#the whole interaction was Korean while i just silently followed along with what i knew to do

[elixandre]

jdkdlfjsks love ppl assuming i know more korean than i do

like some things i know what to do because it’s not my first time—not because i understand everything being spoken to me. though if it’s been a while i might slip up which prompts ppl after already having been speaking to me in korean for a while to be like ummm 한국말 할 줄아세요? (Or similar) and i hear “한국“ and shake my head and they’re like oh hmm ok 🤣

[starliitstories]

nightshaderps​:

Gabriel reacted to her almost a shy smile with a friendly smile of his own. He looked carefully as the woman took out of her bag a stunning wood carven Korean wallclock. “Of course I could. And if you’re indeed looking for a miracle, you came to the right place”, Gabriel said confidently, but not arrogantly. He moved his fingers along the clock’s corners, admiring this piece of work. “It’s a beautiful thing”, he voiced his opinion. “Absolutely stunning. It’s pleasure to be able to work with this.” Being a watchmaker had never been his dream. And truth to be told, it sometimes frustrated the man that he had chosen the career path of his adoptive father. But he still enjoyed figuring out the complexities of an watch, not that it took much of his considering his ability to understand things. And now and then, he encountered gorgeous watches or clocks like this one. Honestly, he had discovered a newfound appreciation for his job after his years as a Sylar and atrocities he had done. Gabriel took out his equipment, attached pieces to his glasses so he could see everything clearly and turned the clock so he could open it. “How long have you been an owner of this watch?” he asked curiously while closely observing the clock’s machinery.

His friendly smile had made her feel more relaxed and her tensed muscles were now more loose. She curiously looked around and was admiring few cute looking clocks. It was an interesting place, full of different kind of ticking little items. Chaerin’s eyes followed his movements and she let out almost an silent chuckle when he complimented her wallclock. “I found it several years ago and just took it with me. It was supposed to burn down with an abandoned house but I just had to give it a new home. I couldn’t just leave it there to burn.” She explained, giving him a small white lie. Of course she couldn’t tell the whole truth. It was always like this when she was interacting with people. No one knew the real her and it often drove her almost crazy. “It has been on my wall ever since that day. The ticking noise calms me down and I just really love that clock.” Her expression grew little embarrassed after admitting her sentimental feelings towards an liveless objects. It gave her the feeling that someone was waiting for her in her lonely room.  “I’m so glad you’re doing your best with it. One of my friends just told me to get a new one. But it wouldn’t be the same.” Chaerin started, referring to Yulin’s words. “People shouldn’t just throw away something what’s broken. I believe everything is worth repairing or at least trying to.” Her expression melted more soft and gentle, while she was still observing him working with the clock.

[angry-geese]

Hi there <3 I've read some of your works and i'm in love with your writing. May I please request a fluff gojo x fem!reader? Like they finished their work in the evening and spend the rest of the night together at home💕 It could be a oneshot or a hc, whichever you feel to write. Thank you so much ^^ I'm sorry just in case my request is somehow not really clear☺️

Of course! here you go <3

Mochi

Gojo Satoru x reader

Warnings: none! entirely fluff! this will quite literally rot your teeth. afab reader

a/n: this ended up being a little longer than I intended lol whoops

Word Count: 2.5k

Satoru Gojo is a busy man.

The strongest can't really take a break. He’s on call 24/7. People are pulling him in all directions simultaneously. With everything that's been going on, between the mess with Sukuna, and everything happening at the school, he’s been short on time.

He needs a break.

He's more tired than he lets on. He’s good at hiding it. Especially around his students. It's hard to pull him away from his work. He's insistent that he’s fine. When you’re around someone for so long, you learn to pick up when they aren't. He can pretend to be fine all he wants. You know otherwise.

Sometimes what the strongest needs is someone to boss him around.

He’s capable of taking care of himself. He’s proven that already. But worrying is in your nature. You care about him, of course you’re going to worry.

You were a first year when you met him, having just transfered schools after an incident involving a curse. In a matter of weeks your life had seemingly been flipped on its head. The switch took some time to get used to. Switching schools your first year, let alone switching to this one in particular, was never going to be easy. Getting used to the way Jujutsu society worked took a while. He was a year above you, and you remember absolutely hating him. Gojo was insufferable- or you found him to be such. But he was friends with Nanami, who was a friend of yours, so you reluctantly hung out with him. Nanami, being in the same year as you, was the first to help you out, extending a hand and helping you get used to the way things worked.

Spending time with him didn't do much to change your views. The two of you couldn't have been more different. You still are. But something about opposites attracts.

The first time you gave him the benefit of the doubt was the first time he saved your life.

It may be a bit of an over exaggeration. You’re certain you would have survived without his help, but that could also be an attempt to preserve your pride. You went after a curse, not expecting it to be as strong as it was. As far as you knew, it shouldn't have been stronger than a grade three. Being a grade two at the time, this should have been well in your ability. There ended up being more than one curse, and they were stronger than anyone had realized. You were in over your head.

It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known. It's not like you could pick and choose which curses you fought. As a student, that was decided for you.

You had resigned to your fate, separated from the others, injured. Nothing fatal. It left a cool scar, though. But you were well out of your league, put on an assignment far harder than you could deal with. You hate to admit defeat, but you had no other option.

