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multifandomfanfic · 2 months ago

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Meeting and Falling in Love with the Easy Company Boys (x f!reader)

A/N: These headcanons are my Secret Santa gift for the wonderful @hxad-ovxr-hxart (for @hbowardaily!'s yearly exchange)! I hope you enjoy them—this is the first thing I’ve ever made for Band of Brothers, despite being such a big fan. I had a lot of fun writing them! (BTW, I haven't watched BOB for a good six months, so I struggled a little with remembering what Talbert was like. I hope I did him justice.)

Characters: Joe Toye, Bull Randleman, Ronald Speirs, Joe Liebgott, Floyd Talbert

Joe Toye

This man is my short king (there is no way he is 5'10")

He may seem tough on the outside, especially toward his friends, but I know he would be the most caring person in the world to you. I mean, he broke out of the hospital in Bastogne to rejoin Easy Company–can you imagine what else he would do?

I figure you two would meet while he was in the hospital in Bastogne or after Market Garden. You would be doing your daily rounds, changing bandages and making beds when you come to him. He immediately thinks you’re the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, and thanks his lucky stars he ended up in your section.

He keeps requesting to see you, whether it’s under the guise of needing more medicine or needing someone to write his letters home for him (God, he thinks your handwriting is so pretty). It gets so tiring that your supervisor automatically sends you whenever he has an issue.

Of course, in an army hospital, there isn’t much Joe can do to try and be romantic, especially with a hundred other men needing your undivided attention. But he makes do with his pure charm and charisma, good looks, and maybe some candies he wrote home for. He makes sure to show you his brass knuckles and his plans to celebrate Joe Toye Day.

“Say, Y/N, when this war is over, how do you say we go out to dinner together? My treat.” Despite being bedridden, Joe’s affability shines through for you. You can’t help but laugh.

“Sure, Sergeant. I’d love to.”

As the war progresses and Joe goes back to active duty, you two exchange dozens and dozens of letters. They persist even as you’re both transferred to the most gruesome areas of the European theatre. He doesn’t sugarcoat it for you, but his stories of his friends and back home manage to light up your days. And he could say the same for the perfume and red lip-sticked kisses you leave on your letters.

He asks you to marry him in one letter (which he tried to keep hidden from the other men, until George found it and spread the news to all of Easy Company), and you immediately write back with a resounding YES!

Suddenly, though, the flow of letters to you goes cold. It isn’t until a few weeks later that his mother writes to you: Joe had lost his leg in Bastogne and was recovering in a hospital in Atlantic City.

It was difficult getting through the latter months of the war knowing that an entire ocean separated you and Joe, but the letters and love continued. Once the war ended, you knew where you were going, and surprised him by his bedside in late May.

“This is like déjà vu,” Joe chuckled, looking at you with all the adoration he could muster. The sun was setting over the New Jersey skyline, and the last of the hospital visitors were shuffling out into the night.

“Except you’re not leaving me this time,” you smiled, squeezing this hand, “And I’m not changing your sheets.”

Bull Randleman

BULL BULL BULL BULL (sang to the tune of “Bill Nye the Science Guy”)

I already know Bull is a big softie; I mean, not only does he look like he gives the best hugs on this here Earth, but we already know he is one of the best NCOs in Easy Company.

I think you two would meet prior to D-Day at Aldbourne. You’re a Donut Dolly helping the Red Cross lift the men’s spirits, and boy, do you certainly lift one paratrooper’s spirits. Bull comes back to your Clubmobile on a regular basis, sometimes multiple times a day, even if it is just to chat.

Due to the Red Cross’ discouragement of Dollies having romantic relationships with servicemen, you can’t reciprocate the kind man’s feelings, despite how much you want to. However, it doesn’t go unnoticed that Bull gets his coffee and donuts for free whenever you’re working the station.

There’s an unmistakable tension in the air before D-Day, which inspires you to break the rules a little and accompany Bull to a local pub. Hours and a dozen endearing Southern phrases later, you are wrapped in his arms, dancing, as Glenn Miller plays on the jukebox.

“Thank you for this, doll,” Bull said, as you swayed in the middle of the dark pub. Several other Americans were there, trying to drown their fear away. They were aware you were a dolly, forbidden from socializing with Bull in such a way, but they knew the gravity of the situation, and would never say a word.

“Don’t say that, Bull. We’ll see each other again.”

A few days later, D-Day was in full swing, and the men you had spent the last months with were across the channel. However, you did not have to wait for Bull to come back for you, as you came to him. Within a week of the invasion, you and your clubmobile walked onto the Normandy beaches, footlocker in hand.

You can not imagine the look of surprise and joy on Bull’s face when your truck joined Easy Company outside of Ste. Mere-Eglise; witnesses say it was the only time his cigar ever fell out of his mouth.

Everyone knew you had a thing for each other, but the rules were the rules, and they were enforceable now. So, you had to exchange letters and glances in private, with conversations and hand-holding reserved for when no one was around.

When VE and VJ Days were finally declared, it was like a load off your shoulders. Your first “official” dates together include swimming and walking in the Austrian mountains, and enjoying the left-behind alcohol and cigars. And let's not forget those hugs!

(A/N: Can you tell I've had a fixation on WWII Clubmobiles recently?)

Ronald Speirs

This man actually scares me, but that’s ok.

Speirs’ infatuation with you definitely comes from a place of respect. You work somewhere on the frontlines, whether it’s as a nurse, photographer, or another paratrooper in an alternate universe. While he may not vocalize it, he really admires your drive and bravery.

You two are acquaintances, having known each other since the early days of the Normandy invasion. You brush shoulders once in a while, but to your disappointment, nothing seems to develop between the two of you. His lingering glances go unnoticed.

He wouldn’t outright approach you. You would begin to notice small things added to your rucksack or station: chocolate, money, pawned jewelry, clothes–an entire set of fine china once appeared on top of your footlocker. You had no idea where it was coming from, and several attempts to find your secret admirer were to no avail. Whoever he was, you thought, he must be the most caring man in the world; who else would go out of their way to give gifts to a woman they barely know?

Someone would notice something, though. All the rumors about Speirs’ cruelty led some men to have a heightened interest in him and his daily happenings. It would be Luz who finally sees him bring a stolen pair of heels into your tent and exit without them–all while you were out doing your job.

“Hey, Lieutenant? You got a moment?” Luz called out to his superior. He walked across the ruined town square to Speirs, who responded with nothing but a blank stare. He had been caught and by no one less than George Luz.

“What do you want, Sergeant?”

“Well, I just wanted to say…” Luz looked around, half-jokingly making sure there were witnesses, “If this leaving stuff in Y/N’s tent is an attempt to ‘woo’ her, you might want to leave a note. Or just talk to her. How else will you know it’s you leaving her gifts and not Major Winters or Lieutenant Dike?”

With that, Speirs immediately goes out to find you. From the outside, he may appear to have all the confidence in the world, but he can not fathom you thinking all the gifts he has left are from the man he replaced. Speirs spots you mailing something back home; he pulls you outside, away from the attendant, and confesses that he has been the one leaving you gifts because of the feelings he’s been harboring. You quickly embrace him, causing Luz to whoop and cheer, which is only stifled by Speirs’ scowling.

From then on, you become the “First Lady” of Dog and Easy Company. You’re untouchable. Most of the men will bend over backward for you to stay on Speirs’ “good side.” You are treated with the utmost respect and courtesy, and privy to all the going-ons of the division.

Toward the end of the war, Sgt. Grant is shot, and Speirs goes into full-blown protection mode. You accompany him as he locates the German doctor before initiating the manhunt for the soldier who shot Grant. You try to calm him down to the best of your abilities, but its no use. He hardly leaves your side after that night.

