#and then convinced my professor to like it enough to show it in class

[okaylikeschaewon]

Chairs

~5k words, Roommates series

Finding an empty room to study in really shouldn’t be very difficult in a university of all places, yet here you were, roaming the hallways like a buffoon trying to find an alternative to the usual lounges you had been frequenting for the first few weeks of the semester.

In an attempt to avoid interrupting another class again, sparing yourself from the embarrassment, you carefully placed your ear against a door and tried to listen for anyone inside - this would be a lot easier if the stupid little windows above the handles weren’t covered up. After giving it a few seconds and hearing nothing, you decided to try your luck.

Slowly, you opened the door and took a peek inside. Turns out it was an office, and seemingly one for a newer professor, or one who simply didn’t care to decorate, based on the lack of vanity items on the barren shelf. One detail, however, did stand out to you; Realistically you should have just left at this point, but that Herman Miller was whispering sweet nothings in your ear - you had to try it, just for a second.

After closing the door behind you and placing your bag down, you walked around the modest little desk to get a better look at the chair. It was pristine. In a room devoid of most expression, you still felt a gorgeous rush of euphoria as you took a seat. It was truly shocking how a luxurious office chair made such a difference in the entire atmosphere of the room.

No longer did you feel like you were in some bland, secondary thought of a room. You had lucked out, this was exactly the type of room you were looking for when you set out to find a quieter alternative to your usual spots. Then, your luck seemingly got even better when you noticed a little calendar on the desk in front of you. 

Not that you were trying to snoop or invade anyone’s private space, but you noticed whoever used this room had nothing scheduled for the day, and a bit of basic deduction skills led you to believe this was his day off - luckily the room was unlocked. Seemingly he was a philosophy professor who also taught communications?

Still, you should probably have left at this point. Yet… for some odd reason you were convincing yourself to do something that you shouldn’t. Was there really much harm in using an empty office to study? It’s not like you’d be making a mess or anything, and you’d be careful to not break anything. Surely no one would mind, it would only be for a couple of hours before your next class anyway.

That’s when you heard a knock.

Your heart skipped a beat. Immediately your mind began racing to think of an excuse, some reason you were in here. Wait, if it was the professor, why would he be knocking? Wouldn’t he just come in? Presumably if you didn’t respond, they would just leave, right? That made enough sense in your head to calm you down, but just as your heart rate began to slow, the door opened.

“Hello sir!”

“H-Hello,” you stammered as one of the most adorable girls you’ve ever seen walked into the room, closing the door behind her.

“I was going to send an email, but I figured I’d try your office first,” she continued nervously. “It’s about the last assignment.”

God she was cute. At this point you were supposed to tell her that she had the wrong person, but you just sat there like an idiot and listened.

“Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Yuna, I’m in your intro to philosophy class,” she stammered while fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “I know you probably won’t recognize me, and I promise I’ll start showing up to class.”

“Showing up?” you mumbled under your breath, trying to make sense of what was going on.

“I promise I have a good reason,” she added before locking the door behind her - a detail you barely picked up on - and dropping her bag. She walked over to you, right past the desk, until she was right in front of you. “If I had known how cute you were, I never would have skipped in the first place.”

Cute? If this girl thought you were her professor, this was quickly becoming incredibly inappropriate. Yet, your dumbass was still just sitting there and letting it happen. Was this wrong? Probably. But you were stunned in a sense, almost like you were being forced to play the role.

“So, how can I help you?” you asked while trying to keep your eyes away from her body, a difficult task considering how little she attempted to hide her figure with that tight button up she wore.

“It’s less about what I want,” she replied before crouching down in front of you. “And more about what you want.”

“Holy shit,” you mumbled as your eyes inadvertently landed on the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt.

“Professor, I really need some help,” she whispered as she leaned forward. “I’m glad you’re willing to work with me, I was worried at first.”

“Yuna, wait,” you replied sternly, bringing your own hands to your crotch as she placed hers on your thighs. This was straight out of a poorly written porno and had to stop. “There’s a misunderstanding.”

“I can tell you won’t get me in trouble, right professor?” she ignored you entirely. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”

“What? No that’s not- I mean yes you’re very pretty but that’s not what-”

“Do you want me?”

“Yuna, please listen-”

“If you don’t,” she whispered, slowly moving your hands away. “Then just tell me to stop.”

“I can’t give you what you’re asking for because I’m not-”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” she interrupted you with a smile. “I’m just doing you a small favor, and then after you can decide what you want to give me.”

Fuck’s sake why was she so hot, it was hard to think straight.

“That’s right,” Yuna continued with a whisper as she began unbuckling your belt. She reached her soft fingers into your underwear and pulled out your cock, gripping the shaft gently. “You get to decide exactly what you want to give me, and I mean it when I say anything.”

“Yuna, I…” you moaned softly as she placed your tip into her mouth and began swirling her tongue against your hole. “Fuck.”

“That’s better,” Yuna smiled brightly up at you while pulling your pants down to your ankles. “This is just some no-strings attached fun, right professor?”

She leaned forward some more and began sucking on your balls while the hand she had around your shaft tightened its grip. With both balls in her mouth, pressing them around with her tongue, she began stroking your shaft gently.

“Oh professor, I didn’t know you were so fucking big,” she moaned after releasing your balls with a little pop.

“Maybe because you’ve never attended class,” you replied for some unknown reason, as if you were actually her professor. It just felt like the right thing to say. No, it was dumb, you should stop her. This was all wildly inappropriate and would probably get you expelled. Or was it? You never even said anything, she’s the one who initiated. It was all just happening so fucking fast, your brain couldn’t make sense of the situation.

“I’m so sorry professor, I’ll make it up to you I promise.”

With that, she lifted herself up until she was right above your cock and opened her mouth wide. In a single movement, she lowered herself all the way down your cock until you felt your tip prodding the back of her throat.

Fuck.

Yeah, there was no stopping, not when Yuna started bobbing up and down your cock. She moved fast, throating your entire length each time, finally pausing just long enough to gasp for air and smile up at you, using her soft fingers to coat your cock in her saliva.

“I promise I’ll keep coming, professor, you can see as much of me as…” her voice trailed off and she engulfed your cock once more, all the way down to the balls before holding. She pushed as far as possible, her nose pressing against your skin and her chin up against your balls. Then, as quickly as she went down, she came back up gasping once more. “... as you want.”

“Yuna, this is wrong…”

“Then don’t tell anyone,” she shrugged, leaning back and slowly unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, revealing a bright pink bra. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave and we can pretend this never happened. Is that what you want?”

“I…” you hesitated, considering the options, but Yuna wasn’t as patient as you.

“That’s what I thought,” she smirked, opening up her shirt enough to put her soft cleavage on full display. “Now how about you stop thinking so hard and just relax. You don’t owe me anything for this, I’m just doing you a little favor out of the goodness of my heart.”

That was a fucking lie. You’d have to figure out a way to explain that you weren’t her professor - a problem that was definitely for later as Yuna leaned forward again on all fours and began licking up your shaft slowly. She would press her lips on your balls before sticking out her tongue and sliding it all the way up to your tip before wrapping her lips around it.

“You must be so tired, grading all those papers,” Yuna purred, bringing her hands up to your balls and fondling them while kissing on your tip repeatedly. “Just close your eyes and relax, this can be our little secret.”

Fine, you’d play along. You placed one hand on the top of her head before closing your eyes, letting her bob up and down your cock to her heart’s desire. It felt phenomenal, there was no denying it, she was experienced for sure. For the next few minutes, nothing but quiet slurps filled the small office as Yuna worked your cock expertly, sliding her tongue around and around, pressing down hard with her lips.

“Can you cum for me, professor?” she moaned, grabbing your shaft with her hand and stroking as fast as she could. “Please? In my mouth? I’ll be a good girl and swallow it all.”

“Oh my God,” you moaned softly, opening your eyes and looking through the blurriness to see Yuna with one hand playing with her tits while the other jerked you off.

She stuck her tongue out, licking your tip from time to time, hand still moving just as fast. Her half-lidded eyes staring up at you, begging for your release. It was working. You could feel the pressure building up more and more, you knew you were about to blow any second now.

“Please professor,” she cried out. “Cum for me.”

“I’m…” you grunted softly under your breath, shutting your eyes tight in anticipation, tightening your grip on her hair.

Then, in a flash, before you even felt it, your eyes shot open as the first streak of cum launched directly against Yuna’s lips. Like the expert she was, Yuna quickly opened her mouth and caught the next few spurts in her throat as she kept jerking the lower half of your cock while coaxing out your cum with her tongue.

“Good fucking girl,” you moaned, bringing your other hand to the back of her head and pressing down.

She barely gave any resistance as you pushed your cock all the way into her throat, unloading whatever was left as deep as you could. Even balls deep down your cock, she was still working her tongue, her lack of a gag reflex putting in work. As her face began turning a tinge blue, you let go of the back of her head.

Despite the resistance disappearing, she didn’t immediately pull back. Instead, Yuna made a tight seal with her lips and slowly inched her way up your cock, making sure not to leave a single drop of cum on your shaft. Once at the tip, she paused, looking up at you and swallowing whatever she had in her mouth before sucking your tip desperately trying to get more of your cum out of you.

“That’s all I got, sweetheart,” you gasped as the sensitivity began to hit.

Yuna finally let go of your cock and looked up at you with the brightest smile this world has ever known.

“Thank you professor!”

“Yuna,” you sighed as she stood back up and began sifting through her bag while you quickly pulled your pants back up. “I’m not your professor.”

The girl froze in her tracks, holding her laptop in her arms.

“What?”

“I tried telling you earlier, but you weren’t listening.”

“Who are you?” Yuna asked anxiously, covering her chest up.

“I’m a student,” you answered, diverting your gaze in an attempt to avoid making her uncomfortable.

“What the fuck are you doing in his office? And why… shit.”

“I’m really sorry, you just weren’t listening, I tried-”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Yuna shook her head and put her laptop down on the desk. “Can you at least help me?”

“W-What?” you stammered, trying not to stare at her tits.

“What the fuck do you have to be shy about,” Yuna rolled her eyes, immediately noticing your discomfort. “Here,” she added before lifting up her bra and flashing her bare tits at you, bouncing up and down a couple of times. “You already nutted in my mouth, I really don’t give a fuck if you see my tits. Now can you help me or what?”

“With what? Your assignment?”

“Exactly,” she answered before pulling down her bra and opening up her laptop. “This shit’s due tomorrow, I was hoping I could get out of it.”

Yuna turned the laptop to show you the assignment. Based on a quick skim of the rubric, it was simple enough - to be expected from an intro course.

“This doesn’t look too difficult,” you commented, scrolling through the meager attempt at a start. “Yeah, I can help.”

“Perfect,” Yuna smiled, suddenly taking a seat on your lap. “It’s due at midnight, I’ll get you whatever you need.”

“I don’t need anything,” you chuckled softly when a notification popped up on the screen. “Holy fuck who is that?”

“My roomie, you like?” Yuna giggled, leaning forward to reply to the message.

“She’s fucking gorgeous,” you commented in awe as you stared at her display picture. “Yeji… God damn, those eyes… and that body…”

“Alright enough,” Yuna snapped and began standing up, her jealousy showing.

“Hey,” you quickly pulled her back down by her hips. “You’re more gorgeous,” you lied.

“It’s whatever, I get it,” she sighed, rubbing her ass against your body. “I’d also fuck her if I could. Anyway, you sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m good, really.”

“Nothing at all? No extra motivation?” Yuna asked, grabbing your wrist and placing it on her perfect handful of a chest.

“No,” you gave her tit a quick squeeze before letting go. “I won’t be able to type very fast with just one hand.”

“I can suck your cock again, if you want,” she added as she started grinding her hips back and forth.

“Yuna,” you grabbed her ass with both hands and held her still. “If you want me to do this, just sit tight and relax.”

“Fine,” she leaned back against your chest, her floral shampoo hitting your nose. “Just let me know if you need anything then.”

“Will do,” you muttered as you began typing away.

Truthfully, it would have been much easier without her sitting on your lap, but you figured that was a sacrifice you were willing to make. The next hour or so went by in relative silence as you typed away while Yuna watched diligently, making sure not to distract you beyond the gentle press of her body against yours.

That was until she fell asleep between your arms. She really was incredibly adorable, and for the first time since your breakup, you almost felt like you were in a relationship again. Very carefully, you picked her up and placed her on the small armchair next to the mostly vacant bookshelf. She was breathing deeply, her chest bouncing up and down with each one.

Without even realizing it, you were smiling. You reached forward and carefully did a couple of the buttons of her shirt to cover her up before returning to the Miller. Unknown to you at the time, she had woken up and noticed, but you were too focused on finishing the assignment for her, you were almost done anyway.

Another hour or so passed while you were completely focused, typing away diligently. Maybe it was stupid, considering it wasn’t even your assignment, but you were becoming quite proud of your work. You didn’t even care that you missed your class and that the sun had started setting outside, you had adopted this assignment as if it was your own.

“Done,” you muttered under your breath, leaning back in the chair and stretching your arms towards the roof.

“Your typing skills are truly incredible, you finished so quickly,” Yuna commented softly, making you jolt slightly as you forgot she was even there. “I wonder what else those fingers can do.”

“Thank you, but it’s really nothing,” you replied modestly, ignoring her last comment. “I’ve taken this course before, or something similar at least.”

“I never would have been able to finish this in time without you, there’s no way,” Yuna began leaning against the desk, facing you. “I really owe you for this.”

“No, you already kinda-”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Her words stung more than she intended as the memories of your ex came back. Not that it was her fault, obviously, but it still hurt.

“No,” you replied bluntly, unintentionally letting some emotion out.

“That’s surprising,” Yuna mumbled a bit shyly, perhaps picking up on your tone.

“What about you? Boyfriend?”

“Definitely not,” she laughed softly, almost as if to hide some pain behind her own voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously,” you chuckled. “I think we’re well past that stage.”

“Why’d you…” she trailed off slowly, her finger toying with the buttons on her shirt.

“You fell asleep,” you shrugged, leaning back in the chair. “Felt like it was the gentleman-y thing to do.”

“Right, because my behavior definitely deserves gentleman treatment.”

“I didn’t really look at it that way,” you replied cautiously. “Regardless of circumstances, you still deserve dignity.”

“You don’t think I have dignity?”

“What I think doesn’t really matter,” you answered. “But no, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“I don’t think I have dignity.”

Silence filled the room. For a few, stretched moments, you simply stared into Yuna’s round eyes, trying to understand this girl and who she was beneath the surface.

“Why do you feel that way?” you broke the silence first. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Yuna shook her head in frustration. “You know exactly why.”

“Yuna,” you began carefully. “I only just met you-”

“I swear I only did this because someone told me it would work,” Yuna cut you off. “And I wouldn’t have done it if I walked into the room and wasn’t attracted to the person I saw, seriously.”

“That’s fine-” you started before getting cut off once again, something you realized she loved to do.

“Like, I’m not a complete whore,” she continued. “Did I do it for personal gain? Sure. But I also wanted to. Is it really such a crime to be horny?”

“Yuna!” you spoke up firmly, standing up and grabbing her wrists. “You don’t have to explain, I’m not judging you for it.”

“Yes you are,” she muttered quietly after a pause.

“Believe whatever you want,” you shrugged and let go of her wrists. “Your assignment is done either way.”

“So why’d you actually help me?”

“You looked like you needed it,” you chuckled softly before pausing. “Truthfully? You reminded me of my ex.”

“Oh?” Yuna’s eyes wandered for a moment as she fixated on a spot of the floor. “In what way?”

“Well for one,” you stepped closer to her. You gently pushed her hair behind her ear before continuing. “You’re unbelievably pretty.”

She finally looked back up at you, a rosiness creeping onto her cheeks. “I appreciate that,” she smiled warmly. “Though I can’t imagine your first time meeting her was anything like this.”

“You’d be surprised,” you chuckled softly, leaning on the desk next to her, both of you facing the empty bookshelf.

“I have a hard time believing your first time meeting her involved head,” Yuna giggled quietly.

“Like I said, you’d be surprised.”

“You’re kidding?” Yuna gasped, turning to face you. “Well shit, now I don’t feel as embarrassed I guess.”

“I don’t think you should feel embarrassed at all,” you replied calmly. “Just like I said earlier, not judging you.”

“Then don’t judge me for this either,” Yuna whispered softly.

Part of you wasn’t entirely sure how to react to the kiss, you just let your body go on autopilot. It wasn’t a quick peck or anything, she pressed forward with real passion, pushing you backwards onto the chair again and straddling your lap. Your hands made their way around her body, feeling her gentle curves, the soft skin, her warm touch. Yuna’s mouth clashed against yours, her tongue growing more and more confident, teasing and intertwining with yours.

What really got you going was the touch of her hand on the back of your neck - that’s when you knew you were in trouble. You kept kissing, full of passion and lust, your hands rummaging around her top and unbuttoning it for the second time that evening before ripping it off and tossing it to the side, soon to be joined by her bra as you unclasped it.

Once her tits were finally free again, you let the kiss fade apart. Yuna stared at you breathily, awaiting your next move, but you weren’t going to keep her waiting long. After grabbing her ass with your hands, you stood up from the chair, holding her in your arms and gently placing her down on the desk. She quickly pushed aside her laptop before laying flat on the desk, looking up at you with a face full of carnal lust.

“Is this what you want?” you asked quietly while unbuckling your belt.

Yuna stared at you, her eyes more sensitive than you’ve ever seen, and paused for just a moment before answering.

“Yes.”

That was all you needed, and by the time you had your pants off, Yuna had already slipped off her underwear and bunched up her skirt around her waist. Before you, glistening and shining, as beautiful as you had imagined in your mind, Yuna lay there waiting - for you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you muttered as you took hold of her thighs and pulled her closer to the edge of the desk. “Let me know,” you added gently as you lined yourself up.

She nodded up at you before closing her eyes, biting her lower lip just slightly as she tilted her head back, pressing her tits up towards the roof. You leaned in some more, your tip spreading apart her body as you placed your arms on the desk around Yuna’s small frame, pressing forward slowly. With utmost care, you inched yourself deeper and deeper, paying full attention to the way Yuna was contorting her expression.

Her pussy felt incredibly warm and comforting around your cock. Once you were nearly all the way in, you paused to simply revel in the feel of Yuna’s body. And of course, you wanted to give her a moment to adjust to your body.

“You good?” you whispered, leaning forward even closer.

Yuna opened her eyes and nodded again. It was like night and day the way her personality shifted from earlier. She came in so confident and in control, but now she had become completely vulnerable, completely comfortable around you. And in return, you felt immense comfort with her.

A wave of warmth rushed through your body as you leaned forward over her body and kissed her again. As she kissed you back, you began slowly sliding your hips back and forth, enjoying every inch of pleasure her pussy was shooting into you.

“You’re a living fucking dream, you know that?” you grunted as you softly pressed into her pussy again and again.

“Your dick feels amazing,” Yuna moaned, arching her back. “Fuck me, fuck me good.”

That was the plan. You pushed forward faster, inching yourself even deeper now. The deeper you pressed into Yuna’s pussy, the better it felt. Not only was your cock throbbing in pleasure, you were also losing your mind at the sound of Yuna’s gentle moans overpowering the sound of the desk sliding against the floor with each thrust.

“That’s fucking right,” Yuna sobbed softly, rubbing circles around her clit with her hand. “I’m going to fucking cum, don’t fucking stop.”

“Cum for me,” you grunted, taking two big handfuls of Yuna’s tits into your palms and squeezing.

“I’m clo….” her voice trailed off, leaving her mouth open and eyes shut tight in focus.

She couldn’t physically speak anymore, yet it hardly mattered. You knew, without a doubt in your mind, the way her pussy was contracting against your cock that she was cumming hard. Making sure not to change your pace, even as your sweat began pooling on your brow, you pushed and pushed, muttering filth that she probably couldn’t even comprehend right now, pushing through her new tightness.

Her pussy convulsed for a bit longer before the squeezing calmed, and all that remained from her orgasm was the heavy breathing that pushed your palms up every second or so. You also slowed down a bit, all the sensation bringing you painfully close to your own orgasm, realizing now how tired your legs were getting. Being so close to the edge, however, gave you all the energy you needed. Finally, Yuna had recovered, and she pulled herself up, wrapping her arms and legs around your body.

“Are you close?” she whispered directly into your ear.

After that, definitely.

“Do you want to cum on me?” Yuna moaned into your ear. “All over my face?”

“Yes,” you gasped back, focusing as hard as you could on your hips thrusting into her pussy a few final times before you pulled out - you were unbelievably close now.

“Good,” she purred before quickly jumping off the desk and turning you around as she sat on the chair. “Cover me in that cum.”

Before you could start stroking, Yuna had already grabbed your cock. This girl was like fucking magic, the way she jerked you off with her mouth open wide, eyes staring into yours, her hand was doing better than even you could do. She moved as fast as she could, squeezing hard against your cock, fondling your balls with her other hand. You rode the absolute edge of your orgasm, just to get launched over your limit as Yuna stuck her cute little tongue out and prodded your tip a couple of times, sealing the deal.

“Ah!” Yuna gasped as the first hefty gush landed on her forehead, splattering into her hair. “Fuck yes,” she added with a moan as she adjusted your cock.

The next few moments happened so fast, in such a blur, you could barely comprehend what was happening. All you knew was your cock felt fucking amazing as Yuna jerked you off. In front of you, once your vision cleared up, Yuna’s face was completely plastered in white, barely any actually making it into her open mouth.

“Fuck!” you squealed as Yuna shoved your cock down her throat. “Please!”

She pulled your cock out of her lips, smiling brightly up at you, that smile that you could stare at for the rest of your life.

“Aim better,” she giggled, using her pinky to scoop a glob of your cum off her face into her lips.

“Alright, let’s try again.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Yuna smirked before suddenly pouting. “It’s in my hair, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you quickly pulled out some tissues from your bag and handed them to her. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she sighed, pulling out her phone to use as a mirror. “Thanks again, for the assignment.”

“Yeah, of course,” you replied as you got dressed. “Thanks for… yeah.”

“Any time,” Yuna giggled softly, wiping her face clean.

“Here,” you held her bra out for her.

“Thanks,” she accepted the garment. “But no, really, any time.”

“Are you suggesting-”

“Yes.”

“Yuna, I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship yet.”

“Oh, no,” she quickly clarified. “I didn’t mean like that, trust me I’m also not ready yet. I just meant the sex part, and maybe also the homework part.”

“Friends with benefits?” you picked up her panties. “Have you ever had one before?”

“No, but I’m down to give it a shot with the right person,” she answered softly. “Have you?”

“Yeah, mine actually just graduated last year,” you chuckled, reminiscing about your past. “Look, if you’re serious, then I’m down. But I want you to think about it first, it can be kinda dangerous.”

“I’d agree with you if we knew each other before,” Yuna replied. “But we just met, I don’t think feelings will be an issue.”

“Right,” you tried to hide your skepticism. “Alright, exclusive or no?”

“I’d say no. Thoughts?”

“Fine with me,” you held out her panties. “But then no jealousy allowed.”

“Keep them,” Yuna winked up at you before standing up. “And of course not, no jealousy.”

“Yeah?” you placed your hands on her hips. “Even if I fuck your roomie?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Yuna whispered into your face before spinning you around and pushing you onto the chair. She had already straddled your lap before whispering her next words. “Fuck me again and I’ll set you up with her myself.”

“Deal.

---

A/N:

Short and quick little piece I wrote in a couple of nights. I had always planned for Yuna to be in the Roommates universe, I just can't remember what inspired me to write it all of a sudden. Truthfully not the most edited and reviewed fic I've ever written, oh well, enjoy!

I really hope it's not too confusing (not that you need to read the other fics in the universe, the whole point is that you can read them independently). This is supposed to take place in junior year, and there are a few references to some of the other fics in this universe, some foreshadowing I guess.

I wouldn't expect another fic for a bit, I really don't have much time to write lately. I can, however, give some insight on what I'm currently working on: Dating Seraphs next part soonish (my priority rn), Exchange next part, Roommates Kazuha part 3, Roommates Eunbi part 2, Roommates secret unnamed idol part 1, unnamed actress stand alone fic, and also a stand alone MiSaMo fic (this one might be my next post, I'm like 8k words deep already). There are a couple others currently on the back burner that I haven't forgotten about as well.

Long ass A/N but I haven't said much to my readers in a while so fuck it. Like always, feel free to throw feedback at me, I try to read it all. I probably can't be convinced to write more, but if you're desperate for one of the fics I listed above then feel free to plead your case and I'll probably prioritize it. Take care you lovely people.

[gyuswhore]

Statistically Speaking...

part of the svt TA collab

kim mingyu x reader

word count: 21k

contains: TA! mingyu, fluff, smut [minors DNI], angst, statistics, ur honour they're stupid for one another, descriptions of stress exhaustion and burnout, academic burden, disagreements, mingyu is smart as hell, shitting on bad professors, smut but its a surprise [gyu gets his soul sucked while he's reciting statistical models I mean what]

words of conviction from @highvern: Kim Mingyu, total asshole , 1-800-HOT N DUMB , THEYRE IN LOVE MINGYU SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU LOSER , sick fucking freak , i know when you wrote this you put your head in your hands , OHHHM YW GOD

synopsis: In all your years of academic endurance, you’ve never failed. A 100% success rate, despite you cutting it close at times. However, the line graph that is your life starts tanking somewhere around the time you began taking this hellsent Statistics in Psychological Research class. With a professor that wouldn’t know his ass from his head, and an overworked, overenthusiastic, and overcaptivating TA, it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. However, statistically speaking,…it could.

[a/n]: this fic is set in the same universe as @highvern's wonu fic endpoint [read here!!!], some insight for wonu's pov is included here as is some of Mingyu's pov in cam's fic if you'd like to see more about what happens in the gaps!!

I want to start by thanking everyone who chose to be part of this collab fic and for being the reason cam and I were able to open up @camandemstudios in the first place. everyone's been so kind and cooperative and I still cant believe we managed to convince such amazing writers to join us on this collab journey 🥹 I love u guys

Thanking my wife camothy @highvern for brainstorming with me since day one and for betaing for me. @seokgyuu and @miabebe for also looking over the doc and reassuring me. I'm for sure forgetting someone and I'm really sorry about that, know that I appreciate you just as much 🤍

on that note, I hope you guys enjoy this fic, im HELLA nervous for some reason so plsplspls remember to reblog and send me feedback on how you liked it, I will love you forever <333

masterlist

Monday

A normal person would’ve cried. Perhaps even sued the entire institution for all it was worth. Burn down the world, if it came to it. 

But as you stare at the tiny 37/100 on your screen, you feel…nothing. 

You could’ve said you saw it coming, which you did, but something about blaming someone else for an exam you took was beginning to feel a little manipulative. 

Clicking off the student portal, you huff loudly, five in the morning too early for you to begin breaking down over a grade that was completely unreflective of what you were taught. 

Or maybe it was, because as you count one, two, three hours till your dreaded Statistics in Psychological Research class, you can only hope you’ll hold back from spitting in your professor’s coffee. But alas, you can only shut your laptop harder than necessary for what it costs and push the grade out of your mind.

You were tired enough to sleep for a couple more hours, and you take it as an opportunity to spite the entire course by giving just as many fucks as your professor did.  

Which was little to none. 

That was a lie—on your part anyway. Because you continue to show up, and probably will until you can put this course and all of its trauma behind you. Even now as you feel the inclining beat of your pulse sitting in the white lecture hall, you know this is all but you versus the universe. 

Dr. Cho might as well have wheeled himself into the room on a skateboard with the way he struts into the room. 

He’s wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off and jeans of a matching finish that do not fit him properly. There’s pins in every last colour on this earth, littering the front of his jacket with sayings that toe the silver controversial lining. There was one that said Vote for John F. Kennedy, another plain black one with I Eat Kids, and of course, the blaring Cunt written in cursive, pink sparkly letters. 

This man that’s pushing into his 60s stands before his slightly wilted class in his crocs, hands on his hips as he heaves a long breath. 

“I have to say, not the turn out I was expecting on that last report.”

He’s talking about the report you coincidentally failed, the same one you were pushed into with little to no direction and a deadline tighter than any you’ve had to bully yourself through. 

“All I can say is to read through the feedback I’ve given and try a little harder next time.” His voice is somewhere bordering comical exasperation. Feedback that consisted of sparing ‘?’’s and ‘no’’s with zero further explanation. He could say more, but you’ve learned that he simply chooses to not. 

Besides the man that drones in the front of the room, there’s another person in the other corner of the lecture hall. He’s hunched over a giant pile of papers, sifting through each and every one with a pen in his other hand. 

The TA doing a mundane task is somehow more interesting than whatever seminars of disappointment your professor was giving. He’s crossing something out on every single leaf of paper that he flicks through, and you vaguely wonder if those were today’s worksheets. 

“...and post hoc tests last week, we can start on Bayesian today. Mingyu will be handing out the tutorial papers.”

The poor TA looks like he thought he’d have more time, snapping his head up to look at the professor with an expression of pure incredulousness. He staggers for a moment before he’s flicking past the pages even faster somehow, striking out what seems like the same instruction in the giant pile of papers meant for an entire lecture hall. There’s a rustle as about a hundred laptops are being pulled out and booted up, waiting for the worksheets to land on the desks. 

You hear the familiar warble of papers being passed out and you watch as the TA pulls chunks of sheets out of the giant stack in his arms to slam down onto the front tables. 

“Pass it down, please… pass it down, please…”

There’s a voice that calls from one of the front seats, “What formula is the sheet talking about?”

Mingyu looks startled as he snaps back to look at the blaring empty whiteboard. In the midst of passing papers, you watch him sprint to the rolling whiteboards, pulling one of the giant flats of white over to the other side, the mechanism slamming into place with a louder than comfortable slam. It reveals another whiteboard underneath with the detestably long formula already written (and the one you’d have to figure out yourself).

 The professor remains with his chin in his hands behind his laptop, unphased. 

By the time you’ve registered the foreign symbols on the board, one of the tutorial papers has made it into your hands.

Sure enough, there’s a quick line across one of the steps with a thick black marker. 

Blinking hard, you attempt to pull yourself into the zone, staring at the white sheet with words that are barely stringing themselves together. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially as you lift your head to find hunched shoulders and furrowed brows all around. 

There’s one person that’s zipping back and forth, just like there always is. 

You watch as Mingyu hunches over certain laptops and whispers in rapid explanation before moving on to the next, a looming sense of dizziness that trails behind him as he shoots up the stairs to the back rows to help someone else. 

There’s a brief consideration to raise your own hand to ask for help, but one look at his disoriented gaze and the amount of hands that shoot up by the second, you guess it wasn’t going to help.

Back you go, hunched over the same wretched paper as everyone else, and praying for some divine revelation. 

Tuesday

Divine revelation did not come to you, but the good sense to make use of office hours did. 

So here you are, a printed copy of your supposedly horrid assignment and a pack of multicolour pens in your tote, and determination in your stride, you make your way to the department building. 

You’ve double, triple, quadruple checked the times to ensure you don’t dip in at the wrong moment, swiping open your phone to re-check the room number yet again. 

Standing outside the door, you knock with mustered confidence, waiting for something akin to an affirmative from the other side of the door. 

Nothing. 

You knock again.

Silence. 

You glance around the empty hall before grasping onto the cool brass handle of the door, wrenching it open just a peep. Poking your head in, you find the room…empty.

The chairs and tables that usually buzz with discussing students lay barren as you step into the room. Moving to look at the front of the room, you inhale sharply as you realise the professor’s desk has been occupied this entire time. 

Except he’s asleep.

No, that’s not the professor. 

Moving closer, you watch the way his back rises and falls ever so slowly, head resting on his arm as his hand hangs limp off the table. Whipping your head around with more attention this time, you attempt to find an explanation written on the walls. But there’s none, even in the papers that litter the table he rests his head on.

You don’t need to see his face to know it’s the TA. But as you stand in the empty room, clutching the straps of your tote, you aren’t quite sure what to do. 

Another glance around the table and you realise his laptop remains on, the screen yet to sleep. Before the obvious issue of a blatant invasion of privacy can befall you, you take a step forward to take a peek. 

It’s his schedule, a million colours blaring on the screen in a colour coded regard with barely any white spaces. It doesn’t take long to find his time slot for right now, red with importance. 

Glancing down, the man remains fast asleep, pen still in hand as it inks a faint line on the page. You look around the room for the nth time, taking constant glances back at his laptop that tells you he’s actively missing something right now. Clearing your throat, you hunch over a tad bit. 

“Um, excuse me.” He hardly moves. So you try a little louder, hunching over his sleeping form even further. “Excuse me.”

You could’ve sworn you heard a snore. 

Out of instinct, you bring a hand forward to his shoulder, shaking ever so slightly as you call for him again. “Excuse me!”

There’s a sharp inhale and he shoots up quicker than you can back away, ensuring you get an entire back’s worth of force as he bumps into you, hard.

“Wh–ow!” The noise is collective, yelps and thuds as you both back away from each other. 

“W–what’re you doing here?” he asks, hair still ruffled and eyes barely open as he stands at the table. There’s a bright yellow sticky note on his right cheek, ink scribbled on in something you can’t decipher.

“Um, it’s office—”

His eyes land on the same screen you were peering into just before and it looks like his life flashes before his eyes, widening at the sight as he slams around the table looking for something. 

“I have to go,” he announces, gripping onto an unstrapped watch as he registers the time, his other hand shoving his laptop and a few papers into a dark messenger bag. 

“Wait, isn’t it still office hours?” you call out as he whizzes past you. 

He’s swinging his bag over his shoulder and half tripping to the door as he calls out, “Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

“But—”

“It’s on the portal.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it—” he pauses as he exhales loudly, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to rub across his tired face. “I’ll double check. But it’s Wednesdays and Thursdays from now on. You can wait till I get back if you really want help.”

“How—”

A loud slam! of the door. 

“—long…” 

You’re left draped in silence yet again, the echoes of the slammed door ringing in your startled ears. It all happened too fast for you to process, blinking rapidly as you registered that you were now alone in the room. 

He said he’d be back, but left you with no indication as to when. By the looks of his god awful schedule, it looked like he had something else to attend to right after whatever it was he buggered off to right now. 

Fingers clenched into a fist, you consider your options. You could wait, sit on one of the desks and try to get some work done until he gets back. 

The universe gives you your answer as the door opens with a loud creak in the empty lecture hall. It’s another professor who looks quite startled to find an overenthusiastic student already present for class. 

She stares before craning to look at the room number outside the door, “Am I in the right room?”

“Uh, yes! I was just leaving,” you buffer out, moving to shuffle out immediately. 

You’re halfway out the door when you hear another call of an “Excuse me!”

“Are these your papers?” The professor’s full arms are up as she gestures to the still littered table. 

The No is ready on your lips. Until it isn’t. 

Later on, you’d consider how you left that room with an armful of papers that did not belong to you. How you’d ducked under the table to ensure you’d gotten everything, down to the leather strap watch with the cracked clock face. 

But as you stare at the stack of files and sheets that lay on your desk at home, you only know of the decent act that you’d committed.

And nothing of the hourglass you’d just turned over. 

Wednesday

In your Sent box are three emails sent on three separate days, all asking the same recurring question, all responding with the same recurring reply.

I wanted to confirm the days and times for office hours. I’m aware it’s on the portal but I’d like to reconfirm. 

Regards, YN

Dear YN,

Wednesdays and Thursdays. 4 to 6 PM.

Kim Mingyu, T.A. 

So there you were on a Wednesday afternoon, 3:59 PM sharp, outside the lecture hall where office hours have always been. With the same tote hung on your shoulders, with the same printed assignment and pack of multicolour pens, and a separated stack of files and folders, you wrench the door open with bated breath. 

The blended murmur of the usual hustle and bustle of the appointment reassures you first, the sight of scattered students of familiar faces reassures you second. And most of all, a conscious TA that sits at the professor’s desk, speaking to another student over a laptop screen. 

The man does nothing to acknowledge your arrival, continuing above the babble of students that occupy the chairs and the discussion. It isn’t too full, but considerably busy nonetheless despite how early you’ve swooped in. 

There’s a brief consideration whether this was in the TA’s job description at all, craning your neck to take a full sweep of the room to find a sparing glimpse of the man who should be here. The professor and his loud fashion choices are nowhere to be found. 

The sigh you let out is heavy and full of an emotion you cannot possibly begin to unpack, taking a seat on one of the unoccupied chairs to slump against. Shoulders sagging, you feel every fibre of your being screaming against your better judgement to pull out some work and to be productive while you wait. Reading over your failed assignment for the nth time, the same one that seemed to be some sick form of rage bait. 

You pull a couple things out so as to not look awkward sitting and staring into nothing on an empty desk, uncapping your pen and pulling up your sleeves like there was business to be done. Which there was, but none of which you wished to entertain. 

People watching, you realise, is a lot easier when most of the room is preoccupied with whatever it is they’re doing, too busy to notice your blank stares. 

The faces are familiar, none of which are people you’ve interacted with before but classmates nonetheless. The room is full of shaking legs, spinning pens and hunched backs, not an un-scrunched brow in sight. There’s a particular gaggle of girls somewhere around the front, their tables suggesting a work environment but between the whispers, giggles and glances to the front of the room, you assume there’s one thing in common the both of you weren’t doing. 

Speaking of the front of the room, your matched glance finds you face to face with the student at the main table in the middle of pushing himself off his seat. Your reaction is immediate, hand coming over to slam against the flat of your bag to find the lost straps, moving out of your seat as you keep your eyes on the front of the room. 

Bad luck must be a lover, because you realise quickly that somebody’s already beat you to it. Before you even noticed the first’s intentions to. The student stands beside the chair ready to keep it warm as the previous occupant leaves. 

Slamming back down on your own seat, you realise very quickly that trying to get an audience with this TA was going to be harder than you anticipated. There’s multiple other sounds of frustration around the room, and you doubt the slowly increasing pool of students was going to help anyone’s time management. 

Realising you needed to be a little more tactical if you didn’t want to sit here for the next month and half, you find an empty spot near the gaggle of girls you’d noticed before. It was right up front, just enough for you to hear when the conversation would begin to conclude at the main table. 

Once again, the TA doesn’t seem to notice any of the hustle and bustle of the room as his mouth continues to move rapidly, eyes on the question as he invests himself in his explanation. 

It was unfortunate that the only remaining seat was right next to the louder than necessary group, but you take it as a blessing anyway. It’s then that the one right next to you turns to stage-whisper to you. 

“Are you here to see him?”

You don’t expect a conversation, ears straining to eavesdrop on the other conversation in front of you to find your cue. You snap to look at her in surprise. “Pardon?” 

“Are you here to see him? Mingyu?”

“Uh—” Wasn’t everybody? “Yeah, I had a couple things I wanted to clear out.”

The revelation makes her shoulders drop as she lets out a loud sigh, “God, I can never get anything this professor says. I've been here nearly every week trying to figure it all out.”

“Yeah he’s a bit…unorthodox.”

“He’s unorthodox too.” She looks over to the main table towards the TA, chin in her hands as she gazes. “A face like that is rare.”

It wasn’t that she was wrong, it didn’t take more than a glance to convince yourself that Mingyu was possibly one of the more attractive people you’d meet in your lifetime. But the appeal lasted for all of five minutes for you, flitting away when you noticed that he dragged along a very…overwrought… suggestion wherever he went. 

It was clear he was stressed seemingly all year round, nearly just as relaxed as your professor seemed to be. 

But Mingyu was attractive. And you realise how much of a fool you’d sound if you admitted to anything other than such. 

“It is. His willpower’s somehow even rarer,” you add. “Don’t know how he does it.”

“God, tell me about it. Forget getting his number, trying to have more than a three sentence exchange with him without some statistical nonsense involved is near impossible.” Her face has fallen, a tight little frown on her face as she irritates herself with some other memory. 

Taking a glance down at her notes, you find the printed sheet littered with glitter gel pen ink lining the edges, doodles of stars and hearts and small anime characters next to p values and z scores. 

There’s a distinct sound of a chair screeching, and it’s like a large GAME OVER sign is hanging above your head. 

You jerk in your seat, like you could jump over the table and land in the emptying seat with some god-given stroke of luck, like the person already standing next to the chair wouldn’t hold a lifelong grudge against the insane girl with an unnatural acclimation to statistics. 

Although, nothing was more unnatural than the way this TA seemed to know more than the professor. Or you were just really behind. 

Alas, you don’t tumble over the table or kick back your chair, merely making a forceful motion in your seat, palms itching terribly as you watch the girl with her open laptop balanced in her arms move to take a seat. 