Out of what seemed like thin air came Gojo, taking out both curses like it was nothing. Despite not liking him all that much, it was hard to not be impressed. He was strong. Stronger than you could ever hope to be.

You made it home in one piece.

It was three days before you’d finally confront him.

Getting him alone was hard enough. Being an underclassman, you didn't interact with him a whole lot. You didn't have any classes together. The few times you ran into him were when you hung out with Nanami, who was gone at the time.

When the opportunity presented itself, you took it, cornering him behind the school.

Even back then it was impossible to sneak up on him. He could sense you coming.

“Jesus-” he said, referring to you by your last name, “you look like you want to kill me.”

“You helped me out.” You said. “Why?”

He only shrugged. Not wanting to take that for an answer, you followed him. You were insistent you paid him back. You’d never let a debt like that go unpaid. The first debts are always the hardest to pay back. And when a first debt involves saving your life, well, you’ve got a lifetime to pay back. You only left once Gojo showed up. He needed to talk to Gojo about something, and although you were curious, you didn't feel like sticking around.

Gojo spent the next couple days scheming. You were determined enough you would do just about anything. He could have easily abused his power. It would have been even easier to force you to drop it, but something told him you weren't about to take no for an answer.

You wouldn't.

3pm in the bathrooms. It was hardly a week later. Your last class had ended for the day. You had snuck cigarettes in, blowing the smoke out of the crack in the window. You don't smoke anymore, but you went through nearly a pack a day in high school. There wasn't a specific brand you liked—you didn't necessarily like smoking, but you did it when you were stressed—you just used whatever you got ahold of.

You didn't hear the door open. Gojo wasn't the sneaky type, but he could be when he wanted. You weren't too hard to sneak up on.

If you didn't have contraband that likely would have gotten you expelled, you would have screamed when you saw him. He scared you, not to mention he snuck into the girl’s bathrooms. The two of you would be in equally deep shit if you reported the other. So at that moment you came to a silent agreement.

“You still want to pay me back?” He asked. “Cause I have an idea.”

You perked up at his words.

“Get me mochi from that shop just down the road. You know the one that just opened up?” He asked. “Bring me some and I’ll call us even.”

“That's it?” You asked. It was almost anticlimactic. But despite everything, he was insistent.

Gojo hasn't changed a whole lot since then.

He still has his sweet tooth. He still makes you get him mochi from that shop. It feels like you’re the ones keeping it in business nowadays.

You’re not quite sure who made the first move.

Soon you began spending more time together away from Nanami and Geto. You got along better than anyone—mostly you—ever expected. You weren't the most outwardly affectionate. While you were far from shy, pda wasn't really your thing. Gojo is the opposite. Even now, years after you began dating, he’s still clingy. You’ve gotten used to it. Gojo is possessive, he wants everyone to know you’re his. Not that they don't know already. He can't shut up about you.

Getting him alone has always been hard. Not much has changed in the past few years. He’s only gotten busier. Try to drag him away from work all you want, you rarely succeed.

Tonight he's come willingly. He finished his work early, and all you had left was stuff you could finish in the morning.

Nights at home like this—together—are rare. It feels like you hardly see him anymore. You often fall asleep alone, only to wake up to the other side of the bed being cold. He’s been so occupied with this business with Yuji, that he’s hardly had time for anything else. You sneak away during your breaks, like you’re teenagers again, stealing kisses between classes. You almost don't know what to do.

It almost feels like you should do something to celebrate.

The lights are off when you get home. Your apartment looks empty. Megumi must still be out with his friends.

“What should we do for dinner?” Gojo asks.

“Takeout?” You say. "I don't feel like cooking."

Gojo’s a decent cook, but he doesn't feel like doing so either. He’d get takeout every night if you’d let him. But that's not good for him (or Megumi) so you force him to do otherwise. Because you’re normally home, and you like baking, you’re usually the one to make dinner. There's not much in the fridge. You'll have to get groceries eventually. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. It shouldn't take long.

“How does Korean barbeque sound?" He asks. "From that place down the street?”

"Sounds good,"

You find a menu buried in one of your kitchen drawers, stashed with other takeout menus. You pick out something—two meals, plus some sweet buns for dessert—he calls the restaurant. You pay the extra cash to have it delivered. Neither of you feel like going and picking it up. It's more convenient than the alternative.

The tv drones on in the background while you wait. There’s not much on tv at this hour. News, some late night soaps. While you do like your occasional soap opera, none that you normally watch are on. Gojo changes it to the news. The weather. It looks like it'll rain tomorrow morning, but the rest of the day is supposed to be warm.

"We should go to the park tomorrow," you say, "having a picnic sounds nice."

Gojo hums in approval. As long as you make those tea cakes—the ones with honey drizzled on top—he'll agree to tag along. Maybe you'll go check out the bookstore too. It's been a while since you've last gone.

You strip out of your uniform, pulling on some more comfortable clothes; a pair of shorts and one of Gojo's shirts. It smells like him. You can't help but bury your nose in the collar.