At the end of the war, Speirs decides to stay in the military, and despite the ups and downs that come with that, you stay with him. You celebrate with the rest of Easy Company as the men slowly start to return home with Speirs by your side. Not to be cliche, but you do live happily ever after, even if you’re never truly settled in one place.

Joe Liebgott

Call me David Webster, cause I would die for Joe Liebgott. He was my OG.

I think its safe to say that Liebgott is very tru cocky. I wouldn’t call it a superiority complex, perse, but he knows he’s good-looking and suave, and he’s confident enough to put it to good use. He can wine and dine any nurse and WAC he wants in a matter of moments. It’s a foolproof strategy; that is, until he sees you.

It’s Aldbourne, 1944, and he spots you in a pub while playing darts. He is immediately captivated by your looks, as even the drab green of your uniform manages to compliment them. He’s too busy staring at you and completely misses the target on his next throw. It costs him a pack of cigarettes, and you giggling at him, but man was it worth it.

You spend the evening huddled up together in a booth, him trying every one of his usual pick-up lines, and you shrugging them off like they’re nothing. It confuses Joe to no end that the one girl he wants doesn’t fall prey to his anecdotes. In reality, they do work, as you fall more and more in love with him throughout the night; you just want to hear him work for it.

He walks you back to your barracks, dizzy from infatuation (and dancing). You leave him with a peck on his cheek, and it's there he promises you will be the last girl he chases.

Before D-Day, Joe asks for a picture of you to keep during the war. You happily oblige, signing your love on the back of it with a kiss. He keeps it with him until the very end of the war and can not count the number of times he has shown you off someone else. By May, everyone in Easy knows what you look like.

Despite his addiction to Dick Tracy comics, Joe isn’t much of a poet, but this doesn’t keep him from writing to you daily. Sometimes the letters don’t contain more than an “I love you” or ramblings about how terrible his rations tasted or German lessons. Other times, they were more macabre, even though he attempts to sugarcoat things for you. Your favorite letters are when he describes life back home in California and everything he hopes to show you one day.

Obviously, the war was hard for Liebgott, even more than other soldiers. But knowing you are waiting for him and will stick with him helps get him through the hard times. I imagine Liebgott turns into Harry Welsh now that he’s smitten with you. He tells everyone about you, and wherever he goes, he looks for something to ship back to you.

After the war, the two of you find yourselves a nice house in California. No matter what happens, you are there for each other through thick and thin. The picture you gave Joe in Aldbourne is framed in your living room for years to come.

Floyd Talbert

Unfortunately, I don’t remember Tab that much since it has been so long since my last rewatch. But if I know one thing for certain, I know he’s a cutie pie. (But I’m very sorry if these headcanons don’t match the character well).

You two would definitely meet while Floyd is recovering from being bayonetted by Private Smith in Carentan. You tend to his wounds and listen to him recall the harrowing story of how he received his injury. Its only when Easy Company returns to England and you meet his friends that you learn the injury was a simple mistake. Of course, Floyd is embarrassed, but you find it endearing.

Much like with Toye, you return to Tab’s bedside innumerous times. Since you’re in England, you can relatively safely go out for a “date” once he is healed. You enjoy the best British food the two of you can afford, and when that gets too sickening, you stroll through London like tourists.

He insisted you be there when he returns to Easy and informally receives a Purple Heart. His beams with pride, and in his confident state shows you off to the rest of the men as his fiancee. Well, that isn’t exactly true until a couple days later, when Floyd pops the question hours before departing for the war again. You wouldn’t think of saying anything but yes.

Like the other men, you exchange letters for months. You remain stationed outside of London, and despite wartime rationing, send him anything he needs. Cigarettes? Bought and shipped. Pictures of you? Taken and sent. Some baked goods? Consider it sent. If he could, he would reciprocate the favor, which he tries to do whenever they stop through a somewhat intact town. The tulips he sends you from the Netherlands are permanently placed by your beside, even if they arrive a little dried.

Once the war ends, Tab can not wait to see you and shows up unannounced in your ward. The excitement and love is palpable, and you marry within days. After that, he feels no rush to end the honeymoon phase, and you dawdle getting back to the states to begin life together.

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thewritingrowlet · 7 months ago

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The Freshman (Remake), ft. tripleS Yoon Seoyeon

tags: first time, creampie

length: 10k

author's note: It's the remix to Ignition The Freshman, hot and fresh out the kitchen, mama rollin' that body got every man in here wishin'

Anyway, I decided to do something different this time; I remade The Freshman because I wasn't entirely satisfied with how that one originally turned out—I was super new and was super terrible at writing (still am, btw). I hope you like this remake! <3

Today is August 12th, the first day of Freshers’ Week at your university. Professor Son, the head of Computer Science department, had asked you personally to be one of the seniors to lead a group of freshmen throughout the Week and continue to offer help and advice whenever they may need it, even after the orientation period has finished. She told you that she was very impressed that you were able to maintain over 3.7 GPA (4.00 was peak—3.7 was “rock-bottom”) in the 2 years you’ve been studying while being active as a basketball player for the university’s team at the same time.

You were hesitant to take her up on the request at first because you had wanted to take this holiday period to relax and gather yourself after such a stressful semester. However, you recalled the way your senior had helped you when you were a freshman yourself; how he motivated and set an example to you and your groupmates. With that in mind, you put your holiday plans to the side, said yes, and went on a training period to become a group leader.

Your watch shows 5:30 am. You just finished the morning briefing with the other group leaders and the rest of the Freshers’ Week committee. In less than an hour, the freshmen will start gathering in the football field and you will start your duties as a group leader for these new faces. You are very nervous as you are not very sociable with new people, but you see this as an opportunity to help you be more comfortable being in the spotlight and present in public—the promised payment is too good to pass up as well.

You and the rest of the group leaders stand in a row while holding a sign with the group name and number written on it. You see the freshmen start lining up in front of their respective leaders, including yourself. Some look like they just woke up, others look excited to start their new life as a university student, as you were back then. Initially, no male or female freshman caught your attention with their looks, until the last freshman joins your group’s line. You quickly peek at the attendance list on your clipboard and find the name of this last person: Yoon Seoyeon, from Chungnam Girls’ High School in Daejeon. “That’s quite the distance”, you think. As you turn your attention away from the attendance list, you see her walking up to you. Just before she gets to you, you manage to pick up some details from her looks: big eyes, small lips, fluffy cheeks—she’s also wearing a bow tie in your favorite color, light blue (or is that Dodger blue?).

Lock it in, she’s holding out her hand to shake yours. “Good morning, sunbaenim. My name is Yoon Seoyeon”, she says. You find yourself staring deep into her eyes for a second before reaching out to shake her hand; you have never felt anything like this before—is this what they call love at first sight? “Good morning to you as well, Seoyeon-ssi”, you greet her warmly, “stand in line, please”. You expect her to stand at the end of the line, but to your surprise, she takes the spot right in front of you, beaming as she does. “In line”, she says cutely, and you can’t help but smile in response.

You hear the sound of someone testing the mic over the speakers, which indicates that this whole thing is moments away from kick-off. “One, two—one, two, three”. You can’t see the speaker, but based on the voice, it must be Doctor Park, the dean of the Faculty of Medicine and the head of the Freshers’ Week committee. “Good morning, everyone!’, her voice is laden with excitement, “welcome to the university, my dear freshmen—how’s everyone today?”. Judging by her chuckles and giggles that you hear over the speakers, the people close to her must be saying nice things to her—which is good; she’s such a brilliant professor and an even greater person, and students love her a lot.

