#and it just feels Strange to feel all that time passing and have such vivid memories of what's not there anymore

[moonjxsung]

Reckless Convictions

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Pairing: Han Jisung x fem reader

W/c: 31.5K

Warnings: masturbation, perversion, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, dry humping, trespassing, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), fingering, cum eating, mention of cheating

Synopsis: Your senior year of college takes a strange turn when you develop a relationship with your professor.

18+. Mdni!

•

The first time you come across a coda in a piece of music, you are to ignore it. You may only jump to it once you’ve begun from the da segno symbol, and played through until reaching the written indication to return to the coda.

If we've passed the coda once, let this be our sign.

Come back to me.

•

Upon entering your senior year of college, the news is broken that the old lecture hall on the east side of campus is officially on its last leg as a functioning location for classes. You’re made aware of this through an email from the school’s president, detailing the intricate plans to demolish it entirely and build a new gymnasium in its place. And for the most part, the students are happy about this fact, whispering excitedly amongst themselves as they traverse the grand cherry wood flooring and picture all of the new sporting equipment this facility will soon house. They speak of the bright painted walls that will represent the school’s colors like every other new modern replacement for the old-fashioned buildings- cobalt blue and white, resembling that of a dentist’s office on most days. And they make sure to voice their very robust distaste for the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor of the lecture hall, the stairs always announcing the late arrival of students with the deafening creak of wood and a tarnished banister.

Yet as you hoist your bag further up your shoulder and follow a trail of students into the lecture hall for your first day back at classes, you can’t help but feel sorry for the old place, always having loved the courses you took here. A philosophy course one semester, where the ancient feel of the building only made stories of Greek myths more vivid as they graced your imagination. A writing course the semester after that, where your professor could hardly be bothered to properly read your essays, despite the attention to detail you gave to them. And now this course- the only remaining course with afternoon availability, something about the history of classical music.

One glance around the room tells you all you have to know about this course- it's full of students who couldn’t care less about courses pertaining to music, especially not general education ones for mindless credits. You reckon all of the students here would rather have landed art analysis, or even some form of a writing course, yet instead they’ll be stuck learning about Bach and Mozart for the next few months. Of course you’re not bothered by it, being a music major yourself, but it’s painfully evident in the way that they keep their faces glued to their cell phones and blow bubbles of gum as you wait for the arrival of the professor. The rows of chairs are fuller than you’d anticipated, groups of friends chatting amongst themselves, while those sitting alone are busy on their laptops or with headphones blasting muffled music.

You settle on a spot in the middle, away from most of the students already acquainted with each other, and cross your legs as you wait in silence. While the others groan about their courses and inquire about their remaining credits, you take in the sight of the lecture hall- it’s just as massive as you remember it from last semester, the ceiling housing patterned medallions and hanging pendant lamps that give a dim glow to the room. The seats are just as uncomfortable as you remember them, too, folding suede brown chairs that jerk violently if you move a little too much, and at the very bottom is a crescent-shaped desk and a tall podium reserved for the professor. It’s a little old, sure. And it smells like mothballs on most days- but it’s a shame to tear down someplace so historical like this.

Your course is set to start at three, and at almost five minutes past the mark, the students are visibly confused by the absence of a professor. You can hear them murmuring and speculating about canceled courses or retired professors, and it’s then that you realize you’re not even sure who the professor is. So you reach into your bag, pulling out your schedule for the one class you have today, and printed in bold black text to the right of the course name is the professor’s name.

Mr. Han, it reads, and you scan the name over a few times before shoving the paper back into your bag. You conclude he sounds like an older man, probably a little irritable toward students who couldn’t care less about music history. And he’s probably late to most of his classes like he is today, not bothering to be punctual for a group of students who will grow to despise him mere weeks into the semester.

A little past the ten minute mark, some students have begun to pack their belongings, ready to depart from the confines of the lecture hall and go inquire about why there’s no professor assigned to this course, maybe even beg for a switch of classes. And then, as though he can sense they’re making attempts at an escape, a man you can only assume to be the professor shoves past the double doors, a leather laptop case slung over his shoulder, making his way to the desk in rushed motions.

“Sorry, sorry,” he calls out, hoisting his bag over the desk and motioning for students to take their seats again.

“I apologize,” he reiterates, sighing deeply, hands tucked in his pockets as he glances around the room. It’s then that you notice he’s drenched, stringy black strands of his hair falling into his face, droplets of water speckled on the thin wireframe glasses that sit on his sharp nose.

And your second observation- he’s not old. In fact, he’s nothing close to the likes of the average professor- he’s attractive. Not just attractive- he’s alluring, captivating, like a model cut out from the thin pages of an editorial magazine. He’s tall, with a slim frame that contrasts his broad shoulders and sculpted biceps that protrude through the sleeves of his collared button up shirt. The white fabric clings around his broad chest so erotically, patches of dark gray rainwater conveniently providing you a better view, and his shirt is tucked into a tight pair of khaki slacks, hugging his toned thighs and leaving little to the imagination. He’s not even dressed provocatively, you mentally remark to yourself. He just looks like that.

All of this so perfectly complementing his flawlessly sculpted face, an angular jawline that clenches as he speaks, and plump pink lips that pull back to expose a pearly white and perfectly straight set of teeth. His pronounced nose bridge is made more attractive with his geeky pair of glasses, and those eyes- big and brown, framed by thick black eyelashes that flutter as he pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Lots of traffic when it rains,” he says sheepishly, pinching the frame of his glasses with two fingers and setting them so delicately back on his face. “It won’t happen again.”

And then he pulls his hands out of his pockets, leaning against the podium at the front of the room and taking a good look at the array of students.

“Welcome,” he announces, giving a small nod before continuing to speak. “My name is Professor Han. I’ll be your instructor for the duration of this course.”

He pulls back from the podium, shuffling through the leather bag on his desk and pulling out a stack of papers. The first student to the left is handed the stack, instructed to pass them to the back of the crowd as he explains it’s your course syllabus.

“Pretty much everything you need to know is listed here,” he says a little louder, as the room teems with echoing chatter. “I accept late work up to a week after it’s due, with a point subtracted every day it’s late. If you’re going to be later than 15 minutes, please don’t show at all. The stairs are too loud. Food and drinks are permitted, just don’t make a mess. And do whatever you want with phones and laptops, just shut off the sound.”

He paces back and forth as he speaks, his wet shoes squeaking along the tiled flooring as he does. He wears canvas sneakers with his fancy teaching attire, and he pulls them off remarkably well.

“A little bit about me,” he then says, and you perk up at his words, intrigued by just everything about his presence. “Been teaching here for about five years now, since I finished grad school. I love music, and I love music theory, so you’ll hear me talk about it a lot in between historical lectures. I teach three classes in total, all pertaining to music history, and in my free time, you can usually find me doing something related to music. Any questions?”

The class falls silent as his gaze scans the room, his curious eyes falling over the rows of seated figures who in reality, desperately want to ask him questions, but they’re also painfully shy in his presence. He gives a little nod as he takes note of their blank stares- and then his gaze falls momentarily over yours- staring directly into your paralyzed figure, almost as though he’s challenging you to ask him something, anything. But you don’t- you just remain seated, staring back at him, hoping the glowing blush on the tips of your ears doesn’t pick up under the dim lighting of the room.

“Okay,” says Professor Han, clasping his hands together and gesturing to the board behind him now. “Let’s see if I can figure out how to use this projector this time around.”

*

Lucky for you this semester, your schedule is sparse throughout the week, just a total of three classes on varying days. Which means you have ample free time to laze around your dorm when you’re not attending courses. Students make the most of their senior year, scoping out parties and sneaking out late at night to catch a movie or a quick bite- and you would join them, if you had people to join.

It’s not that you failed to make friends in the duration of your college career- in fact, you made solid efforts to befriend most of the people you came across, sometimes even allowing yourself to be dragged to a party and entertain mindless frat boys. But none of them stuck around, and you quickly realized they were much further from the simplicities you actually enjoy about college. Like the coffee shop on the second story of the student union, where the barista always adds a little too much caramel to your lattes. Or the windowed seat at the very back of the 8th story in the library, where when it rains, you can watch lines of people rush to their classes with hands over their heads and desperately clutching their umbrellas. Even your dorm room is a preferred spot for you, where you often find joy in curling up under your covers and getting lost in a good book. And although you’ve grown to love being alone, it’s a little jarring some nights, like the following Friday in your first week when almost everybody is out at a party, and the return to your dorm room is pitch quiet as you walk down the carpeted hallways. As you swing your door open, you gasp at the sight of your roommate, who’s not usually occupying her side of the room- not unless she needs something.

“Oh,” says Mina, as she places a stack of folded clothing into a large duffle bag and zips it up. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

You chuckle softly at her remark- of course you’d be here today. And the day after that, and the day after that… you’re always here. It’s Mina who seldom graces you with her presence, usually too busy at her boyfriend’s dorm or out with a group of friends.

“I’m here,” you say sheepishly, assuming your spot on the edge of your bed. Mina says nothing, raising her eyebrows a little and nodding, and you can tell she’s thinking about what a pathetic life you must lead.

You and Mina have never quite gotten along- not for reasons much more complicated than disagreements regarding her cleaning style or her boyfriend coming over unannounced. You’re simply from two separate worlds, and it’ll remain that way for the next few months until you graduate.

“I’m going to my boyfriend’s,” Mina announces unsurprisingly, hoisting the duffel bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Okay,” you say to her finally. “Have fun with Lucas. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She seems to roll her eyes as she makes her way out the door, not so much as a goodbye from her. And when the dorm is all to yourself again, you reach for the book on your shelf, one you’ve gotten halfway through since yesterday’s time spent alone, and curl up under the covers, the sound of gentle rain tapping on the window behind you.

By the time Monday rolls around, you’ve almost forgotten entirely who your course professors are.

It’s always taken you a few months to get situated with their lecture styles, and on occasion, even their names- but this semester in particular feels so unimportant. It’s your final one, after all, and while students talk excitedly about plans for the future and their graduation parties, the only thing you’re looking forward to is the physical degree you’ll get to leave here with.

Mondays are for your intermedia course, led by a professor who dismisses the class early almost every chance he gets. Wednesdays, you have another writing course, and you have to stop yourself from dozing off while students review their essays dissecting music theory during critique sessions. And Thursdays are spent in the old little lecture hall on the east side of campus with Professor Han. You’ve forgotten about him by the time your first official class with him rolls around, and you mentally scold yourself for dressing so casual in his presence when you remember how attractive he is.

When he saunters in, much earlier this time around, the students cease their chatter, and all eyes are on his handsome figure as he makes his way to the podium. He wears fitted slacks again, a knit sweater tucked into the belt that hugs his thin waist, and a collared white button down is visible at the neckline. His jet black hair is styled neatly out of his face to reveal his chiseled features, and his wireframe glasses are absent this time around, emphasizing the big brown eyes that peer back at his students.

“Good afternoon,” he says to the class, and they utter mumbled replies back at him.

“I hope you all had a good weekend,” he then remarks, pulling his laptop out of his bag plugging in a series of wires to set up the projector. The class remains quiet at this, not a single word from any of the students as they sip coffees and navigate their own laptops in hushed motions. Professor Han looks up at the class as his fingers hover over the mouse of his keyboard, his lips pulling into a grin, eyes forming little crescents as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“Come on guys,” he says dramatically. “Why are you so silent? You’re killing me.”

It’s the first time the classroom fills with laughter, and Professor Han seems to relax a little as he takes in the sight of smiling faces. He’s not quite sure he’ll ever get used to the silence that falls over college lectures, especially in the awkward first few weeks, when students are too scared to even look him straight in the eyes. And what Professor Han never quite grasps is that the students aren’t afraid of him- they’re intrigued by him, just the way that you are.

The girls wear full faces of makeup to a single 3pm lecture in hopes that he’ll take special notice of them, and the boys almost seem to mirror his dapper choices of clothing, trying their hand at knit crewnecks and slacks with canvas sneakers. Anybody who knows him concludes he’s just about one of the coolest professors around, yet he’s too consumed by his passion for music and theories of composers to take notice of anybody’s fascination for him.

And aside from that fact, he’s a professional at his job, only here for the purpose of lecturing and distributing course materials. He doesn’t make friends with other professors on campus, he doesn’t traverse these buildings when he doesn’t have to be here. And he certainly doesn’t care to know any of his students beyond the space of these four walls.

The projector starts up with a low hum, and a slideshow is promptly shone onto the wall across from you, a painting of some historical figure accompanying the title slide.

“I want to preface this lecture by saying that this particular composer is often deemed one of the greatest of his time, which is true for the Baroque period, and untrue in comparison to some of the other greats.”

There are stifled laughs from around the room as he makes his way to the screen at the top of the wall. As he transitions to a speech about the Baroque period, he reaches up to pull on the little string that dangles from the center, and your eyes can’t help but observe his lean figure as he does. The hem of his sweater is untucked from his slacks momentarily, revealing the small waist he flaunts beneath such a broad chest, and one hand reaches down promptly to cover himself again. It feels so wrong losing your focus from the lecture like this, your mind wandering places you know it shouldn’t be. Yet as he speaks, you can’t help but imagine what the rest of his chest must look like underneath the oversized knit that swallows his sculpted figure. Your eyes graze briefly over his navy slacks, ones that hug him so generously, and down to the stylish canvas sneakers he wears, the same ones he wore last time. They squeak along the tiled floor as he paces, hands gesturing passionately as he recounts the history of Johann Sebastian Bach, who you’ve only just realized this lecture is about.

“Not only was he a composer, but he was an organist, a harpsichordist and a violinist,” he explains, clicking the little remote in his hand and proceeding to the next slide. “He was a prolific part of the Baroque period, and he’s well-known today for some of his most famous instrumental and choral pieces.”

He paces the room confidently as he speaks, head down most of the time as he details accounts of Bach’s life, seemingly having memorized most of it.

“Does anybody happen to know any of his orchestral music? There’s one in particular he’s very famous for.”

The class falls silent again as Professor Han scans the room, pausing from clicking through slides as he awaits an answer. Nobody says anything, and all that fills the air are the sounds of keyboard clicking as they do their best to mindlessly copy his words. Without a second to properly think it over, and before you can even begin to doubt yourself, your hand is shot straight into the air, heart racing as his eyes fall to your seated figure, and then he gestures toward you, a small smile on his face.

“Yes!” he says enthusiastically. “Go ahead.”

“Brandenburg Concertos?” You voice quietly, a slight tremble in your voice as you speak. You’re not sure you’ve ever done adequate research on Bach- let alone any classical composer. But you are familiar with German history, and the Baroque period and the grand titles of symphonic pieces are still ingrained into your memory from years of piano lessons.

“That’s correct,” he replies, an amused breath escaping his lips as he speaks. His gaze lingers on yours for a second- just a brief second, not enough for the students to imply anything.

And Professor Han is admittedly fascinated by you himself, the question always marking the course as his first official question of the semester. One he’s never gotten the right answer to until now. In fact- one he’s never even had a student take a stab at answering until now. He’s well aware that no normal college student is going to have the Brandenburg Concertos in the back of their mind like the rest of the frivolous knowledge that dwells there, but perhaps he’s finally been assigned a student who gives the slightest shit about this course and its materials.

“Sorry- what was your name?” Professor Han then asks, the corner of his lip pulling into a half-smile before he proceeds with his lecture.

Students in front of you crane their necks to get a good look at you, and the peers on either side of you glance at the single sheet of notebook paper on your desk, scribbled with sparse notes in dark blue pen.

“Y/n,” you finally respond, your voice coming out more timid than you’d hoped it to. You feel microscopic with all eyes on you like this, quietly praying he’ll proceed with the lecture so that you can go back to admiring him from afar and in the comfortable silence of your thoughts.

“Y/n,” he repeats, giving a small nod, and then he finally transitions to the next slide.

Professor Han might not care to be on campus when he doesn’t have to- but that certainly doesn’t mean he’s generous about early dismissal when it comes to his courses. The analog clock above the doorway counts down the seconds before he finally dismisses his students- and even then, he’s not averse to keeping students a few minutes past to wrap up his lectures, either. While it’s a trait most students despise during their classes, not a single student utters a word of dismay when he requests just five minutes more of their time, their eyes still fixated on his pacing figure as he rushes through the remainder of his slides. He has a way of encapsulating a whole room when he speaks of ancient composers, like he’s meant to be up on a podium recounting Bach’s concertos. And the students soak up every last second they get to be in his presence, a sort of melancholia present in the room when they finally file out the door for the afternoon and back to their dorms.

When you find yourself lingering in the classroom a bit longer than the other students, completing the futile task of shifting around papers in your bag, Professor Han seems to take notice, glancing at you over the screen of his laptop and observing the way you shuffle about in the now silent room.

“Brandenburg Concertos, huh?” He calls out to you, and your gaze falls to him, where he’s seated at his desk, the familiar wireframe glasses now sitting upon the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” you respond, a little unsure of how to entertain the conversation without coming off as painfully awkward as you truly are.

Professor Han chuckles a little, and then he glances back to his laptop, typing something as he continues speaking.

“Nobody’s ever gotten that one right. In my five whole years of teaching.”

“Really?” You reply, thoroughly surprised nobody’s heard of the most famous orchestral pieces by one of the most significant composers.

“Nope,” he says plainly, shaking his head to affirm his answer. “Are you secretly a composer or something?”

It’s your turn to chuckle lightly, approaching his desk with your bag slung over your shoulder as you shake your head.

“Just years of piano,” you say to him.

“Piano? Very tricky instrument, it’s good to pick up when you’re still young.”

“I’ve been playing competitively for ten years,” you explain to him, heartbeat quickening a little as he lowers the screen of his laptop to make eye contact again.

“Wow,” he breathes out, thoroughly impressed by the fact. “I might have you teach a lecture or two, then.”

You chuckle in unison with him, shrugging as he pushes his glasses a little further up on his face.

“Convince them to put a piano in here and I’ll think about it,” you say to him. “I need a few course materials.”

“Deal,” he replies, narrowing his eyes a little as his lips pull into a smile, flashing you his perfect set of teeth. He glances around the room momentarily, and just as you think the conversation’s over, he sighs deeply, pushing back his laptop screen once more and continuing to type.

“Pity they’re tearing it down, though. A piano would have been a nice addition.”

It’s your turn to glance around the room, craning your neck up toward the tall medallion ceilings and elegantly crested walls. The room looks even more beautiful at this hour, rows upon rows of vacant brown chairs folded neatly back into their place, beams of afternoon sunlight streaming through the long glass windows on either side of the room.

“It is a shame,” you echo, grazing your fingertips along the smooth wooden finish of his desk. He seems to be lost in thought as he stares at his computer screen for a brief second, eyes glazed over as he remains silent. There’s not a sound in the room as he pauses his typing- no students remain in the hallways, no one taking notes in the stillness of the lecture hall. Just you and your professor, in silent thought about the unfortunate fate of the grand lecture hall.

“Maybe next year I’ll be teaching in a gymnasium,” he says finally, shooting you a sad smile and shrugging.

And then he winks at you- nothing romantic behind the gesture, just a brief blink of his left eye as he lets his gaze fall to yours.

And for the second time in the confines of this grand lecture hall, you pray the dim lighting doesn’t reveal the growing blush across your cheeks.

*

As the weeks pass, Professor Han’s lectures are stuck in your head like the piano melodies you’re so acquainted with. Beethoven Fidelio. Le nozze di Figaro. Adagio Cantabile.

The titles of famous composer pieces circle your mind like they’re suggestions by him, to you. And you like to think they are, when he’s slipping comments into his lectures about which pieces are his favorites, which are the most evocative and which ones he’s listened to the most.

The other students sit absentmindedly as he lectures, hearing the words he utters and writing notes like they’re translating his musical language to one they can comprehend. But they’re not listening to him- you’re certain they’ll never understand it the way that you do.

“Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake was my first piano recital piece,” you’d told him once after class. And the way his face lit up when you did, indulging you in a long list of reasons why he deems Tchaikovsky his favorite composer of the Romantic period.

“Only a genius could have produced 1812 Overture,” he said to you excitedly, throwing his head back in disbelief and slouching back in his swivel desk chair as he collected his thoughts.

“That’s the one he used real artillery as background noise in, right?” You had responded, a bright smile on your face as you spoke the common language only the two of you seemed to understand.

“And church bells!” He had responded excitedly, clasping his hands together as he recalled the booming melody.

And then he had played it for you- despite the two of you already knowing the piece very well. His slender fingers hovering over the keyboard of his laptop, searching for the overture he’s listened to almost daily in the duration of his career as a professor.

As a quiet stillness fell over the lecture hall following the departure of the last few students, the speakers echoed with the booming instrumentals of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture- the entire four minutes of the song. You watched in fascination as Professor Han gestured at his all favorite parts, waving his hand in the air to mirror the harsh eighth and sixteenth notes that span the intricate melody. Excited chuckles escaping his lips as the familiar sound of cannons could be heard in the background, followed by the lull of harmonious church bells.

It was then that he turned the music down a few notches, explaining how he helped teach this piece back when he still worked as a musical director. You recall the fleeting sadness that seemed to overtake him, his smile faltering a little as he seemed to think back to his time there. And when asked why he didn’t teach anymore, he had simply shrugged, failing to give you any sort of explanation for it. He just kept his gaze on his desk for a moment, snapping out of it seconds later, turning the volume up again and waving his hands in composing gestures as the song reached its end.

It was also the first time you recall feeling a little sorry for him, carefully observing the way these talks of music and composers seem to bring out a sort of sadness from within him. The dichotomy of him against the overtures he’s so drawn to- their booming crescendo notes and tempos noted allegro con brio, and yet when the lecture hall is empty and he’s all alone, he carries himself like a somber melody, beaming only with the mention of music and then shrinking like a diminuendo set of notes, dying down until a silence falls over the two of you again.

Some several weeks in, you’re certain the fascination is no longer rooted in lust, but simply a desire to speak this mutual language of music with him, the only time either of you ever really feel heard.

*

If someone were to tell you that you’d ever find interest between the pages of a course-assigned college textbook, you would have taken them for a complete liar. And yet you can’t help but find yourself engrossed in the textbook for this course, the thick red book taking complete precedence over the stack of unfinished books on your nightstand.

Weekends are spent flipping through the pages of quotes by famous composers, stories detailing their fast-paced lives and detailing all of their greatest accolades. You carefully study the music sheets, too, reading between the staff lines the same way you scan the plain text of the chapters. It comes to you easily, translating quarter notes to melodies you hum to yourself, reading key signatures like novel dedications.

And the book ignites a sort of spark in you again, reminding you of the days you still spend in front of the monochrome keys for hours, memorizing pieces and adding in your own annotations along the treble and bass.

So when Mina comes home one afternoon, desperate to borrow your textbook, you’re admittedly vexed by the request, reluctantly reaching into your bag to retrieve it for her.

“I didn’t know you had this course,” you say to her, wiping fingerprints off the matte cover and carefully handing it to her.

“Yeah, it’s the worst,” she says, making no effort to avoid transferring new fingerprints onto the cover as she stuffs it into her bag. “But the professor’s hot.”

And her mention of him is somehow vexing to you- of course she only sees the young, attractive professor he is, and not the sheer brilliance behind his lectures. Of course she doesn’t care to understand his background, his favorite historical pieces or take notice of the way he lightens up at the mention of his old days as a musical director. She’s just like the other students in your class- hearing him, but not really listening.

“Professor Han?” You inquire, knowing very well he’s the only professor who teaches that particular course.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching into her duffle bag and shuffling around for something. “Pretty sure he’s the only reason people still show up to that stupid class. I wonder if he goes for younger girls.”

She chuckles as she pulls out a tube of lipstick, uncapping it and reapplying the dark red tint to her pouty lips.

“I’m going to my boyfriend’s,” she then says to you, tucking the tube of lipstick back into her bag and pivoting to face you. “I can have your book back by Monday.”

“Could you have it back by early morning?” You say to her, voice almost cracking as you plead so desperately. “I really need it back before my quiz.”

You’ve already practically memorized the chapter you’re being quizzed on, but you’re always well-prepared for quizzes and tests in Professor Han’s course, reviewing the textbook a thousand times to earn the highest grade possible. You’d be ashamed to score any less than remarkable on his tests, feeling a need to prove to him that his course is something you take just as seriously as he does.

“I guess,” she says furrowing her brows a little at your desperation. “I’ll try to have my boyfriend drop it off before my class or something.”

“Tell Lucas it’s important,” you relay to her, as she keeps her gaze on yours. “I really need to pass this quiz.”

“I said I’ll try,” she emphasizes, making her way to the dorm with the same pink duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

And then she’s gone again, not so much as a wave goodbye as you’re left alone for the weekend.

*

By the time Monday rolls around, Mina is nowhere to be seen. She does this sometimes, spending entire weeks at her boyfriend’s apartment and ditching a long list of her classes.

Except along with the absence of your roommate, comes the absence of your textbook.

Lucas never shows on Monday to return your textbook, and Mina is completely MIA when you try to call or text. So by Thursday, you have no choice but to attempt your quiz without having read the textbook chapter a millionth time.

“Welcome, welcome,” Professor Han calls out as students take their seats. “Put your phones away and get out a pen or a pencil. We’ll start the quiz in a few minutes.”

You occupy the seat at the very front, where you always do now, and wait patiently as he digs around his bag for the stack of quizzes.

“This quiz covers all of chapter 7,” he says, passing along the stack of papers and instructing students to distribute them across the room. “You have 30 minutes from now. If you have questions, please raise your hand and I’ll come to you. Other than that, good luck.”

And the room falls silent as he makes his way back to his desk, the etching sound of pencils scribbling on paper as students begin their quizzes. You swallow nervously, scrawling your name across the top of the paper, and then let your gaze fall to the first question.

Name one the symphonic pieces Ludwig van Beethoven was famous for.

Your lips pull into a knowing smile as you pencil in a response with ease- Symphony No. 5, the same one you discoursed with Professor Han about just last week.

What time period defined Classical antiquity?

Between the 8th century BC and the 5th century AD, you write down quickly, moving on to the next question.

From his desk across from you, Professor Han glances over the screen of his laptop at your slouched figure, observing how you pencil in responses quicker than any of the other students, without even taking a moment to think over the answers. He smiles to himself a little, amused at the clear indication of the only music major in here, a clear liking for this subject the way he has, unlike the students rushing through his course for credits. His eyes fall back onto his laptop screen where he begins to work on an email, and yet before he can continue, you’re sauntering over to his desk with your quiz in hand.

“You’re finished already?” He inquires, lowering the top of his laptop to meet your gaze.

“Yes,” you say simply, sliding him the sheet of paper and giving him a little nod.

He grasps your quiz between his calloused fingers, and just like you assured him, every line is complete with a clear response in pencil.

“I can grade it right now since you’re the only one finished,” he asks, a challenging expression on his face as you stand confidently across him.

“Sure,” you say, gesturing to the paper as he retrieves a red pen from his bag.

You watch with bated breath as he scans the first question with the tip of his uncapped pen, giving a small nod as he then moves on to the next. The second question is the same, Professor Han looking it over and moving on to review the third now. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as he reviews your answers, despite being confident you’ve gotten at least the majority of them correct. Your gaze averts his seated figure as strands of his hair fall into his face, head hanging over your little sheet of paper as he checks and then double checks your responses.

“Yeah,” Professor Han finally says, sitting up straight once more and fidgeting with the red pen he neglected to even make use of. “It’s all right.”

He looks up at you with a curious expression, a kind of twinkle in the big eyes that are magnified by his geeky looking glasses. And his lips quiver with the intention to say something to you, but he can’t quite find the words. He’s simply taken aback by your skill, never having seen somebody share this similar level of knowledge regarding music history as he does. He wishes you would stay and discourse all your favorite pieces with him the way you normally do after his lectures, but the rest of the class remains quietly scribbling down their own answers, probably most of them incorrect like they usually are, and he can’t possibly request your presence for much longer in an unassuming fashion.

“You can leave early,” he whispers so as not to disturb the other test-takers, giving you a small nod as he slides the quiz into his bag.

“Really?”

“Yeah. That’s all I had planned for today. Just read chapters 8 and 9 for next class.”

You begin to pivot on your heel, excited to depart from class a little bit earlier today and hopefully catch up on other course work, despite this being your favorite class. But his words make you stop in your place, turning to face him once again and shrugging sheepishly.

“Professor, I…don’t have my textbook,” you say awkwardly, fiddling with the sleeve of your sweater as you speak. “My roommate borrowed it last Friday and I haven’t been able to get a hold of her. If there’s a PDF you know of, or maybe a library rental-”

He doesn’t let you finish before he’s reaching into his bag again, pulling out his own textbook and sliding it across the desk to you.

“Take mine with you,” he says confidently, giving you a thin-lipped smile. “Just remember to bring it back next week.”

“Are you sure?” You question, taking the thick book from his grasp and flipping it over to examine the cover. It looks a little different than yours, a varying colored font on the cover and much yellower, older pages, but it’s the exact same book as the one you’ve familiarized yourself with so well already.

“Positive. I think you’ll enjoy the next two chapters, too. Lots of piano stuff.”

He grins as he finishes, flashing you his signature toothy smile, and you feel your heart flutter at the fact that he’s even remembered you play the piano.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” you reply, tucking the book under your arm and smiling back at him. You hope that nobody behind you suspects why you’ve been standing at his desk for just a little too long, but you’re entranced by his presence in the silence of the room, wishing so badly you could stay and ask him about all of his favorite pieces like you normally do after class is dismissed. But you can’t be sure if they’ve taken notice, and you make your departure, anyway, giving Professor Han a small wave as you finally make your way out of the class and to the hallway.

Inside the lecture hall, Professor Han observes the remainder of the students working on their quizzes, not missing the way they visibly struggle to comprehend some of the questions or make guesses to material they should definitely know by now. And it’s a familiar sight to him, seeing his students disregard the course entirely and drag their feet just enough to pass the course.

You seem to be the only exception, though, thoroughly understanding and even enjoying the course material. And try as he might to brush off the thought of you, he can’t seem to, fascinated by the way you not only hear him, but listen to him, making his role on campus feel a little less futile- something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

His brows are furrowed as he works on his laptop, the room teeming with the scribbling noises of doubtful penciled-in answers by students on their quizzes and the subsequent erasing because they simply don’t know. But you know- you always know. Like the passing moments after class in which you indulge him in a fact about your journey as a music major, and he’ll often gift you with tales from his days as a prestigious symphonic director.

And you always send him off with a benevolent wave, tucking your hair behind your ear and sauntering out so gracefully, your short skirt flowing with your purposeful strides back to your dorm room.

Not that he’s taken notice of you, of course. Not that he sometimes prays you’ll be the last one out the room so that he can try to impress you with a fact about his musical knowledge or earn little anecdotes about your life he pieces together. That would be entirely inappropriate considering he’s a professor and you’re his student- and no fleeting amount of finally feeling listened to could change that fact.

Conversely, is he wrong to admit to himself that he’s fascinated by your musical knowledge? That the silence of the room is more unnerving when you’ve already gone home for the day?

Furthermore, that he doesn’t feel like such a loser when you beam at his stories and press him for more details about his musical career? Of course he can’t admit it to himself, because that would be entirely inappropriate- he’s a professor, and you’re just a student. But as he remains in front of his laptop, his eyes scanning the room at the students who are lost in thought- or lack of, rather, there’s only one empty seat in the front row. A seat typically occupied by your graceful presence, where you do your best to avoid making heavy eye contact, too, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and smiling at all his jokes. And inappropriate as it may be to admit it, he misses you when you’re not around- musical conversations, the sight of your delicate figure seated and paying attention to him and only him. Learning, listening.

*

The library is empty that same weekend, the gentle tap of rain on the window closest to you making for a peaceful ambiance as you settle on the velvet cushions of the vacant sofa. In your possession, a warm cup of coffee, as well as Professor Han’s textbook, held tightly in your grasp as you navigate to the inside cover.

Mr. Han, the inside hard cover reads, written neatly along the bolded black line. You smile to yourself, grazing the tips of your fingers along the black sharpie, imagining how he’d looked when he first penned it in. Probably the same way he does now, his big eyes blinking as he cocked his head in concentration and grasped the pen between his slender fingers.

You wonder briefly how old his book is- it appears much older than yours, the pages thin and worn like it’s something he’s utilized for a good while. Your fingers skim the smooth stack of pages before thumbing to the inside, landing on chapter 8 as he requested for this week’s reading assignment. And you smile as you do, taking careful note of the state of his book pages.

Surrounding the small black text, in disarray and almost indistinguishable in loopy blue penmanship, are his annotations, carefully analyzing the sentences as though he’s studied them a million times.

“Written at just five years old!” One sentence reads, underlining a sentence describing Mozart’s Minuet in G major. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, fascinated at the fact that he annotates with the exact same level of enthusiasm he speaks of these pieces.

Another annotation specifies how Mozart’s music was tuned to 432 hertz, a frequency commonly associated with instilling a sense of peace and calmness within one’s body. And as you continue reading the bolded text of the chapter, his annotations provide a clearer image into the history of the composers, detailing minuscule facts about their lives and their music. They aren’t facts mentioned in the book, but rather ones he seemed to know based off memory alone, and you’re impressed he’s able to retain such a vast collection of information pertaining to the subjects. Some excerpts are simply marked with a “wow!” Or a series of exclamation points, and you find yourself endeared to how much of a clear liking he’s taken to the work of a textbook chapter.

As you skim a paragraph explaining the intricate work of Piano Sonata no. 12, his familiar blue annotation catches your eye again, except this time, it feels as though it transcends the page and speaks to you.

“Listen to this one,” it reads, underlined twice in blue pen. And for a moment, the thought overtakes you that he may be telling you to listen to it.

The sentence looks so intentional, almost begging for you to give into the simple request. The implication of underlining it not once, but twice, knowing he’s the only one reading this book. Except maybe he had intended to lend it to you, so that you might take the suggestion and listen to it like he had when he annotated it.

So without another second wasted on analyzing his intentions, you pull out your phone, popping in your earbuds and selecting Mozart’s Piano Sonata no.12 from a list of classical pieces. The piece is almost 20 minutes long, a fact which you find comfort in, knowing you get to think about Professor Han for the entirety of the 20 minutes you’re listening to his suggestion.

The notes begin short and vibrant, melting into one another with such fluidity and color. You shut your eyes to the flowing melody, letting yourself melt with the harmony and become one with Professor Han’s recommendation. And 30 seconds in, there’s a shift, from the joyful tune to a more rushed one, notes transitioning to staccato touches along the keyboard and picking up in pace. Like a gentle stride to a fast-paced sprint, similar to many of the tunes you lose yourself in completely while performing.

Then back to a gentler tune again, the pace slowing down once more and moving again in gentle strides. And just as you think it’s died down, the tune assumes both tempos- fast and then slow again, from a relaxed stroll to a purposeful sprint, in the direction of resolution and with every intention of taking your emotions for a wild ride in the process.

You scan the text again as you listen, indulging yourself in the complex history of Mozart’s experience writing the soulful piece, one he was presumed to have written in either Munich or whilst visiting Vienna. And you read Professor Han’s annotations in the process, heartbeat quickening as you allow yourself to imagine they’re all for you.

“This part is the best,” he annotates, referring to the melancholy movement that begins at nearly seven minutes in. It’s much slower, assuming a minor key and with little resolution at the end of every measure. Dragged-out half notes make up the majority of the piece which bewitches you, your mind racing with thoughts of Professor Han and his little inscriptions jotted down just for you.

The piece sounds a little like him- robust and enchanting, but with something more behind it all. Perhaps a story that’s dying to get out, a history he keeps tucked away in the back of his mind or even a secret he harbors. You think back to the way he gets when he speaks of his favorite pieces and his favorite composers- undoubtedly full of life and glowing with passion. And yet when questioned about his time directing, he’s quick to pull back again, shifting back into the professional composure he wears everyday, simply there to lecture from his memories alone and assign textbook pages as homework.

You’re not sure you’ve ever met somebody who mirrors your passion for music so well- like the two of you speak a language nobody else seems to comprehend. Even his annotations must look like gibberish to the masses, who probably wouldn’t bother to tune into Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 for the sole purpose of understanding him through it. Your alphabet transcends the English language- perhaps the two of you speak only in treble and bass, utilizing the eight notes available to you on a pin-straight staff and yet producing hundreds of thoughts in the process.

Ones that yearn to know him beyond the confines of a classroom, to understand who he was before all of this, before he was stuck in the old hall to the east of campus and made to preach to students who couldn’t give less of a shit about it all.

But you do- you always do.

And as the third movement begins at the 12-minute mark, the sounds of distressing melodies and ill-paced harmonies flooding your ears, you grasp a red pen in hand, leaning over his textbook and inscribing similar annotations to his.

“I love this one,” you scribble alongside his words, smiling to yourself as you converse on the thin pages of his old textbook. It doesn’t cross your mind once that your annotations will exist on the pages for eternity- in fact, you hope they do. You hope his message is received on the pages as much as they are by every inch of your yearning soul, that the bright red pen you wield contrasts so clearly against his blue marks and provides reciprocation to all of this passion.

“The third movement is my favorite,” you then note, scribbling something about the melody in juxtaposition to the evocative choice of tempo. And your annotations continue, and continue, all through the page, as though the book is yours and not something entirely borrowed.

The final paragraph is concluded by him with a simple sentence- one that critiques the lack of resolution.

“Discoordinate, fading notes,” it reads. “Feels like it’s missing something.”

And a bold decision it is, to make a record of Mozart having possibly forgotten something. But music is only reflective of your own emotions- perhaps it’s not Mozart forgetting something, but rather Professor Han feeling as though something’s missing. To you, the piece ends here- discoordinate fading notes that serve as the resolution. To Professor Han, there’s still something beyond those final few eighth notes, like the song isn’t reaching its full potential.

Beside his comment, one last penned-in annotation, one that you observe for a good while, reading it once, twice, and three times over as he practically offers a suggestion to Mozart himself.

“Coda?” It reads simply.

A coda- somewhat of an epilogue in music. It’s ignored the first time around- not really regarded by the musician until the da segno- to which a musician then plays until the indication to jump to the coda. And the coda serves as a resolution to the entire piece, typically a sonata, concluding with triumphant notes and the complete opposite of fading discoordination like Professor Han is so averse to.

You bring your red pen down to his comment, hovering the ballpoint tip over the paper for a moment, before making your final annotation along his pages.

A circle, with a cross in the center- a coda, a musical epilogue, an offer for resolution.

*

“Here’s your textbook,” Mina says casually when she finally returns that week, tossing it beside you on the bed and averting your gaze.

“Thanks,” you reply, entirely failing to confront her about having returned it a week later than you’d originally requested.

“I shouldn’t have even borrowed it,” she says with a frustrated huff. “I failed his stupid quiz.”

“Chapter 7?” You question, unsurprised by the admission to you.

“Yeah,” she replies, hoisting herself over her duvet and spreading her arms out behind her. “I don’t know a single person who’s passing that useless class.”

She keeps her gaze on the wall for a moment, and then she glances at you briefly, her expression unreadable as she speaks.

“Can’t believe I also have to waste my time at the stupid extra credit thing this week,” she announces, huffing as she concludes her speech.

