, triumphantly holding up a burned disc upon which Dave has scrawled in his neat handwriting, Mozart.

He snatched the disc from your hand. Show me a university professor who doesn’t listen to this shit to calm down.

Oh, yes. Of course. You laughed. You have such tough students, after all.

Yeah, I’m looking at one of ‘em.

Sonata No. 16 is trilling softly through the speaker system now. You glance at him and though he doesn’t look your way, the corner of his mouth twitches. The ride to the bar is quiet, and you like it this way. You've never needed to fill empty space with him. 

The bar, Ricky’s, is a couple blocks away. Inside, the tables are dusty and the grey daylight filters lazily through the windows. A couple regulars—you assume they must be, kicking their feet up and watching the tiny televisions that are broadcasting the Cubs game—keep on minding their business when you and Dave walk in. 

“It's quiet,” you point out. 

He chuckles. “Expecting an authentic club scene at four o’clock in the afternoon?”

“I guess I thought a guy like you would like something a bit more along the lines of a… well, I don't want to say speakeasy—”

Behind you, he dips his head to whisper in your ear. “How old do you think I am?” 

You shiver at the feeling of him so close to you. “Do you want me to answer that?”

“What can I get you folks?” says the bartender as she wipes down a beer tap. 

Dave orders a beer and you play it safe with a rum and coke. His foot rests on the bar of your stool, keeping you close, and you can't tell if it's the relaxed lighting or the muffled noises of traffic outside, but he looks more at ease than you've ever seen him. And he's so handsome like this: sleeves rolled to his elbows, a couple buttons undone on his shirt, his large hand choking the neck of his beer as it sweats over his knuckles. His hair is tousled from the wind. When he smiles or drinks, little creases appear next to his eyes, and you find yourself leaning closer to him to see all these details. 

“So,” you say tentatively, “what made you ask me to get a drink with you, Dr. York?”

He takes a tactical swig of his beer and Jesus, his mouth fits so nicely around the lip of the bottle. “What made you agree?”

You roll your eyes. “Apparently, I’m a people pleaser.”

“I know,” he says. “I know you work overtime because John asks you to and you can't say no even if you have ten other things on your plate.”

“I always have ten other things on my plate. One more doesn't hurt.”

“You think it doesn't,” he says softly, “but you're running on steam. Adrenaline. I know a little bit about that.”

“Yeah, well, I can't afford to rest.”

“That's right,” he says, clearly amused. “You wanna catch the bad guys.”

You turn your chin up a little. “That first day I came up to you with my paper, I thought you were a total jackass.”

He hums, unaffected. “And I thought you were some try-hard who would get a B-minus at best.”

“And you're still a jackass,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. 

“But you're nothing like how I thought you'd be,” says Dave. “You're different. Every time I look at you, it's something different.”

“You look at me a lot?”

He takes another swig and pride bubbles up into your throat. 

“Carol always said I never made enough friends. I didn't go out enough.”

You lift your brows. “And is that what we are now? Friends?”

His eyes perform a daring swoop over your body. “I’m not very good at friends.”

“But you're so warm and welcoming.”

“Mm. And you’re so funny.”

But he’s smiling, hiding it behind the drink he takes, and it's charming enough to make your cheeks warm. 

“I’m going to ask you a question,” you tell him, “and I want you to answer honestly.” 

He watches you expectantly and you feel consumed by his attention, your back ramrod straight, your palms clammy. “Did you ask me here so nobody could walk in on us?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth and you imagine kissing him. “I can be selfish,” he says, setting his bottle on the bar. He won't quite meet your eye. “I've been selfish with my money, my things, my work. I’ve taken things I didn't deserve because I didn't want someone else to have it. I fought hard for my job at that school even though I knew it would take me away from Carol, and I was already losing her. I just kept driving in the nail.”

He turns to face you and the black of his pupils seems to pool outward, drowning his irises. 

“And I’m selfish with you,” he says. “Your time. Your attention. I can’t get my goddamn fill of you.”

His words are dizzying. “Dave…” 

“Come here,” he says. 

His stern tone is fucking intoxicating. Thrilling. You're in public, out in the open, and any pair of prying eyes could stray toward you. They could find you standing between your professor’s thighs, his hand cascading down your spine until it rests, content, on the small of your back. You're caged, trapped, on all sides by him, and you're drunk with the smell of cologne. 

He lifts his other hand, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip. You let him, and you're fucking pleased to, enjoying the way he carefully explores you, dancing around the real taste you know he wants. 

“Maybe I asked you here so nobody could see,” he says, and you're melting into his touch, gooey and warm where his knuckle traces the shape of your jaw. “But maybe I want them to.”

You gasp as he hooks his fingers at the nape of your neck, holding you like a kitten by the scruff. His mouth inches closer and you want to beg him, plead on your knees, to finally kiss you. But you're at his mercy like this, and your mind is delightfully empty for once in your life. 

“Maybe,” he says softly, cradling your head like it's more precious than gold, “I’m just some dirty old man, and I want what I shouldn't take.” His thumb slides around your throat and presses gently into your pulse. “But your heart’s beating like crazy.” 

“Maybe I’m afraid,” you say, your head dipping back into the weight of his palm. 

He hums, his other hand toying with the hem of your shirt. “Are you?”

“Yes,” you say, your eyes contemplating the line of his jaw, the slope of his mouth. “But not of you, Dave.”

His brow furrows. A lion releasing the wounded deer from its jaws. He's applying pressure to the small of your back, the slightest push, and you're floating closer to him. 

“Well, I’m afraid of you,” he says. 

You shake your head. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're smart, you're driven. You're more than I’ve become in twice your lifetime.” He swipes the pad of his thumb over your chin. “I could follow you from a speeding train and never catch up. And Jesus, I don't want to. I want to keep following you forever. And where does that leave me?”

And God help you, but it doesn't feel selfish. There's nothing selfish about the tension lining his mouth as if he's trying to pull away from you before he makes a severe mistake. There's nothing selfish about the way his eyes squeeze shut when your fingers gently trail down his neck. 

You think he'd let you sink your teeth into him. 

“Maybe I’m afraid,” you say hoarsely, “because you can fuck up my whole future.”

“And you can't risk it.”

You swallow hard, your head tilting as you lean toward him. “And I can't risk it.”

He leans in too, and you can smell the beer on his breath, the cologne on his collar. You can see the black of his eyes swell as he nears your mouth and your lips are nearly touching when his cell phone begins to ring. 

He pauses, and you pull away altogether, your fingers hovering over your mouth. Oh, God. 

You almost kissed him. Your fucking teacher. 

