#that's a four syllable word there PROFESSOR

[summer-oil]

FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3

a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3

”what are you listening to?”

your seat is close to the heater. 

it was nothing but a lucky draw, on your part. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks when you transferred, and so he let you choose; four chairs, four desks, one in the very back and closest to the window. right by the only source of heat in the room.

… of course you’d choose it. cliche or not, what else could you have done?

warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs. your feet tap and tap on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, planets spinning out of orbit.

through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones safe and snug and covering your ears, muffling all grating noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.

”… hey. did you hear me?”

gojo is being particularly chatty, today.

out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude. he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.

how exhausting.

with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. just to meet his gaze — the blurry shine of your own reflection, in the black glass of his circle-frames. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face.

like an excited puppy.

”what are you listening to?”

you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper. monotone. loud.

it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.

gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own blurry face, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.

with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.

”… do you like music?”

the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for a moment.

then he gives you a shrug.

”i guess?” he shifts his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”

ah.

your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.

silence overtakes you both, once more. 

”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”

(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)

before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats. 

on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two pools of blue, flecked with pure white, like frozen puddles in the street. cracks stretching across the surface. 

and then he’s strolling away.

gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.

but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams. 

”page 27, from the top.”

your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.

but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.

nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.

then he’s leaving, again.

that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.

though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.

(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)

the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.

but now you wish you had.

(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)

with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.

”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”

you nod. 

geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.

”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”

…

you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.

”… what kind of music does gojo like?”

silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.

then he parts his lips.

”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a smile. ”i see.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.

”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”

you can’t help but deflate, at that.

geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”

a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him. 

”… huh?”

”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”

…

(you haven’t got a clue.)

geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”

(… that’s a good question.)

he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing. 

thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.

”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

but that’s where he’s wrong.

satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour. 

geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.

when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world. 

that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…

(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)

”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?” 

geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.

… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.

”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.

”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”

geto rewards you with a full smile.

”don’t mention it.”

spring is closer than you thought.

it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw. 

in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.

”did you bring your card?”

your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence. 

it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.

”huh? was i supposed to?”

”… are you kidding me?”

you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers. 

someone taps your shoulder.

geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.

a silent cue.

he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.

and then you realize what he’s done.

gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing. 

more importantly…

it’s just the two of you, now.

you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.

”… that’s so unfair.”

gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.

”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”

you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.

he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.

”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”

”… mm.”

from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again. 

”… i can buy some for you, though.” 

(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)

he clears his throat.

”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”

you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out. 

”… why?”

it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.

(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)

gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.

gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does. 

”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”

another series of blinks. 

gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.

”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”

you stay silent.

he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be. 

geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.

(why do you think that is?)

gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so. 

(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)

geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway. 

if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?

would that be okay with you?

(words that should be left unspoken.)

”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —

” — i don’t listen to anything.”

gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.

he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him. 

”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”

you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down. 

”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”

the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.

but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.

white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side. 

if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.  

”i see!”

a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.

”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”

a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.

(… if you can even call it that.)

geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.

”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”

”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.

you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.

spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.

you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter. 

you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay. 

”i’ll take it things went well, then?”

geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.

you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.

”i’m glad.”

the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.

”won’t that moron get cold?”

ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing. 

you’re wondering the same thing.

geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders. 

”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”

you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.

an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”

… another tilt of your head.

geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.

”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”

ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe. 

ah.

gojo can keep himself warm.

the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…

(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.

gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)

…

you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks. 

as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.

in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.

spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in. 

(but you aren’t worried.)

[youthguk]

CUM LAUDE | JJK (M) | 📚🎓

Welcome back to his bed. Office hours just got a lot more complicated — turns out your academic rival holds a grudge... and knows exactly where to put it.

warnings: smut, professor x student (uni), explicit sexual content (18+), enemies with lingering desire, angst + hate sex, power play lite 

⚠️minors dni ⚠️

Your heart plummeted into the abyss of your stomach, a free-fall of dread that left you breathless. It couldn't possibly be him. The universe wouldn't be that cruel, would it? Out of every goddamn face in New York City, why him?

"My name is Jeon Jungkook," he announced, voice like honey dipped in the kind of self-assurance that didn’t ask to be liked, but assumed it. You didn’t need the name. Every cell in your body was already burning like it had been branded. 

“Calling me ‘professor’ sounds ridiculous, right? I’m only four years older than most of you. I just graduated recently, but I’ll be your guest lecturer this semester.”

He laughed, the sound soft and tinged with a practiced modesty that didn't fool you for a second. Your heart remained stubbornly unmoved while the girls around you dissolved into giggles, their cheeks flushing pink. Yes, those infuriating dimples could charm the skin off a snake. 

How utterly predictable. You snorted silently, contempt burning in your throat. What twisted cosmic joke had brought him here? You'd been certain he was Boston University's golden boy, so what dark bargain had landed him at NYU's doorstep?

"This semester, we'll be studying Human Conflict, Power & Ethics in Global Systems, and I'll try to..." His gaze wandered across the sea of adoring faces until, inevitably, it crashed into yours.

For the briefest fraction of a heartbeat, his face bloomed into a satisfied smile that made your blood simmer. The audacity of him, behaving like you shared some secret history, like you were anything but strangers with tangled pasts. Your fingers tightened around your pencil until your knuckles bleached white, nails carving crescent moons into your palm.

"Tell me," he said, voice shifting into something colder,the professor persona slipping on like a well-tailored suit that somehow still looked ridiculous on him. "When two countries are at war, who bears the guilt? Where does the ethical blame lie: with the soldier who pulls the trigger, the general who gave the order, or the historian who will distort everything in their texts? Or perhaps the blame lies with political leaders who shake hands behind closed doors?"

A whisper of unease unfurled, students exchanging glances. Not everyone had anticipated this abrupt tonal shift, this plunge into intellectual waters. A brave soul's hand twitched upward before wilting beneath the weight of Jungkook's expectant gaze.

“We talk about conflict as if it’s spontaneous. Like it’s a thunderstorm,” he said, voice wrapping around each syllable with deliberate precision. “But war doesn’t fall out of the sky.”

Your eyes tracked him like a predator follows prey; this wasn't the Jungkook you once knew. He'd evolved into something more dangerous, his confidence no longer a garment. And God, he knew it. Words of surprising eloquence cascaded from those infuriating lips. 

"We build conflict brick by meticulous brick, in whispered agreements and handshakes exchanged in rooms where cameras dare not venture, in the rustling of expensive fabrics as world leaders embrace."

He prowled across the front of the room, Jungkook wasn’t just lecturing; he was performing, and you knew from the first word that he’d rehearsed this speech. 

He'd crafted it for an audience hungry to be moved, to quote him on social media as if his words had changed the way they breathed.

“These classes,” he said, pausing near the edge of the platform and planting one hand casually on the desk as though the space belonged to him now, "won't offer neat answers tied with pretty bows. We'll wade through questions that leave mud on your conscience and dirt under your fingernails. I promise you'll squirm – " the corner of his mouth quirked upward, "– because we'll dissect the systems that cradle us while crushing others. You'll shift in your seats," he smirked, perching against the desk with casual dominance, surveying his kingdom of captivated minds. 

A flicker of amusement danced across his face. “You will be uncomfortable here. And you should be. Because our comfort is paid for by someone else’s misery.”

You had to admit that the rhythm of his delivery was maddeningly effective. It had the rise and fall of something built for headlines and retweets, like the kind of TED Talk that people pretend changed their lives while they keep sipping overpriced lattes and refreshing their news feeds.#ProfessorJungkook would undoubtedly trend by nightfall. He looked out over the crowd, and you could practically hear the collective swoon, as if they’d all just been anointed into some intellectual cult, and you felt your fingers itch with the urge to smudge that perfect composure of his, to scatter his performance to the winds.

You permitted yourself a single, sharp smirk. Quiet enough to pass unnoticed by most, but just audible enough to slice through the sanctity of Jungkook's carefully cultivated moment. His eyes found yours instantly (of course they did), eyebrows lifting as something that looked dangerously like hope flickered across features too perfect to be trustworthy.

"Would you like to say something?" his voice cut through. 

You smiled with the kind of smile that carries knives behind teeth, not believing at the exquisite timing the universe had handed you.

“Yes, actually. Sorry, maybe I misheard,” you batted your eyelashes with practiced innocence. “But did you say this course would be taught by someone who… graduated less than a year ago?”

You widened your eyes in theatrical shock, the gasp that rippled through the lecture hall. Jungkook's composure flickered for a heartbeat but long enough for you to catch it like a butterfly in cupped palms. The microexpression of panic that crossed his face was sweeter than any dessert you'd tasted in months.

"I completed my education and received a position here as a visiting lecturer based on..." he began, voice steady but eyes betraying him.

 “Connections?” you offered helpfully, your voice all sugar-dipped politeness. “Oh, I’m sorry! Recommendations, is that what we call it now?” You tilted your head, all faux curiosity, watching his jaw flex with restraint. Your politeness was cellophane-thin, the aggression beneath it visible to anyone who cared to look. 

“It’s just…” you glanced around, pretending to look for support, “some of us were expecting, you know, an actual representative of the academic body? Not someone whose biggest credential is quoting Sun Tzu on LinkedIn.”

A ripple of barely-suppressed laughter from the front row validated your performance. Watching Jungkook's jaw tighten sent a thrill through you that was almost electric, his eyes darkening to something stormy and dangerous that should have warned you away but only pulled you closer to the precipice.

"If you have concerns about credentials," he said, each word measured and careful, like someone crossing thin ice, "you're welcome to speak with the department chair."

Your thoughtful nod was Oscar-worthy. “Oh, I just might. I mean, I’m sure my parents would want a refund or at least a discount if they knew they were paying forty grand a semester to stroke the ego of a nepo baby playing professor.”

That one landed.

You'd gone too far, and the knowledge sat warm in your stomach like good whiskey. The muscles in Jungkook's jaw worked visibly beneath his skin, his bitten cheek a silent testament to restraint that clearly cost him .The room burst into hushed whispers and shifting bodies, the heat of anticipation thick in the air.

“I’ll say it again,” Jungkook bit out, voice clipped, every syllable polished with rage, “any questions or objections may be directed to the dean. Directly.”

Gone was the easy charm, the practiced charisma. He walked back to the desk, posture stiff. The presentation flickered to life on the screen, but the damage was done. His carefully cultivated aura of infallibility lay in elegant ruins at his feet. And all thanks to you. 

You bit your lip, satisfaction curling through you. No one was going to ruin your fresh start. Not even him.

Four years ago.

“Don’t do this, Jungkook. Please.”

The words tore from your throat desperately hanging in the air between you like a prayer or a curse.Your chest ached with that peculiar pain that only comes from watching something precious slip through your fingers. There he stood, golden and untouchable, completely oblivious to how he was shattering your universe with each passing second. 

God, it was humiliating but what did you know of anything else? What has your life ever taught you if not how to ache quietly, how to swallow back the lump in your throat and pretend it didn’t burn going down?

But this time it was different, it was about Jungkook. And he was standing in front of you, perfect in that effortless, cruel way that your fifteen year old self was head over heels for. 

And he was about to ask someone else to be his girlfriend. Not just someone else but your sister! Your older, golden sister. The one the world seemed to orbit like a second sun.

"I don't understand!" Those eyes…god, those eyes! Fixed on you with genuine confusion. You remember thinking how unfair it was that he could look at you like that while breaking you. “Why?”

You could’ve laughed at that. How do you explain to someone that they’ve been your world since the first time you saw them?

Ever felt the ground beneath you dissolve into quicksand? That terrible sensation of sinking while remaining perfectly still? There you were, watching your sister steal another piece of your existence. First your parents' adoration, then your identity at school where you were only ever "Riri's little sister," and now Jungkook, the one treasure you'd foolishly believed might be yours alone. 

Living in her shadow has become your default state of being. The hurt had calcified into something almost comfortable: a chronic pain you'd learned to carry with practiced indifference. Your ego had long since retreated to dark corners, curled up small and quiet like a wounded animal that knows better than to cry out.

But Jungkook? You couldn’t hand him over so easily. 

And so your fifteen-year-old self, drunk on desperation and teen movies, made the kind of beautiful, terrible mistake that shapes a person forever. The butterflies in your stomach flapped violently, furious little wings threatening to break you apart as you inhaled once, twice, then took the plunge.

What if this was your movie moment? What if he looked at you and everything changed? What if the script flipped and you weren't the supporting character anymore?

“Because I like you,” you blurted, words colliding in your throat as they rushed to escape.

Usually, the mere thought of him painted your cheeks with betraying warmth.

But at that moment? Nothing but ice in your veins. A tremor starting somewhere deep and radiating outward. His face softened into that particular smile and you knew it before he spoke. 

That wasn't the smile of someone whose world had just been rearranged by your confession. That was the smile of someone already looking past you, toward someone else. 

“Sugar… you’re not serious, right?” He still smiled at you with the kind of smile people reserve for little kids who say silly things and don’t know any better. You wanted the floor to crack open beneath your feet, for the sky to rip wide and swallow you whole. Anything to make this moment vanish from the timeline of your life.

But the worst part was that you didn’t even feel embarrassed.

There was no room for shame in a body that felt like it had been gutted from the inside out. You were nothing but sharp pieces now, fragments of a heart too small to contain everything you felt, scraping and cutting at whatever softness was left inside of you.

“Oh God… you’re serious?” Jungkook’s voice faltered, just for a second, like he hadn’t seen this coming. Like the idea of you loving him wasn’t something that had ever crossed his mind. He took a small careful step forward like you were a wounded animal. 

But you flinched away anyway, as if just the air between you hurt to breathe. Your eyes stung, the tears gathering at your lashes felt like betrayal. 

“Sugar,” he said, voice low and laced with regret, “you’re like a little sister to me…”

Six ordinary words, blade met bone. He didn’t even know he was holding the knife. But he twisted it anyway.

"No, don't say that," you whispered, each word cracking like thin ice beneath a weight it couldn’t hold. Everything around you was already on fire, sinking fast into a place you wouldn’t know how to crawl out of.

“I’m four years older than you,” he continued gently, like that was enough to erase the ache. “This’ll pass, I promise.”

He reached for you again.

“I hate you,” you breathed, barely able to shape the words. Your lips trembled so hard it hurt to speak. “I hate you.”

His face fell, and for the first time, he looked like he didn’t know what to say.

“Sugar,” he tried again, softer now. “Please. This isn’t worth your tears. You believe me, right?”

But you were already turning, already running. Feet carrying you away before your heart could convince you to stay. That was the last time you saw Jungkook face to face: a moment forever frozen in time. 

It was also the first time you understood with absolute clarity that in this vast, crowded world, no one stood on your side of the line you'd just drawn.

Present time. 

Hatred has a color. Sometimes it bleeds into the jealous emerald of envy, that emotion you're not supposed to name, the one that burns beneath your ribcage at 3am. But you've never allowed yourself the luxury of envy, have you? 

You weren’t allowed to, not as the black sheep in a house built to worship someone else’s light. Riri did this. Riri won that. Riri, Riri, Riri her name looped through your childhood like a song you never asked to learn, the chorus ringing in every quiet pause at the dinner table.

The curse of being born second is that someone always got there first, claimed everything worth having, left you nothing but scraps and shadows. No matter how bright you burn, you're always just a little too dim, a little too not enough.

Why can’t you be more like Riri? They never said it directly but it was stitched into your life with thread too fine to see, but tight enough to choke. Invisible stitches holding together the patchwork of your identity.

Here's the thing about pedestals, though: even golden things rot from the inside out. Sometimes people fall so madly in love with their favorite possession, they fail to see that it was never gold to begin with, just something shiny under the right light.

So when your older sister, after eighteen years of being the sun around which your family orbited, graduated high school and chose to stay in your sleepy town, enrolling at the local college instead of chasing some glittering dream out in the world, people blinked. Surprised, sure. But not shattered. Even your parents simply nodded, disappointed but resigned. Maybe this is just the level of our family, they seemed to think. Nothing extraordinary. Just enough.

You didn't celebrate her downfall (okay, maybe a little, in the privacy of your bedroom). She still had Jungkook, after all. Yes, you avoided him when he came home from Boston for long weekends and holidays, when he'd show up at the house to see her. You’d slip upstairs or vanish out the back door like a ghost. 

But memories are persistent things, aren't they? And some wounds never quite close properly. You remembered him. Or more accurately, you remembered the precise weight of your heart as it shattered against the floor at his feet.

When it came time to apply for universities, no one really paid attention. All eyes were on Riri’s looming graduation, on the future she was supposedly about to inherit. 

You worked in the shadows. Each Ivy League application is a perfectly crafted weapon, each essay a bullet aimed at the heart of your family's low expectations. Your academic profile wasn't just good—it was immaculate. But who had time to notice the quiet girl's quiet rebellion when the favorite child commanded every spotlight?

Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold. And patience is the secret ingredient. Victory isn't about winning every skirmish—it's about identifying which battles actually matter. You lost a thousand tiny wars throughout your childhood, but silently prepared to win the one that would define your future. The long game requires stillness, requires calculated moves made in the spaces between breaths.

“NYU?!” your mother shrieked, holding the thick envelope in both hands like it had caught fire.

“That can’t be right!” your father muttered, fumbling for his reading glasses to get a better look.

Riri stayed quiet, lost in her own thoughts. You knew she was genuinely happy for you, because beneath the rivalry and the comparisons, there existed this unbreakable thing called sisterhood. And even though you absolutely despised Jungkook for breaking her heart (the audacity, truly), there was this tiny, treacherous part of you that felt... relief? Satisfaction? You'd never admit it, not even in your diary. 

But late at night, in those too-honest hours before the world begins to stir, and  honesty creeps in through the cracks of your carefully constructed defenses... that's when you allow yourself to acknowledge it: you fucking won. You played the long game, and everything aligned exactly as it should.

Second semester at NYU, biochem major with a GPA that would make your academic advisor weep with joy. Life wasn't just good – it was intoxicating.

Victory tastes like city lights after rain, like those expensive croissants you treat yourself to before morning classes, like strong coffee that wakes up your mind. In this big city, you've become new. Your name belongs just to you now. No one says "Riri's sister" anymore.

You were the girl who made it out.The girl who left behind the town too small to hold her, and for the first time in your life, you were exactly where you needed to be.

This semester, your focus was razor-sharp: every assignment, every discussion, every line of every textbook was a stepping stone toward something bigger. You had your eyes set on an internship at the World Health Organization, a rare opportunity that demanded extra credits and a broader academic profile, which meant branching out into unfamiliar territory. So you did what any strategist does mid-battle: you adapted.

You enrolled in an interdisciplinary course far outside your comfort zone: Human Conflict, Power & Ethics in Global Systems, a class steeped in geopolitics and moral philosophy, rooted more in theory than fact, full of endless reading and open-ended questions with no right answers. You didn’t love it. But you were ready for anything now.

Or at least, you thought you were. Because no amount of prep work or ambition could have prepared you for what happened next.

Apparently the universe has a twisted sense of humor, and its name is Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“What the hell got into you?” Dery whispered sharply from the row beside you, leaning over the armrest. 

It was a fair question, one you didn’t really have an answer for. Because it wasn’t like you had some solid reputation at NYU yet, not in a place this sprawling, this crowded with ambition and brilliance. But even in a sea of students, people had already begun to recognize you as the kind of girl who stayed quiet during lectures unless she had something brilliant to say. Definitely not the type to confront a guest lecturer on his first day with barbed sarcasm. 

“Just felt like it,” you muttered back, waving her off with the flick of your hand as though it hadn’t meant anything. 

The rest of the lecture unfolded without much tension as Jungkook regained his footing, and the classroom returned to its rhythm, but you didn’t miss the way a few students still glanced at him with a glint of uncertainty in their eyes, seeds of doubt planted about his qualifications, blooming in real time. 

The rational part of your brain knew Jungkook wasn't actually terrible at this. He spoke with conviction, referenced compelling research, asked thought-provoking questions. And if it had been anyone else standing up there, any other young academic with a promising resume and a slightly self-satisfied smile, you wouldn’t have said a word. But rational thought had abandoned you approximately 45 minutes ago, right when those damned dimples made their first appearance. 

You had barely gathered your notebook and slung your bag over your shoulder when his voice found you again, weaving through the crowd of students flooding toward the door.

“Miss Y/L,” he called, that signature calm barely covering the steel underneath. “Can I have a moment?”

Your brow arched instinctively, surprised not just that he spoke up but that he dared. Because if there was one thing you’d always known about Jeon Jungkook, it was that he didn’t shy away from a challenge. 

“What do you want?” you asked, not bothering to mask the irritation in your voice. 

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to something softer. "Why are you like this, sugar?" he asked, voice dropping to that honeyed whisper that used to make your knees weak. The endearment landed like a slap. 

"What kind of fucking sugar am I to you?" you hissed, feeling heat crawl up your neck. "Haven't you figured it out yet?"

"Listen, I'm sorry about what happened with your sister," he leaned in, words meant for you alone. His cologne was different now, less boyish and more intentional, momentarily short-circuited your brain. "I didn't want to hurt her..."

"Shut UP!" The words tore from your throat with such force that a few lingering students turned to stare.

“You think you understand anything about life? You think just because you got a fancy degree and a title, you suddenly have something worth teaching? You understand nothing, Jungkook. Not about the world, not about people, and definitely not about me.”

The poison of those words left a humiliation on your tongue as you turned away, disappearing into the steady stream of students leaving the hall, letting the crowd swallow you whole.

***

You never really thought of yourself as someone particularly persuasive. That was something you only discovered in the aftermath, in the lingering glances exchanged between students during lectures, in the slight shift of the room’s energy every time Jungkook spoke and someone hesitated before nodding along.

You had managed to plant doubt. Somehow, your little performance (half impulse, half years of pent-up resentment) had actually left a mark. And sure, you weren’t proud of it exactly, but the satisfaction came uninvited, curling warm and smug in your chest whenever you caught someone side-eyeing Jungkook’s lecture slides a little too critically.

But every action has its consequence, and this one came sharp-edged and dressed in tailored black, standing at the front of the classroom with a microphone clipped neatly to his collar and a vengeance stitched into the seams of his lecture notes. 

Suddenly Human Conflict, Power & Ethics in Global Systems wasn't just another class, it became your personal battlefield. While other students breezed through readings, you found yourself hunched over textbooks at 3AM, fluorescent highlighting your fingertips yellow, preparing for the intellectual ambush he'd undoubtedly set. 

Because Jungkook, with those eyes that still held galaxies you refused to name, had developed quite the talent for serving your own medicine back to you on a silver academic platter.

And today you sat at the auditorium in your pleated skirt and neatly buttoned white blouse, the picture of academic obedience, perfectly framed in one of the front rows where the projector glow cast soft light over the desk, your color-coded notes spread open like a ritual. You reviewed every line until your eyes burned and the words bled into your dreams the night before. 

You looked like a student whom any professor would favor. Except for Jeon Jungkook, but given your emotional burst during his first class, it was expected. Expected but still annoying for you. 

And now he stood there, leaning against the desk like it was his stage, sleeves pushed to the elbows, a pen spinning idly between his fingers. Jeon Jungkook, in black slacks and quiet confidence, posture relaxed and voice low.

“Let’s look at the third case in your packet,” he says, flipping the slide, a black-and-white image of post-conflict infrastructure crumbling behind rows of civilians. “This one’s particularly tricky: UN-led food distribution under military escort, but all local leadership is compromised. Humanitarian assistance becomes an extension of the occupying force. What’s the ethical liability here?”

His gaze sweeps lazily across the room, pausing just long enough to let a few hesitant hands hover in the air before settling on you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if this choice was inevitable from the start.

“Y/N. Walk us through it.”He is so casual, but you feel that sudden, unmistakable sting beneath your fingertips, like invisible needles pricking at your skin. 

“The liability depends on intent, but more importantly on perceived neutrality,” you begin, slow but clean. “Even if the UN distributes resources fairly, using military convoys undermines trust and violates the humanitarian principle of impartiality. It turns food into propaganda. Aid becomes a weapon. In that case, the UN has an ethical obligation to restructure the delivery even if it slows response time.”

You wait for his reaction with practiced nonchalance, spine straight with the confidence of someone who's memorized the textbook just to spite him. His smile blooms slow, the way that something an untrained eye might mistake for approval. 

“A polished answer,” he says lightly, turning back to the whiteboard, “but not a correct one.”

Your body goes rigid, pen clutched between white knuckles. The room suddenly feels three degrees colder.

"Your analysis rests on idealism," he continues, chalk scratching across the board in elegant strokes: operational ethics. The words hang there like an accusation. "But ethics in live conflict zones are governed by function, not theory. The UN's obligation isn't to appear neutral—it's to keep people alive. If military escort is the only option, it becomes ethically necessary, not unethical."

You breathe deep, oxygen scraping down your throat while whispers flutter behind you like startled birds. 

“So,” Jungkook says, turning back toward you with a calm you could rip apart with your bare hands, “while your answer sounds compelling, what you delivered was a moral argument. Not an ethical one. And certainly not a strategic one.”

"But the Geneva principles—" Your voice rises slightly, refusing surrender. The academic hill you've chosen to die on suddenly feels very steep and very lonely.

“Don’t apply here,” he says, cutting clean through your sentence without raising his voice. “This is post-resolution occupation, not an active declared conflict. You’ve applied the wrong framework entirely.”

His expression is neutral, unbothered, as if he’s correcting a child who mixed up vocabulary words. 

"And this is the third time in four weeks that you've made rhetorical choices over analytical ones," he adds with devastating smoothness, returning to his desk like he hasn't just set fire to your academic reputation. "Which is probably why your last paper earned you a C-minus."

Your leg starts bouncing beneath the desk. C-minus. The grade is so foreign it might as well be written in hieroglyphics. You don't get C-minuses. You've never gotten a C-minus. The unfamiliarity of academic failure expands in your chest, your eyes widening in silent horror.

This class wasn't even supposed to matter, just a wildcard requirement adjacent to your pristine science track. But it carries strategic weight you can't ignore. Without it and an excellent grade your application for the WHO internship you've been manifesting since high school crumbles to dust. 

And Jungkook, with his perfectly tailored button-downs and devastating dimples, seems determined to salt the earth where your dreams once grew.

“I’ve sent feedback,” he continues, still maddeningly calm. “You’ll need to schedule weekly consultations with me if you want to pass. Otherwise, it’s unlikely you’ll meet the minimum grade required for departmental credit.”

The final brick hurled through the stained glass window of your academic heart. You feel your nails digging into the paper. You stare at him, mouth tight, as he meets your gaze with the same even expression he wears when assigning reading, like he hasn’t just taken a wrecking ball to your semester in front of twenty-five silent witnesses. 

***

You don’t wait for any official invitation or carefully arranged office hour. You storm into his office the moment your last class ends, your backpack still slung halfway off one shoulder, your chest tight with a fury that’s been simmering.

He's there, of course. The inside of his office is insultingly calm. The blinds are half-closed against the pale afternoon light, casting thin, diagonal shadows across the desk where his laptop glows quietly, illuminating the sharp angles of his face in soft blue. He’s seated in the worn leather chair behind his desk, one hand cradling a coffee cup, the other idly scrolling through something on the screen. 

“What the fuck is this bullshit, Jungkook?” You don’t soften your tone, and you certainly don’t censor your language. He doesn’t deserve that. “I swear to god, if you ruin this semester for me…”

If you sabotage my academic future the way you once shattered my heart, you think viciously, though you don’t say it aloud. You won’t give him the pleasure of knowing how deep the wound still runs beneath your ribcage.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even turn to look at you. His silence is infuriating, calculated, and cold, and it makes your rage bloom hotter in your chest, rising up like heat from pavement.

You just move, crossing the floor in sharp strides, planting your palms flat against the edge of his desk with enough force to rattle the ceramic mug beside his laptop, leaning over so you’re standing directly in his eyeline, close enough to steal the oxygen between you.

Only then does he look up.

"Perhaps," he says, each syllable pressed like a bruise, "you should have considered the consequences before your little performance. The dean calls me weekly now because someone," his gaze flicks over you like you're a particularly disappointing term paper, "has students questioning my qualifications."

He’s angry too, but he’s still holding it together.

“I don’t give a fuck,” you bite back, each word sharp, your voice trembling with the effort it takes to keep from shaking with pure rage. “I need this internship. You will not destroy this for me with your petty grading."

For a second, you think you’ve said too much, that he might see how close this is to breaking you. But then he started to laugh. And just like that, the blood in your veins begins to boil.

Jungkook rose slowly from his chair, his movement unhurried yet heavy with something that made your breath catch mid-throat, and as his body straightened, you instinctively stepped back, your legs brushing against the edge of the desk behind you, a pulse of heat already rising beneath your skin before he even reached you. 

He didn’t stop moving until the air between you had thinned to the width of a single breath, and his voice, low and husky now, came like smoke curling beneath your skin.

“You’ve been misbehaving, sugar,” he murmured, and the rasp in his tone made your stomach twist so tightly you almost forgot to breathe. “And you know what that means — consequences. Whether you like them or not.”

You swallowed hard, spine stiffening as your fingers gripped the edge of the desk behind you, your body pinned between the cold metal and the growing heat of his presence. There was nowhere to run.

“You can’t do this to me,” you spat, but the words came out thinner than you meant them, your voice trembling. And gods, how pathetic it felt, because suddenly, standing this close, feeling his body so near yours that your skin was already humming, it wasn’t anger that was pouring out of you anymore. It was everything you’d buried. You hated that your voice cracked like you were fifteen again, like you were still that stupid girl who once loved him blindly.

He tilted his head slightly, one brow rising in quiet amusement, and for the first time, his gaze dropped. It moved over you with maddening slowness; over your parted lips, down the delicate line of your throat, across the thin white blouse you suddenly realized was still missing its last buttons. His eyes caught on the shape of your skirt as it hit mid-thigh, and you felt your cheeks burn hot with the realization of just how little you were wearing. When his eyes returned to yours, darker now, he swallowed hard, and your stomach clenched.

“You’ve changed,”his voice was close enough to brush your cheek like velvet. “But I don’t understand the hatred, not really. We used to be close, didn’t we?”

His eyes stayed locked to yours with a kind of quiet intensity that made your knees ache with the effort to stay upright, and when you couldn’t bear it anymore, you turned your head away, eyes darting across the room, anywhere but his face, because you could already feel yourself slipping into him, and you couldn’t afford to drown.

But he saw it. 

“So that’s it, isn’t it?” he whispered, more realization than question, his voice curling around the corners of your thoughts like a noose. “It’s still about that confession, isn’t it?”

Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the desk. How dare he bring it up. How dare he take something you’d buried alive years ago and speak it aloud like it still had power over you. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, asshole,” you said with a forced scoff, tossing your head back as if the memory didn’t sting. “You’re not that important.”

He raised an eyebrow, slowly, like he could smell the lie on your breath. 

Then he stepped closer. And suddenly, the desk pressed harder against your hips, your back arching to avoid the full weight of him, but not fast enough, because Jungkook moved like gravity, and the heat of his body rolled into yours like a tide you couldn’t outrun. He didn’t touch you but his breath fanned across your cheek, and it made you tremble in a way that only made everything worse.

And then his hand slid down, his fingers ghosted across the outside of your thigh, just the faintest touch, like he was testing a theory, like he wanted to know exactly how much it would take to make you unravel. Your body flinched against the contact, your breath catching so fast it burned. You gripped the desk harder behind you, fighting the moan that tried to claw its way out of your throat. The humiliation was dizzying.

His hand slid higher, palm warm and maddeningly slow as it followed the line of your leg, the pads of his fingers brushing against your skin. He watched your reaction, eyes flicking between your parted lips and the tremor in your jaw.

You lifted your chin, defiantly, as if to tell him you weren’t going to break even as your thighs trembled and heat bloomed between them. Maybe you had once loved him. Maybe everything you’d done since then was colored by that stupid, impossible crush. And you hated yourself for the way your barely-there panties were already soaked from nothing more than the brush of his hands.

But you weren’t the only one affected.

You could feel now the hard press of his arousal against your stomach, thick and hot beneath the fabric of his slacks, the way his body tensed ever so slightly when you shifted your hips. He was breathing harder now, his control slipping by the second.

“Seems to me,” he murmured, low and wicked, his mouth nearly brushing your ear, “that those feelings of yours didn’t stay in the past like you wanted to believe.”

His fingers reached the damp heat of your thongs, dragging slowly along the soaked fabric stretched over your folds, and when you gasped, finally unable to hide it, he smiled against your cheek.

“Tell me, sugar,” he whispered, voice dripping, hand pressed flush between your thighs now, “do you still hate me... even when your body’s begging for this?”

“It’s just physiology,” you breathed, head tipping back as your spine arched against the edge of the desk, your voice laced with defiance, though your thighs already trembled from the weight of your own want. Everything around you felt like fire and pretending no longer served you. 

There was no shame left to hide behind, no mask of resistance you could wear without it slipping. But even through the haze of heat clouding your thoughts, you still wondered, stupidly, how far he would take it.

He leaned in closer his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, the low rasp of his voice turning your skin to static.

“Is that so?” he whispered, soft and sweet like poisoned honey. “Just biology, sugart?”

You barely had time to register the way his hand dipped lower before you felt the ghost of his fingers slipping past the delicate fabric of your panties. The moment he touched you, everything inside you collapsed in on itself, your body clenching around a pressure. 

His fingertip circled your clit in slow, deliberate motion, and the world behind your eyelids bloomed white-hot as you gasped, your head knocking gently back against the wall behind you, lips parting with a sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“You like being the center of my attention, don’t you?” he hissed, and before you could even think of an answer he slid a single finger inside you, coaxing another breathless moan from your throat as your body instinctively clenched around the intrusion. “There you go, sugar. You’ve got all of me now.”

You swore you could feel the heat of his words pool low and deep, your body arching into his hand before your mind could stop it. When he pressed a second finger inside, stretching you slowly, rhythm tightening, you didn’t know whether to curse him or beg for more.

His pace picked up, fingers moving with practiced confidence, curling just enough to make your knees nearly buckle. Each slow thrust stoked the fire beneath your skin higher and higher, until you had to bite your lip to keep from sobbing out his name.

“Fuck, Jungkook!” you gasped, your voice breaking, your grip tightening against the edge of the desk.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your throat.

“Such filthy little words from a mouth that pretends to argue so well,” he murmured, voice silken with mockery. And before your trembling body could make sense of the shift, he gripped your waist, spun you to face the desk, and bent you forward with one sharp motion

You barely had time to gasp as your cheek pressed to the cool surface, his hand spreading across the small of your back, holding you there.

“You’ve been acting out, haven’t you?” he said low against your ear, no longer even pretending to sound kind. “Sabotaging my lectures. Cursing in my office. You think that earns you mercy?”

“My job,” he said, the words slow and terrible as his hand slid down again, now pressing firmly between your thighs, “is to correct my students when they misbehave.”

His words crackled through you like electricity licking across skin, each syllable laced with a dangerous promise that made your whole body tighten in anticipation for what might follow such a bold command.

When his finger brushed across your lips, your body responded before thought could interrupt, your mouth parting reflexively in invitation, lips closing gently around the pad of his thumb as you welcomed him.

You sucked him in without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut as your lips closed around him, tasting his skin while the other hand he hadn’t withdrawn yet kept moving lower between your thighs where you were already wet and pulsing and embarrassingly needy.

You arched your back instinctively, pressing closer to him, desperate to feel more: the firm shape of him pressed against your lower back through the thin barrier of clothing, the way your hips angled just right to rub against the heat of him as you offered yourself without a word. Every glide of his fingers between your slick folds was driving you mad with the sharp sweetness of pleasure that kept building. 

“God, Jungkook,” you gasped around his thumb, your voice muffled and shameless, hips rocking into the rhythm of his hand, “please, fuck!”

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the way your voice affected him. The sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched, the way the rhythm of his fingers grew faster, more forceful, like he wanted to drag every sound from you and then some. He pulled his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, and the air that rushed into your lungs felt too sharp, compared to the heat inside your mouth and between your legs.

“Such filthy words again, sugar,” he growled low in his throat, voice rough with restraint as he yanked the hem of your skirt up over your hips, exposing your bare skin to the chill of the air. His palm came down hard and fast — a single slap across the curve of your ass that echoed through the quiet room.

You gasped, head jerking back, but it wasn’t pain that rushed through you, but something dizzying and primal and maddening. You wanted to see him, you needed to see with your own eyes how all of this was driving him insane too.

 Your body twisted before you could stop yourself, craning your neck, just to catch a glimpse of the way his jaw was clenched and the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his eyes darkened when they met yours

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, voice barely more than a breath now. “Go on,” he whispered, every word poured from his mouth like molten heat, “show me what you’ve got.”.

His hand slid up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat while the other resumed its rhythm inside you, deeper now, precise and merciless, curling just right each time he thrust into you, his touch finding that edge inside you with brutal accuracy. 

You clung to the desk, body trembling, your knees barely holding as the pressure built and built and broke.

You came with a cry you didn’t recognize as your own, every muscle in your body tensing and shuddering as the wave of it washed through you, and Jungkook’s grip only tightened, one arm wrapped around your waist now, anchoring you as your body collapsed into the high. He held you like he wasn’t done, like he could keep you there for as long as he wanted.

“That’s it,” he breathed against your shoulder, his voice shaking with effort now, his lips grazing your skin. “Just like that…”

Time folded in on itself being slow and suspended, and somehow already gone. And you stood there, your body still humming, thoughts in pieces scattered across the hardwood floor, your heart racing not just from pleasure, but from the terrifying realization that this had actually happened.

You finally turned to face him, heart still thundering in your chest, and you met his drunk gaze. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted like he was still trying to catch his breath, and your eyes instinctively dropped down the line of his chest, lower, where the evidence of just how affected he was strained boldly against the front of his pants.

He was watching you with that look again, the one that made your knees ache, the one that made your thighs press together with anticipation, and the predator in him returned the moment you reached for his belt, fingers curling around the buckle as your lower lip caught between your teeth.

“You want me to help?” you asked with silky voice that was still breathing unsteadily. And you didn’t need to wait for his answer, because you already knew. The heat in your belly roared to life again at just the thought of what could happen next.

But then something shifted. 

It was barely perceptible at first: just the flicker in his eyes, the way the fire in them dulled like someone poured water on the flame. And before you could register it fully, he was pulling away from you, untangling from your reach like it had never happened at all.

You blinked, confused, not understanding what just broke the air so violently between you. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he needed to physically shake the moment off.

“Shit,” he muttered with a tight voice, as if trying to clear fog from his mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t know what came over me.”

He turned away completely now, and you felt the unmistakable burn of humiliation rising fast from the pit of your stomach.

“What the fuck?” you said sharply, your tone snapping like a whip through the room. “Are you kidding me, Jungkook?”

You reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward you, needing to see his face. What kind of game this was?

You knew you probably looked like a mess with hair tousled, skirt still bunched around your hips, but you didn’t care. He needed to look at you when he broke you.

“T/N, you’re… fuck, you’re Riri’s little sister.” And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

There it was again. Even now. In this goddamn room, in this city where you had fought so hard to start over, to be someone other than the shadow of the girl your parents praised and the boy you could never have chose.

You laughed but there was nothing funny about the way it felt inside your chest.

“Fuck you, Jungkook,” you spat, throat closing around the words as you saw the guilt beginning to creep over his face. But he had no right.

“Sugar, you have to understand,” he tried, his tone still soft, and maddeningly tender like he hadn’t just shattered the moment. “It’d be…fuck, it’d be weird. Don’t you see how fucking weird this is?”

He reached for you, palm open, voice almost pleading now, but you only scoffed, stepping back like the touch might burn.

“Wow,” you said, laughing without humor, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable. You had your fingers inside me not even five minutes ago, made me come on your hand, and now you remember it would be weird?”

You watched the way your words hit him and it hurt, god. Because he wasn’t wrong, and no matter how far you tried to run, your sister was always ahead of you, always waiting to remind you that there was nowhere on this earth you could be where Jungkook hadn’t already been hers.

“Sugar,” he whispered,  voice breaking now. “Please don’t be mad at me. But…”

But he stopped, because he didn’t know what came after “but” . 

A single traitorous and cruel tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it, and you wiped it away fast, angry at your own weakness.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jungkook,” you said, your fists clenched at your sides. “And I hate you. Because I begged you back then. Four years ago.”

He looked stunned, like something old and buried was suddenly bleeding to the surface.

“I told you,” you whispered, choking on the memory. “I begged you not to go after her. I told you it would ruin everything. Because I knew that even if you ever realized… even if you ever felt something for me… I’d never be able to be with someone who touched my sister.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said finally, his voice flat and full of disappointment. Maybe it was disappointment in you, in this situation or in the way fate had written your names. You wouldn’t know either way. “I can’t change the past. I can’t erase who I dated and who I thought I loved.”

“Yeah,” you snapped. “Because you’ve always been an idiot.”

And maybe you were, too, for ever believing this could have gone any other way. You weren’t that fifteen-year-old girl anymore, but the wound still opened like it was fresh.

But before either of you could speak again, a sharp knock rattled against the office door, jerking you both out of the moment like a plunge into cold water.

You exchanged a look. He cleared his throat first, tugged down the front of his shirt to hide the tension still visible beneath it, and dropped quickly into his chair.

“Come in,” he called, voice gravelly but steady now, his face slipping back into the mask of authority like nothing had happened at all.

You wiped your tears on the cuff of your shirt, pretending the fabric didn’t tremble under your fingers.

The moment had shattered, but you stood anyway, straightening your shoulders, chin high, just as the office door creaked open behind you. 

A young man stepped into the room, his face bright with the flush of hallway wind and something eager beneath his skin. He looked about your age, maybe a year older, and though he opened his mouth to speak, his gaze faltered the second it landed on you. He froze in place, words caught behind parted lips, his eyes trailing down the curve of your figure and then darting upward again in a panic as if he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Professor Jeon…” he managed, voice hesitant and stilted, but his expression was still hooked on you, caught between confusion and awe.

You might have been flattered by that look if the man sitting behind the desk hadn’t just broken your heart for the second time in your life.

The boy kept glancing at you, obviously intrigued. 

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Dan,” he said, each syllable clipped and flat, “what do you need?”

Dan flinched slightly, blinking himself back into awareness and tearing his eyes from you.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he said quickly, clearing his throat and looking at Jungkook again. “I wanted to ask about the STEM partnership track. I’m having trouble finding someone for the collaborative project.”

You narrowed your eyes just a little, you had no idea what he was referring to yet, but you were already intrigued. You could feel the familiar stirring of a plan writing itself. 

Jungkook waved a hand, visibly irritated now. “Let’s talk about it later,” he said. “Not now.”

But your voice rose before Dan could disappear under pressure of Jungkook’s rising rage.

“No, actually, I’d love to hear more,” you said, your tone far too sweet to be innocent, your smile sharpened at the edges just enough to make Jungkook tense. “Tell me everything, Dan.”

You turned to him fully then, giving him your full attention like a gift, while Jungkook swallowed hard behind you, clearly regretting every second of letting you in this room.

“Oh, I’m Y/N,” you added, with a slow blink and a sly smile, extending your hand before Dan could hesitate.

Dan’s face lit up like a bulb and he reached for your hand, shaking it with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, looking like he’d just won something by accident.

“Wow. That’s perfect,” he said, clearly trying to stay composed and failing. “I’m looking for a STEM major to co-author a research paper for submission to the International Undergraduate Ethics Review. I’m in International Relations, but I’m working on a project called Capital and Cure, which searches on the Ethics of Commercial Science. I need someone with a biology background to co-analyze the pharmaceutical case data.”

Your lips curled slowly, pleasure unfurling in your chest like silk. For a moment, you just looked at him, relishing how perfectly the universe had decided to reward you the moment it had tried to break you.

This was it. This was fate, pulling you out of Jungkook’s orbit and handing you a new path lined in gold. A co-authored study. A project that could very well secure you the internship at the WHO you had been chasing.

And the best part? It would pull you away from Jungkook entirely.

“Well, Dan,” you purred, tilting your head with a soft laugh. “You might just be the luckiest man alive.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook tense, his fingers curling against the edge of his desk, jaw locked.

“Because I just happen to be exactly the kind of student you need.”

“No,” Jungkook said, and his voice dropped like a stone. You and Dan both turned toward him at once.

“No?” you echoed, raising a single brow, pretending to be confused. “And why exactly not?”

You knew he had no real answer. There was nothing in the rulebook stopping you from joining the project. 

His voice lost the edge of command when he answered. “It’s a serious time commitment,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “You’re already overloaded. You wouldn’t be able to manage both.”

You laughed at the audacity. How dare he.

“In that case,” you said with a shrug, your tone so casual it bordered on cruel, “I’ll just drop Human Conflict classes”

That made him finally look at you. His eyes widened, and you watched the panic bloom in them as the weight of your words hit him like an avalanche.

Dan was still standing awkwardly to the side, clearly trying to process the tension between you, but you didn’t care. 

“Wait,” Jungkook said quickly, his voice low, almost pleading now. “Y/N, don’t make rash decisions just because you’re upset.”

You were already exhausted by his backpedaling. You turned back toward Dan, your smile softening only for him, and your voice honeyed with victory.

“I’m not being rash,” you said. “This class has never been my strength. I was struggling before, and now? Let’s be honest, there’s no saving it. But this project? A published article in a peer-reviewed ethics journal?” You laughed again, almost breathlessly. “That’s what will get me into the WHO program. Not some useless grade in a class I don’t need.”

You watched Jungkook’s face shift, watched him reach for control and come up empty.

He said your name again, softer now, but there was something dangerous behind it.

But you had already turned away. You looked back at Dan, radiant now, almost glowing from the inside, and fluttered your lashes once for good measure.

“So,” you said sweetly, “when do we start?”

Dan beamed, still caught off guard by how quickly this was unfolding, his posture straightening with excitement.“Right now, if you want.”

You nodded and turned toward the door, your spine straight, your shoulders square, your heart still bruised but pulsing with fire instead of heartbreak. 

***

Unknown Number: You’ve only missed three weeks of class. You can still come back.

Another message. You let out a long, tired breath as you stared at the notification lighting up your screen, the same kind that had been arriving several times a week, always on the days when his class was scheduled. You had never saved his number as there had never been a need. Your photographic memory, once your greatest weapon, had turned against you this time, because no matter how hard you tried, you had never forgotten Jungkook’s number from four years ago. And he, for some reason, had never seen a reason to change it.

You never open his messages. 

Life, for once, was moving forward exactly how you had always hoped it would. There was peace again, the kind of measured quiet that came from knowing you were exactly where you needed to be. The research project with Dan was going smoothly, maybe even too smoothly. Somewhere along the way, things with him had become more…private.

Dan: what are you up to, babe?

The message arrived just as you were thinking about him, and your lips curled before your fingers even moved. You weren’t busy. In fact, you’d been missing his hands, his teasing mouth and the way he made you forget about things like Jungkook and his unread messages begging you to come back. Dan was a perfect distraction, and more importantly, he reminded you that Jungkook didn’t have the power to control your thoughts anymore.

You reached up and unfastened two buttons from your shirt, just enough to reveal the push-up bra you had worn today, the one that lifted your cleavage perfectly, and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked effortlessly sexy, polished but not trying too hard, it would make a photo that wouldn’t even raise eyebrows on your feed, though tonight you didn’t want it seen by anyone except Dan. You hiked your already-short skirt a little higher, tilted your phone above you at just the right angle, and snapped a shot.

You looked it over, smiled in satisfaction, and typed out your message.

You: got any ideas? I’m free tonight ;)

With the photo attached, you hit send and tossed your phone onto the bed, the familiar flicker of confidence warming your skin. Dan would love it. And with any luck, he’d come over within the hour and erase the last remnants of Jungkook from your bloodstream.

But instead silence followed. Which wasn’t like him, normally, he responded within seconds, usually with a string of messages and a location pin. It was odd, but maybe he was busy. What a shame. Tonight's script will need rewriting – a solo performance rather than the duet you'd been anticipating.

When your phone finally comes alive with notifications – once, twice, three times – relief washes over you. There's Dan you know.

The moment you picked up the screen, your heart dropped, then began hammering violently in your chest. Your fingers went cold.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh FUCK.

Unknown number: I don't understand Unknown number: sugar, what is this Unknown number: Wait, fuck, I don't understand, who was this meant for?

Horror dawns you as you open the chat where Jungkook has been delivering his monologues about you returning to his class. The universe has a terrible sense of humor, and you are its punchline. 

You clutched your head in disbelief, tossing the phone across the bed like it had burned you. How could you be so stupid?

More notifications came in, and with every buzz, your stomach twisted.

Unknown number: sugar, you better tell me this was for me 

You read the words again and again, staring at them as if they'd rearrange themselves into something less possessive. The entitlement bled through each message.And how dare he? After rejecting you (not once, for god’s sake! but twice!) he had the nerve to act like this?

You: I’m not going to lie. It was a mistake, yes. it was meant for Dan.

You hit send with a shaking hand, your pulse drumming in your ears, and you barely had time to exhale before your screen lit up again. This time, it was a call.

You rejected it instantly. Who the hell did he think he was?

You: don’t call me. I don’t want to talk to you. it was accident.

Seconds later, the messages returned, one by one.

Unknown Number: Mercer Street. Apartment 27R. Unknown Number: Come get what you really need. Unknown Number: I’ll make sure Dan never even crosses your mind again.

You stared at the screen, blinking in disbelief. He can’t be serious.

You: fuck you. I’d rather spend the night alone than waste another second on you.

And you meant it as you hit send. And even as the next message slid in like a threat wrapped in velvet, you felt the fury rise to your throat.

Unknown Number: Sugar, don’t piss me off. That never ends well.

You let out a breathless, scornful laugh, half in shock, half in rage, your body burning from the nerve of him. He had no right to speak to you like that. No right to want you back now that someone else had your attention.

Your hands shook as you opened your messages with Dan, determined to make sure that this time, you would not make another mistake.

🖤read part 2 🖤

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an: this was such a hard month, I literally was moving from one country to another while starting a new job but still found time for this, which surprised me too. I wanted to write something like this for so long. I really hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this. Share your feedback 🖤

[cheralith]

ON MY KNEES BEGGING PLEASE MORE KAISER X HOGWARTS AU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🫡

characters ; slytherin!kaiser, professor!kaiser | wc ; 1.9k contains ; hogwarts au, aged-up characters, kind of major character death (?), gn!reader, no pronouns used, not edited as of 02/17

i'm gonna come back to the present with this one, where you and kaiser are years older, both respectable professors with a rivalry that just cannot die down for the life of itself. he's preparing a boggart for tomorrow's class period for his defense against the dark arts class, watching as some of the academy's attendants roll in an antiqe grandfather clock, where it shakes violently on the cart despite all the chains its confined in.

it had been awhile since he had faced a boggart, he thinks to himself as the attendants settle the clock down with a loud thud. he figures he has to tame it it for a bit to be suitable for the children—apparent enough so that the lesson can be taught properly, but not so much so that it'd harm them (though, he does supposes that one bratty gryffindor third year could do with some discipline).

he mutters an appreciation of thanks to the attendants that leave, giving them their respects to one of hogwarts acclaimed professors of the decade. kaiser eyes the chains on the clock and casts a spell that retracts them from the clock. the shaking eventually settles itself down, now with less restrictions to confine the creature it holds. kaiser sighs and cracks his necks free of tension, removing his reading glasses and wanting to get this over with so he can hurry up and attend his final duties for tonight.

he was fourteen when he confronted a boggart for the first time. it was in front of anyone that he revealed his worst fear was his very own father, and the boggart stood before him in the shape of his old man the last time he saw him before he was taken away and left kaiser to fend for himself as an orphan. there he stood in front of kaiser—in a greasy wifebeater stained with beer and striped underpants that just barely covered himself. a large scowl appeared on his face, the last emotion kaiser saw on him before a couple of aurors took him away from that wretched home.

now in his late twenties, kaiser can't imagine that much has changed. he's seen and dealt with things much more horrifying than a drunken father, but his courage withstood all, and the fear was short-lived. the image of his father, however, still managed to stain his head even after all these years.

as he circles his desk, he stares at the grandfather clock, cocking a brow when it begins to shudder again the closer he comes to it; as though it can sense his presence. he waits patiently, his wand at the ready in his hand as the pendulum door slowly opens with a familiar hand creeping out. kaiser's eyes narrow, recognizing the wedding band that wounds itself around a swollen finger.

eventually, the figure of his father steps out of the case, deep blue eyes that match kaiser's own staring directly up at him. kaiser was only barely four feet tall when his father was permanently severed from his life. he towers over him now, at six foot two, but despite it, he still feels a slight falter in his knees.

the father/boggart smirks evilly, the beer bottle fisted in his right hand going to point at him accusingly.

"sub-human trash," the father/boggart spits at him, saliva speckling onto kaiser's cheek. "useless. a creature that's lower than animals, than filth itself!"

kaiser huffs a spare lock of hair out of his face, feeling slightly unfazed when the father/boggart approaches him eerily slow. he yawns tiredly, preparing his wand to conduct a spell.

"you're a piece of sh—"

the boggart/father suddenly stopped in its tracks, stuttering. it attempted to sound the word "shit" out, but was stuck on the "sh" syllable, repeating it over and over again as its form wobbled and shook. kaiser stiffens suddenly, a crease in his forehead forming from the furrow of his brows when the boggart stays paralyzed in its spot.

this was odd. this had never happened before. he hadn't even casted the charm yet, so he was perplexed as to why it was already beginning to change when he hadn't done anything yet.

the boggart/father groans out suddenly, as if it was in pain, then suddenly its current form vanished into black smoke, before it quickly resembled a new form that made kaiser's blood run cold.

confounded, he was no longer staring at the image of his father, but rather...

you.

you stand still in front of him ever so patiently, a soft smile that you rarely ever gave to him upon your lips. your hair still as elegant as ever, falling and framing your face in a portrait-like fashion. you had your everyday cloak on, looking nothing less of lovely despite the plain-looking clothes. your eyes, warm and inviting, as they soften at him.

kaiser saw you everyday since you and him started working together, whether it be in passing or in the same meeting room. but in this form, you looked more radiant than usual, almost hypnotizingly so.

something switched in kaiser's brain. you were normally untouchable to him, some sort of forcefield around you that constantly kept him at bay away from you. you always seemed to constantly keep him at arm's distance, just close enough for him to look at you clearly but never touch you. yet, somehow, this form of you seems to have gotten rid of that shield around you and you're looking at him with a placidity that you only granted to those that were deserving of it.

so kaiser's breath hitched accordingly so when your voice had whispered out a gentle sound to him that made his head spin.

"michael," you greet so tenderly to him, the smile still settled on your lips.

michael...

right, his name. his... his first name. his given name. it felt odd hearing it sometimes, considering that the name never came out of his own father's lips because he thought of saying his own son's name felt like a sin as it was one of the last things his ex-lover had left him sparingly. he was used to being referred to as his last name, so whenever he heard "michael", even if it wasn't directed towards him, it made kaiser's heart clutch with a longing.

but hearing it from your own lips made a familiar weakening in his knees spread throughout the course of his body. it felt... melodious to him, when it came out of your voice. you beckon him so fondly with it, and kaiser can't help but take a step forward with a hand out towards you.

the moment his entire foot sets itself on the ground, however, granting him one step closer to you, a horrid spark of green light suddenly shoots out from behind you, striking you directly from the back and webbing you with green lightening. you let out an excruciatingly painful shriek that echoes hauntingly through the classroom before you go limp and crumple to the ground, lying face up.

kaiser's jaw unhinges from itself, a strangled sound coming out of his throat when he stares what was in front of him.

he automatically takes his step back, creating a space between you and him as your face falls toward him, your eyes visibly having no life and warmth left in them. his chest tightens and hands shake as his body continues to force him to stare at your lifeless body in front of him.

his mouth goes dry, body frozen in place. kaiser suddenly feels his fingers twitch and uses that singular act of rebellion in his body to cast the charm before the shock fully settled into place inside his body.

"RIDDIKULUS!" he hollers, his wand pointing at your lifeless body before the charm protrudes out of his wand and transforms the boggart into a figure of yoichi isagi getting tomatoes thrown at him from an invisible crowd. normally such a sight would make kaiser laugh hysterically, but the shock from before instills some remnants in his nerves, so he casts the boggart back into its rightful place and unsheathes the chains back to it, the grandfather clock thrashing against them once again.

kaiser staggers to a nearby desk to steady himself, his vision blurring from the adrenaline rush. the boggart, though confined back into the case of the clock, ghosts the figure of your lifeless body on the floor as kaiser attempts to examine his surroundings. a hand goes to his neck and gives it a firm squeeze, spurring reality back to himself.

deep breaths and gasps inhale and exhale out of his lungs, as though to pump out the leftover daze from himself. he falls into the desk chair, holding his pounding forehead in his hand.

he knew that people could have multiple fears that the boggart could possess the form of, but he thought his only one true fear was his father spatting insults left and right to him. he's had to rid of boggarts before and they've always had the same form of that good-for-nothing father, so kaiser's head rushes with questions of what changed.

but more importantly, why did it change into you? into an image where kaiser witnessed your death?

he earns more questions than answers as he tries to regulate himself. the throbbing in his forehead doesn't seem to be stopping soon, so kaiser drags a hand down his face as he stares miserably at the shaking grandfather clock.

he jolts suddenly, hearing the unclicking of the classroom door. his head snaps towards it and he stands up too quick for his own good, feeling his head rush from the lack of blood that makes him stumble a bit.

you poke your head into the defense against the dark arts classroom, your eyes wandering for a specific blonde before you find him standing dumbly in the middle of it.

kaiser's eyes widen at your sudden appearance, fighting the urge to look back at the grandfather clock to make sure it was actually you, the true you. the you that still has a pulse.

"hey, the meeting is about to start in a few," you mention as you open the door wider. "don't be late. the headmaster might give you another lecture again."

kaiser doesn't respond, but instead stares at you silently with an unreadable expression, as though he was petrified.

you snap your fingers, breaking him out of his trance. "you good?"

kaiser suddenly finds the stiffness in his spine suddenly disappear when the sound of your snapping fingers rings in his ears, making the fuzziness in them tune out. he blinks rapidly, rubbing his eyes.

the figure of you leaning on the doorframe clears itself in his field of vision. you raise a brow.

"huh? oh. yeah, the meeting," kaiser mutters through a dry throat.

you roll your eyes and kaiser can see that familiar glaze of life in them that manages to expel the shock for good from his mind. you were alive. you always have been. you're standing right in front of him, arms crossed with a disapproving look on your perfect face, a frown adorned on your perfect lips.

"they figured you'd forget, so they asked me to come fetch you," you sigh, examining your fingernails. you begin to shut the door behind you, ignorant to the spell you've casted on him.

"starts in ten. do not be late!" you call out just before you slam the door on him and leave kaiser all alone with his thoughts in the classroom.

[got-the-cheese-touch]

More than a name - teaser

HARRY POTTER x SIRIUS BLACK'S DAUGHTER! READER

PROLOGUE HAS BEEN POSTED! CHECK MY PAGE :)

slow burn. this follows Harry and readers time at hogwarts together, i'll try to be as canon as I can but they'll be some changes. this will have some wolfstar undertones (idk if they end up together, we'll have to see) as well as some dark themes bc y'all, reader has some trauma i fear. i'll put specific content warnings on each chapter release

no use of y/n (yippee)

an: PLEASE GET HYPE FOR TS, i'm so scared to post my writing. literally this has been in the works for a WHILE and if it flops, i'll delete it and crash out. don't fail me my minions ILY, enjoy this little trailer. probably releasing the prologue later tonight. word count is looking to be around 4k words.

this is super brief, i'm just testing the waters to see if this gets engagement or interest. (THANK YOU ILY ALL!!!)

ty to @thecutestgrotto for the dividers <3

(lmk if you want a taglist)

Sirius Black is an enigma. He’s a prisoner, a flirt, a menace, a marauding crook, a legend.

Sirius Black isn’t a fond story; rather a cautionary tale for little pure-blooded boys and girls who disobey their parents. He's a warning to the people brave enough to stand up against the Dark Lord.

Sirius Black is a name that rings through your ears and a face that is reflected when you look in the mirror. 

After all, you have his smile. 

His nose. 

His eyes.

Sirius Black, technically, is your father. But since you’ve never met him, all he is to you is a name.

The name your professors mutter after you’ve done something wrong. The name that you see in the inside cover of the library books, ones checked out years ago. His name is scratched into the side of the rocking chair in the Gryffindor common room. It’s on the roster of the quidditch team, the same one that won the championship for Gryffindor in the seventies. The last name that is stuck behind your first like dirt under your nails. Eleven letters, four syllables.

You see him everywhere, yet you’ve never laid eyes on the man. But when you attend Hogwarts, and meet a certain Harry Potter, things change.

or

Remus Lupin takes in the scared daughter of Sirius Black and when she is sent to Hogwarts, she slowly falls deeply and irrevocably in love with the boy who lived, the only other person who could understand the struggle of missing a person you don't even know yourself.