When there’s a knock at the door, Gojo is the one to answer. He returns with your food. You gather napkins and utensils. Gojo never saw the point in anything other than stainless steel chopsticks. Or wooden ones—those given to you with takeout—if he wasn't feeling up to doing dishes. You, on the other hand, bought all sorts of colorful ones and stands that may or may not have been lifted from various restaurants. That's one habit from your teenage years you never lost. You'd pocket almost anything that wasn't nailed down. Your apartment has a rather impressive assortment of salt and pepper shakers. Not to mention the box of hotel soaps you never use, but took because you "might" need it. He enables you, taking some whenever he stays out of town, bringing them home for you. Gojo can hardly say no to you.

Gojo settles next to you on the couch, his shoulder pressed to yours. He can't keep his hands off of you. He’s possessive by nature. Everyone has to know you’re his. He always has to be touching you. Not necessarily with his hands, but he presses his thigh against yours while sitting next to you, or his body pressed against yours from behind in public.

The two of you eat in relative silence. Gojo’s attention turns to the tv, but that doesn't stop him from practically laying on top of you. Occasionally he’ll sneak bites of your food, and you of his.

When you’re done, you clear away the empty containers, sitting any leftovers in the fridge. Gojo sprawls out on the couch. He easily takes up any bit of space. The couch can hardly fit all 6-foot-something of Gojo. It hardly fits you. You've been meaning to look for another one, but haven't found the time to.

He opens his arms, and instinctively you go into them. You move so you can rest partially against the arm of the couch, Gojo's head leaning against your shoulder. His arms loop around your waist, his fingers lacing over your stomach.

It doesn't take him long to begin to drift off. He falls asleep in the crook of your neck. The low sound of the tv, combined with the warmth of his body makes you want to drift off to sleep. Sleeping on the couch like this isn't very good for your (or his) back, but you don't want to move.

The next time your eyes open, some late night game show plays, disturbing your sleep with loud music. The clock on the wall reads some time past two. It's hard to read the minute hand. You gently shake Gojo awake. One of his eyes cracks open and he lets out a soft “hm?”

“Come to bed,” you say, your arms wrapping around his neck, “it's late.”

His eyes close, and for a moment you think he’s drifted back off to sleep, when his grip around you tightens, and he’s rolling over on top of you.

“I think I’ll stay here with you, mochi,” he says, planting a wet kiss to your neck. The feeling of his lips on your neck makes you shiver.

And though he doesn't move, there's a look in his eyes that tells you he has something planned. You only notice too late that his grip never loosens, and the mischievous glint to his eyes. You couldn't wiggle out of it if you wanted to. You're effectively trapped.

He litters your neck with kisses, sending you into a giggling fit, and he doesn't stop until you’re begging him to. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from laughing. Your nails dig into your palms so hard they leave little crescent-shaped indents.

When you finally settle down, he’s pulling you into his arms bridal style, heading for your shared room. The bed is still unmade from this morning. Neither of you bothered to put it away. You were busy, and the thought slipped your mind.

Gojo shoves the covers aside, pulling you to lay on his chest. His fingers gently trace up the curve of your spine as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest. Goosebumps prickle your exposed skin. He’s careful with how he touches you, loving, and soft. It's like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your body. His heartbeat is audible. Steady, and quet, acting as a lullaby. Your eyes shut, but you’re still awake. The intimacy of the moment doesn't go over your head.

He thinks he could die happy at this moment. Any moment, with you, really. Even during fights, or nights where he doesn't come home until long after you’ve fallen asleep, and you’re left irritated with his lack of time. As long as you’re by his side, he’s content.

He doesn't give much to the thought of settling down. His work will never let him. Neither does he think much about having any biological children. You practically have two already. Settling down isn't really an option for the strongest. This is the closest he’ll get to it.

For now, he just thinks about the park, and the blue sundress you always wear when you go.

Not many people can say they’ve changed who Satoru Gojo is as a person—let alone for the better—but you’ve changed him twice. Once in your meeting behind the school, and once again tonight. He’s found the one.

The first debt is always the hardest to pay back. But you've paid it in full.

[jjkpls]

crayons ‘hana’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, light angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 4.5k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

> Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> next

**words in italics are spoken in Korean

It's a grey day.

The Sun is acting up. As if It had been vexed deeply and now, no matter how loud the kids are calling after It, It just won't budge. Hidden behind the thick clouds, not hinting a tiny ray through the heavy shower, It won't show the tip of Its nose today, you have no doubt about that.

It takes some time to persuade the kids of that fact though.

The better half of recess is spent arguing, they just won't admit that for today, the break will be taken in class. It renders most of them gloomy, unable to accept the harsh reality, even if they've lived before -back in the beginning, when you were still too lenient, letting yourself drag into endless quarrel leading to stupid and quite irresponsible compromises- the traumatizing experience of standing in the middle of a storm. You still remember the awful concert of cries and the race to pick every kid somehow induced in a panic paralysis, one under each arm, to bring them to safety in urgency -thank god, Jeon Jungkook had been there, with his stature, able to stack up five of them at the same time, incredibly useful, pretty much life-saving. What you remember even better is the severe scolding you received from the principal, who thought -as you should have- that no matter how bad the children insisted, they shouldn't be playing outside in the rain.

You knew that. They just wouldn't believe you and you thought that, maybe, they just needed practical proof. No harm was supposed to be engendered. And quite frankly, none occurred. Children sometimes just enjoy being dramatic and it was the perfect, quintessential occasion to do so, especially if the principle is in earshot -which she was.

In any case, you learned your lesson. However, they did not.

