#I needed to focus my thesis more | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

idyllic-ghost · 24 days

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Title: Do Stars Collapse Into Black Holes, Or Fall Into Something Unknown? Pairing: TA!Seokmin x TA!gn!reader Genre: uni au, rivals to friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, angst, slow burn romance Wordcount: 7.7k Rating: PG 15

Synopsis: Starting your second year of your master’s degree in astrophysics, and your first year as a TA, you were stressed enough - but the universe knows no bounds for your suffering. Seokmin, your handsome and annoyingly smart classmate, just had to become your colleague. As if you weren’t hard on yourself already, Seokmin’s presence only proved to fuel your self-loathing. But does he hate you too, or do you need to open your eyes and come back down to Earth?

Warnings: angst, mentions of stress, academic pressure, self-conciousness

A/N: this is a collab by @gyuswhore and @highvern! thank you to @gyuswhore for helping me with planning for and reading through this fic! see the Back to School masterlist here!

Disclaimer: The scenarios and depictions in my works are fictional and do not represent real-life situations. They do not aim to reflect the complexities of any culture, city, or individual. All characters are entirely fictional, regardless of names or descriptions.

Join my taglist // Masterlists

Seokmin stood outside his supervisor’s slightly open door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The questions he had written down in his notebook were now floating around in his mind, lingering at the tip of his tongue. The golden light of the August sun filtered through the tall windows, casting long, cool shadows on the polished linoleum floor. He had come here to discuss a few pressing issues with his thesis, but as he approached, he heard a familiar voice from within the office.

Your voice.

Seokmin knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, but curiosity got the better of him. He inched closer, careful not to let his presence be known. The door was left slightly ajar, and Seokmin decided to peek through it. Through the narrow gap, he saw you sitting opposite the professor, your posture tense, hands fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. It was how he saw you most of the time, other than the few times he would see you in the library - then, your shoulders were always relaxed, your nose was in a book so big that Seokmin seriously worried for the librarian’s back, and your eyes made it seem like you were in a different dimension, completely focused.

“What do you think about becoming my TA for the undergraduate class this semester?” the professor asked, his tone encouraging yet firm.

You hesitated, your eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. “I’m not sure, Professor. I mean, I have my thesis to focus on, and I’m not sure if I can handle the extra responsibility.”

The professor leaned back in his chair, a patient smile on his face. “I understand your concerns, but I believe this experience could be invaluable for your academic and professional growth. Plus, you’ve always been one of my top students. I have faith in your abilities, you should too.”

After a moment of silence, you nodded slowly. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Seokmin's mind raced. This was an unexpected development. He had always admired you from afar—you're beautiful, absolutely, but more importantly he admired your dedication and your passion for astrophysics—but he never had a reason to interact closely with you. Until now.

An idea sparked in his mind. If you were going to be a TA, maybe he could be one too. It would give him the perfect opportunity to be near you, to finally break the ice.

Just as you started gathering your things to leave, Seokmin quickly moved back, pressing himself against the wall to avoid being seen. You walked out of the office, your face a mixture of apprehension and determination. You don’t see him.

Seokmin took a deep breath, steeling himself. Any thoughts of his thesis vanished as he stepped forward and knocked lightly on the open door.

“Come in,” the professor called out.

Seokmin entered the room, his heart pounding in his chest. “Professor, do you have a moment?”

The professor looked up, a hint of surprise crossing his features. “Of course, Seokmin. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if there are any open TA positions for this semester,” Seokmin said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “I think it could be a great learning experience for me, especially if I decide to continue on my academic career after graduation.”

The professor's eyebrows rose in mild surprise, but he quickly nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is an opening… and I appreciate your initiative. I’ll put you with one of my other students for the undergrad course in astrophysics. The other TA was worried about it, I’m sure they’ll appreciate your help.”

Seokmin couldn't help but smile. This was his chance—not only to assist in the course but to get to know you better. As he left the office, he felt a sense of excitement bubbling within him. The semester was about to get a lot more interesting.

You step into the classroom on your first day as a TA, and a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through you. The room is bright and spacious, with large windows letting in the morning light. The faint smell of chalk and old books fills the air. A smile appears on your face as you take it all in. Although you were nervous, this was your dream– or at least one step on the way to it. You set down your bag and begin organizing the materials for the lecture, trying to focus on the tasks at hand to calm your racing thoughts.

As you arrange the papers on the desk, you hear the door creak open behind you. Turning around, you're surprised to see Seokmin walk in, a confident smile on his face. He looks perfectly put together with his glasses on the tip of his nose, his button-down neatly tucked into his trousers, and his hair adorably messy. His presence catches you off guard, and you feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. You had seen him around before, always talking with someone in a way that you could never execute. People often told you, when you confided in them about your awkwardness, that people who were good at academics often had a harder time socially. Therefore, Seokmin stood out to you as an enigma - a goal that you could never meet. An irritating paradox of a human.

“Hey,” he says casually, setting his own bag down and pushing his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, I—uh, the professor asked me to be his TA,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “What about you?”

“Same here,” Seokmin says, his smile widening. “Looks like we’ll be working together.”

You force a smile in return, but inside, a sense of dread begins to build. Working with Seokmin is not what you had anticipated - and not what you needed.

As the students start to file into the classroom, you watch Seokmin with growing unease. He moves through the room with an easy grace, greeting the students warmly and making small talk with them. His confidence is palpable, and it sets you on edge.

In contrast, you feel more reserved, and your interactions with the students are much more subdued. You can’t help but compare yourself to Seokmin, feeling a pang of jealousy at how effortlessly he seems to connect with everyone.

When the professor arrives, he announces to the students what the course material is and the TAs tasks are for the semester. Seokmin is given the more engaging responsibilities: leading study groups, assisting with experiments, and even giving a few lectures. You, on the other hand, are assigned the more mundane tasks like grading papers and organizing materials.

As the professor continues to outline the responsibilities, you wonder why your professor ever even asked you to become a TA. Seokmin catches your eye and gives you a friendly nod, but you can't bring yourself to return the gesture. He’s been handed all the opportunities you had hoped for. While you aren’t much for small talk, you know that you could hold a lecture–talking about the subject you love most in life in front of eager listeners is all that you want.

The classroom buzzes with anticipation as Professor Jeon prepares for the next segment of the lecture. Today, he’s promised a demonstration, and everyone is eager to see what it would be. The whiteboard is filled with complex diagrams and equations, and the projector displays an intricate star map.

“Alright, everyone, I need a volunteer,” Professor Jeon announces, scanning the room. His eyes twinkle with enthusiasm behind his glasses. Most of the students are sitting still in their chair, their eyes revealing worry—as if the slightest movement would make the professor turn and pick them out of the rest.

Desperate to prove yourself, you step forward without having heard much of what the professor had said. “I can help with that, Professor,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Professor Jeon smiles warmly. “Excellent. You’ll be representing a star in our demonstration.”

You take your place at the front, slightly confused over what he was doing. The room feels larger and the students’ eyes heavier as they focus on you. Seokmin watches with interest, leaning back in his chair with a curious grin.

“Now,” Professor Jeon continues, positioning you in the center of the room, “imagine that our TA here is a star in a distant galaxy.”

Seokmin can’t resist. “Look at you, shining bright like a star!” he calls out, his voice filled with mock admiration. The class erupts into chuckles, the tension easing slightly.

You shake it off and try to stay focused on the demonstration. Professor Jeon continues, explaining how stars form, their life cycles, and how they interact with other celestial bodies, using you as the centerpiece of his explanations. He moves around you, gesturing animatedly as he describes the various phases of a star’s life.

“Stars, like our volunteer here, go through stages of birth, life, and death,” he explains, pointing to you as he illustrates each phase. “From a protostar to a main-sequence star, and eventually, to a supernova or a black hole.”

Professor Jeon continues to explain the star's relation to other galactic entities, bringing up other students—now less nervous because of your contribution—to play different roles.

Throughout the rest of the lecture, Seokmin continued to refer to you as “Star.” After the class, you stay behind to organize the materials for grading. Seokmin approaches you, a friendly smile still on his face. “Need any help with that, Star?”

“I’ve got it,” you say a bit too quickly, trying to hide your frustration. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem,” Seokmin replies, still smiling. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

You nod curtly and turn back to your work, your mind racing. He continues to complete his own tasks before saying goodbye and leaving. How could someone who seems so perfect be so infuriating? As you stack the papers, you can’t shake the feeling of inadequacy that his presence seems to amplify. Your resentment deepens, fueling a sense of rivalry that you know will only make the semester more challenging.

As you leave the classroom, you take a deep breath, trying to push aside your negative thoughts. But one thing is clear: working with Seokmin is going to be anything but easy.

Seokmin loved the first day of the semester. It was a fresh start, a new opportunity to connect with eager minds—not to mention that he got to work by your side. When he first saw you as he opened the door the the lecture hall he found himself feeling giddy for the first time in a while.

As he moved through the classroom, he made a point to greet the students, asking about their summer and what they hoped to learn this year. His easygoing nature made the students feel at ease, and soon enough, the room was filled with animated chatter.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Seokmin asked one student, who responded enthusiastically about something you couldn’t hear. He laughed and shared a quick, similar story of his own, making the students laugh as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you watching, a look of mixed emotions on your face. Seokmin wanted to include you, to make sure you didn’t feel left out. He knew how important it was for TAs to present a united front to the students.

“Hey, why don’t you tell them about that interesting project you worked on last semester? I’m sure they want to know what they could be doing in the future,” Seokmin suggested, turning to you with a smile.

You gave a brief, awkward nod and explained the project, but Seokmin sensed your discomfort. He tried to be supportive, but it seemed to make things worse. Nevertheless, he tried to seamlessly blend your short story with one of his own – taking away the attention from you.

Throughout the week, Seokmin continued his efforts to include you in discussions and tasks. While preparing for a lecture, he turned to you to share your insights.

“What do you think about this theory?” he asked, genuinely curious about your perspective.

You responded with a terse, “It’s interesting,” before quickly diverting back to your own tasks, having barely looked at what he was referring to.

Seokmin furrowed his brow, confusion clouding his eyes. “Have you really considered the implications of this? I’d love to hear more about what you think.”

You sighed, sensing his persistence. “I told you, it’s interesting,” you repeated, hoping he would take the hint.

Seokmin couldn’t understand why his attempts to include you were met with such resistance. He genuinely respected your intelligence and wanted to collaborate. He knew that the professor told him not to stress you out with lectures, but he couldn’t picture you as the type to get stressed out about talking about your thesis topic. Especially not when he had offered to take on the responsibilities that he thought would be the hardest for you to do. Nevertheless, every time he reached out, he felt like he was hitting a wall, further complicating the dynamic between you.

“Is everything okay?” he ventured cautiously, concern lacing his voice. “You seem... distant.”

You paused, looking up from your notes for the first time. “I appreciate your help, Seokmin, really. But I work better alone. It’s just how I am.”

He nodded slowly, trying to process your words. “I understand that, but teamwork is also important. We could achieve so much more together.”

“Maybe,” you conceded, “but I need to focus right now. Please.”

Seokmin sighed, reluctantly stepping back. “Alright. Just know that I’m here if you need anything.”

You nodded, grateful for his understanding but still feeling the weight of the unspoken tension between you. As Seokmin walked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling of frustration and confusion. He respected your need for independence, but he couldn’t help but feel that there was more to your resistance than just a preference for working alone.

The library had always been your sanctuary, a place where you could immerse yourself in your work without distractions. Other than the librarian, Jeonghan, you didn’t have to speak to many people there–and talking to Jeonghan was hardly a difficult task for you. Although he acted as if he hated you for always asking him to bring out the “biggest and dustiest books he had ever seen,” you knew very well that he enjoyed your presence. But lately, even this haven was being invaded by Seokmin. Every time you saw him, he seemed perfectly at ease, balancing his research and TA duties with an effortless grace that you envied.

One evening, you walked into the library, your mind preoccupied with the growing pile of tasks. As you made your way to your usual spot, you saw Seokmin at a nearby table, surrounded by a stack of books and papers. He looked up and smiled warmly.

“Hey, how’s it going? How’s your thesis coming along?” he asked, his tone casual.

You forced a tight smile and replied, “It’s fine, thanks.” Inside, his question felt like a reminder of your own struggles, and it irritated you that he seemed to handle everything so easily.

