#and to believe i was a little normaler last year......
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feminist-space · 1 day ago
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"Joy Spence, 21, said she visited emergency departments at two hospitals in St. John's over the course of nearly two weeks this May.
What began as weakness and abdominal pain on her right side quickly deteriorated into blacking out from the agony in her torso.
But no matter how dire her symptoms got, doctors kept sending her home.
"They would just tell me, 'Your bloodwork's normal, there's nothing we can do.' They would send me home, then same thing again," she said. "I would go back again. They would get me to do the bloodwork, say everything's normal."
Ultrasound and CT scans apparently turned up nothing, but Spence, in such severe pain, says she had no option but to keep returning to the hospital, where she says she was eventually left screaming in a waiting room, ignored by hospital staff.
"If somebody doesn't help me, I'm going to die," she recalls wailing, watching doctors and nurses pass her by.
At one point, she was dismissed outright by a walk-in clinic nurse, she adds.
"Somebody said to me, 'I don't know what you expect me to do,'" she said. "'You're a healthy 21-year-old young female.'"
One night, she says, her boyfriend had to help her into an ambulance. Spence was in so much pain she couldn't stay conscious and stand on her own.
"I remember the man in the ambulance telling me 
 how often he sees other young women going into the hospital and seeing them be misdiagnosed and not taken seriously," she said, speaking through tears.
"He said that he would do his best to 
 get things going for me."
Spence says she went to an ER at the Health Sciences Centre or St. Clare's Mercy Hospital about 10 times over a 12-day period, beginning on May 21. She also visited her family doctor, who could do little except tell her to speak directly to the surgeon at Health Sciences Centre, she said.
Each time she saw a doctor, she says, she was sent home and told to dance around her living room or do yoga to cure what physicians believed was anxiety or sluggish bowels.
"I had so many laxatives," Spence recalls. "I would tell them 
 nothing's even coming out anymore. It's not just this, I don't think. But no, they were dead set on the constipation and only constipation. Like, it can only be that."
...
Spence says doctors only began to take her seriously once she began vomiting in a Health Sciences Centre hallway. The contents of her stomach were green and black.
An older doctor walking past her happened to notice, stopping in his tracks. Spence says he immediately identified the issue as appendicitis.
At that doctor's urging, Spence was finally wheeled into an operating room, where she says her burst appendix — now gangrenous — was removed.
"I think when I walked into the room and they seen a 21-year-old young girl, they immediately dismissed me and thought that there couldn't be anything wrong with me," Spence said.
"I was not on their minds and not on their radar. And if they didn't have that preconceived idea of me, those thoughts wouldn't have been formed and maybe I would have gotten the proper care that I should have."
...
Spence is still struggling to recover from her ordeal. Physically, she's now fine: her appendix was removed and her stitches have healed.
But she's lost an alarming amount of weight, she says, wakes up gasping in the middle of the night and can't stop herself from crying whenever she remembers the hospital.
"I've been losing a lot of hair," she said. "Mentally, it's just been a struggle."
Spence only received an apology from the health authority after CBC News requested comment and confirmed that Spence had done an interview — a move she says felt hollow and frustrating, since the manager who called her didn't give her an explanation about why she was repeatedly ignored while waiting to be admitted.
The ripple effect from her illness, and how she says she was treated when seeking care, has uprooted her life. She's taken a year off her studies in Memorial University's social work program and has lost her job. She's looking for trauma therapy, but now doesn't have the money to pay for it, she says.
"I think as young women we're always told what we're supposed to do, how we're supposed to think, and not to trust our instincts," she said.
"But most of the time 
 the gut instinct is right. I knew I was sick. I knew what was happening wasn't right, and I could have died if I didn't keep going back to the hospital.
"If I had listened to those doctors and went back home — what could have really happened?""
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littlestarbigsky · 2 days ago
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been thinking long and hard abt soda and what it did to him to drop out of high school (i also feel bad bc somehow the only fics i have abt soda are all ships and i know i can do better for my boy)
so here’s a quick lil thing abt darry and soda after soda dropped out :p
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darry couldn’t remember the last time soda had been this upset. even after their parents died, there were moments when the gang was all together and soda could laugh and feel the littlest bit normal again, but this felt like it was never going to end, and there was no reprieve. there was no end in sight, and darry couldn’t do anything to help him.
his grades had been going downhill for a while. it wasn’t his fault, or at least not entirely. it had been years since soda had done alright in school on his own instead of barely scraping by, and at some point the class had left him behind and it was like they started speaking another language.
and then their parents died.
soda already had enough trouble missing one day of school, let alone missing a week while they tried to throw together a funeral.
a month after their parents had died, after far too many nights at the kitchen table crying over math homework, after screaming matches that shook the roof over his grades, after darry had yelled so many times about how failing out of school was a surefire way to get them sent to a boy’s home, soda finally said that he was dropping out of school.
he could barely leave his room after telling darry, he couldn’t even tell ponyboy himself. he didn’t know what to do with himself, battling with his own mind every hour of the day. thoughts bouncing around his head of feeling like a failure for not even being able to graduate high school, bullying himself over not being able to joke around about it or making other people happy, which felt like maybe the only thing he was good at anymore. he knew that he was going to fail out eventually, so what was the point?
“soda?” darry cracked the door open, his eyes landing on his little brother where he had been for the last three days: curled up in bed, his back to the door. “do you want some dinner?”
soda silently shook his head.
darry sighed, “you can’t stay in here, forever, pepsi. we miss you out there.”
soda didn’t give much of a response, just gave a half hearted shrug.
“listen,” darry let himself into the room, sitting down on the bed and bringing a hand up to rub soda’s back. “i know you feel lousy, and i know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but you’ve gotta get back to living, soda. you’ve just gotta. we couldn’t get along without you.”
soda rolled over and sat up, and darry had to swallow a gasp at the state of his brother. soda’s eyes were rubbed raw and angry red from crying with deep shadows stamped under them, his hair was sticking up at all angles from the grease he hadn’t washed out in days, and his clothes were wrinkled and hanging loosely off of him.
“soda
”
darry could hardly get the word out before soda had thrown himself at his big brother, tears starting up again. god, he was so tired of crying.
“i’m so sorry,” he cried miserably, clutching to darry with everything he had in him.
darry felt the tears hit his shoulder and his heart ached for his little brother, “i know, i ain’t mad at you, honey.”
“mom and dad just wanted me to graduate and i couldn’t even do that! how am i supposed to do anything if i can’t do that?” soda sobbed.
“they’re not mad at you either, baby, don’t say that,” darry could feel tears prickling in his own eyes.
“listen, i don’t care if you’re lyin’ to me,” soda leaned back, his eyes not meeting darry’s. “but can you please tell me it’s gonna be okay.”
darry felt like he had missed a step going down stairs with the way the words made his stomach drop. he grabbed soda’s face in his hands and forced his brother to look at him.
“it’s gonna be okay, baby. i don’t know when and i don’t know how but i promise you, we’re gonna be okay. i’m gonna make sure we are.”
he wasn’t sure soda believed him, and maybe he didn’t even fully believe himself, but he had made a promise, and he had every intention of making good on it. some of the tension soda had been holding in his shoulders seemed to melt away, and darry knew he would be okay with saying everything over and over again if it meant soda didn’t have to be so scared.
“thank you
 i know you hate lying to us.”
“i wasn’t lying.”
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punksyeet · 18 hours ago
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ᰔᩚ Protection ᰔᩚ
Plot: Gianna (OC) is protected by a guy at the gym who, she’d later find out is the man of her dreams.
Warning: S/A, mature language, & hefty flirting!
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28!
29!
30!
I set my pair of dumbbells back onto their rack and take a seat on the black bench that's sat in front of me to catch my breath.
