#AWS Syllabus | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 1 year ago

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Go For It, Gojo! - G.S.

Synopsis. You wouldn’t fuck Gojo Satoru even if you were paid… …is what you thought exactly five minutes before you were shoved against the wall of this cramped closet, his face stuffed in your soaked panties.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, academic rivals to lovers, student president! reader, unprotected sex, banter about physics, cunnilingus, oral sex (male + female), 7 minutes in heaven, college! AU, 69, Satoru is a tease down bad for you (and has a big dick), overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, hardass), swearing.

Word count. 10.2k

A/N. I really don’t like physics. Art by @_3aem on X.

Life truly has an awful sense of humor - almost as bad as Gojo’s, which you discovered on the first day of Advanced Quantum Physics.

The air charged with nervous energy and the scent of freshly printed syllabi, you quickly snag a seat right at the front row of Professor Yaga’s class.

Ah, you’ll never forget how peaceful those few seconds to yourself after introductions were - before the devil incarnate dramatically swung open those lecture hall doors and plopped himself down right next to you. Late.

“Any closer to Yaga and you’d be fucking his wife, y’know.” a voice hums from beside you, shattering your daydreams of passing this class with flying colors and riding a wave of glory into becoming a Nobel prize-winning physicist.

With a slight scowl, you turn your attention to the source of disturbance - only to meet eyes with (self-proclaimed) campus sweetheart, Satoru Gojo, leaning on his chair with an air of nonchalance. At your silence, he repeats, “I said any closer-”

“I heard what you said.” you snap, irritation flaring at the amused twinkle in his blue eyes and the mirthful grin that spreads across his lips at your reaction. “Doesn’t erase the fact that you’re sitting here too.” you raise a brow.

“Oh me? That’s because I’m already fucking his wife, sweetheart.” he deadpans with a blank expression.

What? The tense silence that follows is deafening - for the first time ever in your life, you were shocked into speechlessness.

A beat passes. One. Two. Before Gojo bursts into hysterics, clutching his stomach. “You- you shoulda seen the look on your face- HAHAHA-” he gets out between uncontrollable laughs. Face burning, you train your eyes forward and will yourself to not glance at the 6’3 mess cackling beside you.

Ugh. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Just think happy thoughts - kittens, quantum mechanics, being valedictorian. Desperately attempting to block out the giggling thorn at your side, you recoil at Professor Yaga’s extremely disapproving look in your direction.

Panicking, and dreams of being his ace student slowly flushing down the drain, you quickly flip through your notes, attempting to catch up to where the lecture had now started.

“Looks like we’re in trouble, partner~” Gojo’s dramatic stage-whisper catches the attention of students around you, them chuckling at your expense.

“Hey, you’re the student president, right? Hey~ Heyyy prez~” As Professor Yaga continues his spiel about the syllabus, you continue to very obviously ignore the incessant comments that spill out of Gojo’s lips, to stifled laughs from his fast-forming entourage.

The harder you tried to focus on Professor Yaga’s words, the louder and more absurd Gojo’s comments became - as if he’d made it his personal mission to enrage you. A sense of impending doom looming over you, you glare at him with a look that could’ve melted steel, hissing out, “Do you ever in your life shut the fuck up?”

Eyes widening in mock innocence, he grins “Oh~ I didn't know our student prez could get so feisty. Maybe I should take notes instead of doodling hearts around your name in my notebook.”

Ears ringing in embarrassment and frustration, and mind a whirlwind of how bad it would really be if you killed Gojo right here, you almost miss Professor Yaga’s question, “Now, would anyone here be able to discuss the interpretations in the debate between the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

Teetering on the edge of your seat, you raise your hand, scrambling to salvage whatever is left of your academic reputation. You and- Gojo?

You start at the call of your name from Professor Yaga, “The Copenhagen Interpretation uses Heisenberg's uncertainty principle and emphasizes measurement to state that quantum-level particles can act as both waves and particles. It’s the most widely accepted and pragmatic theory.”

Gojo basically falls out of his seat in eagerness to answer after you.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Gojo.”

You internally groan, ready for whatever bullshit was about to come out of his mouth.

With a deep breath, “Not to be the devil’s advocate but the Pilot-Wave theory makes way more sense practically.”

Professor Yaga raises an intrigued eyebrow at Gojo’s statement, the class collectively holds a breath - as if awaiting the impending academic battlefield.

Gojo, with a cocky grin, plows on, “Think about it. The Pilot-Wave theory suggests that particles have definite positions and paths, unlike the uncertainty principle of the Copenhagen Interpretation. It's like predicting where a ball will land after you throw it, rather than saying it could be anywhere until you look."

Oh? He wasn’t a complete idiot?

Yet, you roll your eyes, “But the Pilot-Wave theory is too fanciful, it brings in too many hidden variables that have their own set of problems. It goes against the measurements and principles of locality!”

Unbothered by the challenge, Gojo leans back further in his chair, “What’s a couple complications? It’s a lot clearer on a microscopic level, none of that weird uncertainty of the Copenhagen Interpretation.”

Irritation running through your veins, you scoff at his condescending tone, “It might seem intuitive, but experiments and observations support the probabilistic nature of quantum mechanics.” You’re almost out of your chair at this point, an accusing finger pointed at Gojo. “Despite its weirdness, the Copenhagen Interpretation has proven successful in predicting outcomes.”

“Oh yeah? And it’s also only used by hardasses that just want to shut up and calculate, sweetheart.”

“Big talk for a little bi-”

“OKAY STUDENTS, that’s enough for now. Let’s put a pin in this discussion and move on with the topic.” Professor Yaga, who had been watching the debate with amusement, promptly ends it once you two begin to get overly heated.

The rest of the class, on the edge of their seats and probably hoping for some fists swinging between the academic titans, now sit back in disappointment at the fight cut off early.

You sit back in indignation, fuming at how Gojo had gotten you so worked up. And he was wrong too!

The lecture continues as if you two were never two curse words away from each other’s throats.

But, in the midst of it all, your glare meets blue, sparkling with amusement - a jolt of electricity runs through your body at the glint of recognition of the other’s brilliance. An unspoken yet undeniable competition.

You’ve avoided Gojo like the plague for the past few months since then - which isn’t doing much when said plague follows you around everywhere with incessant calls of “Hey, hardass prez~”. The only time you seek him out being to gloatingly show off the large, red “100” on your tests - to which, unfortunately, he does the same.

It’s stupid. It’s childish. Honestly, sometimes you think he just tries to get under your skin for the hell of it.

But you don’t have the time to think too deeply into that.

Just like you don’t have time for this frat party.

Music and alcohol thrumming through your veins, it’s always the same thing. You’d rather be holed up getting ahead of your physics textbook than be here. Yet, you owed a favor to your friend Haibara - and he’d been bugging you to come to this party for weeks now.

You’ll just stay another hour then leave, you sigh.

Zoning out as Haibara plays an overly-intense game of beer pong, you’re startled by an arm around your shoulder. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our lil’ prez looking like she’d rather peel paint than be here.” The expensive cologne hits you before the realization of who this was. “Drooling over the jocks? I recommend the STEM majors, sweetheart, jocks aren’t that great in bed.”

Quickly shrugging off his arm, you scowl, “Not like STEM majors are any better. And unlike some people, I have goals beyond being the life of the party.”

Decked out in slacks and a slightly too-unbuttoned shirt, Gojo chuckles, “Yeah, like what? Banishing fun?” Cerulean eyes gleaming with mischief, “You gotta let loose for once, sweetheart. Not everything in life is about academics and accolades.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes “Well not like I-” but whatever snarky retort gets caught in your throat as Gojo seizes your hand, effortlessly pulling you onto the dance floor.

Caught off guard, you can do nothing more than sputter in surprise as he leans down to murmur in your ear, above the bass reverberating the walls, “C’mon hardass, sometimes in life, you just gotta- dance!”

Gojo spins you into a dramatic dip, his silver chain brushing your face and his hand on your back burning into your skin.

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment - yeah, embarrassment - as the people around you cheer in amusement at the science department’s biggest rivals navigating the dance floor with surprising chemistry.

This was ridiculous. And yet, music ringing in your ears, you almost crack a smile. Almost. That is until your eye catches Haibara’s surprised ones from the side of the dance floor. Wait - here you were dancing with Gojo.

Gojo pain-in-your-ass Satoru.

Immediately pushing him off with a hand to his chest, you don’t listen to whatever spills out of his mouth as you make your way to Haibara, disappearing with him into the crowd.

“Hey, hey you okay? Wasn’t that the guy you were manifesting would step on Lego with his bare foot?” Haibara’s concerned voice speaks up from wherever you were dragging him through this sprawling frat house.

“Ugh, yeah. Sorry about that, I don’t even- Anyway, how did the beer pong go?” you snap out of your reverie. What happened there? You were almost…enjoying yourself with Gojo Satoru of all people.

Listening to Haibara brag about his dominating beer pong win thankfully took your mind off of your little endeavor with Gojo.

“And then Yuji totally-”

“AH, THERE YOU ARE! Perfect, come join we’re two people short!” your kinda-friend Shoko’s drunken drawl breaks through the conversation. You can barely get a word out as she forcefully drags you two into a dimly lit room against your protests.

The atmosphere heavy with beer and laughter, she plops you two down onto the floor in a neat circle of people before taking her seat beside you. “GREAT! Now we’ve got everyone, we can finally start.”

With a mischievous grin, Shoko declares, “Alrighty, folks! Time for the ol’ classic - we’re playing 7 minutes in heaven!” pulling out an old-fashioned, tattered hat from behind her back, to a collective mix of groans and cheers from the circle.

“Where did you even find that ratty old thing, Shoko?” a sharply handsome man - Geto, you think - chuckles from his seat opposite you. And beside him- your heart stops. Gojo.

A smirk curling his lips and twinkling blue eyes locked on you.

As if on instinct, you move to get up - only to be brought back down by a hand on your wrist. “Nuh-uh, no one’s escaping, c’mon it’ll be fun.” Shoko smirks, beginning to hand out pieces of paper to write down your names.

Apprehension pooling in your stomach, you share a glance with Haibara, who was honestly just happy to be here. Reluctantly, you scrawl down your name, tension building as it drops into the abyss of the hat.

“As our first attempted escapee, I think the prez should go first.” that agitating voice you knew too well speaks up. If looks could kill, Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing all over his grave with a textbook on the Copenhagen Interaction.

To agreeing laughter - and your impending doom - the hat is promptly placed in front of you. God, you knew you should’ve stayed home. With a shaky hand, you delve in, grasping onto a slightly crumpled piece of paper.

Not Gojo. Please not Gojo. Literally anyone but Gojo-

Turning it over.

Satoru Gojo.

You jolt in surprise, rereading the hasty handwriting over and over - as if willing it to change. This must be some kind of sick joke. Eyes meeting Gojo’s, a flash of surprises passes his face before a self-satisfied grin takes over. He looked way too fucking pleased with himself.

“No fucking way.” Shoko mutters as it dawns on the group just who you were paired up with. Cheers and wolf-whistles erupt, filling the room as Satoru stands up extending a hand theatrically towards you. “If her highness the student prez would do me the utmost pleasure of joining me.”

You scoff, jeez it would be a surprise if you two didn’t kill each other in there. “Unless she’s…intimidated?” he bats his long lashes at you mockingly.

Intimidated? Of who? Swatting away Gojo’s hand, you stand up. “Intimidated? Don’t make me laugh.”

He leans down, retorting, “I’ve tried but you don’t seem to know how.”. The room holds their breath, attention squarely on the two of you.

A beat of silence passes as you glare at him. You really could smack his annoyingly pretty face right now, but you shouldn’t - too many witnesses.

“Now now, you two. Save it for the closet.”

Ever the mediator, Geto ushers you two in the direction of the - very cramped - closet tucked into a corner of the room.

Before you know it, the creak of the heavy wooden door rings in your ears as the door closes behind you. The loud click of a lock resonates, plunging you two into darkness.

The muffled sounds of the party seem miles away as you try to focus on your breathing - trying not to let your mind drift to Gojo. You could feel the heat of his body, the ghost of his presence less than a foot away from you.

“So…” you flinch as Gojo’s voice cuts through the deafening silence. “You still alive and breathing after being trapped in a tiny closet with me?”

You huff, desperately wanting to break out of this closet, “Yes, but you probably won’t be if you don’t stay on your side.”

“This closet is barely a closet, there’s no ‘side’, sweetheart. And that’s my leg you’re resting on.”

You immediately scramble to move away from the warmth of Gojo’s leg that you’d been subconsciously leaning yours on. In the chaos, you probably did a bit more damage than solving. “Ah! Wait- watch the crown jewels, hardass.”

You distance yourself as much as possible in the small space, knee burning where it had brushed up against Gojo’s that.

God, you were making a fool of yourself.

“As much as I like forceful women, you better take me out on a date first, sweetheart.” As your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting filtering in through the slight crack of the door, you could make out that signature playful grin.

Your irritation simmers beneath the surface. Gojo always knew how to get under your skin.

“Don’t you worry your empty lil’ head, I wouldn’t fuck you even if I was paid.” you bite back.

“Oh yeah?” Gojo leans in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “You sure about that, prez? I’ve been told that I’m irresistible.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah, irresistibly hard to not smack.”

“I always did like ‘em feisty. Makes our little debates all the more interesting.”

“Our debates would be a lot more interesting if you learned to keep that big mouth shut.”

“Oh? C’mon, prez, you love this ‘big mouth’. And you love the challenge. I see the way you look for me every time you answer one of Yaga’s questions, y’know.” Gojo murmurs, gaze piercing into yours.

He leans in closer - now definitely not on his side of the closet. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it chemistry. Admit it and I might consider not calling you ‘hardass’ for a whole week.”

“What- That’s just because- I’d rather be called ‘hardass’ for a lifetime than admit to having any chemistry with you. I can’t even tolerate you for seven minutes here.” you sputter at both his proximity and his (absurd) accusations.

“As the student prez, isn’t your entire job to tolerate everyone? You’re a walking contradiction, sweetheart.”

“I am not. You have no effect on me.” you protest, standing firm. In the heat of your argument, you and Gojo have drawn closer to each other. His breath now fanning your face as he hums, voice a seductive tease, “I do, admit it. There’s a part of you that likes our chemistry.”

A defiant spark ignites in your eyes, “I’ll admit no such thing.”

“Then…hit me like I know you want to if you don’t want this.” he whispers, voice breathless. He closes the distance.

Gojo’s lips meet yours.

Soft, they were so soft.

Your heartbeat thundering in surprise, a hand raising to - to what? Smack him away? Eyes fluttering closed, your hand fists his shirt, the other subconsciously finding its way to his cloudy locks. Tugging. Kissing him back.

Satoru kisses you like he’ll never be able to again. Because, he knows - he probably won’t.

Lips searing against yours, his eyes roll to the back of his head at your taste. Sweet - so sweet - just like candy, with a hint of Baileys and everything that he’ll never be able to have.

A strangled groan leaves his throat when you bite down on his lips. Tugging with your teeth. Shit, fuck him and his bigass ego, he wanted to be the one showing off his irresistibility but really it’s the other way around.

Mouth opening to let you in, he drinks in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Large hands on your face pulling you impossibly closer to him in this godforsaken closet. It was dizzying - almost as if it hurt to part, drawn by that familiar magnetism that always seems to hang around you.

Lost in the heat of the moment, Satoru’s hands wander the expanse of your body. Groping and squeezing every curve and dip - he doesn’t have enough time. He probably never will.

A hand rests firmly on your hips. Awaiting. Breaking away - just a fraction - he breathes out urgently into your lips, “I need to taste you. Let me taste you. Please.”

“Desperate, huh?”

Your gaze pierces through him, it always does. Immediately after your disoriented nod, he presses a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. God, he could do this forever.

You shudder as he hastily bunches your tight dress at your hips, sending blood rushing straight to his cock. Shit, this was not how he expected these 7 minutes to go.

Hurriedly falling to his knees, the pain doesn’t even register when he comes face-to-face with your clothed cunt. Panties already so wet - just for him. Cock twitching carnally, he needed to taste you now.

Tongue flattening across your swollen folds through your underwear, just a slight taste of your wet pussy and Satoru already thinks he might pass out. Ah, so good - of course you taste heavenly.

“Ah! Gojo- more.”

Pulling away, he feels drunk off the whimper of disappointment that escapes your mouth. “Call me Satoru.” he hums, fingers deftly sliding your soaked panties down your legs. His hot breath fanning your entrance has you clenching your thighs together, desperate for any friction.

Mouth watering at this, Satoru curses the darkness inside the closet - can’t even admire your pretty pussy right. You flinch as his face meets your cunt. Shit, this was better than he’d ever imagined on those lonely nights pathetically fucking his fist.

He breathes you in so sinfully, tongue sliding teasingly between your folds in a leisurely rhythm that almost has him forgetting however many minutes you two have left. Frankly, he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it either. Sinful squelches fill the confined space, along with your quiet moans of his name.

“Hngh- S-Satoru. Feel s’good. Faster.”

Ah, it’s really music to his ears. Your voice plays on repeat in his mind. He doesn’t even realize the call from outside until you look down at him, eyes dazed and kiss-bitten lips moving to panickedly mutter, “Satoru, we only have three more minutes.”

Ah, guess he’ll have to take his time in his dreams.

“I only need two.” Satoru purrs, lips ghosting your wet core, voice sending goosebumps down your spine - all the way down to your dripping cunt.

“W-well, stop hngh- running your mouth then.” you retort.

Satoru’s smirk against your plush folds is the last thing you see before he dives nose-deep in your pussy. He doesn’t waste time, tongue dipping in and out of your hole at an unforgiving pace. In and out in and out in and-

“Hah- yes! Satoru jus’ like that!” you hiss out, desperately trying to keep the moans ripping from your throat to a minimum, in fear of the others outside hearing.

Noticing, Satoru snakes a hand up to your mouth - bullying his ringed-fingers in through your swollen lips. His index caresses your tongue, speeding up his movements on your pretty pussy as you gag around him. Moans catch in your throat as you struggle to accommodate him, the pleasure of being stretched from two ends too much.

Satoru only has to take one look - tears clinging to your lashes and drool trickling down the corner of your mouth as you suck on his fingers - before he thinks he might just cum in his pants. Fuck, it was so lewd.

You tighten your grasp on his hair, sure that your knees would give out if it wasn’t for the bruising grip he had on your hips, keeping you firmly on his mouth. Unable to run away.

Shit, for someone so tight-laced, you were so messy on his mouth. He moans as your slick pools in his mouth, dripping down the corners of his lips. The tap! tap! tap! of it hitting the hardwood floor rings deafeningly in his ears.

Ah, so this is why they call it 7 minutes in heaven. Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind dying if it was in between your legs being suffocated by your cunt.

Your entrance clamps down desperately on his tongue, forcing him to bully it into your snug pussy, fucking you unrelentingly. His nose rubbing against your swollen clit over and over.

At this point, Satoru doesn’t know whether the pulse he feels is that of his heartbeat or your cunt, throbbing and achingly needy for his mouth. His nose stimulates your clit just right, sending shockwaves through your body that have you bucking into him for more.

Voice slightly muffled by his fingers, “Fuck- Satoru, keep going. Hngh- I’m gonna cum!”

The way your walls desperately try to fuck his tongue has his cock straining so painfully against his trousers. Satoru increases his abuse on your cunt mercilessly, the harsh pace making you squeal and buck into his face. Your juices are now all over his mouth, gushing around his tongue. In and out in and out in and out-

“Satoru!”

You cum hard - all over Satoru’s pretty face.

Now, Satoru loves when you run your mouth and infuriate him, but he might just love it even more when you’re falling apart and speechless under his touch.

Riding out your high on his features, you can feel yourself quivering around his tongue as he laps up your juices as if it were a delicacy. Deep moans leaving his mouth and vibrating across your soaked cunt, making you jolt at the overstimulation.

