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akazastoes · 15 days ago

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#ohmygod #imgigglingandscreaming

hieee it’s your number one fan ^_-

one idea i’ve had rattling around in my mind is reader/mc seeing hange through a shared college class and since hange stood out to them, they end up seeing them like EVERYWHERE on campus and then mc/reader is bored in class and doodles hange, giving it to them with a note that’s like “you’re cute, so i drew you”

and you can do whatever you wish after that, i hope this is enough to go off of and isn’t boring as a request :P #need that pining and yearning

❝ANTHROPOLOGY❞ ✧ ೃ༄

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ hange x gn!reader college au one shot - in which you become infatuated over a stranger in your class . . . wc 3.7k *ੈ✩‧₊˚so much yearning, may your heart swell <3

That goddamn metronome clicks, back and forth, and back and forth, just how it always does, but today is different. There’s a pebble in your shoe and it’s been there since the first day of the semester; but it isn’t just any pebble. The pebble is quiet, articulate, and stupidly tall. It wears masculinity like a dying leaf, in all browns and murky warm-toned clothing which caught your eye. Of course, this pebble isn’t a rock, it’s the person sitting two rows and five seats to your left during the two hour lecture of your anthropology class.

You feel like a mad-man for the way you stare at them - but hey, as long as they can’t feel your eyes boring into the back of their head, it’s fine. The pen in your hand softly taps in between each methodic click of that metronome. Your head rests in the nested cup of your palm as you try your best to focus, but your professor is a bore and he’s been explaining the same chapters you’ve read twice now in goring detail. So, you decide.

Maybe you’re psychotic. Ymir certainly thinks so, and she isn’t shy about letting you know that either.

“Have you talked to them?” she asked as the two of you shared an after work froyo, four days after the first encounter.

“Absolutely not,” you replied so quickly she had to laugh.

“Well, one may think that’s the first step, unless you plan on stalking them the rest of your life.”

“I don’t know, you’re kinda onto something with the stalking…”

Maybe it is psychosis. Because as of late, they’ve been everywhere. At the library, in line at the campus cafe, your trek through the food court, and you swear on a rainy night you saw them in the parking lot of your college apartments; but as the person with the same shaggy bun on their head walked under a street lamp, you realized it was only your hopeful wishing. Months into the semester, it’s only seemed to worsen. At times it even pisses you off.

There isn’t a valid reason to be upset at them, you don’t even know their name yet you sit here, staring and fuming as that metronome clicks. That anger isn’t their fault, you know this. The anger is yours and yours only, because, with these months having gone by, you still haven’t spoken a single word to them. If it weren’t for their own bold curiosity, you very well wouldn’t have even heard their voice.

To this day, you remember it: you say gender has no spiritual significance, then how do you define gender through the eyes of indigenous groups?

Their voice was as broad as it was sure of itself - all mumbled and slightly intoxicating. Normally, you roll your eyes at unnecessary inquisitions - this day in particular, class was already five minutes over time and by the stunned look on your professors face you knew the old man was about to blab for another ten - but you watched from a distance as your pebble bit the tip of their pen and intently listened to his stumbling response.

Your anger is directed at yourself, because who the hell would let themself become so entwined in someone whose name is still a mystery? Who the hell wouldn’t just bark up the courage to ask. You know the answer - it just had to be you.

Your tapping pen stops as your eyes drop to the blank page of your notes. The ball point tip grates down against paper and you begin to scribble. From two rows and five seats to your left, the bridge of their nose is prominent and it’s the first thing you begin to sketch down.

As your professor blabs on, you recall how it wasn’t their appearance that first seemed to entrance you - but obviously, it surely doesn’t help. It was their demeanor which hooked you. The way their head hangs low and how fast they walk and how much their fingers twitch and the way they nearly trip every time they dash up the stairs of the lecture hall to leave. They’re awkward and bulky, like they don’t even know how to use their body and god it drives you fucking mad.

One time in particular, the time you nearly died, the two of you unknowingly clashed at the exit doors. They were the first to grab the handle, and it was in a mix of a flustered chest and headphones blaring in your ears which made your mouth part. For the first time, they looked at you. They actually fucking looked at you before their cheeks wrinkled with a smile, something awkward and societally forced.

“Sorry, go ahead,” they told you, and in your bashfulness all you did was nod, return a societally forced grin, and flee. Later that night you nearly damned yourself to hell for being so stupid.