Seokmin’s presence, once a minor annoyance, was becoming a constant source of irritation. His casual greetings and questions about your progress felt intrusive like he was keeping tabs on you. You tried to focus on your work, but his presence loomed large, a constant reminder of your perceived inadequacies.

During a late afternoon, as you were going to the professor’s office, you overheard a conversation that stopped you in your tracks. The door was slightly ajar, and the professor’s voice carried into the hallway.

“Seokmin has been doing an outstanding job,” the professor said. “His work ethic is impressive, and his contributions to the class are invaluable.”

You felt a pang of jealousy and frustration. Hearing the professor praise Seokmin so effusively only intensified your feelings of inadequacy and rivalry. It felt like no matter how hard you worked, you were always a step behind, always overshadowed by Seokmin’s achievements. It wasn’t like you could do something about it – the professor never allowed you to show what you were truly capable of. During the times that he had offered for you to hold lectures or seminars, Seokmin came in and took the opportunity away from you. The most you had managed to do was hold a few study groups, and it was only when Seokmin had been away.

As you walked away, your mind raced with thoughts of how to prove yourself, and how to step out of Seokmin’s shadow. The rivalry that had been simmering under the surface was now boiling over, driving you to work even harder, even if it meant pushing yourself to the brink.

The library was dimly lit, the scent of old books mingling with the sterile tang of late-night coffee. Although you appreciated Jeonghan letting you borrow the coffee machine in the librarian’s office, it truly tasted horrible–you were convinced the only reason Jeonghan liked it was that he poured in at least two packets of sugar in his cup. Around you, stacks of papers towered like miniature skyscrapers, each one a testament to the endless stream of work that flooded your life.

Grading papers had become a nightly ritual, sandwiched between frantic attempts to wrangle your thesis into coherence. The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders like an invisible burden, threatening to suffocate any semblance of calm. Meanwhile, Seokmin got to have the job with all the glory and all the fun – at this point, you were starting to question if your professor had something out for you.

Fingers numb from hours of scribbling notes, you slumped forward, rubbing your temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the headache that had been your unwelcome companion for days. The clock on your laptop blinked mockingly, its digits crawling towards midnight with relentless indifference.

It was then, in that hushed sanctuary of knowledge, that the dam finally burst. Tears welled up unexpectedly, blurring the lines of formulas, calculations, and the horrible handwriting of some of your undergrad students. The sound of your own choked sobs startled you, but you were too exhausted, too overwhelmed to care about appearances.

Unbeknownst to you, Seokmin had been nearby, engrossed in his own research until the echo of your distress reached his ears. Concern etched lines of worry across his normally composed features as he approached cautiously, unsure of how to breach the invisible barrier that separated you.

“Hey,” his voice was soft, tentative, like a gentle breeze through a storm. He offered a tissue from his bag, the simple gesture more comforting than any words could convey. “Are you okay?”

Your initial instinct was to brush him off, to hide behind the façade of resilience you had painstakingly crafted. But tonight was different. Tonight, you were tired—bone-deep exhaustion that rendered you defenseless against the kindness in his eyes.

“I don't know.” The admission was barely a whisper, but Seokmin heard. Without hesitation, he settled into the seat beside you, the library chair creaking slightly under his weight. He didn't pry, didn't offer unsolicited advice. Instead, he simply began to gather the scattered papers, organizing them into neat piles with practiced efficiency.

You watched him in silence, marveling at the unexpected gentleness in his actions. Here was Seokmin, the academic rival who had seemed so untouchable, now offering a lifeline without expectation of reciprocity. He continued working, dividing the papers that you had graded and the papers that were untouched into two piles. Then, he silently started grading the latter. No words were needed. You wiped your tears and picked up your computer to begin working on your thesis again.

Minutes stretched into hours as the two of you worked side by side. Seokmin handled the grading, his elegant script flowing effortlessly across the pages. Meanwhile, you poured your fragmented thoughts about your thesis onto the screen, finding solace in the rhythm of typing keys.

In that shared silence, a subtle shift occurred. Walls that had once stood tall and impenetrable crumbled, revealing vulnerabilities neither of you had dared to expose before. As the night wore on, Seokmin's presence became a lifeline, anchoring you amidst the storm of deadlines and doubts.

By dawn, the library was bathed in the soft hues of morning light. The papers were graded, and the thesis draft was finally completed. Jeonghan came in just as the two of you were packing up, his long hair tied up and his glasses sitting on the tip of his nose. He looked at you with raised eyebrows and a disapproving glance—while he did allow you to stay in the library even after closing, he didn’t exactly encourage it. You sent him a tired, apologetic smile. He started walking towards you and finally spotted Seokmin. Jeonghan cleared his throat, gaining Seokmin’s attention from the pile of graded papers he was organizing.

“I’m assuming you two stayed here all night,” he said, “Otherwise, you’ve broken in before opening hours– and then I’d have to call the police.”

Seokmin immediately got flustered, profusely apologizing. The blubbering mess he became was probably from shock and sleep deprivation, but you had never seen him like this. A smile appeared on your face, and you put your hand on his shoulder.

“He’s joking, it’s fine.” You looked up at the librarian. “Right, Jeonghan?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He waved his hand nonchalantly and started to walk away now that there was no more teasing to be done. “Clean up properly and be out of here in like ten minutes. I can’t have people knowing that I give you special treatment.”

You hummed and started packing up your things. Seokmin put the graded papers into a folder and stood up, stretching out his legs and arms.

“Do you do this a lot?” he asked.

“Not for this long, usually,” you muttered. “But yeah, why?”

“... no reason.” He shrugged and sat back down. “I thought that grading papers was the easier job.”

You scoffed and sent him an irritated glance.

“You’re the lucky one,” you said. “Holding lectures actually seems fun – most of the time, I’m just trying to decipher what most of these students are even writing.”

Seokmin nods solemnly and hands you the file. You stand up and bid him goodbye, before hurrying to administration to get the grades filed.

The lecture hall was almost empty, save for a few scattered students gathering their belongings after Professor Jeon’s rigorous class on quantum mechanics. Seokmin lingered near the doorway, watching you pack up your notes with a furrowed brow. He couldn't shake off the image of you from last night in the library, vulnerable and overwhelmed. Now he had to watch you sit through the professor’s lecture, pretending like you hadn’t just stayed up all night, and soullessly give out worksheets to the students.

Newfound awareness weighed heavily on Seokmin's mind as he replayed the events of the previous evening. He had always admired your intellect and dedication, but now, seeing the toll it took on you firsthand, he understood the gravity of your struggles. The pressure of expectations, both self-imposed and external, seemed to suffocate every moment of your academic life. He thought he had been nice to you, making your life easier by taking care of all the social aspects, but his perspective had been too narrow.

With a resolve born out of newfound understanding, Seokmin decided to act. He spotted you exiting the lecture hall, shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. Without a second thought, he hurried after you, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

“Hey, Star, wait up!” he called out gently, reaching your side just as you reached the exit. “I thought you might need this.”

Exhaustion still fogged your mind, the remnants of last night's breakdown lingering like a dull ache. He was holding a cup of coffee out to you, you looked down at the paper mug and then back up at him. At Seokmin's gesture of kindness, your immediate reaction was instinctive—a defensive snap, laced with frustration and misunderstanding.

“I don't need your pity, Seokmin,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze as guilt flickered in your eyes.

Seokmin's heart sank at your words, but he didn't retaliate. He knew your reaction stemmed from exhaustion and vulnerability, not malice. Taking a deep breath, he waited patiently, understanding that healing wounds of insecurity took time and patience.

The next day, Seokmin found you in the same lecture hall, buried under a mountain of textbooks and notes. This time, he approached cautiously, his usual confidence tempered by humility. “Can we talk?” he asked softly, careful not to startle you.

You glanced up, surprise flickering across your features at his persistence. Relenting, you nodded slightly, allowing him to join you at the table littered with equations and diagrams.

“I didn't realize,” Seokmin began quietly, choosing his words with care. “I didn't realize how much pressure you were under. If I had known, I would have never added to it.”

His sincerity resonated in the quiet sincerity of his voice, catching you off guard.

“Added to it?” you questioned.

“I asked the professor to let me take care of the lectures and study groups,” he admitted. “I was truly only thinking of you, I thought I could make it easier for you.”

A bitter taste lingered in your mouth. All this time, this had been his fault – all of the doubt over whether or not your professor wanted to break your spirit had been nothing more than a request made by Seokmin. However, you took a deep breath, closing your eyes for just a moment before looking back at him.

“You wanted to make it easier for me?”

“I thought, since you don’t talk that much… it was dumb, I’m sorry.” He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses sliding up his forehead. “I’ll go tell the professor about it, we can reschedule things.”

“... thanks.”

The days following Seokmin's gesture of understanding were a delicate dance between acceptance and wariness. Despite the lingering skepticism, you couldn't deny the shift in dynamics between you. Seokmin's actions spoke louder than words, his genuine concern slowly chipping away at the walls you had erected. He asked the professor to change some of the duties, as he had promised, and even went so far as to offer to help you with your thesis. You allowed him to proofread it for you, and the two of you started spending more and more time with each other.

Reluctant acceptance crept into your interactions as you begrudgingly allowed Seokmin's presence and assistance. He no longer seemed like an adversary lurking in the shadows of your achievements but a partner navigating the same stormy seas of academia. His willingness to help without expectation of reciprocity was both unsettling and oddly comforting.

Late afternoons in the university's coffee shop turned into impromptu discussions about the mysteries of black holes that you were writing about as well as Seokmin’s thesis on altermagnetism. Your shared passion for space and astrophysics brought you closer together, each conversation revealing layers of depth and curiosity you hadn't anticipated.

One afternoon, amidst a lively debate on the implications of quantum entanglement, you found yourself sharing a piece of your past—the months you spent as a museum guide at the Jeju Starlight World Park and Planetarium. The memories flowed freely, painting a picture of a younger version of yourself enamored with the cosmos and its infinite wonders.

It was during this conversation that Seokmin proposed a trip—an invitation wrapped in sincerity and a hint of nervousness. “There's a free weekend coming up," he began tentatively, eyes fixed on yours with unwavering determination. "I thought... maybe we could visit the museum together."

Surprise mingled with nostalgia as you considered his proposal. The Jeju Starlight World Park held a special place in your heart—a sanctuary where stars glittered like promises against the velvet canvas of the night sky. Seokmin's offer to drive felt like an extension of his desire to understand you better, a chance to revisit a place where your love for astrophysics had taken root.

After a moment's hesitation, you nodded, a tentative smile curling at the corners of your lips. “I'd like that,” you admitted softly, the weight of uncertainty lifting with each heartbeat. In Seokmin's eyes, you glimpsed a flicker of gratitude and relief, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile bond blossoming between you.

The weekend arrived with a crispness in the air, promising a respite from the relentless pace of academic life. Seokmin pulled up in front of your apartment in his modest car, a hint of nervous anticipation in his eyes as you climbed into the passenger seat. He smiled warmly, trying to hide his nerves. "Ready for a little break, Star?"

You nodded, clutching your bag tightly. "I brought some work to catch up on during the drive."

Seokmin chuckled softly. "Of course you did."

The drive to Jeju Starlight World Park and Planetarium was long, and you were determined to work during the entire trip. You pulled out your laptop and began typing furiously, barely glancing up. However, as soon as the car started moving, the soft humming of the motor and the quiet songs coming from the radio lulled you into a sense of calm you hadn’t felt in weeks. Before you knew it, you had drifted off to sleep.

When you woke up, you were just about to roll up to the museum. You noticed that your computer was neatly tucked into your bag again, and that you had Seokmin's jacket draped over your lap. He must have stopped by the side of the road to help you, but you decided not to ask about it. Seokmin noticed you stirring and gave you a gentle smile. "Hey, sleepyhead. We're almost there."

You rubbed your eyes, a bit disoriented. "I can't believe I fell asleep."

"It's okay," he said. "You needed the rest."

Arriving at the museum, you were greeted by the familiar sight of the dome-shaped building, its façade adorned with twinkling lights that mirrored the stars above. Memories flooded back as you stepped through the entrance, the air scented with nostalgia and the promise of new discoveries.

Inside, the museum buzzed with activity. Visitors young and old marveled at interactive exhibits and life-sized models of spacecrafts, their faces alight with wonder. You led Seokmin through the exhibits with the confidence of someone revisiting a cherished haven, explaining the intricacies of stellar evolution and the beauty of the night sky.