Panting heavily, I take a sip from my rose gold Stanley cup and towel dry the numerous beads of sweat rolling down my forehead and chest.
Once I'm cooled off and my breathing returns to normal, I head to the treadmill to do the last 10 minutes of my workout.
The song "Lifestyle" by Rich Gang and Young Thug plays through my headphones, and I mouth the words while doing some light jogging.
About 4 minutes in, I feel a presence behind me, causing me to look back.
An older random man, at least 50 years old, is stood there just watching me.
I pause the machine and hop off, slowly taking my headphones off as well. "Hi. Is there something you needed?"
He lightly chuckles. "Not at all, sweetheart. I'm just enjoying the view."
Oh for fucks sake!
"Yeeaaah," I respond hesitantly, turning back to the treadmill. "I'm not interested, sorry."
He lightly grabs my waist, causing me to stop half-way. "Baby wait! I just wanna ta-"
"Okay first of all," I exclaim, backing out of his grip. "Don't touch me. I don't even know you."
He crosses his arms over his chest and swallows hard. "Well that seems unfai-"
"And secondly," I continue, cutting him off. "I told you I'm not interested. You're making me very uncomfortable. So please, respectfully, walk away from me."
"I don't think I will," he instigates, proceeding to walk even closer to me. "You know exactly what you're doing in these tight little shorts, baby."
He starts inching his hand closer and closer to my ass until another person clears their throat, making him stop in his tracks and turn around.
I look behind him, where the sound came from, and see a much younger looking and, not for nothing, but super attractive guy.
My eyes automatically scan his body, which is filled with what looks like cultural tattoos and sweat that makes his gorgeous caramel-colored skin glisten under the ceiling lights.
"I believe the lady asked to be left alone?" he clarifies, his hands in his pockets.
The man throws his hands up innocently. "I wasn't trying anything man, I swear."
"I see," the attractive guy says, nodding and smoothing out his freshly-trimmed beard. "Then why are you still here, uce?"
Uce? What does that mean?
"Because uce," the man replies, mocking him. "I'm a guy that likes conversation. And I saw a pretty woman so I walked over. What does this have to do with you anyway?"
The attractive guy's nostrils flare in reaction to being mimicked. "It has everything to do with me when I'm witnessing a lame ass dude come up to a female, making her uncomfortable in a place where she should feel safe. Have some shame bruh."
With every word he inches closer and closer to the man, even pointing his finger at him.
The man suddenly turns speechless, and places his hands in his pockets.
"That's exactly what the fuck I thought," the attractive guy continues. "So I suggest you get outta here before things get real ugly."
The man then rolls his eyes, scans my body one more time, and walks away.
The attractive guy watches him leave and comes walking over to me. "Hey. You alright?"
I blink numerous times out of shock. "Y-yeah I'm good. Thank you so much for that."
He gives me a warm smile. "Anytime. It infuriates me seeing dudes disrespecting women that way. I'm glad I saw it before he could do anything else to you."
I return the smile. "Well, thank you again. I appreciate it. More than you know."
"You're very welcome..." his voice trails off, and he tilts his head at me.
"Oh!" I reply, holding out my hand. "I'm Gianna. It's nice to meet you."
He flashes me another gorgeous smile and shakes it. "You too, and that's a real pretty name. I'm Josh."
"Thank you," I reply, lightly blushing, and stick my hands in my pockets once we end the handshake.
He stops for a minute and takes a deep breath before speaking up again. "Say Gianna, I know we met in a kinda unfortunate way, and the timing of all this may be off. But would you like to hang out sometime?"
His gorgeous ass? Wants to hang out with me?
I give him a soft smile, shrugging. "Sure, why not?"
He nods, rubbing his hands together. "Cool, cool. How about tonight? I'll text you my address and we can kick it? Have dinner or something?"
I nod, pull out my phone, open my contact list, and hand it to him. "Sure, that sounds nice."
He enters his number and hands it back to me. "Perfect. I'll see you tonight."
I smile, nodding. "See you then."
He gives me one last smile before walking off, allowing me to finish my set and head home.
—————————————————————————————————
It's now 5pm and I just got out of the shower.
Josh and I are meeting at his place at 5:45 so I gave myself some extra time to get ready and mentally prepare.
He texted me to dress comfy, so I decide to go with a cotton white sweater and pants set, some beige slides, my belly piercing, some silver jewelry, and my LV purse.
I straighten my hair and spray some yummy smelling perfume before heading out.
—————————————————————————————————
You've got this Gi.
Just be yourself and he'll love you.
I take a deep breath before leaving my car and heading up Josh's walkway and to the front door.
Seconds after I ring his doorbell, I hear dogs barking and then shuffling towards the door.
Once it opens, I practically drool at the sight I'm brought with.
He's dressed in a black muscle tee, grey sweatpants with his print visible, Nike socks, hoop earrings in, and a nice gold chain around his muscular neck.
"Hey again," he coos, standing against the door.
I give him a soft smile. "H-Hi. You look nice."
He chuckles. "Thanks, love. You do too. Come on inside."
I do as he says and I'm greeted with three adorable french bulldogs. "Your dogs are adorable."
He closes the door behind me and smiles when he sees me petting them. "Thank you."
He introduces me to Pongo, Mumble, and Jax.
As he's making dinner, I chill on the couch with them.
"They took a liking to you quick," he exclaims, watching us with his arms folded leaning against the wall. "Normally it takes them a while to get used to new people."
I look up at him and smile. "I have a pup of my own. Maybe they can smell her."
He chuckles and sits with us, his arm draped over the top of the couch behind me.
"So," I begin, rubbing Pongo's belly and turning to Josh. "What's on the menu for tonight?"
He smiles, looking back at the stove. "Garlic butter shrimp pasta with some oven roasted veggies on the side."
My stomach growls at the sound of it and faint smells coming from the kitchen. "That sounds amazing. I can't wait."
He smiles and we continue to play with the dogs until dinner is ready.
"Josh holy shit," I say, covering my mouth as I chew a piece of shrimp. "This is amazing!"
He smiles proudly, taking a sip from his wine glass. "I'm so glad you like it. I've been working on the recipe for a while."
"Feels like it's perfected now," I reply, setting my fork down and picking up my wine glass.
He chuckles and we spend the rest of dinner getting to know each other.
From dinner I found out that:
- he's full blown Samoan
- the term "uce" means brother / bro
- he was born in San Francisco, raised in Pensacola, and moved to Atlanta a few years ago
- he has 2 sons named Jeyce and Jaciyah
- he has 6 siblings including a twin brother named Jonathan
"So," he begins. "If you don't mind me asking, what do you do?"
I take a sip of wine before answering. "Well, I've been into wrestling for a little bit now. I got signed to NXT a couple weeks ago."
A gorgeous smile appears on his face. "That's awesome Gi! Congrats!"
I giggle. "Thank you! And you said you're already in WWE, right?"
"Yup," he replies, nodding. "I debuted with my brother back in 2010."
I smile, tilting my head. "That's awesome that you guys have been in it together the whole time."
He smiles, folding his arms and leaning on the island. "Yeah it's been one hell of a ride. But I'm grateful for him."
We talk more throughout the night and it's honestly such a good time.
It sounds weird, but I feel safe with him.
Despite me meeting him less than 12 hours ago.
—————————————————————————————————
It's now 9pm, almost 2 hours since we finished dinner, and we're sat in the backyard near his fire pit.
"Nice out tonight, huh?" he asks, looking up at the sky, which is filled with stars and a crescent moon.
I nod, smiling, just watching the fire. "It really is."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look down at me and kinda just watch me for a while.