You back away and stumble into your stool as Dave, clearing his throat and scratching the nape of his neck, fishes frantically for his phone. Your eyes are drawn to the large bulge in his pants and your cunt clenches. Fuck, you almost kissed him. The phone rings into the din of the bar and you consider fleeing. You consider hanging up the phone for him. You consider dragging him to the bathroom, dropping to your knees, and taking his cock in your mouth. 

Instead you stand, frozen, as he finds his phone and answers the call. As he speaks to John, his voice taut, syllables clipped, his eyes don't leave you for a heartbeat. It feels so filthy, so wrong that for a moment you contemplate quitting on the spot, but oh, he's devouring you whole and it tastes sweet. You sit on the stool, rubbing your thighs together to relieve some of the tension in your core, and his chest is heaving as he watches it all. You feel dirty. But you can't stop. You don't leave. You sit, prim and proper, and something in his starving gaze tells you that you're being good. A good girl. 

And you'll be good for him. 

So when he hangs up the phone and demands that you hand him yours, you give it over without a moment’s hesitation. 

“When I drop you off at home,” he says, sounding out of breath although he's only just had the briefest of phone conversations, “I want you to get in bed and touch yourself until you come. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You open your mouth and find you're equally short of breath. Your heart keels over at the sound of him calling you baby. “Yes.”

“And when you’re done, I want a picture,” he continues. 

Your knees are trembling. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flare and you like this. You like making him crazy. He gives your phone back with his number in your contacts. He’s put his name as “David” and for some reason it makes your heart flutter. Another small piece of himself you get to keep tucked in your pocket. 

“You could get in trouble,” you say softly. For so many reasons. 

“I’m already in it,” he replies. 

By the time Dave pulls up to the curb outside your apartment, you're so dizzy you can barely look him straight in the eye. The lust is consuming you from the inside, severing your sensibility, eating you to bones.

“I want you to know,” he says, his voice velvet-dark, “how good you are. I need you to know it. I’m not going to fuck this up. Not you. Not the way I did before.”

“Dave,” you say. “You're a good man.”

He looks your way and there's a melancholic curve to his mouth. “Just didn't meet the right person the first time around, huh?”

“Yeah.” You give him a smile and he echoes a sliver of it. “Doesn't make you bad.”

He reaches across the console and squeezes your thigh, so you place your hand atop his. He scans your face, fondness evident in the care he takes to do it, and you're a puddle of water in his palm. “You trust me?” he asks.

“I trust you.”

His hand trails further up your thigh and you squirm in your seat as you watch your own hand follow. “Trust me enough to play with this pretty pussy?” he muses, his eyes fixed between your legs. When you don't respond right away, too busy trying to level your breath, he gives your thigh a smack. “Answer me, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you plead. “Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

You've never been so aroused in your fucking life. “I trust you to play with my pretty pussy. I want you to. Please.” 

“Oh, baby,” he says, a mocking tone of pity colouring his voice, “I will. But I want to see you play first. Go on inside.”

Feverishly, you open the car door and gather your things, slipping out and hurrying up the stairs to your door. You risk a glance behind you, and Dave’s there, watching you intently through the car window. He rubs his hand over his mouth as you wiggle your fingers at him in farewell. 

Two can play, Professor. 

Dave's phone buzzes in his pocket before he pulls in the driveway. 

His back is aching as he locks the front door behind him and tosses his keys and bag onto the bench. The thud echoes down the hallway. The walls of the spacious living room are cold and bare since Carol left with her myriad of artwork. The thermostat is set to a chilly sixty-eight because he tends to overheat. There are three bedrooms and he only uses one. It's empty and it's serviceable and he mostly despises it. 

He can't help but wonder how you'd fill the space. Your bare feet padding on the cold tile. Your body sprawled across the couch in front of the 85-inch television he rarely turns on except to let it scroll through dynamic screensavers. Your shampoo and your perfume clouding his head all hours of the day. He’d bend you over in front of the bathroom mirror and watch himself take you, your throat cradled in the nest of his palm, his every nerve falling keenly into you, bending to your will. 

His cock is already straining uncomfortably against his zipper as he wrenches his tie from around his neck and rubs the sore muscles there. Sitting at his desk, Dave pulls his phone from his pocket and finds a message waiting for him. 

His cock swells at the sight of your name alone. Yanking off his belt with one hand, Dave opens the attachment you've sent him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. Your simple cotton panties are pulled to the side as if you couldn't wait to slip your hand inside and touch your pussy. Your fingers spread your lips apart so he can see your pearly, swollen clit, your slit wet and messy with the arousal that webs between your fingers. 

‘all for you, sir’

His thighs flex as he practically tears off the button of his trousers in his haste to unzip his fly. His cock, heavy and leaking, curves up against his belly, and he can't help himself as he squeezes the base for relief. 

‘Call me,’ he types. 

He only needs to wait a few seconds for you to obey his command. “Hi,” you say softly, your voice tinny and a little out of breath. 

“Did it feel good, baby?” he says hoarsely, spitting into his palm and wrapping his fingers around the head of his cock. “You give that pretty pussy what she needed?”

Your little gasp oozes down his spine and his cock twitches in his grasp. “Are you touching yourself?” you ask him. 

“Yeah,” he says, his head lolling back over the edge of the chair as he begins to drag his fist over his length. “Fuck, yeah. Sent me such a pretty picture, sweetheart. Couldn't—fuck—couldn’t help myself.”

“Dave.” There’s desperation in your voice now and he squeezes his eyes shut, picturing you on your knees at his feet. “It felt so good. Felt so fucking good, thinking about you licking my pussy.”

“Jesus,” he grunts, precum dribbling from his tip, his thumb smearing it over the head, his brain clogged with the sound of your filthy words. “Bet she tastes so sweet. My sweet fuckin’ girl.”

“Want you to taste me,” you say, and fuck, you're touching yourself. He can hear it in the hitch of your breath, the muffled rustling of your bedsheets. “I want you so badly.”

Dave’s grip is ironclad around the phone as he fists himself, his teeth bared as he imagines sliding his cock over the flat of your tongue, feeding himself to you inch by inch, working you up on his terms. Making you plead for it. 

“So goddamn impatient,” he growls. “Close your eyes.”

“Yes, sir.” 

That's his favourite sound. Your obedience, your trust. You’re so quick to pour yourself into any cast he decides. He’s going to have fun with that. 

“Play with your tits,” he commands, and he knows it slides down your throat like warm honey. “You don't touch your pussy ‘til I tell you to. Understand?”

You whimper, the sound melted butter in his ears, and he can see you pinching your nipples, your naked hips writhing for the touch he can't give you. “That's it,” he says, his fist sliding up and down his cock, the obscene sound of it echoing off the walls. “Such a good listener. Always so smart.”