In the planetarium, darkness enveloped you both as the dome above transformed into a canvas of celestial wonders. A hush fell over the audience as the narrator's voice guided you on a journey through the cosmos—galaxies swirling, stars born and dying in spectacular bursts of light. Beside you, Seokmin watched in awe, his usual composure giving way to childlike fascination.

After the show, you found yourselves outside under a sky strewn with stars. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the promise of a clear night. Seokmin broke the silence, his voice soft against the backdrop of the universe. “Thank you for coming with me, Star,” he said sincerely, eyes tracing the constellations above.

You smiled, touched by his gratitude. “It's always been a special place for me,” you admitted, your gaze following his to the heavens. “Even after I stopped working here, I used to come here to find inspiration when things felt overwhelming... I don't really have time for that anymore, of course.”

After a day filled with awe and shared moments at the Jeju Starlight World Park and Planetarium, Seokmin navigated the car through winding roads leading away from the museum. The sky had darkened, and stars peppered the canvas above, casting a soft glow over the landscape. Under the stars that had witnessed countless stories of love and longing, of dreams and discoveries, you and Seokmin found a moment of quiet peace.

“We should find a place to stay for the night,” Seokmin suggested, glancing at you with a gentle smile.

You nodded in agreement. Seokmin found a quaint motel nestled on the outskirts of town, its neon sign flickering a warm welcome in the darkness. The receptionist greeted you with a friendly smile, which you couldn't seem to return out of pure embarrassment, as Seokmin checked you in for the night.

“... and here’s your key,” the receptionist said and handed you one key.

“Oh, we’ll need two rooms,” Seokmin said.

“I’m sorry, we only have one.” The receptionist gave you an apologetic smile. “We could contact someone further down the road–”

“It’s alright,” you said. “We’ll just sleep in separate beds.”

“I’m sorry.” The receptionist paused and let out an awkward chuckle. “There’s only one bed in that room.”

Both you and Seokmin looked at each other. Neither of you were fit to drive, and even if you didn’t want to sleep next to him you realized that you would have to.

Entering the room, you were met with simple yet cozy accommodations—a bed draped in crisp linens, soft lighting casting a warm ambiance. The air hummed with the unspoken understanding that lingered between you, a growing tension that spoke volumes in the silence.

Moments passed as you both settled into the space, the weight of the day's experiences hanging in the air. Seokmin's eyes searched yours, his usual confidence giving way to vulnerability as he spoke softly, “Today has been... incredible.”

You nodded, mirroring his sentiment. “It really has,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

You both got into bed, laying on your backs so as to not get too close. But as the night went on, neither of you could fall asleep. It was getting cold, and even the comforter wasn’t enough.

“I’m freezing,” Seokmin admitted.

“Me too,” you replied.

“Star... do you… want to sleep next to me?” he asked tentatively.

“I already am, stupid.” You let out a nervous chuckle.

“No I mean–” Seokmin sighed. “I don’t want to be a creep, please just tell me if this is weird… but do you want me to… hold you? Just since it’s so cold, that's all.”

“... just because it’s so cold.”

The distance between you closed with each heartbeat, drawn together by an undeniable magnetism. Tentative touches turned into embraces, hands finding solace in the warmth of each other's presence. Words became unnecessary as the night unfolded, emotions spoken through lingering gazes and tender caresses. His heart was beating fast, but with every minute that passed he calmed down. Your arms wrapped around his torso, and he got comfortable under your head and slung around your waist. He smelled of florals, and something expensive and woody. Even his cologne was perfect. You sighed and nuzzled closer to him, and his embrace

As dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, you awoke to find Seokmins fingers tracing patterns on your skin. You pretended to be asleep for just a little longer. In that quiet morning light, amidst the remnants of dreams and the promise of new beginnings, you both understood that the journey you had embarked upon was far from over. Eventually, he got up and got dressed and you pretended to wake up as well.

Back at the university, the air between you and Seokmin crackled with new energy—a silent understanding that transcended words. Your interactions became charged with unspoken feelings, lingering glances that spoke volumes, and moments of shared laughter that echoed long after they had passed.

In lecture halls and quiet corners of the campus coffee shop, you found yourselves drawn to each other like celestial bodies caught in orbit. Seokmin's kind comments and gestures of support became a lifeline amidst the tumult of academic pressures, each act deepening the connection that had silently taken root.

One evening, as twilight painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, you found yourself seated with Jeonghan at the library. Although he would often tease you and be relentlessly cocky, he had always been a calming presence – his gentle demeanor and insightful advice made him a trusted confidant.

“I've been feeling... confused,” you admitted softly, uncertainty lacing your words as you wrestled with emotions that had blossomed unexpectedly. “Seokmin... he's really been there for me recently, supporting me in ways I never expected.”

Jeonghan listened attentively, his warm gaze encouraging you to unravel the tangled threads of your thoughts. With each word, clarity began to emerge—a realization that the admiration and warmth you felt for Seokmin ran deeper than mere professional respect.

“He's not just a rival anymore,” you confessed, a hint of awe coloring your voice. “He's been impressing me with his kindness, his understanding...”

The admission hung between you like a delicate veil, its weight buoyed by the relief of finally voicing your inner turmoil. Jeonghan nodded knowingly, a reassuring smile gracing his lips.

“You like him,” he said.

“What? No, I don’t– he’s a friend.”

“You slept in the same bed together, didn’t you?”

“Friends can sleep together…”

“Friends don’t describe the way someone smells like you just did,” he argued, referring to what you had told him earlier of your time in the motel.

“But I can’t like him… that doesn’t seem right.”

“Sometimes, the heart finds its way through unexpected paths,” Jeonghan mused, his words carrying the wisdom of someone who had witnessed the ebb and flow of countless emotions within the walls of the library. “What matters most is how you choose to navigate this journey. Trust your heart, but also trust in Seokmin's intentions. He seems like a good guy.”

“I keep forgetting that you can actually give good advice instead of just sly remarks,” you teased him and Jeonghan scoffed.

“What do you want me to say?” He chuckled. “‘Let me know how big his dick is when you get there?’”

“Jeonghan.” You groaned as your friend laughed – you were lucky that no one was in the library at this late hour.

“Seriously, though.” Jeonghan wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Seokmin seems good for you. You’ve definitely been less stressed since I caught the two of you in here-”

“You’re making that sound weird on purpose!” you exclaimed and Jeonghan grinned.

“Whatever, whatever…” He waved his hand as if to swat away his previous words. “Just think about it– by the way you’ve been describing him, he’s probably into you too. Maybe talk to him about it?”

With Jeonghan's words echoing in your mind, you knew that the time had come to confront your feelings, to acknowledge the unspoken connection that had blossomed between you and Seokmin—a connection that promised not just the possibility of romance, but a partnership grounded in shared dreams, understanding, and the quiet strength found in moments of vulnerability and acceptance.

After Jeonghan locked up the library, Seokmin ended up meeting up with you outside the faculty building. He looked tired, probably from grading papers or looking over reports, but he still smiled when he saw you walk past him with Jeonghan. You excused yourself to the librarian and left to walk home with Seokmin – not without Jeonghan telling you to “Go get him,” of course.

The night draped the university campus in a serene quietness, the lampposts casting gentle pools of light along the pathways as you and Seokmin strolled together. Laughter still echoed softly between you, a rare moment of levity amidst the academic rigors.

In a playful jest you quipped, “You know, Seokmin, Jeonghan suggested you might be in love with me.”

The words spilled out almost reflexively, laced with a hint of nervous humor to disguise the vulnerability beneath. Your heart skipped a beat as you waited, half-expecting Seokmin to brush off your comment with a laugh. Seokmin stopped walking, and you followed suit.

His expression shifted, his gaze intensifying. “Actually, I think I am in love with you,” he confessed quietly, his tone devoid of jest or uncertainty.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis at that moment, your breath catching in your throat as you processed his words. The playful banter melted away, leaving behind a raw honesty that shimmered between you.

“You... you're serious?” you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper, disbelief and hope mingling in equal measure.

Seokmin nodded, his gaze unwavering as he took a step closer. “I am,” he affirmed, his voice steady and sure. “I've been struggling to find the right moment to say it, but I've known for a while now.”

His confession washed over you like a wave, carrying with it a flood of emotions—joy, disbelief, and a profound sense of connection that surpassed the academic rivalry that had once defined your relationship.

In that quiet corner of the campus, under the canopy of stars that bore witness to your revelation, a shift occurred—a mutual acknowledgment of the feelings that had quietly blossomed amidst shared moments of vulnerability and understanding.

“I don’t know what to say…” you whispered.

“Don’t say anything, Star,” Seokmin said with a sad smile. “I don’t want this to get in the way of what you want out of your career – you shouldn’t be thinking about my feelings for you when you’re about to finish your thesis… we can always take it later.”

“... okay.” You nodded. “Please, don’t take this as me rejecting you.”

“I’m not.” He gave you a big grin. “It’ll be my motivation to finally finish my thesis.”

You smiled at him in return. As you continued your walk, the air between you hummed with newfound depth and possibility—a promise of a future yet to be written, illuminated by the light of a love that had bloomed unexpectedly, nurtured by the guidance of friends like Jeonghan and the quiet courage to embrace the unknown journey ahead. Your hand brushed against Seokmin’s several times on your walk home, but neither of you mentioned it. You only relished in the sparks the small touch ignited – waiting patiently for more.

As the final weeks of our graduate studies drew near, the campus was abuzz with anticipation and fervor. It was the climax of numerous years of hard work, late nights spent poring over books, and scholarly pursuits. Both you and Seokmin immersed ourselves in meticulously shaping our theses, balancing the demands of being teaching assistants with unrelenting commitment and a strong, unwavering sense of purpose. Somehow, you got there in the end. Your theses were approved, your opposition went smoothly, and you finally got to graduate together.

Amidst the excitement and wistfulness on the morning of graduation day, the campus bustled with energy. The sight of fellow graduates dressed in gowns and mortarboards filled the air with a sense of anticipation. In the midst of it all, you and Seokmin were inexplicably drawn to each other, the atmosphere around you filled with unspoken emotions.

As the festivities and goodbyes filled the air, Seokmin decided to take you to a secluded section of the campus garden. His face held a serious, yet affectionate, expression, creating an atmosphere of warmth that couldn't be missed. You couldn’t read through his gaze, but the silence between you was deafening.

“I heard Professor Jeon gave you a reference for the new doctorate position here, congratulations,” you said to break the silence.

“Ah, thank you… you already got accepted, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Only because I was so pushy with my reference–” You downplayed your achievement but stopped yourself once you heard what you were saying. “I did.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

Confess to you.

“Why did you take me here, Seokmin?” you asked. “Isn’t the ceremony about to start?”

“Just a minute, I won’t be long… I want to say something,” he began, his voice carrying a clarity and certainty that resonated deep within you.

Seokmin, with the depth of intimacy that comes from sharing emotional journeys across galaxies, once more poured out his feelings, this time with an unshakable and unwavering conviction. “I love you, Star,” he declared, his eyes locking with yours, laying bare the depth of his emotions.

When he professed his feelings for you, you found yourself overcome with a rush of emotions. Your response was filled with a deep sense of appreciation and a newfound bravery that filled your heart. “I love you too,” you whispered.

He blinked at you, momentarily speechless, his carefully thought-out plans unraveling in the face of raw emotion. His stunned expression was almost comical, and you couldn't help but laugh softly. The sound of your laughter seemed to break the tension, and you reached up, your fingers gently cradling his face. His skin was warm under your touch, and you could feel the slight roughness of his day-old stubble.

Seokmin's eyes fluttered closed, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks as he savored the delicate touch of your lips. His hands settled lightly on your waist, fingers barely pressing into the fabric of your clothes, as if afraid to break the spell. The kiss was brief, a mere whisper of the deep emotions swirling between you. When he pulled away, you could see a myriad of thoughts floating in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and sincere. Almost immediately, Seokmin groaned and put his palm against his forehead, realizing how awkward his words sounded. You couldn't help but laugh at his comment, the sound light and teasing.

“I don’t want the first thing I say after our kiss to be ‘thank you,’” he muttered, looking embarrassed.

He gave you a sheepish smile, his cheeks tinged with a hint of pink. “Don’t laugh at me…”

“Sorry–” you said, still giggling. Then, with a playful glint in your eye, you pulled him down to your face a second time. “That one doesn’t count, then.”