You continue working on your laptop, not yet meeting her gaze as she rants, her legs dangling carelessly over the edge of the bed.

“What extra credit thing?”

Mina turns to look at you again, furrowing her brows together, almost in disbelief at your words.

“The extra credit thing Professor Han emailed about? There’s an exhibit at the art museum nearby for famous dead composers or something. If you turn in a ticket for proof you attended, you get like, 10 whole points or something.”

You stop typing on your laptop momentarily, glancing over the top of your screen to meet her gaze at last, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“This week?”

“Yeah,” she says, frowning slightly as you turn back to the computer. “You didn’t get the email about it?”

“I guess I didn’t,” you say to her, beginning to look up the event online. “I’ve been so busy.”

In reality, Professor Han’s email missed your inbox because you weren’t invited, consistently boasting an A in his class all semester. The extra credit is only intended for students like Mina, who are well on the route to failing his course without some form of extra credit. But to you, the event won’t serve as extra credit- it’s just an excuse to catch a glimpse of Professor Han again, maybe gain more insight into his favorite pieces and converse with him beyond the four walls of the lecture hall.

The rain is still coming down in sheets by the time your next lecture with Professor Han rolls around, the class much emptier than usual, most students opting to remain in the comfort of their dorm rooms. Professor Han produces a thought-provoking lecture on Mozart this time, conveying many of the works you read about in his textbook. And when his lecture concludes, he leans back against the podium, thanking all students who did attend today, an unspoken race against the clock unfolding as the two of you stall and wait for the rest of the students to clear out.

When the class is finally empty, he beckons for you with two fingers, remaining slouched against the podium and crossing his muscular arms out in front of him.

“I have your book,” you say to him, reaching into the bag slung around your shoulder.

He accepts it from your grasp, glancing at it briefly, before setting it down on his desk and folding his arms again. You want him to open it, to read your annotations and feel heard like the purpose your little scribbles are intended for. But he doesn’t- he just leaves it there, keeping his gaze on yours and remaining silent for a minute.

“What did you think of chapters 8 and 9?” He asks finally.

“Good stuff,” you say, giving him a shy nod. “I was familiar with a lot of it, but definitely still some new pieces I hadn’t heard of. I’ll try to get around to them when I can.”

Professor Han nods, and then you watch as he sprawls his hands out behind him, leaning back against the podium still and crossing his legs at the ankles.

“There’s an exhibit at the museum across the street later tonight,” he says, voice trembling a little as he speaks.

He’s not sure why he’s even bringing it up- maybe because he’s trying to keep the conversation course-related. It’s definitely not because he wants you to be there- a reckless way of thinking indeed.

“I know,” you say to him with a knowing smile. “I was wondering where my invite was for the extra credit.”

A breathy chuckle escapes his toothy grin as he holds his gaze on yours.

“You have a perfect score,” he replies in a low voice. “The extra credit is for people who are failing my class.”

“It can’t also be for art enthusiasts?” You retort, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I want to tour the dead composers gallery, too.”

Professor Han wants to entertain this- so, so badly. He wants to drop the professional act and flirt with you like you’re so clearly doing to him- but he can’t. You’re just a student, and it would be wrong to toy with the imbalance of power he holds over you. Still, there’s no reason you can’t also show to the exhibition, as a student who simply wants to partake in a walkthrough of the subject at hand. He can’t prohibit you from going, after all.

“I can’t give you any more credit,” Professor Han says with another breathy chuckle, cocking his head to look at you a little better. Your eyes sparkle as they stare back at him, a giddy smile plastered on your face and your hair tucked behind your ears between laughter as you meet his gaze again.

“But I can’t stop you from going, either.”

At this, he pivots on his heels, turning around to reach into the leather bag by his laptop. You watch curiously as he pulls out a small piece of paper, handing it to you and saying absolutely nothing.

But one glance at it tells you exactly what it is- a ticket to the exhibition, one that’s already been paid for. You remember Mina telling you she had purchased her ticket already, meaning this one was purchased for you- by Professor Han.

“Really?” You question with wide eyes, examining the ticket and then looking back at him with an excited smile.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Professor Han reiterates. “You asked for extra credit. And you bought that ticket yourself.”

At this, he cocks his head a little, and then he shoots you a wink the same way he did once before. Only this time, your heartbeat quickens at his actions, ones that seem to desperately seek out attention from you and even make attempts at getting closer to you.

“I wanted extra credit,” you repeat to him finally, shooting him a wink, too. “And I bought this ticket myself.”

*

The so-called “dead composer’s gallery” has been an extra credit assignment of Professor Han’s for all five years he’s been teaching. It’s hosted in the art museum right by campus, the same few paintings of composers he lectures about making the rotation every fall to tell stories of their lives and flaunt the work they produced. Students don’t typically care for it, showing up to walk the duration of the gallery in a rush, flashing their ticket to Professor Han and collecting an easy ten points so as not to repeat his class.

He’s aware of the fact that they don’t read a single one of the bronze plaques that detail the names of the composers, or that they audibly insult the paintings, despite Professor Han being within earshot of them in the quiet space that houses the art. But for him, it’s simply a way to avoid teaching the same set of students a second time. One semester of watching them drag their feet is enough, he’s always thought to himself.

Professor Han has walked the exhibit a plethora of times, thus he usually shows in a simple sweater and some jeans, and the students marvel at the sight of him dressed so casually unlike at his lectures. And despite the exhibit being no different than the last few years, he feels compelled to dress up for this visit, admiring his efforts in the mirror as he adjusts the collar of his white button-down and centers his tie.

Of course, deep down, he’ll never admit he’s dressed up for you tonight, his mind racing with the unprofessional thoughts that you might show up just for him. He’s usually a mere spectator at these exhibits, silently assuming a spot in the corner of the room as the students make their rounds and eye him nervously. He emphasizes the notion that asking questions is encouraged, or that the students are free to chat with him about their favorite paintings and apply them to his lectures. Yet they never do- they just pace the marble floors at an expeditious pace and send him off with the wave of their ticket, not a single painting having resonated with them in the process. Some of them even groan, or verbally complain about the task, as though Professor Han’s forced them here tonight, and not the near-failing grade so many of them are stuck with. As though he’s not doing them a favor by offering extra credit for such an easy task, and an enjoyable one at that- or at least to him.

Wet sneakers squeak along the marbled floors as the students make their rushed rounds, many of them accompanying groups of friends as they stifle laughter at the art and then make their departure with the flash of a ticket in Professor Han’s direction. He remains in the corner of the large gallery room, one hand shoved in the pocket of his black slacks, the other grasping a folded pamphlet as he skims the artist names and waits for students to approach, should they require his attention. Yet it’s a futile task, having been at the event for nearly two hours now as the students come and go.

Admittedly, and with all the profound guilt weighing deep in his chest, Professor Han can’t think about anything except for you, desperately scanning the halls and glancing at the doorway for the familiar sight of you sauntering in, a beaming smile on your face and purpose in every stride. The exhibit is near closing by this point, just a handful of students remaining as he glances around the room and watches them rush to finish touring the display.

And embarrassingly enough, he counts down the seconds on the silver wrist watch he wears, hoping maybe you’re just running late by chance.

As the little hands on his watch tick in seconds, and you’re still nowhere to be seen, the thought suddenly overtakes him that this is all so stupid. What is he thinking, waiting around for a student like this- one he teaches, and one he’s tried his best to avoid having non-platonic thoughts about? It's silly. Not to mention- wildly inappropriate.

As Professor Han gathers his canvas bag hoisted over a nearby bench, and sends the last handful of students off with a polite bow, a quick turn of the corner confirms his first theory.

“Hi,” you say to Professor Han, bowing to him and tucking a wet strand of hair out of your face. “Sorry, I was running a bit late. Lots of rain outside.”

Professor Han can’t help but hold your gaze momentarily, enchanted by the sight of you, despite coming to the conclusion that this is wrong. If it’s wrong, he’ll have to sort out the logistics some other time- because you standing in front of him like this, dressed much more elegantly than he’s ever seen you, a smile on your face and already glancing around at the gallery at the works of art- everything about this feels right.

“Hi,” he says back, a nervous exhale escaping his lips as he does. He silently prays you can’t tell that he’s been waiting around for this all evening, longing to see you just once tonight and maybe talk about musical composers the way he’s been dreaming of.

“Vivaldi?” You question, brushing your way past him to the giant painting across from you, depicting the famous composer in a red robe clutching his signature violin. “I’m assuming, by the violin.”

“Yeah,” Professor Han says, turning to face the painting, too. “Kind of a scary dude, isn’t he?”

Professor Han realizes you’re the first student to make a single comment about one of the paintings here- a fact he’s well endeared by, and simultaneously completely unsurprised by.

“Debatable,” you respond. “For his portfolio alone, sure. But if we’re talking looks, I think Brahms might win this one.”

Your eyes shift to the left of Vivaldi’s at the cold stare of Johannes Brahms, a long white beard and a sharp mustache framing his glaring eyes. Professor Han laughs lightly, and then he takes note of the way you cock your head at the bronze plaque, reading a detailed little account of Brahms and scanning the art as you do.

“Brahms wasn’t scary,” he finally says with a shrug of his shoulders. “He was actually really lonely.”

“Yeah?” You question back, observing the way he stares up at the painting.

“Yeah,” he affirms. “There was a long-standing rumor that he had a crush on pianist Clara Schumann- of course she was already married. Some think Clara may have cheated and secretly reciprocated feelings for Brahms, too- but regardless, he died alone.”

The space is quiet between you both, a sort of melancholia falling over you two as you piece together the story in your mind. You can’t help but imagine how lonely it must have been for Brahms, keeping his love for Clara a complete secret in the presence of her spouse. A love so strong and so unmoving that he chose to die alone rather than find a woman that served as replacement for the love he felt for Clara.

Your mind paints images of Brahms and Clara together, his gaze fixed on hers and so helplessly in love while she was wed to another man all along.

“That’s tragic,” you say finally, feeling a pit form in your chest. “What a lonely life it must’ve been.”

Professor Han seems to take note of your change in tone, perking up a little as he chimes in again.

“He still had his music,” he says to you. “And a very successful career.”

And your head cocks again at Brahms’ face across from you, a stoic expression in his eyes and his thin-lipped pout- almost as though he was hiding part of himself from the masses all along.

“But he didn’t have the one thing he wanted,” you finish telling him.

Professor Han says nothing, giving a small bow to the painting with his arms tucked behind his back. He searches for the words to say, ones that might comfort you in this pity you take on him. But he can’t, feeling as though you may be right.

Brahms had music, a successful career composing everything from Wiegenlied to Symphonies 1 and 3, a long list of credits and enough fortune to travel the world when he wasn’t producing excellency. But he never had Clara Schumann- a tragic unrequited love he took with him to the grave. Could the tender touches and kindred soul of a lover ever be replaced by half and eighth notes on a staff? By the wave of a baton in a sea of brass and wooden reeds? Was he happy, simultaneously getting everything he wanted and nothing he dreamed of?

Johannes Brahms never had Clara Schumann. And conversely, perhaps Professor Han will never get close to what he wants, either.

The dead composer’s gallery quickly proves to be a lot more tragic than you’d anticipated. The paintings are beautiful- grand golden crested frames that house detailed depictions of famous composers, wearing powdered wigs and fancy dress robes. And every stride to the next work of art is accompanied by Professor Han’s tragic, detailed account of their love lives.

“Tchaikovsky was gay during a time when it was highly illegal,” Professor Han explains. “He had a long list of gay lovers with whom he’d write romantic letters to, and he came under heavy scrutiny when it was made public- especially since he was already of a low social class.”

“Must’ve been terrifying,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes at the intense stare of his painted portrait. “What did he do?”

Professor Han is quiet for a moment, glancing over at you and parting his lips as though he’s going to say something. But he simply remains silent, staring back up at the painting and swallowing nervously.

It’s only when you glance over at him, raising your eyebrows a little in the direction of his looming figure and almost gesturing for him to continue, that he reluctantly provides an answer to your question.

“He married a student,” Professor Han says quietly.

And he understands very well what the implications are here, producing stories of instructors being romantically involved with their students, when he’s here with a student himself.

Here with you, the very same student he’s been waiting on all evening. The student he’s enjoying telling stories of composers and their romantic involvements to, and the same student he’ll find any excuse to spend more time with once the dead composers gallery is already closed for the night.

“They didn’t last, of course,” Professor Han then continues. “It was impulsive, and they were severely incompatible. Not to mention his heart already belonged to another.”

It’s your turn to get quiet, simply nodding at his words and piecing together tidbits of Tchaikovsky’s tragic romance.

“Professor,” you say to him suddenly, turning to face him with a small smile on your face. “How do you know so much about the romantic histories of famous composers, anyway? Is this part of your lecture style?”

Professor Han chuckles lightly in response, his eyes forming little crescents as his lips pull back into a big grin. He looks much happier here like this, compared to the way he carries himself during his teaching- more laid back, comfortable, even.

“I think you have to understand where they fell short in romance,” he says, maintaining the same warm smile on his face. “It’s where most of the passion, and pain alike, stemmed from in their pieces. The sheer intensity of some of the orchestral or symphonic pieces, they’re…” his voice trails off momentarily, observing a painting of Mozart on the wall in front of the two of you, whose story he hasn’t even indulged you in yet as the museum staff prepare to close for the evening. He tilts his head to one side, pondering his words briefly and giving a little nod before continuing.

“They’re all crafted from yearning in one way or another.”

*

The evening rainfall is torrential outside, the sidewalks almost empty as people seek shelter in the safety of their cars and apartments. Once you’ve both exited the museum, Professor Han remains under the concrete roof that spans the entrance, looking out at the glistening pavement roads that reflect with red and green traffic lighting.

“Are you parked on the street?” He asks hesitantly, his hands shoved in the pocket of his slacks as he awaits your reply.

“I walked here,” you say to him, a light chuckle escaping your lips. “My dorm’s just a few blocks away.”

His eyes widen at the admission, thinking back to where his car is parked, just around the corner in the museum’s designated parking garage. He debates offering you a ride, but he knows it’d be in his best interest to avoid being alone in a car with the one woman he so dangerously can’t stop thinking about.

“Do you need a ride?” He then asks, the words leaving his lips before he can even stop himself. It’s like he’s overtaken by another version of himself- one who can’t cease this little chase you’re indulging him in, too.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you respond, a sheepish smile on your face as you try to veil the fact that you’re elated he’s even offered.

One more chance to make things right- and yet there’s no discernible boundary between what feels right, and what is right.

“It’s not a burden,” he affirms. “It’s not safe to walk home in this rain.”

Your gaze meets his, a sort of triumphant smile pulling on your lips as he cocks his head in the direction of the parking garage. There’s no distinctive plan either of you have in mind, but you’re also drawn to each other, admittedly wanting nothing more than to find little excuses to put off your departure for the evening.

He begins in the direction of the garage without even waiting for verbal confirmation, and yet he doesn’t have to, because you’re already trailing alongside him like it’s been your plan all this time. You maintain a giddy smile on your face as you both brave the rain together beyond the concrete ceiling of the museum entrance, tucking your necks into your shoulders and laughing as the rain drenches your clothes completely, strands of hair falling into your face and dribbling rainwater down your glowing cheeks.

“It’s just past here!” he calls out over the deafening sounds of rainfall, squinting his eyes amidst the drops of water that weigh on his eyelashes and making out the faint outline of his car in the dimly lit parking garage.

You trail behind him as he gestures for you to follow, also catching a glimpse of his parked car in the garage, seemingly the only remaining one at this hour.

Professor Han opens the passenger door for you, stringy pieces of hair falling into his face as he gestures for you to get in. And you do without hesitation, smoothing down your skirt and occupying the sleek black leather seat. When the door is shut, there’s a brief silence that falls over you as he makes his way around to the driver’s side, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror. Your makeup is a little smeared from the rain, wet hair slicked down and your clothes clinging to your figure with dampened spots. But for the first time in a long while, you look happy, finally making use of your time beyond the walls of your dorm room.

Professor Han slides into his seat at last, the door shutting promptly beside him, and he runs his slender fingers through the slick black strands of hair that fall into his face. You watch him curiously, heart racing at the sight of him so close to you, your bodies almost touching if not for the center console that so conveniently separates your yearning bodies. Drops of rainwater find purchase on his bent knees, further dampening his slacks as he wrings out his jet black hair over them. And he chuckles as he does, a little embarrassed he looks so disheveled in your presence.

When he hears you reciprocate with a gentle laugh, he turns to look at you, and it’s then that he realizes how dangerously close he is to you.

From this proximity, he can make out the spheres of rainwater that collect on your blushed cheeks, every last speck of mascara that collects under your eyelashes and flutters as you blink curiously at him. He can distinguish the lipstick you’ve strategically worn just for him, one that almost mirrors the natural pink shade of his pouty lips. He can feel the clear tension that bubbles over the center console as you lean in just a little, not enough to graze his mouth over yours, but certainly enough to feel the sharp breath that escapes his lips as he leans in, too.

And just as your eyes begin to shut, with every intention to kiss him right then and there, the sound of distant rainfall lessening as your rapid heartbeat fills your ears, he pulls back again.

“Sorry,” Professor Han remarks quietly, resting his hands on the steering wheel and shaking his head as though he's physically ridding himself of the urge to kiss you.

Your eyes open again, met with his trembling brown pupils that fixate on the dashboard in front of you both. And then he starts the car without another word, not yet backing out as he sits with his thoughts for a moment.

You desperately want to think he was going to kiss you, too, but you feel painfully stupid for being turned away like this in his car. Maybe it’s not how you’ve been reading into- maybe this is strictly a teacher-student relationship the way it’s supposed to be.

“Do you want to go back to your dorm?” He asks amidst the silence, not meeting your gaze. He’s scared he’ll get the urge to kiss you again, or that you might clock how nervous he is to be here with you.

You’re quiet for a moment, a little angry with things as you ponder the question. He’s not quite telling you to go home- but he isn’t asking you to stay, either. He’s just putting the ball in your court- both a safe, and a risky play at hand.

“No,” you voice finally.

He just nods at your response, clicking his tongue once and waiting for you to say something else. But you don’t- instead, you wait for him to say something else, too.

“Do you want to get out of the rain?” He then asks in a quiet voice, not specifying where that may imply. And although he doesn’t, you nod in agreement, meeting his gaze briefly as he reciprocates with an affirmative nod of his own.

*

Professor Han may have physically refuted the notion that kissing you in his car was anywhere near appropriate- and yet at this hour, the only place he can think to seek shelter from the rain with you is his apartment.

His apartment is nothing special at first glance, just your typical run-of-the-mill unit on the third floor of his building, but at a closer inspection, everything is exactly what you’d expect it to be.

Music sheets scattered along tables and couches, scribbled hastily with notes and annotations, much like his textbook was. A studio piano against the wall of his living room, the leather-seated bench that accompanies it stacked high with music theory books and more sheet music. The walls are decorated with rows of photographs, ones that you wish you could derive answers from, much like the dead composers gallery.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says sheepishly, peeling off his coat and draping it over the back of a chair.

Your arms are folded behind your back as you traverse the wooden floors as though this place is a museum, too. You relish in the sight of every decorative item, every sheet of music and every placement of his old-looking furniture, like it might give you more insight into exactly who Professor Han is. It’s just like he is- classic, enchanting, captivating.

“What are all these?” You ask him, pointing to a wall with a neat collage of photos.

At a closer inspection, you realize many of them include him, presumably from several years ago. He’s blonde in one of them, wearing a black pinstriped suit and a stylish pair of silver earrings. Another one shows him with midnight blue hair, the cool-toned hue contrasting rather beautifully against his tanned skin. His hair is still black in many of them, but he looks younger, dressed casually with a big smile plastered on his face.

And the most fascinating quality in all of them- he looks important. Like he’s a notable figure among the other subjects, usually standing in front of a podium or a music stand, sometimes with a baton grasped between his hands and raised in motion.

“Are these from your directing days?” You then ask, knowing the answer already.

It feels a little wrong to be seeing the photographs, almost as though they’re not supposed to be visible to just a student of his. They’re a glimpse into another life he’s lived- one you’re too late to be a part of. And more importantly, one he hasn’t seemed to be interested in talking about. You remember the times he’d brush off the mention of directing, change the subject or even just respond with an absent shrug. And yet standing in front of the proof it happened, you can’t help but probe for answers, feeling as though they might provide insight into who exactly he is underneath this pensive mask he wears.

“Those are from my directing days,” he confirms with a sad smile, making his way over to you and staring up at the wall. He examines one in which he’s in the middle of composing, stick held high in the air and a concentrated expression on his chiseled face.

“You look really cool,” you tell him, and he laughs lightly in response.

“Thank you,” he replies politely. “I always felt cool.”

You begin to tell him that he’s still cool, the way he captivates a whole room with lectures about famous composers and music theory he just knows offhandedly now. But you quickly get quiet again, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

When you turn to face him again, you’re well aware of how close he is to you, droplets of rain still gliding down the bridge of his nose and onto the damp collar of his dress shirt. You also notice he’s wearing his glasses again, which remain the only dry part of his attire.

He seems to take notice of the heightened proximity for the second time today, too, making his way over to the couch and sitting on the edge of the velvet green cushions. But his gaze still remains fixed on yours, admiring the way you peer at his space.

“Professor, can I ask you something?” You say to him, approaching him cautiously, yet keeping a comfortable distance from him.

“Anything,” Professor Han replies, swallowing nervously and resting the palms of his hands flat on his knees. His long legs are draped over the edge of the couch, bent at the knees and spread so that he’s comfortably resting against the back of the cushion.

“You didn’t tell me about Mozart,” you say to him, twiddling your fingers in front of you. “What was Mozart’s love life like?”

Professor Han thinks it over momentarily, his eyes darting to the ceiling as he recalls Mozart’s romantic involvements. And it doesn’t take long, because it’s another tale he knows very well already.

“Well he lived with a family during his time in Vienna,” he explains. “They had a daughter named Constanze, who he took a particular liking to.”

You nod at his words, approaching him a little more now and observing the way he tenses a little, yet also noticing he makes zero effort to move away.

“His father didn’t approve,” Professor Han continues, eyeing the gentle sway of your skirt as you near him. “And yet when Mozart moved out, they maintained a relationship in secret.”

“A secret relationship?” You echo, and he nods affirmatively. “And then what happened?”

“Well,” he begins, dropping his hands to his sides as you stand right in front of him now. “Mozart wrote Constanze’s disapproving father a very famous letter. And they later married.”

“A letter?” You question. “Do you recall what was in the letter?”

You eye him from above, your thighs practically grazing his kneecaps as he remains seated in front of you.

And then in a painfully slow movement, all the while reminding yourself not to rush it, your hands find his, intertwining your fingers together and allowing you to pull yourself even closer to him, effectively slotting yourself between his knees. Professor Han’s breath hitches in his throat as you do, his heart racing wildly in his chest, pulsing reminders grazing his conscience that this is wrong. Yet juxtaposed against your delicate touches on his skin, and your curious eyes awaiting a resolution to his story, he can’t help himself.

“The letter?” He asks nervously, and you nod at him.

“Yeah. Do you remember it, by chance?”

Of course he remembers it- he could recite it in his sleep if he wanted to, every last word and emotion ingrained so deep within his soul as though its memorization was some requirement to work in a music-related field. But he hesitates to utter the words, knowing that if he does, they serve as permission for this- all of this, to indulge himself in all his reckless convictions right here with you.

“You don’t have to,” you say to him shyly, loosening your grasp on his fingers.

And you refer to both the utterance of Mozart’s letter, as well as the actions you know are bound to unfold if he does.

“No, I…” he interrupts, a sharp breath leaving his lips as he speaks. “I want to.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, tightening your grasp around his fingers once more, and then you wait for him to begin.

Professor Han takes a deep breath, some form of a prayer or maybe a beg for absolute forgiveness to a higher power racing his mind before he speaks again. And then, with all the weighing guilt in his heart, he begins to voice the letter back to you.

“I must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear Constanze,” he begins, finally allowing you to pull yourself onto his lap and steady yourself with two hands on his strong forearms.

“Keep talking,” you say to him, reaching out to tuck a strand of wet hair out of his face.

“Her whole beauty consists of two little black eyes and a pretty figure,” he continues, swallowing nervously at every tender touch you produce against his skin. His hands rest on the curves of your waist, delicately grazing up and down as you watch him curiously. Your legs bend to straddle him, skirt flowing over his black dress slacks and draping over the fabric of his crotch, where he can feel himself growing unbearably hard for you.

“Mhm,” you say, two hands now grazing the fabric of his silk black tie and loosening the knot at the collar.

“She likes to be neatly and cleanly dressed, but not smartly; and most things that a woman needs, she is able to make for herself.”

At this point, Professor Han’s tie is completely undone, your nimble fingers now undoing the buttons of his shirt and grazing fingertips along the exposed strip of his chest to you.

He pauses momentarily, eyes fluttering briskly as he relishes in the sensation of your skin against his. And then in one swift motion, your hands tug the fabric of his tie toward you, grazing your open mouth over his and pressing a short, chaste kiss to his pink lips.

He waits for more, but you don’t indulge him just yet, pulling away to stare into the swirling galaxies he houses in his big eyes.

And before he can finish reading the letter, you’re speaking again, putting out the same words he completely intended to produce.

“I love her, and she loves me with all her heart,” you say to him, finishing Mozart’s signature letter for him. “Tell me whether I could wish for a better wife.”

Professor Han says nothing, his eyes widened with shock for a moment as you toy with the fabric of his tie. He wasn’t expecting you to know the tale, let alone echo the letter back to him- one he’s had memorized for most of his life.

“Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father,” you voice with a small shrug. “It’s always been one of my favorites.”

And Professor Han can’t take it anymore, finally allowing himself to pull you in by the small of your back, desperately gripping his fingers against the fabric of your shirt and locking his lips with yours once again. His kisses are purposeful, and needy, but he’s still gentle with you, guiding you further down the length of his legs until you’re sat right over his crotch. The two of you say nothing in between kisses for a good while, remaining like that and exchanging gasped breaths into each other’s mouths as his hands explore every inch of your still-clothed body. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into you and arching your back into his touches. And when his hands graze the length of your skirt, tenderly stroking up the skin on your inner thighs, you chuckle lightly into his mouth, well amused by the actions as though you haven’t wanted it all this time, too.

“Is this okay?” He says nervously, pulling away momentarily to scan your expression.

“It’s more than okay,” you say to him, toying with his tie again. “I’ve wanted to do this so badly.”

Professor Han chuckles lightly, not wanting to admit he’s been thinking about it, too. Maybe externally you’ve already taken note of the way he stares at you as he speaks during lectures, or the way he eyes your short skirts when you assume your seat in his classroom. But you don’t know the nights he spends alone in his apartment, desperately fucking his fist to the thought of you bent over the podium in his lecture hall and filling the space with your erotic moans. Or the way he’s had to divert your gaze in class sometimes, lest he accidentally flaunts a hard-on for the whole class to see, because he knows his mind will run someplace it shouldn’t be.

He’s completely ridden with guilt, his sleep schedule almost nonexistent as he spends hours after he’s already tucked himself into bed, praying the universe won’t punish him for thinking about a student like this.

But he can’t help it- not when you saunter into his classroom so confidently every week, speaking of composers with the same level of admiration he shares, earning the highest grade possible and taking a genuine interest in his life. He’s almost angry at the reality of it, questioning constantly why you hadn't crossed paths before he became a teacher.

“Where were you during my college days?” Professor Han says out loud, a sort of disappointment evident on his face as he speaks. “I wish I’d known you earlier.”

You chuckle in response, one hand tangling in the back of his hair as you rub in gentle massaging motions.

“What’s wrong with right now?” You retort, trailing one finger over his plump lips.

“What’s wrong is that I’m your professor,” he emphasizes, scoffing lightly. “Everything about it is wrong.”

“I’m an adult,” you respond, pulling him in by his collar to work kisses down the column of his neck. “And I want this.”

“Yeah, but…” he begins, the guilt weighing heavily on him all over again.

“You don’t want this?” You then ask, pushing yourself off him briefly and holding eye contact with him. He looks as nervous as he always does when he’s near you, his eyes wide with fear and his timid movements conveying a clear reluctance to reciprocate the affection.

“I do want this,” he mutters sheepishly, knowing it’s also not in his best interest to lie to the woman he’s been leading on for several months now.

“I can leave,” you say to him finally, acknowledging how scared he sounds at the prospect of being here with you. “I won’t tell a single soul. It’ll be like it never happened.”

And Professor Han’s eyebrows arch up in an almost pleading motion, not verbally conveying anything, and yet telling you all that you need to know in the process.

Without saying anything back to him, you reach down to pinch the bridge of his wireframe glasses between your index finger and thumb. His glasses are fogged up, resting almost crookedly on his face when you pull them off, snapping the frame shut between your teeth and setting them on the couch beside you. You can hear Professor Han’s breath hitch in the back of his throat, nervously awaiting your next move and practically shifting total control over to you, who wastes no time reattaching your lips to his and humming into his mouth. He looks completely helpless under you like this, beads of sweat forming on his temples, indistinguishable against the rain droplets that still grace his attire. When you pull away, you examine his chest again briefly- the very same one you couldn’t seem to look away from on your first day of classes. His broad pectorals jut out against the thin white fabric of his button-down shirt, almost completely see-through all drenched in rainwater. And two buttons reveal his sharp clavicles to you, but you’re still just as eager to see the rest of him.

So in slow movements, you graze your hands down lower, snaking off his tie and discarding it alongside him with his glasses. Your nimble fingers work his buttons now, undoing them one by one, pulling open the hem of his shirt so that his chest is visible to you, and when the very last one is undone, you practically tear open both sides of his shirt, allowing the fabric to drape down over the couch and slouch off of his shoulders.

His waist is a sight to marvel at, delicate yet still muscular, made even more erotic in contrast with his broadened shoulders that span much wider than his hips. And your lips quickly find every curve of his chest, pressing a trail of kisses along his clavicles, up to the crook of his neck, down where his nipples protrude and along his shoulders, which tense up beneath your touch.

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes in blissful pleasure as your kisses turn a little harsher, pulling his flesh between your teeth and sucking small bruises onto the raised goosebumps that grace every inch of him. You can feel him shift beneath you, trying his best to keep his now swollen cock at a distance from you, as though the act might be less incriminating if you can’t feel his physical yearning for you. And yet it’s enough for you to take notice, scooting closer to him with a smile on your face as you meet his lips once more.

When he feels you squeeze your thighs around his still-clothed cock just once, enough for the friction to emit a bead of precum from under his slacks, his hands find your waist again, tugging lightly at the fabric to signal you to remove it.

“Can I take this off?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes now hooded with lust, lips parted at the sight of your body practically grinding onto his.

You don’t reply, simply crossing two arms over your torso and pulling your shirt off over your head. It’s discarded along with the pile of other things, and then before he has to ask, your bra joins it beside him, too.

Professor Han feels as though he might finish right here at the sight of your breasts on display for him, your hardened nipples protruding generously with arousal and practically begging for his touch. He feels his mouth water with saliva, desperate to take you in his mouth, but somehow even with you straddling him like this, he’s too scared to make a move.

“Professor,” you say to him quietly.

“Hm?” He responds.

You say nothing back to him, blinking innocently down at him and waiting for him to act upon his urges. You know what it is that he wants so badly- and you want it, too. But you want it to feel as mutual as the yearning has, for some confirmation neither of you are manipulating the other into this. His eyes don’t leave your breasts, examining the way your chest rises and falls with every heavy breath as you wait for him. And then he meets your gaze again, a sharp breath escaping his lips as he does.

“Jisung,” he says, now chuckling lightly. His hands snake up your sides, rising higher, and higher, until they’re resting on the mounds of your breasts, not yet making contact with your hardened nipples.

“What?” You hum in response, a small smile on your lips as he watches you carefully.

“That’s my name,” he now says, leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss again. As he does, his hands move lower, until his slender fingers are sprawled out over your nipples. He doesn’t stop kissing you, moving his hands in gentle kneading motions over your breasts as his kisses turn more eager.

“You don’t have to call me professor,” he says in between kisses, hands now reaching around to pull you in closer, gripping your ass just as tenderly the way he did your breasts and desperately grazing your smooth flesh against his calloused fingers . “Just call me Jisung.”

As you smile into the kiss, he flips up your skirt, looping one finger into the hem of your panties and toying with it as he adjusts himself below you. He tugs at your panties just an inch, now transitioning his movements to find the buckle of his pants, metal clinking between your bodies as he unfastens it and snakes it out beside him.

You pull your own panties off as he unbuttons his slacks, awkwardly parting from you momentarily to rid himself of the still-drenched fabric. And then all that remains are his boxers, his erection pitching a tent against the constricting fabric as he resumes his kisses.

“Jisung,” you breathe into his mouth, earning a toothy grin from him against your parted lips. “I love it. I love your name.”

“You’re welcome to say it whenever you want,” he says back, running his hands along the small of your back.

“Just me?” You ask teasingly, tangling two hands in his ebony hair.

“Just you,” he emphasizes, grazing his fingers along your inner thighs. “Just like you’re the only one who scores a perfect on everything she does,” he continues, the pads of his fingers attaching to your clit.

“Just like you’re the only student I’d bring back here in the first place.”

Jisung’s fingers begin slow, circular motions on your bundle of nerves, earning a gasp from you as he dips once into your entrance to gather your wetness and spread it around again.

His mouth accumulates with a needy wad of drool, cock growing even harder at the sight of your eyebrows arched for him as you grind into the pads of his fingers and push him even harder against your flesh.

“Do you think about me often?” You ask him between labored breaths, tilting his chin up to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide with lust and curiosity alike, peering back at you so innocently, with every intention to pleasure you.

“I do,” he affirms, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“What do you think about?” You now ask him, scooting even closer and allowing your chests to make contact as you wrap your arms around him.

“Those short little skirts you wear just for me,” he replies, smiling as he speaks. “They drive me insane.”

“That’s on purpose, you tell him, grazing your nails along the back of his neck. “What else?”

“Your stories of piano,” he then says, surprising you with his response. “It’s so sexy how talented you are.”

“Really?” You ask him, chuckling lightly as he kisses you once again. He nods affirmatively, dipping two fingers into your entrance with ease, just past your glistening folds, but not yet moving them inside of you.

And then he grows quiet for a moment, meeting your gaze with a serious expression, before he begins to pump his fingers slowly in and out of you as he speaks again.

“I touched myself to your book annotations,” he tells you, this time a smile absent from his chiseled face.

“My book annotations,” you repeat, and he cocks his head to look at you.

“All for me,” he continues, filling the ache between your legs with the gentle thrust of his fingers. “Were you trying to get my attention?”

“Depends,” you reply, clutching his shoulders and moving down the length of his fingers a little further.

“On what?”

“On whether yours were for me,” you say to him finally, clenching down around his digits.

He moves his thumb to stimulate your clit as he fucks you, earning a breathy moan as you struggle to speak now.

“Tell me what it was like,” you say to him breathlessly. “Describe it to me.”

“It was earlier today- just before the gallery,” he explains, cocking his head as your lips part in pleasure. “I never annotate in red. I knew instantly that it was you. Your handwriting- your words,” he continues. “I wasn’t expecting it- I’d hoped maybe you penned in a phone number or something.”

You chuckle lightly as he speaks, taking note of the way his fingers pick up the pace inside of you.

“You would’ve loved that, huh?” You retort. And his fingers now move inside of you in a ‘come hither’ motion as he resumes his actions.

“I would’ve loved that,” he groans. “Too bad all I had was your handwriting, and the thought of you in that skirt you wore today. And ten minutes alone with my right hand, praying you’d actually show up tonight.”

Jisung can’t cease his perverted confessions once they begin escaping his wet lips. In complete contrast to his reluctance earlier, his fingers now thrusting in and out of your sopping pussy with such force, spilling every little detail about how much he’s thought about you these past few months.

“God, I love your body,” he breathes against you, craning his neck to take your breast in his mouth. His mouth latches around your erect nipple, tongue swirling in circular motions as he hums helplessly. And you let out a fervent moan at the sensation, not missing the way his fingers prod into your squelching entrance, your thighs trembling as you near your finish.

“Jisung,” you gasp, tangling a hand in his hair and tugging him gently off of you. A string of drool connects his wet lips to your flesh as he meets your gaze, labored breaths grazing your skin, desperate to taste you again.

“What is it?” He coos back.

“I want to finish with you,” you say helplessly. And your hand reaches down between the two of you onto his still-clothed crotch, taking his girth between your hand and giving a light squeeze. He’s wet, as though he’s already finished once for you, and he whimpers powerlessly at the contact.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, shutting his eyes in pleasure at the sensation. “Fuck, touch it again, will you?”

You chuckle lightly in response, looping a finger into the hem of his boxers and tugging down.

“I can do a lot more than just touch you,” you tell him, allowing his fingers to depart from your entrance as you position yourself over him. He watches too as you tug his boxers over his crotch, his eyebrows arching in preemptive arousal as he feels the cool air graze his exposed flesh. And when his cock is finally free, growing erotically against the concave of his abdomen, you can’t help but gasp, completely in awe at the sight.

He’s much bigger than you’d anticipated, a thick girth lined with pink protruding veins and a generous length, his cock almost red at the tip and leaking with precum.

“Fuck,” Jisung says for a third time, feeling another bead drip down his length at the prospect of you watching.

“Is it okay if-”

Jisung doesn’t let you finish your sentence before he’s nodding eagerly, practically begging you to ride him. And you waste no time indulging him in the request, positioning your entrance over him and steadying yourself with two hands on his broad shoulders. He says nothing as he waits, his nails digging into the small of your back as he shuts his eyes, reveling in the sensation of your body so close to his. And then before he can meet your gaze again, you’re sliding down the slick of his length with complete ease, almost bottoming out fully as he opens his eyes again and whimpers loudly.

He’s already pulsating rhythmically inside of you, the tip of his cock kissing your walls as you move even lower, precum mixing with your wetness and producing a light sloshing sound as you begin to move up and down.

His eyes watch your pussy swallow him for a few motions, doing his best to stave off his orgasm as you pant at the sensation. You can feel him all the way in your stomach, filling you up so fully and deeply, labored breaths leaving your lips as his whimpers fill the room. And then you capture him in a wet kiss again, just barely grazing your lips over his as his voice rises in pitch.

“Shit, I can’t,” he whines, gripping your skin a little tighter. “I’m gonna cum so fast.”

“It’s okay,” you emphasize, clenching around his girth and smiling against him. “We have all night.”

The words make him twitch once inside of you, the thought of fucking you a second time making him dizzy with anticipation. Any fleeting thought that this might be a bad idea is completely dissipated from his mind, replaced with unwavering pleasure and his longing to fill you up the way he’s imagined for the better part of the semester now.

“Can I cum inside of you?” He groans, using two hands to move you down his length a little deeper, your clit grinding softly against his abdomen as he bottoms out inside of you. “Jesus, you feel so good.”

You nod in response to him, burying your head in the crook of his neck as he continues to help you, one finger stimulating your clit again as beads of sweat trickle down his forehead.