[firstprincehornyramblings]

Hello everyone, and thank you to @onthewaytosomewhere for the early tag. I've written a little bit today, my shoulder is marginally better, so I'm pushing through. Today (when i wake up) will be making holiday baklava day, so I'm doing an early post. I hope you all have the most wonderful Sunday. <3 Since Wednesday's post was sad, I said something about today's being smutty. SO have some smutty Professor Henry and Research Assistant Alex below the cut, also also, a sneaky snippet of a new wip i started (yes I have five now don't look at me)

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Professor Hen x Research Assistant Alex (AKA Alex's bi awakening)

‘Baby’   That could have been the very moment that Henry’s heart leapt out of his body, falling right between Alex’s knees. He was certain it would lie there, perhaps picked up and tucked in Alex’s back pocket, taken back to his dorm, forgotten about. Or maybe it would stay on this floor forever, stepped on and untouched. “It’s so pretty, baby,” Alex repeated, one hand slowly stroking down the length of the other man’s shaft, “I like when they’re uncut,” he mused to no one in particular, “Your tip’s so pink, so wet,” he hummed, gently tugging to watch the foreskin pull back, exhaling in a shaky breath. He watched with a mesmerized expression, leaning in and licking over that damp tip just once. Each lick from Alex was testing, slow as he stroked his hand leisurely. He seemed pleased to just watch the way Henry’s foreskin moved, chasing behind it with little laps from his tongue. “S’fuckin’ perfect dick, fuck, tastes so good,” he mumbled, pressing slow kisses against rosy skin. Henry’s heart was no longer on the floor, Alex was currently devouring it in front of him. There were poetic liberties being taken in Henry’s head. Every inch of his body prickling with electricity as this beautiful man kissed and touched him. It was filthy and horny and so absolutely fucking beautiful. Alex may as well have been covered in blood from maw to fingertip, Henry’s heart half-eaten in his hands and stuck between his teeth. Henry might just die here in this room; nothing was ever going to touch this moment. He watched with shaking breath as Alex worked, his fingertips massaging the other man’s scalp, pleasure slowly taking the place of guilt in his stomach. “Love this pretty dick, baby,” Alex muttered between kisses. He wrapped his lips carefully around the tip, tugging up gently and letting his tongue slid between Henry’s foreskin and cockhead. He slowly and gently let his tongue glide in little half circles, eyes fluttering up and locking on the man above him. The way Henry’s cheeks were light pink, lips even puffier from being bitten. It was everything he hoped it would be. “Alex,” Henry breathed, it wasn’t as though he’d said anything before that, he hadn’t been able to manage. It was a small miracle he uttered anything comprehensible now, even if it was just one syllable and four letters. That was plenty for him, the last word on his lips as he passed away in this office room, and the very name of his demise felt suiting enough.

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AND biblically accurate fallen angel wip (the new one)

Crumpled down on the floor in a mess of old boxes and screens from confessional boxes was a man. He was pale and mostly naked- well, Alex assumed anyway. There was a white sheet of some kind that sparkled under the light from his phone, it covered most of the lower half of this man’s body. He was blond and despite having a thicker figure looked incredibly frail. He was grimacing at the light, drawing attention to darkness under his eyes, high cheek bones, and plump pink lips that looked incredibly dehydrated. It took Alex a moment to register everything- to see the blood. He was bleeding, but there wasn’t a wound directly visible, only a smear of crimson on the floor and wall behind him. “Holy… shit dude, are you okay, you’re bleeding? How the fuck did you get in here? Have you been here all morning? Since last ni-” The very second that Alex extended a hand to help, the man drew back into a sitting position and hissed!? He fucking hissed- and Alex screamed, rather humiliatingly if he had to be honest about it. But if someone jolted away from you and hissed only for you to see the glimmer of teeth just a little too sharp you would scream too. Alex would argue that harder than any case he’d ever taken. “Woah woah, okay easy, easy, I’m not going to hurt you,” Alex swallowed hard as he spoke, his breathing verging on panic. “Do you… speak?” Light eyes blinked up at Alex, slowly, as if processing each word, “I speak every language. You are afraid of me. There is no need for you to be afraid.” “Yeah, buddy, well, you’re naked and bleeding, and you just fucking hissed at me. Also, your teeth are like- normal but…weirdly a little too sharp, it’s really hitting the uncanny valley for me, so I’m about as scared as I’ve ever been in my entire life,” Alex laughed, “Also you being British is really fucking unsettling.”

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wow that was so long thanks for stickin around

YIPPEE NO PRESSURE TAGS TIME

@taste-thewaste @henrysfox @mikibwrites

@softboynick @stnichols @sheepywritesfics @henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones @henfox @anti-homophobia-cheese

@redlipstickandglitter @eusuntgratie

@thesleepyskipper @tailsbeth-writes @thighzp @lfg1986-2

+ literally anyone else I'm tired and forgot. (i am always sleepy) or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

[animeniacss]

Seoksoo - imperfect Part 1 - Chapter 15 - It Was Perfect

Synopsis: Lee Seokmin likes a lot of things: karaoke, stuffed animals, his friends, his family (when they're not at each other's throats), and when things go according to plan. It's perfect that way. That is...until Joshua Hong, the Education Department TA, stumbles into his view one day and suddenly Seokmin has to start facing the fact that maybe not everything in life will be perfect...but with Joshua, that might just be ok.

Tags: College!AU, ActingMajor!Seokmin, Teacher!Joshua, Romance, Angst, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Side GyuCheol, Side JunHao, Side Verkwan, Other Idol appearances, Anxiety/Panic Attacks, Domestic Violence (not between the main couple), Joshua is a dork 90% of the time, (More Tags will be Added as needed)

Length: approx. 9.6k words

Chapter 15 - It Was Perfect

       “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” – James 1:17

Most kids know very little, if anything, about the day they were born. Not Joshua Hong. Born late in the night of December 30th, Joshua was not breathing for a good minute after birth. Doctors tried everything to get him to cry, warming him up in blankets so he wouldn’t turn blue while his parents screamed and begged them to save their child.

The doctors said that the second he took his first breath, the minute his cries mixed with the hysteric sobs of his mother, it began snowing. In Los Angeles.

         It was truly a perfect day, as it would be for any new parents in 1995.

         Joshua Hong knew that before him, his parents went through 4 pregnancy losses in 3 years, and tried in just as many years before that. He was never sure why he was the one God picked to enter the world, but his parents didn’t care. He was their first and only son. Their miracle.

         He was perfect.

         His father would share with every customer in his restaurant the story of his son’s miracle birth, his mother squealing about it on every birthday and in every book club. Joshua was so perfect, they stopped trying for any more kids after that. Why keep going, after so much heartbreak and grief, when the child that made it into their arms was all they ever asked for in the first place?

         It. Was. Perfect.

         Growing up affluent gave Joshua access to everything he could ever want. His room was littered with so many books that he could read by age 2. He was strumming Fischer Price guitars with such artistic rhythm, a real one was given as a gift when he turned five. His parents said he was the reason they started going back to church, their faith in God restored after he came into their lives. Joshua never thought it was a problem. He loved his family; he loved his childhood. It was all perfect. Joshua Hong, only child of a successful restaurant owner and college professor, was perfect. 

Perfect was his favorite word back then. He knew it had 2 syllables and started with the /p/ sound before he could even hold a pencil correctly. He could read the word by age 3, and spell it by age 4.

         Joshua heard his name and ‘perfect’ in the same sentence for most of his life, he thought that they were the exact same word. When he learned that they were in fact not, he was devastated in the way only a four-year-old could be about something so trivial.

         The part of Los Angeles the Hong’s grew up in had few Asian-Americans, much less Korean-Americans. In school, he was the model student – the perfect student – the ever-revered ‘I love how Joshua is being a good example’ student that others should be modeling their behavior after. However, with his intellect and perceptiveness, it didn’t take him long to realize he was different; far beyond the brains tucked away in his skull and the decorum of a prince. 

Even in the LA sun, his skin was paler than the other kids. He spoke two languages while most only spoke one – or one and a half. He didn’t go to school on Chuseok, and he always brought ‘weird’ Korean meals to school. In third grade, the meanest kid in class, Ryan Sharp asked him what stunk in his lunchbox, and got the entire lunch table to scream when he revealed it to be kimchi and rice. It wasn’t perfect to them, it was “disgusting!” to them. So, he told the one person who could help him fix the problem.

         “Can I bring peanut butter and jelly to school tomorrow?”

         He remembered his mom turning around as he completed school work at the table. “Why?”

         “The kids in school tease me when I bring kimchi or bulgogi. I want to just bring peanut butter and jelly.”

         His mother crossed her arms and looked at him. “Joshua Hong. You don’t let those other children tease you like that. They don’t know any better. You should teach them about the food so they know more about it.”

         “I don’t think they’ll listen, Mom.”

         “Then that’s on them.” She said. “You know you’re perfect just as you are, right? Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

         Joshua’s pencil stopped for a second, before nodding. “Yes, Mom.”

In fifth grade, Ryan Sharp got in trouble for saying something about Joshua being the smartest kid in class because he was Asian. Joshua was given a handwritten apology letter, but he knew Ryan didn’t mean it. Joshua didn’t realize that he was playing into a stereotype, he just thought it was because he was perfect. Wasn’t he?

It continued; Joshua being called ‘gay’ because he tried – and failed – to play house at recess with the girls rather than football with the boys. The only time Joshua saw victory was when Ryan got suspended for three days and lost recess for a month after he pushed Joshua in a puddle of mud after a rain storm and ruined his favorite shoes.

         If Joshua’s parents were right, and he was truly perfect, then why did he spend the first 5 years of school being ostracized as the token ‘weird, smart kid?’ Why did the other kids avoid him on the playground? Why were his only friends the ones his mother forced him to sit by at church, and during Sunday school? The older Joshua got, the more he knew that he wanted to be perfect, that he had to be perfect. How could someone like Ryan Sharp torment him if he was perfect in everything? One letter off or not, Joshua would be perfect. 

         The summer before sixth grade, the Hong’s moved closer to the college his mother taught at, and his father had managed to open a second location of his restaurant. The location they settled into had a much higher Asian American population, located right beside the Staples Center. New location; new Joshua; a new chance to be perfect. It was fool proof.

         Joshua’s middle school career was spent at the top of his class. He never missed a test or a quiz, never saw less than a 100 on his papers. He was in every school club you could think of: led the student council, dressed as one of the school mascots in every middle school pep rally, and led the junior debate team to victory for all three years.

         Joshua’s reputation preceded him and left him the subject of many female eyes in the halls. He got the most Valentine’s every year, and he didn’t go to the eighth-grade dance alone. His AIM was filled with less than threes for hearts, and he never knew the pain of a break-up. Boys wanted to be him and girls wanted to be with him. He was living the perfect, ideal, American pre-teen dream.

         At least, that’s what everyone thought.

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The first all-nighter was the night before his 7th grade junior debate meeting. He had a history quiz in the morning, and needed to finish his one-page paper on Bridge to Terabithia. At twelve, time passed in a blur, and he could barely feel the bags under his eyes until his mother pointed them out. He took his daily vitamin, ate breakfast, and was out the door to succeed in all three tasks. The junior debate team saw victory, he got 100 percent on his history quiz, and a 105 on his essay because he added more pages than required. Perfect. All achievements were met with the same three lines:

         “That’s my boy. Do you guys see my boy?!”

         “Isn’t he perfect?”

         “He is our miracle. We’re just so lucky!”

         His parents always had something to tell their friends and family about, and that, to him, was perfect.

         That is, until he started 9th grade and Joshua entered the world of high school. 

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13-year-old Joshua stepped into his geometry class, a sophomore class, his friend Johnny standing at his side. Johnny was a transfer from Chicago, moved right next door to Joshua that summer and the duo became fast friends. “I heard this teacher is really hard. Why didn’t you just take the freshman algebra class?” 

         “Because it’s too easy.” Joshua said simply. Johnny rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you in History. We have the same class, right?”

         “Mhm. And lunch.” He smirked. “I heard Megan’s in our lunch.”

         “Oh?”  Johnny nodded, a smirk on his face. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”

         “She’s had a thing for you like all summer. You need to ask her out.” Joshua was now the one to roll his eyes.

         “It’s 7:30 in the morning. I don’t want to talk about dating this early in the morning.” Johnny snorted, but conceded. “See you later.” Waving Johnny off, Joshua made his way into the first class of the day and nestled into the front seat. 

        He twirled a pencil in his fingers and watched as the rest of the students filed in, waving to some that he recognized from middle school, and saying polite hellos to the ones he didn’t. Just as the first bell rang and teenagers began sprinting to class, Mr. Clark entered, hand rubbing a salt and pepper beard as he set a weathered briefcase down on the front table. Joshua’s eyes darted to the male that slipped in behind him and his eyes widened. He gripped the pencil in his hand so hard he thought it might snap in two.

         Behind Mr. Clark was a stunning male. He was young, most likely in his early twenties, with curly blonde hair and grassy green eyes. Joshua’s eyes caught a mole under his nose that folded under the skin when he smiled. Joshua’s heart felt it was racing a mile a minute as the man stepped into the room, standing at Mr. Clark’s side.

         “This is Mr. Daugherty. He’ll be my student teacher this year. Don’t be an embarrassment.”

         Joshua was fucked. 

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         Mr. Daugherty spent the first quarter simply observing Mr. Clark. Joshua could handle that. As, summer turned to fall, Joshua was able to keep his head buried in his textbook and not worry about the very handsome – no, no, shut the fuck up Joshua – the very not handsome man sitting on the other side of the room, typing away on his computer and occasionally walking among the aisles to help students that asked. Joshua overheard the girls behind him whispering about how handsome he was, and Joshua wanted to slam his face into his desk every time he found himself agreeing.

         “Oh, Joshua.”

         “Huh?!” Joshua’s eyes snapped up to see Mr. Daugherty standing over him, smiling. He was pointing to one of the problems Joshua was working on. “Oh…”

         “You computed this wrong. Do you need help?”

         “No.” Joshua said, maybe a bit too quickly. “No.”

         The blonde looked a bit taken back by Joshua’s response, but hoping to be professional, simply nodded his head with a small smile. “Okay. Holler if you do.” And without another word, Mr. Daughtery was off to check on the next student. Joshua looked down at the math problem, erasing the mistake and fixing it. His eyes darted up to the clock. 30 more minutes to go and Mr. Daughtery was already making his way back up the aisle again.

         Joshua’s Study Hall period that day was spent doing the most important studying of his life. Tucked into the corner of the library, he was hunched over his laptop as he typed ‘Am I gay?’ into the computer search bar. His screen was flooded with Buzzfeed quizzes and YouTube videos titled ’10 Ways to Tell if You’re Gay!!! (NOT clickbait)”. The farther he scrolled, the more the dread sank in. He clicked the quiz.

         Have you ever thought about men romantically?  YES/NO         Have you ever thought about women romantically? YES/NO How does the picture below make you feel?

         “Oh what?!” Joshua slammed the screen of his laptop down when a very explicit photo of a shirtless man on the beach appeared on his screen and made his cheeks explode a very, cherry red. He covered his face, leaning back in his chair. What am I going to do? He thought. This can’t be. It can’t, it can’t, it can’t.

         What will my parents say? They’ll flip out. They’re already pro-abstinence until marriage if I tell them any of this, true or not, they’ll…they’ll….

         “The hell are you doing, Josh?” He sat up from his seat, looking to see Johnny sitting across from him. “Oh. You okay?” Johnny asked. A quick nod and wipe of his eyes was all he could respond with. Staring ahead, he blinked a few times. “Josh…Why are you staring at me?”

             “Johnny, can you drive?”

         “Uh, my dad lets me drive the truck in empty parking lots sometimes. Why?”

         Joshua ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “Please run me over with it. If it doesn’t kill me the first time, floor it.” Johnny laughed, but immediately saw that his friend was not amused. “I’m serious.”

         “Dude…” Johnny frowned. “Why?” Joshua shook his head.

         “I can’t tell you.” His friend leaned in close, eyes wide. “…What?”

         “You in with the mob or something?” Joshua’s eyes narrowed at him.

         “Are you serious?” He asked. “No!” With a huff, he got up from the library chair and grabbed his bag. Johnny was a man’s man through and through, a bit sarcastic but overall, the definition of what it meant to be a normal, straight man. He’d never understand, and even if he did, Joshua would never say anything. To anyone. “Whatever, forget I said anything, let’s just-.”

         “Hey, Joshua! Johnny!” Joshua’s eyes shot up at the call of his name, seeing a beautiful brunette passing by. Megan O’Rorke, a freshman just like them. A cheerleader, popular, beautiful. She disappeared into one of the nearby aisles with her friends.

         Perfect.

         “Wait here.” Joshua said, before abandoning Johnny. He could hear his friend’s eager cheers of encouragement as he got to the brunette’s side, smiling. “Megan, I have a question for you.”

         Her eyes sparkled almost immediately, stopping in her tracks to turn to him. “Yes?” She asked eagerly. Joshua was silent for a second, blinking a few times. Each time he closed his eyes, Mr. Daughtery looked at him from a different spot in the geometry classroom. That was enough to make him ask.

         “Want to go out Saturday night?”

         Joshua and Megan dated the rest of freshman year. It was enough for Joshua to forget all about Mr. Daughtery, even when he was tasked with taking over the classroom after Christmas break. Joshua felt great, better than ever. His parents were elated to know he had a girlfriend, he was still ranking top of his class in every subject, and he was already in position to run for student council come sophomore year. 

         Everything was perfect. Everything was perfect. Everything was perfect.

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         September of his sophomore year, and things immediately proved they were in fact not perfect. Exhibit A: third period chemistry. Joshua was paired with Marco Rizzo, an Italian-American kid born and raised right in Los Angeles. He was tall, tan, a bit muscular, and a whole year older. He already had his learner’s permit.

         Oh, don’t forget beautiful. Marco Rizzo was beautiful.

         Joshua felt like it would be less painful to drink the solutions they were making in chemistry class, than to stand next to Marco for an entire 45-minute class period. Whatever feelings he thought he had for Mr. Daughterty the year prior were doubled every time Marco reached over him to grab a beaker, or when he brightly laughed at the ‘cute’ purple color they got during an experiment. And the one-time Marco reached over and fixed his safety goggles because Joshua’s hands were already covered with chemicals? He ran to the nurses office feeling like he was going to throw up. He didn’t, but that burning sensation stayed in his stomach for the rest of the week.

         Megan said they had to break-up after their first kiss outside of the movie theatre on her sixteenth birthday. She said that she wasn’t interested anymore, but Joshua was just glad he didn’t have to kiss her again. The kiss was quick, awkward, exactly what one would expect of two teenagers discovering new things about themselves. Joshua, on that day, discovered that kissing girls made him feel disgusting. He took a 45 minute shower when he got home. 

         He responded to the break-up by throwing himself into his studies even harder. He’d yet to see a grade under a 100, and he sure as hell wouldn’t start now. He’d say one quick prayer at his bedside, and flip the computer on. Fingers would fly on the keyboard until the sun's rays poked into view, and Joshua would crawl into bed just long enough to get about an hour of sleep.

         Joshua didn’t start getting chronic headaches until he was 15. He didn’t get his first string of nosebleeds until he was 16. These were mere obstacles; ones Joshua could easily fix with a tissue and few Ibuprofens. The other things were not, however; the thoughts of Marco or Mr. Daughtery, or Taylor Lautner. That one was new, because he caught a trailer for Twilight while scrolling through the TV, and while Johnny commented on how lame it looked, Joshua couldn’t help ogle the shirtless, ripped actor turning into a werewolf before his eyes.

         He was in deep.

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         Joshua dated another girl three months after he and Megan broke up. Krystal, another beautiful cheerleader who he met at church camp. The duo met before his sophomore year, her junior year, and remained good friends through school. Krystal asked him out during their shared gym class, and Joshua almost sounded desperate when he said yes.

         Krystal was nice, but she wasn’t as much of a distraction to Joshua’s problem as Megan was the year prior. Maybe it was because Marco was closer to him more often, maybe it was because Marco approached him in the halls between classes. Maybe it was because when Marco eyed him up and down, Joshua could read it as an attempt to flirt.

         Marco asked to come to Joshua’s house one weekend to study for a test. Joshua couldn’t tell if he was terrified or not, but his parents were so excited to know their perfect son was bringing home a friend, he couldn’t help but say yes. When Marco arrived at his front door with his bookbag and a plastic baggie of chips from the gas station that he knew Joshua liked, Joshua had to plant his feet firmly on the floor so he wouldn’t jump forward and just kiss him.

         “Cool room.” Marco’s eyes fell to the collection of debate team awards and honor roll certificates lining the wall above his desk. He whistled. “Wow. Smarty pants, hm?” Joshua chuckled a bit because speaking felt scary. “I’m glad you’re my partner, then. We’re going to ace this test!” Marco grinned at him, and something in Joshua’s chest short circuited. “Ready?”

         Marco sat up against the foot of Joshua’s bed, Joshua sitting directly across from him. They both were reading through their textbook, taking turns reading definitions aloud that they assumed would be included in the test.

         “You’re so smart, Joshua.” Marco beamed up at him. “I wish I was half as smart as you.”

         Joshua smiled. “You’re smart, don’t say that. You’re good at the hands-on stuff I’m not good at.” Marco’s grin turned into a playful smirk that made Joshua only force his smile more. “You’re disgusting.”

         Marco only responded with a shrug, before reading the next chemistry question aloud. The duo went back and forth like this for about thirty minutes, before the two of them got side tracked chatting about whatever came to their minds. Their textbooks had long since been discarded to the other side of the bed, their focus on one another as they chatted. “You’ve never been to Italy?” Joshua’s eyes widened. Marco shook his head. “I went when I was 8 and I’m not even Italian!”

         Marco laughed; a loud roar of a laugh that made Joshua feel a weird calmness despite how much it reverberated against the walls of his room. “Alright, Richie Rich. No need to rub it in my face!”

         “I’m not!” He gasped. “I’m just surprised.”

         “Well, if you’re so surprised, then next time you go to Italy, take me.” Joshua’s smile immediately fell, eyebrows furrowed.

         “What?” He asked. Marco suddenly looked serious, almost nervous, and that feeling paralleled Joshua's expression. “Heh, I mean, I’d…I’d have to ask my parents, but-.”

         Joshua didn’t get to finish before Marco leaned forward and planted one, big kiss on his lips. Joshua’s entire world came crashing down in one action. He couldn’t move, his entire body frozen solid as he stared ahead. He couldn’t even divert his eyes, he was stuck staring at Marco’s eyes, which were squeezed shut in nerves. He pulled back a second later, and Joshua immediately covered his mouth. His hands were shaking, eyes wide as he stared at the Italian-American across from him. It only took a second for Marco to realize what happened, his face carrying a similar look of panic.

         “Wh….I’m sorry! Are you not? Oh fuck.” He looked around. Joshua couldn’t even speak, stunned to absolute silence as Marco hopped off his bed and scrambled for his bag. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry. I’ll go. I’ll just-.” Before he could exit the room, Joshua’s mom stepped in, a little tray of peeled and sliced oranges in her hands.

         “Hope you two are hungry, because I brought-.” Her smile immediately fell when she saw the distressed boys before her. Joshua immediately turned his entire body from his mother. “Is everything okay?”

         “Yeah.” Looking like a deer caught in headlights, Marco said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hong. I need to go. Thank you for having me.”

         “O…okay.” Mrs. Hong watched the teen head out the door. “Come back soon, okay?” She turned to Joshua, staring at his back. “Honey? You okay?”

         “Yeah.” Joshua coughed out, sitting up right. “Perfect, Mom.”

         Marco stopped talking to Joshua outside of class after that, which hurt him more than he expected.

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         “It’s because you’re gay, isn’t it?” Krystal and Joshua were sitting outside during the last week of school that year, one of their preferred dates once the weather got nicer. 

         Joshua almost choked on his soda, eyes widening at the girl across from him. “W-what? No!”

         Krystal smiled a bit. “Really?”

         “Really.”

         “Then why are we breaking up? You know I’ll see you at camp all summer, right?”

         “I just-.” Joshua paused. “I just don’t want to date this summer. It’s nothing against you.”

         Krystal nodded, still unable to hide the smile on her lips. It made Joshua feel like he was being interrogated at the police department.

         “Joshua, hun.” Krystal leaned forward on her elbows. “It’s okay if you’re into guys, you know that right?”

         “I’m not.” Joshua said.

         “I see how you look at Marco.” Hearing the name made Joshua’s heart feel as if it had fully stopped beating, the expression on his face only making Krystal’s grin widen. “See? Told you. You’re down bad for him.”

         “I am not!” Joshua slammed his hands on the table. The force of the wood shaking made Krystal sit upright. Joshua immediately rubbed his hands together, the stinging traveling up to his elbows. “Stop….”

         “I’m sorry.” She said softly. A pause before she stood up. “Either way, no hard feelings.” she smiled. “I’ll see you at camp. We’ll have another fun year. Okay?”

         “Okay…” Joshua said as she left the picnic table, leaving him alone with two stinging, red hands and a set of tears threatening to escape his eyes.

         He told his mother that he and Krystal broke up that night over dinner, and she was just as devastated as she was with Megan, if not more.

         “She was such a nice girl, too.”

         “I know.” Joshua pushed the rice in his bowl. His mother leaned across the table, gently smoothing out her son’s hair. He smiled up at her, almost leaning into the gentle touch.

         “I’m so sorry, honey.” She cooed gently.

         “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be okay.” He assured.

         “It’s okay to be a bit upset about it, Josh.” His father grinned behind the rim of his soju glass. 

         “I know.”

         “Don’t worry, Joshua.” His mother said gently. “You’ll find a nice girl one day. She’s out there somewhere.” Joshua gripped the chopsticks in his hands. He felt like his lips were on fire, the feeling of being kissed by someone as beautiful and as kind as Marco Rizzo still haunting him months later. 

         He shoved the next bite of rice in his mouth so he didn’t have to say ‘Yes, Mom’ this time. He just might start crying if he had to utter yet another lie at the dinner table.

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         Joshua spent the rest of his junior year similarly to how he spent the prior two; dating girls in short periods in the hopes of ignoring the intense feelings he had for the new boy that walked into his life. This year, it was senior Christian Jones, one of the track and field members. A known gym rat whose locker ended up being right next to Joshua’s in gym class that year. Nothing exciting came of that because he was dating Tiffany, a beautiful senior and lead singer in the school choir. Joshua could only watch from afar until his feelings fizzled out at junior prom. That was the easiest of all four years. 

Senior year it was Kyle Davis, who sat next to him in Study Hall. He always offered Joshua a piece of gum and said his eyes were really pretty. Kyle had jet-black hair, cut short just like he did, and striking blue eyes that Joshua thought about long after the duo parted each day for class. He was also open about being gay. Throughout the year, Joshua found comfort in Kyle that went beyond simple attraction, but infatuation with Kyle and everything about him. During Study Hall, Kyle would talk to him about the latest episode of this show, RuPaul’s Drag Race, beaming each week during the fifth season’s run when Jinx Monsoon slayed, and crying when Ivy Winters was eliminated. Joshua had no idea what he was talking about, but he would listen to Kyle count sheep hopping over a fence if it meant he could stare at those beautiful blue eyes for another few minutes. 

Being himself around Kyle Davis never felt forced or scary. It felt good. There were no expectations with him, only moments. Joshua spent nights at his house binging all past seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race, admiring the confidence the contestants had in themselves and their sexuality. Because of their friendship, Joshua rekindled with Marco, the group becoming a close knit trio. 

Kyle never asked if Joshua was gay, but it felt like he knew. The way he so subtly pointed out handsome men in the crowd when they people watched at the park, the way he always kept a close seat, yet never crossed any boundaries. He dubbed himself the “Gay Yoda”, a guru that Joshua felt safe with. 

Joshua loved his parents, and his church, and his friends, but the love that bubbled in his chest for Kyle was one that was vastly different. It was beautiful, it was the one thing about the entire journey that Joshua felt was perfect.

         “Are you going to prom?” Kyle asked, passing over his gum pack. Joshua leaned forward and took one. “I mean, I figured you probably will, right? You’re practically guaranteed Prom King.” 

         Joshua snorted as he popped the gum into his mouth. “Am not.”

         “Hong: Humble and Handsome.” Kyle cooed. “That’ll be on your tombstone, bestie~.” Joshua rolled his eyes as he typed away at his computer. “But seriously, are you going?”  

         “Are you?”

         “Uh, duh. I have the cutest maroon tuxedo that I got on sale, and the world needs to see me in it before I die.” Joshua chuckled, nodding his head. “I’m only asking because we should go together.” Joshua’s fingers stopped typing as he looked up at Kyle, who only smiled wider. “Don’t worry, it’s not a promposal or anything. I wouldn’t be that dramatic.”

         “Yes, you totally would.” Joshua corrected. Going to prom with Kyle would be a beautiful nightmare, one he wanted to agree to so badly because he wanted to give him a corsage and flowers and tell him Kyle looked beautiful in the maroon suit because he knew it was going to be true.

         “I’m saying we should go as friends. Who are you taking?” Joshua shrugged.

         “No idea.”

         “What about Krystal? Don’t you still talk to her?”

         Joshua had told Kyle about his high school girlfriends and how they all managed to end one way or another. Krystal and Joshua had stayed pretty good friends at church camp even after their break-up. “She’s a freshman in college. Why would she want to go to some senior prom?”

         “Because she won’t expect anything from you.” Joshua didn’t have time to respond before the bell rang, and Kyle waved him off before heading to his next class.

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         It was already 4am the next morning, but Joshua wasn’t studying. Finals had come and gone, and he had secured, to the ever-growing praise of his parents and friends, the spot as valedictorian for the graduating class of 2014. With a full ride to college in his back pocket, for the first time in his school career, he could relax.

         Well, he thought he could. But contrary to the ever-prevalent ‘perfect’, ‘relax’ seems to be the one word that never stayed in his mental dictionary. Tucked away in the corner of his closet, hands gripping the shiny, new iPhone he was given for graduation, Joshua was frantic. His parents had long since turned in, leaving him to sob via FaceTime to the one person he knew he could rely on: Yoon Jeonghan. Being midday in Korea, Joshua always knew he was a safe bet when he needed someone to talk to late at night. 

         “Jeonghan, what am I going to do?” he sobbed, resting his head against the wall. “I can’t do this anymore, I just can’t.”

         “Joshuji, relax.” Jeonghan soothed gently. They had been on the phone for forty-five minutes already as he listened to his friend’s troubles. “Why don’t you just go with him and say it’s a friend’s thing?”

