#organic chemistry - reaction mechanisms

[er-cryptid]

[sciencesolutions]

[lost-rxverie]

sunday | march 3

finals countdown: 1 week

one minute you're learning your first reaction mechanism and the next you have a terrifying stack of flashcards to learn... i love organic chemistry but it's definitely the most memorization-heavy class i've taken in a while.

today i finished my last physics problem set of the term and finalized my term project for bio. things are really starting to wrap up!

[callmedaleelah]

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— so i pay the price of what i lost ; yes it is right that you can handle anything, but you can’t handle everything all at once

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language, long written chapter

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

Winter break felt like a blur of constant assignments, stress, and messages from your mother. You found yourself buried in work, avoiding the outside world—especially your phone, which you knew was filled only with your mom’s relentless reminders to study harder, do better, and aim higher. Tsukishima and Yamaguchi’s contacts had been pushed to the bottom of your recent conversations, untouched since that day in the gym.

You haven’t seen Yamaguchi or Tsukishima since that winter class you skipped to watch their game. That day feels like it happened in a different life—before the semester started to suffocate you, before your every waking moment was consumed by endless biochemistry coursework. You don’t have time to think about anything else anymore, not when every day feels like a battle to keep up with the expectations of your professors and the relentless academic pace.

Classes in the second semester are intense, perhaps even more than you expected. One of your courses, Organic Chemistry II, is particularly demanding. The subject matter dives deep into reaction mechanisms, synthesis pathways, and the stereochemistry of complex molecules. There’s also Molecular Biology, where you’re expected to learn and apply the intricate processes of DNA replication, transcription, and translation. Your third major course, Biophysical Chemistry, focuses on the thermodynamics of biological systems—another subject that stretches your mind to its limit.

It’s only the second week of your new semester in biochemistry, but it feels like you’ve been dragging yourself through months. Everything seems heavier this time—every lecture, every lab session, every assignment. The moment you open your textbooks and class notes, you can feel your brain protesting. There’s an exhaustion that hangs in the air, a feeling like you’re constantly one step behind even when you manage to complete your work on time.

Now, standing outside the lecture hall for Organic Chemistry II, you realized nothing much had changed. The same heavy textbooks, the same tight deadlines, the same competition between your classmates as they all tried to one-up each other. The new semester had brought a new intensity. You were still trying to keep up with your classmates—some of them seemed almost unnaturally gifted, answering the professors’ most complex questions with ease, while you constantly second-guessed yourself, even when you knew the answer.

Professor Saito, a man with a greying beard and an air of calm authority, strode into the room with his usual collected demeanor. His reputation preceded him—tough, no-nonsense, and known for pushing his students to think critically. Today was no different. He picked up a piece of chalk and began scribbling a chemical equation across the board.

Without glancing back, he posed his first question to the room. “Can anyone explain the significance of this reaction in the context of anaerobic respiration in yeast?”

The classroom, filled with second-year students, was eerily silent. Your eyes traced the chemical formula on the board—glucose breaking down into ethanol and carbon dioxide. The answer floated on the surface of your mind, but your heart pounded in your chest as self-doubt crept in. You scanned the room, hoping that one of the top students would break the silence and offer the answer instead. But they remained still, unfazed, as if this question was beneath them.

You bit your lip, feeling the weight of the quiet hanging over you. It was a simple question, one you knew the answer to, but something held you back. You hated this feeling—knowing, yet hesitating, paralyzed by the fear of saying something wrong. The silence stretched on, and finally, despite the knots of anxiety in your stomach, you slowly raised your hand.

Professor Saito turned to face you, his gaze resting on you with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Yes?”

Your voice wavered as you spoke. “It’s… the fermentation of glucose into ethanol and carbon dioxide,” you said quietly, swallowing back the stammer in your throat. “Yeast uses this anaerobic process to generate energy in the form of ATP when oxygen isn’t available.”

Professor Saito nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. “Correct. And why is this process significant in industrial applications?”

You took a deep breath. “It’s used in brewing to produce alcohol and in baking for the carbon dioxide that helps dough rise.”

He considered your answer for a moment before nodding again. “Yes. Good. Remember, however, that the ATP yield here is significantly lower than in aerobic respiration. That’s the key difference.”

Relief washed over you, and you allowed yourself to relax—just a little. But before you could even savor that small victory, another voice broke the quiet.

“Professor, could you explain the exact mechanism for the stereoselective alkylation of an enolate in asymmetric synthesis?” The voice belonged to Renji, one of the top students in the class. His question was sharp and cutting, a deliberate challenge. “And maybe elaborate on the difference between kinetic and thermodynamic control in that context?”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, punctuated by a few suppressed giggles. You stiffened in your seat. The question was far beyond the scope of what you’d covered in class, meant to impress—or worse, embarrass—the professor. Renji’s tone dripped with arrogance, and the way he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, told you he already knew the answer.

Professor Saito regarded him for a moment, his gaze steady. He began to respond calmly, “In asymmetric synthesis, the stereoselectivity of the alkylation depends on—”

Before he could finish, another voice interrupted. “What about stereoelectronic effects when using Evans' oxazolidinone in highly hindered substrates?” Yumi, another top-tier student, chimed in with a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She leaned forward slightly, her question laden with the same smug intent—to derail the lesson, to show off her own knowledge.

The air in the room became stifling. You could feel it—the discomfort rippling through the other students, the growing tension as Renji and Yumi sought to outwit the professor rather than learn from him. They weren’t asking to deepen their understanding. No, they were playing a different game, one of one-upmanship and arrogance.

Your stomach twisted with unease as you watched the scene unfold. Professor Saito, usually unflappable, seemed to falter for just a moment. You caught a glimpse of weariness in his eyes as he straightened up, preparing to answer yet another convoluted question. He had always been patient with his students, no matter how difficult the questions, but there was something in the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly that made your heart ache for him.

You glanced around the room. Some students were fidgeting uncomfortably, others quietly whispering to their neighbors. The whole room had been hijacked by these few who cared more about showing off than learning, and the rest of you were left feeling small, inconsequential. You clenched your fists under the desk, wishing you could say something, do something to stop it, but the words stayed lodged in your throat. What could you say? What could you do?

Professor Saito began explaining the stereoelectronic effects, his voice steady, but you could sense his weariness growing. The air felt oppressive, like the weight of these students’ arrogance had smothered any genuine learning atmosphere. You shifted in your seat, feeling anxiety gnawing at your insides, hating the smug smiles that played on Renji and Yumi’s lips.

Before you could think further, you raised your hand signaling to interrupt the class. Professor Saito caught your motion and stop his explanation. “I’m sorry, Professor, may i speak?” Your voice came out a little shaky but louder than you expected, you can’t stop yourself right now. Every eyes are on you when the professor nodded. You land your gaze to Yumi—her smug faltered as she turned toward your seat. “I don’t see any stereoselective alkylation of enolates in asymmetric synthesis in our syllabus for this entire semester. So, if you’re going to interrupt the class with questions, at least stick to the topic we’re actually supposed to be learning.”

And now you turned to Renji’s seat, his face hardening as the room went deathly quiet. You could feel the eyes of the other students on you, and though your heart pounded in your ears, you pressed on. “And if you’re feeling that generously smart, maybe you should come up there and be the professor yourself. But what do you actually get from trying to make others—let alone the professor—feel small by throwing out questions just to outsmart them?”

Yumi’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of shock. Renji shifted in his seat, his face hardening, but he remained silent. You could feel the tension swirling in the room, but it wasn’t directed at you anymore—it was directed at the arrogance that had poisoned the air.

Professor Saito stood there for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He cleared his throat, and the room snapped back to attention.

The room goes quiet, tension crackling in the air. You don’t usually speak up like this, but something about the arrogance in the room pushed you past your breaking point. The student sneers at you, but you don’t flinch. You’ve had enough of people trying to make others feel small just to inflate their own egos.

Professor Saito gives you a small nod of appreciation before continuing his lecture, the class quiet now except for the sound of his chalk against the board.

That evening, you’re back at your desk, struggling to finish another assignment. The words blur together on the screen, and despite your best efforts, you keep having to re-read the same paragraph over and over. You’re exhausted. There’s no other word for it. Even though you’ve tried to catch up on sleep, it never feels like enough. And there’s always another deadline looming, another mountain of work to climb.

Your phone buzzes next to you, but you don’t pick it up. It’s probably your mom again, asking why you haven’t called or berating you for not keeping up with her expectations. You’ve been avoiding her texts and calls lately because you can’t deal with the added pressure. She doesn’t understand how hard this is, how much you’re trying to juggle. Or maybe she does, and just doesn’t care. Either way, you don’t have the energy to explain yourself to her right now.

By the time you finish the assignment and hit submit, it’s nearly 2 AM. You slump back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. Every muscle in your body aches, and there’s a tightness in your chest that hasn’t gone away for days. You feel like you’re sinking deeper into a hole you can’t climb out of.

The thought of opening your phone again fills you with dread, but you do it anyway, more out of habit than anything else. When you do, you see an email from Professor Saito.

Subject: Checking In

I hope this message finds you well. I noticed that you submitted your most recent assignment late last night. While I am aware of the pressures you and many other students are under, I wanted to reach out personally.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed how diligently you’ve participated in my class. I’ve seen how you’ve quietly answered questions, even when you seemed uncertain of yourself. I also noticed how you stepped in during that difficult class discussion the other day and helped refocus the conversation. You have a sharp mind, and I hope you know that.

That said, I am concerned about you. I can tell that you’re pushing yourself hard, and while I appreciate your effort, I also want to remind you that your well-being comes first. I know what it’s like to feel the weight of academic pressure, and I want to encourage you to take care of yourself, too.

If you ever feel overwhelmed or need to talk, please know that my office door is always open to you. You are a valued member of my class, and I believe in your potential.

Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.

Warm regards, Professor Saito

As you read the email, you feel a lump form in your throat. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear those words until now. For so long, you’ve felt like you were just going through the motions, never sure if you were really doing anything right. But here, someone was telling you that you mattered—that your efforts weren’t invisible.

You close the email and stare at the screen for a long moment. Then, without thinking, you bury your face in your hands. The tears come quickly, a mix of exhaustion, relief, and gratitude. You hadn’t expected this—this kindness, this small bit of recognition in a sea of doubt.

tagslist (free to mention) ; @theweirdfloatything @snowthatareblack @ilovemymomscooking @nayiiryun @knightofmidnight @kozumesphone @scxrcherr

sorry for posting this late, i’ve been super busy with karate practice all weekend—i’ve got a belt test coming up soon, so the training’s been extra intense. i’m exhausted, and my legs hurt so bad i can barely walk, but gotta stay strong and push through! 😣

[mizusnose]

MORE COMPETENT MIZU FICS PLSSS

Tutor Mizu x Reader

okay okay okay SO: competent, a little mean and degrading Mizu who is top of her class and is the TA for organic chemistry with a side gig of private tutoring for money.

Summary: You’re failing orgo, so you decide to hire a tutor—little do you know it’s your class TA who you happen to have a massive crush on.

1.1k words, Slightly NSFW

Mizu arrives to your apartment five minutes late, and you lay down your hair and fix your sweater before you open the door. She’s tall against the backdrop of your hallway, a loosely slung bag around her broad shoulders sits against her waffle-knocked thermal, the golden chains around her neck dance in the light.

You invite her in, ask if she’d like some water, she accepts and you both eventually make it to your desk in the corner of your room.

She deftly sets up next to your laptop and notebook, her fingertips pink and long against the wood of the desk. You force yourself to look away, a thundering in your throat.

You never thought you’d be such a cliché: crushing on your TA. Yet, as Mizu wraps her palm around the glass of water and takes gulps of water, you can’t help but trace the movement: your eyes entranced and distant.