Pulling back, Satoru admires your unfocused eyes and bruised lips. “For someone that so fucking despises me, your slutty pussy sure is sucking me in so desperately.” he murmurs, slightly out of breath after what just transpired.

“Sh-shut up.”

Ah, if only he got to see this view more often.

You can’t help but feel the same way. Seeing Satoru fucked out, vibrant eyes half-lidded and blown out, your slick prettily glossing all over his mouth and nose. A small voice in the back of your mind wishes he was more like this and not whatever he is when he’s getting on your nerves.

“ONE MORE MINUTE! Finish up whatever devil’s tango or death match y’all are having in there!”

Those troublesome thoughts are pushed out of your mind as soon as you hear Shoko call from outside.

The bubble is broken. Jumping apart as far as possible in the cramped closet, you press yourself into the closet wall as you two wordlessly rush to make yourselves slightly more presentable. The air, once charged with overflowing tension and sex, now so strained.

Bending down to feel for the panties that Satoru- no, Gojo had thrown god-knows-where, your hands graze his - still slightly wet with your spit. Snatching your hands back as if it burned, you make out Gojo’s figure pocketing something.

…

Your panties??

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hiss, face burning at both his actions and the idea of going outside without panties.

“Just think of it as repayment for the fun.” he hums, mirth spilling into his tone. And before you could snap at his antics, Shoko is ripping the door open and looking around the closet for what you can only assume to be missing body parts and blood.

“Aw, man. And here I was thinking Satoru would be six feet under by now.” she groans, walking off disappointedly - for which you were eternally grateful otherwise she’d have seen the few suspicious stains on the floor.

“Remember, you owe me twenty, Shoko.” Geto speaks up from the circle. Were they…betting on whether you and Gojo would kill each other in there?

Finally stepping out of that godforsaken closet, you catch the smirks and raised eyebrows from some of the people from the group.

Meeting Gojo’s eye, a smirk curls around his swollen lip as he swipes a thumb across it. Agonizingly slow. Teasing.

Your cheeks flare, something pooling in your stomach. Ugh, this is why you hate frat parties.

“You alright, man? You look…flushed?” you hear Geto question, pointedly staring at Satoru’s slightly disheveled look.

It was all getting too much - the alcohol in the air, the thumping of the overplayed pop music, and him. You felt so lightheaded. Ripping your gaze from Gojo’s you leave without so much as a goodbye to him, only stopping for a reassuring nod at Haibara. You make a beeline for the exit, dashing out of there and down the winding staircase as fast as you could.

Focused on navigating the packed party, you almost don’t register Gojo rushing after you. Ignoring whatever words were tumbling out of Gojo’s mouth, you silently thank the sorority that had just pulled up - clinging onto him in greeting, making it impossible to follow after you.

The cool night air washes over you as you finally step outside. You sigh in relief as you leave the chaotic sounds of the party - and him - behind.

Impatiently waiting for your friend on the way to pick you up, only two thoughts echo in your mind.

He actually only needed two minutes.

What the fuck?

Meanwhile, back in that heady room, Shoko nudges Suguru, the latter still watching in amusement where Satoru had run after you in the door. “Hm?” he asks, absent-mindedly.

“Why do most of these papers have Satoru’s name?”

---

You pass through the next morning in a daze. The hardest part was probably trying to get dressed without making eye contact with the purple finger marks on your hips that Sato- Gojo had left to remember him by.

You still can’t believe that happened.

It’s alright, it was just a mistake in the heat of the moment - you just have to forget it ever happened, right? But that’s easier said than done when your last class of the day is Advanced Quantum Physics.

Cursing your timetable, you step through the crowded campus. You pull your sweater tighter around yourself, the fabric doing nothing to stop your skin searing where Gojo’s lips had been just last night.

Alright, you just had to get through this one class today. There’s a lot of people in Professor Yaga’s class - it’s not like you’ll necessarily see that bane of your existence-

“Yooo prez, fate just seems to bring us together hmm?”

Gojo almost topples out of his chair, waving in your direction. As your eyes sweep across the room, you can feel your heart sinking. Shit, you really feel like you’re being Punk’d right now.

Cursing whoever was up there for this cruel joke, you make your way to the desk beside Satoru’s - the only empty one.

Slumping down onto the chair with a frustrated huff, you sink into yourself - eyes trained firmly forward and ignoring the playful grin in your peripheral vision.

To your surprise, Gojo doesn’t say a word throughout the lecture. Not a single comment about fucking any professor’s wife - or your cunt. Huh, did last night cause some type of qi deviation or something?

As Professor Yaga drones on about quantum entanglement, you find the words going in one ear and out the other, too focused on wondering what Gojo’s game was.

It’s only towards the end of the lecture, at the introduction of some new assignment that you find yourself finally letting your guard down. Okay, see, it wasn’t too bad. Now time to go back to your apartment and study whatever quantum entanglement was for the next five hours.

“Ah- And remember, the midterm assignment pairings are posted on Canvas.”

What was that?

God, you hated working with other people. It was much more efficient for you to stay in and finish this paper in one sitting.

“So, partner~ My place or yours?”

What?

The bell rings, its metallic chime resonating in your mind almost as loud as Gojo’s words. Signaling the end of class - and probably the end of your sanity.

You wish the ground would swallow you up at this very moment. These days have really not been your days.

---

“Literally what do you bring to the table?”

“Comedic relief and my undeniably good looks.”

“...”

“...and also the case study and background information.”

The air at the stuffy café just off-campus was a mixture of freshly ground coffee and hushed conversations - of course, occasionally disrupted by the chaotic debates that erupted from your little booth.

Not too long ago, as everyone moved to file out of the classroom, you were frozen, glaring at your open laptop so intensely you half-expected it to combust - scrutinizing the neat arrangement of Gojo’s name next to your own over a million times.

Finally sighing in defeat, you nodded in surrender at Gojo - who was whooping in victory. But, you were still adamant on meeting somewhere in public. The last time you two were left alone ended up…interesting.

“Then you do that and I’ll take care of the rest of the theoretical analysis and evaluation. Okay, sounds good, Gojo.” you deadpan, rubbing the sides of your forehead in frustration.

“Ouch, no Satoru?”

Ignoring his comment, you promptly slam your laptop closed, gathering your things with a determined sigh. Ready to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cafe. “So you do that and put it on the doc, and I’ll do the same with my parts. See ya.”

That’s when you feel a large hand covering yours - the same one from- “Hey there now, hardass, stay a little longer - gotta make sure you don’t slander quantum entanglement in our essay the same way you do with the Pilot-Wave theory.” Gojo interrupts your intrusive train of thought.

“What? Unlike you, I don’t slander any scientific theories. Although, I do think the idea of entangled particles jumping around like you do is hardly the hallmark of a stable scientific theory.” you retort, face burning but setting down your bag nonetheless.

Resting his face on his hands, he grins at you. “Oh yeah? I think stability is overrated, prez. Quantum entanglement challenges you because it’s a realm where your precious stability crumbles in the face of non-local correlations.”

God, was he glad he begged on his knees to Yaga to pair you two together. He was having way too much fun with this.

“Just because particles can communicate faster than you can comprehend doesn't mean we should abandon reason.” you raise a brow.

“Well, I think you should just embrace the uncertainty, sweetheart. Life is a game of chance, just like quantum entanglement.”

“Oh, really?” you drone out, sarcastically.

“Yeah, think about it. For instance, I never thought I’d still be alive and breathing after last night. But here I am.” at your stunned silence, he continues. “I for sure thought you’d have the coffin ready as soon as I kissed y-”

You panickedly place your hands over his mouth to shut him up, those blue eyes twinkle in amusement. “When I said you had a big mouth I really wasn’t lying, huh.”

Slowly removing your hands once it seemed like Gojo wouldn’t spill your endeavors in this family-friendly cafe, you sigh, “Okay- We’ll get some shit done today, alright. But this is the last time I’m meeting with you for this.”

“Mhm~ You got it, prez.”

It was not the last time you met with Gojo for this.

Nor was it the second-last.

Or the third-last.

Each and every time you two worked together on the assignment, you’d spend more time bickering about anything ranging from what you’d learned in Professor Yaga’s class that day to whether the old lady who frequented the café was a part of the mafia.

“I’m telling you, she handles those knitting needles like they’re a weapon.”

“Mhm and she sips her Earl Grey like she’s plotting espionage. Now, get to work before I use my teaspoon as a weapon.”

“I’d rather investigate her than this damn Qiskit simulation.”

“Sure, Gojo. I’ll add her to our list of groundbreaking research projects.”

“Don’t come crying to me when I rub it in your face once we see her on the news as a mafia queenpin, prez.”

You’re pretty sure the café employees have a love-hate relationship with you and Gojo - too lively to be one of their favorite regulars, but arguments too amusing to kick you two out.

And as for your relationship with Gojo…well. It’s not as if you can’t go 7 minutes without being somewhat civil, and yet that’s exactly the issue, isn’t it?

After what had happened that night, it feels as if there’s something charging the air whenever you two are together.

You chalk it up to just lingering tension, but that still doesn’t explain the way Gojo’s eyes hold a warm twinkle whenever he looks at you - gaze a little too warm than you’d expect a rival to have. But it’s fine, you just have to ace this assignment and then this strange dynamic can go back to normal.

It’s only towards the end of your assignment that you realize how wrong you really were.

---

Out of breath and darting across campus towards where you knew Gojo was waiting, you half-wish you joined the track team instead of the student government. Damn student reps, can’t keep proper archives.

As much as you got a kick out of getting on Gojo’s nerves, you hated to keep anyone waiting.

“Ah! Prez! Was heartbroken thinking you’d stood me up, y’know?” Satoru calls once he spots you bolting towards him on that dimly-lit pathway. Wow, maybe you should’ve joined the track team.

You trip. Ah, maybe not.

Feet automatically hastening your way, he catches you. Well, more like you fall into his arms.

“Just in time, huh?” he chuckles, thankful for the sun dipping below the horizon - otherwise you’d surely have caught the rosy flush tinting his cheeks. Arms wrapped around your waist and supporting your waist, Satoru almost coos at the surprised look gracing your face. You always did something to his heart.

Hastily distancing himself from you once you stand on your own, he rambles - anything to drown out the banging of his heart against his chest. “So, I’m assuming you were out there doing all your president-ly duties?”

“Ah! Yes, I’m so sorry, the meeting ran overtime and-”

Listening to you rant, Satoru thinks that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here - bickering with you. He’s only snapped out his reverie at your disappointed groan. Oh, what was this? He didn’t even realize his feet had carried him to the little café already.

Ripping his eyes from you, he turns to what moping at. A sign with red writing is plastered over the very locked café entrance - Sorry! Staff training today, hope to see you tomorrow!

“Seems like everyone’s got meetings today.” he hears you grumble. Satoru knows it isn’t right, but his heart leaps slightly at the chance to get to know you outside of that familiar cafe.

You, meanwhile, felt tension - and something else - pooling in your stomach. Shit, if the sanctuary of your café is no longer available…

“Well, we could just go home and finish off the paper by ourselves. It’s only the last bit anyway.” you suggest, voice slightly shaky at the idea and anticipation of actually being alone with Gojo after so long.

“But Suguru’s such a loud snorer, I’d never get any work done.” Gojo whines. Well, there goes that plan.

“The library?”

“I hear it’s haunted this time of year.” he answers right away.

“Ghosts are seasonal?” you ask absent-mindedly, too focused on weighing between the need to finish this assignment today and the uncertainty of what would happen between you and Gojo.

A tense silence fills the slowly darkening street as you go through all your options. Finally, watching the long shadows casted now, you sigh. “Fine. We’ll go to my place.” you mutter out.

“Would you get angry if I celebrated right now?”

“Maybe.”

The walk to your apartment is bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. It was almost peaceful - if it weren’t for Gojo’s excited chattering about god-knows-what.

Your mind was running a million miles a minute. Was something like last time going to happen? Were you a lecher for expecting it? Why didn’t you mind the thought as much as you think you should?

You risk a glance at Satoru, who was in the middle of a passionate speech about how ketchup was a valid condiment on pasta. Soft sunlight paints his hair an amber hue, casting warm shadows that bring out his pretty features, eyes sparkling with passion and mischief. He was beautiful.

Wait. Beautiful?

“Hey isn’t this your apartment building or is walking past it a pre-entrance ritual?”

Ah. Whoops.

You snap out of those ridiculous notions, gathering whatever dignity you have left to walk back to the apartment complex you’d left in the dust while wrapped up in your thoughts.

“Oooo, didn’t take you for much of a decorator, hardass.” Gojo comments, flitting about your cozy apartment to look at all the little knick-knacks and pictures

“Did you really think I lived in some sterile lab?” you retort. Gojo’s almost-endearing curiosity amuses you enough to let go of the electricity thrumming through your body at having him so close. In your home.

“Well, I expected more beakers and fewer fairy lights, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to be offended. “Believe it or not, Gojo, hardasses can have a sense of style, too.”

He continues his exploration, stopping in front of a photo on the wall. “Who’s this model?” he grins, pointing at a picture of you in stuffy formal attire at some conference.

You sigh, knowing exactly which photo he's referring to. “That, Gojo, is me at a conference presenting a groundbreaking research paper.”

“Groundbreaking, huh? Is that what they call it these days?” he hums, arching an eyebrow playfully.

“Yes, and six feet under is what they’ll be calling you if you don’t get your ass here and finish this paper.”

“...yes, prez.”

Writing the conclusion and inserting citations is always the fun part. If you could write an essay on whatever you want, it would be only conclusions and citations, you think.

After a few hours of working on your paper, apparently Gojo does not feel the same way.

“Fuck Noodletools. All my homies hate Noodletools.”

“This is why you only have two friends, Gojo.”

“Hey! I’m a very likable person, y’know.”

“...”

He sets his laptop down leaning closer to you over where he was seated opposite you on the coffee table, clearly bored of citations for the time being. “Also, aren’t we friends, sweetheart? Technically I have three.”

You raise a brow, this was the first time Satoru had ever addressed the strange dynamic you two had. “Are we?” you ask, genuinely.

A deafening silence envelopes your living room. This was the first time you’d seen such a serious expression take over Gojo’s face as he answers, voice even, “I’m not sure.”

The atmosphere thickens with a charged tension, the weight of Gojo’s words lingering in the room. A spark flickers in his eyes. You feel like you could almost get whiplash from the contrast between the heated banter to where you two were now. Was it always so hot in this room?

You let out a strained laugh, attempting to diffuse the seriousness and go back to a trivial territory you were more familiar with. “I never thought the great Gojo Satoru would be uncertain about something.” Your eyes flicker unwillingly from his intense gaze to his worry-bitten lips.

The mischief returning to his gleaming eyes, he smirks “Uncertainty can be thrilling, don't you think, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what to say to that - and you don’t have to. Because before you can respond, Gojo swiftly leans over the coffee table - catching your lips in a sudden, electrifying kiss.

Time stands still. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize that you didn’t want to push him away. At all. In fact, you grab a fistful of his soft locks, pulling him impossibly deeper into the kiss.

Pulling away mere millimeters, Gojo’s hot breath fanning your mouth as he whispers, “Told you the uncertainty is thrilling, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and kiss me.” you grumble, irritated because his lips ghosting yours was not enough.

Before you know it, Gojo has you pinned against the plush couch. His lips finding your, the kiss deepening as he yearns for that desperate connection - as if each breath depends on smothering you with dizzying kisses.

The room seems to shrink, right now only filled with the heated exchange of breaths and the feeling of Satoru’s lips searing into yours.

You think he tastes like caramel and uncertainty - yet, this time, you fall into the unknown with open arms. Wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your arms around his broad shoulders - bringing him to you so close you’d think the laws of physics were taking a coffee break.

It almost hurt.

The intensity of the moment only growing, the atmosphere in your homey apartment crackles with a tension that you knew in the back of your mind had been building for so long - ever since that party.

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears. You knew this would happen.

And a part of you needed it to.

His fingers trace a path along your jawline, leaving a trail of heat - you shudder, craving for more.

“Gojo, I want you.” you breathe out, words muffled by Satoru sucking sinfully on your lips.

He pulls away slightly, delicate strings of saliva still connecting him to you. Every fiber of his being resisting to part.

“Don’t call me that.” he purrs out, the intensity of his half-lidded stare sending a jolt straight down to your heated core. “It’s Satoru when we’re fucking, remember?”

Looking into his sultry eyes, for the first time ever you decide to heed what Satoru says. “S-Satoru, please.” you whimper, hips bucking up to meet his own. You can feel the large outline of his achingly hard cock straining against those stupidly overpriced trousers, pussy quivering in anticipation.

Now, there have been three times in his life that Satoru thinks he has died and gone to heaven. The first being when he discovered that the ramen joint by his dorm also had free Wi-Fi. Second, that first day in Advanced Quantum Physics when you snapped at him told him to shut the fuck up.

And finally, right now, as he’s got you needy and squirming underneath him - such pretty gasps of his name leaving your kiss-bitten lips.

God, navigating quantum physics is a walk in the park in comparison to what you put his heart through.

“Hmm, never in my life thought I’d see his view, sweetheart.” he whispers lowly into your ear, delighting in the goosebumps that erupt along your alluring body. How did he get so lucky?

Hastily pulling down your shorts, his mouth waters at your wet panties. Another prize for him, hm? Throwing them along with your panties to god-knows-where, Satoru drinks in the sight of your bare pussy - a privilege that he didn’t get in that godforsaken closet.

Ah, so ready and dripping for him already. Your slick glistens out of your heated entrance as you clench around nothing. “Aww, they’ve faded.” he whines, heart lurching at the lack of his marks from last time.

It’s alright, he can just make more.

Not one to waste time, with a bruising grip holding your hips steady, Satoru grinds his painfully hard cock into your needy cunt, savoring the pretty mewls that leave your mouth. The way your swollen pussy quivers against him makes him throw his head back, seeing stars already.

Nipping along your neck, leaving marks he knows you’ll have to cover up tomorrow. “Sit on m’face,” he murmurs into your skin.

“W-what?”

Pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the valley of your breasts, Satoru breathes you in. Fuck, he prefers the smell of your skin to any scent in the world. “Sit- on- my- face.” he repeats, words punctuated with erotic kisses to your hardened nipples, tongue flicking them through the fabric of your clothes.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know?” you gasp. Yet, still shifting on that cramped couch. Why do you two always fuck in the most inconvenient places?

Satoru’s legs hang off the end of your couch as he lays on his back, you’d almost find the position funny - if it weren’t for you straddling his head.

His hot breath on your wet cunt sends waves of electricity though your entire body as you hover over his mouth. Your needy pussy right above where his mouth is, hesitating. Your slick oozes slowly through your swollen folds - drip! drip! drip! onto his awaiting tongue, brows furrowing and eyes rolling to the back of his head at your sweet juices.

“Mhm, and I hope that you’ll be the death of me.” he hums, tongue savoring your taste.

It’s the last thing said before Satoru surges forward, plunging mouth-first into your heated cunt.

Despite not being on a time crunch this time, Satoru doesn’t waste a moment teasing - he already has you splayed out and aching for him, what more could he want?

He bullies his tongue into your snug cunt, pushing past the first ring of muscle. You twitch around him, sweet moans spilling incessantly from your mouth. “Ah! Hngh- Satoru! Fuck s’good.”

Your sounds of pleasure going straight to his dick, he bucks into your hands. Ah, more. He needs your touch more.

The feeling of your plush walls clamping down on him only spurs him on further, fucking you at a ruthless pace. One hand gropes across your body, resting a thumb on your clit that rubs tight circles, making you grind down further into his mouth.

“Your pussy is so honest, sweetheart. She wants me so badly.” he murmurs, voice sending vibrations that make you let out a loud moan which he suspects your neighbors would be complaining about.

You were so perfect for him, Satoru thinks he might go insane.

You were definitely going insane.