         “My parents want me to take a girl. They’ll be so disappointed if their only son doesn’t go to his last prom of high school without a date! Everyone thinks I’m going to ask a girl! If I don’t, I’m basically wearing a sign around my neck saying ‘I’m into guys, I’ve fooled you all!’”

         “As long as it matches the suit, I think it’ll be okay.” Jeonghan teased.

         “You’re not helping!” Joshua sobbed, his head falling into his knees. “I can’t do it anymore; I just can’t handle this anymore. Any of it…I want this to be over.”

         “School?”

         “Everything.” He sniffled. “I want everything to be over. I can’t be around to disappoint anyone if I’m not around at all.”

         “Hong Jisoo!” The sound of his Korean name made him lift his head up to see Jeonghan glaring at him. “Don’t talk like that! Do you know how many lives would be different if you weren’t in them at this very moment?! Your parents, Kyle’s, Johnny’s, mine?”

         The duo sat in silence because Joshua didn’t know what else to say. It was a long, painful silence. Finally, Joshua choked up. “I’m so hopelessly in love with him and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m terrified….”

         “I know.” Jeonghan said. “Just think, the year will be over soon and you’ll be on a flight to see me for the summer. We will have the best summer ever! Then, when you are ready to go back for college, we can figure out your feelings together, okay?”

         “Okay.” Joshua hummed. Eventually ending the call with a reassuring sendoff, Joshua let silence overtake him. He leaned against his perfectly organized church clothes for another long minute and let out a defeated sign. The sun was already rising, bleeding in through the window, as he pulled out his phone to text Krystal, asking her to be his date to the senior prom.

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         Prom pictures included himself, Krystal, Johnny, his date, and Kyle posing all over Joshua’s large house. Their parents made it a whole thing, Joshua’s mother crying at how handsome he looked. How perfect he looked and what a respectable young man he had grown up to be. Joshua felt nauseous the entire time, keeping his gaze anywhere but in Kyle’s direction because he knew if he stared too long, his mother would snap a picture where he had hearts in his eyes.

         Krystal’s popularity in high school meant she had more than enough friends in the senior class to mingle with, Joshua not minding one bit. Most of the night was great, chatting up friends, taking photos and dancing. This was the last time for them to let loose like this in school. After this year, everyone was going to travel their own paths, breaking apart as they discovered what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives.

Joshua’s path had been predetermined since before he knew the word ‘perfect’; go to college with an academic scholarship, excel in both grades and extracurriculars, and graduate top of his class with a job offer in any school district he wanted. It was easy, it was predictable, it was safe. 

         When Kyle pulled him to the dance floor as ‘Let Me Love You’ by Ne-Yo blasted on the dance floor, Joshua knew that there was a massive wrench thrown in his plans. He had spent the past 4 years trying so hard to ignore said wrench, to allow for his carefully crafted plans to play out without issue. However, each time he tried to bury the wrench and forget it existed, it would unearth itself and  barrel back into view like a vicious boomerang. 

         By the end of the night, Joshua was standing outside the venue, getting some much needed air after being bombarded by friends congratulating him for his expected – and according to Krystal, deserved - Prom King win. He only got to enjoy the quiet for a few minutes before Kyle appeared behind him.

         “Hey, King.” He smirked. “Did I call it or what?”

         “Yeah, yeah. You probably rigged the vote.”

         “I may have.” A teasing grin formed on his face. He stood at Joshua’s side and the duo fell into a comfortable silence. Joshua felt his heart pumping in his chest, picking at his fingernails in an attempt to keep his hands, eyes, and mind distracted. Finally, Kyle spoke up. “You know you’ll always be one of my best friends, right?” 

Joshua hummed. “Yeah. You too.” 

Kyle nodded his head. “I want to ask you something kind of personal.” Joshua’s hands paused their skin picking and he looked over. “...I never wanted to ask, because you always looked nervous about it, but…” blue eyes that sparkled even brighter under the stars fell in his direction. “Joshua, are you gay?”

         Joshua looked back at him. He licked his lips. “N-.” A deep breath. “I don’t know…I think so.”

         “How long have you ‘thought so’?” 

“Probably freshman year…”

Kyle smiled, almost sadly, Joshua noticed. “It was a lot for me to come to terms with, too. There’s a lot of things you need to think about. I was terrified to tell my parents.” 

         “Your parents are cool, though.” Joshua looked down at his fingers again. Another moment of silence, before Kyle stepped closer to Joshua. He finally looked back up, noticing the distance between them get smaller. “…Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked softly.

         Kyle shrugged. “I know I said it was hard for me to come to terms with but I’m happier now than I was when I was 13, sneaking around at school and telling my grandma at Thanksgiving that I had a girlfriend from Canada or something.” Joshua chuckled a bit under his breath. “Everyone has their own experience. You’ll find out how you fit into everything at your own pace.”

         “I wish it was that easy…” he said softly. Kyle poked his cheek, and when Joshua turned his head to look at him, he asked:

“Can I kiss you?” Joshua paused for only a second. “I’ve always tried to find the perfect time to ask so…” Joshua smiled, giving a nod of his head. 

“Okay…” With a beaming grin, Kyle leaned in and planted one very quick kiss on his lips. Joshua felt him pull back, but he didn’t get far before Joshua grabbed him by the tie of his suit and eyed him up and down. “That suit really does look good on you.” He said. Kyle grinned as he quickly leaned into another kiss. Things were finally looking up just a bit. 

       The summer after, while Joshua was in South Korea, Kyle moved across the country for college. The duo still kept in touch over the phone and on social media. Kyle is still saved in Joshua’s phone as ‘Your Gay Yoda’, and Joshua will dare not change it for as long as he lives and breathes on this earth. But their relationship never really went farther than catching up during the summer when Kyle returned home, and Joshua had to tell himself that it was perfect, whether he liked it or not.

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         Joshua attended college two hours away from home, hoping the distance between himself and his parents would help ease some of his worries. It did; sort of. He could stare at other men who had yet to know him and offer a few attempts at flirting without worrying that it would get to his mom through the church book club. He managed to room with the one person he knew from high school, but he was out so often chasing girls and going to parties that Joshua basically roomed alone. That was fine by him.

         College, at first, was uneventful. Late-night study sessions at the library, working weekends at a tutoring center for children off campus, and attending tons of school events. One, in particular, made his entire world flip upside down. When he attended a mid-semester fall festival and met the very handsome Liberal Arts major that was Kim Taehyung.

         How does one describe Kim Taehyung? Kim Taehyung has a boxy smile, beautiful skin, and a deep voice that makes Joshua tremble every time he hears it. The duo became fast friends, and Joshua developed feelings even faster. However, he kept them tucked away in the farthest part of his brain. Taehyung was the first real friend he made on campus, and he had no intention of letting feelings come between them. They also shared the same birthday, down to the year and date. When Joshua and Taehyung found this out, Taehyung was tickled about finding his ‘hot birthday twin’. The word ‘hot’ seared itself into Joshua’s skull, but he only laughed along. 

When December 30th finally rolled around, and Taehyung suggested that they celebrate properly, Joshua didn’t need to read too deep into the lustful gaze Taehyung gave him from the other side of the dorm room, or the way his voice practically growled into the words. He knew exactly what was being offered. 

         His 19th birthday was, without question, the best one of his life. Even though he may have cried about it when all was said and done.

         All of Joshua’s previous notions about sex being “sacred” and “only for after marriage” went out the window at the first promise of freedom and self-expression. Joshua and Taehyung managed a ‘friends with benefits’ relationship through the first two years of college. Joshua would take girls home to his parents, but always return to Taehyung’s dorm the second he got back to campus. The only time he didn’t see Taehyung was during midterms and finals because he locked himself into his room much as he always did, forgoing sleep, food, and even sex. If he was going to disappoint his parents in the shadows, he had to make them proud in the daylight. But when exams were over, and Joshua finally allowed himself to breathe, he found himself running off with Taehyung, somewhere that they could be alone. 

         But over time, it wasn’t just Taehyung. It was anyone he could get his hands on. At college parties, Joshua found someone new to sneak back into his dorm. Late nights were no longer filled with blurs of textbooks, but blurs of faces Joshua couldn’t remember when he woke up the next morning. He would lie in his bed, listening to the clock tick away painfully slow before he forced himself out of bed, packed foundation under his eyes, downed a cup of coffee and an Ibuprofen – two depending on how the night went – and made his way out of the dorm with a smile plastered on his face. He was good at the double life. It was easy, it felt almost natural.

         It was painful. Every day felt like he was running, looking over his shoulder in fear of being caught. He needed to get far enough away from LA, from the crushing weight of his parent’s eyes. Even with two hours of distance, it took one car ride and they’d be at his door, and who knows what they’d see. Joshua couldn’t handle it. He needed to get farther.

         He needed to hop on a plane.

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         Joshua moved to Korea the summer before his junior year started. Inspired by one of his family’s yearly trips to South Korea, where he spent a few days teaching eager six-year-olds how to say “My name is” in English. He left that trip knowing exactly what he wanted to do.

In a new space, Joshua needed time to adjust. He settled into Jeonghan’s apartment and began attending school, keeping his head low the first year, managing his good grades the only way he knew how: Ibuprofen and coffee. His reputation as the overachieving newbie snagged him a job as TA for Professor Moon his senior year. The bar of expectation was one Joshua could meet easily, even if he had to stay up for three straight nights practicing his high jump. In Korea, he felt free from the watchful eye of his parents, far enough away to figure things out for himself without worrying about bringing anyone home and putting on any shows. Things were finally starting to feel normal once again. 

         Then Lee Seokmin was seen staring at him in front of the quad in the fall of his senior year.

         Joshua caught the awkward brunette staring at him while he was ending a phone call with his mother, watching him full sprint back inside when they made eye contact. The nameless individual disappeared within the crowd of students before he could even step back inside. There wasn’t enough time to go searching for him now, despite how curious he was. Chalking it up to a cute encounter, Joshua made his way towards his next class.

         That wasn’t the last time Joshua had seen Lee Seokmin, in fact, the encounters only doubled. He was friends with students in the classes he worked for, and lived a few blocks away from his most frequented convenience store. Very few art pieces in all of the museums Joshua has been to in his life compared to the side profile of this brunette on campus. Joshua felt the breath hitch in his throat when Seokmin opened his mouth to talk, fumbling over his words when realizing he bought the last of the chicken ramen in the store. He felt fireworks going off in his entire body whenever Seokmin took his hand, the feeling remaining even after the both of them parted. 

         Lee Seokmin drove Joshua’s mind into a frenzy. He didn’t realize how hard someone could fall for another person after only meeting them a handful of times, but he couldn’t get Seokmin out of his mind. Sentences in his textbooks melted into questions Seokmin asked him that day, that toothy grin etched so deeply into his brain that even the toughest of diagrams couldn’t break through. Joshua had to hold himself back from doodling the guy’s name on someone’s essay! When Joshua heard Seokmin laugh, it felt like a sin not to smile back because he was just so damn beautiful and contagious. Joshua wanted to be around Seokmin all the time. 

         So, when he offered to help prepare Seokmin’s lines for the auditions, he meant it. It came with a problem, however. How would move his busy midterm study schedule to accommodate a few hours of freedom? He eyed his calendar for any little spot, any opening that he could squeeze Seokmin into because he wanted to see him so badly. Guess I’ll start my all-nighter’s a bit earlier this term.

         “Sunday evening. I can hang out Sunday evening, I’ll make it work.”

         Seokmin looked shocked, but a glimmer of excitement in his eyes was enough to cement the offer. “Are you sure?”

         “As long as it’s not too late, yes, I’m sure.” And it was set.

         The night before seeing Seokmin, Joshua stayed up the entire time, working to make sure he wouldn’t fall behind in his work for Professor Moon or in his classes. From 10 p.m. to 10 a.m., he lived on coffee and adrenaline much as he always did, a tissue discarded from the nosebleed he had to tend to from 2-2:30. No big deal, just another obstacle.

         At 5 that morning, however, after sending a confirmation text to Seokmin, Joshua sat on the couch to relax and didn’t remember anything else. The next thing he remembered was Jeonghan shaking him awake, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Joshua’s eyes snapped open and he sat up.

         “What time is it?” he gasped, eyes still glazed over as he woke up.

         “5,” Jeonghan said. “Didn’t you have somewhere to be?” Joshua’s paled.

         “Oh, fuck.” Hopping off the couch, Joshua hurried into his room to throw on the first few things he could find in his closet and took off out the door. Seokmin forgave him that time, he was lucky. But it didn’t stop there. Joshua was going to head to Seokmin’s audition when Professor Moon pulled him aside, asking him to get a head start on creating a test for the next unit. Joshua was able to create a fleshed-out and comprehensive test in under an hour. Not a problem, right?

         Joshua sat down in the back of the lecture hall to get to work, and he didn’t remember anything else. All he remembers is blinking a few extra times and realizing he was still sitting in front of the computer. While the test was finished, auditions had already been going on for about an hour. Joshua found himself racing across campus, head pounding from the intense stare he must have given the screen. But he was still too late.

         Joshua was unable to be the perfect anything to Seokmin. He could only play the part so much, gentle smiles and warm embraces to keep Seokmin at his side. But in reality, he was floundering and he didn’t know what to do about it. It would only be a matter of time before Seokmin was the one to call him out on his facade. He would rip the perfect mask off, stomp it under his heel, and storm away, leaving Joshua alone and imperfect.

         Despite this, however, Seokmin still stayed by Joshua’s side. He still smiled when Joshua complimented him, and he still blushed when the duo bumped elbows. It was perfect, he was perfect. Joshua almost envied how perfect Lee Seokmin was. It hurt Joshua even more knowing he caused Seokmin so much pain in only a few months.

         Seokmin had just come to see Joshua during one of his discussions, shy but smiling just as he always was. Joshua’s heart was in a vice grip. He’d popped an Ibuprofen to hopefully soothe the throbbing in his brain. Seeing the smile he’d grown to adore fall from Seokmin’s face, hurt worse than any headache he’d ever experienced. 

In hopes of soothing his brain, Joshua had convinced Jeonghan to sit and make bracelets together with him. They’d been at it for an hour, and so far, no luck, his mind still racing with a million and one thoughts.  They worked in silence for a long time, before Joshua finally paused his work on the bracelet. “He’s too good for me, Jeonghan. I don’t deserve him.”

Jeonghan was silent for a long time, stringing a few random colors onto the cord in his grip. He turned to Joshua and said: “Joshua, that’s not true.” Eyes softening, Jeonghan shifted in his seat and looked at the younger of the two. “We’re at that point in our lives where relationships are going to get harder. Being in a relationship is supposed to make life enjoyable, not painful. You need balance.” When Joshua didn’t reply, Jeonghan continued: “But you won’t get balance, in a relationship or anything, if you keep this whole studying nonsense up while trying to manage a relationship.”

Joshua glanced over. “I….” He sighed. “I know.” 

Jeonghan leaned forward. “Where do you see yourself in the future?”

The question left him speechless. He was no longer standing on the same race track he had in the past. Joshua could push all he wanted, but the finish line in this long and painful race was no longer in his sights. “Teaching.” That was all he could say. “Like I’ve always planned.” 

“Not with Seokmin?” 

“That too.” he added. “I would hope…” 

Jeonghan hummed. “Well, when I look at you, I see a really successful teacher. One who changes lives and makes an impact.” Joshua smiled a bit. “Want to know what I don’t see?” He scooted closer, plucking the bead from his friend's fingers, only to use it on his own. Joshua pouted. “I don’t see someone whose path in life will crumble at his feet just because of a point or two off a test, or a missing homework assignment. But you don’t let yourself have that break, that’s why you’re at this crossroads with Seokmin. You want to be perfect in to many areas. You need that balance, need to discard some of the burden.”

Joshua felt his eyes sting; with a sigh, he leaned back against the chair. “Jeonghan…” his voice was trembling.  “It sounds so easy when you say it that way…I wish I could say it that easily…”

Jeonghan hummed. “Let me do it for now, then…I’ll carry that burden until it isn’t a burden anymore.” Jeonghan offered. “And if I’m not around to say it, then Seokmin will take my place, no question. He wants to be in your life. I can see how much he means to you. And I can see how much you mean to him. He’s crazy about you, Joshua….”

“You think?” Joshua asked, feeling the cracks in his heart mend just a bit. Jeonghan smiled. 

“But before you can handle any of that, you need to take a good look at yourself and decide what you need to have in your life to be happy.” He nestled himself up to Joshua and flashed a playful grin. “I’ll get you started. Number one: me. You’re stuck with me forever.” Joshua, for the first time since sitting down to make the bracelets, felt his nose crinkle and a genuine laugh escape his lips. 

         After his talk with Jeonghan, Joshua was trying to focus on his studies, on his discussions, on himself, but he couldn’t. The entire time he was thinking of Seokmin, of just how upset he must feel. Most of his late nights were spent just staring at his screen, eyes bloodshot and strained. He could barely close his eyes without his head falling heavy onto the desk, the contact of his skull and the wood snapping him awake for another few hours. It went on for weeks; he stayed home from school because it felt as if his body was glued to his desk chair. If he was going to be a disappointment to Seokmin in the shadows, he needed to be a respectable student in the daylight. There needed to be some gain if he was at risk of losing so much. 

         The day Seokmin visited, Joshua could barely feel the things around him. His fingers could barely type, and his eyes could barely focus. Coffee wasn’t enough, and he had only managed to sleep for an hour before his body woke up in a cold sweat and a panic. However, when Seokmin was staring at him through his door frame, Joshua felt a light switch in his body trying desperately to flick on. He tried to look presentable for him, to smile for him, and listen to whatever it was he came over to say. He could barely register any string of words, but he knew he wanted to hear it. A few Ibuprofens and a vocalized plea for them to kill him were just enough to keep him grounded so Seokmin could speak.       

         He didn’t expect the nosebleed, however. Or to stagger into the bathroom and stare at his reflection. He didn’t expect to see two of himself in the bathroom mirror, or for his legs to buckle when he tried to turn back around and head into the living room. He also didn’t expect to fall over and for everything to turn dark for a few minutes. But at least he was finally able to sleep.

The only thing he remembers is opening his eyes just barely, feeling something cold on his forehead. His eyes were blurry, and the ringing in his ears made it feel as though they would burst any moment. He could hear very faint speaking, but he could barely make out who was sitting beside him. It felt like he was looking through a kaleidoscope. 

         “Hit his head….yes….it’s unlocked….he has a…..and a….okay…. hurry.”

         And he doesn’t remember much else.

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         It felt as if someone was pounding a hammer in Joshua’s skull, right between the eyes. He groaned, unsuccessful at squeezing the throbbing sensation out through his ears. As his body began waking up, he felt a sting in his arm. His head lolled to the side, where he saw a large tube leading up to an IV bag. When he opened his mouth, it was incredibly dry, and he wasn’t able to speak until he licked his lips and swallowed a few times.

         Joshua sat up in bed, looking down at the needle in his arm connected to the IV. His eyes scanned the room he was in, a single-person hospital room. The sun was barely poking from behind the skyscrapers that surrounded them, spilling into the little couch on the other end of the room. When his hand went up to his head, he felt something soft. Turning to the nearest mirror, a large white bandage was wrapped around his forehead. His nose wasn’t bleeding anymore. That’s a plus. “What the hell happened?”

         Shifting in bed was harder to do than expected; the throbbing in his head felt as if the hammer had been replaced with a chainsaw. Great. Just perfect. He thought to himself. Searching for a call button led Joshua’s eyes to land on something else, something that made his breath hitch and his brain start rewinding the tapes in his head of how he ended up here.

         On the other side of his bed, closer to the skyline view, Seokmin had his head resting on the bed. His eyes were closed tight as if to fight back against whatever nightmare was plaguing him. Joshua immediately leaned forward and pressed a hand gently into Seokmin’s hair. Fingers threaded gently among Seokmin’s locks, and within minutes, the twisted, pained look on Seokmin’s face began to soften. He finally began sleeping with a content look etched into each one of his perfect features. Joshua smiled a bit.

         It was still early; a nurse wouldn’t come to the room for another few hours. So, Joshua passed the time in silence, his hand tangled in Seokmin’s soft locks long after he had found peace in his dreams.

         Joshua Hong, the man whose name was always melded within ‘perfect’ to the point he thought they were the same word, had a thought cross his mind.

         Joshua spent his entire life trying to embody the word ‘perfect’, while Lee Seokmin filled the role naturally. Joshua wanted to be jealous, but as he looked at the sleeping man at his bedside, he could only hope that the word hadn’t wormed its way into Seokmin’s life and forced him to maintain such high expectations, as it did for Joshua. He wanted better for Seokmin.

Seokmin was like an open book, one Joshua wanted to keep reading over and over again, keeping note of each of his favorite parts to reference back to later. He wanted to find all of Seokmin’s deeper meanings and his ideals. Cover to cover, Joshua wanted to understand the entire story that was Lee Seokmin.

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[taomyou]

The Romance of Reimbursements - Chapter 20

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader Status: COMPLETED Summary: There’s a guy you see every Friday on bus 143, and you think he’s pretty hot. It wouldn’t hurt to tell your best friend about him, would it? or, you and Levi take the same bus home from work every Friday, and you fall in love slowly, clumsily, and with all the time in the world to fold as many paper stars as your heart desires. Word Count: 8.7k Tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, modern au, office au, fluff, romance, meet-cute, matchmaking (A/N: this fic is entirely available on ao3 here if you would like to read it there instead!) Chapter Navigation Accompanying Playlist

the moon and

Levi - 6:37 PM

I’m not taking the bus on Friday, no need to wait up for me

Levi sighs as he slips his phone back into his pocket after sending the text, and he crosses his arms as he looks back up at the presentation on the board.

To put it simply, Levi hates a lot of things.

He hates when people point out how weirdly he holds his teacup, he hates when Isabel forgets to do the laundry, and he hates when Hange is behind the wheel of the vehicle he’s in.

Hate is a strong word, though, so he can settle for “strong dislike” to describe his feelings for those things if he has to.

But if there’s anything Levi hates, it’s faculty meetings.

On paper, they’re not so bad.

They only happen twice a year, at the end of each semester, and they’re not supposed to go for any longer than 45 minutes. The presenter is the department chair, and Levi is on decent-enough terms with him.

And despite the fact that he’s only ever been to one of these things before, Levi knows he fucking hates them.

The meeting itself is boring. The department chair, bless his heart, speaks at practically four syllables a minute, and Levi is too respectful to just take out his phone in the middle of the presentation. The information being presented at this “important” mandatory faculty meeting could very well be condensed into a single email, and Levi’s sure that this “meeting” is just a social event in disguise.

Also, because Levi never attends anything that isn’t mandatory, everyone decides that when he does show up, they’re going to swarm him with all the questions in the world.

The older faculty members try hooking him up with their daughters, under the impression that someone like Levi is just dying to settle down, and everyone else either asks him for help in furthering their own careers or how to get their Rate My Professor scores as high as his. That or they ask him very personal questions that he doesn’t want to answer. Maybe that’s why he was able to handle your father so well.

But worst of all: they always announce an end-of-term event.

It’s apparently a Sina University tradition for the architectural studies department to go on a mandatory outing with everyone on the staff.

Something about “bonding” and “trust-building,” whatever that fucking means.

Last semester, it was Shadis’ turn to decide what the event was, and he chose a day out ziplining. Levi somehow managed to weasel his way out of it, having cited the “fact” that he’s allergic to the very specific variant of grass in the forest they were headed to (he is most definitely not allergic to grass, specific variant or otherwise).

This time, it’s Pixis’ turn to decide where to go, and he announces that the staff will all be going to Sina’s Kitchen for dinner. There’s no grass in a restaurant, though, so Levi can’t weasel his way out of this one and has to at least pretend to listen as Pixis announces the details.

The day Pixis chooses for this mandatory dinner? Friday, June 23rd.

As much as Levi already couldn’t give less of a shit about going to dinner with his annoying, nosy coworkers, having this be on such short notice makes Levi care just enough to be angry. Can it even be considered a dinner if it’s starting at 4 in the fucking afternoon?

And did Pixis really have to choose a Friday? For fucks sake, now he has to cancel lecture, which means he won’t be on campus on Friday, which means he won’t be taking the bus with you on Friday.

Levi already went across town yesterday to pick up a pre-ordered tin of midsummer raspberry tea for you. The website advertised the tea as a premium summer blend, and with the end of spring having already passed, Levi figured it’d be a good way to mark that transition.

Not that he cares that much about the seasons enough to know that on his own—it’s just that lately, Hange’s been mouthing off about how great summer’s going to be, and they never shut up about how June 21st was the Summer Solstice.

But anyway, Levi knows that holding onto the tea for longer than he originally intended is going to make him unnecessarily antsy for the moment he gets to see you again.

Not that he doesn’t already constantly feel that way in-between the fleeting Fridays that the two of you share and the miscellaneous chance meetings he has with you every-so-often, but he’s just going to ignore that for sake of finding justification in his heightened dislike towards his colleague.

In the middle of Pixis explaining how the faculty dinner will go, Levi feels a buzz in his pocket, and because he’s too upset at the scheduling to give more of a shit about what’s being said and because he thinks it’s you responding, he pulls out his phone underneath the table and checks who’s texting him.

He’s pretty disappointed to see that it’s just Erwin.

Ugh, he hates texting this bastard. Why’s he always so passive aggressive with his punctuation?

Erwin - 6:40 PM

Are you free Saturday evening?

Well, at least it’s not Hange. Erwin’s plans aren’t nearly as chaotic as theirs.

Levi - 6:41 PM

Sure Why?

Erwin - 6:41 PM

My firm is having a party on Saturday, I’d like you to come.

Levi - 6:41 PM

Why the fuck would I go to one of your work parties?

Erwin - 6:42 PM

Your dear friend is getting promoted, you should come celebrate!

Levi scoffs.

Levi - 6:42 PM

Don’t you make enough money? What business do you have making even more?

Erwin - 6:43 PM

I’m flattered you consider me a dear friend. But you should come! Astraea and our other friends will be there.

At the mention of you, Levi can’t help but let the corners of his lips turn up.

Well, at least if you’re there, you and him can be wallflowers together. Maybe you can even help him put faces to the names of the people you tell him about when you’re talking about workplace drama.

The faculty lady sitting next to Levi notices that he’s smiling at his phone and leans over to try and sneak a peek of what’s on his screen, but when he notices that she’s coming closer, he glares daggers at her. She pulls away quickly and apologetically, and Levi gets back to Erwin.

Levi - 6:45 PM

Okay, I’ll be there

Erwin - 6:46 PM

Excellent! Dress fancy. It's at 5:00 PM.

Before Levi puts his phone away again, he checks to see if you’ve replied yet. When he sees that you’ve read the message and just didn’t reply, he assumes that it’s because you’re busy getting dinner ready and your hands aren’t free enough to type back a response, and he puts his phone back in his pocket to listen to what else needs to be said in this mess of a meeting.

Just like last time, as soon as the actual meeting part is over, he’s swarmed. From every direction, there’s someone begging Levi to agree to a date with their niece, another trying to get Levi alone to talk about his freelance work, and someone else asking if he’s free for a date with them.

And even though the night is both boring and chaotic and the stupid faculty dinner completely throws off his plans of taking the bus on Friday, he can’t help but feel properly compensated by the fact that he’ll get to see you again on Saturday.

✰

By the time Levi’s able to escape the conference room he’s been trapped in for the last three hours, it’s almost 8 PM, and Levi has to run to catch the last bus of the day.

Somehow, he gets there with five minutes to spare, and because it’s so late in the day, there’s nobody else waiting at the bus stop. When he gets on, there’s nobody other than the bus driver who looks more tired than Levi does.

There’s no rush as Levi takes his time getting out his wallet, scanning his fare card, putting it back, and zipping it back into the front pocket of his backpack.

And yet, despite the relative unfamiliarity of this particular night, when he goes to take his usual seat on the bus, he can’t help but continually look over to his right, thinking that the seat feels empty without you next to him.

When he gets home and gets the water to fill his kettle, his brain short-circuits, immediately changing gears to think about whether or not you would like the tea he picked out for you this week.

When he stays up late to finish up with the paperwork he couldn’t finish during the day, he can’t help but feel like you would’ve scolded him for bringing it home with him in the first place.

All throughout the night, though, Levi can’t help but be concerned about the fact you never texted him back. He knows that you’ve already read the message, and you're normally very quick to respond when he sends his tea ratings every other week.

It’s weird, because instead of completely ignoring his phone like the week following the night he fell asleep at your place, Levi’s practically stuck to it like glue.

Every second of every waking moment, Levi keeps his phone close to him, constantly checking if you’ve gotten back to him. He restarts his phone every other hour to make sure that the operating system is up-to-date, and he texts his own number to make sure that his phone is able to receive messages.

Fuck, during lecture on Thursday, he even keeps his phone notifications set to “sound” so that he won’t miss it if you do text him.

Isabel and Furlan notice that something’s wrong near immediately, but it isn’t until Friday when Levi’s getting ready to leave the house that the two force Levi to come sit at their shared dining room table and spill his heart out to them at gunpoint.

Unfortunately for them, Levi doesn’t even know if he has a heart to begin with.

“Get off my fucking back, it’s nothing.”

Furlan sighs. “Dude, there is clearly something bothering you.”

“Yeah, this is worse than when you weren’t using your phone.”

Levi scrunches his nose to feign annoyance, but his breath momentarily hitches in his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“We’re not stupid. Literally nobody bought your whole ‘I just didn’t want to use my phone’ bullshit.”

Fuck. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever, man, but at least hand over your phone while you get ready,” Furlan demands. “You can’t put on a suit with one hand, can you?”

“I’ll do whatever I want.”

“Levi!” Isabel groans. “You can’t keep doing this! Are you, like, waiting for a text or something?”

Levi awkwardly purses his lips before opening his mouth to speak, but no words come out.

“Holy shit, you are.”

“I never said that,” Levi huffs, pushing himself up from his seat. He takes his phone out of his pocket and slides it across the table to Furlan. “There.”

Levi all but stomps back to his room to finish putting on his suit, making sure that he looks presentable enough for the crowd of faculty that’s going to inevitably examine every detail of his outfit, and he slips past the dining room straight for the shoe rack.

As he’s lacing them up, he hears the footsteps of Isabel and Furlan as they make their way to the couch. Isabel’s holding out his phone to him from her spot on the couch, so he struts over to get it before he leaves.

“Hey, don’t worry about it too much, yeah?” Furlan advises. “I’m sure she’s just busy.”

“She’s always busy,” Levi frowns. “And how the fuck do you know who it is?”

Isabel and Furlan look to each other, unsure of whether or not they want to test Levi’s patience right now.

“We don’t,” Isabel says, waving him off. “Have fun at your dinner.”

Levi rolls his eyes as he goes to open the door, feeling at his pocket to make sure he has his wallet with him. “I won’t, but thanks.”