Your heavy breathing is almost enough to make him explode on the spot. “Wish I could touch you. Wish I could suck your cock, sir. Wanna show you how good I am.”

He’s blind with lust, his cock angry red at the tip and begging to slide inside something warm. Oh, he'd fit so nicely between your thighs. You’d swallow him whole and beg for more still. 

“You wanna take my cock in your mouth, sweet girl?” he says, and the vision is decadent: your eyes blinking up at him, tears streaming from the corners as you hollow your cheeks around the girth of him, taking him so slow, your mouth hot, spongy, drooling for his cock. “Is that what you touch your pretty little pussy to? Sucking your teacher's dick? Hmm?”

“Yeah,” you whine, and he knows you're on the verge of begging. Just where he wants you. “Wanna be your best girl. Your only girl.”

And God help him, his heart squeezes at that. His cock likes the sound of it too, throbbing in his fist, so desperate for release that he’s beginning to feel lightheaded. 

“My best fuckin’ girl,” he grits out. “The only fuckin’ girl I want. You’d let me stuff you full, wouldn't you?”

“God, yes. Yes, I want you inside me. I'd let you do anything to me.”

“I know,” he says. “Now rub your clit for me. Nice and slow.”

The moan he hears when you obey his order makes his balls pull up and goddammit, he doesn't want this to be over so soon. “Fuck,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck, that feels so good.”

“Yeah? That feel nice, sweet girl? Go a little faster.”

He's got seconds left and he’s going to make them fucking count.

“Dave… fuck, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

“Let me hear it, sweetheart. Give it to me.” 

You cry out his name, and he groans low and loud, opening his eyes to watch his cock pulse in his hand, cum spilling over his hand and onto his belly. Every moan he hears from your mouth urges more from him, and it doesn't fucking end. It's sticky, filthy. And he doesn't feel guilty about a second of it. 

“Fuck,” he says, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. “I was gonna take things slow.”

You laugh, a little delirious with pleasure, and pride simmers low in his chest knowing he's taken your mind off things, even if it's just for a while. 

“Thank you, Dave.”

He’d do any-fucking-thing to hear that again. To make you feel good. 

“You busy tonight?” he says. 

You hum, and the flirtation in your tone makes him feel twenty years younger. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I decided I want to see you again,” he replies, “and I’m an impatient guy.”

“Are you inviting me into your home, Dave York?” 

“Are you saying yes?”

“Of course I’m saying yes. I’m incapable of saying no, remember?”

And he’ll work on that. But he likes it when you go easily to him. “I’ll come pick you up. We’ll have dinner.”

“Dave, you were just here. I’ll take a cab.”

“You know I love arguing with you, baby, but I’m feeling generous.”

“Well, sure you are. Orgasms will do that.”

He chuckles. “I’ll be outside in twenty.”

You're practically skipping to his car when he arrives. The drive back to his place is serene. Idle chatter fills the space as you discuss your week: the assignments piling up for each of your classes, your dentist appointment that isn't fully covered and the extra shifts at the café you'll need to pick up, the days getting shorter. Your fingers toy with the cuff of his leather jacket and his hand rests, contented, on your thigh. It's hard to believe you made each other come over the phone not half an hour ago. These moments in between, when everything falls quiet, are the peace he rarely gets. 

“When you meet with Bentley tomorrow,” he says, “don't let him intimidate you into being his research assistant. He’ll talk up the position, but you'll get paid dirt and he’s a shitty boss.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Because he was my boss for a summer, and it nearly made me quit law altogether.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe my constitution outweighs yours, Dr. York.”

“I know for a fact it does,” he says, “but I’d rather not have anyone else try to monopolize your time. That's my job.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna have to start paying for my time.”

“Happy to,” he says. “What's your price?”

You study his face as he turns into the driveway and parks his car. “I haven't decided yet.”

He turns off the ignition and darkness falls heavy and silent. Still, he can see the glow of your eyes through the black and he's momentarily stunned by the fondness softening your gaze. It’s so warm and sticky that for a moment he's disarmed into believing he's earned it. 

“Hungry?” he asks the darkness. You incline your head. 

His skin hums for a real taste of you. Dave offers his hand to you as you climb out of the car, and he doesn't miss the way your eyes follow the line of his arm down his chest and torso. Always so observant. Slipping your hand into his, you rise, and his cock twitches at the scent of your perfume drifting breezily toward him in the crisp air. 

He doesn't let go of your hand. Instead he laces his fingers through yours and guides you toward the door, locking it behind him so he can turn around and press you up against the cool wood. 

Your soft gasp sends a shockwave down his spine. “Dave.”

“I couldn't wait,” he says, his other hand sliding achingly slow down your spine, letting himself luxuriate in the softness of your sweater, the feeling of drawing closer and closer to its hem. He presses his palm into the small of your back, where he knows you'll curve so sweetly against him, and already the haze is descending over your eyes. It's fucking exhilarating to watch you slowly give yourself over to him, to let your thoughts spill from your mouth where it whispers his name. 

“Tell me I can't kiss you.” His eyes are fixed to your mouth, looming over it like a starving, circling hawk. “Tell me you don't want this, and I’ll stop.”

“I can’t.” Your brow furrows and he wants to press his mouth against the point of tension and feel it melt away. “I should shove you away. I should have stopped this a hundred times. But I can’t. I don't want to.”

“You want me to kiss you,” he says, unfolding his hand from yours and splaying your palms flat against one another. “Say it, sweetheart. Say it and it'll feel so good.”

“Yes.” 

And you can barely begin to say it before Dave is crowding you, slanting his mouth to fit yours, the permission still echoing off the cold, dead walls. 

Your soft whine makes his ears ring. He knows he's practically suffocating you but you seem all the more eager to crush his body into yours, one hand encircling his bicep, the other sliding your fingers through his hair. The tingling sensation of your nails along his scalp makes him growl into your mouth. 

It's heaven to answer your little pleading moans with another kiss, to oblige your wants even as you crumble completely under his touch, to mold his perfect girl to the shape of him. It's so easy to take your bottom lip between his teeth in a teasing bite. It’s so easy to catch whatever piece of you may fall and slot it back into place. 

Dave coaxes your mouth open so he can lick his way inside, and your arms wind around his neck to bring him closer. His hands wander, bunching up the hem of your sweater so he can drink in your soft skin, clenching the fabric around his fists, willing it away. You taste like coffee and mint and he folds himself into you, the door frame creaking with his weight. 

Your fingers grasp greedily at his hair and the sting of it goes right to his cock. Your needy hips push against his and he groans at the thought of fitting himself between your thighs, settling in at your molten core like he was made for it. He thinks he may be. 

