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Warnings: mentions of death and funerals,edited but not really lol. 1.9k words
Fear tastes like unripe raspberries and Kentucky bluegrass. It feels like razorblades in your lungs, each breath a threat, like the next gasp will be the one that slices you open. Your thighs ache and you're sure your feet are bleeding under all the mud that cakes them. You don't know how long you've been running, adrenaline makes time blur in a funny way— makes a second feel like forever and forever feel like a blink.
Your foot catches on a soft patch of grass, toes tangling on roots. The bull behind you bellows like something pulled straight from hell, rage and warning wrapped in its call. You don't linger, can't with death on your heels and your ankle twists painfully as you force yourself to run faster. Your mind is a mess of memories, of missed opportunities and regrets.
You should have spent more time with your family. You think of them; of the barbecues— burnt hotdogs and lively laughter. The shuffle of cards when it got dark, smoke curling in the air as Hennessy kept them warm.
You should have kissed Ben Quinn in the tenth grade. The bottle landed on you. He had been willing.
You should have moved to Oregon with that plastic surgeon, he had promised to keep you pretty as long as you promised to be his.
Your mind spins, focusing on everything and nothing all at once. You should've listened to Amy, should've spent your day off in bed instead of playing savior to your best friend. You're gonna die. Bull horn through your chest, your head crushed under a half ton of hooves like a watermelon on a hydraulic press. You wonder if the Surgeon would come to your funeral, let his last act of love be reconstructing your face into something recognizable. Something prettier than before that'd make your mama and aunties cry and Ben Quinn regret never kissing you.
Then your thoughts shudder, a simple statement forming in your mind. ‘You can't let this farm take another person from Amy.’ The accident had already taken her husband, taken him only a few months before the birth of their first child, and had nearly taken Amy in the grief that followed. Then there were the insurance agents, state investigators, and god, the real estate agents— the farm had nearly crumbled from the weight of it. But, with the help from friends, family, and the gofundme made in Teddy's honor, Amy was able to rebuild the farm, to tear down those gas tanks, and get the land serviced. Amy was just starting to be a person again. You couldn't die on her now.
“Hey!” Someone yells, their voice as panicked as you feel. Your head clears just enough to realize you've been running towards a fence, a rail fence that only comes up to about your chest. A man is on the other side of it, his hands waving frantically above his head, his face twisted in fear and you can make out his watery eyes darting to you and then the monster behind you. You push yourself to run faster, your ankle screaming in protest. You feel like you can feel the hot breath of the bull on your neck. You're sure you're crying, sobbing, spit and snot running down your face. The fence is closer now and you can see the man clearer now, his wide eyes are blue, his face flushing and then somehow paling repeatedly, his hair is brown, curled at his neck and he's shouting—
“Jump the fence!”
You don't think—you just do as you're told. Your knees bend, and you leap, your feet ding against the metal of the fence, and for several heart-pounding seconds, you're floating. The bull rears before it can crash into the fence, hooves stamping as it turns and kicks at the air, frustrated it didn't get the chance to gore you before dashing off back from where it came. You don't see this, of course, because in the leap over the fence, your elbow met the face of the random man, your knees half dug into his gut as you dry heave and he groans in pain. You manage to pull yourself off of him, rolling to the side and curling into a near fetal position in the grass, whimpering with your eyes shut tight.
“Are you–” He shifts, groaning. He sits up, one hand on his nose, his voice slightly muffled as he leans to look at you. “Are you okay?”
How do you even answer that when you just saw your life flash before your eyes? When you saw your death and it was bull shaped? You offer the man another whimper, which makes him grunt in response. There's more shifting, then he presses a cool hand against the side of your neck. When you flinch in response, he draws his hand back quickly, “Do you know where you are?”
The question makes you open your eyes, squinting slightly as the sun threatens to blind you. The man sees this— he's managed to shift himself in front of you— and he moves until he's blocking the sun completely. You blink twice, taking a ragged breath, “I almost died.”
His lips thin, but he doesn't agree nor disagree. His blue eyes dart across your figure, assessing. His gaze lingers on your feet, your swollen ankle, a knot in his brow forming. “Remember that word, okay? Almost. You almost died, but you just outran a full-grown bull. Not a lot of people can do that.”
It pulls a laugh out of you. It sounds slightly hysterical, but it feels like it's enough to slow your heart. You push yourself up to a sitting position with shaking hands, the man backing up just enough to allow you to do so, but his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to help you. “Fuck.” You say, “Amy– Amy is gonna kill me, I'm going to kill her. I told her to keep the animals locked up when I'm here!”
The man blinks, “You know Amy?”
Your head jerks to him, your mouth opening, closing, then opening again. “Duh. Why else would I be here–?” There's a look forming on the man's face, his lips pinching together and his eyebrows rising as if to say; ‘well…’ The anger that blooms in your chest is quick, sharp— you try to push yourself up to stand but you start to stumble, hissing both in pain and in annoyance when the man stands just as fast to steady you with a panicked noise, a hand on your forearm.
“You– you really shouldn't be standing right now, I think you have a twisted ankle or worse–” He starts, but you're already snatching your arm back.