For a while, no one says anything, the only sounds present between the two of you being the gentle slosh of your juices around his girth and the helpless panting that bridges the gap between your bodies. Your moans and his whimpers are a lot like the discoordinate piano pieces he analyzes so deeply, fading in and out of pace and searching relentlessly for resolution.

And as you crescendo toward your release, you can’t help but take note of how right it feels to be here with him, consuming each other the way you pour yourself into your music, as he does his work. He had asked you earlier where you’d been all his college life- but you know you’re supposed to be together like this now, regardless of his relationship to you. Had he been ten, twenty years your senior, you wouldn’t care- it’s your souls that keep you intertwined like this, the way he sees you for your passions and your interests, beyond just the traditional sense of a student and a teacher. He’s so much more than that- he’s so much more than just a professor.

As Jisung reaches back to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you feel yourself clench once around his pulsing girth, and then you let go entirely around him, grasping his broad chest as you breathe out his name like a prayer in the duration of your release.

“Jisung,” you moan against him, allowing his first name rather than his professional title to linger between your two listless bodies.

“Y/n,” he groans back, shutting his eyes briefly and arching up his eyebrows. And then as you tremble in exhaustion around him, legs aching from working yourself to your finish, he reaches his finish, too, shooting generous ropes of cum up inside of you and wrapping two arms around you to pull you closer to him.

He remains like that through his finish, his head finding purchase in the valley of your breasts, resting against the chest that rises and falls with deep breaths as his release dribbles down out of you.

And neither of you make any haste movements to get cleaned up just yet, allowing yourselves to remain pressed up against each other, hands tenderly caressing flesh and limbs tangled together.

In the midst of massaging his soft ebony locks, the pads of his fingers clinging tenaciously to your body, you can feel the presence of tears graze your chest, soft sniffles emitting from his flushed face against you. He weeps for you- for his guilt, for yearning, for the confirmation that he’s not better than his filthy conscience after all. And contrastly, because he knows he has all night to do it again, and again, and again.

*

By the morning, your bodies are sore and bruised, sunbeams absent through the giant glass windows of Jisung’s apartment as it continues to rain outside. There’s a chill in the air as thick clouds of fog caress the windows, and not even the layered duvet of Jisung’s bed is enough to warm your still-nude body.

You blink in a state of confusion around you, not realizing where you are momentarily. It’s not until you eye the stacks of music books, loose sheet music and picture frames that you recall last night’s events.

How many times had he fucked you- four, maybe five times? You can’t remember; you do remember he was good at it, switching back and forth between having his way with you, and then submitting to you again, letting you take the reins and ride him until you physically couldn’t anymore. As you sit up in bed, you catch a glimpse of him beside you, his bruised chest visible under the white duvet that drapes lazily over him and covers only his lower half.

He’s still asleep, lips parted innocently and his hair tousled around his chiseled face. He’s also in need of a shave, flaunting a generous patch of stubble on his chin. And you’re not sure he’s ever looked so tantalizing to you before.

When he hears you stirring about, his eyes flutter open, meeting your tired gaze and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He begins to say something, but then he gets quiet again, sighing deeply and shutting his eyes once more. You observe as his lips pull back into a sheepish grin, his straight teeth exposed as he chuckles lightly.

“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” He says with a groan. And you simply shrug in response, lying back down beside him, resting one hand on your pillow as he turns over to face you.

It’s a little more real at this proximity, the fact that you’re in bed alongside your professor. But the point still stands- it doesn’t feel awkward, nor do you regret any part of what unfolded yesterday. It’s like something that was bound to happen- if not last night, it would’ve been a week from now, maybe two weeks- definitely not three considering how long you’ve been thinking about him.

Jisung swallows from across you, his hand tucked under his pillow, too, and he watches as you reach out to trace the mole he flaunts on his cheek. It’s not one you’ve had the pleasure of noticing until now- it’s really not one that can be noticed from the vast distance between a lecture chair and a podium. But beside him in his bed, you take notice of everything- the mole in his cheek, the flutter of his long lashes, the sheer guilt he still wears on his face.

“Come on,” Jisung says from beside you, cocking his head in the direction of his bedroom door. “I’ll make you coffee.”

“The blue hair was a bold choice,” you say to Jisung, gripping a warm mug of coffee in hand as you sit cross-legged on his wooden flooring.

You’re in nothing but one of his t-shirts, your hair still messy from last night’s events and lipstick staining the edge of the white mug he’s provided you with. He’s a little more put together this morning, despite canceling today’s classes, a white woolen cardigan enveloping his figure and gray sweatpants hung loosely around his toned legs.

“I dyed my hair a lot back then,” he says from his spot on the couch, staring up at the photograph you admire.

And for some reason, the utterance of “back then” makes you laugh, the way he speaks as though he’s twenty years older than he is. He’s really just six years beyond you, a gap that most would overlook had he not been a professor. And sure, he already boasts a master’s degree and years of experience, but it’s not as though you’re not on the same path yourself.

“Why did you stop?” You ask, turning to meet his tired gaze.

He sighs momentarily, bringing the mug up to his lips for a sip, and then he shrugs at you.

“It’s not professional,” he says plainly. “I had to look the part.”

You smile at him, shaking your head before responding.

“Not the hair,” you emphasize. “Directing. Why’d you stop directing?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked the question so boldly, despite pondering it for all the time you’ve known him. And his composure turns uncomfortable again, as though the question implies much more than it lets on.

“You don’t have to answer,” you say to him after a brief silence, feeling guilty for having overstepped. But Jisung shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows before speaking again.

“It was eating me alive,” he explains, his gaze falling to a distant stack of books as he thinks back to his days as a director. “I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t focus on anything. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep- I wanted to be the best. I just wasn’t a very good person.”

You nod at his words- it’s a phenomenon you know very well already, being a music major yourself. The soul-crushing weight of turning everything into a competition, of bypassing your peers and losing loved ones along the way. You’re pretty sure your lack of friends in college can be largely attributed to the same thing.

“Well I think you’re a good person,” you say finally, but his gaze still doesn’t find yours. You can tell there’s more he wants to say- but he remains there, staring into the distance, pondering a lifetime of regret he’ll continue to take with him if he doesn’t at least try to address the hurt.

“I wasn’t,” is all he can say, earning another head shake from you.

“You can’t blame yourself for wanting to be good, Jisung. I’m sure you feel the same thing working as a professor. Besides, that doesn’t mean you can’t-”

“I was a lousy husband,” Jisung finally blurts out, and your eyes snap to his gaze again, finally making contact with his trembling eyes.

“Husband?” You echo, and he swallows nervously.

“I married so young,” Jisung tells you now, folding his legs on the couch in front of him. “I thought it was the right move, fresh out of college with a girl I’d been dating for four years. I had everything- a job, a wife, a sense of stability.”

You’re taken aback by the admission, never once having taken Jisung to be a formerly-married man. He is young, and aside from the sexual tension that’s risen between the two of you, he shows no interest in pursuing another partner.

“The divorce cost me everything,” Jisung says, his eyes glazing over again as he recounts the story. “I was responsible for somebody walking away from what they believed was a lifetime of stability. And she knew it, too, that I was lousy. She told me- her parents told me. I just wanted to be the best at my work. And it cost me everything. So I quit. And I opted for something that wouldn’t drive me crazy anymore.”

Jisung’s heart races wildly in his chest as he speaks, and then he’s hit with the realization that he’s venting to a student of his- one who shouldn’t be occupying his apartment in the first place. One he slept with several times last night- one who he feels oddly safe confiding in. But a student, nonetheless.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Jisung finally says, furrowing his brows again. “I’m sorry- maybe you should go.”

You remain quiet, still sat on the floor, not even halfway finished with the cup of coffee he’s brewed. And he feels bad again, knowing it’s not fair to be taking his frustration out on you.

“Do you want me to leave?” You ask in a meek voice. Jisung chews the inside of his lip, meeting your gaze with a sorrowful expression. At first he shrugs, like he might indeed want you out of this space he calls home. But then he shakes his head sheepishly, shrinking back into the couch cushions and sighing heavily.

You’re not entirely sure what to say to him, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, but longing to keep him company. He just seems lonely, you can’t help but think to yourself. He’s so ridden with loneliness, and guilt and yearning for more.

“Jisung,” you say to him, setting your mug aside and folding your hands in your lap.

He meets your gaze again, a sort of heavy, exhausted expression on his face.

“Do you really think Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 is missing something?” You then ask him, referring to the annotations from his textbook.

He keeps his gaze set on yours, fascinated you’ve remembered his penned-in opinions on the aforementioned works from class. And then he nods lightly, humming a little in response to you.

“There’s no resolution,” Jisung huffs. “It just fades into nothingness.”

You nod back at him, sitting back on the palms of your hands and cocking your head slightly.

“That's a resolution to some listeners,” you say to him. “Maybe you just desire something beyond those last notes.”

His gaze flickers over your knowing expression, pondering the way you speak of the familiar tune.

“Maybe you ought to seek what a resolution is to you.”

*

“I think Professor Han is fucking somebody,” Mina says to you one day as she gets ready in front of the full-length mirror across from her bed.

“Why do you say that?” You retort with a small chuckle, your interest piqued at her words.

“Haven’t you noticed he cancels class a lot?” She replies, wiping a mascara smudge off from below her left eye. “He runs late all the time now, he just shows up in a t-shirt when he does lecture. And he just seems happier, overall. That’s every indication that he’s getting some action.”

You thumb the pages of your textbook- or rather, Professor Han’s textbook, red pen grasped between your fingers as you finish up an annotation.

An annotation you pen in just for him- responses to his music suggestions, comments about his analyses and flirting between the lines of music notes. The textbook is exchanged back and forth between the two of you, conversing secretly between the thin pages of music theory, producing poetry from a language only the two of you speak- by each other, and for each other.

Sometimes you imagine it the way Mozart and Constanze’s relationship unfolded- secret, but robust, full of passion and yearning for one another.

And when you tell Jisung about it later that week, he practically doubles over in laughter, eyes forming little crescents as the melodious tune of his “ha ha’s” fills the space between the two of you.

“I guess I never realized how presumptuous you students can be,” he says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t seem worried in the slightest- at least not with this cautious system the two of you have developed to maintain the secrecy. You don’t linger in his classroom when lectures conclude, careful not to make it too obvious that you’re waiting around for him. Instead, you meet him at his apartment, just a few blocks away from campus and void of people who might piece together the reality of the situation, like Mina. It’s convenient that she doesn’t seem to suspect anything regarding why you’re always absent from your shared dorm now, considering she’s always at her boyfriend’s place, anyway. And although Jisung makes a mental promise to himself to stop canceling his evening classes so frequently, he can’t help it.

He’s just as drawn to you as you are to him, finding solace in the way he can finally confide in somebody after so long. Jisung thinks back to the way he handled the divorce so privately, quietly putting in his two weeks notice as a musical director and opting for a career path which didn’t take so much of his time and sanity.

He recalls the majority of his friends and family acknowledging what a lousy husband he’d been, and the feeling of knowing he’d made a colossal mistake agreeing to marry so young when he could hardly grasp what he even wanted further down the line. But to you, he’s just a work in progress- you’re still enchanted by the way his mistakes are rooted in sheer passion for his work. The way he lights up when he speaks of his old days as a director, the alluring poetry he produces for you between the pages of a course-assigned textbook. He’s so much more than his mistakes- he’s so much more than the evident loneliness, and guilt, and yearning he harbors.

And although the physical aspect is but a minuscule factor of the relationship, it’s still undeniably sweeping, as though it’s another language the two of you share in secrecy. Jisung had admitted once that he hadn’t even been with another woman following the divorce- a fact which you now know to be true, the way he fucks with such desperation, as though he’s going to lose you to the same careless mistakes as before. But he also understands that you’re different, and that you don’t apprehend him for any of his former mistakes.

He indulges you in tales of his days directing, one arm slung lazily around your waist as he holds you close and plays old films of the symphonic band in action. And it’s more captivating to watch him get lost in his work, the way his eyes glaze over as he watches himself on screen, the thin black baton waving around in rushed motions as the band plays. He wears elegant suits lined with brass buttons and expensive cufflinks, and the expression on his face when the on-screen symphony turns to him for direction- hundreds of eyes eagerly awaiting his next move, as though he controls them. Pairs of eyes who actually give a shit about the field of work- not just make an appearance for a grade. He grins ear to ear when you pry for more answers, and especially when you conflate the pieces to that of your own, mentally recalling your own piano sheet music. And when you deluge him in compliments, reminding him that he’s remarkable for all that he’s done, and he’s still remarkable- as a professor, and even following his divorce, he can’t help but grow hard at the affection, reveling in the robust support and the love he’s not sure he’s ever felt before you.

He’ll often make love to you right there on the sofa, symphonic pieces still playing faintly on the tv in the background, and he’ll do it again and again to convey the reminder that he’s grateful, and that no one has ever heard him the way that you do.

*

One month into the arrangement, Jisung texts you in a sheer panic, requesting you meet him in the east lecture hall. It’s extremely uncharacteristic of him to make efforts to meet in the one place you could get caught, but still you adhere to his request, throwing on a sweater and rushing out of your vacant dorm to the east side of campus.

The campus buildings are almost haunting at this hour, no more than two, maybe three students in sight under the dim glow of the lamps that line the concrete pathways. The building names are also completely indistinguishable at this hour amidst the sheer darkness, and the only sounds that can be heard are the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional roll of a skateboard. When you arrive at the grand hall, you quickly realize it’s no longer accessible, closed off by rows of fencer wire and shut off entirely from the rest of the school.

“It’s finally done for,” a voice says from beside you, and you know it to be Jisung’s before even turning to face him.

“Already? I thought construction was supposed to begin next semester, though.”

Jisung shakes his head, hands stuffed in his pockets as he exhales deeply.

“I got the email today,” he says in a frustrated tone. “Just some short thing about not delaying the project. They’re moving me to the tiny little hall around the corner.”

You take a moment to think over the hall he speaks of- it might as well be a mobile classroom with how small it is in size, just one narrow hallway that branches off into a line of 3 other rooms. The desks are reminiscent of those from your high school days, and you can’t remember the heating ever having worked during your time passing through, the hall constantly freezing when it rains.

“I didn’t even get a proper send-off,” he reiterates, his gaze not moving from the bright orange temporary fencing. “I would’ve taken a moment to appreciate it one last time.”

You think for a moment, taking a brief moment to glance around you at the eerily empty campus, and then you turn back to Jisung with a small shrug.

“Don’t you still have your keys?”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “But…”

Jisung doesn’t finish his sentence, instead pondering the suggestion as he keeps his gaze on the fencing. He knows it would be reckless, practically breaking into the old lecture hall like this to give it one last look, but he’s also overtaken with frustration and a longing for closure.

“I do have my old keys,” he says suddenly, glancing around the vacant buildings nearby, at the faint silhouettes of shadowy trees and dim streetlamps. You watch curiously as he runs a hand along the tip of the neon orange fence, pushing down to locate where it gives in a little. And just at the very end of it, it does, pulling down much further and lowering just enough so that it’s adequate to climb over. Jisung hoists himself over the fencing, his muscular arms steadying himself as he lifts one leg over the fence, followed by the other, and then grounds himself in the muddy grass on the other side. It's the first time you take notice that he’s in a simple pair of blue jeans, brushing mud off his toned thighs and then meeting your gaze again.

“Come on,” he says to you, nearing the fence again and holding a hand out, beckoning you to follow his lead. You don’t think twice before you’re mirroring his actions, hoisting your frame over the plastic fencing and planting two feet in the mud, Jisung helping you regain your balance with his calloused hands finding purchase on your waist and then interlocking his fingers with yours.

“I hope they haven’t changed the locks yet,” he says, leading you to the familiar grand entrance of the lecture hall. His keys are fished out of the pockets of his jeans, jingling softly as he twists his gold key into the lock, and then with an affirmative thud of the door being pushed open, he smiles to himself, beckoning for you to follow him inside.

The lecture hall is even more eerie than the campus is at this hour, not a single light illuminating the dark wooden floors that span the tower. The moonlit glow through the windows flashes with the gentle wave of trees that almost grazes against the glass panes, and you can’t quite distinguish where the gargantuan ceilings even end in this darkness. Jisung makes his way to the spiral staircase to the right of the room, craning his neck up to get a good view of the room, and then he beckons you again with the wave of his hand.

“They haven’t touched the stairs yet,” he says, beginning up the stairs with one hand cascading along the wooden banister. You follow behind him, the only sound echoing around the hall being the familiar loud creak of the stairs as you make your ascent. And for the first time, it’s a sound you realize you’re going to miss very dearly, never having realized it was something you took for granted all this time. The way these stairs obnoxiously announce your arrival when you’re late to class with a coffee in hand, or how the wooden steps boom in volume when students rush down them in hordes toward their next class. Although you’ll have graduated and moved on by then, the knowledge that everything is going to be different remains a jarring fact.

At the top of the stairs, it’s comforting to see that nothing looks different just yet, the podium still intact and rows of chairs folded neatly in their places. Jisung doesn’t make any move to turn on the lights, careful not to reveal that anyone’s broken into the old building, and he makes his way to the podium, staring out at the sea of vacant chairs that sit untouched amidst the darkness.

“I loved this room,” he says after a moment of silence, his voice laced with regret.

You span the perimeter behind the podium, grazing your hands along the old walls, recalling how many times you’d stared at them beyond Jisung’s pacing figure as he spoke of composers and musical theory.

When you make your way to the podium alongside him, mirroring the way he stares out at the empty seats, he glances at you briefly out of his peripheral vision. Jisung wonders if you can tell that the demolition of this room is so painfully metaphorical for him, like one final indication that he deserves no better than the confines of a dingy little room far away from this one. As though every time he feels he’s that much closer to redeeming himself following a nasty divorce, he’s shut out again, misplaced, suddenly right back to where he was five years ago. Misguided, lost, full of regret and a permanent yearning for resolution- one that never seems to come.

In fact, he’s pretty sure you’re the closest he’s ever gotten to one, when you’re assuring him that there is a life beyond the mistakes he made in his early 20s- that the curse of pondering his place here doesn’t have to define him entirely. And that there’s always still time- to love, to better himself, and to revisit the passion which once drove him mad.

It doesn’t mean it’s going to repeat itself, you had told him once. You could do it differently.

“I don’t think Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 needed a coda,” you say to him, breaking the deafening silence between you two in the vast empty space of the room.

Jisung finally turns to look at you, hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans as he replies.

“Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t need to repeat the entire first part,” you explain to him. “That part is emphasized enough. I think the listener should appreciate that it just ends where it ends.”

Jisung thinks over your words for a moment, not entirely sure why you’ve brought up the piece way back from chapter 8 of his lectures. And yet he nods in response, his breath hitching in the back of his throat a little when you turn to face him, too.

“I like that it’s a little unclear,” you finally say to him.

And this time he doesn’t respond- not with words at least, opting to pull you in for a gentle kiss, his hands working their way down the small of your back. His lips feel somber against yours, like he seeks to inhibit his sadness with the tender touch of your lips against his, pushing you back against the wooden podium and spinning you around to work kisses down your neck.

There are no words spoken between the two of you, just the vibration of small moans echoing from your lips as he sucks a hickey into your flesh, even though he knows he shouldn’t mark you. And yet he does, a physical reminder that you belong to him, and hopefully one to convey the notion that you’re the closest thing he’s ever gotten to resolution.

Jisung’s hands work your blouse open, his jeans pressing into you from behind, already rock-hard for you as his hands tug off your shirt. And he giggles against your flesh when you gasp at the cold air that grazes your skin.

“Jisung,” you say to him, your hands gripping the wood of the podium. “We probably shouldn’t do this here.”

It’s he who brushes off the lewd act, consoling you with the unzip of his jeans, his bulge pressing into your thigh as he continues to work kisses down your neck.

“We won’t get caught, baby,” he says as his fingers rub circles over your clothed core under the thin fabric of your skirt. “I promise.”

And then it’s you tugging your own panties down, allowing him full access to your wet cunt as the palm of his hand works you in rhythmic back and forth motions. He doesn’t even need to touch you- not when you’re already dripping for him. And yet he remains like that for several minutes, breathing heavily into the shell of your ear as your moans echo around the dark lecture hall, his cock only growing harder against you with every touch.

It’s undoubtedly arousing for him to look out at the classroom he’s lectured in for so many years, one he usually associates with nervous test-takers and monotonous speeches- and to watch the very same space be filled with your gasps of pleasure. His eyes scan over the very seat you occupy every week, recalling the times he’s fantasized about exactly this- touching you the way he knows you deserve to be touched and making you his in the forbidden confines of a classroom. Without so much as a word, his boxers are pulled down too, positioning you in front of him and allowing his fingers to wrap around the base of his leaky cock. He strokes himself just once, eyes shutting at the sensation of his tip brushing against your warm flesh. And then he prods into your entrance, tapping ever so gently as his other hand intertwines with yours.

You take him with complete ease, the way you always do when he’s fucking you this sweetly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as indication to speed up his movements. But he doesn’t- he just maintains a steady pace inside of you, his hips smacking lightly against yours as he resumes wet kisses along your shoulder.

A million thoughts graze his mind as he fucks you- like the fading notes of Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, and how evidently his annotations referencing a coda have resonated with you. Or the tales of Mozart and Constanze’s secret love, of Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann and a lifetime of unrequited romance that never quite got its closure. Jisung thinks about the nights you two spend in his apartment, watching reruns of him directing symphonies, or mornings when he cancels class because all he can do is lie entangled with you and bask in the love you two share in the privacy of his home.

His mind also goes back to the divorce, a constant pain he carries with him, remembering all the ways he let other people down in efforts to focus on his career and his love of music. Nights he stayed out far too long annotating sheets of music, knowing very well that his wife was waiting up for him. Anniversaries he forgot, birthdays he failed to prioritize because music always came first. And consequently, begging his ex-wife to stay, knowing very well she had already made up her mind- that he was a lousy person, far too consumed by his career and incapable of loving the way she had.

Jisung’s movements pick up in pace as he thinks about the future of this old building- soon demolished into a pile of dust, the old walls crumbling despite the years of history pent up inside of it. Tests failed and lectures given, days he spent funneling that same passion into something entirely new, because directing was never the same once he understood what a neglectful husband he’d been. The walls to be painted blinding shades of cobalt blue and white, like a fucking dentist’s office, and not an inch of the building to suggest it had ever housed an appreciation for music, simply replaced by a basketball court and cold metal bleachers.

He also thinks about you, and how you made the semester far more tolerable, your beaming smile and your curiosity about not only music, but him, serving as a beacon of hope that perhaps this wasn’t all in vain. And your comforting words helping him understand that perhaps this isn’t what he wants after all, that this chapter of life may very well crumble along with this old building. Maybe this is the end, like resilient music notes approaching the finale of a symphonic piece- and he can either allow the fading discoordination to mark the finish- or take to the da segno, and start again.

Maybe a coda is sooner than he thinks- maybe resolution is closer than he thinks.

You’re well aware of Jisung’s now rapid movements inside of you, gasping at the sheer size of his swollen cock grazing your walls, your hand tightly gripping his and your mind wandering to where his currently lies.

But you can’t verbalize the curiosity- not when he’s interrupting you to tilt your face to his, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss on your mouth and breathing desire back into you.

His fingers prod themselves into your mouth as he fucks you, murmuring little pleas to let him watch you taste yourself, his cock inserting in tandem with his fingers as he matches their pace. Your moans are stifled as your tongue swirls his fingers, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let the pleasure overtake you.

And then he slides his fingers out for a moment, watching strings of saliva drip so erotically down your parted lips as you continue to take his cock obediently.

“I love you,” he says like it’s an epiphany. But it’s not- he reckons he’s known it for a long time now, almost scared at the intensity of his emotions for you. He’s not quite sure he loved his wife like this, and he’s not sure he knew he was even capable of loving again. In fact, Jisung only knows that he truly loved one thing in his lifetime- music. Music, and now you.

“How could I ever ask for a better woman?” He breathes against your skin, goosebumps rising as his words echo Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father and echo in the vast, empty room.

Your reciprocation is muffled with the re-insertion of his fingers in your mouth as he reaches his finish inside of you, painting your walls with his release, holding you close and stimulating your clit again as he coaxes an orgasm out of you, too. And the finish is nowhere near fading, nor discoordinate, as the echoes of your moans reverberate off the walls and fill the emptiness with your passionate yearning for one another.

Da segno

Returning to the dorms to find Mina in her bed for once is a shock to you- especially considering she’s been speaking of a camping trip with her boyfriend for several weeks now.

At first you check your phone, briefly, thinking maybe you’ve gotten the date wrong. But you haven’t- it’s a Friday evening, the same evening you know she should be on route to her planned trip with Lucas.

She’s propped up in bed, carefully examining something when you make your way past her, eyebrows furrowed and deep in thought.

“Hey Mina,” you say to her cautiously, pulling your sweater up a little higher up on your neck.

She doesn’t reply, eyebrows still furrowed as she keeps her head down. And then she chuckles lightly, still not looking up at you.

“I feel like you’re out more than I am these days,” she says to you, and you can’t quite make out whether she’s being condescending or cordial with you.

“Yeah,” you reply nervously, sitting on the edge of your bed across from her and crossing your arms. “Just been trying to take more walks.”

Mina purses her lips, nodding, and then she exhales sharply before she speaks again.

“Lucas broke up with me,” she explains. But she doesn’t sound sad, or even angry- she simply relays the news with a straight face, not even glancing up to catch your shocked expression.

“He did?” You blurt out, feeling an overwhelming sense of sympathy for her- of course you don’t really care for Mina, but you also know how frequently she’s out with him, how highly she speaks of him and how in love she’s been with him for all the years they’ve been together.

“Yeah,” she reaffirms, sighing as she speaks. “He’d been cheating for several months. I’m over it now- I just thought I might get a head-start on this week's notes.”

You nod at her again, still aware she seems to be repressing something, far too casual for your liking and almost ready to lash out at any given second.

“That’s good,” you tell her, crossing your legs on the bed. “I’m really sorry. Let me know if you need anything-”

“I did find this week’s chapter to be particularly interesting,” she interrupts, slouching further back against the wall by her bed.

It’s your turn to furrow your brows, a little confused by her behavior, especially considering she hardly ever reads assigned textbook chapters.

“Listen to this,” Mina says, and then her lips pull into a wicked grin as she begins down the page, her voice laced with rancor.

“I must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear y/n,” she begins, and your heart all but stops in your chest.

It’s then that you notice the textbook in her grasp, the familiar old font and the yellowing of the pages- Professor Han’s textbook, the same one riddled with erotic poetry between the lines of music theory.

“Mina, please-” you begin, voice cracking, a futile task as she raises her voice and continues speaking.

“Her whole beauty consists of two sparkling eyes and a delicate figure,” she reads. “She likes to watch me direct symphonies, and she knows music theory like the back of her hand.”

Your heart races in your chest, mind swirling with fearful thoughts as she voices the familiar love letter back to you. Professor Han’s most recent addition to the textbook, derived from Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father, and a written account of Jisung’s affection for you. A letter you’ve read over and over since he produced it, and the same one you so carelessly left lying open on your dorm bed in a rush to go see him at the lecture hall.

“She likes to hear the stories of famous composers and their romances, and she lets me make love to her as though she belongs to me,” Mina reads, her voice growing even louder as you now approach her. Your hands reach desperately for the book, which she holds away from your reach as she now stands up on her bed, her feet digging into the mattress as she steadies herself with one hand on the wall.

“Please, stop,” you beg, to no avail, as she then concludes the letter.

“Most things that a student neglects, she excels in. I love her and she loves me with all her being- tell me whether I could ask for a better woman.”

The room falls painfully quiet as she finishes, thumbing through the pages with a soft rustling sound.

“That’s just one,” she says, maintaining the same wicked expression on her face. “The book is full of them.”

And then she shuts the book, examining the cover, meeting your gaze as she assumes her position back down on the mattress and crosses her legs.

“This is the professor’s textbook, right? That’s why it looks a little different. I had wondered, when I first snatched it from your stuff.”

You stay quiet, your gaze falling to the floor as tears brim your eyes. You want to fight back, but in reality, the book serves as admission itself- there’s no denying it’s a letter from him, to you. It’s incriminating by his loopy cursive handwriting, the book she’s seen him wield so many times in the classroom during lectures and the way he speaks of making love to you.

“You’re fucking Professor Han?” She finally says aloud, and the words sting, although you’ve been expecting them.

“It’s not like that-”

“That’s why you’re doing so well in his class? While the rest of us bust our asses studying for his stupid quizzes? What do you even do, suck him off when nobody’s looking? How big is he?”

“Stop!” You exclaim, the tears now cascading down your flushed cheeks and gathering on your trembling chin.

Mina says nothing as she wears the same stupid smirk on her face, and then she tosses the book to you, which you grasp in your shaky hands. You hold it close to you, wishing so badly you could undo whatever it is she’s seen in the book, but you know that it’s far too late- the book is no longer a sacred little thing between you and Jisung.

“What do you want?” You say to her quietly, sniffling as you tuck the book under your duvet.

“What do I want?” She echoes.

“Yes,” you huff frustratedly. “Anything. Just please don’t tell the dean about this- or anyone, for that matter. I promise to do whatever it is that you ask, especially since-”

Your rambling comes to a sudden halt when Mina begins laughing, her hands clutching her stomach as she does, almost doubling over on the bed and kicking her feet with enthusiasm.

“Do you think I’m gonna blackmail you, or something?” She questions between laughter, meeting your gaze with tears in her eyes as she continues giggling between words.

“I always knew you were weird,” she remarks. “Not like, ‘fuck a professor’ weird. But it is weird that you think I’m gonna blackmail you.”

You don’t say anything to Mina, sitting on your bed again and sprawling one hand out to rest atop the book, which remains hidden under the duvet.

“You mean… you… won’t tell?”

“I’m impressed,” Mina replies, now lying on her side and propping her head up in her hand. “He is the hottest professor on campus. But no, I’m not going to tell anyone. Contrary to your belief, I really don’t care to ruin either of your lives. I have more important things to worry about.”

You sigh a heavy breath, relieved that Mina’s taken the high road and chosen to ignore the situation altogether. But you can’t cease the heavy weight it bears within you, one that fears not for your future, but for Professor Han’s. You know the majority wouldn’t believe it, the tale that this was a mutual thing between the two of you, that he’s just a pained divorcee, and you’re a lonely college student. To the masses, it would look like complete manipulation, Professor Han requiring a sexual relationship from you for an A in his course, and keeping the discrete flirting alive within the pages of his textbook. It’s more irresponsible on his end than it is yours- and although you both know it’s wrong, it still feels different. It still feels as though it’s rooted in yearning.

“I still need a textbook,” Mina says, breaking the silence between you two. “Like, for this week’s chapters.”

“Oh, right,” you say to her quietly, reaching inside your school bag for the correct book. You toss it to her without another word, observing the way she flips to the page she was on, and resumes reading as though nothing happened.

But her voice still replays in your head, reading aloud the sacred letter Professor Han produced for you within his textbook, one that never should have graced anybody else’s eyesight except your own.

And the tears resume as you watch her, a heavy guilt present as the words play in your mind again, and again, and again.

*

Jisung’s apartment doesn’t feel the way it normally does later that week- not when you’re first sauntering in with meek steps, being flooded by a barrage of questions about why you’ve skipped class for two weeks. And especially not when you finally recount the incident to Jisung, tears flooding your eyes and cascading down the deep gray bags that hammock under your lashes. The nights have been sleepless for all fourteen days, tossing and turning on your mattress about whether Mina is actually going to keep her promise about not telling. And she appears to, failing to acknowledge it whenever she’s in your presence, visibly still coping with the aftermath of her breakup. She simply comes and goes in casual strides, sometimes still borrowing your textbook from you and returning it far later than you care for, but it really doesn’t matter by this point. You’ve stopped reading the textbook entirely, coming to terms with the fact that you’ll have to rely on your own knowledge to pass any of the assignments distributed. And Jisung knows something is wrong when he finally does see you after two weeks, dressed loosely in a pair of sweatpants, your face flushed with tears and averting his gaze.

“You’re going to be so mad at me,” you emphasize to him, shielding the tears that fall from your trembling eyes with one hand, as he crouches on the floor in front of you and gives your hand a little squeeze.

And he’s adamant that nothing could make him hate you- that whatever it is you’re facing can be worked through, and that he’s going to stand by you regardless. Yet when you recount the incident to him, explaining the way Mina had read through his written confessions of sleeping with you and expressing his love for you, Jisung falls completely silent- a reaction which is somehow more scary to you than vexed words.

“Are you sure she knows it’s mine?” He asks, pulling away to stand in front of you. He feels much taller when he’s towering over you like this, pacing frantically along the wooden floorboards and chewing on the inside of his lip nervously.

“I’m sure,” you reply quietly. “She must’ve been reading it the entire time I was out. It has your name in it and everything.”

Jisung is quiet again, thinking over your words, and then he places his hands on his hips as he speaks again.

“Did she say anything else?” He inquires.

“She said that she wouldn’t tell anybody. As far as I know, she hasn’t. I just feel-”

“I’m never going to get it now,” he then says, running his hands through his hair nervously and glancing around the room.

“Get what?”

“Jesus,” he says, almost chuckling in disbelief. “I spent all this time interviewing, and if this gets out it could ruin everything.”

“Interviewing?” You echo meekly.

“Just when I thought I had it all again. I was so close to being back. Getting out of this shitty job and making a name for myself again.”

Jisung assumes a spot in one of the chairs across from you, burying his head in his hands and remaining silent. You want to ask him to clarify what he means by interviewing, but you’re also scared of him when he’s like this, knowing he’s reverting back to the version of himself who puts music above everything.

“You couldn’t just make something up?” Jisung then asks, scoffing lightly as he finally meets your gaze.

“What?”

“You couldn’t just fucking lie? Why on earth would you admit to it?”

“Lie?” You repeat to him with a shaky voice. “What did you want me to say?”

“Say I wasn’t interested in you,” Jisung retorts. “Say you were writing the letters to yourself. You’re putting my entire career at risk because you couldn’t be bothered to put my book away?”

You’re taken aback momentarily by Jisung’s words, hardly making sense of them at first. There’s no way he could be blaming you for this- not when he’s just as guilty as you are. In fact, Professor Han may be more guilty, acting upon his urges when he knows the power imbalance he wields over you- you’re just a student of his, nowhere near the status he upholds at this school. But as he continues prodding you for questions about why you hadn’t just lied, or made a bullshit excuse, or something, the message is conveyed loud and clear. He’s blaming you entirely for being found out.

“This is about directing,” you say when the realization hits you, almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.

“Of course it’s about directing,” he retorts, throwing his hands in the air and scoffing loudly. “I worked my ass off interviewing for one of the most prestigious roles a few hours out of here, I got an offer just yesterday, and now this is going to ruin everything. When they hear about the little fling I had, and they assume I coerced you into it, when you know damn well you led me on. And it’s going to be my divorce all over again.”

A silence falls over the room as you take in his words. You suddenly feel microscopic in his presence as the betrayal sets in, and for the first time since the arrangement, the discomfort of this being a student-teacher relationship washes over you.

“It’s not going to get out,” you say to him softly. “Mina hasn’t told anybody, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

Jisung gives a small nod at your words, and then he slides his hands into the pocket of his jeans.

“I hate that you don’t realize when you’re doing the same thing all over again,” you then say to him, averting his stern gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why are we even doing this?” You continue, scoffing lightly. “Is this some sick way of reenacting the same mistakes you did before, and hoping for a different outcome? Now your directing days are just within reach again, and you’re doing the same thing, making your shortcoming’s everybody else’s fault except your own. I think you’re more afraid of not being able to relive your glory days than of losing anybody you love.”

“That’s not what this is, and you know that,” Jisung retorts. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Just admit that I’m a distraction because you miss your old life,” you continue, a little calmer now. “It’s the first time your career felt like it once did when you were directing, and in love, and I’m just some good fuck who takes genuine interest in your stories.”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“Do you ever imagine I’m her?” You ask him, meeting his concerned gaze. “When you’re fucking me in your bedroom? Do you ever imagine I’m your ex-wife waiting up for you the way she used to? Pretend you’re still a director and that you finally have everything you want?”

“That’s enough,” Jisung voices, and you shake your head at him.

“You might have been infatuated over some fleeting moment, seeing the face of your ex-wife whenever you looked at me. But I really, truly loved you. And she was right- you are a lousy person. You just can’t seem to understand when your interests take precedence over your emotions.”

Jisung is silent as his lip quivers in response, experiencing all over again what he did on the night his ex-wife left him. He’d always feared it would come back to haunt him- but not like this. Not through repeating the same mistakes all over again- just as he thought he finally found closure.

Like a musical piece with triumphant notes approaching an end, suddenly directing him right back to the symbol forcing repetition. It’s dizzying, and it’s painful, and he’s sure that a conclusion is far from his reach now.

Without another word, you pivot on your heel, gathering your bag and making your way toward his front door again.

“Y/n, please wait,” Jisung calls out, but he can’t find the words to clear his name of your accusations. Instead he remains quiet when you turn to face him, his shoulders sagging in a defeated manner as you shrug in his direction.

“I really think you ought to find what resolution means to you,” you say to him finally. “Repetition isn’t always it.”

*

The dingy old hallway within the radius of the old east lecture hall is indeed just as undesirable as you remembered it- it’s freezing cold when it rains outside, the students struggle to traverse the narrow hall as they brush against each other in passing and the classroom is nowhere near as enchanting as the grand room of the old hall. Made much worse are the stripes of cobalt blue and a blinding shade of white, which line every wall in the building, almost distracting as lectures are conveyed from the front of the room. The students maintain their same positioning as the lecture is given, typing on their laptops, the clicking sounds of keyboards much louder now at this close proximity of all the chairs to each other. And you don’t write down a single thing, staring at the stripes of blue and white on the walls, following their trail from one side of the room until they reach the hinges of the door, and then repeating the process over and over again.

Professor Han’s departure comes as a surprise to many, the students murmuring amongst themselves as they theorize what could cause such a sudden leave. He fought with the dean and quit. He has a terminal illness. He’s sleeping with a student.

Of course some of them come close to the truth, but they’ll never know for sure- not unless they’re one of the two people on campus who do know.

Mina makes an attempt to ask you about it at first, fiddling awkwardly with the pages of your textbook as she inquires about the status of your relationship. She proceeds to ask if you’d known he was leaving, but not before tears are streaming down your face, your words coming out between hiccupped sobs. And all that she’s able to coax out of you is the verbal confirmation that yes, you knew he was leaving, and no, nobody else found out about the arrangement.

Professor Han’s replacement is a shameful excuse for a lecturer, an older man who only knows as much as the textbook explains, and nothing beyond the printed text. He goes so far as to actively discourage questions, expressing his distaste for “wasting time”, yet the students are well aware it’s because he simply doesn’t have the answers they seek. Your classmates don’t care of course, their grades cushioned by the generous 20 points, instead of 10, which Professor Han opted to distribute for the dead composer’s gallery walkthrough as one final parting gift. And aside from one last email thanking the class for their participation in the duration of the few months he taught it, Professor Han promptly makes his departure from your life, too. Not so much as a thank you, an apology or even a love letter the way you know he once would have written, had he not been so consumed by a yearning for his old life. Just like his ex-wife, you’re shut out by him, made to feel as though reciprocated affection is somehow a selfish request. And maybe it is when it comes to Professor Han- maybe he’s truly just incapable of loving without the limitations of his work. Like the famous composers you learn of, he’s a genius in so many ways- just not in romance. And certainly not in learning from his mistakes.