Charlotte, standing on her pretty polished pearl white shoes -that you know, for a fact, that you'll get in trouble if her mother comes to pick her up to find them ruined by the terrible weather-, chin up high, hands tucked to her side, won't stop arguing with you as the main spokesgirl for the class. Apparently, it's “unfair”.

And it is unfair. Weather is not meant to be fair and you have not a single take on it. Try to explain that to a five-year-old.

“Ok, everyone, listen up!” Everyone's little heads swing forward like those car bobbleheads, wide eyes ogling you with burning impatience and clear, obnoxious delusion. They're all waiting, expecting you to open the door and let them free into the wild. “Let's make a deal, alright? Who wants to make a deal?” And everyone, even if they, for the most part, have no clue what's going on, wants to -except for Charlotte who's eyeing you with a suspicious glare and for Jimmy who's hiding in the corner, a sad scowl on his face. “You know that I don't have any power over the rain. But I do have powers over how long recess will last.” You act smug as you say that, their little impressed faces adding to the effect. It becomes painful to conceal the giggles blooming in your chest. “Since you already wasted half of your time, I have a proposition for you. You'll stay twice as long on break, meaning until it's 3:45,” You explain, pointing on the big clock hovering your desk where the long hand will be standing when the break ends. “if you can stay calm in class, ok?”

The announcement sends them in a fury, the simple idea of having a longer break overwhelming them with hysterical joy. So much for staying calm and collected.

Fortunately enough, I've been gifted with overall sweet children. It doesn't require more than a collecting "shh" and a reminder of the term of the bargain for them to quietly divert into groups, colonizing different lots of the classroom. Some ask for books, for paints or crayons, for the plushies and the toys they brought along to school -even though they're not allowed to- and a tranquil atmosphere rises and sets itself upon the room.

It's very nice, even for you. Sitting at your desk, watching over them with a distracted eye, you wonder if you'd be allowed to spend the rest of the day like so. They're talking, laughing and creating, sharing, being kind to each other and this whole ambience, slower than usual, calmer, more peaceful seem greatly beneficial for them. They don't feel any kind of pressure from having to learn, having to follow a predesigned, normative rhythm. It's pleasant and healthier than usual. Even if you try your best, constantly, to render every single day as filled with positivity through the required productivity as you can, you can't help sometimes stress and tension from blooming. It suffices one Kevin to come to class, sleepy and upset from a bad night, triggering a Charlotte who ends up scowling and nagging at everyone all day, and then everyone is in a terrible mood. Exercises are a pain to go through. Keeping their attention on you a quasi impossible challenge to overcome. Bringing their spirits up an unreachable, delusional aspiration.

But here and now, spending their time and energy on what they want with their chosen friends, in the comfortable warmth of the safe classroom, with the rain gently drumming on the windows, you can sense peace and joy and it fills your heart with content to the brim, or, almost to the brim.

Your heart could be spilling out with joy if it wasn't for this one, tiny pout adorning one tiny chubby face. Jimmy hasn't budged much from earlier. He had to leave his own desk to relocate at the very end of the room because a few girls decided to set up their library on the adjacent table.

His posture is the same though. Sitting quietly, his back pressed into the corner, hands tucked together against his belly, his big dark eyes are observing his classmates attentively. You read fear but also curiosity that's eaten up by something else, maybe sadness. It's a heartbreaking sight you're unfortunately too used to witness.

Jimmy arrived two months after everyone else. You don't know much about him. Because you haven't had the occasion to meet his parents yet, but mostly because he hasn't spoken a word since his arrival. His pouty mouth, shaped like an adorable button, hasn't opened once. Not even that one time you tried to have him participate and had him tearing up and crying, overwhelmed as he felt under the attention. He just sat silently, eyes drawn downwards, munching on the inside of his cheek, while tears ran down his round cheeks while all the other kids watched, as bewildered as you.

You almost quit your job that day. Certain you were not cut for it, somehow, finding out only now, at 26 years old, that you were a horrible, cruel person and your vocation and higher call were just all a blatant lie.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that today, once again, he’s hiding in his corner. You've tried a few things before. You didn’t just watch, waiting on time to operate and break his thick shell on its own. You've consulted the principal, colleagues, the internet. You've looked for clues, for tricks and after having tried quite a few, with little to no success at all -you've made him look up to your eyes, a thing he had been incapable of before-, you've decided to lay off a bit of that zeal.

You were getting too invested, even as this child’s teacher and you knew it wasn’t a good idea to pursue. As for him, you didn’t want to harm him in any way. No matter the benevolence and kindness and softness you put in every single one of your interaction, you thought, he seems so wounded already, you could break him, without meaning to, by simply trying too hard to smother his hostile edges.

You calmed down.

It tastes like defeat, coating a heavy layer in your throat, it never ceases to remind itself to you each time your eyes fall upon the sad pout and curious eyes. 

Today is no different.

Everything would be perfect if only, for once, he could mingle with his peers and if you could, for the first time, see the shades of his smile. If he even knows how to smile. 

Rising from your chair, you pick up a few pencils from your personal collection -the precious ones, unbitten at the top, unbroken at the tip, tall and seemingly unused. You don’t ever lend those to the kids as you know they’re not mature enough, and they won’t be for a long time to come, to care for your stuff the way those crayons need to be cared for-, a few white sheets and a sharpener and quietly make your way to him. He catches you and your intention from afar, his gaze fixed on you as you get closer.