When Levi closes the door behind him, the two friends let out an exasperated sigh and sink further into the plush sofa.

“What the hell is wrong with him?”

“To be fair, I’d be pretty stressed if I were him,” Furlan muses. “He usually sees her on Fridays, right?”

Isabel readjusts herself on the couch to get a better look at her friend. “He does?”

Thinking back to the note from you that Isabel found in Levi’s wallet, she starts putting together the pieces.

Is that what you meant when you wrote the bit about not paying you back on Friday? Come to think of it, the assortment of tea in the kitchen just keeps growing and growing, and Isabel knows that Levi isn’t stupid enough to buy all of that on his own.

He snorts. “Yeah, it’s the only day of the week he puts gel in his hair.”

“I’m always out of the house earlier than he is on Fridays, but have you ever seen him bring anything with him?”

“I guess? Sometimes he takes a box of tea with him, he asks me to make sure that it doesn’t have caffeine in it.”

Yep, that explains it.

God, you’re just as much of a loser as Levi is if your love language is just constantly giving and receiving containers of tea.

“You know, I remember Astraea saying that she doesn’t really drink caffeine.”

“When was that?” Furlan asks. “Was I there?”

“It was when we called her for help at the grocery store! You know, when we were getting ingredients for the egg tarts.”

“Oh yeah! I remember now, that was forever ago!” He exclaims. “So you think he brings it for her?”

“Yeah, and she probably gives some to him too. Like, they take turns.”

Furlan looks over towards the counter space where Levi keeps all the tea. “Explains why we have so much of it in the house.”

Isabel sighs and rolls over onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. “I really like her, I hope he figures out what’s going on between them. Don’t you think it’s weird, though, that he’s kept it up for so long?”

“What do you mean?”

Isabel covers her eyes from the lights with her forearm, moving around to get more comfortable. “Levi doesn’t really care about paying people back that much,” she says. “Well, he does, but he doesn’t let it happen again after the first time.”

Furlan hums to himself. “You remember that one architectural basics class he made me take with him?”

Isabel nods, her arm still over her face. “Yeah, you dropped it after, like, a week. Why’re you bringing it up now?”

He shrugs. “Before I dropped out, the professor talked a lot about repayments and shit, and how you have to keep track of all the stuff you do for people.”

“So? I don’t think he’s constantly getting her tea just because one professor told him to act like a fucking debt collector in his professional relationships.”

“Hey!” Furlan exclaims. “Don’t put words in my mouth, I never said that! But anyway, he’d say some shit like, ‘oh, if you need to meet with a client, then you can just pull up their reimbursement sheet and use that as an excuse to see them.’ Sounds like what Levi’s doing right now.”

“That’s a lot of unsolicited work advice for a basics class,” Isabel laughs. “But that does sound right! I wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing that?”

Furlan chuckles. “He probably isn’t, but I think once he figures out why he always wants to see her, he’ll be fine.”

A lightbulb turns on in Isabel’s head. “Wait, that actually makes so much sense! She’s a lawyer, and I’m, like, pretty sure that the same concept exists for her too! She’s probably doing the same thing!”

Furlan nods in agreement. “We’re fucking geniuses, aren’t we?”

“We really are!” Isabel cheers, extending out her arms. “Ugh, but they better hurry it up. I’m so sick of watching them dance around each other all the time.”

“I mean, at least they’re dancing together, right? It’s cute, even if it is kinda pathetic.”

“I guess you’re right,” Isabel muses. “It’s okay! I’m sure things will all work out soon enough.”

Furlan looks over at the teas again, all neatly lined up on their kitchen’s countertop, and he smiles gently. “Something tells me it will.”

✰

Levi drives to Sina’s Kitchen with a newfound desire to have the time move faster.

His housemates are wrong. There’s nothing wrong with him being worried about you not texting him back. There’s no hidden romantic undertones to this.

It’s not a big deal for him to be worried.

People ignore their phones for tons of reasons, and Levi just can’t shake away the feeling that there’s something wrong for you to not have responded to his text yet.

He’s allowed to worry, even if it might not be a big deal. For all he knows, you could be ignoring his phone for all the same reasons he did, way back in April.

Though, he can’t imagine what it is about any of your recent interactions that would make you nervous enough to avoid your phone entirely.

But nevermind that, he needs time to move faster so that he can ask you about it tomorrow. All he has to get through between now and then is one measly dinner.

After Levi parks his car and steps into the lobby, it’s already full with the rest of the staff and other restaurant-goers. He keeps to himself, standing off to the side while everyone around him talks, and soon enough, a waiter calls together the party of 40-something people to take them to their tables.

Levi recognizes Marco and nods to him as he passes by, and Marco smiles back at him in return.

Because there’s not enough tables, Marco tells everyone that someone will have to sit alone at the two-person booth that’s close enough to where everyone else is, and Levi volunteers because he’ll do literally anything to avoid contact with the rest of the people there. Everyone chimes in with their thanks for his “sacrifice,” and Marco’s kind enough to offer him another smile for it.

It’s pure coincidence that the booth Levi’s seated at is the one he shared with you on Valentine’s Day.

Unfortunately, it isn’t a coincidence that Pixis “feels bad” for Levi and chooses to sit down across from him.

Marco and a couple other waiters comes back eventually to get everyone’s drink orders, and because it’s near instinct at this point, Levi asks for a paper napkin in addition to his tea. When Marco comes back with the familiar navy blue squares, Levi thanks him, and he gets to tearing at the soft paper to try and make a star on his own.

“What’re you up to, Ackerman?” Pixis asks from across the table. When Levi gives no response, the man laughs. “Chatty as ever, huh?”

Levi looks up and nods apologetically. “Sorry.”

“No worries, I can see how talking to a man as accomplished as myself would be intimidating for an industry rookie like you,” he gloats, leaning back into the plush of the booth seat.

Levi laughs dryly before looking back down at the strip of paper in his hands again. “Yeah, definitely.”

Fuck, how did you do this part again?

“What’s that you’re making?”

Levi thinks for a second before just plainly giving up and telling him. Pixis isn’t going to stop asking anyway; might as well give him the answer he wants now.

“A star.”

“Really? I never would’ve been able to guess!”

At the sudden increase in volume, Levi accidentally rips the paper.

Great, he has to start over again.

Marco and several other waiters come back with drinks for everyone, interrupting Pixis’ attempts to get Levi to talk to him, and Levi takes a sip of his tea before going back to his napkin and starting another star.

He’s mostly unsuccessful.

He does the beginning steps just fine—loop, tie, flatten, fold, tuck. When he gets to pinching the corners, though, he just can’t do it. He always needs you to reposition his fingers in the right spot for him to ever get it right, and tonight isn’t any different.

His pockets fill with the smushed paper disasters that can’t become stars, and he repeats the process several more times only to fail again.

It isn’t until he just blocks out the rest of the noise and pretends that it’s you across from him instead of the old geezer he has to call his colleague that he finally gets it.

He gently rolls the star between his fingers, afraid that it’ll deflate if he’s any rougher with it, and he comes back to reality by the time he puts the trinket away in his pocket.

“...and why can’t summer classes just be in person? You work at a world-class institution for 20 years, and you’d think they have the decency to let you know these things ahead of time.”

Wait, summer classes?

“What’re you talking about?” Levi cuts in. He already applied to teach on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays, just as he has been for the last year; he thought the schedules were already set in stone for the coming summer session.

Pixis turns to him. “You didn’t get the email?”

Levi’s frantic in racking his brain, trying to remember if he did ever get an email about this, but his mind draws a blank. He shakes his head.

“You and everyone else here,” Pixis sighs, taking a sip from his old-fashioned before getting back to Levi. “The dean forgot to email everyone in our department, but the campus is closing down for repairs this summer.”

The campus is closing down?

Wait, but then that means that—

“You good, Ackerman?”

Levi’s quick to nod his head, clearing his throat behind his fist to avoid raising any issue. “Yeah.”

“But yes, a friend of mine over in the engineering department told me about it a while ago over drinks at my apartment, but it slipped my mind until now,” Pixis laments while swirling his glass. “I’d just cancel classes entirely if it were up to me.”

The rest of the people around them agree with the man, nodding and chiming in with their own opinions, but Levi?

Truthfully, Levi couldn’t care less about the change.

His lesson plans have always been accommodating of students who can’t physically show up to lectures. If anything, not having to physically go to lectures would be more convenient for him—his lessons are already recorded, and all he would have to do is host office hours, grade assignments, and answer emails.

Summer classes aren't even active for another month; he has plenty of time to get the logistics sorted out.

Levi isn’t worried like the rest of his technologically-challenged coworkers are.

And yet, while Levi watches his colleagues animatedly voice their disdain for the newly uprooted summer plans, Levi’s head spins, worry coursing through his veins. The worries about you not texting him back leave his consciousness completely, and now they’re replaced with this.

He should be happy.

Having to teach is what got him here in the first place—he didn’t even want to come here. He’d rather be doing literally anything else right now, and he would’ve skipped if it weren’t for the fact that this was literally for his job.

But having to teach is what got him here. Sure, it’s in this seat where he’s uncomfortably forced to be amongst other members of faculty, but it’s still where he’s been sitting for the last half-hour, tearing at and folding the familiar navy blue paper napkin. Where he choked on his water, having seen you on Valentine’s Day instead of Erwin. Where he first got to truly know you as you.

Where he first got to properly see you smile.

No, not one of those fake smiles that you have to offer people when you’re at work or when you’re meeting someone new for the first time. Not the smile that you hide behind a napkin or your hand.

No.

It was the kind of smile that reaches your eyes and fills them with all the lights in the sky.

He’s grateful that Marco made for a comfortable buffer that night to keep you from noticing the red that burnt the tips of his ears, because in that brief fleeting moment, he finally realized how you got your namesake.

Levi took that Greek mythology course with Hange, way back then in undergrad. They probably forgot when they introduced you, but he definitely didn’t.

He actually thought it was pretty funny when he found out you were a lawyer, Astraea being the virgin goddess of justice and all. Her being known as the Star Maiden amongst the other Greek beings also made your little habit of making paper stars just that tiny bit more endearing than it already was.

But when he saw you smile, truly, for the first time, he realized it was much more than just that.

He swears he saw stars in your eyes in that moment, and he couldn’t tear himself away even when you turned away to get your wallet out to try and pay for dinner.

All of a sudden, the paper star—the one he just made—feels heavy in his pocket, and it threatens to pull him down with it.

Suddenly, he wants time to slow down. He wants it to grant him more opportunities to think about what he can do to try and salvage the remnants of the routine he’s grown into, to grant him more opportunities to think about you without these new worries.

In the present, people are still talking to him, but his mouth is on autopilot, forming answers to questions that go in one ear and out the other. When a waiter comes back with his meal, Levi eats it quietly and without hunger, lost in his own mind as he thinks about you.

Somehow, time moves even faster now than it did earlier, and he’s suddenly driving, weaving through highway and suburban streets to get home. He isn’t stupid—he isn’t going to let himself drive recklessly and fucking crash—but he’d probably take that paramount feeling of doom over what he’s about to experience when his mind doesn’t have anything to hold onto.

When he gets home, Isabel and Furlan are already fast asleep, and all the lights in the house have been turned off.

The light of the moon leaking in through the windows is more than enough to let Levi comfortably find his way around the house, though, so he doesn’t bother flipping the lightswitch back on.

After he takes off his shoes and sets his wallet down on the table, he walks over to his kettle, fills it with water, and pushes the button to get it started. He leans on the countertop, elbows comfortably on the stone surface, and he stares at the assortment of teas that line the space.

To some degree, they all blend together.

Not because he doesn’t care about tea anymore. No, definitely not.

The day that Levi stops caring about tea is the day the world stops spinning.

It’s just that… somewhere along the way, it wasn’t about tea anymore.

Inevitably, his eyes catch sight of the two yellow canisters, and he finds himself frowning even deeper than usual.

Even though he didn’t have the courage to admit to you that he’s been holding onto all the paper stars that he’s received from you, he thought that he’d at least someday be able to tell you that he appreciates the little trinkets more than he’s ever cared to let on.

After his kettle hisses, he takes both of the dandelion root canisters and brings them with him to the dining table, along with the hot water, a teapot, and a teacup.

Underneath the light of the moon, he uses his nail to peel away the plastic that seals the lid of the newer container, and he gently pours out a few strands of the tea before pouring in some of the hot water. He’s careful not to go too quickly, thinking back to how you burnt your hand doing the same thing.

Underneath the light of the moon, he pushes away the now-warm ceramic pot, and he grabs the other, more weathered yellow canister. He slowly unscrews the lid, and for the first time, he pours out all the stars onto the table, and he counts them to give himself something to occupy his mind while his tea steeps, even if only for the short couple of minutes that it takes him to do that.

Underneath the light of the moon, he counts 143 stars. This first time, Levi thinks that there’s no way that there could be that many, even if you sometimes manage to make three or four of them from the receipts that you fold, so he recounts them.

Underneath the light of the moon, he counts 143 stars a second time, this time by pushing the stars into groups of 14 groups of 10, which leaves 3 stars left without a group. This time, Levi thinks that there’s no way that he just happened to decide to count all of these out at the 143 mark, so he recounts them.

Underneath the light of the moon, he counts 143 stars a third time, this time by moving the stars into 13 groups of 11, which leaves no stars without a group. This time, Levi thinks that the universe is messing with him because there’s no way that 143 is both the total count of these stars and the number of the bus you take together.

Underneath the light of the moon, he decides that he should stop questioning the count, and he just quietly gathers them all up in one big pile before carefully putting them back into the canister, one by one. Even though he’s accepted that there’s 143 of them, he still counts the stars as he puts them back in, but he loses count right after he gets to 30.

Underneath the light of the moon, he pulls the teapot back towards him and pours himself a cup of dandelion root tea, and he turns to look outside his window at the celestial bodies that taunt him, egging him on to stay awake and think about his current circumstances.

So he will.

Underneath the light of the moon, Levi’s mind wanders back to thoughts about the bus.

If he doesn’t take the bus anymore, he won’t be able to have that anymore—those short thirty minutes of quiet, where it seems like the world only exists to pass him by through the window.

Sure, he could just take the bus just for the sake of seeing you, but that’s not exactly the most conscionable thing to do, especially considering the fact that he would have to lie about what he did at work if he did that.

And sure, he could still see you whenever he wanted. It's not like he needs the bus to keep seeing you.

But... that wouldn't be the same.

It's routine at this point for him to see you every Friday. He said it himself—that he didn't want to lose this, and he’s sure that you don’t either.

God, what kind of idiot gets emotional about taking the fucking bus?

There’s no tears for him to wipe away.

It isn’t the end of the world that he doesn’t get to take the bus with you anymore. He still has plans to go out shopping for Isabel’s graduation with you, and Hange will definitely still drag you and him out to events together, and he’ll still be “forced” to sit next to you and watch as you fold the napkins into neat little stars.

And yet, as he continues taking sips from his cup and pouring himself more of the warm tea, the frown on his face just continues to deepen, and he can’t find any happiness to help uplift him.

Underneath the light of the moon, Levi accidentally reaches for the canister of stars in front of him instead of his teapot, but instead of putting it back down, he stares down into it. He tilts it so that the opening can have a bit more moonlight shining into it, and he remembers the star he made just a few hours ago—the one that burns a hole into his pocket. He takes it out before it can do any more damage, and he holds it up to the light to see it properly.

Underneath the light of the moon, Levi can’t help but think that his own star pales in comparison to yours.

The corners aren’t crisp and clean, the sides aren’t all the same size, and it isn’t as sturdy as yours are.

For a brief moment, he wishes that you’d somehow appear next to him and ask him to trade his own star for one of yours, all because you think his is cuter than yours.

And underneath the light of the moon, Levi gets up and leaves everything at the table.

He doesn’t bother putting the lid back on either canister. He doesn’t bother cleaning his tableware. He doesn’t bother putting his own ugly, misshapen star back into his pocket. He doesn’t bother pushing his chair back in properly after he turned it away to look aimlessly out the windows where moonlight and starlight leak in.

His body moves on its own, taking him to the bathroom and stripping himself of his clothes. He steps into the shower, turns on the faucet, and stares at the wall in front of him as the water falls over his head. Somehow, his arms move to apply soap to his body and shampoo to his scalp, and he dries himself off with a towel he doesn’t even remember bringing with him.

He somehow gets dressed and ready for bed, and he somehow has the clearance to put his suit on a hanger and put it on his bedroom’s doorknob to remind himself to put it away tomorrow.

With whatever’s left of his mind, he recollects himself and thinks to check his phone for a message from you. His resolve is cut short when he sees that you haven’t gotten back to him, but maybe that’s for the better.

He wouldn’t know what to say to you anyway.

Which is why he won’t go to that party at your firm tomorrow.

No, he can’t face you like this.

Besides, you wouldn’t miss him. You’ll probably be busy talking to your friends or folding stars for one of them at the snack table.

It isn’t a big deal. Erwin doesn’t need him there. He has enough charisma to find someone else to celebrate his promotion.

Yeah, Levi won’t go.

Still, he can’t keep his eyes closed for the life of him as he tries to drift off to sleep.

Still, he focuses all of his attention onto that to prevent himself from thinking about whatever he had to think about under the light of the moon.

And still, he doesn’t do a great job of that, because the moon continues to shine pale white light onto the paper stars that're on his dining room table, whether he wants to acknowledge that or not.

✰

When Levi gets up the next day, he feels just as lost, if not more so.

He knows that he can’t just lay in bed all day—he’s too restless for that, and he’s afraid that staying cooped up will just make this all worse.

After brushing his teeth and using the bathroom, he steps out into the kitchen, expecting no one to be there.

Apparently, though, he’s lost his touch in guessing these sorts of things, because Isabel’s already up and mumbling to herself as she digs through the fridge. He notices that there’s nothing left on the dining table, and the chair’s been put back correctly. His eyes dart towards the counter space, and he relaxes when he sees the two yellow canisters in their rightful places.

Upon hearing Levi’s footsteps, Isabel turns to look at him.

“You’re in an awfully bad mood today,” says Isabel.

“What makes you think I’m in a bad mood?” Levi barks, walking past her and to the kettle.

She sighs. “Forget it.” She closes the fridge and joins Levi at the tea space. “What tea are you drinking today?”

“Since when do you care about what I drink?” Looking between the neatly placed assortment of teas and his kettle, he sighs before turning to go back to his room to get changed. “I’m going for a run.”

Isabel doesn’t say anything as he leaves the kitchen, instead opting to remain silent, and when he’s back in their shared living space, she’s poking at her breakfast of toast and eggs with a fork.

She gives him a lazy wave when he looks back at her from the doorway. “Have fun.”

He nods. “Yeah, sure.”

And just like that, he’s off and running (literally).

He has no sense of direction as his legs carry him around the neighborhood, but he still appreciates the reprieve in thought that his burning muscles give him.

It’s been a while since his last run, though, and he forgets how much he hates it.

He loses track of time quickly, not that he was checking for it in the first place. After a good several miles of running, he takes a quick break at a bench facing the bus stop he ordinarily gets off at. Bus 143 comes and goes as he waits there, but he makes sure to signal to the driver that he doesn't need to get on.

The gust of wind that the bus leaves behind when it drives off reminds Levi of all the times he’s wished that he could’ve stayed on the bus with you for just a few moments longer.

Somehow, after a bit more running, Levi finds himself at the bakery of the grocery store on Rose. He stares aimlessly at the rows of pastries that line the glass shelves, and he just barely takes note of the brown-haired baker that hums to herself as she maneuvers through the section.

“Oh, hey!” She exclaims, snapping him out of his staring. “Aren’t you Levi?”

Levi pauses for a second, trying to think of how the baker knows his name. She’s quite young so Levi guesses that she could be one of his students, but he certainly would’ve remembered if he saw a student at the grocery store of all places. He frequents this place often enough, but he just doesn't ever really bother going to this section.

She does look really familiar, though, it’s just that Levi can’t remember where he’s seen her before.

Before he can say anything, though, she laughs. “You are, huh?”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

She hums to herself, moving to pull the cart of cakes closer to where she is. “Probably not, but I’m friends with Astraea, I sat with her at our friends’ law school graduation. She was just here, actually.”

“She was?”

The girl nods, brows furrowed in concentration as she carefully picks up a cake to put into the display case. “Yeah, came and got a ���3’ birthday candle. No idea why, though.”

It’s been three years since Erwin’s last promotion, so Levi makes the fast connection that you’re picking it up as something for the party tonight.

“There’s a party tonight, it’s probably for that.”

The girl frowns. “She looked pretty upset for someone going to a party.”

Levi blinks. “She looked upset?”

“I don’t really know her that well, actually, I just see her whenever she comes through here. My friend is her assistant at work, though, and she mentioned that Astraea’s been kinda off in the last couple of days,” she starts, going to pick up another cake. “Wait, you don’t know what’s wrong? Aren’t you her boyfriend?”

Levi blinks again. “What? No.”

At the mere mention of it, Levi’s heart wants to go into cardiac arrest.

The baker looks at him quizzically before shrugging and getting another cake into the case. “If you say so. You should try finding her to cheer her up, though.”

He’d do that if he knew what to say to you.

Fuck, even if he didn’t, he’d do that if he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own head.

“Okay,” is the verbal answer he settles on.

He never gets the name of the baker you’re apparently friends with because he all but runs out of the store.

Well, not actually. It’d be really awkward for him to run in a grocery store as a grown adult.

But he feels like he’s running.

Away from mentions of you, away from things that remind him of you, away from his feelings about you, away from his feelings for you.

His legs eventually catch up with his mind and they start taking larger, faster strides until he’s actually running, and in the brief moment of clarity before his jog turns into a full sprint, he justifies his running away from all things of you by telling himself that there’s no stopping it anyway.

He takes the long way home, running around every block that he possibly can to keep himself busy with something, anything. By the time he’s back at his house, the burning of his legs reaches up towards his torso and his upper body, and the feeling overwhelms him and boils over, and he tells himself that the tears that well up are there because of the sweat that’s gotten into his eyes.

When Levi steps inside, he’s still entirely out of breath as he stalks over to the dining room table. He puts his head in his hands as he vies for the oxygen to reach his tired lungs, but he still presses his palms into the sockets of his eyes to stop himself from actually crying.

He’s so stuck in his head that he completely misses sight of Isabel in the kitchen, humming to herself as she opens the oven to pull out the brownies she’s made while he was gone. He doesn’t even notice she’s there until she puts the hot pan on the table in front of him and the smell overwhelms his senses.

“Hey, you okay?”

Levi sniffles and blinks hard a couple of times, feigning irritation in place of sadness. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Isabel takes off the bulky oven mitts that’re on her hands and heads over to the cupboards to pull out a knife, two forks, and two plates—one for herself, and one for Levi. When she comes back, she tries cutting into the sweet between them, but because it’s still too warm, she puts the knife down on one of the plates before sitting down across from her friend.

“What’s wrong, Levi?”

He scoffs, once again feigning annoyance. “I already said nothing’s wrong, stop asking.”

"Are you going to that party tonight? Hange called me earlier to ask."

"No, I'm not."

"And why not?"

He scrunches his nose. "I just don't want to."

Isabel sighs, propping up her head with her hand. “You know you’re an idiot, right?”

“Sounds rich coming from you,” he rolls his eyes. Upon realizing his mistake, he winces and purses his lips apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, I know,” she waves him off halfheartedly. “But really. You’re an idiot.”

Levi groans through short breaths meant to refill his lungs with enough air to speak. “You do realize that you’re talking to someone with a master’s degree, right?”

Isabel rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I don’t think having a master’s in architecture makes you an expert on love.”

Love? What the fuck is she on right now?

When Levi doesn’t speak, she continues.

“I saw the note in your wallet. The one Astraea wrote.”

“You fucking what?”

Levi wants to storm out. He wants to get up from his chair, rush back to his room, and lock himself in there for the next couple of days to make a statement about not looking at his things.

But instead, Levi can’t even find the words to chew Isabel out. He just looks down awkwardly at his lap, trying to come up with justification for the writing on the small sheet.

Isabel shoots him a sympathetic smile before looking out the window and towards the late afternoon sunlight that seeps into their house. “I don’t know what’s got you so worried, but if I interpreted the note she left you correctly, then-”

“We didn’t sleep together,” he cuts in, looking straight at her.

Isabel stares back at him with just as much intensity until she suddenly bursts out laughing, throwing her head back and hitting her head against the wooden top of the chair.

Levi watches in mild fear and alarming embarrassment as he waits for her to finish laughing, and it doesn’t help that she takes her sweet time getting back to him.

“Yeah, I know,” she smiles. “You can’t even admit to yourself that you like her, why would I think you guys slept together?"

Levi gets over his embarrassment pretty quickly to defend himself. "What the fuck are you talking about? I don't like her."

Isabel mockingly tuts, waving her finger in his face. "I know you do, everyone else knows you do, it's just you who's left."

Levi sinks down further into his seat, not knowing what to say.

"Actually, now that I think about it, you probably don't like her."

Levi breathes a sigh of relief. "That's what I fucking thou-"

"You love her."

Levi feels the air in his lungs leave his body, and all of a sudden, his body's on fire. His tongue's caught in his throat, and he has no idea what he's supposed to say to get himself out of this situation.

For some reason, he still can't find it in himself to chew her out or storm away. If it were under any other circumstances, he'd probably just have left a long time ago, but... he just can't.

"No, I don't."

Levi doesn't like you, let alone love you. That's fucking preposterous to suggest.

"Are you sure?" Isabel prods.

Is he sure? He's never been more sure of anything else in his life.

"Yes."

Isabel groans. "Okay, then answer these questions for me."

"Go ahead," he scoffs. "I'm not budging."

"Sure," Isabel smiles gently at him. "Is there anything special about the way you treat her?"

Levi's sure that there's nothing special about the way he treats you.

He looks out for you just like he would any of his other friends—he just happens to be in a better mood when you're around, so he's nicer to you.

He hasn't known you as long as he has everyone else, so he has to be polite to keep up appearances and to make sure that you aren't scared off by his blunt and cold personality.

He makes sure that you're well-rested and safe because you're his friend, and that's just what friends do.

He wouldn't tolerate shrimp fried rice jokes from anyone else, but that's not important enough to factor into his answer.

"No."

Isabel raises an eyebrow at that, but she gets up from her chair. Levi lets out a sigh of relief, but he isn't finished with that when he realizes that she's only getting up so that she can cut the brownie in front of them. She hums to herself while she does it, and she sets down a plate of the chocolatey dessert in front of him before getting one for herself.

"Okay, fine, you don't treat her differently than the rest of us, is that what you're saying?"

Levi nods. He picks up the fork set out in front of him to get a bite of the sweet, having ignored his need for food this entire day, and he melts into his chair at the familiar taste.

"Is there anything special about what you do for her, then?"

Levi's sure that there's nothing special about what he does for you.

He'd give any of his friends a ride home. Maybe even a stranger, if they were that in-need of help.

He keeps every single paper star you've ever made for him in a worn-down canister of dandelion root tea because that's what everyone else does. What, is he not allowed to keep small gifts like that anymore? Fucking sue him.

He pays you back because that's what you do for him—that has nothing to do with him.

Sure, he worries about it constantly and always wants to make sure to express that he's grateful for your kindness and care, but that's not important enough to factor into his answer.

"No, there isn't."

Isabel sighs and takes a bit of her own piece of brownie. "If you can't even answer this one correctly, there's no hope for a loser like you."

"Yeah, yeah, just fucking ask so you can leave and get out of my fucking face."

Isabel shrugs while she continues eating. "Then why don't you just get up and go?"

When Levi doesn't respond, she just shakes her head and smiles.

"Uh huh, yep," she chirps. "Okay Mr. 'I have a master's degree in architecture therefore I am the smartest person ever,' is there-"

"I never fucking said that," he barks.

She groans. "Ugh, whatever! Anyway, is there anything special about your feelings for her?"

Answer this one, and Isabel will finally let up?

Yeah, he's got this one in the bag, because Levi's sure that there's nothing special about his feelings for you.

There's nothing special about the warmth that fills his chest when you're around. Absolutely nothing. He's sure that anybody could fill him with that fire—it's not his fault that you're just the only one who's ever been able to do that for him.

There's nothing special about the comfort that you give him. Nope, nope, anybody could have that effect on him if they're gentle enough. If they're kind enough to treat him as well as you do.

There's nothing special that beckons him to be closer to you. Absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. He could hug anyone if he wanted to—it isn't his fault that everyone else in his life just isn't as welcoming as you are.

There's nothing special about the small spark that lights up his heart whenever he sees that you're happy. Nope. People being happy is just a universal good. It isn't his fault that seeing you so happy is just more important to him than everything else.

Anyone could have stars in their eyes when they smile. It isn't his fault that you seem to hold the entire galaxy and its lights in your eyes when you laugh.

There is something special, though, about the feeling that comes to him right now, thinking about all of this, and it makes him want to run.

And for the first time, he knows in what direction he has to go.

He clumsily gets up from his seat at the table.

He doesn't bother answering Isabel. He doesn't bother telling her "thank you" for the brownies she just made with the recipe you wrote. He doesn't bother defending himself against the ever-present claim that he's in love with you. He doesn't bother pushing his chair back in, even though it awkwardly gets misplaced and now faces the sun that's low enough on the horizon to be in full-view through their window.

He doesn't bother with any of that.

Instead, he runs, and this time, it's to his room to grab the suit he hung up on his doorknob last night.