“I'm fine.” You snap, ignoring how your body aches in rebuttal. You stand straight, leaning more on one leg than the other, nausea rolling in your stomach as you bring your arm to quickly wipe at the already drying mess that's your face. You pat your pockets, and thank god, you still have your phone. You shoot the man a steely look that has him taking a step back in surprise. Quicker than you should, you pull your phone from your pocket and snap a photo of his face, flash, and all.
“Hey—?”
You ignore him and unlock your phone with your face ID, sending the photo to Amy. You send, ‘???’ For good measure.
The man shifts in front of you, his face now red, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Um–?”
Amy reacts to the photo with a laughing emoji. The dots appear, then disappear, and then appear again. ‘lol, thats Dennis! y is this photo so close up???’
Your eyes snap back to the man— to Dennis, shifting restlessly, his thumbs hooked on the loops of his jeans. Your brows furrow in disbelief, “You're Dennis?”
It makes him jump, “Uh, yeah?”
“The doctor?” You continue, voice pitched in disbelief.
Dennis frowns, his head tilting. “Last time I checked, yeah.”
You huff, baffled. “Okay, okay.” Your phone buzzes in your hand, your ringtone loud, and you answer it fast, the anger that was ebbing away bubbling back up at the sight of Amy's smiling face. “Amy.”
Her smile falters, hazel eyes taking you in and then widening in shock, maybe fear. “Are you okay?”
“No.” You snap, voice reedy. Your ankle throbs again like it's agreeing with you. “Amy, I was just chased by a fucking cow! You promised me you'd lock them up when I'm here!”
Her face has fully dropped, her cheeks flushing a bright red. She shifts, the phone moving lower as she switches hands. You see a flash of the baby pressed against her side as she shakily pushes hair from her face with her free hand. “I did– I thought I did–”
Dennis coughs, you look at him and he winces. “So, that may have been me–”
“What?”
He rushes to continue, “In my defense! I didn't even know you were out there! Amy called me and asked if I could check in the animals if I had the time and–”
Amy makes a noise through the phone, “Dennis.”
“Literally, no one is ever here when I'm here!” He says, leaning close to the phone so Amy can see him. For a moment, you think that he might take it from you, and your fingers tighten around the device, but Dennis doesn't try to do that. He only leans closer like your personal space is his. “You know I always let the animals roam while I'm here, Amy. I didn't know.”
Amy blows a breath, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Right, okay. So maybe I fucked up–” Your mouth opens to agree, to say ‘no, duh.’ But Amy continues, “I'm sorry guys, I should have told you both about the other being there.” She's not looking at you anymore but at Dennis. He's still in your space, close enough you can feel his body heat against your back. “Is she okay? Are you okay? Your nose looks…”
“I'm fine.” Dennis answers. He waves a dismissive hand, but then his eyes dart to you in concern. “Her on the other hand… twisted ankle, maybe. I thought she was in shock for a second, but it's clear she's not.”
You blink, offended. Should you be offended? You tilt the phone away from Dennis, shaking your head. “I'm– I'm fine. It's definitely twisted, not broken. I know how to take care of it.”
Amy says your name in that disappointed mom tone she's managed to master over the last six months. “You should let Dennis look at it. He literally works in an ER. He does that for a living, and he's right there.”
You make a face, and Amy makes it right back at you. “Fine. But only because it saves me from like an eight grand bill.”
That makes the both of them smile, though Dennis’ smile fades quickly with a wince, a finger raising to prod at his nose. When you look at him again, his hand drops and he gives you a crooked smile, “Not broken, just sore.”
Amy's eyes seem to shine, “Alright, call me if anything happens, okay? The spare key is in the same spot as always. Bye, have fun!”
The call clicks off, leaving you staring blankly at Amy's profile picture. What was fun about any of this? Did the fact that you nearly died go in one ear and out the next? You know she's been a little different since the accident but Jesus. You turn your phone off and shove the device back into your pocket, turning to fully face Dennis and pretending not to see how his body jerks into motion as if to catch you when your leg nearly gives out from your own weight.
Your eyes meet his, a frown on your lips. “Alright, let's go.”
Summary: You take a little control of your situation to get one up on your captor
Pairing: dark!Paul Atreides x Fremen!reader (black-coded)
Warnings: hmm other than smut? I dont think there are any actually
A/n: just realized that this series was now caught up and I could post the chapter I had already written but needed to get events that happened before it straight first. Anyhoo! Welcome back to me putting Paul’s emotions through a play doh crazy hair stylist kit 😘 no minors, no half-ass fanfic supporters
Your return to the imperial palace included a checkup with healers and then promptly after, an audition for a new handmaiden. It appeared that Paul had one of them pay dearly for your escape-turned-kidnapping.
This was an unnecessary trial. You didn’t want the handmaiden that hadn’t been killed, much less a new one. Idly, you watched them perform their skills. None of it mattered. One of them stood out to you, however.
“You,” you pointed at the red-head with large golden-brown eyes. “I pick you. Everyone else, leave.”
“I’m honored, my lady—.”
You cut her off immediately, in no mood for the pretense. “I singled you out because either you’re incompetent or purposely pretending to be so.”
She bowed deferentially. “Warrior, I apologize. I am no actress. I am here to beseech your aid. You can help our rebellion.”
“Rebellion against whom?”
“The false emperor on the throne.”
Oh. Well, wasn’t that something? Ultimately, you sighed as you settled back in your seat. Bored. You waved along a hand. “Go on, I suppose. Make your pitch. I’m listening.”