He doesn’t utter a word, nor adumbrate a movement as you crouch next to him, soft smile, soft gestures. It’s a bit hurtful to think about it this way but it’s like approaching a wild tiny, tiny helpless creature -you're terrified to see it flee away.

“Hey Jimmy,” You say kindly, ignoring pointedly Charlotte who’s watching you (you can see her from the corner of your eyes) so that she knows to not interrupt or try to interfere in any way. “Would you like to draw a little?” You lay the material in front of him. His whole attention is offered to you and while you're glad you’ve reached that point where he can actually look at you, you can not help but wish he’d look away as his heavy stare suddenly makes you feel anxious. “Those are my personal crayons. I’m sure I can trust you to take care of them well, right?” He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile. You're not sure if he’ll even pick one of them up. You know he won't in front of you anyway and not wanting him to feel cornered and pressured, after another sugary sweet smile, you wave him goodbye and let him be.

The afternoon goes on, calmer than usual. It's as if they were brought to a state of peace so deep, they're now willing to accept any unfairness the world has in store for them. When the school bell rings, the children quickly run to the racks, grabbing their coats and little bags. A few of them start piling up at your feet, whining for the teddies and toys and lip balms they brought to school this morning and that you had to hold hostage as they are not supposed to bring them to school.

“Could we have another recess like today, miss? Tomorrow?” You see the shimmery eyes, the pressing pouts and impatient wiggling of the butts, waiting as patiently as they can for an answer. You're glad they had a good time today, still, a part of you can't help but regret it all. That part, conscious from the start, of how it'll all come back to bite you in the arse. No matter how cute they are, those little monsters always end up munching your arm up to the shoulder if you only do as much as tend an open hand their way.

“We'll see.” You say, waving them off. You don't mean to be so misleading but there's no way you're sending those kids home crying hysterically because they haven't heard the answer they were looking for.

Quickly they're all out of the class, seen outside to their carers by Adrianne, the lovely woman who helps out you, along with all the other teachers, with the kids every day.

There's only you and a little mess that you're able to tidy out quickly. In the corner, lay the little pile of papers and the crayons that had been obviously unused. Your heart squeezes briefly uncomfortably but you were not expecting any different from him. Since he arrived, two months ago, Jimmy has only drawn or traced letters or painted or built anything when the rest of his classmates were doing it too. You assume it's because he feels like he can't refuse to do something everyone else is doing. When it's just about him, when it doesn't concern directly the course, when it's just for pure personal entertainment, he simply would not do it.

You notice something. If he didn't draw anything on the sheets, he touched the crayons. They're piled very neatly, all tips turned the same way, one next to the other on top of the papers. What a sweetheart.

What a lovely, lovely kid.

It sends a rush of hope and determination back into your heart. You're not utterly desperate. It might take time. Maybe you won't be able to make significant progress until the very end of the year, when you'll have to say goodbye to him once he changes classes, but you don't despair to reach him, eventually.

And maybe that's all the universe needed -the conviction that you're not holding into this kid in pure vain- to offer you a generous little push. The magical manifestation comes in the form of Jimmy himself, escorted by Adrianne whose hand hovers few centimetres atop of his dark mop of hair, standing in the doorway, eyes drawn to the ground as if he's in trouble.

“Jimmy's father is running late and I-” She winces a little, grimace accentuating the lines carved on her face around her easy smile.

“You want to ask me something, don't you?” You tease knowingly. She looks embarrassed until she catches your wink, understanding she's probably fine to ask you anything.

“It's Felicia's birthday and I promised I'll be home early...”

You have to contain yourself, to not sound as ecstatic as you feel, to not drop to the ground, hands held high in gratitude towards the sky, settling for a simple: “Okay, I'll stay with him.”

“Are you sure?” She asks because she's nice and considerate but she's already turned her body towards the hallway. It doesn't take much more convincing to have her disappear.

It's only Jimmy and you now.

You're giddy but anxious. He doesn't even raise his head once she's gone. He just stands there, little raspberries tinting his cheeks and you're filled with a fondness tightly intertwined with sadness because he shouldn't look this guilty when he's done absolutely nothing wrong.

“Come have a seat.” His black eyes raise high enough for a split second, just to see where your hand is patting before quietly, he makes his way to the chair adjacent to yours. You've laid the papers and the crayons you'd picked up from the ground, an idea had come to you. There's no chance you'll have him draw something for you but you could draw for him.

You don't know if it'll have the same effect as it does on the other children. It's this special, unique teacher power that turns every single one of your shitty doodles, gifted to one of them, into a priceless, beautiful gift. It's the funniest thing and one of your favourites. The feeling is like the one you get when they fight and have to make serious arguments and deals to decide who will be the lucky one to hold the teacher's hand today.

Surely it's ridiculous but it does flat your ego grandiosely.

You're not expecting this kind of reaction from Jimmy, you'd just like to create some sort of contact, an interaction. Staring down at the white sheet, you're left speechless, nervous. It's been a while since you've sat in front of one of those, with no clear indication of what you were supposed to lay on it. Quite frankly, your crayons you only use to grade. The feeling is terrifying and you realise, gulping, that you didn't miss it. Maybe that feeling is the reason why he didn't pick up a pencil to draw himself. Was he filled with the same irrational paralysis that comes with the fear of the unknown?