On occasion, you write to him again, tearing out pages from old chapters in your textbook and scribbling along the vacant margins.

“The old lecture hall’s finally been torn down- all that remains are gray dust and pieces of the old stair banister. They’ve already built up part of the new gymnasium. If I look out the new classroom window, I can see them sampling paint swatches- all shades of blue and white, of course. The students miss you- the boys still dress like you, and the girls don’t even look up from their laptops when your replacement speaks. There’s nothing to look at, of course- not when you’re absent.

We finally reached Constanze’s short chapter in the textbook- chapter 14. Did you know she remarried after Mozart? There was no animosity between the two until his death- she spoke so highly of him until the end. We credit Constanze for many of his posthumous works. Ones that never would have seen the light of day without the respect she paid to him.

I think highly of you, too- I know you don’t know it, but I think back to your old videos, when you’d wave around that black baton of yours and lead symphonies. I understand the fear you harbored in letting all of that go.

You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. I wish you hadn’t told me that you were falling in love, and I hope you’re doing terrible-”

Your red pen is set down promptly as you allow yourself to catch your breath, ceasing this unproductive flow of consciousness you spill onto the pages of your textbook. Many nights end this way, your thoughts poured out and then repressed once more, no method of delivering them to him, regardless. And although you want to reconnect with him, you have no way of actually doing so, even his apartment now vacant as he assumes his new role as a director a few hours out of town. It’s a jarring fact, coming to terms with the notion that you’re likely never going to see him again. But you know it’s his way of resolution- repeating the same process as before, hoping for a different outcome.

*

“You’re starting the tempo change too slow,” Jisung says with a heavy sigh, setting his baton down on the music stand and waving his hand. “Pick up from measure three, on your own this time. I’ll be back in five.”

The room fills with the discoordinate overlap of instruments practicing, woodwinds rotating their reeds and brass players emptying spit valves. Jisung makes his way past the double doors, shielding his eyes from the almost blinding rays of sunlight that glare down over the music hall at this hour. And then he leans against the same brick wall he always does when he’s this mentally exhausted, shutting his eyes momentarily and exhaling.

He’s directing again, conducting symphonic pieces he’s only ever dreamed of. His hair is two shades lighter than it was when he was teaching, his closet is filled to the brim with elegant blazers and he’s compiled a generous collection of gold and silver cufflinks the way he once used to. But something feels different- and it’s felt that way for months now.

Sometimes Jisung can’t recall if symphonies were always this arduous to lead. He’s almost certain he’s verbally noted the painfully slow tempo change to them about a trillion times, and yet every time the metronome is turned on, guiding them with the obnoxious repetitive click at 80 beats per minute, they’re too slow.

Slow enough for his mind to wander elsewhere- like whether they’ll ever have the chance to rehearse the final few bars of this piece. Or questioning if they actually respect him here, as a director, and not just as a replacement for a metronome when he’s not yelling at them.

And occasionally, as much as he hates to admit it, the thoughts involve you. His pride’s too far gone to admit he ruined things, and his ego would never let him find you and convey some form of an apology- especially not after begging someone to stay once long ago, to no avail. But his mind wanders to the image of you in the audience, observing him keenly with the same beaming smile on your face and a genuine interest in whatever it is he’s doing- whether it be conducting grand symphonies, lecturing facts he’s memorized like the back of his hand or even just recounting old tales alongside you.

In the pocket of his blazer lies the same pathetic scrap of paper he just can’t seem to let go of- and as he glances at the inching second hand on his wristwatch, he pulls it out again, carefully undoing it from its folded state and scanning the contents. Page 256 from his textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with his scribbled annotations, and yours, so perfectly complementing all of his remarks.

“Coda?” He had written along the margins- a little addition that stuck with you all that time. Every time you were tangled in his embrace, listening to stories of his days as a director, Jisung pressing little kisses to your forehead, you’d inquire about his need for a musical epilogue. One that you didn’t believe was necessary within the piece, feeling as though the repetition equated redundancy in this case. “I think the listener should just appreciate that it ends where it ends,” you’d told him once, a statement he disagreed with at the time, but one he finds himself thinking over a lot these days.

Perhaps you were so certain about the finale of Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 because you could appreciate every other measure of the piece. The triumphant swell of the crescendos that mark the introduction, the changes within tempo and the distinctly separate movements that complement each other with such force. Measures that Jisung seemed to neglect, always searching for something beyond the eight notes that make up the piece in its entirety. But maybe you were right all along, that sometimes a listener should simply appreciate where a piece ends- that there doesn’t need to be any form of repetition, or even the need for a coda. Maybe those fading, discoordinate notes are enough- maybe that’s a coda in itself.

The double doors swing open as Jisung takes careful note of the symbol you also tagged at the bottom of the page, an oval with a cross through the center, a coda- an offer for resolution.

“Jisung?” Somebody asks, and he glances up to catch the gaze of who he remembers to be a third chair woodwind player.

“We practiced measure three again,” he says cautiously. “Could you… have a listen one more time?”

Jisung sighs, tucking the folded piece of paper back into his blazer and glancing beyond the student through the double doors. The music hall is dark inside, despite it being the middle of the day, the navy blue carpeting and the tinted windows completely obscuring the beauty of the world beyond the four walls. And then he looks the other direction, at the clear blue skies and the bustling roads, where the people don’t look back the way he’s done for so long.

“Sir?” The student asks again, twiddling his fingers together in front of his collared shirt.

“Not now. I’m leaving early today,” Jisung says, buttoning his blazer closed and giving the student a small nod. “Practice measure three until it’s perfected for next time.”

And then he begins toward his car, taking purposeful strides with a plan he hasn’t even conjured up yet, only knowing he has to keep looking forward if he wants any sort of resolution to all of this.

“And for god’s sake,” Jisung then calls out suddenly, stopping in his tracks to convey the message clearly.

“Get the tempo right, next time, will you? I’m tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.”

Coda

The evening of some important date in December is marked by the particularly frosty air, your dorm window fogged up with a sheet of ice and the halls much too cold to traverse without generous layers of clothing.

The remaining students here walk up and down the length of the hallways with cardboard boxes balanced in their arms, talking excitedly amongst themselves about plans for graduation parties and post-college life. And you can’t seem to part with the comfortable atmosphere of your dorm bed, neglecting your own stack of boxes as Mina makes her way in and out of the shared dorm room you’ve gotten so accustomed to.

“Are you using that box?” She asks, loudly sealing one with packing tape and setting it on top of another.

“No,” you say plainly. “It’s all yours.”

She takes careful notice of the way you remain draped over the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling as you think back to the last of your college days. A formal graduation in a week, which you’ve already opted out of. A series of parties even Mina tried to drag you to, every invitation promptly declined. And a prestigious internship in the city waiting for you come springtime, where you’ll be right back to appreciating the intricacies of music theory and piano.

Everything should feel as though it’s falling into place- and yet it doesn’t. It feels different- and it’s felt different for months now.

In a perfect world, you reckon you’d be elated to make your departure from these dorms, and anticipate the new life that awaits you after these four years of dedication. But you can’t help but feel as though something is missing from all of this- something well beyond your reach.

You think back to Brahms and Clara Schumann a lot these days, and the passionate, yet unrequited love that he took to the grave with him. He never got close to what he wanted- he had music, and a career so successful he was deemed one of the best composers who ever lived. And yet much of his life’s work was still rooted in unadulterated yearning, because he never had Clara Schumann. You want so badly to place your own musical accomplishments over your yearning, and yet you can’t. Not when the yearning had quickly transitioned to unrequited love the same way it did for Brahms, and it’s been that way since Jisung left.

You also think of Mozart and Constanze, and how he fought for everything to be with her, despite the hardships they faced. And you want to scream at Jisung when you recall Mozart’s letter to her father, one that’s now been tainted by his poetic words to you along the margins of his course textbook.

“Y/n, you’re never going to finish packing today at this rate,” Mina remarks, occupying a spot next to you on the bed. “Do you need help or something?”

“I’m good,” you say to her, meeting her gaze as she looms over you.

She remains quiet for a moment, examining your expression, and then she folds her hands in her lap politely.

“You know,” she begins. “You’re the smartest musician I’ve ever met. It’s a little weird how much you know sometimes.”

“Thanks,” you retort with a small chuckle.

“And I don’t think messing around with anybody got you where you are today. You did that yourself.”

You meet her gaze finally, not speaking as she shrugs softly. You’re a little surprised at the kind tone she assumes, wondering briefly if there’s some sort of catch to her words.

“Just… give yourself what you deserve,” she finishes. “Whether that means going back, or looking forward. But don’t settle for less than you really want. I did, for so long. And I’ll be the first to tell you it’s not worth it.”

You swallow as you nod at her words, knowing who she refers to without the utterance of a name. And then you furrow your brows as you press her for one more thing.

“Mina,” you say to her. “Why didn’t you tell anybody? What did you get out of keeping my dirty secret?”

She chuckles softly, throwing her head back and shrugging before speaking again.

“Those annotations,” she begins. “They’re not just some dirty little secret. That’s… a sort of thing I’ve never seen at that proximity. They way you speak to each other, it’s like some language the rest of us would never understand. At first, I thought I was skimming too far ahead in the textbook or something. Of course, maybe it also had something to do with the 10 extra points he gave us before leaving.”

You laugh lightly at the same time she does, and then her expression grows serious again as she picks at a loose thread on the duvet.

“It just kinda sounded like you two were in love,” she finishes. “I wouldn’t get in the way of that.”

You hold her gaze for a moment as she stands up again, brushing off her jeans and hoisting another box into her arms.

“Anyways,” she continues. “I’m out of here. Good luck in the city, and-”

“Mina,” you interrupt her, sitting up to look at her properly.

She blinks a few times, surprised you’re sitting up in bed for the first time today, and holds your gaze over the sealed top of her cardboard box.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it enough.”

Mina smiles, her pink glossed lips pulling into a kind grin, and there’s no remaining tension between the two of you for possibly the first time since you’ve lived together.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, accompanied by a gentle nod. “Oh- and you might want to check out the new part of the gymnasium they finished constructing today. I think they followed your advice and finally put a piano in there.”

And then she’s off again, shooting you a small wink before she saunters out of your dorm, this time for good.

*

The chill of the December air is unforgiving at the early hours of the morning like this, the campus nearly empty as students depart from the place they’ve called home for four years, their college years packed up into cardboard boxes and sealed away at last.

You still have a lot of packing to finish yourself, a new chapter in the city awaiting you while you traverse the concrete village one last time. And although these halls have housed some of your most stressful memories, staying up late studying for exams and rushing to make it to class on time, you’re going to miss every part of it. Like the coffee shop on the second story of the student union, where the barista always adds a little too much caramel to your lattes. Or the windowed seat at the very back of the 8th story in the library, where when it rains, you can watch lines of people rush to their classes with hands over their heads and desperately clutching their umbrellas.

And of course, the grant east lecture hall- one you’ve already missed for the better part of the semester following its demolition. As you round the corner, you can make out the new gymnasium that’s already partially erected in its place. It’s another blinding shade of white, like the rest of the buildings are, closed off to the public and still lined with the same bright orange temporary plastic fencing as before. At where is supposed to become the entrance at some point in time, a rectangular cutout in the concrete slab of a wall, nothing but a thin plastic tarp prohibiting entry. And though you know that you really shouldn’t, you can’t help yourself, hoisting your legs over the orange fencing to the other side, your feet planting into the grass lining with a gentle thud.

There’s nobody around at this hour to watch you sneak into the new gymnasium- and realistically, what form of punishment can they even issue, anyway? Expel you?

The tarp sways with the gentle caress of a December breeze, like an invitation to come wander the new space which once housed years of history, now structured for basketball games and college rallies alike. And with one last look around, only to ensure nobody’s watching you partake in the prohibited act, you sneak your way past the orange fencing, kicking the tarp aside to gain entry, and then taping it back into place behind you.

It looks like a gymnasium- and it smells like a gymnasium. Gone are the overpowering scent of mothballs that once graced the music hall’s staircase, replaced instead by the woody notes of sawdust and fresh paint. The walls are white, true to the rest of the school’s buildings, and along the walls which are finished, the signature cobalt blue stripe. At this proximity, it’s almost humorous to bask in the putrid colors you’re grateful you’ll never have to stare at again.

As you take in your surroundings, you remember Mina’s words from earlier, recalling a new piano they placed here, and you scan the room from left to right- only there’s nothing. No piano- not even a dingy keyboard like the one in the old practice room. Why would a piano be here, anyway? In a gymnasium meant for sports and jock gatherings? Could it be Mina’s way of sending you off with one final bout of animosity?

You’re doubtful- that isn’t Mina. You know her way of comforting you earlier was rooted in the good intentions she’s always had. Which still begs the question- why did she send you here?

As you begin toward the other side of the gymnasium, a gentle rustle from the tarp startles you, the blue masking tape being lifted piece by piece and moved aside for another person to gain entry.

Construction workers, you think to yourself. It’s going to be awkward getting out of this one. And as you approach the cutout in the concrete wall again, ready to conjure up some form of an explanation, another person does make entry, crouching so as not to bump his head, as he stumbles inside and regains his balance.

His hair is two shades lighter than the last time you saw him. He still wears the same dorky wireframe glasses as before. And he looks elegant, in a white button down and black blazer, the same canvas sneakers he used to love double-knotted at the laces and complementing his black slim-fitting slacks.

“What are you doing here?” Is all you can say to him as he approaches, his hands shoved in his pockets and a leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“Mina practically chased me when I was leaving,” he says, gesturing to the empty space around you both. “Said I had to come see some new piano they put in here.”

He glances around the room, eyebrows furrowed in a confused manner, and then he turns to face you.

“Where is it?”

“There is no piano,” you say to him, crossing your arms frustratedly. “She told me the same thing.”

Jisung begins to say something, and then he stops, giving a small nod as he averts your cold stare.

His thumb toys with a loose thread inside the pocket of his slacks, and then he meets your gaze again, strands of brown hair falling into the shy expression he wears on his face.

“Graduated, huh? How’s it feel?”

“Fine,” you reply in a reluctant tone. “I leave today.”

“Where are you headed?” Jisung asks, swallowing nervously.

“Landed an internship in the city,” you tell him. “It’s close by. Just some piano thing.”

Jisung’s lips pull into a grin, chuckling lightly as he nods in response. “I always knew you’d land something good.”

You remain quiet, looking around the gymnasium once again, and then you turn to him with some hesitation.

“What are you doing here?”

Jisung sighs deeply, looking around the gymnasium, too, before speaking.

“I had an interview. Quit my directing gig.”

His words take you aback momentarily, a million questions racing through your mind about why he’s no longer directing and why he’d be interviewing here of all places.

“You interviewed here?”

“Wasn’t so much of an interview as it was a conversation,” he retorts. “They even had my old badge. I really need to get that updated considering my hair’s not technically black anymore-”

“Why would you interview here?” You emphasize to him again. “You hated it here. I thought you wanted some fancy directing thing.”

Jisung is quiet again, digging the heel of his canvas sneaker into the thick layer of sawdust that lines the floor. He knows that his ego is far too big, and he’s still consumed with an overwhelming amount of selfish pride. But he also knows that he’s not going to find any form of resolution without breaking this vicious cycle of repeating his mistakes, especially when a resolution is finally within reach.

“Look, I fucked up, okay?” Jisung finally says, taking you by complete surprise.

“The minute I started there again, I knew that wasn’t my calling anymore. Maybe it was back when I was still young, and all starry-eyed for the stupid baton and the fancy suits.”

He turns to face you at this point, taking a step toward you and almost physically demanding you reciprocate the eye contact.

“But you were right- that chapter of my life is finished now. And yeah, maybe the students don’t pay attention when I stand up there and lecture. And sure, I’m just going to be some lousy assistant college band director out here. But finding you- and the way you’d listen to me, and the way you never judged me for my shortcomings, even though I was a shitty husband once, and a shitty professor and an even shittier boyfriend to you- you made me realize it was finally time to let go.”

Jisung can’t seem to cease his emotional speech once he begins, frantically gesturing as he continues speaking. He feels like a different person entirely in this vulnerable form- like the Jisung you knew when he was first breaking his walls down around you. And the Jisung you know when he isn’t putting his dreams of a past life before the people he loves.

“… and then I couldn’t stop thinking about Brahms and Clara, and how he died without ever having told her how he felt. Or Tchaikovsky who had to hide who he loved- and then Mozart! God, that stupid letter- she remarried, you know that? Did you ever get to that chapter? Of course you did, before I could tell you, at least.”

Jisung paces the floor in rushed motions as he speaks, his wet sneakers squeaking obnoxiously along the gym floor as the words escape his lips. You don’t try to speak for a little while, carefully soaking in what you assume to be an apology. And then he stops in his tracks, eyebrows arching into a pleading expression as he towers over you.

“Music isn’t the same without you,” he finishes. “None of this is.”

You lock your gaze with Jisung’s, his big brown eyes almost trembling as he awaits a reply. And simultaneously, you do your best not to let your guard down too quickly.

“Is this how it unfolded back then, too?” You ask calmly. “When you begged somebody to stay after the first time you made this mistake?”

Jisung’s lips part to say something, but then he’s quiet again, waiting for you to continue, praying for something better than this.

“I think you’re a genius,” you continue. “I think you’re remarkable, and talented, and loving you comes so easily. But you make it hard when you do the same thing to everybody you’ve ever loved.”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever loved,” Jisung blurts promptly, and a deafening silence falls over the room. He hesitates to continue at this point, fearing as though he’s going to scare you off, but he’s also never verbalized it to you despite thinking about it every waking second of the day, and he’s determined not to form new mistakes he could risk repeating.

“I let it happen back then because music was the only thing I loved,” he explains. “It was a shitty thing, and for so long I struggled to move on because I was still lost in the only thing I ever loved. And then you came along; I don’t need to direct when I have you. I’ll be a teacher- hell, I’ll be a fucking janitor if that’s what you want. You were my sign to move on from repeating the same fucking thing all over again- you are my end.”

Jisung breathes heavily as he finishes, gauging the shocked expression in your trembling eyes. He waits for you to say something, and then without averting your gaze, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

You unfold it slowly, already knowing it by the familiar yellowing color and small printed font- page 256 of his course-assigned textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with all your annotations alongside his. Only his are no longer visible- they’re crossed out, completely scribbled over in black pen, concealing his call for any form of repetition within the piece. All that remains at the bottom of the page, in the same red pen you first marked in, is a single oval with a cross through it- a coda.

Your gaze meets his after examining the page briefly, surprised he’s kept it after all this time. And then he sags his shoulders a little, gesturing to the page still in your grasp.

“I passed my sign once,” he says sheepishly. “Just please come back to me.”

Jisung doesn’t wait for you to respond this time, instead cupping your cheeks gently with his hands and pulling you in for a passionate kiss, which you don’t hesitate to reciprocate, letting your hands wrap around the back of his neck to pull him even closer to you. His lips work against yours eagerly, but still tenderly, breathing all of his desire back into you and confirming the notion that this is all he’s ever really yearned for.

He smiles into the kiss against you, grazing his thumbs up to wipe stray tears that cascade along your cheeks, and then with one more chaste kiss to your lips, he pulls away once more, chuckling lightly.

“Can we just start over?” He asks you innocently. “No repetition, no secrecy. Just start anew.”

You chuckle lightly at his proposal, nodding in his embrace, and then he pulls away entirely to hold a hand out to you.

“Han Jisung,” he says. “I’m an assistant director for the college band.”

“Y/n,” you respond with a smile, shaking his hand firmly.

“So lovely to meet you- can I interest you in a tour of the gymnasium I work in?”

He throws an arm over your shoulder, beginning down the length of the vast space and gesturing to the walls beside you.

“This is where I yell at students to fix their tempos,” Jisung explains, giving your shoulder a little squeeze as you chuckle in response to him.

“And this is where I tell stories about famous composers and their love lives. Tell me, y/n- do you know the tale of Mozart and Constanze?” He then asks with a smile.

“I can’t say I do,” you play along, earning an exaggerated gasp from him.

“Well then I’d love to tell you all about it. How do you feel about art galleries? There’s one not far from here…”

And Jisung’s hand drops to yours, intertwining your fingers together as he lets himself start anew, alongside who he now knows to have been a sign for him this entire time- a coda, an epilogue, an offer for resolution.

[eldritch-spouse]

I love the idea of Zizz becoming obsessed with a lucid dreamer.

She talks to him about things she's too afraid to talk to other people about, rants about how tiresome her work is, and doing stupid shit while they wander a dreamscape she makes. Sometimes she fucks him if he doesn't take on a human appearance (realizing she's a monsterfucker). She thinks he is nothing more than a random figment formed from their dreams, enjoying these moments that will be gone by the morning.

Zizz keeps getting drawn to her, the more time he spends, the harder he falls for her.

[Aaah, this is a cute idea. Reader is ambiguous.]

The first night, you didn't know what was happening.

There was a presence in your dream, you felt it as soon as it invaded the sanctity of your slumber. A thick shadow lurking in the halls of the manor you spent so long visualizing during waking hours just so you could bring it into your dreams.

Curiosity led you to follow that strange pull. You didn't consciously manifest anything or anyone yet, so what could it be that your brain cooked up on its own?

It seemed to be wandering, and the closer you got to it, the louder these slow thumps could be heard, footsteps making aged wooden floorboards creak in protest. The parts of your dream where this thing dwelled seemed to become somehow more vivid than the ones you created, as if it were breathing life into them. Your curious search becomes a frantic chase when you catch the outline of something massive turning the corner.

Was the manor this complex? Were there these many halls?

No, you remember it being smaller. Is it... Changing its location? Changing your dream? This has to be the product of your sudden distraction. Yes, that's it.

You remember the way you stopped breathing when you opened a door, only to see him pass by.

What you can only describe as a giant demonic entity, with pallid, ash-like skin and a great veil over its horned face. A thin tail that ended in a crescent shape swaying lazily behind a masculine inhuman figure.

Between the shock and fear, you could only watch it trudge to another division, uncaring of your presence.

Your lungs start working again, on the first desperate gasp-

You wake up.

The second time, he laughed.

Some time had passed.

You never truly felt all that comfortable in your own dreamscapes after that odd encounter and, strangely, even if you remembered the sight of that demonoid so clearly, manifesting him was proving itself to be harder than expected.

You felt like you needed to bring him back, if only because his appearance left more questions than answers, and that encounter begged some clarifications.

The versions you did manage to create always seemed oddly deformed, as if you were a novice at this.

Tonight, you were dedicating your time to making him reappear, which led you to a mostly white space devoid of features beyond a floor, and the several copies of the entity you are failing to put together.

Some are discolored. Others have too many horns, the one in the corner is... Melting? The latest keeps disappearing and popping up in random spots. None of them are behaving at all, just standing there like mockeries of statues.

They feel so fake, so paper-like, cheap imitations of something that felt so powerful and perfect! Like there really was another person in your dream...

You're getting frustrated.

It's a pointless effort born out of a spook.

After what feels like an eternity of populating an endless landscape with grotesque reflections, you simply sit down and watch them fail miserably at existing.

Except... A new one emerges from the back of a swaying, greenish copy.

It looks around, tensing, as if perturbed by something, then casts its gaze to the clones surrounding it.

You didn't make that one. Not willingly. It's... It's too perfect, he looks exactly like the demon you saw, down to a T! Even the little glowing blob on his head, that's him! That's... Him. The real one. Oh fuck.

Horrified yet oddly gleeful, you simply stay very still and watch everything unfold.

The giant demon begins exploring once more, touching the flawed versions of himself he comes across. The ones that seem to particularly disturb him are waved at, and with the simple gesture, disappear entirely. Although you cannot see his face, his tail swats quickly behind the monster's body, it's clear he's at least amused by what he's seeing.

One second he's moving to the nearest malformed abomination, the next you blink and he's standing still, fixed on you. There's no doubt he's spotted you sitting cross-legged like an idiot, you bet you stick out like a sore thumb.

It felt like hours passed in that silent locking of stares. This time, you remember to breathe. But your mouth certainly won't open. And he doesn't utter a word either, resuming his perusing.

Finally, he spots the one whose clothes keep flickering in and out of place. You don't know why it's like that, and it embarrasses you. Your brain can guess the general body type and coloration of the demon given he doesn't cover all that much, but it has no way of knowing what his genitals look like, so your mind is visibly cycling through possibilities.

Seeing himself naked, with a variety of ridiculous genital equipment, the entity invading your dream starts to shake slightly.

You fear you might have greatly offended him without meaning to, but then, this sound starts bouncing off non-existent walls until it reaches you.

A melodic sort of chuckling that fills you with some unknown lulling tingle, rising into amused, helpless belly laughter, cackling. His head throws back and his shoulders quake. It's the only thing you can focus on, a voice so clear and so distinct, something you've never heard before. How incredible.

Well... At least he finds it funny? Good, that's. Good. You guess.

When the noise dies down, you find him looking at you again.

The flustered tightening of your belly is probably what woke you up.

The third time, he spoke to you.

It must not have been more than a week.

You think he's lurking around more often, because you're starting to pick up on the way his presence alters the spaces around him, makes them feel all the more immersive.

This time, you were creating a garden, picking the flowers you'll put in a variety of plots.

When you head to the little gazebo in the center, you find that not only has it increased twofold in size, he is sitting at the table you placed there.

The demon seems calm, legs spread, one hand resting on the table, the other holding his covered head as he watches you freeze.

Your first instinct is to turn back and pretend he's not there, to walk away, maybe try shoving him out of the dreamscape. But do you really want to?

" Stay. " He beckons, the moment you take a step back.

" Who are you? " Is instantly shot back.

The monster leans back on his seat, the clawed hand previously resting rises, and with a snap, day turns into night, a brilliant sky with millions of stars and swirling cool hues.

It's nothing short of gorgeous.

At this point, you think he has more control of your dream than you.

As if to prove that, the chair opposing him slides back, and he tips his head towards it, waving.

" I like your dreams. " The demon starts. " You're interesting. "

" ... Thank you? " Because what else are you supposed to say.

" Sit. " He beckons again. " Talk to me tonight. "

You didn't believe it.

Didn't believe who he said he was.

How he managed to enter your dreams.

Didn't believe that someone like him could ever find you worth any time.

You chalked it up to total madness, and took the entire conversation as a humorous game, laughing when it seemed as if he was getting almost enamored with you.

After an admittedly delightful night sharing drinks he had conjured for the two of you, Zizz sighs and tells you that it's time for you to wake up.

You're about to ask how he would know such when he leans forward to gently tip the glass up to your lips, and the richness of your favorite drink is the last thing you feel before it all fades away.

Tonight, he offered to take you into one of his dreamscapes.

A smile in his words and a shine to the soft paw he extended your way convinced you to accept the offer.

Maybe the way he purred and whispered your name like a prayer should have been warning enough that you were playing a dangerous game.

It's been hours. A day? Too long. Longer than you've ever been dreaming for. Tracking time is harder in a location you have no control over.

This is a very beautiful royal mansion, and you've been having lots of fun spending time with Zizz in it and all...

But you'd like to wake up.

It's not happening. You can't bring yourself out of the lucid dream. You... You're stuck.

When a quiet moment falls between the two of you, a small hand taps the supposed demonlord's arm.

" Zizz? "

" Mmm? "

There's a gulp. " ... I need to wake up. "

Seconds bleed into what must have been a minute of complete silence.

Until his palm lands on your head and he affectionately combs over your hair, leading you forward beside him as you're about to enter his dreamscape's bedroom.

Claws tighten on the skin of your scalp.

" Don't be silly. "

[shroomdreams]

propagation 1: Argenti

Cw: friends-to-lovers, reader in heat? (bugs don’t have heats but this is the best way to describe that), propagation monster!reader, pheromones, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, argenti revealed to be a monsterfucker???, implied virginity loss, afab!reader

AN: Just take this 💀 I am extremely unwell about this concept and Argenti

As a fellow Knight of Beauty, you and Argenti hit it off when you first met, landing on a planet where the locals were being accosted by some fragmentum creatures. You tagged along when your business was done, helping the citizens of the universe as his spear pierced enemies, while your shield protected the weak. All was well until a sudden event caused you to split from Argenti. Though you were saddened that you could no longer be with him, you continued on your journey.

In a way, you were happy that Argenti was no longer with you. Peeling off your armor and underthings, you gaze in the mirror with a frown. Humanity fades into purple chitinous armor, a pair of arms sprouting from your back alongside two, fragile cyan wings. Despite extolling the virtues of Beauty, there was nothing about you that can even be remotely beautiful. All you knew about yourself is that you were the product of something… awful. You’re lucky you haven’t remembered the details of your birth.

Today, you hid yourself away on the planet you first met Argenti. The locals welcomed you back with open arms, and even prepared a whole cabin for you to stay at. You couldn’t be more grateful for their generosity, especially considering the reason why you were hiding away in the first place.

Chrrrr…

To put it simply: The urge to Propagate had been calling to you for quite some time. Though your rigorous training and patience had managed to stave off the urge, you were bound to be overwhelmed. And for some infuriating reason, your thoughts were filled with the rosy-haired knight you met so long ago. How many months has it been since you last saw Argenti? Would he have remembered you?

Your body tingles, primal thoughts swirling in your mind. Argenti would be the perfect mate, your brain tells you. He’s strong, handsome, and you think an army of Argentis is exactly what this universe needs. However, you shake your head of these vivid images. You shouldn’t be thinking like that about your friend- You haven’t seen him in so long!

Hopefully, the urge will pass and you can return to roaming the universe, and perhaps bump into the rosy-haired man that plagues your mind. However, that plan is thrown out the window when you hear three knocks, and a familiar voice calling your name.

Argenti couldn’t believe his luck! Just as he visited this planet, he heard news that you were staying here for a while. His fellow Knight, and beloved friend, finally reunited with him. He contemplated on if he should bring something along- It’s only fair that he brings an apology for leaving you alone for so long…

Either way, Argenti await with a patient smile as he stands by the door of the modest cabin the locals said you were in. Such a quaint little building inspires warm feelings in him-

“A… Argenti?”

He’s quick to pick up the slight waver in your voice, how you seem to be tense about something. Argenti adjusts his stance. “My friend!” He calls out, resting a hand on the door. “It’s been quite some time. Do you mind if I come inside?”

“Oh, sure. Just… Give me a moment.”

He hears the rustling of clothes, followed by a meek “come on in.”

The interior of the cabin is rather nice. It certainly feels like a home, and the tasteful flowers everywhere really adds to the atmosphere. However, Argenti couldn’t help but notice a few peculiar objects scattered about. Mainly the strange, dull, purple orbs clustered together in a corner, and your armor tucked away in a nook. He quirks an eyebrow, before looking to you. You were rather disheveled, wrapped in a robe that seemed a bit too snug for you. There was also a rather sweet scent in the air, though he couldn’t exactly pin down what it was.

“A-Argenti, my friend. I’m sorry for the mess, today has not been kind to me.” You smile, patting the couch. Your body tingles as Argenti nears. He smells exactly as how you remembered him, how he smelled of flowers and vanilla- Your image flickers for the briefest of moments, but you desperately hoped Argenti didn’t notice. If you could just make it through this visit without much incident, you would be happy.

“Friend, are you alright?” Argenti asks, a frown on his face. “You just seem so jittery. Have you fallen ill?”

You quickly shake your head. “Well, yes, but i-it’s not so serious. Just a bit of a weak spell, that’s all. Tell me about you though!” You lean it with a grin. “I’ve been wondering what you were doing while we were separated.”

So Argenti regards you with tales of adventure- How he narrowly managed to escape the jaws of death from a Sting. You don’t realize how close you’ve gotten to him until you feel his hand touching your face. How lucky you were, that Argenti seemed to always be wearing his armor, else he would have felt how hard your “skin” seemed to be.

“O-Oh. Sorry, I’ll-“

What you were about to say was interrupted when Argenti leans in to place a kiss on your lips. You recoiled, looking at him with wide eyes and a blushing face. “Argenti?”

Instead of answering you, Argenti closes the distance, grabbing your wrists and pinning them to the couch and breathing heavily. “I’m… You…” He panted. His cheeks seemed to be dyed in the same hue as his hair, the waterfall of crimson cascading over his shoulders and making you feel small. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into me,” Argenti mumbles, his eyes sweeping over your quivering frame. “But you… You’re beautiful.”

“Argenti-“

You whimper when Argenti starts grinding against you, the fabric of his pantaloons not doing much to hide the pressure behind them. He sighs out, eyes closed as he rut against the space between your legs.

“Argenti wait- The pheromones- Ah~ They must be making you a-act out.” You murmured, trying to get him to see reason. That must be why he suddenly kissed you- The pheromones you were emitting must have triggered a response in Argenti. You have to stop him before he does something he’ll regret- Or worse, see you in all your ugly glory…

But Argenti seems determined to hold you down. Vines grown from the floorboards and wrap around your body, twisting and curling until you were immobilized. A whine was drawn out of you when Argenti kisses your neck, your disguise faltering again. “Argenti-“

“My friend~” Argenti shakily gasped out, leaning back in order to undo your robe. Before you could say anything, Argenti peels off the only protection you have, unveiling your naked body to him. His eyes grow wide, taking in the sight of your human form dissipating into quantum particles and revealing your insectoid-self, your other pair of arms desperately holding onto him as you look away, ashamed.

“Please don’t stare… I know I’m ugly.”

Those words shake Argenti out his stupor. You watch with wide eyes as he strips himself of his armor and underclothes, tossing the items to the side, revealing his toned body to you. You let out an involuntary chitter at the sight, drinking in his physique before he pulls you up into his arms, his emerald eyes boring into yours. While standing, Argenti continues to grind against you, letting out tiny groans alongside your own.

“Don’t you dare call yourself that,” Argenti growls. The vines wrapped around your limbs restrict your movement, allowing him to position you above his length. Breath quickening, you attempt to fight off your instincts and sink down on his cock post-haste, instead resting your head on Argenti’s shoulders. “You are the most exquisite person I’ve ever seen. The way the light shines on your chitin, I swear you’re made of the most precious metal in the universe.”

Trembling in his hold, you let out heavy breaths as he pushes your hips down, slowly sinking you down on his cock. Argenti throws his head back, feeling your warmth immediately sucking him in as you continue your descent. You whimper, mandibles reaching out and tapping his jaw. “Argenti…” You sigh out, feeling your resolve waver as you fully sink down on his dick. You and Argenti breathe in each other’s presence, allowing for the both of you to adjust to numerous sensations floating through your bodies. Gritting his teeth, Argenti summons the strength to lift up your hips, noting how your warmth drenched him in a strange, purple liquid.

“Magnificent. Like… Like liquid amethyst.” He slurred, a hazy look on his face. His hips begin to pump up into your pussy, fucking whines and chitters from your mouth, your free set of arms gripping the couch for dear life. Every single thrust from Argenti felt like electricity running through your body, brushing against a specific spot that has you screeching out in pure lust. Emboldened by your reactions, Argenti takes to moving your hips up and down in tandem with his thrusts, intensifying his ministrations in a delirious craze. That sweet scent grows stronger as Argenti pistons into your cunt.

“Let’s have children together!” Argenti babbles. It takes your brain a moment to catch up to his words, but when you fully process them, you feel yourself gushing around Argenti’s cock, the purple liquid making his thighs sticky and shiny. You let out a cry as he roughly slams you down on his dick, filling your cunny with his release, white mixing with purple and tricking down in tiny drops. As Argenti takes a breather, you begin rolling your hips, making him whimper from the overstimulation. You don’t heed his tiredness, though. Planting your legs to the cushions of the couch, you began slowly riding Argenti’s cock, purring as you feel him throbbing against your walls.

When Argenti wakes up, he finds himself on the bed, his body sore. You sat at the edge of the bed, cradling three large eggs. You nearly jumped out of your skin when you feel Argenti wrap his arms around you.

“Argenti. Did I wake you?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. He smiles, shaking his head.

“No, you didn’t. I just had the most wonderful sleep, in fact.” Argenti replied, kissing your cheek and laughing when he feels your mandibles tap against his face. His eyes wander towards the clutch of eggs in your arms. “May I…?” You enthusiastically nod in response. Argenti traces the shell of one of the eggs with a careful finger, noting how soft it was to the touch.

“I just laid these three a few minutes ago,” you explained, gazing at your clutch with loving eyes. “Your erm… Material managed to produce these three. The rest won’t hatch.” You look to Argenti once again. “Would you like to hold one?” Seeing Argenti nod, one of your hands scoop an egg and gently hand it over to Argenti, who holds it like he would a human baby.

“We made these precious gems.” He whispered in awe, catching sight of his reflection. “How long until they hatch?” He asked, making sure to keep his hold on the egg steady.

“I’m not sure,” you earnestly reply. “This is the first time I’ve uh. Coupled with someone. And the first time I might have children.” Your chitin gives off a faux flush of purple. “…Argenti, I must apologize. I realized that I may have taken advantage of you. You just wanted to visit me, but then you ended up fathering my first clutch. Hah… what a strange reunion between ‘friends,’ right?”

Argenti just smiles, leaning in to plan a kiss to your cheek. “I must also apologize then, for acting so foolhardy. But in my defense, you were just so… intoxicating. When I gazed upon your true appearance, I felt as if the Beauty had gifted me with something precious. And when you said that you were ugly, I supposed I wanted to show you that… I truly wanted you.”

“Ah, then…?” You leaned towards Argenti, careful to not jostle your eggs. “You wouldn’t be opposed to raising them together?”

“On my honor, I would never abandon our children.” Argenti affirms. “We shall raise them into strong, upstanding citizens of the universe! And no matter what…” He leans in, pressing his forehead to your own and closing his eyes. “I’ll protect you all. No matter what happens, I will take up my spear and fight against the Destruction if I have to.”

Months later, Argenti sheds tears as he holds your daughter while you encourage her brothers to emerge from their shells. He watches as you teach your children to shapeshift, hiding their monstrous forms and taking on human ones. However, he thinks they’re much cuter when they chirp for his attention, laughing as his daughter mimics his red hair.

OMAKE:

“It’s been a while since we last saw you, Mr. Argenti.” Welt politely greets, pouring the Knight a cup of tea.

“Yeah, we weren’t sure if you were still alive after that whole thing.” Stelle bluntly says, letting out an ‘ow’ when March elbows her.

“My apologies, friends. I have been very busy lately.” Argenti says. “I haven’t had much time to explore the cosmos, but Velite has been helping me in finding some work for the meantime.”

“What do you need to work for?” March asks. “Aren’t you a Knight of Beauty?”

“Well, my partner and I both agreed out duties as Knights would be on hold for the time being.” Argenti replies. “We want to ensure our children grow up in a stable environment, so that they may flourish as wonderful adults.”