Dave’s hand coasts up your back and cups your throat lightly, tilting your head back. Nipping your chin, he guides his nose along your jaw, his mouth puffing hot breath over your skin, letting it bloom, letting you writhe as he continues his careful exploration. He kisses and bites at the spot below your ear and answers your breathy little moan with a gentle squeeze of his fingers around your throat. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he says, his lips ghosting down your neck and back up again, planting himself in every pore, ensuring it's his mark that’s left behind. He bares his teeth and sinks them playfully into your shoulder. 

“Dave!” you gasp, your nails carving half-moons into the back of his neck as you keep him fixed to you. 

He shuts you up with another kiss, prying you open, tipping himself inside, his hand applying a little pressure to the sides of your throat, getting you nice and warm and pliant for him. And fuck, it works like a charm. Your whimpers knock on his ribs. They slither into the grooves of his brain. He’s a goner. He was a goner from the moment you walked up to his desk that first day. 

His watch beeps on the hour and he reluctantly pulls away from you. He smirks at the way you follow him for a moment after his mouth leaves you, and he brushes his knuckle under your chin to get you to meet his eye. And Jesus, your pupils puff up when you look at him, panting, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. It seals his fate then and there. 

He nudges his nose against yours. “You with me?”

You pout, and he swoops down to nip your protruding lip in reproach. “It's getting late,” he says. “And I promised I’d feed you.”

You shake your head as if in a trance. “I don't need dinner right now,” you say, trying to pull him toward you for another kiss. 

Dave chuckles, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose instead. “I decide when we eat,” he says firmly. “You’re not gonna argue with me, are you? When I’ve been so nice?”

Your hand trails up his bicep and he needs to be vigilant or he'll give into your every single whim. “No, sir.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the inside of your wrist, your pulse throbbing tenderly under his lips. For a moment, you stay just like this, the both of you orbiting one another, trading atmospheres, your quiet breaths mingling in the dark of the room. 

It's so hard to remind himself that this is wrong. When he looks into your eyes and puts his mouth on you and feels your body sing under his touch, he's never felt more certain about anything. 

You're wearing his favourite sweater today. 

You file into the room and float to your seat without so much as a glance his way, and he can smell your perfume. Curling his fingers around the edge of his lectern, Dave distracts himself with his notes. But the scent of you circles his head like little butterflies, and you’re still embedded in his fucking skin. 

Carol was at Gladwell yesterday and he could feel you skirting around him because of it. All day, Dave itched to get you alone, to find a quiet little corner where he could have a taste of you, but you kept it so professional he was almost convinced he'd dreamed all of your time together. 

He knows you're afraid of being found out, of throwing away your career and his too, but now that he knows how it feels when your body melts into him like candle wax, he's struggling to let it go. And a day without your attention is practically giving him the shakes. 

You ended up staying late at his place Monday night. He made space at the dining table for you to spread out your work and continue to fine-tune your personal statements and application letters. Every so often you asked him for advice and he leaned over you, his thumb massaging a knot in your shoulder. You hummed happily and he held your jaw so he could kiss you. 

When he decided you'd worked for too long, he sat at the opposite end of the table and patted his knee. You closed your laptop, his silent command carrying you, and lowered yourself into his lap. He lost track of how long he kissed you that night. 

You're chatting with the student beside you, some kid he doesn't recognize, and Dave works his jaw. Impulse wins. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he sends a text. 

You pull your phone out of your bag and squirm in your seat, struggling to pay attention to the conversation you're having. Dave’s chest puffs up a bit. 

Time ticks down to the hour and he gestures for the class to quiet down. A hush gradually descends over the room, and he begins.    

You bite your lip when you write. Sometimes, you'll pause for a moment, look up at him through your lashes, and quickly avert your gaze when you find him already staring back. He's memorized your penmanship from your ‘A’s to your ‘Z’s. He knows the shape of the loops in your ‘Y’s. He knows how fast you type and he knows that you can only work when there's white noise churning in the background and he knows that John wants to keep you around at Gladwell after your contract is up because you're more competent than half their team. (“But don't tell her yet,” said John.)

He knows the way your eyelids droop when you're sleepy and he knows how your voice pitches up when you try to convince him you're wide awake. He knows the pace of your inhales and exhales. He knows your pulse better than he knows his own. 

He tries to keep his sweeping gaze from stuttering when it falls on you. But he's drawn to the tilt of your head and the movement of your pen. He likes the way his heart spills through the bars of his ribs when your eyes meet. 

You’re so goddamn attentive to every word he says that he's inched his way behind his desk to continue his lecture so nobody will see how hard he is.  

You yawn from your seat, blinking hard as you try to focus on your notes. You haven't been sleeping well. Last night, he turned up the thermostat by two degrees so you wouldn't have to bury yourself in layers and blankets next time. 

Next time. 

Yeah, he thinks. I’m fucked. 

Dave clears his throat. “Any questions?”

“What about smothering my grandma to death with a pillow if she's already got terminal cancer?” pipes up some kid from the back of the classroom. “Like, hypothetically, obviously. My grandma’s fine.”

Dave schools his face into a cool mask of anticipation. He's used to outlandish hypotheticals and typically leaves it up to the class to answer them for him. “Anyone?”

You raise your hand and answer, “People vs. Brackett.”

He smirks. “Year?”

“1987.”

That’s my girl, he thinks. Instead he gives you half a nod and says, “Good.”

You bite your lip and give him the most wicked smile and Christ, he nearly forgets where he is in the middle of explaining the case. By the time the hour is up and everyone is hastily packing their things, his cock is greedily stealing all the blood from his brain. 

A gentle knock sounds on the other side of the door not long after he's back in his office. “Come in,” he says, adjusting his pants as he best he can from where he sits. 

You poke your head inside and his heart swells with fondness. The sweet smile you give him sends his pulse skittering. 

“I got your message,” you say, dropping your bag by the door. 

“Lock the door,” he says plainly, and you obey, turning the lock until it clicks. He leans back in his chair to take in all of you as you approach, standing between his spread thighs. 

He slides his hands up your hips, fingers fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “Missed you yesterday,” you tell him, your fingers scratching at the nape of his neck. 

He can practically hear himself purring under your touch. “Yeah? Have I been neglecting you, sweetheart?”

“No, sir,” you sing. “Just… missed you.”

“Looks like you made a new friend today,” he says, his tone practised. 

“Hm? You mean Kevin?” you say airily. “No, he's just a classmate. He wanted to ask if I was still tutoring.”

He squeezes your hips possessively, heating up under his collar. “And is Kevin offering a good rate?”

You give the back of his head a gentle smack. “Are you jealous, Dr. York?”