“I'm not really good at drawing, to be honest with you... Do you like cats, Jimmy?” His big eyes watch you carefully. No answer. He simply munches on his lips, waiting for you to fill in the silence. “You probably do. Or, I hope you do because cats are what I draw best. Let's see.” You mumble, picking up a blue pencil to start -another consequence of the unusual anxiety you're feeling, suddenly picturing cats being blue.

It takes him a hot minute to open up the slightest. Actually, it takes about half an hour. Half an hour of you talking on your own, making conversation for the both of you; of you struggling to draw the cat you were certain you knew how to draw; of stopping every now and then to go over the basic body shape of a cat. It starts in the form of him snorting discreetly -you almost miss it- when you almost curse, fishing your cellphone out of your back pocket to look for the ugliest but easiest drawing of a cat you can find online for reference, tired of erasing and redoing the same damn curve of the cat's neck and messing up each time. It continues with him accepting to chose the next colour for what you keep calling “our cat”. He picks a deep purple for the back of the kitty, a bright yellow for the paws and apple green for the eyes. It's kind of funny looking but in a way you've done it together and your heart is filled to the brim with happiness. When it's done, sort of, you're ready to grab a new paper, hoping that maybe, on this one, he'll feel comfortable enough to grab a pencil himself and leave an actual mark on his own but the universe taps gently but firmly on the tip of your fingers, reminding you to be thankful for what happened today but not to be too greedy.

It's the tall and dishevelled man, stumbling loudly through the door that interrupts and determine the end of today's progress. Jimmy raises on his seat on reflex, running into the man's -you assume to be his father- legs. The man seems a bit uneasy, with his trench coat poorly buttoned, his dark hair messy with a thick strand sticking up to the roof, forehead crossed with worrisome lines. He reaches for the little boy, carrying him up to his chest, smacking a big kiss on his forehead; Jimmy's short arms are reaching far, far away, wrapping as much as he can around his father's neck and the previous wrinkles simply fade away.

“I'm so terribly sorry!” He apologizes, voice remarkably low, sounding lovely somehow even through the tension straining it. “I had this meeting that just lasted forever, I'm so, so sorry. It won't happen again.”

“No it's totally fine, don't worry about it!” You might be screaming a little bit because the big, impressively built man is now bowing with Jimmy draped around him like a koala and you feel so embarrassed because 1) no one has ever bowed to you, 2) you sincerely didn't mind staying a little bit later (especially given it happens more often than not) and 3) you were glad, you feel fortunate for the chance you just had to spend more time with Jimmy and see a spark of something you've never seen before. The reason you made a good improvement, you believe, is because the circumstances were favourable. Having a class filled with twenty-five other rambunctious kids that require great attention, at all time, doesn't, ever, allow you to bond with the boy. “Please don't, it's fine.” You insist, forcing him with wide gestures to stand up straight again. “Jimmy is one of the sweetest kids of my class, honestly, it was no bother.”

The dark eyes, perfect imitations of the ones Jimmy carries, display a lovely glint at my comment. He attempts to look at his son who’s snuggling in the crook of his neck, smiling softly.

“Is that right, Jiminie? My good boy.”

Jiminie. Without knowing what he says, the sonority of his words sounds so gentle and lovely, you can tell why the boy turns all sheepish.

There's a loud kiss pressed to his cheek and you can hear a high giggle, shy but sweet, as Jimmy squirms a bit in his dad's arms, pressing a hand to his ear. The scene is so, so adorable, you would cry if only you were not too worried to give off a terrible portray of an unbalanced and ugly-crier of a teacher to this father.

Father that you’re meeting for the first time.

And this fact, lost in the middle of a storm of agitated thoughts, manages to find his way to the surface after a little while of just awkwardly standing there, not really knowing what to say.

“Mr Kim, actually, I'm glad you're here. I meant to- meet and maybe have a little conversation with you, I don't know if Adrianne told you-”

“Yes, yes, she did. Of course. I apologize, I was supposed to get back to her with a date but work has been pretty- hectic. I've just changed job and-” You nod, genuinely understanding. If you don't know much about this man, nor this family in general, you can tell from the layers of fatigue that even the tender smiles he generously grants his son can't diminish, that he's not having the best of times. “It's not that- I don't want you to believe that I'm not invested in my son's education, it's really not the case-”

“Oh no, I don't believe that!” Quite frankly, you'd say that to any parents that come to you with these kinds of doubts, it's probably the worst thing you can do to a parent to criticize their parenting, their love, especially when you know from experience than most, even the ones that mess up and scar, don't commonly mean to. Parents are just adults and adults are just humans. Trying to figure shit out and actually not knowing jack shit about much. As a teacher, of children that young too, you owe to help them turn their progeny into the best versions they can be, as a team.

But this dad, standing there, distress and something akin sadness shading so much of his face, there's so little room for softness, a hand tenderly massaging the back of his boy's hair, you have no doubt, whatsoever, that it's not the case. That he tries and probably struggles, with whatever their circumstances are, but means the best. “I really don't. It's just I'd really like- I mean, I need, to have a little meeting with you. I receive every parent at the beginning of each year, it's important for me to understand better the child...” You would point out that in Jimmy's case, it's absolutely necessary given his behaviour but you don't want to say it in front of him. You've been reassured before by the principle that you weren't to worry too much. Jimmy was not, in any case, in any kind of danger at home, she had made sure of that after you first came to her with your concerns.