You were preoccupied, hence you do not notice that the TA has also noticed you. 

Suddenly, the girl looks startled as she’s told to wait. 

“She’s been waiting nearly a week, I really hope you don’t mind,” you hear him say, voice strained as you turn to look at him. His hands are outstretched to motion towards you a few feet across from him. 

For whatever reason, you had no thought that he might’ve remembered you. Something about his half asleep state when he’d spoken to you, perhaps he might’ve thought he dreamt it. Or he’d just forgotten it altogether. 

The girl glances at you, and her shoulders sag a little as she nods in formality. 

“Thank you.”

It comes out of both of you, snapping to look at each other hardly a moment as you go back to smiling at the retreating student. 

“You can come right after her,” he reassures, his own upturned mouth tired and fading. 

Never have you felt more awkward trying to come around the elongated student tables. 

You pause at first, staring at the table in front of you like it was worth trying to climb over or even crawl under it to get to the desk. Another moment of eye contact as he stares at your unmoving form with a blank look, and the heat pools your skin. 

Staggering for a moment, you end up moving past your chair and walking the way round anyway, the screeching of the chairs only nurturing the existing budding humiliation for no apparent reason. 

It only gets worse when you sit across from him finally, backside barely touching the plastic before realising you’d forgotten your bag in your seat. 

Mid smile in a timid greeting when you make a sound resembling something of an “Oh!” as you spring back up immediately. It’s easier to reach for your bag over the table you were sitting on, reaching across to grab it off your vacated seat. 

The girl you were sitting next to just before makes a motion like she’s trying to help and you have to remind yourself to smile at her as you retreat. 

Mingyu has the very beginnings of an amused expression on his face once you’ve finally made yourself comfortable across from him, clearing your throat just for something to do. 

“Right. How can I help you?”

Pulling out your printed assignment, you bring out the sheets of stapled paper to the centre of the table, writing facing him. 

One look at the sparse format of the cover page, he blows a full mouth of air at the sight of recognition. Without you having to say a thing, he flicks to the very last page, finding the rubric printed on a separate page. 

“It’s a 37,” you inform him like he couldn’t see the bold 37/100 in the bottom Total cell. 

“Do you think you deserved a better grade?” he asks. It would have sounded direct, an accusation even. But he asks with an intonation of genuinity, like he actually wanted to know. 

It stumps you regardless.

“Well…I know I can do better, at least,” you decide to answer. 

“You’re here, which means you’re at least willing to try. That’s a start,” he murmurs. His eyes are laser focused on the sheet beneath him, holding it open as his eyes move faster across the page than you can keep up with. Somehow talking to you while taking in the words on the paper.

“I remember marking this,” he says, looking up to address you. “Your concepts are nearly there, but your structure and presentation was off.”

“You marked them?”

He raises his brow, “I hope that wasn’t an accusation. I need to stick to the rubric.”

“I thought the professor marked the lab reports.”

“He’s…supposed to.” There’s a forced reservedness in his voice. “I mark them and he puts in his comments if he has any. But I’m not sure you’d fare any better than this if it was him behind that pen either.”

Every question that floated in memorisation, from the form and structure, to the nitty gritties of the data presentation, all evaporate as you realise you’re at a loss for words. 

Even more embarrassingly, you feel tears prick the back of your eyes. You don’t have an explanation, but it’s somehow easier to feel helpless in front of the man that’s meant to help you. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“That’s alright,” he says as reassurance, though it sounds awfully rehearsed. Like he has to say it everyday. “We’ll work through it.”

He lets out a big sigh, adjusting in his chair and running a hand through his hair. The motion has you noticing the dishevelled nature of the mop on his head, un-uniformed and sticking out at certain places, yet still somehow cohesive with his look. His shoulders are straight and taut, fingers working as they fiddle and flick the pen in his hand. 

Despite it all, his shirt is ruffled and creased, unbuttoned at the first couple steps. The buttons are misaligned, one side of his collar higher on his neck than the other. It takes an effort to not reach over and fix it for him.

“Lab reports can be quite tricky if you aren’t sure what you’re doing. Did you refer to the tutorial?”

You mean the one that did nothing to help? “Yes.”

“You got those bits right, format and whatnot. But—”

“It was a lump of writing about subheadings and word counts,” you say plainly.

Mingyu lips are in a tight line. “Well, yes, but it helps—”

“I know the results are supposed to go in the results section. I don’t need a PDF to tell me that,” you cut him off. Your voice is reserved, and you hope it comes off as a point across and not a complaint. Although it was a complaint. “I want to know why the entire section was ruled off as incorrect when we were never properly taught how to write it in the first place.”

“Dr. Cho—”

“Is no help.”

“I understand—”

“He can’t even mark his own papers. I’m quite sure that’s not in your job description. It’s supposed to be him here. Not you.”

It’s silent. There was nothing in your voice that suggested you wished to pick a fight, on the contrary, quite calm and matter of fact. Mingyu’s fingernails are going white as his grip on his pen and paper grow stronger. 

“And yet, we continue to show up. Because we do what we must.” He raises his head in control, a small smile on his face, eyebrows unnaturally raised. “And, better that I’m here rather than no one at all. I can help you too.”

Help, he did. 

Mingyu had made it quite clear his time with you was limited, but by the end of the near 25 minute session, nearly every inch of your printed assignment was covered in a rainbow of notes and corrections, additional papers and post-it notes pasted on the back as you remain careful to not lose them as you slip the stack in your bag. 

You only remember when you spot the segregated file of papers in your bag.

“I almost forgot,” you say, slipping the files and tidbits out and in front of him. 

“Where did you find this?” he asks sharply, eyes widening as sees the familiar blue. 

“You left them at the desk of the lecture hall last week,” you say, before quickly adding, “There was a class right after you left. I took them off the professor’s hands before they got lost. Thought it might be important.”

“I’ve been looking all over for these,” he says as he goes through the pages and files. Random sticky tabs and highlighted regions across the pages. The leather strap watch with the broken clock face remains on top, and he picks it up. He looks up to you with wide, sparkling eyes and a smile that feels genuine. “Thank you.”

You flush for some reason, “O–of course, couldn’t just leave them there.”

Pausing, you wonder if you should make the next comment, the words tumbling out before you can make a decision. “Maybe don’t run out of rooms still half asleep.”

By the grace of God, he laughs, “No, you’re right. I should be careful.”

It isn’t till you’re pushing yourself out of your chair that he continues. “You can come in at 3:30 tomorrow.”

“Pardon?”

He’s stood up as well. “I have a free thirty minutes before office hours formally start. I can help you out a little more without the crowd.” 

Feet planted on the ground, there’s not much you can do but stare. “Um, sure. I can come in a little early.”

He nods casually, “Thanks again for the papers. And the watch.”

You smile, “No problem.”

Thursday

True to your punctual nature, you make yourself known at exactly 3:29 PM.

Mingyu is at the desk, conscious and on the phone, eyes closed as he rests his face on his fist.

“I don’t know if I can make time for that—no, I understand, sir,”

Another pause as the noise from his speakers fill his ears, his rubbing over his face a little harsher than you doubt he’s entirely comfortable with. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

His phone hits the table with a heartbreaking thud, both hands covering his face as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

“Light on your feet or something? I can never tell when you come in,” he startles when he notices you. 

Sheepish smile on your face, you move to sit down. “Sorry.”

You know it’s invasive, and you also know you might be asking him to break some unknown university code of conduct, but curiosity takes charge as you ask a casual question. “Important call?”

“Uh, yeah, um, just work stuff,” he states, shaking his head swiftly like he’s trying to shake the thought out of his mind. 

There’s a pause while you're slipping your papers and laptop out of your bag, during which he seems to have decided to divulge a little more. 

“It was Dr. Cho. More stuff for me to do,” he says. “As always.” 

“Does he do anything other than show up to class?” you ask through a snort. 

“Of course he does. He cusses out every article he doesn’t agree with, is anything but objective and…the occasional relay of blatant misinformation.” 

For the record, you’d never really heard Mingyu speak at all for the months he’d been TA-ing for the semester. It was small whispers of choice words in a vague voice, the distant murmur as he exchanged with the professor too far for you to hear. 

The voice of the seemingly quiet and diligent TA was never known to you, not until yesterday as he explained statistical models and the flaws of your data presentation. 

Passionately too. Incredulous for a discipline so dry and unapproachable. 

That being said, something about the grit in his voice as he positively sneered through his teeth, badmouthing his professor—it was something you couldn’t quite believe he was capable of. 

“I’m sorry you have to put up with him.”

Once again, by whatever stone of tolerance the universe bestowed in his heart, you watch him sigh and smile, “Anything for that recommendation. And the pay too, I suppose. Besides, he’s done a lot for the area, can’t discredit him entirely.”

With your eyebrows raised, he seems to catch your expression. He pants out a laugh, and your stomach lurches as you watch it reach his eyes, teeth on display, a lurch in his chest; a true laugh. 

Raising his hands in surrender, he responds, “I’m stuck.”

There’s nothing you can do to stop the smile that reaches your own face, turning your laptop screen towards him with the JASP software display. “I am too. Help.”

Help, he does.

Monday

Mingyu ended up giving you an entire hour on that Thursday. 

The thirty minutes before office hours began soared by like they were nothing, and you were ready to take your leave the minute students began to scatter in as the clock hit a swift four. Except he kept going, another 30 minutes in deep concentration as he retaught you nearly everything from scratch. 

Perhaps his proven determination to ensure you don’t tragically fail is what prompted you to do this, standing at the till of your regular coffee shop as you ask, “Make that two, please.”

It might also be important to mention the 7:30 AM on the dial on a bright Monday morning as you walked into your slightly less dreaded Statistics in Psychological Research class, knowing there would only be one other person insane enough to get to the lecture hall this early. 

Something isn’t right. 

Mingyu is in a position all too familiar to you and everyone else who shares this class, hunched over something or the other in deep focus. The sun pours in through the lifted blinds, the lights of the class turned off as natural light does more than enough of the job. 

It also shows you a blaring hot pink post-it note on his face, all too familiar to a previous interaction you’ve had with him. 

He notices you before you need to announce yourself, brows separating as he recognises you in the doorway. “‘Morning!” 

“...Morning.”

“You’re early,” he comments, straightening his back with a hand behind him for support as you approach. 

“Figured we both needed this,” you hand him a tray with his cup of coffee, eyes still trained on his lower cheek with the paper stuck to it. “It’s a latte with no sugar, but I added a couple packets on the side anyway. Just in case.”

“O–oh, thank you. And you’re right I did need this.”

Now that you’re closer, the scrawled writing on the post-it note is clearer. 

To Do:

Call mom

Shoot myself

“You, um—” It’s alarmingly difficult for you to say it, despite the words being so simple. Hey! You got a lil’ something on your face.

But all you do is dumbly point to your own cheek, eyes trained on the loud piece of paper that tells more than he might like the world to know. 

There’s a loud slap of his hand on his own cheek as he crumples the paper in his hands, bringing it forward to see. “For fuck’s sake.”

“It’s okay! I wanna…shoot myself too sometimes.” 

What the fuck?

“I mean!” you correct louder than you anticipated, before covering with a laugh. “It’s okay, it happens. Good thing I caught it before someone else did.”

It’s all the more petrifying when your voice echoes across the blatantly empty lecture hall, reverberating like it was a punishment for you and your horrid lack of volume control. Meeting his eyes feels like a sin right now, so you keep them downcast and pray he doesn’t try to sabotage your education. 

“Good thing it was just you. Yeah.”

Just you.

“Anyways, I think I’m done with prepping for class. Do you wanna squeeze in twenty minutes of ANOVA?” 

“Have you seen the time?” 

“Not a morning person?”

“Nope!”

“And yet it’s 7:40 on a Monday morning and you’re absurdly early.” His brows are raised as he pulls around the professor's chair to bring it to you. 

“Do you want the coffee or not?” you ask, watching as he drags another chair for himself. 

The both of you sit away from the professors table, coffees in hand as you watch Mingyu run a hand through his hair. 

He gives you a crooked grin,“I apologise.”

“To be fair,” he continues. “I’m not much of a morning person either.”

You narrow your eyes the slightest bit as Mingyu takes a sip of his unsweetened coffee, “I’m starting to think no money’s worth this job.”

Mingyu snorts, coffee suspended in his full cheeks. He swallows with much difficulty before answering, “You’re right. Not sure why I’m still here either. I could get an offer from another professor.”

“And that isn’t happening because…?”

Elbows on his knees, Mingyu swirls his capless coffee cup, the beige liquid moving in a growing tornado. “I like Dr. Cho.”

“You—”

“I know,” he laughs loud, a deep, echoing sound that shakes in your ears. “I know. I sound like a lunatic.”

“I don’t know about lunacy, but insanity can have its reasons.”

“Another would argue that insanity was the very absence of reason.” 

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Excuse me for doing my job.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, and you ask again, “No, but really. I can’t imagine this man having too many redeeming qualities as an educator.”

Mingyu lifts his chin as he presses his lips together. “When I was in my first year, there was this other class I had where we had to write a lab report for the first time.”

“PSYCH101?”

“That’s the one. I’d never written one before, but I liked statistics enough to do a little more digging than what the assignment called for. I ended up finding one of Dr. Cho’s studies, read the entire thing, word for word. I was up all night reading nearly everything he’d published, some of ‘em before any of us were even born.” 

“Oh. So you’re a fan.”

“Everyone tells you to never meet your idols,” he snickers. “He’s done amazing things, but I guess he pays for it with his flawed personality.”

“I’m sorry it had to be you,” you half joke. 

Mingyu looks at you sheepishly, “That might also be my own fault.” 

“Don’t tell me you offered.”

“I might as well have. All my assignments referenced his work the most. I was always talking to him about upcoming research after class, and it was like he was a different person. Forget differing opinions, some of what he was saying was just…plain incorrect. He welcomed the argument though, and I couldn’t—can’t—stand listening to someone spew nonsense when I know it’s not true. He was always emailing me extra resources which…I’m pretty sure he isn’t supposed to do. Only reason I did so well in his class was because I taught myself.” 

He sighs a loud sigh, straightening his back, “I guess he liked me more than I thought, because next thing I know I’m getting a call over the summer telling me I have a job.”

“Did he…have a TA when you were in his class?” 

“Four.”

“Four?!”

“Two at a time. All of ‘em quit at some point. Said they didn’t want the recommendation or the pay.”

“Would he…not give you a recommendation anyway? You said he liked you.”

Mingyu shakes his head solemnly, “He’s a tough cookie, everyone in the field knows that. If you’ve impressed him, you’ve impressed everyone.”

You take a moment to really absorb everything you’ve just learned. “That’s a sucky position you’re in.”

“Tell me about it. But it’s okay. Three—three and a half more months to go? This isn’t even the worst of it, I’m just dreading study week when I’m gonna have to handle all the crying.”

You wince as he mentions something even remotely close to exam season, still barely at a stage where you can accept you’d be alright with this class. 

“I know you’re not nearly as qualified or experienced as him, but I think you could take over his class.”

“Ever heard of barriers to entry? I’d be ruined if I wanted a career in this.”

You roll your eyes playfully, “All I’m saying is I’ve learned more from you in barely a couple hours combined than the last two months I’ve spent cursing this very lecture hall.”

If you weren’t lying to yourself, you could’ve sworn you saw a blush creep up his face, and paired with his shy laugh and hand at the back of his neck, you can’t help but bite back your own smile. 

“If I can help you then it’s worth losing myself.”

Your heart is in your fucking throat.

“I’m glad when students tell me that,” he continues, utterly oblivious to the landslide happening in your digestive tract. “Makes me feel like I’m doing something right.”

“You’re—” you swallow thickly because you sound like a toad. “You’re doing more than just something right. You’re saving us therapy and an extra semester.”

He laughs at that, and you wish he’d let you breathe. 

“Feels like I’m doing something wrong sometimes,” he huffs. “My friend’s a TA too and he’s got himself a girlfriend on top of everything else he’s got going on.” 

He goes on, “Do you know how many times I need to ask people to quit twirling their hair? To look at the page and not my face? Asking for my number, I have an email for a reason, for fuck’s sake—”

Mingyu is cut off because you’re laughing, hand to mouth as your shoulders shake through your sniggering. “W–what?”

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “It’s just…It sounds like you don’t know what you look like.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?” he frowns.

“Nothing!” you exclaim. “But that’s the problem isn’t it.”

Mingyu doesn’t seem to buy it, even through your coaxing as you attempt to explain to him that he is, in fact, desirable.

“Can’t possibly be enough to distract people,” he huffs in earnest, still hung up on the students he can’t get through to. 

“Majority of the class would beg to differ.”

There’s a pause as he registers what you imply. 

After a few moments, he drops his head, opening his mouth, “Would… you also—”

There’s a loud creak of the door as you hear the immediate noises of shuffling feet and chattering mouths, as low and tired as they sounded. Turning back to look at Mingyu, he’s already jumped out of his seat, wrist to face as he checks the time on the same leather strap watch you returned. 

“That’s our cue,” you breathe, pushing your chair back behind the professor’s desk as you manoeuvre around Mingyu who’s suddenly frantic. 

Of course you realise there’s people other than just the two of you in the room, heightened in seats that are designed to ensure they can absorb every detail that goes on right where you stand in the front of the room.

But you feel the soft of Mingyu’s shirt over his wrist as you give him a gentle squeeze despite it all, barely enough pressure. Half your index finger brushes the skin of his hand, just enough to register how cold your fingertips are and how warm his body is. 

“Relax,” you whisper. “You’ll be better off without all the panic.”

You don’t see his face as you brush past him and up to your seat, looking up to see him disappear somewhere in the corner hunched over another stack of papers. The next time you see Mingyu’s face is when the professor arrives and has begun his regularly scheduled tomfoolery, and realise all the age that can accumulate in the span of five minutes. 

Thursday

Midterm season is nothing you’ve ever really had to worry about. 

Something about the halfway point did make it obvious that the clock was ticking, but danger was far enough away to prevent the ultimate breakdowns reserved for the peak seasons. 

Except this class isn’t ordinary, and it’s all you’re able to worry about all semester. And as Dr. Cho in his Thrasher vest announces the date for the in class midterm, the glass once half empty, suddenly looks very half full. 

“I’m not ready.”

“You’re more ready than anyone else in class.”

“How do you know that?”

Mingyu stares at you blankly, “If I don’t know that, then who else does?”

You have tears in your eyes, which is embarrassing enough since this is the second time you’ve teared up in front of him, but also because you’re in a library following Mingyu around like a lost duck because he insists on putting the books he borrowed back onto the shelves himself after registering the return. 

“But I don’t feel like I’m ready,” you whine, turning the corner as he searches for the last spot to place his final book. 

“You’ll realise just how ready you are when all those hieroglyphs on the page start to make sense to you,” he grunts the last bit out as he reaches on his tippy toes to shove the book back up. 

Dusting his hands off, he adjusts his shirt before turning to you, “You only feel that way because I’ve been giving you harder problems to work on. You’re past the level you need to be at right now. Trust me, you’re more than prepared.”

“But—”

“Listen,” he waves to the librarian as you both leave the library, your eyes still glistening as you fiddle with your sleeves. “It’s only the midterm—”

“Only the—”

“If this goes wrong, I’m just gonna have to work you harder for the real thing. Even though I know it won’t go wrong because I said so.”

You fall into silence as he walks you towards the coffee shop across the courtyard. 

“I’m assuming…” you start. 

“Hm?” he looks over to you.

“I’m assuming you can’t hint at what’s on the paper.”

Mingyu barks out a laugh of disbelief, “You assume correct. I’m not going through hell with this job just to lose it because of a paper leak.”

“But it’s just the midterm,” you mumble, not even close to remotely audible. 

“What did you say?” Mingyu smirks. 

“Nothing,” you huff.

“You know, I’m a little offended you don’t trust me.”

“Who said I didn’t.”

“Well then, stop being such a worrywart.”

There must be something written on your face, because as you pass Mingyu standing at the door he keeps open for you, entering into the coffee shop with fallen shoulders, he seems to change his mind. 

He brings you a coffee, sits you down, and gives you something else you need. “I made the paper. Every question. And I taught you. Every concept. So I definitely know you’re gonna be fine.”

In that moment, with the large glass walls of the warm coffee shop, the afternoon sun comfortably resting on every last object of the room, you don’t see it illuminate anything other than the man before you. 

Perhaps you're being dramatic at the revelation, but you don’t take anything into account as you note Mingyu’s eyes and how they sparkle like they were gifted from the centre of a flaming volcano, brown and polished more than any jewel or stone you’d ever seen. Reaching out to touch him, you know you’d feel nothing but smooth stone, the indentations only possible by a being beyond what you could comprehend. 

He’d given you more than just reassurance, and at times, his timing makes it feel like he was sent from the heavens itself, just for you. 

You sniffle. 

His hands brush over yours as he hands you a napkin, and even more so, cover your own as he takes your freezing fingertips into his own palm, the contact burning you like hot coal. 

You know he’s real. And you don’t know why quite just yet, but that reassurance is enough to give you calm.

Monday

You were alright, but it seems that Mingyu seemed to disintegrate right after he was done reassuring you to the moon and Saturn and Jupiter and back.

It’s midterm day, and as always on every Monday morning, you enter the empty lecture hall with two warm coffees in your hand, ready for whatever shitshow you’d have to perform for today.

It seems Mingyu must defect from at least one regular string of behaviour to remain as Mingyu, who on this occasion, stands before you in a baby blue polo sweater. 

Except you only know that because you can see the unique collar, but it might also be important that his back is turned towards you. 

“Morning, champ,” he gruffs, nothing encouraging about his voice in the slightest. 

Your breath hitches when you finally see his face, eyes sunken in and face pale. His lips are chapped and peeling, eyes half closed. 

“Why’re you looking at me like that, why has everyone been looking at me like that?” he huffs in one long, rapid question. 

“Um, I mean,” you stare at his shirt that’s backwards. And inside out. “I can’t tell if that’s a choice or a mistake.”

Looking down at his front, he looks back up, “What?”

“Your collar is…not at your collar, Mingyu. And your shirt’s inside out.”

Hand at his nape, he reaches his fingers down and finds the unmistakable starched planes of his collar, eyes closing at the realisation. He’s immediately pulling his arms out of the shirt with his eyes still closed like it’d all disappear if he keeps them like that. 

“Wait!” you exclaim before he strips entirely, scrambling to put your coffees down to push him out of the room towards the restrooms. “Do you wanna strip for the CCTVs?”

You only hear him sigh as he moves out and into the hall, doors closed behind him. 

You’ve nearly forgotten about the midterm at this point, your concern now growing in a completely different direction. By the time Mingyu returns, he’s blabbing about wondering why everyone he ran into since he left home was giving him the strangest looks, and then something about you always swooping in to save him before the real bout of disaster strikes. 

It’s hard for you to listen to him when you’re more worried about him passing out, his face doing him no favours to reassure you that he wasn’t a breathing corpse. 

“Mingyu…did you sleep at all?”

“Hm?” His eyes are glazed over and unfocused. 

“Sleep? Rest?”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Not really. I had emails coming in all night.”

“And you were replying?”

“It's the midterm today,” he responds flatly, like it should’ve been enough explanation. 

You almost don’t believe him. “Doesn’t mean you stay up to answer something that should’ve been cleared out beforehand!”

“Couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves,” he dramatises. 

“Yes, you could!” Your voice comes out louder than you expected, eyes wide as you realise what he’s doing to himself. “You barely look human and it’s only the midterm.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“I don’t know if this job is really worth as much as you think it is.”

Mingyu’s jaw is clenched, fists tight as he releases them to grip paper weight on the desk, knuckles white. “I can’t get anywhere if I don’t—”

“Mingyu, please. This isn’t good for you.”

He says your name. Declarative, almost like a warning. “If you think this job isn’t worth it then you just don’t know.”

“Mingyu—”

“No, you don’t, because I’ve seen how good of a job I’ve been doing.”

“You have, you’ve been amazing but—”

Mingyu’s own voice is raised, a hard impenetrable floor to the words he spills. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You look like a corpse!”

And then he’s getting out of his chair with so much force it almost knocks it backwards, “Why on earth do you care so much? So what if I look like a corpse, if I‘m doing my job?” 

It might’ve been better if he knocked the chair right into you, your breath dissipating in your chest like it never existed. His face is morphed in an expression of exasperation your anxieties fear the most, every line on his face committed to irritation and anger. 

Why on earth do you care so much?

Right. Why do you? 

“Are you asking me that?”

“What?”

“Are you asking me why I care?” 

Mingyu only sighs, shoulders dropping and eyes closed. Like so many times before, you watch run a hand through his hair, except this time he yanks on the strands harder than ever before. 

His eyes are bloodshot. 

“I have to get the exam pack.”

Marching out the door in front of your own eyes, you’re left with a feeling that’s right in the back of your throat, curling and whirling into something you wish you could hack and gag out. Gripping the corner of the professor’s desk, you feel the peeling wood cut into your skin. 

There’s a draft, the delayed slam of the door has only hit its wind now, a delayed reaction. It’s like it registers in your mind as you feel strands of your hair shift, the clarity that comes with it.

Delusive. Chimeric. Cruel.

Everything you’d subjected upon yourself. A whimsical fantasy between pages of logic and numbers, a story that simply didn’t fit where the laws wouldn’t allow it. 

The null hypothesis of your most elaborate nightmares.

Monday

Your favourite commonplace box, where your mother once placed all her most prized jewels, had a finicky latch. 

It wasn’t broken, simply worn in from years of opening and closing. It took a few tries to get it shut. Simply pressing down with pressure didn’t work; you had to open it again, press down on the individual elements of the latch and then try again. 

You were never satisfied until you heard the distinct click of the latch fixing itself, the box closed and ready for you to hook your lock through.

Earlier on in your undergraduate career, you remember a professor talking about the effects of external factors on the mind, how they can sometimes cause it to ‘shut down’ when overwhelmed or stressed. 

It’s happened to you on many a occasion; like when you stayed up too late on a school night to watch a documentary about the Stanford prison experiment, or when you’d neglect food or water on busier days, or when you’d stop paying attention in class because you were too preoccupied thinking about Taco Tuesday. 

Regardless, you’d found a way to recognise when your brain would fall into some strange kahoots with daydreams, or whatever was bothering you, and learned ways to give yourself a reset. 

Pressuring and forcing the attention wouldn’t work, just like how the latch wouldn’t fit when you’d do the same with your beloved old box. So you’d take a walk, drink something cold, spray yourself with a garden hose, or even take a nap altogether. Opening yourself up, so the latch can finally click. 

On the morning of your midterm, when you’d ensured your brain was in optimal condition for the exam you knew would be one of the worse ones you’ll have to take, you were sure the only external force that could ruin your vibe was from God himself. 

Having been so preoccupied with your mind and its functions, you’d seemed to have forgotten where your heart had wandered off to. 

Somebody else might consider it a minor disagreement; an anxious squabble if you will. But your breakfast in your throat was enough reason to deem what happened that morning much more than that. At least for you. 

“Pass it on, please…pass it on, please.”

The sound of his voice is tectonic. Rattling in your head like a superior force had slammed into your skull like a padded hammer to a gong. 

You hated it. You hated everything. You hated yourself. And as the midterm paper reaches you with your pen in your clawed fingers, the first three questions already making perfect sense, you realise you hated Kim Mingyu the most. 

That was a lie. You were lying to yourself, yet again. 

Because it was quite the opposite. You couldn’t hate him. 

As you drift past every question of conditional experiments and screenshots of data and tables on a software, you hardly remember what you circle and what you don’t. Hardly remember what words you picked for the short answers and labels. You hardly remember taking the steps down from your seat to the front of the room, where the professor sat scrolling through his Skateboarders [!MEN ONLY!] facebook group, placing your paper down and leaving the classroom. 

Throughout your years of living, you’d learned what you needed to get your brain out of its clouded muffle, to refocus when you needed it. 

Everything. You tried everything. 

But on that day, when it mattered most, your latch never clicked.

It’s Wednesday. 

You order lunch from the Italian place a few streets down. Ravioli; it’s safe and you know you’ll like it. 

Savouring it is easy in front of another true crime show. You pull a lone soft drink from your fridge, one that your friend left weeks ago. It tastes just as bad as the last time you tasted it from someone else’s cup, but you drink it anyway, the empty can now in your trash. 

It’s 3:30 PM, and you sit at your desk. It’s strange. It feels like you’re missing something, which in ways, you are. But as you pull your laptop from your nightstand instead of out of your bag, you slow your movements. 

The papers are the same. But you read them anyway. 

Parameter estimation: Make inferences on characteristics of the population, including distributions of the variables and the effect of one variable over another. 

It’s accursed the way the universe won’t let you live. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue, estimation cannot be perfect. 

Estimation cannot be perfect. 

[_]

It’s Thursday

Class. Eat. Drink. Work.

Hypothesis testing: Determine whether null hypothesis is rejected or not after data observation. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue, no null hypothesis in bayesian approach!!

[_]

It’s Friday

Eat. Drink. Work.

Latent means to have meaning but is yet to be manifested. The greek letters are placeholder values for values yet unknown. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue; values that you will find out

[_]

It’s Saturday

Eat. Drink. Work.

P(A|B) = [P(B|A)P(A)

              ——————

                     P(B)

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue;

 it gets less complicated

 promise :/ 

[_]

It’s Sunday.

Eat. Drink. Work.

The page is blurry. Your eyes hurt. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue;

you’ve got this!!! < 3

You give up.

It’s Monday.

8:14 AM. 

You barely glance at the front of the room; swift turn to the left and right up the steps. Dr. Cho’s outfit almost goes unnoticed by you, tamer than most. Bright Barbie pink with large polka dots, untucked into too tight white jeans. His crocs are sparkly, at least that’s what the twinkle from up here looks like. 

He’s insulting another author, the man’s ProQuest journal article open for the world to see like a mediaeval scandal. 

There’s another person next to the whiteboards, back to the wall, hands clasped in front of him. His hair is messy, shooting lasers into the carpet as he rocks the slightest bit, listening to the professor rip this author to shreds. 

An hour later, you’re staring into the JASP software like it was written in a different language. 

Glancing next to you, the boy in the spongebob hoodie is playing sharkboy and lavagirl by himself. On your other side, the girl has the same thing as you open on her laptop, her pen occupied with drawing about a hundred tiny gojos on a bright pink sticky note. 

Bright pink sticky note. 

You snap your gaze back to your screen quickly after that. 

9:58 AM. You start packing up, shoving everything into your bag. 

Dr. Cho doesn’t even notice you slip out of the room, hardly a minute to the end of the lecture.

In the hallway, you take your first real breath in two hours. 

It’s Tuesday.

You’ve come down with something, head heavy as you feel yourself burn up. Skipping class is easy when you sleep through your alarm and every phone call from a friend asking where you are. 

They drop by, armed with medicine and soup. You almost feel better. 

It’s silent after they leave, and you realise in that moment how much you hate it. 

Opening your laptop for the first time in over 24 hours, you turn on a random podcast to play in the background, needing something to fill the air before you lose it entirely. 

The screen lands right where you left on the incredulous data presentation, unsolved tutorial paper crumpled between the screen and keyboard like a wilted leaf. 

Hot, scalding tears sting your eyeballs when you realise there was nowhere to turn to.

It’s Wednesday.

After a long day of doing nothing, still sick from whatever plagued your body, you go to bed earlier than usual.

It’s Thursday. 

Walking out of class, your mind is empty. You’re still sniffling, still achey, but better than you were. The shawl wrapped around you is warm, and your hood covers the cold tips of your ears. 

This other class makes you feel better about yourself, especially when the content is digestible and so is the professor. The TA feels like a mere accessory in the room, something you’ve learned to appreciate. 

With your gaze lowered, you only see midriffs as you walk out the classroom into the busy hallway. 

It happens in an instant, the flash of a clenched hand as the owner walks by in quick stride. An unmistakable leather strap watch with a broken clock face on the wrist.

You freeze like you’ve been caught. 

The hard bump of someone coming out the room behind you is welcomed, the annoyed “Hey!” knocking you back to earth before you could even exit the dimension. 

You’re off centre. But it’s fine. 

It’s Monday.

“Midterm results are out Tuesday morning. If you have any questions I’ll be sitting at office hours on Wednesday and Thursday, four to six in the evening. Or you could send me an email, either’s fine.”

Dr. Cho isn’t here. Something you only found out when the pitt sank in your stomach as Mingyu cleared his throat at the full hour. 

You want to leave, not caring about how strange it’d look if you did. Not caring about how he would definitely notice if you did. You want him to shut up, to stop talking, for anything to halt the way his voice infiltrates your entire being, talking about things you don’t understand but more familiar than anything else. 

Mingyu’s voice is hoarse, and you loathe the way you can tell the difference. 

It’s Tuesday.

Midterm Results for Statistics in Psychological Research.

—  92/100

It’s Wednesday. 

4:10 PM. It’s almost too much for you. Almost. 

The screech of the door is loud, the slam of the handle’s rebound even more so. The room doesn’t so much as glance at you at the door, the half full seats preoccupied with more important things. 

The front desk perks up immediately, eyes shooting towards the door for the nth time that day, like he was expecting someone that never seemed to show up. 

It’s ironic, you think, how Mingyu never seemed to notice you walk into the room for the many months you’ve walked in just for him. And now, as you walk in fists clenched and jaw set, eyes wild and burning, he’s breaking away from a student to look at the door before you even come into view. 

“Did you feel bad?” you spit.

“What?” he whispers. He seems to come around, glancing back before continuing, “Can we talk? Please.”

“Answer the question, Mingyu,” you snap. You don’t care there’s a confused student sitting right across from the both of you, his slot interrupted by your barge. “Did you feel so bad you had to give me something I didn’t earn?”

He’s stood up now, half confused. “Is this about the midterm—”

“I did not get a ninety two, I know I didn’t,” you grit. “Whatever happened before that stupid paper made sure I wouldn’t.”

Mingyu says your name and the sound makes you want to vomit. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I fucked up because of you?” you announce, louder than before. 

The world disappeared, your tunnel vision pointed at Mingyu’s face that wears an expression you cannot even begin to read. The unbecoming tears in your eyes are of a type of unadulterated rage you’ve felt only a few times before. Your heart is going about a million miles a breath, everything else only triggering an added bout of infuriated tremble in the forefront of your emotions. Nothing makes sense. 

Mingyu pushes back his chair in silence, stalking over to a large cupboard in the corner of the room. He shuffles around for a minute before returning. 

There’s a packet being thrust into your fists when he reaches you. He does not meet your eyes. 

A bright red 92/100 marks the front page.

“Here. It was all you, if you can’t believe me.”

It’s a careful mark, unmistakable lines and curves of the nine and the two. 

Reality is slow to sink in, but for some reason it’s only making you angrier. The paper curls under the pressure of your fingertips. You don’t open the packet. You refuse to flick through the pages. 

Because you know you’ve lost.

It’s Thursday. And it’s full of regret. 

There’s a sickness in you, from that dreaded day, something beyond what affects your body temperature and your energy. It’s in your mind, flooding the nerves that swim through every crevice and cave of your brain, a physical venom that does the opposite of kill but also the opposite of letting you live. 

There’s a feeling in you, that even if you were to open your mouth, unhinge your jaw, try to scream as loud as your throat would allow, there would be no sound. Something like a horrible dream, that you need to screw your eyes tight shut to fall out of. Except you aren’t waking up from this one. 

In a coffee shop, where Mingyu held your hand in a reassurance you now bleed for, you were sure he was real. Real like some deiform image; too good to be true. 

In your bed, dry tears on your face, midterm packet sifted through that showed you absolutely everything that you did right, thanks to him. He feels too real. Real like a cloud of obsidian that follows you everywhere, like the sad that’s been sleeping with you every night. 

If there was a way to hate someone more than a human limit, you’ve crossed it with the resentment you’ve now fostered for yourself. 

Barging into office hours like that, accusing him on a basis of nothing but your own dangerously stewed thoughts. If there was a hope of salvaged parts, you took a hammer to it in disregard; tearing it to ribbons that lay at your feet. 

It’s Friday.

At least it was. It bled into Saturday before you realised the 3:23 AM on the dial. 

Two weeks of no help and you already feel lightyears behind. The hour is getting to you, and you feel the frustration pool into tears, that turn into full fledged sobs. You’re crying over Bayesian inference and it’s somehow more pressing than any other emotion you’ve ever felt. 

Impossible numbers on your data sheets taunt you, not a single reference to if it was a button you clicked wrong or if you were playing a fool’s game altogether. 

Ding! You pick up your phone, the weight of it is enough gravity to pull you back to earth. 

[Mingyu]: switch to bF10 

[Mingyu]: you’ve been pulling numbers from bF01

It’s immediate the way your eyes dart towards your lit screen, clicking off tables to get to the drop down menu you need. And there on the left, two tiny buttons, one clicked on bF01. 

With shaking fingers, you move your cursor to hover over the tiny bF10, anticipating. You click. It takes a moment for the numbers to change, but they do. The nominal values turn into something you can actually work with. 

Something akin to a tut leaves you, hidden in the breath of another sob. It’s stupid, unreasonable, absurd. Your fingers hover over your phone, shaking as tears drop onto the screen, faster than before. 

Do you not miss me?

Do you not want me around?

Talk to me

I miss you

Please talk to me

“I couldn’t—can’t—stand listening to someone spew nonsense when I know it’s not true.”

Mingyu is a product of his personality. You can only imagine he’s helped because he saw you struggling in class, heard from someone else, or perhaps, he just knew the very thing you’d make blunders out of. 

The reasons come to you, that Mingyu is a product of his personality. Then why does it hurt? Why does it feel like the knife’s twisted a full 360, that despite the way you accused him of the thing that would strip him of everything he’s bruised himself for, he helps you. The very thing that caused this rift in the first place. 

There’s a reason for that, and it is again, that Mingyu is a product of his personality. 

It’s Saturday. 

Perhaps you relied on your olfactory senses to remain calm, because you always knew you could count on a coffee shop to forever and always smell the same. 

The universe seems to want to ruin that for you too. 

“Latte, please,” you voice. “Iced.”

“We have a one plus one for the week! Would you like to receive another latte?” The lady taking your order looks no older than 17, a pep in her voice. 

“Um, no thank you. Just one, please.”

She looks taken aback, a reasonable reaction to anyone turning down a free drink. But you couldn’t bring yourself to walk home with two cups in hand. 

You’re plucking a napkin from the pickup counter when you hear his name. 

“...that he manipulated her grade because they were hooking up.” 

“He has time to hook up?”

“I remember hearing about that! She barged in during office hours and asked why he fixed her grade or something.” 

“A ninety two? In that class? Oh, they were definitely fooling around with each other.”

“Whatever, at least we know he’ll entertain you if he likes you enough. I’m just glad those two are over so I can swoop in.”

There’s an eruption of giggles. You press your head down further. 

“Unless he flirts in variables.”

“All is forgiven when you’re born with a face like that.” 

Another explosion of giddy laughter, through which your drink is slid across the counter towards you, like it was waiting for you to hear the damning evidence before you could leave. You grab it anyway, grip tighter than usual. 

Turning around, your eyes search, finding a group of people that sit in smiles and in various states of trust-falls. 

There she is, the girl you sat with on the first day you attended office hours, the one with the glitter gel pen doodles on her notes and her blatant fawns over the TA you slipped under just as easily. 

She locks eyes with you and her face falls, eyes widening the slightest bit in recognition. 

Pressing your lips into a smile, you hope it doesn’t look as menacing as you feel. You don’t wait for a response before you walk out the large glass doors.

It’s Sunday.

It seems every sip of water you’ve taken during the week has been used up in all the tears you’ve seemed to be shedding. By the bucketload.

Alas, even blurry and puffy eyed, you pour over statistical formulas anyway, running on no energy and all antagonism. It’s another tutorial sheet left incomplete, a single question taking a pour that lasts in at least an hour of struggle. 

Reading the same question for the nth time, your palms press into your temples as you stare lasers into the paper, like the revelation would come to you if you stared it down hard enough. It doesn’t make sense, the commands you’ve toggled on and off identical to the instructions on the page. 

Hence the question begs why the data was coming out like someone pressed the ultimate on a number generator. 

With a heat of unreasonable embarrassment, you find yourself checking your selection in one of the drop down menus, switching to bF01 and back just to see the difference. It does nothing to help, and you can’t help but feel a little relieved it wasn’t that particular snag. 

The library is as silent as it could possibly be on a Sunday morning, near empty as you occupy the mostly vacant seats. The librarian is having her own day off, as you could swear she’s playing computer games behind the counter instead of actual work. 