You kissed him again, a quick, soft peck, and then pulled back, looking at him expectantly. Seokmin's mind seemed to be spinning as he searched for something to say. Your kiss had left him so dizzy he could hardly tell up from down.

“You’re out of this world, Star,” he finally managed, his voice breathless and sincere.

You let out a groan, shaking your head at the cheesiness of his words. Seokmin couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and genuine. He then pulled you into a tight embrace, resting his chin on top of your head, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go.

The tender moment was interrupted by the intercom crackling to life once more, reminding the students to proceed to the grand hall for the ceremony. With a sigh, you both reluctantly pulled apart, the reality of the event bringing you back to the present.

The graduation ceremony was a blur of speeches, applause, and the bittersweet feeling of an era ending. As the sound of applause gradually faded away, you and Seokmin found yourselves standing side by side at the entrance of the university building. The excitement of the moment mingled with a deep sense of nostalgia, the weight of the years spent here settling over you both.

You looked at each other, the shared understanding that this was both an end and a beginning reflected in your eyes. With fingers intertwined, you walked hand in hand towards the grand doors, feeling a profound sense of achievement and anticipation for the future.

Outside, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for you to step into it. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the campus, and as you walked together, you knew that this was just the start of a new journey. The path ahead was uncertain, but with Seokmin by your side, you felt ready to face anything. Together, you stepped out into the world, ready to embrace whatever came next.

feedback is always welcome!

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thriftedtchotchkes · 1 year

Text

his favorite girl, part i

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel agrees to teach you how to play guitar for a college course, but you can't keep your eyes off him long enough to learn. he really likes that.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, guitar teacher!joel, no outbreak, big age gap (reader’s 22, joel’s 56), slow-burn, sexual tension, finger kink, slight dubcon, touching, smut for later chapters, some fluff, mostly angst

word count: 3.3k

a/n: my first chaptered fic! dedicated to joel's fingers! i've been playing guitar a lot more lately so...yeah 🥲 thinking this'll probably be 3 or 4 chapters? as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated! hope y'all enjoyy

Don’t stare at his fingers. Don’t stare at his fingers. He’s doing you a huge favor by teaching you to play guitar in the first place. The least you can do is pay attention and stop staring at his fingers.

But it’s a lost cause, and you know it, because you’d have no hope of learning without staring at his fingers.

Even so, you’re convinced he’ll somehow know that’s not the real reason you’re watching them so intently. The way they hop gracefully from fret to fret, strings biting into his well-earned calluses, producing the most beautiful chords that ring out perfectly with every strum.

It’s a wonder any of that is even possible for him. You don’t mean to knock his talent—he obviously honed his craft through decades of fine-tuning and dedicated practice—but his fingers are just so thick.

With your clumsy, beginner’s touch, you’re constantly fumbling with the strings, unable to press down hard enough or keep your other fingers out of the way for them to vibrate the way they need to. They just sort of…fizzle.

But there’s a finesse to how he plays. It also helps that his guitar is a lot bigger than yours. It's a totally innocuous thought, but it still warms your cheeks a little. A big guitar for a big man. Broad and tall, with those thick, thick fingers—

“Hey, you still with me?”

You’re not sure when he stopped playing, but you really hope it was right before he said something. Otherwise, he definitely knows exactly what you were thinking about, and that would be humiliating.

Not a great start to your first guitar lesson, but how were you supposed to know your teacher was going to look like that? When your music theory professor recommended him, he conveniently left that part out, which, whatever, makes sense. But it still would’ve been helpful to know ahead of time.

Joel Miller. 56 years old. Has a ton of experience and takes on very few students, so you should consider yourself lucky. That’s all of the information you were given before you stepped into his house this afternoon, and were greeted by possibly the hottest man you’ve ever seen. He was supposed to be your ticket to an A on your senior thesis. But you’re totally flubbing it.

“Y-yeah, sorry, just got a little distracted,” you laugh awkwardly, wishing you had said anything else but that. You couldn't be any more obvious if you tried. “Won’t happen again, promise.”

He’s kind enough to pretend you’re not a filthy liar and taps the neck of his guitar to redirect your focus. “S’alright. We’ll just take it from the top. You remember the fingerin' for the first chord?”

You gape at him dumbly for a second. He’s kidding, right? You might as well leave now if he’s going to keep saying fingering with that devastating Southern drawl of his.

“Um, yeah, I think so,” you sputter, lying for the second time in a row. You're struggling to recall anything from your lesson but, god, you can only remember his fingers, not their placement. With no confidence whatsoever, you press your fingertips down firmly on the three strings you think he showed you. “Here, right?”

He quirks a brow. “You askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

Ah, so he’s that kind of teacher. The 'learn the hard way', 'fail on your own until you succeed' type. Well, he’s about to learn that you’re not that kind of student.

“…Telling?” Your voice lilts with even less confidence. He chuckles, nodding at your finger placement.

“Let’s hear it, then,” he says expectantly, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. You can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but you’re about to find out. You strum slowly, and the sound reverberates around the room.

Wrong.

His smile widens just a fraction as you grimace, quickly wrapping your hand around the neck of the guitar to stop the horrible noises still playing from it. You look over at him, wincing, but he doesn’t seem frustrated. If anything, he seems patient.

“Not quite,” he shakes his head, moving his instrument out of his lap so he can shift closer to where you’re sitting further down the couch. The cushion dips with his weight, and you tip into him slightly, but he remains completely unfazed. “Lemme show you again—and pay attention this time, alright?”

You start to nod apologetically, but then he throws an arm behind you on the back of the couch, and all hope of retaining whatever he’s about to teach you goes out the window. Instead of showing you on his own guitar, he gestures for you to hold yours up, gently arranging your fingers on the frets.

His fingertips whisper against yours like he’s hesitant to touch you, softly tugging them into place before pressing down, showing you the right amount of pressure to apply.

They feel just as warm and rough as you’d imagined, dwarfing yours by a long shot, and the realization makes your fingers accidentally twitch out of place. Your eyes dart up to gauge his reaction and lock with his, deep and brown, and very amused.

“Doin’ alright there?” he teases, and now you know he’s on to you. You try to play it off, blaming it on your inexperience.

“Just haven't gotten used to using those muscles yet," you mumble, moving your hand away from his to flex your fingers. "Not sure I've ever had to stretch them like that before."

"'m sure ya have. Probably just didn't realize it at the time. That kinda muscle soreness comes from prolonged repetition—repeatin' an action over 'n over," he explains in that syrupy-sweet accent, completely unaware of how his words are affecting you. "Bet ya use those fingers for a lot'a different things every day, just nothin' long or strenuous enough to leave you achin'."

You bite your lip to keep from reacting. He has to know what he's doing right now. How he sounds. This conversation is starting to veer into dangerous territory, but the weird thing about it is that he genuinely doesn't seem to realize that everything he's saying has a double meaning. To you, at least. You knew all this fingering talk was going to get you into trouble.

"Uhh, yeah," you agree, side-stepping that line of thought to bring yourself back to the lesson, but it's getting harder to stay focused. "I guess I just thought playing would mostly be memorization, but there's a lot of physicality to it, too, huh?"

"Yeah, s'pose that's true," he muses, looking down at the calluses on his own hand. This time you refuse to take the bait, your breathing already too shallow, heart nearly pounding out of your chest with how close he's sitting. But he’s still completely calm and collected. "Your hand hurtin' a lot right now?"

You shrug, inspecting your reddening fingertips. "Kinda, yeah."

"It's like that in the beginnin’," he says kindly. "But the more ya play, the tougher the skin gets, and ya won't feel it as much."

He surprises you by taking your hand again, massaging the tender skin between his thumb and index fingers. God, that feels so much better already. The heat of his fingertips seeps into yours, soothing the painful indents left by the unforgiving strings, and you let out a breathy sigh of relief.

You feel his entire body tense palpably next to you. It might be your imagination or just wishful thinking, but you swear you can feel his warmth radiating into your side, somehow even closer than before. Your brain’s starting to fizzle more than the sound of your shitty guitar playing, and the room feels a little hotter. Hazier, like a daydream.

"That feel good?" he murmurs, lips practically brushing the shell of your ear.

Definitely closer.

“Y-yeah, feels nice…really nice,” you stutter, voice lowering almost to a whisper as if you were sharing a secret. “The, um—the rest of my hand is a little sore, too. Is that normal?”

You can feel him grinning at your obvious attempt to get him to keep touching you, and he gives in easily. Surprisingly so, and it's becoming clearer that he's as into whatever's happening right now as you are. You’re not sure what happened to the unfazed man from before, but you’ll happily welcome this change in demeanor.

“Yeah, s’normal,” he trails down to your palm, engulfing your hand with his own. “Don’t worry, I'll take care of ya.”

Your eyes flutter closed as his thigh presses into yours, and the arm behind you lowers around your shoulders, his hand skimming the side of your neck. Shit, what is going on? You’re pretty sure guitar lessons don’t usually go like this, but you can’t bring yourself to dwell on it. Not when he feels this good.

Everywhere his skin touches yours feels electric, sending jolts up your spine, and making you forget where you are and what you were doing in the first place. He ducks down to press his lips to your bare shoulder, and your mind goes completely blank.

All that's left is...sensation. Something dragging roughly across your skin, then soft—a little chapped—and wet. Sharp. You're abruptly aware of him sucking a hard bruise at the crook of your neck, soothing the sting with his tongue, and you're unable to stop the whimper that escapes your lips. It's soft and inappropriate. A single, hushed syllable.

"Joel."

He lets out a pained groan that rumbles from deep within his chest, and the hand around yours tenses. That boundless patience he had earlier feels like it's about to run out, and the thought makes your blood run hot.

God, how is he real? How is this real? You just met this man—this much, much older man—less than an hour ago, and, yet, this is probably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. He continues to mouth up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw.

"What else hurts? Tell me, 'n I'll make it better," he mutters humidly, urgently against your skin.

You want to tell him where it hurts the most. That unbearable ache between your legs, the burning in your belly that you didn't even realize he was stoking. But you're so wound up, all you can manage is a frustrated sob.

"Use your words, beautiful. C'mon, lemme hear 'em," he says as if you're his instrument, meant to produce dulcet tones and resonate at his hand.

"It—fuck...it—here," you drag the hand clutching yours down, next to where the body of your guitar rests on your thigh. Where you've already soaked through the thin fabric of your pants. "Joel...need you to make it better."

The gentle vibrato of your voice, the way it shakes tumultuously around his name, and even more so when he cups your heat. His lips return to your throat to feel it, to taste it as you moan for him. And those fingers. You knew they’d feel good, and they’re so close to where you need them. Just a little bit more—but there’s still too many layers between you and his rough touch.

“M-more…need more, just—,” you whine, and he mirrors the sound back at you raggedly.

“‘Course, beautiful. Told you I’d take care of ya, didn’t I?

You're too far gone to even notice yourself desperately grinding into the palm of his hand, or the fingers at your cheek turning your face toward his.

Or your guitar quickly slipping out of your lap, more and more with each swivel of your hips. It hits the carpet with a hollow clang and, suddenly, the spell is broken. Then, it all comes crashing back.

He’s saying your name, but he sounds...different. Less breathy, less needy, and more like your patient, collected guitar teacher. Joel Miller. 56 years old, remember? Way too old for you, for your body to be reacting to him like this, and the man whose help you still desperately need to help complete your thesis.

Your eyes snap open and you realize with abject horror that you’ve been daydreaming this entire time. You can’t even imagine how long he’s been trying to get your attention while you’ve just been sitting here, fantasizing about his hands on you.

Not even ten minutes ago, you promised you wouldn’t get distracted, but you did. Again. And so much worse this time.

By his furrowed brow and the way he won’t even look at you, you must have accidentally said something out loud, too. Something totally inappropriate that you really shouldn’t have. But then, his hand twitches and your blood turns to ice.

That—fuck, that's not where it was before you zoned out. It was still on yours, arranging your fingers on the frets for the chord he was teaching you. He…he was asking about your hand, if it hurt, and then—

As if you’ve been burned, you quickly release his hand from where you’re clutching it between your legs—not just in your daydream, but in horrifying actuality. You’re screwed.

Not only is he probably going to kick you out of his house and refuse to be your teacher anymore, but he’ll likely tell your professor. And he’d have every right to. There’s no way you’ll be able to get anyone else to teach you after this.