After a few moments, I grow the confidence to look back, which causes a shy smile to appear on both of our faces.
"You okay?" I ask, placing my hand on his thigh softly.
"All good," he replies. "You really are gorgeous by the way."
My cheeks turn red hot and I look down shyly, picking the blanket that he brought out for us up to my chin. "Thank you, Josh."
He chuckles and scoots in closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
I get goosebumps at the feeling of his warm and soft hand on my skin.
"Don't get all shy now love," he teases. "You were just touching my thigh a second ago."
I playfully roll my eyes, giggling. "It's not my fault you're fine as hell, sir."
He raises his eyebrows as if he's shocked. "Fine as hell, huh?"
I nod confidently, trying to swallow every last bit of nervousness. "You know you are."
He pretends to have long hair and flicks it off his shoulders.
We share a laugh and he cups my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb.
"You have a real nice smile too," he continues, cupping my face and stroking my cheek with his thumb.
I try to put my head down shyly again, but he lifts my chin before I can, allowing us to lock eyes.
We both slowly lean in and, soon enough, our lips are connected in the sweetest and most romantic kiss I've ever experienced.
With every stroke, our lips move in sync and his hands wander further and further along my sides.
Eventually, we pull away slowly and I bite my bottom lip softly.
"You're a good kisser," I say, just above a whisper, my hands still playing with his dreamy curls.
He chuckles and takes a strand of hair away from my face. "So are you, mama. I could kiss those lips forever."
"What's stopping you?" I tease, brushing my nose against his.
He smirks and connects our lips again, this time far more passionately.
The kiss lasts about 5 minutes - tongue included and everything - and not gonna lie, I was a little bummed when it finally ended.
"This is gonna sound a little upfront and please let me know if you think it's too soon," he begins, stroking my side. "But...I haven't felt this way since I first started dating my ex wife so it must be true."
I tilt my head, rubbing soft circles his back. "What's that?"
He smiles and stares directly into my eyes. "I think I'm in love with you, baby."
I bite my bottom lip gently and take a deep breath before finally speaking up to respond. "I'm in love with you too."
He raises an eyebrow. "Really? You are?"
I nod, smiling. "I think so. And I’m willing to find out for sure.”
He lets out a sigh of relief and wraps me into a warm hug, and I immediately hug back.
"I was so nervous that you'd whack me across the face or something," he confesses once we pull away, making me giggle.
"Now why would I look to do damage to a face as handsome as yours?" I tease, playing with his beard.
He chuckles and pulls me in for another kiss.
Our third of the night.
And hopefully the third of many more to come.
After a little while more of hanging out and enjoying each other's company, it gets pitch black outside.
"I should probably start heading home," I exclaim, rubbing the bicep of his arm that's wrapped around my waist.
He sighs. "You sure you can't stay?"
I lay my head on his shoulder and kiss his jaw. "I'd love to, but not tonight."
He kisses my temple and gets up, holding out his hand. "I understand, baby. Come on, I'll walk you out."
I smile and take it, getting up.
I crouch down to his pups and say goodbye with tummy rubs and lots of kisses. "I'll see you guys soon."
They respond with barks and licks to my face.
Josh smiles, watching us before I stand back up and take his hand once more.
We head out to my car, share a couple more kisses, a little more small talk, and I head off.
—————————————————————————————————
I park in my driveway and automatically take notice to a bouquet of pink roses sitting at my front door.
Once I make it to them, I smile, reading the note attached:
Thank you for the best night I've had in a while. I'm so happy we met earlier today, even though it feels like I've known you forever. I hope you enjoy these and I'll see you soon. ❀
- Love, Josh
I place the note in my pocket and pick up the bouquet, smelling the flowers.
I head inside, set my stuff down, and immediately text him.
Gianna ❀: You're adorable! đŸ„č
Josh đŸ©”: You like them baby?
Gianna ❀: I love them. They're beautiful. Thank you. đŸ€
Josh đŸ©”: Just like you. You're welcome mama. ❀
You loved "Just like you. You're welcome mama. ❀"
It hasn't even been a full 24 hours, and I already love him more than anything.
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shovson · 7 months ago
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I am forever going to associate you with the Brackley Boys now
THIS BLOG SUFFERING A WEIRD TRANSITION SO HARD I GET ASSOCIATED WITH THOSE GUYS NOW!!!! LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOO
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ganondoodle · 2 months ago
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so with echoes of wisdom .. i havent watched any of the trailers beyond the very first one and the thumbnails/screenshots and what others have said about it-
but with the world inside the rift being called "Welt des Nichts" aka "world of nothing/void" in german ('still' in english, for some reason) and demises title in french being "avatar of nothing" ... yeah my anxiety is shooting through the roof again
(hopefully you can be a little more forgiving for me being anxious/weird about it bc demise is my blorbo)
i had similar worries with totk, that werent proven true thankfully, but the darn book is making it all worse again with all those weird lore things the game doesnt even so much as hint at AND potential retcons- im in for a really rough time huh, not just stress in real life (more in tags.. its alot) but now about my specific hyperfixation from two things even (AND artblock still..)
weird as it may sound, i dont want demise to get more lore, partly bc i dont believe theyd do anything with him that i would like (given their track record) but much more importantly- the fact that he has this little lore about him is precisely one of the reasons why i fell in love with him, i tend to like characters that are neglected by the narrative, and his story being both so flat and already done meant i can be very creative with what i come up with for him without necessarily contradicting anything in canon (which is ... or was a big point of how i wrote destiny's story and lore, working with canon in a way that reframes it all without straight up ignoring it ... but i suppose i urgently need to let go of that and accept i spend alot of time working things that will go to waste :( ) AND not having to worry that there will be more stuff with him that would massively change not only what im writing but also potentially how i feel about him since the game he was briefly in was the oldest chronologically and ended with his death- i didnt expect them to mess with anything that far back and thought theyd just go forward and leave the timeline behind and wouldnt mess with it again, given how botw seemed to be a sort of 'fresh start' that seemingly regarded the past as the past that needs to rest and that the timeline was finally no longer a discussion if everythings unified through botw and one thing going forward
but i suppose i was very wrong with that .__.
right now the only thing that motivates me still is the left over determination and spite to work on my zelda comic, since i have never gotten this far and really want to get something done for once, but i cant lie that im feeling like i should pause all work on it too to wait and see waht the book and the new game will do .. either to determine if i still have the will to keep working on it after those things are out (my love for tloz has been taking alot of hits lately ..) or if i have to change stuff (mostly bc of my lore problem trying to not ignore it ..)
#ganondoodles talks#zelda#ganondoodles rants#sorta#suicide attempt mention in the IRL stuff im talking about in the following tags btw#theres some construction stuff on our house going on#and my father is extremely stressed about it#he used to be very explosive- being silent and then exploding out of nowhere .. probably left me with lasting damage yippie-#but now he much more lets it eat at himself bc hes old and feels bad for the past stuff so now it makes him irritated and depressed#my older brother is the most normal cis straight guy you can imagine and incredibly impatient and bossy (you CANNOT talk with him)#(brother doesnt live in our house)#and while hes helping out hes doing it exactly how my father doesnt like and since you cant talk to the guy (explosive +200) it stresses hi#to the point of my father yesterday saying that “it would have been better if i had just died back in the day”#likely referring to the time when he was drafted for the military against his will and tried to kill himself#which i learned only like .. a year ago- theres so little my parents tell me ....#its like my mother telling me- while my father was in hospital for heart surgery- that she not only almost died back when i was a young tee#and only survived bc of some incredibly unebelievable lucky coincidences (medics on a travel being there that knew what she had-#-while our local doctors said welp- nothing we can do lady AND them beign there with a helicopter and emergency transferring her#to antoher bigger hospital while giving her immediate treatment our local one didnt do- AND at the big one just so happened to have-#-an expert on that illness in the facility when she arrived who was able to narrrowly save her life#BUT ALSO while she was recovering and weak and frail as a dust bunny witnessing someone stealing hospital surplies-#not noticing she was in the room at first (which .. the nurses left her in the nurse room while going on break ... which uhm .. yeah cool)#and if my mother hadnt acted in time like she was fully asleep and the lady stealing stuff beign in hurry- she might have killed her#without my mother being able to fight back bc she could barely even talk (the nurses didnt want to believe her when they got back either)#ANYWAY that comment from my father brough me to tears#and my mom is trying out more ... other medication shes not prescribed in hopes of it helping agaisnt her many pains#but i worry it will interact with the other stuff shes on ...#and i worry so much about both of their mental and physical well being#always trying to be the one to calm them down or help with communication bc that is a big problem in this houesehold#but i myself am also a very much not normal and not medicated shut in who has trouble dealing even with my own feelings
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fictionadventurer · 4 months ago
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"If the structure of your world ever evaporates, I will still be here."