“Please. Of that kid?” He scoffs. “Wouldn't know what to do with you if he tried.”

“And do you know what to do with me?” You crowd him, your body heat singing through him, and he cranes his neck back to look up at you. “Why'd you ask me here, Professor?”

Oh, your boldness is intoxicating. Dave guides his hands up your waist, dipping beneath your sweater, and cups the soft swells of your breasts in his hands. You exhale, a sharp little puff of air, and he unclips your bra with a flick of his wrist. 

“I asked you here,” he says gruffly, “because I wanna play with my toys. Turn around.”

You obey, and he vocalizes his pleasure, ordering you to take your bra off under your sweater. It lands in his lap, a pretty blue thing he knows you wore just for him because he's seen it in the pretty little pictures you send him late at night. ‘your favourite colour, sir.’

Dave tucks it into his bag. Coasting his hands over your thighs, he gives your ass a swat and you yelp. 

“Gotta be quiet, baby,” he says. “Don't want anyone to hear us, do you?” 

He reaches for your zipper and slowly slides your pants down your thighs, exposing the matching blue panties covering your ass. You shiver in the cool air of his office and his cock twitches at the sight of you so exposed. His windows overlook the entire campus. If he wanted, he could press you up against the glass and take you for everyone to see. 

Your pants pool around your ankles and Dave admires the sight, grabbing a handful of your ass. Already, a dark spot blooms on your panties, your pretty pussy soaked for him, and he's so hard he can barely see. “On my lap,” he commands. 

And you go so easily, lowering yourself onto him, looking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him. But he grasps your jaw between his thumb and fingers, clicking his tongue. “Did I say you could peek?”

“No, sir,” you gasp, your hips writhing, your core making sizzling contact with his hard cock, separated by the fabric of his slacks. You whine, but Dave just smacks your flank. 

“You do what I tell you,” he says, sliding your hips toward him, “and you take what I give. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's right.” He's enjoying his exploration, squeezing your ass, teasing his thumbs over your stiff nipples, his nose nudging your temple, guiding your head back onto his shoulder. It lolls against him, your sleepy eyes fluttering. “You like this, don't you? You like me touching you when you know anyone could be walking by outside that door.”

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Dave…”

“Shhh,” he coaxes, pinching your nipple and rolling it between his fingers. “Relax, sweet girl.”

Your laboured breathing is thunderous in his ears. Dave slides his hands down your body, one easing your thighs apart while the other plays at the waistline of your panties. You grasp his hand and he thinks he hears you whisper, “Fuck.”

Dave nips your jaw as he dips his fingers inside your panties, just enough to feel you writhe, to feel your heartbeat this heavily under his mouth where his lips rest over your pulse. To hear your breath hitch in your throat at the mere promise of his touch. 

He’s fairly certain his cock has never been so hard in his life, and yet the thought of taking any pleasure from your body flees his mind before it can take root. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he says, coasting his palm over your pelvis and cupping the warm heat between your thighs. “You feel so goddamn good.”

“You haven't even… touched me,” you pant. 

He presses his mouth into your cheek, his lips curved into a mocking pout. You turn your head toward him to try and capture his mouth in a kiss, but he grasps your jaw and tuts. “You speak,” he says, “when I tell you to speak. Open your mouth.”

You do, dropping your jaw as you bat your eyes expectantly. Dave slowly spreads your folds with two fingers and drags them through your wetness. Your whole body shudders into him. His cock throbs under your ass. 

He lifts his fingers and hooks them on your tongue. Obediently, you close your lips around them and swirl your tongue, tasting yourself on his skin. 

“That's right,” he hums. “That's what this pretty mouth is good for.” 

As you clean him off, he slides his other hand under your panties and circles your entrance with the pad of his middle finger. You whimper, your mouth stuffed with his fingers, and he slides in to the knuckle. 

You cry out, your fingers curling around the arms of his desk chair. Bucking your hips, you try futilely to squirm, but he grasps your jaw tighter and you take the command to stay still. Dave curls his finger, pressing his palm to your needy clit, and drinks down the sound of your heady moan. 

“Shh, shh,” he scolds lightly. “Quiet, sweet girl.” To make it harder on you, he adds another finger, stretching you out on him, pumping in and out, in and out. 

You're a fucking wreck, the slick sounds of your pussy music to his ears, his hand and wrist covered in your pleasure, his eyes fixed to the junction of his fingers and your mouth. Your eyes are drooping, your neck glistening in sweat and mingling with the tears of your efforts to stay quiet. He wants to spool every thought from your pretty head until his name is all that's left. 

Dave’s fingers circle your clit and your thighs instinctively jerk closed, shying away from the pleasure with a sweet little whine that nearly has him coming in his pants. But he scolds you with a soft Tsk, tsk and you ease your legs open once more, your muscles trembling. 

“So good,” he says, rewarding you with a slow kiss along your jaw, his lips tracing its shape until he finds your mouth. He removes his fingers so he can turn your head toward him and kisses you long and sweet. 

He lets you grab him by the back of his neck, your nails scratching just hard enough to send small shockwaves to his cock. He rubs your clit as you kiss him, a little sloppy, teeth and tongues clashing, and he grins against your mouth. 

My good girl, he thinks, and maybe he mumbles it all the same, losing himself in the daze of All mine, my sweet girl. You're writhing now, bucking your hips to meet his fingers, and he knows you're close as your mouth freezes open. Your lips slide along his cheek as your body stutters. Dave captures your jaw, sliding his hand over your mouth, and holds you firm to him as you come. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coos in your ear. “I've got you. So good, sweetheart. You did so good.”

Your cry puffs out against his palm, your fingers curled in his hair, your eyes rolling back. He coaxes you through it, his fingers slowing and dragging up your body. Your skin erupts in goosebumps where his touch strikes your nerves. Cupping your breast, he feels your heartbeat slow gradually under his warm hand. For a moment, he feels as if he's sharing it with you. 

You both bask in the silence for a long while. Dave’s ears begin to ring as his head lolls back against the chair, his hands pulling you into him. 

Your laugh rings out through the quiet like bells. Turning around in his lap, you hook your arms around his neck. His hands slide up your back beneath your sweater. “This a first for you?” he teases. 

You lift a brow. “Is it not a first for you?” 

He smirks. “Not if you count my dreams.”

“Oh, please,” you purr, leaning down to nip his bottom lip. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Dr. York.”

“Really? I think it got me…” He gives your ass a firm squeeze. “Everywhere.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Are you gonna give me back my panties?”

He pouts up at you. “I thought those were a present.”

“Just this once,” you say, and your kiss tastes sweet as candy. 

“You feel good?” he says, running his hands along your arms. 

You incline your head. “I feel good.”