✰

Next Chapter

[arabellatheauthor]

Snamione Fics

Completed

Wear Something Green

Transfiguration Professor Hermione Granger and Potions Master Severus Snape are unlikely friends in this post-war snapshot. But when Hermione needs a date for a special event, will Severus be able to keep his cool? Rating: T Word count: 2,997

On Second Glances and Second Chances

Severus Snape must marry his student to protect her from the Dark Lord. He expects her to be as annoying as ever. What he doesn't expect, is to fall in love with her.  Rating: E  Word count: 1,800

I Need You Right Here With Me

Severus is dying on the floor of the shrieking shack. He doesn't want to die alone.  Rating: M  Word count: 330

Flawed, Imperfect

“Severus!”  And then she heard it.  A low groan. Four muffled syllables that could have been her name.  She whipped towards the sound and saw him, lying in a pool of darkened snow. Hermione couldn’t tell where his dark robes ended and the blood began.  Rating: M  Word count: 2,385

Toast & Tea

Severus has been sitting next to Hermione Granger for breakfast in the Great Hall for months now. And every morning, he watches her covertly take a jar of Nutella from her robes and slather it on her toast. She seems perfectly happy to sneak the sweet treat every day while Severus sits next to her, but not once has she looked at or spoken to him, and he is determined to find out why. Rating: M  Word count: 19,785

Another Love

Five years after the war, Severus finds Hermione crying in the snow outside the castle in the dead of night. There's something familiar about her sadness, and he finds himself wanting to help. But how much does he have left to give?  Rating: M  Word count: 2,235

Sensory Deprivation

She lies there, blindfolded. Ready. Waiting.  Rating: E  Word count: 2,431

Between the Body and the Breath

A moment in time between two lovers.  Rating: M  Word count: 300

A Fortuitous Accident

After an accident collecting potions ingredients, Hermione and Severus have to move fast, but there's one problem — there's only one shower.  Rating: E  Word count: 2,844

Speak Now

Severus Snape was not the kind of wizard to be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion, but Hermione Granger was not the kind of witch to be marrying the wrong man.  Rating: T  Word count: 4,676

Fairy Lights

Severus has a surprise for Hermione on New Year's Eve. Rating: G  Word count: 963

Messy Braids and Potions Kits

Christmas Eve with the Granger-Snape family is nothing short of perfect. Rating: T  Word count: 2,962

The Bucket List

Hermione needs a partner for her bucket list adventures. Who better than her professor-turned-colleague and friend Severus Snape? Rating: T  Word count: 7,202

Apprentice

This probably wasn't in the apprentice handbook. Rating: E Word count: 1,072 

The Rule of Three

When Severus Snape unexpectedly runs into Hermione Granger in a bookstore in Dublin ten years after the war, he finds that the know-it-all might just grow on him. Rating: T Word count: 9,432 

Works in Progress

30 Days

Hermione Granger thought she'd have her life together by age 28. So when she is suddenly forced to start over, the last person she expects to be a part of that equation is her former Potions professor. And she certainly never expected to be his sugar baby.  Rating: E 

A House is Not a Home Without You In It

Summary: Hermione looks at purchasing a home away from city life and is surprised by what she finds.  Rating: M 

[amusewithaview]

S1:E2 - “Wendigo” - spank your inner moppet and move on.

My main take-aways from this episode are that:

Baby Cory Monteith, pre-Glee!  He looks far older in this than he did in Glee, which causes me significant cognitive dissonance since this... came out... before Glee?  *jazz hands*  TV MAGIC!

Sam is the kind of sociopathic that you see in emotionally immature young children who don’t yet have any acknowledgment of the emotional consequences of their actions.  I literally paused the episode MULTIPLE TIMES to look at BQS, gesture emphatically, and yell, “LAWYER.”

Sam was going to be a lawyer?  Really?  Dear god, he is so shit with people it’s actually astonishing to me.  From his emotionally probing questions which obviously are opening deep wounds in the psyches of the MOW’s victims/families to his SUPER IDIOTIC AND USELESS attempts to talk down gun-totin’ back woodsman Callum Keith Rennie, I am just.  HOLY SHIT YOU ARE SO BAD AT PEOPLE, YOU WOULD HAVE MADE AN AWFUL LAWYER.

Speaking of conversations bringing up past trauma, do none of these people just develop rote, flippant answers to questions they’ve clearly been asked hundreds of times?  All of the “victims” so far, ie: the people that Sam and/or Dean need to interview, have all the trauma right there, at the surface, just waiting for a probing question to catch them off guard and bring it all bubbling back up, which... I mean, yes but also no.  I get that it’s to move the plot forward, but most people develop some sort of coping mechanism.

I did really like the whole conflict re Sam and Dean arguing over whether or not to bring the victim’s sister along.  It was pretty clear that Dean was coming at it from a “if YOU were out there nothing could keep me from your side” angle whilst Sam was approaching from a “but if we TELL THIS GIRL THE TRUTH maybe it will KEEP HER SAFE.”  These characterizations seem consistent with their respective traumas, so, yay.

Also every time Sam is an asshole, Dean gets this look on his face like, “That is NOT how I raised you, young man,” and I find this hilarious.

Wendigos are apparently made of marshmallow, since the slightest spark will cause them to catch fire, flame out, and then get all crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside.

Victim’s Sister: “I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

Dean: *smiles like he’s got at least fifteen graphic suggestions*

Victim’s Sister: *leans in, kisses him on the cheek*  “I hope you find your father.”

Dean: *smile wipes away, replaced by emotionally vulnerable expression of deep wounding and hurt and this is the famed lady’s man I’ve heard about so often and with such detail?  Really?  This is a sad puppy.  A pretty puppy, but a sad puppy nonetheless.*

Finally: the nightmare sequence in the beginning where the hand reaches out from the grave to grab Sam made me jump and shout JESUS FUCKING CHRIST and then BQS laughed at me and said, “And THIS is why we watch it during the day, Anna.”

[exilepurify]

“Shut Up and Eat” yakiniku omake — original Japanese dialogue analysis and translation

The 3rd installment of the four-part yakiniku omake series in Mob Psycho 100 involves a bit of clever wordplay to make Mob’s slurring make sense, which means that the translation had to play around with the words a little bit to make it work in English. So, what did Mob actually say in Japanese?

I got the raws from the Manga One app in the Japanese iTunes app store.

I would like to preface this by saying that the most popular translated version, where Mob says the infamous “Shut up and eat” line, is the best translated version in my opinion, because Mob actually slurring that is a totally feasible thing. I’ll explain more about that in the translation notes below, but this version I translated isn’t reworked to match the syllables and make the slurring believable, but rather to try and represent the Japanese meaning.

Reigen: モブ。— Mob.

それもう焼けてるぞ。— It’s about to burn!

Mob: ………

Reigen: モブ… —Mob…

それもう焼けてるぞ。(二回目) — It’s about to burn. (A second time)

なぁ… — Hey…

Mob: このくらい…よく火を通した方が好きなんで。— It’s good like this. I like the heat to spread evenly throughout.

Reigen: 焼き過ぎだ。それだと肉本来の味が消えてしまう。—It’s cooking too much. It’s going to completely lose the original flavor.

Mob: いや、おいしいです。— No, it’s tasty.

Reigen: いや、それはベストのおいしさではない。— No, that’s not the best taste.

焼き過ぎな上にタレも付け過ぎだ。タレの味しかしないだろう。— It’s overcooked and you put too much sauce on top.

Mob: いや、おいしいです。— No, it’s tasty.

Reigen: また！それも焼き過ぎだぞ。— Again! That one’s also cooking too much.

ちょっと焦げてんじゃねーか。— It’s a bit scorched, isn’t it?

あ、ほらそっちの肉もあと4秒くらいで… — Ah, look—that piece of meat, in about four seconds…

「師匠は肉にうるさいなぁ…」と言おうとしたが、口に入れた肉が予想以上に熱くて舌が上手くまわらず… — “Shishou is picky about meat, huh…” is what Mob tried to say, but when he put the meat in his mouth, it was hotter than expected and his tongue couldn’t articulate well.

Mob: チッ… うるせぇな。— Tch… Shut the hell up.

Reigen: ………..

霊幻は静かに肉を焼いた。— Reigen cooked his meat in silence.

——————————

Notes:

- Mob: このくらい…よく火を通した方が好きなんで。— It’s good like this. I like the heat to spread evenly throughout.

「このくらい…」　actually directly translates to “This much…” (in regards to how much he’s cooking the meat over the grill). It employs the Japanese technique of “only say half the sentence and let the rest be unspoken”, but that wouldn’t make a lot of sense in English and kind of sticks out translated strictly like that. So I just finished the sentence.

- Mob: チッ… うるせぇな。— Tch… Shut the hell up.

So, this whole thing is a joke about the many uses of the word 「うるさい」　(urusai). 「うるさい 」　can be used to mean “loud/noisy”, “annoying/bothersome”, “picky/fussy/particular”, and “shut up!” when shouted as an interjection. I’ve been in a class in Tokyo where we were all yelled at for talking by our professor, who kept saying 「うるさいだよ！」. In Mob’s originally-intended sentence—「師匠は肉にうるさいなぁ…」—he was using うるさい to mean “picky/fussy”, since Reigen truly would not relax and leave him alone over that meat. But because the meat burned his mouth, he ended up clicking his tongue and slurring 「うるせぇな。」　He dropped the “Shishou” and “about meat” parts entirely, his hurt tongue not moving fast enough and holding out an “e” vowel throughout the latter half of the word instead of raising up into an “ai” sound. This… makes the word very rude. And since all other parts of the sentence were dropped, it also makes it an interjection— a rude and harsh version of “Shut up!”, which I’ve chosen to represent by making Mob curse. (Turning rude conjugation forms into English cursing is a pretty common practice in Japanese translation, as they have more expressive conjugation forms than us and we have no other real way to express that inherent hostility/brashness.)

In the most popularized English translation of this scene, the translators did something very clever to make Mob’s slurring possible, since we don’t have “rude” verb forms in English. What Mob originally wanted to say was, “Shishou sure likes to talk about meat…”, which gets slurred into “Shut up and eat.” The syllables specifically from “shishou” and “about meat” can be slurred into something phonetically resembling “shut up and eat”. I think this is extremely clever and fantastic translation work.

Anyway. Reigen deserved that.

[dreamer-hangugeo]

Writing in Korean can be quite complex when it comes to spacing (띄어쓰기), as it involves several factors like grammar, sentence structure, and even the type of words. In this article, I’ll share some of the most important rules I’ve learned with you.

1. Particles:

Korean uses particles to indicate grammatical relationships between words in a sentence. To ensure clarity, it is essential to separate these particles from the following words. Some commonly used particles in Korean include 은/는, 이/가, 을/를, 에, 에서, (으)로, 에게, 도, 와/과, and so on.

For example, in the sentence “저는 한국에서 떡볶이를 먹었습니다” (I ate Tteokbokki in Korea), there are three particles used: 는, 에서, and 를. To make it clear, it is essential to add spaces after each particle.

It is essential to note that particles are included as part of the preceding word. Therefore, particles are not standalone words and should be attached to the word they modify without spaces.

2. Independent Nouns:

In some sentences, there may be two or three nouns put together to form a noun phrase. In constructing such phrases, it is generally advisable to separate each independent noun with a space.

For example, “한국 음식” (Korean Food) and “경영 대학교” (Business University) both consist of multiple nouns that should be separated by spaces.

However, there are exceptions to this rule:

Compound Words: When words are combined to create a new meaning, they should be written without spaces. For example, “tear” in Korean is “눈물”, a compound word made up of 눈 (eyes) and 물 (water). This word should be written together as “눈물” without a space between them. The same applies to verbs such as “to visit,” which is “방문하다”, a compound word made up of “방문” (visit) and “하다” (to do).

Proper Nouns: If the noun phrase is a commonly used or official name, such “한국관광공사” (Korean Tourism Organization)  or “국립중앙박물관” (National Museum of Korea), it is standard to write the entire phrase without spaces. Doing so makes it more easily recognizable as a specific entity or organization.

3. Person’s Name and Title

Korean personal names consist of a surname and a given name, both of which have independent meanings and can be used as separate words. Although it can be argued that they should be written separately, personal names are unique nouns, and Korean surnames are usually only one syllable, making them feel incomplete on their own. Therefore, it is customary to write personal names without spaces between the surname and given name.

For example, “Park Ji-min” is written as “박지민,” “Kim Min-seok” is “김민석,” and “Lee Min-ho” is “이민호,” all without spaces.

However, when titles or job names follow a personal name, they are separate units and should be written with a space between them.

For example: 박지민 씨 (Mr. Park Ji-min), 민수철 교수 (Professor Min Su-cheol), 김 의사님 (Doctor Kim) all have a space between the personal name and the title or job name.

4. Numbers and counters:

In Korean, spacing is used between every ten thousand when writing numbers. This means that if you have a number with five digits or more, you will use a space to separate the digits in groups of four.

For example:

이천이십삼 (2023)

구만 팔천칠백육십오 (98765)

일억 이천삼백사십오만 육천칠백팔십구 (123456789)

When it comes to combining numbers with counters, there are two cases to consider:

If you write the number in digits, there is no space between the number and the counter. For example, “1개” (one piece), “2번” (two times), and “3명” (three people) have no space between the number and the counter.

However, if you write the number in words, there should be a space between the written number and the counter. For example, “삼 학년” (third grade), “칠천 원” (seven thousand won), and “칠 개월” (seven months) have a space between the written number and the counter.

5. Word modifiers:

When a modifier (such as an adjective, verb, or adverb) modifies a word, it should be separated from the word by a space. This helps to clarify the relationship between the two words and make the sentence easier to read.

For example:

유나는 예쁜 여자예요 (Yuna is a pretty girl)

한국 와서 처음 먹은 음식 기억나요? (Do you remember the first food that you ate in Korea?)

저는 일을 잘 해요 (I do my job well)

All use spacing to separate the modifier from the word.

Additional Notes:

– It’s worth noting that there are certain grammatical structures in Korean that require specific spacing. For example, “(으)ㄴ 적이 있다” (have done in the past), “(으)ㄹ 수 있다” (can/be able to), “아/어 보다” (try doing) and so on. It’s important to pay attention to these spacing rules when learning Korean to ensure that your writing is accurate and clear.

– Finally, when using “이다” (to be) or “아니다” (to not be), it’s important to note that “이다” is written immediately after a noun, while “아니다” is written separately from the noun due to the particle. This is important to keep in mind when writing sentences that use these verbs.

For example:

학생입니다 (I’m a student)

학생이 아닙니다 (I’m not a student.)

The preceding explanation outlines my current understanding of the spacing rules when writing in Korean. However, I also want to point out that there might be some special cases or exceptions to these rules that I’m not aware of. So, if you have any experience with these special cases, I’d love to hear about it! Let’s share our knowledge and learn from each other.

🌸 🌼 🌻

Support me at: https://koreanlanguageloving.my.canva.site/

[i-am-too-sick]

Nov(emeto)ber 2022: Day 17: Totally Drained and Exhausted

@monthofsick

Will woke suddenly, startled by the sound of something clattering to the floor. He lifted his head, his eyes bleary as he struggled with the abrupt return to consciousness.

The library was almost completely empty, with most students finding other activities to fill their Friday nights rather than spend it studying for any upcoming finals looming in the not so distant future.

"Are you okay?" he asked, still not sure what woke him.

"I'm fine," came Nico's gruff reply. "Someone must have dropped something in the back."

Will scrubbed his face. He'd never been one to stay up late, and after a week of teaching and cramming through notes for his own exams, he was absolutely exhausted. He'd only agreed to help Nico study as a courtesy to his friend.

"What time is it?" he asked. His phone was in his backpack discarded somewhere on the floor, and he was too sleepy to reach down to fish it out and check for himself.

"Around four, I think."

Will's jaw dropped. "Four?! In the morning?!"

Nico finally met his gaze, finally looked up from the piles of textbooks and stacked up notebooks, from the scattered loose-leaf sheets of papers that littered the tabletop.

"Yes, William, in the morning," he said, dramatically enunciating each syllable of his name. "Now, shh. This is a library after all."

"How are you still awake? Why are you still awake?"

Nico pointed, indicating the long line of presumably totally drained cans of energy drinks. It was enough to drown an entire army of ants.

Will balked. "Please tell me you didn't actually drink all those."

Nico shrugged. "It was a good distraction from your snoring, honestly, and they helped keep me awake."

Even in the dim light from the small lamp on the corner of their table, Will could easily see the prominent dark circles under Nico's eyes, his sallow, tired expression.

"Let's go," Will said gently, anticipating some sort of resistance. "We could go back to your dorm and watch a movie." He reached out for Nico's hand, though he glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching. It didn't matter, there was no one around to see, let alone question, why a professor was grabbing the hand of his student in such an intimate way.

"You can go," Nico replied, eyes falling back to his work. "I'm going to stay here a little while longer." He reached out and took a sip from the can nearest him.

Will frowned. "Just because the library is open 24 hours during exam season, doesn't mean you actually have to stay here that long. Come on, you've got to be exhausted," he added.

As if to prove Will's point, Nico scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I have too much to memorize."

"You're exhausted," Will said again, putting a hand on Nico's shoulder. He could practically feel Nico's leg bouncing under the table, a likely side effect of excessive caffeine. "There's no point pushing yourself if you're going to be too tired to do anything."

"'M not that tired," he muttered, dragging his hands down his cheeks, forcing his gaze back to his notes.

"You are, though! You know you are, and I do too."

Nico looked up at him again, this time, irritation showing in his tired eyes. "Look, I have a lot of information to cover here. If you're not going to help, then maybe you should just leave."

As much as Will would have liked to pretend like he wasn't offended by Nico's words, the reality of it was more like a slap to the face.

"Fine," he snapped, after the initial shock wore off. "Good luck on your exams."

He stood up in a huff, ready to storm out, before he remembered his belongings under the table. He crouched down to retrieve his bag, cursing loudly as he knocked his head on the underside of the table when he tried to get up again.

His dramatic exit was thwarted once more when he spared a quick glance in Nico's direction, the latter with his face buried in his hands.

"Nico?" Will asked, concern returning to his voice despite himself.

No reply.

"Are you okay?" Best case scenario, Will supposed, was that Nico had fallen asleep.

"I feel sick..." Nico answered finally, his voice saturated with nausea.

"O-Oh. Maybe I should find a trashcan—"

Nico looked up, panicked. "Not in here!" He hiccuped, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Well, go, go, go!" Will cried, pulling Nico up from his chair and quickly ushering him toward the library doors, their stuff long forgotten at the table.

They were no sooner out the front doors before Nico leaned toward the nearest bush, stomach heaving. A rush of pure liquid erupted from him like a geyser, splattering the sidewalk and the foliage.

He gagged again, another tidal wave of watery vomit landing noisily in the growing puddle below.

Will put a hand on Nico's back, surprised that his friend's whole body felt like it was actually vibrating.

Nico burped wetly, more sick cascading from his lips. Another mouthful spilled from him, and then another, and Will wondered worriedly just how long this was going to take.

When all that was left were empty retches and muffled burps from the carbonation, Will took Nico by the shoulders and gently pulled him away from what ultimately could have looked like a liquid vomit crime scene.

Will stared at him, squinting through the early morning darkness. Where Nico typically had a light complexion, now his face looked almost translucent, his dark, tired eyes sunken and a little hazy.

"How are you feeling?" Will asked hesitantly, because asking if Nico was all right seemed a moot point.

Nico placed a hand on his chest, hiccuping. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though battling his way through another round of nausea.

Expecting the worse, Will took the tiniest of steps back, hoping to be out of range of the immediate splash zone.

"...Nico?"

"I want to go," he said breathily. "I want to lay down." He closed his eyes again. "I want to sleep."

A smile ghosted Will's lips, though he was able to reign in most of his excitement. "Let's go get our stuff," he said.

And if Nico wanted to come back to the library and try again tomorrow (or much later in the day), well, then Will was willing to go with him, so long as tonight didn't become a repeat occurrence.

[omiyagiri]

what's mine is not yours | part 2

pairing: Sakusa x f!Reader cw: swearing word count: 2.3k part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 forthcoming

Breakfast is a whole ordeal. The queue is a painful zigzag stretching all the way out from the cafeteria doors into a corridor, floundering down, down, down into a slice of space meant for quiet study. Except it's not quiet anymore; students are huddling together in their social groups, a mass of writhing limbs, passing jokes and tired nudges.

You take one look at this, at your phone's clock, and decide a vending machine coffee will suffice.

But even the vending machines have queues. Goddammit. There goes your schedule, your plans, everything. Tossed out the window—Goodbye. Your mood curves, stutters, and spirals down into the floor where it crashes in an inferno and dies. Oh well. Just one of those days. Means the day tomorrow has a higher probability of going right. Right? Right.

You march straight to class as you rub the vestiges of sleep from your eyes. It's a gross kind of crust which embeds into your waterline, and you really have to swipe at it three to four times, using passing windows to ascertain if you've completely removed it.

While you wipe the flakes off your knuckles and suppress a yawn with your other hand, you nearly backend a student. His long legs circumnavigate around you—It's gracefully humiliating because you on the other hand are stumbling and losing balance from the weight of your backpack sucking you to the floor.

"Crap," you say as you reach out to anchor yourself against a hallway chair and regain your footing. When you're certain you won't fall over, you raise an apologetic hand. "Sorry about that. You okay?"

Of course you had a gut feeling about who you almost collided with. Because it feels like any interaction you have with this guy is just a collision in of itself—A disruption, an inconvenience. Unpredictable.

Sakusa stares at you with his permanent resting bitch face, hitches his backpack up higher, and says on a suffering sigh, "Watch where you're going."

"Yeah, that's on me." It's easier to not make enemies with someone you're forced to cooperate with on a shared grade. "I'll watch my feet next time."

"Hmm," he says noncommittally, and retreats into the classroom.

Stellar start to the day. It gets better and better. You follow after him and try to not linger on the aggravation bubbling inside your stomach.

Sakusa is true to his word and doesn't steal your seat again. He ascends up the lecture hall stairs and slides himself into a vacant row. Fuck, he even swabs down the desk surface with an antibacterial wipe before he procures his notebook and writing utensils. Once again, you feel far less prepared by comparison.

The professor drags himself in, his throat-clearing reverberating against the wall panels as he shambles towards the projector. You whiteknuckle your pen, tearing the tip into your notebook paper. Time to release your suppressed anger into cathartic, violent notetaking.

Thirty minutes into the lecture you're experiencing the symptomatic repercussions of skipping breakfast and your morning coffee. Eyelids are solid weights, stomach is shivering and groaning, and your mind has settled into a gelatinous mist. No thoughts, just write. Persevere through this lecture.

And persevere you did. Through the stabbing pain of hunger, and the brain-fuzz, you manage to record every syllable leaving your professor's mouth until he's spreading his arms and banishing you all from his classroom for the day. You pack your things and coalesce with the herd of students with one goal in mind: Cafeteria.

God, please.

"It's still packed," Sakusa says, several feet away from you but walking parallel. His legs allow him to eclipse your pace, and you're staring at his yellow backpack and red duffel bag.

"The cafeteria?" you say.

He gives a curt nod.

"Was it that obvious I was heading over to it?"

He peers over his shoulder, one lidded, brooding eye critically analyzing you. "I could hear your stomach from a whole row away."

Shit. You trail further behind him, maneuvering away from his gaze so he couldn't see the blush on your cheeks. Noted. You'll never skip a meal again. Next time pack a snack to avoid this kind of situation.

"Sorry, I hope the noise wasn't distracting."

Sakusa walks at the same speed—As in, entirely outstripping you. This prompts you into thinking it's his silent way of indicating the conversation is over, but then he slows down, examines his phone, and casts another glance at you.

"It's because there's several road teams staying in the sports dorms."

"Road—Uh, road teams?"

"Visiting teams."

"Question still stands. Sports noob, remember?"

"It means other collegiate teams are visiting to compete against our home ones. Which is why the cafeteria is at max capacity."

Okay. Maybe you didn't need that much information spoon-feeding, but it was entertaining seeing him commit to talking more than usual. He has a distractingly deep voice. Pleasant sounding. It's a shame he doesn't talk more in general. Dude really hit the gene jackpot with everything. Sharp jawline, appealing black curls framing the edges of his face, and two—

"You're staring," he says.

The both of you were now walking in sync. Even though your leg strides weren't mirroring one another, as his were longer, he had slowed down significantly into an easygoing gait.

"Yeah," you admit, "I didn't realize you have two moles."

"Surprise," he says with zero inflection, eyes looking straight ahead.

"Do you get a lot of confessions?"

He answers your question with a question of his own, doused with his usual dose of blunt sarcasm. "Does having two moles have any correlation whatsoever with receiving love confessions?"

"Certainly. They're very eye-catching."

"Clearly not enough. You didn't notice them until now."

"Because I was tired yesterday and this morning—And, and I don't like making eye contact. It's awkward."

Sakusa then decides it is prime time to make eye contact with you. It's flat, devoid of emotion. Just a taught connection between your eyes and—

"There he is!" A tall man carves a path out of the students in front the two of you—An ocean bisecting apart. He raises a hand up in the air.

A high five? Sakusa doesn't indulge him, instead shouldering past, chin collapsing towards his neck and shoulders hunching inwards.

"Murai," he says in lieu of a proper greeting.

You feel distinctly out of place. Especially when this "Murai" person, realizing he's not receiving any high-fives from Sakusa, repositions his palm to face you with a cheeky grin. His other is resting against the duffel bag slung across his shoulder—The same color as Sakusa's. It clicks in your brain. Sports. Volleyball. Road teams.

Sakusa's on the volleyball team, and this must be a teammate of his.

Wanting to make a good first impression, and because the people pleasing side of you of course heeds any request, unspoken or otherwise, you on instinct raise your hand and give him the weakest, floppiest high-five. There's sweat on his palm and it smears against yours when you peel your hand away. Ah. Hopefully the disgust isn't evident on your face.

Murai fingerguns you with a wink. "A team player. You love to see it. A general you, of course."

You have no idea what the fuck he just said but you nod and laugh along like the socially awkward monster you are. "Aha, yeah. I guess?"

"Lay off, Murai. She won't understand your gross eccentricities." Sakusa swings his gaze back towards you. "And don't enable him. He'll never stop. He's like a fucking dog whose behavior is guided by operative conditioning based solely off of positive reinforcement."

"Well I'm in luck since according to a poll taken last year, about fifty percent of the population is comprised of dog people." Murai continues fingergunning you to the point you're worried he's stuck on an infinite loop. "So what's it gonna be? I've got a fifty-fifty chance here. You a dog person?"

"Dogs are nice," you say. What the fuck who words it like that? You sound like you're some alien creature from outer-space trying to assimilate with mankind.

"Gross," says Sakusa.

Murai fist-pumps and salutes you. "Knew it. You had those vibes. Man's best friend, right? What's your favorite breed?"

You have no clue. You've never owned a dog before. When's the last time you've seen one in person? "The Labrador."

"Double knew it." Murai conveniently grows bored of talking to you and returns his attention to Sakusa. "You pumped for today's match?"

"As I'll ever be," Sakusa says simply.

"They've got a talented setter. Knows how to hide his hands." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie for effect. "And their blockers are infamous for stuffing every ball."

"I'll just break through their blocks, then." Sakusa shrugs. "Or go around them. They're not a powerhouse team."

Murai laughs and shakes his head. "Whatever you say, dude. Are you on your way to practice? I'll help you stretch."

"I don't need help stretching."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' I'll see you at the gym." He nudges his face towards yours and pulls one hand out from his pocket to send you a wave. "Would you like to watch us practice? We don't get much of an audience."

Sakusa heaves a sigh. "Because. It's practice. Nobody watches practice. You don't have to watch us practice."

Before you can pop open your mouth for a response, Murai is huffing out an offended squawk. "We look so cool when we practice! The secret is it's far less tense when we're not playing against an opponent team, so we're at liberty to really pull off some cool, experimental moves. C'mon, c'mon. The stands are all empty. It's lonely. It'd be cool to know someone's observing us!"

There's too much spotlight on you, and you're not sure you have the stamina to watch some dudes play who you're not friends with. Even acquaintances seems like too generous a term. You try to mentally parse through friendly ways of declining his offer, but fortunately Sakusa steps in with the save.

"Stop pressuring her. She's busy with schoolwork." Sakusa lifts his chin up and tampers with his phone. "I won't be able to contribute to the project tonight because of a game. If you could work on the segment I've assigned for today—"

"Yeah! My pleasure, really." Thank youuuu, Sakusa. Absolute life saver. Whether he knew it or not, or maybe he genuinely didn't want your presence anywhere near him more than necessary, this freed you from Murai's pleas for attendance. "I'll go ahead and work on it tonight. I hope you guys have a good game at baseball—I mean, volleyball. Volleyball."

A gasp tumbles from Murai's lips. "Do I look like a baseball kinda guy? That's the most boring sport."

"You'll have to forgive her," says Sakusa, with something reminiscent of a smug grin on his face. It's so tiny, so microscopic, that you think it's the blaring overhead lights playing a trick on you. "She's not a sports person."

"Noted," says Murai gravely. He claps his hands together and bows his head in prayer towards you as he walks backwards. "I pray you one day realize that you're sleeping on the coolest sport to ever exist. And that you look up my name online to watch clips of my nasty dumps."

"Your what?" you say, gut-punched and reeling.

"Again. Not a sports person. Stop throwing terminology at her she won't understand, you idiot."

"It was intentional! The look on her face is hilarious!"

"It's really not," says Sakusa.

Murai's not listening, his bellyfuls of laughter drown out Sakusa's response and he's literally holding his abdomen like he's afraid his internals are going to spill out. Meanwhile your hands feel too inactive, your legs are walking through jelly, and a pulse rings in your ears. This is it. This is pure, unadulterated embarrassment.

What makes it worse is you can tell Murai's not trying to actively make you uncomfortable.

Sakusa rubs behind his ear, fingers assuaging the chafe marks from where the elastic band of his mask meets his skin. He squints at Murai. It shuts him up and he smiles apologetically at you.

"Sorry, did I go too far?" he says.

You nod. "Just a little. But don't worry, it's just hard to match your energy right now."

"Noted, I'll tone it down a notch." He pushes his thumb and index finger together.

"Thanks," you say.

Sakusa and Murai move further away from you as the hallway forks into two different directions. You take the hint, and wish them one last goodbye and a good day.

Murai's eager "You too" overlaps with Sakusa's more quiet "Goodbye." But you don't miss the way your last name falls from lips. His expression is still as uncaring, impassive as ever, but this doesn't stop the way your heart squeezes in an unfamiliar way, or the buzz riding through your veins, and the tightening of your throat.

Of course.

You found him handsome, you found his mannerisms both no short of irritating and also endearing, but did this really have to mean you like him? Then you realize, this is a feeling you haven't had since elementary school. Since you were forced to hold hands with a classmate, and experienced them squeezing onto you like a lifeline. Experienced them laughing at a joke you told, like it was the funniest fucking thing they'd ever heard. Experienced them pushing their crayon box your way when they saw you ran out of blue ones to color in your sky. Experienced them sneaking their food onto your tray with a gleeful smile while the teacher wasn't looking.

That feeling of being the most important person in the world, even if it's for two minutes or two seconds or the time it takes for someone's mouth to form the letters of your name.

You wanted to be Sakusa Kiyoomi's friend.

Not even ten minutes later your phone vibrates with a message.

Chair stealer: Sixth floor. Staff building. Vending machine near room 631 is always overstocked with canned coffee. Sorry about Murai.

Chair stealer: He's a highly acclaimed setter, and like most setters of that kind of caliber he has an infuriating personality.

You: Do all highly acclaimed setters boast about their nasty dumps

Chair stealer: Unfortunately.