I think The Q might contain one of the greatest declarations of friendship/love ever.
#books#the q#beth brower#this seems clunkier out of context but trust me in context it's very moving#they're discussing how quincy's entire world is wrapped up in work#so even if she likes the people there if the business somehow disappeared she probably wouldn't see them again#because they all have other family/friends to go to and she doesn't really have any#leading to this promise#and let me tell you it's just about enough to make me believe in found family#because this works as a romantic or platonic declaration#it's a promise#a commitment to provide safety and stability when there's nowhere else to go#and i love it#this book is so odd because i liked it quite a bit last year#then rereading i was at first like 'why did i like this at all?'#there's no scene-setting or character description it's just kind of stuff there#but then the relationship starts to develop and i am SO invested#under normal rules it shouldn't take 100 pages for the story to get good but in this case it's worth it#it's such an odd structure#each chapter is almost like its own little short story#or a character sketch#almost like the character have stopped to discuss their own character worksheet#but in context it somehow works#and it drives home how much traditional publishing and writing rules stifle creativity#because your average editor would look at this and try to smooth it over#make it all into one flowing narrative#and it would lose so much of what makes it unique and compelling#following the rules of 'good writing' robs you of all the stories that don't follow those rules#there is so much scope outside of the one 'best practice' that is currently in fashion#and those stories need to get told too!
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kyouka-supremacy · 19 days ago
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#I can't believe my computer broke just a couple of days before the new chapter came out.#Not to be dramatic or anything but this was my last straw#It means everything to me 😭😭😭 My puter has my whole life in in. And endless resources of everything#That's why people tell you to backup stuff đŸ€ŠđŸ€ŠđŸ€Š#Okay before I get too dramatic it's not gone like I can turn it on just fine.#Except there's no cursor to be found anywhere and I can't find a way to fix it#(Yeah it's not the f4 key I've tried that. Repeatedly)#So since there's no way to turn the puter off without mouse I had to kill it the hard way 4-5 times today#(aka every time I tried turning it on again in hope everything got fixed on its own)#And when I turned it on again five minutes ago. IT DIDN'T START NORMALLY. AND IT ASKED THE SYSTEM LANGUAGE AND STUFF#I lost like. Half my lifespan. I was terrified it got formatted out of nowhere and I had lost everything#It didn't. It seemingly is fine (from what I can see from my desktop).#But man I really didn't need this kind of stress on top of average exams depression#Idk what to do... I want to go to the guy in my dorm who studies computer science but it'd be the third time I ask him for help–#and I'm a little embarrassed now. Asking for help sucks in general#But I don't have money to pay consultation...#I think there is a chance my touchpad just worn out since. Like. I use my computer extensively#But even that seems a little excessive? Not even the buttons work. I've only had this computer for three or four years...#Anyways I don't have a physical mouse. And I can't spend money to buy it when there's a chance that wouldn't fix the problem. Ughhhhhhhhhh#random rambles#If I stop posting in the next days. It's simply because I can't 😭😭😭#Goodbye people please keep posting ss kk for me
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hopecomesbacktolife · 1 month ago
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thinking of rereading the entirety of HoME again. for my health
#‘for my health’ says the woman who has been struggling so much she’s barely read a book in the last half year lmao#silmarillion#(eh close enough)#tolkien#personal#also because I got so viscerally appalled when someone the other day tried to claim that ‘the second age has a lot less written about it tha#n the first age’ like I beG YOUR PARDON LMAO WHOMST#clearly someone hasn’t read unfinished tales đŸ™‚â€â†”ïž clearly someone hasn’t read the entirety of HoME đŸ™‚â€â†”ïž#and like obviously idc idc I’m not a completionist truther read as much or as little of a fandom as you want enjoy what you want etc.#but when I went ‘oh there’s actually a lot in unfinished tales and in the home! it’s rly fascinating and fun and some of my favorites have y#ou had a chance to check it out ever?’ this person rly had the audacity to say they’ve ’read some of the unfinished tales’ like hm. somethin#tells me I don’t believe you lmao#I have never once in my life heard someone call. unfinished tales. the book. titled unfinished tales. ‘the unfinished tales’ like lmao what#anyways. it’s okay to admit you haven’t read something babe I was actually gonna recommend a few parts of that book and HoME you might enjoy#but 💋 okay then 💋#also normally I’d give ppl the benefit of the doubt but this person is Like This TM a lot and always has to outdo others & im over it lmao#but also also anyways. I am not immune to the HoME rereleased editions with that gorgeous artwork they are calling me and I am weak to#resist their siren song 😭😂 they’re so beautiful but each set of like 3-4 books (some have 3 some have 4 and the last one also has an index)#are like. over $100 each lmao ripppp.#I do own a few of the HoME but I don’t own all of them and. aaaaaa I need a complete reread#13 yo me đŸ€đŸ» late 20s yo me : going ‘hmm life is crazy maybe I need to immerse myself in the obscurent most dense Tolkien lore I possibly can#and yknow what. we’re so right. we’re so right#the history of middle earth#unfinished tales#and that conversation. as weird and posturing as that person was being. did get me reminiscing about my HoME obsessed days and I was like aw#I should revisit that :)#sometime self care is rereading 12 volumes of obscure lore about a fictional world with no one to talk with it about#anyways home my beloved. unfinished tales my beloved. love those books#obviously OBVIOUSLY I love the silmarillion and LOTR and the hobbit and beren and luthien etc etc ad infinitum as well! ofc! I just. I love#all of them ♡ hehe ♡
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feline-evil · 9 months ago
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I can't think of anything that could kill a generative ai system faster than letting it pull from blogs on here, its going to be fed so many erroneous callouts and pointless discourse posts that its gonna generate a way to speedrun offing itself
#jay talkin#im making jokes but fucking hell the internet sucks nowadays#i love witnessing the rot in real time (<--said extremely mentally healthily haha u can trust)#im listening to monkey wrench on repeat. feeling normal#i mean hey yr shits already been jacked by ai if it was gonna be. sorry. it woulda happened like last year at its peak#sites being more open abt it now and adding opt out toggles dont mean its just suddenly gonna start happening#believe me they were all already trawled by little ai fucknuts already. sucks but its the truth#ai bros notably do not care abt legality they have already trawled every site. all u can do is fight back best u can#damage has been done. dont fall into despair via scaremongering and doom posting#do what u can to protect yrself and yr shit snd spread info on how to do that#glaze yr art if yr an artist. opt out of shit when u can. its fucking rough out here#ai is p solely focused on ripping off whatever is most marketable or 'realistic' bc it is a capitalist leach#and nobody involved in it has a soul enough to recognise art if it spat in their face#it fucking sucks that we're still dealing w it but i promise u this capitalist mass-market tendency#is gonna end up w it poisoning itself w its own shite imagery to the point of death so#it WILL fuck off eventually. hold on w the hope of that ok. n protect yr shit. alright#oh and dont share any info u wldnt want stolen but u shldnt be doing that anyway for internet safety reasons#love u all my artists in arms i hope ai dies sooner rather than later and i hope u get to piss on its corpse#love the lawsuit speedruns this place is pulling lately. yall hadnt had yr fill last week huh
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4thbrighteststar · 2 years ago
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</3