The reason you’re here, everything you’ve worked so hard for, flashes before your eyes, catching fire and turning to ash. Your love for music, your degree—in the span of a single guitar lesson, you destroyed all of it.

And what would he think? Your father, your inspiration for choosing this path. He’d be so disappointed in you, though maybe not as much as you are right now.

All of this for what? The attractive, middle-aged guitar teacher you’ve known for less than an hour? He doesn’t even want you and, even if he did, that’s not what you came here for. Stupid, stupid.

You can feel his eyes on you, but you can’t bear to look at him, to say anything at all. Instead, you lean down to retrieve your guitar from where it still lies face down on the floor, and slowly stand up.

“I, uh…,” you croak out, fighting the urge to cry and look like even more of an idiot. You shake your head, unable to finish your sentence, and start to walk away, but then something miraculous happens.

Joel’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you from leaving. You turn back to him, eyebrows raised in shock, dropping your gaze to where his skin is touching yours. He doesn't let go.

“Look—,” he starts, and you wince. It’s never a good sign when someone starts a sentence like that. If all he’s trying to do is let you down easy, he shouldn’t have stopped you. He’s just shaming you even further. “—‘m not too sure what just happened here, but if you just—if ya sit back down, we can talk about it or…just keep goin’ with the lesson…”

You didn’t see that one coming.

“You want me to stay?” you ask dubiously. “Why?”

You search his eyes for the answers to all of the things you’re not understanding, but come up with nothing. He’s sitting on the couch watching you, still holding your hand like nothing’s wrong. Acting like none of this is a big deal, as if you didn’t basically just shove his hand down your pants without his consent.

“Still got a lot to teach ya. We didn’t even get through the first line of music,” he chuckles, his voice filled with such kindness. So much more than you deserve.

“Yeah, and that’s my fault. I—,” you pause, still trying to gather your thoughts, “—I crossed a line…made you uncomfortable. You really don’t have to do this.”

He sighs, rubbing his thumb soothingly into your wrist, and the gesture makes you shiver. Somehow it’s calming, even as the gears continue to turn in your head. You still can’t seem to grasp any of this or shake the feeling that there’s something wrong with this picture.

“Well, isn’t this supposed to be a favor for some big, important grade? Don’t ya need this to pass your class?”

He’s not wrong. Without his help, you’re basically fucked for the rest of the semester.

“Yeah, I...actually really do,” you answer hesitantly.

Hope blooms in your chest. Maybe your thesis isn’t totally lost. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll even be able to focus on your lessons.

“I think we can keep this professional. Don’t you?” he implores, brows raised.

He’s right again. That’s the only way this is going to work, but it’s still a reminder that he’s not interested in you in the slightest. You’re not sure why that feels so bad.

“Totally,” you breathe out, but your expression must betray your words because he rushes to reassure you.

“It’s not that I—look, I mean…you’re a beautiful girl ‘n all, but…,” he trails off, and…what?

Beautiful. He can’t have just said that out of the blue. Beautiful, of all the words he could’ve used to describe you right then. This man is driving you crazy—and he won’t stop.

“Can’t help feelin’ like maybe I gave ya the wrong impression. I took advantage of ya,” he looks away, pained, like this was all his fault. You have no idea how he came to that conclusion, but he’s got it all wrong.

“What—no. No, if anything, I took advantage of you. You were just trying to be a good teacher,” you shake your head furiously. “Look, I did this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t pull away, now, did I?”

His eyes meet yours again, darker than before, and you know for a fact you’re not making it up this time. The setting sun is casting shadows around his living room, across his 80s-style leather couch and carpet, illuminating every one of his handsome features.

And, yet, his eyes are black, endless voids that threaten to consume you. Whatever power he has over you feels dangerous. You knew you couldn’t have imagined it all.

But it's gone as quickly as it came. He clears his throat, dropping your wrist as if he finally came to his senses. Your patient, unaffected guitar teacher is back.

“I, uh, think maybe that about wraps it up for today,” he says with finality, standing up. “It's already eight, anyhow. You should head on home.”

Gently plucking the guitar from your hands, he zips it up in its case and gives it back to you. You nod, feeling grateful, but cautious...and also extremely curious. His hand finds the small of your back, leading you to the front door, and you try your best not to react as his fingers urge you forward.

You know you’ll be thinking about them later tonight, even though you really shouldn’t. About them finishing what you started earlier, taking care of you like you still want him to. Part of you hopes he’ll be thinking about yours, too.

His hand drops and he turns to you with a small smile, leaning on his arm against the doorframe.

"But, uh, same time tomorrow? And maybe put in a little practice time before then—stretch out those fingers so you're ready to play."

“Sure,” you reply breathily. “Same time tomorrow.”

thanks for reading! part ii coming soon 🥰

(p.s. how are we feeling about finger sucking...okay bye)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller

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zweiginator · 1 month

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teacher’s assistant!patrick who seems so coy and soft spoken. you’ve only heard him mutter to himself when the professor is speaking, only watched him nibble on the end of his pen and scribble into his calendar—a paper due next week, finals after that. he’s in charge of grading all of it, and as a graduate student he’s thankful for the job.

and he’s very professional. until he’s not. your paper was truly very good. and he could’ve made you happy, given you the A you deserved and left it at that. but instead, he marked it up with blood red ink, plastered question marks in the margins and scribbled analysis on the side that didn’t even make sense to you.

so you sniffled and knocked on his office door. you really need your A—you worked so hard. so you ask how you could’ve done better.

but as soon as patrick’s mouth parts, his hand running through his hair and his nose twitching, lifting his glasses ever so slightly—you can’t focus.

it’s impossible to listen to what he’s saying.

“does that make sense?” he pushes his glasses up.

your voice cracks and your cheeks blister with a red hot blush.

“um—“

he gets up and opts to sit next to you instead. says he’ll explain himself better. and this time you do listen, but patrick’s big hand rests on your bare thigh. he stares at you. wants to see how you react. this is wrong, he knows.

but you spread your legs, and patrick draws in a breath because he can see your white cotton panties, drenched.

“your analysis here—“ he points to your second paragraph. “isn’t a sound argument coming directly from your thesis. you would need to—“ his hand grips the flesh of your thigh, hard enough for his veins to protrude. his fingers inch closer and closer to your cunt, and you watch the bustle of the university outside of his door.

“oh—um. i can alter that, yeah.”

“yeah?” his fingers pull at the hem of your panties and you squeak. his forehead has beads of sweat forming near his brow as you stare at him, awaiting.

his fingers break the seal, pushing beneath your panties to rub at your slit. soaked for him, clit puffy and desperate for attention.

you wonder if he does this all the time, but you really more.

he drops his pen; it rolls beneath the table pushed flush against his desk. he crawls beneath it to retrieve it but he stays there, and you watch how his glasses fog as he breathes against your pussy.

he pushes his glasses onto his head.

“do you want this?”

you nod, gripping the sides of the wooden chair you’re on.

his breath inches closer. “tell me you want me to eat your fucking pussy.”

his words cut deeper this time; you’ve never heard him say more than a few at a time.

“please—eat my pussy, fuck-“

warmth, then wetness. a fat stripe licked up your soaked slit.

“yeah?” he spits on your cunt, rubbing it in with his deft fingers. “dirty fucking girl.” he suckles your clit into his mouth and you squeak. you move to cup his jaw in your hands; it tenses and relaxes as he laps at you, brows raised to stare at you with those pretty green eyes. he lets off. “are you a slut?”

you push his face into your cunt. “yes—i’m whatever you want me to be—“

a slap to your thigh. “so you’re a fucking slut.”

his tongue prods your hole and you gasp. his nose pokes against your pelvis; he’s buried into you and he likes it that way, arms hooked around your hips.

#patrick zweig smut

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pinkaditty · 5 months

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Beauty (Twisted Wonderland, Rook Hunt)

tiptoes into blog again but steps on a comically placed whoopee cushion and alerts the entirety of my eagerly awaiting readers

hey hi hi sorry this is 2 let you all know that i am ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i had 2 disappear 2 focus entirely on my studies bc i was due 2 graduate with honors soon and i needed 2 have ALL my work completed lol! anyways, im glad 2 say that soon i will be the proud owner of an early bachelor’s degree in pre-med. this honors thesis better look STUNNING on my fucking resume.

a/n: anyways YES im working on ur asks now that i have more free time yaaaaaaaaay!!! in the meantime enjoy this lol i wrote it entirely on a whim bc i saw the new rook card on twt and was like “hm. okay fine ass.” anyways let it be known i know VERY LITTLE about book 7 and Rook in general (ive seen spoilers but i don’t actively seek them out, plus i don't have the game anymore bc free palestine, fuck disney), so this might be ooc or an unusually placed scenario. please let me know how i can improve!

summary: rook’s back to his old self. he’s not sure of himself, but you have some choice words.

cw: suggestive!!!!!!!! minors DNI!!!!!!!!!, book 7 spoilers i think, gn!reader (specifics of reader’s physical attributes are not mentioned, but Rook uses the masculine French word for "dear"), NOT PROOFREAD!!!!.

MINORS DNI AS PER USUAL THIS IS SUGGESTIVE!! THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING MY BOUNDARY!!!

“Well, I admit… the version of me you see standing before you, cher, was not me at my prime…”

You stare curiously at the man before you. Unmistakably, this was Rook. Same French accent, albeit with a harsher twang, same upturned green eyes, same haunting, knowing smile. It was Rook, without a doubt. But, he was different. He looked different. His uniform wasn’t Pomefiore- it was Savanaclaw. His hair was longer and wilder, choppy bangs and uneven waves falling in his face and along his back. His skin was darker, a light tan present on his usually pristine, pale skin. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and crest of his cheeks, and a smattering of them was found on his shoulders and neck. He didn’t stand quite as tall; rather, he stood with a slight slouch. Bending forward just slightly, piercing green eyes peering at you from beneath the shadow of a wide-brim brown hat. Strangely, like this, he appeared considerably more predatory.

Suddenly, him previously being in Savanaclaw made sense.

However, this spurred a question in you. Not about his decision to change dorms, but about his words.

“What do you mean, not at your ‘prime’?”

You furrow your brows in confusion as you stare back at him, searching for answers. This Rook- with far more obvious muscle definition and hardened expressions- seemed quite at his fully-functioning peak. You step towards him, your eyes raking over his form, lingering at his rough, calloused hands on his hips, at his broad, freckle-covered chest, and at his perfect cupid’s bow, where a stray freckle laid. “Mon trickster,” he speaks, the sharp twang of his accent making you shiver. His lips rise into a knowing grin. Your eyes snap back up to his eyes, glued to you in irony. “It’s rude to stare.”

Your cheeks heat up only for a moment, but you wave him off. “Rook…” You start, giving him one more once over before glancing away again, not wanting to get too caught up in observing his proportions. “I don’t think this isn’t your prime. If anything…” You turn to him again, looking him in the eyes. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before hurriedly spitting out the words before you could regret them. “...I think you’re beautiful.”

You would expect Rook, of all people, to be unfazed by these words. However, he seems a bit taken aback, his eyes widening and his posture straightening, before he leans back forward again, his predatory smirk stretching wider across his face. “Merci, mon chéri, however, I do believe-”

“I mean it.” You quickly interrupt him, stopping him from beginning a self-depricating tirade of how unaccustomed he used to be to the concept of beauty. “I think you’re beautiful like this.” You face him head-on, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. This shouldn’t feel like confessing, but strangely, it does.

Now it’s Rook’s turn to blush. His smile fades, his eyes going from knowing to gentle curiosity. The warm redness of the blush spreads across his tan cheeks, accentuating the darkness of his freckles. Something about that is endearing to you, and for a moment, you are emboldened.