It's supposed to be a case of extreme timidity. It's confusing. Still, you were ready to accept this as the plain simple explanation if only you could talk to his father, have him confirm it and validate with your own personal impression. “I understand that you're working and don't have much time to yourself and that it's a bit- I mean, even as adults, no one likes to have to attend a teacher's meeting,” Only the corner of his lips twitch a little, yet you gladly accept it as a win. “Would it be possible for you to make just a little slot in your schedule for me? I won't take too long, twenty minutes at most? Whenever you can! Before class if you want or after, in the evening, sometimes I'm still here until 7. Or at lunch! Absolutely whenever is good for you.”

“That's very kind.” Is all he says.

You don't know what to say to that. You're not sure he is right. You are especially invested in your work and your pupils. You've been told before that, maybe, you should lay off a bit -you're told each time you cry at the end of a school year, thinking about all the faces you adore but won't be seeing every day anymore. But most teachers are, you want to believe. Min Yoongi, from first grade, wouldn't be as generous with his time, that's for sure. He'd probably come up with a date that'd fit his agenda and if possible inconvenience the most the parents' schedule and demand that they do make the time and be present, guilty-trip them if they seem reluctant. But that's just him, being a lazy cynical asshole. You want to believe he's an exception and any other teacher, in your shoes, would act the same way.

That being said, the way he's saying it, wide eyes sort of laced with a certain confusion, serves to thicken the compliment.

“Whenever is fine.” You repeat, lacking a direct response to his words. There's a tiny curious eye, picking from the collar of the trench coat, observing you attentively. You smile to Jimmy, picking up the drawing of the cat you've drawn earlier and handing it to him. “I'll let you off now, Jimmy is probably starving.”

After a few seconds of just staring at it, Jimmy sneaks a hand out to accept the drawing, face instantly burying further in the fabric of his dad's clothes, all shy and embarrassed.

“Thank you. Thank you very much for today and for any day really. I promise I'll make sure to meet you very soon.”

“Sure, perfect. Jimmy, see you tomorrow?”

“You say goodbye, Jiminie?”

He mutters something you don't quite catch, enshrouded as he is in the fabric adorning his dad, but his father and you decide that it's the answer you were waiting for. A wave and a stumble down the hall later -one that nearly gives you a heart attack as the prospect of the man actually eating shit with tiny Jimmy still in his arms hit you-, they're gone, out of the school and on to their way home you assume.

You're entirely alone now. Giddy as a school girl overly excited about something mundane that doesn't require this type of enthusiasm. You're not precisely sure why. It's a storm. Again. An overwhelming storm of emotions. In the mix of it all, you can decipher the loud, brilliant thoughts regarding the tiny shy little boy, and a future brighter than the one you used to picture for him. One where he's not scared of everyone, where you can hear his voice and see him giggle without his dad for him to hide behind. And something else.

You're not sure.

You don't suck at your job, you decide, as you think back about the adorable chubby finger pointing shyly at the crayons he wanted you to use.

A/N : as always, a lot of love send your way, thanks so much for reading, i hope you enjoy it :)

[thetrlckst3r]

Lol bondage

Pairing: Vigil/Blackbeard. Word count: 1475. Rating: Explicit

It had been a few weeks since Vigil was in the base. He was on a long term mission, sent in to scout out an enemy residence to see if Rainbow could infiltrate in anyway.

It was the type of mission that caused everyone’s hair to stand on end. Always wondering if he would call in that day, wondering if his line would go silent and never hear anything of him again.

But he was okay, nothing had happened to him. Came out unscathed, no bruises or wounds in sight. It delighted the base to hear that he’ll be coming back within the day.

Especially delighted his lover, Blackbeard, who was the worst worrier about the whole situation. Yeah, Vigil was used to these types of missions, this is what he was recruited for. Stealth was his specialty, yet Blackbeard never ceased worrying over every little thing.

Now he didn’t.

After some lengthy hours of information telling, drawn maps and pictures, Vigil was free to go off and take care of himself. A shower was what was needed, along with a change of clothes. And general isolation from the others. He’s had his fill of being asked questions, had enough of interaction.

He really only wanted one person. That person managed to read his mind and knocked on the door.

“Kyung?” The question rang through the door before it was opened. “I’m here.” A simple response. The American slipped into the room, closing the door gently behind him. It was also locked, just in case.

The shower Vigil wanted had to be out on hold, since Blackbeard had different plans. There wasn’t much talking, since they both knew what the other wanted.

Lips met lips, bodies pressed up against each other. It was needy touching, hands running the length of the other’s skin, every part they could reach.

“I missed you.” Kyung muttered softly when he pulled away to get air. A nod was the response, along with “I missed you, too.”

Gentle pushing. Craig led Kyung backwards, the back of knees hitting and buckling against the edge of the mattress. Surprised gasping, but it was quickly suppressed. The Korean male fell back against the bed, pushing himself backwards to make more room for the other man.

A hand roamed between Kyung’s legs, pulling up a low sigh. “Seems you missed me more than you let on to.” Craig was talking about the very obvious hard on that Kyung had, can’t hide it. “Why wouldn’t I? I missed every touch.”