Satoru shows no mercy, his abuse on your dripping cunt only speeding up at every buck of your hips into his tongue. It felt so fucking good.

Closing your eyes, his pressure on your core has you seeing spots behind your vision. You could feel the curl of his signature smirk against your folds as your pussy tries sucking him back in at every thrust. Too good to let him go. “Knew you loved this ‘big mouth’, hardass.” he murmurs.

Shit, you can’t be the only one acting so needy like this.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart?” Satoru drawls, voice muffled by your cunt as he feels the breeze of his lower abdomen hitting the heady air of your living room.

“Payback.” is all you mutter out as you fumble his trousers down his long legs. Curse these gyms. Curse squats. Why did he have to be so perfectly sculpted? An Adonis in his true form.

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth as his boxers come into view - rock-hard cock straining painfully against it A patch of pre-cum pools at his head - he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him. Hands shaky from the way Satoru’s incessant tongue was fucking into you, you shuffle his boxers down.

Satoru’s painfully hard erection springs out, hitting his lower abs. Fuck- how the hell were you supposed to take him? Life was really unfortunate - water was wet, and Gojo Satoru has a huge dick.

“S-sweetheart, you don’t have to-” he murmurs against your swollen pussy.

From all your times shutting up Gojo Satoru, this one might just be your favorite.

His words catch desperately in his throat as you spit out a pool of saliva onto Satoru’s furiously flushed head. A low hiss leaving him as you teasingly lick his sensitive slit.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Satoru attaches his lips with yours once more. He groans lowly into you, the stimulation making you yelp in surprise.

“So, it’s like that, huh?”

Satoru doesn’t have the time to ponder your words before you take in as much of his length as you can in one go. “Ah! Hah- Oh fuck, prez. Always knew you were a forceful woman.”

You moan at the slightly salty taste of his precum. Gagging around him, drool drips down the corner of your mouth as you try to take him in inch by fucking inch. It was so fucking messy.

Diving nose-deep in your cunt once again, Satoru continues the merciless pace of his tongue once more. Both your muffled moans fill the heated room, lost in the pleasure and the heat of the moment.

Shit, you knew by the way your walls clenched down on his tongue that you weren’t gonna last long. And judging by the urgent twitching of Satoru’s cock - he wasn’t going to either.

He fucks up his throbbing erection into your mouth, your eyes watering as his tip hits the back of your throat. Ropes of spit and precum decorate your lips. Even the staunch part of you that never backs down for anyone cheers at being so used. It’s so fucking debauched.

Your hand moves down to massage his heavy balls, tugging and pulling at a rhythm that matches the rapid ministrations of his thumb on your swollen clit.

Mind spinning and pleasure dizzyingly overwhelming as you both lean closer and closer to your highs. With a final mewl around his thick cock, your juices are gushing all around Satoru’s mouth.

Your mind blanks as you cum, the only things registering being the tingles of your oversensitive pussy as Satoru rides you through your high on his tongue and the taste of Satoru as he cums in hot spurts in your mouth. Salty, with a hint of sweet - the flavor making your pussy twitch.

Fucking his seed into you, your mouth milks his cock. His cum dribbling down the corner of your mouth, all thoughts of dirtying your couch go out your brain when you hear the fucked out whines at the back of Satoru’s throat.

Fuck a refractory period, you wanted to hear that more.

You remove yourself from him with a lewd pop! Cum flowing smoothly down your throat, you lock eyes with Satoru over your shoulder. His jaw drops, pupils blown lustfully as your tongue sticks out - showing the way you’ve swallowed every single drop of his seed.

“Now, Satoru. I need you to fuck me with yours cock just as you did with your tongue.” your words still strained from your orgasm.

Wordlessly, Satoru nods, eyes shining - still reeling from the sinful sight of your bruised lips glossy with his cum - his cum that you swallowed as if it was a delicacy.

Meanwhile you were thinking that you should fuck Satoru more if it meant you got him to shut up and be pretty more often.

Slightly more clear-headed now, just as lustful.

Your couch creaks in protest as you shift positions to face Satoru once more. He seizes your lips in a passionate kiss, mouth attacking yours with a desperation for your essence.

Your head spins as you taste yourselves on each other, words tumbling out of your mouth in the haze, “Satoru, bed- now.”

But when has he not challenged you?

“Mhm, anything you say, prez.” he whispers raspily against your lips, still-hard cock teasingly dragging along your swollen folds.

“Satoru.”

“Fuck yes. Say m’name, sweetheart.” he groans out, throwing his head back against the armrest. Your slick pools all over Satoru’s thick head, dripping sensually down his length to where he gripped tightly at the base.

Swollen lips dropping into a small “oh”, he slides a ringed hand up his member, spreading your juices. Cock twitching carnally at the way your pussy was leaking all over him, he grits out, “Need to feel you around my cock now, sweetheart.”

So he does.

Thick head pressing into your tight entrance, a low growl leaves his throat at how sinfully tight you were. Fuck, he could just about pass out right now.

“S’tight, sweetheart. So good.” he fucks up into you in shallow, uncontrollable movements of his hips - impatience quickly waning. You yelp at each thrust, walls burning with the stretch of Satoru’s thick head.

You try to steady yourself as Satoru’s thrusts get deeper and deeper, nails digging harshly into his muscled shoulders. In the midst of it all you still manage to impatiently slur out, “I-if you’re gonna fuck me then hah- fuck me like you mean it, Satoru.”

Oh, that did it.

Your words make the last bit of sanity Satoru had left snap.

In a swift movement, he sheaths his throbbing erection in your wet cunt completely. A gasp gets caught in his throat at the way your walls were clamping down on him in surprise.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded and a dangerously predatory glint in them that sends shivers down your spine. “Fuck me like I mean it, huh? You’re quite bossy, y’know that, prez?”

Before you can retort - and probably dig your grave deeper - he stands up in one fluid motion, your legs around his waist and cock still buried deep in your snug pussy. You moan at the change in angle, his tip now kissing your cervix so deliciously painfully. Shit, you feel so full.

Hands moving down to grope your ass firmly and support your weight, he grins lowly in your ear, “You’re lucky I love that part of you.”

The wall is cold as Satoru shoves your back against it. his body making the air leave your lungs as he presses into yours, ramming into you at a merciless pace. Your tight cunt clenches so tightly around him, as if to prevent him from leaving.

Each thrust into your warm core has his eyes rolling to the back of his head, brows furrowing in ecstasy. His lips capture yours once again in a rough dance that matches the cadence of his hips.

You mewl against his mouth at the feeling of his heavy balls stinging your skin as they smack your ass. The power behind each harsh thrust has you bouncing against the wall, legs pulling tighter around his toned waist to bully his cock impossibly deeper in you.

“Where- fuck! Where’s the bed?” he moans breathlessly against your lips, voice sounding as if each thrust of his pulsing cock into your plush walls sends him spiraling deeper into insanity.

“Down- down the hallway. Hngh- fuck, Satoru!” you not far behind.

Your mind is foggy, barely even registering as Satoru moves blindly towards your bedroom with powerful strides - not yet pulling out of you.

He doesn’t get very far before he’s got you sprawled over your bedroom floor, your carpet digging into you as his cock slams into your abused cunt with that feral pace he loves so much. Not even making it to the bed.

“Ah! Hah- Satoru, what happened to the bed?” you sputter out in-between uncontrollable moans.

“Too far. Hngh- need you now.” he answers around your breasts, teasing and tweaking your sensitive nipples.

“Wh-who’s irresistible now?” you manage to smirk, relishing in the huff of laughter that escapes him. Even now, you always did manage to one-up him.

“Mhm, you’ve always been irresistible, sweetheart.” he mutters, moving to press a chaste kiss against your forehead, not sure whether the words were even meant for you to hear.

And you know it’s just pussy-drunk talk, but right now you can’t help the way your cheeks heat up, heartbeat ringing in your ears.

Not sure how to respond to that, you pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his burning face in the crook of your neck. Maybe right now neither of you needed to speak, your bodies doing enough talking as Satoru continues his relentless cadence.

Your hips bucking up to meet his, you whimper in pleasure and overstimulation into the heady room as Satoru moves down a hand to draw rough, little circles over and over your throbbing clit. It was all too much. “S-Satoru.”

“Me too, my sweetheart. Me too.” is all he gasps out, teeth digging into your neck at the pleasure overwhelming his sensitive cock. Satoru’s tight balls twitch as they smack your ass, cock glistening with cum and slick. He sees stars behind his eyes - or maybe those were tears at the overstimulation. He really doesn’t know anymore.

Head spinning and thoughts racing with only Satoru Satoru Satoru, you’re very much in the same state.

“Satoru?” you whine out, tears clinging to your lashes.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You pull him into an intense kiss, pussy clamping down on him desperately as his lips brand yours - it sends you both over the edge.

Satoru thinks he sees heaven as he cums, and you were probably an angel.

Hot ropes of his thick cum paint your walls white, cunt quivering around him as you both ride out your climaxes together. A creamy ring forms around his base as he fucks his seed into you desperately, marking you so obviously as his. All thoughts of Plan B run out of your mind at the overstimulated whimpers leaving Satoru’s ruby lips.

His dick twitches inside you as his unforgiving thrusts slow down to shallow grinds of his hips, nothing more than to keep his cum inside of you as your highs bate.

Body collapsing onto yours, careful to not crush you with his weight, Satoru pulls you closer to him. And despite everything that happened this evening, he thinks that this might be what makes his ears burn red the most. Your body so vulnerably connected with his own. Just the two of you in this quiet world.

The silence feels intimate and fragile. Brain still hazy from your orgasms, you don’t think you’ve ever quite looked at your bedroom ceiling from his angle.

Strangely enough, Satoru’s warm weight on you feels comforting. Neither of you speak now. Nor do you speak when Satoru carries you to bed, searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe you clean with.

It’s only when he lingers at the foot of your bed - uncertain - that the silence is broken. “Get in, stupid.” you scoff, opening the covers invitingly.

Of course, an elated smile overtaking his face, Satoru jumps in your bed with enough force to send you both bouncing. It was childish. It was so ridiculous. It had you barking out a surprised laugh at his antics.

In your joy, you don’t even realize that Satoru has stopped moving - frozen, smile slipping off his face and staring at you with an unknown spark in his eyes.

“What?” you question, feeling strangely self-conscious.

White locks tousling as he shakes his head, he breathes, “It’s the first time I’ve made you laugh.” The words hang in the delicate atmosphere, tension so thick you think it could snap any moment.

You hide your face in your hands, palms clammy. “You- you make me sound like some sort of evil witch.” you stammer out, embarrassment pooling in your gut. The tension in the air dissipates, yet the intensity in Satoru’s gaze remains.

Satoru understands, smiling blindingly. He pulls your naked body to his, wrapping his arms tenderly around your waist as you both bury into the covers. “Well, more of a hardass than an evil witch.”

“Satoru?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You still have to finish your citations.”

A/N. Can be read as a standalone BUT part 2 planned for next longfic Sunday!

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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spencersmopbucket · 12 days ago

Text

Au Revoir | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending

You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.

You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.

You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.

He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.

It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.

Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.

While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.

Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.

Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.

It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.

You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.

Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.

You didn’t believe it at first.

The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.

Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.

You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.

But he didn’t come home.

And it wasn’t a joke.

Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.

And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.

The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.

You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.

Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.

You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.

Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”

And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.

He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.

They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.

They softened until he got angry.

A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.

“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”

Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”

You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”

His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.

Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”

You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.

“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”

You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”

Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.

“Spence..”

You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.

He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.

When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.

But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.

I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer

You read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.

This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.

He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.

And that alone shattered you.

You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.

You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.

You went through phases.

Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.

Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.

Next, you were angry.

Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.

How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?

You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.

And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.

You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.

The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.

You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.

He was free.

And he didn’t tell you.

Of course he didn’t.

That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”

And he didn't.

For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.

A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.

Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.

"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."

“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”

Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.

"Don't bullshit me."

It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.

And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.

You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.

You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.

You blinked once. Slowly.

Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.

Prentiss followed.

Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.

Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.

“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.

You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”

Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“I know.” You stared down into your glass.

“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”

Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”

You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”

She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”

“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”

She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.

You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.

The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.

Like they were tracking him.

You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.

And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.

You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.

He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he’d been watching the entire time.

You almost looked away.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.

You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.

The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.

The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.

You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.

But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.

The screen door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You knew it was him.

There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”

Another silence.

“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”

Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.

“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”

Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.

“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”

He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.

Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”

“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.

“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”

You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”

Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.

“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”

Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.

“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”

You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”

You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”

“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”

You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.

“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.

You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.

“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”

“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”

You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.

“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”

“Spencer--”

“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.

“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”

You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.

“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”

“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.

You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.

“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”

He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.

“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”

You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.

Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.

“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”

His breath hitched.

“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.

“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”

His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”

A pause.

“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.

But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.

Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”

And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You just held each other.

The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”

He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.

He smelled like home. Your home.

You were so happy to be home.

914 notes · View notes

woniefication · 1 month ago

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ID LET THE WORLD BURN FOR YOU.

𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂: When someone tries it with your man. ﹔ 𝘑𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ;golden retriever x black cat ✦ Possessiveness ⋯⋯ Fluff, crack, blushy moments ﹠ FB appreciated - Masterlist.

A/N hi... so i finally wrote something and uhm yeahi hate this layout but enjoy @douqhnxtss request!!

Jake adjusts his glasses as you both start packing up your stuff, slinging your bag over one shoulder. You're already halfway to the door when the air shifts.

And not in a good way.

“Aw, if it isn’t the walking library,” a voice oozes from the doorway.

You turn around. Of course. Noah. Human tank-top. Ego bigger than the syllabus.

Jake stiffens beside you, but offers a tight-lipped, awkward smile. “Hey, Noah…”

Brandon snorts. “Didn’t think nerds were allowed to date out of their league. What's the catch? You tutoring her for free or something?”

Jake opens his mouth.probably to be polite, because he’s Jake—but you’re already stepping forward.

“Oh, I know you’re not talking,” you say, tone flat like a slap.

The room freezes.

Someone in the back audibly gasps. A girl starts recording.

Noah raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. From ever speaking again, preferably.” You tilt your head, voice calm but venom-laced. “You really walked in here with your 2008 haircut and protein breath like you’re about to say something meaningful?”

There’s a flicker of laughter. Jake’s jaw drops slightly.

“I mean, you’ve got the energy of a gym locker and the personality of a dry eraser. And you're talking about him being out of my league?” You gesture to Jake, who looks like he's trying not to pass out from shock or adoration—maybe both.

“At least he has a GPA and a soul. You? All biceps, no thoughts.”

“OHHH—” the class loses it. Phones are out. Brandon’s face twitches.

You take one step closer, smile sharp. “Only I can be mean to him, okay? Just me.”

Then, without waiting, you grab Jake by the collar and yoink him out of the room. The crowd parts like the Red Sea.

You finally reach a quiet bench by the quad, shaded by trees. Jake is still red—like, full-blown tomato. You can feel the heat radiating off him.

“You good, soldier?” you ask, nudging his arm.

He blinks slowly. “You just… roasted him so hard I think he’s gonna legally change schools.”

You smirk. “Had to defend my man. I don’t share my nerd.”

Jake just looks at you. And keeps looking. Way too long. Way too soft.

“…Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, completely unbothered. “You’re just so cool. And scary. And hot. And you stood up for me. And I’m gonna marry you.”

Your face twitches. “You’re so embarrassing,” you mutter, looking away—suddenly flustered.

“I love you,” he sighs, dreamy.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes.”

“But they’re my only ones.”

You shove his shoulder with a roll of your eyes, biting back a smile. He laughs, all sunshine and warmth, and leans in close—not to kiss you, but just to be close. To breathe you in.

The tomato is in love. And so are you.

(♡)-- @orimuraa @douqhnxtss @chrrific @liwinly @fleuryns @leaderwon @pnghoon @rikiiimeow @yuuuraaa

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piastriprincess · 7 days ago

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somethin' stupid ⸻ isack hadjar x reader .

featuring isack hadjar , friends to lovers , university au , isack being a down bad simp , very rusty french and google translated italian <3 word count 9.5k author’s note literally no one asked for this but i’ve been obsessed with isack lately and this is the result ! loosely based off a poem i read a million years ago on this website called '8 ways to say i love you' . unfortunately you truly never escape what you thought was romantic at age 13 ! dedicating this one to @spiderbeam — eve , thank you for getting me into this man in the first place . i fear you have my heart and all my isack fics <3 as always let me know what you think , it helps me so much to get feedback from you all about what you like and don’t like ! title is from somethin’ stupid by frank sinatra .

one: spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot of whiskey you downed for courage. feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Isack is forgetting something. He has to be. Because even through a hangover that feels like a jackhammer pounding directly into his skull, there is still an awful tugging in the back of his mind, like his brain is trying to remind him about something vitally important.

He rolls over, squinting at the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds, to discover he never made it to bed. No, his face is pressed against the scratchy cushions of the living room couch, mouth dry and tasting vaguely like rum and regret.

Rum. He blinks hard, a memory swimming up through the haze in his head — Pepe returning from his first class of syllabus week last night with a brown paper bag in hand and a devilish smile on his face. He’d claimed one of his fellow comms majors had told him if you mixed Rum Chata with Fireball, it tasted exactly like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Isack didn’t even like sweet drinks, but that was your favorite cereal, so of course he had to try it, if only so he could tell you about it the next day.

He groans and pushes himself upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as the room spins around him. There’s a concerning stain on the worn carpet that wasn’t there the night before, and Ollie’s shoes are swinging lazily by their laces from the ceiling fan. The thought of you is stirring something in his brain, too. You hadn’t been there the night before — despite the fact that it was the first week of class, your thermodynamics professor had assigned you a particularly vicious problem set due at midnight — but you’d wormed your way into his drunken mind anyway. It happens more often than not, he supposes. Gabi’s put together a slideshow montage of all his intoxicated rambles declaring you the most perfect girl in the world that he’s started threatening to play for you if Isack doesn’t make a move before graduation.

He’s still thinking about you when his phone buzzes from somewhere below him. He has to dig through the couch cushions, shoving aside loose change and a half-eaten sleeve of Triscuits before his fingers close around it. The screen has a thin, jagged crack across it that wasn’t there the night before, but he can still make out the notification from you on his lockscreen:

daily grind at 10:15? senior year deserves an extra special treat, i’m buying :~)

That must be what he had forgotten. Your coffee tradition. Rain or shine, hungover or sober, you always met at the Daily Grind for complicated sugary drinks before your first class of the semester. It was one of the few things in your friendship that was undeniably sacred.

He glances up at the time. 10:13. Merde. He’s already dialing your number, rehearsing an apology in his head and a promise to be there as soon as he can, but the phone stops ringing and he gets your voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Obviously I don’t have my phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you! Or you can just text me like a normal person.”

Oh. Oh no. No no no no no.

Hearing your voicemail message — now that is familiar in the worst way. A sick wave rolls through his stomach, part hangover and part nauseous realization that drunk Isack might have done something really, really stupid. He winces, pulling up his call history, already half-knowing what he’ll find.

Sure enough, there’s one outgoing call to you at 1:54 AM, and the memory clicks into place like the final piece of last night’s twisted puzzle.

“Hiii,” he’d slurred into the phone, head lolling against the sofa. “C’est Isack. I — you know that, obviously. Your phone probably told you that! I’m — I’m drunk. And I wish you were here tonight. Wish you were here every night, en fait, but especially tonight. Pepe made Cinnamon Toast Crunch but, like, drinks. I know it’s your favorite and — you would have loved everything about it! As much as I love everything about you. I love your laugh, I love your face, I looooove you. Putain. I am going to regret this tomorrow.” With that he’d hung up the phone, immensely pleased with himself, and fallen asleep.

Well, drunk Isack had been right about one thing, at least. Sober Isack is definitely regretting it. He’s been trying to figure out how to tell you that he likes you basically since he met you, and now he’s gone and done it in the most ridiculous way possible.