“I thought you’d given up on trying to sneak into my war room.”
“Well, what about if what I’m seeking is you?”
To say that Paul’s heart stopped was dramatic… but maybe not hyperbolic. You pulled him around on his ornate chair, a subtle throne.
“What are you up to?”
“Practicing humility. Deference. Have you not said time and time again that I should realize my place?” You lowered to your knees and he was sure his breathing stopped this time. “That it is under you?”
This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a vision. Paul wouldn’t do something so obviously stupid as pinch himself because the burning in his lungs from the carbon dioxide he’d yet to exhale was doing the trick to tell him this was real.
You were willingly on your knees in front of him. Hands smoothing down his thighs and he fought not to thrust up at the feeling. You removed his canvas shoes, kissed his ankles with a holy deference he hadn’t seen since he left Arrakis. Kissed his knees, gathered his hands in yours and kissed the palms of each.
It looked almost wrong on you. The loyal devotion, humble debasement. This may be real life, but this wasn’t real.
Paul secured a firm grip around your throat and you didn’t even fight him as he lifted you to a standing kneel. Your face was placid, as if you’d expected the doubt. Expected not to be believed. Your dark eyes looked up at him under thick lashes, and he swore he saw lust in them. Desire and heat. Fuck, he had no idea you were such an adept actress. How far would the act go?
Paul had always suspected he had only inherited his father’s faults. He idolized Leto, dedicated his youth to emulating him, the perfect model of what a duke— a man should be.
Like Leto before him, Paul’s heart would lead to his downfall.
Because you were acting suspicious. And Paul didn’t care.
Paul dragged you by the throat to his lips. And when your mouth moved with his, giving as well as taking, he decided he truly didn’t give a fuck. He licked into your mouth like a man starved, relished how your hands trailed up the arm he still gripped you with. You moaned and it threatened to wipe his mind clean.
Undoubtedly, you were hiding something. Whether it be a weapon or knowledge, it didn’t matter. In this moment whatever you’re plotting, whatever betrayal you’re setting up was secondary. Because you were touching him willingly. Kissing him willingly. He’ll accept whatever comes next to live in this moment.
And if your secret was on your person, he intended to divest you of clothes regardless.
His lips trailed messy, frenzied kisses over your neck, down your chest. His brow furrowed as he pressed his forehead there and panted as he clung to your back. Moaning, grunting, whining, fucking you through your pleasure like his sanity depended on it. Like you were his salvation. For a moment, he could believe he was enough for you.
Your cunt gripped around him, snug even when he hadn’t had to force his way in. Wet. So, so wet, slippery and louder than just the slapping of skin. It was a debauched sound and it drove Paul insane, his hips thrusting up over and over seeking the squelching depravity. The strategy table didn’t even creak under the weight and desperate force of your coupling.
He wanted to empty himself inside you. Wanted your sweet pussy to wring every drop from him. Wanted it dripping the excess of his seed.
“Muad’dib!” You panted as you gripped at his shoulders, your damp forehead furrowed in pleasure as you shuddered from another orgasm.
Just like in his dream. His vision. But that’s not at all what he wanted to hear anymore.
He shook his head sharply. “Paul. I am Paul to you if no one else.”
“Paul,” his name a delicious murmur on your lips, brushing against his throat. “Give it to me.”
How could he not?
As his load shot from him, depleting himself but filling you up, Paul had an idle thought. He’d be chasing this particular bliss for the rest of his life, never to fully capture it again.
He would succumb to whatever ploy this was, relishing as you desecrated his body and his will and his pride. It was the first time Paul realized in claiming you, he had been claimed right back; as much your belonging as you were his. He had to be sure no one could see how much hold you had over him, a much surer grip than the false authority he wielded over you. Because at any time he could be deposed; you could even find a way to complete the suicide you had attempted before. But he would always be a disciple to your desires.
And in the wake of his orgasm, Paul’s mind had never known such sweet silence.
Summary: the first victim of the poison was the discoverer herself
Pairing: reckless scientist/inventor!Reader x assistant!Laurie Laurence
A/n: inspired by a concept in the Immortal series by Alyson Noel but, imo, done better lol. The idea of turning the Fuck or Die trope on its head intrigued me, I cannot lie. Instead it’s Fuck or Live lol one of @flashfictionfridayofficial’s past prompts got the ball rolling for me. Explicit sexual fantasy and language ahead but no actual smut occurs
There was no way you could turn the lid any tighter on the sealed concoction in your grip. Yet you focused your eyes and your hands that continued to fruitlessly screw the metal top any more snugly.
It was clear that you were uncomfortable; embarrassed and silently refusing to meet your assistant’s gaze. You cleared your throat and addressed him clinically.
“I am very sorry for the position I put you in last you were here. I deeply apologize for the things I said to you and the way I touched you when I was under the effects of the… substance. I never should have used your DNA sample without your consent. I hope you can forgive my unprofessionalism and… and inappropriateness someday and we can work towards putting the messy business behind us.”
Laurie had scarcely had a thought that wasn’t overshadowed by you on your knees pawing at his trousers since that day. He doesn’t think he’ll be forgetting it for the rest of his life.