The only noise in the room is your own breathing, and that seems to be enough to mess with your concentration. You’re going cross eyed staring at the page for so long, the words doubling and  disappearing before going back to normal. 

Bayesian inference…z scores…null hypothesis…

Wait. 

It’s like you can see it in front of your eyes right now, the scribble of someone else’s dark blue on your notes.

no null hypothesis in bayesian approach

Bayesian approaches don’t use null hypotheses. And z scores are in…

“Oh my god, this is a t test,” you whisper to yourself in disbelief. Immediately, you’re scrambling to shake your laptop out of its sleep, switching over to a t test to redo everything, following the instructions on the same data set. 

And there it was…a clear 0.067 under the p value. 

In a moment of questioning, you laugh out a breathy sound, the absurdity of it all becoming too real. T tests were the first thing you learned, the foundation to all your statistical knowledge. Coming so far, and it took you days to realise the instructions under a Bayesian approach were for a different realm entirely. 

It was stupid of you. But in this difficult aftermath you can’t help but feel victorious. Laughing to yourself quietly in this empty library. 

When the initial adrenaline fades and you’ve double, triple checked to ensure you were right, you can only stare at the tiny mail button in your shortcuts on the screen. It was clearly an error, one that was given out to nearly a hundred students. 

The first step was clicking, your inbox coming to life as you drift towards the big blue button with the readily available NEW MAIL. So you click. 

There’s an attached file in the email you draft. 

The tutorial paper has titled t test instructions as a Bayesian approach. Just wanted to point it out and ask if I could receive a corrected version. 

Regards, YN

It’s almost like you’re trying to remember how it feels like when you type an experimental m in the To bar. His name pops up immediately, email address typed out in full, full name clear on top as a regular contact. 

You don’t need a suggestion to remember, his email came easier to you than your own. 

But you don’t email him, backspacing till it’s empty once again. 

Dr. Cho’s email sits in that place instead, a first for you. 

SEND.

You don’t expect him to reply on a Sunday, in fact, you aren’t sure if he’s going to respond at all. You’ve already shut your laptop, half out of your seat in an attempt to pack up. You’re forced to consider. 

Would it be terrible to go back and cc him as well? 

A spiteful part of you might find joy in correcting him for a change. The rational part of you wants to actually finish the tutorial before tomorrow’s class when you’d have to tackle another beast for the rest of the week. 

Sitting back down, you move without thinking. Your mind is still cooking up possibilities as you swing your screen open once again, still weighing as you click back into your inbox. 

There’s a new email in your sent box after you’re done, a copy of the one you sent your professor, the same attachment and the same question; word for word. The only difference, a more familiar name in the address bar. 

Before you can chicken out, you slam your laptop shut for the actual last time, shoving everything into your bag before the speeding thoughts can infiltrate your mind's barrier. You’re out the door before you know it, ready to be done with this. 

You’re afraid if you put a hand to your stomach it’d be met with kicks and punches, especially with the way you feel the aggressive cartwheels slashing away at your insides. The butterflies are making it to the end of your food pipe, and you briefly wonder if you need to break into a sprint to make it to a safe throwing up zone. Your entire being jolts as you feel a buzz in your hands, a loud click that signifies a new email in your inbox. 

Right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, you stop. 

The grip you have on your phone is unyielding, your fingers beginning to hurt from the pressure. There’s no way to tell if you’re shaking or not, but you bring your phone to your face anyway. The screen flips on, a lone notification on the screen. 

RE: Tutorial Error from Kim Mingyu

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since you sent that email, the library still in sight from where you stand. At the same time, it’s almost funny you expected any different from him. 

The kicks and punches in your stomach halt, the cartwheels have calmed, the butterflies have fallen asleep. The grip on your phone has loosened, and it’s like every nerve in your body went from on fire to serenity in a whiplash inducing shift. 

Clicking on the notification, the email opens. 

Noted. I have another tutorial sheet for you if you want it. I’ll be in the room where office hours are held for the rest of the morning.

Kim Mingyu, T.A.

There was no way he didn’t have a softcopy he could send you in less than a minute, and you’re sure he knew you’d realise that too. You should scoff, be upset, roll your eyes. 

But instead, you find your feet making a 180, turning around to go right back to where you came from. You walk, eyes still half trained on the email, reading and rereading as you walk back onto campus, towards the building you’d once considered a second home. 

You walk, and walk and walk, in through the doors, up the stairs and then another set of them, you take a left and look up. The hallway is empty, the door on the right coming into view as you slow your steps significantly. 

Closer and closer, you realise the light surrounding it is brighter than usual. The door is open, and you can see the empty rows of tables and chairs, set neatly against one another. It’s strange, you’ve never seen it wide open before. 

Walking even closer, you can see the beginnings of the professor’s desk come into view, and it only takes you one more step forward. 

Standing in the doorway now, you find yourself in the direct path of the sun that pours in through the open windows. It’s warm, but just enough to combat the cooling weather. 

The desk up front is occupied, as it always is. 

Mingyu is only in a t-shirt and trousers, glasses perched on his nose as he scrawls away on the paper in front of him. His laptop is turned on, screen facing the door where you stand, his inbox open and available even on the weekend. 

It wasn’t that you were waiting for him to notice, but you found yourself inadvertently taking your time looking at him. Every other situation, you’d done your absolute best to avoid your eyes grazing over him at all costs, hardly drifting over his form before flitting away. You never did it on purpose, but it was more like you were unconsciously protecting yourself.

 Like looking at him would only make the ache in your heart worse.

If that was the case, you would’ve been right. There’s a tug in your chest, and in that moment, it all comes flooding in like a gate destroyed. 

Mingyu looks up and sees you in the doorway, standing immobile. He sets his pen down, taking his glasses off. There’s the smallest hint of a smile on his face as he greets you, “‘Morning.”

You take it as your cue to move forward, stepping foot into the patch of sun slowly. “‘Morning.”

You reach the desk, standing in front of him, the only thing blocking you being the littered table with files, papers and stationary; the trench between you both. 

It’s so silent it tears at your insides, gripping the strap of your bag to have something to do. 

“I, uh, double checked when I saw the email. You were right, nobody noticed in class either.” There’s an airiness in his voice, like he might be struggling just as much as you are right now. 

He clears his throat when you don’t respond, looking back down at his workspace like he was looking for something. He finds a paper from some stack, handing it over to you. 

“Thanks,” you hoarse. It’s the same tutorial you had, except the instructions had been crossed out, replaced by a list of handwritten instructions instead, detailed in their annotation. You recognise it, because of course you’d recognise his handwriting. 

“I didn’t have time to print one out right now. I’ll probably send a corrected copy to everyone tonight,” he explains. 

“That’s alright.” You look up, lips pressed together, eyebrows forced into a regular position on your face. Nodding, you thank him once again. “Thanks again. I’ll…get going.” 

Every fibre in your body screams at you to turn back around, hollering profanities at your inability to deal with this. You’re already halfway to the door though, and your pride’s already deemed it too late. 

Please stop me, please stop me, please stop me, please just say something and stop me—

There it is. Your name, from his mouth, in his beautiful voice. 

Turning back around is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. 

Mingyu has stood up from his seat, out from behind the desk. He looks like he wasn’t expecting you to turn back. “Can we talk?” 

And then he’s pulling out the chair he was sitting on, presenting it like a piece offering. If you heard correctly, you could’ve sworn you heard his voice break the slightest bit when he pressed, “Please?”

So there you were, in a position all too familiar as you sit across from the man that’s haunted you for the past weeks, trying to keep your chest from falling in. 

“I guess I should start with an apology,” he’s fidgeting with his own fingers. “I don’t need to give you excuses about stress or exhaustion because…”

He closes his eyes, trying to find the words. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you. You were only trying to help and I was too preoccupied with myself to notice. I’m sorry I spoke to you like that when you didn’t deserve it.” 

For about the millionth time, you realise you’re tearing up again. He continues. “And then…right before the midterm too. You were right, I did feel horrible. But I swear that grade was all you, I didn’t touch those numbers.”

He really didn’t, because the papers he had thrust into your hands on that fateful day in this very room proved that you earned that mark. You wince regardless.

“I thought I could apologise before the exam started but I couldn’t find you, and then you were gone right after. I didn’t text or call because I was sure I’d fucked it all up.” 

“I’m sorry too. For barging in in front of everyone and basically accusing you. I wasn’t thinking straight.” You look up from your lap, wet lashes and all. “I really hope you didn’t get into any trouble.” 

“I–no, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I promise I didn’t.” He locked eyes with you when he said that, hoping you’d believe him. You nod slowly. 

“It wasn’t even that bad, what you said,” you sniffled. 

He scoffs at that, “I’d beg to differ.”

“I would’ve gotten over it,” you continue, bracing yourself to admit to something you’ve had trouble admitting to yourself. “I should’ve gotten over it. I don’t know why it hurt so much, why watching you walk out felt so horrible. But I haven’t been acting like normal ever since, and I’m sorry for stretching this whole fiasco out into something that didn’t need to turn into…this!”

“You were hurt because I hurt you.”

“People have said worse things to me. And you were practically a zombie, I should’ve just left it for another time. It was a little bit my fault too. But…yeah.”

There’s a silence as you try to remind yourself to breathe. You speak up again. “I just want us to go back to normal. I’ve missed you. Alot.”

“Me too. The go back to normal bit. And the…missed you bit.”

Mingyu’s half smiling when you look up, biting your lip hard as you try to keep a smile of your own at bay. “I’d thought if I gave up and admitted I was struggling that day, that’d be admitting defeat. That you’d think I…couldn’t do it.” 

Why on earth do you care so much? It rings in your ears. 

You sound light when you say it though, knowing now it wasn’t what he meant.“Since when are we on caring terms?” 

Mingyu cringes. "We are. I am, at least, if you aren't anymore, which is fine. I care about you. A lot."

It’s hard to not let out a laugh. He looks half constipated as he tries to navigate his words. 

“Oh well I’d hope you’d care, since you’re my TA and all.”

“Not in a TA way.”

“Tutor way.”

“Um.”

“Friend way? A human way?” 

“No.”

You both know you’re being obtuse on purpose, and you aren’t sure why. Maybe you just like to watch him squirm. 

“You know what?” he rasps. 

“What?”

Your answer comes in the form of Mingyu lurching to grab the legs of your chair, pulling the wheels to crash into him where he sits. You’re not expecting it, the clashing legs causing you to swerve forward, hands on Mingyu’s lap. 

And then his hand is on the back of your neck, and his lips placed on your own. 

You’re stiff as a board, brain computing the fact that Mingyu is kissing you in a classroom. 

It’s short, hardly a few moments before he pulls away. “Does that clear things up?”

There’s nothing you can do but blink at him, the reality of it all settles in. “Hm.”

He laughs at your half dazed state. It’s a purely instinctual part of you that speaks after this. “Maybe one more time. To make sure.”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait to laugh again as he wastes no time, putting his mouth on yours properly this time. There’s more of a drive in you this time, moving your mouth against his and he keeps your head close. 

The ecstasy is slow but sure to build in your stomach. Mingyu is kissing you. Mingyu is sitting with you and kissing you so good you’re already half faint. 

His mouth tastes like coffee and remnants of berry, a combination you can’t believe you could enjoy this much. Licking into his mouth, you let your tongue drag over his, like the tactile would convince you this wasn’t some too vivid fever dream. 

He pulls away for a moment, but hardly so as his lips remain pressed onto yours. 

“For the record,” he pants. “I love that you care. And I hope you’ll keep caring. Because I don’t think I can handle it if you walk away after this.”

Mouth back on his own, you decide there’s only one way to convince him you weren’t going anywhere without dragging him with you. 

MINGYU'S APARTMENT IS CLEANER than you expected. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, perhaps more mad scientist than anything else. But the most you find is a mug and plate in the sink, and a moderately crowded study desk, which is to be expected. 

Mingyu decided to abandon his work for the day to spend it with you, to which you contest that it was Sunday anyway. His response is making you change into something comfortable of his so you could laze on his couch. 

Like you would run away if he didn’t, Mingyu keeps his arms around you in a tight hold, fingers curling around your shoulders as you lay on top of him. Your head rests directly over his heart, his cheek and lips taking turns to occupy the top of your head.  

You fill him in on everything, and realise the most eventful weeks you’ve spent were actually quite uneventful in hindsight. He feels up your cheek and forehead when you tell him you got sick at one point, to which you have to reassure him it was either something going around or stress that you subjected on yourself. 

“I went to a frat party,” Mingyu mumbles into your forehead. “For Halloween.”

The information has you shifting to look up at him in bewilderment, “You went to a frat party?”

He snorts, “Dressed up for it too.”

“Oh my god,” you voice in mild horror. “Do I wanna know?” 

“Wonwoo and I matched,” he hums as he pulls out his phone, scrolling his gallery to look for pictures. “I was Mario, he was Luigi.”

“How adorable.”

He only gives you a look and shoves the phone in your face. By some grace of god they aren’t wearing moustaches, but the distinct red and green outfits are enough to give you enough recognition. 

“Thing 1 and Thing 2 were also possible contenders,” he informs. 

“That might’ve been a little better.”

“What’s wrong with Mario?” he asks sharply.

“Nothing. But I do hope you weren’t sporting an Italian accent throughout that.” 

“I was,” he pushes. “A horrible one too.”

You give him the satisfaction of an eye roll. 

“You could’ve gone as Peach. We could’ve matched.” 

“I don’t know if I’d wanna wear any available Peach costumes during Halloween time.” You crinkle your nose as you think of all the racy costumes that unearth every October. 

“Maybe in private,” he says with an insufferable smile on his face. 

Placing your hands flat on his chest, you rest your chin and look up at him. “I’m not sure I want to interrupt whatever you two have going on.” 

“Who?”

“You and Wonwoo, you’re practically married.”

Mingyu laughs out loud, and you can feel the rumble in his chest against your hands, his body moving against your own that’s stuck to him. “Not with whatever he has going on with his girl.”

“Oh right,” you frown in remembrance. “What happened to not understanding how he does it?” 

“Hm?”

“He’s a TA too. Probably just as busy as you. You said you didn’t know how he could juggle a relationship and his job at the same time.”

His eyes spark in remembrance, pausing for a moment. “I may owe him an apology.”

“Do you?”

Mingyu frowns, “Actually no I don’t. I don’t think he and his lady are doing too well right now. He’s been insufferable lately.”

“Is it because of the TA-ing?”

“I never know with those two,” he sighs.

There’s silence once again, in the midst of which Mingyu leans over to kiss you a few times, soft and lingering. Like he’s trying to familiarise himself with the shape of your mouth, the tactile feeling of kissing you. 

“Do you…know about us?” There’s hesitancy in the way you ask. But you can’t help but ask anyway.

Mingyu thinks for a moment, and it has your heart beating out of your chest. “I know that I want us to be concrete. That I wanna work around whatever life throws at us. You can decide what to call it, but I know I’m in it for the long run.”

“I’m glad you’re smarter than your husband,” you smile.

He only rolls his eyes, “He’s only good at one kind of chemistry.” 

“D’you think they’ll be okay?”

“Oh yeah,” he assures. “They’re just going through a…rough patch.”

“Like we did?”

“If you’re asking me, I’d say they’re being a little more stupid about it.”

The snort that leaves you is unanimous with his own. He continues, “They’ll be okay though.”

“I hope so. I’d like to go on double dates with my boyfriend’s husband’s girlfriend.” You start giggling in the middle of your sentence, too ridiculous even for you to voice. 

“This is getting weird,” Mingyu breathes. 

You only hum against his mouth, “Do I have to take your husband's blessing before we can move forward?”

“For fuck’s sake.” 

You’re both laughing again, a sound that comes from your stomachs, true and uncontrollable. For a moment, you can’t help but be conscious of how light you feel, how happy you feel with his scent infiltrating your nostrils, his presence known where his fingertips touch you. 

“I did the sticky note thing again too,” Mingyu says into the silence, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the fit of giggles that erupt all over again. 

“Said something worse this time,” he continues as you laugh into his chest. “Accept that you’ll die alone or some other shit like that.” 

There’s comfort in this moment. In your giggles and in your tears, in his voice and in his affection. His lips are another sanctuary you’ve found, and perhaps even another way to make your dreaded latch click. 

Nose nuzzled in his cheek, the feeling of his skin so soft against yours, fingers at his chin where a slight stubble grows, you relax in ways you cannot comprehend. 

MINGYU'S LIPS BECOME A feeling you’ve grown dangerously accustomed to. 

It isn’t that he has them on you too much, regardless of what an outsider might suggest; to you they simply aren’t on you enough. 

The following Monday went as usual, for you anyway. You weren’t avoiding Mingyu this time, and you were grateful for it. It was two hours of following him with your eyes as he darted around the room. You could hardly constitute it as not paying attention when Dr. Cho was preoccupied with explaining every reason he hates JASP over SPSS, but also ultimately, hates them both. 

You don’t even notice his loud outfit (overalls and a neon green sweater underneath), happy to watch Mingyu flit about and whisper incoherent explanations to students. 

The tutorial paper is barely looked at by you, because you know your boyfriend will be happy to help you out later at his place. 

You’re barely through the door that night when he gets a hold of you, tight grip across your waist as you’re catapulted into his arms, door slammed shut behind you. 

Bag still on your shoulders and your shoes still on, Mingyu’s slammed his mouth onto yours before you can take a proper breath. You stumble, squealing through the kiss as you realise you aren’t escaping the iron grip he’s got on your face. 

Somehow between it all, you manage to slip your bag off to let it drop to the floor of his doorway, shoes kicked off one after the other as he leads you inside, littering the way. 

“You aren’t actually paying attention in class anyway,” he breathes against your mouth before kissing you again. “So why don’t you sit in the back where you don’t distract me.”

“Who says I’m not paying attention.” You open your as your back lands on the couch, looking at him as he looms overhead. 

“You’re paying attention to me.”

“It was in my job description when I signed up for the girlfriend position.”

He’s all over you now, hands at your sides, mouth underneath your earlobes as he husks, “Was letting me take you in front of the entire class also a clause? Because if this goes on I might have to take up on that.”

If you didn’t know any better you would’ve assumed he’d been possessed, everything about his behaviour screaming the opposite of the well behaved, restrained man you’ve been accustomed to. The fact that he’s whispering directly into your ears isn’t helping either, a conspicuous shiver dragging across your spine. 

It lands with precision, right at your core. You’re too hot to tell, but there isn’t a doubt you’ve begun to pool. 

There’s a ding in the background. 

He’s suckling underneath your ear, his hands roaming in ways that would smear your reputation altogether. 

Another ding. 

He’s reached your mouth once again, groping your right breast lightly. Like he’s testing the waters.

Ding. 

Mingyu makes a noise of annoyance, the other hand trailing underneath your shirt. 

His ringtone blares throughout the room, whoever the caller was having reached wit’s end. 

“Gyu…” you whisper. 

“Ignore it,” he growls. The ringing has stopped. 

He ducks underneath to kiss at your stomach, lifting your shirt oh so slowly. He goes higher, and higher and higher, leaving a trail of kisses at the skin, taking deep breaths as he drags his mouth over your torso. 

His phone begins to ring again. 

Your head is spinning, your senses overcome. If you weren’t sure before, the air of wetness between your legs is definitely obvious now. 

He brings a hand to your centre, pushing inwards at your jean clad core. You exhale sharply yet shakily. 

The ringing stops. 

Mingyu makes a gumbled sound that you can’t quite make out, too preoccupied with the way your shirt is now up past your bra, at which Mingyu has taken to leaving open mouthed kisses to your cleavage. 

There’s a ding. 

“Mingyu, I really think—”

His phone begins to ring again. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he curses, rearing his head like an interrupted animal, wet mouthed and bleary eyed. He looks at his buzzing phone on the floor in an accusatory glare, like he wants to chuck it out the window and go right back to burrowing into your chest. 

“You should answer.” 

He looks irritated as he takes his phone in his hands, and you find a flash of Dr. Cho’s name on the screen. “It’s eleven O’clock.” 

“It might be important.”

“The last time he did this he asked where his peacock feather pen was,” he grunts as he silences his phone. 

You laugh, running a soothing hand through Mingyu’s hair, a tiny attempt to calm him down. Pulling your shirt down, you attempt to sit up. 

Mingyu makes a noise of denial, attempting to stick his face into your now clothed chest, knocking you back down, “Nooooo, I’m gonna ignore him.”

“He’s not going to leave you alone,” you sing quietly, running your nails across his scalp lightly, holding his head to your chest. You place your cheek on his head, playing with his ear. 

As if to prove your point, Mingyu’s phone begins to ring again, and he groans at the prospect. 

“Go on.”

He swipes to answer it. A loud sigh and then a tired, “Hello?”

His volume is bumped up enough for you to make out what’s being said on the other line. “Where have you been?”

“It’s nearly eleven, sir. I was in bed.”

“My flash drive won’t open up on my computer.”

You have to stifle a snort. 

“Is it…plugged in?”

“Of course it is, I’m not an idiot.”

“Is it showing up on your files?”

“Disk…is not…formatted.”

“Erm, it might be corrupted.”

“How did that happen?”

“Did you download something off the internet onto it?”

“Hardly matters, I need the attendance sheet on it!”

Your fingers are massaging Mingyu’s temples as you feel him tense on top of you. 

“Your attendance sheet is on the teacher’s portal,” Mingyu grits before adding, “sir.”

“...I have other things on there too.”

Mingyu exhales ever so quietly and you tighten your hold on him a smidge. “This sounds like something tech support could help with.”

“Why can’t you help?” he asks sharply. 

“I…I don’t know how, sir.”

There’s a noise of indignation from the other end, and you can’t help but keep from laughing. 

Mingyu sighs into the phone, this time doing nothing to hide it. “I’ll take it to tech support for you tomorrow. And I’ll send you a direct link for the attendance sheet for Monday and Tuesday’s classes.”

The line beeps shut. Mingyu brings the phone for you both to see the professor’s hung up as soon as the words left Mingyu’s mouth. 

“Wow,” you whisper into the silence, the weight of Mingyu’s head heavier on your chest. “Not even a thank you.”

“Absent father behaviour,” Mingyu grumbles as he moves his face to burrow into your shirt. 

It’s a bad joke, but you laugh anyway. 

“Will I be an asshole if I say I’m not in the mood anymore?” he murmurs. 

“Absolutely not. Everything sucked right back in the minute I heard his voice on the line.”

“Gross,” he comments, but he’s laughing too. 

“Should we call it a night?” he asks, rearing his head. 

Nodding, you rise with him. By the time you’ve reached the bedroom, you’ve already begun taking off your accessories, fiddling with your bracelet as you voice. 

“I need a shower.”

Mingyu throws you a towel and a t-shirt, which you catch and move towards the bathroom. Halfway through the door, you sneak a look at him fiddling with his belt. 

“Do you wanna come in too?” 

Mingyu looks at you peering through the door frame. You’ve never seen anyone leap across the room as quickly as in that moment. 

THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE just as eventful as that phone call, Mingyu running around as the midterm low passed and the line creeped up towards finals season. 

Perhaps it was better that you stopped attending office hours, because the room seems to become increasingly packed as the days progressed. 

You only ever saw Mingyu in the wee hours of the night at his place, where he begged you to camp out till the end of the semester so he “doesn’t move to insanity”. It might even be better for you, going about your day as usual, without the usual added distraction of a partner.

Coming home to him was easier, where he could clear up your doubts while in ratty pyjamas and starfished across the bed, where you could find solace in Mingyu’s chest without prying eyes when the information became like filling an already stuffed junk drawer. 

It was a Friday night, you’re alone at Mingyu’s place sitting cross legged on the floor. The table in front of you is pouring over the final question of this week’s tutorial paper, everything seemingly whizzing right past the top of your head. 

Despite that, as Mingyu stumbles inside past eleven, you know you shouldn’t ask him for a thing. 

Tired was a look on Mingyu you’d gotten quite used to, so you’ve learned to not comment and simply let him fall into the couch cushions with all his weight. 

His face is parallel to yours as he closes his eyes with a light groan in greeting. Moving forward, you kiss the flutter of his eyelids softly, down to the apple of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. 

Your fingers run through his tangled and distressed hair as he mumbles against your mouth. “Did you finish the tutorial paper?”

You huff in mild annoyance, that despite his state he still thinks about work. “Not yet. One last question and I’m done.”

He hums and waits a moment before reopening his eyes. With a loud groan he’s pushing himself off the couch, sliding off of it to sit with you on the uncomfortable floor. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

“I can figure it out myself, Gyu.”

“You would’ve been done by now if you could,” he answers. It’s annoying that he says it but he’s also right. 

Mingyu holds the paper a mere inch from his eyes, the sight almost comical if he also didn’t look an inch from passing out. 

He mumbles the question as he reads, “It’s nothing, just worded weird. Toggle this off and move this to mixed factors and you’re done.”

The toggles are done for you, and Mingyu takes the liberty crossing he question off with a pen he finds on the table. 

“Did you get everything else?” he asks in earnest. 

“Hm? I think so.” 

“Good.” And then he’s throwing his head back to rest it on the couch cushions behind him, breathing slowly. 

He’s in a navy sweater, collar of his undershirt peeking through the top. Your gaze leads up further, to the exposed area of his throat—clean, tan and naked. You realise this might not be a good time, but it’s only natural your mind cooks up other ways to translate your helplessness as you watch your boyfriend push himself to the brink. Release is never a bad idea. 

Besides, it’s a Friday night. No reason to not. 

“Gyu,” you shuffle closer. 

Lolling his head to look over at you, he answers in a small voice, “Yeah?” 

You put on the guiltiest face you can muster, complete with darting eyes and fidgeting fingers. “D’you think…d’you think you can go over post hoc tests again?”

“Post hoc?” He furrowed his eyebrows. You bite the inside of your cheek, having blurted the first plausible model you could think of to ask him. It’s an older bit of the syllabus, something you should already be well versed in. 

Not that you care what he thinks right now, he’d figure out why you were asking anyway. 

“Post hoc, um,” he rubs a hand over his face as if to jog his memory. 

Shifting forward, you plaster you front onto his side. He thinks nothing of it. 

“Analysis tool after you’ve already run the data,” he begins. 

Placing your chin on his shoulder, you let your nose nuzzle against his cheek. Trailing up, your lips find the shell of his ear. 

“Results have to be…they have to be…” He falters when your hand reaches his front, running across the expanse of his clothes stomach, nails digging ever so slightly as you reach his abdomen. You continue to place open mouthed kisses at the space of neck you can reach. 

“Hm? Has to be what?”

“Statistically significant,” he breathes when your palms reach the tops of his thighs. “To run a post hoc test.”

His trousers are less barrier inducing than regular jeans, something you’re both grateful for as you begin to palm his clothed bulge. “Results of what, baby?”

“For the love of—”

“Go on,” you whisper in his ear. “Please.”

One flick and his trousers are unbutton, pulling them aside as the zipper pulls open. You're pushing down his boxers when he answers you. “ANOVA.” 

“What’s that again?”

“You little shit.”

You move your mouth forward to kiss him.

“Analysis of variance.” 

You hum against the column of his throat at that, his half hard member in your hands. Light touches, that’s all they are, running the pads of your fingers across the pulsing length, coaxing him into full length. 

“What’s it for though? We already got our results.” Bending forward, you stick your tongue to kitten lick at his tip. Mingyu hisses, hips shifting. Your tongue swirls around the tip, pushing into the skin on the head where he’s most sensitive. 

“Ugh, fuck, for um,” he falters as you begin to suck at his head, tongue running over each hollow of your cheeks. 

“For…for…” His chest is moving up and down in quick breathes, every sound from his mouth coming from a deep rumble in his stomach. 

Letting go of his cock, you continue to pump him with your hand as you gaze up at him from your position. “For? Keep talking, baby.”

“For…To identify groups,” he grunts out. He lets out a louder moan when you place your mouth back on him, going past his tip and taking as much as you can of him into your mouth. “Identify…the differences, shit, hmph.”

He takes a loud breath before speeding through it again, “Identify which groups actually differ, oh my god.”

The bit of him that you can’t fit on your mouth is being pumped by your hands, fingers pushing into him like you were trying to indent them on the base of his cock. A glance upwards and you find his head thrown back, hands coming to tangle in your hair. His thumb caresses the side of your cheek.

“How many groups?” you ask, before diving back in. 

“Three,” he chokes out. “Three or more, oh I’m gonna cum, fuck don’t stop, holy shit.”

Both of his hands are at your head, guiding you as you suck him harder, faster, more tongue digging into his slit. You hum against his dick on purpose, making sure it’s coarse enough to get the reaction you want. 

You succeed, because immediately after you hear Mingyu rip out the loudest moan you’ve ever heard, his grip on your strands harder than ever. He cums into your mouth, hips stuttering as you place your entire weight on him to keep him in place. 

You let some of it dribble out your mouth and back over his softening dick like a hot coating, sucking him through shooting spurts of cum that land on your tongue. 

When you emerge from underneath, Mingyu looks like he got the soul sucked out of him; eyes closed, stuttered breaths raking through his entire body, a light sheen of the beginnings of sweat that glisten in the low light of the room. 

Reaching for the tissue box and water bottle on the table, you soak the napkins and bring them to clean him up. He whines when the cold tissues touch him where he’s most sensitive right now, you want to kiss him but account for the cum that is actively stuck to the walls of your mouth. 

You leave for a few minutes, much to Mingyu’s hoarse protests. He’s almost on all fours, hands on the floors as you promise to be back. By the time you’ve hauled his tired ass into bed, you’re just as ready to knock out as the half asleep man beside you. 

Mingyu’s face is plastered into your neck, arms and legs thrown over your form as he hugs you close to him. 

“I might love you,” he says into the darkness. A secret, just for you and the walls to hear. 

You hide the way your heart absolutely leaps, conceal the way your hands tighten around his form into an affectionate caress, hold your breath to prevent the inevitable hitch. 

I might love you too. 

You hide that as well. For now. 

Smiling into the skin of his temples, you sigh.

“Feel free.”

[Mingyu]: class ended early 

[Mingyu]: be there in 5 

[You]: ???

[You]: wdym ended early

[You]: kim did u end class early to come home

Your response comes in the form of the front door lock jiggling loudly. You’d stayed the night at his place, knowing you didn’t have anything to do but study by yourself. Sickly as you were, you doubt you could sit through two hours of even more statistics. 

He’d left you in bed with a kiss, needing to be extra early since Dr. Cho decided to dump the last crucial few weeks leading up to finals season entirely on his TA. As much as there was on Mingyu’s already overflowing plate now, you couldn’t deny the elated feeling of your attendance being taken care of regardless of whether you show up to class or not. 

A very real violation, but no one truly notes one skipped student in the midst of hundreds. Besides, the bag under Mingyu’s pretty eyes might be enough for anyone to have mercy and let the supposed mistake slide.

As Mingyu walks into the room, shoes flying and back dumped on the floor, he finds you still half clothed with leftover sleep in your eyes, standing in the middle of the living space like you were lost. 

He drops his things to come and drown you in his arms, loud kisses all over your face as you talk. “You’re getting too comfortable with this job.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t possibly expect me to teach a bunch of half asleep idiots when my woman is all alone at home, sickly and cold without me.”

You grumble wordlessly as you feel him check your temperature with the back of his hand. “How’s the congestion?”

“Bad,” you respond nasally. “I can’t find my Afrin.”

“It’s on the bedside table, baby.”

“No, it’s not.”

Still wrapped in his hold, Mingyu begins to take steps forward that lead towards the bed, pushing you to walk backwards.

“I’m not awake enough to navigate,” you sniff.

“I’ve got you,” he lowtones, pushing backwards slowly. 

The back of your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall back into the unmade sheets. You crawl back under the covers as Mingyu navigates between used tissues, water bottles and pills on the bedside table. But no sign of your nasal spray. 

You have to breathe through your mouth and you hate it, but you send a remark his way anyway. “Told you.”

Mingyu bends down and emerges with a familiar red capped bottle. He stares at you while you stare at it, choosing to simply snatch it from his presenting hands and be done with it. 

“Good thing I came back early, hm?” 

“Shut up.”

He leaps over your form to claim the spot in bed right next to you, still fully clothed as he burrows under the covers next to you.

There’s nothing flattering about the way you stick the nozzle up your nostrils and sniff hard, but the gleam in your boyfriend’s eyes might as well suggest you were trying to get him to look at you like that. 

“Are you gonna keep doing this till finals?” you ask throatily, shifting under the covers. 

“Teaching during class time is just extended office hours, I’m gonna go insane if I keep going like this. Probably just today. Or…once more if I feel it.”

“Didn’t you say you were gonna extend office hours to Fridays too?” 

Mingyu moulded himself against you, giving warmth to your shivering body even under thick blankets. 

It seems throughout the course of your relationship, your time with Mingyu is either spent laying down or in the process of doing so. Not that you mind, you’ve found that remaining horizontal was what worked best for someone like Mingyu who seemed to want to fuse with your very being whenever you were together.

“Ugh, not this week. Do not have the patience.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say, eyes closed, already on the highway to dreamland. 

“Thank you, I do think I’ve been very brave.” Even while slipping into dreamland, you find the good sense to find his nipple through his sweater and give it a hard pinch. He jerks away in a yelp, clutching his chest. 

“What’s that for?!”

You ignore him and simply run your hand over the area you just attacked. “You’ve gotten better at knowing when to slow down. I’m proud of you.”

You’re too far gone to make out what he answers you with, but with the hot breath against your already warm forehead, you decide it's more than enough for you. 

MINGYU DOES IT FOR the fourth time, but this time round he’s smart enough to not tell you. 

It’s the Friday before finals week officially begins, and you remain in your own place for once to crack down on the last bits of syllabus you want to go over, away from your extremely distracting boyfriend. 

There’s a text when you check your phone after a couple hours of hyperfocus, and you narrow your eyes at the notification. 

It’s Wonwoo’s (actual) girlfriend, and she’s sent you nothing but a picture of both of your men on Wonwoo’s living room floor, thoroughly occupied with the floored expanse of sheets, pillows and cushions. 

It’s a pillow fort.

Your boyfriend is building a pillow fort in his not-husband’s living room mere days before the final exam for the most dreaded course of the semester. All while he’s actively meant to be available for office hours.

You want to laugh. The man that stayed up multiple nights to answer stupid questions in emails, is now less than concerned about the pandemonium that is probably ensuing in the department building. It isn’t that you’re upset, because this was what you wanted from him. To learn to take a break when it was needed. But you would also prefer he’d time them a little better. 

Inevitably, you text him, but not before sending an encouraging text to your girlfriend-in-law for putting up with the both of them all by herself. 

[You]: where are you

[Mingyu]: where im meant to be?

[You]: office hours?

[Mingyu]: mhm

[You]: are u and ur husband conducting them under a pillow fort in his house

You imagine him sending Wonwoo’s girlfriend a betrayed look. Perhaps even throw a frilled throw pillow in her unassuming direction. 

[Mingyu]: DONT KILL ME

You let him suffer in your silence, clicking your phone off and leaving it somewhere you won’t be tempted to look. 

Besides, it wasn’t long before there was an incessant banging at your door that you ended up needing to get up to open. He looks so timid, the face of an innocent perpetrator that waltzes into your space. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins, following you to your desk like a lost duckling. 

“Whatever for?”

“For lying.” 

You snort as you sift through tutorial sheets, “Might wanna take that up to the poor hopeless student that thought you were their last hope.”

Mingyu’s head sinks to your shoulder where you sit at your desk. “God.”

“Him too.”

In another few moments, his arms have come around to cage you into your desk where you’re sat, hands placed on the table as he towers over the top of your head, mouth to crown. 

“Rumour has it,” he starts. 

You make a face. “Now you’ve joined in on gossip? Maybe I have steered you wrong.”

He ignores you valiantly as his mouth drops lower, down to the beginnings of the tips of your ears. You can smell him. He smells good. 

“That a textbook recitation is all it takes to get you all bothered down there.”

Lifting your head from its craned position over your papers, you stare straight ahead. Blank and unassuming. 

“Take a hike, Kim.”

“...Sorry.”

NO MATTER HOW FAKE annoyed you were at your boyfriend, you cannot possibly credit anyone else for how smooth your finals had gone. 

Not a single tear, hack or whine. Your meals were on time, your sleep schedule the healthiest it’s been for months. You even managed a movie night break in the midst of it all. A record for you. 

The very first thing you do after walking out of the exam hall, stretching and sighing, you find Mingyu waiting with nervous eyes. 

“Well?” he asks, eyes wide and lips pulled into his teeth. 

You merely grab for his hand and pull him out of the crowded hall and past a few familiar turns. 

“For the record I didn’t want some of the questions on there,” he yaps as he follows behind your stalks. “Hard ones weren’t mine. I promise I’m not a sadist.”

Then, in an un-CCTV’d corner, marked by the broken, empty vending machine, you round up on him. In seconds you’ve pulled him down to meet your lips in an eager, full kiss. 

In the moments your lips remain intact, you can feel all the horrid statistical knowledge you’d gathered over the months slip out the cracks and crevices, relieving you. 

Mingyu is careful to let you pull away first, eyes sticky to open when you do. There’s a smile on your face. “It went great.”

A strong tug against your waist and you’re suddenly pressed into Mingyu’s all too familiar hold, so everloving tight you can hardly breathe. His lips are smacking and pressing into your skin, all over your face, neck and hands. Anywhere he could possibly reach. 

There wasn’t much he could do standing in a huddled corner at nine in the morning on a Tuesday, where anyone could pass by and question what in the high school was going on. But there was more than enough Mingyu could do behind closed doors. 

In true Mingyu fashion, he’s begun to grope in every way you love the minute the lock clicks shut of his apartment, every fibre of both of your beings giddy and jumpy, giggles erupting from your tired mouths. You haven’t been touched in ages, always too tired to do anything even when you would find the time. 

It isn’t remotely strange that you're wet from only a few kisses and hot breaths against your neck. Although Mingyu’s hands haven’t been modest either, already reaching your clothed cunt as you fall into bed. 

He says it was your reward, for doing so good, his illustrious mouth suctioned onto your naked core, moving and grinding in ways you can more than just appreciate.

His tongue is nothing below made for you, like he knows exactly when to flick his tongue, graze his teeth and all but suck the daylights out of you. It’s marvellous, even more so as you realise he won’t stop. One, two, three mind blowing orgasms later, your legs still shake around his head as you cry out for him to stop. 

Not that he was going to listen, as he did not the last fifteen times you tried, simply pushing a finger into your abused hole to chuck you into yet another climax. You’re sobbing, trembling, sweating; but also half hearted in your attempts to stop him. 

By the time he’s relented, you’re sure you won’t feel a thing down there for at least a week. If Mingyu will even let you go untouched for that long. 

But as you’re finally able to catch your long lost breath in bed, and Mingyu has curled up right beside you, like he always does, you let the finality of it all sink in. You were done. And so was he. And you could now begin to experience a Mingyu that wasn’t exhausted, stressed or tired. Even now, the long indented layers of fatigue begin to melt away, revealing a less strained man. 

Mingyu was beautiful either way. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you, his fingers tracing your features. 

The pads of his fingers glide across your eyelids, down the slope of your nose, tracing the outline of your lips. You kiss his fingers as they reach you there, hand coming up to hold his wrists. You kiss the tips of his fingers, down to the palm of his hand. Eyes closed, you keep your lips there. 

“More than okay,” you mumble. 

“Good. Thought I lost you there.”

Stretching unceremoniously, you drape yourself over his naked form, head on his shoulder. “You’re not losing me. Not after being the sole reason I pass this devil’s module.”

“Is that all it takes? Make sure you don’t fail?”

“And give head like that.” It’s a half joke. “But also be Kim Mingyu comma TA.”

He mimics you between a breathy laugh, “Comma TA. Not anymore, I guess.”

“How happy are you?”

“Still have to grade the last set of papers. But I got what I wanted.”

“The recommendation? You deserve it.”

“That, and not having to be in Dr. Cho’s presence every other day. And you.”

You kiss his shoulder. “Look at you. All grown up with your big boy grad school on the horizon.”

“Not just yet.”

“You’ll get there too. If you can power through this hellsent semester, you can power through anything grad school applications throw.”

Mingyu shifts where he lays, taking a turn to lie on his side to face you. The afternoon sun peeks from behind his form, his outline made of pure gold. His breath is in your face as he talks, and there’s comfort in the air it penetrates.

“I only powered through this because of you. I hope you know that.” He’s smiling. 

“Girlfriend duties,” you quote solemnly. 

“I mean it. I knew I was walking into disaster with how this stupid job was going, all that work was just a distraction. I didn’t wanna believe this was a bad idea. And then you walked in.”