A knowing smirk, “I knew you would.”

Shirts were discarded, which Craig took a full advantage of. Lips trailed down Kyung’s neck, down his chest, and on to his stomach. The Korean was already lying back, being his usual loud self and letting out gasps and moans to every touch. Craig knew this, so he purposely went for more sensitive spots to drag more sounds out.

It was his favorite thing to do.

Kyung was always the squirming type, noticeable by his constant moving against every touch, hands going everywhere. Rubbing against the mattress, any available skin Craig had, anything.

There was a pretty easy solution to that. The belt Craig had on was removed and quickly tightened it around Kyung’s wrists. “Been wanting to try this for a while.” A wild grin as he pushed the Korean’s hands above his head. A bright red flushed across his cheeks. “Because I move too much?” A shrug, “that and I thought you would look like this. Turns out I was right.”

A whine, all Kyung could do was gently push against it. Didn’t really do anything, since his movement his limited to his hips and legs. Craig saw this, which brought a proud grin to his lips.

“Under all my control, now.” While he spoke, he slowly unbuttoned Kyung’s jeans and pulled them down. Once pulled all the way off, next came his underwear. The clothes were also thrown to the side, lost for the moment. His own jeans were taken off, tossed off. Craig leaned over to search the drawers for the essential lube.

It was found, good. The lid was popped open, some poured out on to his fingers. Wet fingers gently pressed against Kyung’s entrance, which earned more whines and gasps. One finger was added, unmoving to get him comfortable. Hips moved against it, clearly already pretty comfortable with it. A second was added, this one earned a loud moan, back arching up.

The bonds on his hands only warranted him to move other parts of his body. Gentle scissoring in order to stretch Kyung out, make it easier for them both.

It also made Chul Kyung exasperated and needy for more. But he was too squirmy, so Craig had a new idea. Fingers were removed and Kyung was flipped over to be on his stomach instead. It was met with a defiant groan, but that was changed when Craig put his fingers back.

Can’t be so squirmy when he’s stuck on his stomach, can he? Breathy moans, shut eyes. Fingers dug into the pillow, “please. You’ve teased me enough..”

“Now that you’ve said something, I might just keep doing this.” Craig grabbed at Kyung’s ass, drawing out a longer moan. Fingers dug into the flesh, putting bruises in the olive skin. The American leaned across, pressing his chest up against Kyung’s back. Lips pressed against his ear, “but I’ll let you have what you want.”

Craig pulled his fingers out, using them to lube up his own cock. More lube was poured out before the bottle was left off to the side. Gently, he pushed himself inside. Heavy gasps and even louder moans. The belt around his wrists prohibited him from doing much, making it hard for him to keep himself under some control.

Soon enough, Craig bottomed out. He stayed unmoving to get Kyung used to him. “Please... please.”

That was a good indication that Craig could move. Kyung wouldn’t say anything, so this was as good as it got. Little hip movements, gently pulling himself out and pushing back in. Quiet moans, quick intakes of breaths at the movement.

Wrists rubbed against the leather belt, pulling on it. It came with whining, he didn’t like being so restrained. But... he could deal with it. Besides, he still had his legs to move. The slow movements were torture, he needed more. So, he pushed his hips against Craig, a moan following it. More friction, he wanted more friction.

Hips snapped against the pressure, nails digging back into Kyung’s ass. “Can’t even be patient, can you? So needy for my dick, aren’t you.” Instead of making the Korean wait any longer, Craig started to move his hips quicker and adding more friction between them.

Broken moans, eyes squeezing shut. “A-ah..!” Biting down on his own lip was the only way to actually get him to be quiet for once. Craig has picked up a fast but steady pace, one that easily drew out moans despite how hard he tried to repress it.

“Come on, be loud. Don’t be so quiet, let me hear you clearly.” Craig liked it when Kyung was loud, he didn’t like it when the other fought back against it. “Who cares who hears us? Let them know how much of a whore you are for me.”

Another snap of his hips, a cry out, not one of pain. A mutter from Kyung.

“What? Don’t be so quiet.”

“Please... please touch me..”

Oh, yeah. Vigil himself has been neglected in his own needs. Mostly it was the fact that his own cock was painfully erect, being untouched caused him to feel uncomfortable. Didn’t take long for Craig to wrap his fingers around Kyung, moving in sync with his hips. Caused louder moans, ones that sounded more... content.

“Oh god... you feel so good inside of me...” Breathy words. Low groans as he reached his edge. “Craig... Craig, I’m going to-“ Words were cut off by a moan, Craig’s finger ran over the head. That did it for him. Abdomen rippled with his orgasm, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Mouth hung open, broken moans escaped. Now all he could do was let his body slump forward in his exhaustion.

All Craig had to do was chase his own orgasm. Groans, huffing. Kyung just had one more request, “come in me.”

That was easy. Didn’t take much longer until Craig came, body leaning over Kyung’s with a heavy set moan.

Now they just fell into a messy sound of breathing, chests heaving up and down. Kyung was the first to speak, “I love you... so much.” It was followed by a breathy laugh.

Pulling out, Craig fell beside Kyung. “I love you, too. If that wasn’t obvious enough.” A genuine laugh from the Korean, “Yeah, it’s pretty obvious.”