“Okay, aldol condensations.” She grunts against the wet of her mouth, wipes it off on her wrist, the cloth of her long sleeve, “What did you get on the last exam, and what’s your current grade.”

“Getting right into it.” You joke, crossing your legs and picking at the edge of your paper: your nerves apparent.

“I’m efficient.” Mizu says tartly, pushing her curled bang away from her face with the eraser end of her pencil.

You tell her your grade and your last exam results. The look on her face reveals nothing but you can feel a sense of something there. You wait as she starts writing something on her own notebook.

“My email, my number. If you have any questions outside of class or tutoring—I’ll respond within the hour.” She tears the paper and sets it in front of you. Her hands almost fit against the entire page, very nearly.

You nod, taking the paper and watch as she bends over to grab highlighters and colored pens from her bag. A stretch of skin above her hip is revealed before it’s covered as quickly as it appeared.

Mizu doesn’t ask about your flushed face, instead starts on the mechanisms behind carbonyls and electrophiles. You keep up as best as you can, and when you ask for a recap on certain parts, Mizu backs up easily, explains it slower and asks follow up questions. She’s a good tutor, and you think how steadfast she is.

Even in lecture, she comes over to you after and lets you ask her questions about that day’s concepts, draws the mechanisms out on your notebook so you can reference it later. In those moments, she’s pressed above you, a pillar you can rely on, someone you’d do anything for: including getting a good grade on your next exam.

Mizu has made it clear throughout the tutoring sessions: you’ve gotta do fairly well on the next exam to pass.

So, the days leading up to the exam, she’d accepted your invites for extra sessions. You’d convinced her to come over more often and stay longer with the prospect of a meal.

Take-out of her choice since you couldn’t cook. You were getting the hang of it all fortunately, and Mizu was the happiest you’d ever seen her as she ate. It was nice, nearly domestic, almost.

So when you messed up on a fairly simple reaction, the cold of Mizu’s eyes opened a wide feeling in your belly, in your gut.

“This is clearly wrong.” She’d say, the pencil marks smeared against her fingers, “You’re smarter than this.”

And you’d nod, and you’d apologize, your legs rubbing together. A heat boiling.

The next time Mizu came over, you’d bought a bottle of wine for the occasion: the last session before the exam.

“Oh?” Mizu’s hands wrapped around the neck of the bottle, an easy grip, hold steady and warm. Your jaw went slack, nearly noticeable had you not looked away and hummed a yup!

You didn’t drink often, so you made sure to get a sweet flavored red wine. Mizu’s mouth was a dark wipe of sangria, her stained lips a near perfect sight in your bedroom—against your desk.

“This is wrong.” She’d grunt.

And oh, you’d think, her voice.

“I thought that—“

“This is a primary alcohol. It reacts with an acyl halide, to form a..?”

And she’d look at you. Her eyes dilated and her cheeks and jaw flushed, a strand of fair sticking to her forehead.

“A..um, a carboxylic acid?”

And she’d frown, a cute scrunched up thing, and you’d stutter an apology, head light and mouth heavy.

“Wrong.” It was mean, the way she said it. An annoyed thing that pushed out of her easily, you shivered at it all “You know I didn’t tutor you all this time for you to fail.”

She pressed her hand against your forehead then, your cheek, your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

“Are you that drunk you’d forget everything I’ve taught you?”

Her touch was a heated weight, and you shook your head and she grabbed your chin, directed your gaze at her: an anger flared in her eyes, one barely veiled behind the alcohol.

“Hm?”

You kissed her then. It was easy, the way you leaned in and tasted her. The wine on her lips was still there and you wondered if her tongue was stained in it too—wanted to find out desperately suddenly. So you opened your mouth, and found yourself shocked as Mizu followed, her breath a hot push into your mouth, the roof of it.

She pressed you against your chair, into the bend of the back and straddled you.

“Hah.” Her lips were puffy, a faint velvet. You watched as she observed your face, a hesitance there that dissolved when you let your jaw fall, mouth open, “fuck.”

She kissed you this time, an insistence that made you press your knees together and squirm. The kisses only became heavier, longer, then quick, then slow again.

By the time you’d both calmed down, Mizu’s dress shirt was ripped open, the bones of her chest exposed. A faint mole visible beneath her collarbone. You kissed it and left a mark.

“This isn’t very helpful for you right now.” Mizu commented. Her lips wet and dark. You wanted more, “Your exam..”

“‘ts okay.” You reassure, holding the small of her back in your palm.

She rolled her eyes, set both her hands on either side of your head and gave you a glare, “You better not fucking fail.”

You grinned, a dopey, kiss-happy one.

“Okay.” you whisper, kissing her once more.

The day your exam results arrive, you get the highest score, and Mizu eats you out as a reward.

———

So this was very long, but i kinda got really into it at the end so.. thanks for the ask!

[chemblrish]

Subatomic particles from a chemist's point of view - part II: the proton

[part I: the electron]

Proton

In my subjective opinion, the runner-up in this informal ranking of subatomic particles that are important in chemistry. Protons may not form chemical bonds like electrons do, but they still play an important role in many chemical reactions, especially in organic chemistry. But their most meaningful task that places them right below the electron on my list is this: they quite literally define the elements.

Atomic number

Let’s put our Mendeleev hats on and have a look at the periodic table. Here, I’ll upload it for you so you don’t have to google it:

It doesn’t take a genius to realize the elements are compiled in an orderly fashion rather than a random one. What is the property that generates this order? You could say mass – that the elements are arranged by their increasing mass – but that’s not quite true.  Sure, most of the time it is true, but there’s a handful of oddballs that refuse to fit this scheme. Argon and potassium, for example: argon has a mass of 39,948 u (units) while potassium has a slightly lower mass of 39,098 u. The difference isn’t big, but nevertheless if we want to arrange our elements by mass, we have to place potassium underneath neon and argon underneath sodium.

Obviously, we can’t do that. The cool thing about the periodic table is that there are several trends encoded in it, one of them being that the elements of any given group are usually fairly similar to each other. Group 18, where argon normally resides, is reserved for noble gases that are extremely chill and not eager to react (they might’ve taught you in school that noble gases never ever react with anything ever; THAT’S A LIE! But it is true that their chemistry is scant and their reactions rare). Potassium could never fit in with them. Fucker explodes in water the same way sodium does – which is yet another proof it belongs in the same group! Also, COOL EXPLOSION HERE!

This isn’t the only such strange pair in the periodic table: cobalt and nickel are like that too, and so are tellurium and iodine. It isn’t much – but it’s enough that we have to look for some other physical property to define the order of the elements. For some time, chemists and physicists had to accept this discrepancy (not that they were happy about it; I imagine they’d wake up at night drenched in sweat, screaming, “GODFORSAKEN ARGON!”). The atomic number, this sort of ordinal number that put every element in its place, was actually random, as in, not based on any known physical property. Yeah, potassium has an atomic number of 19, but why?

ENTER HENRY MOSELEY!

Henry Moseley conducted a series of experiments in which he zapped various elements with X-rays (I’m so jealous), then analyzed the resulting emission spectra. It turned out that the atomic number is proportional to the square root of the emitted radiation, which in turn depends on the proton count in the nucleus. This is what defines any given element: the number of protons it has. This is THE definition, the one you learn very early in your chemistry journey. The number of neutrons may vary among the atoms of the same element (because isotopes) and atoms can gain or lose electrons by becoming ions, but that doesn’t turn them into different elements. Only the number of protons is always constant for one and the same chemical element.

Organic chemists love protons too

And for more than one reason at that – because hoo boy, does a proton stir some shit in ochem!

My ochem lab instructor pointed to the mechanism I’d written on my lab report once and asked, “What does the acid do in this reaction?”. Very plainly I said, “It’s a source of protons which act as a catalyst,” to which he gave me his standard shit-eating grin and said, “They all are.”

And he wasn’t wrong! If you analyze a bunch of organic reaction mechanisms then you’ll see they very often begin with a proton (so H+) attaching itself to the substrate (or a lone electron pair on the substrate to be precise, because Coulomb force, right?) and thus initiating a chain reaction of sorts that leads, frequently through many infuriating steps, to the product. Take a look at the synthesis of aspirin, for example:

[via wikipedia]

You don’t need to understand everything that happens here. What matters is this first step I circled: a proton attaches itself to one of the substrates and starts the whole reaction.

The second reason I have in mind for why organic chemists love protons is NMR: nuclear magnetic resonance. NMR is a method of instrumental analysis and it’s cool as all fucks actually (as long as you don’t have to analyze the spectra because what the heck are those spikes), but this post is about protons, not NMR, so here’s the gist: you put your organic sample in the NMR spectrometer. The spectrometer drenches your sample in a magnetic field (which is probably why small dogs with metallic collars aren’t advised in an NMR lab). The spins of the protons in your sample (yes, protons have spin too!) go wooo! and align themselves in a specific manner. The computer connected to the spectrometer spits out a spectrum that tells you what your sample looks like.

Properties of the proton

Charge: positive one elementary electric charge, the exact opposite of an electron (how convenient!): +1.602×10^(−19) C

Mass: 1.673 × 10^(-27) kg – which is roughly 1837 times the mass of an electron. I want you to say, "Whoa, that's a lot!" right now because shit, it really is! And that's a great thing, because it gives us cool stuff like the Born-Oppenheimer approximation.

Radius: 0.841 fm (femtometers), but make no mistake: just like electrons, protons abide by the wave-particle duality, because they hate us all. I just remembered when my quantum chem professor told us during a lecture that even buckminsterfullerenes exhibit wave-particle duality. These are molecules made up of 60 carbon atoms. Sixty carbon atoms!! I almost cried, but I was sitting in the front, so I had to compose myself.

[queer-reader-07]

i have decided to make a reference book for all the organic chemistry reactions and mechanisms. for no reason at all. no. reason. at. all. definitely not a fevered attempt to distract myself. NOT. AT. ALL.

[hyperraduo22]

my long list of random dps headcanons

+ includes spencer and stick !! :))))

• neil only has problems with reading in one eye and still to this day cannot figure out why. he assumes it’s genetic atp

• meeks and pitts do not like excessive gore in movies although pitts is more prone to dislike body horror— they won’t get physically sick from looking at gore they just generally don’t like it and get easily squeamish from it

• pitts likes pink lemonade simply cause it’s pink

• whenever knox gets a fortune whether from a fortune cookie or one of those mechanical tellers, he takes it so seriously for the next two weeks

• meeks and todd are slow eaters

• neil is the pickiest eater out of all the poets although he’s slowly learning to get over it and try new foods. cameron and meeks try to encourage him little by little since they used to be picky as well but got over it

• todd has sensory issues when it comes to texture. if he feels something he doesn’t like for a long period of time, he could possibly get anxious and start crying from it. example: he absolutely hates the feeling of shedded snake skin and will never ever stick his hands in those “guess what you’re touching” boxes at those wilderness exhibits— bro is traumatized from it

• despite popular belief of neil hating roller coasters, i think he has a neutral opinion on them and there’s some he can tolerate and some that he does like. although he’s very picky with roller coasters and there’s some he absolutely refuses to go on even with todd

• cameron actually likes trains a lot and hyperfixates on them (and yes there’s a bittersweet story behind it from his childhood)

• pitts loves anything s’mores flavored

• stick knows how to bake really well and the dps always ask (more like beg atp) to be his personal taste testers cause they know the finished product will be delicious

• meeks cannot eat spicy food for the life of him. he tried cajun food once and he loved it but some of the cheyenne peppers knocked him tf out- like his face was redder than his hair

• knox loves rooftop dining (rich bastard)

• charlie has a personal barber that he always goes to even when he becomes an adult

• todd’s mom is a lesbian (( i wanna post my dps family headcanons so bad cause this deserves context😭 ))

