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Question:
My Answer:
Characters: Reader Insert x Team Flare!Sycamore.
Summary: You come across an acquaintance in the depths of the Team Flare base, but not in the way you've come to expect. (As per request.)
Mon Cheri
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Hot breath washes over your face, and in a rush of movement you find yourself pressed against the wall of the Team Flare base. The tile is cold against your back, and there's a leg pressing between your thighs, pinning you in place: someone's body is flush against your own, their body hot and lean against yours. Your panicked breaths rattle in the base of your lungs, and your hands lift, trying to push the Team Flare member away-
"Tsk, tsk. How pitiful, mon cheri."
Your breath hitches before stopping completely, and your hands drop to your sides, limp with shock. No. No, it—it can't be… "Professor?"
He chuckles, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. "I thought better of my hand-picked prodigy. It seems I chose wrong, non?"
"No," you say again, stupidly. You're weak with the shock of it all, and he turns his head to the side, stubble scraping gently against your cheek. "Professor, how could you—I thought-"
His calloused thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and against your will you can feel your body go slack. His face is mere inches from yours, his lashes flicking against yours with every blink of his blue eyes, and his leg presses more forcefully against you as his hands begin to sweep up your sides. He smirks at your expression, and the quirk of his lips sends a spike of warmth curling low in your abdomen.
"You're ruining all of my plans. You need to be—how do you say?—punished." His fingers press hot against your wrists, and you feel the sudden cold press of metal against your skin—you jerk, and the clinking of manacles reaches your ears.
"Professor," you try to say, but the whisper dies in your throat. His laugh sends warmth spiking in your lower abdomen, and his hands ghost up the back of your neck before settling in your hair, winding locks of it around his fingers. He pulls at the tips of your hair, forcing your head back, and you feel him duck his head to graze his teeth along your exposed neck.
"Professor-"
"Call me Augustine." His lips spell the words out against your skin, and he releases your hair to curl his hands around your waist instead, pressing bruises into your flesh. He claims your mouth with his own, and all you can do is gasp into the kiss as his fingers slowly begin to travel downwards.