“Group leaders, look at your attendance list for me, please”, she says, “if there’s anyone in your group who has a medical condition, guide them to me and we’ll talk to them”. You do as she says and look at your list, and thankfully, no one has any medical conditions. Unlike your group, however, the group next to you do have someone. “Are we okay, sunbaenim?”, Seoyeon asks. “Yeah, I think we are”. Your gaze meets hers, and she shows you such a precious smile. You expect her to look away in shyness, but she doesn’t; she just keeps looking at you with so much confidence—it’s you who folds first, and it’s because you feel your cheeks getting hot. “Fuck, if only I could find something to talk about”, you think to yourself, desperate for even the smallest of help to save you from the awkwardness.

“Once they’re back, leaders, you’re going to take your group to the classrooms that have been assigned to you—see you around, everyone!”. The doctor leaves the football field and goes about her day, and you hear some people collectively saying goodbye to her. You return your attention back to your group, and you can see that some people have started talking among themselves, which is very nice—oh, look: someone’s tapping Seoyeon’s shoulder from behind. She turns around with a smile and starts talking to the girl behind her. You see them pulling out their phones, probably to get each other’s contacts, and admittedly, you’re glad that things are starting out well for her—not sure why you’re so attentive to her, though.

Your group, 127, shares the same classroom with groups 125, 126, and 128. Each group split themselves in two rows and sit facing each other, and then the group leaders sit wherever they can and blend in with their respective groups. “Good morning, everyone”, you greet your group, “let’s start by having a toilet break—does anyone need to go to the toilet?”. You see 3 girls and 1 guy raise their hands, so you tell them to make a line at the door and wait for other toilet-goers.

You were too busy looking at your papers that you didn’t notice that Seoyeon has scooted over towards you. “Excuse me, sunbaenim”, she says, “I have a feeling that we’ll be seeing each other a lot in the next few days, and I was wondering if we can start speaking more casually”. For a freshman, her confidence is second to none. “Of course, Seoyeon-ah; you can call me oppa—or hyung, if you feel like it”, you feel your cheeks getting hot again, “have you thought about which student organization you want to join?”. “I want to continue my student council career”, she says, “do you think that’s a good idea?”. You have friends in the student council; you can play a little nepotism game and help Seoyeon join it—let’s not reveal it to her just yet though. “I think it is”, you say, “you obviously have the experience and know what it’s like to be in the council”.

Before you know it, the toilet-goers have returned to the classroom. In your head, you expect Seoyeon to move back to her previous position, but she doesn’t; she asks the other person to swap seats with her and stays close to you. Your heart starts getting excited, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself—it’d be very embarrassing if Seoyeon turns out to not be interested in you, wouldn’t it?

Kim Suhyeon, the leader of group 128, signals to you with her hands and asks you to come to her, so you do. “I think we can start now, oppa”, she says. You nod to her and take the stage in front of the whiteboard with her. “Attention, please”, you say, “first of all, we’d like to extend Doctor Park’s greetings and welcome you to the university”. In the corner of your eyes, you notice that Kim Sungmin and Nam Jungmin—leaders of 125 and 126 respectively—are on their way to join you. “I’m sure you already know what our names are but allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Oh Hanbin; I’m a year 3 student from the Faculty of Engineering”, you introduce yourself, getting collective nods from everyone present, “I’ll let the others introduce themselves and then we’ll start this whole thing”. The other 3 people take turns introducing themselves to the crowd, starting with Sungmin, Jungmin, and finally, the little princess (because she’s the only sophomore among juniors in your quartet), Suhyeon.

Now that introductions are out of the way, you can proceed to the next step, which is to play a small game. “We’ll give you three minutes to know as many people as you can, and then we want you to group up based on different conditions—the timer starts now”. People start getting on their feet and scramble around the classroom to introduce themselves to each other. You eye the members of your group, and you guess that some of them already have friends in the other groups based on how they start laughing and high-fiving other people. Seoyeon, on the other hand, seems to be stressing out, as she keeps running around the room to quickly introduce herself to people. “How cute”, you think.

“Alright, everyone, time’s up!”, Suhyeon announces, stopping people on their tracks. “Let’s start the game, everyone. On the count of 3, you have 2 minutes to find people whose name starts with the same letter as yours—Juhyeon and Jihoon, Siwoo and Sunwoo, and so on”, she explains the first criteria of the game, and the freshmen start getting antsy, “one, two, three—timer starts now!”. The chaos immediately ensues; those who happen to be far from their group start running around frantically, including Seoyeon, who happens to be standing quite far away from others whose name starts with S. “Remember: no curses, everyone; we are an educated bunch”, Suhyeon reminds the crowd—they’re too busy playing the game, though.

“That’s time, everyone!’, she announces, thus marking the end of the first round, “now let’s see how you did”. She walks to the group that Seoyeon is a part of and starts asking everyone’s name: Sunwoo, Seoyeon, Soobin, Seunghan, Soojin, Seokmin. “Nah, nah, nah—sunbaenim, he’s lying!”, says someone from across the room, “his name is Kang Minseok, and he went to the same high school I did”. Everyone explodes in laughter; someone actually snitched on their friend and caused them to get punished. Suhyeon chuckles and shakes her head in amusement, “you’re not slick, Minseok-ah—to the front, please”.

Suhyeon continues her examination and finds a few more suspects; there’s a girl named Minji, and a guy named Minwoo, but instead of grouping up, they’re standing far apart from each other. “What’s with you M people”, Suhyeon laughs, “alright, join your fellow M on the stage, please”.

As Minji and Minwoo walk to join Minseok in front of the whiteboard, the classroom door swings open, revealing Doctor Park behind it. “Ah, you must be having fun”, the doctor looks around the classroom, “should I come back later?”. You rush to the door to greet the doctor, since everyone is too busy standing idle. “We were having a little game, doctor—please, come in”, you say. “Thank you, Hanbin-ah”, she shows you a kind smile, “I’ll wait until you guys are done with your games”.

Doctor Park greets the three standing in front of the whiteboard and asks why they’re standing there. “They’re getting punished for failing at the game, doctor”, you explain, and she reminds you to not embarrass anyone during Freshers’ Week. “Certainly not, doctor; we won’t ask anything crazy of them”, you assure her.

You stand next to the three suspects and ask them to introduce themselves and share with the class what they want to achieve in university. Minji says that she wants to go on a student exchange program abroad, which, according to the university’s policies, will allow her to skip doing thesis. Minwoo says that he wants to graduate quickly and work at his parents’ company right after, like a typical nepo baby (his words, not yours). Minseok, on the other hand, “uh, I don’t know exactly yet. I do want to graduate quickly, though”. During all of this, the doctor is looking at them kindly with a smile on her face, the same way she did to you when you were a freshman yourself—it’ll be a very sad day when Doctor Park retires from teaching, that’s for sure.

It is 100% true that time flies when you’re busy or having fun, because the clock shows that it’s almost time for lunch break after what felt like an hour—this also means that Doctor Park had been speaking for nearly 4 hours straight before she left a few minutes ago. Anyway, it’s time for another toilet break before lunch—the food delivery guy(s) should be here soon as well.