• pitts grew up with a compromised immune system and spent his days inside a lot during late elementary school and a little bit into middle school. since meeks was also pressured to do good academically at such a young age and ended up staying inside more often, the two bonded over that and meeks didn’t mind taking care of pitts when he got sick<3

• charlie and cameron are really good at golf

• cameron prefers taking chewable pills whenever possible since he has trouble swallowing larger pills

• meeks can name the 50 states in alphabetical order off the top of his head

• todd and pitts have that friendship where they always support each other no matter if they both know what they’re doing/saying is dumb and absolutely wrong by all logical standpoints

• pitts is better in biology and anatomy. the only reason why he’s passing chemistry is cause he’s good with remembering chemical reactions and organizing his work during lab projects. otherwise stoichometry fucks him up badly

• todd chews on the ice whenever he has certain cold drinks

• stick crochets in his free time— he even crocheted a blanket for spencer and spencer still uses it to this day :(((

• spencer can get really invested in dramas or sports shows and end up having really dramatic reactions at the things that happen on tv— stick has witnessed this once and bro was dying laughing the entire time. every since then, the duo watch tv together and it feels like a therapeutic bond between the two

• ^speaking of spencer and stick, they’re childhood besties!! they have that bond where even when they separate for long periods of time, they’re able to reunite and catch up/have nothing change between them

• because todd loves bird watching and meeks loves stargazing, they invite each other whenever they’re doing those activities and hype each other up whenever they spot something rare (ie. rare bird species or a rare celestial event) <3

• because stick likes to feed hummingbirds around the campus from time to time, todd sometimes joins him so he can also appreciate the birds

• whenever he reads up that an eclipse is coming up, meeks gets all the poets together on the rooftop to watch it

• pitts actually knows how to play a few songs on piano but hasn’t touched a piano in a very long time

• charlie learned to play clarinet in a orchestra/symphony that played for the town and raised money for local charities—that’s right. he’s so rich that his parents didn’t enroll him in private lessons but rather a more professional band class with other kids. he originally wanted to try out the oboe just cause (he also secretly loved the oboe solo in that one tchaikovsky piece) but his parents obviously made him do clarinet instead. he would later teach himself saxophone

• charlie has an immunity to ibuprofen and some other over the counter drugs (don’t ask why. he’s probs the type of person that gets headaches or body aches easily- whether self induced or not- and took so much ibuprofen over the course of a month that it doesn’t work anymore)

• cameron has sensitive teeth and gets toothaches easily from cold foods like ice cream. therefore, he’s careful with his portions when eating certain desserts, takes smaller sips when drinking water at restaurants (or he just asks to have no ice in his drinks), and he prefers drinking room temperature water

• stick is scared of butterflies- like i’m talking bro has a full on phobia of them cause of some traumatic childhood incident- but still thinks they’re really beautiful :(((

• ^because of this- when walking outside, spencer will make sure there aren’t butterflies nearby for stick. he’ll either swat them away or gently pick them up and make them fly away elsewhere like the true best friend he is🫡

• no matter the circumstance, spencer just does not give two fucks about true crime whatsoever. you can make him watch a true crime doc and he’ll either get bored or be like “really? that’s all the killer can do?” “…couldn’t they like- i don’t know- not enter a complete stranger’s home??” “i could’ve beaten up that guy you know.”

• knox and spencer have a brotherly relationship and have known each other since middle school. knox would invite spencer to tag along with him and charlie, obviously tease him in the middle of class, and he’d ask for help on school work. plus knox and charlie have stood up for him on multiple occasions and help raise his confidence in social situations

• stick has hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) episodes from time to time. sometimes they sync up with spencer’s random nosebleeds and they both sit in the nurse’s office together.

—————

okay now i wanna post dps family headcanons and stick and spencer headcanons now🏃‍♂️🗣️

let me and todd’s lesbian mom cook

[hyukalyptus]

office hours — professor!soobin x gradstudent!reader

cw. chubby!reader, reader is an adult grad student, minimal age gap, clear consent, petnames (babe, baby, honey, darling, good boy), mommy kink, face sitting, unprotected penetration, creampie, cunnilingus, handjobs, ending is cheesy, "epilogue" of sorts involves christmas vibes, kissing, please lmk if i'm missing anything. NSFW/MDNI notes. i would feel irresponsible if i didn't acknowledge this is a romanticized portrayal of a professor-student relationship. while the relationship in this story has clear consent multiple times, irl relationships like this can be inappropriate and exploitative bc of the authority imbalance. you deserve a healthy, consensual relationship. prioritize ur well-being and autonomy. relationships should be built on mutual respect, equality and clear consent. this is a work of fiction and should be read as such. shoutout to @silvergyus for sending the prof!soob pic <3 wc. 11.6k

“Which brings us to Le Chatelier's Principle in real-world chemical reactions,” Professor Choi says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This will be review for most of you, so I won’t go into too much detail.” 

Chemistry is your favorite thing in the world. It’s real-life magic. And Professor Choi sees it that way too. His olive green chinos are wrinkled from walking from his office. The sleeves of his white button-down are pushed up so he can write freely on the whiteboard while his burgundy tie sways with his scurries. 

Sparks of passion fill his eyes as he lectures. And he never disappoints with his cheesy jokes. Although you seem to be the only one that laughs at them—maybe you’re the only one that gets them. Not many students in his class are the experts in chemistry you are. You took it as a break from your intense course load and the elective credits are a nice bonus. 

Most of your professors are so old they barely know how to turn on their laptop and are so deep into their tenure they’ve given up. If you bothered showing up to their office hours, you’d be lucky to find a professor, let alone a helpful one. So you’ve become a frequent visitor in Professor Choi’s office hours, talking about advanced chemistry he can’t wait to teach but it’ll be at least five years before he can. In the meantime, he’ll settle for nerding out with you in his office for a few hours every week.

“Great class today, everyone,” he says. “Have a great weekend and don’t hesitate to visit me during my office hours with any questions!” That sentence started out as a normal speaking voice but ended up a shout over the shuffling of the desk chairs and backpacks. You’re typically the last one out, but you save your questions for his office hours tomorrow. 

-

“Hi,” you say, lightly tapping your knuckle against his office door.

Turning around in his chair, his lips form a pout in surprise at seeing you. “Were you waiting outside? Sorry that meeting ran a little long—” He shuffles to organize his desk. 

“That’s okay.” Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, he rests his hands on his thighs and looks up at you. Did he just look you up and down? Don’t be ridiculous. 

“What can I do ya for?”

“Right,” you start. “Can I…?” You ask, motioning toward the spare chair, waiting for his nod before sitting. “You know Professor Vaughn’s class?” You barely catch it, but his eyes roll. Professor Vaughn is the worst professor you’ve had. Boring, harsh, impatient. It doesn’t help he teaches one of the most complex forms of chemistry. “I’m not really getting this week’s content and was wondering if you could help me.”

“Of course.” He smiles. And it’s devastating. The sparkle in his eyes and those dimples. Craning his neck to look at your notes riddled with red question marks, he nods. As soon as he sees the title of your notes, he says, “Let’s think about this from a quantum mechanical perspective. If we assume that the π-complex is forming, we’re talking about a stabilization due to delocalization π-electrons, right?”

In what feels like no time at all, an hour has passed and the conversation has been the complete opposite of Professor Vaughn’s lectures. Questions led down rabbit holes, leading to other theorems and more questions. As he glances up at you through his glasses, there is an undeniable tingle in your stomach.

It’s not like you haven’t noticed how attractive Professor Choi is. He’s tall, lean but undeniably strong, he has the most perfect silky black hair and the prettiest brown eyes, and his pout—indescribably cute. And again—those goddamn dimples. He’s the perfect mixture of sexy, handsome, and pretty. You’d never think of doing anything with a professor, but you can’t help your mind wanders during the slower lectures. 

How long have you been staring at each other in silence? Too long probably. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, looking at his watch. “My office hours have been over for a few—”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” you say, stumbling as you stand, attempting to gather your things as quickly as possible. But he shakes his head, trying to shrug it off. 

“That’s okay,” he says. “I, uh, I just have my emails waiting for me.”

You nod, shoving everything into your bag and heading out the door. What was that? You’re probably overreacting, you think to yourself. He’s charming because of his looks, there’s no way he’d— No. Don’t even finish that thought. 

-

"How is it that someone who scored the highest in my theoretical chemistry exam is turning basic lab work into a spectacle of incompetence?" Professor Vaughn boasts over your right shoulder. No doubt his thick eyebrows are furrowed.

As your hands tighten around the test tube, you know exactly what to do—you always do—but everything slips through your fingers in his class. 

"I’m trying to get the reaction to stabilize," you stammer, eyes darting between your hands, the chemical reagents lined up on the table, and your notebook.

Professor Vaugn’s expression hardens as he steps closer, looking down his nose at your station. "Trying is for high school sophomores. If you’re still trying, you’re behind."

Taking a deep breath, you carefully add three more drops to the mixture but the reaction goes wrong. Again. A plume of white smoke rises from the beaker, and the liquid turns an unexpected, muddy brown.

"Unbelievable," Vaughn mutters loud enough for everyone to hear. Everyone knows you’re the best student in your class. Well, everyone except Soren, who’s so jealous of your intelligence they can hardly stand it. They simply smirk. "I expected more from you."

Your heart sinks. You checked those calculations three times. Maybe it’s your shaky hands. Or the pressure of him looming over your shoulder. Or the other stuff on your mind. 

"Are you going to sit there and guess again, or would you like to double down on failure with your next attempt?" Vaughn sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I’m not guessing, Professor. I—"

"Can’t manage a basic reaction?" Vaughn interrupts with his icy voice. "I’m beginning to wonder how you even made it into this program."

"I’m perfectly capable. The solution is just—"

"Wrong. Yes, we’ve established that." Vaughn’s lips curl into a patronizing sneer. "Maybe chemistry isn’t the field for you if this is the best you can manage." That got everyone’s attention—it would be an interesting sight to see you fail. It so rarely happens. Sure, you’ve been doubted before but have always proven yourself. Today would be no different.

You take a deep breath and count to yourself, One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

As you block out Vaughn’s piercing gaze and the weight of the other students’ eyes, you carefully remeasure the chemical, adjusting the proportions this time, methodically double-checking your work. You add the reagent once more, slowly, and watch as the solution begins to shift. 

A moment passes. The reaction stabilizes and the solution turns a clear, pale blue. 

"Finally," Vaughn mutters. You don’t even have to look at him to know he rolled his eyes. He turns to walk away but pauses. "Barely acceptable. Next time, you won’t be given the luxury of so many failures."

-

Bursting through the door upon dismissal, you can’t get to the restroom fast enough, barely making it to a stall before tears stream down your cheeks. 

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five,” you whisper to yourself. 

Sometimes, chemical reactions need to be dealt with instantly, but that’s an overwhelming amount of pressure. You give yourself five seconds before you absolutely have to deal with it. Same thing here. Cry. Count to five. Wipe your tears and move on.

But it’s difficult to move on this time. You’ve counted to five a few too many times today. But the only person you want to talk about it with is—

Professor Choi,  Are you available to meet me in Lab 270 tomorrow afternoon? I’ve been struggling with some reactions and could use some help. I’ll be there from 2:00—4:00.  If not, no worries! 

Sniffling, you hit send on your email app, shove your phone in your bag and head home. 

The next day drags on and on. Did he even get your message? Expecting an empty lab, you’re surprised to find Professor Choi waiting for you behind a laptop wearing a cute tweed jacket with suede elbow patches. His eyebrows are furrowed as his focused eyes study the computer, but they brighten at the sight of you. 