You laugh, and finally change his nickname from "Chair stealer" into "Sakusa."

by wobbles

[mercy-burning]

Your Favorite — Part 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: When Y/N comes home from college for the summer to meet her mom's new boyfriend, she finds herself in a rather tough spot when she can’t stop thinking about him— And it seems he feels the same... Category: SMUT (18+) Content: Adults w/ age gap, masturbation (female and male), minor exhibitionism kink, oral sex (male receiving), penetrative sex, breeding kink (kinda? i think? 😅) Word Count: 7.3k (do you see now why I had to make it a miniseries? alsdjfdk)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | MASTERLIST

DISCLAIMER: In this story, Spencer is dating Y/N’s mom while also having a sexual relationship with the reader herself. Because of that, there are obvious undertones of cheating, alongside some perv-y tendencies when it comes to a partner’s daughter. That being said, Spencer and Y/N’s relationship is consensual. However— If any of what I just forewarned is something that you think will make you uncomfortable while reading, please do not read! If there are any more disclaimers you think I may have missed, don’t hesitate to tell me! There is another post I made HERE with some disclaimers as well if you want to know more about what this story will entail.

NOTE: This intro is already too long, so I’ll just get this out of the way: you can find visual nsfw inspirations for this story over at @mercy-midnight, I’m working on a playlist for this story on my Spotify @/mercyburning, and I don’t know when part 2 and 3 will be out, but you can assume they’ll be here within the next few weeks.

———

JUNE 5th

I hate my mom's new boyfriend.

For the past three months she'd been telling me about this new guy who's "The One" as if "The One" hasn't been like four other guys in the past two years.

And as much as I'd love for my mom to find someone to spend the rest of her life with, I don't believe she'd ever find Mr. Perfect at this rate. Unless she spent more than a few months with them at a time before dragging me home from college for a weekend to meet them, I really don't see it happening.

It just sucks. Because every time she does this, every time I return home, I see the glimmering hope in her eyes and the diminishing spark in his, and I know. I know it won't last, and her heart will be utterly broken within the span of a few months.

I always thought maybe she just had terrible taste in men.

But this time around, when I begrudgingly walk through the door of my childhood home for the summer and see my mother clinging to a man who returns that glimmer in her eyes, I know she's picked a good one.

And I hate him.

His name is Spencer Reid, and he's a retired FBI agent who teaches full time at local colleges now.

He greets me with a bona fide, radiant smile, unlike all the others before, and it sets my insides on fire. And when we sit down for dinner, he's polite (but not in a fake way,) and he seems genuinely curious about my studies and my personality and my relationship with my mother. And when dinner is finished he offers to clean up while Mom and I settle in the living room.

I see the way he looks at me as I leave, a gentle, closed-mouth smile and eyes that linger a little too long on my exposed legs before averting, a glint of shame pooling within them, and it only spreads that fire in my belly.

Maybe I'd been imagining the whole thing, because deep down I wanted him to look at me the way he had... But it's hard to tell when my brain is mostly setting off sirens, blaring "THIS IS WRONG! THIS IS WRONG!" on a loop with blinding lights.

And they're even louder when my mom wraps her arm around me and lays her head atop mine. "Well, what do you think? He's great, huh?"

She's so lovesick, it hurts. It hurts even worse knowing that all I can think about is his big hands wrapped around my throat while he fucks me into the squeaky twin-sized mattress in my bedroom upstairs.

But I can't tell her that, obviously.

And so I decidedly hate him. And I have no choice but lie to her face, embracing her joy and hoping that I'll be able to survive this summer.

"Yeah, Mom. He's really great."

JUNE 19th

It's been two weeks and I can barely stand to be in the same house anymore.

I try to keep myself busy by going outside, to the beach or for long walks in the park; but it's too hot for my liking, and our town is so small that unless I want to spend my time in the grocery store or one of the three bars on Main Street...

I'm stuck either outside where it's hot and uncomfortable, or in the house where it's also hot and uncomfortable.

We have air conditioning, of course, but that's not the problem.

It's Spencer.

I thought by now my little crush on him would have gone, but the longer he hangs around the house, the stronger my feelings for him grow. They're not romantic—nor do I think they ever could be given the fact that if anything serious really were to ever happen between us, my mom would disown me for the rest of my life and murder Spencer with her bare hands—but that doesn't make it any easier on me.

Every day he just exists, right in front of me with that tug-able mop of hair, those warm honey eyes, and his hands that never stop moving. I swear, it's like every time he breathes, his hands are breathing too, challenging me to try and stop them.

But I refuse to touch him. Because I know the moment I do, all will be lost. I won't be able to control myself anymore. And if I don't drop to my knees and try sucking his dick at the dinner table, I'm sure I'll blurt out how I can't handle it anymore and that I need him, and either way I'd be royally fucked.

Right now he's in the dining room, teaching my mom how to do a disappearing card trick. She thinks it's utterly charming that he can do it at all, but mostly that he's patient and willing enough to teach her. And normally I'd agree, but I can barely look at them without wanting to waltz over, grab his wrist, and suck his fingers into my mouth.

It's truly pathetic.

So I try to focus on the television just a few feet away. It's one of those rare instances where I wish our house was bigger, because while I don't mind having less wall-space between rooms, I do mind not being able to watch TV without the kitchen table in my periphery at a time like this. And I think about going up to my bedroom instead for a moment, but I'd have to go past the kitchen, and I just know Mom is going to ask if I'd want Spencer to teach me his magic trick.

And I most definitely do not want that.

In another life, maybe, where he isn't a hot professor and rather an average-looking dude who's way too into fantasy football... But not in this lifetime.

So there I sit, concentrating so hard on Family Feud that my face hurts.

When I hear a flutter of cards and joyous giggling from the other room, it's more than my face that hurts.

It's also my chest, churning and tensing at the hands of the green devil.

Fuck!

I barely even know this man... I haven't really talked to him because I'm afraid that if I try to hold a conversation I'll snap. He's literally just some hot older guy who's dating my mom, and still, my whole body twists and aches with envy when they do anything together, and it fucking sucks. Not only because of the jealousy, but it's also the fact that my mom deserves to be happy.

This time it's different. This time, she's really found someone who returns her every loving gaze, who makes her laugh, who's kind and genuine and not a total douche. She's happier than I've seen her in years.

And the one time she finally finds "The One", every waking second of my life is spent longing for him fuck me.

But it's only been two weeks.

And it's also been nearly two years since I got laid, so maybe that's just my issue...

I figure it can't hurt, so in a spur of the moment decision, I turn the TV off and sprint towards the stairs, right past Mom and Spencer before they can ask questions.

———

I hardly even register the dimness of the light inside the house by the time I glide up the steps, fumbling with the key and trying to make my entrance as quiet as possible. Though, because I'm so used to the dark by this point, the light—no matter how dim—nearly blinds me. The door shuts louder than I'd have liked, and I cringe inwardly, pausing as if that will keep anyone from seeing or hearing me. Not like it'll matter, considering Mom and Spencer are the only ones that are staying here and they'd also been the only ones aware of my plans for the evening.

Well, somewhat, anyway. I told them an old friend invited me out and I probably wouldn't be home until late.

Regardless, that instinct of trying not to get caught coming in late at night is stronger than common sense. Throw a little cheap beer and some shots into the mix, and it almost feels like I'm a teenager again.

The only thing different now is that I have a pool of some stranger's cum soaking my underwear and a man in front of me who stands like an angel. An exhausted, almost scruffy-looking angel more like, but my point still stands.

"You're up late," Spencer observes. It's a simple enough statement— not really judge-y, but I can tell that regardless of his knowledge of my coming home late, he seems shocked to see me coming through the front door right now.

And it's hard to look away from him. Just like it has been for the past two weeks. Still, I try, just barely avoiding his eyes as I cross my arms and fight the urge to clench my legs together. "I'm a whore. What's your excuse?"

Maybe not the best thing to say. But like I said, common sense? Gone.

"O—oh... Umm..." Spencer stumbles through his words, obviously stunned by my response, and the look in his eyes kind of makes me want to curl up in a ball and die from embarrassment. Still, I stand my ground and wait for him to continue.

He settles on a short, "I can't sleep," and then there's nothing else.

"Ah," I express. One syllable. I don't draw it out, I don't exaggerate it... This is the first real conversation I've had alone with him, and I've made it extremely awkward, so I sigh and take a few steps forward, trying to walk past him. "Okay. Goodnight."

I only make it a few steps before he stops me, his hand reaching out to tap my shoulder. "Wait—"

The touch makes me jump, and he pulls it away immediately as I turn to face him. My heart is racing at the speed of light, my panties are soaked through, and if I'm not careful that whole 'no common sense' thing is going to bite me so hard in the ass I won't have one left.

"Can I talk to you?" His voice is barely audible, and the gentle rasp it has to it seems to make me even more wet.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"Look, I um... Your mom has been totally transparent with me about her relationships, so I know that she's been through a lot of them in a short amount of time... And I know that must be a little difficult for you. Especially now that I'm here... And you've been... distant. And I know that I don't know you that well, so forgive me if I'm assuming anything, but I just want you to know that I don't have any intention of making things difficult for you and your mother."

Too late, pal, I think bitterly, the gentle authority in his tone setting my insides alight. I'm positive that voice could get me to do so many things...

That's the alcohol and sex talking, Y/N, just shake it and move on...

He starts again, but I cut him off with a short wave of my hand. "Look, I... I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I had a really long night, and I'm exhausted. I just wanna shower and go to bed."

I expect more resistance, but Spencer only nods. I still can't bring myself to look him in the eye, though this time I catch his hands clenching at the bottom hem of his shirt. "I understand. Sleep well."

Without another word I turn on my heel and walk a little faster towards the stairs, and I'm about to take my first step when I realize he's followed me. His voice calls out my name softly from a few feet behind, and it stops me in my tracks regardless of my desire to get out of there as fast as I can. And then I turn around and finally look directly at his face.

Big mistake.

His eyes are on my legs again, trailing slowly upwards until he reaches my face. The light over here is dimmer, barely noticeable at all, though I swear I can see red forming on his cheeks.

"I like your dress," he says softly. It's almost meek, like he'd been afraid to say it but took a chance anyway.

It's such a random, small compliment, but with the alcohol and endorphins flowing through my body after the night I'd just had, it nearly makes me quiver.

It also makes me incredibly stupid.

An amused, almost sensual grin forms on my face as I make eye contact with him, and I feel myself throb at the way I can just barely see his throat move. He looks like a deer in headlights, afraid to make one sudden move.

"Turning to flattery to try and win me over, are we?" I say slowly.

I almost think he'll stumble over his words once more, but again he surprises me with a full answer. It's only three words but it's clear, and his voice is deep, and I want to fucking jump his bones right then and there.

"Is it working?"

This has to be the alcohol making me imagine things... I swear I didn't even drink that much tonight, but it has to be an obvious lapse in judgement. The drinking mixed with the sex mixed with the dirty thoughts I've been having about this man lately have to be what's making this feel real. It's all culminating into this one big fantasy (or delusion, more like), and all I need is to shower and sleep it off.

That has to be it.

So because there's no other reasonable explanation that my brain can conjure up, I take a chance and throw Spencer a wink before turning and sprinting up the stairs.

And it's that same seemingly undeniable reasoning for this illusion that doesn't keep my hands from wandering in the shower. Even though those warning sirens in my brain keep blaring, telling me that the common sense is still there for me to utilize, they're drowned out by my thrumming heartbeat and the repetition of Spencer's soothing, authoritative voice, guiding my movements.

Keep rubbing your clit for me, baby... Just like that, nice and slow...

Warm water cascades down the front of my body as I lean back into the wall of the shower, but that's not why I'm so warm. This heat radiates through my insides, spreading like wildfire and bringing out small whimpers and mewls that I know I'll have to contain in fear of waking my mom from her bedroom right next door.

But then the thought of her hearing me next door as I cry out her boyfriend's name only excites me more. I keep it quiet still, but just knowing that someone else is in the house while I'm having these thoughts right now (one of them being the object of said thoughts) is what finally brings me over the edge.

I finish my shower on weak legs, definitely overstimulated now, but also feeling even more tired. I know that the moment I lay down on my bed, I'll be pulled into the sweet, soft surrender of a deep sleep.

Nothing else has ever sounded so pleasant.

———

When I woke up that morning after, I was feeling surprisingly calm. Realistically I knew that my whole 'this has to be an illusion' montage had been less truth and more inebriated babble, and the longer I sat on it the more I thought it'd all turned out for the better.

Turns out, tipsily masturbating in the shower to thoughts of your mom's hot new boyfriend was a surefire way to get it out of your system, right?

Wrong.

It really had been okay at first. I thought about Spencer almost immediately, and yeah, he was still hot as fuck—But there wasn't this overwhelming desire within me to jump his bones when I saw him that morning, his hair messy and his hands clutching a cup of coffee while Mom made breakfast behind him.

But that good feeling I had about all of this? It lasts only about a split second.

Because the moment he looks up and sees me, the mug falls out of his hand and shatters to pieces. His eyes stay glued to me, even as my mother darts over to pick up the pieces of the ceramic that are scattered about the table and the floor. And when she turns back to grab a paper towel, he still stares at me, once again at my legs.

It takes me all of four seconds afterwards to remember that not only did I talk to him briefly last night, but I also flirted with him after he complimented me.

That whole part seemed to have slipped my mind when waking up, and now that his gaze is bringing me back to that moment, that 'this has to be an illusion' montage is starting to become larger than I'd remembered.

It isn't until he finally snaps out of it and starts to help my mom clean up the mess that I snap out of it, too, going back upstairs to clear my head and cool the heat radiating over my skin.

———

There's a knock at my bedroom door about an hour later, and it sounds different than my mom's usually quick two-knock succession. That means it's someone else, and unsurprisingly, my stomach tightens at the thought of seeing him again.

"Yeah?" I call out, turning in my desk chair and meeting Spencer's figure in the doorway. He's changed, a rather nice pair of slacks and a white button-up shirt clinging to his limbs.

"Can I come in?"

"Mhm," I say. I still don't know if I entirely trust myself to say anything more than a few words to him, and as he enters the room and sits on the foot of my bed, I wonder if he can tell.

He tries, really tries, to look me in the eye, but I know that it's hard. I've been in the same spot. And then he takes a deep breath before folding his hands in his lap.

"Y/N, I want to apologize... When we... talked last night... It was kind of weird, and then this morning wasn't really any better..." He can barely get out the words 'talk' and 'last night'... And then he avoids my gaze altogether, staring at the floor and trailing off, trying to put his thoughts together it seems.

And that's when it starts to click into place.

There's one thing that both last night and this morning have in common, and I've noticed it almost every time I've caught him staring at me. At my legs. It's happened almost daily since I've met him. And then, the night I come home clearly having just been fucked, waltzing past him, entertaining his fascination with my legs and then masturbating to thoughts of him in the shower, he finally starts dropping mugs.

He must also really feel something here. Something similar to my own feelings. And really, that should be a red flag, because he's my mom's boyfriend, and it's a goddamned fucking mess...

But fuck, it excites me.

I'm still wearing my pajama shorts, silky and lavender in color, and I use them to my advantage, slowly crossing one leg over the other and just barely gaining Spencer's attention back.

"Yeah, what was that, anyway?" I ask him, amusement dripping off my tongue.

I can tell from his reaction that he wasn't expecting me to ask. A few times he opens his mouth to speak and then closes it , stumbling before panicking. He's been pretty good so far at coming up with answers and explanations, so the fact that this time I finally seemed to have broken him down makes it all the more clear.

He must have heard me in the shower.

Right?

I'm almost completely positive that's what this is about. And there's one way for me to get the confirmation I'm looking for.

"So you heard me, huh?"

I try to keep my voice as plain as I can as not to give away my motives, and with my luck Spencer is so flustered that he probably wouldn't have even noticed it at all. He looks up at me, his eyes desperately trying to find something he can use to make up a lie, but in the end there's no use.

I've caught him. And he knows it.

"Yes," he whispers. He looks exhausted, guilty, and also a little like he wants to cross the barrier and kiss me.

Okay, maybe that part's just in my head. I really can't tell. But I do know that hearing me call his name out in the shower last night is what brought him to this point of severe distress. As much as that excites me, though, it also embarrasses me a little. Maybe if it hadn't happened we could have avoided further destruction.

It must read on my face, because Spencer perks a little. "Oh! Y/N, I'm not... I'm not mad or anything. I really didn't mean to overhear and invade your privacy... Really, I-I'm sorry."

The fact that he's apologizing to me right now, rather than acting all grossed out that I even did it in the first place, tells me he either feels guilty for not being able to help himself from hearing me, or he's just a good guy who loves my mom and doesn't want to ruin it because of a little mishap.

Either way, it's frustrating, because I don't know what to do.

Well, I know what I want to do, but I don't know if I should hint at it.

But then he does something. It's small, and no one would have noticed, but I've been fascinated with his hands since the moment I met him, so my eyes are instantly drawn there.

They're clenched so hard, his knuckles are nearly white.

He's nervous.

To ease his mind a bit, I hold off on poking the bear harder (though it's really tempting to see what will happen if I don't) and nod, trying to make myself look as apologetic and small as possible.

"It's okay... I... I won't make it awkward if you won't?"

His shoulders slump, and his body seems to relax. "Y–yeah. Yeah, deal."

He gets up off the bed and blurts one final apology before heading for the door, but that part of me that wants to poke the bear further makes me stand up and follow him.

"Spencer?" I call out.

He freezes and turns to face me, and I don't think he quite expected me to be as close as I am. I have to tilt my head up to look at him, and the angle gives me an added layer of this innocence I'm trying to achieve.

"I'm sorry, too..."

No the fuck I'm not.

Whether he can sense my lie or not, he doesn't show it. But I think he at least knows that I'm pitching my voice a little higher on purpose, and if that doesn't give it away, the way I'm staring at him sure should.

Still, he only nods and retreats.

All there's left to do is see what happens.

JUNE 25th

For someone who agreed not to make things awkward, Spencer sure can't keep his eyes off of me.

To be fair, I have tried to keep things fairly normal. I only really interacted with him if I had to, I kept my distance, and I saved my skimpier clothing for the strangers I was regularly going out to see almost every weekend.

My lustful feelings for him aren't as strong now that I've been getting some on a semi-regular basis and keeping myself occupied. I've been doing my part.

But I still can't shake him entirely.

Whenever he spends the night (which is surprisingly most nights), the occasional wet dream about him gets me frustrated when I know he's just down the hall and sleeping soundly next to my mom. On those days I try to cut as much interaction with him as I can, though it doesn't keep me from seeing the occasional stare he throws my way.

I wish I could say that I hate it.

But I don't, and it increasingly gets worse. It's only been a week, so there's still time, but honestly, I don't think there's any shaking him.

Today especially is one of those days where it's hard not to give into the incessant need to tease him and coax some stronger reaction out of him.

I talked to Mom earlier this morning about getting some new clothes, and she had this brilliant idea to have Spencer take me. "It would be a good chance for you two to bond a little, don't you think?" she insisted, nudging him in the side and silently pleading with her eyes for him to agree.

I could tell from the look on his face that he really wasn't ready to be alone with me again, but that only excited me.

"Yeah, I think that's a great idea," I piped up, positively beaming.

Mom was so excited for us to 'bond' and also that I was gladly inclined to go through with it that Spencer couldn't have said no to her even if he wanted to.

And I was pretty sure he didn't want to.

Yet here we are, sitting in the car, the air conditioning so strong it's blowing some of my hair into my eyes. I think it had been his way of punishing me for choosing today to wear a short skirt, something I usually refrain from nowadays unless I'm going out, and it makes me smile. I can't help it.

I also can't help the way my fingers play with my skirt, dying to tease him some more. I just want to see, to know for sure that I'm driving him mad.

"No offence, but you seem weird today... Is there something wrong?" I ask him, lifting my skirt just a smidge. The air from the car blows the fabric in waves.

"You're acting this way on purpose."

Well, I hadn't been expecting that answer... All this time he'd hardly been confrontative, and now he's full-on calling me out. It's plain to see that he's finally snapped, and I would have felt sorry about it if I didn't find it extremely sexy.

"What do you mean?"

"Y/N..."

My name on his lips is a warning. He's clearly annoyed, exasperated, and I'm loving every second. "Don't act oblivious. I'm not stupid, and neither are you. I don't want to make you hate me or anything, but you have to know where I'm coming from. I was willing to let the shower thing slide... And you said you were too, for that matter, so I don't know what's changed, but it has to stop now. Understood?"

Oh, all I want is to argue with him. I want to point out that none of this is really my fault because he's the one who hasn't been able to stop staring at me all summer so far. I want to tell him that if he wants this to stop he has to make it stop.

But that isn't going to give me any of the answers I'm looking for or further proof of my theory that he wants me just as badly as I want him. And I am not going to fuck this whole situation up by making a poorly-timed move on him.

I have to know for sure.

So, I fold my hands neatly in my lap, sigh, and look dead ahead. "Right... We said no awkwardness. I'm sorry."

Spencer seems to accept my apology and continues down the road.

When we make it to the mall I think he's calmed down. At least, he seems a little more comfortable around me, and honestly I'm okay with it. As much as his spiel in the car turned me on, it also exhausted me to the point of silence.

Even as we walk around each store in the mall, I just lead and he follows, not saying a word when I pick out a top or a pair of pants or whatever else I need. And when it comes time to pay, he takes the basket from me and pays for it with no question.

Near five bags of clothes later, I figure I could get used to this new dynamic.

But then we pass a lingerie store, and I remember that the main thing I'd needed was new underwear. I start to turn into the store, but stop suddenly, pausing awkwardly and deciding to go straight ahead instead.

"You don't want to go in?" Spencer asks.

I shake my head. "No, it's fine. I can just pick some up later, it's not a big deal."

He sighs then, nodding his head towards the sign. "If you need to go in, you can... I'll just wait out here if you're uncomfortable."

I really want to call him out, ask him if he's the one who should be worried about being uncomfortable. But so far this afternoon has been pretty decent, and I really don't want to make things any weirder than they have to be.

Besides... If my theory is right...

"Sure. Thanks. Uh, how am I gonna pay, though?"

"O—Oh... I'll uh... I'll just watch the counter and come in when you need me."

"Orrrr, you could just give it to me?"

This time I get a laugh out of him. "Not a chance. Go in, I'll wait."

I smile at him and hand him the bags to hold onto while I leave, and it fills me with absolute amusement that he'd just given me one more ounce of proof that I'm right.

He's gonna have to come inside and pay for what I bought. He could have just given me the card, and maybe he truly doesn't trust me with it (which I don't know why he wouldn't honestly), but he chose to come inside all the same.

I browse happily then, going through the displays and picking out things I need, but also things I know Spencer will like.

Specifically, I stumble on a pair of lavender panties, embroidered with flowery trim up top. The pattern from the outside is lace, but there's a thin layer of cotton underneath designed to be more comfortable to wear.

I've noticed that he can never seem to look away when I'm wearing anything, really, but it's more intense when I wear one of two things. Florals, and any type of purple. And these fit both of those bills perfectly.

Now there's just one more bill to take care of.

I stride over to the counter and turn around, finding that Spencer's caught my eye immediately. Either he truly had been paying attention to the counter the whole time, or he'd been watching through the glass, following me with his gaze to the best of his abilities. Either way, he blinks a few times and looks like he's gathering the courage to go in before actually taking any steps.

I laugh to myself, eager to gauge his reaction to this next step.

Surprisingly, he holds up well. The air between me, him, and the cashier is obviously awkward, but he doesn't say anything and barely looks at what she rings up. (I say barely because he tries extremely hard not to look at the purple pair I picked out, inadvertently adding another checkmark to my list of proof.) She tells him the total, he hands her the card, and within a minute, everything is in our possession and we're leaving the mall entirely.

I don't think there are any more steps to my plan today once we get in the car and I tell him thank you. (To which he responds a short and simple, Sure thing, and turns the radio on.)

But then there's a note taped to the front door, and it instantly gives me another one.

My Sweethearts,

I got called in on a work emergency and won't be back until 7. I would have called but I figured you were having a nice time and didn't want to interrupt! I'll bring home dinner, and then maybe you can tell me about how your day went. Can't wait to hear it!

XOXO,

Eve/Mom

I check my phone, seeing that it's almost 3.

Perfect.

But I don't want to give myself away too quickly, so I thank Spencer again for taking me out and tell him that I'm going upstairs to make sure everything fits right. He nods and lets me go, though not without lingering eyes. I can feel it.

The smile never leaves my face as I try all my clothes on. Once each article has been fitted, I throw it in a laundry basket and move to the next, until I get to the last piece.

The lavender panties.

As expected, they fit perfectly, and as I look at myself in the mirror I picture what Spencer would look like when he sees me wearing them.

That's right. When.

I throw back on my earlier outfit and grab the basket, acting as bored and normal as possible to find him sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book.

"Hey," I greet him, setting the basket in front of me once I reach the bottom of the stairs. "Everything fits good, I just need them washed now. Could you run these down to the laundry room for me? I think I'm gonna make something to snack on before Mom brings dinner."

It doesn't surprise me to see him look at my legs before my face, even if it is brief. I want to smile, but I hold back, watching him nod with a tight smile of his own.

"Sure."

He disappears and then I wait.

One...

Two...

Three.

I sneak as quietly as I can to the laundry room once I hear the washer door open. I hadn't specifically asked him to put them in the washer for me on purpose, and it looks like now he's doing exactly what I thought he might.

My head peeks around the corner, barely in his range of sight as I watch him empty the basket. He takes one item of clothing at a time and throws it in the washer, and halfway through the basket he stops, just to place a pair of my new underwear on the dryer beside him.

My heart races faster the more I wait for him to get to the end of the basket. Once he does, he pauses again, and I think I know exactly what he's looking for.

Still, he sets the basket aside and picks up the stray pair of underwear, a simple black cotton pair that I'd been getting for years, and drapes it over his hands. My thighs instantly clench, and I try so hard to remain where I am so I can see where he takes this.

He takes it straight to hell, apparently, tentatively pulling his dick out of his pants and gripping it firmly. I can barely see since his back is partially turned, but I see enough, and god he's so fucking pretty. My underwear dangle from his left hand while the other works slowly over his erection, a soft sigh falling from his lips.

I fight to let one of my own slip as my hand sinks down the front of my body, past the lavender cotton and lace that I know he just wishes he had right now.

And then, a few seconds later he's already coming, using my brand new underwear to catch each rope of it, and the sight nearly has me on my knees.

And because I want to catch him in the act, I quickly draw my hand away from myself and step into the room, barely giving him time to recover.

"You come fast."

Spencer looks utterly devastated when he turns to see me standing in the entryway to the laundry room, arms crossed and an amused smirk adorning my face.

"Y/N... I—I... I'm so sorry, I didn't... I..."

"Don't worry about it," I say, taking a step towards him and shrugging. "You heard me, and now I heard you... We're even. Besides, I... figured you might be looking for these."

He's still stunned, but he looks down all the same, watching my hands slip under my skirt and glide the lavender panties down my legs. I step out of them and hold the garment up on one finger, a soft smile still on my face.

"I picked 'em out just for you, you know," I tell him, tossing them past his face and into the washer. "I've noticed that you like purple."

This time he's quick to respond. "Y/N, we... We can't... This isn't right."

"Says the man holding my underwear soaked in his cum..."

He looks panicked again, extremely guilty, but if this isn't going to end in a total disaster, then I have to reassure him that I'm okay.

"Spencer, I'm not mad..." I take another step forward, and it feels much like trying to approach a wounded animal. I can see in his eyes and in his posture that this conflict is killing him, so I decide to show some rapport. "And I know... I know this is messy... I love my mom... And I'm sure you care about her a lot... But are we really going to ignore this? We tried that, remember? And now look where we are."

"I..." He swallows, shaking his head and trying to avoid my eyes. "I can't stop thinking about you... I can't..."

My hand finds his arm, and the light touch has him sighing out, an incredulous, breathy laugh escaping him. "Y/N, please... Don't."

"Don't what?" I ask softly, praying he won't turn me away. If he does, we're just back to square one, only the square is jagged, sharper than ever before, and in serious danger of injuring someone.

When he meets my eyes, I see nothing but a desire for something he knows he can't have. "Don't want me."

Now it's my turn to laugh. My knees start to wobble as I go down, keeping my eyes locked onto his, and I swear I see them dilate fully. I scoot in closer, sliding my hand up his leg and finding the words in my heart to finally say out loud.

"It's too late for that..."

My face moves closer, and the hand of his that doesn't currently hold my underwear flies down to gently tug at my hair, keeping me in place.

"If you do this... God, Y/N, I won't be able to stop myself..."

A smirk dances over my lips as I lean in, breath fanning gently over his exposed skin. "Don't."

He swallows. "Don't what?"

"Don't stop yourself."

I barely get the words out before his hand is completely pulling me towards him, and the second my lips press against the silky skin of his hard cock, he loses it completely.

His fingers thread through my hair as I kiss and lick my way softly up to the tip. Once I'm there, I swirl my tongue out and taste the small beads of cum that had remained after he came, a low, satiated hum radiating through my body and making him shiver under my touch.

And then I wrap my lips fully around the head of his dick, and there's no stopping the most beautiful sound I've ever heard come out of his mouth. It's a broken, desperate whisper of my name. The crack in his voice when he says it spurs me forward, and I take him deeper into my mouth until he hits the back of my throat.

That's when he tosses my underwear in the washer and uses both of his hands to grab my head, roughly guiding me along his cock and fully taking control of my actions.

The fire in my belly doesn't ease up, not even once he's decided that he can't take it anymore and pulls me off of him harshly.

And that's only because now he's fully turned over, finally given into these desires that have been plaguing him presumably from the moment we met.

"I want you stripped and in your bed, on your hands and knees within the next five minutes."

I get up off the floor and walk up to him until our bodies are flush, my arms reaching up to wrap around his neck.

"What are you gonna do to me, Spencer?"

He searches my eyes, and his own grow dark with the purest form of sin I'd ever seen. And when his hands come up over the back of my legs, and under my skirt to grab my ass and pull me even closer to him, I can't help the little mewl that slips past my lips.

He smiles, and if it hadn't been for the grip he held on me, I would have fallen to my knees. "Little girl, when I'm through with you, you'll have to come up with some excuse to your mom about why you can't walk straight... Is that what you want?"

The mention of my mom should send me running in the opposite direction, but his threat only prolongs that fire in my veins and makes me want him even more.

I tilt my head up and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Do your worst..."

———

Turns out he was very true to his word.

Sitting at the kitchen table is somewhat of a relief, but I try not to walk around as much when Mom gets home. She'd asked me almost immediately if I was okay, and I told her I was just hungry and needed to eat something.