You step closer to him, to which he instinctively steps back, maintaining space while his senses are momentarily thrown off by his reaction to your praise. However, he doesn’t get to do that for long. He stumbles back into a stool, gripping onto its edge as he falls onto it, surprised. He would have known that was there, if not for your closeness and persistence. You move even closer, placing a knee between his thighs on the stool, boosting your height and leaning in to grab his face. He freezes, momentarily shocked by your bold actions, but he soon relaxes, his shoulders falling and his breathing returning to normal. He looks down, his eyes becoming hooded before he looks up at you again, his emerald gaze more alluring than before. He bites his lip before speaking, probably to distract you. Admittedly, it almost works. “Mon trickster…” He speaks again, and you wonder how anyone got used to hearing him speak, when such a harsh twang in a smooth accent contradicted so perfectly. He breathes shakily, a blush returning to his face. You deduced he was definitely trying to lure you in. “You’re being… awfully bold today. May I ask what’s brought this on-”

“Your imperfections are what makes your beauty!” You don’t shout, but you do raise your voice, ensuring his words are drowned out. Being this close to him makes you somewhat nervous, but you stand your ground, pressing your palms a little more into the flesh of his cheeks. He blinks at you confusedly, waiting for you to speak. You open your mouth to speak, but close it just as quickly, letting out a few false starts before sighing. You look away, taking a deep breath, before steeling yourself and facing him once more. Slowly, you let your eyes take in his face, until your gaze reaches his freckles, prominent against his tan skin. You find yourself stroking his freckles with your thumbs, gently tracing the nonsensical patterns in which they appear. You finally find your confidence again, and speak without thinking. “Your freckles and tan don’t tell me that you had bad or sensitive skin- they tell me that you loved the sun.” Your voice is so gentle it surprises yourself, not whispered, but low, and filled with a strange intimacy.

His eyes widen at your words, his lips parted. He breathes shakily, but something about it is genuine this time. His eyes remain fixated on yours, his thick eyebrows downturned in a strange mix of melancholy and yearning. You stroke his face more, and he relaxes, closing his eyes and letting you hold him. You begin to breathe shakily yourself, your body flushing with heat and your fingers beginning to tremble just slightly. You move your right hand from his cheek to his hair, not once lifting your palm. Your fingers gently move through his hair, holding the back of his head, and he leans into your touch, exhaling as your pinky brushes the back of his neck. You lean in as well, following him as he follows your touch. He opens one eye to peer at you curiously, gauging your next action. When you gently pull at his waves, his eye snaps shut again, and he disguises a moan as a throaty exhale. You speak again, led purely by the spur of the moment. “Your uneven bangs and wild hair don’t tell me that you didn’t care for it- it tells me that you took the time to let it grow, and chose not to restrict what was yours.” You say this close to his neck, your lips gently brushing against the shell of his ear. He shivers, gripping the stool harder.

You begin to pull back, keeping your palms to his skin. You move your right hand back to his cheek, where your left hand still rests on his other one. You pause for a moment before drifting both hands downwards, your palms and fingers tickling his jaw and neck. He leans his head back to allow you access, sighing quietly at the feeling. You gently trail your palms and fingers down his neck before finally resting at the base. You then gently drag your hands to his shoulders and squeeze them, looking up at him. His blush still remains, and his lips are still parted, his breathing still shaky. He gazes at you expectantly, as though eagerly awaiting your next bit of praise. You lean towards his face and press your forehead to his, looking down at his shoulders. “Your slouch does not tell me that you had bad posture- it tells me that you were shyer, and didn’t take pride in your appearance.” You begin to trail your palms down his shoulders, your fingers feather-light on his skin in their wake. He shivers at the gentle stimulation, closing his eyes again. His breathing gets heavier and shakier, and you begin to feel heat pool within you once more. You pull your head back, straightening up as your stare at him. Leaning your face close to his, you continue to trail your palms down his arms, your fingers lightly pressing into his muscles, mapping out the structure of his body. Eventually you lift your palms, using only your fingers to trail down his forearm, tracing the insides of his wrists. He hardly flinches, likely expecting this, but still shivers at the sensation. “It also tells me…” You continue, your lips mere inches from his, but not daring to move any closer, staring at his cupid’s bow and blonde lashes. Your fingers reach his hands, and you gently pry them from their grip on the stool, moving them to his lap, palms up. You trace your fingers along his rough, calloused palms and fingers, making shapes and patterns. “...That you took more pride in the things you did with your hands.” You press your palms into his and his eyes flutter open, not surprised to find you mere inches from his face. He exhales, his blush deepening. He blinks at you, knowing you still weren’t finished yet.

“Your imperfections lead me to your beauty. That’s why…” You trail off, lifting one hand from his palm and caressing his cheek once more. “...You’re beautiful.”

You begin to pull back, closing your eyes and quickly moving away, beginning to move your knee from between his thighs on the stool. However, he quickly grabs you, his fingers gripping the back of your uniform as he pulls you in. Your knee follows your movements, pushing into his inner thigh on the stool. He sharply inhales, looking down, before looking back up at you with hooded eyes. His eyes still look expectant, as though he still wants more.

“Mon trickster…” He says lowly, pulling you in further. Your knee presses harder against his inner thigh and your upper body closer towards his. He breathes shakily, moving one hand from the back of your uniform to the front, bunching some of it in his grasp. He tilts his head towards you, and you can feel his breath on your lips as your eyes lock with his. Heat flushes through your body again.

“Are there any other… imperfect beauties… that I possess, that you’d like to point out to me?”

rejoice! entertainment be upon ye!

a/n: okay but seriously, i hope u all enjoyed! i wrote this in like,, a few hours? for reference it is like. 5:45 am where i am as i type this LOLLLL! i was up lateee bc i no longer have schoolwork which meansss every spare second i have that im not working working, ill be doing these. anyways! please please pleeeeaaaasssseee leave a like, comment, and a reblog if u liked it! i love 2 know that u loved my work! ik its been a while but i promise 2 try 2 be more active… i swear!! oh, and leave an ask if u have any ideas about other things i should write!

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland smut #minors dni #rook twst #rook x reader #twst rook #rook hunt #rook twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt twisted wonderland #rook hunt twst #rook hunt x yuu #rook hunt smut #twst #rook hunt x mc

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bamfaholic · 1 month

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From Eden to Sit at Your Door

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Kurt x Reader | 2.8k words

Summary: Kurt visits home, Munich, and decides to sit across from you. With your limited vision, it takes time for you to catch on to who this man really is. Not that you're given much time at all before your life is in danger.

Summary:

You take another sip, nearly emptying your cup. “I’m sure you’re a wildcard yourself.” You offer him your name, finishing your tea. “What brings you back to Munich?”

He begins to raise his hand, perhaps offering a handshake, before quickly pulling away. He clears his throat, “Kurt Wagner, and homesickness, really. It has been years since I’ve been home.”

You offer him a sweet smile. “Welcome home, Kurt.”

Alternate summary: Kurt is on a mission, accidentally causes hijinks, and catches feelings for the reader. Even more hijinks ensue.

A/N: this originally was going to be a bullet hc of a blind!reader x Kurt and now it's a multi-part fic lol. The reader will probably turn into an oc but the cringe cop has me in cuffs

This fic has been posted to my AO3 as well! Support me and find my other works there!

On an Autmn morning, you lounged at your local café, just mere blocks from your flat. The wind nipped at the tips of your ears, rustling stray hairs free. You remained warm, though, with your wool coat and cup of peppermint tea in your palms. The harsh difference of the chilling wind and familiar warmth was a part of this routine you cherished. Slowly raising the cup to your lips, a sip warmed you from the inside out.

The workers knew you, knew your name, your story. Practically blind from birth, you couldn’t recall a time when you didn’t have a thick dark vignette frame your vision. Your eyes were often compared to translucent glass marbles, commonly in distaste. Every now and then you were even accused of being a mutant. You always replied with a scoff, wondering if simple biology had been thrown out the window ever since the Mutant Panic in the 70’s.

Though, it piqued your interest in university. You began to dig to see if mutants were similar, or even no different, than those disabled. Unfortunately, the hoops to jump through to acquire a degree with accommodations surmounted and you had to drop out. Your classmate and friend, however, still often visited to read to you scientific papers, and assisted you in writing a thesis in their free time. For now, you resorted to being an author, as you needed to express your ideas with the world.

Which is why you people watched. Each morning you had your cup of tea and watched the quick blurs and bursts of color, sometimes squinting to really focus on a detail. You listened to their words, their stories. It was all ample ammo for your works. You had fallen so lost in concentration, you failed to notice the man sit down at your table. You took a few more sips, savoring the flavors melting over your tongue. There was a flick of a distinct blue, such an unnatural color, that caught your eye.

“Ah, excuse me.” His German was natural, native, and yet there were inklings of an American influence. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting here.”

You turned your body to face him, setting your cup down on the coaster. “No, not at all.” You softly smiled. “It’s not often I have company.”

While odd in nature to encroach a stranger’s space, it didn’t bother you. You figured all the other seats were taken; it was a busy morning after all. If he was not to disturb your peace, then you would pay it no mind.

You scanned him up and down. From what you could tell, he was wearing a coat with a hood, and something a deep rich blue beneath. Lots of blue. He must really enjoy the color. Gears began to turn in your head, perhaps he could be a fountain of inspiration.

“Your eyes,” He began softly, appearing to nibble on a pastry, “I don’t think I’ve seen a color like that before.” His voice was bursting with excitement and curiosity.

You sigh, biting the inside of your cheek. Here we go... You were prepared to recite the speech you’ve given your entire life but decide to keep it short and sweet. “It’s glaucoma, my eyes shouldn’t look like this.”

“Ah, I see.” Another bite. “I apologize, I have never heard of such a condition before.”

You glance down, tracing the lip of your teacup with your fingertip. “Are you American? I hear it in your voice, but your German is perfect.” You decide to change the subject.

He chuckles, “Have I really been gone that long?” He softly mumbles to himself. “No, no I am not. I’m native to here, Munich, but I have been living in the states for some time. New York.”

“New York?” You raise a brow. “That must be so exciting.” A smile pulls at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see the city, is it as nice as they say?”

Another chuckle, heartier and from his chest this time. “It is far too glamorized. Very dirty, stinky.” He waves a hand. “But the people there… They are truly one of a kind.”

You take another sip, nearly emptying your cup. “I’m sure you’re a wildcard yourself.” You offer him your name, finishing your tea. “What brings you back to Munich?”

He begins to raise his hand, perhaps offering a handshake, before quickly pulling away. He clears his throat, “Kurt Wagner, and homesickness, really. It has been years since I’ve been home.”

You offer him a sweet smile. “Welcome home, Kurt.”

You hear his heart beat a little harder, faster. “Ah, thank you!” His cheeriness returns, and you surmise this is this natural state of being.

Now this man really has your attention. You curse yourself for not bringing your notebook. You just simply must engage him in more conversation. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’d love to hear about your time in America, where you plan to go and do while you’re here, back home. I hope it’s not too invasive.”

His tone tells on himself, making it clear he’s excited for someone to be interested in him. “Ah, well, in America I have found family.”

There’s a quick arch of blue that blurs behind his head. You blink. Did you just hallucinate?

“They truly are a gift from God.” He shakes his head. “You asked about my time in America, no? Not my family. Ahem.” He clears his throat and straightens himself in his seat. “I was rescued, in truth, I did not have the best life here in Munich. I used to be in the circus.” A smile slips across his lips as he reminisces. “They called me ‘The Great Nightcrawler.’” He spreads his hands out and open in front of him for added effect. “I was a trapeze artist, a great one.”

You hang onto every word, but bust out a giggle, “I assumed as much, with ‘Great’ being included in ‘The Great Nightcrawler’ and all.”

Kurt stumbles over himself, “Ah, yes- I suppose you are right.” He laughs in turn. “But I flew through the air with ease, to deafening applause.”

“Did you enjoy it? It sounds like you were beloved.” You muse.

“Aye, I did.” A beat passes, and his tone suddenly shifts somber. “Doing a performance, anyway. Any other time… It was not so great, the living conditions.”

Your lips form a tight frown. You won’t push himself to share what could be hurtful. The man links his hands together in front of him on the table. “A cage,” He begins. “I was kept in a cage, like an animal. Fed scraps, if anything. Force-fed beer after shows.” A broken, awkward laugh escapes his chest, “I would suddenly be a drunkard, not even knowing where in God’s Earth I was, then thrown into that harsh cold steel.”

You knit your eyebrows together, chewing the inside of your cheek more. A nervous, unhealthy habit you developed when the gears began to turn in your head. “How?” You squeak out. “How is that possible? How could they do that, isn’t it illegal?”

There’s a great, long pause. The shuffle of the pedestrians that wade by fill your ears. “I am a man of God, friend. I entrust in Him my life, my future. If He wished for me to… Endure that trial, then who am I to question Him.”

His answer left a sour taste in your mouth. He was dodging the issue at hand, you both knew that. You take a sharp inhale through your teeth, fidgeting with the hem of your one sleeve. It wasn’t uncommon to find someone faithful, and you had no gripes against Kurt for being so devout, but you just couldn't accept it being used as an excuse for flat-out abuse.