His stomach twists, and it’s definitely not the hangover this time. It’s too late to cancel. You’re probably already there, sitting at your usual table by the window and ordering him something disgustingly sweet. He has no other option but to show up.

His mind fills with increasing dread as he gets ready. He considers faking his own death, but that seems like it might raise more questions than it answers. Plus, his friends would probably find a way to resurrect him just to kill him again for being such a total coward.

“You look like shit, Hadjar,” you say cheerfully as he stumbles into the seat across from you fifteen minutes after you’d agreed to meet. His hair is still damp from the world’s fastest shower, dark sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes.

He smiles shakily back at you as you slide a coffee that looks like diabetes waiting to happen across the table to him. You’re acting surprisingly normal for someone whose best friend crooned a love confession into their voicemail in the middle of the night. Maybe you hadn’t even listened to it. Maybe you thought it was a butt-dial and deleted the entire thing. “Blame Pepe. He got me hammered last night.”

“I’ll excuse the lateness just this once,” you reply, face breaking into the smile that’s been ruining his life since freshman year. “Was it worth it?”

“Jury’s still out,” he says, taking a cautious sip of his drink. As he predicted, it’s absolutely revolting, a sugar rush in a cup. “Mon dieu, this is disgusting,” he groans. “What the hell is it?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch latte,” you say, biting your lip, and Isack spits coffee all over the table between you.

He’s still spluttering when you start talking again, eyes fixed on the table between you. “Look, I know you were drunk when you left that message,” you say, twisting a strand of hair around your finger, “and I know drunk people say stupid things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, heart sinking into his stomach. He had meant it, he thinks, but he’ll let you draw the incorrect conclusion if it makes you happier. If it means he gets to keep being your friend, to keep you in his life in whatever way you’ll allow.

“So I’m not going to hold the whole ‘I love you’ thing against you. But if you really love my face, you should probably ask it out on a date, or something.”

His head snaps up, almost too afraid to believe he heard you right. “Vraiment?”

“Vraiment,” you confirm, flicking a gaze up at him. Your eyes are bright, hopeful. “Do you want to take my face out, or what?”

You take a sip of your coffee like you’re trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but you’re drumming your fingers against the cup the way you always do when you’re in your own head. You’re nervous, Isack realizes. You want this as much as he does.

“I really want to take your face out,” he says, voice hoarse, and you just smile.

You both finish your coffee, and afterwards he walks you to the engineering building for your class. Since it seems to be a good day for getting what he wants, he holds your hand as you go. He’s only hoping to brush against your palm, to feel the electric buzz of your skin against his, but instead you weave your fingers into his, squeeze his hand tight.

When he looks down at your hand, intertwined with his, he’s already thinking about how he can say it to you again without fucking it all up.

two: sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.

“Okay, seriously, if you laugh at me, I’m gonna break up with you,” you say, voice muffled behind the bathroom door, and the butterflies erupt in Isack’s chest all over again.

The first date had gone well. Better than well. It had gone kind of flawlessly, actually. So Isack took you on a second. Then a third. It’s wonderful — he keeps expecting you to say no, to say you’ve made a huge mistake and you’re better off as friends, but it’s been nearly two months now and you just keep matching his level of enthusiasm.

Your first Halloween together is no different. Halloweekend has always been a blur of mixers and parties spent side-by-side with you, so Isack wasn’t expecting anything new now that you were officially together. But you’d asked him one night a few weeks ago during a study session, ankle twisting around his under the kitchen table, what couples costume the two of you would be wearing this year. Isack had been so thrilled by the idea that you would publicly identify yourself as his girl that every single cheesy couples costume he’d ever seen over the years had flown out of his mind completely. He’d locked eyes with the vintage Mercedes poster he’d hung on their living room wall, and to his absolute horror, blurted “Brocedes,” which even to his lovesick mind sounded like the stupidest thing he’d ever said.

To his unending delight, however, you’d agreed without a second thought. Which is how he finds himself dressed as Lewis Hamilton in a Mercedes race suit and a Pirelli cap, waiting for his Nico to work up the courage to make her way out of the bathroom.

“I’m not going to laugh,” he assures you, teal sneakers squeaking against the floor as he wipes his palms on the suit. “Come on, mon coeur. Let me see.”

The door creaks open hesitantly, and there you are, the fluorescent bathroom light framing you from behind. Your hair is slicked back, tousled just so. The white suit hugs your body, and you have it unzipped just low enough to show off the soft line of your collarbones and the swell of your chest.

Isack’s eyes drag down your body, unable to tear his gaze away from you. You’re unreal.

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s pretty much the only word he remembers at this point.

You lean against the door frame, glossed lips curling into a soft smile. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think we’re going to be late to this party,” Isack says, voice rough around the edges.

He crosses the room in two strides, pulling you into him by your hips. You loop your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, it feels like his world is exploding into a million pieces.

He still hasn’t figured out a better way to tell you how he feels about you. It’s strange, in a way; before you started dating, the situation felt wildly romantic in his head, like something straight out of those chick flicks you watch religiously and he pretends not to like. Two friends, madly in love with each other without having the nerve to admit it. Your relationship, though it was practically perfect in every other way, had complicated things. Isack wants to be the guy who sweeps you off your feet, not the creep who tells you he loves you after a month and a half.

But now, with his teeth scraping impatiently against your collarbone and you breathing his name into his ear like it’s a prayer, he can’t imagine not saying something. It escalates quickly, as it always does with the two of you: he’s hauled you up onto the edge of the sink, and your legs wrap around his waist as he drags his mouth back up your neck to meet your lips. You taste like your strawberry lip gloss, and when you slot your tongue into his mouth it makes his head spin.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth. It’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, just a sound you could mistake for pleasure if you weren’t listening closely. You don’t react, just kiss him again so deeply he feels he might drown in it. A small noise escapes the back of your throat, one he wants to make you replicate over and over again, and he’s sure then that you didn’t hear him.

It’s probably for the best. He wants to be sure that when he does work up the courage, you’ll know, and there will be nothing to keep you from believing him. Not alcohol, not desperation, not the heat of a perfect, stolen moment. So he presses the words into the column of your neck, murmurs them into the cut of your collarbone. He traces hard little hearts into your hips with his thumbs. Your suit begins to slip off your shoulders, exposing the teal strap of your bra, and Isack thinks he might have legitimately died and gone to heaven.

That is, until the door swings open behind him with a dramatic bang.

“Che schifo,” Kimi yelps, scandalized, covering his eyes with his hands. “Isack, your room is right there.”

You pull back from Isack, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you hike your costume back up your shoulder. Your gloss is smudged, cheeks flushed pink, and Isack thinks he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even if he does want to melt into the floor tiles right about now.

“Sorry, Kimi,” you chirp, not even having the decency to look flustered. “Isack got so turned on by the thought of Brocedes that he just had to have me.”

“I did not,” Isack protests, cheeks scarlet. “Kimi, we were just —”

“This is a communal bathroom, Isack,” his roommate interrupts, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I am happy you two finally figured it out, but… we wash our hands in that sink.”

“You’re a menace,” Isack hisses under his breath to you, and you giggle, smoothing your hair.

“We’re late anyway,” you grin, hopping off the sink. “Don’t worry, Kimi, won’t happen again.”

He lets you pull him out of the bathroom, watching as Kimi closes the door behind you. “We can pick that back up later somewhere with a little more privacy,” you whisper into his ear, and he stumbles over his own feet. It’s embarrassing the way he can tell his eyes are lighting up at your words. He sends a small thank you to the universe that the fabric of the costume is thick.

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he watches you walk to the door, hips swaying. “I’m definitely holding you to that.”

three: whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. maybe you were just sleep whispering.

The bed feels far too narrow to fit the both of you, the old-fashioned radiator in your room is clanking so loudly he’s worried it might explode, Isack’s arm is going numb where it’s trapped under your head, and there is absolutely no place he’d rather be.

He’d picked you up at the airport earlier that day — your flight was meant to land in the afternoon, but he’d shown up nearly forty minutes early, pacing excitedly around baggage claim until you descended down the escalator. You were wearing the hoodie you’d stolen from him before winter break and your biggest smile, and you’d jumped into his arms with such force that he’d dropped the homemade welcome sign he’d made, poster board fluttering to the floor.

Since then, he’s been pretending personal space is a concept he’s never heard of. Hand on your thigh in the car, an arm around your waist as he carries your suitcase into your apartment, fingers tracing through your hair as you lay in bed curled into his chest. He can’t keep his hands off you. It’s as if the two of you were separated for three years, not three weeks.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you observe, one leg thrown lazily over his waist as you scroll through TikTok.

“Just thinking,” he shrugs, flicking his eyes over your screen. You’re watching one of those kitchen restock videos you like, the light of your screen illuminating your face in the dark room.

“Dangerous activity for you,” you tease, eyes bright. He grabs your waist and pulls you in, blowing a raspberry into your neck and laughing as you squeal and squirm away from him. “What’s on your mind, Hadjar?”

What’s really on his mind is how warm and comfortable he feels with you, how the sharp, persistent ache in his chest that he’d been feeling since winter break started has finally subsided now that he’s back in your presence. “How I survived three weeks without you hogging all the blankets,” he says instead.

You gasp and narrow your eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “I do not hog the blankets,” you protest, pulling more of the comforter towards you.

“Sure,” he counters, pulling it back. “And I don’t have the shin bruises to prove that you’re also a sleep-kicker.”

“Those could be from anything,” you say primly. He gives you a look of pure disbelief, and you both dissolve into giggles, foreheads pressing against each other.

Before leaving for winter break, he’d thought that everything would feel the same way it did when you were just friends. Despite the different time zones, the two of you had managed to talk every day — texts about everything from the prize he won in a Christmas cracker to the dog at your New Year’s party wearing a sparkly hat to his mom’s endless questions about when his copine would visit Paris. It was nice. He was happy, but it wasn’t enough. Not like it used to be.

When you were friends, even in the years that he’d harbored his frankly all-encompassing crush on you, missing you had been manageable, a dull ache he could soothe with a voice memo or a quick call. But this had been different. Deeper. More essential to his being, somehow.

Every time he slid into his childhood bed, he’d glance over at the empty pillow and be struck with the visceral feeling that you should be there. He’d caught himself saving up stories to tell you, photographing random things because he knew they'd make you laugh, declining invitations from his lycée friends because he'd rather spend the evening talking to you than going out. You’d fallen asleep twice during your marathon daily FaceTimes, and both times Isack had stayed on the line just to listen to you breathe, feeling foolish and smitten and wondering when exactly you’d managed to make yourself feel like home to him.

Suddenly worried that he won’t be able to keep himself from saying exactly that, Isack breaks the laughter with a clearly fake, very loud snore.

“Baby,” you giggle, poking him in the side as the radiator clangs particularly violently. “Stop. I’m trying to sleep.”

There’s some level of truth to that; it’s nearly 2 AM, and the two of you have been curled up in your bed since the early evening. But clearly, neither of you have been trying very hard to actually rest, too excited to be with each other again to let your eyes close.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he huffs, pressing a kiss into your temple. “You’ve been talking for, like, hours.”

“Fine,” you reply haughtily, wrinkling your nose up at him. “Look at me, totally asleep.” With that, you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, and go silent.

He listens to the slow rhythm of your breathing, feels the way your chest rises and falls against him. He wants to follow you into sleep, but it’s evading him. There’s something playing on his mind — the thought that with every day he spends with you, he’s falling deeper into something he only thought he understood before. He’d been so sure he loved you back then, but this is something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the darkness, or the feeling of you in his arms again, but he’s feeling bold. “Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair. And then you sigh, snuggling closer into his hoodie with a soft, instinctive movement.

Isack freezes, heart hammering against his ribs, and slams his eyes shut like he can pretend he’s sleep-whispering. Counts the seconds between your exhales until he’s convinced your movement was a coincidence, and he can bide his time some more.

When he says it for real, you’ll be so blown away by how suave and gorgeous and charming he is that you won’t hesitate to say it back.

four: buy her flowers. buy her chocolate. buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and Isack has a plan. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. He made a reservation in advance at Maison de Lumière, the only restaurant near campus that required anything more than jeans and a sweatshirt. It had taken three calls and a small bribe to one of the hostesses, but he’d finally managed to secure a table. He didn’t have a suit, so he’d had to borrow Gabi’s. It’s miles too big and hangs loosely off his frame, making him look a little bit like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s closet. He bought flowers — not from the grocery store, but real long-stem red roses wrapped in pink tissue paper that cost more than his weekly laundry budget. He’d even picked up a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the campus bookstore, at the last minute throwing a little stuffed bear into his cart that he almost immediately regretted.

None of it is his vibe, really. He’s not used to grand romantic gestures. But you deserve everything he’s planned and more, even if it does make him feel a little ridiculous and out of place. And maybe, if everything goes absolutely perfectly, tonight can be the night that Isack finally tells you he loves you.

That is, until you get to the restaurant, and he realizes this is going to be a total disaster.

You look so beautiful that Isack trips over his feet multiple times trying to open the door for you. Then you’re seated at a table by the window, which should feel romantic but really feels like the two of you are on display. There are several sets of silverware on the table for some reason, and the glasses are heavy crystal that Isack is afraid to touch. The bear sits on the windowsill like a fuzzy chaperone, its glassy eyes staring at you.

The waiter drops off menus in thick leather folders, giving you a ten-minute explanation of the special holiday prix fixe menu. Isack orders the cheapest wine on the list, and the waiter scoffs but obliges. When he finally leaves the two of you alone, silence weighs on the table like an uncomfortably heavy blanket.

“So,” you say, drumming your fingers against the stem of your water glass.

“So,” he agrees, trailing off.

Then the two of you speak at the same time:

“This place is —”

“You look really —”

You laugh, but it’s not your laugh, the familiar sound that makes Isack’s heart flip. It’s stilted, forced. “Sorry, I was just going to say this place is… nice.”

“Thanks,” he says politely, straightening his tie for the fifteenth time, but he can’t keep the frown off his face. Nice. It’s careful. It’s a word designed to be meaningless, to hide how uncomfortable you are, and Isack can feel his perfectly planned night slipping through his fingers.

It’s torture. Actual, literal torture. In three years of friendship and seven months of dating, you’ve never run out of things to say to each other. You talk constantly about classes and professors and the weird guy in your freshman dorm who collected vintage lunch boxes and whether aliens existed and what you’d do if you won the lottery. You flirt ridiculously and tease each other relentlessly. You send each other stupid memes at 2 AM and argue about linear algebra with the kind of intensity that comes from finding your mental match in another person.

But tonight, surrounded by white linen and overpriced menu items and the soft classical music whispering from hidden speakers, Isack has nothing. He takes a sip of the wine, immediately wincing at the taste.

“Isack,” you say gently, touching his wrist across the table as he forces a swallow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… this sucks, right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“This,” you say, waving your hand through the air at the restaurant, the pristine tablecloth, the overly perfumed candle flickering between you. “All of this. We both hate this. This isn’t us.”

For the first time all night, Isack feels like he can actually breathe. “Yes. Mon dieu, yes. This is horrible. The wine is horrible. I thought I was the only one.”

“No,” you laugh, and it finally sounds real. “You’re definitely not the only one. The waiter keeps looking at me like I’m going to smuggle the silverware out in my purse.”

He snorts, pulling at his tie until it loosens around his neck. “I’m so sorry, mon coeur. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to give you the Valentine’s Day you deserve, something fancy and romantic and —”

“Awkward and uncomfortable and completely wrong for us?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That.”

“I love that you wanted to do something special,” you say, and Isack’s brain short-circuits somewhere around hearing the second word of your sentence. “But I don’t deserve all this. I deserve you. The real you, not whatever tie-wearing, wine-drinking version of you that you think is going to impress me.”

You love that he wanted to do something special. Love. It’s the perfect opening. Three simple words that had been circling in his head for months, waiting for the right moment to be dropped.

He opens his mouth to speak, finally working up the courage to say exactly what the entire night is for, but you beat him to the punch. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

A half hour later, the two of you are pressed shoulder to shoulder on the hood of Isack’s beat-up Honda with a twenty piece nugget box and two Slurpees between you. Your dress is hiked up around your thighs, bare leg pressed against his, the stuffed bear sitting in your lap.

You lean your head against his shoulder, taking a long sip of your Slurpee. “Next year, maybe let’s skip the fancy restaurant.”

“No complaints on that,” he allows, taking a bite of a nugget. “That bottle of wine basically wiped out our date budget for the rest of the semester, by the way.”

You laugh as the cool February wind picks up, and without thinking Isack takes off Gabi’s jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile up at him, makeup smudged slightly at the corners of your eyes. “Now that’s romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

Isack sighs happily, wrapping his arm around you. He’d spent so long planning what he thought was the perfect night. The flowers, the chocolates, the overpriced dinner, the teddy bear, all because that’s what movies and romance novels and r/Relationship_Advice said you were supposed to do when you loved someone.

But now, with chicken nugget crumbs on his fingers and the taste of blue raspberry in his mouth and your laugh still echoing in the crisp air of the parking lot, he thinks maybe it’s this.

five: blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. when time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.

There aren’t many rules Isack has for your relationship. Why bother, when everything is perfect without them? It’s not like you need a set date night, since you hang out with each other all the time anyway. He likes PDA. He would rather die than tell you who you could or couldn’t talk to, and he thinks you’d probably laugh in his face if he tried. Your relationship has always been one guided by what feels right in the moment, and Isack feels awfully right pretty much every time you’re around him.

There is only one rule set in stone: the Infinite Playlist. A certain list of songs, subject to additions but never subtractions, that the two of you are forever required to dance to. It had started before you were dating, back when Isack would have taken any excuse to watch you smile, to have a private moment with you. Your relationship only solidified the tradition. It doesn’t matter where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. The first few notes of a song would play, and the two of you would drop everything to dance to it.

“What Makes You Beautiful” comes on in the grocery store aisle? Ditch the cart, because the two of you are finding an area open enough to perform your fully choreographed routine. “Alors On Danse” plays at a frat party? Hopefully you aren’t talking to anyone important, because that conversation is coming to a swift end.

Normally, Isack loves the Infinite Playlist. Today, he wishes Lando had played anything else.

It’s a classic, unseasonably warm day, the first one of the spring semester. It feels like everyone on campus is outside, textbooks open to pages they won’t read and Frisbees cutting lazy arcs through the air. Your friends are sprawled on picnic blankets on the lawns, idly chatting. Maya and Chloe are passing around a thermos of jungle juice. Ollie has his laptop out, allegedly to work on his thesis, but he’s mostly just scrolling through his Spotify queue.

You’re sitting under a gnarled old oak tree, back stiff against the rough bark and knees pulled into your chest. Isack settles on the grass about ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with you, but you are very deliberately avoiding his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in your multivariable notes. The air between you is charged with all the things you’d said to each other three days ago, heavy with all the silence that had settled between you since.

The argument hadn’t been anyone’s fault, really — just a silly miscommunication, something that should have ended fast and early. But you almost never fought, and you weren’t used to it, both too stubborn to back down and admit it was stupid so you could move on. Halfway through the argument, Isack had said something careless, something that stung, and you’d stormed out of his house with flushed cheeks and teary eyes. Now, everything is tense and uncertain between the two of you, too quiet and too sharp.

You’re still pointedly ignoring him when Lando pushes Ollie away from the laptop, proclaiming loudly that he absolutely needs to hear a certain song before the sun sets. Seconds later, the telltale bassline of “Get Low” starts blasting through the speakers, and Isack’s stomach drops. You may have been in a fight, but unfortunately, the Infinite Playlist hadn’t gotten the memo.

His gaze snaps to you, instinct winning out over pride. When you slowly lift your eyes from the papers in your hands, he feels a little surge of hope in his chest. After a second of uncertainty, he stands, finding an empty strip of grass, and motions you over.

He wants to make you laugh. He wants to be over the top, or ridiculously bad, or anything that will break through the stoniness in your face.