#no wait listen to me. listen to me#im south asian. my grandparents were muslim. my great aunt and uncle and their children and my parents siblings are all muslim#my parents aren't. they raised us without any religion. without even our national cultural ceremonies tied to islam#dont let yourself believe for a fucking second that has nothing to do 9/11 happening two years before i was born. two years before we moved#im south asian. my dad's first name is mohammed. when we catch a flight we get to the airport two hours earlier-#to account for the time it'll take my dad to be 'routinely stopped and searched' by airport security#routinely is right lmfao. it happens every time we fly#last time i was on an american airlines flight our checked luggage ended up across the continent and took two days to get to us#(my 12yo cousin gifted us an alarm clock that made an ominous ticking noise and we couldn't shut it the fuck up-#the luggage was labeled mohammed and coming from south asia. my sibling jokes it's a wonder we got it back)#im canadian. i cried my ass off to cfa tonight bc of how touching the story of a small town coming together to help a group of strangers is#(can't help thinking that never would've happened in a bigger city? but thereby lies another tale)#and god normally i hate 9/11 stories bc it feels like two sides of my identity being pitted against each other and it makes me so uncomfy#like as a canadian i should be sympathetic towards the states and at the same time im viscerally aware of the lasting prejudiced impacts#but cfa did it so beautifully#will never get over the 'thorough search' scene. 'you will never understand'.#the lump in my throat i get every time I watch my normally distinguished and tough and coolheaded father be pushed through airport security#how resigned he is to it. how he tries to stay dignified. how scared my mom gets every time. how rough they are with him#when he usually commands respect#and yet also the pride and the lump in my throat i got today knowing it was a little canadian town that made a difference#sigh enough out of me i just have a lot of feelings#come from away#team screams
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artificial-condition · 2 years ago
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Ugh I think I may be sick
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the-magic-school-bus · 9 months ago
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every day that child scares me more
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mayspicer · 1 year ago
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Girl help I really need to do the test tasks for a new job or else my life is gonna get very bad real soon, but all I want to do is draw ttrpg characters.
#majek says shit#ok so Im jobless since august but I had a safe amount saved to live a little too comfortably until about now#and now I have money left to live relatively normally until January and after that uhhhhh bad 0 money left#I got caught in a trap of “animators are always wanted in gamedev you'll find a job in 2 weeks” thing everyone seems to genuinely believe#turns out every studio on earth is looking for Seniors and Leads or 3D animators that turn out to be 3D generalists able to do everything#from concept to every kind of model optimised for games and texturing and rigging and mocap and keyframe stuff and vfx is also nice#and I'm like “hello am animator know how to make character move. i can give them skeleton but not necessarily if in 2D”#“have a few years of experience in gamedev but got fired just before the premiere of my one title that will list me as animator”#got fired along with many others because the publisher backed out and there was no money to keep most of the artists this close to launch#so far only two studios followed through with the recruitment. one makes casino games and asked me 3 questions through mail#they wanted to know why im looking for a job. have I heard about them before and how much I wanna earn. also added that my personality#should shine through my answers. sure xd. the other is a mocap studio and they want me to do a test. in software I last used 5 years ago#and its mocap which I dont like and know almost nothing about how to do it#and I WANNA DRAW. I made a disaster of a cleric to replace Cayden in the old party and Im itching to draw him properly#also there is secret satan and a whole queue of scenes from recent sessions#including the lase one when Cayden was possessed by an ancient wizard (?) for a few seconds and now has mild ptsd#there were such cool visuals there because he was connected to a tentacle that pierced the back of his neck and his eyes went black#and I had to fight the party from that moment. hit them once with a big fire damage spell and then passed a save. and then failed again#fortunately the party destroyed the artifact that did the posessing and it ended. but my boy simultaneously experienced some cosmic horror#beyond his comprehension. and kinda saw his own hands casting fire at his friends. all while he was fighting in his head with some tentacles#and being watched by first disembodied black eyes and then by a shadowy figure#now he has weird nightmares of more cosmic horror and gets uneasy if he looks at the night sky for too long ;o;#I also have a drawing of the party celebrating their promotion to captains and like 3-4 sketches and one other big scene#in which Cayden has a romantic tension moment with another character while casting prot from evil on them to save them from mind control#also I have a commission to finish that a friend paid for LAST NOVEMBER#but that mocap studio is waiting for this test for so long now I have to do it if its the last thing I do in my life
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andivmg · 8 months ago
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My experience with Luke (Punz)
CW: toxic relationship, racism, dubious consent
I know in the past i said that i would no longer speak about him publicly, and when talking about my experiences with abuse and emotional mistreatment i begged to keep it anonymous but after reflecting on this for a week and seeing so many incredibly smart and strong women tell their stories. they have given me the strength to say his name.
this is really scary to talk about because of the copious levels of harassment i have received from his fans in the past so if this spreads or gets out of hand i will simply log off.
If you read my last post, i nicknamed him 1.
So aside from everything i said there, there were a lot of things i didn’t include because they would’ve made it obvious that it was him and it could potentially backfire on me so, i’m very afraid to post this. but i’m going to do it scared anyway, because it’s not fair that he gets to just go and live his life worry-free as if he didn’t practically ruin mine.
Because I already made a very lengthy post about him, i won’t include everything i said last time to avoid being redundant but if i repeat myself, please bear with me.
In our year long relationship i had to endure emotional neglect, gaslighting, verbal abuse, one instance where there was dubious consent, and much more.
Starting off at the beginning of our relationship, that’s when i was getting copious amounts of hate and harassment from his fan base (warranted or not), he decided that our relationship must be kept private. he said it was to “protect” me from his fanbase when in reality it was to protect himself. it was so he wouldn’t get all the backlash i was getting. this is funny because one of the things i got called out for was saying the B slur (derogatory term used against mexicans/latinos). I won’t get into the nuances of if i could say it or not as a puertorican because that’s discourse that does not pertain to this specific situation. But you know who definitely can’t say it? A white boy from Massachusetts. When i was getting cancelled for this and getting thousands of tweets calling me names, he decided that was the perfect time to say “I mean you are a b***** aren’t you? my little b*****.” Now, he said this completely unprompted. I was in the process of writing my apology and he just said that. I tell you this because i immediately shut him down and told him that there was no universe in which it was okay for him to say that word and especially not one where he could just call me that. While i was reprimanding him, he was smiling and laughing. he apparently found it amusing to call me a slur. regardless, he gave me a half-assed apology and said he wouldn’t do it again. and he didn’t. but this wasn’t the only time he was weirdly racist to me. this was my first time being in an interracial relationship so i was led to believe that this was normal by all the white people around me at the time. But, sometimes my spanish accent would come out and he would make fun of me and the way i pronounced some words. He also refused to visit me in Puerto Rico when i lived there or come meet my family when i really wanted him to because he “didn’t like the heat” or “it’s dangerous there isn’t it?”. Once, while we were watching season 2 of Bridgerton, he implied that the Sharma sisters were “too dark” for him to be attracted to them. This hurt me because they are brown skinned girls. I am a brown skinned girl. Then this, combined with the fact that he told me once he wasn’t attracted to me made me feel like my skin color was unattractive. These are only a few examples i can think of at the moment, but i’m sure there were more. Our relationship ended in 2022 so some of my memory is a bit hazy. But, I do remember feeling inferior to him throughout the relationship because he was white and I was not. I chalk that up to all the micro aggressions i had to deal with because i had never felt that way around white people before.