You cup his face and pout, “Oh, my damsel in distress.”

“Hm, my knight in shining armour,” he giggles. “Galloped in and saved me from myself.”

“You saved me too. From the world and its horrible creations.” 

“I’ll start talking in formulas if this keeps up.” 

You can only grumble in mild annoyance. 

“I’m glad I asked you to come in early that day,” he says.

“I’m glad I was a good samaritan and gathered all your stuff that day.” You grin.

Mingyu leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, slow, and drips of the romance he’s trying to bring into the conversation. His lips are bliss, the feeling of him is bliss. 

It’s almost scary how easily you’ve been able to give yourself to him. How quickly he’s placed himself in every nook and cranny of your heart. With his tired eyes and stronger than himself smile, the hand he extended in ways beyond you could ever explain to him. It’s terrifying when you realise what remains on the tip of your tongue, ready and bursting. 

But it’s true, and you can only pray it remains that way. Because in that moment, naked and tangled between Mingyu’s limbs, his heart in your ears, your hands on his being, you just know. 

“I think I might love you too.” 

[moonchild1]

min yoongi fic rec list (Ⅵ)

she's back bet you didn't think i'd post another list this quick but since they've been building so much i figured why not soooo this week is yoongs and next week with be taehyung i've been reading alot lately so i wanted to share them asap so before my week gets hectic again i thought i'd post it, i honestly loved these ones i am exploring a little bit for with certain genres and i must say it like a whole new world i'm enjoying it and i hope you like them too. remember too always show lots of love and support to these amazing writers they dedicated so much time to writing these fics and they are absolute geniuses and deserve the world for sharing them with us so please follow them and take a look at their masterlists cause i will 100% guarantee that you will find your very own favourites there as well, leave the a little comment i know they will appreciate it so much and send them all the love in the world... i will reblog these through out the week and as usual minors do not interact i will block those who do.... happy reading everyone see you next week with taehyung's list and if you have anything you would like to share with me or you just wanna ramble about a fic you loved my asks are always open i love hearing from you🖤✨

a- angst s- smut f- fluff

series

stalemate by @shina913 f s a

↬"The truth is, I'm not afraid to take that gamble anymore...in the off-chance that I get lucky again and feel the way I felt when I was with you. I'd happily make that bet over and over."

oh, my darling by @yoongiofmine f s a

↬ starting your second semester at one of South Korea’s most prestigious universities should be stressful enough. Between juggling classes, good grades and a social life, your plate was full. Hoping to spice up your academic career, you thought it was a good idea to enroll as an assistant for your literature professor, whom you've held a very secret and very forbidden crush on for the past several months. What will happen now that you’re forced to work closely together? And what if your crush isn’t as one sided as you thought?

little bit of your heart by @/yoongiofmine f s a ft. jjk

↬You had everything you could ever dream of; the career of your dreams as a music producer, the best friends you could ever wish for, and a exes-turned-friends-turned-fuck-buddies relationship with Min Yoongi. You knew you and Yoongi would never move past that and you were okay with it. Until a friend from your past comes back into your life, offering to give you everything you deserve, everything Yoongi couldn’t. Will Jungkook show you what you’ve been missing? Or will the new guy threaten Yoongi enough to do something about it? 

sinful lust by @oddinary4bts s a ft. jjk

↬ in an attempt to spice up your bedroom life with your boyfriend Min Yoongi, you suggest bringing another man into the action. Yoongi seems reluctant at first, but when you mention his friend Jeon Jungkook, he can’t deny his attraction. All that’s left to do is to convince Jungkook into participating...

after hours by @archivedkookie f s a

↬ staying after hours with Yoongi for months proves to be a mistake when your heart falls for him.

Vows by @hamsterclaw f s a

↬ You're five years into your arranged marriage with Min Yoongi, and he's never once retaliated for anything you've done to him. One day you realise you've lost your appetite for provoking him, and you set about trying to win his heart instead.

sutures by @farfromsugafanfic f s a

↬ There was only one thing you and Min Yoongi had in common that night. You were both brokenhearted. You only intended to be together for one night, but when you both end up in the hospital the next day you discover that you are soulmates. It could kill you to be apart. As you and Yoongi attempt to sever the bond between you, will another be formed?

and so it goes by @prodagustd f s a

↬ You and Yoongi have been hooking up, having dates and spending most of the week together for almost seven months. He was comfortable without a title, until the last two weeks, when you couldn't see him because of your busy schedule, Yoongi can't understand why he misses you so bad if your relationship is just sex to him. Or maybe he does, but he's too much of a coward to admit it.

collateral by @theharrowing f s a ft. jjk & knj

↬ Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

till death do us part by @colormepurplex2 s a

↬ Marital bliss isn't always a guarantee, especially when you find yourself marrying into the family responsible for your own family's demise. Sometimes, marriage is just a game of kill or be killed. Even when there is love involved, bullets still hurt.

grey area by @blushoseoks s a ft. jhs

↬ you spent the days staring at your wrist and tracing the skin where your soulmate’s name would one day appear. the nights were for telling your wrist about your day, as if the person whose name would one day stain itself there, like red wine to a dress, could possibly hear you. for years you thought up countless scenarios, imagined numerous possibilities, formulated conversations and rehearsed them over and over, until your mouth ran dry. outcomes and conclusions performed in your head on a repetitive loop. but out of everything you thought up, out of all of the time spent towards thinking about your soulmate, about what could possibly occur, none of it could ever prepare you for what would actually end up being. none of it ever came close to the way it happened when you finally met him. and now, after it’s all been said and done, you were left asking yourself one thing, and one thing only: “was it really worth all of this in the end?”

isn't it romantic by @jeonqkooks f s a

↬ Many things in life have a polar opposite: left and right, night and day, yin and yang, you and Min Yoongi... Hopeless romantic meets gloomy cynic. The only thing you seem to share is a magazine column but even then, you still can’t seem to understand how Yoongi can be called ‘The Love Doctor’ when he is the antithesis of everything love represents.

Flux by @yoonia f s a ft. jjk

↬ One of them is your longtime secret crush, while the other is the man with whom you had shared many heated nights filled with lust and forbidden desire, forever kept as your biggest secret of all time. You had sworn that those sinful nights would end, and that your secret crush would remain a secret. (poly au)

mean yoongi by @jjkpls f s

↬ Min Yoongi asks you to take care of his plants when he’s gone. It doesn’t go as planned and well, he has to deal with your misbehaving ass.

pretend by @gimmesumsuga s a

↬ “You know what they say: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?” idol au infidelity

naughty little kitten by @jungkooksxo s a ft ksj

↬ Jin figures out that you’re super into the idea of Yoongi listening in on you two having sex. Yoongi is super into listening to you and Jin having sex. Jin invites Yoongi to come play with his naughty little kitten.

babydoll by @jungcock s a

↬ Your childhood crush, now famous and successful, comes to visit you while you’re drunk and have a lot to prove.

eleven months by @bratkook f s a

↬ it’s been years of yoongi living his routine life, accustomed to his pace of living, going with the flow and simply existing. until you come along. yoongi absolutely can not see the logic in the way you live, but he weirdly craves it. craves the feeling of not being afraid of not knowing what's coming, being able to just let the cards fall wherever they land. and maybe you can help with that.

pause by @whatifyoulivelikethat s a

↬ Life is like a cassette tape. It seems like it’s constantly repeating, flipped from side A to side B, and the songs can’t be skipped. You can only pause, rewind, fast forward, play after you’ve already heard the song. After you’ve already lived it. All Min Yoongi knows is his own tape, until it smashes right at his feet, and then he has to learn to dance to a different beat.

darksided by @eoieopda f s a

↬ It all started with a bad joke and a bottle of Tanqueray.

three squeezes by @nomnomsik s a ft jhs

↬ Yoongi is notorious for his grumpy and emotionless behavior as director of an upcoming company. Yet, it’s a mystery to everyone how manager Hoseok always seems to soften him up. The truth is that the two are actually engaged. Unknown to this fact, you happen to take an interest in Hoseok… and he does too. 

one-shot

bad decisions by @jjungkookislife f s

↬ Jimin is desperate to get his apartment back to himself. He’ll move hell and earth, and even drop to his knees to beg you to take his brother, Yoongi, out of his hands. Who are you to say no to that pretty face and sinister grin?  

breakfast in bed by @joonbird f s

↬ “Min Yoongi, a grumpy Ikea employee, is wondering who you are and why exactly you’re sleeping in the display bed at his Ikea.”

Tricks of the Trade by @stutterfly f s a

↬ The convenience store across the street from your apartment carries your favorite energy drink. That's why you frequent it. It's definitely not because you have a big fat crush on the owner you've been flirting with for the better part of a year. Of course your brand of flirting can also be misconstrued as bickering. When a strange man wanders into the store, he thinks you need a little nudge to embrace the strings connecting you. Next thing you know you're waking up in a body that definitely doesn't belong to you. You can't decide if it's the best or worst thing that's ever happened to you.

threads by @yoonia s a ft. knj

 ↬ Life is full of surprises, just like how people are full of secrets. Just when you had thought you have been lucky enough to have your life figured out, life decides to throw you a curve ball when you least expect it. And there is nothing you could do to avoid it, except to hope that you could hold your secrets as tightly as you possibly could before everything blows up into smithereens.

under the willow tree by @orchidyoonkook f a

↬ The town outcast shows up in the one place you find solace from it’s residents. The people you force yourself to fit in with, even though you never want to be anything like them. Will he ruin your only place of salvation, or become the most unlikely friend?

mami by kithtaehyung s ft. knj

↬ you somehow have a conversation with yoongi, and you tell your roommate about a date date.

the devil wears valentino by @orchidyoonkook f s a

↬ Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

angel by @sailoryooons f s

↬ Yoongi never meant to keep coming back. You never meant to become Yoongi’s favorite. Being Min Yoongi’s favorite has dire consequences

a boy like you by @cinnaminsvga f

↬ for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you. {or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

last nite by @tayegi s a

↬ This is a zombie apocalypse AU based on The Walking Dead, The Stand, World War Z, and elements of Attack of Titan

zombie bites by @luffles424 f s a

↬ Your friends have always been willing to assist you when you need a model to practice makeup on. And with the upcoming zombie film on campus is no difference. But something feels different this time, can a zombie movie be more than just a zombie movie? 

heaven's winter by @jksangelic f s a

↬ your duty as the village daughter places you in line for the season’s Offering; a tradition not to tread lightly upon. as the snow falls slow and heavy, and the seraph awaits in the shallows of the mountain, you fail to realize what the winter has in store for you.

heavy sugar by @kinktae s

↬ The Roaring Twenties were a time of great economic wealth and social change. But beneath the jazz music and colorful speakeasies were mafia led organized crimes and bloodstained cash. You knew this well, but try as you might, you just couldn’t ignore the dark and enigmatic gangster whose eyes lingered on you from across the room.

all that holly, jolly shit by @daechwitatamic f s

↬You haven’t seen or heard from Yoongi since he broke your heart five years ago, laying out a logical list of reasons why you were better off breaking up. When a Christmas Eve blizzard traps you together for the night, you have no choice but to examine how few of those reasons are still true. And if they’re not… where does that leave you?

calling the shots by @chans-room f

↬ College basketball captain Yoongi

until death by @kpopfanfictrash s a

↬ Jade has always shaped the island of Kekon. Mined from the mountains, it enhances the abilities of Green Bone warriors who wear it and allows them protection from outside harm. No one understands these threats better than you do, second-in-command of the mighty No Peak clan.  When a new danger appears, seeming to come from within, everything you once took for granted is called into question. Including the bonds you’ve made, some more dangerous than the others. None more so than Min Yoongi, head of No Peak and the only one capable of destroying your heart.

whatta catch by @aredheadedmess f a

↬ One, two, three strikes you’re out. When opposing opinions find you roughing it up with the university’s star pitcher, he makes it his mission to show that you’re wrong about college sports—and maybe your feelings about the player himself.

shatter me, embrace me by @95rkives s

↬you longed for him, yearning for love, yet all that awaited you was heartbreak.

you're losing me by @/archivedkookie a

↬ ❝ He’s losing you, and yet, he lets the flower die in front of his eyes instead of doing everything to save it. Alternatively, Yoongi and you are losing your love toward each other. ❞

spotlight by @back2bluesidex f a

↬ No matter how much you run away from Yoongi, Yoongi always comes right back to you.

all the wrong places by @mrworldwideshoulders f a

↬ After getting separated from your friends during a night out, you get stuck with a hefty bill – one that you can’t pay. So when a handsome, emotionless stranger covers your tab in a random act of kindness, you’re determined to track him down and pay him back. inspired by 24K Magic by Bruno Mars.

now we reign by @/oddinary4bts f s a

↬ when working on a collab together makes you and Min Yoongi seek comfort with the other, you discover there’s more to life than loneliness. Only, hurdles mark your path in Min Yoongi’s life, and it’s unclear what the outcome will be. Will you be destroyed by him and his world, or will you learn to reign over it, together with him?

stay by sugarwithtea f s a

↬ what happens when you get stranded in a remote town with no place to live except for a lodge owned by a dangerously handsome but annoying man? yeah, a lot.

when the stars align by @itskimtaehyung f

↬ With cuffing season approaching its end, you thought you had escaped the pressures of finding a boyfriend for the holidays. That is, until your friends set you up on a blind date that goes horribly wrong. This prompts you to enlist the help of your roommate, Yoongi, to fake a relationship so your friends will stop meddling in your love life. And it turns out Yoongi is a lot better at this romance thing than you originally thought...

egotstic by @pasteljeon s a ft. knj

↬ The timing was never right. He loved you when you were kids, knees scraped and cheeks red. You loved him when pimples bloomed across his skin, voice cracking and he found solace in the scribbled lines in his notebook. The stars never seemed to align for the two of you, but perhaps it was because you were meant for someone else.

on the court by @centerhaechan f

↬ As captain of your school's winning women's basketball team, it is only understood that you despise the men's basketball team and their captain. Your main rival, Min Yoongi, enjoys testing your patience while he attempts to lead his own team to a championship victory. Your coaches believe you both have problems with teamwork, and insist that working together will produce a promising solution.

sugar by @zehakoo f s

↬ desperately in need of sugar to make coffee in order to ease down your headache, you find yourself knocking on a strangers door who happens to be your best friend’s friend and the finest man you’ve ever encountered.

from the ashes by @fortunexkookie s a

↬ Someone is sobbing ugly, wrecked sounds that shatter the silence in the room. You need them to stop; it’s distracting and you need to focus. You need to clean the ash from his skin. You need to comb the knots from his hair. You need to dress his beautiful body in something befitting the king you know he is… but the sobbing is too loud, and your vision is blurry. It takes Yoongi wiping your tears away for you to realize that the gasping cries echoing off the stone are coming from you.

the dark by @/bratkook s

↬ your small town thrives on the occult, luring tourists in with endless themed festivities, but the only place you’re determined to see is the mysterious club that comes to life the week before Halloween. what makes The Dark so exclusive, and what secrets are they hiding behind closed doors?

Triplicity by @kainks ft. jhs

↬ Distance is a cruel thing, and when you find yourself going astray, they are there to help remind you of just where exactly you belong.

fermata by @jeongi f s

↬ fer·ma·ta: from fermare, it means to stay or to stop. min yoongi teaches you exactly how to let go.

private lessons by @dntaewithluv f s

↬ Your little sister finds it odd how you’ve been taking private lessons from her piano teacher for over a month now, but she hasn’t heard you actually play even once…

first love by @geniuslab f s a

↬You learn a lot of new things in your first year of university, including what it feels like to fall in love.

↬looking for other myg fics or the other bts members check out my library

[cactus-cuddler]

𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Professor!Bucky Barnes × Female!Student

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Plot: You challenged his authority. He challenged your mind. But neither of you expected words to turn into desire

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: 🔞 Explicit content ★ Student/Professor dynamic ★ Power play ★ Oral sex ★ Fingering ★ Dirty talk ★ Age gap ★

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 4,6 (sorry)

The new academic year is just around the corner, and as always, you already know what you're signing up for: every history and literature course you can fit into your schedule.

It’s your comfort zone—familiar subjects, familiar structure.

But then, scrolling through the updated course catalog, something catches your eye. A title that reads less like a class and more like a dare:

“Europe in Conflict: Truths They Won’t Teach You in History Books”

You roll your eyes.

It sounds like pure academic clickbait—designed to provoke, to stand out, to spark controversy.

You’ve always believed that history is history. It’s written, it’s documented, it’s taught.

There are no “hidden truths.” No conspiracies buried between the lines of a textbook.

Still… you hesitate.

Something about that course nags at you. Maybe it’s the arrogance in the title.

Maybe it’s curiosity.

Or maybe it’s the quiet voice in the back of your mind that wants to prove it wrong.

Whatever it is, you find yourself doing something you didn’t expect: You enroll.

Not because you’re convinced.

But because you want to see what this so-called “truth” really is.

«Are you sure about the title of your course? No one’s going to sign up,» said Sam Wilson, arms crossed, looking at his best friend — James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky to his friends. Buck, only to Sam.

«Too late. I changed my mind. Why didn’t you stop me from thinking it was a good idea to become a university professor instead of an ambassador?» Professor Barnes shot back, fussing with the collar of a shirt that didn’t feel quite right.

He had never been one for fancy clothes, and spending hundreds of dollars on suits wasn’t exactly his thing. That’s why he borrowed one from Sam, even though they were clearly not the same size. In Sam’s clothes, he looked more like a badly dressed clown than a respectable professor — but that didn’t seem to bother him.

Despite appearances, Bucky was nervous. He tried not to show it, but this was his first class, his first time teaching. He didn’t have the degrees, the credentials, or even the confidence. But there was one thing he did have: the past. And he hoped that would be enough. All he had to do was tell his story — or at least, parts of it.

The other professors weren’t exactly thrilled about him joining the faculty. He’d seen the way they looked at him — with doubt, with mistrust. He’d heard the whispers in the halls:

«An assassin, teaching our students?»

«We're putting their education in the hands of that monster?»

He ignored them. Smiled politely. "I’m going to be the best damn professor this place has ever seen," he told himself, scanning the crowd in the staff lounge. Deep down, he knew they were jealous. They had worked all their lives for their place here. He? He’d just been brainwashed by Hydra, fought in World War II, and committed unspeakable crimes.

When he walked into the classroom, the seats were already nearly full. That surprised him. Maybe not everyone thought it was a bad idea. Maybe someone really wanted to hear what he had to say.

When the bell rang, he walked up to the board and wrote his full name in block letters. Underneath, a few words — concepts, really — that he would come back to later.

Then he turned to the class.

«Nice to meet you. I’m Professor Barnes. First thing you need to know: I didn’t study history,» he said, letting the words hang in the air as he scanned the room full of young, curious eyes.

A wave of murmurs spread through the class. He let it build — he wanted the noise, the reaction.

«I lived it,» he added. And just like that, silence fell.

It felt good, the way those words hit. He wasn’t sure he liked teaching, but he definitely liked that feeling — making them think.

«What you read in history books,» he continued, «is always filtered. By whoever wrote it. Their bias, their experience, their agenda.»

But before he could go on, a voice interrupted him — sharp and challenging. Yours.

«And you’ve read them all to be so sure?» you asked, staring at him as if trying to peel away the layers and see what kind of man he really was.

«What do the books say about America during World War II?» he asked the room, shifting the focus.

A hand shot up. A student replied, «We were the saviors. Just like in the first war. Every conflict in Europe — we brought peace.»

Bucky let out a bitter laugh.

«Hiroshima and Nagasaki — mean anything to you? Or the ‘liberators’ who raped women and children in concentration camps? Did you know about that?»

Everyone went still. Except you. You didn’t flinch. Those facts, to you, were just the surface. History ran deeper. These things happened everywhere.

«You funded dictators in Latin America. And that’s just what we know. If you think you’re the heroes, remember — to many people around the world, you’re just the villains. It all depends on the lens you use. If a dictator wrote the history books, would they sound any different?»

Heads shook all around the room. Yours too.

By the end of the class, Professor Barnes gave them their first assignment: an essay, based on what they'd just discussed.

You liked the idea. It gave you space to write everything you were thinking — maybe even prove him wrong.

Still, he annoyed you. His attitude, the way he spoke — rough, blunt, even crude. His shirt was wrinkled, his pants too big, like he hadn’t even tried. Nothing about him said “professor.” And maybe that’s what bothered you the most.

“What do you mean by an ‘F’?” you ask, taking the essay back from Professor Barnes a week later.

It had been a week filled with subtle battles — you challenging everything he said in class, questioning his views, pushing back with sharp comments and a fierce determination to prove him wrong.

You weren’t just a passive student; you made sure he knew you wouldn’t be easily silenced.

So, seeing that failing grade felt like a challenge thrown back at you — and you weren’t about to accept it without a fight.

He doesn’t answer. He simply ignores you and continues returning papers to the rest of the class. You’re furious. Your essay has no corrections. It’s perfect—like everything you do—and yet, right there on the front page, is a bold red F.

«Today, we’re going to talk about the Cold War,» he announces from the front of the room, calm and collected. «But I won’t be the one leading the lecture. Today, we’ll hear Russia’s perspective. Please welcome a dear friend of mine—Yelena Belova.»

You don’t hear the rest. The anger churns in your chest. You’ve never received anything lower than a B- in your entire academic life, and now this man—this random man—is trying to ruin your GPA?

You make a decision. After class, you’re going to his office. You need answers.

The moment comes sooner than expected. Now you’re standing in front of a small golden nameplate that reads: “James B. Barnes.”

You take a breath, gather your nerve, and walk in—without knocking.

He doesn’t flinch. He’s grading more papers, wearing a pair of glasses that should honestly be illegal on a man like him.

«I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but it looks like you already have,» he says, nodding toward the chair across from him.

«Can you explain this to me?» you say, your voice sharp as you drop the essay onto his messy desk.

«It’s well written,» he replies without looking up. «But all you did was summarize the textbook. I expected more, to be honest.»

«I didn’t just summarize. I added my own thoughts.»

«Thoughts based entirely on the textbook,» he counters. «I want students who think outside the box. Not ones who just regurgitate material.»

«So your grades depend on your mood?» you snap.

«No,» he says calmly. «They depend on whether you make me think.»

«At least tell me how I can fix this. I can’t have this F on my record.»

He finally looks up. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk. He’s read you like a book.

«Write something that actually makes me think. It doesn’t have to be related to class. Surprise me.»

He lingers on those last two words—surprise me—like a challenge.

You don’t thank him. You stand, chin high, and leave without another word. But deep down, you already know:

You’re going to make him regret that smirk.

After class, you head toward Professor Barnes’ office.

You wanted to hand him your new assignment away from prying eyes.

What you’ve written is pure fire—designed to provoke him, to make his knees weak.

And yet, the closer you get to his door, the more part of you wants to turn and run.

But no.

His arrogance can’t go unpunished.

He asked to be surprised—and you’re not the kind of girl who backs down. You’ve written about femmes fatales. Women who, with nothing more than charm and flesh, struck harder than any weapon ever could.

You knock softly. When he gives permission, you step in, place the paper on his desk, and slip out without saying a single word.

Mr. Barnes scans the pages with quiet focus.

The title burns red at the top, the text below laid out in perfect black. He doesn’t yet know what’s coming but he was sure you’d surprise him. He saw it in your eyes: That fire. That refusal to play safe.

How Desire Disarmed Europe

The most dangerous weapon has always been a wet mouth and a willing body.

They never needed armies. Just a gaze that lingered too long. A mouth slightly parted in pretend innocence. A hand trailing up a thigh—slow, teasing, dangerous.

Men went to war thinking they were in control,

But the moment we opened our legs their minds fell silent.

They'd step into our beds with the arrogance of conquerors, and leave with their egos shattered, begging for more.

We let them think they were taking us when really, we were wrapping ourselves around them, tight and wet and trembling. Just enough to make them think they were gods.

We whispered their names between gasps, scratched our nails down their backs, bit their lips until they moaned like beasts and all the while, we watched them fall apart.

They thought they were using us, but every groan they pulled from us was designed. Every movement, every cry, every shiver a calculated strike. Because the truth is, you can drop a man to his knees without ever touching a blade.

You just have to touch him where it matters, wrap your mouth around his thoughts, Ride his pride until it breaks, And leave him aching, ruined, and addicted.

So, Mr. Barnes tell me. When was the last time you truly lost control? Was it the heat of battle… Or the heat between her thighs?

Mr. Barnes was captivated by those words.

The deeper he read, the warmer his cheeks became, a flush creeping slowly across his skin.

His breath grew a little heavier, his pulse quickened.

Carefully, he picked up a green pen and began to write his comments—words that he would hand back to you the next day in class.

“So this is how you play, huh? You open your thighs on paper and expect me to keep my hands behind my back? You wrote this to make me sweat, to test how far you could push before I snapped. Careful, sweetheart—some men don't break. Some... bite back. Your metaphors are sharp, your rhythm tight. But it’s your mind that’s the real trap, not your body. And that? That’s what makes it dangerous. You wanted a reaction. Here's one: I haven’t stopped thinking about what you wrote. Not because it was brilliant—though it was. But because now, every time I look at you, I wonder if you moan the way you write: slow, deliberate... and just a little cruel.”

~ J. Barnes

Mr. Barnes handed your paper back in front of the whole class — so that everyone would know.

That you had rewritten it.

That he had noticed.

That it meant something.

You’d already read his comment three times. This was the fourth.

You knew you were pushing limits — but you hadn’t expected him to push back.

An A. And scribbled in the corner, his note: “Good girl.”

It made your cheeks flush hot, and he knew it.

Of course he knew.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he addressed the class.

«Today I want you to write an essay based on this prompt: Love in times of war.

Find some real examples online, but give me something you won’t find in textbooks.

If you want to write about the Times Square kiss, give me the truth — not the version polished by journalists to make the end of a war look romantic. Be original.»

You glanced around.

Everyone looked thrilled, inspired.

But to you, it felt like an invitation — or maybe a trap. Did he choose that topic for you? No. Probably not. But sooner or later, even Barnes — with all his bitterness toward history books — was bound to bring up what they never talk about: love.

You looked up.

He was watching you.

You turned away quickly.

But not before catching a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. So you wrote. Not about romance. Not about fairytales blooming in the ruins. But about women who wore lipstick and smiled wide as they married soldiers not for love, but for the hope they’d never come back. So they could inherit everything.

You wrote that love, in war, is like a seed thrown on frozen soil. Meant to be buried, never meant to grow. That most couples didn't live happily ever after — most didn’t even live together again.

You wrote about the postwar hunger. The need for freedom — even in desire. Because being tied to a man who might never return makes you crave passion even more. And when you do, they call it sin. And then, at the end, you added this — not loudly, but deliberately:

“Sex should be had before it’s too late. What was it like, not doing it for so long? Actually — Mr. Barnes — are we sure you’re not still a virgin?Back then, hardly anyone had sex before marriage, and as far as I know... you never got married.

Wouldn’t it be something if all that hard exterior of yours was just hiding the fact that you’ve never once heard a girl moan your name?”

Professor Barnes handed your essay back with the others, two classes later. His steps were steady, his tone calm — almost too calm. You weren’t prepared for what came next.

He stood at the front of the classroom, papers in hand, and began speaking about each student’s work — aloud, by name, with the same quiet sharpness as a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. You hadn’t expected this. If you had known he’d comment on them in front of everyone, you never would’ve written what you did. Not like that.

«Most of you approached the topic with romantic eyes. I found your work moving — some of it, almost touching. That doesn’t happen often, so… well done,» he said with a light, reserved applause. It grated on you — the way he pretended to be a qualified professor. A man who hadn’t studied for this role, hadn’t earned it.

He wore authority like a jacket that didn’t quite fit — too stiff on the shoulders, too new for the man inside. Your classmates beamed with pride. A few exchanged smiles. Others whispered excitedly, clearly thrilled by the unexpected praise. You sat still. Something cold fluttered in your chest.

Then: «The only one who didn’t take a romantic approach was y/n,» he added, voice cool, almost amused.

Every head turned.

A dozen curious stares met you like waves — some amused, some skeptical. One girl smirked. A boy raised his eyebrows, interested. You didn’t flinch.

«Would you mind sharing your thoughts with the class? Come up here.»

You rose slowly, uncertain but composed. Your fingers gripped the pages tightly as you made your way to the front.

Now you stood where he had stood — under the dull classroom lights, facing thirty pairs of eyes… and his comment, written in that now-familiar green ink that haunted your dreams like a secret.

“There aren’t only good girls and good boys in this world. Your piece felt more like an invitation than a provocation. I’ve heard plenty of women moan my name. Wanting me just for themselves. You're like that because you want to become one of them?”

Your throat tightened, but you kept your expression neutral. You held the page steady, then looked up — gaze level, voice calm.

«I wrote that love in wartime is a coin with two faces.

On one side, you find what the history books love — aching letters, kisses in train stations, poetic heartbreak.

On the other side, there are women who married men hoping they wouldn’t come back.

For a pension. An inheritance. A chance at owning something — maybe for the first time.

Because love isn’t always enough… when the world around you is falling apart.»

Your classmates sat still, uncertain whether to laugh or think harder. A few leaned forward. One boy looked visibly shaken; a girl whispered “damn” under her breath. Someone at the back coughed awkwardly.

From his desk, Barnes watched you — head tilted, eyes unreadable. There was something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not warm. Not cruel. But hungry. And patient. Like someone waiting for the next move in a game only the two of you were playing.

At the end of the class, everyone left.

A few paused to compliment you—sincerely, or maybe just out of curiosity—and you accepted their words with a pleased smile. If Barnes had meant to embarrass you, he’d failed. This game—you were the one playing it. And you knew exactly how far you could take it. You were just about to walk out when his voice stopped you.

«Close the door. Come here.»

You obeyed, calm, as if time itself was on your side. You had nowhere else to be. Neither did he. You stepped up to his desk.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you in silence, like he was trying to read something written on your skin. It annoyed you.

«Are you going to say something, or should I start?» you asked, sharp.

«I was hoping you would,» he replied.

His voice was low. The tone, unreadable.

«Since the first day, you’ve looked at me like you’re waiting for a reason to hate me.»

«It’s not hard,» you shot back.

«You don’t deserve to be here.»

He stood up—slowly—closing the space between you.

«Really? Tell me one thing you knew about this subject before I started teaching it.»

You stayed silent.

«Maybe it’s not that I don’t deserve this job…» he whispered, leaning in,

«…maybe you just can’t stand seeing me as only a professor. Can you?»

He curled a strand of your hair around his finger, deliberate.

«Tell me… You wouldn’t want to be one of them, would you?» His eyes were locked on yours.

Your breath caught—just slightly—but you didn’t flinch. You glanced at the door. Not because you wanted to leave, but because you wanted to remember: you could. You just didn’t want to.

His gaze slipped to your mouth. You smiled. Barely. And then—you kissed him. He didn’t pull away. Quite the opposite. He kissed you back, deeper. And when you finally broke apart, you were the one smiling.

You had known this would happen. And you liked the taste of his surrender. His gaze had changed. Darker. More resolute. And yet, he hesitated. As if still wondering whether this was a mistake—whether he should stop.

«I thought you were only good at writing provocations,» he finally said, voice rough. You stepped closer, just slightly, your tone calm—guiltless.

«Maybe I am. But you're the one who chose to read between the lines.»

He narrowed his eyes. He was a man used to control, and you were slowly stealing it from him. Not with shouting. Not with scandal. But with the ruthless logic of desire. Your fingers brushed the edge of his collar. Nothing more.

«Tell me to stop,» you whispered. And he didn’t. This time, it was him who leaned in. No rush. No remorse. He kissed you like he was trying to understand you. Like every touch was a question only your body could answer. Your back met the edge of the desk. Papers shifted slightly, disturbed. He pulled back for a moment, breath heavy, eyes searching yours—as if to ask: Are you sure? You nodded.

There were no more roles left to play. There was only the present. And an empty classroom, cut off from time.

«Not here. Come to my office in half an hour. You still have time to back out,» the professor says, trying to summon all the self-control he has left. You nod. After all, the classroom couldn’t be locked—and if you got caught, you'd both be in serious trouble.

You show up at his office prepared. Before leaving, you stopped by your dorm to change. Your roommate asked where you were going, knowing you had no more classes. You made up an excuse, but she didn’t fully believe you.

You walk in without knocking, locking the door behind you. You toss him a condom he catches effortlessly. He looks at you, amused, a grin curling his lips.

«Didn’t expect you to be so impatient. I figured you’d back out,» he says.

You chuckle. «And let you win? Never.»

You clear his desk of anything you find unnecessary and hop up onto it, sitting with purpose, making sure you’re fully on display for him.

«I’m at your mercy, Professor. How did I do on my assignments?» you ask playfully, letting him undress you piece by piece—without lifting a finger to help. You wanted to see if he was really as skilled as he claimed.

You hadn’t planned for this, so you weren’t wearing anything sexy—just a matching bra and panties in a subtle color. You’d deliberately chosen a bra that was tricky to remove, but he unhooks it with disarming ease. That surprises you.

Now you’re fully exposed. You’re naked, with nothing to hide behind, and yet you don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable. You love the way he looks at you—how his eyes trace every line, every inch of your body like he’s seeing something rare.

He starts touching your thighs—soft, bare skin under his fingers—and then moves up, taking your breasts in his hands. He pinches your nipples between his fingers with confident pressure. You bite your lower lip, trying not to moan at these teasing touches. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

But he notices.

He parts your legs wider, determined. He’s going to make you moan his name, one way or another. His fingers slide through your folds, spreading you open to see how wet you already are—how ready your body is for what’s coming. With his thumb, he begins to tease your clit, starting slow but quickly growing rougher, faster, watching your breath hitch and your composure begin to crack.

When you gasp, he pulls his thumb away and licks it clean right in front of you—tasting you deliberately.

He wants more.

He kneels between your legs, kissing your inner thighs with a teasing slowness before finally going where you need him most. He presses a wet kiss to your clit, then captures it between his lips, sucking with a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His tongue moves expertly, hitting all your sensitive spots, learning from every twitch of your body and flicker of your expression exactly where to press, where to circle, where to make you fall apart.

He slides his tongue inside you, one hand gripping your ass tightly, nails dragging just enough to leave light scratches behind.

«Mr. Barnes…» you sigh, breathless, no longer pretending to be in control.

He replaces his tongue with two long fingers—index and middle—sliding them deep inside you while watching your face twist in pleasure. Seeing you like this, overwhelmed and submissive to your own desire, gives him a surge of raw satisfaction.

«You’re even more beautiful when you let go,» he murmurs, continuing to thrust his fingers into you.

You're soaked—hot, wet, and so ready for him. He pulls his fingers out slowly, savoring the way your walls cling to them. He brings them to his lips first, then presses them against yours, forcing you to taste yourself. You open your mouth, sucking them until you can’t taste anything but yourself on his long, teasing fingers.

Then he unzips his jeans.

He takes out his thick, throbbing cock, stroking it from base to tip, his eyes locked on you. You stare, surprised.

«What a shame someone so inexperienced has something like that,» you mutter between gasps, provoking him.

«You must have high standards if ‘inexperienced’ means someone who almost made you come with just his tongue,» he shoots back, still slowly stroking himself, watching your reactions closely.

For now, he’s content just watching you—fisting his cock, savoring the view of your naked body spread out on his desk.

«I’ve been touching myself like this every night lately. Thinking about you,» he admits.

You bite the inside of your cheek. That caught you off guard. You’ve been fantasizing about this too—about fucking your professor—ever since that heated argument a few days ago that ended with unspoken tension crackling between you.

You wonder how much longer he’ll make you wait before finally filling you with that cock.

«If you want it,» he says, seeing the hunger in your eyes, «you have to ask me.»

But you won’t. He knows it. He’s testing your limits.

Instead, you take control.

You slide two fingers between your thighs and begin to fuck yourself—hard, fast, reckless. Your moans are louder now, bolder than before, almost like you want him to feel replaced. You watch his expression as your pleasure builds.

«Just so you know,» you pant, eyes locked on his, «if you don’t make me cum, I’ll do it myself.»

He can’t tell whether it’s a threat or an invitation. Either way, it pushes him over the edge.

He tears open the condom, rolls it on, and rubs the head of his cock against your clit—teasing you—before plunging inside with a single sharp thrust.

He fucks you with firm, deep, confident strokes, hitting all the right angles. It doesn’t take long before your body’s shaking uncontrollably, your orgasm ripping through you like a wave.

He follows seconds later, groaning your name against your skin.

You both finish together, trembling, moaning each other’s names—soft enough not to be heard outside the door, but loud enough to echo inside each other’s heads for a long time to come.

Thanks for reading!!!

[saturnsag3]

Study Buddy - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: this isn’t in the same universe as my other nerd!mack x frat!will blurb but sort of the same vibe

wc: 3,367

The thing about college was—well, okay, there were a lot of things about college that Will Smith didn’t like. Early classes, walking uphill in the snow, overpriced textbooks he never cracked open. But right now, the biggest thing was Statistics 2104.

He didn’t care about z-scores or regression models. Didn’t care about T-tests or p-values or whatever fresh hell was on this week’s quiz. What he did care about was the fact that his coach had just benched him until his grade went up.

“You’re a leader on this team, Smith,” Coach had said, pacing his office like he was delivering a TED Talk on discipline. “You want to play Friday? Show me you can pass your damn class.”

So here he was, sitting in Professor Delaney’s office with an empty water bottle, an even emptier brain, and just enough charm left in the tank to try and convince her not to ruin his life.

She peered at him over her glasses. “Will, you’ve failed the last two quizzes. Your attendance is spotty. Your last submitted assignment—” she held up a stapled packet with what looked like red blood all over it, “—was missing three of the assigned pages and cited TikTok as a source.”

Will cleared his throat. “Technically, it was on the STEM tab so—“

“I’m assigning you a tutor,” she cut him off. “You don’t get a say in it.”

“I wasn’t gonna argue,” he said quickly. “Actually, I—yeah. No. A tutor sounds... great. Productive. Go team.”

She raised a brow. “Macklin Celebrini. Pre-med. One of my top students.”

Will sat up straighter. The name sounded familiar—he was pretty sure they shared a row in lecture.

“The guy who sits across from me?” he asked. “Dark hair, kind of quiet?”

Delaney nodded. “That’s the one. He already agreed to help you.”

Will exhaled, half in relief, half in... something else. He didn’t know Macklin, not really, but he’d noticed him. Always early, always prepared, the kind of student who probably had color-coded notes and didn’t miss a single lecture. The kind of student Will needed if he was going to survive this class.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I can work with that.”

Delaney didn’t smile. “Library. Four o’clock. Don’t waste his time.”

---

Will was late.

Not by much—five minutes, tops—but enough that he had to jog the last stretch to the library and burst through the glass doors like he was arriving at a frat party instead of a study session. His hoodie was half-zipped, one earbud still in, sunglasses perched cockily on his head like he hadn’t realized they were indoors now. The tail-end of someone’s coffee order announcement trailed behind him as he spotted the table near the back.

There he was.

Macklin Celebrini.

No laptop screen could hide the fact that he was objectively good-looking, and unfortunately for Will’s ability to focus, the kid looked way too composed for someone voluntarily hanging out with a failing jock. His brown, straight hair sat fluffy and light on his head, a single AirPod sat idle on the table next to his tea, and his notes were already spread out in neat rows—highlighters uncapped, stats textbook open, a few post-its stuck to the top margin.

One of them read: WILL, in sharp, all-caps pen.

Will pointed as he slid into the seat across from him. “You made me a place card? That’s kinda cute.”

Macklin didn’t look up right away. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show up, so I figured I’d at least get something useful out of this and work on labeling things.”

Will grinned. “You label your friends?”

“We’re not friends.” Macklin replied flatly.

Ouch.

Will put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Damn. Cold start.”

“I’m not here to warm you up,” Macklin said, flipping a page in his notebook. “I’m here to help you not fail. So let’s focus.”

Will leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes very much not on the textbook. “I’m focused.”

Macklin didn’t look up, but his pen paused mid-sentence. “Staring at me doesn’t count as focusing.”

“I disagree,” Will said smoothly. “You’re clearly the smartest guy in this room, so I figure if I just absorb your aura or whatever, I’ll magically learn the difference between a mode and a median.”

Macklin exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You’re literally going to fail.”

Will shrugged. “Not if I have you.”

That got him a look. Macklin finally glanced up, slow and measured, eyes scanning over Will like he was solving for X and the answer was deeply disappointing. “Flirting won’t fix your GPA.”