Initially surprised by your confusion, he squeezes his eyes shut and says, “I didn’t respond to your email, did I?” He’s already got the lab station set up. How long has he been waiting on you? “So, how’s Professor Vaughn’s class?” Did someone tell him about yesterday? God, you hope not. 

“Fine,” you deadpan. Shaking your head, you say, “I’m sorry…I’m just kinda stressed.” 

“I can go if you need some time by—”

“No,” you say, softening your tone. “I’d really appreciate your help.”

And he’s more than willing, letting you ask whatever you want, never interrupting or talking over you like most of the men in the program. He gives you space to explore ideas and theories, listening closely instead of answering everything for you.

And he’s so damn sexy when he’s the one doing the ranting. The way he talks with his hands, ones that are so big with fingers so long you wish he would wrap around your—

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” He asks.

Oh shit, did you say that out loud? What a fucking nightmare. “Uh, sorry, just…talking to myself. Too many thoughts racing around the ole dome.”

A slight pout forms on his lips as he continues his rant. Now, the only thing you can think of are his lips wrapped around your—

“Ah!” Your hand slips toward the Bunsen burner and, great, now you’ve got a nice burn on your thumb. 

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” He stands quickly. “Let me see.” His fingers graze your palm, igniting a fiercer burn than the actual flame just did. “Run it under cold water, okay?”

In the meantime, he straightens up your station before meeting you at the sink. ��Is something wrong?” His words make you jump. “You seem distracted.” 

That’s all it takes. The floodgates open. You rant about the sexist piece of shit Professor Vaughn and his power moves to intimidate you when he knows you’re the best student in the program. About how embarrassed you were in lab yesterday. Last semester when you raised your hand to correct an equation on the board and he gave you a firm talking to about respect after class. 

He watches you carefully, handing over a towel for your hands as you take a steadying breath, fighting back tears.

“Did I ever tell you why I started studying chemistry?” he asks. You sniffle, shaking your head. “My grandfather. He was a baker.” His voice softens, and you look up to find his eyes full of kindness. “Every Saturday, he’d make me work in his bakery. I didn’t mind—it felt like magic, you know? But really, it’s science. It’s all precision, measurements, timing.” 

A smile tugs at his lips. “Once, I tried baking a cake for my mom’s birthday, followed his recipe exactly. Measured the flour, the sugar, the cocoa. When I pulled it out of the oven, it was hard. Flat. I was sure he’d be disappointed, calling it a waste of time and ingredients. I was terrified. But he looked at it, smiled, and told me to try again the next day. When I asked why it didn’t work, he said I needed to ‘feel my way through it.’”

You sit there, the sting from your burn now fading, but your heart’s still aching, wanting something from him—a hug, a kiss, even just a pat on the shoulder.

“If I’d gotten it right the first time, I’d never know what overmixed batter looks like. Or that I like more cocoa than he did. Or that you should coat berries in flour.” His smile creeps up to his eyes. “Seeing how failure could make you better—it made me curious. I wanted to understand why some things worked and others didn’t, why I needed to feel my way through it, to get into the details.” He makes eye contact with you again. “That’s why I went into chemistry. Baking taught me the magic is in the little things—if you’re willing to screw up and keep going.”

Nodding, you smile back. His words hang in the air for a moment, like they’re meant to settle, but something’s missing. 

“All I’m saying is, its okay to fuck things up, okay?” he says, his candidness drawing a chuckle from you. “How else would you learn?”

-

The world’s drained of color—only hazy shades of grey and beige are left. Your palms press against a cold marble countertop with the faint sound of running water echoing in the distance. The reflection of the mirror looks like you, but not quite. The woman in the mirror has her lips painted a dark, sultry brown, a shade you’d never choose. And the outfit is far too dressy for a lecture. Shadows fall where there shouldn’t be any. 

The hallways are unfamiliar, yet you know it's the same building you visit almost every day. It's blurry, like you’re walking through a memory that isn’t yours. 

You look down at the saddle shoes on your feet clicking against the tile floor, unnervingly filling the emptiness. It feels like someone else is controlling your body but you don’t question it. You can’t. Your hand raises, knuckles brushing a wooden door before it creaks open on its own. 

On the other side of the door, Professor Choi faces a green chalkboard. Has that always been in his office? Hurriedly scribbling down equations, he glances between the board and the notebook in his hand. When he looks over his shoulder at you, his eyes soften and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Come in,” he says gently, setting his notebook aside. His voice wraps around you, making the room feel smaller, closer. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your spine tingles. “I know,” you reply, but the words sound hollow, like you’re speaking from somewhere else. 

“Here,” he suggests, holding a piece of chalk out to you. The way he gestures toward the board is magnetic. As you take it from his hand, your fingers brush his. “What do you think of this?” An unfinished equation waits to be solved. His presence looms behind you, close but not quite touching as you reach up to solve it. Your heart pounds, every stroke of the chalk on the board heavier than it should.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough around the edges. You turn to face him and he’s closer than expected, his warmth radiating against your skin. The air is thick with something unspoken. You step closer, tentative at first, then quicker, more certain. Your lips almost brush his, but he pulls back, his breath catching.

He looks down, your name a whisper on his lips, soft and pained. “I—” His eyes flicker up to meet yours, then fall back down like the weight of your gaze is too much.

“What?” You ask, your voice barely more than a breath. Your eyes dart between his, lingering on his tempting mouth. He leans in again with desire in his eyes. He wants to kiss you. You can feel it. And for a moment you think he might.

But he pulls away, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “I don’t think we should be doing this,” he says, his voice strained, as if saying the words is physically painful for him.

“Why not?” The question slips from your lips before you can stop it, frustration and longing lacing your tone.

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, or—”

“Why would I feel like that?” you interrupt, your voice impatient. Your heart races, pounding in your ears, drowning out reason.

“I’m your professor,” he breathes out like it’s a curse. His words only fan the flames of the tension building between you. There’s nothing wrong with that, you think to yourself. It’s not like you’re fresh out of high school—you’re a grad student, close to starting the same PhD he earned barely three years ago. He’s no more than five years older.

“I don’t care,” you insist, stepping even closer, your lips a breath away from his. “I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes darken, his resolve faltering as his gaze drops to your lips. “It’s a mistake,” he whispers, but his voice trembles with indecision, trying to convince himself more than you.

“Make the mistake,” you urge, your voice soft but sure. Your hand reaches for his tie, tugging as light as you can just to bring him that much closer. “You said it yourself, it’s okay to fuck things up.”

There’s a beat of silence, so thick it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath, waiting. And in that moment, the space between you seems to collapse, the weight of everything unsaid pulling you closer. 

The millisecond before your lips touch, you breathe awake. 

You bolt straight up, feeling around your soft bed sheets, breathless as your heart pounds from the vividness of it all. For a moment, you linger in the feeling, brushing your fingers over your lips, feeling the warmth of the almost kiss. But reality sinks in and your stomach drops.

Reaching for your phone, you check the time. Great, it’s almost time for his class. But there’s no hazy world to hide in. Skipping class might be an option but an exam reminder drags you out of bed. 

- 

Trudging across campus, your stomach sinks lower with each step. How can you look him in the eye? Dropping your bag to the floor with a thud, you hang your head low. Let’s just get through this exam and get outta here. 

“How’s your hand?” Professor Choi’s voice shakes you out of your thoughts. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding his hands up. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.” Looking at you like you’re the cutest puppy he’s ever seen, you can’t bring yourself to speak, but you hold out your hand. The second his fingertips touch yours, you flinch and jerk it back. 

“Um—” you start. “Better, thanks.” Turning away from him, you distract yourself with a random notebook from your bag. 

“...You okay? You shouldn’t be nervous about the exam.” When you look up, you’re met with eyes that appear…hurt? 

“No, it’s not that.” That’s not a good answer. “Just…” What would you even say? I had an incredibly vivid—and delicious—dream about you last night and now I need to know how your lips feel in real life? “Cramps.”

“Ah.” He nods and leaves you alone, awkwardly walking to the front of the class to make some announcements and general good wishes before the exam. With your fist pressed to your chin, you refuse to look up, hanging your head low even as he slides you your copy. 

There’s a bright green post-it stuck to it with a note, It’s okay to fuck it up! Your heart races as your eyes dart around searching for him. When you find him, he gives you a soft smile. You return the smile but rush to unstick it before anyone sees, storing it in your notebook for safe keeping. 

-

As you return to your apartment, the post-it stares back at you like you’re the guiltiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. It’s practically calling you a whore. And you can hardly take it anymore. You can’t bring yourself to face him for class a few days later—although skipping feels like a cardinal sin. Soon enough, though, your email dings. 

From: Choi Soobin, PhD I noticed you were absent from class today. I hope everything’s okay. The lecture notes are attached for your reference. Feel free to stop by my office hours with any questions. Professor Choi

Did your heart just flutter? Why are you walking toward his office? When you knock on the door, he stands—more like stumbles—to greet you, “Hi!” 

“Hi, Professor Choi…” You linger in the doorway, clutching your notebook tight to your chest. “Sorry I missed class—”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah—”

“You’re not overwhelmed with coursework, are you?” His eyes search yours, and there’s a softness in his voice that makes it hard to look away.

“No, no, I’m alright. I just…had a migraine this morning,” you say, shrugging slightly. “It’s gone now, though.”

He nods, easing into a warm smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His gaze doesn’t waver and the intensity makes your pulse quicken. “So, I’m guessing you’re here to go over questions from the lecture?”

“Actually, it’s Professor Vaughn’s class I’m struggling with. His lecture today was…brutal.”

“I’m shocked,” he says sarcastically. “The man’s got a gift for making simple concepts sound like Greek.”

“Exactly,” you laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing. “I thought it was me, but he seems to take pride in making everything harder than it needs to be.”

“Trust me, it’s not you,” he says, a glint of warmth in his eyes. “He’s terrible. And annoying. And boring. And I’d tell him that.”

You raise a brow, skeptical. “You wouldn’t.”

“Well…” He breaks into a grin. “Maybe after I reach tenure. Though he may be retired by then.”

“Or dead,” you say matter-of-factly. He looks at you awkwardly then you both laugh, genuinely. There’s an ease to it.

He gestures to your notebook. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

-

“I can’t believe I’m laughing at that,” you say, a giggle escaping your lips. 

“You always laugh at my bad jokes,” he replies, staring at your face a little too longingly. If you were anyone else, he might find some excuse to touch you. Maybe brush a piece of lint off your shoulder, lightly touch your arm while he laughed at something you said, or something as casual as a fist bump. 

If he were any other guy, you’d be much more obvious, making it crystal clear you want him to kiss you right now. But you can’t. You don’t even know how he thinks about you. You’re probably just another student to him. 

“Well, those are all my questions,” you say, awkwardly packing your bag. 

“Yeah, you can, uh…head out…” he trails off as you start to rise from your seat. 

You’re searching for something to say, something to let you stay just a little longer. But nothing comes. He watches you walk toward the door, the silence hanging in the space between you. 

“Pens!” His voice suddenly burst out, loud enough to make you stop mid-step. “They, uh—I went to a conference last week and they gave me a ton,” he says, scrambling to gather a handful from his desk. 

You take them, your fingers brushing against his in a way that feels far too intimate. His eyes lock with yours, the touch sending a ripple of tension through you. “But you’re, uh…picky about your pens, aren’t you?” He asks, his voice softer now, almost unsure.

Laughing quietly, you say, “Yeah, but…that’s okay.” Your words are heavy with subtext you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. “Well, goodbye.” You offer him a smile, stepping back toward the door. “Thanks again.” 

“Yeah. Goodbye,” he says, but his feet shuffle forward as if he’s moving without thinking. Awkwardly reaching for a handshake, he realizes your hands are occupied. Instead, he reaches around you for the door handle, but he gets a tad too close and your brain scrambles. 