Thank you!

What are you doing after this?

Please just fucking notice me.

Would that have been so hard to say? Your head shakes as you think of it now, as your pen faintly maps out the structured shape of their profile. Drawing is a nasty habit and not one you spend much time on, but you know if it paid the bills you’d get a useless art degree rather than being a useless anthrope.

There’s a break in the scene; it comes as your eyes dart to movement as your pebble slouches in their seat, spreading their lanky legs and you shift in your seat you can’t seem to stand yourself. You have to be god damn crazy to react this way to someone you’ve never met. But maybe, that’s just it.

This infatuation, this near obsession which brings your eyes back down to your page, maybe it’s all a dream. A fantasy where you imagine who this person is, who they could be, and it’s everything you want. God knows if even half of it is true, but that doesn’t matter. You debate tearing the page out and crumbling it into nothing, but your pen has a mind of its own. Your obsession seems to have a mind of its own, as without much thought you work out the intricacies of their hair.

Today, they wear it like usual. It’s dark brown and messy and the strands which frame their face look like they could use a wash; how endearing. It looks like they just run a hand through in the morning and clip it up the back of their head. The ends fray like unfurled hay and a few straggling pieces fall down their neck, all pooling together in the back of their flannel.

As they go to scratch the side of their head, you take note of every ring on their finger. There’s only two silver ones, the other hand has none. At the very least you know they’re not married.

You draw them just as such. By each chunk, by each imperfection. Then it comes to their glasses.

They're oval lenses with thin metal frames. They catch the hook of their nose perfectly and rest just at the sacred bump jutting out by their eyes. You only need to make a few, quick scratches to imply it, and the second you do your heart thumps by how they’re coming to life on your page.

You’ve always been an imaginative child, so it came as no shock to you when you found yourself imagining them by your side the other day. In line at the cafe, you thought freely of the conversations you’d have with them accompanying you. You’d want to have their order memorized, you’d have to and it’d be no burden on your brain because all of them is everything you want to know…how fucking pathetic. But your patheticness reached a whole new level when, like some sick manifestation, they appeared behind you.

Some asshole rode a skateboard directly through the center of the court, its wheels made a horrible noise against the polished floors, and you looked. For one second, you saw the guy zooming out the other side, but in the next second your eyes flicked up and found the stare of the pebble digging your foot.

Maybe it was rude, how quickly you looked away and turned back around. But what the fuck else was there to say?

Oh hey! You actually made it to my dreams last night, bit of an upgrade from just watching you all the time, might as well be going steady now!

You looked ahead, straight. Back straight. Breath hitched. And like a zombie you placed your order and entered purgatory as you were forced to stand and wait. You watched the entire time as they ordered after you. They smiled wide at the barista and it rubbed you so wrongly you had to look away. Your arms crossed as you turned the volume up, blasting your music instead of simply listening with the wired headphones you fiddled with. It rubbed you so wrongly that you didn’t notice they moved to wait next to you until it was too late. Like a fish out of water, you began to struggle.

Everything began to feel automated and held under the microscope; as if they’d be paying as much attention to you as you were to them. They weren’t on their phone, they weren’t even plugged in like you. They were there, present and quiet and tall and just as the barista called your name, they opened their mouth and closed it all the same as you pushed yourself from the wall and made an escape. It didn’t hit you until you were out in the open sun that if you had stayed you certainly would have at least learned their name.

They stick to the same type of clothes: what you’d imagine is in the men's section at a thrift store. The first time you saw them they had dark brown trousers, an off white shirt, and a brown jacket on. The second time was the same, but under their jacket they had an extra flannel. The third, they opted out of the jacket all together, leaving them in just a flannel that’s haphazardly cut at their hip. And yes, you remember it all.

Today, you draw their flannel in a mess of criss-crossed lines. It’s nothing fancy, nothing intricate or accurate, but you’d know exactly who it is by now. You start with their hands and this, you get excited for. Their hands are long and their fingers are thin, bony things with flat nail beds and bitten up cuticles. You know because the day they reached for the door first you quickly noted every single detail as if you’d never have the opportunity to again. You sketch each hand out, one keeping a pen to their lip - the exact way they’ve proven to be a habit as they sit doing just that now - and the other is marked in wide spread over the chairs folding desk.