As luck would have it, moments after the toilet-goers have left with Jungmin and Sungmin, the lunchboxes arrive. “Yo, yo, yo”, Sunwoo, a logistics guy, greets you while holding two big plastic bags full of lunchboxes in each hand, “help us, Hanbin-ah”. You and Suhyeon help Sunwoo and his friend and take the bags from their hands. The bags are tagged with the group’s numbers, and each lunchbox is labeled accordingly for vegetarians and vegans. You don’t have a vegetarian or a vegan in your group, but Suhyeon has a vegetarian and Jungmin has a vegan in their groups, so you know that they’ll appreciate the attention to detail. “Thanks, guys. See you guys later”, you give each of them a fist bump and send them on their way.

This morning, the logistics guys told you that you must put the empty lunchboxes (and other trash) in the bags they came in and throw them out like that, so with that in mind, you fold the bag and shove it in your back pocket for later use. While you wait for the freshmen to come back from the toilet, you pull out your phone and take a second look at the schedule. “A joint session at the library hall after this—okay, cool”.

Before you know it, your freshmen are back, seemingly refreshed after stretching their legs and emptying their tanks. They sit in two rows again, and you start handing out the lunchboxes to them. “Hand this over to the person next to you, okay?”, you start from Seoyeon, who hands it to Jiwon, who then continues the train until the back of the line.

“Wait”, you stop momentarily, “there’s only one left and there’s two of us”. You look at the other groups and see that everyone, including the leaders, have a lunchbox in their hands. Obviously, you don’t want to keep food from Seoyeon, so you give her the last lunchbox. “What about you, oppa?”, she asks, and you tell her that you’ll be fine. “I’ll live—just eat, Seoyeon-ah”. You will live, yes, but this is still a problem. You hop on the committee’s group chat and tell them that your group is one lunchbox short. “We’ll look into it”, someone from the logistics says, and those words are your tasty and tummy-filling lunch.

After the big, joint session at the library hall, it’s now time for the freshmen to go home. The freshmen don’t really get to go anywhere by themselves, even if it’s time for them to go home. Your group lines up behind you (Seoyeon doesn’t take the spot behind you this time) and you wait with them until you’re allowed to start walking out of the building. There’s a traffic management crew whose job is to make sure no congestion happens, especially in the narrower corridors.

“Let’s gather over there before we go home”, you point at an empty gazebo that’s located in next to library building. You give them your number and make a group chat for them, “here, you can join by scanning this QR”. You hand your phone over to Jiwon, who then scans the code and passes your phone over to the next person. You wait until everyone has taken their turn and take your phone back from Sohee. “That’s everyone, right?”. You look at the group info and see that everyone has joined, “right, you guys can go home now”.

You give those who are leaving a fist bump and tell them that you’ll be seeing them again tomorrow. You fail to notice that among your freshmen, Seoyeon is staying behind with you at the gazebo. “You alright?”, you ask. “Yes, I am”, she replies, “so what now?”. You explain to her that you still need to attend today’s evaluation and basketball practice after that, and on the other hand, she’s free to leave. “You play basketball, oppa?”, she asks. Whether it’s a genuine question or not (considering the height difference between the two of you), you answer genuinely and add to the explanation: “I’m the team’s captain, Seoyeon-ah”. She just nods to you with a flat face, and you guess that she’s not that interested in the subject. “I’m leaving then—bye, oppa!”, she waves at you as she walks away, leaving you alone at the gazebo.

As soon as Seoyeon enters her apartment, she gets a call from her high school best friend, Yeonsu. She also happens to be desperate to go to the toilet, though, so she lets the call go unanswered for now. After her toilet break and change of clothes, she’s now ready to call her friend.

“Hello”

“Hi, hello. Were you looking for me?”

“Yeah, I was—where were you?”

“Well, the campus, obviously. Today was the first day of Freshers’ Week” Yeonsu and Seoyeon were supposed to go to the same university but there were factors that caused them to split up. The best friends then start exchanging stories from their first day as university students—these two never spend a day without knowing what the other person is up to.

“My group leader is named Oh Hanbin”, Seoyeon says, but Yeonsu stays silent, thus confusing Seoyeon, “Yeonsu-yah, are you there?”

“Did you say Oh Hanbin?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Fuck, there’s no way”

Seoyeon doesn’t understand why her friend is reacting like this, so she asks Yeonsu to explain, and the answer she gets is “Oh Hanbin is so fucking famous, Seoyeon-ah”.

“He is? How did you know?”

“Fuck, have you been living under a rock? He’s known for a bunch of things”

“Like what?”

“He’s good at basketball and he’s even better in class—he’s also handsome, but that’s personal preferences”

“Are you serious?”

”Do I sound like I’m lying right now?”

No, she doesn’t—if anything, Yeonsu sounds very enthusiastic right now, as if wishing that it was her that got to meet Oh Hanbin.

“Do you have a crush on this guy, Ryu Yeonsu?”

“Oh, please don’t lie to me, Yoon Seoyeon; there’s no denying how attractive he is”

Seoyeon starts cranking the gears in her head, trying to remember what you, Oh Hanbin, was like: tall guy, well-built, good manners, and just a decent person all-around. “Oh, wait—oh my God!”, Seoyeon exclaims as the memory returns to her, “he gave me his lunch, Yeonsu-yah!”. Seoyeon can picture her friend’s jaw dropping in shock. “No, he didn’t—there’s no fucking way!”, Yeonsu’s disbelief is apparent, “why would he give you his lunch?”. Seoyeon explains to her friend that her group was short by one lunchbox and that you gave her the last one in the bag so that she could have lunch.

As the conversation keeps going, Seoyeon realizes that she’s starting to think that you’re attractive to her, and from that point on, her thoughts start running wild: she imagines what it’d be like to be close to you, what it’d be like to sit on the stands during one of your games, and finally, what it’d be like to have her first time with you. “Fuck, am I even ready for that? Would I even be his first? If he’s as famous as Yeonsu says, then he must’ve had many girlfriends”, Seoyeon thinks to herself, ignoring whatever Yeonsu is telling her. She decides that she needs more time to think about this. “Fuck, Yeonsu-yah, I’m sorry but I really need to go—I’ll call you again soon”, she says, and she ends the call right after.

Seoyeon forces her brain to come up with something to find out more about you. “Can I just search his name on Google or something?”. She opens the browser app on her phone and types in your name, “God, please work; tell me something about him”.

The first search result is your professional network page, which you thankfully keep up to date. “Best graduate out of high school, hm?”, Seoyeon sees the first thing listed under your picture. “Oh my God, Yeonsu was right; Dean’s List with 4.00 GPA last semester!”, she exclaims, her big eyes widen even more thanks to the surprise, “and the captain of the basketball team, too—didn’t make it to the finals last year, though”. Seoyeon doesn’t know what to do with this information, but she’s sure that it’ll be useful very soon. “I should ask him about this tomorrow”.

So here you are, back at the field again after the early briefing. Someone from logistics brought up your misfortune from yesterday and personally apologized to you. You were also told that you won’t get a lunchbox again today and tomorrow, since the catering service just can’t be tasked with adding one more lunchbox, apparently. That said, the committee gives you a solution in the form of reimbursement; you can get whatever and spend however much, and then you just need to give them the receipt and they’ll reimburse you. One more thing to point out is that they said that you’ll be tasked with getting to know the freshmen better and building a good relationship with each of them.

Today you opt for a red shirt and black trousers to complement the brown jacket that the university gave out for Freshers’ Week. You hope that Seoyeon approves of this color combination, because as you realize last night after practice, you’re starting to fall for her, and you sincerely hope that she’ll reciprocate the feelings and not push you away (because that’d be disastrous, wouldn’t it?).