Before you can hold yourself back, you drop the pens, letting them clatter to the floor as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips meet his in a rush, warm and soft. While your eyes close to savor the feeling, his widen in shock before he relaxes into your touch and wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. 

It’s everything you’ve been holding back—unspoken feelings unraveling in a heartbeat. His lips move against yours with a hunger that surprises you, the world melting away as you lose yourself in the moment. You feel weightless, your pulse racing as his hands grip your waist a little tighter, as though he’s afraid to let you go.

When you finally break apart, breathless and dazed, he presses his forehead to yours, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re never gonna use those pens, are you?” he asks, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to anchor himself in humor, trying to bring himself back down to earth.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you admit, your heart still pounding. “They’re garbage.”

Before you can think, you kiss him again and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His mouth crashes into yours with an urgency, like he’s wanted to kiss you since the second he laid eyes on you. His lips are soft, but his kiss is demanding, making up for all the lost moments between you. For those few minutes, nothing else matters—you bask in one of the greatest kisses either of you have ever had. But not for long.

Reality catches up too quickly. You pull away suddenly, breathless and wide-eyed. “Oh my god—” you gasp, backing up, your fingers graze your lips trying to make sense of what just happened. “I’m so sorry—”

“No,” he interrupts quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t be. I—” He’s stumbling through his words, just as lost as you are but neither of you regret it. “I wanted—”

“That was…” You can’t even finish your sentence. It was everything. Too much, too fast, too real. But you can’t take it back.

“I—” He’s trying to find the right words, to reassure you, to tell you he felt it too, that he wanted it just as badly. But he’s as flustered as you are, his voice rough and unsure.

“I’ll just…go throw myself off a bridge now,” you mumble. You can’t even look at him as you make a beeline for the door, your face burning with embarrassment. You think you hear him say something, but the blood rushing in your ears drowns it out.

You leave the room quickly, your heart about to burst through your chest, trying to process what just happened. The kiss lingers on your lips, a mix of exhilaration and terror swirling inside you. It’s too much to handle.

But, hey, there’s one bit of good news. At least he kissed you back. 

-

What the fuck are you supposed to do now? Drop his class? It’s too late in the semester for that. And you need those credits. Wait until the end of the semester to talk to him again? Can you go that long without his lips on yours again? 

Back at your apartment, you rummage through your books to find the university’s code of conduct, hurriedly searching for anything related to “appropriate relationships,” “faculty-student relationships,” “consensual,” blah blah blah, whatever the university has coded sleeping with a professor.

The University strongly urges those individuals in positions of authority not to engage in conduct of an amorous or sexual nature with a person they are, or are likely in the future to be, in a position of evaluating.

Your eyes read over the words, “strongly urges” once more. Not totally against the rules, you suppose. Even if you did wait until the semester was over, you’d need to report it. You wish you could talk with him about it, but bringing this up is tricky. Is it moving too fast? You can’t text him, you don’t have his number. And using your student email to send a message to his faculty email that says, “Oh, by the way, I checked the rules and we’re in the clear to have sex!” is a terrible idea. 

Maybe one kiss in his office doesn’t mean anything. Oh, but it was everything. 

-

After much deliberation, you convince yourself to attend his class a few days later. You’ve brought the code of conduct along, as well as a bright pink post-it sticking out of the book. To avoid any form of small talk with him, you wait outside right until the start of class. 

Along the way to your desk, you silently plop the code of conduct on his desk and scurry away. When you work up the courage to look up at him, he’s flipped to the marked page. Highlighted on the page is the paragraph that “strongly urges” people in positions of authority not to sleep with students. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. The message couldn’t be clearer, he thought. You’re practically telling him to leave you alone. But when he finally reads the post-it, his heart flutters. Written in your handwriting, it says, It’s okay to fuck it up! complete with a smiley face. 

As much as he tries to fight it, he glances up at you to catch your gaze. And just as the slightest smile appears on his face, a big one appears on yours. You hide it with your palm as you start at the blank page of your notebook. Blinking, he shakes his head and begins his lecture. But how can you concentrate now? 

You’ve gotta give it to him, he delivers his lecture perfectly. If it were you, you’d barely be able to think. Hell, you barely can throughout the whole thing. 

Now that you’ve gotten that smile of permission, you finally let yourself daydream. 

Has his ass always been that cute? Has he always been that tall? Has his voice always been that deep and sexy? 

You don’t even know what he’s talking about, but that’s okay, you can always stop by his office hours. “What do you think?” He asks. 

Oh shit, he’s looking at you for an answer. He can always rely on you to keep class moving along when everybody else is dead silent. You shake out of your thoughts, panic-reading the board to come up with something. It's similar to your discussion you had the last time you went to his office hours. The time that ended in that gorgeous kiss. Throwing together an answer, his eyes brighten as he cheers, “Exactly!” 

Oh my god. He’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You could just gobble him up. 

-

“So, I suppose we should talk about…” Professor Choi trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like it’s obvious what he’s getting at. And it is. But you stay quiet. You wanna hear him admit it. You raise an eyebrow, playing coy.

You decided to press your luck by visiting his office outside scheduled office hours—right after class—to simply test the waters and gauge his reaction to the code of conduct and that kiss…that incredible kiss. 

“You know…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you, sighing like okay, fine, I guess I’ll say it. “I like you and you like me, right?” His voice dips just slightly, enough for you to notice the hesitation. “Unless I’m totally misreading—”

“No! You’re not…misreading anything,” you’re quick to say, along with a chuckle. Phew—he was worried there for a second. So goddamn cute. “What do you wanna talk about?”

He exhales a small laugh, but his smile is strained, cautious. “I want to make sure you don’t feel…weird about this.” Hand sliding nervously along the edge of his desk, he traces the wood grain before his eyes flick up to meet yours. Truth be told, he’d never do something like this with a student. Never want to make anyone feel pressured. But he never thought he’d feel like this. Giddy and blushy like you’re his first crush. 

“Why would I feel weird?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious. You’ve thought about this—about him—far too much for any of it to feel weird.

“I’m just terrified you feel like you need to do something about this.” You’re taken aback, confusion visibly etched across your face. “You know, because I’m your professor or because I’m in the department and I know your plans for a PhD here.” His voice softens, vulnerability creeping in. “I don’t want it to feel like I’m pushing you into anything.”

“I don’t,” you say gently. “It’s not like that.”

He nods, though the tightness in his jaw doesn’t disappear. “Because if you ever even remotely feel like I’m pressuring you, I want you to tell me. Immediately. I mean it.”

“No,” You shake your head, almost too fast. “I mean, it doesn’t feel like that. Not at all. I’ve thought about this…about us, a lot.” Your voice falters for a moment as his eyes widen, softening in a way that makes your stomach flutter. You weren’t expecting him to look at you like that—so open, so relieved.

His fingers twitch as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out to you. “Yeah?”

You nod again, more confidently this time. “But I think we should wait until the semester’s over. Before we…you know…do anything.”

He smiles gently and leans back, visibly more at ease. “I think so too.” 

But you didn’t realize how fucking difficult it would be to get through the last six weeks of the semester. Every class you sit there, thighs pressed together thinking about the dirtiest things you want him to do to you. Every office hour you went to, you could practically swim through the thickness of the tension between you two. 

It didn’t help how cute he was being. Post-its he’d leave on every exam of yours—You’re gonna do great! You’ve got this. Trust your instincts.—encouragement no other student got. You kept every one of them in your bedside table drawer. 

When finals week finally arrives, it wasn’t just about exams; it was about counting the hours until you could finally be with him. Or at least talk to him like he wasn’t your professor. As he handed over your final exam, the familiar green post-it note was stuck to it: Happy Finals Week! 

Your internal scream was so loud, you’re worried your classmates heard it. You’d pre-written a post-it to stick to it once you returned the exam. It had your phone number, a smiley face, and the words: Since you’re not my professor anymore. 

-

After a full day of checking your phone every twenty seconds, you started to give up. Was he just playing you? Did someone else see the note? Did he change his mind? But finally, you receive a text.

hi! this is soobin (professor choi lol). i was wondering if you wanted to get dinner or something?

soobin!! omg yes i would love to get dinner with you :) how’s tomorrow? 

how about right now? if you want, of course! no pressure we can totally wait until tomorrow it’s up to you

You squealed into your pillow, kicking and giggling like an idiot. Should you be flirty back? 

i can be ready in 30 min. 364 oakridge drive. it’s an apartment building- i’ll meet you downstairs. 

be there in 45 :) 

-

Like a perfect gentleman, Soobin meets you at the passenger door, swinging it open with a charming smile before gently closing it behind you. The slow walk up to his front door makes your stomach stir. He has to fumble through his keys to unlock it. 

Once inside, he slips his shoes off quietly, revealing cozy patterned socks that make you smile. Meticulously, he hangs his jacket on a coat tree and places his keys in a speckled clay catch-all that rests on a table next to a houseplant. As he walks toward the kitchen, he glances over his shoulder, his voice low and inviting. “Do you want a drink or something?” The warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat.

You’re drawn to this softer side of him. In class, his tone is bright and dorky. In his office, it’s casual and laid-back. At dinner, it was sweet and charming. But now? Now it’s sultry, almost sexy. Like he can’t wait to be with you but would never, ever pressure you. 

“Hot tea?” You suggest with a steady voice, despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, switching on his tea kettle. In the meantime, you take a look around his much neater than expected apartment. 

The mid-century modern furniture is impeccably arranged—a sleek sofa, a low coffee table, and a stylish armchair with an even more stylish decorative pillow. Perfectly nurtured plants thrive around the room, adding a green vibrancy to the minimalist backdrop, breathing life into the space. A gallery wall above his expensive-looking couch features travel photos, beautiful art, and a few subtly science-inspired pieces. In the corner across the couch is a sleek electric fireplace underneath a huge TV. 

“Who’s this?” you ask, your heart swelling as a fluffy gray cat glares at you through one half-open eye. Her perfectly groomed fur and regal posture make her look like she owns the place. Just then, Soobin steps into the living room, holding two steaming mugs of tea, filling the air with a warm spice. 

“That’s Molly…short for Molecule,” he says. “Don’t worry, she’s sweet.” 

Extending your hand toward the cat, he starts to sniff you. “Hi, M—wait,” you pause, looking up at Soobin with a teasing smile. “Molly, short for Molecule?” He nods, his grin widening. “You’re adorable,” you tell him. Has anyone ever blushed quite like he did just now?

He stares down at his feet, clearly caught off guard. “You’re,” he starts. “Well, you’re cute too.” His sincerity makes your smile grow even stronger.

“Can I sit?” you ask, nodding toward the couch.

“Oh,” his smile falters for a moment. “Yes, of course. Make yourself at home.” You plop down on his couch, settling into the surprisingly soft cushions. Molly clearly doesn’t think the couch is big enough for the two of you, so she strides over to probably the nicest cat tree you’ve ever seen.

You sip your hot tea and your body finally relaxes. As you reach to sit it on the coffee table, he politely asks, “I don’t mean to be a square, but can you use a coaster?” 

“Of course,” you say, complying with the request. “So, tell me,” you begin, clearing your throat. “How’d I do on my final?” Humming, he stands to rummage through his messenger bag slumped over a dining chair. You gasp, “A ninety-seven?” Thumbing through the pages, you find a single red X on possibly the easiest question you’ve had on an exam since high school: What is the atomic number of oxygen? “Are you kidding me?” 

Any attempt to mask your embarrassment is impossible. It only deepens when you look up and catch him already watching you—lips pressed tight, failing miserably to hide a smug, amused smile.  

“I, uh…” You scratch the back of your neck. “I got that one wrong on purpose. You know, so as to not raise any suspicion.” 