“That’s nice- Wait, what?” Stelle looks at him with wide eyes. “You have kids now??”

“Indeed! Would you like to see their pictures?”

“…Holy crap, he does have kids.” March gaped. “Triplets, too. How old are they?”

“I’d say… nine months by now?”

“…Mr. Argenti, these children look to be toddler age.” Welt deadpans. Argenti laughs, taking his cup of tea.

“Well, they did recently hatch, so I understand the confusion.”

“Okay then.” Stelle hands Argenti his phone back.

It isn’t a few minutes later did Dan Heng finally speak.

“What do you mean they hatched?”

…Argenti just smiles.

[francesminos-tt]

Lucemond time travel fix-it au with a twist where a 11-year-old Aemond and his 30-year-old self switches bodies.

Older!Aemond is happily married to Lucerys. They have three children and Lucerys is nursing their youngest.

Youger!Aemond just got his eye gauged out. Poor boy.

It all starts at that fateful night on Driftmark. Aemond claimed Vaghar but lost an eye. The pain is too intense, the hurt too deep, the humiliation too intolerable, and most importantly, the indifference in his father’s eyes is too much to bear. As the maester is sewing his flesh back together, Aemond blacks out for a bit.

When he wakes up next, he finds himself in a strange place. He’s lying on a massive bed; the unique ocean scent tells him that he’s still on Driftmark, but the surrounding is completely different from mere seconds ago. Did he pass out longer than he thought? Did his mother put him to rest? Why is his face not hurting? What is the warmth on his left?

Aemond doesn’t have to wonder any longer, because the warmth shifts and Aemond hears a small yawn as he feels hot breath on his neck.

“Why are you up, Aemond?” A mop of brown curls emerges from Aemond’s blind side. It’s a boy, no, young man with soft features and sleepy eyes the color of honey wine.

Aemond doesn’t know him. Seven, he never sleeps in the same bed with anyone else. And he certainly doesn’t cuddle.

“Who are you? I demand you to get off my bed and identify yourself.” Aemond says, his voice deep and resonating, nothing like the voice Aemond is accustomed to.

This is NOT his voice.

The young man frowns, sleep disappearing from his eyes. He studies Aemond for a while before slips off the bed. The young man fishes an oversized tunic from the floor and throws it on. The tunic comes down all the way to the middle of his thigh, and Aemond belatedly realizes his companion is completely naked. So is Aemond.

“Did Aegon give you something nasty again? I am going to cut off his balls.” The young man spits, pacing around the room to light the candles.

Aegon, right, that’s a familiar name. His older brother is constantly horny and drunk which annoys Aemond to the core, but now he would die to see a familiar face again.

“Here. Drink some water. Does your head hurt? Do you feel like vomiting? I can have the maester prepare some tonic for you, or do you prefer some warm soup?” The young man returns to the bed with a goblet in hand. He offers the goblet to Aemond before leans down, pressing their forehead together to feel Aemond’s temperature.

Aemond’s breath catches in his throat. Never is someone so caring to him. Not even his own mother. Alicent is always civil and aloof. She is more Queen than mother to him. Aemond can’t remember the last time someone showed such affection and devotion to him.

“How do you feel? Talk to me, Aemond, beloved, you are scaring me.” The young man brushes a strand of silver hair from Aemond’s forehead, his touch so tender that Aemond doesn’t want him to stop.

“Who are you?” Aemond asks again, this time barely a whisper. This is a dream, Aemond is sure of it. Maybe the maester gives him too much milk of the poppy. That’s why he would have this strange but incredibly vivid and addicting dream. He is afraid if he asks the wrong question, the caring stranger would disappear and he will be left alone with pain again.

The stranger chuckles, as if Aemond just did something silly but endearing.

“I can’t believe you are so hang-over that you forget your own husband.” The stranger says. His eyes twinkle, small beads of sweat gives his skin an inviting sheen, and Aemond could see red bite marks scattered all over his chest, especially around his nipples.

“Husband?” Aemond repeats, rather stupidly.

“That’s right. I am your husband, Lucerys.” The young man kisses Aemond on the lips as he reveals the truth.

Aemond’s whole world starts to spin. No. It cannot be. This is merely a milk of the poppy induced dream. There is no way he would marry Lucerys of all people. The boy who just took his eye.

But, come to think of it, Aemond now sees a pair of big doe eyes, unruly curls, plush lips, full cheeks, and a cute button nose. All those features scream Lucerys to him.

“What year is it?” Aemond mutters.

“Are you sure you are all right, love? It’s 140 AC.”

And just like that, a 11-year-old Aemond somehow transfers into the body of his older self almost 20 years later.

Bonus:

121 AC, Driftmark

Aemond (turns to the maester): Can you look at my husband Lucy, eh, I mean my nephew Lucerys? I think his nose is still bleeding.

Everyone looks shocked except for Lucerys.

Lucerys (sniffles): Are you hurting too much uncle?

Aemond: It’s not too bad. Come here, you can kiss it better.

Lucerys (stumbles toward Aemond)

[beskarandblasters]

Was it all a dream?

Chapter Seven: Somewhere I go when I need to remember your face

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist

Series summary: You’ve always had vivid dreams, an escape from your monotonous life. But one night, something appears in your dreams that keeps reoccurring; a pair of brown eyes. -Or- Two people, in completely different parts of the galaxy, find each other in their dreams and try to make sense of the strange connection they share.

Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), switches between Reader and Din’s POV, story takes place in the dream realm and the real world, takes place somewhere between the end of season two/Book of Boba Fett/beginning + middle of season three, eventual smut, line between reality and dreams gets blurred, use of Mando’a words and phrases, no use of y/n

Chapter summary: You accept help from an unlikely source to get off of Sullust. Din goes to Tatooine to look for you.

Word count: 4.6k

Chapter warnings: canon typical violence, descriptions of a minor injury (not the reader's), mentions of food/eating

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

Din

After he spends an embarrassingly long amount of time sniffing your panties and stroking his cock, he gets out of his bunk and replaces his helmet on his head. Repetitive beeps come from the cockpit, letting him know a transmission is waiting for him. Once he climbs the ladders and settles in the pilot’s seat, he notices that there are multiple transmissions, all unplayed and from three rotations ago. 

…How long was he asleep? How is that even possible? 

He shakes his head and tries not to fixate on what this could mean, setting a course for Tatooine. Another lead that could possibly bring you to him, if you’re really there. 

You

Three rotations have passed for you, too. The date on your data-pad catches your eye when you roll over in bed and pull it off your nightstand. And now you’re wondering what happened. But your questions only skyrocket when you look in your bag and find that all of the blaster parts are mysteriously there. All you need to do now is just build the blaster and figure out how to get off this planet. 

For once you get ready for work early, making a stop at the library to search for the desert planet from last night’s dream. The binary sunset is burned into the back of your mind. 

But after a couple of searches, you find out that the planet is Tatooine, located in the Outer Rim just like Sullust. Din said he’d been there before, to a planet located in the same region of the galaxy as you. 

You can do this. You can make it to Tatooine and find Din. 

As you walk to the shuttle you think about how you won’t have to be here much longer. You’ll finally be exploring the galaxy, traveling through space, feeling the sun on your skin, interacting with other humans and ultimately finding your love. You arrived at the perfect time, getting a shuttle car to yourself. Until Shoan gets on the same one, approaching you with a mischievous grin on his face. 

“What do you want?” you say, not looking at him. 

“I just have a question for you.”

An exasperated sigh escapes your lips and your shoulders slump, bracing yourself for whatever stupidity is about to come out of his mouth. 

“What is it?”

“What are you doing with all those parts?”

“How do you know about that?!” you ask, snapping your gaze towards him. 

“I’m very observant,” he shrugs. 

“So now what? Are you gonna blackmail me? Or turn me in?”

“Neither,” he says, towering over you. His eyes are so blue, so piercing that it makes you uncomfortable. It’s hard to make eye contact for too long. 

“Then what is it?” As the shuttle doors close, you fold your arms and look at the floor again.

“What’s your plan? Are you trying to rob someone? Plan an escape?”

“...Maybe the latter.”

“Let me make a deal with you.”

“What could you possibly have to offer me?”

“Uh, I won’t turn you in.”

“...What’s it in for you?”

“Take me with you.”

“Huh? You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I don’t care. I’ll go anywhere. I just need to get off of Sullust.”

“Why do you want to leave?”

“Same reasons as you I’m sure. You want to see other places, meet other humans, right? Maybe see what grass is like or see a desert or something. Something other than caves and tunnels.”

“You’re not too far off. But I’m fine on my own, thanks.”

“Oh, so I take it you know how to fly Opu-Yachts.”

“No… Do you?”

“I’ve worked on the control panels for them.”

You didn’t exactly expect your plan to include Shoan of all people but he does make a good point. You don’t know how to fly those ships. You just sort of hoped there would be a droid who could pilot the ship for you when it was time to escape. But this is better you suppose…

“Fine,” you sigh, “But where I’m going there’s no grass.”

“Where?”

“Tatooine.”

“Fine by me.”

“Okay… When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. But we should leave before our shift starts. It’ll give us a head start before they come after us.”

“Okay,” you nod, “I’ll meet you at the station tomorrow morning. Two hours before our shift starts?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he says with a salute, getting off the shuttle when it stops. 

The plan has metamorphosed before your eyes. 

-

Tonight in your dream you’re going to tell Din about your plan to escape to Tatooine, hoping he’ll be able to meet you there. Your blaster is constructed and you’re tempted to test it out now but you’re worried the noise will raise concern with your neighbors. You hope it’ll work the next morning or else this plan is ill-fated, all for you to fail. 

As you get ready for bed you pack what you can take with you in your bag– your dream journal, a change of clothes, a first aid kid, and a few rations. Before you climb into bed you take a look around your room, as if you’re saying goodbye to the place you called home for so long. You won't miss it. 

Drifting off to sleep you think about being in Din’s arms, in real life for once. 

-

You’re by the ocean this time, wet sand under your feet and the wind brushing against your skin. The sky above is bright blue with pale pink clouds spread across, touched by the sun starting to set in the distance. It’s peaceful here like all the dreams have been. 

“Ner vercopa,” Din says behind you. 

You turn to face him, opening your mouth to cut to the chase already. But before you can say a single word you wake up with a gasp. It’s your bedroom again. 

You were barely asleep. How can the dream be over already? You roll over in bed, trying desperately to fall asleep again, but it’s no use. You’re wide awake, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You’re too focused on the escape plan tomorrow to fall asleep it seems. 

Din 

One moment you were there and the next you were gone. It’s not fair. You were just about to say something. And now he’s stuck here, enjoying this beautiful place without you. 

At least when he wakes up he’ll be landing on Tatooine, looking for you. 

And that’s what he expects to do when he arrives, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. 

You

With barely any sleep and anger harboring in your veins you get ready to meet Shoan, leaving your home without looking back.

He’s waiting for you at the station, bright and early with his bag packed. It’s now or never.

“Follow my lead,” he whispers when you step onto the shuttle, “I know where the ships are docked.”

This shuttle is packed. A lot more eyes around than what you’re comfortable with. Hopefully, no one notices you and Shoan diverging from the group. Once the shuttle comes to a stop he leads the way, following the crowd until he hangs a hard right down a long metal hallway. 

“Watch my back,” he says. You pull your blaster from your bag, wincing in anticipation of shouts from someone following you. But so far you’re in the clear. He takes a left, leading you down another hallway until you’re at an elevator. 

“Docking yards on the roof,” he says, pressing the button, “Be prepared. This area is heavily guarded and we need to be fast. Got it?”

You nod, already feeling your legs turn to jelly underneath you. The adrenaline surges through your body and the hair on your arms stands on its end. 

You can do this, you tell yourself. 

Stranger things have happened. Your strange connection with Din and the unlikely ally by your side has shown you that. Even if you don’t find Din, the shot at freedom and exploration is worth all of this alone. 

The elevator stops at your floor with a ding, opening the doors to reveal two Sullustan employees. They clock you right way, “Hey, you two aren’t supposed to be-”

But without thinking you shoot them and Shoan looks at you like you’re crazy. They sink to the floor and you step inside with him following behind you, pressing the button for the roof. 

He turns and looks at you with the same wild expression in his eye, prompting you to say, “What? I built this so I could use it,” with a shrug.

“I didn’t say anything,” he chuckles as the elevator moves up. 

“Did you think this plan was going to happen without a few casualties?”

“No. I just didn’t think you actually had it in you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you say, right when the elevator stops at the roof. The end is near. 

The ding of the elevator draws eyes to you, a hoard of Sullustans immediately swarming you as you step off the elevator. Shoan points to a gold ship at the end of the docking yard, grabbing your arm and sprinting while you go trigger-happy, shooting in all directions. Sullustans collapse all around you but you’re not going anywhere without something going wrong. A rogue blast from one of the Sullustans hits Shoan in the calf, causing him to fall and almost bring him down with you. 

“Come on. Get up,” you say, pulling him off the floor. 

“I can’t move my leg!”

“We’ll fix it when we get on the ship. Come on! We’re close to the end.”

You help him up, handing him the blaster to shoot while you lead the way to the ship, all while holding him upright. This feels like a suicide mission and you’re wondering if it was worth it at all, to die in the place you work, to never dream or see Din again. You could’ve lived out your days contentedly, working at the factory and exploring the dream realm at night with Din by your side. Why did your naivety lead you to think you could actually pull this off? You’re barely going to get out of here alive even with Shoan’s help. And your overconfident self thought you could do this on your own up until yesterday. 

No. Don’t let them win. You can make it. You’re so close to the edge. 

You make it to the Opu-Yacht, hastily pushing buttons to open the door, dragging Shoan inside, and sealing the entrance shut. He hobbles over to the pilot’s seat, preparing for takeoff. You race to one of the passenger’s seats, buckling up and feeling like you’re going to be sick from the nerves. 

And then you’re off the ground, flying out of the docking yard and just making it past the gate that’s closing slowly. He puts the ship into high gear, speeding towards space with Sullust getting smaller and smaller beneath you. You did it. You made it off the planet. 

Once the vastness of space is around you Shoan makes the jump to lightspeed, leaning back in his chair and sighing when you make it, the swirly blue lights illuminating the cockpit. 

“We did it,” he says, groaning as he moves his leg. 

“Did you think we weren’t going to?” you say, reaching for your bag. 

“For a second there… no,” he admits, groaning again. 

“I have a first aid kit,” you say, grabbing bacta spray and gauze. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and sink to the floor, spraying the singed wound on his calf and wrapping it with gauze. 

“Thank you…” he says awkwardly, like he’s realizing that even after he’s been so terrible to you here you are tending to his wound. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, moving off the floor and sitting back in your seat, “Where did you set a course to?”

“Kriff, I don’t even know. I just wanted to get out of there,” he says, looking at the control panel. 

After looking at the map and the coordinates he’s locked on he says, “Naboo, but don’t worry. It’s on the way to Tatooine. It might be worth it to try and ditch this ship since they’ll be tracking this one.”

“You’re right,” you sigh, leaning back and closing your eyes. 

It’s a step in the right direction and another planet you’ll get to see. One step closer to finding Din. 

Din 

A few rotations have passed since Din last saw you and a lot has happened since then. Din reunited with Grogu in Mos Espa and he helped Boba Fett deal with the Pykes. After that, he took some time to ask around about you but no one there has heard of you of course. Granted he only got a chance to search Mos Espa but now that Grogu is back, he remembered what he was supposed to do during his absence; redeem himself. 

There’s no way she’s here. She mentioned living underground, never seeing the sun. This is pointless, he tells himself. 

He hasn’t seen you in his dreams lately either and that worries him. Where are you? What have you been doing? How can this connection just appear out of nowhere and disappear within an instant? Did you wake up? But even then, you have to sleep eventually. Do you have some sort of control over your dreams that he doesn’t? But why would you want to dream without him there? Did the last dream leave a bad taste in your mouth? No, that doesn’t make sense. Nothing happened in that dream. One moment you were there and the next you were gone.

He’s in his own head, on the verge of spiraling out of control. But it’s not just him anymore. He has Grogu to worry about and after being away from each other for so long Din thinks he just should focus on him. This is what he’s wanted for a long time and he’s not going to let his anxieties ruin it for him. 

And with that, he convinces himself to leave as hard as it is. He’ll find you but unfortunately for now it’s not meant to be. You’ll meet again, regardless if it’s in his dreams or real life. Or at least that he tells himself to prevent from going insane. 

You 

Traveling through space is harder than you thought. You can’t tell if this is how it’s supposed to be or if Shoan’s just a bad pilot. You’re nauseous, sick to your stomach. It’s hard to keep your eyes open for longer than a few minutes at a time. And even then you can’t fall asleep. The lack of sleep is just making you feel sicker but it’s also giving you Din withdrawals. It makes you wonder about him. Is he wondering where you are? Is he missing you? Is he continuing with his life like everything’s fine? There’s no way. He can’t just be fine without your presence. He loves you and if he’s anything like you, he’s sick with longing in your absence.

After what feels like lightyears, Shoan lands on Naboo, docking near the outskirts of the capital city, Theed. It’s mid-day here, broad daylight. If you’re going to steal another ship you’ll have to wait until nightfall, when you can hide under the cover of darkness. 

“How are you holding up?” Shoan says, turning to face you. 

“How are you holding up?” you ask, gesturing to his leg. 

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s basically healed now. But you, on the other hand, look like shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I didn’t sleep that great.” 

“You didn’t sleep at all.”

“Either you’re a bad pilot or I’m just not used to space travel yet.”

“Probably a bit of both,” he deadpans, standing up and stretching.

“So what now?”

“Head into town, find some food, wait around until nighttime to steal a ship, and head to Tatooine.”

He walks to the door at the back of the ship, looking at you expectantly like he’s waiting for you to join him.

“You’re coming, right? Can’t expect me to steal all this food myself.”

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” you sigh, standing up and stretching, too.

“That’s the spirit. I need a pro klepto to help me with this.”

“Haha. Funny,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“You’re pretty good at stealing,” he says, walking outside, “I’m serious. I was the only one who noticed.”

You grab your bag and follow him, leaning against the gold metal ship as he seals it shut.

“I think you mean not good enough. Look where it got me. Now I’m stuck with you.”

“You mean you’re blessed with me. Without me who knows how far you would’ve gotten.”

“Uh huh,” you respond, following him into Theed. You can’t believe you’re here, somewhere other than Sullust. On a planet teeming with life. On a planet where you can actually breathe fresh air. Just not with the person you want. 

Oh well, at least it’s a step closer to finding Din. 

As you walk into Theed you pass a docking yard filled with all sorts of ships. 

“Look,” you say, nudging Shoan, “Should we try in there tonight?”

He stops and looks at the docking yard, placing a hand on his hip.

“It could work. Let’s just hope it’s still just as packed tonight. More ships to choose from.”

He continues and you follow him, taking in all of the sights. Being here on Naboo is like sensory overload. It’s so much more real than your dreams, of course. And your eyes can’t pick a place to focus on. The nature, the buildings, the sky, the people. It’s all too much. 

“You alright?” Shoan asks. 

“What? I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re tweaking out.”

“Well this,” you say, gesturing to your surroundings as you walk through Theed, “This is a little overwhelming, no?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, “You’ve never been off planet before?”

“No… You have?”

“When I was a kid. I wasn’t always from Sullust.”

“Lucky you.”

Before he can continue you point out a marketplace in the distance, not unlike the one you saw in your dream where you first saw Din. 

“Look. Maybe we can get food there?”

“Work your magic, klepto.”

“Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes, “But you better be a good distraction.”

“Deal.” 

You walk towards the marketplace holding your head high, acting like you belong here, like you know how to behave in a place like this. Shoan leads you to a stand selling bread. He chats up the owner so his back is to his own stand, giving you the perfect opportunity to grab a couple of loaves without him looking. 

You creep your hand into the display of bread, fingers ghosting over a loaf before swiping it away quickly. And repeat. Two loaves in the bag no problem. The owner didn’t notice, too enthralled in Shoan’s fake performance as an overly friendly customer. You glance at your surroundings and it seems no one else noticed you stealing either. Maybe you do have a knack for this. 

You walk away, letting Shoan continue his charade while you stake out what stand to hit up next. Across the marketplace is a produce stand; you’re next target. You turn back and look at Shoan, searching for his gaze. His eyes meet yours and you jerk your head towards the produce stand. 

He catches your drift, giving you a small nod before bidding goodbye to the owner at the bread stand. Waiting for him in the center of the bustling marketplace has you replaying every moment in your head that has led up to this. All the ominous dreams and the tough choices led you here, feeling the sun on your face and the wind on your skin. Breathing fresh air for once. It's overwhelming— all of the sounds, the smells, the people. You’ve never been surrounded by so many humans in your life. You’re self-conscious of your words, your mannerisms. It makes you wonder how Shoan is so good at this. He was able to talk to that guy like they had known each other for yours. It makes you want to try and do what he did, swindling some poor innocent soul while he steals. You look at him with hopeful eyes as comes up to you, shooting you a puzzling glance.

“What is it?”

“Can I try that?”

“Try what?”

“The talking part.”

“Oh…” he trails off like he’s finding the right words to say so he doesn’t hurt your feelings, “Maybe when we get to Tatooine.”

“Oh… Okay.”

“I just don’t want to attract any unnecessary attention to us, not while we’re trying to steal a ship in the process.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m not trying to be mean,” he says quickly. 

“No, I know you’re not,” you say, regretting mentioning it at all.

He leads the way to the produce stand and you avert your gaze to the stone-covered street, hiding the hurt on your face. Your chest is heavy, embarrassed from putting yourself out there, for thinking that was something you could actually do. Maybe you’re not normal. Maybe you’re still the strange kid from a weird planet, left to your own devices. 

You blink back tears, not letting them spill over before telling yourself no. 

You’ve been around Sullustans your whole life, never meeting more than a handful of humans in your lifetime. And even still it was you who decided to get off Sullust. It was you who stole the blaster parts. It was you who was brave enough to leave the place you called home for so long. 

You’re doing great and you should be proud of yourself. 

Everything happens so fast, from stealing a few fruits and vegetables to fleeing the marketplace before anyone notices you to sitting in a field with Shoan, silently eating your food as you watch the wind shake the blades of grass around you. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings back there,” he says, handing you a piece of fruit. 

“You’re fine. I get why you told me no. I don’t want to jeopardize getting to Tatooine,” you respond, taking the fruit and meeting his gaze. 

He cocks his head to the side and asks, “Why Tatooine? You never told me.”

You look away, glancing at the horizon line. If you tell him the truth you’ll just sound crazy. He won’t get it. If you tried to tell this scenario to anyone they wouldn’t get it. 

But you tell him anyway.

“You’re not going to believe me,” you start, looking over at him.

“...Okay.”

“And frankly, if you don’t want to go to Tatooine with me you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

“Whoa. Whoa. Easy now. I just asked a question,” he says, putting his hands in the air as a playful defense.

“...I started seeing someone in my dreams. And the last time I saw him we were on Tatooine. He said he recognized that planet so I figured I’d start there,” you say, looking at the fruit in your hands.

He’s silent and you can feel his gaze studying you. You expect him to judge you, to call you stupid.

He doesn’t.

“I get it but I don’t.”

“What do you-”

“I never remember my dreams but I also don’t think it would take a lot to want to get off Sullust.”

“Right.”

“Whether he’s real or just a dream, I’d say it’s worth it.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not judging me.”

“No problem,” he says, leaning back and lying down in the grass. He folds his arms and places them behind his head, closing his eyes under the blazing sun.

“Don’t mention it.”

“So what do we do now?” 

“Wait until the sun sets,” he says. 

You lie down in the grass, too, feeling like you’re a step closer to bliss. You think about Din and what it would be like if he were here, lying beside you under the sun. You’ll get there soon enough.

-

After a small afternoon nap, the sun is starting to set, and the air chills. Goosebumps prick your skin as you startle awake, greeted by the nighttime air and the dark sky. It’s time to go. 

Part of you is sad to leave this planet so soon but who’s to say that when you find Din you can’t come here again? When you’re together you’ll be able to travel the galaxy side by side, seeing everything it has to offer. You can hardly wait.

Shoan is sitting up, reaching around to gather all your things and any leftover food. 

“Ready to go?”

“Mhm,” you respond, sitting up and stretching. A shiver runs down your spine, either from the chilly air or the adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

You can do this. 

You walk towards the docking yard you passed earlier, holding your head. You’re hoping and praying that no one spots you, that you’ll miraculously find a ship that’s unlocked. Shoan leads you up and down the aisles of various ships, searching for the best one to take. Nothing too big. But a lot of them are single-pilot ships and that won’t do. 

A few people are loitering around the docking yard, looking at you two with shifty eyes. You do your best to look away, to mind your business. But you can’t shake the feeling you’re being watched, feeling as if their eyes are watching your every move. You don’t dare look over your shoulder and find out. The best thing you can do is look unsuspecting, keeping a low profile.

After trying to gain access to a few ships and failing, Shoan tries one more. This one is a bit bigger than you would prefer. It’s silver, glimmering under the moonlight. Judging by the size it holds a decent amount of people. Maybe ten. Maybe a dozen. 

You’re starting to lose hope. Stealing a ship that wasn’t manufactured by your employer is harder than you thought. So close yet so far away from finding Din. Stuck on a planet you’re not even sure he’s been to. And not to mention the fact that you haven’t seen him in the dream world for quite some time. How does this all work? Can you only find him in your dreams when you’re on Sullust? That doesn’t even make sense. 

But to your utter surprise, Shoan gets inside, holding out his hand to help you in. This is much nicer than the Opu-Yacht you stole on Sullust. Still just as flashy if not more. 

You need to get off this planet before someone notices you. Now. 

Shoan takes his place in one of the pilot’s seats and you opt for one of the passengers, anxiously strapping in while he figures out the control panel. 

“...Can you fly it?”

“Well, it’s the only one we were able to get into. So one way or another yeah, I will.”

He sits there scratching the stubble on his chin, anxiously fiddling with the control panel and pressing random buttons. But nothing’s working.

Kriff, you’re doomed. Someone is going to catch you. And you’ll never get off this planet. You’ll never see Din.

By some stroke of luck, the ship is taking off just before you break out in hives and a panicking sweat. You fully expected some stranger to barge in before you could leave, screaming at you for trying to steal their ship.

For once, you’re winning, greeted by the familiar vastness of space. Everything’s so still around you, a contrast to the panic you’re still feeling. But you can rest easy and hopefully try to sleep, knowing that you’re ahead and on the right track…

For now. 

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[thatbloodymuggle]

READY TO RUN (viii)

EIGHT - AFFETTUOSO

SUMMARY: in a world where everyone has a predetermined match, JJ Maybank and Y/N Montgomery want nothing to do with theirs. it has to be a cruel joke; the universe forcing two people to love each other when they don’t know how.

PAIRING: jj maybank x reader / soulmate au

WORD COUNT: 8.4k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: none this time :)

✰✰✰

According to Urban Dictionary, Sunday Scaries are the phenomenon by which you question your entire existence after a Saturday full of binge drinking. In your 18 years of existence, you had experienced a number of Sunday Scaries. But none could rival the torrent of dread, regret, and everything else in between that swept over you when you stirred awake on Kate’s couch the morning after your unfortunate blunder in the ocean.

You usually woke up foggy-minded after drinking. But today, the vivid memories flooded you before you even opened your eyes. You could see the vein protruding from Topper’s neck as he yelled at the Pogues. You could smell the stale beer spilled down your chest. You could feel the water dripping from JJ’s hair onto your face as he carried your limp body to shore. 

Suddenly, and all at once, you forced your eyes open, letting the harsh light of Kate’s living room drown out the onslaught of memories.

Your head lulled to the side as you assessed your surroundings. Topper’s zip-up was discarded on the chair across from you, but there was no sign of either of your friends. You lazily glanced at the ticking grandfather clock. 8:03 A.M.

You sucked in a deep breath as you reached for your phone, preparing yourself for the missing calls and texts from your family. Your brows cinched as you were instead met with an empty home screen. Much to your displeasure, your gut twisted when you didn’t find a certain blond-haired Pogue’s name flash across the screen. Against your better judgment, you sunk your nails into your thigh, just hard enough to wince. You waited a beat, and couldn’t help but feel disappointed when the action wasn’t returned.

You sighed and tossed your phone aside. You stared up at the ornate chandelier dangling above you. You gnawed your bottom lip as you mulled over your options. You could wait for Kate and Topper to wake up. But then you’d inevitably be badgered with questions you didn’t have the energy to answer yet. Alternatively, you could walk home, back to the place and people who had sent you spiraling yesterday. 

Both options sounded equally treacherous. Maybe you could sneak into your house, just long enough to freshen up. You could figure out the rest from there, you decided. You shut out any anxiety-inducing thoughts, and instead focused on your footsteps as you gathered your belongings and crept out of Kate’s house.

The beating sun was a welcome distraction as you stepped out into the Carolina heat. You moved mechanically along the side of the road, counting your steps in twos. You focused on the crunching gravel beneath your feet, the beading sweat kissing your forehead. Anything to keep the whirlwind of thoughts at bay.

Your calculated steps faltered as the Montgomery Mansion came into view. Still, you proceeded toward the ghastly Antebellum home, your head held high by a facade of confidence. You fought to keep your breathing steady as you approached the entrance. Your eyes flicked towards the side of the house, and you frowned upon noticing that your bike was missing from the rack. Strange, you thought to yourself.

You sucked in a deep breath before pushing the front door open as quietly as possible. Your shoulders slumped as you found no one in the entranceway.

However, your stint of relief was short-lived. A dreadful sinking feeling gripped you as you passed by the ballroom. The center of the marbled floor once occupied by an elegant Steinway grand piano was notably empty. Your knees buckled at the sight. Still, you propelled yourself towards the kitchen where you heard the unmistakable sound of your father’s bellowing cough. 

You could almost feel your cortisol levels spike as you turned into the entryway of the kitchen. Clyde and Margaret sat at the table, unbothered by your presence, as they indulged in their morning coffees and newspapers. 

"Where's my bike?"

Margaret paused momentarily before continuing to sip on her coffee.

"I sold it."

Her icy tone made your heart plummet to the pit of your stomach.

"And the piano?" your voice trembled as you spoke.

Margaret cleared her throat before taking another sip, "Sold that too."

You clenched your fists as you stood with your mouth agape. A cascade of anger and despair simultaneously engulfed you.

"You're fucking kidding me," you seethed. 

"Don't speak to your mother like that," Clyde snapped. You jumped as he slammed his mug down on the table, black coffee sloshing over the edges. "Seeing as empty threats mean nothing to you, your mother and I decided to take direct action."

You spoke through gritted teeth, "And how exactly do you expect me to practice for the showcase?"

"Not my problem," Clyde muttered as he mindlessly flipped through the newspaper on the counter.

"You can't," you blubbered, "You can't do this to me. This isn't fair!"

Margaret laughed dryly, "You want to talk about fair? Your father and I work tirelessly everyday to provide for you, and you have the nerve to drag us through the mud," she spoke sharply, "So long as you embarrass the Montgomery family name, you will not reap its benefits. If you're so determined to be independent of us, then have at it, Y/N. Be independent."

You fought back the tears welling up in your eyes, but couldn't stop your jaw from falling slack as Clyde shoved the pieces of your cut up credit card on the counter towards you.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. You fumbled for your phone, and nearly dropped the device at your father's next words.

"Your removal from the Verizon plan will be effective at midnight."

Your hands trembled and your knuckles turned white with rage. 

"Fine," you spit, "Have it your way. See if I care."

They did not, in fact, care. Neither Margaret nor Clyde so much as twitched an eyebrow when you stomped out of the room and slammed the door shut behind you, shaking its hinges on the wall. Your previous plan of getting in and out as quietly as possible was long forgotten.

You sprinted up the spiral staircase and your chest heaved as you swung open the door to your bedroom. The smaller piano in your room was gone as well. Your heart dropped at the sight of the empty wall and carpet littered with pieces of sheet music. You fought back tears as you sank to your knees and gathered the discarded music pieces into a neat pile. You hastily shoved the pile of sheet music into your piano bag, and hauled a large suitcase from underneath your bed. You were frantic as you yanked clothes from your closet and threw them inside the open bag. Hangers clattered against the wooden floor, but you couldn’t care less.

The sheer shock of the situation allowed you to move on autopilot as you headed towards your bathroom. You shoved your bare necessities into another bag and tossed it inside the suitcase. You haphazardly zipped the bag shut and clambered out of the suffocating room. You didn’t care how much noise you made as you dragged the large suitcase down the staircase. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dixie’s disgruntled voice sounded from the top of the staircase.

You didn’t spare your older sister a glance and instead opted to blindly flip her off.

You ignored the profanities spilling from Dixie’s mouth. You sucked in a deep breath as you finally exited the house. The wet heat was a welcome escape from the prison you were unfortunate enough to call ‘home’. 

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears as you fumbled for your phone. You quickly found Kate’s contact card and pressed the call button. You waited with bated breath as the phone rang, and your shoulders slumped with relief when Kate’s disgruntled voice finally replaced the tone.

“Y/N, what–”

“Can you come pick me up from my house?”

You gnawed on your bottom lip as you heard Kate shuffling around.

“When did you even leave? I didn’t hear you,” Kate spoke through a yawn, her raspy voice indicating that she had just woken up.

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” you spoke hastily, “Can you please just come get me? I promise I’ll explain everything.”

You released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as Kate finally responded, “Yeah, yeah. I can be there in 10.”

“Thank you,” you sighed, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Kate swiftly replied before ending the call.

You sighed as you put your phone away and began hauling your luggage down the driveway. This wasn’t the first time you’d packed a bag and left the Montgomery mansion; but the last time you ‘ran away’ was when you were eight years old, and you lasted a whole 10 minutes on the curb before begrudgingly returning. This time was different. This time, there was a sense of cruel finality to it all.

You paused as your phone buzzed. You halted abruptly and dug it out of your pocket. Your lips turned downward slightly at the picture of Sarah Cameron on your screen. With your mind elsewhere, you swiftly rejected the call and continued your walk down the driveway. But before you could take another step, it rang again. Your thumb hovered over the ‘decline’ button, but your guilty conscience was too strong. With a sigh, you accepted the call before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Y/N?” Sarah’s voice rang through the device.

“Yeah, what’s up?” you spoke coolly.

“Thank God you picked up. I was so worried about you and I’m so so fucking sorry about last night, I never should have left you out there like that. It was so dumb and I–”

“It’s okay, Sarah,” you cut off her rambling, “Seriously, you don’t need to apologize.”

Sarah let out a sigh of relief, “Of course I do. But the most important thing is that you feel okay.”

You hesitated before replying, as you were reminded of the throbbing pain in your head the previous night, “Yeah, I’m feeling better. I’ve just got other things on my mind right now.”

“Oh, um, yeah. You know if you need anyone to talk to–”

“Not that,” you were quick to cut Sarah off. 

You knew the metaphorical cat was out of the bag, but the last thing you wanted to talk about in that moment was JJ. You had a feeling that if you even let yourself think about him, you’d spiral all over again.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “It’s just, um, I might not be reachable for the next few days.”

“What do you mean ‘not reachable’?” Sarah replied.

You sighed and sat on top of her suitcase, “My phone plan’s getting cut off at midnight.”

“Okay,” Sarah dragged out the word, “Well I can just swing by your place until you get it fixed.”

“No, don’t,” you quickly interjected. 

“You know, if you don’t wanna see me you can just say that,” the hurt in Sarah’s tone was evident, and it made your stomach twist. 

“It’s not that, Sarah, I promise,” you sighed before continuing, “I just got into a fight with my parents and they’re cutting me off for the time being.”

You pulled your phone away from your ear with a grimace as Sarah’s shriek sounded through.

“The fuck do you mean ‘cutting you off’? They can’t do that! And I can’t possibly imagine anything you could’ve done or said to warrant that. This is insane, Y/N, you’ve gotta–”

“Gotta what, Sarah? What the fuck am I supposed to do?” your voice wavered as you shut your eyes to force back the tears threatening to escape, “I brought this onto myself, and now I have to face the consequences.”

Sarah spoke with a pained sigh, “Y/N…”

“Kate’s picking me up. I’ll be at her house for the time being, in case you need me,” you paused as you watched an unmistakable Range Rover pull into the driveway, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait–” Sarah’s voice abruptly cut out as you ended the call. 

The disgustingly large vehicle halted in front of you, and you didn’t hesitate to lug your belongings over to the trunk. A very messy-haired Topper was quick to jump from the driver’s seat, wordlessly helping you load the bags into the car. You all but ran into the car, swiftly shutting the backseat door behind you. You avoided Kate’s worried eyes in the rearview mirror, and instead opted to fiddle with your seatbelt. Topper coughed awkwardly as he returned to his seat behind the wheel and drove the car from the driveway back onto the street.

The car ride was filled with a suffocating silence that left you gasping for breath when you finally arrived back at Kate’s home. The crisp air gave you little reprieve as you swung open the car door. Kate and Topper silently helped you gather your things and bring them inside. You could feel their burning gaze, but you ignored them. As soon as they’d set down your bags in the living room, Kate softly grabbed your hand. You let her lead you down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the safety of her bedroom. Topper trailed behind, but upon Kate’s warning glance, he opted to occupy himself elsewhere in the house, leaving the two of you alone.

You crawled into Kate’s unmade bed, ignoring the lingering smell of Topper as you wrapped yourself underneath the covers. You waited until you heard the click of Kate’s door shutting behind her before finally breaking the awkward silence.

“I know you have a lot of questions. Just ask them,” you spoke slowly in an attempt to keep your voice steady.

Kate sighed as she crawled under the covers beside you, “I honestly don’t even know where to start, Y/N. I’m so worried about you.”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat as you turned your body to face Kate’s and met her wide-eyed gaze.

“I don’t know where to start either. I just feel so…so–” you paused as the quiver in your voice betrayed you, “Lost.”

The soft touch of Kate’s hand brushing back your hair was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You shut your eyes tight as you felt the first tear trail down your face, quickly followed by another. You allowed yourself to be engulfed in Kate’s soothing touch as you buried your face into your friend’s shoulder. The two of you remained entangled in one another as you silently sobbed, your tears soaking right through Kate’s sweatshirt.

She rubbed soothing circles into your back until your breathing steadied, and your tear ducts had emptied.

“You can start wherever you want,” Kate whispered once she’d sensed you had calmed down.

You gulped in an attempt to moisten your dry throat.

“I guess I’ll start from the beginning,” you rasped.

Kate listened intently as you detailed the events from the past few weeks, from the first night at the Kegger to your fight with Anna. Once you started speaking, you couldn’t stop. All of your pent up frustrations, your unwelcome thoughts, came tumbling out, all at once. By the time you had detailed the interaction with your parents that morning, you felt the weight of the world lift off your shoulders. For the first time in weeks, you could breathe a bit easier, see a bit clearer.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you in the dark through all this, Kate,” you whispered.

You studied the cinch between Kate’s brows and tried to decipher the emotion swimming in her big, brown eyes.

“Please, don’t apologize. You told me when you were ready and that’s what counts,” Kate paused before continuing, “You know you can stay with me for as long as you need. Betsy is in Europe for the summer so you can even have the whole guest house to yourself, if you want.”