You draw each and every finger exactly, with small scratches marking veins, as if you were put on earth just to do so.

With that, you finish, and sit back to admire your work. Fuck this class, but if it means you get to do this for hours, maybe you don’t mind it. But your professor announces the end and as people begin to pack and make way to leave, your heart patters.

Your pebble moves. They close their notes and slide their book into a book bag at their feet, and you panic.

“Well, would you actually want to date them?” Ymir pried that day, over froyo, regarding your confession of a secret obsession.

With a spoonful of goodness in your mouth, you mumble, “I mean, yeah. Eventually, maybe. But I just want to know them, it’s literally killing me that I don’t even know their name.”

“Dude, just ask?” she laughed, and so did you. But it wasn’t truly funny, because you know yourself. It isn’t that simple for you.

You fell for them from afar and who’s to say you’d still feel the same if you knew them truly. But the thing is, you know you would. As sure as you are of the sun, you’re sure you’d still want the pebble no matter what.

So, as you quickly shove everything into your bag, you neatly tear the page from your notes and scribble down you’re cute, so i drew you right under your sketch. You feel possessed as you stand up and without hesitation skip down two rows just as they approach the aisle.

They stop, whether by want or because you quite literally block off the exit. And with a slightly shaken hand, you fold the paper and hand it out to them.

“Here,” is all you say. Your eyes can’t bring themself to their stare, you can’t risk embarrassing yourself like that if they choose to reject you. Instead your gaze bores into the collar of their shirt. Their flannel is held together right at their neck by one button. But the second they touch the note, slipping it between two long fingers, you decide to look.

Standing before you, with a bag slumped over their shoulder, they take the note with a light hearted expression. They’re not exactly smiling, but they’re certainly not upset either.

In another world, you’d like to think you’re the brave one. You’d like to think you were the one boasting armor and swords, fearless on the battlefield. But in this life, you drop your hand, give them one firm grin, and just as they say a hesitant thanks, you turn the other way and leave.

They don’t follow you out. You even wait a few extra seconds to see if they’d try, but as someone else pushes the door open, you catch them inside. Standing there, head down as they stare at the note they unfolded. This is enough to twist your stomach and send you flying towards Ymir.

“Oh my fucking god, did you write your number?!” Ymir exclaims, stopping in her steps as the two of you walk the quad.

You turn, looking around before shushing her, “No, I didn’t write my number, I was too busy on not letting my heart fucking combust.”

“You pussy!” she shoved a handful of chips in her mouth, chewing in between words.

Rolling your eyes, you continue your stride. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just see them next week, where they can tell me how much of a weirdo creep I am directly to my face.”

She chuckles before she joins your side again. “You amaze me. You won’t ask for their name, won’t talk to them like a normal person, but what you will do is sit there for two hours drawing them and handing it to them like a-”

“You don’t have to remind me! Trust me! I know.”

“Good. At least you know. And I can’t wait to see how the hell you handle this week after that.”

“Like a goddamn chump, Ymir, I screwed myself,” your hands shove their way inside your jacket pockets like a true loser.

“You know what, no,” she counters though, placing her crumb covered hand on your shoulder, “Anyone who’d receive a note like that from you is the luckiest son of a bitch alive, and if this asshole doesn’t love it then they don’t deserve it.”

You look over at her, your eye gleaming for a moment before you flash a witty smile. “Wow, Ymir. I’d think you were the one secretly in love here if I didn’t know any better.”

She scoffs before pulling away. “I take offense, I thought I was the only butch in your life.”

“Such a travesty,” you sigh dramatically, and after a few smiling seconds the two of you laugh before making it to your car.

The next week is grueling. Work feels like torture, but being home is worse. Here, you spend your hours thinking and thinking and venting to Ymir on the couch. God bless her, because she hasn’t once told you to shut up about it.

That is until the day of your next anthropology class.

“What if they show up and walk directly up to me and shoot me with a gun,” you spit it all out with feigning seriousness, just as Ymir points a finger at you from the couch.

“Shut the fuck up. What did we talk about? What’s the plan?” she sternly scolds you as you sway in the doorway.

Your head falls back with a sigh, “‘Hi, I’m sorry for running off so quickly, my name is y/n, what’s yours?’ like that?” your voice drops as you look at her, “Is that how you want me to say it?”