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, did you now?” You nod. “That was on the exam just so Toby wouldn’t get a zero.” You nod begrudgingly. “And you put 10! That’s not even close. That’s—”

“Neon,” you grumble. “Yeah I know…” you say, avoiding his eyes as he laughs playfully. 

“Neon’s a noble gas and oxygen is a—”

“Reactive nonmetal,” you cut him off. “I know, okay?” You shove his shoulder playfully, but your grin betrays you. “It was a high-pressure environment. Sitting in an exam room with your professor watching you."

"I barely looked up from my laptop,” he reminds you. 

"Your presence is distracting enough," you shoot back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Ah, so my intellectual aura threw you off?”

“I dunno…is that what you think, professor?” You ask cheekily. “Maybe it was something else.” You’ve tossed the exam onto the coffee table, moving closer. 

“Like what?” 

“Just…you. You’re distracting.” You smirk, the words slipping out almost involuntarily, like they’ve been waiting on the tip of your tongue. 

Intrigued, he tilts his head and asks, “What about me?” There’s something magnetic in the way he looks at you—like he knows the answer but wants to hear you say it, to savor the way it sounds coming from your lips. 

You hum, tracing the lines of his body with your eyes, mapping out uncharted territory before exploring it. You don’t want to move too fast, but every fiber of your being screams for more. He’s not lighting a fire inside you—he’s setting the whole forest ablaze. Sure, your imagination has been running rampant since he returned your feelings six weeks ago, but now that you’re here, he scrambles every thought.

“Your eyes…” you say while yours flick over his face, taking in every curve, every freckle, every lash. “They’re so pretty.” 

A smile—small but real—tugs at the corners of his lips. The kind that’s private, meant just for you. His eyes darken as he leans in, the space between you shrinking. You glance down, noticing the way his long fingers curl around the mug handle. There’s something almost hesitant in the way he holds it. You take it from him gently, setting it atop a coaster as quietly as you can.

“Your hands…” you whisper, fingers barely brushing his knuckles, tension coiled under his skin. They’re hands that have worked, experimented, written things down—hands you want on you. Guiding one to your thigh, the squeeze he returns sends a shudder through you. 

Everything between you is electric. Your breaths come faster now, more desperate. Every inch you move toward him is a test, a slow-motion collapse of restraint.

“Your legs…” A soft breathless chuckle escapes as you glance down. His lips part like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. Boldness surges through you like a current and you hike one leg over both of his, straddling him. The shift is seismic. His hands move to your hips, gripping you, afraid to let go. The heat of his touch spreads through you, anchoring you in place, though it feels like everything around you is spinning.

“And your lips…” you murmur, leaning closer, your breath mingling with his. “Oh my god, those fucking lips.” You can’t stop staring at them, just a breath away now, soft and wet. Your pulse races. 

You cup his face, lifting his chin until his eyes meet yours again. His pupils are blown wide, the desire in them unmistakable. Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, and the moment stretches, suspended. You lean in just enough to feel his breath on your lips. 

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

And he does.

It isn’t tentative—it’s dam-breaking. Like he’s been starving for it, holding back for years. His lips are soft but urgent as his hands tighten around your hips to pull you closer. You taste jasmine tea on his lips, a subtle sweetness mingling with the spice of his cologne—clove, pepper, something dark and addictive. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t believe I had to wait so long to kiss you again.” You kiss him again and he moans sweetly into your mouth. Just as the kiss deepens, he retreats, his breath ragged. “You okay?” 

Nervously nodding, he says, “Yeah,” but his eyes flicker away. He tries to kiss you again, but you place your hand on his chest, gently stopping him.

“Wait,” you say, eyes searching his face. “What’s going on? Am I being too—”

“No,” he says, almost a little too urgently. “It’s not that. It’s just…” His hands fall to the couch. Bracing to tell the truth, he squeezes his eyes shut before adding, “I need to tell you something.” You sit back on your heels, still in his lap but giving him room to speak. 

“What is it?” You ask softly. 

“There’s this thing… I haven’t—uh…” He stumbles over the words, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Soobin?” you ask, your voice gentle but steady. That’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name. It feels utterly…vulnerable. “Are you a virgin?” The question is delicate. Shutting his eyes again, he takes a deep breath. 

“No,” he says. “Well, not exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. What is that even supposed to mean? “It’s just…it’s been a while. And before then, I hadn’t had a lot of sex. And I haven’t had any…recently.” 

“How long?” you encourage, your eyes softening.

“A year.” 

You hum softly in acknowledgement, watching his confidence falter. Instead of pulling back, you lean forward, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along his neck. He trembles under your touch, a soft gasp escaping his lips, your hands moving all over his body, claiming him.

“Oh, Professor Choi,” you whisper, your voice dripping with heat and promise. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

-

As your breath slows, you sit up and let your hand linger over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. “Tell me,” you start. “What do you like?” 

“Um,” he swallows, trying to force the lump down his throat. He’s so hesitant but he finally says, “Touching.” 

“You touching my body or me touching yours?” 

He exhales shakily. “The first,” he says, confirming with a squeeze to your hips. 

You hum against his ear. What are you gonna do with him? Tease him forever? Let him have his way with you? You ask, “Why don’t you take my shirt off for me?” 

Gracing his hands over your arms, he grounds himself again before asking, “You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” You nod, guiding his hands to the top button of your blouse, letting him slip it through the buttonhole. One by one, he exposes more of your skin, his heart thumping harder with each passing second. Pushing the silky fabric past your shoulders until your top half is only covered by a bubblegum pink mesh bra, leaving almost nothing to the imagination—except for the red embroidered hearts over your nipples.

After easing the shirt out from your trousers, you reach back to pull at the sleeves, letting the shirt fall to the floor. He slips his finger under one of your bra straps, pulling it to the side, but you stop him. “Wait. It’s your turn.” 

Tugging on his tie, you slip it through the collar and unbutton his dress shirt. Seeing his body bare in front of you for the first time, you’re practically drooling. You indulge in running your hands all over his body, lean with subtle muscles, from his chest to the bottom of his abs. 

“How come you got to touch me if I didn’t get to touch you?” He asks innocently. 

“You’re right,” you chuckle. “I’m sorry.” You smile and sit up to press your palms against his and let your fingers intertwine. Your heart melts and you fear you may throw up. “Did you want to take my bra off first?” He nods. Fumbling fingers reach behind you to snap it off, letting it fall to the couch. As he sees your bare tits, his eyes widen and he lets out the cutest little Oh. 

He’s hesitant to do anything. You have to guide his hands to massage your tits—and they’re the perfect size for you. 

“You’re so…soft,” he says, looking up at your eyes, like he’s not sure if that was okay to say. 

“You like them?” He nods eagerly. Experimentally swiping a thumb across a nipple, it hardens at his touch while you let out a sharp gasp. 

“You like that,” he says matter-of-factly. “Can I taste?” Nodding, you lean forward, welcoming his lips. His body finally relaxes as he moans against your skin. Circling the tip of his tongue around your nipple, he’s teasing you. And oh my god do you love it. 

One of your hands threads through his hair and you stuff the other down your pants, but he grabs your wrist softly. 

“That’s not fair,” he whispers and you concede, keeping your hands to yourself. With one hand, he stuffs your tit back in his mouth while the other plays with your other nipple. His hot, wet mouth on one nipple and his teasing fingers playing with the other sends waves of pleasure through you that may send you over the edge.

If you don’t do something to ease your need, you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to take this. You resort to grinding against his hard cock, making his hips buck. 

Lifting your legs off his, you swing around to sit next to him, palming his cock over his trousers. Desperately clawing at the waistband, you unbutton and unzip his pants, encouraging him to kick them off. He stands to slip them off and as you reach for the band of his boxers, he stops you. 

“Your turn,” he whispers. And you comply. But not without a show. Standing slowly, you push him to the couch and turn your back to him. As you push your pants down, your ass looks delicious in your thong that matches your bra—mesh bubblegum pink with red trim. When you turn back, he’s fisting himself over his underwear. 

“Nuh-uh, that’s not fair,” you say. Returning next to him on the couch, you feel him over his boxers and your mouth waters. Goddamn you can’t wait for him to be inside you. “Do you have any lube?” He nods and shortly returns with a barely used tube. 

While he stays standing, you sit up on the couch, running your hands across his muscular thighs and perfect pelvis. Looking up at him, his eyes are bright, darting all over your body like he’s afraid to miss something. He fiddles with his waistband, flipping the elastic over softly. A small smile flicks across your lips before you tug his boxers down his legs, leaving trails of kisses along the way.

Encouraging him to sit down, you look down at his cock, long and hard and dripping with precum. Finally, you drag your fingertips up and down his cock before squeezing him. He moans like you’ve never heard a man moan before. Laying your head on his shoulder, you sprinkle kisses all over his skin, finding a spot behind his ear that makes him squirm. 

He hisses and—almost involuntarily—wraps one of his hands around yours to use his long fingers to guide your hand up and down. There’s something magical about someone with so little experience telling—no, showing—you what to do with his body. It’s electrifying. He hasn’t been touched in so long that he’s desperate to get off and can’t waste time with words. But no words need to be shared. His movements tell you what speed he likes. 

Snaking his other arm around you, he stuffs his fingers in your hair and clenches his fist, subconsciously tugging the strands. His lips are right against your ear, breathing rapidly and heavily and he can hardly take it anymore. You watch his chest rise and fall as he clenches your hair, moaning getting quicker, he squeaks and whines. 

Hurriedly pressing his lips to your temple, you can’t take your eyes off his cock as he shoots short spurts of cum all over his stomach. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath before he gives you a sweet smile. 

You don’t let up with kisses all over his body. Sprinkling kisses here and there while he cleans himself up with a hand towel he’d brought with him when he got the lube from his bedroom. Once he’s clean, he slouches down the couch. 

“Will you sit on my face?” His eyes are ever so sweet and innocent, like he’s finally able to test all his fantasies. “Please…” You hum like you’re only considering it, but we all know you’ll say yes. “Please, mommy?” Everything halts. 

“Mommy?” 

“F-fuck—” he sits up, ears turning redder than you’ve ever seen them—anyone’s ears for that matter. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first—”

“No, no…” you say gently, cupping his jaw to make him look at you. You can’t help yourself—you press your lips to his again and you lose yourself in his intoxicating kiss. But you break it and say, “Keep calling me that.” 

“M-mommy?” You hum. Before you give him what he asked for, you shove your tit in front of his lips. He doesn’t need to be told what to do. His plush lips wrap around your hard nipple while he thumbs the other. It feels like fucking heaven.

“That’s my good boy.” He lets out the most pathetic whimper you’ve ever heard in your goddamn life. His eyebrows furrow, looking up at you through his lashes. “Are you my good boy?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly. “Yes, mommy. Of course.” 

“Soobin,” you breathe in disbelief, dropping your head back. “You’re so sexy, I swear to god.” 

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. “That’s you.” He smiles. “Will you please sit on my face now?” He slouches down again without waiting for an answer. “Please.” You hike your leg up to rest your foot against the back of the couch, gently hovering over him. But he wraps his hands around your hips to yank you down. As he flicks his tongue over your clit, you might be embarrassed by the volume of your moan, but there’d be no reason to. 

“I thought you said you didn’t do this a lot?”

“Well,” he takes a deep breath. “This was always what I was best at.” You chuckle. “Wait, no—” he shakes his head. “I’m good at the other stuff too. I hope.” Returning his tongue to your clit, you gasp and fall forward, bracing yourself against the back of the couch. He seizes the opportunity to get fully entranced in your taste. 

There's an impossible contrast—your body melts, muscles soft and pliant as you surrender to the pleasure but, at the same time, goosebumps prickle along your skin, sharp and electric. Warmth and vulnerability layered with a thrill that leaves you shivering, somehow both at ease and on edge.