You’re standing at the same spot as yesterday, and while you wait for your freshmen, you get into some conversation with Suhyeon and Jungmin. “Did you actually not have lunch yesterday, oppa?”, Suhyeon asks. “I didn’t. I gave the last one to Seoyeon-ie”, you try to not sound too proud of yourself, “I did get burgers before practice yesterday, though”. Suhyeon loves burgers, and the fact that you didn’t ask her to get some with you is making her slightly irritated. “You owe me burgers, oppa”.

Over Suhyeon’s shoulders, you see Seoyeon walking towards you with a smile on her face. You push Suhyeon to the side to greet the smiling cutie. “Good morning, Seoyeon-ah”, you say with a smile, copying her positivity. “Good morning, oppa. How are we feeling today?”, she says. Hearing her say “we” makes your heart rate jump to the moon, but you quickly compose yourself. “I’m doing very well, Seoyeon-ah. I’m very excited, actually; they said that we’ll be getting to know each other much better today”. She promptly looks away to hide her blush and turns her face towards you again after a few moments. “Th-that’s great to hear, oppa”, she says, “I’ll tell you everything about myself, so I hope you will too”.

You quickly scan her outfit from top to bottom: light blue shirt and brown pants. You step closer towards her so that Suhyeon or Jugmin won’t hear what you’re about to say. “Seoyeon-ah, you look good in these colors”, you praise her sense of fashion. “I-I remember seeing you holding a blue clipboard yesterday, and-and I thought maybe I should wear blue today”, she says. You really want to let out a squeal of excitement right now, but it’s very out-of-character that people might think that it’s cringe.

You and your group sit in a circle in the same classroom as yesterday, and Seoyeon sits right across from your position. “Alright, guys”, you start the conversation, “today is all about us; we can talk about whatever we want”. Seoyeon immediately raises her hand. “Oppa, I heard that you’ve made it to the Dean’s List with 4.00 GPA”, she says, “tell us about it, please”. You didn’t expect her to have that information, and despite feeling a little shy at first, you decide to talk about it anyway because good things should always be celebrated. “That’s true; I’ve made it on the Dean’s List a few times”, you start, “look, I’m sure people have their own ideas as to how long they should be studying for in a week, but because I also have basketball on the side, I only study around 10 to 12 hours a week.”

You think that it’s a small number but based on people’s surprised gasp (it sounds genuine, by the way), you guess that people think that it’s a pretty big number. “You didn’t make it to the finals last year, did you, oppa?”, Seoyeon piles on. “We didn’t, yeah”, you sigh, “we choked during the last few minutes of the semifinal game”. As you think about her chain of questions, it becomes obvious that she most likely looked up your name on the internet, because she wouldn’t have known any of this if she hadn’t—it is flattering, just to be clear.

Before it snowballs into a two-person conversation, you turn your attention to other freshmen and see if maybe they have things to talk about. “How many exes do you have, oppa?”, Sohee asks. You shyly confess that you’ve never dated anyone before, and Sohee seems to be disappointed by your answer. “You’re boring, oppa”, she rolls her eyes playfully. “I am boring, Sohee-yah; all I do is sit in front of my computer and play basketball”, you say with a chuckle.

As you turn your head to face the other members of your group, you briefly catch Seoyeon looking at you with a deep gaze, and you wonder what’s up with that. As much as you’re curious, however, you don’t want to make this all about you and her, since you have other people to pay attention to—hey, someone else is raising their hand.

“Yes?”, you point at Jiwon, who has her hand in the air. “Are you on scholarship, oppa?”, she asks. You reply with a nod, so she continues her question, “what kind?”. You explain to her and the rest of your crew that because you had placed first on the entrance test, you were given a scholarship that covers all your tuition if you can maintain over 3.00 GPA over the course of 4 years maximum. “I’m also eligible for an athletic scholarship, but you must keep being an athlete to get it, if that makes sense—if one day I decide to stop playing basketball for the university, that’s gone. So, for me, it’s safer to stick with the first one”, you add.

Jiwon doesn’t seem to be satisfied yet, “are there other scholarships, oppa? You know, something that a regular student like me can get?”. “Well, yes”, you say, “if you get the best grade in your class and department, your tuition for the next semester becomes 0—obviously it’s hard and there are a lot of competitors, but it’s still possible”. Your answer seems to be a satisfactory one; there are a handful of people who seem to get excited about it.

Lunch time is here, and the logistics guys from yesterday make another appearance today. You and co. take the bags from them and quickly distribute the lunchboxes to your respective groups. Seeing that you’re not getting a lunchbox, Seoyeon points at hers while looking at you, indirectly asking you about it. “I’m okay—just eat”, you mouth to her and end it with a smile, and she slowly opens her lunch and starts eating.

“Oppa, where’s your food?”, Sohee asks, catching on to your situation. You tell her what the logistics guys told you this morning, and you can see that Sohee is contemplating giving you her lunch. You notice that Seoyeon is glaring at Sohee from the side, so you quickly decline Sohee’s offer so that Seoyeon can have some peace of mind. “Just eat, Sohee-yah; I’ll be fine”, you say to her.

You ask Jungmin to keep an eye on your freshmen while you leave to get some food from the cafeteria, which is on the ground floor of the adjacent building.

“Oppa!”, Seoyeon follows you outside, “where are you going?”.

“The cafeteria.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m hungry, and as you can see, I don’t have a lunchbox.”

“Okay, have fun!”

She turns around and walks towards the classroom again, so you continue your way to the cafeteria to get some food for yourself.

You see that Mrs. Jeon’s stall is the only one that’s open, so you quickly head there. “Mrs. Jeon, hello”, you greet her, “can I get one hotdog with mashed potatoes and cheese sauce?”. She asks why you’re getting food at the cafeteria, so you tell the story from this morning one more time, causing her to laugh. “Well, you must be glad that I’m open”, she says. “You have no idea, Mrs. Jeon”, you chuckle, “I’d like to have a bottle of cold water as well, please”.

Mrs. Jeon hands you a hotdog and a bottle of water after around a minute, and along with them, a receipt, which will come in handy later. Before you leave, you eye the fridge in her stall and see some chocolate milk. “One chocolate milk too, please—no need for receipt this time”, you pull out some more cash from your wallet and give it to her. “Thanks, Mrs. Jeon!”, you grab your stuff and rush back to the classroom.

You stop a few meters away from the door of the classroom and pull out your phone to text Seoyeon: “come outside, please”. You see her come out of the classroom, and she immediately finds you. “Yes?”, she asks. You pull out the chocolate milk from your jacket pocket and show it to her. “I have something for you”, you say, “I bought you a small one so that you can finish it quickly”. She covers her red face with one hand as she takes the milk from your hand with the other. “Th-thank you, oppa”. “The-the pleasure is mine, S-Seoyeon-ah—fi-finish it quickly a-and then go back inside, okay?”. You stutter—you’ve never felt something like this before—is this love?

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question. You don’t have the time or capacity to think about it right now, as you still have plenty of matters to attend to. Maybe the silence of the night can help you focus, though.

You’ve sent your freshmen on their way home almost half an hour ago, so there are only group leaders and committee members on campus right now.

“Let’s start the evaluations, ladies and gents”, Doctor Park is taking the point today, “is there anything you want to tell me first?”. A guy from security raises his hand and tells the crowd that he found someone smoking in one of the toilets on the Faculty of Law building. He then proceeds to provide the doctor with the wrongdoer’s information—he also shows her some pictures he has taken from the scene. “Unfortunate”, the doctor sighs, “next, please”.