Sometimes, Laurie wishes he were a worse man. Though ‘sometimes’ is a stretch; the wish had first manifested the night in question but the frequency in which he rethinks that thought makes up for the recency.
If he were a worse man, he’d know what the lips that you purse now felt like ringing his cock. If he were a worse man, he’d have hooked your legs over the crooks of his elbows and fucked load after load of spend into you. He’d have licked you clean before returning you to your knees, pressing your bosom to the floor to have you that way as well. Would have felt the tip of himself kiss your cervix as he delivered his seed that you so desperately and gorgeously begged for.
However, he was raised properly and his subconscious had to quibble with that daily, hourly, moment-to-agonizing-moment. Respect and love had beaten out his lust but God knows the battle was fierce and bloody in his id.
Luckily, too, because as soon as he would have caved in with the first kiss, you would have died. When would you stop testing your discoveries on yourself first?
Rallying every traceable spec of guile he possessed, Laurie pressed a smile to his closed lips and inclined his head towards you. “Of course, Doctor. Water under the bridge.”
Summary: I get dirty thoughts about you. They get worse when I'm without you. Does that mean that I'm going to Hell? Or are you thinking them as well? — Dirty Thoughts by Chloe Adams
Pairing: Youth Pastor!Timothée Chalamet x black!reader
Warnings: blaaaaaasphemyyyyyy 🎶, light corruption kink? Sure. Let me know if I missed anything
A/n: this has been a long time coming (pun intended). Counting this as part of my Jackolanterns in July 2024 fics because thats when it was supposed to be finished and posted lolololol.
In walked one of the main temptations of his life. One Miss Y/n L/n.
You tiptoed into service one Sunday two months back and Timothée hadn’t known peace since. You had been shy and mouselike, voice barely loud enough to hear the twang of your Southern accent. But you really had begun to open up, all wide eyes and a sweet smile. Always donning an elegant hat that matched your Sunday best outfits to a tee.
The problem was you had a body that drew Timothée’s eyes like a magnet. No matter how modest or appropriate your outfits were, his gaze roved over every inch of you. And the days when the vee of your dress cut a little too far down or your pencil skirts hugged your hips too well, Timothée was questioning if he had the strength for this pious life.
Even now, he had to wonder if you were sent specifically to test him because how? How could anyone look so tempting in that lilac felt beret? The birdcage netting was doing nothing to obscure your pretty face. To dull the shine from your doe eyes looking up at him in a way that made him immediately commit it to memory. He’d turn the image over and over in his head in bed that night, surely, thinking about you looking up from toe to toe with him, from under him, from your knees–.
“Oh! Pastor Tim!”
He forced a friendly smile, forced the far-passed-friendly thoughts from his head. “Good evening. I don’t usually see you here on Fridays. And certainly not dressed so finely.”
That was a normal compliment right? He had never seen you outside of church but you did appear to be in your Sunday bests two days early; a fitted pink turtleneck hugging your torso and a feminine long skirt matching your hat swept your ankles as you approached him with heels pronouncing the curve of your calves. Not that he was looking overmuch. He was fine.
“Well, I always like dressing up entering the Lord’s house. I know they say to come as you are, but I think I look pretty good when I do come,” you finished the sentence with a cheeky little grin that made Timmy clear his throat, brain somewhere wading in the gutter as he tried to move past your accidental innuendo. Your grin fell. “Oh, no, was that wicked of me? Vanity certainly isn’t a virtue.” You bit your lip, the plumpness giving under your worrying incisors. “Should I attend church more plainly from now on, do you think?”
Timothée smiled and sighed at your innocence. You endeavored more than he had ever seen anyone to do right. To do everything by the Good Book. You hadn’t grown up with the religion and it was interesting to introduce a pervasive thing like Christianity to a person with no real familiarity with it. You were endearing in your faith.
“It’s okay to want to look nice. Start worrying about it when you’re so focused on perfecting your look that you miss the sermon.” He chuckled. “You’re doing fine, Y/n. The journey isn’t supposed to be without questioning and introspection, not even linear. There’s a lot to learn, but you have people who are more than willing to help you along.”
You breathed a sigh of relief, a sweet, grateful smile curving tinted lips. “I’m happy to hear you say that. Actually,” you stalled, looking around at the open sanctuary but no other souls in sight, “I… there’s been something I’ve been struggling with lately and…” You straightened your shoulders, looking determined. “I have a confession to make.”
But Timothée’s face immediately drained. For some reason, the intimacy of being in your confidence sounded like it could be a slippery slope for Timmy, particularly. The more you gave him, the more he’ll want, he just knew it.
“I’m, uh… I’m not that kind of pastor…”
Your eyes drooped at the corner like a pleading puppy.
“But I…well, I feel closest to you. More able to be… open.”
Dear God. He was being led right into temptation. But that wasn’t your fault, right? You were seeking help and guidance but didn’t realize all he could do was lead you astray in his current state. If he couldn’t get himself together in regards to you, he could spell ruin for you both. Dishonor. Shame.
Moreso when his attention slipped as you brought him into your confidence. Into your bosom. Figuratively. Metaphorically. And now his perverted attention was skating over the swell of ribbed knit over your chest. He didn’t see any lines to hint at a bra underneath. Were you not wearing one? Was it lace so thin he couldn’t even perceive it? His investigation continued because, of course, now he had to check if your nipples were visible beading up under the fabric to indicate whether—.