But then he snakes his hand behind your ass to tease your asshole with his pinky. And it's overwhelming. Your knees are so weak you can hardly hold yourself up. The way his hands feel on your body, touching you in all the right places, flicking his tongue perfectly, moaning so temptingly along with the built up tension—it is so much. So. Fucking. Much. 

It builds in your stomach—teetering on the edge and god you only hope he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. But you can’t form words to tell him that. But he knows. 

And then it happens. 

You feel like you’re floating—or falling may be more accurate—as your orgasm washes over you, thighs quite literally quivering around his face as you come undone on top of him. For him. Unable to hold yourself up any longer, you roll and plop to the couch and he sloppily replaces his tongue with his fingers. You make a mental note to show him exactly where your clit is later. How is it that he found it so easily with his tongue but missed it with his hand? You guess he was right—oral is what he’s best at. Your chest heaves with your deep breaths as you come down from your high, watching him smirk at you. 

“Oh my god,” you say breathlessly. There’s a beat of silence. “What the fuck?”

“What?” He chuckles. 

“I wasn’t expecting that.” 

“I told you I’m good at it.” 

“Where’s your bedroom? This couch is too small for what we’re about to do.” 

Once he shuts his bedroom door to keep Molly out, he pulls you by your waist to press his bare body to yours and kisses you again so romantically it takes your breath away. 

“Wow,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re so beautiful.” 

“Oh my god, shut up.” You go straight back in for more kisses. But you break it— “But not literally, though. Please keep saying stuff like that.” You giggle together, slowly falling toward the bed until you’re gently laid on your back and he’s over top of you. 

“Can I, like, kiss all over your body?”

“Of course,” you say. “You don’t need to ask.”

And then he does exactly what he wants. Starting at your lips, he moves to the corner of your mouth, trailing behind your ear and down your neck. The way his breath tickles your neck sends shivers down your spine and you need more, more, more. 

As you lay there, simply basking in the feeling of him taking his time exploring every inch of you with the softest lips you’ve ever felt, you can’t help but be giddy. He’s tentative in some areas and eager in others. After he kisses the sensitive skin under your breast, he carefully observes your reaction. When he delicately presses his lips to your pelvis, his eyes flutter up to yours nervously. 

“Soobin,” you say breathlessly. He hums against your tummy, shaky hands running up your thighs. “I need you please.”

“You need me?” You nod. “Where do you need me, mommy?” You groan, arching your back, not even knowing where to start. You need him everywhere. 

“Inside me,” you say. “Please, I’ve been thinking about it for so long.” 

“Have you?” He asks innocently, using his fingers to play with the folds of your pussy so casually, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I should be the impatient one.” But you know why he’s taking it so slow. He’s nervous as hell right now. 

Aligning his cock with your entrance, he slowly pushes himself inside you. And it's utterly exhilarating. For both of you. He falls forward, framing your face with his forearms, digging his nose into your neck. 

“Fuck…” He whispers shakily. Your nails drag down his back at his inexperienced hip rolls. “Oh my god, what are you doing to me?” Despite his inevitable desperation, his thrusts are controlled. He’s trying his very best at least. But his cock is so fucking perfect, you figure he’d make you feel good no matter what he does. Although, a little part of you thinks about how good he’ll be at fucking you in a few months after a little practice. Or lots of practice. 

He whispers swears, your name, and mommy…over and over again. Then he sits up, looking down at your body. Awkwardly fumbling as if he wants to say something, his mouth isn’t cooperating with his brain. He slowly comes to a stop, sliding out of you and barely touches your calf. 

“Can you, uh…would you mind, um—” 

"Do you wish to see me on my knees? Is that it, darling?"

“Yes, mommy…please, I’ve never—” 

“You’ve never had someone on their knees for you?” You ask and he silently shakes his head. “You’ve been such a good boy for me. Of course I’ll get on my knees for you.” You oblige to his request, turning yourself around and arching your back to give him a perfect view of your ass. He groans at the simple sight of your body. He swipes his hands over the swell of your ass, squeezing here and there. 

He clears his throat and asks, “What do I do?”

“Oh,” you chuckle lightly. “Just get on your knees and guide yourself in. Make sure it’s the right hole,” you say light-heartedly, trying to ease the tension a bit. 

But when he’s finally inside you again, it’s heaven. And he indulges in himself a bit—thrusting faster, harder, making your ass jiggle. The lewd sounds of his cock in your wetness and his hips smacking your skin makes it all the more erotic. But it doesn’t take long before—

“I like it better the other way, I think,” he says matter-of-factly. “Is that okay?”

“Of course that’s okay, babe,” you say, flipping back over and spreading your legs. And he slides right back inside you, letting his head fall back. But your tits bouncing are simply too tempting not to look at. They’re why he prefers it this way, so why not look at them as much as he can? He retreats a bit, opening his mouth like he wants to ask you something but he’s too shy. 

“What is it, baby?”

“I was just wondering if you…if you could—would you want to be on top?” His tone is genuinely sweet. “Like what position do you like?”

“Missionary’s my favorite too,” you say. “But I would, hm, I would really like to be on top for a bit.” Switching quickly, you align yourself over his cock and sink down on him so, so, so slowly, letting out a big sigh of relief. “Oh my god, Soobin. Are you fucking kidding me?” You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full before. The feeling stretches all the way to your toes. “I need to hump you like crazy for a bit,” you say with a chuckle. He nods like that’s perfectly fine with me, mommy. 

And you do exactly that—bounce on his cock as fast as your body lets you, relieving that built-up tension. Over the last few months, you wanted to jump his bones every time you were in the same room and that feeling never let up, like there was a tension thermometer in your body that was constantly stuck at boiling. 

But perhaps it was a bit more painful for him because an occasional rut up into you isn’t enough anymore. He holds your hips to keep you in place, fucking up into you as fast as he can. Head dropping back, he groans, your name leaving his lips. 

“Mommy?” His eyebrows furrow, looking utterly pathetic. “Let’s switch back. Please.” Hiking your leg over his hips, you land roughly on your back. Gently grabbing your hands, he pins them above your head, aligns his cock at your entrance, and slides inside you, rolling his hips so deliciously. As he kisses you, he swallows your moans. Trailing down your neck, he whispers, “Please tell me I’m making you feel good, Mommy.” 

Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you say, “Fuck, you’re making me feel so good.” 

Slowing his thrusts, he asks, “What else would you like me to do?” Smiling up at him, you rub his thighs. Waiting for an answer, he covers your collarbone in kisses, making his way back to your ear. After nibbling gently on your earlobe, he whispers, “Tell me how to make you feel even better.” Oof. Shivers. 

“Rub my clit,” you say. He sits up, fumbling with his fingers. “Use your thumb,” you giggle. “Wait.” Reaching for his hand, you let spit pool in your mouth before wrapping your lips around his thumb. Sucking on it, he looks at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then he follows your instructions, rubbing your clit with his thumb while he fucks you, listening intently to every instruction, every a little to the lefts, up a little bit mores, and he never gets impatient. 

Your back arches impossibly high and you say, “I’m close, babe. Don’t stop.” You rub your own nipple, but he moves your hand out of the way, wetting his thumb with his own spit before circling it for you. 

Everything has been building to this moment. Staring at him in every lecture, longing for his touch. That kiss in his office was just the start of your addiction. Attending his office hours didn’t help, but you couldn’t stay away. You needed to be closer to him. To feel heat radiating off his body. To smell his spicy cologne. To watch his fingers wrap around his pen and wish they were wrapped around something else. 

All of it was for this moment right here. Cumming around his cock for the first time. You can’t wait any longer. There’s a white hot burning in your belly that’s getting more furious by the second. His name leaves your mouth in a yelp before fireworks explode inside you. 

Your legs shake around his waist as he fucks you through it, not changing a single thing. Overwhelmed with pleasure, you grab his wrist to stop him from rubbing your nipple to make sure it’s the most perfect orgasm you’ve ever had—not too much and not too little. 

And it’s neither. Instead, it’s perfection. You knew it would be. It seems to last forever but somehow not long enough. As soon as you finish, you miss it. 

Catching your breath, your vision clears up as you look up at him with a smile. He shyly asks, “How was that?” 

You take a deep breath and say, “Oh my god, that was so good.” Rubbing soothing strokes up and down your thighs, you can tell he’s getting impatient. But still—he’d never pressure you in a million years. 

Bending to kiss your neck again, he whispers, “Can I cum inside you?” You nod frantically. 

“Please.” 

“I have condoms if you want.” You think about it for a second. Really. You would love nothing more than to feel him fill you up. But it’s risky. “Mommy…” His hips slowly start moving again, encouraging a decision from you. “What are you thinking?”

“Cum inside me, please. Wanna feel all of you,” you say, rubbing his back. He smiles, pressing his lips to yours in a passionate kiss that sends your head reeling. He sits up and squeezes your thighs over and over, adoring the way your body feels in his hands. Soft and squishy and intoxicating. Licking your own thumb, you pinch and rub one of his nipples, making his mouth drop open. He didn’t even think of having his own nipples played with. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps. You praise him, Cum inside me, baby. You’ve been such a good boy for me. I want you to feel so good for me, okay? And he’s rutting his hips into you roughly, using your body for his own pleasure. You simply can’t get enough. You want him inside you forever and ever. “You’re…” he trails off. “You’re gonna make me cum, Mommy.”

“Go ahead. Cum for me.” Like it’s a command, his hips stutter and his cum fills you up, warm and sweet and heavenly. Swears and other inaudible words you hope are compliments spill out of his mouth. Falling forward, he digs his face into your neck once more, twitching until he comes to a stop, taking deep breaths. 

You expect a warm smile to echo his warm cum filling you up but he stays put. In fact, he doesn’t move or say anything for quite some time. So much time passes that his cock has slipped out of you on its own, his cum leaking down the swell of your ass. 

You finally break the silence, “Are you okay?” He nods awkwardly. “Look at me.” He shakes his head. “What’s wrong?” He still won’t budge. “Soobin, what’s going on?”

“I’m embarrassed,” he whines.

“Huh? About what?” 

“Calling you mommy,” he finally sits up. “I was just caught up in the moment—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“Honey,” you giggle, sitting up with him. “I told you I liked it.” 

“You weren’t just saying that?”

“I don’t think I would’ve came that hard if I didn’t like it.” 

His eyes brighten before adding, “I guess so.” It genuinely was one of the strongest orgasms you’ve ever had. Surely, he has to know that, right? But wait— 

“Was it good for you?”

“Oh my god,” he’s finally relaxed a little, peppering your face with kisses. “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had, I swear.” He stands, walking into his en-suite to get you a towel, damp with warm water. “So…” he starts awkwardly. “Should we, like, report this to the dean?” 

“Is that your way of asking me to be exclusive?” He blushes as you brush some of his hair behind his ear. “Because my answer is absolutely.” You press your lips together. “Although, can we hold off for a while? Just until next semester starts?”

“Be in our own little world for a bit?” He smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re taking a break until next semester, right? Are you working right now?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I got a bunch of scholarships to pay for school,” you say proudly. 

“Why am I not surprised?” 

“Because I’m the smartest person you know,” you say cheekily. 

“No lectures until next semester, so I’m pretty much free.” He smiles, clearly wanting to say something more, but bites his tongue. “Can I ask you something?” You nod. “This may be moving way too fast, but do you maybe wanna spend the holidays here? With me?”

The next few weeks are a whirlwind. Both of you admit it’s too fast. But neither of you care. The fireplace roars as you decorate his Christmas tree together, wrapped presents, baked cookies, everything you could think of that ooey-gooey couples do. 