Another thing i had to endure was him constantly making me feel like he was embarrassed to be with me. Because i was cancelled, he didn’t want to associate with me too much. He did defend me on multiple occasions, I’ll give him that. But, he only did it because his name was getting dragged in the mud along with mine. Excusing my actions made him look better for being around me. In reality he didn’t really care. Because he was such a big content creator and someone i looked up to professionally, I took his advice as law. He told me to tone down my personality, to keep a low profile, to change things about myself to be more palatable to his audience. The same audience that spoke about me like “The pussy can’t be that good punz please stop defending her”. So i changed a lot of things about myself and my content to better suit what his audience liked. He made me feel like if his audience liked me, he would be public about our relationship and stop hiding it. He told me the reason why he wanted to keep our relationship a secret was because he didn’t want to get hate for it. But this wasn’t true. On my 20th birthday he went to Las Vegas for a twitch rivals event. That night i asked to facetime him to say goodnight and he refused because he was at a hotel room with his friends and he didn’t want them to know that we were together. It was as if my mere presence or the utterance of my name was a source of embarrassment for him. And he didn’t let me forget it. It wasn’t just a public thing at that point. He didn’t want people to know we were together, period. This was devastating to me because I would talk to all my friends about him. I was so proud to be with him and I was just one more problem to him. He made me feel so small and insignificant just because his fans didn’t like me.
He would berate me a lot. Not just due to getting heat online, although he did do that a lot. But in general whenever we would get into an argument or a disagreement he would always call me names like annoying or weird or stupid. He would raise his voice at me if i did something he didn’t like and call me an idiot. And that really hurt, i felt like i couldn’t bring up anything or do anything without getting insulted. If I hadn’t seen him in a few days because he was too busy streaming and i asked to hang out he would call me needy, clingy, and annoying. Granted, he might not have been wrong, but that is not something you say to someone you claim to love. He also insulted me when i was in depressive episodes. I have BPD and at the time i was not being treated properly for it. So, I was all over the place emotionally and he was what i clung to for validation, reassurance, and love. I talked to him when we first started dating about my disorder and told him that if it seemed like something he couldn’t handle that he could opt out of the relationship. I guess he didn’t think it was that bad or something idk because whenever i had really bad depressive episodes, he would tell me I was too sad to hang out with. He said that my sadness was a burden to him. Which would be fair. But, once my mother had a conversation with him about me. She told him that i am someone who needs a lot of love and caring. She said that if he wasn’t willing to put in that kind of effort into a relationship to just leave me alone. He reassured her that he would be there for me no matter what. He told my mother that he would protect me and my heart. He did not. He took all the warnings I gave him and ignored them and then made me feel like I was the problem. And even worse, he would say that i was pretending to be sad to get his attention when he would neglect for days at a time.
There were also some smaller things like the fact that he made me feel really guilty whenever he would spend money on me. Also, he would be really mean about my eating habits. For context, i used to suffer from an eating disorder. I was anorexic and had a really unhealthy relationship with food during high school and my first year of uni. This relationship began when i was recovering from my ED. For me, eating was really hard. So i had certain comfort foods that, while sometimes unhealthy, at least it was something to eat when i didn’t feel like eating anything. He knew this. Yet, whenever i would crave some of these foods he would call me fat. Constantly told me I’d gain weight from eating all that junk food. Saying that to someone with an eating disorder is crazy. Other smaller things were that whenever I would post tiktoks where i was lip syncing or just looking good he would yell at me and say i was looking for attention. Same with Instagram or Twitter whenever i would post photos where I looked hot. He never planned out a single date for us. I would beg him to get me flowers and he did maybe once but i’ll get into that in a bit. He would make fun of me in front of his friends to make himself look better. He let his friends say really degrading things about me in his presence. For example, once when i was showering, i overheard him on a discord call with George and Sapnap and i heard George say “if you don’t go in the shower and have sex with Andi, i will”. Once, when i was really struggling with my legs (for those of you who don’t know, i have arthritis and it’s very painful. at the time i wasn’t diagnosed but i was in a lot of pain) I literally could not walk. I had to beg him to take me to the ER because i didn’t know what was wrong with me. He didn’t want to take me but eventually i convinced him, and while we were there all he did was complain about how long it was taking and that he would have rather been at home streaming. Whenever I would talk about my interests that i was excited about like shows or books he would be incredibly uninterested and say that those things were stupid and he didn’t want to hear about them. I know all of these seem very silly or superficial but cumulatively it was awful.
Now for arguably the most serious thing i’m going to talk about. I want to preface this by saying i am just telling my side of what happened. You can come to your own conclusions about this.
On April 25, 2022 it was our one year anniversary, and i had made a dinner reservation for us. I expected him to plan something throughout the day for us to do. He told me he was going to spend the whole day playing Valorant so I got upset and cancelled the reservation. After a very heated argument, we calmed down and i asked him to come over. He came over about an hour later with flowers and drinks (I was 20 at the time so I couldn’t buy the drinks myself). He brought Smirnoffs and Trulys. For context, I am a lightweight. I always have been. I literally get tipsy on half a cocktail. And that day, I hadn’t eaten anything because i was in distress over our argument. So we get to talking and drinking. I blacked out after my second Smirnoff. Apparently I drank 3 but I genuinely cannot remember anything after finishing the second one. The next morning i woke up naked in my bed. I woke him up and asked him “Luke, why am I naked?” and he said “Because you didn’t want to put your clothes back on.” When I clarified to him that that was not what I meant, he got defensive and said that he didn’t realize how drunk I was. He proceeded to tell me that I initiated sex with him and that i was very enthusiastic about it. He said he didn’t know i could black out on three smirnoffs. He made fun of me for being a lightweight and continued to make light of the situation. Then he mentioned that i fell off the bed at some point in the night and that it was funny how drunk I was. I then questioned him. Because if he thought that me tripping and falling off the bed because i was so drunk was funny, how did he not know that i was too drunk? He responded by saying that i fell off the bed only after we were done. That day I broke up with him. I’m still really confused about what happened that night. I don’t remember anything and all I have to go on is what he said to me. We were in a relationship at the time and he says he didn’t know how drunk I was so I’m not sure what to call what happened. A while after that day, his friend that hmu while we were broken up and I started talking again and i confided in him about that night. He told me to be careful saying things like that because they could get me into trouble. I spoke to some of our other friends about it and they told me it was no big deal and that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know how drunk I really was. Because I don’t remember, I have been led to believe that this is not a serious matter. You can think what you want, come to whatever conclusions you want. That is just my side of the story.
I want to add that I’m not proud of how I acted after the relationship ended. I felt really angry at all the shit he put me through and I guess a part of me wanted him to hurt even a quarter of how I did. So I started talking to his friend and got involved with him. This backfired on me because his friend ended up really hurting me too so ig i got my karma. But the thing that hurt the most is that because of what I did, some of our friends took his side in the break up. I was told that I did something terrible by getting involved with his friend that he was already insecure about and that he didn’t deserve that. These are the same friends who were witness to the dumpster fire of a relationship we had and all the things he did to me. They turned their backs on me because of this one thing I did. But stood by and watched as he treated me like garbage for over a year.