You open your mouth to press him without much thought, but luckily something else ensnares your attention. About twenty feet down the sidewalk, across the street, you hear the chatter of two policemen.

“There he is.” The one on the left gruffs.

“I see ‘im.” The other spits, “Bloody mutant.”

A mutant? Your heart leaps. Despite your infatuation with them, hungry to know more, you nearly never got to interact with one. You whip your head around, hoping that maybe despite your impaired vision, you could spot them in the crowd. Alas, the only strange figure is… The very man seated across from you.

Your heart now pounds in your ears, adrenaline searing through your veins. “Kurt,” You lower your voice, reaching out to grab his hand. “Please, just, trust me.”

“What?” He laughs, “Is there a joke coming? What is with the sudden seriousness, friend?” But as he sees your expression, his body tenses.

“Just walk with me. Do not look behind us.”

You rise from your seat, pushing it in beneath the table, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Still gripping his hand firmly, you begin to drag him down the street, blending in with the foot traffic.

“He’s starting to get away!” Your ears burn, hearing the police notice your failure to slip away.

It is only now your heart drops as you realize you have no idea what you are doing. Your guess about Kurt being the mutant is confirmed by the police’s reaction, but you didn’t think this far ahead. Where were you even going? What was the end goal? Walk to the end of the earth, hoping the police never catch up?

“Friend-“ Kurt begins, “What is the matter? What is going on?” His words slam into each other a tad, his breath hitching and increasing. He whips his head around, trying to see whatever had spooked you.

“The police,” You begin in a hiss, “They seem to be after you. I heard it.”

“Heard it?” He’s stunned. “Heard it where?”

You quickly yank him into a tight alleyway, a mere inch separates your chests as you face him. “Shh, watch. Across the street, they’re coming towards us. I’m sure they saw us dip in here.” You’re out of breath as your heart pounds against your ribcage. “I heard them talk about a mutant.”

It’s only now, being so up close and personal, do you truly see Kurt. It’s not that he likes the color blue, he is blue. His eyes are a dazzling gold. Two tiny points threaten to peek out from his lips, little fangs. Your eyes drift down, seeing a tail that ends in a pointed spade. You surmise that must have been the blur of blue from before.

“Y-You’re the mutant.” Your voice trembles, the adrenaline putting strain on your body. The realization of the pleasant fellow you spent your morning with being so… Different. You kick yourself for thinking that way, but it’s only result of the propaganda lining the streets. Your eyes are burning holes into him. You hear the blood rush to his face and ears, heart pounding.

You clutch your cane tighter, leaning into it. It’s not the best for you, as not only do you have Glaucoma, you happen to be blessed with the co-morbidity of Sickle Cell Anemia. Your joints are weaker than a healthy individual, and intense exercise, like running from the cops, is ill-advised. Your head swims as the tachycardia hits you like a tidal wave.

“Ah-“ Kurt raises his hands, hoping it eases your panic. “Aye, I am, but I am a friend. I won’t hurt you-“

Something whizzes by, grazing the bridge of your nose. Screams ring out in the street, pedestrians scrambling in every which way.

“Halt!” One of the officers bark, pointing some form of gun at the two of you. “You are being detained, mutant!”

The other steadily approaches, reaching for something hooked to his belt. Kurt’s eyes glance from the officers to you, and he closes the gap, wrapping his arms around you. “Take a breath, this may be disorienting.”

“Kurt, what-!“ You don’t get to finish, gasping as you feel yourself being hurled at a racing speed. It takes you by such surprise, you lose grip of your cane.

A plume of smoke clouds your vision as the smell of brimstone burns your nostrils. You cough, wobbling on your feet. You were dizzy before, but this was tilt-a-whirl level of topsy-turvy. You try to use your cane to steady yourself, but find that your weight is being supported by nothing at all.

You begin to head face first to what’s beneath you, but you’re caught by Kurt, his arm wrapping around your torso. “Careful there, friend.” He softly says, lifting you up. He refuses to release you until he’s certain you won’t go tumbling.

You blink. You were just in the alleyway, but now you’re peering down the city of Munich. The cops are just below you, and you see one officer ready his gun, aiming right for Kurt.

“Kurt!” You lunge toward him, the shingles of the roof unkind to being stepped on. It begins to slip away, sending you back down with gravity.

Another shot rings out. Kurt snatches you again, by your scruff, but he didn’t foresee the hit landing on you.

A curdling scream is ripped from your lungs, you feel the pierce of a needle in your side. In an instant, it feels cold, like liquid nitrogen being pumped in your veins. You look down, seeing a vial attached to the needle. Without much thought, you reach to grab it. Whatever it is, you want it out.

“No, don’t do that-“ Kurt firmly grasps your wrist. “I’m sorry, friend, but not until I know what they just dosed you with.”

“Dosed?” Your body not only feels frigid, as if you were tossed into a snow storm naked, it’s quickly increasing in mass. Your legs are growing limp.

“Aye.” His jaw locks, his gaze scanning down at the chaos below the two of you. “We must go.” He tosses you over his shoulder and whispers, “I am sorry.”

Another brief burst of frightening motion, another plume of smoke. It feels like being pitched like a baseball at record speeds. Your tea threatens to come back up from your stomach. You groan, rolling your head to the side. It’s strange seeing such familiar buildings from a birds-eye view, but you recognize you’ve moved a few blocks away in an instant.

You suffer a few more rounds of the sickening movement, before it finally ends. You’re in a cold, quiet bell tower. You’ve lost all sense of direction. You could be halfway across the globe for all you knew.

Kurt rests you against the wall, watching as your body slumps. “I am sorry, friend.” You try to move your head up, to hold his gaze, but you can’t. Your arms lay solid on the harsh stone.

Kurt crouches down, moving your coat away to inspect the projectile lodged in your side. “I am so sorry if this hurts. Please let me know.” His voice is so soft, as if he was speaking to a new born. It comforts you. He gently cups the tube in his hand, reading the inscription on the side. “Tch, American.” He spits.

He sighs, forcing a little smile for you. “Good news and bad news, friend.” He gently frees the needle out from you, ripping a pained gasp out of you. “It is just a tranquilizer, you will not die. It also happened to hit your liver, so it will flush out of your system quicker than usual. Bad news, you will be… Like this, for quite some time.”

You can’t even respond. You’re putting all your willpower into focusing on him, keeping your eyes open.

“But fret not, I will keep you safe!” He grins, slipping the tranquilizer into his pocket. “They do not call me the Great Nightcrawler for nothing.” He chuckles, but the worry lines on his face are crisp, even with your vision.

He glances over his shoulder. The chilly air only burns as wind whips across your features. You begin to shiver. When he looks back to you, he scrambles to slip off his coat, draping it on top of you. Underneath, he wears a tight black, red, and white uniform.

Silly, you think, your rational slipping, his circus outfit, here?

“Ah, I am so sorry.” He gently wipes a tear that you hadn’t registered. “You are safe, shh. Rest.” He pats your head.

You gain your senses for a moment, frustration boiling in you. You don’t, can’t, let yourself go. Not here, not now. You blink, again and again, fighting those heavy eyelids.

In astonishment, you watch as Kurt opens your satchel, rummaging around. He pulls out your wallet. Is he… Robbing you? How could he? You grumble in protest, but it falls on deaf ears. He places your wallet back in your bag, laying it gently in your lap.

“Rest easy, friend. I will return, I promise you.”

Smoke swirls in front of you, that now familiar burning smell hits you. The last thing you can recall is noticing a rosary, of all things, resting in your palm. The face of The Messiah watches you as you helplessly black out.

- - - -

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Find the fic here on AO3

Banners by @/cafekitsune

#my works #⚔️#kurt wagner #nightcrawler #x men evolution #xmen #x-men #kurt wagner x reader #nightcrawler x reader #gender neutral reader #fluff #angst #x reader #xmen x #reader #x-men x reader #xmen fanfic #x-men fanfic

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iheartdoll · 6 months

Text

Audio Recommendations 10

Irish guy gives you instructions (I found this in the mist of being in love with Paul Mescal and Hozier)

Road head as payment (SO imagine Steve or Eddie drive you to a drive through and offers to pay, so you pay him back with brain)

Role play ends up in car sex

"I'm not fucking you raw" (This was sent to me, everybody say thank you)

F4F Fdom Punishment (picture Robin getting more comfortable about being sexual with you, I really liked this)

F4F "Don't worry about the mess baby, I'll clean up later" (strap on)

F4F watching porn with your Dom Girlfriend (also strap on)

F4M orgasm denial (Nancy to Jonathan. I won't say anything else)

Fuckbuddy catches feeling for you and confesses after hooking up

Usually, it takes me a long time to put a list together, but there's been some good audios going around this time. Also, I should be writing my thesis, but I'd much rather do this instead.

To the person that asked me for more F4F audios, here they are. My problem with female audios is that sometimes I feel like their voices are to porn-ish, you know what I mean? However, I like the ones I found this time. This was quickly put together, so let me know if something doesn't work

Important message too: With this last post of audio recs, I'll probably take some time off since I'm in my last semester of college and I need to focus on that. I'll be saving audios I find for myself and share them whenever I come back. Please ask me for audios as well and message me if you enjoy my posts anyway! I love talking to you guys

As always, thanks for liking and reblogging. Here's the masterlist of audios where I've linked the search bar for you to use it!

#steve harrington #soundgasm #audiorecs #eddie munson #stranger things smut #strangerthings #steve harrington smut #smut #audiorecommendations #robin buckley #robin x nancy #robin buckley smut #nancy wheeler smut #nancy wheeler #steve harrington stranger things #jonathan byers

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thetriumphantpanda · 4 months

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close to you | javier peña

Take The Weight Off His Shoulders - Chapter Nine

Chapter Summary | A week of not hearing from Javi since he ran out has you tearing your hair out, so you throw yourself into your work as a distraction, with catastrophic consequences.

Chapter Warnings | mentions of drugs and the drug trade, alcohol consumption, threatening language, violence, blood, descriptions of a head injury and concussion, Javier Peña to the rescue, soft!Javi.

Pairing | dbf!Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count | 3.2k

Authors Note | I am forever appreciative of how patient you guys are for updates of this series! Thank you for hanging in there whilst my muse and creativity ebbs and flows, I love you all! We're getting towards the conclusion of this little story, with only a few chapters left so I hope you guys are still enjoying this! If you are enjoying this then reblogs and comments really do help and if you’d like to support me further, please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi.

I no longer use taglists. Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs to be notified of new updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Series Playlist

You wonder when staring at the work in front of you might actually yield something worth writing about. It’s all you’ve done since you picked up this stupid story and decided to chase it. Staring at the pages on your desk has become all the more common in the week since Javi ran out on you. He’s avoided your calls to his phone, you’ve not seen him around town, and the one time you decided to call the house, Chucho answered and with the most sincere voice you’d ever heard, told you he wasn’t in but that he promised he’d ask him to call you when he got back. That had been two days ago, so you’d practically given up all hope of ever hearing from him again.

For the first couple of days, you’d cursed yourself, wondering why you’d kept any of that stuff in the first place. Newspaper clippings and annotated notes about everything he and his team had done in Colombia. You didn’t need it anymore, thesis done, completed, and with a better mark than you could ever have hoped for. But until you’d seen him in the flesh, knew he was back for good and safe in Texas, it was the only way to feel close to him. Stupid for sure. But then the anger had set in - he’d no right to rifle through your drawers, pick up your notebooks and thumb through them. The barrage of different emotions was hard to deal with, and at the very base level, you missed him, you wanted him back, and you wanted to explain everything to him - that’s incredibly hard when he won’t answer his fucking phone though.

Turning your attention back to your work, you try and focus. You’ve met dead end after dead end with this stupid story and there really is only one place left for you to go. If it’s not Tyler then it has to be someone else in the family that’s involved. You can’t imagine it’s head of the family, so that really only leaves Tyler’s brother. It might be stupid and you might make a terrible enemy out of the mayor’s family, but there’s something else going on here and whatever it is, you’re going to get to the bottom of it, no matter how.

You can still never get over the size of the Johnson family home. Richard and his wife had two sons, one their pride, the other, not so much, but if you looked at their house, you’d think they had at least twelve children. No family needed this many rooms, you think, as you walk up the driveway.

It’s the early afternoon and you can see Garrett’s car parked in front of the house. Tyler will be at work, as will Richard, and you’re pretty sure their mother is never at home. You don’t really know what it is she does, but it’s some form of charitable work that involves travelling more than it does time at home.