Slowly, almost too slowly, you warm up. When he tries the Sprinkler, you barely look at him, just tapping your toe against the grass. He Dougies, and you move a little bit closer. By the time he resorts to the Shopping Cart, you’ve loosened up enough to give him a snort of laughter. He reaches his hand out, and you take it, letting him twirl you straight into his arms.

“Je suis désolé,” he mumbles into your ear, holding you against him.

There’s a pause, where you don’t say a word. “‘M sorry, too,” you sigh, and the relief that rolls through him is overwhelming. “That was so stupid.”

“So stupid,” he agrees, dipping you just because he can, because you’re talking to him and the world feels right again. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

You giggle as he drops you, pulls you up again. “Me neither. Let’s not do it again, yeah?”

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, as you grin like the last three days of cold shoulder could melt away just from the sheer force of your smile. “Deal.”

You rest your hands lazily on his shoulders, moving your body against his, and he presses a kiss to your neck. “Missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, hoping you know he doesn’t just mean the dancing.

“Missed you,” you retort, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the sun, eyes bright, and his chest feels very tight suddenly.

“I love you,” he blurts, and the relief he’s feeling shifts immediately to horror when you falter, feet slipping in the grass as you look up at him, something awestruck in your eyes. Before you have the chance to respond, he pulls you in by your hips, flush to his body. “—r sweet moves,” he finishes lamely, heart pounding in his chest. “I love them. Very classy, mon coeur.”

You laugh brightly, squirming against him. “Classier when you aren’t trying to grind on me, Hadjar.”

You don’t say that you love him, not then. The moment had passed. His cowardice had made sure of that. But he feels your eyes on him still, warm and hopeful, and he knows that another song, another moment will come soon enough.

six: write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival mr. darcy’s. debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? in her coat pocket? throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. let her wonder if you meant it.

By the third morning of spring break, Isack starts thinking about forever.

The beach rental is chaotic, to say the least — eight twenty-somethings in three bedrooms with one working bathroom, Maya and Gabi holding backflip contests off the porch into the deep end of the pool, an ever-growing pile of sandy towels that no one wants to take to the laundry.

It’s also kind of perfect, though, mostly because Isack gets to wake up every morning in a room with you. The sheets are mismatched and smell a little like the sea, and the bed is practically child-sized, barely big enough for the two of you to fit. But none of that matters as much as the fact that every time he wakes up, your legs are tangled into his, face mashed into his chest, hogging the entire comforter with your hand curled over his waist like you’d reached for him in the middle of the night and refused to let go.

It feels like playing house, at first. But then Isack starts letting himself imagine a world beyond the crappy Airbnb, a future where he never has to start his mornings any other way, and the domesticity of it all is doing something frankly dangerous to his heart.

So he writes.

It’s not supposed to be anything serious, at first. Just a way to get all the feelings out, scrawled into the back of his physics notebook and kept to himself. But the words keep coming, looping over themselves as he tries to put shape to the feeling in his chest.

Mon coeur,

We’ve been together for almost eight months now, and I keep thinking I should have said this already. I’ve been trying to find the perfect moment, the perfect words, practically since we started dating. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no perfect way to tell your girlfriend that she’s the most important thing in your life.

There’s this thing in physics I’ve been thinking about a lot called quantum entanglement. You probably know the concept, but in case you don’t, subatomic particles can get magically tied together, and when they do, each particle’s quantum state can’t ever be described again without the other. The particles’ fates get inextricably linked together, no matter how far away they are from each other.

I think I’m entangled with you, mon coeur, because I can’t see a future without you in it anymore. I want to wake up with you every morning, no matter how many times you kick me in the shins while you sleep. I want our toothbrushes to keep sitting next to each other on the counter. I want to keep dancing in the kitchen with you to the Infinite Playlist. I want to keep hearing you try to speak French to me. I want to keep making fun of your terrible French. I want to keep thinking about forever with you in a way that should scare me, but doesn’t at all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I love you. Je t’aime. In English, in French, in whatever language you want to hear it in.

He reads it over three times, stomach churning. It sounds pathetic, desperate, like something from a lovesick teenager and not a very mature twenty-year-old who really should have figured out how to express this to you by now.

But it’s also true. Every word of it.

“Baby, get down here!” your voice floats up the stairs, and Isack rips the paper out of the notebook and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts frantically, like somehow you’ll be able to see it from a floor below him. He heads downstairs, where chaos is already in full swing. Pepe is chopping up what feels like a thousand oranges for mimosas, and for some reason, there’s batter on the ceiling.

“Thank god, our resident Parisian is awake,” you say, reaching for him as soon as he enters the kitchen. “Do you know how to make French toast? Because Chloe’s vision is not translating into reality.”

The letter feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket all day. He keeps looking for the right moment — nearly gives it to you on the beach while you’re reading, before Kimi interrupts to show you the shells he’d collected. He thinks about sliding it over the dashboard as he watches you drive into the town center for groceries, singing along to Fleetwood Mac with the windows rolled down so you can smell the salt air. Maybe he can leave it somewhere you’d find it by accident, like a secret saved just for you.

On the other hand, the thought of you actually reading it kind of makes him want to throw up.

When he tries to get rid of it, though, he can’t quite do that either. It feels like he’s crumpling up your relationship, all the things he knows he loves about you. So in the end, he settles for leaving it in the kitchen trash, neatly folded on top of an empty twelve-pack box and stained popsicle sticks, content in the knowledge that he has more time to figure out how to say everything he feels.

You’re all on the porch outside when shit goes sideways. The sun is beating down, your legs draped lazily over Isack’s lap as you play Uno with the boys. Gabi’s just won, and he’s being unbearably annoying about the whole thing.

“Alright, I should take out the trash before we make dinner,” you say absentmindedly, putting down your cards and unfolding yourself out of your chair, sauntering inside.

Isack doesn’t quite register the danger at first. Then it hits him. The trash. His letter. Your name on the front, scrawled unmistakably in Isack’s handwriting. He jolts upright so fast his chair tips over behind him.

“Merde,” he mutters, already scrambling across the deck, splinters digging into his feet. He shoulders past Ollie in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears so loud in nearly drowns out the chorus of confused voices behind him.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon, you’ve already found it. You’re holding the letter gingerly between two fingers, like you’ve picked it off the top of the trash, and Isack is so unbelievably fucked.

“Did you mean to throw this away?” you say, voice unsteady.

“I —” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair roughly. “It’s, um, nothing. Just trash. Yeah.”

After he finishes stammering through the world’s worst explanation, you look at him for a long moment. Then at the letter. Then back at him.

“Okay,” you say quietly, and drop the letter in the trash without unfolding it. You tie the bag off, pulling it out of the can, and walk out the side door without a backward glance. Isack stands in the kitchen, listening to the door creak shut behind you with the sinking feeling he’s just made a big mistake.

Dinner, predictably, is loud, full of overlapping conversations and splinters off the old patio furniture. Isack barely hears any of it. You’re sitting beside him, laughing at the story Gabi is telling about the guy next door and his snorkel mask, but there’s a tightness to your smile that hasn’t gone away.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t act weird. You still steal bites of pizza off his plate and brush your fingers over his knee when you reach for your Coke bottle. But he’s known you long enough to know you’re still thinking about it, to know he hasn’t gotten off the hook just yet.

“Just tell me one thing,” you say later in bed, voice soft and a little hesitant, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Was it something bad? About me?”

Isack stiffens, rolling over to look at you with wide, panicked eyes. “No, mon coeur,” he says gently. “No, never. Je te le promets.”

You nod slowly, biting your lip. “Okay. I trust you, I just — sorry, I just keep thinking about it. What would you write and then throw away?”

You’re looking up at him like you know what the letter said, or maybe like you hope you know, and the air between you turns sharp with potential. He wants to tell you. The words are right there, crowding at the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.

He’s scared. Scared that if you don’t feel the same, it’ll all fall apart. Scared that if you do, it’ll make everything real.

“It was nothing important,” he lies, and pretends not to notice the way your face falls just a little.

seven: wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. tell her with your hands shaking.

“Latte for Isack?”

The Daily Grind churns with the desperate energy of finals week, the scent of stress nearly overpowering the espresso aroma, but Isack keeps pushing his way through the college-age customers hunched over their laptops with dark circles under their eyes. Your robotics exam started just about three hours ago, which means you’ll be stumbling out of the engineering building any minute now. With any luck, Isack will be there with a coffee for you, ready to hear all about it. He’s planning his Best Boyfriend Ever acceptance speech in his head already.

He picks up the cup from the barista, at the last minute buys one of those lavender honey scones you always stare at through the display counter but never purchase because “twelve dollars for a pastry is capitalism at its worst, Isack, even if it does taste like it’s made by a baby angel.” He doesn’t have the money for it, not really, but imagining the excitement on your face when you see the bag is enough to have him forking over his credit card. His bank account is crying, but some things are worth being broke for.

He’s just across the street from the engineering building when students begin streaming out like survivors escaping a shipwreck. He scans the crowd until he spots you, hair piled on top of your head messily and shoulders slumped. Still beautiful, even after an hours-long grueling exam. He holds up the bag, knowing you’ll see it before you see him, and your entire face lights up, exhaustion melting into relief.

“Baby, what are you doing here?” you laugh, hands cupped around your mouth so he can hear you across the street. You’re half-jogging towards him in your eagerness, entirely focused on him and the promise of comfort he represents. So focused, in fact, that Isack sees the cab before you do, the yellow blur cutting through the intersection headed directly for you.

Isack freezes. He tries to scream, to warn you, anything, but the sound dies in his throat. In the entire universe, the only thing that matters is the ear-achingly loud honk of the horn and the startled look on your face.

You, thankfully, don’t freeze like him. You jump back, cab just kissing the edge of your shin, backpack swinging through the air and clattering back against your side.

The car doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow down. The whole thing is over in a second. But to Isack, the second stretches forever, and in it he can see everything that could have happened, the way his life could have split open in a single, terrible instant.

You stare after the car, dazed, and Isack is moving before his brain can catch up with his body. Not to you, not at first — he’s running halfway up the street, screaming obscenities after the car’s receding tail lights in rapid French about the driver’s ugly mother, the size of his dick, and how terrible he is at pleasuring his partner.

“Hey. Hey, Isack, it’s okay.” You catch up to him, place a hand on his arm, gently, and all the rage inside of him snaps.

“Ce n’est pas bien!” His hands are trembling, something hot pricking at the back of his eyes. “He could have killed you.”

“It was my fault,” you say softly.

Isack pulls you into a tight, desperate hug. He can’t stop seeing it every time he blinks: the cab’s tires squealing on the street, your sneakers jumping back, the bumper brushing against your leg.

He buries a hand in your hair, no doubt filling it with snarls and tangles, and breathes in the familiar, warm scent of your shampoo. His cheeks feel wet, for some reason. “He should have been more careful. Il aurait pu te tuer. You could have died.”

“I didn’t die,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and soothingly stroking his shoulders. “I’m okay, Isack.”

“You could have died. I could have lost you,” he repeats, and the words come out horribly strangled thinking about the prospect of a world without you in it. No more forcing him to taste-test your seasonal lattes. No more watching stupid Netflix romcoms because they make you laugh. No more slow dancing in his kitchen, swallowing your laughter with kisses when he steps on your toes. It wouldn’t be a life worth having.

“I love you,” he sobs into your hair. “Je t’aime, et tu aurais pu mourir. I love you.”

You run your hands through his hair, holding him as tightly as he’s holding you. “Isack, babe, you have to breathe. It’s fine. I’m right here, mon coeur.” Your accent is as terrible as ever, but you’re solid and breathing and alive against him, and he lets out a rattling gasp. “See? I’m right here. I’m okay.”

“Right,” he croaks, voice hoarse as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you confirm. “Everything is okay. I know you’re panicking, but I’m fine. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he breathes after a moment, pulling back and slowly disentangling himself from you, even as every molecule in his body protests at the distance.

You wipe your thumb gently over his cheekbones, brushing away the tears, and he presses his face against your hand like a cat. Desperately seeking your affection, your touch, any reminder that you’re still here with him. You smile at him, wobbly but real. “What’s in the bag?”

“Scone,” he manages to choke out. He’d nearly forgotten he had the bag at all. It’s ridiculously crumpled, fuchsia paper crushed between white knuckles. His fingers ache when he unclenches them.

“Really?” you ask. “The one from Daily Grind? Baby, you didn’t. That’s so sweet! You know I love those. Can we go back to my room and split it?” Even though he can tell you’re rambling, trying to distract him, your smile is enough to make him forget a little bit. So he sniffles and lets you lead him across campus, rubbing soothing circles into his palm the entire way home.

It’s not until later in your room, watching Star Wars and eating his half of the scone as you comb your fingers through his hair, that Isack realizes you didn’t tell him you love him too. You assumed he was panicking, which was true, but it didn’t make the feelings any less real.

He loves you, and you don’t believe him.

eight: say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. do not adorn it with extra words like “i think” or “i might.” do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “i love you too.”

The air smells like champagne and summer. Graduation day is a blur — sweaty hugs on the lawn, too-bright flash photos where at least one of you is sure to be mid-blink, parents crying as they watch their kids grow up.

Isack cheers, stomping his feet wildly, as you cross the stage to receive your diploma, tassels blowing in the breeze and smiling into the crowd megawatt-bright. After the ceremony, Ollie pops a mini bottle of champagne and nearly takes out his macroeconomics professor with the cork. Kimi runs a lap around the quad, Doriane screaming bloody murder on his shoulders. Pepe cries twice, once because the dean mispronounced his name during the ceremony and again when Isack presents him with a photo of the two of them from freshman year move-in day, all gawky limbs and awkward smiles.

The party starts as soon as your caps hit the ground. Isack’s house is spilling over with friends who don’t want to say goodbye just yet, dancing barefoot on the patchy backyard grass with beers sweating in their hands. There’s music pulsing through an overamped speaker, loud laughter echoing between the trees. You sit on his lap on the leaning porch steps, sipping from a Solo cup and pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek when Chloe takes a Polaroid of the two of you. It comes out a little blurry, but Isack slips it into his phone case anyway.

By the time afternoon bleeds into evening, the two of you slip away from the party, too full of sentimentality to be around anyone except each other. For once, Isack doesn’t have a plan in mind, too content with your hand in his as you walk one last slow loop around campus. The brick paths you’ve worn down over four long years. The benches you’d studied on outside the dining hall, trading smuggled cookies with your head in his lap. The hill you’d sledded down together freshman year, when Isack took one look at your flushed cheeks and pretty smile and realized what he was feeling wasn’t just friendship.

“Oh, the fountain!” you cry delightedly, tugging his hand hard towards the stately stone fixture as you near the main quad. It’s a campus tradition, passed down through generations of sleep-deprived undergrads. Legend has it if you jump into the fountain with your sweetheart, you’ll always find your way back to each other. “Isack, we have to do it, come on.”

You set off across the quad, barefoot and heels swinging from your fingertips, but Isack stays, because every single place on this campus is a memory that leads back to you, and he starts to have the feeling that this very moment is what it’s all been building to all along.

“Mon coeur?” he calls out from behind you, hands shaking in his pockets. When you turn back to look at him, the setting sun is painting your skin golden, the sleeves of your gown billowing in the wind, and it takes all the breath out of his body. Four years of friendship, nearly a year of dating, and you still have the ability to make time stop for him.

“Yeah?” you ask, tilting your head with a curious expression, and he knows.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t say it drunk, or panicking, or praying for you not to really hear it, or with the desperation of someone trying to stop the clock. He says it with the quiet certainty of someone who’s been waiting way too long.

“I know,” you say, eyes sparkling. He waits for you to continue, heart in his throat, but you just grin smugly at him.

“Non,” he shakes his head as he walks towards you, smiling despite himself. “Not fair. You cannot pull a Han Solo unless your life is at stake. Actually, you cannot pull a Han Solo at all —”

You swallow his outrage with a kiss, pulling him in by the tie and knocking his cap askew. “I love you too,” you say against his lips, as his hands come to rest on your hips. “Really.”

“I know,” Isack breathes out, dizzy with it, as he tugs you towards the fountain. “Really.”

The fountain isn’t deep, water only reaching to mid-calf. But it’s shockingly cold for a June day, the spray raising goosebumps on Isack’s arms. You shriek with laughter as you follow him in. “Oh god. Not one of my best ideas,” you gasp at the sudden chill, the hem of your gown trailing in the water around you.

“What do you mean?” he grins, pulling you so close he can see the water droplets on your lashes. “It was a perfect idea. Now we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pressing up on your toes and kissing the corner of his mouth. “That would imply I’m planning on losing you in the first place,” you say, and Isack is hit with a wave of affection so strong it nearly makes his knees buckle.

“I love you,” he breathes out again, spinning you in a slow circle. “I’ve been wanting to say it for so long.”

You crinkle your nose at him, grinning ridiculously. “I love you too. But why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to plan out the right moment,” he admits.

And then, almost shyly:

“Turns out any moment with you is the right one.”

#f1 #f1 x reader #isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar imagine #isack hadjar fluff #ih6 #f1 imagine #isack hadjar #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #isack hadjar x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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stars-in-a-jam-jar · 1 year ago

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I don't think Buddy asks Helio any questions.

Kristen asked 'Why do bad things happen to good people?' because she believed in all the good things she was taught, but noticed the strange disconnect between the world as it was and the world as it was taught to her. So she thought, surely, if I can't come up with the answer, Helio will have it. And she hates him for dodging her question.

Buddy is far more deluded than Kristen ever was. And he is far, far angrier inside as a result, even if he deliberately conceals this fact from himself to protect himself from the inevitable mental breakdown this would cause. Buddy is not as altruistic and giving and caring as Kristen is. He wouldn't question why he was betrayed or dig into a question like 'Why do bad things happen to good people?' Those aren't the answers he needs, because of course he'd be betrayed by someone outside the church, that makes perfect sense. Of course bad things happen to good people, we simply live in a fallen world.

Or, well. He used to live in a fallen world. Now he's dead here. In Helio's divine domain.

I think Buddy, as he wanders through fields of corn to the big farmhouse where Helio is chilling out, privately thinks about the fact that Kristen Applebees' horrified expression was the last thing he ever saw before a sharp pain in his throat. I think Buddy assumes Helio knows he's thinking this and apologizes for bringing thoughts like that into paradise. I think he thanks Helio for recognizing his devotion and bringing him here once he died and dutifully deceives himself about his own rising emotions at contending with the fact that he's dead now.

After all, he was raised to die. He was raised to want to die.

To want to be here with his god whenever it was he called Buddy to him. So he doesn't feel upset, no, of course not. He's just a little surprised at how sudden it was. (How completely random. How unceremonious and unfair.) He's a little bit worried how his grandparents would react to the news is all. (He cracks a joke that maybe he'll see them here shortly after they do get the news. He doesn't laugh at it.) He had his own plans for how he'd spread the good word in life, but of course, Helio had other plans. (Nothing Buddy ever wanted really mattered. He knew that, he knew the will of Helio was the real thing that mattered, and everything else was just a small list of preapproved extracurriculars in the syllabus of his life.)

He can't be upset about this.

He shouldn't be upset about this.

This is his reward.

This place and these people and this god are his reward for a life of service and devotion and walking in the light.

It's not his place to be upset about his own reward. Kristen got upset when she went to heaven, when she met Helio, and look where that got her.

Look... look where that got her.

He thinks he hates her. For looking at him like that. All the ways she looked at him. Like he was something pitiful and contemptible. Someone she needed to threaten away from her little brother. Someone she has to double and triple check if he's going to revive her when he's under magical oath to do just that or lose his connection to a divinity she threw away after being chosen.

And then. In that last moment, she looked at him and he saw grief and horror and caring. Like his death was awful and unfair and tragic.

And he thinks maybe he hates her for that. For challenging him every conversation they had and looking at him like she knew something he didn't. Like she was above him. Like killing your own god twice in life is a preferable fate to living for the promise of eternal sunlight and cornbread in death. A promise which was kept to him.