“— embarrassing but I’ve been having dirty thoughts about you.”
Timothée blinked rapidly, like his lashes fluttering could somehow fix his hearing. “I-I’m sorry, Y/n, I think I misheard you. What was that again?”
Your brows slanted, guilty and forlorn as you looked to him with innocent doe eyes. “No, I’m sorry! But it’s true and I can’t overcome it on my own, it seems! I can’t shake these dirty thoughts I have about you.”
So he hadn’t heard you wrong. He didn’t know whether to be happy or aghast. Not that he wasn’t flattered— hell, not that he didn’t reciprocate— but he just didn’t know how to properly handle this situation. You. You?! If your mind was winding down explicit paths even somewhat resembling when his eyes lingered on your cleavage in choir or fabricated scenarios alone amongst the pews, then God help you both.
Timothée couldn’t handle this conversation. He was nowhere near God’s strongest soldier but that was okay because he was strong enough to walk away in this moment and save you both from wrongdoing.
Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was: “Tha—. You… I gotta go.”
You made a noise behind him, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I made you uncomfortable, didn’t I? Lordy, that was so stupid of me! I’m so sorry, I wanted help but I never should have put you in this position!”
“No, no! Y/n, of course you aren’t stupid!” Timothée assured, doubling back as he shushed you, his hands holding your shoulders. “Never feel ashamed or silly for seeking help. That’s why I’m here for you.” Oof. Too intimate. He cleared his throat as he dropped his hands from your shoulders— next to your vulnerable, tempting neck— and clasped them behind his back. He retreated a half-step as well, needing the distance but not wanting to act like you had the damn plague. “Why the church is here for you. The whole congregation really. Everyone, not just me.”
“Do… do you get dirty thoughts too?”
Timothée sputtered for a few seconds, completely unable to answer that question.
You sighed. “No need to break it to me gently, pastor. You can just say I’m going to Hell.”
“No! No, that’s not what I was gonna say at all! I… I was gonna say that..” he swallowed and straightened his shoulders, trying to look unaffected. “I-I too… have them. Occasionally.” If the occasion is any time you cross his mind or line of sight, that is. “It happens.”
“Even you, pastor?”
“Yes, even me,” Tim smiled, relaxing a bit at your wide-eyed astonishment. You were as cute as you were sexy. How did such a thing exist? God must have really sent you specifically to tempt him. He shrugged, going for more casual nonchalance and reassurance as he continued. “We’re all human.”
You smiled and ducked your head at his dumb little joke and he was happy to have diffused some of the tension.
“What kind of thoughts do you have?”
And the tension was back.
“What?” His voice broke like the horny teenager he felt like in your presence.
“Well, like… are they ever so bad you can’t stop them? So bad that you… you just have to… that you can’t stop from…”
…touching yourself…
It was like the words had been whispered right into his ear though your lips never formed the words. He shuddered and cleared his throat.
“N-nope. I pray. Um, I just pray about it until they go away a-and it works.”
God, he was a terrible liar. And what was worse, that little ashamed pinch returned to your eyebrows.
“Oh… I haven’t been as successful with my thoughts of you as that. Usually I…. fall victim to wicked temptation.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried, and he really hadn’t. Not when you were sittin’ pretty in front of him admitting you touched that sweet little cunt to thoughts of him.
Timothée dove for your mouth and latched on, his hands cupping your soft cheeks.
This is beyond vile of him. The power imbalance alone was reprehensible. But he could feel the exact moment when the control shifted out of his hands and into yours.
He could barely wrap his mind around the both of you backing up into a wall, vacation bible school flyers crinkling and fluttering to the ground behind him as his back met the painted brick. All he could fathom was that he was making out with his crush, as adolescent as that sounded. Furiously making out. Helpless. Hungry. So very hungry. You slink over him, arms around snaked along the small of his back.
No thoughts, just feeling. Just action. Timothée’s hands came to your face. He thinks he meant to just caress your cheeks, cup your jaw, maybe. But desperately, they aimed for the back of your neck, for the soft hair at the nape. His hands went seeking, wanting to rumple your picture perfect self. Your hat tumbled off and to the floor and…
And you’ve got two dainty little horns curving out of your hair.
Timothée gaped in realization, brain stuttering as it made sluggish connections. Damn. No wonder. But instead of stating the obvious, he questioned the impossible. “H-how did you get on sacred ground?”
You snorted. “Oh yeah, I forgot you thought we couldn't come here. Don't you know this is where we do our best shopping?”
The perceived impossible, it would appear. Timothée swallowed, slipping away from you as he ran his hands through his own curls. His world, theology as he knew it, had been turned upside down.
“You lasted much longer than I thought. It made it so fun!” You giggled behind your hand.
Tim was so ashamed. The ultimate temptation, the biggest test of his piety, lost.
And what was much more shameful was that he still hadn’t left. If he was going to Hell, he wanted to thoroughly earn it.
And maybe you knew that. Maybe you could sense it, read his mind, hell, smell it on him. But when you pushed him down onto the first row pew— cushioned and comfy for the First Family— he didn’t fight it. He just braced for impact.