You take a deep breath and ring the bell, waiting the appropriate amount of time before ringing it again. It’s a huge house after all, it must take a while to get from anywhere to the front door. A few seconds later, the door opens, and Garrett is stood in front of you, dressed in dress pants and a shirt that has the arms rolled up to the elbows. He smiles at you and opens the door a bit wider, invites you in - it’s much warmed than the reception you got from his brother.

“Lovely to see you,” He smiles, guiding you through the foyer and into the kitchen, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Water would be great, thank you.” You smile back, waiting for him to put a glass in front of you, topped up with water and fresh ice.

“I assume you’re here from the paper?” He asks, leaning cooly against the kitchen counter.

“That’s right,” You nod, sipping at the water, “Has Tyler spoken to you recently?”

Garrett shakes his head, “No, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks actually.”

You hum, nodding your head, thankful that you have the upper hand of surprise still - that this part of the family don’t know you’re sniffing around looking for a reason that one of their houses was used as some form of drug den.

“How have you been since Dylan died?” You ask, “I know you were really good friends.”

It’s a question that makes sense, they were very good friends, and although it’s been a while, you’re hoping your feigned concern for his mental welfare might make him open up.

“It’s been hard,” He starts, “He was my best friend, and to suddenly not have him around anymore…” He trails off, “I miss him.”

You nod, hoping the look of concern you think you’ve got across your face is projecting enough to make him feel like he can trust you.

“Was he the reason your dad has started being heavier with drugs in town?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Garrett nods, “He saw how fucked up it made me to lose my friend and decided enough was enough, that someone needed to do something to fix the trouble we’ve been having in town for years.”

There’s another nod from you, “Makes sense,” You offer, “Not really working very well though, is it?”

“These things take time.” He offers, in that perfectly practiced politician way that they always answer things.

“Look, I’m gonna cut to the chase Garrett,” You sigh, “That house in town that got raided recently? We’ve been looking into it and it all leads back to you, to your family, and it doesn’t matter who I ask, no-one knows why that place was being used as a drug den, but someone in this family knows exactly why.”

Garrett scoffs, “You’ll want to talk to my brother about that.”

“Well, that’s the thing Garrett,” You speak, “I did, and that man is clean as a whistle, he hasn’t taken drugs in at least a year, and the last time he was at the house, it was clear of anything,” You shrug, “I can’t imagine your dad being involved in anything like this, so that just leaves you.”

You can see his demeanour change almost immediately, he’s uncomfortable, moving from foot to foot and you can see the start of perspiration on his forehead.

“You’re telling me you think I’m involved in something?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

He pushes himself from the counter he’s been leaning against, takes a few steps towards you, trying to intimidate you, but you know you’re pushing in the right direction, he wouldn’t be reacting like this if you were barking up the wrong tree.

“Where’s your evidence?” He asks.

“Maybe you’ll have to buy the paper to find out?”

“Listen here you little bitch,” He spits, pointing his finger in your face, “You ought to be careful about this, you think this is just me?” He asks, stepping even closer to you, making your breath catch in your throat, “You think you publish this story and it’ll just be me you have to worry about? You’re dead wrong, publish whatever story you’re planning and you’ll have a rain of fucking fire to deal with from people you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.”

“So, it was you then?” You can help but smirk, having caught him redhanded in a confession, the recorder in your bag that you’d pressed on before he’d answered the door your little secret.

You watch some kind of fury flick over his eyes as he grits his teeth, his hands pressed into your shoulders to push you back, “Stupid little girl.” He says as he pushes, but it’s a lot harder than you’d anticipated and it makes you lose your balance, falling backward.

It all happens in a blur, the side of your head makes contact with the corner of the kitchen island, pain spreading almost immediately across your forehead, vision blurring as your backside hits the floor. You’re sort of aware of something warm and wet dripping down your cheek, which you brush away with the back of your hand as you try and quickly reorientate yourself. Then you feel a hand wrap around your arm and a presence next to you, not quite all there enough to push it away.

“Oh shit,” You hear Garrett speak next to you, “Shit, shit shit,” He’s touching your face now, “I'm sorry, I- oh god - I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

You groan, letting your head tip back against the cool marble of the kitchen island, “Am I-” You struggle to speak, “Am I bleeding?”

“Oh god-” Garrett mutters, “I’m going to be sick.”

And then he’s gone, the sound of his shoes clipping against the floor as he runs to God knows where, leaving you disorientated and bleeding on his kitchen floor. You know you need to get out of here, slowly moving yourself just enough to push yourself to your feet, hands gripping the counter as you reach for your bag. You’re dizzy as you walk towards the door, looking down at the floor because as soon as you look up, you feel like you’re going to throw up and pass out. You can see yourself leaving small drops of blood on the floor as you move - a trail that follows you all the way down the driveway and to your car. You fumble with your keys, dropping them on the floor. When you bend over to try and pick them up, your vision goes fuzzy before you can grab them from the ground. You know you can’t drive like this.

In the haze of confusion you look around, a little way down the street you spot a phone box. It’s slow going, but you make it, pulling open the door, leaning against the glass wall, pinching the bridge of your nose to try and ease the ache behind your eyes. You shuffle through your bag to find your wallet, pulling out a handful of coins that you push into the slot. You think about phoning your father, but realise there’s only one person you want right now. Despite having his number memorised, you pull the worn card from your wallet, mainly to make sure that the haze of confusion doesn’t make you dial the wrong number. You drag your thumb over the faded number, watching a smear of blood cover it, and then press the number into the dialling pad, listening to it start to ring.

“Please Javi,” You whisper, “Please answer.”

You’re about to lose hope, expecting the phone to ring out, but through some form of divine intervention, the ringing stops and you hear the voice you’ve craved all week.

“Peña?”

“Oh Javi,” You sigh out in relief, feeling the prick of tears behind your eyes, “Help me.”

“Cariño?”

“Javi please, I need you.”

“What’s happened?” You can hear his tone change, concern and something else you can’t quite place, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, I just-” The ache behind your eyes is making you tired, “I need you to come and get me.”

“Has something happened?”

“Yes,” You reply, “I’m so tired Javi, I can’t drive.”

“Where are you?”

“The mayor’s house,” You reply, “Well- no - I'm in the phone box down the road.”

“You stay right there, okay?” He’s frantic on the other end of the phone, you can tell.

“Please hurry.”

He’s beside himself as he drives from the ranch and into town. A week of avoiding you, of avoiding his feelings towards you, and you’re hurt. He still can’t think about what happened. He doesn’t even know why he’d answered the phone this time - he’d avoided answering anything that had come through on his phone since he’d run out on you before, but there’s something today that made him pick up, and by God is he pleased he did. He doesn’t think he could have lived with himself if he’d let you call and left you hurt and injured in the middle of nowhere.

He thinks of all the other women throughout his life that he's let down. Lorraine and the way he left her, Helena and the way she risked herself for him, for the promise of a fucking visa, and paid the price. Most women in his life ended up hurt, emotionally or physically, and it was becoming evident to him that you were no different.

Not knowing, and not caring about how many speed restrictions he breaks, he makes it to the phone box in record time, cutting the engine and slamming the door behind him. He takes four or five big steps to the phone box, tearing open the door to find you slumped on the floor, eyes fluttering open at the disturbance. He takes a deep breath, dropping to his knees in front of you.

“Cariño, it’s me,” He speaks softly, “Can you hear me?”

He takes your face in his hands, turns it towards the quickly fading light, finding the cut on your forehead. The blood has dried and scabbed over, but there’s a trail of crusting blood down your cheek and side of your neck. He thinks of Helena in this moment, about draping his jacket over her naked body, cradling her to his body, reluctantly handing her over to a paramedic, not knowing what would come of her.

“Javi?” Your voice is quiet, but your eyes are looking at him, glassed over, but at least you recognise him.

“That’s me,” He speaks softly, “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” You mumble, and then you shake your head in his hands, “Head hurts.”

“Shall we move you?” He asks, knowing he can’t leave you here, “Come here.”

Letting go of your face, he runs his palms down your arms to where your hands are clasped together. He gently pries open your fingers and takes hold of the card there, holding it up. It’s the card he’d given you with his number on, edges torn and worn. He can clearly see where you've run your fingers over the printed text, and where it's sat in your purse, pulled out and slotted bacon whenever you've needed him. He tries to take it, but your hand clasps over it again.

“Don’t,” You whisper, “It’s mine, don’t take it.”

“It’s okay, Cariño,” He replies, “I’ll keep it safe, just let me have it whilst we get you into the car.”

“My keys,” You mumble as he stands up, leaning down despite the protest of his knees and his back, “I dropped them.”

He’s scooping you up, not quite able to carry you, but able to lean you against his side to walk you to the passenger side of his truck.

“Where did you drop them?” He asks, settling you into the passenger seat, leaning across you to clip your seatbelt in.

“My car-” Your head lolls to the side, eyes hooded as you look at him, “On the ground.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, shutting the door gently. He finds your keys on the ground by your car, and then after checking that the doors are still locked, he shoves the keys into his pocket and focuses his attention back to you.

The drive out of town is slower, Javi conscious that he doesn’t want to jostle you too much. Each corner he turns makes you groan. He had considered taking you to your own home, but he decides instead to take you back to the ranch. He pulls up, noticing the lights on in the living room. He knows he’s going to have questions from his father, but he doesn’t worry about that, instead he focuses on getting you out of the truck and into the house.

There’s a look from Chucho when he bursts through the front door, but Javi gives him a clipped shake of his head and instead walks you up the stairs and into his room. He sits you down on the side of the bed, kissing your forehead as he grabs some supplies from his bathroom - a warm, damp washcloth and his bag of first aid supplies, put together by Chucho when he’d come back to the ranch - his dad not convinced he wouldn’t injure himself with the manual labour.

“Hey, cariño?” He speaks softly, on his knees in front of you, “Look at me?”

You do, but your eyes are barely open. He works quickly, wiping away the crusted blood from your face first before he turns his attention to the actual cut. Once he’s cleaned it a little, he can see it’s not as deep as he’d anticipated. He brushes it with an antiseptic wipe, soothing you when it stings enough to make you gasp, and then covers it with a small plaster.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble as he eases you back on the bed, head down on his pillows.

“What for?” He asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair from your face.

“Scaring you off.”

“Oh hermosa,” He breathes, feeling guilt pool in his stomach, nut not ready to quite face the conversation of what really made him run that night, “I’m here now, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.”

He listens to you groan in approval, moving your body to get a little more comfortable.

“What happened today?” He asks quietly, trying to keep you awake so he knows who did this to you.

“Went to the house,” You speak, punctuated with a yawn, “Asked Garrett about the house.”

It’s almost like you get a second wind, trying to sit up, but he knows you need to stay still, so he gently pushes you back down.

“It’s him Javi,” You groan, “He’s the one dealing the drugs.”

“Shhhhh,” It’s the only thing he can think to do, “Just rest, cariño, we can talk later.”

Javi sits there for longer than he needs. You’re softly snoring within minutes, but he still sits there to make sure you’re out for the count. When he’s sure you’re settled and still breathing, he heads downstairs, ignoring his father’s knowing look as he pours himself a generous amount of whiskey.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Javi shrugs, “I’m not sure,” He answers honestly, “It’s new.”

“Not that new,” Chucho huffs, “You were always shit at sneaking around,” He picks up his own drink, “Saw you after my birthday.”

Javi tips his head back and can’t help but chuckle because it’s true, he was never good at keeping things from his dad. He just hopes you’ve both done a better job at keeping things from your parents.

“You know what you’re doing with her?”

It’s a question he doesn’t really know how to answer, mulling over the answer in his mind before he lets his mouth speak.

“I just know I want to keep her safe,” He speaks, “And that I think I might love her.”

Javi watches as Chucho’s mouth grows into a smile, a small nod given in his direction.

“Will she be okay?”

Javi nods, “I think so yes, hit her head pretty hard, but I think after she’s slept she’ll be okay.”

Chucho pushes himself from his chair, draining his almost-empty cup. He puts it in the sink and then puts a warm hand on Javi’s shoulder with a squeeze.

“I just want you to be happy, finally,” He says, “That’s all that matters.”

Javi watches as he walks away, off to his room to sleep, and speaks into the silence of the empty kitchen once he’s gone, “Thanks, dad.”

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