“And your work?”

“Hmph. A guy fingers a girl in his office and he doesn't wait two minute before putting his professor cap back on.”

“Well, I've got energy for more,” he says, nudging his nose into yours. “Do you?”

You laugh. “I think my applications are all lined up. Just need to…”

“Pull the trigger,” he finishes. “You're gonna get it, baby. All of it’s there for you.”

“You don't know that.” But you're already slipping, your eyelids drooping, and Dave reaches up to grasp your jaw between his thumb and fingers. 

“I know,” he says, “how smart you are. And I know you need to trust me when I tell you.”

You shrug. “But I like it when you keep telling me.”

“I heard John put in a good word.”

“He was generous,” you say, biting your lip. Dave brushes his thumb across your mouth and you press your lips to the pad in a lingering kiss. “I’ll spend tonight reviewing everything, and then I guess there's nothing left for me to do.”

“A fun Friday night,” he says. “My wild girl.”

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders. “Wherever I go,” you say, “whatever happens… This'll have to end, won't it?”

He frowns. “Why should it?”

“Dave, it's too risky,” you say quietly, as if the words are fighting your tongue. “My whole career could explode in my face if we… if this doesn't work out.”

“Hey,” he says, pulling you closer with his hands on your hips. Your eyes are fixed on his tie. “Look at me. C’mon, baby.”

Tentatively, you meet his gaze. “My life just feels so real now.”

“And this isn't real?” he counters, slipping his fingers through yours. He places your palm to his chest. “Feel my heartbeat? Feel how goddamn crazy you make me?” 

You draw in a shuddering breath. “Someone’s going to find out.”

“You think I’d let that happen? You think I’d let anyone hurt your chances at the life you deserve?”

“That isn't up to you. If we get caught…”

He shakes his head, turning your palm up so he can put his lips to the heel. “We won't,” he says. “We won't.” 

Tears glitter like jewels in the corners of your eyes. “I'm not easy to love, Dave.”

It wedges firm in his heart, a chisel poised to hammer away at the rock. “That's the problem, sweetheart. It's too easy. It’s too fuckin’ easy.” 

You shake your head, your thumb smoothing the wrinkle in his brow. “I like who I am when I’m with you. I don't need to be more than myself.” 

Dave’s heart swells so big it lurches out of its cage to catch you inside it. 

“And what if I don't know who to be when I go out into the world?” you wonder. 

“You will be you”—he cups your face in his hands and gives you a little shake—“because you are smarter and better and stronger than anyone else who'd tell you different. And wherever you go, I’ll be following behind, running to catch up even though I never will.”

You let out a teary-eyed laugh. “You will?”

“I'd follow you,” he says, “even if you pushed me off the fucking train. You can't shake me, baby.”

“Good,” you say firmly, “because you owe me a pair of panties.”

THE END.

[cavillscurls]

fan the flames

jorah mormont x targaryen!princess

A man is weakened in the face of a dragon.

WARNINGS/TAGS: GoT Lore? What GoT Lore? Alternate Universe. The Targaryen’s still hold the throne (as they should). The Targaryen Princess character has no name and is physically nondescript, except for the signature silver hair and violet eyes. If you choose to imagine her as Daenerys, that’s not my business! But she was not written as such. Dual POV. Forbidden romance-esque. Undefined relationship/situationship. Guard x Princess. Somewhat bratty!Princess x Guard who’s too sweet and down bad to do anything but begrudgingly comply. Recollections of smut. Implied age gap. Intimacy. Period specific ideas of purity. Shame & guilt. Yearning. Angst. Fluff. SHOW JORAH in my brain always, don’t even start with me on book Jorah. WC: 1.6k.

a/n: guess what i’m rewatching.

“It’s late.”

He always speaks so matter-of-factly. It would bother her more if she were not so used to this. This disjointed routine of pain and pleasure.

She scoffs quietly, spent, from her place across the mattress. Furs haphazardly covering her naked body, shimmering with a layer of sweat. As if she did not see the dying sun as it crumbled over the horizon. As if she could not feel the way her brain and bones gave way to exhaustion—his doing, really. All signs point to the finality of this precarious engagement. But despite his insistence, like every other time before, she fights it.

She has the upper hand. Gods be damned if she won’t use it.

“I am not some child,” she quips, propping her elbow upon the pillows and her chin upon her hand, tossing her silver hair over her bare shoulder, beguiling to roaming eyes. And roam they do, so less subtly than when it all began. “I may sleep when I please.”

He sighs, a heavy thing. Always so somber, she wonders if he ever finds reprieve, even in their time together.

“It would do neither of us any favors to have me here when the sun rises.”

He pulls his tunic over his head, his trousers still unbuttoned and hanging low, and she already misses the sight of him. His body worn with age, but no less solid. Years of wielding a Valyrian sword, mastering the trades and stealth of combat, he has the attributes to show for it. His chest is still exposed beneath undone buttons, and she recalls the way it felt to run her fingers over the warm skin, littered with the likes of scars. They all tell a story, and slowly, over time, one by one, she’s somehow convinced him to share them.

A pang of disappointment washes over her suddenly. It feels unexpected, but it’s not new. She’s felt it more as of late, hard to distinguish and digest, but fervent. Causing her tongue to grow loose, spew audaciously in ways she normally saved for court, or more commonly, her family.

“Since when did you value appearance so highly over loyalty?”

He halts his dressings to shoot her a knowing look. She’s deflecting. He knows this.

And she knows the falsehood of her words, the devious power they hold. Accompanied by the sight of her, bare and glowing. Her breasts peeking above the furs, covered with the marks of his teeth, alluring with every breath. The slope of her fine neck. The shape of her supple figure his hands have come to know. Vibrant eyes, like the violets that grow below her windows, appraising him, scowling at him.

He has no appearance, only loyalty. His making, his soul, wholly hers. As all good Knights are.

He reaches for his armor. “Your father expects me at dawn,” he says, and she huffs, her light dies out, and her eyes roll towards the ceiling, head of curls falling back into the pillows.

Her anger is curbed, if only for a moment. Replaced by bitter disappointment.

It is difficult to argue with a King.

And despite his loyalty, his wholeness to the throne, its kin—it does nothing to erase his shame. The guilt for what he’s done. Beyond the breaking of his vows. Defiling, deflowering, tainting royalty with lower-born blood.

He feels no weaker than when he stands in her presence. Stripped of all honor, only a man. Hardly immune to the needs of a beautiful, young woman—ethereal, otherworldly. The glow cast only from the blood of the dragon, veins brimming with golden ichor.