You nodded appreciatively. You pulled Kate into a tight hug which was instantly returned. You allowed the scent of her lavender shampoo to flood your senses, providing you with some semblance of comfort.

“As for JJ…”

Kate paused as she felt you tense in her arms.

“I know. I know it’s not right. We’ll never work together and we’re no good for each other. I just need some time to navigate the soulmate bond, find a way for us to go on with our separate lives without–”

“Y/N, shut up.”

Your lips parted in shock as Kate shoved you away and held you firmly by your shoulders. You felt like shrinking under her resolute stare.

“That’s not how soulmate bonds work. You can’t ignore it or fight it until it goes away. It’ll only become stronger and more painful if you keep going like this–if you keep going like this, it’ll tear you apart,” Kate spoke with conviction.

You gnawed your bottom lip in thought, “So, what then? I just give myself completely to the biggest douchebag on the island? If I run off with a Pogue, I might as well kiss my family, my life here, everything I’ve worked so hard for goodbye.”

Kate sighed and ran a manicured hand over her face, “I can’t tell you what to do, Y/N. But I can tell you that what you’re doing now is not a solution.”

You groaned in frustration. You ran your hands through your hair, tugging harshly at the roots as if doing so would pull the right answer from your mind. 

“It has to be a mistake,” you cried, “Aren’t soulmates supposed to be the ‘perfect fit’? We’re anything but. We live different lifestyles, we have different values, we like different things–we have absolutely nothing in common.”

“Maybe you haven’t found anything in common with him because you haven’t allowed yourself to try,” Kate’s words crashed over you like the wave from the night before.

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. 

“You know, I couldn’t imagine resisting my bond with Topper. I know it’s different, but still. I can’t even begin to picture the agony that would cause,” Kate’s harsh tone had shifted into something softer, gentler, “I can’t tell you what to do, Y/N. You’ve gone through life for so long with other people making your decisions for you. And as agonizing as this whole situation has been, it’s something that you, and only you, have complete control over. This is one decision that no one else can make for you.”

You flinched as Kate’s words struck a chord deep within you. As much as you hated to admit it, Kate was right.

“I know you know I’m right,” Kate cracked a small smile at your awe-struck face, “You don’t have to say anything–just think about it.”

You simply nodded in response. Your shoulders slumped in exhaustion as you leaned back against the headboard of Kate’s bed.

You jumped slightly at the sound of a sharp knock on the bedroom door.

“Kate? You in there?” Mrs. Moore’s muffled voice sounded through the door.

“Yeah,” Kate called as she scrambled from her bed.

“You have some visitors.”

You subconsciously shrunk under the covers as Kate opened the door to follow after her mom. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you mulled over Kate’s words, which seemed to echo ceaselessly in the chasms of your mind.

“Mind if we crash the party?”

The lilted tone of Sarah Cameron’s voice shook you from your thoughts.

Your eyes widened slightly at the sight of Sarah and Kie at the doorway, with a visibly tense Kate lingering behind them.

“We come bearing gifts,” Kie’s soft tone eased some of the tension in Kate’s shoulders.

You cracked a small smile at the basket of chocolate and Cheez-Itz in Kie’s arms.

“How’d you know Cheez-Itz are my kryptonite?” you teased.

Sarah and Kie grinned, taking your smile as an invitation to stay. You gratefully took the basket from Kie and gestured for the two girls to join you on the bed. Kate hesitated before joining as well so the four girls sat in a circle.

“Well you were practically on your knees begging for them last night so I took a gander,” Sarah giggled as you ripped open the box and greedily scooped out a handful of the orange pieces.

“We just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing,” Kie added. She shifted slightly under Kate’s warning gaze. You gathered that Kate must have told the two girls not to ask about JJ before entering.

You forced a tight lipped smile through your mouthful of Cheez Itz, “I’m doing okay.”

Sarah nodded and ran her hands nervously over her thighs. You could tell she was itching to say something.

“Spit it out, Sarah,” you rolled your eyes.

“I really hope you don’t mind, but I filled Kie in on your, um, situation with your parents,” Sarah spoke quickly, “And she had a really great idea to help you out.”

You frowned, “I don’t need charity, guys. Seriously. I appreciate the snacks and all, but I’m not taking anything from–”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Kie interrupted you, “When Sarah told me your parents sold your piano,” you shifted uncomfortably and Kate inched closer in a protective manner, “I thought about the piano we have at my dad’s restaurant. I asked him about it since no one really uses it, and although he said we can’t just give it away, he did say that he’s been trying to get a live music gig going at The Wreck for some time now. I told him how good you are at piano and that you’re looking for a place to practice. He said he’d love to have you play there a few nights a week, and in exchange you can use it whenever you want after hours to practice. And you’ll be paid, of course.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth fell agape. 

“I know it’s not perfect, but I thought maybe–”

“It is perfect,” you cut her off. You let out a breathy laugh, “It’s totally perfect! When can I start?”

Kie grinned and clapped her hands together in excitement, “Whenever you want. We have all the equipment set up, but if you need to take a few days to sort out what you’ll play–”

“Can I start tonight?” you cut her off again with an eager grin.

Sarah laughed, and Kate couldn’t help but crack a smile at the drastic improvement in your mood.

“Well, yeah, I just figured you might want some time to prepare.”

“She’s our little musical virtuoso. She doesn’t need time to prepare,” Kate chimed in with a soft smile.

You rolled your eyes, “Virtuoso is a stretch. But I’ve definitely got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Don’t be modest. We all know you’re a shoe in for Julliard, and in five years time you’ll be performing in Carnegie Hall,” Sarah scoffed.

You flushed and shook your head with a laugh, “Only if you’re there watching.”

“Are you kidding? We’ll be sitting in the front row!” Sarah nudged you as she stole a handful of Cheez Itz from the box in your lap.

The group of girls continued chattering until their stomachs hurt from the combination of non-stop laughter and influx of chocolate and crackers. You were grateful for their company. Your heart fluttered as you watched Kate slowly, but surely, warm up to the two Kooks dressed in Pogue’s clothing. For a few hours, you were able to take your mind off your soulmate, your family, and your academic future. For a few hours, you were shielded from the dark cloud that seemed to follow you everywhere you went. 

And you embraced the fleeting escape with open arms.

✰✰✰

“So this is the musical protegé you two have been singing praises of?” Mike Carrera’s booming voice enveloped you like a warm blanket.

Sarah and Kie nodded enthusiastically behind you as you smoothed the front of your dress. You sent him a nervous smile and extended your hand, “Yes, Sir. Y/N Montgomery.”

The older man gripped your smaller hand in a firm shake and sent you a dazzling smile, “Mike Carrera. I’ve heard so much about you–it’s a pleasure to finally put a face to the name.”

You grinned, your nerves slowly settling at his welcome.

“Follow me, I’ll show you the set up,” he gestured a hand towards the opposite end of the restaurant where a lone, upright piano stood proudly in the center of a small stage. 

You trailed behind him. You had to stifle a giggle as you caught Sarah and Kie helping themselves to the tap beer at the bar while Mike’s back was turned.

“Got it tuned just last week, so should be in tip-top shape,” Mike rested an arm over the top of the Yamaha.

You nodded and ran your right hand lightly across the keys. You couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips as you played a few chords in succession. 

“Dinner opens at 5 and we start closing up at 9. 10 on Saturdays and Fridays,” Mike drummed his fingers along the oak wood, “We’d love to have you come in on Fridays since they’re the busiest, and two other days of your choosing.”

You nodded as you set your tote bag full of sheet music to the side, “That sounds perfect.”

“I was thinking $200 per night,” Mike added.

Your eyes bulged and your lips parted in surprise. 200? You had been expecting $20 per hour, at best. 

Mike’s brows furrowed, “If 200 seems too little, we could discuss–”

“No, no, 200 is perfect. Amazing,” you rushed out, “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

Mike flashed a toothy grin, “Thank you. We’ve been looking to get some live music back up in the joint for a while now. You’re just what we need to get this place really running again.”

You flushed and shook your head as you felt a rush of warmth creeping up your neck, “Well I sure hope I can help with that.”

Mike pushed off the piano, “Kie also mentioned that you need a place to practice. You’re welcome to come in anytime in between lunch and dinner hours, or before and after closing. Whatever floats your boat–the Wreck is your oyster.”

You giggled at his fatherly mannerisms, “Thank you so much, Mr. Carrera. Do you mind if I practice for a bit now before you open up for dinner?”

He raised his arms in surrender and took a dramatic step back from the instrument, “Don’t let me stop you. Have at it.”

You sat on the bench and fiddled with the knob on the side, adjusting the height so your arms fell at a precise 90 degree angle on the keys. You glanced over your shoulder and giggled at the sight of Sarah and Kie leaning across the bar with their heads in their hands, eagerly awaiting the sound of your playing.

You turned back towards the piano and dug out a few pieces of music from your bag, arranging them in the order you’d need. You took a deep breath to steady yourself before letting your fingers fall gracefully over the white keys. You breezed through a few warm up exercises to get accustomed to the unfamiliar instrument. The keys were a bit stickier than the ones you’d grown accustomed to on your Steinway at home, and the pedal a bit more finicky than the one at Madame’s house. Still, this instrument was marvelous in its own way.

You ran through a few pieces you planned on playing before pulling out the dreaded piece you’d neglected to practice the past few days. Your whole body trembled at the mere sight of Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu Op. 66. There was no chance in hell you’d be playing the piece that night. But as the events of the past 48 hours had kept you distracted from your duties, you knew you had to get at least a good 30 minutes of practice in.

You twisted your neck, rolled your ankles, and shook out your hands in a poor attempt to keep your Chopin-induced anxiety at bay. 

Unsure where to start with the monstrous piece of music, you decided a quick run through would help identify the problem areas that needed the most attention.

The issue? The whole damn thing was a problem area.

You drilled each measure, each line, over and over. You flicked on a metronome to help keep you on beat. You ignored the growing ache in your hands and kept on.

Minutes away from giving up, you flipped back to the first page of the music. You craned your neck behind you and called out, “Hey, Sarah?”

The Cameron girl nearly fell out of her stool in surprise, and you suppressed a laugh at the sight.

“What’s up?”

“Do you think you could come help me out for a minute?”

Sarah hopped from the barstool and skipped over to the piano with a grin, “I know I’m good at a lot of things, but music is not one of them.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, “I just need you to turn the pages for me. You don’t need to read the music or anything–I’ll nod at you when I want you to turn the page.”

Sarah shrugged, “Sounds easy enough.”

She set her beer down on the top of the piano, but quickly removed it at your razor sharp glare. Instead, Sarah opted to set it down beside her feet.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, and exhaled through your parted lips. 

You rested your fingers on the keyboard and counted off in your head before playing the opening set of notes.

Sarah watched you intently, careful not to miss your subtle cues to turn the page. 

Six torturous minutes later, you finally played the last chord. Sarah immediately erupted into manic applause and cheering.

“That was fucking incredible!”

Simultaneously, you released a guttural groan and slammed your hands down on the keyboard in frustration.

Sarah’s cheering halted abruptly and her brows cinched together in confusion, “What’s wrong? That was perfect!”

You shook your head and snatched the music book from the stand, snapping it closed.

“Far from it.”

“What do you mean? That was the first time you made it all the way through! I mean, I don’t know music but I didn’t hear you make any mistakes or–”

“I didn’t make any mistakes,” you sighed, “But it’s all wrong.”

Sarah cocked her head in confusion.

Your tired eyes met hers. You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to find a way to explain your frustration, “It’s choppy–all cold and mechanical. Everything is right, but there’s no feeling. I have the technique down, but it’s just not flowing through me like I need it to.”

Sarah’s doe eyes swam with bewilderment. She nodded, although you knew she hadn’t understood. 

“Opening in 5!” Mike’s booming voice sliced through the air.

You sighed as you stood from the bench and cracked your back. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled softly at Sarah, “I’m not planning on playing that one tonight anyways.”

Sarah smiled back and returned to her seat at the bar which she and Kie were soon to be booted from as customers came in.

You took a sip of water from the bottle you’d set beside the bench as you prepared yourself for a lengthy performance. Your gut churned as the minutes ticked by. You rarely experienced stage fright, as 16 years of playing had almost entirely numbed you to it. But you’d never been on stage for more than 30 minutes at a time, and 4 hours was a far cry from it.

As the clock struck 5, you settled yourself back onto the bench and prepared your first piece of the night: Chopin’s Waltz No. 7 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 64 No. 2

The clinking of glasses and cutlery, and soft chatter of customers provided an ambiance you had never experienced while playing before–but one you enjoyed, nonetheless. 

As the closing chords sounded through the restaurant, you were met with a bit of scattered applause. You smiled and couldn't help but sneak a glance behind you. The restaurant was slowly, but surely, starting to fill up. A young boy, no older than eight, sheepishly approached you with a dollar bill in hand. He stood on his tiptoes and dropped the bill inside the tip jar Kie had placed atop the piano while you weren’t looking.

You grinned down at the boy and mouthed a ‘thank you’. A pink blush swept over his chubby cheeks, and he scampered back to his parents.

You returned your attention to the instrument before you. You moved on autopilot as you breezed through the first few pieces in your set for the night. You had carefully picked out a selection of classical, jazz, and contemporary pieces to ensure a variety of genres. You had even thrown in some modern classics everyone would know, from A Thousand Miles to Bohemian Rhapsody. You fought to contain your laughter as Sarah and Kie obnoxiously sang along to the famous Queen anthem.

Completely immersed in the music, you hadn’t even noticed the arrival of a familiar band of Pogues.

“So this is the surprise you two were going on about?” Pope grinned as he and John B approached Sarah and Kie’s table. 

“Isn’t she incredible?” Kie beamed.

Kie’s smile dropped as she noticed JJ lingering behind the two boys. His face was white as a sheet as he stared in shock at the stage.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked Pope and John B.

A cloud of tension brewed over them as JJ’s eyes snapped to Kie’s.

“You didn’t think to mention she was gonna be here?” he snapped.

Sarah frowned as her eyes set into a menacing glare, “We know if we said something you’d pussy out. Can you get over yourself, just for one night? There’s no point denying it, it’s so obvious you two are soul–”

Sarah yelped as John B elbowed her sharply, effectively cutting her off.

She narrowed her eyes further as a snarl accompanied JJ’s fury-filled glare, “Fuck this. I’m out of here.”

He swiveled on his heels, but Kie grabbed his elbow and yanked him back towards the table.

“Cool it, dude. We’re just gonna grab some dinner. You don’t need to talk to her.”

JJ opened his mouth to protest, but Kie cut him off, “And John B’s your ride, so you’re stuck with him.”

JJ glared at his group of friends. Pope and John B studied the menu as if they had never seen it before to avoid his menacing stare.

“Fine,” he spit. JJ made sure to take the seat furthest from the stage. “But you’re buying me a beer.”

Kie’s shoulders slumped with relief as she’d effectively deterred his impending explosion, “Deal.”

The Pogues immediately began chatting in an effort to brush past the awkwardness. But JJ couldn’t bring himself to focus on Sarah’s complaining about her brother, or Pope’s in-depth review of the most recent season of Survivor. Despite his best efforts to ignore the display behind him, the only thing he could hear was the ethereal melody of Liszt’s Liebestraume No.3. Although he couldn’t see you, his mind was flooded with pictures of you; memories of you at the piano in your room. He could see the curvature of your elbows, the grace of your fingers gliding across the keys, the crinkles of concentration between your brows, the–

“What the fuck is this?” JJ spluttered at the acrid taste of beer he had subconsciously sipped.

Kie stifled a laugh, “It’s a new IPA my dad’s testing out. This local brewery has been pushing to get on the menu.”

JJ fought back a gag and pushed the pint far away from him, “Well you should tell Mike this shit fucking sucks.”

“Ay, don’t be soft now, J. I thought you could handle your alcohol better than that,” John B teased his childhood friend with a grin.

“Piss off,” JJ grumbled.

He pushed himself out of his seat, and wandered over to the bar to replace the disgusting beer Kie had served him. JJ caught the attention of one of the bartenders he knew well, and waited patiently as the worker subtly slipped him his favorite Pale Ale. As he sipped on the pint, JJ couldn’t help but sneak a glance towards the stage. His lips pursed as he watched Pope approach the piano with a dollar bill in his hand.

“You take song requests?”

Pope’s deep voice made you jump in your seat as you rearranged the sheet music before you. You grinned widely at the Pogue towering above you.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not playing the Star Wars intro for you,” you teased with a subtle smirk.

He clutched a hand against his heart and stumbled back dramatically, “You wound me, Montgomery.” Pope dropped the crumpled up dollar bill inside your now nearly full tip jar, “How about Piano Man?

You laughed, “Didn’t take you for a Billy Joel fan, Pope.”

He shrugged with a smug grin, “What can I say? I’m a fan of the classics.”

Your joyful gaze lingered as he sauntered back over to his table. However, your gut wrenched as you noticed the absence of ruffled blond hair at his table. Still, you shot the rest of the Pogues a timid smile before turning your attention back to the instrument in front of you.

Piano Man. You weren't sure when the last time you’d played the Billy Joel classic was–it must have been years ago. Nevertheless, you straightened your slumped posture, shut your eyes, and let your hands fall along the keys. You could feel the crowd behind you perk up as you played the familiar opening melody. You were forced to stifle your laughter as you heard the Pogues singing along behind you. The onlookers in the busy restaurant broke into applause as the song ended. No one cheered louder than Pope, who had recruited the bartenders into a kick line by the end of the song.

“That’s my little virtuoso!” Sarah shrieked.

You turned back with a toothy grin to wink at your friend. But the curve of your lips faltered as you caught sight of the tousled blond hair you’d been searching for all night. You sucked in a breath as his head turned and his eyes met yours.

Something deep within you churned at the sight of his ocean blues–a sweltering desire only he could pull out of you. Although his eyes were trained directly on you, his gaze was elsewhere; somewhere far beyond the confines of the restaurant, or the island for that matter. Your brows furrowed as you surveyed him, trying to decipher the emotion hidden behind his glassy eyes. But the mask of indifference he’d adorned for the night was impenetrable.

Before you could locate any cracks in his hard exterior, JJ swiveled back towards the table. 

Your hands trembled with a swirl of anxiety, frustration, and longing. It had only been 24 hours since you’d last seen him. But his absence had felt striking. For years, you’d prayed to all things good and holy to be rid of his bond. You’d wished for just one day void of his every feeling. For the first time in your life, you realized, you hadn’t felt him all day. No punches, no stubbing toes, not not even the swift slap against your thigh when you cracked your knuckles. You’d finally gotten your wish. 

But you’d take the sickening crunch of bones underneath your knuckles a hundred times over not feeling anything at all.

A switch flipped within you. You forced your eyes away from the back of JJ’s head, and instead looked at Sarah. You cocked your head, gesturing for the Kook princess to come over. Sarah swiftly set down the beer she’d been sipping on and approached you.

“What’s up? Are you okay? I can tell him to leave–”

“No, don’t,” you cut her off, “You mind turning the pages for me again?”

Sarah’s eyes widened as you pulled out the piece you’d been pouring over earlier before the restaurant opened.

“I thought you said you weren’t ready to play that one yet?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready,” you mumbled as you placed the book on the stand, “But now’s as good a time as any to try.”

Sarah nodded and positioned herself to the side, staring intently at you to ensure she didn’t miss your head nodding cues.

Your eyes fluttered shut. But this time, you didn’t count down in your head. You didn’t visualize the opening phrase, or the notes on the page. Instead, you let yourself think back to the night before. The feeling of JJ’s strong arms wrapped around your sobbing body. The fear in his eyes as he carried you to shore. The snarl on his lips as he yelled at you in the country club bathroom. You lowered the carefully constructed levee in your mind, and let all your memories of him come flooding in. 

Your eyes flicked open, and you began without a second thought.

This time, the notes symbolized each word you’d exchanged with JJ. Your right hand played your biting tone, and your left played his gruff voice. They spoke to each other. They fought, and they cried. But they sang together in perfect unison. 

Sarah watched in awe as you moved with a fervor she had never seen before. She swiftly flipped the page at each subtle nod. Sarah wasn’t the only one captivated by your performance–the previously uninterested customers had diverted their attention to the piano player on stage, and every conversation seemed to hush. 

As you played the ending phrase of the piece, you released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Your eyes remained shut as you let the final notes ring through the restaurant until they naturally concluded.

You were brought back to reality when the remaining customers erupted into applause. 

“That was perfect,” Sarah gleamed down at you.

You let out a breathy laugh, “Yeah. It was.”

You craned her neck back towards the table of Pogues. While the smiling faces of Kie, John B, and Pope warmed your heart, JJ’s empty seat chilled your veins.

“What’s the time?” you asked Sarah.

The Kook fumbled for her phone, “8:40. You’re here ‘till 9?”

You nodded and put away the book of Chopin pieces, “You guys can head out, if you want. There’s no need to wait for me.”

Sarah shook her head, “No way we’re leaving early on your opening night! Besides, John B can give you a ride home in the Twinkie.”

“Don’t worry about me, Kate and Top are coming to get me at 9:15,” you smiled appreciatively.

Sarah conceded and walked backwards to her table, “As you wish. But we’re here for the whole show!”

You let out a half-hearted giggle and sighed as you turned back to the piano. Exhaustion seemed to finally set in as you became acutely aware of the ache in your lower back and the cramping of your fingers. But you still had a job to do. So, you relied on muscle memory to get through the last few pieces of your set. You deliberately chose songs you knew like the back of your hand, as you had a feeling you’d be drained of energy by this point. As you continued playing, the crowd slowly filtered out until just the Pogues remained.

“That was pretty incredible, Miss Montgomery,” Mike Carrera gleamed as he approached you. 

You sent him a tired smile as you gathered your sheet music back into your bag, “Thanks, Mr. Carrera.”

“You’ve outdone yourself. Why don’t you head home and get some rest?” he handed you a white envelope as he spoke.

You nodded and stuffed the payment at the bottom of your bag.

As soon as he’d retreated, you were instantly bombarded by the chattering group of Pogues. You weakly returned their hugs and tried your best to match their high energy, but to no avail. You were completely and utterly drained. Instead, you found yourself looking around the restaurant, hoping to catch a glimpse of blue eyes and blond hair.

“He went out back,” John B mumbled into your ear.

You jumped, startled by his voice. You fought the blush creeping up your neck as you’d just been caught red-handed looking for JJ. Still, you sent John B a soft smile, and slipped away from the group while they were distracted by something Pope said.

Your heart thumped in your chest as you snuck towards the door leading to the back porch. The salty breeze engulfed you instantly as you pushed it open, and you greedily breathed in the soothing sensation.

You spotted JJ leaning on the railing, staring out at the rolling waves of the ocean. His untamed hair billowed in the breeze, and the full moon above seemed to kiss his nose. You wiped your sweaty palms on your dress as you approached him quietly. You mimicked his stance leaning against the railing, making sure to keep a comfortable distance between you two.

“Avoiding me now?” you spoke gently, as if approaching a wild animal.

He simply grunted, his eyes unmoving from the ocean before him.

You sighed, and diverted your gaze to the crashing waves as well. Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. But nothing came out. There were so many things you wanted to say–but your brain seemed to be short circuiting.

You snuck a glance at him. You observed the bump on the top of his nose, and the strain of his biceps against his white t-shirt.

“I like that shirt on you,” you lamely stated.

You cringed, and kicked yourself internally.

JJ snorted, but the frown etched on his lips remained.

“Please, don’t try to make nice with me,” his scratchy voice tickled something in your brain.

You huffed, “What? You’d rather I curse you out?”

His silence made your blood boil, but you forced yourself to remain level-headed.

You sighed before making another effort to engage him, “Look, I think we should at least talk about last night. I’m sorry for–”

“Talk about what?” he snapped, turning to face you. You shrunk underneath his menacing glare. “I sent you spiraling, you tried to drown yourself in the ocean. I saved you, and then you tried to drown yourself in alcohol instead. You see the running theme?”

You flinched at his razor sharp tone, “That’s not–”

“The truth? It is. Don’t be fucking dumb, Montgomery. Don’t delude yourself into thinking anything good has come from me coming into your life.”

Your stomach lurched. You opened your mouth to respond, but JJ cut you off again.

“You were right. We’re no good for each other. And I don’t wanna be the one responsible for ruining your life, crushing your hopes and dreams. So let’s just leave it at that.”

For the first time that night, his facade slipped. And the glint of agony in his troubled eyes was unmistakable.

“What about what I want?” your voice trembled.

JJ’s eyes narrowed as he tried to maintain his mask of indifference, “What do you want?”

“I…” you paused. That was the question you’d been trying, and failing, to find an answer for all day. 

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

JJ scoffed. He pushed himself off the railing, and turned to go back inside.

Panic seized you as you watched him walk away. 

Maybe you haven’t found anything in common with him because you haven’t allowed yourself to try, Kate’s words from earlier rang through you.

With a sudden surge of courage, you lurched forward and wrapped your fingers around JJ’s wrist.

The feeling of his skin against yours was as electrifying as your first touch.

“Take me out,” you blurted before you could talk yourself out of it.

JJ’s hard glare softened slightly, and his brows furrowed. Anxiety gripped you as you watched his chapped lips part in surprise.

“We can’t possibly decide this won’t work when we don’t really know anything about each other,” you spoke with conviction despite the fear twisting your insides, “If by the end of it we still feel the same way, then at least we have the peace of mind that we tried.”

You could practically see the gears turning in JJ’s head as he mulled over your words.

“So let’s start over. Take me out on a proper date,” you concluded your long-winded speech.

You were certain he could feel the heavy thump of your heart in his own chest. His silence made your knees buckle, and you wanted nothing more than to bury yourself in the fine sand below. Just as you let your fingers slip from his wrist, his hand shot out to catch yours.

“Okay,” JJ whispered.

Your shoulders slumped with relief. Okay. He said ‘okay’.

“Okay,” you breathed out, “Tuesday?”

“Can’t. I have work,” he replied.

“Wednesday?” you countered.

“6:00?”

“I have piano until 7:00.”

“Then 7:00.”

“Okay.”

The blaring sound of a car horn cut the awkward exchange short. You whipped around to the source of the sound, and caught sight of Topper’s unmistakable Range Rover waiting in the parking lot. Reluctantly, you released your hand from JJ’s.

“That’s my ride,” you whispered.

JJ nodded and took an awkward step back. You hiked your bag on your shoulder and turned to leave.

“You were incredible tonight, by the way,” JJ rasped as you walked away.

You paused as your heart skipped a beat. You craned your neck and sent your soulmate a sincere smile over your shoulder. You wanted nothing more than to turn back and give yourself completely to the bond. But you let the rational part of your brain take over, and beat on towards the waiting car. 

And as you strolled towards the black SUV, the ethereal melody of Fantaisie Impromptu played in your mind. It echoed through you like never before. Affettuoso. With feeling. 

What was once created by Chopin was now yours, forever branded by JJ Maybank.

[mandos-mind-trick]

See You In My Sleep

Summary: After months of silence, your soulmate reappears in your dream space desperate for help. You're desperate to save him, but you're just a bakery owner from Coruscant.

Pairing: Howzer x reader Soulmate AU

Warnings: NSFW, smut, unprotected sex, soulmate AU, PTSD, nightmares, fluff, angst.

A/N: Man, I've been rather long winded with my fics lately. This one has taken the cake (lol) for the longest soulmate fic to date. I'm terrified of posting this once as I've never written for Howzer before, but I hope I did him justice.

MASTERLIST

It’s been months. 

You haven’t spoken to your soulmate in months. 

It wasn’t that unusual for you to go periods of time without speaking to him, but those only lasted days, at the most a couple weeks. Months, though? That was unheard of. 

It makes you worry. 

You know things have been happening, things that aren’t quite right. The sudden change from the Republic to the Empire with the end of the war was enough to have anyone paying attention raising an eyebrow. With your soulmate’s direct involvement, it only has you questioning things more. 

You know things, things most people don’t, about the Empire and its agenda. You’ve heard things that have been happening, things your soulmate has taken part in. Things he’d been questioning lately. 

You hope he’s alright. 

You share a dream space with your soulmate. When you’re both asleep at the same time, you can slip into a shared dream that allows you to see and speak with each other. Sometimes you can even share images with each other. Places, things, events. 

You can tell when it’s going to happen. Instead of drifting off like normal, it feels almost like you’re leaving your body, ascending into some higher plane. The world goes white for a moment before you’re there, standing together. You can’t touch, but you can get close enough to see the details of each other’s faces. 

The first time it happened, it took you by surprise. You hadn’t understood it at first, and most of what you saw were blurry, indistinguishable shapes around you. It had felt very cold and uninviting, even despite the fact you couldn’t make out what you were seeing. 

You always felt well rested upon waking, despite not feeling like you had slept at all. 

You had brushed it off as exhaustion, stress, some strange vivid dream. You had tried not to think about it too much, until it happened a second time. 

Once again, it had all been blurry shapes moving around in that cold, sterile place. You had entertained insanity for a moment upon waking, but you didn’t feel crazy. You felt well rested and almost comforted by the strange experience. 

It didn’t happen every night. You sometimes went a week or two without the strange floating and white place. As time went on, the images began to shift. They became a bit clearer, though you still couldn't understand what you were seeing. There was nothing indicative of a place or people or anything that looked familiar to you. It was more like looking into an abstract piece of art. 

As the years passed, things became a bit clearer. Images became things you could recognize, though you didn’t always understand what they meant. 

It was a couple years before the war started that you met him for the first time. 

He seemed equally confused by his appearance in your dream. It didn't feel quite right. He seemed too aware for a dream, too real. He was young, just barely having reached adulthood, you would later figure out. He had told you he was a clone and was training for war. 

You thought it ridiculous. The galaxy wasn’t at war. You knew galactic relations were getting to be tense. Living on Coruscant gave you a front row seat to the drama of the Senate. But to think it would come to war...that was far fetched. 

It was only after a handful of interactions with Howzer that you figured out what was going on. You had done a bit of research on your strange dreams and had come to the conclusion it was your soulmate link, and Howzer was your soulmate. 

When you told him during your next meeting, he had been upset. He told you about their rules regarding soulmates, but that most of them didn’t agree with it. He didn’t want to reject you, but he had to be careful. Thankfully, your shared dream space was easy to hide. 

He grew quickly, a product of his enhancements as a clone. He spoke a lot about his training, about his fellow clones. The idea made you uneasy, especially with war nowhere in sight at least that you could tell, but there wasn’t much you could do. Even if you knew where he was, going to see him was not an option. 

You weren’t supposed to know about his existence. 

Not that you were going to tell anyone. You had no one to tell. 

You’re just a humble bakery owner who lived among the trillions on Coruscant. 

He liked to talk about you, about your life on Coruscant. He liked to hear about the outside world, about the goings on of everyday people. It made you a bit sad, that his entire life had been created for one purpose, for a war that might never come. 

The war does come. 

Your visits with Howzer become rarer as he ships out. You still manage to see each other, but you can tell as the war progresses how much it begins to weigh on him. You can see the dark circles, the exhaustion in his face as he joins you in your shared dream space. He talks a lot about the battles and losing men, his own brothers. You give him the space to unload it all, your own tears falling as you listen to the pain in his voice, sharing his sadness. 

He has his own close calls. You’re there for the formation of every scar, every blemish. You worry about him, relishing every second you have with him. 

He likes to hear about your life, which remained relatively unchanged, even with the war. If anything changed, it was the influx of customers at your bakery. You saw plenty of senate aides, and even the occasional Coruscant Guard. 

When the war ends, you don’t hear from him for a couple weeks. You’re not surprised, given how rapidly everything seems to change. You only get him back for a few weeks, though, before he disappears. 

You often played over that last dream in your head as you waited and waited for his reappearance. You’ve tried everything you can think of to reconnect, even taking time off from your bakery to spend as much time as possible asleep in hopes you catch him, even for a moment. 

Yet he remains absent. 

So you continued on, pouring your worry into your work. You try not to think about it, but you can’t help it. You’ve begun to feel the yearning, the need to see him, hear him once more. Even if it’s just to make sure he’s alright. You want to see those deep, soulful eyes just one more time. 

Even if the next dream that comes is a rejection. 

***

It finally happens one night, when you’re least expecting it. 

You were dozing off while watching a holofilm. You had an early morning, yet you were up late trying to relax. You were beginning to get anxious, itching under your skin in your need for Howzer. 

It happens suddenly, your body floating before you’re surrounded by a familiar white glow. You nearly cry as you find yourself standing before him. 

“Howzer.” You breathe his name in relief, a weight being lifted from your shoulders almost instantly. 

He says your name, a tear sliding down your cheek. How you want to touch him, feel him, ensure he’s really here. You know though, deep in your bones. It’s really him. He’s really here. 

He looks tired. There’s dark circles around his eyes, and his face seems thinner than normal. 

“Howzer,” You breathe, staring at him with teary eyes. “What happened?” 

“I don’t have a lot of time.” He says, and you can see the desperation on his face. “I was arrested by the Empire with some of my men. I’m not sure where we are, but there’s other clones here. Some of them have disappeared. Others are being moved.” He looks guilty. “I had to close off the connection to protect you. If they found out...you would have been in danger.” 

You nod, a lump forming in your throat for a different reason. The relief you had felt is slowly ebbing away, replaced by anxiety. By fear. “Have you been able to see anything at all? Maybe...maybe I can try and find it. Or find someone that can help.” 

He closes his eyes, the white space around you shifting, showing you a few images of things he had seen. It’s not much to go off of, but it’s something.

“Be careful.” He says. “Don’t try anything stupid.” 

“What, like trying to invade an Imperial fortress with nothing but a whisk?” You crack the joke, but it lacks the normal light tone you would have used. 

You can see the softening of his gaze, but his face doesn’t move. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to do this again.” If he’ll be able to do it again. 

The reality of his situation is hitting you hard. He’s at the mercy of the Empire now. He has been for months. He’d cut off his contact with you to try and protect you, even though you know how badly you’ve both been suffering. 

“Soon.” You say, determined. “I’m going to do everything I can to find you.” 

He lifts his hand, almost like he wants to touch you, but he can’t. “Be careful.” 

You want to say it back, but the dream fades before you can.

You wake alone on the couch, the image of his eyes painted at the front of your mind. 

***

Your hands shake as you try to frost the cake in front of you. The shop will be opening in less than an hour, and you were behind on orders already. You can hardly focus, the dream with Howzer still fresh in your mind. He’s in trouble, he’s been in trouble this whole time. The fearful thoughts you had tried to suppress are coming back full force, threatening to spill over. 

You put down your piping bag, taking a deep breath. You need to work. Going home will only make things worse. You’ll have nothing to do there but sit and worry all day. At least this will be a distraction. 

You spot movement at the door, your one employee, Mina, arriving for her shift. You’ve known Mina since you were kids and would trust her with your life. You let her in, rubbing your eyes. 

“You look like a bantha ran you over.” She says, dropping her things behind the counter. 

You crack a small smile, but you’re certain it looks more like a grimace. “Just stressed.” 

“Busy day?” She asks, pulling her apron on. 

“Already behind.” You answer. 

She stares at you for a few moments as you wash your hands. You try to ignore her as you grab the piping bag once more. “Well, whatever it is, you worry about the cakes. I’ll handle the customers.” 

She goes about setting up the lobby, allowing you the chance to try and get caught up with your cake orders. It was like half the people on Coruscant were all celebrating something today. 

Mina turns on the holoTV, the end of a news broadcast popping up. The anchor’s going on about Senator Chuchi and her bold fight for clone rights despite having the majority of the Senate against her. The broadcast is saying less than favorable things about her, but you ignore it. Ever since the Empire took over, the news had become almost unbearable. Between fluff pieces and outright slander, it had become more of a coverup for things they didn’t want citizens finding out than actual news. 

You pause for a moment, something flashing through your mind. 

Senator Chuchi was very outspoken in her support of the clones. You have a clone that desperately needs help. If you could get Senator Chuchi to help, maybe you could find Howzer. But how would you get her to help? You couldn’t just walk into the Senate building and ask to see her. You’d have to give your reasoning for being there and that would put you on the Empire’s radar, or worse, get you arrested too. 

Not to mention, you have no proof except your own words. You had tried to search for anything that might look like what Howzer showed you, but you had turned up empty handed. That was partially why you were behind this morning. 

But, a Senator would have more resources to investigate. Access to information it seemed the Empire didn’t want citizens to have. 

You turn to look at Mina, setting down the piping bag once more. “Mina? Your sister still works as an aide, right?” 

Mina pauses where she had been setting up chairs, looking at you. “Yeah, why?” 

“I-I need some help.” You say. 

Mina didn’t know much of anything about your soulmate. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t trust her, but more that you weren’t sure how to approach the subject. Mina had met her soulmate not long after you both graduated school. She was a sweet Twi’lek who worked as an event planner. You’ve collaborated several times before in the past. Mina would understand your desperation, maybe enough to convince her sister to help you. 

You take a deep breath. “I need to speak with Senator Chuchi. It’s about a group of clones.” 

Mina frowns. “What are you doing getting involved with clones?” 

You should tell her. If you can get Howzer help, if he gets rescued, you’d like to bring him here. You’d like to have him in your life. She’s going to see him eventually. She’ll have to know eventually. 

You step out from behind the counter, pulling her back into the kitchen. You stand close to her, speaking quietly. It was unlikely anyone would overhear you with the door still locked, but you couldn’t be too careful. Not in this situation. 

“I need you to promise you won’t breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone. Even your sister.” You say. 

She stares into your eyes for a moment before she nods. “I promise.” 

“I’m trusting you with this. If any of this gets out, it will take down both of us.” 

She gulps, but nods. You take a deep breath, planning out what and how you’re going to tell her this. 

“My soulmate is a clone,” You begin, her eyes widening at your words. “We share a dream connection. I didn’t hear from him for months, but last night he contacted me. He was arrested a few months ago by the Empire. I think he’s in trouble. I have to help him, but I don’t even know where he is.” 

Mina stares at you in silence for a few moments, processing your words. It’s a lot, not to mention it’s dangerous what you’re saying. Howzer would be in deeper trouble if the wrong person found out about your connection, not to mention you would be in a lot of trouble. 

You don’t want to be on the Empire’s radar. 

“You think Senator Chuchi might be able to help?” Mina asks. 

“I have to try.” You say. “I have to do everything I can.” 

Mina’s silent for a few more moments before she sighs. “I can ask Shera when she comes in to meet with us later when she has time.” 

Tears fill your eyes as you nod. “Thank you, Mina.” 

She nods. “Just...if you get caught, pretend you don’t know me.” 

You laugh. “Of course. You’re just my employee after all.” 

***

“I had to pull a lot of strings, but she agreed to see you.” Shera says as soon as she steps through the door. 

Shera was an aide for Senator Organa of Alderaan. She was one of your regulars, and not just because her sister was your single employee. You liked to think she was the reason you got so many Senate aides in your shop in the morning. 

When you spoke to her, you hadn’t given much detail aside from needing to speak to Senator Chuchi about something relating to clones, and with a promise of free pastries and cakes from your bakery for life, she had agreed. 