I will conclude this by saying that while this relationship has been “over and done with” for almost two years now, I carry a lot of trauma from it still. I still talk about him in therapy and have had to put in a lot of work to heal from what he did and i still cannot say that i am okay. I am very blessed to now have a patient and understanding partner who has helped me heal from that trauma and i just want to quickly thank him for that. Nobody deserves to go through what I did. While yes, it was a toxic relationship, and I had a part in that, it does not excuse all the awful things he said and did to me. This is my truth, thank you for taking the time to read it.
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gyuswhore · 2 months ago
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Statistically Speaking...
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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 đŸ„č 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 đŸ€
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
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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. 
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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. 
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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.”
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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.
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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. 
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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. 
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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.
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It’s Wednesday.
After a long day of doing nothing, still sick from whatever plagued your body, you go to bed earlier than usual.
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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. 
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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. 
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It’s Tuesday.
Midterm Results for Statistics in Psychological Research.
—  92/100
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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.
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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. 
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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. 
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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.
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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. 
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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. 
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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. 
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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.”
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[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. 
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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.”
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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.” 
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lovelookspretty · 1 month ago
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routledge!reader x rafe, after big john comes back and finds out that both of his kids are dating the camerons, he gets mad, especially at his daughter, cause he thought that she wasn't thinking straight. After a few days, he throws a stupid comment about rafe when they were with the rest of the pogues and reader just snaps at him. pure angst now đŸ„° she realises that he's never been a good father, only caring about treasures and yells that she wishes he never came back. Then goes to rafe, crying, for comfort 💕 (i love angst im sorry.)
hold me close
rafe cameron x routledge!reader
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warnings: angst, swearing, a kiss, pretty safe !!
authors note: OKAY ik thats trevor n not rafe but erm, we’ll pretend bc that pic is what gives the energy for this oneshot. anyway hii, hope u guys enjoy this one. feel free to send any requests guys! n thank u for 1k followers yesterday. ilyasm <33
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you sit in the backyard, the soft hum of cicadas filling the warm night air. the pogues are just behind you, laughing and talking in a huddle. it feels good to see them like this again—normal, for once, after everything.
after the chaos of the last year, of treasure hunts, betrayals, and close calls. you’ve always tried to stay out of it, letting john b and the others chase after the gold while you lived your life. but eventually, you couldn’t stay on the sidelines, not when rafe got involved, not when it became a matter of life and death.
it’s been hard, being stuck between two sides, torn between your brother and your boyfriend. but tonight, you just want peace.
you glance over at your dad, sitting a little ways away from the group, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin on his face. big john routledge—alive, after these three years. you still can’t believe it sometimes.
he looks different, a little more worn, a little rougher around the edges, but the way he carries himself hasn’t changed. he’s still larger than life, still full of stories, still your dad. and god, you missed him.
he catches your eye, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed. like you’re just a kid again, sitting with your dad, listening to him talk about his crazy ideas, his wild adventures.
“you know,” he starts, leaning forward, “i remember that time you and john b tried to catch that fish out by the dock, and you both fell in. i swear, i thought i was gonna have to drag you two out myself,” he says, chuckling to himself, shaking his head like the memory is some long-lost treasure of its own.
you smile, even though it feels a little bittersweet. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath.
you pull at a piece of grass by your feet, your fingers absentmindedly tearing at it. you’ve waited so long for this moment—for him to come back, for your family to feel whole again.
but now that he’s here, you don’t know what to do with it. you can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed, that he’s not just the dad you remember, but something else entirely. still, you can’t help but feel like the little girl who always looked up to him, who wanted nothing more than to make him proud.
“i never thought we’d see you again,” you mumble, your voice low, barely above a whisper. you don’t look up from the grass, your fingers still picking at the blades, but you can feel his gaze on you.
“i never thought i’d be back either,” he admits quietly. “but i couldn’t stop thinking about you two. every day out there . . . i thought about coming home.”
you scoff softly, a bitter smile pulling at your lips, even though you don’t mean for it to. “but you didn’t,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you didn’t come back for three years.”
he shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping against the arm of the chair. “it wasn’t that simple, y/n,” he says. “i was trying to protect you. there are dangerous people out there, people who want what we’re after. i couldn’t come back until i knew it was safe.”
you nod, but it’s a hollow gesture. you’ve heard it all before from other people—the excuses, the treasure, the danger. it always comes back to that.
you glance at your friends, laughing and sharing stories with each other. you’ve spent so long trying to push this life aside, to live outside of the mess of treasure hunts and betrayals. but it always pulls you back in.
“yeah, you always did put the treasure first,” you murmur as you face forward again. you’re not even sure if you mean to say it out loud. it’s more to yourself, just a thought that’s been living in the back of your mind for too long.
“don’t do that.” he leans forward, his voice soft, almost pleading. “i did it for you and john b,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “for our family. i wanted us to have something—something big, something that would change everything.”
“yeah, but we didn’t need that,” you say, your voice small, but firm. you’re still pulling at the grass, twisting it around your fingers. “we just needed you.”
he doesn’t say anything for a moment. it’s like he’s trying to figure out what to say, but there’s nothing that can fix the years of distance. nothing that can make up for what you lost when he left.
there’s a long silence, and for a moment, you think maybe this is as close as you’ll ever get to understanding each other. you don’t want to fight tonight. you just want to sit with him, to pretend that things could go back to how they were before.
“so,” he starts again, his tone shifting back to playful, like he’s trying to lighten the mood, “you and john b teaming up with the others to chase down treasure? guess it runs in the family.”
you laugh, but it’s a little forced. “yeah, well, i tried to stay out of it. but . . .”
“but what?” he presses, leaning forward with a smirk. “got a little taste of adventure, didn’t you?”
you glance up at the marsh, a faint smile on your lips. “something like that,” you mutter.
but you don’t mention rafe, don’t mention how he’s become a part of this tangled mess, how hard it’s been being caught between him and your family. you’ve already told your dad the day you reunited a few days ago in barbados. didn’t end well that time either. you don’t want to ruin the moment, don’t want to start another fight.
but, as if the universe is reading your mind, your dad shifts the conversation in a way that makes your stomach drop. “just promise me,” he says, suddenly serious, “you won’t let that rafe cameron kid get too close. he’s no good, y/n.”
the words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, you just sit there, staring at him. it takes you a second to process what he’s said, to even understand the casual way he’s dismissed rafe, like it’s nothing. like he’s nothing.
“and i hear john b’s with sarah now, too?” his tone shifts, bitter and disapproving. “so now both of my kids are wrapped up with the camerons. hell of a choice you both made.”
you freeze, your stomach tightening. there it is. you knew it was coming, but it still hits you like a punch to the gut. it’s not the first time he’s made a comment about rafe, and you thought you were doing the right thing confessing what’s changed since you last saw him, but now he’s dragging john b into it, and that makes it worse. so much worse.
“dad,” you start, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s an edge to it, a warning. “don’t.”
he shakes his head like you’ve said something ridiculous. “no, i am gonna say something. sarah, rafe, they’re cameron’s kids. ward cameron’s kids. you’re smart enough to know better than to get mixed up with people like him. they’re bad news. always have been.”
“yeah, but they’re not like him,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. “sarah’s not ward. rafe’s not ward. they’re not their father.”
he just laughs, but there’s no humor in it. it’s harsh. “you really believe that?” he asks, shaking his head again. “they’re camerons. it’s in their blood. you think you’re any safer with rafe than you were without me here? because i’m telling you right now, you’re not.”
you stand up, your hands balled into fists at your sides. you’ve heard enough. for days now, you’ve listened to him make little digs about rafe, about the camerons, and you’ve kept your mouth shut. but tonight, it’s too much. you can’t keep it in anymore.