“Is it flirting if I’m just being honest?” Will shot back, smirking. “You’re kind of famous on campus, you know. Pre-med, full ride, on first-name basis with every professor. You walk like you’ve got somewhere more important to be.”

Macklin blinked once, then turned his laptop so the screen faced Will. “Do you know what a mean is?”

Will smiled, unbothered. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.”

Macklin didn’t so much as twitch. “Wow. A stats pun. That’s original.”

“You wound me, Mack.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“See, this is going well already,” Will said, propping his feet on the empty chair next to him. “I’ve learned your name and a boundary. Next time we might even get to standard deviation.”

Macklin closed his notebook, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been here seven minutes and you haven’t absorbed a single number.”

“I’ve absorbed plenty,” Will said, eyes very obviously dropping to Macklin’s hands. “Mostly visual.”

Macklin’s jaw flexed. “You know this isn’t a date, right?”

“Yet,” Will said, and winked.

It earned him silence. Not shocked silence—just the kind that came from someone who was very used to being hit on and very used to not caring.

Still, Will thought he saw it—just the slightest twitch at the corner of Macklin’s mouth. Not a smile. Definitely not. But something... almost amused. Almost.

“I’ll quiz you,” Macklin said finally, turning the notebook back to himself. “If you fail, we’re moving to the basement study rooms where there’s no one to perform for.”

Will’s smile widened. “So you are looking at me.”

Macklin didn’t look up. “One more word and I start charging you by the minute.”

“So, the mean,” Macklin began, tapping his pen against the textbook like he was trying to summon patience from its pages. “Is the average. You just add all the numbers and divide by how many there are.”

Will didn’t respond.

Macklin glanced up. “Will.”

Will was already looking at him—had been, actually, this whole time. Chin still in his hand, elbow on the table, eyes dragging unapologetically over Macklin’s face like it was more interesting than anything numbers had to offer.

“What?” Will asked, all faux-innocence.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am listening,” Will protested, straightening up a little. “Mean equals average. Add, divide, boom. Got it.”

Macklin narrowed his eyes. “Then give me the mean of these five numbers.”

He scribbled them down on a post-it and slid it across the table.

Will didn’t even glance at it. “I’ll calculate it if you smile.”

Macklin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One smile,” Will said. “Just a little one. Then I’ll do the math.”

“I’m not a vending machine. You don’t insert charm and get expressions back.”

“Worth a try.”

Will leaned over the table, reaching for Macklin’s pen. His fingers brushed Macklin’s knuckles—on purpose—and lingered just a half-second too long before he pulled the pen back and uncapped it with his teeth.

Macklin stared at him. “You have your own pens.”

“But yours looks smarter.”

“That’s not how pens work.”

“It is when you use them,” Will said smoothly.

Macklin said nothing, just looked vaguely toward the ceiling like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

Will finally looked at the post-it. “Okay, so—five numbers. Add them. Divide. Easy.”

“Not if you take forever doing it.”

Will pretended to scribble something down, then paused and looked up again. “You smell good, by the way.”

Macklin’s pen froze mid-word. “What?”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type,” Will continued, leaning back and drumming his fingers against the table. “But it’s subtle. Clean. Like—you just did laundry and read for pleasure.”

Macklin blinked. “What does reading for pleasure even smell like?”

“Vanilla and rubbing alcohol.”

“...Are you high?”

Will grinned. “No, but you’re starting to sound like my type.”

Macklin huffed and looked back at his notes. “I’m not your type.”

Will tilted his head, genuinely curious. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

That gave Will pause.

Macklin didn’t look up when he said it—didn’t act like he’d dropped a bomb or anything—but the words hung there, heavy and real.

“You know of me,” Will said slowly.

“I know you,” Macklin said again, more evenly this time. “Will Smith. Greek life king. Wing night champion. Campus hockey god. Very good at pretending nothing matters until it suddenly does.”

Will stared at him, surprised.

“And now that your season’s on the line, here you are. Failing statistics, flirting with your tutor instead of learning the material.”

Will opened his mouth, closed it, then leaned forward again—this time more serious, less performative.

“Okay,” he said. “That was... a little hot.”

Macklin rolled his eyes, but there was definite color rising in his cheeks now, high and pink and fast.

“You’re exhausting,” Macklin muttered.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Do you ever stop?” he asked, flipping a page aggressively.

Will tapped his pen against the table. “You could make me.”

Macklin gave him a long look. “How?”

Will leaned in again, close enough to make Macklin’s shoulders go stiff.

“Tell me to stop and mean it,” Will said, voice low.

Macklin didn’t answer right away. For a second, he just stared, expression unreadable.

“Do the math problem, Will.”

Will smirked. “What if I get it wrong on purpose so you’ll yell at me again?”

“I swear to God—”

“I like when you’re mean to me,” Will said, smug.

“Try me again and I’ll make you do flashcards,” Macklin threatened, standing his ground.

Will put both hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. No need for violence.”

He finally leaned back and actually looked at the numbers this time. Macklin watched him from the corner of his eye, like he didn’t trust him to even attempt the problem without saying something ridiculous.

Will scratched something down. “So the mean is... 12.6?”

Macklin blinked. “That’s actually correct.”

Will lit up like a kid who just got goldfish and a sticker. “Look at us! Learning and bonding.”

Macklin just shook his head, but his mouth twitched again—almost smiling, almost giving in.

Will leaned across the table again, sliding Macklin’s pen back toward him with two fingers. “You’re really good at this, by the way.”

“Tutoring?”

“No. Looking unimpressed. It’s hot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Macklin muttered.

Will grinned. “You’re thinking about smiling, I know it.”

“I’m thinking about faking a medical emergency so I can leave.”

Will leaned in once more, voice dropped low, like a secret. “Just so you know... you already make stats my favorite subject.”

Macklin didn’t respond. But  when he looked up, there was a definite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—and he didn’t even try to fight it.

---

By their third session, Will had stopped pretending he hated statistics.

Not because he liked it but because he liked the way Macklin’s expression twitched every time he said something just dumb enough to be funny. He liked how Macklin always showed up early, already halfway through a green tea and flipping through his meticulously highlighted notes like he hadn't spent the last two hours prepping for a tutoring session he claimed not to care about.

Will noticed everything.

The way Macklin tapped his pen against the side of his mug when he was thinking. The way he curled his hand protectively over his notes when Will leaned too close. The way he tried very hard not to laugh whenever Will made some inappropriate joke about frequency distributions and one-night stands.

It was slow—painfully slow—but Macklin was cracking.

Just a little.

It started with the eye rolls. Then the muttered "You're impossible"’s. Then, the fifth session in, Will made some dumb pun about regression and Macklin actually laughed. Like, a real, startled huff of a laugh that caught both of them off guard.

Will had blinked at him. “Was that a giggle?”

Macklin had gone red instantly. “Shut up.”

So of course Will spent the rest of the session trying to make him do it again.

He started taking the tutoring slightly more seriously—not enough to stop flirting, obviously, but enough that Macklin stopped threatening to quit every ten minutes. Will showed up (mostly) on time. He answered practice questions with slightly less whining. He even—once—brought Macklin a green tea before he could get one himself.

Macklin stared at it like it was poison.

“You memorized my order?” he asked, flatly.

Will grinned. “What can I say? I’m observant. Also, the barista said you go there so often they thought you lived upstairs.”

Macklin tried not to smile, and failed.

“Don’t read into this,” he warned, taking the cup anyway.

Will just leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and said, “Too late.”

Their sessions kept going like that: Will making jokes, Macklin pretending not to like them. Macklin explaining concepts, Will interrupting every five minutes to ask why he smelled like vanilla and pain suppression. Somehow, amidst all the chaos, Will’s test scores climbed. Not by much, but enough.

And Macklin... stopped acting like he hated being there.

He didn’t say it, of course. Would probably deny it if Will ever asked. But he didn’t flinch when Will leaned in close anymore. Didn’t move his hand when Will’s brushed his under the table. Didn’t sigh as loud when Will texted him outside of tutoring hours.

In fact, by week four, Macklin texted him first.

Just once.

Just a curt: bring your notes this time. and try not to smell like gym bag + cologne. see you at 4.

Will had smiled at his phone like an idiot for a full ten minutes after that.

---

Will practically burst into the library like he’d just scored the game-winner in double overtime. He didn’t even try to hide the shit-eating grin on his face, practically jogging over to their usual table with a paper clutched in his hand and his backwards cap hanging off one ear.

Macklin didn’t even look up. “If you’re about to show me a meme, I’m leaving.”

Will slapped the graded exam onto the table like it was a trophy. “Seventy-seven.”

That got Macklin’s attention.

He blinked. Then again. “Out of... a hundred?”

Will snorted. “No, Macklin, out of a thousand.”

Macklin’s brows shot up. He leaned forward, snatching the test and scanning it like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Wait—this is actually... wow.”

Will beamed, obnoxiously proud. “Say it.”

Macklin frowned. “Say what?”

“Say I’m a genius.”

“You got a C.”

“A strong C,” Will corrected. “A C with ambition.”

And then—just for a second—Macklin actually smiled.

It was quick, and it wasn’t cocky or sarcastic or tight-lipped. It was genuine. His whole face lit up, eyes crinkling, like he couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

Will saw it.

“You’re proud of me,” Will said, voice sing-songy.

“I’m—no.”

“You are.”

“It’s just—” Macklin floundered, pushing the paper back across the table like it had burned him. “I didn’t think you’d break 70, so... congratulations, I guess.”

Will leaned his elbows on the table and tilted his head. “That was dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Will smirked. “Too late.”

Macklin tried to recover, but his ears were pink, and he was avoiding eye contact like the test score had personally offended him.

Will, of course, couldn’t leave it there.

“So,” he said, stretching casually. “What happens if I get an 80 on the next one?”

Macklin raised an eyebrow, wary. “You get a slightly better grade.”

Will shook his head. “No, no. I mean, what happens between us.”

Macklin blinked, already regretting everything. “Nothing happens between us.”

Will gave him the look. “You smiled when I said ‘77.’ That was basically second base.”

Macklin rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Will leaned forward, grinning. “If I get an 80 on our next test, you have to let me take you out.”

Macklin stared.

Will held up a hand. “No games. Just one date. Could be coffee. Could be dinner. Could be that weird farmer’s market you pretend not to like even though I saw reusable tote bags in your car.”

“You went through my car?”

“I didn’t go through it. I walked past it. Noticed things. I’m observant.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet you keep tutoring me.”

Macklin hesitated. He was quiet for a second too long, and Will knew he was considering it. Like, actually weighing the pros and cons of Will asking him out.

Finally, Macklin sighed, slow and dramatic.

“Fine,” he said. “Deal.”

Will blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“If—and I mean if—you get an 80 or higher.”

“Oh, I will.”

“But—” Macklin added, holding up a finger. “Rules.”

Will grinned. “Lay ‘em on me.”

“One: no bragging to your friends. Two: it’s not a date, it’s a hang out. And three: if you’re late, I walk.”

Will laughed. “That’s... actually reasonable.”

Macklin shook his head, but he was smiling again—smaller this time, secretive. Like part of him really did want Will to get that 80.

Will sat back, already plotting flashcards and study sessions and possibly bribing the professor (kidding—kind of).

“Better clear your schedule, Macklin,” he said, eyes bright with promise. “I’ve never wanted an 80 more in my life.”

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: i love this dynamic so much and if you guys want you can send me requests for them, i hope u enjoyed!!

[bradleysass]

Minerva McGonagall - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 531

James Potter had acquired a shadow. A small, scruffy, grey-furred shadow with sharp green eyes and an uncanny knack for appearing whenever he least expected it. It had been two weeks since the stray cat first showed up on the Hogwarts grounds, and for some unfathomable reason, it had taken a liking to him.

"It’s McGonagall," James insisted, flopping down onto the Gryffindor common room couch, the cat hopping up beside him with a regal air. "She’s finally had enough of my nonsense and decided she needs to keep an eye on me at all times."

"McGonagall has plenty of ways to spy on you without turning into a stray cat, mate," Sirius said, flicking a balled-up bit of parchment at the feline, which ignored him entirely in favor of butting its head against James' hand.

"I dunno," Peter mused, watching as James absentmindedly scratched behind the cat’s ears. "The way she looks at you does feel a little...judgmental."

Remus snorted. "That’s just how all cats look."

James, however, wasn’t convinced. The cat had appeared out of nowhere, was oddly intelligent, and always seemed to be present when he was getting into mischief. It followed him to class, waited outside the Quidditch changing rooms, and even somehow ended up in his dormitory on multiple occasions despite the Fat Lady swearing she never let it in.

And, most suspiciously, whenever he was with Regulus Black, the cat became even more persistent.

"She doesn’t trust me," James muttered under his breath one evening, standing in a tucked-away corridor as Regulus leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed. The cat sat primly by his feet, watching them with a critical gleam in its green eyes.

"Who doesn’t trust you?" Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow.

"McGonagall."

Regulus blinked. "What?"

James gestured at the cat. "She’s been following me around. I think she knows about—" He gestured vaguely between the two of them. "You know. Us. And she’s waiting for me to mess up."

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks. "You’re an idiot, Potter."

"Am I?" James pointed at the cat. "Look at her! Tell me that’s not the expression of a professor who is very, very disappointed in me."

Regulus sighed, crouching down and holding out a hand. To James’ utter shock, the cat immediately walked over and rubbed against it, purring. Regulus scratched its head, looking entirely unimpressed. "This is a normal cat. An actual cat. One that happens to like you because you feed it and let it sleep on your bed."

James frowned. "But—"

Regulus stood, stepping closer, his voice quieter now. "If McGonagall was keeping an eye on you, do you really think she’d just sit there and watch you try to kiss me in an empty corridor?"

James opened his mouth, then shut it as Regulus smirked, leaning in just a little bit closer.

The cat flicked its tail.

"Right, okay, so maybe not McGonagall," James admitted. "But I swear, she’s up to something."

Regulus just rolled his eyes, pulling James in by the collar. "Shut up and kiss me, Potter."

The cat, despite all of James’ prior concerns, did not intervene.

[lizardho]

"Exhausted Doctoral Psychology Intern" What is an interesting snippet of your life? This really made me curious!

I’m getting my Psy.D. in Clinical Psych and I’m terrible at taking my own advice so I’m usually pretty tired 😅 I’ve had practicum rotations where I was supervised doing forensic assessments, working with people on SOTP, providing disability assessments, and working in community mental health. I’m currently working at a university counseling center and absolutely loving it.

An interesting snippet of my life is that I have been a therapy patient AND provider. And my first therapist lost his license to an ethical violation.

To preface this story - psychologists have REALLY strict ethics - there’s not a lot to it, tbh, it’s easy enough to be ethical most of the time but, it’s strict. The top 3 rules of ethics are, in order, 1) Do NOT fuck your patients, 2) Don’t violate confidentiality (unless you can - deidentifying info, ROIs, mandated reporting, etc., are all situations that can allow for info to be shared, albeit loosely), and 3) DO. NOT. FUCK. YOUR. PATIENTS.

But before getting into my Psy.D. Program, I didn’t know this. I had been told by my former therapist that the ethics board is ravenous for licenses. That they are out for blood and the tiniest ticky-tacky violation of documentation rules would get your license revoked. So I go into my first ethics class SO scared because I am convinced I need to learn everything and never make any mistakes ever ever ever in my life ever.

Our ethics professor is a story by himself - he was dying of lung cancer or something and was an unhinged cranky asshole to everyone he felt like being shitty to. BUT. Part of our learning involved listening to ethics board meetings, and the day of the board meeting assignment fell two days after the professor died, so we were told to listen to an old board meetings and do the assignment like that instead. And that's how I learned that they record old ethics board meetings, going back for DECADES. This did three things for me:

It showed me that my old therapist had lost his license for sending dick pics to a patient in an abusive relationship. Rough way to learn that, but it was good to know that I was not in danger of losing my license for not documenting something exactly right.

2. It showed me that the licensing board is actually fairly lenient - there is a shortage of mental healthcare providers, so they don't take a provider out of the pool unless it is necessary. I've read about therapists who let client's live with them as servants in exchange for free therapy, therapists who have provided medical care so far out of their scope of practice it's laughable, and therapists who have provided evaluations of people they've never met based on 2nd- or even 3rd-hand information, and not lost their license. If anything they're almost TOO lenient.

3. There are some FUCKING WILD stories of bad therapists. My best one, though, is one from the late 70s or early 80s. It was a guy licensed to work with Medicare and Medicaid who took a young divorced mom onto his caseload. He broke rules #1 and #3 and fucked his patients, and this one was included; however, this client had extensive trauma and needed longer-term care. So the fact that she was being double-billed for each session - once for the therapy and once for the sex, was found out by her because she was permitted to have 12 sessions a year before an appeal needed to be made and she had reached her limit after 6 sessions.

So she sues the guy, who changes his name and flees the state to practice in a different state - in the years before the internet he was hard to track down. To my knowledge they never tracked him down. But the thing that is wild is that in the 70s and 80s government insurances paid the LEAST for therapy. So this guy was billing himself as a male sex worker, but was making like $60-70 for an hour of post-therapy sex. The guy was making so little he would have actually made more money by just seeing patients in that timeframe.

So anyways, the TL;DR is a shitty therapist took advantage of a traumatized young mom to get his dick wet and then billed insurance for an insanely low amount compared to what he could have made as either a good therapist or an actual sex worker.

I guess the moral of the story is don't half-ass two things if you can whole-ass one thing?

[tortillamastersblog]

➶The Bet - Part 3 | Kate Bishop➴

Pairing: Kate Bishop x reader

Warnings: angst with happy ending

Summary: Being known as the quiet and reserved student, you mind your own business and stay out of people’s way.

Kate Bishop is the exact opposite. Outgoing, bubbly, and loud, she’s the definition of a popular girl, so it comes as a surprise when she asks you out on a random Thursday afternoon.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

________________________________________________

A knock on my door makes me look up from my laptop. “Yeah?”

Riley opens the door slowly and steps into the room with a plate of food in her hand. “Hey.”

She smiles tentatively and I force myself to smile back, rolling my chair back to look at her properly. “Hi. How was class?”

She sets the plate down on my desk before taking a seat on the edge of my bed. “Fine, but boring without you.”

I hum to acknowledge her before changing the subject by gesturing at the food and asking, “What’s this?”

I know she’s itching to ask me when I’ll go back with her, but I’m not ready to answer that question yet.

Since I stormed out of Kate’s apartment a little over a week ago, I haven’t gone to class because I don’t want to risk running into her or her friends.

Riley doesn’t know what happened, but she’s known something’s up ever since I came home in tears after my date with Kate. She doesn’t push me to tell her about it though and helps me stay on track with all of our classes by sharing her notes with me.

“You haven’t been eating properly lately, so I made you some dinner,” she says quietly and a little hesitantly as if she’s afraid of my reaction.

My grip on my pen tightens and I glance at the food. She’s right. I haven’t been eating and I haven’t really been sleeping either. All I do is study, run until my legs are numb, and stand in the shower, staring at the wall until my eyes hurt.

I can’t get over how Kate used me. She was so sweet and kind and I still can’t believe all of it was an act.

I guess it just goes to show that my mother was right, always telling me I was naive for believing in the good in everyone.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “But I’m not really hungry.”

Eating makes me feel sick. I can only stomach a piece of toast or some fruit.

Riley sighs and slides off the bed so she’s kneeling in front of me. She takes my hands into her own and squeezes. Her eyes are full of concern and her eyebrows are furrowed. “I know, but you have to eat. I’m worried about you, Y/N.“

I avert my eyes, but don’t pull my hands out of her grip. “I’m fine, Rye.”

“No, you’re not,” she argues quietly, squeezing my hands again, “and that’s okay. You’re allowed to hurt and process whatever happened, but not like this. Your body needs food, and sleep, and rest. . .”

Tears prick my eyes at the emotion lacing her words and all of a sudden I feel guilty for acting like this, for making her worry and look after me. “Riley, I—“

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she cuts me off quickly. “But please let me take care of you if you’re not going to do it yourself.”

I take a shuddering breath and nod, blinking away my tears before meeting her hazel eyes with my own. “Okay.”

“Good.” She stands up and ruffles my hair playfully. “Now eat. I’m going to do the dishes, but as soon as I’m done, we’re watching a movie. You’ve been brooding long enough now and it’s about high time you spent some quality time with your favorite person again.”

I chuckle at that and nod again, watching her leave before taking a tiny bite of the pasta she brought me.

“An orbital is a three dimensional description of the most likely location of an electron around an atom. There are four types of orbitals: s, p, d and f. . . They are combined when bonds form between atoms and—“

I stop listening to Professor Jenkins and take off my glasses, pinching the bridge of my nose. Letting Riley convince me to join her today was a mistake. I can’t focus on anything other than avoiding Kate and her friends in the hallways.

Another week has passed since our date, making it two weeks now since we last spoke, but I’m still no closer to getting over what she did than I was the night it happened.

A nudge makes me snap out of my thoughts. “You good?” Riley whispers.

I put my glasses back on and shrug. “I don’t know.”

Riley frowns and watches me for a moment before tearing a blank piece of paper out of her notebook. She hands it to me and smiles hopefully “Here. Make me something pretty.”

I stare at it for a second before taking it with a thankful smile. My dad taught me origami when I was a kid and it always eases my anxiety, so I get to work folding a crane.

It’s not very difficult, but it takes some time, so by the time I’m done, class is over.

“Very cute.” Riley says when I present the crane to her. “Now let’s go home. I’m starving.”

We pack up our stuff and make our way out of the lecture hall. It’s already dark outside and I’m dreading the walk to Riley’s car because it started to snow a couple of hours ago and I didn’t bring a proper jacket with me.

The hallways are crowded because several classes just ended, but I still spot the last person I wanted to see making her way through the sea of people, heading my way.

Our eyes meet and I freeze, forcing Riley to stop as well.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, but then she follows my line of sight. “Oh.”

“Y/N!” Kate calls out, bumping into a group of people without apologizing.

“Rye,” I say desperately, my eyes meeting Rileys. “I-I can’t. . . I can’t— Not now.”

She nods and steps in front of me to block my view of Kate. I’m taller than her, so I can easily look over her shoulder and still see her, but the thought counts and I love her even more for it.

“Okay. Okay. Take my keys and go. I’ll meet you at the car,” she says, pushing her car keys into my hand. I turn around to leave, but Kate’s voice makes me freeze again.

“Y/N! Wait, please!”

I have half a mind to turn around, but then Riley shoves me. “Go. I’ll deal with her.”

I mouth a thank you and weave through the crowd, effortlessly escaping before Kate can get to me.

“So? What did she want?” I ask quietly as soon as Riley gets into the car. She cups her hands and lifts them to her mouth, blowing into them in an attempt to get some warmth back.

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, so as soon as she closes her door, I put the keys into the ignition and start the car. She doesn’t mind that I drive her car sometimes, especially not after a long day of classes.

“She wouldn’t say, but she really wants to talk to you,” she says and I feel her eyes on me as I pull out of the parking lot.

“Hmm.”

I know she wants to know what happened, but she still doesn’t dare to ask, and I honestly admire her self restraint.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens for a moment before I sigh and glance at Riley.

She’s watching me with a mix of concern and curiosity on her face. It makes my resolve to keep what happened to myself crumble.

Coming to a stop at a red light, I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose before looking at her again. “Rye.”

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “Kate. . . used me,” I start slowly, watching her for a reaction. “Asking me out was just part of a bet she made with her friends.”

Riley’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?!”

“Yeah.” I sigh and start driving again as soon as the light turns green. “I found out after she kissed me. Her phone was connected to her computer and her friends kept texting her about it and I saw all the messages.”

“What the fuck?” Riley’s voice shakes and before I know it she’s told me to pull over so she can give me a hug. “I’m sorry, Y/N. That’s so messed up. You’re the kindest and most selfless person I know, and you deserve the world. Kate is a bitch.”

If my heart didn’t hurt the way it does I would have chucked at that. I tighten my arms around her and close my eyes.

You deserve the world. . .

Her words fill me with warmth and when we pull back I press a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you.”

She smiles and flicks a tear off my cheek. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s go home.”

I nod and pull back onto the road while Riley connects her phone to the car’s bluetooth system to play some music.

“You know, Grace from my dance class is pretty cute,” she says and even though I’m focused on the road I know she’s smirking. “If you want I can set you up with her. She’s sweet and blushes every time you pick me up.”

I snort and can’t stop my lips from twitching into a smile. “Yeah, right.”

Grace is cute and I have noticed her crush on me, but I’ve never acted on it. Not because I can’t see myself in a relationship with her, but because until Kate came along, I couldn’t see myself in a relationship with anyone.

“I’m serious.” Riley laughs and changes the song. “She always asks how you are and every time you don’t pick me up, she’s disappointed she didn’t get to see you.”

My ears turn red at that revelation and I have to clear my throat before responding. “Yeah, no. . . I know you’re right, but—“

“But what?” She whines playfully. “You guys would be perfect together! She’s a great listener, she’s smart, and she’s a total nerd just like you!”

I scoff and shoot her a glare. “Excuse me? I’m not a nerd.”

“Oh please, you’re like the king of nerds, but that’s not my point. My point is, you guys would make a great couple, and you know it!” She raises an eyebrow as if to challenge me to disagree.

She’s right. Based on the few interactions I’ve shared with Grace, I know we get along pretty well, but after what happened with Kate I feel like I can’t trust anyone with my heart anymore. Well, anyone except Riley, but that’s different. She’s family.

I turn onto our street and stop the car in front of the gate of our building’s underground parking garage. “Okay, okay. I see where you’re coming from, but I can’t, Riley. Not now.” I say, quietly adding, “Not after what Kate did.”

I roll down the window and punch in the gate’s code on the keypad, waiting for it to open before driving into the garage.

Riley sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “Okay. Maybe not now, but keep her in mind for when you’re ready to go out again.”

When, not if. . . She honestly believes I will ever go on a date again after what happened. Yeah right. . . No, I’m staying single for the rest of my life.

Not in the mood to disagree, I just nod and pull into a parking spot. “Fine. Can we talk about something else now?”

“A fundraiser?” I stare at the flyer Riley just handed me. “You honestly expect me to go to this? I literally have no money to donate. Unlike you, I’m broke as fuck. They should raise money for me.”

The lecture hasn’t even started yet and I’m already over it. Today is Friday, and yet another week has passed since what happened with Kate.

I’ve managed to avoid her since last week, not even catching a glimpse of her in the hallway, and it’s making it easier to get over her.

“Oh, come on! We’ll go together. I think it could be fun. I’ll even donate something in your name,” Riley pleads, refusing to take back the flyer when I try to hand it to her.

I roll my eyes and take out my laptop, getting ready for class. “You mean your parents are going to donate something in my name.”

Riley waves me off. “Eh. My parents, or me? It doesn’t matter. The money comes from the same account. . . So, is that a yes?”

I look up to meet her eyes and even though I want to say no, the excitement that shines in her eyes makes me reconsider. Instead of straight up agreeing though, I compromise and say, “Maybe. When is it?”

“Yay! Thank you! It’s tomorrow night.” Riley pats my cheek playfully which makes me slap her hand away with a chuckle.

She pulls out her phone and texts her parents, giving me the opportunity to watch the students filing into the lecture hall while my laptop is turning on.

Some faces are familiar, others aren’t. Most of them yawn and carry coffee cups, but others are chatting animatedly with their friends.

I don’t get people who have this much energy in the morning. . .

I let my gaze wander around the room, not looking at anything in particular. That is until my eyes land on her.

She just walked in, dressed in a purple cashmere sweater and jeans, her jacket is draped over her arm and her hair is pulled back in a low bun.

She looks good even though I hate to admit it, but something about her seems off and it takes me a couple of seconds to realize why.

She’s not talking to anyone like she normally would, and her usually bright smile is no where in sight. She also has dark circles under her eyes and her eyes lack their usual brightness.

All in all, she looks exhausted and a tiny part of me—the one that still hangs onto the way she smiled at me and kissed me— feels bad for her.

That feeling, however, vanishes the moment she looks up and her blue eyes meet mine. It’s almost as though she felt me staring.

Oh no, she’s going to want to talk again. I shrink down in my chair and mentally prepare for the seemingly inevitable conversation we’re about to have.

Much to my surprise though, it never comes, because Kate averts her eyes a moment later and turns to take a seat on the other end of the lecture hall.

I don’t know if I should feel relieved or disappointed. On one hand, I’m glad I don’t have to face her because I’m still hurting. On the other hand though, I have a need for closure because I still don’t know why she did what she did.

“Okay, I talked to my parents and they would be happy to donate a little somethin’ somethin’ in your name in case you decide to come,” Riley says, turning off her phone.

I stop staring at the back of Kate’s head, still caught up in my thoughts, and nod absentmindedly. “Alright. Thank you.”

I hate this. I hate feeling like this and I wish I could turn back time. Not to stop myself from agreeing to go out with Kate, but to close the laptop as soon as I saw Greer and Franny’s messages. That way I would have never known about the bet and things between Kate and I would have fizzled out on their own.

“Good morning, everyone!” Professor Lopez walks into the classroom, putting an end to my spiraling thoughts. “Today we’re going to talk about chirality, but first— Your lab reports from last week. . .” He starts handing out our graded reports and I can’t help but glance at Kate one last time when he reaches her.

He doubled checks the name on her report, seemingly surprised, before giving it to her with a frown. “Please, see me after class, Miss Bishop.”

________________________________________________

Okay, I lied. It’s going to be four parts after all and not just three.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one and I’m sorry for the delayed update.

Tag list: @vyvvycg

[starwovenkiss]

(minor smut / suggestive content)

Frat boys, Soap and Gaz, who take an interest in the pretty TA for their econ 101 class.

The one that shows up with sweaters and jeans and glasses while marking through their tests with red pens and frustrated sighs.

Showing up to you after one class one day with mischevious grins in their matching fraternity t-shirts.

“Bonnie, y’gotta convince the professor to bump me up to an A,” Johnny pauses at this. “Or at least a C.”

You roll your eyes. “Johnny, you spelled your own name wrong on your last test.” He at least has the decency to look ashamed at this.

“What Soap is tryna say,” Kyle cuts in, smooth as ever. He really shouldn’t be here, making A's on every exam this semester, except that he’s been caught cheating and has been placed on academic probation. “is that we really think we could benefit from some tutoring. We do so much better with 1-on-1 attention.”

Both he and Johnny tilt their faces into something pouting and begging, and you want to laugh. Throw the scantrons you're grading at their muscled chests and storm out of here for wasting your time.

“Yeah, 1-on-1 would be great,” Johnny echoes, and you nearly scream.

Dealing with late nights in the library where they're more interested in getting you to go out with them then learning the diffrence between macro and microeconomics.

"So the difference between absolute advantage and -" You tense as Kyle tugs lightly on your ponytail.

"Darling, why don't you ever come to one of our parties?"

“We’re having one this Friday.” Johnny suggests, and you wonder if a part of their stupid initiation is to learn how to complete each other’s sentences like some sort of greek Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. "It’s not really my vibe,” you say, hoping that will be enough to get back to learning what GDP stands for (and not ‘great dick’n’pussy’ like Johnny suggested.)

“Aw, that’s because you’ve never been, bonnie.” Johnny fights back, and Kyle nods eagerly. “Tau Mu is everyone’s vibe.”

And to your horror, they break out into song, singing about the fraternity’s history and legacy. Your eye twitches, and you grip onto your pencil tighter to keep from sticking it in their throats.

”How about this,” you say loudly enough to cut over their caterwauling, and they smile. “if you both get an A on this next test, I will go to your party.”

They both have cheshire grins.

“Deal.” Kyle winks.

Them coming up to you on Thursday looking proud as ever when they have Canvas pulled up on their phones to show off their matching 100s.

“You guys must have cheated,” you say, dumbfounded.

“We would never.” Kyle proclaims, affronted and mocking. “’Sides, even if we did, you have no way to prove it.”

“This whole conversation incriminates you.” you say.

“Incriminates? We’re not under trial here.” Kyle laughs.

"No cheating.” Johnny promises. “It must’ve been thanks to your impressive tutelage.”

“Johnny, spell tutelage.” You deadpan.

There’s a pause. “… That doesn’t matter. We’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiles brightly.

“Make sure to wear red.” Kyle adds on before they both walk out of the classroom.

You showing up to their party, looking like you don’t want to be there and definitely not in red, only to find out it’s a stoplight party, and red screams that you’re taken.

Both of them in their element, shirtless and streaked in red black light paint, as they jump around and body surf in neon sunglasses before seeing you disappointed.

“Bonnie, why aren’t you wearing red?” Johnny asks.

"Johnny, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“So, what do you call all of those late nights in the library?” Kyle asks, putting an arm around you as he leads you to get jungle juice.

“Tutoring. To help get both your GPAs above a 2.5,” You reply.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Johnny smiles down at you while wrapping an arm around your waist, and suddenly you feel flustered by the two attractive men who seem enamored with you.

You pick up a solo cup as a distraction and notice that it has “You’re Hell” written on it. “Who wrote this? There’s a typo.”

They both groan, “We were trying to be clever.” Johnny replies.

“You need to relax, darling. Can’t be good for you to be so uptight all the time.” Kyle responds moving to rub your shoulders.

“Yeah, Gaz.” Johnny smiles at him, and suddenly you feel like you’ve walked into some trap. “Relaxing would be good for the lass.”

Finding yourself upstairs in a private bedroom, naked, sprawled out in Kyle’s lap as he holds your legs open for Johnny to examine you.

“Think it’s time we teach her a thing or two, right, Soap?” Kyle whispers, voice low like honey in your ear and you shiver.

“See how well we can make the teacher’s pet behave.” Johnny responds as he grins like the devil, breath tickling your fluttering cunt.

“Bet she’s never had this pretty pussy licked before.” Kyle snickers, and you finally feel the need to speak up.

“Yes, I have. I’m not a prude.” You whine, and you feel like the pastel pink underwear with a tiny bow that Johnny has stuffed in his pocket isn’t doing you any favors.

“Aye, well. Not like this.” Johnny replies before licking into you like a man starved.

[brainmaggotzzzz]

Teachers pet 2/2

part one

cw: complicated relationship, age gap, difficult parental relationships, d3ath, illness, angsty, alcohol consumption.

word count: (im a professional yapper)

It was confusing.

When he was alone—at his desk in the quiet of his office, or pacing the dim halls of his apartment—guilt gnawed at him like a sickness. He should’ve known better. He did know better. He had seen the way you clung to praise like it was oxygen, how you folded in on yourself when you felt discarded or unseen. That desperate longing for approval—it wasn’t just about him, it was older than him, deeper. He should’ve built walls, reinforced the lines that blurred too easily. But every time you sat beside him, tucked away from the world’s gaze, he dissolved. His principles collapsed under the weight of want.

And when he saw you talking to guys your age—boys with loud laughs and shared jokes, the ones who belonged in your world—he burned. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was a cruel, irrational possessiveness that made his chest tighten. Like they could take something from him he never should’ve had in the first place.

Now, you were perched on his lap, your legs tucked to the side, back comfortably pressed into his chest as you reread something you’d scribbled. The couch in his apartment was worn in, soft, and warm. His hand moved to your waist, gently drawing you closer as his chin hovered near your shoulder.

“What’s that?” he asked, voice low, eyes flickering to the paper in your hands.

“Just a stupid project for business class,” you said with a soft smile, folding the page lazily. “I find that as much as I excel in your class, Professor, I’m utter shit in business.”

He chuckled at your honesty. “Oh? Let me see.”

You handed it over, watching his brow raise with amusement as he scanned the text. A laugh bubbled from him as he skimmed a paragraph.

“It’s definitely… something,” he said, grinning, teasing.

You gasped, mock-offended, and gave his arm a playful smack. “Come on! It’s not that bad. A reality TV show where people play games for money would be amazing! It would bring in loads of revenue!"

He looked at you over the paper. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the premise of about a hundred reality shows already?” His voice was filled with good-natured sarcasm, but the fondness in his tone was unmistakable.

You rolled your eyes, scoffing dramatically. “It’s not that special, so what? You want me to add a rule that losers die or something? Would that be thrilling enough for your emotionally unavailable, morally bankrupt standards?” you said, grinning as you leaned back into him.

He laughed again, low and breathy, shaking his head. “Just… stick to creative writing" he said, squeezing your waist gently, fingers lingering longer than they should’ve.

And you smiled, because in that moment, everything—your world, your ache, your want—felt held in that simple, quiet intimacy.

You stood up and tossed the crumpled business class paper onto the table, letting it flutter messily among a few stray pens and coffee mugs. Then, without a word, you plopped down on the couch, stretching out and resting your head in his lap. Your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his slacks, and you let out a satisfied sigh, your fingers absentmindedly curling against his thigh.

“Summer vacation starts in a week, Y/N,” he said casually, his hand finding its way into your hair, combing through it with gentle fingers. “Are you going back home?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Home,” you repeated like it was a punchline. “I’m not sure. I obviously don’t want to go to my dad’s… maybe I’ll get in touch with my mom and stay there.”

Your voice trailed off as you stared blankly at a crack in the ceiling, a quiet melancholy shadowing your tone. You didn’t sound convinced yourself.

The thought of you going back to your father’s filled him with something close to dread—but even the idea of you at your mother’s, far away from him, left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated how possessive the feeling was, how he imagined someone else—someone your age, someone who should be with you—saying the right things, making you laugh, pulling you out of reach. Maybe over the break you’d find someone new. Or worse, maybe you'd finally see this for what it was—a terrible mistake. Something you’d someday want to forget.

And a part of him hoped for that. Hoped you would come to your senses, find someone safe, someone easy.

But another part—the part that ruled his actions—wanted you too much to let that happen.

“Stay with me,” he said suddenly, his fingers stilling in your hair.

“What?” You blinked up at him, unsure if you heard him right, eyes searching his.

“I said stay with me,” he repeated, softer this time, but there was a firmness behind the words. Like he hadn’t just asked—it was a need, not a suggestion. His eyes flickered with something caught between desire and desperation. “For the summer. Stay here.”

And the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t imagine this place without you in it, made your breath catch in your throat.

"I'll think about it, Professor" that by now nickname always made him chuckle, you shared so much, you were in this...relationship yet it was endearing.

◇

You felt like you were on a high, gliding on a cloud through heaven when you were with him. When he held you at night, whispered promises into your hair about taking care of you, when his eyes found yours across the classroom like they were drawn by an invisible thread—it all was narcotic. Blissful. Addictive.

Only a few days stood between now and the summer you'd spend with him. Well—not the whole summer. Despite the thick resentment you still harbored for your basically useless mother, you made the mature decision to spend one week at her place. Then you'd go to Inho. It wouldn’t be so bad, right? She had tried reaching out, and while it wasn't nearly enough, it was… something. A small step. An initiative. You chose to give it a chance.

You sat in class—Inho's class—chewing lazily on the end of your pen, your gaze soft and a little dreamy as he explained something about The Bell Jar. You’d read it ages ago, but you liked watching him explain things—how his voice sharpened when he made a point, how he moved with restrained intensity. It was when he looked at you that you melted the most. His gaze would linger just a moment too long, his words nearly tailored to you. The classroom faded then, and it felt like a conversation meant only for two.

"Y/N," a hushed voice whispered beside you.

You blinked, pulled out of your trance, glancing over at Cheol—Seojin’s ex. He leaned in slightly, smirking. “You wanna join me and my boys for bar hopping tonight?”

You resisted an eye roll. He never stopped trying. You’d been ignoring him lately, mostly for Inho’s sake. The day you told Inho that you slept with Cheol—it was a lie. A strategic one, meant to provoke, to spark jealousy. Cheol was easy to place in that role; his reputation painted him as a playboy. But in truth, the more time you spent around him—tutoring him, talking to him—you learned that wasn’t quite fair.

Sure, he wasn’t brilliant academically. He’d butcher classic literature quotes and needed help understanding the difference between “your” and “you’re.” But he was kind. Genuinely kind. And funny, in an idiot-savant way that could disarm even your worst moods. Smart in his own, unsuspecting ways. He noticed things others didn’t, remembered small details, paid attention.

At first, you told yourself you were only entertaining him to provoke Inho. And yes, it was true—you did enjoy the possessive heat in Inho’s touch when you’d arrive at his apartment after spending time tutoring Cheol. But you also genuinely liked being around him. Not in a romantic way, never that. More like a strange, unlikely comfort. A distraction you convinced yourself was all part of the plan.

"I'm busy tonight," you said, voice light but firm, your lips curving into a polite smile.

Cheol gave you an exaggerated pout, the kind that made you want to laugh but didn’t quite reach your heart.