No one else raises their hand, so Doctor Park takes her turn to speak. She explains that the Student Organization Expo will be held tomorrow, and the freshmen will be given freedom to run around the expo area and visit as many booths as they want until lunch time. After lunch, they’ll be able to choose what organization they want to join and send an application using a form that the group leaders will provide them with. “We won’t have a morning briefing tomorrow, so your check-in time for tomorrow is moved to 5 am with a 10-minute lateness toleration. Any questions?”, she scans the room and finds no raised hand, “you may go, then. See you tomorrow, everyone”

You don’t have practice today, so the only option you have right now is to go home and rest. You walk towards the campus bus stop to wait for the bus that will take you to the off-campus parking lot. You see a girl in blue sitting on the bench at the bus stop, and you wonder who it is. You slam your heels harder while you walk to make your footsteps louder, announcing your presence so that the girl doesn’t get startled.

The girl turns her head to face you, and you’re shocked to see who it is. “Yoon Seoyeon?”, you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, “what are you doing here?”. “Hi, oppa”, she shows you a cute smile, “I’ve been waiting for you, actually”. You almost can’t believe your ears, “you were waiting for me, sweetie?”. Seoyeon’s big eyes get even bigger when she hears the endearment, and inside, she wonders if it was a slip. “I-I wanted to talk some more with you, s-so I waited for you, oppa”, she looks away to hide her blush, “c-can we talk, oppa?”. “We can, Seoyeon-ah”. You point at the burger shop across the street and ask her to join you for dinner.

You muster up the courage to hold her hand as you get ready to cross the street with her. You wait until this gray car passes before crossing the street half-running with Seoyeon. “Oh, what am I doing”, you stop for a second and take off your jacket, “sorry, you must be cold”. You wrap your jacket around her body to shield her from the cold night air—the way she’s looking away from you makes you wonder if you’ve crossed the line, but at least she hasn’t slapped you for it.

You walk into the restaurant with her, and you see your favorite guy, Jeno, attending the cashier. He waves at you when he sees you walking in, being friendly as ever. “Hey, can I get one Double OG with no tomato and some nacho fries?”. You feel Seoyeon snaking her arm around yours, and you’re reminded that you’re not alone. “What do you want to eat, Seoyeon-ah?”, you ask. “I-I don’t know, but I’d like to have a burger and some fries too, oppa—if it’s okay with you, that is”, she shyly replies. “Of course it’s okay”, you scan the menu board and choose something for her, “uh, can I also have a Black Montana and some fries with marinara sauce?”. Jeno recaps your orders, and after confirming it, he hands you two large cups for the drinks.

After filling the cups with your preferred drinks—cold water for you, and diet coke for Seoyeon—you walk with her to find a table. “You want to sit there?”, you point at an empty table next to the big window. She agrees to your suggestion, so you walk towards that table together. You pull a seat for her before sitting down yourself, earning a soft “thank you” from her. You sit across from her and set your backpack on the empty chair next to you. “So, what did you want to talk about?”, you try to start the conversation. Instead of answering you, Seoyeon stays silent and looks down at the table. You don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, so you opt to keep it for later—maybe food will help her open up.

Food comes out of the kitchen and arrives at your table after around 10 minutes, which you spent by sitting in silence. You give Seoyeon her food and without cue, she immediately takes a piece of fry, dips it in marinara, and puts it in her mouth. She then chases it with a bite of her burger. You sit still and look at the way her plump cheeks move as she chews her food—someone can get full just by looking at Seoyeon eat. “Wh-what are you looking at, oppa?”, she covers her mouth with one hand, “p-please don’t look at me like that”. With a smile, you turn your attention to your food and start eating with her. You unwrap your burger, make sure there is no tomato in it, and take a bite. “Mm!”, you exclaim, “that’s really good”. You see that Seoyeon has started eating again. “You like it?”, you ask. Since her mouth is full, she replies to you with excited nods and a small smile.

Seoyeon has now finished her burger, and her fries are almost done. “Seoyeon-ah, I will ask again: what was it you wanted to talk about?”, you ask. She knows that she has nowhere else to run now. “I-I like you, oppa”, she drops a bomb while looking straight into your eyes, “there—that’s what I wanted to talk about”. Your jaw drops in shock, making you unable to say anything back momentarily. “I’m sorry, but can you say that again?”, you hope that she won’t say something else. “I said I like you, oppa”, she repeats, and you’re glad that she said the same thing. “D-do you feel the same, b-by any chance?”, she maintains eye contact with you despite the red cheeks. Yes, yes, you do, but for some reason, you find it very difficult to say it—until you see tears pooling in her eyes. “Seo-Seoyeon-ah—y-yes, I do like you”, you confess, “I like you a lot”. Satisfied with your answer, Seoyeon gets up from her seat, sits on the chair next to you (after putting your backpack on the floor), and hugs you from the side.

It feels like a massive weight has been lifted off your chest, and you feel like you’re able to breathe far more freely now. You wrap your arms around her body as best you can and close your eyes to bask in the moment. Soon, however, you’re startled by her subtle sobs. “Hey, hey, you okay, sweetie?”, you start panicking a little, “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?”. “I was so scared that you would push me away—you’d never push me away, would you?”, she asks, her voice trembling from the emotions. Judging by how Seoyeon is sobbing in your arms, thus showing her vulnerability in front of you, assures you that she’s being very honest and sincere. You peck her head a few times, hoping that she knows how sincere you are, “please don’t cry, sweetie; I’m here for you”. “You are”, she replies, “you are here for me”.

You run your hand gently on her back as you try to calm her down. It seems to be helpful; Seoyeon stops sobbing after a few minutes—she’s about to drop another bomb, though. “Oppa”, she pokes your thigh to get your attention, “can we go to your place?”. You silently praise your parents for planting in you the habit of cleanliness, which means that your apartment is almost always presentable should you have guests. “We can, sweetie—let’s go now, okay?”. You exchange some pleasantries with Jeno while you’re standing at the cashier. He even asks Seoyeon if she liked it, to which she responds with excitement. “Alright, thank you, man—see you next time”, you wave at him as you walk out of the restaurant with Seoyeon, your new… erm… girlfriend? Are we on girlfriend-boyfriend stage now? That’s a question for later.

After a quick drive, you find yourself and Seoyeon standing in the parking lot. “Sweetie, can I carry you? I’ve always wanted to try carrying a girl”, you ask, your cheeks getting hot. “S-sure, oppa”. She opens her arms, thinking that you’ll carry her from the front while in actuality, you want to carry her bridal-style. “Oh my God, oppa!”, she exclaims while hiding her red cheeks behind her palms. You carry the 50-something kilogram bundle of joy and walk towards your apartment. On the way, you feel her loosening up and enjoying the ride, and you swear that you can hear purrs coming from her. You hope that no neighbor sees you like this, because you imagine that it’d be quite awkward—not that you’re concerned about what they think, but still.

You punch in the passcode to your apartment without putting Seoyeon down, and here you are, in your haven. “We’re here, sweetie”, you say to her as you walk towards the sofa with her still in your arms. You carefully put her down onto the sofa and extend it so that she can lie comfortably on it. “Would you like some water, sweetie?”, you ask, and she replies with a nod. You walk towards the water dispenser and fill a cup with water and go back to her. You help her straighten her posture before handing her the cup. You’re confused when you see that instead of drinking out of the cup, she holds it with both hands and just silently looks at it.

“You okay?”

“I like you, oppa”

“Yes, sweetie; I like you too”

“What made you like me, oppa?”

You take a deep breath as you try to form an answer.

“I just feel so drawn to you; you’re just so charming, elegant, friendly, and—“, you realize that these words sound ridiculous coming from you, and your brain halts you by making your cheeks turn red. “Anything else, oppa?”, she challenges you, letting out a giggle after.