She seemed to have bought it, rushing to the kitchen to unpack the fast food she'd ordered for us. Over her shoulder, Spencer gave me a sly smile, and it took everything I had within myself not to crumble.

Through bites of food, I only half-listen to Mom telling us about the stuff she had to do at work because most of the words I'm hearing are in my head— A loop of endless dirty talk that plants deep into the soil of my stomach and spreads out through my whole body. It infects me, like the most beautiful poison, and I never want it to stop.

"Tell me, sweetheart, you ever let a man come inside you before?"

His weight on top of me coupled together with the heft of his voice has me whining out in pleasure, each snap forward of his hips over my ass as he pounds into me from behind the most delectable burn I've ever felt.

"Uh huh," I answer happily, twisting my head to feel his cheek against my own. "That night you heard me in the shower... I walked through the door with a stranger's cum soaking my panties... And you know what?"

He grumbles, his hips hitting into me harder as he waits for me to continue.

"I wished it was yours..."

My legs clench together under the table and I take a large gulp of water.

I feel something graze over my bare shin, and I already know it's Spencer's foot, a silent reassurance of his presence and that no matter what, he'll always be here.

"Here's what's going to happen..."

He has me on my back now, my legs hoisted over his shoulders and bent back so I'm nearly folded in half. His hips are flush against mine and I can feel his cock throbbing as he comes into the condom.

"You're gonna make an appointment to make sure you're clean... You're gonna make sure you're on good birth control... And then the next time I fuck this pretty little pussy, you're gonna really know what it feels like to have a man come inside you."

Right... Like I really need a reminder of his presence.

I can practically feel it still inside me, taking up every inch of space my body could provide. And no matter how long I go without seeing him, I have no doubt that it'll always remain.

"But that's enough about me, I'm sorry." Mom's voice shifts and breaks me out of my fantasy. "So, how did your day of bonding go? You have fun?"

Spencer and I share a look, a smile spreading over his lips that makes me smile in turn.

"Yeah, Mom," I say. "It was great."

He nods in kind. "Yeah... We'll definitely have to do it again."

His foot grazing over my leg under the table cements the unwavering smile on my face, as does the way my whole body burns at the memory of him fucking me upstairs only hours before.

I don't even flinch or get sick to my stomach when Mom reaches over and gives Spencer a kiss.

———

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[maneskin-my-belovedd]

Måneskin Fan Infodumps About Cool Linguistic Feature Apparent in Italian Rock Band’s Songs

Because I really like Måneskin and I really like linguistics AND I like talking about both of them, I will now teach you a cool thing I learned about them okay here we go

So the first time I listened to “I Wanna Be Your Slave”, the way Damiano pronounced one of the lines stuck out to me:

I know you're scared of me You say that I'm too eccentric

The phrase “too eccentric” sounded instead like the word “eccentric” with a /t/ in front of it (”teccentric”), which made it a bit hard to understand at first. If you pay attention to that part of the song, you may be able to hear why I found his pronunciation strange: he is singing two syllables-- “too” and “ec-” (from “eccentric”)-- on the same note. In other words, it sounds like he is smushing the two syllables together.

Now, from an English-speaking perspective, this may seem like poor lyric setting. Why try to fit this eight-syllable lyric into a seven-note melody? Why not rewrite the line so it fits-- “You say I’m too eccentric” or “You say that I’m eccentric” would both work better. The thing is, Måneskin's native language is Italian, and from an Italian-speaking perspective the phrase “You say that I'm too eccentric” could definitely work in a seven-note melody, despite seemingly having an extra syllable.

In Italian, along with some other Romance languages like Portuguese and Spanish, there is a phenomenon called synalepha. Synalepha occurs when one word ends in a vowel and another word begins with a vowel, and results in the vowels being merged into one syllable. It is easiest to hear in poetry or music, which depends greatly on syllable count.

For example, take this line from “Vent’anni”, with the number of syllables in each individual word written in parentheses

E (1) andare (3) un (1) passo (2) più (1) avanti (3)

Simply adding the number of syllables will give us a total of 11, but in reality it is sung as eight syllables because synalepha occurs three times. The syllable breakdown is shown below: ties (‿) represent synalepha , hypens (-) represent syllable boundaries within a word, and spaces represent syllable boundaries between words.

E‿an-da-re‿un pa-sso  più‿a-van-ti 

In fact, if you listen to any Italian Måneskin song, you will almost certainly find cases of synalepha. Lowering the playback speed can help you hear how the vowels are merged into one syllable.

Looking back at “I Wanna Be Your Slave”, we can now see why Damiano might be pronouncing the phrase “too eccentric” as three syllables rather than four; he is applying synalepha, a foundational part of his native language, to English, where it doesn’t occur. We can hear synalepha applied again in other lines in the song:

I wanna be a good boy‿I wanna be a gangster

and

I wanna be your sex toy‿I wanna be your teacher

I want to make it clear, though, that this post is not to say that Damiano is speaking English “wrong” or "improperly”. I, along with most linguists, strongly believe that we should discuss linguistics in a descriptive way, objectively describing how language is used by its speakers, rather than in a prescriptive way, determining what is “correct” and “proper”. 

Additionally, I doubt that English’s lack of synalepha is something taught to Italian speakers. As a native English speaker who has studied Spanish for around seven years, I was never formally taught that synalepha occurs in Spanish; the closest thing I can remember was one of my professors telling me that Spanish “flows” more than English. I only noticed synalepha after listening to songs in Spanish and noticing how vowels in separate syllables combined into one syllable.

In conclusion, I think looking at the “mistakes” made by non-native speakers of a language is so interesting. It reveals a lot about their native language and how people acquire new languages. Are they applying a grammatical rule in their language that doesn’t exist in the second language? Or maybe they are over-applying a rule that only exists in the second language? Maybe, like synalepha, it’s a rule that’s never taught but is implicitly understood by native speakers. 

I just think that non-standard features of a language, especially those used by non-native speakers, shouldn’t be looked down upon as impure forms of the language, but instead should pique curiosity (”why do they say it like this?”) and serve as a reminder of our diversity (”it’s so cool that there are different ways to say this!”).

[ktheist]

ghost of a kiss.

muses. duke’s son!yoongi x marquis’ daughter!reader x crown prince!namjoon / professor!yoongi x student!reader x detective!namjoon

genre. historical au. reincarnation au. modern au. 

words. 5.3k

note. nobody come at me for the header pls. or as bretman used to say, like fuck i’m tryin i’ve only been doin this for 2 hours 😭

x

There weren’t that many things Yoongi wouldn’t do if his father so wills it. Perhaps it was the Min blood coursing through his veins that made him so apathetic to human emotions.

You want to laugh.

You also want to cry, scream and throw the closest thing you have which is your fan at Yoongi’s ever emotionless expression. Just like a blank canvas painted with invisible ink, Yoongi never shows his feelings. Never spoke his mind.

Well, not around you at least.

It was as if you were just a pretty little doll for him to play with –no, he doesn’t even pay you any mind. He just sat there, sipping on the cherry blossom tea that the maid poured into his cup and gave one worded answers to the questions you asked after your endless chatter came to, well, an end.

After that, he put up with you a little bit longer when you insisted you’d wanted to escort him out of the garden and to the front of the mansion where his carriage awaited.

“Until we meet again, my lady,” he would bow but you would hold out your hand for him to place a ghost of a kiss on like lovers would.

It was always you who were asking for too much.

Always you who were a slave for his affection.

But instead of doing all of those things you dreamed of doing when you meet him again –and meet him, you do– you end up running past the grandeur doors of the ballroom, down the red carpet splayed hallway and into the gardens where red roses glimmer with dew drops underneath the moon rays.

What a heartbreakingly beautiful set up for a damsel with a broken heart.

“My lady,” it hasn’t even been five minutes when you hear that stone cold voice of Yoongi.

“Why couldn’t you just pretend you didn’t see me running like a scared, defenseless mouse after we met. After all, you’ve always been good at that –pretending like I don’t exist.” You wanted to laugh and laugh, you did. It sounds withered, unlike the full blooms of floral that surrounds you two.

“As your fiance, I have a duty to–”

“Duty.” You spit out the word like it’s poison, “was visiting me every fortnight for tea a duty of yours too?”

The corners of your eyes are red from roughly rubbing the traces of tears that threatens to fall on your cheeks and ruin your makeup.

You take a deep breath before turning to him, pushing down a silent sniffle.

“As you may have heard from your father, Duke Min, you’re relieved from that cumbersome duty,” you hold your chin high.

As you should.

Yoongi Min stares at you a moment longer than he usually would. Is it the hair? Your hair’s grown since he last saw you. 

Or perhaps the bodice that wraps around you and enhances your curves and bosoms. 

‘Perhaps’, you somberly admits, ‘he simply forgot how I looked after four years.’

“As you should have heard from the Marquis,” Yoongi presses, “I refuse to break the engagement.”

“Wha–” the word slips past your lips before you even register it.

“It can’t be undone, his Majesty already approves of the annulment,” you know you’re repeating words your father and brother uttered. Like a hopeful little mouse in the face of a black panther.

“Only with the Majesty’s approval can you request to break the engagement but it’s up to the Min’s if we wish to grant your request –I reject it.” Yoongi stands only a few feet away from you, his eyes appearing darker than black, shadowed by the moonlight.

When he steps forward and out of the shadow, you find yourself forgetting how to breathe. Like a beast in the night, he ambles his way to you elegantly and swiftly.

Before you know it, Yoongi is standing in front of you. And you, a captor beneath those haunting, onyx, splendor. His gloved fingers twirl a strand of your hair around them before he brings the golden locks to his lips.

“I loved you blindly, Sir Min,” you send your gratitude to the gods and goddesses for the stillness in your voice, “I longed for you like a sailor long to sail the seven seas but do you know what’s so wretched about this sort of longing? Only a lucky few manage to love without drowning.”

Your slender fingers curl around his wrist. Even then, you couldn’t close your fist around it –your hand is too small and delicate compared to his. And at times like these, you’re reminded of how woman you are and how man, he is.

“Release me,” the air feels cold against your now damp cheek but your heart is icier, “once and for all. At the very least, I’ll be able to marry a humble Count who’ll receive part of my inheritance once my father dies.”

The scoff that leaves the man’s lips sends shivers down your spine.

“A humble count,” his eyes gleam with mockery, as if he finds your words ironic, “did the Crown Prince of the Isira Dynasty not propose to you? Did you not come back for the sole purpose to tell me you’re abandoning me?”

You suspected the rumors of your getting closer to the Crown Prince, Namjoon, would spread over the continent.

“If you know, then let me go.” You say steely.

It’s the rawness in your tear-stained eyes that steals Yoongi’s breath away. The night breeze that blows past him almost sends him tumbling down like waves crashing against the shore.

“[Name],” he speaks your name for the first time in a long time, the syllables rolling off his tongue like sweet honey, “I’m not a man of many words. I don’t know how to–”

“You didn’t know how to kill either but you got better at it with practice!” Your throat feels as if it’s being grazed by sandpaper.

Your heart, on fire.

It’s the first time you’ve shown a different emotion than that heartwarming smile that looks like you’re meant for spring and blooming flowers. In that blissful moment, you look like one of the crimson roses that bear witness to you and Yoongi’s altercations.

“That’s right, I know what you do,” you nod, gaze burning with acid tears, “all those months spent waiting for you to come back from those expeditions. Monsters weren’t the only thing you slayed, were they?”

“No,” Yoongi breathes out and for some reason, his chest feels like it’s going to cave in and crush his heart.

The sensation is alien to him. Hell, he didn’t know he had a heart to begin with. It was just an organ that kept his blood pumping –he’d gladly tore it out and gave it to his dearest fiancée if she so much asked for it.

But now – now – she’s saying she wants no part of it. 

The realization comes to him like poisonous smoke. Spreading around the hollowed part of his chest and seeps into that beating organ of his. Before he knows it, you’re already slipping out of his grasp.

“I’ll break off the engagement,” he finally says, his brain not registering the words that left his mouth, “for a kiss.”

But his heart knows what he wants.

You look at him like he’s crazy, eyes going round and glossed lips parting in a silent gasp. But when he makes no attempt to correct his words, realization gradually settles in.

“Make it quick.”

Long lashes flutter shut, lips pressed in a straight, unwilling line. The hand that clasps around his wrist falls to your side. Your shoulders are tense. You look like you’d rather be with those chimeras Jeongguk’s breeding than here. 

Yoongi takes another step toward you. 

Your eyebrows knit together when his gloved knuckles caress your cheekbone. The sharp inhale of breath you take as you brace herself doesn’t go past him. A rose, even in the face of the hands that threatens to pluck it, remains fierce and grounded.

The wait feels endless. As if time passes agonizingly slow yet the only indication that time hasn’t halted altogether is the way your heart keeps palpitating inside your chest as though it’s about to explode any second.

Then you feel them –a pair of softest, ghostly, lips on your forehead. As opposed to the hand kisses he left you, this one lingers with a sort of yearning. And even then, it feels short-lived.

As though you will never have enough of Yoongi Min.

“My lady, you look disappointed, if you wanted me to kiss you elsewhere, you should’ve said so.” There’s a mirth in his tone. And for a moment, you feel warm, like the warmth of the sun hugging you.

“What if I did?”

You want to ask but you decide against it. Thrusting your chin up like the noblest of women would, you remind him of the deal, “I’ll send someone to retrieve the annulment papers in a week’s time. I assume it will bear your signature, sir.”

With that, you walk past him, your laced hand brushing against his gloved one but even on the verge of goodbyes, Yoongi Min doesn’t let you walk out of it that easily. His pinky finger hooks around yours like a rusted, weak chain. Unsure whether to keep holding on or letting go.

Yet your feet stop dead in their tracks. Your heart races. Deep down, you know you want him to hold onto you like you held onto him for ten, pitiful years.

“Have a good evening, my lady,” is all he says, his hand falling away and he begins strutting to the opposite direction you’re heading even though there’s nothing in that direction besides a maze made of rose beds.

But you don’t plan to ponder too much on it. Namjoon, the Crown Prince, is waiting for you back in Isira where you’ll build a new home. A new life. And with a loving husband.

Or so you thought. 

x

That was a lifetime ago. To say you opened your eyes to a twenty-one year old body in a world plagued by motor engine propelled and electronic devices –would be a lie. 

This body is yours.

This life is yours.

You remember your first step, first successful ride on the bike after your father took off the supporting wheels, your first fall and the rest of your firsts, seconds, thirds and so on. And as such, you remember your first time meeting Min Yoongi.

At the age of twenty-one and him, twenty-six, his emotions are hard to pinpoint.

He isn’t much different in this lifetime.

His hair is a shade of rich brown that could easily pass as black if he’s not walking underneath the sunlight. He’s taller than the twenty-two year old boy you last saw before your carriage crashed into the ditch –that was the last thing you remembered from your last life. 

No, you didn’t die. But the rest of your life past that point was blurry.

And here he comes, all in his dark colored vest over a white undershirt and black trousers. Professor Min Yoongi is nothing short of perfection.

“[Name], do you have a minute?” He approaches you like a panther; soundless and undetectable.

Before you know it, he’s five feet away from you and if you were to make a quick u-turn, it would be too obvious.

“I’m afraid not professor, I’m sorry, should I email you at a later time so we can discuss matters of my assistantship?” You put on your best smile and he lifts a dubious brow that screams that he sees right through your lie. 

Yet he doesn’t press on.

Instead, he offers another alternative –though completely disregarding the last bit about the email, “right, then meet me after class.”

“I-I’m afraid I can’t do that either professor, I have to rush to Cyber, right after–!” You almost choke on your words.

“I’ll talk to Professor Park about that,” he says simply and taps you on your shoulder like any good-natured professor would with his top-performing student.

It just so happens that you’re extremely good at the class he teaches, which, ironically, is Neurocriminology.

x

“Professor Min?” You knock on the intimidating wooden door and hear a curt ‘come in’ from the other side before pushing the door open.

Behind his desk, Yoongi looks up at you through his long lashes and straight into the windows of your soul.

Even in your second life, his piercing stare affects you.

But you tell yourself that it’s because he’s just devilishly handsome and you’re humbly a woman. 

That, and he and Professor Park Jimin are the youngest professors in the department.

“Those assignments over there need sorting.” Yoongi points to the pile of papers in a box perched on the coffee table as though waiting for you to arrive.

“Yes, professor,” you breathe through your mouth and swallow back the words of accusation that threaten to fall past your lips.

You did volunteer to be a student assistant but you never thought, in a million years, that the man who resembled your fiancé in the past… Well, on paper at least. You never thought he would pick you as his supervisee.

The room is silent save for the rustling sound of papers fluttering as you shift through each assignment and place them alphabetical orders of the name. Every once in a while, you can’t help but steal glances at the man seated behind the desk. With his hair slicked back and the cuffs of his wrist rolled up to his elbow, he looks like every girl’s modern day prince charming.

“Why are you so keen on running away from me?” His husked tone cuts through the silence.

“Pardon, professor?” You blink, not catching the meaning of his words until a moment later.

Your cheeks heat up under his piercing gaze, the recollection of the occasions you fast-walked to lose him in the hallways burning in the back of your mind.

“I-it seems I always have places to be… classes to attend, I’ll make sure to meet you every morning to confirm my tasks, professor,” you can’t just confess that he has a face and name of the man you once loved in your past life.

If you so much spoke of your remembering you’d be sent to the asylum.

A ghost of a smile tugs on the corners of his lips but it was gone as soon as it came. You’re not sure if you’re just seeing things.

“Very well, send me the location of your apartment so I can pick you up tomorrow,” he doesn’t look up from the screen of his Mac when he says that.

“P-professor?” You blink, disbelief coloring your complexion.

“You said you’d meet me every morning, yes? I always have my breakfast at 7:30 AM at The Curve, we can discuss matters of your tasks over breakfast.” He goes on like it’s just another day of him assigning you a task to complete.

x

The next morning, you sit with your back straight, staring at the pancakes Yoongi ordered for you. The sweater he wears over his vest makes him seem more relaxed than his usual vest and tie look. His long lashes almost brush the top of his cheek as he casts his gaze down at the leaf shaped latte he’s drinking.

“Professor, I double checked with the administration office and they gave me a list of things I have to do to complete my assistantship. From the tasks you’d given me, I checked off at least three of the requirements,” you take out an azure blue notebook where you flip to a page that has a piece of paper and slides it across the table.

“You came prepared,” he muses, an amused smile playing on his lips and your little heart does its little flips.

“I take it you’re writing a paper on neuroscience and human behavior –if there’s anything, I can help you with, please let me know,” you return his smile with a schooled one –the kind that you use when you’re dealing with strangers.

“Sure,” the professor nods, “I could use some help researching neurodivergence.”

The conversation flows smoothly. The worries you harbored for the whole of your university life now dissipated. You were at your most comfortable when it comes to academia. Your passion lies in your interest in criminology and the one man who you could engage in an intellectual conversation is none other than the man whom you tried so hard to avoid.

At some point, you think your worries, silly. Just because they share the same face and name, doesn’t mean they share the same memory. For all you knew, you could be the one in a million who remembers your past life.

That is, until Yoongi asks, “were you happy?”

He uses the word ‘were’ to refer to the past. It takes you a moment to register that he didn’t mean your childhood nor adolescent years.

And when you finally put two and two together, you can almost hear your heart drop. You thought you’d be sweating bullets and heaving for air from the tangible pressure this conversation brings.

But before you could say anything, Yoongi speaks again, “I won’t push for an answer, I know where that led me before.”

He casts his gaze down, long, nimble fingers picking up the cup of latte and making the regular sized cup seem miniature in his hand.

x

It’s a few days later, as you accompany him to another university to meet with a fellow specialist, that you finally say, “you never pushed me.”

Stirring the cup of black coffee, sitting at one of the round, two-persons tables in the cafe of the Sociology Department, you go on, “in fact, you never asked for anything at all. I was always the one asking for too much, giving just as much.”

‘I loved you too intensely and I burned too bright.’ These are the words you never dare say.

Loved.

Because you don’t love Min Yoongi anymore.

Perhaps, that’s why you’re unusually calm.

“I can’t remember everything –only bits and pieces. That night,” you swallow –you don’t need to steal a glance at him to know he’s thinking of the same night; the night you said your goodbyes, “after the carriage crashed, I remembered seeing shadows clash against one another. Namjoon’s men went against the assassins who came for me because I was the rumored Crown Prince’s soon-to-be fiancée. I had to go into hiding after he was demoted to a mere prince because of his brothers’ schemes… at some point, I remember starving because we had nothing to eat.”

A new identity was all Namjoon could offer for his beloved. He spoke of claiming back the throne that was rightfully his yet his supporters scattered all over the continents after the siege. Their spirit waned overtime. He came for you after the shadows saved you but you both lived in poverty until one shriveled up like a dead flower and the other went mad for the crown that was once his.

The way his fists clench with remorseful anger doesn’t go past you, it’s almost as though you can hear him blaming himself for your choices.

You smile wistfully, “but yes, I remember being happy,” the smile tugs into a straight line as you face him with conviction, “would I give everything up for that sliver of happiness again? No,” you shake your head, “now I just want money.”

Yoongi laughs. Like truly laughs out loud with his shoulderline shaking and hand on his stomach. The sound lacks the menace that you remembered him to wear around him like a cloak.

All of a sudden, the air seems to change. The tension you once felt, now dissipated into thin air. A familiar warmth creeps up your neck but you mask it with indifference.

You can’t afford to fall for him all over again.

Not when you’ve had a lifetime to mull over and decide these feelings would die with you –get buried with you.

“What happened after your sister ruined the dukedom?” It’s when you both got to this point of the conversation that you felt your heart writhe inside your chest.

As if physically hurting for the fate that befell Yoongi –at this point, it was just an assumption, but you were sure that–

“Aera tracked us one by one until she killed every single Min,” he says simply, as if talking about a cherished sister who up and left home with the family’s savings a few hundred years ago, “she was the best of us. She knew people like us couldn’t be left alone to live a quiet life.”

In the lulled silence, you notice the festering remorse that dances in his eyes.

He clasps his palm over his mouth as he stares out of the window, “of course, things are different now. We’re not allowed to kill.”

At that, you almost spat out the coffee you’re downing. You couldn’t believe your ears.

“It was illegal to kill then, you and your family did it anyway because you were just so– so… messed up!” You explode partly, voice lowered as you lean over the table, cautious of anyone nearby who might hear you.

“Aren’t you glad neurocriminology gives justification to murderers, well, murdering nowadays?” He smirks, one corner of his lip tugging upwards.

You find yourself breathing in sharply as your heart skips a beat at the sight of Min Yoongi’s dark humor.

The Yoongi in your past life would never be able to even understand a joke –you were sure.

But now it’s you who doesn’t appreciate the humor.

“Is that why you became a professor?” It’s apparent in the way your brows knit together.

“Rather, paired with my previous… knowledge, it’s an easier way to get a PhD and a stable earning,” the shrug makes him appear boyish –younger than he is.

For some reason, he was several years older than you in this lifetime compared to the last.

“Apparently mine deems that I marry rich,” you remark playfully.

“Then, shall we get married? I missed my chance in my previous lifetime and I’m kind of well off in this lifetime,” it’s the easy suggestion of marriage that makes you almost choke on the pancake you just directed into your mouth.

“Professor, there’s just something you don’t joke about,” you say after gaining a semblance of your composure yet your heartbeat drums in your ears and your cheeks feel as though they’re on fire.

Why are you so happy to hear that Min Yoongi, your former fiancé and beloved, entertained the idea of marriage with you even in this lifetime?

x

“Your sisters... do they remember?” Yoongi asks one fine evening as you’re surfing the internet to research the needed materials he tasked you with.

“How did you know I have sisters?” You blink, surprised.

Yoongi had to mask the involuntary smile that tugs on the corners of his lips when he sees how lovely and adorable of a face you’re making.

“You mentioned them before,” he states, “even if you didn’t, I’d suspect as much since I was born with the same siblings from the previous lifetime –for now, it’s me, Aera and Hoseok, who knows where my dad hid the rest of his children and mistresses.”

“They don’t remember, I tried asking when I first started remembering –was it at the age of eight? They looked at me like a devil just possessed their little sister,” you sigh softly, “it’s better this way. Life isn’t all that easy for them either in the past.”

The cherry blossom tree standing tall and proud one the edge of the field is positioned so that anyone who stood in front of his window would get a full view of raining, pink petals.

“Why do you think we remember?” You ask, staring at the petal that fluttered into the room and found itself atop Yoongi’s deep brown lock.

“I’d say fate’s giving us a second chance but you’d laugh at me,” he plainly says, flipping a page of the journal he’s reading.

And laugh at him, you do, “professor, I didn’t take you for a hopeless romantic!”

x

“We both changed, you and I,” you told him over dinner at le Saumon de Bord du Lac.

The piano playing in the background and the dim lighting gives off an atmosphere of a romantic evening. The waiter even thought you were a couple and offered a couple’s discount.

Yoongi being Yoongi, accepted it right away and called you his ‘darling’. Your cheeks burn up for a good fifteen minutes until the wine comes and you finish the whole glass in a few gulps.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he agrees wholeheartedly without even looking up from the menu, “for one, I’m not some apathetic maniac who goes around wielding spears.”

“No, you’re my professor and I’m your student, we should never be caught dead having dinner together,” you shoot him a rebellious grin to which he nods.

“Touche,” he acknowledges.

x

A week later, you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw a blonde haired, hazel eyed man approaching you and Yoongi. You’d stepped behind Yoongi’s broad shoulders, the man almost didn’t notice you at all.

He’s supposed to give a talk on neurocriminology –a guest of Yoongi’s.

“Are you okay?” He asks after you’re back in his office, he pulls you away from the spotlight when he notices your forced mechanical smile and fingers tugging at your sleeves.

“I know, right? Why did I get so weird like that?” You laugh to yourself, as though engulfed in your own world.

It doesn’t take a genius to – or perhaps, Min Yoongi was that, so that’s why he successfully – put two and two together and figured out that his esteemed guest is the reincarnation of Namjoon.

The blond didn’t seem to recognize you though.

But that didn’t stop him from taking an interest in you.

“[Name]... that student of yours, is she single?” Namjoon asked when they were out for dinner with the other professors but before Yoongi could even respond, the blond was already laughing it off, “nevermind, forget what I said. You wouldn’t happen to know anyway.”

“Don’t go around flirting with my students, they need to focus on getting a degree first before anything else,” Yoongi jokingly warned.

Something in his stomach twists and turns, as if a snake was slithering around his intestines, spreading its venom all over him.

But that did nothing to stop you and Namjoon from exchanging numbers and going out to brunches and dinners like he did with you. You keep on tugging on her sleeve and pushing your hair to the back of her ear when you spoke to Namjoon at the next talk he was invited to.

Much to Yoongi’s surprise, despite your obvious discomfort, you’re the one who suggested inviting Namjoonfor the new semester and handled all the matters pertaining to the talk.

x

“I don’t want to push you because if I do, you’d drift farther away from me and if I pull, you’ll recoil and take ten steps back –there’s no right way,” Min Yoongi has you trapped between the door and his body one afternoon. Particularly, after he saw the name Joonie flash across your screen as your phone vibrates.

You excused yourself to answer the call but just as your hand touched the door handle, his hand rested on top of yours, stopping you from walking out of his office.

“Wh-what are you saying, professor?” You stammer, the now still phone held in front of your chest.

He thinks he sees the tip of your ear turn red but it could be because of the fading winter air.

It was always uncomfortable to watch you and Namjoon interact but Yoongi attributed it to the fact that one remembered the times they spent together in their past life and the other having absolutely no idea yet still falling for your charms either way.

He twirls a strand of your hair around his index finger before he kisses it, “he may have your heart but I’ve loved you first –I’ve always loved you first.”

“P-professor-!” You exclaim, heels turning and so does your body.

No doubt, your sole purpose of turning around to face him is to caution him of his bold declaration –you were like an open book that Yoongi could just pick up and flip the pages to. You’d always been readable, even back then. Perhaps, that was why it felt like a hand clawed through his chest and wraps its talons around his heart each time you put up walls and turn away his subtle advances.

Because he knows winter has long settled in the hollowed part of your chest.

But because of how he was leaning down to kiss your hair, you end up face to face with only inches apart. There’s no mistaking the blush that spreads across your face, washing away the initial surprise of finding yourself so close to him.

“Call me Yoongi,” he implores with that deep, husky voice of his.

It’s the way he looks at you. Like he’s frightened beyond belief that you’d do exactly what he thought you would; take ten steps back –that makes your heart thump unceremoniously in your chest.

“Y-yoongi… we shouldn’t…” you murmur weakly, eyes tracing his soft lips before snapping up to meet his gaze.

“May I kiss you?” He knows he should let you go to answer the call –what you do and who you see in this lifetime is none of his business.

And yet, he can’t bear the thought of you walking away from him in this lifetime. Not when there’s the second chance he made a pact with the devil for.

Fate and the devil, what difference are there if they meant to serve one purpose?

You nod.

And all of a sudden, he’s back where it all ended. In that garden where roses bore witness to their tragic love affair.

He leans in and presses his lips on your forehead ever so gently –it feels as though if he puts any more pressure, you’d break like you’re made of glass.

“Kiss me for real –if you kiss me on the forehead, it feels like you’re saying goodbye,” your eyes flutter open and your brows join together in protest, he feels you tug on his shirt impatiently.

The softest of smiles graces Yoongi’s lips and you think your heart is going to explode into millions of pieces. Is it not enough that he’s the reason you almost forgot to breathe?

“Wasn’t it you who was itching to run away from me?” He teases, pinching your cheek and just like his hand kisses –you still feel them ghost over the back of your hand every once in a while– his touches are feather light.

“Only because you were an emotionally constipated idiot.” You argue back, lips puckered in protest.

“Then, if I may… my lady…” he trails off, index finger curled under her chin, tilting you face up.

“You may,” you giggle against his lips, arms tracing up the planes of his abs to his chest and find home around his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

x

(“I was only putting up with Namjoon because he’s the head of the criminology department in Incheon –I was thinking of applying for a job there after graduating.” You confess some time later once you’re at le Saumon de Bord du Lac.

“Huh,” Dion blinks, not expecting that.

“Did you think I was going to date him in this lifetime?” You giggle as if you already know the answer, “true, he’s still as handsome as ever, but we did go broke and… I never truly loved him.”

You cast her gaze down, cheeks burning with warmth, shyness overcoming you all of a sudden. If he could, Yoongi would gather her in his arms and embrace her like he’ll never let go.

But he settles with a reach of his hand on top of yours on the table, thumb caressing the spot just below the knuckle of your fourth finger.

“In this lifetime… definitely.”)

x

note. this was shared on a discord server and posted on wattpad under a different pseudonym!