You breathe a sigh of relief at her words. You’ve got a long way to go, but at least this was a foot in the door. A chance to try and help Howzer. “Thank you. I’m forever indebted to you.” 

She smirks. “You’re just lucky I like you. And your cakes are so damn good.” 

“I meant it.” You say, pushing a box across the counter. “For life.” 

“I will be taking you up on that.” She says, taking the box. “Tomorrow, after you close. She’ll send someone to pick you up.” 

You let out a long breath. It’s really happening. “Thank you.” 

Shera opens the box, pulling out a pastry and taking a bite. She waves her hand, mumbling with her mouth full as she turns, making her way to the door. 

You just have to make it to tomorrow. 

***

“Wait here.” 

You shift nervously on your feet, half expecting the Coruscant Guard to suddenly appear and arrest you for conspiracy or treason or something. Your hand brushes your pocket where the datastick is safely sitting, making sure it’s still there and hasn’t disappeared into thin air. 

You wait anxiously, trying not to look nervous or suspicious. You are nervous. You’ve never spoken to a Senator before, much less about something so sensitive. You don’t have concrete evidence, only Howzer’s word and your meager research. Despite how outspoken you know she is about clones and their rights, she has no reason to believe you. 

You wouldn’t blame her if she turned you away. 

You had tried not to stare at the clone that had picked you up. Despite his disguise, you know he’s a clone. You’d know that face, those eyes anywhere. 

You miss Howzer. 

Even though you have yet to meet in person, you miss his face and his voice and his presence. You’re worried for him. You know he’s not dead, you would have felt it if he was, but there could be any number of unimaginable things happening to him right now. Your hand brushes your pocket once more, making sure the datastick is still there, that it hasn’t disappeared into thin air. 

Footsteps approach, making your heart flutter. You’re sure you look like the nervous wreck you feel. You take a steadying breath as she appears, flanked by two other clones. She greets you by name, surprising you. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Senator Chuchi.” You say. “Thank you for seeing me.” 

“Of course.” She gives you a small smile. “Shera said you may have some information on clones in need of help.” 

You nod, shifting nervously on your feet. You had practiced what you were going to say over and over all day. “My soulmate is a clone and we share a dream space.” You start, telling her the truth in hopes it will help you. “He suddenly stopped contacting me a few months ago and then out of the blue a couple days ago he reappeared. He said he’d been arrested by the Empire and taken prisoner. He wouldn’t go into much detail, but he seemed worried. He said wherever he’s being held, there’s other clones there too. He was able to give me glimpses and I tried to do some research, but every time I tried to dig deeper, the holonet wouldn’t let me.” 

Senator Chuchi nods. “The Empire is locking down parts of the holonet. They don’t want civilians accidentally stumbling across something that might give them ideas.” 

You frown. All those feelings you’ve been having about the Empire seem to only become more and more validated at every turn. You reach into your pocket, pulling out the datastick. “I managed to narrow it down to a few places. I couldn’t do much else.” 

She takes the datastick. “I know someone who might be able to figure out where they are. We’ll do everything we can to rescue them.” 

“Thank you.” You say, tears springing to your eyes once more. You had been expecting the worst, and now there’s a glimmer of a chance that Howzer might be found and rescued. 

“If they find something, you’ll be the first to know.” She says, giving you a reassuring smile. 

You trust her, even though you know next to nothing about her. She could be lying, but the genuine look on her face, and how bravely she fought for clone rights in a Senate that had been against her tells you otherwise. 

All you can do is hope your research is enough, and they can find Howzer and the others before something bad happens. 

***

A few days pass in tense anticipation. There's still no word from Howzer, and no word from Senator Chuchi either. You know it has to take time, but you want to know faster. Have they been able to find them? Was your research enough? Had you been completely wrong and they had to start from scratch? 

You keep yourself busy at the bakery as you had been doing for the last few months. You've waited years for this, for the chance to meet Howzer. You can wait a few days if it means they have a better chance of finding them safely. 

You just hope it's not too late. 

You were closing up shop, planning to spend your evening worrying and sleeping as you had been doing lately in hopes of hearing from someone, when Senator Chuchi arrived in person at your shop. It was a rare occasion you got an actual Senator in your shop. 

"Senator Chuchi," You greet her from behind the counter where you had been boxing up leftover pastries to set out in front of your shop for those from below who roamed the upper levels in search of food or handouts. "How can I help you?"

She approaches the counter, a small smile on her face. "I have good news. They've found him."

You stare at her in shock for a moment, your brain trying to process what you had just heard. You've been waiting days for this, your mind thinking up every situation, every way this could happen. "What?" You ask in disbelief, your brain short-circuiting.

"They're on their way back here as we speak." She says. "Tomorrow when you close, I will have someone meet you to pick you up." 

You nod slowly, your brain trying to catch up. "They found him." You say it, almost like you're trying to convince yourself it's real. 

She smiles, nodding. "He's on his way here now."

Nerves begin to bubble in your stomach. Though you've spent years speaking to him, seeing him, you're nervous at the prospect of finally getting to see him in person. You know what he looks like, what he sounds like, what his personality is like. Yet, you've never met in person. You've never been able to touch him, to smell him, to really be with him. 

Your heart is pounding with nerves and excitement as you see Senator Chuchi out, locking the door behind you. In a matter of hours you'll be going to see Howzer. You never thought this day would come. You never thought it would actually be real.

***

The hours pass by slowly. Despite the busy hours at the bakery, time seems to move in slow motion as you wait for the end of your day. As you wait for the time to come. As you wait for Howzer's arrival. You've been lost in thought all day, fighting nerves and insecurities. 

It was ridiculous to think Howzer wouldn't like you. You've seen him, and he's seen you. If he didn't like you, he wouldn't have bothered spending hours upon hours getting to know you, baring his soul to you. If he didn't like you, he would have rejected you like he was supposed to. 

You're a little afraid because you know Howzer is different now. You could see the difference in him after months of whatever had happened to him. You’d support him as best you could, even if you couldn’t completely understand. 

You’re just worried he might get into his own head. 

You’d take him no matter what, simply because it means you’ll finally get to have him with you. 

If he wants to. 

You try not to think about it. You try not to let your insecurities get in your way as you wait patiently for your escort. 

When they finally arrive you feel like your heart may jump right out of your throat. It’s a different clone than the one that had taken you to meet Senator Chuchi the first time. You’re too nervous to speak on the trip to the location, thinking up how this scenario could play out over and over in your head. What are you going to say? 

You should have thought of this beforehand. 

Your stomach lurches as you land. You stare at the open door of the garage, at the light shining out from inside. Howzer’s in there. He’s in there, and he’s waiting for you. Your hands are shaking, and you’re not entirely sure you’re going to be able to stand. 

You have nothing to be afraid of. It’s so irrational, yet you can’t make yourself move. You know you should. You have to. The poor clone that drove you here won’t wait forever. 

You’re so close. So close. He’s right there. 

“You alright?” The clone that had escorted you asks. 

You turn to look at him, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. Nervous.” 

He nods. “I would be too. So I can confidently say, he’s probably just as nervous.” He gives you a small smile. “He didn’t come all this way for nothing.” 

He’s right. You’re a bit silly being so nervous. “What’s your name?” You ask. 

“Nitro, ma’am.” He says, nodding at you. 

“Thank you, Nitro.” 

You take a breath before pulling yourself out of the speeder. You steady yourself, trying desperately to push down the butterflies as you make your way into the garage. 

Tears spring to your eyes as they spot him. He has his back to you, but you can tell right away. You just know it’s him. Gone are the words you had thought up, the practiced speech you’d thought up on the way over of what you would say, how you would approach him. 

“Howzer?” Your voice shakes as you say his name. 

His back straightens, body turning slowly to face you. Tears threaten to blur your vision as you see him, just as he looked in your dreams. His brow furrows for a moment as he stares at you before his brows lift in surprise and disbelief. He whispers your name, almost like he’s afraid you might disappear if he speaks it too loudly. 

You’re suddenly moving, feet carrying you and before you realize it, you’re standing right in front of him. You stare at his face, every detail, every line that you had spent hours memorizing in your dreams. 

His hand slowly lifts, just like it had in your dream. Only, this is real. There’s nothing keeping you from touching each other now. His fingers brush your cheek, the rough pads ghosting across your skin like he’s making sure you’re really real. Sparks erupt under your skin at the touch, the first touch you’ve ever shared. 

You close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him. He tenses for a moment, before he’s wrapping his own arms around you. The tears begin to fall, dampening his shirt as you cry for the months of solitude, the months of suffering he’d endured, the years you’ve both been waiting for this moment. The worry, the fear, the anxiety is melting away as you hold him, feeling him, ensuring he really is real. 

You tighten your hold on him, hands grasping his shirt as you hold on for dear life. He’s so warm, his heart thumping under your ear.

“I’ve got you, mesh’la.” He whispers, leaning his head against yours. “I’m right here.” 

“Months,” You sob, voice muffled by his shirt. “Months I didn’t hear from you. I thought something had happened...I thought-” 

He shushes you, tightening his hold on you. “I’m here now.” 

You let yourself relax in his hold, breathing him in. There’s a distinct metallic hint to his clothes, and the faint hint of sweat, but you’re not complaining. 

You don’t want to pull away from him. You want to stay here holding onto him forever. Yet, you know you can’t. 

You pull back slowly, meeting his gaze once more. His hand brushes your cheek once more, his palm warm against your skin. 

“You’re even more beautiful in person.” He says, eyes shining as he stares at you. 

Your cheeks heat up, so much he can probably feel it under his hand. You stare into those brown eyes, taking in every inch of him. “So are you.” 

The corner of his lips pull up in a grin as your face heats even more. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. 

You lift your hand, pressing it against his where it’s still resting on your cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

His thumb gently strokes your skin. “Me too.” 

It’s like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Months of worrying, years of only having dreams to see and speak with each other had been taking its toll. The little relief you got from your shared dream space was nothing compared to having him in front of you. 

You don’t want this feeling to end. Yet, you know there’s still so much standing in your way. 

***

It’s late at night when you finally get back home. There had still been much to do after your arrival at the garage. Both you and Howzer had spoken to Senator Chuchi, and you had been introduced to the clones that had rescued Howzer, and the clones that had been part of Howzer’s squad. 

Howzer had also been a bit hesitant to leave his men, but at their insistence he had left with you. It wasn’t like you were going that far, and you wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to return to see them, or to help the fledgling rebellion. You had been briefed on their operation and sworn to secrecy, though you wouldn’t even dream of revealing them. 

“Here it is.” You say, leading Howzer inside the bakery. “My pride and joy.” 

He smiles, glancing around. “It’s cuter in person.” 

You had shown him images of your bakery in your shared dream space many times. When you’d bought the space, when you’d finished renovating, when you’d opened, and many times after as you changed aesthetics and decor. 

You smile proudly. “I put a lot of work into her.” 

He steps closer to you. "I can tell."

You stare up at him, getting lost in those eyes once more. You’re tempted to close the distance, but you don’t want to push too much. Especially not with him just having been rescued a few hours ago. 

“I have one employee, Mina.” You say, breaking the silence as you show him around the bakery. “She sort of knows about you already. Her sister helped me get in to see Senator Chuchi.” You pause by the door that leads up to your apartment. “I’m sure you’ll meet eventually, but don’t worry. She’s basically family. I’d trust her with my life.” 

You lead him up to your small apartment above the bakery. It’s not the most comfortable space, but it’s convenient and since it was just you, it worked.

You do wish you’d picked up a little before you left. 

You have crates of new bakeware stacked everywhere, along with more supplies for the bakery on the kitchen counter. It’s not so much messy as just cluttered. You had been meaning to move the crates down to the kitchen downstairs, but that was a lot of work, and with everything going on, you were a bit distracted. 

“Sorry, I’ll get this stuff cleared out tomorrow.” You say, stuffing a couple things in a crate before closing the top. You’re glad it’s the weekend and your bakery is closed. It will give you time to adjust, as well as figure some things out with Howzer. 

You straighten up, meeting Howzer’s gaze. He’s watching you, an unreadable expression on his face. You shift on your feet, unsure of what to say. You hadn’t thought this far ahead. You had been so focused on his rescue and then meeting him, you hadn’t planned much else. 

“You’re, uh, probably exhausted.” You say, breaking the silence. “You can have the spare bedroom.” You lead him across the living room to the door for the spare bedroom. “It doesn’t get used often,” You’re glad the bed is still made at least. “I don't remember the last time someone used it. There’s blankets in the closet if you get cold, but it gets pretty warm up here when the ovens are going in the kitchen downstairs. If you get too hot, you can turn on the air conditioning. I don’t bother since I’m downstairs most of the day and it cools off up here by the time I get done. Of course, we’re closed tomorrow so that won’t be much of a problem-” 

A hand on your arm stops your rambling. You stare down at it for a moment before you follow it up to Howzer’s face. “It’s fine.” He says, giving you a small smile. “I think this is the nicest room I’ve been in.” 

You open and close your mouth a few times. “That’s horribly depressing.” 

His hand slides down your arm until he reaches your hand, taking it in his. “I’d sleep on the floor if it meant I could be close to you.” 

Your cheeks warm once more, your stomach flipping at his words. “Well, I won’t make you do that. You can make yourself at home here. I’ll go out in the morning and pick up some stuff for you. I’m up pretty early usually anyway. Help yourself to anything you’d like, whenever you’d like.” You bite your lip, cutting off your rambling once more. 

“Thank you.” He squeezes your hand gently. “For everything.” 

“Well, I couldn’t just sit and do nothing.” You shrug. “I’m glad things worked out like they did.” 

“Fate has a way of making sure things do work out.” He says, squeezing your hand. 

“I guess it does.” You stare up into his eyes. 

You stand there for a few moments, just staring at one another. It doesn’t seem uncomfortable, the silence between you. You know it will take some adjusting for both of you. Him more so, adjusting to a civilian life. A civilian life he has to hide in. 

Senator Chuchi, and the other clones had cautioned both of you about anyone seeing Howzer. Especially since the Empire was aware of their interception and rescue. Though it was unlikely they’d send out a big search as that would warrant too much attention, if the wrong person saw Howzer, it would put both of you in danger. 

It was worth the risk. Though you occasionally had some higher-profile customers, you weren’t worried about them. You could easily hide Howzer in your home, and you knew where to go if you ever needed to run. Coruscant was a big place. There were plenty of places to hide. 

“I’ll, uh, let you get some sleep.” You say, pulling away from him, even though you feel you could stand there and stare at him for hours. “My room’s just off the kitchen. I’m a light sleeper so, just knock if you need anything.” 

You back out of the room slowly, hesitant to leave him but you’re starting to feel the tiredness weighing down your limbs. You know he has to be tired too. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep. 

***

You settle into life with Howzer surprisingly easily. He tiptoes a bit, but you suppose that’s to be expected for someone new to civilian life. You return to a normal schedule at the bakery to keep up appearances. The last thing you need right now is for someone to suspect you of anything. 

You don’t tell Mina right away about Howzer living upstairs in your apartment. You want to give things time to settle, time to cool down before you share his whereabouts. You feel a bit paranoid about everything, but if it keeps Howzer safe, then it’s worth it. 

You haven’t used your dream space since he arrived. Though, with him being so close there wasn’t really a reason to. If you wanted to talk to him, he was only a room or a flight of stairs away. It feels surreal. 

Despite being so close, you both tiptoe around each other a bit. You hadn’t really known what to expect once you had him in front of you. You’re not really sure anyone knows what to expect when they first meet their soulmate. You’d had the benefit of speaking to him long before you actually met him, so you already knew a lot about each other, but yet, there’s still hesitation there.

You don’t really know each other. 

You’re a bit afraid to push, a bit afraid to start asking. He has to process it, and you want to give him time to do that. He’d given up a lot, risked a lot, and lost many of his men. That was just at the hands of the Empire. He had suffered through the war too.

He has nightmares often. 

The first time you heard him, it had been in the quiet hours of the early morning. You’d woken and heard the rustling sheets as he fought whatever enemy he was facing, the quiet mutterings as he relieved whatever horrible thing he was facing. 

You had debated getting up, but ultimately decided on it, not wanting to force him to continue to suffer through his nightmare. You got up and slipped to his room, watching his body jerk on the bed, brows pinched in a frown. 

“Howzer?” You asked, stepping closer to the bed. 

His eyes snapped open, body jerking upright. You suddenly found yourself with a blaster pointed at your chest. You stumbled back a step, gasping in shock. Clarity crosses his features, the blaster in his hand shaking as it stays pointed at you. 

He curses, the blaster slowly lowering. You can see the guilt, the regret in his gaze. You slowly move to his side, gently peeling his fingers from around the blaster. You drop it on the bed behind you, sinking down next to him. You’re not sure when he had gotten the blaster, but you can understand why he would feel he needed it. He’d practically been born with a blaster in hand. Of course having one now, especially in such a vulnerable situation, had to be comforting. 

“I could have shot you.” He gasps out, his breaths shaky. 

You lace your fingers with his, squeezing gently. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” 

“I could have killed you.” He says, voice shaking. 

“But you didn’t.” You say, turning his face to look at you. “I’m alright. It was my fault.”

You can see the tears shining in his eyes from the dim light coming in the window. You hate it, you hate his suffering, you hate that he’ll blame himself for this. You hate that you feel so helpless, but you know there’s some things he has to work through on his own. 

You can’t magically heal all of him. No matter how badly you wish you could. 

***

The nightmares continue

You wake up hearing his gasps and grunts, the thrashing of his body in the sheets often. Ever since he pulled a blaster on you, you’ve been hesitant to wake him. You had been lucky he hadn’t fired, that he’d woken quickly enough to realize what was going on. Realize who was standing in front of him. 

Instead you do research. He had figured out a way to control the dream space, to keep it from happening after he was arrested by the Empire. You hadn’t used it since he contacted you before his rescue, but perhaps you could figure out a way to use it to help him. 

In your research you learn dream spaces are controlled entirely by the soulmates themselves. It’s mostly done on a subconscious level after the first initial dream. The yearning, the need to see your soulmate drives the pull into the dream space. If both are asleep at the same time, one can pull the other in. One can also shut off the dream space from the other, even without rejection. 

So Howzer in his desperation to keep you safe had subconsciously cut off your dreamspace for months. It had only opened back up when he had wanted to contact you. When he needed to contact you. 

Perhaps you can use that to your advantage. 

You wait until Howzer has another nightmare before you try it. It takes a few minutes, some deep thinking, until suddenly you’re floating on that familiar feeling, the world around you going white. 

He’s there, looking around in shock. He’s breathing heavily, eyes still wide with fear. He says your name in confusion, brows pinching as he frowns. 

“I did it.” You say, stepping up to him. “It worked.” 

His frown deepens. “What did you do?” 

“You can control the dream space.” You explain, telling him everything you’ve learned. You want to help him with his nightmares, and this was the safest way for both of you. Not that you thought he’d pull a blaster on you, or shoot you, but you could never be too careful. 

“Thank you.” He says, relaxing a bit as the nightmare falls away, left in the past. 

“You know you can talk to me.” You say. “I can’t really understand what it was like, but you know I’ll listen.” 

His gaze drops, shoulders slumping. “I don’t want to scare you away.” 

You shake your head, wishing you could touch him. “You won’t scare me. Nothing you could say would scare me. Let me help you. I want to help you.” 

He slowly lifts his gaze, his eyes meeting yours. You give him a small smile, wishing you could reach out and smooth the small frown pinched between his brows. You wish you could run your fingers over his face, ease the tension in his body. 

You’ve never cursed your alarm more than you do at that moment. 

***

The weekend couldn’t come soon enough. The bakery seemed extra busy that week, and you had barely gotten time to take a break and check on Howzer. You know he’s fine, you know he’s capable of entertaining himself and keeping himself busy. You can’t help but worry about him, though. 

You get off late every day, dragging your feet up the steps, dreading another early morning. You love the bakery, and you wouldn’t change anything, but sometimes the exhaustion really begins to hit you. 

Howzer always looks concerned, usually starting to piece together something for dinner as you drag yourself in the door. He’s no professional chef, considering he lived off rations most of his life, but he does alright. He doesn’t seem to mind doing it, and you’re more than willing to let him help out a bit. Especially if it means you don’t have to stand in a kitchen more than you already do. 

Over the weekend you planned on testing new flavors for the bakery. It was getting about time to start revamping the menu again, and you had a few things you wanted to test. You’d usually force it on Mina and her soulmate to try, but you have Howzer now. He’d never really had anything sweet before he met you, and you had rectified that very quickly. 

You rise early as usual, taking care not to be too loud as you set to start making some cakes and pastries. You hum quietly to yourself as you begin mixing, measuring out ingredients and getting the pans ready. 

Howzer rises not long after, equally an early riser, though you were usually up before him. He watches you for a while, eyes following you around the kitchen. 

He doesn’t move until you’re starting on the second batch, joining you in the kitchen. He moves hesitantly, despite his posture always speaking to his training, his status. He took up a lot of space in any room, even if he was trying to make himself seem smaller. 

“Can you teach me?” He asks, stepping up next to you. 

You look up at him in surprise. “You want to learn how to make cakes?” 

He shrugs. “Yeah.” 

You stare down at the mixer before shrugging. “Sure, why not.”

You grab an apron for him, helping him tie it before you start explaining things. Ingredients, measurements, how much to add to the pans, how long to bake them for. You teach him how to make frosting too, how perfect everything has to be, how to know when it’s mixed just enough. 

He starts to talk too as you guide him, telling you about everything. From the time you last spoke right before he defied Imperial orders to when he was rescued. He tells you what happened to him, and the little he knew about what happened to the others. 

Your heart aches for him as he spills everything, everything that haunts him in his nightmares. You can understand why they’re so bad, why they plague him so much. 

You wrap your arms around him as you wait for the cakes to cool, pulling him against your chest. You hadn’t shared much contact at all since he moved into your apartment. You’d been separated by hesitation and your own busy schedule. You know he’s here, you know he’s real, but it feels good to hold him. You want to hold him and never let go. You want to be with him every minute of every day. You want to protect him and ease his nightmares away. 

“Sleep with me.” You say, voice slightly muffled by his chest. 

“What?” He chuckles nervously, trying to pull away but you tighten your hold around him. 

“Sleep in my bed with me. At night.” You say, trying to calm the nervous pounding of your heart. It matches his pounding against your ear. “Maybe...maybe it will help with the nightmares.” 

“I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” He says. 

“I said I was a light sleeper. As soon as you start to have a nightmare, I can slip into the dream space and pull you out.” You say. “It’s worth a try.” 

He sighs, wrapping his arms tightly around you once more. “I guess.” 

You smile. “I’ve never had a man sound so disappointed to sleep in the same bed as me before.” 

He pulls away, staring down at you with a dark look on his face. 

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “Don’t worry. You’ll be the first to actually do it.” You shake your head. “Plenty have offered, but you know how busy I am and besides, I’ve been waiting on the right person.” 

He shakes his head, a smile forming on his face. “You think you’re so funny.” 

You grin, flicking frosting onto his nose. “I’m hilarious.” 

He looks offended before a wicked grin forms on his face, his arms scooping you up before you can even turn and run. You squeal, wiggling in his grasp. He loses his hold on you, both of you falling onto the floor in your small kitchen. He softens the drop with his arms, one hand cradling the back of your head as you hit the floor, and he falls on top of you. He’s a solid weight over you, your faces inches apart. 

You stare up into his eyes, your arms snaking around his neck. He drops just slightly closer, your breaths mingling. You lift your head just slightly before darting your tongue out to lick the frosting off his nose. 

His nose scrunches before he laughs, shaking his head. “You could just kiss me like a normal person.” 

“Who said I was normal?” You grin before you’re pulling him down, your lips meeting his. 

***

Howzer moved into your bed that night. He was still plagued by nightmares for the first few nights, but there was no incident, nothing like the first night he’d had a nightmare in your apartment. You had eased him into the dream space every time, talking him down before you inevitably woke thanks to your early alarm. 

He rises with you the first few times, until he eventually settles enough to give you a sleepy kiss before rolling over and going back to sleep. 

He also likes to cuddle. It had been a bit awkward at first, until you’d woken with his arms around you. You hadn’t said anything, and it easily became something natural. You gravitate towards each other as you were naturally made to do. 

You wake early one weekend, as you were wont to do. Not as early as you had to for work, but still too early for the weekend. Howzer agrees, his arms wrapped tight around you from behind. You can feel him, every part of him pressed up against your back. He’s shirtless, only his thin sleep pants and your own shorts separating you. His arms around your waist have pushed your shirt up, his skin touching yours. 

You can feel the energy between you, the tingling from where you’re connected. It’s a warm feeling, a comforting feeling. You feel safe, like nothing else in the world could hurt you, could come between you, so long as you’re touching. 

“Go back to sleep.” He murmurs, lips brushing your neck. 

You bite your lip at the sensation, goosebumps forming on your skin. He nuzzles his face closer, a warm puff of air ghosting over your skin as he exhales. You bite your lip, dropping your hands to his arms, trailing your fingers along his skin. He shifts against you, pressing even closer behind you. 

“I can’t.” You say, pushing back against him. 

He hums, one hand pushing higher beneath your sleep shirt, palm and fingers splaying across your stomach. You gasp at the sensation, shifting against him once more. You haven’t done more than kissing and some exploring, and plenty of cuddling. You can’t deny the heat pooling between your legs as he grinds against you, his half-hard length pressing against your ass. 

“Howzer?” You ask quietly, turning just slightly so you can see him. He lifts his head so he can stare down at you. “I’d like you to fuck me now.” 

His hand slips from beneath your shirt to cup your face. “You sure, mesh’la?” 

You take the hand on your face, boldly slipping it under your shorts so it’s resting against your damp panties. “I’m ready.” 

The corner of his lips lift in a grin. “That’s pretty good evidence.” He pushes against your underwear, applying pressure to your clit. 

You gasp, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I’m ready. I want to do it.” 

He leans down, kissing you softly. “As long as you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.” You say, kissing him hard. 

His tongue slips into your mouth, the hand between your legs beginning to circle your clit over your panties. You cling to him, allowing him to work your body up. You could get lost in him so easily, in his tender touches, his strong demeanor.

He’s utterly perfect. 

You moan against his lips as he continues to tease you through your panties, your own hand trailing down his chest. You trace the lines of his muscles, slowly working your way down his stomach. His hips press closer to your hand, a groan rumbling through his chest. 

You nip at his bottom lip as he pulls back, moving his body so he’s hovering over you. His hand pulls free of your shorts, fingers looping under the waistband before tugging them down your legs. You pull your shirt over your head, leaving yourself bare before him. You fight the urge to hide under his gaze, the urge to cover yourself as he studies you. 

He leans his body over yours, pressing a kiss to your lips. “So kriffing beautiful.” He murmurs, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck. 

“Howzer,” You gasp as he nips at the sensitive skin, your arms wrapping around his strong back. 

You can feel the pulsing beneath your skin, the electricity starting to ignite your nerve endings as you get closer and closer to him. He’s so big and warm over you, the pulsing feeling shooting down between your thighs. 

You need him. 

Your fingers trail down his back before they slip under the waistband of his sleep pants. You begin to tug them down and he pulls away just enough to help you, kicking them off the end of the bed. He’s thick and hard, the tip of his cock leaking. You bite your lip as you stare at him, thighs clenching in anticipation. 

“Kriff, I need you so bad.” He groans, burying his face in your chest. He licks and nips at your skin, leaving marks in his wake. It’s so possessive, the way he leaves his mark on you, the way his hands grip your sides, your hips. 

“Take me.” You say, letting your thighs fall open for him. “I’m yours.” 

He stares down at your glistening pussy, licking his lips. “All mine.” 

“Only yours.” You gasp as his fingers trail along your slick folds, gathering the wetness there to wet his cock. 

He slips his cock along your folds, teasing you before he lines himself up. You watch him as he eases the head of his cock inside, your body stiffening a bit at the stretch. His hands grip your hips, gently massaging the skin in an attempt to ease the stretch and help you relax.

“So kriffing tight.” He breathes as he slips further in, moving slowly to give you time to adjust. 

He folds his body over yours as he sinks completely inside you, lips tracing a path from your chest to your jaw. He’s so big, stretching you so much. You wrap yourself around him, holding onto him as your body adjusts to his cock. 

“So good for me.” He whispers in your ear, shifting his hips just slightly. “So perfect.” 

You moan as his cock moves inside you, your legs tightening around his waist. 

“You like that?” He groans, pulling out just a little before sinking back into you. “Feel good?” 

“So good.” You gasp, hips lifting to meet his slow thrusts. 

“Good girl.” He murmurs, pulling out further, before sinking back in. 

You cling to him as he fucks you deep and slow, his arms wrapped around you just as tightly. You can feel him, every part of him as he makes love to you, your very souls connecting. It’s almost overwhelming, being so connected, being so full of him. 

“Howzer!” You gasp his name as you cum, shaking under him. 

He groans into your neck, hips jerking as he spills into you. 

Neither of you move, still wrapped around each other, still completely connected. You’re practically vibrating with energy as the feeling of him fills you and overwhelms your body. The warm puffs of his breath on your sweat-slicked skin, the beat of his heart echoing in your chest keeps you grounded, keeps you here with him. 

“I love you,” He whispers, lips brushing your skin. 

“I love you too.” You whisper in his ear, tightening your hold around him. 

(I'm going to try putting the taglist in a reblog. See if that works.)

[wisteria-lotus]

Twisting and Turning

By: Wisteria ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

Contains: angst if you squint, fluff, Yuta being a cutie

Summary: You and Yuta were best friends, after an incident it only made your bond closer, right? Then what changed? There was only one meaning, your feeling for him.

(Okkotsu Yuta x fem!reader)

You and Yuta were like magnets, opposites attract, it's what they say. While Yuta had been the nervous boy he always was, you were like a bundle of sunshine. You guys were known as the best battle duo during your missions with any grade leveled curses. Not even Toge and Panda could beat you in a duo battle. Although currently, the best duo was having a difficult time in the middle of nowhere, fighting a special grade curse, with not just one ability, but with almost billions. It felt like hours passed as your hands were blistered from how much you were attacking with your spear, and so was Yuta. You could see Yuta from the corner of your eye piercing his sword into the horrid curse, but that wasn't the only thing you saw. As you saw the arm of the curse push him away, the sword was still stuck in the curse. You froze not knowing if you should go to Yuta, or continue with the curse. 

“Y/N! Don’t worry about me-” he mustered out from the pain of being thrown.

You trusted your partner and leapt into the curse trying to help as much as you could, getting stabbed, bruised, thrown around, as well as being possibly sprayed by some weird mist. You didn’t know what it was but the pain of all the scars were beginning to numb as you continued to fight. Yuta leaping back to his feet finally twisting his glistening silver ring, summoning Rika, a curse that still made you shake even with the amount of countless times you saw her. In a blink of an eye, the curse vanished slowly, disintegrating like burnt wood, getting crushed, and turning into ashes. Yuta hurriedly ran to you as you went back on your feet.

“Are you okay?!” he said with a worried face, you couldn't help but laugh to see his reaction but also feel the sharp pain in your lungs, for some unknown reason. Your vision became hazy as you slightly swayed while leaning onto a tree,”I’m alright-” you lied, it felt like your lungs were being stabbed with needles. He hurriedly picked you up on his back, leading you to your campsite. ”I told you I’m alright!” But he didn't believe you, as he sat you down on a seat, you couldn't help but smile a bit from his worry. Right as you thought you could settle down from the gruesome and tiring battle, you felt another pain in your chest once again, this time you saw blood, blood on your hands and your uniform. You couldn't stop coughing out blood, the pain in your throat was like sandpaper going against another piece of sandpaper as you continued to cough. “Y/N!” was the last thing you heard before pitch black and a thud. You felt nothing, your body felt numb, as if you were paralyzed. Why did you feel this way? 

 It was blurry when you woke up, your whole body was aching, it almost felt as if it was burning. The blur turned into a more clear, vivid view soon, as you saw big pale hands grasping your own tightly.Yuta was next to you, having his head down on the hospital bed. Weren’t you just fighting a curse, what happened after..? “Y-you're alright..-” it was your beloved partner, looking worried, maybe even tearing up. “I’m alright” you smiled. “I don’t believe you..” his voice muffled from stuffing his face in the blankets. After that incident, he had only been more protective over you, asking for your needs and tending to any injuries you got from your missions. You knew it was for a good intent and allowed him, you were happy about it, but it soon had to come to an end when he had to go to Africa for individual training. Now school life  feels a bit empty, the fifth seat in your classroom empty. Your usual partner in missions, not going out with you anymore. It felt a bit strange but not too strange, since you got over it sooner or later. I mean you could admit, maybe you did miss him at times, yet who were you to tell him if he could or couldn't go to Africa to get better training.

Well, that wasn't a problem anymore, since he was back, in front of the gates of your school.. He had changed, his hair was parted and although his eyes were still the same, they had slight eye bags, his body seeming more refined and formal then before when he was slouching all the time. Everyone gathers to greet him from his return, Maki slapping his back, Panda laughing, and Toge just listing his feelings with ingredients. Yet how come you couldn't have the courage to join them in his return? Yuta took a glance at you, happy to see that you were alive and well. You could only muster a small hello with a smile greeting to your old partner. What was this weird feeling in your stomach? All you knew was that the feeling was unbearably uncomfortable. When you coincidentally bumped into him on your way to your dorm, your eyes couldn’t help meeting with him, only making your face a bit heated for an unknown reason that you still couldn't find out. “Y/N it’s been a while,” he laughed with a small laugh at the end of his sentence. “It has..” your voice trailing off. He notices how you weren't as joyful and playful as you were. “Are you okay?” He asked with curiosity and a hidden concern beneath his gaze. You were startled, he noticed like he always had in the past. You nodded in a hurry not wanting him to worry, but before you could notice he leaned in, his face just inches away while he put the back of his hand on your forehead. It was like an instinct that your face grew even more red and heated. “You don't seem to have a fever..” You quickly grasped his hand away and stepped back. “I’m okay just…a bit hot..?” you tried to laugh it off. Yet you let out a sneeze a bit after, making him show his concern. Taking it out of his jacket pocket he wrapped your neck with a brown and red patterned scarf. “Yeah right..pfft” he couldn't help but laugh at the blunt lie you said to his face.

After the small conversation you had with Yuta, , you hung up the scarf on your clothing rack in your dorm, got onto your spinny chair, and looked up at the ceiling in a daze. It was near the end of the day and you cussed under your breath finally realizing these weird creeping feelings in your stomach. You had missed him, and you actually realized you love him now. You knew he was the last person to even notice anyone had a crush on him, which was a good thing right? Since when did you start liking your mission partner in the first place, your best friend, and also your classmate? You could only think about this the whole night until monday morning soon arrived shortly as you automatically wore your uniform and went to class to hear Gojo, your instructor, to be joking around. Yuta filled up that once empty seat. You couldn't help but notice his calm and comfortable personality which you missed so much. He noticed you leaning on the door blankly staring and he rushed over to talk to you. “Good morning y/n..How was your sleep?”he asked her, as he noticed the slight dark circles under your eyes covered from a bit of foundation and contour you put on. “Huh- oh I’m good.!” you tried to not burst out the door from the once again creeping feeling in your stomach when you saw him. “Class! Today you’ll be working with the first years and mentoring them!” shouted Gojo, yet you knew it was just because he didn't want to deal with it himself. This class assignment led everyone out to the fields.You partnered up with a joyful pink haired boy, Itadori yuuji. He would joke around and compliment you a lot as you helped him. You couldn’t help but laugh because he somewhat matched your personality, which helped you a lot by trying to get away from that stomach-churning feeling for Yuta. Yet still, you couldn't help but notice the glances that Yuta gave you while you were helping Yuuji. You gave him a slight head tilt signifying if he needed something, but he quickly brushed it off in embarrassment, saying it was nothing. 

Later on at lunch, you were eating in your dorm when you heard a knock. You opened the door with a creak to see Yuta, smiling with his warm presence. “Can I come in?” He politely asked for your permission. “yeah sure,” you answered as it was pretty normal to hang out like this again, (though a bit awkward), this familiar room that you always slept in felt a bit unfamiliar now with Yuta. 

“What do you think of Itadori Yuuji..?” he asked, yet you couldn’t read his expression as he was looking away from you, probably observing the new things in your room. “He’s fun, and really cute.”Yuta quickly looked at you again, with a slight pout. “cute?” he muttered, with a bit of depth in his words. You pressed your lips together trying to read this new reaction. Was he…jealous? There’s no way THE Yuta Okkotsu was jealous. Yet you couldn't help but ask, “Are you jealous?” with a slight teasing tone knowing that he would probably just deny it, since there was no way he liked you the way you liked him. He opened his mouth a little, but soon closed it, looking away. “ah.. It’s a bit late.. I should get going to my dorm.” He looked back at you with an innocent smile that you were usually comforted by, but this time it felt a bit confusing. “You're right. It’s late, I’ll see you tomorrow at class,” you replied, smiling. Right as he left the room, the comfortable feeling of being in your dorm came back to your senses.you're probably just imagining things right now, you thought to yourself. You considered the option of taking a shower to clear away these thoughts, which failed miserably as you thought of what just happened thirty minutes ago while getting ready to sleep. He was acting a bit strange the next few days, glancing at you, yet avoiding you at the same time, you couldn't really seem to understand him, but it hurt to know that he was avoiding you. It was unusual without his soft good morning greeting to you in class, snice now he would be ignoring you. You felt suffocated, maybe you had done something wrong, but you knew whatever it is, it won't make you and Yuta’s relationship fall apart whatsoever. As you stormed off to him, grabbing his wrist tightly when he was walking in the hallway, you could see the way he turned as if he thought it was someone else and almost gave a smile until he processed it as you and quickly looked away. “Why are you avoiding me?” was the only thing you could blurt out after seeing his hurtful expression. “Why aren’t you looking at me?” the next sentence just spills out, these suffocating emotions getting in the way. “I-.. I’m not avoiding- well..I mean..I’m sorry” it made you furious to see him looking at the ground while apologizing, not even saying it while looking at you because he was too ashamed. He notices the way your hand which was once on his wrist falling down to your side, while a teardrop fell on the wooden floor of the hallway. He immediately raised his head up to see your crying face, just standing in the hallway. “I’m sorry..it- you didn’t do anything wrong..” he paused in the middle of finishing his sentence and took you to your dorm holding onto your wrist. You didn’t want to face him right now, not when he was the one avoiding you. “Let me go Okkotsu.” trying to budge from his grasp while you two were in your dorm. You raised your head, finally getting the courage to look back at him, the expression on his face was a worried and caring one, just like the expression on the last mission you guys had. “I just.. I didn’t realize it before, not until sooner that I really was jealous of Iadori Yuuji, I-” he was stuttering on his words while still holding onto your wrist. “I like you-,no, I love you, so please..call me Yuta again..” Your immediate reply, was not actually a reply, but a reaction as you looked away from him, covering your face with your arms, Yuta had that same look, you knew it, even without looking at him, but now he was leaning to your face, taking the arm that you had which was covering your face, revealing your obviously rosy pink cheeks.