You hover over her body—making her bite her lip nervously—and come in for a kiss, eager to show her that you love her. You pull away from the kiss after a few seconds and look at her in the eyes. “I love you, Yoon Seoyeon—I love you with my entire being”, you say, feeling emotional, “will you be mine, baby?”. Seoyeon puts a palm on your cheek and rubs it gently. “Yes, oppa; I’m yours and you’re mine”, she returns your words with a loving smile on her face.

You lie down next to her and pull her into your arms, transferring the warmth of your bodies back and forth between the two of you. “Baby”, you get her attention, “is there anything you want to do?”. She moves to sit on your lap and leans forward, her face hovering closely over yours, “I want to have our first time”. That’s one more big bomb she dropped on your head, and you seem to be unable to speak. “You said you’ve never dated anyone before, so you must be a virgin. I’ll give you my first time and take yours in return”, she adds, “you weren’t lying about it, were you?”. You shake your head in response, still speechless. “Great”, she says, “let’s do it, oppa—please”. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to regret it after”, you try to gauge how serious she is. She leans forward even further until her nose touches hers. “I want it, oppa”, her voice sounds very sexy right now, “make me yours, and I’ll make you mine—we will stay together forever, oppa”.

You knew from the first day that she’s a very confident person, but you never expected that she’d be this confident about having her first time with you, someone who she met just yesterday. “It’d be a huge honor for me, baby, but I’m asking one more time: are you sure?”, you ask, despite your paper-thin patience and rock-hard penis. “I am very sure”, she doesn’t waver, “c’mon, oppa; let’s do it”. Even if you were single and have never dated anyone before, you know that you shouldn’t do something to a girl without her consent, and this is as clear of a consent as it gets, so there’s no reason for you to hesitate now. “Let’s move to the bedroom first, baby”.

You gently lower her onto the bed, smiling the whole time so that Seoyeon feels comfortable with you. After she’s lying comfortably in bed, however, her eyes start wandering away from yours, probably because she’s nervous. “Baby”, you hold her chin gently and turn her face towards you, “I love you—I love you lots”. Your words seem to be just what she wants to hear right now. “I love you too, oppa”, she reaches for your hands and pulls you towards her, “thank you for everything so far”. You’re not sure if you’ve done anything to warrant such an expression of gratitude, but you’ll take it and send it back to her. “I know that we just met, but I have a feeling—certain, even—that I’ll have plenty of reasons to be thankful for you, baby”, you make sure that you sound sincere because you are indeed sincere. “I think I’ve chosen well”, she says, “you’re as sweet as I hoped”.

Warmth. Warmth is the theme tonight. Warmth is what you’re feeling right now. Warmth is what this relationship will have plenty of. Speaking of warmth, being in a girl’s arms is very warm—you never knew that before. You rub your cheek against hers like a cat, the friction creating more warmth for the two of you. “Oppa”, she chuckles, finding it funny, “what are you doing? Are you a cat?”. “No, but I think I understand why cats do this”, you let out a chuckle as well, “I love you, baby”. You don’t know how many times you’ve said it, but it’s not something that hurts or tires Seoyeon, so you’d like to think that it’s fine to spam her with it.

“Show me, then”, she challenges you, “show me your love, oppa”. “Of course, baby; as you wish”, you accept her challenge. You jump off the bed and start undressing, showing Seoyeon the curves of your muscles. “My God”, she exclaims, “are you sure you’re playing the right sports, oppa?”. “I mean, basketball can get pretty physical, and for that, you need muscles”, you say, proud of your physique. She follows you off the bed and stands closely in front of you. “Fuck, I wonder what Yeonsu would think if she saw us like this”, she utters while her hands roam on your body. “Yeonsu? Who is that?”, you’re unfamiliar with the name. “My friend from high school”, she says, her eyes still locked on your torso, “she told me about you”. You’re perplexed, “how did she know about me?”. “No idea; she just said that you’re pretty famous”, she says. “I’m famous? Really?”, you think.

Seoyeon asks for your attention by tapping you in the chest. She then offers you the chance to undress her, which you’re delighted to do so. She puts her arms on either side of her body and closes her eyes as you start unbuttoning her blouse. You notice that her breathing gets faster, a clear sign that she’s very nervous. You stop what you’re doing and place your hands on her waist, hoping that doing so will make her feel more comfortable and familiar to your touch. You say nothing as you wait for her to calm down, and it doesn’t take long. “Continue, oppa”, she says, “I-I’m sorry”. You assure her that there’s nothing to be sorry for; it’s totally normal to be nervous when doing something for the first time.

After all her buttons are undone, you free her arms from the sleeves and let her blouse fall onto the floor. As a reflex, Seoyeon covers her bra-covered tits with her hands, blushing as she does. Again, you wait in silence until she tells you what she wants you to do next. “I’m sorry—oh, God, I’m so sorry”, she shakes her head to regain focus, “y-you can take off my pants, oppa”. “Please, there’s nothing to be sorry for, baby—I understand that you’re nervous”, you put on a calm smile to support your statement. Seoyeon slowly removes her hands from her chest and unbuttons her pants for you, she then asks you to finish the job.

Well, there she is: standing shyly in front of you with little covering her body. She’s using one hand to cover her breasts while the other is covering her crotch. She can feel herself drowning in a sea of thoughts, nervous about all kinds of things. “What will happen after tonight? What if he leaves me after taking my first time? What if—“, her restless mind stops when she hears your calm voice. “Baby, listen, please”, you throw her a lifebuoy, “I understand that you’re nervous about all of this—I do, seriously—we don’t have to do this now if you don’t feel like it”.

“Can I ask something first, oppa?”

“Of course, baby”

“W-what do you think will happen tomorrow?"

“Tomorrow? Well, the Student Organization Expo will happen tomorrow”, you crack a little joke. Seoyeon’s stressed face loosens up after hearing your joke, seemingly more comfortable with the situation. “Aaaah, I’m serious, oppaaaa”, she whines.

You get on one knee in front of her and place a hand on her knee. “What will happen tomorrow, baby, is that I will start loving you, and you will start loving me”, you start, your tone calm but serious, “after that, we will spend a lot of time with each other. We will laugh sometimes and cry some other times, but that’s fine; we’ll face everything together”.

“Together, oppa?”

“Together, baby. You and me against the world—well, not exactly; the world doesn’t hate us, does it?”

She seems to be satisfied with your answer, proven by how she moves her hands off her body and places them on your nape. “Together, oppa”, she says, “we will stay together for a long, long time”. “Yes, we will, baby”. You stand up and pull her into a kiss, one that screams out “I love you”.

You were so deep into the kiss that you failed to notice that Seoyeon had tumbled backwards, thus pulling you back into the bed with her. She breaks the kiss and whispers to you that she’s ready. She guides your hands towards the waistband of her panties, “make me yours, oppa”. You nod without saying a word and start pulling her panties down her legs and past her ankles. “Respectfully, baby, I think you’re sexy”, you don’t bother stifling your tongue anymore. “Th-thank you, oppa—I-I think you look good too”, she returns the praise to you, and truthfully, it makes you feel really good about yourself.

While you take off your boxers, Seoyeon takes off her bra, and now, you’re both completely naked, showing everything to each other. It is when you hover over her that she hesitates again. “I’m scared, oppa”, her voice shakes, “y-you will hurt me, won’t you?”. “I’ll be gentle, baby—I promise”, you try to comfort her.

You spread her legs wide enough for you to be in the middle of, ready to take her innocence and give her yours in return. She wraps her legs around your torso and locks her ankles together in response. You use one hand to guide your cock towards her entrance, and despite the lack of experience, you manage to find it somewhat easily. “Baby, I’m going to start”, you announce, “if you want to change your mind, this is your chance”. “No, I want it—give it to me, oppa”.

