#Andrew | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoursinisforgiven · 7 hours ago

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EPISTLE ──

pairing: andrew x reader (darling)

cw: none (?), one extremely light sexual joke.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The long stretch of winter break had lulled you into a false sense of serenity. Snow piled high outside, muffling the world in a deceptive calm, while the holidays unfolded in their quiet, rhythmic way. You’d always assumed everyone else had disappeared into their own corners of rest—students, professors, staff alike, all tucked away in the reprieve from academia’s relentless grind.

It wasn’t until Andrew’s casual remark shattered that assumption that you realized just how much you’d misunderstood.

“Seriously?” you blinked at him, the disbelief in your voice thick. “What could you possibly have to do? There’s no one there.”

Andrew didn’t answer immediately. He sat across from you, his chopsticks moving rhythmically as he picked at his takeout. His expression was unreadable, but there was a glimmer in his eye that told you he’d been expecting this reaction. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he finally glanced up.

“Would you like to see what we do while you students are off on vacation?” His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was something behind it—a quiet weight that gave you pause.

You raised an eyebrow, half-expecting some offhand joke about endless paperwork or an inside joke about staff mischief. But his expression had grown serious now, the playfulness fading as he set his chopsticks down with care.

──

The lecture hall was quiet, but the silence felt wrong. Not the peaceful kind of quiet you’d grown used to during your long hours here, but a stillness that carried the weight of something forgotten.

The room was a mess. Papers were scattered across desks, curling at the edges and yellowing in places as though they’d been left untouched for weeks. Books leaned precariously in half-formed stacks, some slumped over like they’d given up. Coffee mugs stood like forgotten relics of the past semester, their contents reduced to faint rings at the bottom of the cups. The faint scent of stale coffee and dry paper hung in the air.

Your stomach twisted as you took it all in, the chaos clashing with the pristine image of the space you’d held in your mind. This room had been a second home to you, a place of comfort, even inspiration. Seeing it like this was jarring.

“You have to clean all this?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I thought… I don’t know, I guess I just assumed everything paused during the break.”

Andrew laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Paused? Not even close.” He gestured toward the room with a sweep of his hand. “The university doesn’t just stop because the students are gone. There’s always something happening. Papers to grade, research to process, meetings to prepare for. And then there’s this…” His eyes swept over the mess.

You frowned, your gaze following his. “This doesn’t happen on its own, though,” you said slowly, your voice tinged with suspicion. “What even is all this?”

Andrew smiled, amused by your confusion. “During the holidays, the university rents out spaces for events—holiday parties, conferences, you name it. They pay well, but…” He trailed off, his smile fading as his gaze darkened. “They don’t exactly leave things the way they found them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You’re telling me someone threw a party in here?”

Andrew nodded, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. “Not just here. Across campus. Lecture halls, libraries, even some of the labs. It’s a way to bring in revenue during the break, but it leaves a lot of work for us.”

You turned back to the mess, a new layer of disbelief settling over you. It wasn’t just the clutter—it was the sense that this place, your place, had been used and abandoned without care.

“Feel like helping?” Andrew’s voice pulled you back to the moment. There was a playful edge to his words, but his expression was tired. “It’s not just picking up papers. There’s a whole system to this. I might even let you skip the worst parts. The emails,” he added with a smirk, “are a killer.”

You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile tugged at your lips. “I don’t think I’m qualified for this kind of work.”

Andrew chuckled, leaning back against the podium with a knowing look. “Oh, trust me, no one is. But it gets done anyway.”

As you crossed the room to the seat you’d claimed as yours months ago—unofficially, but always yours—you froze. The desk was piled with papers, loose leaf sheets crumpled as though someone had rifled through them in haste. A half-empty water bottle teetered on the edge, and crumbs were scattered across the surface.

Your brows knit together. You would never have left it like this.

“You’re sure this was a party?” you asked, half-joking, half-appalled.

Andrew grinned, his tone light as he replied, “It wasn’t my party, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You sighed, brushing crumbs from the desk and shaking your head. “Somehow, I can’t see this as part of the holiday spirit.”

“Welcome to the reality of university breaks,” Andrew said, his tone dry but not unkind. “It’s not all snowflakes and hot cocoa.”

You glanced at him, his easy stance and that ever-present glimmer of amusement in his eyes. There was a warmth to him, a steadiness that grounded the chaos around you.

And despite yourself, you felt the corners of your mouth twitch upward. “Alright,” you said, brushing off your seat. “Show me what needs to be done. But I’m not touching the emails.”

Andrew laughed, the sound resonating through the empty hall. “Deal.”

──

You groan as you collapse into the chair at Andrew’s desk, the trash bag resting limply at your feet. It’s light—filled mostly with loose, crumpled papers in a kaleidoscope of colors that someone clearly thought too unimportant to bother recycling properly. You let your head fall back against the chair, your eyes drifting to where Andrew stands at the chalkboard behind you.

The rhythmic sound of the eraser against the board fills the quiet space, and you find yourself watching him for a moment. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint streaks of white chalk. There’s a focused set to his jaw, his brows slightly furrowed as he works to clear the board.

Your gaze flickers to the chalkboard itself, the surface marred with half-erased notes and what looks like a hurriedly sketched diagram. You tilt your head. Why did he even need a chalkboard? He was a literature professor, not a mathematician or scientist. And even if he had a reason, why use chalk instead of a whiteboard?