“three years, dad. three years you were gone, chasing your stupid treasure, while we were stuck here. john b and i had to figure it out on our own. so don’t stand there and act like you have any right to tell me who i should or shouldn’t be with.”
big john looks at you, stunned, like he’s seeing you for the first time. but you’re not done. there’s too much you’ve kept bottled up, and now it’s all spilling out.
“you care more about that gold than you ever did about us,” you say. “you care more about treasure than you do about being a father. you don’t know anything.”
big john’s face hardens, his jaw clenching as he stares at you. “i know enough,” he says, his voice cold. “i know who the camerons are.”
“yeah?” you snap, your voice breaking. “well, maybe if you’d been here, you’d actually know something about me too.”
you turn on your heel, ready to storm off, but the moment you move, you notice it.
the pogues are silent now, all of them watching. sarah, jj, pope, kie—they’re still, their conversations dropped as they stand there, wide-eyed and uneasy. john b, though, he’s just sitting there with his can of beer held low in his hands, lips pressed together. you can tell he’s heard it all before. he’s not going to step in because he knows you need to let it out.
you’re just done with it. you take a step forward, ready to leave this backyard and the suffocating tension behind. but something stops you, a feeling gnawing at your chest, pulling you back. you hesitate, turning just enough to glance at your dad over your shoulder.
he’s still staring at you, his expression set like stone, as if he’s waiting for you to say more, to take it all back, maybe. but you won’t. not now.
your voice wavers, but it’s steady enough. “i wish you never came back.”
his face doesn’t move, but something flickers in his eyes. you don’t wait for him to respond. you turn away for good this time and walk out, leaving the backyard behind.
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before you know it, you’re at rafe’s house, your knuckles rapping against the door almost frantically. you pace, glancing down at your phone, watching as the notifications keep coming—texts from john b, a few from kie, and even jj. they're all asking the same thing: ‘ where are you? ’ or ‘ are you okay? ’
you drag your hand down your face, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. before you can get lost in your thoughts, the door swings open, and there he is.
rafe stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable. he leans against the doorframe for a second, his lips slightly parted, taking you in. you know he’s already pieced together what’s happened from the voice messages you left on the way over. not that he’s the type to acknowledge it with some grand gesture or comforting words.
he doesn’t say anything, but he steps aside without much ceremony. you slip past him and leave your phone in the foyer, tossing it carelessly on the side table as you pass, the pinging of messages finally fading into the background.
you make your way down the hallway, not even sure where you’re going, but your feet carry you to the living room. rafe follows close behind, his presence looming, but not overbearing. his eyes are trained on you, watching as you take in the dimly lit room. there’s a bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table, a glass next to it, already finished. it’s so rafe—quiet, controlled chaos.
you stop, your breath shaky, your chest tight, and before you can hold it back, everything comes spilling out.
“he doesn’t get it, rafe. he just doesn’t fucking get anything,” you start, your voice louder than you intend. you turn to face him, your hands gesturing wildly as you try to make sense of the mess of emotions coursing through you. “i mean, he’s been gone for years, and he comes back, and suddenly he thinks he can just . . . control everything? like he gets to have an opinion about my life after everything he’s done. he doesn't even know me anymore.”
rafes eyes are fixed on you, and he’s listening, letting you get it out. his jaw twitches slightly, but he stays silent, just watching as you unravel in front of him.
“and it’s like . . . it’s like no matter what i do, no matter how hard i try, it’s never enough! not for him, not for john b, not for anyone!” your voice cracks, and you press your palms against your temples, trying to hold yourself together, but the tears are already brimming, threatening to spill over. “i didn’t ask for any of this. i didn’t ask to be stuck in the middle of all this shit with my family and you and . . . god, it’s too much.”
you turn away from him, your breath coming out in shallow gasps now as you try to steady yourself. but it’s no use. you’re falling apart, and it feels like the weight of everything is finally crushing you.
before you can say another word, rafe steps forward, his arms sliding around you in one swift motion. “alright, alright, c’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. “c’mon.”
you collapse into him, burying your face into his chest, the tears coming freely now. he holds you tight, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head as his hand rubs slow circles on your back.
rafe’s not one for words, and you don’t expect him to be, but this—this is enough. the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his arms keep you grounded, it’s enough to make the world stop spinning for just a moment.
you don’t say anything else. neither does he. the silence stretches on, but it’s not uncomfortable. for once, you feel like you can breathe.
even though he’s holding you, his mind seems elsewhere—his jaw clenched, muscles rigid beneath the surface. it’s not hard to guess where his thoughts have drifted, especially after everything you told him in those voice messages.
you can tell he’s upset. not just because you’re upset, but because of what your dad said—about him, about his family. his body is stiff as he holds you, and you know him well enough to see the silent anger simmering just beneath the surface. his eyes aren’t on you; they’re somewhere distant, staring past you as if he’s imagining your father’s words in his head.
“i’m sorry about what he said, rafe,” you whisper into his chest, feeling the way his breathing shifts, more shallow now, controlled. “he said something about sarah and john b, too.”
he doesn’t respond right away, but you feel his hand pause against your back, fingers pressing a little harder. for a moment, it feels like he might pull away, but instead, he just tightens his grip on you. his silence speaks volumes. rafe is the type to internalize everything, to let it fester until it boils over, but you can feel it now—the tension thrumming through his entire body.
“doesn’t matter,” he finally mutters, though you can tell by the way his voice is low, that it does. “it’s nothing i haven’t heard before.”
you pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, and his eyes flick down to meet yours. they’re darker than usual, clouded with frustration, but he still tries to soften his expression for you.
“he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” you say quietly. “he doesn’t know you.”
for a moment, neither of you speaks. rafe’s hand resumes its slow, steady motion against your back, though the tension hasn’t fully left his body. you can feel the war going on inside him—the part of him that’s angry, defensive, but also the part that’s trying to be here for you, to let go of his own frustration long enough to comfort you.
“fuck him,” rafe mutters after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “he doesn’t get to talk about you like that. or me.”
there’s a dangerous edge to his voice now, but you know it’s not directed at you. he’s angry, not just at your dad, but at the situation—the impossible mess you’ve both found yourselves in, caught between your family and his.
“i don’t care what he thinks,” you murmur, holding onto him tighter. “i’m here with you. that’s all that matters.”
he doesn’t respond, but his hand moves to the back of your neck, his fingers curling gently into your hair as he exhales, long and slow, like he’s finally letting go of whatever was eating at him.
for the first time tonight, the room feels quiet as the two of you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms.
you’re gazing up into his eyes, searching for something—comfort, understanding, maybe a little reassurance. your hands find their way up his shoulders, one resting gently on his collarbone while the other slides higher, rubbing the area around his ear and jaw.
“you know that i love you,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady, as if the confession can dissolve the tension still hanging in the air.
rafe stares down at you, and in that moment, you can see everything in his eyes. he’s never loved anyone more than he loves you—the way you stood your ground against your own dad tonight, defending yourself and defending him and his family. it’s a vulnerable space, one he doesn’t often let himself occupy, but with you, it feels different.
he nods, pressing his lips together as if trying to hold back a flood of emotion. then, with a sudden urgency, he leans down and kisses you deeply. the taste of whiskey lingers on his lips. it’s a kiss that speaks of everything unspoken.
but just as quickly as it begins, he pulls away and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. you close your eyes into the gesture, feeling the warmth of his lips linger against your skin.
rafe goes back to resting his chin on your head, his breath steady as he holds you close again. you breathe in his familiar scent, a mix of sea salt and something distinctly rafe, and let the silence wrap around you like a comforting blanket.
in this moment, nothing else matters. not the fights, not your dad’s harsh words, not the stupid tangled web of family and expectations.
just you and him, together, holding onto each other for as long as you can.
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