“Fantastic.” she claims, and with that and a roll of your eyes, you’re off to lecture.

When you enter the lecture hall, they’re not here. You take a few reluctant steps down the aisle as your eyes patiently skim every seat and every head. They’re nowhere. You swallow so dryly that when you finally do take your seat you have to wash your worries down with water.

It isn’t until ten minutes into class that the door opens from behind. You don’t look, and that’s your mistake. The pebble bouncing around in your shoe for months decides to take a seat, not just near you, but right next to you amongst a slew of empty chairs.

Your eyes widen when you notice, when their long hand reaches for the fold out desk and pulls it down over their lap with a sigh. They smell like fresh rain and mint and it’s devastating as you shift in your seat, pretending not to care. But under the current of your professor's voice, they speak directly into your ear.

“You know, I had to wait outside for a bit to make sure you’d have a seat already,” they keep themself low and throaty and for a moment you swear to god you feel their lips against the shell of your ear.

You continue staring straight. You refuse to look at them. It’s the only way you can keep yourself composed. “Why would you do that?” you ask, afraid.

They sniffle, they clearly have a runny nose with this weather, and you watch in peripheral view how their knees spread wide just to mock you. “Because I needed to make sure I could sit next to you.”

“Why?” you whisper. Luckily, you're far enough back that your quiet voices are lost towards the front.

“So you could draw me again,” they say without fear. Like this isn’t the end of your world.

Your head snaps to them out of instinct and you’re forced to admire the way they only watch you. They don’t mind the lecture, they haven’t even pulled out their notes like you have. It’s like the only thing keeping them tied to this room is you and the pen in your hand.

Your eyes skim down their face for the first time with such detail. Their skin is patchy with a small resemblance of a tan, littered with tender moles that sink into their cheek, their chin, down their neck even and as you notice the few that peek out from their shirt, you snap back up to the small smile poking at their lip.

Those eyes drop again, not out of observation but with a flush of anxiety as your mouth parts. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” that smile worsens, “you already have.”

“Yeah, but that was different,” your voice is too quiet for them to hear the way it trembles.

“How was it different?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Your mouth mimics theirs as it twitches into a dumbfounded grin. “Because you weren’t right in front of my face looking at me.”

Their brow makes a move down their face before their eyes do the same. Through their oval lenses they scan you over, “Would you rather me not look at you?”

Your lips open and close as you piece something together. “I would just, not…” but you lose it. Your face turns hot and you can’t for the life of you get it together. “I don’t know.”

But the pebble smiles. You’re sure they’d chuckle if it weren’t for your precarious situation of trying to keep quiet. “If it helps, I think you’re cute too.”

Your lips pull into your mouth as you nod slowly, even slower you look away, damning yourself down to your open notebook and pen. “Cool.”

“So…can you draw me again?” they lean in at that, whispering again, “Detailed though. I want a full portrait. I’ll commission you with lunch after this, if you want?”

You don’t look at them, you can’t. Your mouth presses into a tight-line smile unavailable to them as you click your pen and silently nod your head. And for the rest of the two hour lecture, you use up all the artistic skills you’ve earned to draw them. This time, you’re precise. You don’t chicken scratch, you paint them in with faint layers of blue ink until their likeness becomes uncanny on your page for the second time. All the while, your pebble watches as you bring them to life, in between your studying glances where you focus on one feature at a time; their eyes, their nose, the sunken bags under their lashes, and their lips - thin and beautiful and perfectly pink.

Every time you look their way, they pull from your work in progress and meet you. They don’t care that you’re not paying attention to them, just their face. By the time class ends, you’ve filled the page with an exact replica of this stranger who’s successfully infatuated you. And by the look on their face when you offer it to them, they’re more than satisfied.

Their smile halves as they sink into their chair, holding the page with worrying hands of messing it up. “Damn,” they mumble.

You feel yourself swell, like there’s something horrible growing inside your chest until you spit it out, “Yeah, I accept tips too.”

Still examining your work, they ask, “What do you have in mind?”

Ymir would be proud as you face them, “What’s your name?”

At this, they look at you with the same expression you’d give a struggling toddler. “Hange,” they say so simply, as if this question hasn’t burned a hole straight through you.

Hange.

You smile, and as people begin to leave they close your notebook for you. “Let’s get going then, huh.”

first request team...im so happy to be doing this, thank you for the request :,)

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