Kristen was promised to Helio, too.

And he can't unsee her face. He can't move along and focus on what truly matters (Helio, the church, spreading the word, doling out divine punishment when needed) because he's reached the end. There is nothing left. Only this bright sunny cornfield and a god who... is nice. And who cares about him, personally. He got Buddy's name wrong the first and only time they held audience.

He thinks he hates Kristen, and he hates that that hatred isn't immediately squashed out of his soul just by being here. In paradise. Where he belongs. Where every follower of Helio belongs. Where he never has to have anyone look at him the way Kristen did ever again.

I don't think Buddy Dawn asks Helio any questions. Because how do you ask the god you devoted every waking minute of your life to, 'Why do I hate it here? Why does this feel like hell?'

(There's a part 2 now that the next ep is out >:3)

#fantasy high junior year spoilers #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #d20 fhjy #dimension 20 #buddy dawn #kristen applebees #kristin applebees #cw death #religious trauma #wow I really said 'he was raised to want to die' without even flinching didn't I?

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evieelyzabethh · 7 months ago

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"homecoming"

⭒"and i told her in my heart is where she always be"⭒ college AU Arcane headcanons {fem reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

cw ☞ slightly pervy jayce, and a bunch of fluff. ALSO, one of my dearest pookies requested a college au so everyone say thank you sidda 💋

♞Vi♞

♞Vi would totally be a student athlete and a very good one. I don't see her as a basketball or football girl but baseball actually. Swinging a bat around is a controlled way to get aggression out. She played soccer and football in high school, though. She did football first, her and Jayce signing up together and both managing to get a spot on the team, but she got annoyed with all the padding really quick and only stuck it out for a year because of Jayce. She moved to soccer but got kicked off the team for fighting after a girl kept bumping into her and never got fouled for it. The fight was pretty bad, and in combination with her pre existing record of violent behavior, the school put her in counseling for her aggression issues.

♞She deeply enjoys baseball and takes it very seriously. Regular trips to the batting cages with Vander helped her regulate her emotions. It requires patience and control and a bat. She really loves her bat. When she made it onto the team, Jinx bought her a wooden one that she spray-painted, and she keeps it in her dorm room. She also likes the atmosphere. Her hand is always in a bag of sunflower seeds, she appreciates a good bubblegum, she likes how she looks in the uniform.

♞This being said, college Vi cleans up her act a bit. She doesn't get into fights anymore, she raised her F's into B's, and she got into a really nice school on a sports scholarship that she refuses to lose. She takes this as an opportunity to get good at something. She knows major league women's baseball isn't really a thing and she doubts she's good enough to ever make it to the Olympics, so she dedicates her time to finding something to make of her life

♞You two meet in a language class. It's a requirement at your college and she's only there because it's the easiest option that they stick all the student athletes in, and you were quite frankly just being lazy and wanted a class you could get an easy A in. She shows up slightly late, but the professor lets it slide as it's only the first day. The only open seat is the one next to you, quietly sitting in the back of the room with your laptop up staring intently as you go through the course's syllabus. She smiles. She thinks you're cute.

♞You can hear the dad rock blasting in her earphones, her hands in the pocket of a school branded hoodie with her head down as she slips in quietly next to you. She takes up a lot of space, her water bottle is one of the huge gallon sized ones, her laptop is large and kinda clunky, her notebook is also splayed out and you silently judge her sloppy handwriting. Just as preoccupied as you are, she's going through her schedule to see what time practice starts and gets out, what time she has to be at her volunteering commitment, the time slot she blocked out to call her sister.

♞Part of her scholarship is working in surrounding communities at recreation centers to encourage kids to get active. She thinks it's stupid at first, but eventually she finds out that she enjoys working with kids. They are constantly in awe of her, constantly asking her to give them piggyback rides or toss them around a bit, but they also deeply admire her. It's not a foreign feeling for her to be looked up to, but it's one she hasn't felt in a long time. She always wants to be better, and they make her feel like she's moving in the right direction.

♞She wouldn't start talking to you right away. Contrary to popular belief, Vi isn't super popular with the ladies. She is much quieter, she likes to keep to herself. She only sparks a conversation with you to ask what you got on the last test because she didn't do all that great and wanted a study partner. She likes being your seatmate a lot. You're just so nice. You're the first to offer a pencil if you need it, you keep sweet-scented hand sanitizer in your bag and soft tissues which she almost feels bad about how many she steals when her allergies hit in the spring.

♞Finals season is going back and forth from the library and her fancy athlete dorm after it closes to study for finals, both of you running on an ungodly amount of energy drinks and two hours of sleep, some nights you fall asleep on her shoulder when even the pale light of your laptop screens can no longer keep you awake. She freezes every time, not wanting to move you but also wanting you to be comfortable, slowing her typing to a gentle pace before giving up entirely and falling asleep herself. You wake up to Vi's earsplitting snores, low music still playing from her speaker, the tv shifting hours ago from bright cartoons to some live action sitcom from decades ago. You debate on leaving, but the buses are no longer running, and she drives you herself, stranding you at her dorm in her large comfy bed where you willingly lay yourself back into her arms.

♞Her teammates definitely know about her crush on you. Anytime you come to their practices or walk her to them, she has a pep in her step and a smirk on her face the whole time. She swears she's not that obvious, but she talks about you constantly and the mere mention of your name has her scrambling. She is a show-off during practices, maybe playing a bit too hard as she slides onto bases in her already ratty sweatpants.

♞She would ask you out at one of their games. She's not big on super big and showy public confessions, so she wouldn't have you guys on the jumbotron or announced by the commentators, but after the game she would catch you in the crowd and ask her to be your girlfriend. Your first date would be to dinner after the game because she is absolutely starving, but she does pay for both of your meals.

★Ekko★

★Ekko, like Vi, would be at university on a scholarship, though one for engineering or something STEM related. He's there to pursue some sort of STEM degree but he abuses the fuck out of gen-ed classes. He absolutely loves being able to take a variety of different classes and different disciplines. He's done some culinary work, some studio art classes, some music theory. He has so many interests and he is determined to get the best out of the experience.

★While his nose isn't always stuck in a book, he's always working on something. His dorm is a mess of papers, his clothes are strewn around the floor, and he probably isn't even there because he's in a lab or in workshop or in the grocery store because he finally got tired of ramen noodles. It's a good thing the university offered co-ed dorms because no one else would be able to put up with him but Jinx, though the second she rolls her ankle after stepping on one of his shoes she has half the mind to burn all his stuff.

★Their dorm room is quite nice. They're the type that have led lights and posters all over the walls, those fake vine things hanging over his bed. The lights are always low in there, they forget about the ceiling light because they use their desk lamps so much. They don't have the nicest things, him and Jinx splitting one fridge and one microwave and maybe a snack cart, but they would have a comfy bean bag chair in there.

★He would get noticed around campus because he skateboards to class and wears cool outfits. The university social media has a page dedicated to OOTDs that he run's and it gets pretty popular. He isn't in a bunch of clubs, I think he would stick to one or maybe two. Of any of them, he would be involved in whatever social justice club they have, and while only a freshman, his passion gets him on the administrative team for communication and outreach. He is a master at Canva and is seen all across campus putting up fliers

★He is a D1 procrastinator which is ironic because he is always stressed. The only motivation he needs is the weight of all the work he has to do on his chest eventually being released and actually feeling like he can breathe.

★Ekko...with a belly button piercing...yes. He would have a few other piercings besides his bellybutton, including a daith, tragus, cartilage, and the first and second on his lobe. He prefers gold jewelry to silver and wears a lot of crop tops to show off the piercing. He takes terrible care of them because he refuses to buy the saline solution and raw dogs it with some soap and water and he hasn't had any reject yet.

★He would be a TA for Heimerdinger in grad school and would hang around his office a lot. A very chaotic lecturer in his recitation sections. He gets to the room a solid hour or two early to work on his dissertation and when class starts, he hops from topic to topic. He loves that chalkboard, he's all over it. He also likes coming to class in nice suits like the one he was in the alternate universe.

★You and him would meet after he bumped into you on his skateboard. He had been replying to an email on his way to class and you had been trying to catch up on the reading you were supposed to have done a week ago and you walked right into him, knocking the phones out of both of your hands and sending the skateboard rolling until it hit a bench. You both scramble to apologize, and as he offers you a ringed hand to help you off the ground, you go back and forth claiming it was completely your fault and not the others. He remembers you after that, partially because you hit the ground pretty hard and he's scared he gave you a concussion, and partially because he thought you were gorgeous.

★He would keep noticing you around campus and Jinx would bully him into saying something to you after the umpteenth time of telling you how cute you looked in that outfit today and how locked in you were at the library and how he wants help finding your insta so he can stalk you. All you see one day at the dining hall is a very confused Ekko with a very annoyed Jinx behind him pushing him your way and leaving quickly. You had been eating alone, laptop sat beside your half empty plate, your blue light glasses laying down on your nose in hopes of protecting you from going blind at thirty from how much time you spend staring at your laptop. Conversation is extremely slow at first, but when you two find your rhythm, he builds the courage to ask for your number.

★Lots of movie nights in his or your dorm or one of the lounges in your building while you do his retwists. Be warned, he is very tender headed and can't sit still to save his life, so you keep having to tap him with the comb and tell him to stop jerking before the parts come out wonky. Also, dye and detox days!!! He complains about his neck hurting while he's bent over the sink, but the feel of your hands in his scalp makes it bearable. You're confined inside as the dye penetrates beneath some plastic bag from under the sink and end up playing a game on the console he brought from home.

❂Jayce❂

❂Though he started high school playing football, and was quite good at it, he does quit the team when Vi does. He was never a really big sports guy, though the gym teacher never stopped pestering him to join the team again. He was always far more interested in science. He went through all the phases as a kid, being obsessed with dinosaurs since he was three, then space up until he hit like 8th grade when he was first introduced to the concept of chemistry and liked the idea of blowing shit up. He had the coolest science fair projects and won like every one of them. Rather than being the kid who told his mom about it the night before, he had the date marked on his calendar and preplans what he wants to do for the year

❂All this being said, he gets offered a scholarship to go to a nice university despite not being in the same state of financial despair that Vi and Ekko were in. While some of the extra money goes towards his dorm, he does put a lot of it towards the club he's in, something like STEM Students for Change. He offers to fund the outreach meetings, the occasional events they put on, and renting tabling spaces.

❂He keeps to himself pretty often. He's not the biggest fan of having to do the big speaking stuff in his club, he's far more interested in being able to do the work behind the scenes. He's always been the type to be upset by non-academic attention, never one put much effort into getting a romantic partner. He's also not a big party guy, only going out at the request of a friend, and spends a lot of his time either in his dorm, one of the libraries, or one of the labs.

❂Very scatterbrained. He doesn't get anything done without his notebook which he takes with him everywhere and is full of scribbles of notes and things he needs to get done for the day. He is also the type to neglect doing basic human things, like eating, especially if it's not in his schedule. It's a cycle of "ok, if I finish a page of this paper then I'll go get a snack" which devolves into "I finished this page sooner than expected, I might as well keep going until 2:30" and then "I'm still not at a good stopping point, I'm gonna finish off this page" until he finishes the entire thing. Sometimes by that point his hunger is forgotten about, and he moves onto something else.

❂He abuses the fuck out of office hours. He is not afraid to send an email or just drop by anyone's office. He builds a great repertoire with his professor which is convenient later when he's getting tons of internship offers through recommendations and getting accepted into his major. He is also a registration warrior. Before his time, he's already been set up at his laptop for at least an hour perfecting his schedule making sure he gets all the classes he needs. He once had a nervous breakdown fall semester of his sophomore year because all the classes he needed were full by the time it was his turn to register. It was the worst semester of his life.

❂He constantly has a huge water bottle on him. Not nearly as big as Vi's, but still large and metal enough to knock someone out if he tried hard enough. He's also the first guy to set off the fire alarm in the residence hall while making popcorn. He swears up and down it wasn't his fault, which isn't entirely false because the alarm was sensitive and too close to the appliances, but he did burn the shit out of it and had to throw it out on his walk of shame.

❂You two would first interact at a party he dragged his friend to after his friend abandoned him and he got lost in the sea of people. He made the mistake of going out on Halloweekend, thinking that 11 would be early enough to party before the unruliness began but he was sadly mistaken. You had been with your friends having a grand time, slightly backed into the wall where he was, trying your hardest to dance without pressing against him too much. He only remembered your face because of the sheer number of times you looked back to apologize, feeling extra bad because of the blush on his face and how hard he was trying to keep his composure. You were clearly having fun in your very low cut and short costume and your eyes were sparkly and you ass was pressed so thoroughly onto his dick he almost passed out from how overwhelmed he was anytime you moved to whatever song was playing.

❂The next day in class, he notices you towards the back of the room, giggling at whatever on your phone and before he knows it, he's putting one foot in front of the other and sitting next to you. Like him, you were someone who liked to be early to guarantee your seat, so he had plenty of time to talk to you, embarrassed that your first impression of him had been the "awkward guy at the party".

❂Many of your dates would be study dates. He is quick with booking study rooms, making sure to throw a bunch of dry erase markers and abuse the hell out of those white boards while you pack a few snacks in your tote bag, so he makes sure to eat. You usually finish your work before he does, playing games on your laptop while snapping a few pictures of him as he slowly goes insane. Markings are all over the walls in every color of the rainbow by the time you two take a break, sliding over to sit in his lap as you two scroll on your phone with your head on his shoulder.

❂He does not have a lofted bed, which is great because you two fuck in his room constantly. He's very lucky to live in an apartment style dorm because Viktor would be pissed constantly being kicked out of his own room. It's his motivation for getting through his days. It used to be a sweet treat from the dining hall, but he hit it once and decided that pussy was just way better (I will be dropping a smut fic with this concept as my treat for getting through my exams)

☽Viktor☾

☽He was very picky with what college he went to. He did a lot of research beforehand. He was very confident that schools would be throwing money at him and planned on being very selective on whose money he took. He was looking at facilities, faculty, Rate My Professor, any measurement of a school's worth was being analyzed before he even thought of applying.

☽As mentioned above, he rooms with Jayce and likes to hit him with his cane when he tries to pick shit up for him or open the door. It becomes second nature at a certain point, he doesn't see it coming and only feels the impact. He loves to embarrass him. Their majors align pretty exactly and they take a lot of the same classes and any time he so much as lets the door close on Viktor its "Wow, I can't believe such a flagrant display of ableism! You really couldn't hold the door open for me?" and Jayce gets red, desperately trying to explain he gets thwacked with a cane every other time he opens the door for him.

☽He brings nothing to class but a pen and a notebook. Not even like a spiral 5 subject one, but one of those 50 cents marbled composition books. He does have a laptop, a very nice one at that, but it hardly ever leaves the dorm. He staunchly prefers physical notetaking to digital and slightly judges those who take notes on things like IPads. He just thinks it's unnecessary and often becomes a distraction. Jayce tries to convert him Viktor's gets firmer in his position after noticing everyone desert notetaking to play games or look at clothes after like the third week

☽While also an office hour abuser, he does prefer a zoom meeting if he can snag it. He's not one to drop by just to say hello, he wants a good relationship with them but he's not trying to get invited to Christmas. He also never forgets to do those course evals and give them a rating on Rate My Professor. There is nothing he hates more than a professor who doesn't give rubrics. That is his biggest pet peeve. That and someone who can't lecture, instead going on random tangents that barely relate back to the course material.

☽His go-to study music classical music. He’s particularly fond of Tchaikovsky, his go-to ballet to listen to being Sleeping Beauty. During the fall months he usually goes for Dracula and during the winter either Nutcracker or Coppelia. He's a fan of instrumental music in general as on the flip side of this are playlists full of the Minecraft or Undertale soundtracks.

☽A lanyard warrior. He is not someone who can just slide his keys in his bag, especially since he doesn't usually carry one around. He can't just carry them around because he will set them down somewhere and forget them and those replacement fees are like a couple hundred dollars. When he does carry a bag though, it's one of those nice leather messenger bags that he thrifted. Speaking of which, his brightness would be so low. He's not even hiding anything and it's a miracle he can even read anything on the screen. He also is someone who uses blue-light glasses when on his phone or laptop, which is part of the reason both are so dim. You are on his lockscreen and home screen on all of his devices, though.

☽He would be so good at proofreading anything you needed him to. While definitely a STEM major, he would also be a grammar stickler and is part of the dying breed of people who actually know how to write a paper without Chat GPT or AI. He would HATE all kinds of stuff like that. Slightly off topic, but he loves sharing all stupid discussions posts he has to do for class. He loves laughing at some of the idiots who say the wildest things, so wild that no one else in the class even wants to respond. He'd also be the type to develop favorite classmates through how they respond and only respond to those.

☽He has some sort of earbuds in his ears everywhere he goes. It's always either headphones or wired earbuds. He would hate the wireless ones after the one time he tried them, and they kept falling out of his ear and it was too much of a hassle having to repeatedly bend down to get them. He likes the noise cancelling ones too, he is impossible to bother when he's using them.

☽For his gen-eds, I can see him getting into film or maybe history. History because he's always had a minute interest in it. He's never been a big war buff, his niche was probably more aligned with the classics. I think he would be fascinated with ancient Greece and Rome. As for film, I can see that being something he decided to take for the fuck of it but then realized he was very interested. Maybe not a rom-com or film bro kinda guy, he would be interested in super niche, campy films. He would like wackier, more experimental stuff

☽He would meet you at some film screening he's going to for extra credit in one of his classes. You showed up because the showing just so happened to be one of your favorite movies. The extra credit was just for showing up, it was also for attending the trivia session after the screening with the points depending on how many questions you could get right and since you both had gone alone and had ended up sitting next to each other and he had already decided you were gorgeous, he decided to ask you to be his partner. He felt a little bad being carried through the competition by you, but you were so excited to just share all the fun facts you knew that he decided he could live with it.

☽You actually ask him for his number after the fact, suggesting you two do a few more movie nights together, trading off week after week showing each other your favorite movies. Though he is very busy, with all his internships, class work, and studying he usually has to do, he happily finds a way to slide you into his schedule. He treats it as his reward for getting through the week. You'd also go on a lot of coffee shop dates. He knows all the nice quiet spots around campus.

☼Mel☼

☼She is another one who has been planning for college since forever. She has had vision boards for which school she wants to go to, what job she wants to have, understanding the admissions process, what classes she'll need to take at her university of choice to graduate most efficiently, has all been written in a journal since she was in high school

☼She is very organized. I totally see as someone who has all of her class notebooks color coded, definitely uses Midliners, has those nice Pilot G2 pens, the whole nine yards. She was also particular about how her dorm was put together. Her and her roommate coordinated on a color theme, and they have like the dream dorm. They have a big TV, an air fryer, a microwave, a fridge with a freezer, an oil diffuser. Any nice thing you can fit in a dorm is in there

☼She is in like every club ever. Involved in the black student organizations, probably in a sorority (I think she'd be an AKA but that's only because I love them), clubs relating to her political science major, and other fun ones like art clubs, maybe debate club too. She'd also be one of those girls that everyone knows on campus because she's so everywhere. She's the people's princess, that one girl you see everywhere surrounded by friends who looks really nice but you're kinda scared to talk to her.

☼She types really fast. It's something she got really good at back in middle school when she got bored after finishing all her work super early and played a bunch of those typing games until she got really good at typing. Because of this, she is someone who can knock out a paper in like one sitting. I do think she'd need an outline or draft, a notebook by her side containing her notes on her sources and a reminder of the thesis she's arguing, but she could knock it out in less than 2 hours

☼I wouldn't call her a party animal, but I do think she likes to go out. Maybe not to the club but a frat party, one thrown by one of the D9 to be more specific. She brought her car to campus and is usually the designated drivers. She only really drinks fancier alcohol, she's not a beer or cheap vodka fan at all, and that's usually all you can get at parties. She doesn't go to get drunk or hookup with anybody, usually just because she got tired of being an academic weapon all day.