“What about a little study session, hm?” he teased, leaning his elbow on the desk, his smirk playful.

You sighed, offering him a tighter, thinner smile. “Really. I’m busy tonight. Sorry.”

Before he could respond, Inho’s voice cut across the room, sharp and cold.

“No talking in class.”

You glanced up and met his eyes. They weren’t on Cheol—they were on you. There was a flicker of something there. Irritation, jealousy, and something else buried beneath it, something darker. His jaw clenched, just subtly. His hand curled slightly around the edge of the podium, knuckles paling.

He resumed speaking about the complex character dynamics in The Bell Jar, but his tone had changed—more clipped, less indulgent. You knew this look.

◇

"That's a mature decision, Y/N," Inho said as he watched you nonchalantly stuff your face with the sushi he ordered. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the low coffee table, your hoodie sleeves pushed up, soy sauce staining the side of your chopstick-holding hand. He sat above you on the couch, legs slightly spread, leaning forward to watch you like you were a scene he didn’t want to miss.

“Is it about forgiveness?” he asked, eyes flickering with interest.

You laughed mid-bite, rice puffing your cheek out like a squirrel. You chewed quickly, shaking your head. “Forgiveness, my ass,” you snorted, taking a sip of the soju he'd pulled from the fridge.

He raised an eyebrow at your bluntness, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“I have nothing to forgive her for, quite literally,” you went on, dropping another piece of salmon into your mouth. “She disappeared and thought sending a few half-assed letters would make up for it. As if those could ever reach me. Like she didn’t know my dad was the Kim Jong Un of our house—censoring, intercepting, manipulating anything from the outside world.”

That made him laugh, the sound soft and warm. “You really have a way with words,” he said with a shake of his head.

He liked that about you. That strange contrast—how you could dissect a theory in class like a scholar, and then crack a joke about totalitarian parenting over sushi and soju. But more than that, he liked how you let it slip, little by little—the pain. Always masked by something. Humor, literature, sarcasm. Your brilliance often hid the ache inside. But he saw it. He always saw it. He just didn’t want to press too hard, not tonight. What mattered was that you were letting it out. And you were doing it with him.

“The point is,” you continued with a sigh, “I won’t forget how idiotic she was. But I don’t want to be bitter, either. She’s still my mom. And maybe I can be better than her. Maybe taking that step first… that’s me being better. Maybe she has realized some things. Maybe she genuinely wants me in her life—not just as some distant, faded photograph.”

You finished the last roll and set aside your chopsticks, then climbed onto the couch beside him, resting your head on his lap. Inho's gaze shifted down to your face. From your view, his expression was unreadable but softened by the amber light from the standing lamp behind him. His features were sharp, refined—high cheekbones, slightly tired eyes that still had a gleam of something young behind them. He looked like a man who had lived too many lives in one.

He began playing with your hair, gently untangling strands between his fingers.

"You're hopeful" he stated.

“Hopeful,” you murmured, your voice growing dreamy. “Maybe. Is it stupid?”

“No. Not stupid,” he said, voice low.

“…Naive,” he added after a pause.

You smiled without humor, a slow blink following. “So you think I should expect the worst from people?”

He seemed thoughtful, fingers stalling for a moment.

“Do you expect the worst from people, Inho?” you asked, your voice quiet, eyes tracing the subtle lines near his mouth, the faint furrow of his brow.

He swallowed. “It comes with age,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You smiled, just slightly. “Do you expect the worst of me?”

His jaw clenched, just enough for you to notice. His hand in your hair went still again.

“I’m concerned,” he said after a long pause. “I worry that you let people take advantage of you. Of your softness. Your naivety. The same way you’ve let me.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” you said, your voice sharper now.

His gaze flickered. “It depends. What’s the worst? You realizing you deserve someone your age who can give you a normal life? Or you staying with me, hiding and lying and wasting your youth?”

You slowly sat up, your face now level with his. You looked directly into his eyes.

“I’m not a little helpless, naive pet who folds under anyone who feeds it,” you said, your voice steady, almost cold, but your eyes burning.

“I never said you were,” he replied, something wounded flickering across his face.

You looked at him for a long moment. “But I folded under you,” you said, voice quieter now. “Because I love you.”

The words dropped into the room like a lit match. He tensed. His hand in your hair froze, the moment suspended between breaths. He stared at you—no clever lines or metaphors, just stunned silence.

“Don’t say that,” he breathed finally, but his voice cracked just barely. “Don’t say it unless you mean it… and even then—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he leaned in and pulled you into a kiss. Not tender. Not soft. Desperate. Like he was starving for it, for you, like he needed to shut you up before you made him fall deeper.

You kissed him back just as hungrily, your hands finding the collar of his shirt, and in that moment, nothing else existed but the two of you and the heat that built with every passing second.

This wasn’t safety. This was collapse. And you both wanted it.

◇

He drove you to the airport in the quiet blue hush of early morning. The city still slept, save for the scattered headlights of delivery trucks and the blinking red of traffic lights cycling through to no one. His car hummed softly along the nearly empty roads, the faint rhythm of jazz playing from the speakers like background noise in a film. You sat beside him, your legs curled up on the seat, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, the tired buzz of no sleep making everything feel just a little unreal.

"Just be careful, Y/N," Inho said, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

His voice was calm, but tight at the edges. It wasn’t just possessiveness, though that emotion was definitely buried in there—deep and unavoidable. It was something bigger. A protective instinct that stirred whenever it came to you. The kind that went beyond jealousy, into genuine fear. Fear that you might get hurt emotionally, that you'd be disappointed again by someone who should’ve done better by you. And yes, in the darker corners of his mind, there was that ache—the torturous possibility that you’d meet someone while away. Someone your age. Someone easier.

“I’ll be okay,” you murmured with a small laugh, your head leaning back against the window. “It’s just a short visit. My mom, and my two half-siblings. That’s all.”

He glanced at you quickly, then returned his gaze to the road. The tiredness in your voice made his chest tighten. You hadn’t slept. Neither had he.

When you arrived, the airport was already buzzing—students with backpacks, families, couples wheeling their luggage with sleepy urgency. The parking lot was packed, and the sun had only just started to break through the horizon.

He pulled into a space a little farther from the entrance, turning the key to silence the engine.

"You should go in alone," he said after a moment, watching people filter into the building. “There are students inside. People who know us.”

His hand flexed slightly on the steering wheel, eyes not meeting yours.

You nodded, understanding. It was the risk that came with what you were. What you had. You leaned across the console and pulled him into a kiss—slow, soft, and filled with everything you didn’t say aloud. For a second, he didn’t react. Then his hand slid around the back of your neck, and he returned it, pulling you just a little closer. When you pulled away, your fingers trailed down his arm one last time.

You smiled, a tired, quiet thing. And then stepped out into the morning air.

He watched you walk toward the glass doors of the airport, a small figure with your carry-on in hand, hoodie sleeves bouncing at your sides. His gaze followed you, longing etched into every line of his face. Worry churned inside him. He hated not being able to go in with you. Hated that he had to watch you walk away like a stranger. But that’s what he had to be. For now.

And then he saw him.

Cheol.

Barreling out of a cab like a human wrecking ball, dragging a comically large suitcase behind him, backpack straps hanging loose from his shoulders. He ran toward you with a grin, waving wildly. And you—startled, but smiling—slowed your steps, recognizing him.

Inho’s stomach twisted.

It was irrational, maybe. Or maybe not. He clenched his jaw as Cheol reached you, laughing about something, stepping just a little too close. You hit his arm in that familiar playful way. And it made something in Inho simmer. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was dread.

Because he knew Cheol was harmless… but also not.

Because Inho knew exactly how fragile things were.

Because he knew, for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t in control.

◇

“Where you going to?” Cheol asked, his voice cutting through the low hum of people shuffling toward the gates, his eyes wide and curious beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, his suitcase bumping clumsily behind him.

“I’m visiting my mom,” you replied, zipping your hoodie up higher against the chill of the airport air. “Flying to Gwangju—but she’s living in the countryside now.”

He blinked. “Seriously?! What town specifically?” he asked, shoving his duffle bag up higher on his shoulder, eyebrows raised in genuine interest.

“You wouldn’t know it, city boy,” you grinned, brushing your hair back as you leaned into your suitcase handle. “Hwasun. Some quiet little village on the outskirts.”

His face lit up like a kid winning a prize. “No shit! That’s exactly where I’m heading! I’m going to my grandma’s! Dude, what are the odds?”

You groaned in mock dismay. “I was really hoping for a solo rural reset.”

He only laughed.

◇

Of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your assigned seats on the plane were right next to each other. You sat by the window, headphones halfway in, while Cheol made a mess of his tray table.

“Why is this bibimbap tray a Rubik’s cube?” he muttered, poking at the tightly packaged food with the grace of a toddler. The next moment, the sauce packet burst open in his hands and splattered across his hoodie.

You snorted and reached for napkins. “You're a idiot.”

“I’m a victim of airline packaging!” he protested, holding his arms out while you dabbed at the red stain. He winced like a child being treated for a wound, which only made it worse. You both dissolved into helpless laughter, and just as you tried to stifle it, a stern elderly woman across the aisle glared over the seat divider.

“Be quiet, some people are trying to sleep!” she hissed.

Cheol made a dramatic “zipped lips” gesture, leaned close, and whispered, “The guard has spoken.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, suppressing a laugh, biting your knuckle to stop it from escaping. He grinned proudly. It was stupid, lighthearted, a little immature—but fun. And he made you feel lighter.

◇

“Oh my, you’ve grown up so much!” your mother’s voice broke through the noise of the arrivals gate, her arms instantly around you in a tight, breath-squeezing hug.

She smelled faintly of lavender and baby formula. Behind her stood her partner, a tightly smiling man cradling a small, squirming baby in his arms. At his side was a little girl, no older than five, clutching his pants and staring up at you with huge, nervous eyes.

It hit you like a small wave—the realization. Your mother’s nose. Your smile. The exact same slope in your eyes. It was almost like looking at a version of yourself with different timelines carved into the skin.

It was uncomfortable.

But still, you swallowed the sour twist in your throat. Maybe—for the sake of healing—you could try.

"And oh, is that your friend?" your mother asked, gesturing toward Cheol who was squinting at the welcome sign like it held secret codes.

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s Cheol.”

He looked up just in time, flashing your mother a wide grin.

“Gosh, Y/N, I didn’t know you had an older sister!” he said with mock sincerity, eyes innocent.

Your mom burst out laughing.

You shot him a glare. “That’s Cheol,” you said again, more firmly this time, rolling your eyes.

He gave you a proud smirk. “Just trying to make a good impression.”

And somehow, despite everything, you were already smiling.

◇

It was awkward, the first few hours. Your mother tried, really tried, tossing out light conversation with an enthusiasm that felt a little too forced. Her partner, on the other hand, barely spoke—offering an occasional nod or half-smile, as if he were only there to maintain the peace. The baby, at least, gave everyone a reason to fill silences; when tension rose like invisible steam, they’d both suddenly shift their attention to the baby, cooing and adjusting blankets even when it wasn’t fussing.

The little girl—your half-sister, technically—kept to herself, lying on the wooden floor, scribbling something in a notebook with her legs gently kicking behind her.

The house was small but charming in that countryside kind of way—warm, quiet, tucked into nature. Faint sunlight filtered in through sheer cream curtains, casting soft light over old wooden furniture, a patterned rug, and the faint scent of dried herbs hanging in the kitchen. A cat you hadn’t noticed before slept curled on a windowsill, its tail twitching every so often.

You knelt beside the little girl on the floor, tucking your legs under yourself.

“Hey,” you said gently, “what are you drawing?”

She peeked up at you through her lashes, then quickly turned her notebook away, shielding it with her arms.

“Oh, okay,” you said, holding your hands up in surrender but keeping your smile. “You know, when I was your age, I loved drawing too. But I don’t think I was as good as you—just from the way you’re working over there, I can already tell you’re quite the artist.”

Her lips twitched at the corners, just slightly, and after a small pause, she tilted the notebook back toward you, revealing a drawing. It was… a black ball. With big white eyes and stick legs.

“Oh! That’s so cute! Is that a… jellybean with legs?”

Immediately, she slapped her tiny hands over the picture.

“Cat,” she corrected with a grumble, cheeks flushing.

You swallowed a laugh. “Ohhh, of course! My mistake,” you said dramatically. “It’s a very unique cat. You know, the fluffy kind. Like those rare ones you see on the internet. Honestly, if someone put that cat up for sale, it would go for millions. You’ve got a good eye.”

She slowly peeled her hands away from the drawing, her grin returning.

“Draw with me,” she said, holding out a page she tore from her notebook and a slightly chewed-up pencil.

You smiled and took it. “Okay, but fair warning—I peaked artistically in kindergarten.”

For the next twenty minutes, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside her. She drew with laser focus while you did your best to sketch something vaguely fish-shaped. Occasionally, she’d glance over to check your progress, offering a satisfied nod or a giggle at your pitiful attempt.

When you both finished, she held hers up first: it was a drawing of two figures—you and her, side by side, holding what appeared to be pencils. Your figure had stars in the hair and a big smile.

You held up yours next. “Behold... a fish. I think. It may be a potato with fins. I’m not entirely sure.”

She laughed so hard she fell over on her side.

You took out your phone to capture the moment. Tapping on the camera, you leaned close and snapped a selfie of the two of you, her still giggling, the papers in your hands. It was a nice photo. One that somehow felt soft in your chest.

You opened your messages and saw a single text from Inho:

"Everything okay?"

You smiled to yourself, fingers flying across the keyboard:

"Still alive. Drawing fish and monsters with my evil twin."

Attached was the selfie.

◇

Inho was pacing around his apartment, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck every few seconds and checking his phone like it might blink to life. The silence was killing him. He hated how nervous he got when you didn’t reply for too long. Not because he didn’t trust you—but because the space between messages gave too much room for fear to grow.

When the photo finally came through, his phone buzzed and lit up. He immediately unlocked it, his brows furrowed—but as soon as he saw your face, relaxed and smiling with that little girl next to you, something in his expression softened.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, lips twitching at the corner. You looked happy. And alive. That was enough to keep his worries at bay—for now. He sat down at last, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders, staring at the photo a little longer than he meant to.

Even miles away, you still had him wrapped around your finger.

◇

“C’mon! Help me cook!” your mom called out from the kitchen, her voice light and teasing.

Her partner had taken the baby out for a walk, bundled up in a little knit hat, and for the first time, it was just you, your mother, and your little half-sister- Haeun in the house. You glanced at the girl—who had, at some point, wrapped herself in a fuzzy pink blanket like a cape—and gave her a small grin before following the call.

“Haeun, Y/N, I need a hand,” your mom said, already rolling up her sleeves and flashing you both a warm smile.

You nodded. “Sure.”

“Y/N, peel the vegetables. Ha-eun, wash the rice, baby.”

“Ugh,” Haeun groaned dramatically, dragging her feet to the sink like she was heading to war. “Why do I always have to wash the rice?”

She huffed, but turned on the faucet, rolling up her sleeves like a tiny chef. The water splashed, and soon the sounds of chopping and giggling filled the kitchen.

At one point, you reached over to grab a bowl from the counter just as Ha-eun tried to toss you a dish towel, but instead, it landed on your face.

“Ambushed,” you said flatly, pulling the towel off.

Haeun cracked up, laughing so hard she nearly spilled the soaked rice.

“Careful!” your mom scolded gently, then smiled at the sight of you both. “Y/N, you’re good with her. You’d think you grew up together.”

You gave her a faint smile, a small warmth blooming in your chest. “She’s alright. Could use some rice-washing skills though.”

“Excuse me—” Haeun threw a rice grain at you. You pretended to be mortally wounded, dropping the carrot with an exaggerated gasp, making them both laugh.

◇

By evening, the house was bathed in a golden hue from the sunset bleeding through the windows. The baby had been fed and now nestled quietly in a little cushioned chair, gurgling softly with a bib around his neck. Your mother and her partner sat close together at the low dining table as you and Ha-eun brought in the food.

“I helped make the rice!” Haeun announced proudly, setting down a steaming bowl.

“I helped all of it,” you said with mock arrogance, setting the vegetable side dishes in place.

“Yah, don’t start competing over rice,” your mother laughed, waving you both down with her chopsticks.

Her partner, who had been relatively quiet until now, glanced at the spread and gave a warm nod. “You girls did well. It looks great.”

You watched as your mom spoon-fed the baby a little mashed-up sweet potato, her hand gently patting his tummy afterward. Haeun took her place beside you, already reaching for her favorite dish.

The air was calm. The TV played low in the background, some countryside variety show you barely paid attention to. Laughter rose occasionally. The food was simple but comforting—steamed rice, marinated tofu, sautéed greens, and sweet bulgogi.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had dinner like this, besides the times with Inho.

At one point, Haeun leaned into you and whispered, “This is kinda fun.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It kinda is.”

And when your mom looked over at you, smiling softly, eyes full of something like hope, you let yourself smile back.

For tonight, at least, things felt... okay.

◇

You checked your phone.

Inho had texted earlier—something soft, something like “Did you eat? The baby keeping you busy?” You smiled, thumbs tapping a quick response as your fingers moved almost habitually now. You talked constantly. And somehow, that tether across distance made everything feel less heavy.

But then, another notification lit up your screen.

Cheol: Up for a walk?

You glanced over your shoulder. Ha-eun was curled into a little cinnamon roll under her blanket on the living room floor, soft snores escaping. Your mom and her partner were whispering about something domestic, turning off lights and beginning their slow nighttime routine.

A walk didn’t sound bad.

You: Sure.

He’s just a friend, you reminded yourself. Just someone you used to distract yourself with.

◇

The countryside air was cool, sweet with the scent of grass and earth, and somewhere in the near distance, cicadas hummed. You spotted Cheol by the creek, squatting on a large flat stone, two green bottles in hand and a ridiculously wide grin on his face.

“Look who decided to grace me with her presence,” he beamed, lifting the bottles like they were trophies. “One for you, one for me. It's called cultural bonding.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s just called drinking, Cheol.”

“Don’t ruin the poetry, Y/N,” he grinned, handing you a bottle.

You accepted it, twisting it open and sitting beside him. The creek babbled beside you both, moonlight catching on its shifting surface.

“You know,” he said after a sip, “if you told me a couple months ago, I’d be drinking soju under a moonlit creek with you in the middle of nowhere, I’d think I had a shot.”

You turned to him, eyebrow raised. “A shot at what?”

He looked mock-offended. “Wow. You’re not even going to pretend to not understand that?”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. “Cheol-”

He smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing around.”

The silence returned, this time more companionable than awkward. You pulled out your phone again, fingers typing out a quick reply to Inho’s latest message.

Inho: Having a good time?

You smiled. Maybe it was the buzz of soju, or maybe it was that you missed him a little too much, but you raised your phone and snapped a quick selfie—cheeks flushed from the alcohol, hair messy from the breeze, Cheol beside you mid-laugh.

He blinked. “Wait, wait—who’s that for?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

Cheol leaned over. “Hey—hey! Who is that?” he grinned, but snatched the phone from your hand before you could lock it. His eyes scanned the screen, lips forming an “O” when he saw the chat window. "Professor Hwang?”

You reached over. “Give it back.”

But he didn’t, not immediately. “Why are you texting him so much? It’s like... 24/7?”

You laughed it off, calmly taking the phone back. “Relax, Cheol. He reads my writing. That’s all. He’s just... kind of mentoring me. Nothing weird.”

Cheol narrowed his eyes a little, then took a long drink from the bottle. “Right,” he said slowly. “Mentoring. Sure.”

You met his gaze, steady. “That’s it, Cheol.”

He nodded, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Okay. Okay. Just looking out for you, is all.”

“I know,” you said, quietly.

The creek continued to whisper beside you both, the moonlight now softer, gentler. And even though you laughed again at something dumb he said five minutes later, your heart wasn’t here. It was somewhere else entirely. With someone else.

◇

When Inho saw the selfie, it hit him like a punch to the gut. His fingers gripped the phone tighter as the screen lit up with your flushed cheeks, that familiar dreamy glint in your eyes, and beside you—Cheol. Laughing. Casual. Close.

He felt it immediately. That heavy, aching drop in his chest. Jealousy, yes—but worse, dread. His mind tried to rationalize it: Of course she’s hanging out with someone her age. Of course she’s laughing and drinking and living. She should be. She deserves that. But logic didn’t soothe him. It only made the whiskey in his hand taste more bitter.

He stared at the photo longer than he should’ve. Each pixel felt like it was mocking him.

You should be with someone else.

Someone free to love you.

Someone who can walk through an airport with you and not feel terrified of being recognized.

Someone who isn’t tied to you by guilt, secrecy, and power dynamics.

But it wasn’t that simple. Not for him. Not when you had already rooted yourself deep into every quiet, unguarded part of him.

He leaned back into the couch, the apartment dim, only the low amber glow from a desk lamp casting light over the half-empty bottle beside him. The walls felt smaller than usual. The silence louder. His thumb hovered over the screen again, rereading your text, the photo. The way your head tilted slightly toward Cheol. The easy smile.

He hated it.

Not because he didn’t trust you—but because he didn’t trust himself. He knew he had crossed every line he once told himself he never would. You were his student. His responsibility. And yet… he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your voice softened when you spoke to him, how your walls slowly dropped around him, how you'd let yourself be vulnerable in his arms.

He had told himself he would be careful. That he would protect you—even from himself. But then there were those nights. Those Friday nights, when your laugh echoed through his apartment, when you clung to him like he was the only safe place you knew. And maybe, for a moment, he believed he was.

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, resting it against his knee. It wasn’t just attraction. It was something else. Something far more dangerous. You had disarmed him entirely. Your presence unraveled him, thread by thread.

He remembered the first time he saw you cry. How something in him cracked wide open. He remembered how you absentmindedly chewed your pen during his lecture, eyes dreamy, zoning out on him like he was the only thing that existed in that moment. He remembered holding you when you felt small, and feeling like his arms weren’t enough.

And then there was that darker thought, one he tried to suppress: What if I’m not protecting her anymore? What if I’m just keeping her close for my own selfish need?

The guilt clawed at him. Not just for the breach of ethics, but for the possibility that you might one day look back and realize he wasn’t who you thought he was.

But then, your voice would echo in his memory, soft and sure: “I folded under you because I love you.”

And it would all come crashing down again.

Inho sat there in his silence, whiskey warming his throat but doing nothing to soothe the storm in his chest. He missed you—violently. Wanted to call you. To ask who poured your soju and if you were warm enough. If you still thought of him, even while you laughed with Cheol.

But instead, he stared at the photo again. And simply typed:

Inho: Come back soon.

◇

The walk back from the creek was a wobbly one—tipsy feet stumbling slightly on the uneven country road, stars overhead spinning just a bit too quickly.

"You ever think," Cheol slurred with a dramatic swing of his arm, "that frogs got it all figured out?"

You snorted. "What?"

He pointed ahead at a pair of frogs tangled near a puddle, clearly in the middle of something intimate.

"Look at them!" he exclaimed. "Mating in public, no shame—could be us but you playin’."

You burst into laughter, hitting his shoulder. "Shut up, you idiot!"

He grinned, clearly satisfied with your reaction. "Just sayin’."

By the time you reached the front gate, the moonlight lit the countryside home in a soft glow. You fumbled with the gate latch before managing to get it open, Cheol watching with crossed arms like some kind of proud dad—even if he swayed a little where he stood.

"You good?" he asked, still smiling.

"I'm good," you confirmed, swaying a little yourself.

"Okay, okay. Get inside before you fall into a rice field or somethin’."

You gave him a lazy wave as you stumbled in, leaving the front door half open in your foggy state. He stood there for a second, watching you disappear into the house, a small, stupid smile still on his lips.

Inside, you went straight to the kitchen, stumbling a little, then leaning down and drinking water straight from the faucet like some dehydrated animal. Unbeknownst to you, Cheol lingered by the window outside for a moment, spotting you through the thin kitchen curtain. He burst into a laugh, quietly took his phone out, snapped a photo, and sent it to you.

Cheol: Primitive ahh behavior.

Your phone buzzed. You barely registered it, wiping your chin with the back of your hand, just as your mom shuffled in.

"Y/N?" she blinked, still groggy, seeing you standing there in a nightgown with damp hair and a foggy expression.

"Sorry mama," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes and giving her an innocent grin.

She sighed, amused, and walked over to you. "Come on, party animal," she said gently, her hand resting on your back as she led you out of the kitchen and toward your room. "You’re in college. I’ve been your age too, I get it"

"Mhm," you hummed as your head leaned briefly onto her shoulder.

She chuckled and kissed your forehead. "Goodnight, sweet girl."

You collapsed into bed moments later, the house now quiet again, the laughter of the night still echoing faintly in your head as you slipped into sleep.

◇

It had been blissful—too blissful, really. The kind of soft, sun-drenched mornings and laughter-soaked evenings that made you forget the jagged edges of your past. For a while, it felt like your mother never left, like your father’s cold rules and control had never existed, like you had always belonged here. There was warmth in the air, in the food, in the way your little sister held your hand like you were the moon to her.

And then you woke up.

The morning light slipped through the pale curtains, and your mom stood above you with a soft smile, a glass of water and an aspirin in hand.

"So you were out with that funny boy I met at the airport, right?" she asked.

"Yeah. Cheol," you muttered, your voice still thick with sleep, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

She smirked. "Are you two a thing?"

You immediately laughed, rubbing your face. "Oh, hell to the no. He’s just a friend. A stupid, weird, sometimes tolerable friend."

"Mmhmm, sure you are," she teased, setting the glass on the nightstand, her tone light but her eyes watching you closely.

If only she knew who really had your heart. The man who was wrong for you in every single way—but you loved him, God, you did. Even though he was still in Seoul. Even though he was your professor. Even though it complicated everything.

"I’m glad you have friends, Y/N," your mom said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Her voice was tender, almost maternal in a way that made your chest ache. "You know, you’re only here for a week. And Haeun really likes you. I was thinking… maybe you could stay for the whole summer? Like a family should."

You blinked. The idea wasn’t horrible—not entirely. There was something warm and comforting about being in this home. About the smell of rice in the morning and the crickets at night. About the way your sister tugged at your sleeve. But then… there was Inho. His texts. His voice. The way he touched your hair like it was spun glass. The way you needed him like breath.

"I actually can’t," you said quickly, trying to sound casual. "I have... things to tend to back in Seoul."

"What things?" your mother asked softly, curiosity in her eyes.

You hesitated. "School. My writing. Just... stuff."

She nodded slowly, then sat down at the edge of the bed. "Y/N... I know I wasn’t the best mom. I know I wronged you. Leaving you with him..." her voice wavered. "I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight, but I’m so happy you’re here. I’m happy we’re... trying again. I’m happy you’re a part of this family. Family is important."

You bit your lip, your throat tightening. "It is."

"There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about." She glanced down, fidgeting with her hands. You sat up slowly, feeling a subtle shift in the air.

"Haeun's  grandmother—on her father’s side—she’s been sick."

Your brows knit together. "Sick?"

"Yeah. She’s been diagnosed with aplastic anemia," she said carefully. "It’s serious. Her bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells. She needs a stem cell donation."

You didn’t say anything at first. The words hung in the air like fog.

"And I... well, I hate asking this of you but—"

Your heart sank, a chill creeping into your limbs.

"You could help her," she said, her voice almost trembling.

"Help her how?" you asked slowly, but you already knew. The dread had settled in your gut like concrete.

"She needs a peripheral stem cell donation. You’re young, healthy, and even if you're not genetically related, there’s still a chance you'd be a match. We already asked a few others. It’s... complicated."

"Why can’t anyone else do it?" Your voice cracked despite your best effort to keep it even. "Why me?"

Her eyes faltered. "We tried. No one else matched even closely. We’re running out of time, Y/N."

There it was. The truth beneath the warm dinners and cozy rooms. You weren’t just her daughter—you were a possibility. A solution.

"So, you didn’t invite me here to reconnect," you said quietly. "You just needed something. You needed me to give a part of myself to someone I’ve never even met. Do you even see how messed up that is?"

Her face fell. "That’s not true. I love you. I wanted us to—"

You laughed, bitterly. "You love me now? When I’m useful? When I’m no longer just that kid you abandoned to my father’s madness?"

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, spilling onto your cheeks. You wrapped your arms around your knees, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest.

"I came here hoping you wanted me—not what I could give. I wanted this to be real."

"Y/N..." she tried, reaching for you, but you flinched away.

"I’m not a tool. I’m not a cure. I’m your daughter."

You broke down, sobs wracking through your body as your mother sat helpless beside you, her eyes brimming with guilt. You didn’t know what hurt more—the request, or the thought that you almost believed things were different.

◇

You couldn’t bring yourself to update Inho on any of it.

Not about your mother. Not about the real reason she asked you to come. Not about the quiet war playing out in your chest.

So you stayed in your room, door locked, blinds drawn. The little countryside house felt so small now. The walls pressed in, the air too thick. Your phone buzzed every so often—texts from Inho, and a few from Cheol. You didn’t even glance at them. You didn’t have the energy.

You felt betrayed, humiliated, and worst of all—stupid. So incredibly stupid. Stupid for thinking you were finally wanted. Stupid for trusting her. Stupid for wanting something you should’ve known better than to hope for.

You couldn’t even tell Inho. Because if you did, he’d say the very thing you were already drowning in.

That you were naive.

And you couldn’t hear that. Not from him. Not now.

You sat in bed, knees drawn to your chest, your face blotchy and your thoughts a tangled, useless mess. If you said no, you were selfish. If you said yes, you were a fool. You didn’t even know if you were a match yet—and the fact that they were banking on it made everything worse. It all felt so transactional. Like love came only when asked to give something up.

Meanwhile, across the country, Inho hadn’t slept.

He tossed, turned, stared at his ceiling until the sun crept in, his mind spinning in circles. Your silence gnawed at him. Not hearing from you felt like bleeding out slowly. He kept wondering—was it Cheol? Did something happen? Had you moved on already? Had he lost you?

He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Nothing.

So he finally called you.

And when you didn’t answer, he called again.

Then again.

And again.

Until finally, on the sixth ring, you groaned and rolled to your side, hand fumbling for the phone.

“Hello?” your voice cracked, soft and strained.

“Y/N,” he exhaled, a breath like a wave of relief crashing through the speaker. “God. I’ve been going crazy.”

His voice was shaky, anxious. You could hear the rustle of him sitting up straight. You could picture him—hair messy, hand tugging at his collar, pacing.

“I thought—” he paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. You sounded hollow, flat, like a balloon drained of all air.

“I just… I miss you.”

That part was true. Through all of it, the pain, the confusion, the betrayal—you missed him most of all.

There was a pause on the other end.

“Did something happen?” he asked gently, careful, like he didn’t want to scare you off. “Did that idiot do something—did Cheol—?”

“God, no,” you interrupted, sitting up suddenly. “Cheol didn’t do anything. He’s just annoying, not evil.”

Another beat passed.

“I’ve just been busy. I’m fine, okay?” you said, a bit too sharply, guilt creeping in even as you tried to sound firm.

“I should eat something,” you added, needing the conversation to end, needing the distance again before your voice cracked and the truth slipped out.

“Y/N, wait—”

But you hung up.

And you sat there, staring at the wall, phone slipping from your hand, your heart aching with the weight of everything left unsaid.

◇

For hours, the world outside your door seemed to forget you existed—and that was fine. You needed to disappear. To feel like a ghost for a little while. No one knocked. No one texted. No one called. You just laid there until the silence started echoing inside you.

Eventually, you reached for your journal.

You flipped past blank pages and began to write, furiously, messily, like the pen had a mind of its own. Words bled from your chest, your ribs cracking open to pour them out. You wrote about Inho—the secret, the warmth, the way he made you feel like maybe life wasn’t entirely cruel. You wrote about the way his voice softened only for you, how his touch felt like something sacred in a world that had always been rough.

You wrote about your mother—her absence, the betrayal, the empty promises. About your father, whose silence lately was somehow louder than his words had ever been. About Cheol, stupid, loud, dumb Cheol, whose presence annoyed you—but whose friendship, strangely, comforted you.

You wrote about your confusion, about how hurt didn’t always look like tears, sometimes it looked like silence, numbness, laying in bed for hours on end. About the weight of being alive when everything inside you screamed to shut down. About how hard it was to keep trying.

You wrote until your hand ached, until the pages were wrinkled with the pressure of your pain.

You did what Inho once told you to do—free writing. “Don’t think, just bleed,” he had said once, guiding your hand over the page with his. “Let it come. Whatever it is, it’s yours.”

And at the end of it, there was one truth standing tall in the rubble:

Inho was the only person who had truly seen you.

The only one who had ever held you through your worst and never flinched. He had touched the rawest parts of your heart and kissed them. He had listened when your words were messy, when you couldn’t make sense of your own thoughts. He had looked at you—not as a student, not as someone broken, but as someone he genuinely cared for.

You stared down at a line you had written, one that had spilled from some tender, hidden part of you:

“I want to be better than the people who made me. I want to be someone who saves, not wounds. Even on the days I wanted to die, when my father’s voice broke me and my mother’s absence hollowed me, I still believed that life—human life—is precious. I want to live. I want to help others live, too.”

You inhaled, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel like you were drowning.

It hit you. Maybe you could help her grandmother—not for them, not for approval, or family, or anything else.

But because you believed in life.

Because you had so little control over your own past, and maybe this was your way of reclaiming something. Creating good, because you’d known so much bad.

You got up slowly, knees stiff, the pages of your journal still warm from your touch. You left the room, your fingers tracing the hallway wall as you walked to your mother’s door. You didn’t knock hard, just once. A gentle sound, like your heart preparing itself.

She opened the door quickly, her face softening when she saw you.

“I’ll do it,” you said, voice even.

She blinked, almost stunned, until you added, “Under one condition. Never speak to me again.”

Your tone didn’t waver. It wasn’t cruel.

Because deep down, you still wished she’d say no, that she’d beg to stay in your life, that she’d say "You’re my daughter, I love you, I want you here."

But you needed to know. You needed the truth, even if it tore you up.

She paused only for a breath before saying, “Okay.”

Just like that. As if it was the easiest thing in the world. As if you had offered nothing but a transaction.

You nodded. Not because it didn’t hurt—because it did. God, it burned. But because you had already decided:

You might save a life.

Not because they asked. But because it was who you chose to be.

◇

It all went by quickly—like life had pressed fast-forward. You barely had time to sit still or breathe. You spent the remaining days with Cheol, who managed to make you laugh even when you were emotionally tapped out, and your little half-sister, whose affection was impossibly pure. You avoided your mother and her partner like stepping over broken glass barefoot—careful, quiet, keeping your heart from cracking again.

You texted Inho when you could. Mostly short, sweet messages, enough to soothe the worry in his responses. "Miss you." "Can't wait to see you." "Counting down the days."

The hospital had a waiting list too long to risk, or so your mother said. She waved it off like it was nothing, said a friend—some doctor she trusted—could run the tests faster. You didn’t ask too many questions. He drew your blood in a dim, tidy room that didn’t look anything like a clinic. There was no paperwork, no forms to fill out—just a quiet exchange, a needle, a nod. He said he’d run the compatibility tests himself, see if you were a match for Haeul’s grandmother, who was fighting aplastic anemia. Results in two weeks, he said, like it was routine. But as you left, something about the whole thing—how informal it all was—left you uneasy.

The day of your departure, Haeul wrapped her arms around your waist at the airport and cried into your sweater. She didn’t say much—just held you like she couldn’t bear letting go.

"I'll visit again," you lied gently, brushing her soft hair out of her eyes. She only nodded into your stomach, as if pretending that made it true.

Your mother and her partner were there too, giving you tight, awkward smiles. No words. Just a shallow, incomplete goodbye. And then you were gone—Seoul-bound.

Back in the city, the cab smelled faintly like old coffee and stale air freshener, but you didn’t care. You watched the streets go by like watching your life come back into view. When the car pulled up to Inho’s building, you didn’t hesitate—you all but ran to the door.

It opened fast.

“Y/N,” he breathed, already stepping into the hallway, like he’d been listening for your footsteps.

You smiled, small and tired but full of warmth. “Inho.”

He looked just like he did the day you left, only slightly more undone. His dark hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it too much, the collar of his shirt a little crumpled, his eyes softer than the rest of him would ever admit. That familiar sharp jaw, dark brows, and the slight worry that always lived in the corner of his gaze.

You stepped inside, dropping your bag with a thud. He didn’t wait—his arms went around you, strong and sure, and he pressed you up against the wall with a desperate kiss. It wasn’t careful, it wasn’t gentle. It was the kiss of someone afraid to lose you.

You kissed back just as hungrily, your fingers threading into his hair. It was all sighs and lips, a kind of reunion that didn’t need words. When he finally pulled back, you both laughed breathlessly, foreheads resting against each other.

Soon, you were tangled up in his sheets, limbs knotted together. His hand ran slowly up your spine as you lay against him, curled into his chest, and you felt your heartbeat finally slow, felt the ache inside you ease.

“I missed you,” you mumbled into the cotton of his shirt.

He didn’t respond with words, just kissed the crown of your head, fingers gently stroking your back.

For a moment, the entire world melted away. No mothers. No airports. No tests. Just the two of you.

It was almost laughable—how this man, known to everyone else as strict, detached, unreadable, could be this soft with you. His students feared him, respected him, saw him as this cold intellectual fortress. But here, like this, he held you like he was afraid you'd vanish.

“So,” he said eventually, voice quiet, “how was it? With your mother?”

You stiffened without meaning to.

“We decided to not talk,” you said flatly, avoiding his eyes.

His brow lifted slightly, curiosity subtle but there.

“Why?” he asked, voice careful, not wanting to push but clearly wanting to understand.

“It’s… complicated,” you replied, your voice thinner now.

He watched you for a moment, reading all the things you didn’t say. Then, finally, he nodded.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Y/N,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“No, it’s fine,” you replied with a hollow little laugh. “I’m just… stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” he said gently but firmly, shifting so he could look at you better. “You’re trusting. That’s not the same thing.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of emotion. You didn’t want to cry—not here, not now, not in this warmth.

You just wanted to stay here. With him. In this bed, in this moment, where everything felt safe. In his arms, you didn’t feel like a burden or a mistake or someone who’d been used. You just felt like you.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, that was enough.

◇

You laid there in the gentle hush of the room, his fingers stroking your hair with almost mechanical precision—slow, deliberate, like it grounded him too. You clutched onto him, your arms wound tight around his middle as if he might disappear if you loosened your grip. This—this was home. Not the illusion your mother staged with fake warmth, not your father’s tyranny disguised as “raising you right.” But this. Inho.

It didn’t matter how he held you. Whether it was the searing grip you’d feel when he was on edge, all tension and command, or the slow, absentminded graze of his fingers across your skin when he let his guard down—either way, it was real. Honest. Undeniably his.

You looked up at him, cheek pressed lightly to his chest, your lips tugging into a small, sleepy smile. His dark eyes, always so intense, locked onto yours the second they caught the movement. That stare could break people—cold, calculative—but when it met you, it softened into something nearly unrecognizable.

"Inho," you murmured, voice like a threadbare whisper.

He hummed lowly in acknowledgment.

"How did you spend those couple days when I was gone?" you stretched your arms over your head, letting your wrist flop over his chest, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

He didn’t answer right away. Because how could he? The truth wasn’t something you could just say over soft sheets. All he did was think about you. All he ever did was think about you. You lived in his head like a haunting—parasitic, beautiful, necessary. His every second was laced with thoughts of you. Not in a romanticized, poetic way. No. In the kind of way that unhinges a man. You were the only thing that ever truly mattered.

He hated how deeply you affected him, how raw it made him feel. Hwang Inho—ruthless, logical, composed—reduced to pacing his apartment like some lost lover in a melodrama because you didn’t answer a text.

And yet, if he had to go back, he wouldn’t change a damn thing. You were the first person who made him feel. Really feel. You unlocked something terrifying and beautiful inside of him. Love? Maybe. But it went beyond that. You were a walking contradiction—a soft chaos, a mirror to all he lacked and all he wanted. A living masterpiece.

“I was—” he started, but then paused.

That’s when he saw it. As you stretched, the hem of your sleeve shifted slightly, and he noticed the faint bruise on your arm—yellow and fading, a ring of where a needle had gone in. Not just a scratch. Something medical. He grabbed your wrist, firm, eyes sharp.

“Y/N?” he asked, voice low, dangerous. “What is this?”

You froze. Shame instantly washed over you. Your stomach turned, guilt bubbling in your throat. You hadn’t told him. And now you had to. You couldn’t lie—not to him. Not when he’s the only person who’s ever seen you.