“Rock, paper, scissors for who sweeps the floor?” you call out, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Andrew pauses mid-swipe, his head turning toward you with a raised brow. You catch the faintest smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth before he sets the erasers down. Without a word, he crosses the room to you in a few measured strides, his presence warm and steady.

Before you can tease him further, he leans down, cupping the side of your face and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“It’s okay, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve worked hard.”

The simple gesture catches you off guard, and for a moment, you forget the mess around you. His lips are warm against your skin, and you can feel the faint grit of chalk dust on his fingers as they brush your temple.

You smile, leaning into the touch despite yourself. “Hard enough to earn a pass on sweeping?” you ask, your voice light but hopeful.

Andrew chuckles, the sound deep and rich, as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “Hard enough to earn a pass on everything,” he says, his tone teasing but sincere.

You snort, shaking your head as you gesture toward the trash bag at your feet. “I think we both know I’ve got at least one more round in me.”

He clears his throat and straightens—you chuckle lightly to yourself, glad you got another reaction out of him—his hands slipping into his pockets as he surveys the room with a thoughtful expression. The lecture hall is still far from clean—papers litter the floors, chairs are out of place, and there’s a faint sheen of dust on nearly every surface.

“Well, if you insist,” he says, his lips quirking into a grin, “how about I handle the floors and you tackle the desk?”

Your eyes narrow, and you cross your arms over your chest. “How is that fair? I’ve already been hauling around the trash bag.”

Andrew shrugs, the grin never leaving his face. “Because you’re far better at organizing than I am.” A tease, perhaps some sort of reverse psychology to make you cave.

With a resigned sigh, you lean forward and begin sorting through the papers on the desk in front of you, piling them into rough categories: keep, recycle, and the ever-growing stack of “Andrew’s problem.”

Andrew, true to his word, grabs the broom from the corner and starts sweeping. You glance up occasionally, watching as he moves with an easy grace, his focus intent on the task at hand.

The silence between you is comfortable, broken only by the soft scrape of the broom against the floor and the occasional rustle of papers. It’s not exactly how you’d imagined spending your evening, but there’s something oddly intimate about the moment—the two of you working side by side to bring a semblance of order back to this chaotic space.

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of other people’s chaos, you feel lucky too.

──

After sorting through the last of the papers at Andrew’s desk, you stretch, your back aching from the hours spent hunched over. You glance back at your usual seat across the room, the thought of finally sitting down tugging you forward. But as you near the cluster of chairs, something catches your eye—a stray piece of paper lying just beneath one of the seats.

You groan audibly, rolling your eyes. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy to finish. You crouch down to grab it, already dreading having to untie the trash bag just to shove this one piece inside. But as you flip the paper over, something stops you.

It’s not a blank sheet or a forgotten syllabus. It’s filled with words, the handwriting neat but slightly hurried, as though the writer had poured their thoughts onto the page in one continuous stream. Your eyes skim over the lines, curiosity getting the better of you. Someone’s notes? An essay draft?

But as you read further, your stomach twists. This isn’t an essay or lecture notes—it’s a love letter.

You glance down at the bottom of the page, expecting to see a signature, but there’s no name. No identifying mark. Had it been unfinished? Or had the writer deliberately chosen to remain anonymous?

Your eyes flicker to the top of the page, where the words Dear Kayson are scrawled in bold, deliberate letters.

“Kayson,” you murmur aloud, your brow furrowing. The name feels familiar, like something on the edge of your memory, but you can’t put a face to it.

Without thinking, you rise and turn toward Andrew, clutching the letter in your hand. He’s across the room now, sweeping near the chalkboard, his focus intent on the floor.

“Andrew,” you call out, your voice breaking the quiet.

He looks up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, his expression curious as you approach. “What’s up?”

“Does a ‘Kayson’ take one of your classes?” you ask, holding up the paper as though it’ll somehow explain itself.

Andrew’s brows knit together as he leans against the broom, his gaze flickering to the letter in your hand. “Kayson…” he repeats slowly, his tone thoughtful. “Kayson Whitfield. He’s in my Modern Literature seminar, apart of the school’s volleyball team as well.”

Your stomach twists again. “Modern Lit,” you echo, glancing down at the letter. The words blur slightly as you skim over them again, your mind racing.

Andrew’s voice pulls you back to the moment. “Why? What’s that?” He nods toward the paper, his expression equal parts amused and intrigued.

You shake your head with a faint smile, carefully folding the letter in half before sliding it into your pocket. The paper feels delicate, almost fragile, as though the emotions it holds might spill out if you’re not careful. You glance at Andrew, who’s watching you with his trademark mix of curiosity and quiet amusement.

“Don’t worry,” you say, your tone light but laced with something deeper. “Just know you’ll be seeing me again in Modern Literature.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh? Planning on crashing one of my classes now?”

“Not crashing,” you reply with a smirk. “Just… auditing. Consider it research.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he leans back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest. The soft light of the lecture hall catches on the faint streaks of chalk dust on his shirt, and for a moment, the world feels smaller, quieter—like it’s just the two of you in this little bubble of time.

──

author’s note: writing for andrew is so unbelievably difficult, i like how this came out though.

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zsakuva fandom #zsakuva andrew #andrew zsakuva #andrew marston #andrew #andrew x reader #andrew x darling #darling

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