You crawled over him, straddled his strangely hard cock in his stupid khakis. Then you took the turtleneck off, knit cotton stretching and Timothée feasted his eyes on the breasts that had tormented him Sunday after Sunday. What business did God have building demons like this if He didn’t want His children to enjoy?
“You wanna know something?” You purred, running a manicured fingernail over his Adam’s apple. “I have been touching myself to thoughts of you. I’ve wanted to sink my teeth into you since the moment I saw you. So cute in these stupid button-up shirts and sweaters. You just look so fun to ruin. And you want it too, don’t you?”
A whimper turned into a pained, desperate groan as he lifted his hips to meet your grinding, “Ruin me.”
Stay with me. Share my food and fire. I would be delighted to share what little I have with you and would be greatly helped by your companionship. And you… you could read to me. Make this your home and I your friend.
Friend. Friend.
I owe the first act of smutty intimacy between Lotus and Tor to this song right here. I’ve been shuffling through music for inspo, and this just had everything click into place even though I was nowhere near smut at that time. When I heard it I started writing, and I didn’t stop. In all honesty, this was intended for Chapter XII of the fic, and it’s torn me up to not have shared it with you all.
I went back and forth on it so much, but there’s a fair amount at play between their last argument and this moment and y’all know me—it would’ve turned into three chapters, not one 😂
To amend that, here is a peek into their first time:
But Tor grips my face, his voice gruff yet gentle. “It’s okay.”
My lips tremble with a whimper, but he stops the shake of my head. “It’s okay,” he repeats, stroking my face. “Use me.”
I blink, breath hitching at his command.
“Use me, [Lotus]” One hand drifts down my body to settle on my waist, his fingers pressing through my shift to sear my skin. His eyes are clear and open, bright in the slim moonlight. His voice a wither of smoke. “Use me…”
The look he’s giving me…so raw, so patient. So kind. So reminiscent of that first night he’d kissed me...
I'm transfixed.
I keep my eyes on his, slowly starting to wind my waist again, letting my clit catch on the subtle bounce of his thigh. Down, and back, and down again. I start to relax as I undulate, my lips parting to release the gasps and whimpers building in my throat. But it’s a groan from Tor which snaps my tether, hoarse and low, his eyes fluttering while he fights to keep them on my face.
That sound sends a jolt to my clit, my skin, my veins alight in his arousal. I speed up then, all cautions aside, desperate to hear him make that noise again. Desperate to sooth the ache between my legs.
A quivering ache, born of my gasps and Tor's grunts, carried in the sweat which slicks our skin. Coiling and winding around our bodies, moving in tandem beneath the heavy pelts. Our breaths mingle, clouding my vision and shaking hands, my head lolling against the pillow. But Tor keeps my waist steady, gruff hands caging your every grind while I drift higher, and higher still, towards relief.
Here are some visuals from my Pinterest for this moment/the aesthetic of the journey across the North
THE SCREAMED I SCRUMT WHEN I SAW A NOTIFICATION THAT HAD MIST IN IT!!!! I literally ran here you don't even understand. Listen, hold my hand when I say this— IM SO FUCKIN EXCITED. Even this little segment showed how much of a good writer you are, I can't like– i could see this all in my head (it was a little game of thrones-y 🙈)
BUT THIS??? THIS PART??? Gods, someone sedate me. Thank you for making the most sexiest man alive, thank you for making a character called Tor who isn't a complete asshole. This little bit showed show much of his character and how he's soft with lotus even though his dick is in her and the MUSIC, it's giving I need a trilogy with a list actors.
Excuse me whilst i scream some more, I love this story so much.
Summary: your student was passing his assignments but failing your tests, something wasn’t adding up…
Pairing: soft!dark!Laurie Laurence x black!university professor!Reader
Warnings: noncon, professor student power imbalance… but like… also the professor realizes authority don’t beat crazy so 😅
A/n: I have no idea when I finished this but I only noticed today that it was 😭😭 so anyway here ya go. Minors, ageless and blank blogs, and serial-likers DNI you’ll be merrily blocked.
✏️
You shook your head disparagingly at the paper in your hand. Theodore Laurence. You didn’t understand him. You couldn’t excuse this another time. The discrepancy between his online homework and assignments that he turned in and the test scores he earned were too vast. Test anxiety couldn’t even be said, he had marked C all the way down for this last test! And it was the last straw. The only explanation was that he was having someone else do his homework and bombing your tests.
Students began to fill the auditorium, a slow trickle of eager early birds, then a flood as everyone swarmed to seats.
For the next hour, you introduced the new lesson, lecturing the topic that continues to build off of the previous concepts learned. And with the remaining fifteen minutes, you announce the returning of last week’s exams.
Your TA called out names for the tests, each paper folded in half to preserve the privacy of each student as they came to their small desk to retrieve their work.
“Laurie Laurence,” she called with an eager smile. He gave her a charming little smirk back and a wink as he took his paper. The idle flirtation irked you. Maybe he was exactly as you predicted. Just here to have fun, chase girls, and waste time. But you were sure he was in for a rude awakening as soon as he got back to his desk.
He almost seemed excited to get to his seat, to open up the folded paper and see what he had earned this time. Did he really expect to see something good?
You saw him bite his lip as he looked at your handwriting in red. Then his green eyes met yours from under his lashes. He pursed his lips to the side. Good, he should be disappointed in himself, should know that you weren’t going to let this slide.