☼She gets a call from her mom usually once a week, usually at the same time, likely because Ambessa has that time schedule out to call her. It's super matter of fact, how are the grades looking, what is she doing in her clubs, has she gotten any internships yet. If she's feeling sappy, she does tell her that she's proud of her. Mel didn't love living with her mom, who put a lot of effort into distancing herself from Mel. She knew that she could handle herself and what she wanted, but she didn't know how she felt about Mel wanting something different out of life than her. Mel thoroughly loves her time away from her mother, but she does look forward to these phone calls.

☼I also think she'd be someone who has a secret pet, but it's just a stray cat that lingers around her building that she fed until it got attached. She does one day scoop it up to the nearest vet to make sure it doesn't have rabies and hides it in the dorm during the winter months to give it shelter from the cold. She doesn't name it because she doesn't want to get attached, especially since there's a likelihood that one day it may never come back to her, but when it starts perking up to the little pet names she's given it, she's already too far gone.

☼She is also someone who is quick to book a study room at the library. She doesn't do that well in her dorm. It's too comfy and her bed is right there, and she sets closer goal posts so that she can justify taking a nap. She's exhausted with all she's doing. Because of this, towards the end of the semester she is on main campus a lot trying to get all these essays done.

☼She is a very active participant in class! I think gen-eds would be pretty women and gender studies and African American studies heavy, with a few econ classes sprinkled in as well. Though she's not going into a math related field, she was always incredibly good at it. She could've majored in either the humanities or STEM and would've always done well. She is unfortunately the annoying person getting 100s on the exams and getting rid of the curve

☼Like Jayce, I think she would also meet you at a party. Being far more introverted than she was, you would hang around in a corner, checking your phone for emails. It was early and the party had yet to pick up, meaning everybody had coagulated in certain spaces on the floor, talking and too scared to dance to the music because there was too much room to be perceived. You obviously knew who she was and looked at her a few times, putting in a lot of effort to avoid her gaze when she notices yours. She would eventually walk over to you, red solo cup filled with water she grabbed from the fridge. She obviously knew who was throwing, knew them well enough to dig through their kitchen for a non-alcoholic beverage.

☼She would make small talk with you, asking if you had ever been to one of these parties before, especially since she hadn't really seen you here before. You two end up talking for hours against the wall, her head resting against the wall, not realizing her pupils dilate as you explain to her the chain of events that got you here, the long day of studying you just had, and damn finals are right around the corner and you just needed a break. Earlier than she would typically leave, she gets tired of the noise obscuring your voice and offers to drive you around for a bit. You two end up sitting in a McDonalds parking lot talking over an abandoned pack of medium fries. You two exchange numbers and talk like all the time before she asks you on a for real date.

☼Though you feel a tad bad about it, she loves being your chauffer. You wanna go on a 3 a.m run to some chicken place; she is already on the way as soon as you send the text. She's very quick to do a quick drive by to pick you up so she can show you off at a party. Also, though she can throw it, she prefers to catch it.

☼She is the perfect study buddy. She prefers studying with flashcards and pops a little Ferrero Rocher for every 20 terms she gets correct. With you there, it's even better. She gets a kiss for every right answer which is like infinitely better.

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane x reader #arcane x you #ekko arcane #ekko x reader #jayce arcane #jayce x reader #mel arcane #mel x reader #vi arcane #vi x reader #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane headcanon

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applepiiex · 12 days ago

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FIRST WORDS ! ! ! ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

The baby is now a constant in that chat box. However, Nanami is as stoic as ever in front of his students. He wrote it off as a one time occurrence, not to happen again. Until a milestone happens once more during class. A/N: Sequel to Zoom Class

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊

Nanami’s face on camera? Sharp. Focused. Almost stern. His notes? organized. Slide transitions: clean. His students? thoroughly convinced this man has never once experienced human joy.

“—and so, when considering how neoliberal policy influenced wage stagnation in the late 20th century—”

Thunk.

Off-camera, there was a soft, curious sound. Followed by a baby squeal. Nanami paused, barely, but kept going, smoothing his tone.

“—the emphasis shifted toward deregulated markets and—” Another squeal. Then: a distinct thud against hardwood flooring. Then—

“Pa.”

Nanami froze. The chat remained quiet. At first. Then it began.

did someone say “pa” wait is baby nanami BACK?? is that HIS BABY AGAIN?? omg is this happening LIVE RN Y’ALL SHUT UP I THINK THAT WAS HIS FIRST WORD

He stared straight ahead at the webcam. Unmoving. Calm. A statue of academic rigor. And then another one.

“Pa…pa!” The sound was clear. Bright. Practiced. Nanami’s eyes widened a millimeter.

You gasped offscreen, working silently in his office to keep your eyes on your son. There was a clatter, your voice hushed but frantic, “Kento. Kento. He just said it—he just—!”

And then a squeal of absolute delight from your son, who clearly now knew he had an audience. Nanami’s students, meanwhile, were losing their minds.

HE SAID PAPA ON ZOOM I’M CRYING I WAS HERE FOR THIS HISTORIC MOMENT drop the syllabus sir we’re done here THE WAY HE DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH. ICON.

Slowly, Nanami turned his head to the side just out of frame, but his voice finally broke that steady cadence. “…He said it?”

You were already stepping into view, baby boy in your arms, beaming so hard your eyes were glassy. “He said it. Twice. Papa.”

The baby waved his chubby fist like he’d just ended the Cold War. Nanami’s mouth parted slightly then curled, soft and in awe. “My son’s first word was ‘Papa’...”

The chat exploded.

i’m not crying YOU’RE crying PROFESSOR NANAMI IS A PAPA CONFIRMED ✨papa nanami supremacy✨ honestly class should be cancelled in honor

Nanami turned back to the screen, and for the first time ever—ever—he smiled, full and genuine and unguarded. “…Class dismissed,” he said.

A cheer broke out in the chat. Capslock. Emoticons. One person tried to post a link to a diaper sponsorship. You giggled as Nanami stood and gently took your son into his arms, cradling him close. The baby patted his jaw once, then said it again, proudly.

“Pa!”

Nanami looked at you. “He said it for me.”

You kissed his cheek. “He meant it for you.”

The camera was still on. The students were still watching. But Nanami didn’t care. He pressed his forehead against his son’s and whispered, “I’ll remember this forever.”

Three weeks after “Papa”, the household had been coasting off the high of that first word like it was a Nobel Peace Prize. Nanami was still floating. Still smug. Still bringing it up in casual conversation like he wasn’t completely obsessed.

“My son’s first word? Papa.”

“Ah yes, I’m afraid I have to end office hours early today. My son said ‘Papa.’”

“He likes bananas and saying Papa.”

You were equal parts endeared and mildly exasperated. “Are you gonna introduce yourself at conferences like that now?” you teased one night while folding laundry. “‘Hi, I’m Kento Nanami. Economist. Father of a prodigy who said Papa first.’”

He didn’t even blink. “If it fits on the name tag.”

But then came Tuesday. The pandemic had been mostly resolved and Nanami had a full day on campus. Office hours, a guest seminar, and a late faculty meeting that dragged until 8pm.

You were home. Alone. Playing soft music while the baby gnawed on a silicone giraffe, cheeks flushed with teething effort. You leaned down to rub his back and gently whispered, “It’s okay, baby. Dada’s here.”

The baby blinked up at you. “…Da.”

You froze. You blinked. Then tentatively, “Dada?”

His eyes lit up. “Dada!”

You screamed. (Quietly. Internally. Okay maybe not that quietly.) He said it again. Over and over. Like he knew what he had done. You immediately fumbled for your phone, hands shaking like you were defusing a bomb, and recorded a 10-second clip. Just one clean “Dada!” with a big toothless smile. You sent it to Nanami. No caption. Just the holy grail.

He opened it mid-meeting. In the middle of a dry PowerPoint on pension policy. The second he heard it, and he gasped.

His colleague paused. “Uh… Nanami?”

He stood up. Stood up. “I have to go.”

“But we’re only halfway—”

“I SAID I HAVE TO GO.”

He power-walked through the halls like he was storming a battlefield, gripping his phone like it was a lifeline. That video on loop. Playing it again. And again.

By the time he burst through the front door, you were holding your son in the kitchen, already on your third round of "What did you say? Say it again for Dada~”

Nanami dropped his briefcase. “Did he—was that real?”

You turned. “You’re home.”

He pointed accusingly, like he was both thrilled and personally attacked. “You got ‘Dada’?!”

You grinned. “I got Dada.”

The baby squealed and reached for him. “Dada!!” And Nanami cracked. Right there. Melted like a glacier under a heat lamp. He crossed the room in four strides and swept the baby up in one arm, holding him like treasure.

“You couldn’t have waited?” he muttered into the baby’s hair. “I gave you bananas yesterday.”

“Dada!!!” the baby shouted again, smacking his cheek with joy.

You hugged him from behind. “You’re still the first. I just happen to be the favorite today.”

Nanami huffed. “Unacceptable.”

He looked at your son, deadly serious. “Say Papa. Go on. Remind him.”

The baby gave a gurgle. Then, “No.”

You howled.

Nanami looked betrayed. “Did he just—?”

“Oh he understood. That was deliberate.” You pressed a kiss to his temple as he stood frozen, scandalized. “Don’t worry. He’ll say it again when he wants more bananas.”

“I’m filing a formal complaint.”

You laughed. “With who?”

Nanami looked down at his baby who was now gnawing his shirt button, and sighed. “God, probably.”

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #jjk x m!reader #nanami x m!reader #Nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x male reader #x male reader #x m!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #male reader #m!reader #applepiiexx writes #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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amethystwrytes · 10 months ago

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Of Course, Professor

Pairing: Law Professor!Lee Know x Female Reader

Genre: Smut. Romantic-ish. Basically just porn with a hint of plot tossed in so I don’t just keyboard smash sex stuff on the page and feel bad about myself. 18+.

Summary: The law professor everyone is scared of generously offers to help you with your school work.

Warnings: There is explicit language. There is explicit sex (oral, penetration, teasing, edging, cumshot). There is a Professor/Student relationship, and IRL I do think that’s super inappropriate BUT this isn’t real life and I promise everything is very consensual, there’s no like “give me sex and you’ll get an A” kinda stuff, so, it’s all very much in my own personal scope of comfort. I wouldn’t write anything I felt was yucky. If any of that rubs you the wrong way though, that’s totally fine, and this one isn’t for you which is completely okay.

A/N: So, once upon a time in my undergrad years I was determined to be a lawyer. For a solid academic year I changed my major to Paralegal Studies because I figured that would be a perfect foundation for law school (smart, right?). Except like, three months in I was miserable and hated everything about it and realized that it absolutely couldn’t be me. I ended up having a similar discussion with my academic advisor/professor - except I didn’t end up fucking them - not that professor anyway (kidding). I always wanted to write a story about that awful year, and now I have - kinda…sort of. With a twist of delicious Lee Know and forbidden love. Yum.

“Can you stop please?”

You look at the girl sitting next to you in class. Her name completely escapes you but her eyes are burning lasers at the pen you’ve been clicking nervously in your hands.

“...Sorry…”

You apologize and gently set the pen down on your desk. Professor Lee is taking his sweet time passing back the most recent term papers and you dig your nails into your palm in anticipation of your grade.

To say you’re struggling in his Civil Procedures course is an understatement. In fact, you don’t seem to be doing well in any of the classes you’re taking this semester. The voices of your parents condescendingly telling you “Law School isn’t for everyone and that’s okay,” sound like they’re playing on repeat in an echo chamber.

If you bomb this paper you’re out. You stayed up almost all night last night going over the pros and cons of dropping out. You went back and forth so long fighting with yourself that you fell asleep thinking about it, and when you woke up the only thing you could think of was letting the universe give you a sign.

You had worked on your term paper for weeks, carefully piecing it together, you spent so much time in the library that you now know the TA who works at the help desk on a first name basis. So if you flunk it, there’s your magical sign.

“Ms. ___,” Professor Lee sets your paper face down on the desk - bad sign. He leans down just a tad, “Why don’t we meet in my office after class?” - even worse.

“Yes, Professor,” you nod. You think about not even flipping the stapled monstrosity over, but curiosity gets the better of you.

There it is, a painful 55% staring back at you in thick, blood-red marker. You spare yourself the trouble of pouring over the thinner red notes made in the margins of every page. You can’t help the tears of frustration that pool in your eyes.

“Everyone enjoy your break and the time spent with your families, when we return we’ll begin our discussions on Summary Judgement, so please make sure you complete the reading outlined in the syllabus before we see each other again. Dismissed,” Mr. Lee nods and the ruckus of chairs against linoleum and exasperation fill the room.

Mr. Lee’s office is four floors above the classroom, so you have a few minutes to spare - which you spend in the restroom crying, drying your eyes, then crying again.

You’re dropping out of Law School. All that work, all that trying, all those late nights - and don’t even start on the amount of money spent on coffee and tuition and fucking textbooks and…you start sobbing again.

“How did you do?” Seungmin asks when you emerge from the ladies room, his face immediately contorts into a painful frown at your red, puffy face, “That bad huh?”

“I can’t really talk Seungmin,” you take a deep breath, “I’ve got to go meet Lee in his office before his next class begins.”

“Fuck,” Seungmin frowns even more, “That man scares the shit out of me.”

“Thanks,” you say, “That’s helpful.”

“Sorry. We’re all heading to the Coffee House before everyone starts driving home for the break, do you want to come? After your meeting of course,” he asks.

“Not today,” you shake your head, “but thank you for asking.”

He gives you a sympathetic look and your shoulder a tiny squeeze.

You stand outside Professor Lees office for a few moments, gathering yourself. Professor Lee makes everyone nervous. He’s a hard instructor, emotionless sometimes, so direct it’s painful, and it doesn’t help anyone that he’s also devastatingly attractive. He’s a giant walking slab of intimidation.

You softly knock on the door and he looks up at you from over his glasses as he types something.

“Ah, Ms. ___, there you are. Come, sit down,” he instructs and you slide through the doorframe and slouch in an old green armchair across from his desk.

“Just give me one second,” he says slowly as he continues typing, “alright.”

“I’m sorry sir, for the term paper, I should have done better,” you offer up, electing to go ahead and fall on your own sword.

“There’s no need for apologies Ms. ___, a waste of time in this kind of situation. I would like to speak to you about your grades this semester though. After I graded your term paper, I reached out to some of my colleagues - some of your other professors - and they all had similar reports to give me, can we talk about that?”

You sigh, fanning out your fingers over your thighs, “Please, Professor, you mentioned a moment ago about time wasters - and I don’t want to waste anymore of your time - I’ve decided to drop out of law school.”

The defeat you feel just saying the words out loud to someone is enough to bring tears back, but you fight them off. You will not cry in Professor Lee Minhos office. Absolutely not.

Professor Lee purses his lips and nods, “I think that’s probably for the best.”

Your jaw drops, “Aren’t you supposed to encourage me to do the opposite? To try harder or something?”

“Miss ___, I fear if you tried any harder your hair might burn out from the roots,” he smiles and if you weren’t so shocked, you’d laugh at the first joke you’ve ever heard him utter.

Before you can think of something to say, he produces a file folder from his drawers and smacks it on the table making you jump.

“These are all the papers you’ve written for my class so far this semester. Your papers intrigue me Miss ___.”

Intrigue? That’s a funny word to use for ‘disgusted and disappointed beyond imagination.’

“But you-,” you begin to point out that the highest grade he’s ever given you on a paper was a 68%. Far from intriguing.

“But…as legal writing? They’re all absolute trash,” he tells you. “What intrigues me about them is the way you write, it’s quite good, every time I read one I feel like I’m in the room with a friend who’s trying to sort of explain law to me, the problem is you just don’t think, rationalize, or talk like a lawyer. I noticed in your transcript that your undergraduate degree was in education, and you had a 4.0 GPA. I can’t help but wonder, Miss ___, what career are you looking for?”

“A…a lawyer,” you say in a quiet voice, staring at a knick on his desk.

He looks skeptical as he leans back in his chair, “Why?”

“Because…” oh fuck it all, you may as well just say it, “because my father, my mother, and my older brother are all lawyers, who went here.”

“I see, so one could deduce that you wanted to be a lawyer because they wanted you to be one, they expected it of you?” he concludes.

You smile comically, the truth is much more pathetic.

“No, actually, they all told me I couldn’t do it. They told me I wasn’t smart enough, sharp enough, bold enough. I wanted to teach art to school children, but when that’s exactly what I elected to study, their comments started. I was just a private joke between the three of them, and I hated it, so I wanted to show them that I could be a lawyer.”

“You came here to study law out of stubborn spite?” he reiterates.

“Yes sir, I did,” you look at your lap and play with a rogue string from your sweater cuff.

“That’s quite impressive, Miss ___, to go through all that trouble, strife, and money to do something you have no interest in just to best your family.”

“Well when you say it like that I sound like a psycho,” you laugh timidly, trying to keep the sludge of humiliation down.

“I don’t think you’re a psycho, I think you’re a bright woman who wanted to show her family they were wrong, but just ended up making herself miserable,” his expression is soft, almost understanding. “However, as your professor, I don’t think I could recommend continuing with law school. This is your first year, with first year level studies, and you’re struggling this much all for something you don’t even want, it will only get more difficult from here.”

You nod, “You’re probably right sir,” you stand, “I should get to the admin office before they close for the break, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” you give him a respectful smile and grab your bag.

“Miss ___,” he motions for you to sit back down, “First of all, you’ve not wasted a single second of my time. Second, I don’t recommend dropping out right now, I think you should finish this semester at least.”

“You just said…”

“I said I don’t think you should continue with law school, and I don’t. However, we’re past the official mid-point of the semester, the cut off to withdraw for a full refund of tuition was last week, if you go now you’ll never get that money back.”

You plop back down in the chair, even more defeated, “I didn’t realize that,” you drag your hands down your face in frustration, “shit.”

Professor Lee chuckles, “I do have an alternative plan for you, if you’re willing to hear it and put in the work,” he offers.

You sit up straight, “Yes, of course sir.”

“I suggest you finish this semester, and I will help you - starting with rewriting your latest term paper. I’ll even try to assist you with some of your other courses, if you’d like. If we work diligently enough, you can finish this semester with an acceptable GPA, that keeps your academic record away from probation or academic expulsion,” he explains.

“You would do that?” you ask in disbelief.

“Well, of course, I am a professor after all. What sort would I be if I wasn’t willing to help my students?”

“I don’t know what to say Professor,” you smile, “that’s too generous.”

“It’s not a problem Miss ___. Now, let’s talk strategy, I assume you don’t plan on spending break with your family?” he guesses.

“No sir, they’re too busy anyway, I plan on staying in my apartment off campus during the break,” you answer.

“Splendid. This evening I have a night class to teach, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? The library will be closed for break, but my students enjoy meeting up together at that coffee place downtown, uh, Coffee Shack or something,” he struggles.

“The Coffee House?” you help him and try to hold back a grin.

“Yes, would you like to meet there, say, 1PM tomorrow afternoon? We can go over some of your papers together and I’ll help you with your legal writing technique,” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll be there sir, I really can’t thank you enough, truly I appreciate this,” you tell him.

“I look forward to it, Miss ___.”

📖 ❤️

You adjust your backpack as you walk towards the Coffee House doors. You packed your laptop, all your text books, notes, and a few other things because you weren’t sure what Professor Lee would want to cover. The weight of it all is dragging you down and you have to hunch over a bit to balance it.

“My goodness, here, let me get that for you Miss ___,” Professor Lee greets you at the door, he seems to have already picked a table near the front and grabs your bag with a grunt. “Did you pack your entire house?” he teases.

“I didn’t know what you’d want me to bring, so I brought all my school things,” you laugh.

“Well, I suppose it won’t matter that the library is closed since you brought it with you,” he chuckles and you take the seat beside him.