“It’s—well, you see—” you fumbled, your voice catching as your eyes searched his face. His grip remained unrelenting.

“What is that?” he repeated, eyes darkening, brows pulled together.

You sighed, the weight of it too much. “I’m naive as you said, okay? You were right. I thought—” your voice cracked, “—I thought she wanted to reconnect. But my mom just wanted something from me.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“She wants me to be a donor. Her partner’s mother is sick. Aplastic anemia. That’s why she called. That’s why she pretended to care.”

He was silent. Just staring. Unmoving. Like a statue carved from something ancient and furious.

“Happy now?” you added bitterly, voice wobbling. “I finally learned my lesson.”

“No,” he said coldly, releasing your arm, standing up slowly like he was containing something monstrous inside of him. “Frankly, I’m anything but happy.”

He paced once. Twice. Hands clenched into fists.

“Did you agree?” he asked sharply.

You sat up slowly, folding your arms over your knees. “Yes… well—it’s not even certain yet. I’m waiting on the compatibility results. But I said yes.”

His jaw tensed. That familiar twitch in his eye.

“Why would you agree?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea what you’re risking? What this could cost you?”

“I guess…” you exhaled, voice quiet, “human life is precious. And yeah, maybe they’re all questionable people, but still… who would I be if I didn’t at least try?”

His stare was full of disbelief. Disgust, even.

“Do you honestly think they would do the same for you?” he asked, venom curling in his tone.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at your hands, limp in your lap.

“You’re not listening,” he snapped. “None of it matters to them. It never did.”

“Maybe not,” you said with a dry, almost sarcastic chuckle. “But I’m not doing it for them. Not really. I’m doing it… because I still want to believe people can be better than what the world gave them. Including me.”

He stared at you like he was looking at a beautiful, fragile piece of art with a crack running down the center—stunning and heartbreaking in equal measure.

“Naivety,” he muttered under his breath. “You mistake it for kindness. You always have.”

“At least im trying” you shot back, tone soft but sharp.

He looked away for a second, jaw twitching.

“You want to be the exception,” he said, “but people like them don’t deserve people like you. They just take until there’s nothing left.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I won’t become like them just because I was hurt by them.”

He walked to the window, tension vibrating off him. The man who never imagined himself in such a situation,  now, stuck between wanting to protect you and wanting to shake the idealism out of you.

He didn’t speak again for a long moment. Then—

“You’re could get hurt, Y/N,” he said, voice low, like a storm rolling over distant hills.

You smiled faintly, laying back on the bed. “Then I’ll get hurt.”

And still—he stayed. Because for all his warnings, for all his coldness, he knew one thing:

He’d burn the world down if it meant keeping that light in your eyes from going out.

◇

For the past hour, he hadn’t left his study. The apartment was cloaked in silence, the kind that gnawed at you. It was already late—so late the city had grown quiet—and still, you couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t breathe knowing that he was angry. Angry with you. With your decision. With the fact that you hadn’t said anything before, hadn’t trusted him enough to share.

You sat curled up on the bed for a while, wrestling with guilt, your stomach in knots. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it became. Eventually, you got up. Barefoot, you padded down the hall to the study. You knocked gently, once… twice. No response.

So you pushed the door open anyway.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft blue glow from his laptop screen. Inho sat rigid at the desk, unmoving, his fingers frozen above the keyboard. His back was tense, the lines of his shoulders sharp, jaw clenched in a way that made your heart ache. Papers were scattered around him—academic journals, reports—but you could tell he hadn’t been working for a while.

“Inho,” you said softly, voice nearly breaking as it left your lips.

He didn’t move.

“Look at me,” you whispered, stepping further into the room, clutching your sleeves. Your voice cracked on the edge of vulnerability.

Still, nothing.

Your throat tightened. The feeling of failure sank its claws into your chest. “Why?” you choked out. “Why are you ignoring me?”

He finally turned, slowly. His eyes were cold, tired, almost hollow.

“Because you didn’t even bother telling me before,” he said, the words hitting like a slap. Then he let out a bitter, joyless laugh. “You’re so naive. So trusting. And now you’re being exploited. Again.”

“Again?” you repeated, your voice small.

“It’s not like that,” you added, trying to defend yourself, your hands trembling at your sides.

“Not like that?” he echoed, standing up abruptly, his voice rising. “Your mother shows up out of nowhere, talking about family, connection—and you just believe her? Then you agree to a donation just to never speak to her again?” His expression twisted. “Don’t you see how insane that is?”

“I’m not doing it for her!” you snapped, tears brimming, your own voice shaking.

“Oh, then who is it for?” he sneered. “Or what? Some itch to feel useful? A savior complex? It’s not about morality, Y/N. It’s idealistic. Romanticized.” He took a step toward you, eyes dark. “Those people—your parents, your mother’s partner—they wouldn’t blink if you died.”

You flinched.

“And you know what’s even more disgusting?” he went on, voice lower, almost venomous.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I wanted to protect you from people like them, from that trash” he said, his voice nearly trembling. “But I’m just like them.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“No,” you said quickly, your voice cracking, “don’t say that. Inho, you’re not. I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever—”

He slammed his fists onto the desk with a loud thud that made you jump.

“I’m your professor, for fuck’s sake!” he yelled, his voice breaking apart with guilt and anguish. “I’m not supposed to be with you like this! Don’t you get it?! I’m exploiting a mentally unstable, wounded young woman—don’t you see that?! I’m using you!”

It wasn’t a confession of truth. It was a confession of guilt. Of self-loathing. His voice shook, not from anger at you, but at himself. For letting it get this far. For wanting you so desperately. For loving you when he shouldn’t. And when he saw the way your tears poured down your cheeks, when he realized he was the reason—they carved into him like blades.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered, unable to look at you. “You’re already were hurting enough and I just… made it worse.”

You shook your head, voice soft and broken. “Don’t say that. Please. I love you. I know you, Inho. I know that’s not how you really feel. I know you.”

“Stop saying you love me!” he snapped again, this time barely able to hold himself together. His voice cracked, because it hurt to hear it—because he wanted those words more than anything, and he felt like he didn’t deserve them.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the apology barely audible through your sobs. You turned, and with a loud slam, closed the door behind you.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, staring at the door like it had just swallowed his whole world.

◇

You lay curled on the edge of the bed, your back to the door, muffling soft sobs into the pillow. The room felt unbearably quiet without him. Inho hadn’t come out of his study—not even once. You knew he needed time, space, but god, it hurt.

Maybe you were overbearing. Maybe you should’ve just kept it to yourself. Maybe you didn’t know when to stop. Maybe, in some strange way, you were suffocating him.

You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, trying to muffle another sob, trying to collect the scattered pieces of your thoughts. He was so harsh—brutal even—but underneath the anger, you knew it was guilt. Still, couldn’t he try to understand? Just once, look beyond his view of you being this fragile, misguided girl desperate to feel useful? Couldn’t he see the truth? That you just wanted to do something kind. That you believed in kindness.

To you, human life was precious. Every single one. Even the ones who failed you. Even the ones who abandoned you. Maybe that was naïve. Maybe it was foolish. But you didn’t care. That belief was all you had.

It wasn’t about your mother. Or her partner. Or even the twisted guilt-laced love you harbored for them. It was about a woman—Haeun’s grandmother—someone who loved her, someone who was sick, and dying, and human.

And Inho… god, how could he say he was exploiting you? All he ever did was care for you. He was the one who held you when no one else did, who pushed you in your hobbies, who made you feel like life could be safe, like love could be soft. If anything, you had clung to him too tightly.

But… he needed space. You could see it. He needed time to see clearly.

So with a heavy heart, you quietly packed a small bag—your pajamas, your journal, some essentials—and tiptoed to his study. You would’ve gone back to your dorm if it wasn’t the middle of vacation. Instead, a motel would have to do.

You wiped your swollen cheeks, took a deep breath, and knocked on his door again.

“Come in,” came his voice. Low. Tired.

You pushed the door open gently. He sat at his desk, still in the same position, but now with his head resting against his hand, eyes dark and clouded with remorse. When he saw you standing there with a bag in your hand, his chest tightened.

He hoped—god he hoped—you’d come to crawl into his lap like you usually did. That you’d fall into him and let him hold you, like always. That maybe, just maybe, you’d forgive his words before he could. But you didn’t.

“I’ll spend the night somewhere else,” you said quietly, your voice hoarse and small.

His heart sank.

You didn’t look at him as you turned to leave, footsteps slow, dragging with hesitation, pain tucked into every movement. His eyes flicked to your hand on the doorknob, and that’s when instinct took over.

He stood up, crossed the space between you in seconds, and wrapped his fingers around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he said. His voice cracked. “Please.”

You turned around slowly, eyes wide and shimmering with hurt. He looked at you like he was seeing a version of you he’d just broken—and he hated himself for it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. “I was angry. At myself. At everything. But not you. Never you.”

You didn’t say anything—just slowly stepped forward until his arms were around you again, and you were buried in his chest. And this time, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t question if it was right or wrong. He just held you like you were all that kept him standing.

So you stayed.

◇

He stayed silent as the two of you sat curled up on the couch, your head resting against his shoulder, your legs lazily draped across his lap. The room was dim, the only light coming from a small floor lamp in the corner, casting a warm, soft glow around you. Outside, the city whispered quietly through the windows, muffled by the lateness of the hour. You were exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally, your thoughts tangled and raw from days of turbulence.

Still, his grip around you was steady, strong. Not just to comfort you, but to anchor himself. His fingers threaded through your hair absentmindedly, his other hand resting on your thigh, thumb gently tracing circles into your skin. It was intimacy wrapped in silence, a moment of pause.

Finally, he spoke.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, his voice low, edged with something unreadable.

You exhaled, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. “With what?” you replied softly, without lifting your head.

“University. Classes start in a month,” he murmured. You could feel his chest rise beneath you.

“So what?” you said, more sleepy than defiant, but still vaguely amused.

“Hiding, lying… Aren’t you tired, Y/N?” he said, turning his head slightly, his gaze heavy even if you didn’t meet it.

“It’s temporary,” you said, eyes still shut, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.

He raised an eyebrow, letting out a quiet scoff. “Temporary?” he repeated, clearly skeptical.

You cracked one eye open, leaned your head back slightly to look at him. “I’ll graduate eventually,” you said dreamily. “And I’ll try—no, I’ll become a full-time writer. And we’ll live together, somewhere nice. We’ll have two cats and a dog. And when we’re old, we’ll move to the countryside. I liked the countryside.”

He stared at you, something softening in his gaze. He wanted this—he wanted this so much. Every word you said, every wild, whimsical vision of the future you painted… He wanted to live inside it. Despite the logic screaming at him about the reality of age and consequence, despite the whisper in the back of his head that you’d eventually outgrow him, that someone younger, freer, would one day capture your attention—he still clung onto it.

Because without you, life made no sense. Without your joy, your laughter, your chaotic scribbles in your notebook, your constant challenges to his grim worldview—what even was the point? You’d become a permanent organism in his brain, latched onto him like a beautiful parasite that he welcomed. Your touch, your voice, your words, your chaos—it all kept him breathing.

“I’m already old,” he muttered under his breath.

You laughed softly. “Not old. Older,” you teased, tilting your head against his shoulder with a grin.

“Why two cats and a dog?” he asked, feigning annoyance.

“Because,” you said, your tone softening, “my family’s shit. And yours… well, you never mention them. They’ll be our little family. The cats, the dog. Us.”

He looked down at you. Your eyes were still puffy from earlier, your voice still hoarse—but you were still you. Still full of heart.

“At least they wouldn’t be able to talk you into an organ donation,” he muttered bitterly.

“It’s not an organ donation, get your facts right, Hwang,” you said with a smug, almost motherly tone.

He let out a breath, choosing to drop the subject. He knew pushing further would only reopen the wounds.

“You’ll make good money writing,” he finally said after a pause. “You’re gifted.”

You smiled, and for a while, silence returned. Not awkward this time, but calm. Settled. Safe.

Then, unexpectedly, his voice came again—gentle, subdued. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. Not at you.”

You looked up again, brows furrowing slightly, your heart tugging at the broken sound of his voice.

“I once was a donor too,” he admitted.

Your eyes widened. “You were?” you asked quietly, your voice suddenly sober.

He nodded slowly. “For my brother.”

“You have a brother?” you asked, sitting up a little.

“A half-brother,” he clarified. “I gave him my kidney.”

You blinked, stunned. The puzzle pieces began to shift. “I guess going through all of that, you should be a tad bit more supportive, hm?” you said, gently prodding.

“The circumstances were completely different, Y/N,” he replied quickly, eyes hard. “It’s not remotely comparable.”

You nodded slowly, not wanting to argue anymore. He reached out and cupped your cheek, brushing your hair back.

“I won’t stop you, Y/N,” he said. “You’re trying to do something good. Your intentions are pure. Even if they’re toward people who don’t deserve them. I just… I just wish you’d look at it logically. Not idealistically.”

You smiled tiredly, but with a spark in your eyes. “Must you be such a collectivist?” you teased. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for a woman I’ve never met. And frankly, it doesn’t matter. Because human life is worth protecting.”

He sighed heavily. “You’re infuriating.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you, and he kissed you—softly, but deeply. A kiss filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.

“The world swallows people like you,” he said against your lips.

“Then hold me tighter,” you whispered back, “so it won’t.”

◇

As the days passed, it all began to feel so wonderfully domestic. Like slipping into something that had always belonged to you. The comfort was quiet and steady—morning sunlight pouring through half-open blinds, the smell of coffee lingering in the air, scribbled notes and manuscripts scattered across the dining table like remnants of shared dreams. You’d write together, sometimes in silence, sometimes with classical music in the background.

Mornings blurred into nights with no real structure, only rhythm—waking up wrapped in each other, limbs entwined like vines. You’d cook together, brush teeth side by side, fall asleep mid-conversation. It felt natural. Easy. Like maybe, just maybe, you were meant to share a life.

“Jesus, Inho, what did you do?” you mumbled as you stumbled into the kitchen, hair tousled, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. One of his oversized dress shirts hung off your frame, the sleeves rolled up past your hands.

You’d barely finished the sentence before the scent hit you—sharp, bitter, burnt. The air was thick with it, like a campfire gone wrong. A dark cloud hung low in the kitchen, billowing out of the oven like some cursed potion.

There he was, shirt half untucked, sleeves rolled up, waving a kitchen towel at the smoke detector as he opened the windows with an annoyed grunt. A baking tray sat on the counter, filled with what could only be described as charcoal impersonating cookies. He dumped them unceremoniously into the trash.

You burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles. Never in a million years had you imagined him—stoic, precise, all-knowing Professor Hwang—in a scene straight out of a sitcom.

“I tried… making those store-bought cookies you like,” he said flatly, eyeing the mess, “but with real ingredients.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. “I see the life of a housewife isn’t treating you well,” you teased, stepping further into the kitchen.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was enduring a moral crisis. “I saw an American recipe,” he muttered, “and I… mistook Fahrenheit for Celsius.”

You facepalmed dramatically. “Wow,” you said, drawing the word out like a slow exhale. “That’s almost… impressive, in a very tragic way.”

“So educated, yet so…” you started, but he held up a hand.

“I know, I know,” he groaned, defeated.

“It’s just,” he said, trying to recover, “the chemicals and preservatives in the store-bought ones make people depressed, and that could give you writer’s block.”

You laughed as you walked up to him, slipping your arms around his waist and looking up at him with a sleepy smile. “Professor, my writing is at its best when I’m depressed.”

He smirked, brushing a bit of flour from your cheek. “Truly artistic,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Just don’t stick your head into the oven next.”

You rolled your eyes hard. “Really? A Sylvia Plath joke this early?”

But you couldn’t help smiling. Because this—this was happiness. Even if it smelled like smoke.

◇

Evening wrapped around the two of you like a warm, worn blanket. You lounged on the couch together, curled under a shared throw, watching an objectively awful movie. The dialogue was wooden, the characters painfully one-dimensional, the plot twist so predictable it may as well have been announced in the trailer. But somehow, that movie still held something tender in its absurdity—nostalgia.

It was one of those "approved" films, one your father deemed harmless enough. You’d watched it a hundred times on a small TV, bundled up during icy winter nights while the radiator clicked in protest. It had been your solace on sweltering summer days too, when other kids were outside biking, laughing, chasing sunbeams. But you? You were scrubbing floors or hunched over books until your wrists ached, and the movie became your escape, a fantasy of fried chicken restaurants and pretty girls swept away by rich CEOs.

“You have very questionable movie choices, Y/N,” Inho finally said, his voice amused, having zoned out of the plot long ago. The film was more background noise now—white noise, really—his attention drawn to the rise and fall of your chest, the way your eyes flickered softly against the screen’s light, the soft line between your brows when you focused too hard.

“You just don’t get it, you movie snob,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow, grinning.

He chuckled. “Please. It checks every box. Evil stepmother? Check. Rich CEO with unresolved trauma? Check. Poor but brave girl working in her family’s fried chicken joint? Check. And of course, the toxic ex-boyfriend who's somehow always lurking in the background…” he said with mock exasperation.

“It's cliché,” he added with a dramatic sigh.

“Snob,” you countered playfully.

But just then, your phone buzzed on the coffee table, slicing through the comfort like a razor. Inho reached for it first, handing it to you without question, the light from the screen painting your face in cold blue tones. You looked down. A name. Mom.

Your stomach clenched. You answered.

“Hello?” your voice was hesitant, your tone suddenly shifting, serious.

"Y/N?” Her voice on the other end was frantic, sharp with emotion. “The testing results came back—it's a miracle! You’re compatible!”

She didn’t even wait for your reaction, her words tumbling over each other like an avalanche. “I’ll send you all of the details. You’ll have the procedure done in Seoul, no need to come back here. The material will be sent directly to Haeun’s grandmo—"

You cut her off. “Okay. Great. Bye.”

That was all you needed. No more conversation. No more explanation.

But she wasn’t done. “Y/N—” her voice cracked, as if clinging to the moment.

“I promise,” she said after a beat, “I’ll never reach out again. Goodbye. And… thank you...you're immensely helping the family"

The line went dead.

You lowered the phone slowly, face tight, your shoulders subtly rising with the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Inho, who had been watching you carefully the entire time, didn’t miss a single detail. The tension in your jaw. The way your fingers dug into your palm. The slight flinch at the sound of her voice.

“Who was that?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

“My mom,” you said flatly. “The results came back. I’m compatible.”

He exhaled heavily, his jaw setting with quiet restraint, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t stop. His eyes dropped for a second, then lifted again to meet yours, filled with thoughts unspoken. The calm had passed. Reality was back.

◇

Everything seemed to move in fast-forward after that call. You and Inho had quietly returned to your own little world, wrapped in fleeting bliss. Soft mornings filled with sleepy kisses, lazy afternoons writing side by side, warm evenings spent tangled together on the couch. He brewed you tea while you wrote. You ran your fingers through his hair when he worked too long at the desk. The smallest gestures began to feel sacred—your toothbrush next to his, his sweater draped over your chair, his fingers brushing yours when handing over a coffee cup. It was domestic. It was tender. It was everything you'd never thought you could have.

Sometimes Cheol messaged you. Just casual, almost empty messages like, "wyd," or "u up?"—the kind that didn’t mean anything, but Inho’s jaw would tense subtly every time your phone lit up with his name. He never said anything directly, and you never responded. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but the two of you seemed to share an understanding about it. Just like you shared a silent pact to avoid talking about the stem cell donation. A sort of truce: agree to disagree. You both understood where the other stood—but he didn’t fight you on it. He let you go.

The morning of the procedure, he helped you get ready in silence. There was no argument. No guilt. Just his fingers brushing your hair behind your ear, his lips pressing against your temple, a taxi already waiting outside. He didn't say "be careful" or "don't go." Just a soft, “Call me when it’s done,” before helping you into the car.

But the address your mother had given you—it wasn’t a hospital. Not even a clinic.

The taxi dropped you off in the outskirts of Seoul, in front of a tired, crumbling apartment complex. You double-checked the address. This was the place. For a second you wondered if it was a mistake, but no. There it was again, the exact number and unit your mother had texted you. The stairwell smelled vaguely of mold. The hallway lights flickered as you walked through.

Inside the unit, it was... odd. Dim. Clinical in the most makeshift way. A table that looked like it was bought secondhand. A curtain pulled across one corner of the room for privacy. Medical equipment that looked slightly outdated. It didn’t feel sterile. It didn’t feel right. But you told yourself: What do I know about medical setups anyway?

A woman greeted you—early forties maybe, in loosely fitting scrubs with a name tag that read simply: Nurse Kang. Her hair was messily tied back, and she looked exhausted.

“Y/N?” she asked with a practiced smile.

You nodded hesitantly.

“Great. You’re here for the peripheral stem cell donation, yes?” she asked, pulling a clipboard toward her.

“Yes... this is the right place?” you glanced around, uncertain.

She chuckled lightly. “Of course. It’s more... discreet here. Less paperwork, less waiting. That’s what the family wanted. Come, sit.”

You obeyed, sitting in a cracked faux-leather chair beside an IV stand.

“Now, you’ll feel a bit tired during and after the process, but nothing to worry about,” she said, already unwrapping alcohol wipes and tubing. “We’ll use a catheter to draw the blood from one arm, and another to return it in the other. We’re filtering the stem cells directly.”

You watched her fumble with the tubing a bit. Her gloves were loose, and she cursed under her breath once as a needle slipped out of her grip.

“Is everything okay?” you asked quietly.

“Totally fine,” she said, brushing hair from her face. “Just—ugh—these damn tubes, you know? Happens all the time. You’ll feel a little sting.”

She inserted the needle into your right arm—roughly. You winced.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered. "Vein’s a little tricky today."

You nodded, even though your gut twisted. You watched as the machine next to you hummed to life. It didn’t look particularly high-tech. In fact, it looked outdated—like a hand-me-down from a real hospital. The sound of your own blood being cycled echoed in your ears.

At one point, the nurse pressed down on your arm and whispered, "Shit," under her breath. You looked over.

“What is it?” you asked, suddenly more alert.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just a small clog. Nothing major. These things happen. We’ll flush it. Don't worry.”

Everything in her tone screamed worry, but she kept smiling.

You felt lightheaded not long after. Your limbs heavy. Your head buzzing like static.

“How long is this supposed to take?” you murmured, eyes fluttering.

“Almost done,” she lied. “Just hang in there, sweetheart. You're doing good.”

You nodded slowly. Trying to trust. Trying not to panic.

You thought of Inho.

And you thought—maybe he was right.

◇

As you stepped into the taxi Inho had arranged for your return, a strange cold settled over you despite the warm afternoon sun. Your limbs felt heavier than they should, a dull ache radiating from your joints. The world outside the window blurred not from speed, but from the strange haze in your mind—your eyelids drooping, your breath shallow. You chalked it up to fatigue. The nurse had said you'd feel tired. Lightheadedness was part of it. But this? This pounding in your skull, the chills climbing up your spine, the burning heat in your face, it felt... off.

Still, you stayed quiet, curling your fingers around your bag, focusing on breathing in and out. Inho was waiting.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the apartment, you forced yourself upright, legs wobbly beneath you. The door opened before you even reached it.

Inho was already there, worry etched into every line of his face. "Are you okay?" he asked, immediately reaching for you.

Your skin looked pale, almost translucent, your eyes ringed in a dull grey, lips dry. He noticed the way you wavered on your feet, the slight tremble in your fingers as you tried to take your shoes off.

"Yeah, all good," you mumbled, waving a hand lazily. "Just tired... the nurse said it’s normal, I just... need to rest." Your voice was barely above a whisper, and your smile—so faint it could've been a twitch.

You made your way to the couch, nearly collapsing into it rather than sitting. You pulled your knees up, wrapping your arms around yourself. Your whole body had begun to shiver.

Inho followed closely, sitting beside you as his eyes scanned your features, his fingers gently brushing your cheek. It was clammy. And you were burning up. He didn’t say anything, not yet, not wanting to alarm you.

"Okay... rest. I’ll be here," he murmured softly.

He took your hand into his, careful and gentle. His eyes dropped to your arm—where a thick, angry bruise had formed around the puncture site. The skin was swollen, the center flushed deep red, almost purple. His brows furrowed, concern tightening his jaw.

You mumbled something incomprehensible as your eyes fluttered shut. You started to shiver more violently now, your breathing shallower. He stood and returned with a thick blanket, tucking it around you with cautious hands, as if you’d break.

He sat beside you again, but this time, his posture stiffened. Something felt wrong. Your feverish skin, the way your body trembled, the irregular pattern of your breathing. His hand lingered on yours, squeezing gently, grounding you as your body betrayed you.

And for the first time since this ordeal began—Inho felt real, gut-deep fear.

◇

After nearly an hour of sitting beside you, watching your chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths, Inho couldn’t take it anymore.

You hadn’t stirred once—not even a twitch. Your skin was ghostly pale, almost ashen, lips a sickly shade of bluish-purple. Your body trembled beneath the layers of blankets, damp with sweat, and yet you kept whispering incoherently as if you were freezing. Every so often, a soft whimper escaped your throat, like your body was trying to communicate something your mind couldn’t.

Inho placed the back of his hand against your forehead again, but this time he flinched. You were burning up—hot enough to scald. Your fever hadn’t gone down. It had gotten worse.

His chest tightened. His pulse quickened.

He hated hospitals. He hated the idea of seeing you in one even more. But this wasn’t fatigue. This wasn’t "normal."

Without a second thought, he reached for his phone and called emergency services.

When the paramedics arrived, you barely reacted to the commotion. The door opening, footsteps, voices—none of it woke you. Only when one of them knelt beside you, shaking your shoulder gently and calling your name, did you stir. Your eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused, like you were looking through them, not with them. You didn't speak. You just blinked.

“She’s been like this since she got back,” Inho said tightly, voice low and tense. “She had a peripheral stem cell donation earlier today.”

At that, the two responders exchanged a glance. One of them, a man who looked like he was maybe too used to being overworked, nodded as if it explained everything. “That’s pretty normal,” he said. “Post-donation symptoms can be rough. Fatigue, fever, flu-like reactions—it’s just the body trying to recalibrate. Give her a day or two.”

Inho frowned, visibly unsatisfied. “She’s not just tired. Her fever’s spiking. She’s cold, she’s sweating, she looks—” He swallowed hard. “She doesn’t look okay.”

The paramedic hesitated, then shrugged again. “Unless her vitals are unstable, there’s not much we can do tonight. Keep her hydrated. If she doesn’t improve by morning, take her in.”

They left shortly after, leaving Inho standing in the living room, torn between dread and frustration. He watched you for a moment, still curled up on the couch, tiny and limp beneath the blanket, your brows twitching now and then in discomfort.

He moved toward you slowly, kneeling down. “Y/N,” he murmured softly, brushing your hair from your sticky forehead. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

You didn’t respond.

Carefully, he slipped one arm beneath your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you off the couch. You felt too light. Too warm. Too still.

Inho held you close to his chest, his jaw clenched tight as he carried you to the bedroom. He laid you down gently, adjusting the pillows behind your head, tucking the blanket around your body like you might shatter if he moved too fast.

Then he sat down beside you, gripping your hand in both of his.

He stayed there for a long while, unable to sleep, unable to look away—haunted by the thought that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

◇

“Inho?” your voice came out like a breath lost in the wind—thin, shaky. You twitched under the sheets, your lips dry and cracked, your skin clammy and pale as bone. Your heart thudded erratically in your chest, loud and chaotic like a war drum.

Inho jolted, eyes locking onto yours instantly. He was still there—he had never left your side. His hand had never stopped holding yours.

“I don’t feel so good,” you whispered, your words broken by the uneven rhythm of your breaths. “My heart is—my heart is—fast. Too fast.” You clutched your chest weakly, fingers trembling. “Hold me…”

His heart split.

Without hesitation, he slipped under the covers and pulled you into his arms, pressing your fragile frame into his chest. You were burning up and yet you were shaking like you were made of snow. He wrapped himself around you, arms firm and steady, like if he held you tight enough, nothing could take you away.

But your breaths came quicker.

“Something’s wrong,” you whimpered, panic curling in your voice now. “Inho, something’s wrong…”

“I know,” he whispered, trying to keep his own voice steady as he pushed the damp hair away from your face. “Everything will be okay. I’ve got you. I promise. I’ve got you.”

But he didn’t waste a second. He reached for his phone again, his fingers fumbling over the screen as he redialed emergency services. This time his voice was sharp, urgent.

When the new responders arrived, their tone shifted the moment they stepped inside. One look at you—ashen, struggling to breathe, shivering violently despite the fever—and they dropped the calm indifference of routine. One of them placed a blood pressure cuff on your arm and cursed under his breath.

“BP’s crashing. 80 over 40. We’ve got septic shock.”

“What?” Inho blinked, frozen in place, his body cold even in the heat of the room.

“She needs fluids and antibiotics—now. We have to move.”

It all happened fast. They inserted IV lines with practiced hands, placed an oxygen mask over your mouth, and wheeled you into the ambulance. Inho wasn’t allowed to ride along—there wasn’t enough room.

He followed in a separate car, barely breathing. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his thoughts screaming at him, tearing into him.

How did I let this happen?

He had let you go. Had kissed you goodbye. Had reassured himself it was just a donation.

He didn’t demand to see the facility. He didn’t protect you.

Why didn’t I look into it?

Why didn’t I go with you?

Why didn’t I stop it?

He thought about your mother, about the casual way she passed along the address, like she wasn’t handing you a death sentence. He thought about Haeun’s grandmother, about all the people who had no idea you were now fighting for your life.

He thought about how you always believed in doing good—even when others didn’t deserve it. How you had always seen something worth saving in this world.

He arrived at the hospital, running through sterile white corridors, searching for a nurse, a doctor, anyone. When he finally found you, it was through a window—your room behind glass, machines hooked up to your arms, nurses moving with terrifying urgency.

Inho couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He stood there as they fought for you, as they tried to raise your blood pressure, as the beeping monitors told a story he couldn’t bear to hear.

But around 3:17 a.m., the monitors went still.

There was a sound. A flatline.

The nurses didn’t speak to him immediately. They left the room with their heads slightly bowed, eyes tired, sorry. A doctor approached. Spoke softly. Said things like “complications,” “untreated infection,” “late detection.”

He didn’t remember much else.

Only that everything went quiet inside him.

The kind of quiet that crushes you.

The kind of quiet that comes only after you’ve lost the thing that made everything else make sense.

And he would carry that quiet with him for the rest of his life.

◇

After he gently closed your eyelids, everything inside Inho unraveled.

His body remained standing, hovering over your lifeless form, but his mind slipped into something else—some other world, one where you were still alive. Maybe that place was the dream you used to speak of with such certainty, the one with the countryside house, the cats and the dog, your shared mornings wrapped in blankets and soft kisses. The one where you lived long enough to become a writer and he lived long enough to forget what it felt like to be alone.

But that wasn’t this world.

Here, he stood still, your hand in his, your skin already losing warmth. You looked… peaceful. Like you were just resting. And for a moment he let himself believe it. He imagined it was one of those mornings you fell asleep before him, and he woke just to admire your face in the glow of dawn.

But the silence didn’t break.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just stayed.

Until they forced him to leave.

When he returned to the apartment, the reality was unbearable. Your shoes were by the door. Your cardigan still draped over the couch. Your lip gloss sat open on the table beside an empty mug you left half-drunk from the night before. There was a page of your writing on the desk, scribbled and half-done.

He couldn’t touch any of it.

He couldn’t even step fully into the room.

Instead, he collapsed onto the bedroom floor.

He didn't move.

Not for hours. Not for days.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He didn’t speak. There was no one to speak to. The world had gone mute the moment your heart stopped. He existed now in some half-dead state, not alive, not buried—just still. Waiting.

Because you were the reason he breathed. You were the rhythm to which his heart learned to beat. You were the proof he needed that there was still something good left in the world.

And now, he was nothing.

You were everything.

And you were gone.

He never even told you. Never let those three idiotic, fragile, vital words pass his lips. And now they would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He hated himself for that.

He hated everyone.

◇

Time bled forward in meaningless drips, and your things remained untouched. He told himself it was in respect, but the truth was simpler: if he packed your things away, it made your absence real. If your coat was still hanging by the door, if your toothbrush was still in the bathroom, maybe—just maybe—you might come back.

But a seed of dread had begun to grow in his chest.

Did it matter?

Did you save someone?

Was it at least for something?

Or did you die for nothing?

The question tormented him until one night, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He dug. Hard. And the deeper he went, the worse it got.

It started with a call to the hospital in your hometown. They had no record of any pending or recent stem cell recipient, none, they never even carried this procedure.  Then after more digging, he found out Haeuns grandmother was dead for the past five years. He found the supposed address for the “clinic” where your donation was performed—but the building was empty, boarded up. When he looked into it further, what he found made his stomach churn.

It was an illegal operation. A black market front for harvesting and selling stem cells, plasma, bone marrow—anything that could be extracted and sold. They preyed on the naïve and the selfless. People like you.

Your "donation" hadn’t saved a life. It had lined someone’s pockets.

And then—he found them. Your birth giver. The “family.”

On Facebook.

Posing in Rome.

Smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower. Drinking wine in Barcelona. Laughing in matching outfits in hotel lobbies you could never afford.

They used you. Sold your body. Slaughtered you like an animal. Just to sip sangria in the sun.

He felt his vision go black from the rage.

You died thinking you were saving a life. You died believing you were doing good.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

They sent you into that place with no professional equipment, no doctors, no follow-ups. And they never planned to check in. Because they didn’t care if you came back.

They killed you.

And Inho knew—he couldn’t let it rest.

Not like this.

Not when they were still laughing.

Not when the world kept spinning after it had lost the only truly good thing in it.

They had to go down. Every single one of them.

◇

Everything was empty without you.

The world had lost its color—washed out in pale, indifferent greys. The air felt too still. Music no longer made sense. Food tasted like ash. Days melted into nights without distinction, time collapsing in on itself. The apartment, once warm with your laughter, your voice, your scent, was now a silent mausoleum where your absence screamed louder than anything else.

Every night, Inho dreamt of you.

Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. Your voice, soft and teasing, the warmth of it still etched in his memory. Sometimes, he heard it while awake—whispers echoing from the kitchen, calling his name from the hallway. He knew it wasn’t real. But he still turned his head every time. Hoping. Hallucinating you was better than accepting you'd never come back.

But he couldn’t keep drowning in grief. Not when they were still breathing. Not when they were still smiling in vacation photos and spending blood money as if you never existed.

So he turned to justice.

Unfortunately, justice was never designed for people like you.

Your father—your emotionally bankrupt, callous excuse of a father—was a necessary evil. As your legal guardian from the past and your only blood relative willing to cooperate, he had to be the one to file the civil case. Inho nearly walked out the moment he saw him. Every inch of him screamed to lunge across the room and break the man's nose, to give him even a fraction of the pain he caused you. Because when he looked at that man, he didn’t see a grieving parent—he saw your abuser, the source of your childhood trauma, the man who ground you down to obedience and called it “discipline.”

But he bit his tongue. For now.

His time would come.

University had started back up, but Inho barely functioned. His lectures were scattered. His emails went unanswered. Students whispered about how Professor Hwang looked pale, gaunt, like a ghost of himself. But he didn’t care.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Only you.

He poured himself into the case, side-by-side with your father, who—of course—saw only dollar signs. The man didn’t shed a real tear for you, but salivated at the possibility of financial compensation. He was putting on a hell of a performance in court, crocodile tears and trembling hands. Inho wanted to vomit watching it.

Despite the grotesque show, and the mountain of evidence they presented—photos of the apartment-turned-clinic, fake nurse records, falsified medical documentation, even vacation photos posted in real-time during your procedure—the court dismissed it. The judge ruled that, because you were a legal adult, the decision to undergo the procedure had been yours alone. “A tragedy,” the judge said. “But not a crime.”

And your mother? She played her part too. A devoted, devastated mother who had no idea the clinic was unlicensed. She sobbed into tissues. She trembled on the stand. She lied through her perfect, glossy teeth.

Inho clenched his jaw so hard his head ached.

He wanted them all dead.

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse—

A formal complaint was filed against him with the academic board. Accusations of an inappropriate relationship with a student.

It came from your father.

Loud and performative.  Suddenly outraged. Suddenly concerned about your well-being.

He didn’t care that you were dead. He wanted money.

He demanded a settlement from the university to keep things quiet, to “avoid ruining the reputation of the school.” And the university—terrified of a public scandal—caved.

They gave him what he wanted.

And how did he even find out about you and Inho?

Cheol.

That weak, idiotic boy—crying to your father about how he still loved you, about how he lost you. He probably thought he was grieving. Thought he was honoring your memory.

Instead, he sold you out.

He gave them allegations of unprofessional messages between you and Inho, and it was looked into.

He gave them the rope they hung Inho with.

And the school, wanting to sweep the matter under the rug, did what they always do: handled it quietly.

Professor Hwang was asked to resign.

And he did.

Without a word.

He walked out of that place, his name tarnished, his future shattered.

And he didn’t even care.

Because the only thing he ever wanted—you—was already gone.

◇

The moment he found that crumpled piece of paper, everything shattered.

It was buried between the pages of a worn-out notebook, something you must've scribbled down absentmindedly during one of your late-night study sessions. At first, he didn’t recognize it—but as he smoothed out the creases, his breath caught.

It was your silly game plan. That dumb, innocent business class idea you once shared with him, curled up on his lap, eyes bright, your voice warm and teasing. “It's not so special, so what?” you giggled, tapping your pen on your chin. “What, you want me to add a rule where losers die or something? Would that be thrilling enough for your emotionally unavailable, morally bankrupt standards?”

You said it jokingly. Laughing.

And he remembered the way you laughed.

The memory hit him like a freight train. His hands on your waist, the way your head tilted back when you teased him, the way he swore he could live forever just to see that expression again. It was perfect then. So perfect he never even realized it was a soon to be goodbye.

His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, clutching the paper like it was your heartbeat. His tears came so violently it hurt. His breath stuttered, lips trembling, the kind of sob that had no sound at first—just the ache of a body crumbling from the inside out.

“My Y/N,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw, “my sweet, pure Y/N…” His fingers ghosted over your handwriting like it was sacred. “I love you, Y/N…” he choked out, the words tasting like blood in his mouth, like guilt, like ash.

He pressed the paper to his chest as if it could bring you back. As if it could stitch together the black hole carved in his soul the night you died.

But your laughter echoed in his memory. That line. That joke.

And something snapped.

That’s what you wanted. A game. You said it. You laughed about it.

And that’s what he would give you.

But not your version. Not the funny, innocent blueprint you imagined. His version. A version molded by grief and wrath and the rotting pit of betrayal left behind by the monsters who called themselves your family.

So he found the investors.

Dirty money, black market connections, all of it. He slipped into the shadows, the man he used to be disappearing with you. He perfected your idea with a precision that would’ve terrified anyone who knew him before. No second chances. No mercy. No illusions.

Just justice.

The first games were scheduled a year after your death.

He wore a mask. He watched from above as they entered the arena like pigs to slaughter. And when green light, red light started, he waited.

And when your parents were gunned down—screaming, scrambling, tripping over their own greed—he smiled.

Not a victorious smile. Not a happy one.

A hollow smile.

Because justice, even served cold and brutal, didn’t bring you back.

Later that night, he opened your journal again. He’d read it a hundred times, memorized each word. Your thoughts were sunshine in ink. You wrote about how life was sacred, how every soul deserved a chance. You believed in people. Even when you shouldn’t have.

But that belief is what killed you.

They took your light and drained it, hollowed you out for their own gain. They exploited your goodness. They chewed you up and spat you out.

So he honored you in the only way he knew how: by ridding the world of every parasitic leech who ever reminded him of them.

He still talked to you, you know. In his sleep. In the quiet. In the dark. Whispered “I love you” into the silence, over and over again like a prayer, like an apology.

You were gone.

But your name lived on his tongue.

And his love for you—it never died. It simply changed shape.

It became fire.

[arjudy224]

Teachers Pet

Intern x Batfamily

Part 2 of Outreach Gala

The bartender flashes me an incredulous glance.

"Is that a no then?" I inquire with a half smile.

Before he can respond, a vine slithers up his leg, immobilizing him. I roll my eyes. Typical. Eyeing Dick's drink, I ask

"You gonna drink that?"

He shakes his head before sliding the drink down the bar.

Preparing to down the glass, I wince a little in preparation. A wave of artificial sweeteners flood my senses, but no alcohol. That bastard... It's Diet Coke.

"You should really get out of here." I whisper in his direction, "Get some help.