No matter how much she begs, how she pleads, calls his name sing-song and sweet, or flashes devious eyes and bares her authoritative teeth—they don’t frighten him, but he is trapped under their hold nonetheless—he still feels the shame. No matter how effortlessly she goes, back arching beneath his body, oil dripping on canvas. No matter how gloriously she calls his name, how willing she is to come undone under his hand, he is filled with it.

He has forsaken the Gods. Surely, they condemn him. He still tastes worship, though. Within these four walls, drowning in glowing silver and violet.

“Sometimes I think you do not even want me at all.”

Her snide comment rouses him, and there’s a suddenness to the way he sheaths his sword into its holster that makes even her startle to attention.

“Princess,” he pleads, a gentle warning in his tone. “Do not make this harder than it needs to be.”

She props herself back up, paying no mind to the way the covers slip down her torso. Her very own steel weapon.

“Then stay.”

“I mustn’t.”

“I order you—”

“And this must be the final time.”

“Oh, you say that every time.”

Mighty as he be, this remains the one battle he cannot win. Especially not now, when the desperation behind her eyes is so clear, and he feels, very strongly, that it’s earnest. Games and secrets aside, there is a place in her heart—one he’s gradually come to find is bigger than most award her credit for—carved out just for him.

And she tries, very truly, to believe the same. Through this web of uncertainty, the unspoken that lingers like fog between them.

Her countenance softens at the thought, and she lowers her eyes, unable to meet his when she says: “I’ve only ever known you to wear a heart of gold, Jorah Mormont.” She declares it so honestly, albeit quietly, he has to hold his breath. “Therefore, I do not understand why you are so hellbent on tormenting me.”

He crumbles under her candor, shattered glass. This thing, this uncertain thing that has slipped away from the both of them, inflicting its unintended pain. He must be the one to pick up its pieces.

She hears the thunder of his boots before she sees them at the edge of her bed. Then, a warm, calloused hand cupping her cheek, soft to the touch. She peers up at him with heavy eyelids, the hour certainly catching up to her, and there are glints of adoration in her eyes. Pure and unadulterated, her chest seizes at the grand sight of him, the ferocious bear. No man alive as captivating. Too busy gawking to even revel in her triumph.

“I am hellbent on protecting you,” he whispers, bowing his head toward her in supplication. Her breath waves when his thumb traces the line below her lower lip, swollen from his taste. “This is one of the many ways.”

She wants to quip. She wants to argue, and yell, and thrash, and demand that he give her her way, but she doesn’t. Or she can’t. Not when he looks upon her so fondly, seeing her for all she is, and it terrifies her. How open a wound she’s become.

So she says nothing. Bites her wary tongue, and allows her sinuses to burn as he pulls away. He dips his head once more, holding her eyes a second longer as he backs away, his armor clanking when he turns for her door. It is then that she realizes something has been left unfulfilled. Something he is certain to be able to entertain, tiny victories.

“Ser Jorah,” she calls, her voice a siren's song, halting him in his tracks. He looks over his shoulder to see her pouting, awaiting. Batting sleepy lashes his way, and running her tongue across her lips.

He sighs, but gives in. Sagging his shoulders low, and raising his brows in the way that suggests he just doesn’t know what to do with her anymore. He’s grateful, though. That these are his losses. So much so that he does not even comment on the way her face lights up when he saunters back over to her, sneaky, insatiable little thing.

She has already lain back, pulled the covers under her arms, wrapped her body in wool. He sits at the edge of the mattress, and it dips below his weight. He makes sure the hilt of his sword is tucked out of his way as he reaches gingerly for her face once more, swiping hair away from her eyes. They blink rapidly, and he can feel her heated breath across his cheeks before they close, lips parted.

He descends slowly, and her stomach churns with the teasing brush of his lips, familiar and warm. He denies her only a moment longer, before the full weight of his kiss seals her worries, her anxieties, and doubts away into the vault that is to remain untouched for now. The place where everything else goes, the two of them, here, now, separate but whole.

She follows him as he pulls away, until her neck cannot crane for him any long, and opens her saddened eyes.

“Sleep well, Princess,” he mutters. The deep vibration of his voice gives her chills, and her chest aches. She grieves to feel his lips on her neck through the night, hearty words soothing never-ending nightmares—a price of royalty.

She watches his path to the doorway that creeks under his hand. And he’s generous, as he always is, gifting her one final, longing look, admiring the silhouette bathed in candlelight.

It takes a great effort for him to slip away, as it does for her to let him. She trains her eyes on the ceiling above her, taking her first real breath in hours.

She thinks of her father, his Seven Kingdoms, which come before all else. Her mother, God’s rest her soul, bound to marriage, where she grew forgotten. Of her name, and the weight such a name holds, and the years of breaking through the mold to create a life entirely her own.

Such large plans for such a tired girl.

She’ll start with something easier, she thinks, allowing sleep to wrap its eager tendrils around her.

Like how to coax her brooding guard into her bed again tomorrow night.

reblogs and comments are appreciated 🧡

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[kiwisbell]

my honest reaction to that ^

[ohmovie]

BRENDAN FRASER as Rick O'Connell The Mummy, 1999

[forbescaroline]

235 FAVORITE SHIPS OF ALL TIME (ranked by my followers) 70. john murphy and emori - the 100

[dalekinapaintedparadise]

John Wick + colors

[faith-maccaullay]

Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer.

[kiwisbell]

when you finish your master's degree on a random monday night

[fascinationstreetmp3]

Keanu Reeves as Johnny Utah POINT BREAK (1991) dir. Kathryn Bigelow

[cavillscurls]

edging & overstim w clark kent (m receiving, f!reader)

“shhhi… ahhh. o-oh, gosh. gosh, you feel so good.”

he’s been in this predicament for nearly an hour. body slack against one of the kitchen chairs, his wrists bound haphazardly around the back. his jeans are shucked to his ankles, and the first few buttons of his shirt have been undone by your eager hands clawing at his chest. you straddle his thighs, completely naked, bouncing yourself in heavy, languid strokes, up and down his swollen cock, twitching on the precipice of relief.

he could get out of this, surely. easily. your feeble doing of his shackles no match for superhuman strength. but he wants to be good.

he wants to be good for you.

and jesus, if you don’t look perfect like this. every contour of your body on display for his reverent eyes, moving to a rhythm only you can hear, but he feels it. rattling him to the bone.

you’d started with your hands. then your mouth, warm and enveloping, getting up to the very edge, until the tip of him gleamed red, and he asked, begged you to lead him all the way.

but you shook your head, flashed him your teeth and those pretty eyes, and told him to be patient, clark. good things come to those who wait.

it’s a bit cruel, maybe, but he likes it. he’s ashamed of how much he likes it, but you’ve never judged him for it. always taken what he is, in all walks of life, at face value. and it’s easy for him to forgo his shame like this, his jaw hanging open, a little saliva pooling at the edges, as he watches you ride him. head thrown back, moaning melodically, nipples so close he can almost taste them. he feels you clench around him, the space between your cunt and his cock gleaming with slick.

he knows your close, too, but he can hardly think straight. all the thoughts that run through his numbing mind are solely of you. so soft, and supple, and fuck he wishes—

“wish i could touch you,” he rasps. “please, wanna touch you.”

your bounces slow to an equally tantalizing grind, and you prop your head back up getting nose to nose with him, cupping his sweaty cheeks between delicate hands.