You saw him nod almost imperceptibly, a response to your message. But you didn’t outwardly acknowledge the message received. You dismissed the class and reminded them that they’re Blackboard participation should be done by next class.
✏️
After a long day of teaching, you were sitting in your office. The sun long set as you were caught up reading essays when a knock came to your office door.
You lowered the paper in your hand and swiveled in your chair. “Come in.”
There was Theodore. He had changed from the outfit he had had on earlier. He looked much nicer, his expensive cologne filling the room in a pleasant way. It upset you a little bit. Was he just treating this as a quick stop before another commitment? Something to get out of the way on the way to a date? Is that why he came at the tail-end of your office hours?
You huffed a breath and told him to sit.
He did so, but not without nonchalance. His eyes roamed the decor and setup of the small room as if he had all the time in the world. As if this was a social visit.
“You know, I imagined your office to be all homey and quaint. Like you practically live here.” Theodore looked around then back at you, giving you a quick up and down. “Wanted to tell you earlier, professor, but that outfit really suits you.”
You scoffed. Trying to butter you up. As if that would work. “I think it’s time we get to why you’re here.”
He leaned forward in the chair with a smirk. “I agree.”
“Your work, please?” You held your hand out and obediently, he fished out all of his past tests from his messenger bag and placed them in your grasp.
“Something about your work just doesn’t add up, Mr. Laurence. Your assignments are done well, with stellar accuracy. Your discussion passages are always well-articulated and robust. I don’t think you’ve earned less than an A on any of your classwork or homework. So from all of that, one can assume you have a good grasp of the teachings.” You pause then spread his tests out on your desk. Face-up, you can see the way they bleed red, deductions and commentary and numbers that start in the low 70s and only get lower circled in the top corners. “It is a wonder to me that you can be doing that well everywhere but examinations.”
Theodore was leaning on the armchair, his chin in his palm, very cavalier as you set up your accusations. You frowned sternly at his laissez-faire attitude and clasped your hands over the papers.
“So what are you doing in my class if you’re not trying?”
A smirk curled slowly on his lips, green eyes sparkling. He shifted so that his elbows were propped in his knees, his hands steepled.
“You know it took you a long time to take this into your own hands. Kept pawning me off to the student center and that little study group. Took four failed tests for you to finally write those two words I’ve been waiting for. See me.”
You shook your head. Rich little white kids doing poorly in your class was always for one trivial reason. Using your job as a way to stick it to distant fathers and overbearing mothers or vice versa. Well, you were tired of the angry emails and this one was going to get nipped in the bud.
“If you’ve been doing all of this as some misguided cry for attention you’re wasting time and money. You’re going to fail this course. Despite your perfect attendance and good assignment scores, your tests will have you at a D going into your finals.”
He shrugged with a faux little pout. “Well, I guess they will just have to put me back in your class next semester too.”
“Theodore, they wouldn’t put you back in my class. They’ll assume we aren’t compatible as student and teacher. That I can’t teach in a way for you to understand. They’ll put you in another professor’s class.”
He sucked his teeth. “Bummer.” He stood then with a sigh, but not heading for the door in a fit of frustration like you may have anticipated. Instead he moseyed, looking at your bookshelf and the small collection of mugs you had next to a single cup Keurig. He meandered the perimeter of the room like that as he continued. “But I do agree with you on one point. We aren’t compatible as student and teacher. But as man and woman, I think we’d match seamlessly.”
“W-what?”
Theodore turned as he made it back around to the door, making eye contact with you as he reached for the lock and flipped it.
“Or perhaps the issue was having you as the teacher and me as the student. How about we reverse those roles?”
You braced yourself, alarm bells going off. You stood slowly from your chair and Theodore watched you like a snake. No sudden movements.
“Theodore, you are being irrational. Yes, it will be difficult but I promise if you show me that you’re actually trying, I will be more lenient with my grading—.”
“Fuck the grades, professor,” he cut you off with an exasperated groan. “Fuck ‘em! I just knew it was the only way to really capture your attention. I do admire the dedication to your job though. Very hot.”
Your breath caught in your throat, suddenly fearful for a whole other reason. Now you could recognize that specific gleam in his eyes to telegraph exactly what brand of predator he was. He didn’t want to intimidate you for a grade change. He wanted you.
“Mr. Laurence, this is in no way appropriate—!”
He strode back over to your desk, two quick steps of his long legs and you leapt back with a whine in your throat. He practically purred as his lips curled up at the noise, his hands splayed out as he leaned over your desk towards you.
“You know, you should stop staying here so late, professor, you work too hard. Just you, allll alone. But I guess it is good for me that you do. Means I can really hear you.”
He crept to his left and you did the same, trying to keep the desk between you two at all times as you matched his steps.
“This needs to stop, you’ll be in a world of trouble.” You said, going for stern but the way your voice trembled sapped the conviction from your tone.
“You’re so fucking cute, professor. Other guys always say how they’d fuck you if given the chance but me? I always knew I’d have to take the chance. That it’d be me ruining your cute little outfits and messing up your hair. Even today I was just thinking about how cute you look in that skirt and how much cuter it'd be to see my cum leaking down your thighs from under it.”
Your face burned as you looked at him aghast. You made a break for the door, ignoring the image that tried to play in your mind to accompany his words. But the second it took to fumble with the lock was the second he needed.