“Should we start?” you open your laptop and power on.

“I thought perhaps you’d like a beverage?”

“Oh,” you look behind you at the register, “Yes, I suppose we should caffeinate,” you smile.

“What would you like?” He stands up and brings his wallet out.

“Oh please sir, let me pay, it’s the least I could do for all of your help,” you beg.

“Nonsense, as much as I love to argue Miss ___ I don’t see the point over a cup of coffee, what would you like? Are you hungry?”

“No, I ate lunch before coming, just a latte for me, small,” you concede, “and thank you…again.”

He smiles and departs from the table. You watch him in the line from where you sit. Seeing Professor Lee like this feels…different. In a less formal setting he’s almost approachable, and you’re starting to see things about him that you don’t in class. Like his generosity, and kindness, the man even has a sense of humor and you think of texting Seungmin about it but stop yourself. You want to keep this all a secret. You don’t want anyone knowing that you’re in such desperate need of assistance with your courses, but also you want to keep this side of Professor Lee to yourself.

You could think of worse ways to spend your Saturday afternoon than with an attractive law professor who’s willing to help you pass your classes. You wonder if he’s aware that all his students find him so hot, or if it’s something that’s never occurred to him. He doesn’t wear a ring on any of his fingers, which tells you he isn’t married, but that doesn’t mean he’s single. You can’t imagine that he’s not seeing anyone. In class he’s usually got on some academia aesthetic looking suit on, lots of tweeds and browns - today he wears a fitted pair of jeans, and a navy sweater with a white collared button up fashioned underneath, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. His jet black hair isn’t styled like it usually is in class, and hangs long and loose around his face. He looks like such a boyfriend…

You blush and go back to focusing on your laptop. What the hell was that? He’s your professor. Which is actually kind of enticing…

You press your lips together and roll your eyes at yourself. Stop with the intrusive sexual thoughts about Professor Lee - the man is trying to save your ass, not spank it - having inappropriate daydreams, no matter how justified they may be, is unacceptable.

“Here we go,” he comes back to the table and sets two mugs on the surface as he takes his seat again.

“Thanks,” you smile politely, trying not to look at him. If you don’t look at him, maybe you won’t think about how cute he is and instead focus on what you ought to be: your failing grades.

“So, let’s start with the main issue of your papers. Writing, in the legal sense, is cut and dry. It’s all about facts, findings, and nothing expressive or personal, which is where you seem to have the most trouble,” he begins and you try to absorb the information instead of noticing the way his lips look while sipping his coffee.

This endeavor may be harder for you than just pulling your grades up.

📖 ❤️

“I think that was a very productive first meeting,” he says optimistically as you start piling things back into your backpack.

“I think so too,” you nod. Productive, yes - but now the real work begins and you’ll have to go home and actually re-write the damned thing.

Professor Lee carries your backpack out the door, “Where’s your car?”

“Oh, it’s at home, I just live a few blocks away,” you point in the general direction of your apartment.

“You mean to tell me you carried this while walking from your house?” he holds the backpack with two hands for dramatics and you giggle.

“It’s not that terrible, how long has it been since you were carrying books around, Professor? Surely you remember the struggle,” you tease.

“I suppose it’s been a bit, here,” he reaches in his pocket and the SUV beside you beeps, he opens the passenger door, “I’ll drive you home so you don’t have to endure the struggle.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that sir,” you shake your head.

“It’s fine, it’s a small college town Miss ___, I can get literally anywhere in less than five minutes, especially since the majority of students are gone this week. Let me be chivalrous for you,” he smiles and you melt a little bit.

“Well, if you insist,” you look up at him as you slide into the passenger seat.

“I do,” he closes the door, then places your bag in the backseat before coming around to the drivers side.

“Are you always this difficult, Miss ___? Or are you just trying to be overly polite because I’m your professor?” he asks when you point him down the street towards your apartment.

“Difficult, sir?” you look at him wide-eyed.

“Mmhmm,” he nods, “You didn’t want me to buy your coffee, you nearly refused my ride home electing to carry a small library on your back while you walk,” a look of panicked concern washes over his face and he looks over at you, “This isn’t making you uncomfortable in any way is it? Being alone with me?”

“No! No, absolutely not,” you assure him, though you wager that your thoughts about him would certainly make him uncomfortable. “I’m just so incredibly grateful for your help, and you continue to go out of your way for me. It’s just never something I…” you stop yourself.

“Never something you what?” he presses.

You laugh awkwardly, “It’s just not ever something I expected from you, given your reputation with the other students.”

“Ah, yes,” he sucks his teeth, “My reputation of being an uptight jerk who doesn’t like anyone.”

“I would never use those words sir,” you tell him.

“You might not, but I have the internet too, I’ve seen the threads about me on social medias,” he shares.

“You read those?” your voice raises at least three octaves.

“Of course, I’m only human, curiosity gets the best of me from time to time.”

“I don’t participate in those conversations,” you shake your head, “I understand that it’s only natural for students to want to know about the personalities of their upcoming professors, but the bias that occurs in those threads is absurd.”

“I agree, though sometimes they can be helpful, to my ego at least,” he laughs.

“How so?” you wonder, because you don’t remember seeing anything about his classes online that would feed his ego.

“Some of my students may not like my personality, but they like looking at me,” he grins.

“Professor Lee! That’s scandalous,” you laugh and playfully smack his shoulder.

“What?” he laughs with you, “I’ve got to take something positive from it! 75% of those comments are atrocious, but I’m quite proud that I scored three hot peppers on the professor hotness scale.”

“Oh my God,” you cover your mouth, “I cannot believe I’m sitting in your car having this conversation,” you giggle.

“Is this your building?” he points.

“Yes, it is.”

He parks on the street and you take a deep breath when he exits the car. He knows his students think he’s hot, and now he knows that you know he knows. You pat yourself on the back for indicating you’ve never participated in those threads before the conversation took a turn towards hot peppers. Though you are 100% guilty of voting for his peppers.

He opens your door, hanging your backpack across his shoulder.

“I’ll walk this up for you,” he offers and you swallow hard.

“Sure,” you smile, your heart pounding out of your chest. Professor Lee Minho is about to see the inside of your apartment. You try to recall the state you left the place in. You remember doing your dishes before you left, but that’s about the only productive thing you can remember doing today.

You unlock your door and flip the lights on. Your art supplies are everywhere, and you have a bag of laundry by the door because you plan on hitting the laundromat this evening. In trying to move it out of the way you knock it over, a pair of your underwear spilling out onto the floor right at his feet as he walks through.

“Jesus,” you mutter, humiliated, as he looks down at you grabbing up the black lace thong and shoving it back into the bag.

To your utter relief, he says nothing about your undergarments. He sets your backpack down and looks around.

“Can I offer you anything to eat or drink?”

“Did you do all these?” he walks forward into the room towards the area you dry your paintings in. Canvas after canvas sits up against the wall, some completed, most unfinished.

“Oh, yes,” you say, walking up beside him, “This semester has been really frustrating for me, and painting helps.”

“Well, they’re beautiful, truly - you’re quite talented,” he looks down at you, “I can see why teaching art is a passion for you, you’ve certainly got quite a knack for it.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“Teaching is very rewarding,” he adds, “I think that you should pursue your original dream Miss ___. You’ve clearly got a lot to offer the world,” he smiles down at you and you catch his gaze, a few quiet seconds pass as you look into his dark eyes.

“You could just call me by my first name, ___, if you wanted,” you say softly, “and um, thank you, for complimenting my art.”

“You’re very welcome, ___,” he responds, staring at you again. You watch his eyes flit down to your lips and your heart speeds up again. He suddenly clears his throat and looks back at the paintings, “I think we should make the most of the week, since classes aren’t meeting, this is a perfect time for you to catch up with your studies. Tomorrow is Sunday, which is the day I typically devote to catching up on grading, and I do have midterm grades to enter. Perhaps Monday?” he asks.

“Monday, yeah. That works, um, I have a shift at work on Monday morning, but I’ll be free after 3PM.”

“Perfect, we could meet at the Coffee House again, around 4:30?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Great,” he begins walking back to the door, “and, um, while we’re together - working on your coursework I mean - feel free to call me Minho. However when classes resume, it’s probably best to address me as Professor Lee.”

“Of course, Professor,” you agree. “Thank you, er…Minho…for everything today.”

“You’re most welcome,” he opens the door then pauses, turning his head slightly in your direction, “Nice panties, by the way. See you Monday!”

You stand there, speechless, staring at the closed door.

📖 ❤️

Monday afternoon you can’t help but notice that Professor Lee - Minho - sits closer to you at the table in the coffee shop as he helps you study for one of your other classes. You don’t blame him, truth be told, you spent over an hour after your shift at the bookstore getting ready, hoping he’d look at you the same way he did Saturday. You are, without a doubt, down bad. To impress him even further you’ve got a surprise for him.

“I re-wrote my term paper,” you blurt as the two of you are clearing up the table after studying.

“Already?” he looks at you.

“I worked on it all night Saturday, and most of the day on Sunday. Do you want me to email it to you?”

“Absolutely,” he smiles, “Good girl.”

Fuck off, he did not just say that. You bite down on your lip and your thighs press together as you bring up your student email. You attach the file and send it to him.

“It should be in your inbox the next time you check,” you say…like a good girl. Swoon.

“Great, um, I was wondering - and just tell me to shut up if you want to - but I was wondering if you had plans this evening?”

Your heart grows wings and begins to fucking fly.

“No,” you shake your head, “I have zero plans for a Monday evening in a town that’s practically shut down.”

He chuckles, “Right. So, would you want to join me for dinner maybe?”

You at least pretend to mull it over instead of just shouting YES in some unflattering, desperate tone.

“Where were you planning on eating?” you ask.

“There’s a really nice place I like, it’s about a twenty minute drive out of town, but the food is impressive, never had a bad dish there,” he shares.

“I am hungry,” you say, “I’d love to.”

“Good, shall we?”

📖 ❤️

“Are we celebrating anything special this evening?” the waiter asks as he sets two glasses of water down, “A first date? An anniversary perhaps?”

“No.”

Both of you answer him at the same time, and try to hold your laughter in when the poor man looks taken back.

“Okay,” he says, “Can I get you all anything to drink from our wine or cocktail menu?”

“I’ll have a glass of this pinot, chilled, please,” you point to the wine and the waiter writes it down.

“I’ll have the same,” Minho smiles.

“I’ll get those right out.”

Minho bites his lip and stares down at the tablecloth, you frown.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, “I’m just trying to remind myself that nothing inappropriate is happening here, I’m having dinner with one of my female students, but you are an adult and so am I and it’s fine.”

“I won’t be your student after this semester,” you point out, “I don’t know if that’s helpful or not though.”

“It is,” he nods, then tilts his head, “yet somehow I still feel like I’m misbehaving.”

“It’s only food, how is that misbehaving?”

“It’s not what I’m doing,” he bites his lip again and looks up at you, “It’s what I’m thinking.”

You take a sip of water, your body practically vibrating with curiosity, “What is it that you’re thinking, exactly?”

“Things that I shouldn’t be thinking about my student,” he says quietly.

“This isn’t high school, Professor, this isn’t even undergrad. Don’t be harsh on yourself, I’m sure whatever you’re thinking about isn’t a bad thing,” you point out, hoping you sound cool and collected and not like you’re ready for him to take you right on this table.

“So if I was thinking about fucking you after class in my office, across my desk, that wouldn’t be a bad thing?”

You nearly choke on your water. Before you can respond the waiter returns with your glasses of wine, not a moment too soon.

“I’ll let you guys look over the menu and come back in a few minutes.”

You clear your throat once the waiter is gone, “I think fucking me on your desk would probably be inappropriate,” you smile, “especially to your neighboring colleagues. I have quite a mouth on me,” you say, opening your menu.

You can feel him staring at you. “I’d very much like to hear it.”

“Maybe you will, I guess we’ll see,” you shrug.

The smile that spreads across his face is so dangerously mischievous, your clit throbs where you sit and you shift uncomfortably, only making it worse.

📖 ❤️

The sexual tension between the two of you could be cut with a knife as you make your way back to his car. You reach for the door handle, but he grabs your arm and spins you around, your back pushed up against the door.

His lips crash against yours, arms caging you in which is completely fine by you. You bury your fingers in his hair on either side of his head but he pulls away.

“I want it to be clear I have never had any kind of sexual relationship with a student, ever,” he says quickly, then his lips are against yours again.

“I believe you,” you manage between lips and tongues.

He pulls away again, “And the only reason I’m pursuing this is because I can’t fucking resist you and you’re not going to be my student again after this semester,” he adds, then more kissing.

“Got it,” you mumble into his mouth.

Again he pulls away, “Seriously, even if you don’t quit law school I can never have you in class again, okay?”

“Yes! Fuck that place, I’m done, and even if I wasn’t - I wouldn’t take you again, you’re an uptight jerk of a professor, remember?” you tease him, then desperately pull him back onto your lips.

He shoves you harder against the car, his knee coming between your legs and you press yourself down on his thigh. You moan softly into his mouth and his hand smacks the side of the car.

“Get in, fuck, please get in the fucking car.”

He scrambles around to the drivers side as you jump in.

“Your place or mine?” he asks, turning the ignition.

“Which is closer?” you ask, pulling the seat belt so hard and quick that it locks up.

“Uh…mine… mine I think.”

“Then there’s your answer,” you tell him.

Five minutes of him burning rubber down the highway is too long for you not to be touching him. You reach over and caress his thigh through his jeans, moving higher and higher until you find what you’re looking for in the darkness.

He hisses as you stroke and massage his hard length through the fabric.

You unbuckle your seat belt, “Are you as good a driver as you are a professor?”

“I…why?”

You scoot as far as you can and lean over, undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, sliding your hand through the opening of his boxers until you feel the warm, velvety skin of his cock in your fist.

“Oh fuck…oh my fucking…” he pants, his knuckles turning stark white around the steering wheel.

You unbuckle his seatbelt as well and help him get it out of the way before pulling his cock from the confines of his jeans.

You stroke him a few times, then let a glob of spit drip from your lips onto him so you can continue stroking more comfortably.

“God…”

You take him in your mouth and suck, running your tongue over the tip. The way he’s nearly whimpering, eyes so wide on the road, delights you. You put your mouth on him again, taking him deep in your throat, taking turns stroking and licking.

“I’m going to cum,” he whispers hoarsely after several minutes, “I don’t have anything to…” he looks around frantically but you shake your head, popping your mouth off of him momentarily.

“I can take it,” you whisper, then suck him between your lips once more. You can feel the base of his cock twitch and brace yourself, spurts of hot cum follow seconds later and you take it all from him greedily, swallowing then wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Holy shit,” he says through clenched teeth. “That was so fucking hot.”

“Thank you,” you grin, pulling down the visor so you can fix yourself in the mirror. The “kiss proof” lipstick you wore today is evidently not “road head proof” and you clean up the edges of your mouth.

He reaches over and grabs your hand in his, squeezing and rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb while he speeds down the road.

📖 ❤️

The door to Minhos apartment isn’t even locked before he shoves you against it and presses his mouth to yours.

“I want to make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers, trailing kisses down your neck. He drops to his knees and unbuttons your pants, pulling them down your legs. You kick your shoes off so he can get the pants off completely.

He looks up at you and grins, tracing the lines of the black lace thong that toppled over at your apartment, “I was wishing very much that I’d get to see you in these,” he says, pressing his tongue against the tiny bit of cloth.

You gasp at the way his lips move, teasing and licking through the thin lace, “Are you really going to eat me out against the door?”

“Mmm,” he moans against your clit and your legs jerk, “Yes,” he says hooking his fingers in the strings and pulling the soaking wet cloth down your legs.

“No patience at all Professor, I’m shocked,” you tease.

“So… you can call me Minho,” he smiles, kissing and licking trails back up your legs, “but in class and when I’m fucking your pretty pussy feel free to use Professor.”

“Absolutely Professor Lee,” you rest your head against the door as his tongue wiggles between your slick. “Fuck!”

He finds your clit and wraps his lips around, gently sucking. You lay one of your thighs over his shoulder and try to steady yourself while he laps and sucks you off. You grab his hair with your fingers and move with him, fucking his face and listening to the delightful slurping, wet sounds erupting through the quiet room.

“Oh…just like that, right there,” you whine when he begins to softly lick the perfect spot, “fuckfuckfuck…yes!” you release his hair from your fist and hold yourself against the wall as your legs begin to quake, cunt throbbing in rhythmic spasms as he milks you with his lips.

“Oh my god,” you groan, trying to stand straight. He finally gets around to locking the door then picks you up, carrying you down a hallway. He pours you onto the bed and you watch as he strips himself of clothing, you follow suit, though half your outfit is in his foyer.

You lay back, bottom lip between your teeth as you watch him crawl over you, positioning himself between your legs.

“You’re sure this is okay?” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, the head of his cock leaking against your open cunt.

“Yes, fuck, yes I want you,” you assure him, nails digging into his shoulder. He makes a gruff noise deep in his throat and lines himself up with your opening. You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to push into you and he does, slow and deep. You both moan into each other at the sensation of it.

Slowly he begins to move quicker, still deep, but urgently. The sound of skin against skin intoxicating. He sits up a bit, your hips coming with him and he grabs them, using you as an anchor to thrust into you.

“Minho…” his name comes out as a whisper, your eyes screwed shut. “So close…”

“No, no,” he tsks, slowing down and pulling himself out, pushing the head of his cock against your clit. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He slides his cock against you until you start squirming beneath him, your clit still sensitive from his front door excursions. “Please? Fuck…” you whine loudly.

“You want it?” he asks in a growl, stuffing himself inside you then pulling out again.

“Yes! Yes! Please!” you cry, your nails scraping against the sides of his legs.

“Are you sure baby?” he smirks, pushing into you and pulling out slowly several times. Your orgasm begins to build again and you meet his thrusts with your hips, chasing it. Until he pulls out again.

“What are you doing?” you groan, half laughing and out of your mind.

“Beg a little,” he urges, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock but pulling away every time you try to push against it.

You snap your eyes open, the sight of him looking down at you makes you unhinged. “Please, Professor Lee, please let me cum,” you say it as sweetly and earnestly as you can muster.

His eyes practically roll back in his head as he lines up with you again and pushes in deep, his hands fly back to your hips and he drags you on and off his cock until your vision goes white with the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had.

“Sit up, please,” he begs breathlessly as he pulls away, stroking himself. You do as you’re told and watch as his lips part, his hand stills and shots of pearly strings shoot across your breasts.

“Hold on,” he says when he can move again, then disappears behind a door, emerging a few moments later with a warm damp hand towel. He kisses you deeply as he cleans his cum off your chest.

“That was so fucking good,” you whisper, taking his face in your hands.

“Yes,” he sighs, pulling you down beneath the blankets with him, “Yes it was.”

He holds you close to him, your eyes getting heavier, “I think my books are still in your car. We could go over the paper on tort law I bombed over breakfast tomorrow?”

He chuckles and nods, “It’s a date.”

📖 ❤️

You sit in Professor Lees classroom as he passes back the latest exam. Term is almost over and everyone seems to be reeling with nerves around you.

He slows beside your desk and lays your test down, “Much better, Miss ___, much better.”

Seungmin looks over at your test, “Hey! Not bad,” he smiles cheerfully.

“I’ve had a lot of help this semester,” you smile.

At the bottom of the last page you read the note of thin red ink,

See you at my place tonight?

The End

Endnote:

I am in my Lee Know slut era. I will not be taking questions about my worship of him at this time, thank you. As always, if you made it far enough to read this, please accept my virtual smooch.

Also as always this is unbeta’d bc that’s typically how I roll so it could be absolute trash but that’s okay bc we’re just having fun.

#skz fanfiction #Lee know fanfiction #skz smut #lee know smut #Lee Minho #skz romance #Lee know romance #Lee Know x reader #fanfiction #stray kids

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