And of course, nightly sex is a bonus. You simply can’t get enough of each other. And you just about lose it when you walk into the kitchen on Christmas morning. He’s standing at the counter wearing a Santa hat, flannel pajama pants, and a black tank top making your favorite tea. 

“Ah, there she is! Good morning,” he says with a smile. You take a plate full of chocolate chip waffles from him. But not before he kisses you. Cupping your cheek, he pulls you into perhaps the sweetest kiss you’ve ever had. You can feel his smile on your lips. 

And everything feels absolutely perfect. You think you may be dreaming, but he feels so very real at this moment. And his voice is clear as day, “Merry Christmas.” 

[er-cryptid]

[ss-shitstorm]

Hey I know you’ve probably already been asked this but what type of chemistry do you use for breaking bread like biochem and where did you learn this or have any book recommendations to pick it up? Also ty in advance I love your writing!!💕💕

oh my fucking god. oh my god. buddy. buddy you have made my fucking LIFE ASKING THIS OH GOD

So like, most of the chemistry I've used so far has just been Genchem and O Chem(with a wee few modifications to make it believable as a Cybertronian discipline, like Transformium being able to hold 4 bonds like Carbon but preferentially forming bonds w metals and needing an EMP pulse to interact w more electronegative atoms) I may wind up needing to get into a bit of Inorganic chemistry, but that's probably fewer and further in between. If you want a better handle on the stuff I'm writing or if you just want to learn more in general, then I'd recommend giving yourself a lil crash course in Genchem and then delving into O chem a bit more extensively (protip : you need WAY less Genchem then you'd think to fully understand O chem. God I wish someone had told me this 5 years ago. If you search "Genchem for non majors", you'll probably learn enough that way.)

THAT SAID : here's a chaotic, not really in any order list of the books/youtube channels/etc that I've directly used/am using for this fic.

Books :

Caveman Chemistry, Kevin R Dunn - Alot of hands-on old timey historical chemistry lessons w detailed instructions on how to complete them.(YOU GET TO MAKE YOUR OWN ASPIRIN AND DRAIN CLEANER!) Delivered with a delightfully occult bend.

Back To basics,(Reader's Digest) - Survivalist homesteading bible. Not strictly chemistry but has alot of earthy hippy ways of generating energy( biofuels my beloved)

An Introduction to Fire Dynamics, Dougal Drysdale - Honestly this, and any other firefighting manuals are worth their weight in gold for figuring out how to not set yourself and your neighborhood on fire while playing with, well, fire. Trying to look this info up online is like playing russian roulette with intentional misinformation and your fbi guy.

(there's another book I have that's even more detailed but I can't find it right now or remember the name. I'll update this list when I can!)

Organic Chemistry, John Mcmurray 8th edition : generic but good college O chem textbook. You can search around and find free versions to download relatively easily.

The Organic Chem Lab Survival Manual, James W Zubrick - Also a very good way to learn how to not set yourself and your neighborhood on fire when playing with glassware/gases. Very in-depth instructions on setting up and using lab equipment without breaking anything or your brain. Has a fuckton of pictures. Author has a massive sense of humor and makes this heavy subject easy to read. Again, easy to download/find in archives

Unfortunately I do not have any recommendations for Genchem books. I mostly used free online courses like Khan Academy to learn what I did.(I would def. recommend them though)

Youtube Channels :

The Organic Chemistry Tutor : Dude puts everything from reaction mechanisms to retrosynth problems down in the simplest possible terms. Does not beat around the bush with euphemisms or stories, gets right to business. If you have trouble paying attention, or lose your mind when a professor goes off on a tangent, this man is your savior. I have crippling unmedicated ADHD and no STEM background whatesoever and this man still managed to teach me 2 separate ways to execute a Gabriel Synthesis

Nile Red : World's most inefficient and most powerful wizard. I am not entirely convinced he's human. Does shit like turning plastic gloves into drinkable grape soda or making sweeteners out of his own piss and somehow makes it explainable to trash goblins like me who only need the science for warlord pussy.

again, anon, holy shit thank you so much. Like you wouldn't believe the amount of damage you've just undone. i have been beating myself into a pulp and spiraling into anxiety about this fic an trying to do everything right and you've given me enough moxie to fuel me for at least the next 10 chapters. If you have any more questions or more specific questions, please do not hesitate to ask! I can't guarantee I can answer them, but damnit I'll try. Take care and happy learning you funky lil moonbean.

[lost-rxverie]

saturday | march 30

another term, another stack of orgo flashcards to make...

despite all the memorization i'm really enjoying organic chemistry. it was my favorite class last term and i'm excited to continue with it - something about drawing out reaction mechanisms is super satisfying to me and i love learning more about how molecules react.

[m4lexxx67]

I have now read half a page about how the electro negativity of carbon atoms changes based on their hybridization and how that affects the molecule and that is SO. COOL. I'm in a much better mood just because of this. This is interesting shit!!!

I should be reading my book on organic chemistry because I have the exam in like a month and I haven't learned shit yet bc my professor fucking sucks. But why does the book have to be so... idk, it's not even really boring cause I do find it kinda interesting how different groups in molecules affect the reaction but like... the reality and act of having to actively try and learn all this, just SUCKS. I don't want to memorize all these stupid mechanisms and then when you adjust the temperature something totally different happens and I need to know that. Not even that, I need to be able to tell what reaction happens based on the reactants and like... I wouldn't mind knowing that, but I also wouldn't mind if I didn't but I'll fail my exam if I don't. I just really don't want to put in the work because I don't like it enough because it's fucking organic chemistry and of course I have to do FOUR FUCKING SEMESTERS of this shit and I'm already hating the first WHYYYYYY 😭😭

[meteortrails]

literally nothing on the face of the earth will make me question whether I’ve ever learned anything in my life like organic chemistry. my prof will be like hey fun little exercise, what’s just like a reasonable mechanism of how this could happen?? doesn’t have to be right, just has to physically make some sort of sense! and my brain just leaks out of my ears as I frantically try and recall whether reactions are even real of if I’ve just gaslight myself into thinking they were for nearly 4 straight years.

[lunaslovelyrambles]

“you’ve got your products and reactants mixed up.”

you swear your eraser nearly rips a hole through your paper as you fix your mistake. who decided that organic chemistry had to be so goddamn hard? and complicated? and stupid, and-

“and the solvent is wrong, polar aprotic works better for SN2.”

and why did you decide to study with the world’s number one chemistry nerd?

“thanks, kuroo, got anything to say that’ll make me feel like i actually do know reaction mechanisms?”

he chose to not say that your skeleton structure was off by one carbon. or that the fluorine should be on a dash bond and not a wedge bond.

“well,” he pointed to the problem before that you had just completed, “this one’s right.”

you gave him an unconvinced look.

“mostly right.”

“ah, there it is,” you sighed and leaned back into your chair. you were tired. more than tired - exhausted. but ochem was your worst subject. it was even worse because there was no way that you’d actually use chemistry given your career goals.

it was merely one of those classes that you “needed to take” for your major. and it was brutal compared to the other chem classes you’d taken beforehand.

kuroo has been your friend for as long as you can remember. he was your neighbor growing up, and best friend ever since then. and now, your study buddy as you struggled with chemistry.

again.

“well. the product is only slightly off. you’re just not thinking about chirality when you’re doing SN1 reactions,” he narrowed his eyes at you as he watched you nod off.

“mhm. chirality, yup.”

“‘cause that can change your products,” he trailed off. your eyes had completely closed and he could’ve sworn you fell asleep because you barely noticed your chair tipping back further and further-

“ah-AH!” you lost your balance and felt yourself fall backwards, thankfully not hitting the ground due to the much more alert kuroo tetsuro.

“i think we should call it for tonight,” he went to go close your textbook. you sprung forward to stop him.

“no, no wait! i promise i’m awake,” you pleaded with him. he sighed and shook his head.

“you’ve done this before, y/l/n. with every other chem exam i’ve helped you study for. remember when i helped you study for your first gen chem one exam?” he had a teasing lilt to his voice.

“umm.. no?”

“exactly,” he full on smirked at you now, “you fell asleep for it.” you huffed, moving your arms to cross over your chest.

“well, it’s not my fault chemistry is so.. sleep inducing.” he mocked hurt and held his hand to his chest, as if the mere thought of chemistry being talked badly about was offensive.

“how dare you speak that way about chemistry?”

“oh come off it, deep down inside your science-loving heart you know this can get a bit boring.” he hummed in response, sliding your book off the desk and into your bag.

“maybe, maybe you just don’t understand how amazingly fun and super rad it can be.” that got a laugh out of you.

“but even with how fun it is, it’s not good to study for,” he broke to check the clock, “four hours? with rarely any breaks.”

“i know,” you sighed, head resting on the desk. even as you tried to relax your brain was still filled with ochem, and stupid reactions. your eyes fluttered shut and you sighed.

kuroo smiled affectionately at your sleepiness. it was cute, and he admired how much you effort you were putting into the class despite your hatred towards it.

he nudged your shoulder to jostle you awake slightly.

“don’t fall asleep at the desk,” he gently helped you up and over to your bed where you finally felt your body decompress. kuroo tucked the blankets around your body.

he took one second to unabashedly admire how adorable you were when you got tired. kuroo couldn’t help the small smile that rose to his face.

but he soon turned, shutting off the light on the desk and gathering his stuff. he assumed you were asleep until you spoke up again:

“night, tetsu,” you yawned sleepily, the sound of the nickname from his lips made him smile.

“g’night y/n, try not to dream too much about chemistry.”

— • — • —

-> masterlist

[chemblrish]

Hi there!!

I would say that I'm both happy and surprised after finding your page...you might ask why, I mean you're a fan of electrons lol.

I really struggle with chemistry, btw I'm assuming you're pretty good at chemistry, so I'm gonna ask how do I get better at chemistry?? I'm struggling with organic the most, physical chemistry is fine, inorganic is meh, but organic is so hard....any tips??

Anyways, good day & thanks!!

(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Hello!

I'm nearing the end of my second year of uni and they still haven't kicked me out, so I guess I'm decent enough at chemistry haha

I've answered some similar asks before:

studying nomenclature

studying chemistry in general

Now some tips for ochem in particular:

Stereochemistry: always try to actually visualize the molecule in question in your head. If your 3D imagination is good, cool! If it isn't, you can improve by practicing. I'm a prime example. When the course started, conformations were my worst nightmare, but I kept practicing and now I'm able to rotate molecules in my head :) Some people find building models helpful. You don't have to buy those fancy ones (unless you want to!), my friend would make do with q-tips and hot glue lol and you can also use plasticine.

Mechanisms (given that you need to study them already as I can see you're still in high school): look at the big picture and study the patterns. For example, studying all the possible substitution reactions for all the carboxylic acid derivatives is a Sisyphean task. A better solution is to learn the general mechanism of this addition-elimination reaction that will apply to all the compounds.

Reactions: understand why certain groups of compounds react the way they do (for example: why do alkanes only react with halogens under UV light? Because they only contain single bonds and those are so strong they can't be broken until attacked by a radical - and those are created by UV radiation). For those reactions that you just need to memorize: flashcards, always.

Integrate other bits and pieces of your knowledge: there's a reason why inorganic chemistry is usually taught before organic chemistry, that reason being that all the fundamentals of inorganic chem still apply in ochem. You can convert alcohols to carboxylic acids via redox reactions. Electronegativity explains the reactivity of many compounds. Stoichiometry may determine the products. The list goes on.

Optional but imo fun :) Look for real-life applications of the things you study: freons and the ozone layer depletion, fermentation, fatty acids, aspirin and other medicines, caffeine and other alkaloids, ochem after all is the chemistry of life! This fact definitely helps me refocus when ochem becomes too boring for me.

[@/ ochem fans: any other tips?]

Good day to you too and good luck! 🧪