Theodore caught you around the middle and dragged you back away from the door. He was stronger than you gave him credit for. You felt the hard bulge from his crotch pressed against your body and he groaned as he grinded forward.
He murmured in your ear. “Gotcha, professor.”
“Theodore, stop!” You squealed as he had you locked to him, stumbling backwards together until he reached your desk.
“You know you’re the only person other than my granddad to call me by my name. I dunno why it’s so sexy when you do. Or better yet, when you call me Mr. Laurence.” He smirked and nuzzled cheekily into your neck. “Wanna be a Laurence, too?”
He groped your breasts through your thin turtleneck, squeezing handfuls as he bucked against your ass. You gasped at his rough ministrations, arched into his palms even as you tried to push away from his grasp.
“Feels like a fucking dream. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you like this. How many times I’ve played this out in my mind.”
He turned you around, shoving you forward and leaning over your back. “How many times I’ve cum thinking about bending you over a desk.”
He snatched up your skirt, shoving it up over your hips and pulling your tights and panties down. You don't even have yourself propped up properly, trying to reach back and push him away before he’s dropped down completely out of reach. Then a devoted lick up your pussy sent shockwaves of pleasure down your legs, your knees knocking against the desk as they shook.
Theodore moaned behind you into your folds. “Been wanting to do this all day. All semester.”
Then, grabbing your thighs, he tucked in nose deep. The sound of his tongue and lips sloppily making out with your cunt filled the room and rivaled the sound of your panted protests.
“Mmm. Taste so good I could tongue you down all night. But God if I don’t get inside you soon I’ll go mad.”
He shoved at his pants and spit in his palm. You could hear the slick sound of him jacking himself off, but you couldn’t bear to turn around and face him.
“Theodore, stop, I won’t say anything if you just leave now. You don’t have to do this.”
He breathed a laugh, as he held you down with a hand to the middle of your back. “Yes, the hell I do! I’ve waited like a good boy, let you tease me long enough. Practically been edging me since August, professor. Now let your good boy fuck you like you deserve and maybe then we can talk about grades or whatever.” He said with another chuckle and you felt the mushroom head of his cock press against you. “Got this pussy nice and wet for me so let’s see just how slutty I can get it.”
“No—!”
Theodore pushed in, slow but unrelenting. Fuck maybe you should have looked back because you would have been a little prepared for the size of him. Wanton groans were falling unabashedly from his lips as he gripped the flare of your hips for dear life.
“You are sooo unbelievably tight, holy shit.” His tests crinkling under you as you grappled for purchase.
“Best pussy I’ve ever been in, if you can believe it.” He says, a smile in his voice. “Feel like you were made for me, professor. We fit too well.”
What do I know about that character from the anime I haven’t watched? Well, according to one of my mutuals to whom he is married, his stroke game is crazy—
A/n: this isnt where @nonpoppin was going with this but I got Root’s permission to post the fanfiction I wrote for her fanfiction lol check it out first and make sure to comment and reblog!! This was one of the times that I had a whole lot of fun using paul as my punching bag 🩷 NOTE: this is NOT a continuation of Roots’ fic!! Just something I thought of for this particular Paul and Reader!!
🔹
“Muad’dib, who is this?” Chani asked.
You scoffed a humorless laugh. “Yes, Muad’dib, who am I?”
“Y/n…” Paul trailed off, uncertain.
“Yes, but I don't think she was asking for my name, was she? Who am I?”
When his jaw just clenches you chuckled, shaking your head.
“How even are you here? What are you doing here?”
“It’s… it’s all very complicated, Y/n.”
“Ah, yes,” you nodded seriously, “very complicated, I’m sure. Much too complicated for me to comprehend, no doubt.”
“Y/n, you know that’s not—.”
“What I know is that when I was told you were dead, I mourned you like a widow. What I know is I have been nearly poisoning myself with laudenum to stop the voice in my head. Your voice. Telling me to come to Arrakis. And when I finally do— finally sneak out of the palace and stowaway on a ship, pay a man with a probably stolen ornithopter—.”
“Hey!”
“— to take me to the desert— this is what I’m greeted with.”
There would be only silence between you if the sand ever stopped shifting, hissing as it swept off one dune and settled on another.
“I hope you succeed, Muad’dib, in whatever you are doing here. And I hope it destroys you.”
“Y/n!”
But you’re already turning, back to the ornithopter. “Double your pay to take me back.”
“Y/n, wait!”
“Whatever for? A complicated explanation? For you to continue those sad eyes at me? No. I’ll go back to my world, face my father’s wrath, then marry whomever is the highest bidder.”
You turned back towards the ornithopter. “Just like you were, once.”
🔹
“I never asked you, then, but I should have. Muad’dib… did you call Y/n here?”
The silence stretched and with each moment, Chani felt a little sicker to her stomach.
“Not on purpose.”
Chani’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“I would see her in dreams sometimes. I didn’t know actual communication was happening. Didn’t know it was possible.”
Chani nodded as she looked away, arms crossing defensively over her chest. Paul reached for her but she feinted out of his grasp.
“So you mean to tell me that you dreamt of another woman, begging her to come and find you, multiple times, while you laid right next to me? And still had the audacity to look me in the face everyday after like things were fine?”