When no one responds, I stifle my laughter. I should have known better. From the corner of my eye, I spot Dr. Harris sneaking out the back door to grab reinforcements. His dark brown eyes meet mine. An understanding passes between us. He needs time. I nod in agreement. Marching through the party, I carefully avoid the eager vines trying to wrap around my legs.

The room falls into silence as I stumble past the poor partygoers. Comissioner Gordan's eyes grow wide in warning. I flash him my most reassuring smile.

"Dr. Isley," I call out weaving through the dozens of guests, "It's not very polite to show up two hours into the gala. We've been waiting for you."

Poison Ivy's glowing green eyes regard me curiously.

Before I can react, 4 stray vines wrap around my limbs rendering me motionless. Her eyes narrow in recognition.

"Ms. L/N, you've grown into yourself quite nicely."

I consider our history. 4 years is a considerably long time in adolescence.

"Well, that's a relief. I was afraid that I peaked with braces."

A small forms in response.

"Are you still picking fights with those boneheads in your class?"

I laugh. Some things never change.

"In some ways, "I respond with a grin, "Now, I mostly try to convince them of their errors through diplomacy."

One of the loose hanging vines carefully caresses my cheek. Peeling through my memories, I struggle to remember Dr. Isley as a Professor. Most mornings, I rolled into class like a zombie. Her labs were interesting though. Halfway through the semester, a group of police officers raided the lecture during an exam. I woke up quickly once her vines began strangling the police force.

"The plants speak of your kindness."

A string of followers blossom at my feet. My face gets hot.

"That's nice to hear. I haven't been able to grow anything since moving back to Gotham.” I joke awkwardly, “I was about to sample the water treatment plant again.”

More vines reach my waist. I shift uncomfortably,

"Don’t you see? Kindness isn't enough."

A few manage to wrap around my neck. The slow restriction around my airway causes me to start panicking.

"Dr. Isley...." I choke out, "You are hurting me."

The room starts to spin. Gasping, I struggle pathetically against the brick wall of vegetation.

"You have so much potential,” She mutters in my ear, “I could use someone with your talents.”

Red spots my vision. No. No. No. A pink flower grows out of a vine. A cascade of glittering aerosol sprinkles down from it. For a moment, my body goes limp. A wave of serotonin replaces my panic. She chose me. Imagine the change we could create. I smile- a real genuine smile.

Her hair.... Has it always been this silky? And her eyes... I've never seen that shade of green before. Everything about this woman feels wonderfully comforting and exciting all at once. In the natural world, when things are this potent they usually warn of poison.... but how could something so beautiful be bad?

When she kisses me, I don't protest. My knees go weak. A yearning, unlike anything I've ever felt, courses through my veins. A loud crash echoes across the gala. Dr. Isley pulls away too soon. I collapse in a wave of sorrow. Why would she leave me so soon? The rejection floods back painful memories of past lovers. Several vines hug me in support. Crouching, Pamela brushes my hair back before facing her foe.

"We'll finish this later. The adults are talking."

Tag list- @nosyrobin, @jjsmeowthie, @epicyOn, @gaychaosgremlin, @rory-cakes, @luna-zendra-star, @b4tm4nn, @anuttellaa

[10yrratiolover]

giving my thoughts and ideas on Ratio's character stories

I wouldn't call this much of an analysis but we'll see how it goes

Starting out with his first character story, most of it is Professor Rond's recommendation letter.

I'd like to start by sharing my thoughts about Ratio and Rond first before actually getting into dissecting the letter itself.

So, firstly, I'd like to mention that (to my knowledge) we have never heard of or from Ratio's parents. I find that ironic considering what a big shot he is, I doubt that his parents would ever willingly shut up about their son.

Reading that Rond had a 'significant influence on Ratio's upbringing' particularly stands out to me because, at least at the time of the original letter being written, Ratio was in secondary school (Grade 9-12, though some of the wording in the letter lead me to believe he was likely on the lower end of that range).

Now, a high school teacher having a 'significant influence' on someone's upbringing isn't necessarily uncommon, nor are old teachers proud of their past students becoming extremely successful. However these points, alongside the fact that Ratio's parents are nowhere to be seen in canon, lead me to believe that there was some sort of familial relationship between them, especially seeing Rond's reaction to being asked about Ratio as well as how he had kept the original letter.

Moving on to the actual letter.

Grade skipping is a pretty common practice where I'm from, as it allows learning at the appropriate/needed level (ignoring the fact that the school system is in shambles).

However, the way this is phrased is as if Rond were trying to convince him to be able to skip grades. If he were in grade 11 or 12 I feel like it would not have been phrased this way, which is what leads me to believe he was likely younger, possibly fresh out of middle school.

The highlight on creativity is just because it makes me smile honestly, also it ties into one of my earlier posts about how I think Ratio would adore the subject of art.

I would like to return to my point of Rond being a potential parental figure to Ratio, seeing as he seems to know his daily routine well enough to confidently write about it in his letter of recommendation.

On to his second character story, which is mostly online posts in a thread-like format.

It wasn't until his eighth doctoral degree that he was awarded with First Class Honors, also since he is the first person to receive such in two amber eras it means he was likely the only one on stage at that time.

It also states that at the time he was already a prominent figure in society, which doesn't surprise me given the accomplishments listed by Rond in the letter despite him being in high school at the time it was written. However, he would most likely be an adult by the time he finished his eighth doctorate.

No real comment on this I found it funny that they put etc instead of continuing to list fields.

I also just find these funny and wanted to share them, but the disagreement on the last comment shows how much people admire him. I feel like that's a topic that's rather watered down in the fandom, but people genuinely admire Ratio a lot and there's plenty of reason for them to.

full-time university teachers tend to teach about 5 courses per academic year, meaning Ratio has been teaching for about 10 years.

Moving onto the third story, which is a statement from a former assistant of his about his desire to join the genius society.

I find this to be an interesting point, it seems like joining the Genius Society would be an obvious next step for a man with so many accomplishments but it's stated not once, but twice that he has never spoken about the subject (to the public at least).

I am a believer in the theory that Ratio hasn't been allowed into the Genius Society due to his humanity/compassion and his desire to spread knowledge to everyone, and I feel like this specification that he's never spoken about the topic could add to this theory.

This paragraph never fails to break my heart, but I do want to talk about the mention of an anti-planetary weapon. I feel like this Anti-planetary weapon that he spent years perfecting was a final attempt at proving to Nous that he wasn't too compassionate or too humane to receive their gaze. I remember reading about this idea more in detail elsewhere and if I can find the analyzation then I'll link it here.

Also, I feel like deep down he always knew that he wouldn't be accepted into the Genius Society, but this day, as Margaret states, was the day he finally realized it, or, fully swallowed that pill.

I find these comments to be interesting as well since they specify the narrow-mindedness of the society however, there is this comment from the Data Bank;

This comment I admittedly stumbled across when looking for something else, but I feel like it perfectly encapsulates Ratio's entire dilemma with the Genius Society, maybe not to Ratio himself but it certainly applies to everyone who comments on his achievements being worthy of Nous' approval.

I am also quite curious about who exactly wrote the 'Decoding Dr. Ratio' that we have read from in all of his character stories. They seem to have a lot of connections for someone who would typically be seen as just another paparazzi or media interviewer, I'm surprised the people listed in his stories would agree to an interview.

Onto his final story, which is about his personality and methods of sharing knowledge.

I mentioned this comment in my character notes post but I find it extremely charming that Ratio remains the same and refuses to change himself or his personality to satisfy those around him.

It is also commented in his second character story by a previous professor of his that his honesty and straightforwardness were a 'Breath of fresh air' at the University.

I love the implication that either; nobody in the entire room had any questions (unlikely), or that they were simply too scared to ask them.

I also find the comment that 'Whenever someone agrees with me, I feel like I must be wrong.' Perhaps he's gotten used to being the only one thinking the way he is or the possibility that people only agree with him so they sound intelligent themselves and weren't truly listening or understanding.

I find these comments interesting as well, a majority of the fandom mischaracterizes Ratio as mean or rude although he literally explains his viewpoints where anyone can access it (which does honestly prove his point about how knowledge is not for everyone.)

[wadewnstonwilson]

older boyfriend wade wilson headcanons || suggestion by anonymous

pairing: wade wilson (deadpool) x genderneutral!reader

author note: let me know if you guys want me to make this into an actual fic!! also would love to make more headcanons in the future featuring logan or wade so please feel free to drop me an ask!

wade’s protective streak is amplified by the age gap. he knows you’re young and still figuring life out, so he’s hyper-aware of anything or anyone that might cause you stress. whether it’s a professor being unfair or a creep at a party, wade’s ready to swoop in. “do you want me to talk to them? or, y’know, scare the crap out of them? either works.”

wade’s surprisingly good at helping you study—mostly because he makes it fun. he’ll quiz you with ridiculous impressions, draw crude diagrams that somehow make sense, or turn your flashcards into a card game. if you’re struggling with a tough class, he’s your biggest cheerleader, reminding you of how smart you are even when you doubt yourself.

wade can’t stand seeing you stressed about money, especially when you’re juggling work and school. he’ll casually slip extra cash into your wallet or “accidentally” order way too much takeout so you have leftovers for days. if you protest, he brushes it off. “relax, baby, i’m just investing in my future sugar parent.”

wade constantly jokes about the age gap, calling himself a “cradle robber” or making exaggerated comments about how “back in his day,” things were different. it’s all in good fun, though, and he loves how your younger energy keeps him on his toes. “you’re like my very own personal time machine, babe. you make me feel young again. except for my knees—those still hate me.”

despite his humor, wade sometimes wrestles with insecurity about the age difference. he worries he’s too damaged or experienced for you and questions whether he’s holding you back. he doesn’t voice it often, but it’s clear in the way he sometimes pulls away or gets quiet when he sees you thriving in your college world.

wade is your rock during stressful times. when finals season rolls around, he’s there to remind you to take breaks, eat, and sleep. he might even bribe you with snacks or cuddles to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. “you can’t ace that exam if you’re running on fumes, babe. now eat this chimichanga before i cry.”

wade loves whisking you away from the monotony of college life for spontaneous dates. whether it’s midnight runs to a 24-hour diner or an impromptu road trip, he makes sure you’re not missing out on fun just because you’re busy with school.

while wade doesn’t want to overstep, he occasionally drops bits of wisdom from his own life experiences. if you’re struggling with a decision or feeling lost, he’s there to listen and gently nudge you in the right direction. “look , i’ve made enough dumb choices for the both of us. let me save you some trouble, okay?”

wade tries not to let it show, but he sometimes feels a little insecure about your college friends, especially if they’re closer to your age. he won’t stop you from hanging out with them, but he might throw in a sarcastic comment or two. “sure, go hang with your study group. but if any of them so much as *looks* at you funny, i’m calling in reinforcements. and by reinforcements, i mean me.”

wade tries to keep you at arm’s length sometimes, convinced that you deserve someone less complicated, someone who hasn’t been through what he has. but the more he tries to push you away, the more he finds himself drawn back to you. you have a way of breaking down his walls, and it terrifies him—because he wants you, but he also wants to protect you from him.

wade makes an effort to understand your college life, even if it’s wildly different from his world. he’ll attend your events, help with projects, and even try to keep up with your academic lingo (though it usually ends in a joke). “So, gpa stands for ‘great partner award,’ right? because you definitely deserve that.”

wade is constantly hyping you up, especially when you feel overwhelmed or unsure of yourself. “you’re the smartest, most badass person i know, and i know me. you’ve got this, kiddo.”

when you graduate, wade is your loudest, proudest supporter. he makes a huge deal out of it, throwing an over-the-top celebration just for you. “you did it, smarty-pants! now, can we frame your degree and put it in the bathroom? best reading material ever.”

despite his doubts and insecurities, wade’s love for you is clear in everything he does. from the way he kisses your forehead when you’re stressed to the ridiculous lengths he’ll go to make you smile, he’s all in—even if he sometimes worries he doesn’t deserve to be.

[thefemmefatalexo]

Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Chapter 3 - Fake It Till You Make It

Summary: The campus buzzes with life, but you feel like a shadow slipping through the cracks—unnoticed, unimportant. At home, it’s no better. Your parents dote on your step-sister, the star tennis player, while you’re the afterthought they barely acknowledge. She’s here too, her perfect reputation casting an even bigger shadow over your existence. College was supposed to be your escape, but living at home and walking the same halls as her makes it impossible. Then he shows up—Satoru Gojo, the rich, arrogant engineering major everyone seems to worship. His smug grin and effortless charm are the kind of things you can’t stand, but when a ridiculous twist of fate forces your lives together, you find yourself fake dating the most insufferable man you’ve ever met. It’s just a deal, temporary and harmless—or so you try to convince yourself.

an: JEEZ LOUISEEEE! SMOOCHEEEES 💋💋💋

{chapter 2} ; {next}

taglist: @hanakotateyama @sleepykittyenergy @inthedarkshadows000 @codeseven @byakuya61085 @minzxec @ivydoesit23

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

You already knew today was going to be bad, but you hadn’t expected it to be this bad.

It started when you woke up late. Your phone was dead—your stepsister had “accidentally” unplugged your charger overnight, and your alarm never went off. You had exactly ten minutes to get ready, which meant skipping breakfast and throwing on whatever clothes you could grab. In your rush, you stubbed your toe against the corner of your desk so hard that you nearly collapsed.

You tried to shake it off, but things only got worse from there.

By the time you got to campus, the café was out of everything except black coffee, which tasted like burnt disappointment. You tried to force it down anyway, only to spill half of it on your sweater before your first lecture.

Then, your professor—who never acknowledged your existence before—suddenly decided today was the perfect day to call on you. It had to be on the one topic you hadn’t reviewed properly, and when you failed to answer, he sighed and moved on. That one sigh was enough to make the students around you turn and look, some of them exchanging glances, some holding back laughter.

You spent the rest of the class staring at your notebook, trying to disappear.

By the time you reached the library, you were exhausted, but just as you sat down and opened your book, a chair scraped loudly across from you.

Before you even looked up, you already knew who it was.

“Why do you look like someone just ran over your dog?”

Satoru Gojo.

You sighed. “Go away, Satoru.”

“No can do,” he said cheerfully, leaning back in his chair. “Saw you sitting here all alone and thought, ‘Wow, that’s kind of depressing.’ So, here I am. Your knight in shining armor.”

You shot him a flat look. “More like my court jester.”

He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Ouch. Right in my fragile heart.”

Ignoring him, you turned back to your book.

He didn’t do silence.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table in an annoying rhythm.

“What question?” you muttered, already regretting engaging.

“Why you look like someone just ran over your dog.”

You debated whether answering would make him leave faster. “…Because I had a long day.”

Satoru hummed, tilting his head. “Long day or bad day?”

“Both.”

To your surprise, he didn’t joke. He just nodded, like he actually understood.

For a second, you almost thought you’d get some peace. But then, his smirk returned.

“And here I was thinking you were deep in thought about me.”

Your face deadpanned. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “But you still haven’t denied it.”

You shut your book. “Gojo.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I will kill you.”

His grin widened. “That would require effort. And let’s be honest, you don’t strike me as the type.”

He wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t going to tell him that.

Gojo sat there for another ten minutes, occasionally tapping his fingers on the table just to annoy you, before finally stretching and standing up. “Alright, I’ll leave you to your brooding,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “But don’t miss me too much.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response.

A Lie That Shouldn’t Have Happened

When you finally got home, all you wanted was a shower and sleep.

But the second you stepped inside, your mother’s voice cut through the air.

“Come to the living room.”

Your stomach sank.

Your stepsister was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, a smug, knowing smile on her lips. Your stepfather sat beside her, looking like he’d just won the lottery.

“We have something to celebrate,” he announced.

You didn’t react.

Your stepsister, on the other hand, was practically glowing. “I got invited to the National Collegiate Tennis Championship,” she said, tilting her head like she wanted to see your reaction.

Your mother sighed, so proud. “She’s worked so hard. It’s an amazing opportunity.”

You forced yourself to nod. You weren’t bitter about your stepsister’s success. It wasn’t her fault she was their favorite. But the way your parents used her as a golden standard—while treating you like you weren’t even worth noticing—never failed to sting.

Your stepfather leaned back in his chair, his expression turning more mocking. “And you,” he said, looking at you expectantly, “what exactly have you been doing?”

“College,” you said, keeping your voice neutral. “Like everyone else.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “But you don’t do anything else, do you? No sports, no clubs. You don’t go out, you don’t socialize.” He smirked. “Do you even have a boyfriend, or are you just wasting your time being forgettable?”

Your stepsister covered her mouth, laughing under her breath. “Dad, that’s mean,” she said sweetly. “She’s just… not really the type to have a boyfriend.”

Your mother sighed like this was the greatest disappointment of all. “She’s always been a bit… invisible.”

That was it. That was the moment.

The exhaustion, the stress, the endless belittling—it all crashed over you at once. Before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “I do have a boyfriend, actually.”

The room went silent.

Then, they laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. A full-blown, gut-wrenching laugh.

“You?” Your stepfather shook his head, smiling. “Oh, that’s rich.”

Your stepsister raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you’re serious?” Her smile widened. “Who is he?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Shit.

“Someone from school,” you muttered.

“Well, obviously,” she said, laughing. “But what’s his name?”

Your heart pounded. “You don’t know him.”

Your stepfather shook his head, amused. “Sure, kid. Whatever you say.”

Your mother didn’t say anything, but the look she gave you said it all—like she didn’t believe you for a second.

Your face burned.

Before they could ask anything else, you turned on your heel and stormed upstairs.

By the time you slammed your bedroom door, reality had settled in.

You had lied.

You had actually lied.

And worse? You had no way of getting out of it without making yourself look even more pathetic.

For the next week, you racked your brain for solutions. You considered telling them you broke up with this mystery boyfriend before they could meet him, but you knew that’d just open the door for more insults, more mockery. You thought about faking a long-distance relationship, but that seemed way too complicated.

Meanwhile, Satoru Gojo was everywhere.

You didn’t know why you kept seeing him—maybe the universe was punishing you—but he popped up in the library, at the campus café, even outside one of your lectures. And every single time, he made sure to annoy you.

“You always look so serious,” he teased one day, leaning against the table you were studying at. “Are you plotting world domination or just thinking about me?”

“Neither,” you muttered, turning the page in your book.

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

He was relentless.

And today, after another long, exhausting day, you just wanted to be alone.

Your safe place was a hidden bench near the lake, tucked away behind the trees where no one ever bothered you. It was quiet, peaceful—exactly what you needed.

But as you sat there, staring at the water, a loud rustling noise came from the bushes.

You tensed.

Then, Satoru Gojo stumbled out.

“Are you serious?” you groaned.

“Oh, hey,” he grinned, “didn’t know you’d be here.”

“This is my spot.”

“I don’t see your name on it.”

You shot him a glare. He sat down anyway.

You considered getting up and leaving, but you were too tired to fight.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rustling leaves and the soft ripples of the lake.

Then, Gojo broke the silence.

“Alright, spill. What’s wrong?”

You scoffed. “None of your business.”

“Oh, so it’s extra bad.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

You tried to ignore him. But he kept poking, prodding, teasing until finally, you snapped, “Fine! I lied to my family about having a boyfriend, okay?”

He blinked. Then, a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.

“Oh, this is fantastic.”

“What?”

“I’ll be your boyfriend.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Are you insane?”

“Probably,” he admitted cheerfully. “But listen—this works out perfectly. You need a fake boyfriend, and I need a serious girlfriend for my family thing. Boom. Problem solved.”

You gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.” He placed his hands on your shoulders, grinning like a lunatic.

Your brain struggled to keep up. Gojo? Pretending to be your boyfriend? This had to be a joke.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Ridiculously genius,” he corrected.

He must have seen the doubt on your face because his expression softened slightly. “Hey. It’s just a deal. No strings attached, no weird expectations. Just two people faking a relationship to make their lives easier.”

You hesitated.

You wanted to say no. But… he wasn’t wrong.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if you make this weird, I swear—”

“No promises,” he sang.

With an annoyed sigh, you pulled out your phone. “We need proof.”

The first selfie was awkward. You sat stiffly on the bench, trying to keep as much space between you and Satoru as possible. He, of course, leaned in way too close, grinning like an idiot as he snapped the first photo.

Click.

You glanced at it. It was bad. You looked uncomfortable, your lips pressed into a tight line, while Satoru, on the other hand, looked effortlessly photogenic—like he wasn’t taking a fake couple’s picture but rather doing a promotional shoot for some high-end brand.

“This is terrible,” you muttered.

Satoru let out a dramatic sigh. “That’s because you look like I’m holding you hostage.”

“You are holding me hostage.”

“Emotionally,” he agreed, scrolling through the photos. “Alright, let’s try again. This time, look at me like you actually like me. Pretend I just said something funny.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Blatant lies.” He placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I’m hilarious. Try to keep up.”

Click.

The second was worse. You tried forcing a small smile, but it came out looking like you were in pain.

Satoru examined it and snorted. “You look like you just swallowed a lemon.”

“I hate this.”

“No, you just suck at it,” he corrected. “Here, let’s make it natural.”

Before you could react, he suddenly threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you in.

“Hey—!”

Click.

“Much better,” he said, showing you the photo.

It was… convincing. His arm around you, the effortless smirk, the way your faces were close enough to suggest something more. You still looked hesitant, but at least you weren’t grimacing anymore.

“This could work,” he said, sounding pleased.

You shifted uncomfortably. “You’re way too comfortable with this.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Natural talent.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. We got the pictures. We’re done here.”

“Not quite,” he corrected. “We need a convincing story. How long have we been dating? How did we meet? What’s your favorite thing about me?”

“Nothing,” you deadpanned.

“Ouch. Okay, my favorite thing about you is—” he tapped his chin thoughtfully before grinning— “how easy you are to mess with.”

You groaned. “This was a mistake.”

“Too late now, babe,” he teased, stretching out the last word obnoxiously. “We’re in this together.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Fine. How did we meet?”

“Obviously, you fell madly in love with me the first time you saw me.”

“Try again.”

“We met in class,” he said, thinking. “I was struggling with my engineering assignments, and you offered to help. We bonded over late-night study sessions, and boom, love blossomed.”

You squinted. “You don’t struggle with engineering.”

“They don’t know that,” he pointed out. “Besides, it makes me sound relatable.”

You sighed. “Whatever. And how long have we been together?”

He grinned. “Long enough to make it believable, short enough that you don’t have to explain why I wasn’t around before. Let’s say… a month?”

You shrugged. “Fine.”

“And my favorite thing about you?” he pressed.

“That you shut up when I tell you to.”

He laughed. “We both know that’s not true.”

You shook your head, stuffing your phone into your pocket. “I’m leaving.”

“Not before you post those pictures,” he reminded you.

You hesitated.

Posting them meant committing to this ridiculous lie. It meant opening yourself up to questions, speculation, and attention—all things you had avoided for so long.

Satoru watched you, head tilted. “Cold feet?”

You exhaled slowly. “No.”

With one last look at the photos, you posted them to your Instagram. Satoru did the same, tagging you with a caption that read:

“Finally got her to admit she’s obsessed with me. Took long enough. ❤️”

Your phone immediately started vibrating.

By the time you got home, the notifications were nonstop.

Messages. Comments. Likes.

And by morning, one thing was clear:

You and Satoru Gojo were now the hottest gossip on campus.

[jasonswh0rre]

The Psychological Analysis of Jason Todd

I am a psych major, and my professor is allowing us to make an analysis of any character of our choice, so I figured who better to write then Jason Todd. This was very fun to write and I very much enjoyed rewatching Batman: Arkham Knight. Please enjoy. ☁️ Warning(s): Trigger Warning for Trauma, Mental Health Content, Violence, Graphic Imagery, Spoiler(s)☁️ Word Count: 2.6k ☁️: Authors Note: I am working on fanfics, more headcanons for Arkham Jason, unfortunately I am busy with classes, assignments and deadlines. I will try to be punctual but it may take time. Thank you for your understanding.

Introduction 

Jason Todd is the secondary villain in Batman: Arkham Knight, which has the same moniker. He is the second Robin and Bruce Wayne's adoptive son.

Jason Peter Todd was born in the slums of Gotham City to two drug-addicted parents, who would eventually try to settle a debt they had by giving Jason away when he was a baby. Jason received no parental figure to help guide him, leading him to petty crimes such as theft to nourish his survival. Jason is a character who takes what he needs if it means prolonging his survival; his lack of a parental figure leads him to an identity crisis between longing for a parental figure and convincing himself he is better off without one. When the simple truth is that every human needs a mother and a father, we respond positively to a nurturing environment, and through early adolescence, our brains crave the structure needed to build us into well-rounded adults. 

At fifteen, Jason inadvertently met Batman while committing robbery when Batman was fighting Gotham's notorious supervillain, The Joker. Believing Batman is in trouble, Jason jumps between pushing the hero from harm's way. Despite life's misfortunes, Jason possesses a remarkable code of morality enough to want to save someone. Jason, attempting to rid Joker of his breath, aims a pistol at the clown and, before firing, is knocked out of his hands by Batman's batarang. Unfortunately for him, Joker would leave Jason with a cryptic message, one for the young man to head.

Jason would later be apprehended and taken into custody in the back of a police car by Batman after Batman retrieved his gun and stolen money. However, rather than being charged, Jason receives a blessing through a Wayne Industries project that helped troubled teens; through the program, Jason was able to turn his life around. All attract the man who helped Jason find a new purpose: Bruce Wayne. Months after being released, Batman appeared in Jason's dorm, again offering Jason another opportunity. 

2nd Robin and Kidnapping

Taking Jason in as his ward as well as dubbing him Robin after Dick Grayson, Jason sought justice and enjoyed being a hero. Like the previous Robin, he showed a keen aptitude for it; unlike his predecessor, he possessed a fiery temper and willingness for more lethal force. While Jason's temper is directed towards the criminals that harm the innocents, Batman views this as inexcusable, fearing the day that Jason will kill instead of reprimanding. 

In the most twisted sense of irony, Jason's morality inevitably becomes his downfall. The Joker has blown up a school with kindergarteners; this leads to Jason's resolve that Joker needs to die. Knowing that Bruce would try to stop him, Jason abandons his comms and tracker so he can kill Joker. However, it is a trap, and Joker ambushes Jason. Jason was kept in a wheelchair, bonded by barbed wire that kept Jason leaning hunched over in excruciating pain. Throughout his pain, Jason's mind remained still; he was confident that Batman would find him; his sheer will at the beginning of his torture is, with all honesty, remarkable as Joker has been known for his mental abuse and mind games he plays with his victims including his sidekick, Harley Quinn. 

In the six months of his torture, Jason's unwavering mental resolve was slowly crippling as Joker had wanted; throughout the game, Jason's voice mixed with crippling fear and small doubts about Batman coming. The Joker feeds into his doubts by showing him a photo of Batman with his replacement, Tim Drake. This leaves Jason troubled as he slowly loses hope for Batman. 

The last act of Jason's torture involved a video sent to Batman via The Joker of Jason, who has undergone all his brainwashing; in the video, Jason is sitting down in a chair; he is not chained, barbed, handcuffed, or kept sitting still in any way by all means Jason could easily walk away. This is a significant and crucial part of Jason's torture as it symbolizes just how much mental anguish and emotional exhaustion Jason went through to the point that he no longer had a yearning for freedom—making him downright timid and submissive towards Joker enough to out Batman's identity when asked by the latter. This results in Joker shooting Jason point-blank in the chest, as Joker "never could stand a tattletale." However, this was only a ploy to make Batman believe Jason is genuinely dead.

On the contrary, Jason was kept alive for another year, endeavoring more torture, mistreatment, and malnourishment. Harley Quinn did the final touches of Jason's emotional and mental brainwashing; a former psychiatrist who manipulated Jason into believing that Batman was the cause of his anguish and his pain was his doing; she did this long enough, even punishing Jason by waterboarding him and electrocuting him when he refused to say Batman, indicating he still had some level of awareness of who was torturing him. 

However, once Harley could get Jason to say Batman's name, Jason was drugged and beaten by two prisoners dressed like Batman; he was given a gun by The Joker and was ordered to kill them. Jason's resolve and humanity were a cord, still entrenched in him before Harley convinced him further, snapping his humanity and getting him to shoot the two dressed-up prisoners dead.

During the riots of Arkham Asylum, The Joker paid mercenary Deathstroke to keep Jason there and shoot him if he escaped. However, Jason convinces Deathstroke that Joker will not keep his promise and that if he helps, Jason will triple whatever Joker plans to pay. Accepting the offer, Deathstroke assists Jason in escaping, stealing a helicopter, and flying to Wayne Industries. Jason steals millions of dollars from his former guardian. Ironically, crossing paths with Tim Drake, who assumes Todd to be Deathstroke's sidekick, when Jason's ankle is caught between Tim's grappling hook, Jason cuts the cord, allowing Tim to fall when suggested by Deathstroke that killing Robin would bode well for them with the Dark Knight. Jason Coldy says that if he dies in a fall like that, Batman needs to pick his sidekicks better. 

Jason's psyche has been torn and scattered, leaving him a hollowed carving with a mocking J branding etched onto his face, from birth his eyes were already met with darkness, born to parents who never showed him recognition, let alone love, and through the Wayne Industries Project and his adoption by Bruce his eyes were wide, and remarkably hopeful, to be free of the weight of Gotham's misfortunes finally; those eyes that looked with gleam forced shut until he saw nothing but blackness.

Arkham Knight's Birth

Jason adopts a new persona built on the pain and suffering in the wake of his escape from Joker. He feels betrayed by the one person he only had in the world and wants vengeance. Jason works alongside Scarecrow, one of Batman's enemies. The two begin a plan on Halloween to take Gotham and Batman's legacy along with it. Jason gathers all Batman's enemies to join, assembling a militia with Deathstroke. While working with each other, Scarecrow "tests" his fear toxin on the young man, sending him on a psychological spiral. One of his more apparent fears is the Joker, who can be found near, in the background, or standing right in front of him laughing and mocking him, but beyond the clown prince of crime's appearance, Jason also sees his replacement, Tim Drake, and "fights" him.

The fight has Jason severely outnumbered in the beginning, with Tim succeeding, even using his staff to choke Jason, forcing him to the ground as the Jokers around him laugh. Further into the fear toxin, Jason appears in front of Wayne Manor, where he throws down his helmet and says the following: "Someplace warm, someplace safe, someplace where I'm needed, someplace where I'm loved," Joker once again appears in front of him laughing and mocking him on whether he even deserves it, this is Jason's internal struggle in a manifested form of the person who caused him harm, of the person who convinced him from the start that he was alone and would not be saved. Jason is mischaracterized as always being angry or standoffish, but anger has more truth than any lie detector can scoop. Jason feels this anger is not just because of some personality trait; anger is his cry out, and he's shouting to be seen and loved. This is most likely due to being tortured at 15 or so, which, despite the fact that at the time of Arkham Knight, he was in his early 20s, his mental age was regressed to the age when he was captured. This makes Jason appear at first glance as someone emotional, cocky, and arrogant. He values safety and love; he doesn't want to be on his guard 24/7, but he's grown up in an environment where letting your guard down gets you killed. He follows Joker into Wayne Manor, where he sees Bruce; suddenly, several versions of Batman appear in the room. They beat him and told him they never wanted a partner or even a son. This is a conflict that has always waged war in Jason's mind. Jason's biological father attempted to give him up and then belittled him when he explained that Jason's worth was so low that he couldn't even leave him; he has low self-esteem that he internalizes into rage in the way that he fights to prove his strength. 

This is why Jason has a strong attachment to Bruce/Batman it maybe due to an underlying desire to seek his approval especially by the time when he adopts him. Bruce gives him everything he could ask for and anything he could think of, and Batman gives him a purpose. Ironically, this is still the case despite Bruce himself having an avoidant attachment style. 

Conclusion and Diagnosis

Jason Todd's character in "Batman: Arkham Knight" exhibits a complex interplay of psychological factors that align with the diagnostic criteria for Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). One prominent feature of BPD is emotional dysregulation, characterized by intense and rapidly shifting emotions. Jason displays various emotions throughout the game, from anger and hostility to vulnerability and despair. His reactions often appear exaggerated or disproportionate to the situation, indicating difficulty regulating his emotional responses.

Furthermore, Jason's sense of identity is notably unstable, which is another hallmark feature of BPD. Having grown up in a dysfunctional environment with absent parents, Jason lacks a stable sense of self and struggles to define his identity. This is evident in his adoption of various personas, including Robin, the Arkham Knight, and, later, the Red Hood. His shifting identities reflect a profound inner conflict and a desperate search for validation and purpose. Jason's interpersonal relationships also reflect the interpersonal instability characteristic of BPD. He forms intense and unstable attachments to figures such as Batman, vacillating between admiration and resentment. His interactions with other characters are marked by rapid shifts in perception, alternating between idealization and devaluation. For example, while Jason initially idolizes Batman as a mentor and father figure, his feelings of betrayal and abandonment lead to resentment and hostility towards him.

Moreover, Jason exhibits self-destructive behaviors as a coping mechanism for his emotional pain, another hallmark of BPD. He engages in reckless actions, disregarding his safety to seek vengeance against those he perceives as enemies. His confrontations with adversaries are often fueled by a desire for self-assertion and control, masking more profound feelings of emptiness and despair.

Underlying Jason's behaviors is a pervasive fear of abandonment, stemming from his traumatic upbringing and experiences of betrayal. This fear drives his desperate attempts to maintain connections with others, even as he pushes them away with his volatile and unpredictable behavior. Jason's fear of abandonment manifests in his interactions with Batman and the Bat family, where he oscillates between seeking their approval and rejecting their authority.

Jason Todd's character in "Batman: Arkham Knight" embodies many of the core features of Borderline Personality Disorder, including emotional dysregulation, identity disturbance, interpersonal instability, self-destructive behaviors, and a fear of abandonment. By analyzing his actions, relationships, and psychological struggles within the context of the game's narrative, it becomes apparent that Jason's character aligns closely with the diagnostic criteria for BPD, providing a compelling framework for understanding his complex and multifaceted personality.

Besides indicating various symptoms of BPD, I would also consider diagnosing Jason with Complex Post post-traumatic stress Disorder (C-PTSD). Given Jason's background of severe trauma, including childhood abuse, neglect, and prolonged torture at the hands of the Joker, it's worth considering Complex PTSD. C-PTSD typically develops in response to chronic trauma and is characterized by symptoms such as emotional dysregulation, disturbed self-concept, difficulties in relationships, and a persistent sense of threat. I would include diagnosing Jason with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD): Jason's experiences of profound loss, trauma, and betrayal may contribute to symptoms of depression, such as feelings of hopelessness, worthlessness, and a loss of interest in activities. His struggles with emotional regulation and chronic feelings of emptiness could also align with depressive symptoms. Following my diagnosis, I am also inclined to believe he suffers from attachment disorders; given Jason's tumultuous upbringing and experiences and a multitude of parental figures involving neglect and abandonment, it's possible that he may have developed attachment-related difficulties. This could manifest in insecure attachment styles, fear of abandonment, and challenges in forming and maintaining healthy relationships. 

Furthermore, I would consider Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD): While Jason displays empathy and compassion at times, his willingness to engage in morally questionable or violent behavior, as well as his disregard for societal norms and rules, may align with some features of ASPD. However, his capacity for genuine care and loyalty makes this disorder out of sorts with his character.

Lastly, Post-Traumatic Embitterment Disorder (PTED): PTED is a proposed diagnostic category characterized by intense feelings of injustice, betrayal, and embitterment following a traumatic event or series of events. Jason's experiences of betrayal and abandonment, particularly by Batman and the Joker, may resonate with the symptoms of PTED. 

In conclusion, the character of Jason Todd in "Batman: Arkham Knight" presents a compelling portrayal of psychological complexity shaped by a tumultuous history of trauma, betrayal, and profound loss. Through a comprehensive analysis of his experiences and behaviors throughout the game, it becomes evident that Jason embodies many psychological struggles, warranting consideration for various diagnostic possibilities. Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) emerges as a primary candidate, given Jason's emotional volatility, identity disturbances, and interpersonal difficulties. His tumultuous relationships, intense fear of abandonment, and self-destructive tendencies align closely with the diagnostic criteria for BPD. Furthermore, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) offers another lens through which to understand Jason's psychological profile, considering his history of chronic trauma and its pervasive impact on his functioning.

Additionally, Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) may contribute to Jason's experiences of profound despair, hopelessness, and emotional emptiness. His struggles with attachment-related difficulties suggest the possibility of underlying attachment disorders stemming from his early experiences of neglect and abandonment.

While Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD) and Post-Traumatic Embitterment Disorder (PTED) offer alternative perspectives, they may not fully capture the complexity of Jason's character, given his capacity for empathy and genuine care, despite his propensity for morally questionable behavior.

In essence, Jason Todd's character in "Batman: Arkham Knight" is a poignant exploration of the human psyche's intricacies, illustrating the profound impact of trauma on identity, relationships, and emotional well-being. By delving into his psychological struggles within the context of the game's narrative, we gain valuable insights into the complexities of mental health and the enduring resilience of the human spirit.

[sturnlover21390]

Truth or dare pt.1

Your failing all of your classes, and Matt offers to tutor, you have no idea how this little action, will change everything.

no use of y/n, no smut (yet)

As I’m walking down the hall I see my English teacher, Mr.Jhonson, walk towards me. He’s always on my ass trying to figure out when I’m going to turn in my assignments, when we both know it’ll never happen.

“Ellie , this is unacceptable” he says in an stern voice. “You have a D in most of your classes, and the semester is comming to a end. Get it together before you fail the year.”

“I’m trying my hardest” I lie.

“Try harder” he says before walking away

See, I don’t understand how professors are aloud to just walk away and students aren’t, but that’s a secret the whole world would never get a anwser to.

“Hey, I heard you and Mr. Johnson’s conversation back there and I was thinking I could help?” I hear Matt say, hesitantly.

I had no idea why he was talking to me. He always had his head dug into a book in the library, or focused on studying his notes for the next test.

“So” I start “you were eavesdropping?”

Instantly his checks start to form a bright red “noo, see I- I was just walking by and - I would never.” he says in a defensive manner.

“Calm down Matt, I’m just teasing” I say with a giggle, “and what do you mean by help?”

“I was thinking maybe I could tutor you a bit? I wouldn’t want you to fail” he finishes, looking away.

“Uh .. yeah. Yeah, sure, do I have to pay you?”

“No!” Matt says a bit too loud for both of our comfort “I mean, no you don’t ..collage is already expensive enough right?”

“Okay sure, I can give you my address? I live off campus”I suggest.

And it was a plan

At 3pm I was going to see him. I have no idea why I was so excited to see somebody I’ve barley said 3 words to, but nonetheless, here I am. When I get home I change into sweatpants and a crop top. I put my hair up into a bun, then started my makeup. I don’t know why I put in more effort than usual, I mean it’s not like this is a date. But for some reason I wanted to look good for him. Look good for Matt.

A few knocks on the door grabbed my attention. I put some of my makeup away before heading to the door.

“Hey” I say, with a soft smile on my face.

“Hey, can I come in” he says back, with a edge in his voice.

“Sure” i open the door a bit wider, as he walks in. I point to the dining table as we both make our way there. “Hey, you good?” I question. He seemed a little bit different from earlier today. Like he now had an attitude or something was bothering him.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, just my brother kinda gave me shit before I got here. That dosent matter though, let’s get started”

He takes out his computer , while starting to talk about economics or something, honestly I hardly was paying attention. I couldn’t stop looking at him, how confident he was in the work he was showing me, how it seemed like this naturally came to him. 

“Do you understand that?” He says, and I get pulled out of my thoughts.

“Um, yea, sure. Anyways what happned earlier with your brother? Was it Chris or Nick?”

“You know them?” He questions

“Obviously, it’s not everyday I see triplets, everybody sorta knows you guys”

“Yeah I guess it hard to miss us” he says, with a soft smile displayed on his face.”it’s nothing that serious though they just they keep trying to convince me to go to this party later tonight and-“

“Wait Brittney’s party?” I say happily “You should defeintly go , you can even come with me, promise it’ll be fun.”

“I’m not really a party kind of person, , it’s so loud and I don’t feel like dancing with a bunch of sweaty people”

“Come on Matt, it’ll be so much fun, plus aren’t party’s part of the “amazing collage experience” I say sarcastically.

“Um.. I guess , you know what okay I’ll go with you, if you promise to at least try to pass your classes” he says blushing.

I wasent going to go to Britney’s party, but for some reason I really wanted to go with him. Spend time with him. I don’t get why I’m so drawn to him, but I don’t mind it.