You move your hips forwards and Seoyeon instantly gasps at the first contact. “Gently, gently”, she reminds you. “Of course, baby”. You wrap your arms around her body and hold her close to you as your cock tries to enter her pussy. You hear Seoyeon’s breathing get faster again, so you whisper to her in a calm voice that everything will be okay. You keep going forwards until you feel the tip of your cock breaching through her barrier; you’ve taken her innocence and made her yours.

You want to savor the foreign sensation, but Seoyeon starts sobbing and grunting in pain. “It hurts, oppa”, she whimpers, “please, be gentle with me—please, please—AHHH!”. You think that if you move again, you will hurt her even more, so you stop for now. “I’m not moving, baby—let’s calm down for now, okay?”, you say to her. She keeps whimpering and grunting in your ears, tugging at the strings of your heart. “I’m so sorry, baby”, you start feeling emotional yourself, “do you want to stop?”. “J-just give me a moment, oppa”, says the girl in discomfort.

You’ve been in this position for a few minutes, waiting patiently for Seoyeon to get used to the foreign object in her body. “Oppa”, she says weakly, “I-I think you can go again”. “Sure, baby”, you say. You slowly retreat from her pussy before going forwards again, earning a combination of moans and grunts from her. You ask if she’s still in pain, and she tells you that it’s not too bad. “You’re doing so well, baby”, you praise her, “I love you so, so much”. “I love—oh, God, so deep”, the way your cock hits the deepest spots surprises her, “please, gently, oppa”. You’ve been as gentle as you can be so far, but no matter how slow it feels, you hold on to your patience.

As you slowly move back and forth in her pussy, you notice that the grunts are getting replaced with moans, which means that it’s now enjoyable for her. “Feeling better, baby?”, you ask to make sure. “Yes-yes—oh, God, yes”, she replies, “how are you so big, oppa?”. “I don’t know, baby; just genes, probably”, you chuckle to lighten the mood, “do you think I can go faster?”. “Just-just nothing too rough, please”, she begs. You assure her that you will be mindful with your pace and start thrusting into her faster than earlier.

The moans that she’s sending right into your ears are very arousing, and you subconsciously start fucking her faster, as you’re eager to hear more of it. “So good, oppa—fuck, you’re so good”, she praises you. You’re glad to hear that she’s no longer in pain and has gotten used to you. “You’re also so good, baby; you’re so fucking tight for me”, you send the praises back to her.

You place her wrists on the bed and press down on them with your hands, assuming a very dominant position. “You’re so good, baby”, you manage to send one more praise her way despite the heavy breaths, “I love you so much”. “Ah, ah, ah—I l-love you too, oppa”, she replies, “kiss me, please—ngh, fuck”. You plant your lips on hers and pick up the pace of your thrusts, eager to get your first ever orgasm in your life.

You chant profanities as you try to maintain the tempo, Seoyeon’s tightness proving to be challenging for you. “Oppa, wait”, she halts you, “I-I want to pee—w-why do I want to pee, oppa?”. Truthfully, you have no idea; you’re as inexperienced as she is. “You’ll be fine, baby”, you try to dismiss her, and she takes your word for it. “I’m peeing, I’m peeing!”, she plants her hands on your chest and tries to push you away from her but she’s simply too weak. You pull out from her pussy and see that her juice is gushing out of her bloodstained pussy—not only that, her legs and thighs are shaking. Seoyeon screams and squirms around in bed; “this must be her orgasm”, you think as you observe her.

“Oppa! Oppa!”, she reaches her arms out, desperate to touch your body, “please, please, hold me”. You hold her tightly in your arms and you can hear the soft, angelic moans that escape her lips, arousing you even further. You whisper “I love you” in her ears repeatedly as you wait for her to come back to her senses. “I love you too, oppa”, she returns your words to you, “what was that, though?”.

“I think that was your orgasm, baby”

“Orgasm, oppa? Really?”

“I think so, yeah”

“And it was because of you?”

“Yes, I’d like to think so”

“That was amazing, oppa”

“I’m glad that it was, baby”

Her breathing returns to its normal pace after a few minutes of hugging, and she tells you that she’s ready to go again. “Give me your orgasm, oppa”, she demands, “I know how it works for men, so I want you to send it deep inside me”. “Sure, but we’ll take the morning after pill after that, alright?”, you remind her. “Sure”, she says, “I don’t want to get pregnant yet”.

Without cleaning the bloodstain on your shaft, you plunge back into her pussy. “Oh, yes, oppa”, she moans, “yes, yes, I’m yours”. Your lips crash into hers as you fuck her at a good tempo, looking for the first orgasm of your life. “Fuck, I don’t think I can last too long”. “That’s okay, oppa—ohh, yes, it’s okay”, Seoyeon struggles to speak, “gi-give me everything you have”. “Y-you got it—oh, fuck”. You plant your hands firmly into the bed and fuck her as fast you can, and before long, you feel your cock throbbing (or is it her that’s throbbing). “I think—“, your words are cut off when your cock blows a load deep inside Seoyeon, earning a long moan from her.

The vibrations from your smartwatch cause you to stir awake—it must be 4 am now. You lift your wrist and see that it is indeed 4 am, the time you’ve been waking up at for the past few days of Freshers’ Week. As you try to lift your body off the bed, you feel something weighing down on the left side of your body. “Oh, right, Seoyeon-ie”. That’s right; that’s Yoon Seoyeon, your new girlfriend who you had your first time with a few hours ago.

“Love, wake up, please”, you poke her cheeks repeatedly to get her to wake up. “What?”, she mumbles, half awake. “Babe, I’ll take you home so you can shower and get ready for today, okay?”. “Yeah, sure”, she says. You open the water bottle that Seoyeon drank from earlier and coat your thumb with some water. You then run your thumb gently on her eyes, “this is how I wake up sometimes, baby”. “Mm, sure”, she says.

After getting dressed, you carry her to your car and start driving away. First, you make a stop at a pharmacy and buy some morning after pills and condoms for future use. “Babe, take this, please”, you hand her a pill and a bottle of water to take it with. Seoyeon weakly reaches for the pill, puts it in her mouth, and chases it with some water. “Done”, she says. You pet her head gently, “good girl, baby—alright, let’s get you home, okay?”

Well, here you are again, in the football field for the third day of Freshers’ Week. Your eyelids feel very heavy, and you’re very tempted to just let them close. You were drifting to sleep when you heard a girl’s voice calling to you. “Good morning, oppa”, Seoyeon greets you excitedly, “how are you today?”. “I’m—“, a yawn cuts you off, “I’m feeling great, lo—erm, Seoyeon-ah. How about you?”. “I’m a bit tired, but I had a great time yesterday”, she smirks. “Did you?”, you chuckle, “well, that’s great to hear, Seoyeon-ah”. She gets on her tippy toes, and you lean forwards a bit to hear her whispers. “I love you, oppa”, she whispers, “thank you for last night”. “I love you too, baby”, you whisper back, “I’ll see you at home after this, okay?”. You glance to your left and right to see if Suhyeon and Jungmin heard you, but they were too busy looking at their phones. When you look at Seoyeon again, she winks and smiles at you, so you wink and smile at her in return. “I love you, baby”, you mouth to her, causing her to look away to hide her blush.

#girl group smut #kpop smut #triples smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #male reader #male reader smut #smut

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nausicaaandhermouth · 5 months ago

Text

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

��As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

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