“soon,” you hum, voice dripping in delight. you place a chaste kiss to his parted lips. “soon, my love. just a little longer.”

“can’t-can’t wait any longer.”

and he’s certain you know he isn’t just talking about getting his hands on you. he’s been twitching inside of you for the last ten minutes, his abdomen clenched tight as he tries to fend off the release only you can gift him. he’s not even sure he wants it anymore. afraid of what all this waiting will make of it.

you’re just as breathless as he, chasing your own release, but far more coherent. this is your power, he thinks; you’re radiant with a taste of control.

“you can come if you want,” and you say it so nonchalant, he could scream, “but i’m not stopping till i get what i want.”

he’s gritting his teeth then, as your bouncing ensues. you seek purchase on his shoulders, digging your nails into the flesh, and it’s that bit of pain, he thinks, that sends him over. his eyes roll back, and something guttural, animal-like, reverberates through his chest.

his entire body goes taut, and his gut feels like it’s on fire. you don’t slow, even when he bursts inside of you, seemingly endless ropes of release. and each one evokes a cry, his cheeks flushing a dark shade of crimson, tears prickling his eyes.

you use his spend to your advantage, and he feels it dripping out of you, pooling between your thighs. it makes each thrust easier, smoother, and you’ve lost yourself to the pleasure again, head slack, jaw agape with pretty little moans.

he’s shaking, trembling. his cock won’t go down, blood still rushing toward the sensitive flesh to accommodate your needs. he’s whining, a pathetic sound, but he can’t help it. panting, toes digging into the wood below him, thrashing against the seat.

“it’s-it…ahh, no. t-too much.”

it’s too much. and not enough. and it aches and it hurts and it’s unlike anything else, a never-ending stream of pleasure, almost too much to enjoy, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. and when you do finally do come, he thinks he may actually pass out. gripping him like a vice, silken walls squeezing him so tight. the sound you make when it first hits you, the way your body spasms and clings to his. he’s so enraptured with the display that it’s the only thing that seems to curb his own suffering. even dutifully leans forward to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently, groaning against your skin when it sends another sharp squeeze of you around him.

when you finally come down, you collapse into his chest. the two of you still conjoined, the smell of sweat, and cum, and sex in the air. you laugh a little, something cathartic, and slowly lift your head to show him your sleepy smile and half-lidded eyes.

“did real good, superman,” you tease, leaning forward to give him a proper kiss, one that lingers. “real good.”

he’s spent, almost too much to even render that you’re speaking to him. but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he never feels as brave as when he’s with you. if nothing else, that makes him feel heroic.

“your turn to tie me up next time,” you add, and he snorts, tiredly shaking his head, but the idea nearly makes his gradually softening cock stir again.

little do you know what he’s got planned for you.

[johnswick]

You're him. The one they call the Baba Yaga. The students all talk about you.

John Wick in Ballerina (2025)

[boredth]

John Wick + Harbinger Rifle Ballerina (2025)

[johnswick]

Keanu Reeves as John Wick in John Wick (2014)

[kiwisbell]

pedro pascal as joel miller, pencil on paper, approx. 7 hours 🤍

[kiwisbell]

Heeyyyyyy love 💚💚💚

I just opened TikTok and this is the first thing I saw : https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdhwaNVc/

I thought I’d pass it along because I agree with the person, that “Whiskey Sour” is heavenly and written by a god 🙏🏻🫶🏻🥰

(I hope you can open the link🫣)

mina THANK YOU for passing this along!!! i stumbled across this a couple days ago and my heart nearly fell out of my ASS - this user is so kind and generous oh my goodness, i'm so grateful that they recommended my fic so loudly!!

and thank you to whoever has recently found me through this tiktok, i hugely appreciate all of the recent love WS has gotten - an old fic with a big ol' place in my heart 🤍🤍

[kiwisbell]

AAAA WELCOME BACK DEAR!! YOU’VE BEEN GREATLY MISSED!!! T_T

literally yesterday your frankie fic ‘Loser’ came to mind and i hoped you were okay, happy & healthy 🤍 your writing is art to me and your masterpieces stick with me and make their home in my brain (rent-free & welcomed) 🧎🏻‍♀️

long story short : I need your fics in liquid form so that i can consume them whole, please and thank you 🙏🏻

okay reading this actually made my heart feel so warm and full!! wow thank you so so much my friend, for your message and for your enthusiasm over my little dave fic!! knowing that you were thinking about me just makes a girl's day 🤍

i've been well!! stressed but well! grad school is a hell of a lot (and continues to be a lot), but thank you all so much for being so patient, it truly means so much 🤍

[kiwisbell]

i want you to know just how often i think about your fics. it’s a lot. like a LOT lot.

re-reading helen and a litany of lethe always catches me off guard with just how phenomenally written they are. you have this grasp of character dynamics that i just can’t pin down with words. it feels almost reductive to try? the intensity you can capture, the way you specifically write devotion… it’s like you write love the way some people would write madness, but you make it beautiful. that’s my secret, honestly. i have such a soft spot for unreasonably devout displays of love.

anyway thank you so much for sharing your hard work with us. i’m sorry that i’ve been a mostly silent reader until now, and that i still struggle to work up the courage to say things like this outside of an anonymous space. i’m always grateful for your efforts and will be rooting for you in the corner, re-reading your library ♥️

wow. oh my goodness i am frankly stunned - thank you so so much for sharing this my friend. i cannot tell you how much i appreciate you taking the time to write this message, and believe me: it is still so very special to me no matter in what way you send it.

"you write love the way some people would write madness" - and that just caused my death. write that on my tombstone PLEASE. wow, that might be some of the most generous and flattering words i've ever received about my work and i am beyond humbled. THANK YOU!!! thank you a trillion times!!

i like my men pathetic and insane for their partners. i am so overjoyed that it comes across and i cannot thank you enough for this message, i will never stop thinking about it. 🤍🤍🤍

[stevenrogered]

You know, back at his place, I heard your heartbeats. God, that is really not fair. You heard his too? Oh, yeah. It's just adrenaline, I'm sure.