 “You- could’ve just told me.”  as you tried to avoid his warming gaze. This gives him the sign, the sign which he took to wrap his hands around your cheeks, leaning down, and kissing you. The kiss felt blissful like the warm sun warming you up on a chilly day, or when you finally got near the fireplace after you were outside in the snow. From one light kiss, to another, making your arms wrap around his neck holding him closer. Giggling after with both your cheeks flushed red, “I love you y/n”. “I love you too Yuta”.

(AAA thank you for your likes and support!!)

(sorry for the late uploads, both me and lotus are quite busy with school, we appreciate you guys for the wait!!)

[delopsia]

About Last Night | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 6,700  Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Virgin!Rhett, shameless childhood best friends to lovers trope, unprotected sex in a hotel room, loss of virginity, first kisses, reader teaching Rhett how to eat them out, and a lazy morning after snippet. A self-indulgent take on Rhett's best friend coming back to Wabang and surprising him after his final rodeo.

Someone's gone and replaced your flowers with cement replicas. Hundreds of pounds each, weighing heavier and heavier with every moment that passes. Brittle stems threaten to slip out of your sweaty grasp and shatter into a million tiny pieces. 

"What did you say?" His wavering words are so weak that you almost don't hear him speak at all. 

But you do. 

And repeating yourself is just as hard as it was the first time you opened your mouth. 

"Congratulations." 

Even from so far away, you can feel his gaze drop down to the colorful mess in your hands. Vivid hues of red and yellow, the dainty little petals still glistening from the sudden onset of rain. In hindsight, an umbrella would have been a good idea.

"You..." his head tilts back up, still not moving, "for...me?" Why is it that you already knew he would look behind himself, like someone better, more deserving, would be behind him?

You're glad you chose this spot to surprise him. Where it's dark, and the blinding stadium lights can't cast a spotlight on your contorting face as you scramble for words. Specific sounds that each carry their own unique meaning; all you need to do is open your mouth and make a noise. 

But you can't.

Maybe you don't need to, though. Because Rhett's feet are moving, boots audibly scuffing against the dirt because he's not picking them up high enough. Albeit, moving very slowly, as if you're not real, just a ghost of the past that'll turn into mist if he isn't careful. 

His heels dig into the ground a mere foot away from you. Like he's met the end of an invisible leash. Eyes back on the flowers, then you once more. "Sunflowers?" 

"And tulips," the words spill out of your mouth so quickly that you hardly know what you said, "you...told me a long time ago that sunflowers were your favorite." 

The red tulips only made their way into the bouquet because the florist had a shortage of sunflowers. It was either hand him an absurdly tiny bouquet of flowers or spruce it up with the same color tulips he gave you after graduation, way back when. Before you left.

Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning flickers. Lights up the sky for the briefest instance. One fleeting shot of Rhett's face. Eyes so wet they shimmer. Dirt on his unshaven jaw. He reaches out. Doesn't take the flowers when you hold them out for him. No, he just...touches them. Like he's unsure if they're real. 

"You told me that you were never coming back to Wabang," it's almost strange to hear his voice this clearly. No longer muffled by a cell phone speaker. 

"I did," licking your lips, "but I never said I wouldn't come back for you." 

That... maybe you shouldn't have said that. All it's taken is those few words for this cowboy to go still again. Doesn't even blink. All he's capable of is staring back at you. Blank. No easy-going smile. No childish teasing. Hell. He doesn't even breathe.

Again, lightning flashes across the sky. Veins of light scattering and disappearing in the blink of an eye. Even so, you catch the upturn of the corner of Rhett's lip. Lopsided. Fighting its way across his face.

His hand is traveling. Across the petals. Down the stems. Right across your boiling hand and up your arm. Feather-light, never vanishing. Doesn't stop until those wandering fingertips brush across your cheek. 

All of a sudden, he's taking that last step forward. Closing the gap between your bodies. Thunder booms. Shaking the ground beneath your feat. Feels like a goddamn earthquake. But you can't think. Can't acknowledge the storm. Because Rhett's leaning in and. And. And—

"Just for me, huh?" His hot breath fans out against your lips. Noses bumping together. You've known this man your entire life. And yet. You don't recall ever being this close. But this. This. 

You've waited a lifetime for this. "Yeah."

That smile breaks across his face. The last push you need to lean in. 

You could never have imagined that Rhett Abbott's lips taste like strawberry chapstick.

It's only for a second, parting just as quickly as you'd met, eyes fluttering back open, even though you don't recall shutting them. But one kiss isn't enough. Not when Rhett's taking his hat off, pressing the brim of it flat against your shoulder blades, drawing you impossibly closer. Your arms find themselves winding around his neck as you meet him again, flowers draped haphazardly against his shoulder, long forgotten.

The storm is beginning to rage again, but all you're capable of comprehending is Rhett's mouth. Rhett's bitten lips and the barely there divot in the bottom left corner of them; remnants of a scar with a story that pains you to recall. Warm fingers grasp at your jaw, careful and delicate, keeps you grounded between every fleeting kiss. Each beginning before you've realized it; fleeting, too quick for your liking.

Maybe it's the kiss-drunk frustration that has your free hand moving, or maybe it's moving on its own; seizes that scruffy chin all the same. Two-day-old stubble scrapes against your palm as you hold him still to kiss him proper. The way you've been yearning for years.

Tiny, hard bullets strike at your exposed skin, bringing with them a rain so cold it stings. Your once quiet world dissolves into mind-numbing noise as hail bounces off of tin roofs and cracking pavement. 

"Hang onto me," Rhett murmurs against your lips, so close but so hard to hear. He's stepping forward, carting you backward, leaving you with the choice to cling to his shoulders or fall. Doesn't stop until your back is hitting a cold building wall, your body shielded by the overhang of the roof. 

"But the hail is still hitting you." Your lips are moving, but you can't hear what you're saying, not under this metal roof. There isn't enough room under it to cover him, too, not in this position; sleet striking against those broad shoulders, hail bouncing off his backside and landing by your feet.

He's tilting his hat back up, settling it right atop that soaked, tangled mop of hair. "Don't care." 

Oh, how his mouth fits against yours so perfectly. A surging tide of warmth in this mind-numbingly cold rain, the only thing keeping you from being whisked away by the howling wind. Teeth nip at your lower lip with gentle tugs that have you gasping into his wickedly talented mouth. Even the stubble that scratches at your skin can't stop you from leaning into it; discomfort be damned. 

Rhett's hands are everywhere, running up your hips, pressing into the space between your shoulder blades, curling around your jaw, tightening around your waist. So frenzied that you're distracted by their roaming until that hot, wet tongue laps against yours, and all of a sudden, you can't breathe. 

"Fuck," he gasps; it's hard to feel so guilty about needing air when he's open-mouthed, panting like a dog in the summer sun. 

Even the trembling that's settled into your hands can't stop you from trying to pull him closer, not a centimeter of space between your panting bodies. And God is Rhett trying his best to give you that; presses you flat against the wall, heaving chest bumping against yours whilst a wayward leg steps between yours—

"Ah." 

Fuck, was that you?

Rhett's thigh shifts, has another one of those sounds boiling up in your throat as it unintentionally grinds against your core. A soft pressure that you're fighting the urge to grind against; barely there but enough to have your heart rate spiking.

"Shit," Rhett's eyes have gone wide, the whites of them flashing in the poor lighting. "Did I hurt you?" 

Oblivious.

Completely, utterly oblivious. 

"'m sorry," his muttering barely audible, already beginning to reel backward, "I didn't...did I overstep?" 

Words would work just as well, but instead of opening your mouth, you find yourself stepping forward. Clinging to his wet shoulders for balance as you slot your thigh between his and raise it. Just high enough to press against that hardness that's formed in his jeans, straining against its confines. 

Those eyelashes of his flutter, eyes rolling back for the briefest second. "Oh."

As the thunder rolls once more, his thighs flex, muscles contracting beautifully as he draws your leg harder against him. You're not even getting any attention, and yet the sensation of him grinding down against you is enough to have a shiver rattling down your spine. He's leaning back in, still panting as your lips brush together once more. 

A siren pierces the air. A steady wail that has your skin prickling. Rhett's arms tighten. Drawing you into his chest. As if he can protect you from a potential tornado. 

"'ve gotta hotel down the road," he starts; between the storm and the siren, you're lucky you hear him at all, "do you maybe..."

He doesn't need to finish his sentence before you're nodding your head.

Your back hits the door so hard that the frame rattles. A sound that should be so quiet and yet sounds like it's being blasted through a megaphone, echoing down the hallway. You should be opening your eyes, looking around to see if anyone's heard it, but it's so hard to focus when Rhett's teeth graze your lips like that. 

He hardly expects you to chase him when he retreats, eagerly nipping at that thin bottom lip, gently tugging. You're not sure if it's meant to be a warning or a tease, but he's gasping into your mouth all the same. 

Next to you, his hand fumbles with the lock on the door, plastic card bumping into everything in its path on its way to swipe through the reader. Slides through once. Twice. Three times. 

No dice.

"Are you sure it's the right key?" 

"Well," drawing away, he looks over to the card reader. Tries again. Same result. "...It worked earlier." 

A shrill beep cuts through the air. And all of a sudden, you're moving backward. Treading blindly through unfamiliar territory. Unnatural gait making it hard to keep your lips on Rhett's for more than a second at a time. Broken with every step. Teeth clattering together. Feet tangling. Shoes coming off. Landing God knows where. 

The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, but Rhett's still moving; all it takes is the slightest collision of bodies, and you're falling back onto the mattress. Not as gracefully as you'd like, but thankfully, Rhett can't see it. Eyes closed as he reaches behind his head, hooking his thumb under the collar of his shirt and tugging it over his head. 

You need a drink.

Or five. 

Because since when did Rhett Abbott look like he was hand sculpted by the Gods? From the moment you catch sight of the hard lines of his stomach, you know you're in trouble. And that shirt just has to rise higher, slowly revealing the swell of his chest. The biggest part of him; wide, with muscles that look big and pillowy until they flex. 

And the dull, golden lighting from the bedside lamp does nothing but cast deep shadows against where he's most defined; the fruit of a lifetime of manual labor. Built for purpose rather than appearance. Moving back out to Wabang suddenly doesn't sound so bad, not if you get to see this every day.

"I know I'm..." Rhett's reaching up, pawing a hand through his unruly hair, poorly conceals the redness that's blossomed in the tips of his ears. "Not much to look at, but..."

"I'd beg to differ." It's out of your mouth before you can realize it. Now it's your turn to sheepishly look at the wall, unwilling to let Rhett catch the horror flaming in your eyes, gaze trained on the wall.

The bed dips as he sinks down onto it, knees settling between your parted legs, slowly but surely crawling up until your faces are mere inches apart once more. Even the flexing of muscles in your peripheral cannot bring you away from your sudden interest in the tacky floral pattern the hotel has chosen for its wallpaper. 

But the kisses being peppered across your cheek definitely threatens to break your resolve.

"Hey." Kiss. "D'you wanna look at me?" Kiss. "Hm?"

You're turning to meet that next kiss, neck straining as you twist to catch those swollen lips of his. In the back of your head, you have a sneaking suspicion that yours must be in a similar state. On their own, your legs are rising, thighs hitching over his hip bones like they're meant to be shelved there. 

Thunder strikes the ground with a heavy fist, but even the earsplitting noise can't distract you from the way Rhett's hips grind down into yours. Jeans doing little to stop you from feeling the length of him, hard against your clothed cunt. Has you whining into his mouth, rising to meet him on the next roll downward. A wayward hand toys with the hem of your shirt, fingers delving just far enough to brush against skin before retreating as if you've burned him. 

"It's alright," Without a second thought, you're reaching down, taking hold of his wrist, guiding it back, "You can touch me."

"'S this my ol' shirt?" He says it as if he doesn't already know the answer, words vibrating against your lips, whilst his hand cautiously smooths up your side. Blunt nails dragging against your skin, stopping just short of the swell of your breasts. Shy. 

"No," you giggle, "I just happen to have a shirt identical to the one I hijacked from your closet." Funny; it feels like it was just yesterday. Two dumb teenagers ditching prom to go joyriding around town because their dates sucked, their clothes were too stiff, and the music was one step away from Kids Bop. 

"Looks good on you," He's humming, thumb swiping back and forth at the sensitive skin beneath your breast; not stepping that line yet, but debating. "'M sure the fella who gave it to ya was a lot more fun than the noname who got his knickers 'n a twist 'cause your dress didn't match his tie." 

You're sure you'd remember that guy's name if your attention wasn't already preoccupied with the feeling of endless muscle beneath your palms. Smoothing up Rhett's chest, stopping short of a tattoo and a scar. 

"You can touch me, cowboy," you say, and it's almost a little ironic that you're giving him permission to touch your breasts, considering the heavy cock languidly rolling against you, "I don't mind." 

Lightning flickers outside the window, just bright enough to cast a little more light on the way his eyebrows raise. "Are you sure?" 

All it takes is your shallow nod, and finally, his big, rough palm is gliding over your chest; he's not even done anything, and you're gasping. So distracted that you're caught off guard by the lips that catch yours, swallowing down your noises as a thumb swirls over a rapidly hardening nipple. 

On its own, one of your hands delves into those messy curls resting at his nape, tangling in them, pulling him down into you. His insistent mouth draws yours open, drowns you in remnants of strawberry chapstick and the vanilla candy he sucked on when he drove you here. Doesn't stop, even when your head is spinning. 

His tongue meets with yours; such a sudden appearance that you both startle as if you've been struck by a bolt of lightning for crossing such a boundary. 

You shouldn't be here; you shouldn't be beneath Rhett Abbott, shouldn't have your legs hitched over his hips, but kissing him is so natural. Easy.  Like you were always meant to be wind up here, your hands in childhood best friend's hair and his disappearing beneath the shirt you so shamelessly took from his closet all those years ago. Maybe there was a truth to those undying rumors that once followed you like a plague. 

There's a tug on the edge of your shirt, and it's a damn miracle you're able to tear your mouth off of his long enough to get it over your head. 

"Fuck," Rhett's eyes downright sparkle at the sight of you, "ain't you just beautiful." 

One kiss. Two. Three. Before he's nibbling at the junction of your jaw, working his way down to the soft spot beneath your ear, and all you're capable of is twisting your fingers in the waves of his hair. Silky soft, still damp from the rain. It's all you can do to keep yourself from floating out the window, feeling those wandering lips kiss their way down to your collarbones. Teeth nip at them, threaten to leave a mark, but never quite do. 

"This okay?" He murmurs, somewhere in between kissing, licking, his way to the valley between your breasts.

There's more to that statement because he's still talking, but you're already answering him, "More than okay."

Fuck, his mouth is boiling. Tongue like lava as it tentatively laps over your nipple, saliva threatening to burn right through you. It's all you can focus on, sinful noise rolling out of your throat long forgotten. Back and forth, he rolls that delicate skin between his teeth until he's retreating to shower his attention on the other.

"Rhett," gasping, tugging at his hair, "fuck, Rhett."

"You make my name sound like sin, sweetheart," his chuckle vibrates through your bones like the thunder that rattles this old building, "y' gettin' impatient on me?" 

Impatient? Fuck, you think you could die happy just with this. 

But he's taking your needy huff as a yes, and you can't complain, not when his hands are sliding down either side of your waist, kissing a trail down your belly. Only interrupted by the waistband of your pants, but those thick fingers are quick to curl beneath.

When you don't tell him no, he tugs. You've hardly got the strength to raise your hips off the mattress, too preoccupied with the wet spot that's long since formed at the forefront of his jeans. Don't get to see it for long because the moment your pants hit the floor, he's thumbing open his belt buckle, the old metal rattling as he tugs those tight jeans past his thighs and down his legs.

You don't recall him having so many scars littered across those long legs of his, pale white with age. One of those things you've missed out on, you suppose. 

As he settles back between your legs, running a palm up your thigh, there's a different air about him. Hesitation in his breath, bottom lip caught between pearly white teeth. Those eyes flicker up to you, almost...bashful. "'S this a bad time to admit I've never done this before?" 

Huh. 

"You mean to tell me that you look like that," you're reaching up to flick your thumb over his dusky pink nipple just to see him jump, "and nobody has tried to jump your bones yet?" 

"I...yeah, but...I only," he stammers, cheeks ablaze, can't meet your eye, "wanted...you."

The power flickers while you curl your hand around his cheek, feeling the roughness of his jaw under your palm as he leans into it. In the back of your head, you know that you'll have to talk about these feelings eventually; the ones he's so shamelessly brandished in your absence, the same ones you've avoided, fearing the heartache of unrequited love. 

But right now, all you're capable of is smiling dumbly as you lean up to kiss him. "I'll teach you," murmuring against his lips, "but you'll have to promise not to share those new skills with anyone else."

Rhett's sudden grin has your teeth clacking together. "I can work with that." He's got a pretty good start, already toying with the hem of your underwear by the time you lay back once more, obediently pulling them down your legs when you lift your hips for him. 

"C'n I...?" Deep blues trained on the sight between your legs, teeth worrying that poor, abused bottom lip.

You think he's about to start drooling.

At your encouraging nod, one of his hands falls onto your bare knee, parts your legs the slightest bit. Slow, as if you'll stop him if he moves too quickly; he leans down to press his lips to the inside of your knee. Kissing, down the delicate flesh of your thigh, unafraid to leave a shower of faint marks in his wake. Marks who have the potential to blossom into dark bruises come morning. 

Long hair cascades into his face the lower he goes; it's so easy to reach down and run your fingers through it, tangling as your hand comes to rest on the back of his head. Seems to be the only thing encouraging him to move on from your inner thigh. 

Hot breath fans out against your cunt, his mouthing hanging open, but doesn't quite have the nerve to move yet. "And you'll tell me if I do something wrong?"

For a moment, you think you catch a glimpse of that old, shy kid he used to be. The one who preoccupied himself with drawing circles into the dirt with his boot because he couldn't handle making eye contact with you. "Yeah."

This old hotel room is so quiet that you can hear the wet, barely-there sound of his mouth opening, pink tongue poking out. Then he's leaning down, licking a tentative, fat stripe up your cunt. Pauses right above your clit, and when you don't voice any complaints, licks back down. It's not much, but you're sucking in a deep breath anyway. 

He's trying. Eyebrows furrowed as he maps you out, lapping gingerly at your entrance, the only thing he seems to be generally familiar with. He's a little more confident as he nuzzles closer and slips that careful tongue inside of you. The tip of his nose brushes against your clit, such a soft contact that has you whining. 

Fuck, you can't tell if the quickening of your heart is from his mouth or if it's brought on by how he blinks up at you with those curious ocean blues. Knows he's doing something right because he's rising back up to where his nose was just bumping into you. 

"This shit's hard when you can't see what you're doing," he chuckles directly into you, doesn't seem to realize his lips are brushing against your clit as he speaks. 

The hand in his hair reaches down, taking hold of that scruffy jaw of his, "Right..." lifting him just a smidge higher; fuck, now he's found it, "here." 

Humming, Rhett's eyes flutter closed, pressing lazy, wet kisses to your newly-located clit. Takes it between his lips just to delicately roll it back and forth, sends a delicious shiver right up your spine. 

"Rhett," whining his name. Fighting the urge to squirm against the mattress. 

Maybe you made a mistake by helping him. Because now that he's found your clit, he's not giving it a moment's rest. Drawing intelligible shapes into it with his tongue, ventures away just long enough to make you think he's done, then returns with a surprising, sloppy vengeance. Downright drooling into you, drenching you so thoroughly that the fingers nudging at your entrance slide in with ease. 

Albeit muffled, the sound of your name meets your ringing ears, "fuck, you taste good." Soft noises rumbling out of him, eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks so prettily. 

It's as if that initial shyness has completely melted off of him, downright collapses against the bed. Free arm hooking around your thigh and grounding you doesn't let you squirm away from the two thick fingers sliding into you. Deliberate in the way they hook, massaging against your walls in search of something he knows is there.

Your hips twitch. 

"That it?" Lord, he really has no issue speaking into your pussy, doesn't he? Doesn't care that his deep voice sends a wave of tingles burning up into your chest. All he's focused on is laving his dumb, hot tongue over that swollen bud and teasing that sweet spot he's found. 

Abrupt hail beats against the window, wind screams as it whips around the building, so loud that your gasp is rendered inaudible. There could be a tornado outside your door, and all you can care about is prying your eyes open to look at Rhett fucking Abbott. Tongue hanging out, curls framing the sight of him buried between your legs. 

Heat grows in your lower belly. An invisible coil winding tighter and tighter. Fuck, you're, you're—

"Please," struggling for air, your voice strained, "stop." 

Everything goes black.

But your eyes are...open. 

"Fuckin' hate this town," Rhett mutters under his breath, the faintest whisper of his voice; your giggle is louder than his words. "Hold on, think I got a light."

The bed rises as he clambers off of it, taking with him his ever-so-warm presence. Leaves you to shift against the bed, blinking dumbly as your eyes adjust to the darkness. Oh, how you have not missed the joy of Wabang power outages. 

Something small hits the bed, rolls until it bumps against your naked hip. Feels like some sort of tube, not the flashlight you were expecting. 

"Did you get lost?" You croak, twisting your head to look in the corner next to the bed. Where the hell did he go?

"'m down here." It's hard to catch, but there's sudden movement down by your feet. That old belt buckle chimes as Rhett riffles through his jeans. The sound stops. And then. Light. 

"Forgot this dumb phone had a flashlight in it," he's yet to outgrow that sheepish grumble, light bouncing as he meanders to the bedside table. The phone doesn't create much light at all, hardly illuminates the room when he places it down, but it's enough. Even if it casts heavy shadows across Rhett's body, right down to...

"Good lord."

Rhett's attention snaps back to you. "What?"

But you...will be keeping your thoughts to yourself. Maybe the light is playing tricks on you. Because there is no way he's that well endowed. Thicker more than anything, cock leaning to the left, flushed red tip shiny and leaking against his hip. 

The lube resting against your hip is about to become your best friend here in a minute. 

"What?" He repeats, the corner of his lip rising as he settles back down on the bed, back in his place between your legs. God, his chin is dripping from you. Shimmering in the light. "'s there a monster lurkin' in here with us?"

"Yes," and you will not be elaborating. 

That halfway smile explodes into a dopey grin. Seems to know what you're referring to as he reaches for that neglected bottle of lube. 

It's not a trick of the light. The size of him never miraculously changes, even as that big hand of his strokes a generous amount of lube over himself. Explains why he drizzles more over his fingers, pushes them back into you once more with a sickly wet sound. 

"D'you need more, first?" He asks. The both of you fully aware that even though he's got three fingers in you now, pumping into you in slow, careful strokes, it may not be enough. 

It takes you a moment to decide, "I think I'm alright."

One of his hands falls down by your side, muscles rippling as he braces his weight on it, while the other...

The first kiss of his cockhead against your pussy has you gasping. Doesn't quite jump into pushing into you, instead pushing upward, spreading your lips around him as he rubs against you. 

Your mouth opens, ready to hurry him up, but he's already heard what you're going to say. 

"I know," he chirps, eyes rolling, "I know."

There's a newfound pressure between your legs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your delicate, dripping entrance. Pushing past that twitching ring of muscle, a pair of gasps dancing through the air, can't quite tell who made which sound.

Rhett's swearing under his breath, little incantations of filthy words that somehow don't measure up to how obscene it feels to stretch open around him. Lube audibly squishes as you struggle to relax and take that cock of his.

"Fuck," he's barely got the tip of himself inside of you, and he's already crumbling. Unable to sit upright anymore, forearms bracing his weight on either side of your head, muscles downright shivering. "'re you okay, doll?" His hips stalling.

"Keep moving, cowboy." You don't know when you started reaching up, but your arms are looping around Rhett's neck, drawing him down to meet your lips. Short. Messy. Can't close your mouth for more than a second at a time. 

It's hard to recall what gave you so much confidence to begin with because it's long since washed away by the drag of his blunt head against your walls. So thick that he rubs right past that sensitive bundle of nerves, you don't recognize the sound it draws out of your bitten lips. Thighs fluttering, clamping down on those strong hips of his, unable to so much as squirm. All you can do is whimper and take it. 

"C'n feel you flutterin' 'round me," he grunts against your lips, voice breathy. It's hard to even voluntarily clamp down around him, all to watch his head jolt backward, eyes falling closed. So, so sensitive, and he's only halfway in you. "Fuck, sweetie."

His head drops into your neck, breath warming the skin there, unintentionally gives you a picture-perfect view of his back. A myriad of smooth muscles flexing under the effort of keeping himself up as he pushes into you. So captivating that you hardly realize he's long since quit moving, hips flush with yours.

It's hard to breathe. As if you can't get enough air into your lungs. Nerves wound so tight you fear they'll snap if Rhett so much as twitches inside of you. 

"You okay?" His voice sounds so different, an octave lower, gravelly, unruly hair hanging low in his face as he lifts his head.

Involuntarily, you clench down around him. A little flex of muscle that has the both of you closing your eyes. "I think so." 

By the time he works up the courage to draw back, the arms bracketing your head are shaking. Maybe you'd have the nerve to tease him if that first shallow thrust into you didn't effectively erase every thought from your head. You can't tell if it's beginner's luck or an advantage of being so thick, but he massages against your sweet spot so nicely. 

Your hands are sliding down his pale back, nails biting into the muscle there, "just like that."

"Yeah?" You've forgotten how wonderful that cocky tone sounds on him. He's drawing back a little further this time, albeit slow on that second, careful push back into you. Like he'll break you if he moves too quickly.

Countless times you've pictured this exact scenario in your head; two of you tangled up in a hotel room bed, crossing the one line you were told not to. Steamy dreams depicting a man who fucks you up against the wall, unafraid to take what's his, and whistful daydreams of a cowboy who treats you like royalty as he makes a mess of you.

Never once did this manifest in your thoughts. 

His lips ghosting over your features, unable to stay in one place too long. Shamelessly fucks you slow on this thick cock of his, works his way up to deep strokes that make your nails bite into his skin, drowning in the wet drag that makes you feel every inch of him. Outside, the storm rages on, a chaos of noises that these old walls fail to muffle.

But it's still too quiet. 

Lightning flickers outside. Lights up the room as you reach out to pry his lip out from between his teeth. 

"I wanna hear you," you murmur, squeezing your legs around his hips. 

Rhett's eyes avert; can't look you in the eye, despite being so deep inside of you that you can feel his heavy balls pressing into your skin. "Shits embarrassin'."

"It's just me, dummy," as if to emphasize your words, you're leaning up to catch his lips in your own. Unwilling to let him stifle his noises any longer, swallowing down the reluctant whines you draw right out of him. 

Such a simple sound that has you clamping down around his cock, downright shivering around him. Only serves to illicit a breathy whimper of your name, starts a downward spiral that you don't think you'll ever come back from.

Your dominant hand is reaching down, fingertips finding your swollen, nearly forgotten clit. A particularly hard thrust has you breaking away from his lips, head hitting the mattress with a soft cry. That initial slowness is starting to fray at the seams, and you don't think you're going to survive it.

"Rhett," your voice is strained, barely there.

Deliberate, he repeats it. A wet noise tearing through the room. Once. Twice. Until he's finding a rhythm, strokes punctuated by his breathy gasps for air and pitchy noises. You don't know if it's the sound of him or the delicious way his fat cockhead kisses that little bundle of nerves, but a familiar heat is blooming in your belly regardless.

"'M sorry, I can't help myself," Rhett sputters, words nearly lost to the obscene squelch between your legs. Lube and your own wetness creating a downright mess. "Feel so fuckin' good 'round me."

Every thrust has your body rocking against the bed, almost can't keep your fingers on your tingling clit. It's a fight just to find your voice."Fuck you like you mean it, Rhett."

When you said that, you hadn't expected him to lean back onto his haunches, big palms splaying around your hips, as he fucks into you with purpose. This cheap mattress is starting to squeak, loud enough to be heard in the room next to yours, but you're so preoccupied with the sight between your legs that you can't be brought to care.

His cell phone light casts just enough light for you to catch sight of his thick cock disappearing between your legs. So wet that it's shiny, catching in the light and drawing your eyes back to it every time you go to look away. Powerless to stop him from fucking you how he wants, bullying those sensitive nerves until you're lightheaded, head rolling backward. 

"Close," Rhett warns. If you knew where your voice went, you'd be muttering much of the same. 

You find yourself fluttering around him again, heat tightening in your belly as he all but collapses on top of you. Face buried in your neck once more, deep, guttural sounds spilling into your skin as the rhythm of his hips begins to falter. Twitchy. Thrusts shortening. Rhett's name is tumbling off your lips. The fingers on your clit growing shaky. Legs clenching around him. 

"Rhett," supposed to be a warning. Something. Anything. 

But it's too late. Pointless. Without further warning, your body goes taut. Back arching, shaking, as that heat spreads and washes over you, cumming around Rhett's spasming cock with a strangled cry. Can feel his hips stall against yours, his whimpered cry muffled by your shoulder. 

Distantly, you're aware of how full you still are. Know that he hasn't pulled out in the slightest, cock twitching as his sticky, hot cum fills you. That's probably another line you weren't supposed to cross, but to hell with it. 

The darkness behind your eyelids suddenly isn't so dark anymore. And as you pry them open, you find yourself nearly blinded. 

Seems the power came back. 

Rhett's already beginning to peel his sweaty body away from yours, albeit at a snail's pace. Fixated on the obscene sight of where your bodies connect, so wet that one of you will likely need to change the sheets after this. The light of his phone was decent, but the bedside lamp properly illuminates him. Cheeks pink, lips so bitten you're surprised he hasn't drawn blood.

"Didn't mean to..." he pants, voice barely there, "didn't mean to cum inside you." Those and of his are moving your legs on their own, parting them, gives himself a better view as he slowly pulls out of you. "I think can see the appeal, though."

And as his eyes flick up to drink up your expression, corner of his lip rising, the thought of cleanup doesn't sound so bad.

You don't recall your bed ever being this warm. 

Or...lumpy, for that matter. 

This isn't your bed.

But even so, opening your eyes is a tremendous task that you take on as slowly as you can. Taking a deep breath, feeling the stiff sheets move with your body, nose catching a hint of coffee and something fresh, crisp. Identical to the Autumn breeze that filters through Wabang every year, used to nip at your skin as you waited on that slow school bus to pick you and Rhett up. 

Your eyes snap open. A switch flipped.

This isn't your bed. 

And this isn't your childhood bedroom, either. 

This hotel room is familiar, though. Tacky, from the wallpaper to the choice of decor. Bed frame built to appear as if it's been constructed by scrap pieces of chopped wood, an iron sign of a momma bear and her cubs hanging on the wall behind your head. So painfully trademark of Wabang that it hurts. 

There are flowers on the bedside table. Familiar red tulips and vivid yellow sunflowers precariously placed in a thin, plastic cup. A second cup sits on top of the first, upside down, the bottom crudely cut out for the stems to fit through it. A makeshift support. You recognize that craftmanship. As if your thoughts have manifested his appearance, the bathroom door squeals open. 

There he is. 

Severely lacking a shirt, in nothing but his old, sun-bleached jeans, the longer ends of his hair tied back into a small ponytail. His left-hand nurses a cup of coffee, and the right, carefully supported by an off-white brace. That wrist never really did heal the same, another one of those free rodeo trophies. 

"Mornin, sleepy head," he chirps, and the roughness in his voice suggests he hasn't been up for long, "thought you'd never wake up."

"My dignity can't take dying in a tacky hotel room," you don't recognize your voice. Strangely raw. 

Sitting up requires some effort. Body still half-asleep, limbs downright useless as you drag yourself up from the mattress to take a better look around the room. Are those...your clothes on the floor?

Images flash through your head. Blurry, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Memories flood back into the forefront of your mind like a bad dream. What did you do? Why did you do it? There's absolutely no going back from this—

The bed dips as Rhett settles onto the edge of the mattress. And though you're searching for a hint, a suggestion, of regret, you fail to find it. He's all meek smiles and red ears as he leans over to place his cup on the table. Flashing a series of marks on his back, pale pink in color. 

His good hand comes down to squeeze your knee through the comforter, just like it always does. "About last night..."

You don't regret it. And by the looks of it, neither does he. Has no problem locking eyes with you; something unknown burning behind those deep blue eyes as teeth sink into his thin bottom lip. Lips you would give both your kidneys just to kiss one more time. As you drag your attention away from his mouth, your eyes meet once more. 

The corner of his lip draws upward. 

You don't know who moves first. All you know is that you're surging forward, he's catching your needy mouth in his, and you're falling back into the sheets as one. Hands exploring, pawing at what little clothing dares get between you, hearts aching for more, more, more.

Words can wait a little longer. 

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch8

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read the story from the beginning here. [this won’t make sense otherwise.]

[ao3 version]

apologies, the ao3 folks saw this first and i forgot to post it here 😔

Franklyn’s death is really weighing on you, even as the days continue to pass. Jack all but forces you out of the building, demanding that you take a few days off before returning. Normally, you’d jump at the chance for some free time. However, the last thing you need right now is more time to think. After an unnecessarily heated argument with Jack, he agrees to let you hold guest lectures. Unfortunately, that’s the extent of your current responsibilities. Instead of studying up on murder cases and investigating in the field, you’re confined to the classroom. It’s hard to hide your frustration and you find yourself struggling not to snap at inquiring students.

The newest class of FBI recruits is talented—that’s a given. However, they’re also far too confident in their abilities, which ends up being a hindrance. Confidence and self-assuredness can only take a person so far. When you go over the Garret Jacob Hobbs case with your class, you’re unsurprised to find that no one can produce an answer for how you narrowed in on him as a suspect. You end up having to dismiss the class early—both because of your increasing irritation and the pounding headache you’re beginning to develop. Unfortunately, your annoyed mood doesn’t deter everyone. Somehow, even after you’ve dismissed class and returned to your desk, a few students remain behind and ask you questions. You manage to get through those painfully awkward conversations and, after several minutes, you’re finally alone.

You put a hand on your temple and take a deep breath. The fluorescent lighting in the classroom is always bright, but now, it feels as if it’s burning into your eyes. You close your eyes for a blissful moment, allowing yourself to be submerged in the peaceful darkness. The clock in the far corner of the room is ticking rhythmically, the only sound to accompany the comfortable silence.

There’s a hand on your shoulder. You flinch awake and squint up at your newfound company, only to see Hannibal staring down at you with an indiscernible expression. Pain shoots through your ribs and you realize that the desk is jabbing into your skin. You slowly separate yourself from the desk, despite the compelling urge to close your eyes again.

“Good morning,” Hannibal remarks. You’ve grown to recognize that slight quirk of his lips as his attempt at concealing amusement. “It appears you didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“What gave it away?” You answer wryly, your voice a bit raspy from your brief, unplanned nap. The lights above are burning into your vision again and it takes several moments for your eyes to adjust to the atmosphere. You take a deep breath and push your slightly-crumpled papers to the side. You can feel Hannibal scrutinizing the materials on your desk. It takes you a few moments to look up at him and realize that he isn’t paying any attention to the rather cluttered nature of your desk—it seems you were just imagining his judgment. You’re still grappling with the strange juxtaposition of growing closer to Hannibal, yet feeling as if you don’t understand him any better than before.

“Nightmares?” He asks.

You nod. “Only the usual blood and gore… murder and mayhem.” You don’t have the courage to expand on your nightmares or admit that you wake up every hour drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. You don’t mention how you have to mechanically walk to the sink and wash your hands, convinced that there’s blood spattered across your skin and staining your hands. You wipe a hand over your face and try to regain some semblance of composure. “Anyways, what are you doing here?” Hannibal rarely visits you at work—and right in your classroom, no less.

“Jack wants to speak with you,” Hannibal answers. “I was told to accompany you.” You idly wonder how well Hannibal took to being told what to do. Pushing the thought aside, you get to your feet and fall in step next to Hannibal as the two of you walk out of the classroom and towards Jack’s office.

“I spotted your name in a TattleCrime article.” Out of all the statements he could’ve used to break the silence between you, that one was an… interesting choice. You turn your head to the side and blink at him. Unsurprisingly, you can’t quite picture Hannibal Lecter sitting down and fervently reading an amateurish gossip tabloid. Perhaps you misjudged him.

“You read TattleCrime?” You ask, trying your best to keep the surprise from your voice. You shove your hands in your pockets and stare straight ahead, knowing you don’t have the energy to perform the socially-mandated eye contact. “You don’t seem the type.”

“It was an… intriguing read,” Hannibal admits. His shoes make slight pattering sounds as they click against the grey resin flooring. A few of your colleagues and coworkers stare as the two of you walk by. It seems that Hannibal is bound to draw attention wherever he goes. You almost feel like a shadow at his side, perpetually cursed to slip under the radar. Well, to others, that would be a curse; to you, it feels like a strange sort of blessing. No one pays you any attention as you walk down the halls of the bureau.

“The piece was rather timid for Freddie Lounds,” you acquiesce casually. The man at your side seems mystified by your comment and, for a few moments, the air falls to silence. You suppose the differences between Hannibal and you are rather pronounced in that regard. You can’t imagine Hannibal standing idly by amidst defamation. 

“She’s written about you before?” Hannibal eventually inquires.

“Many times,” you say with a grin. Hannibal doesn’t smile back. You suddenly feel the need to elaborate. “I don’t care. It’s not like I have the best reputation to begin with.” The rest of your walk to Jack’s office is filled with a tense silence. You’re not quite sure why Hannibal is taking issue with what you said, so you instead give in and let your thoughts wander to other matters.

A minute later, the two of you are standing across from Jack in his office. Jack starts going on a tangent about the Chesapeake Ripper—which you only partially listen to—before turning to ask Hannibal a few questions. You’re a bit embarrassed to admit that you zone out through the majority of their conversation, and it isn’t until the two of them are staring at you that you realize your misstep.

“Yes?” You ask, turning to look at Jack expectantly. The man’s eyebrows are furrowed and he looks mildly irritated at the thought of your distraction. He must realize that you had no intention of genuinely zoning out, because the exasperation quickly fades from his expression.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” You frown at him with furrowed brows. That is a rather unusual question for Jack to ask. In your working history with the man, you’ve never once heard him inquire about someone else’s well being in such a straightforward and brusque manner.

“You’ve been quiet,” Jack frowns, looking at you expectantly. “Any thoughts on the investigation? I’d like to hear what you have to say before sending you to Baltimore.” Jack and Hannibal are both looking at you now. You pinch the bridge of your nose and stare down at the floor. Your conflicting feelings must show in your expression, because Jack continues. “Your honest thoughts.” There is significant emphasis placed on the modifier in that sentence. The clock on the wall behind Jack ticks mockingly. Time seems to drag on in this frozen moment. You take a minute to review what you’ve heard so far. 

“I don’t think Abel Gideon is the Ripper,” You finally answer, knowing damn well that the Chesapeake Ripper you’re looking for is standing right across from you. “But it certainly doesn’t hurt to investigate all potential options.”

“Agreed,” Hannibal voices. You’re briefly struck with an intense, inexplicable irritation. Jack glances between the two of you and somehow seems to notice your growing anger. He raises his eyebrows at you. You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. When you’re overstimulated, it’s easy to get angry at other people for simply, well, existing. It’s hard not to get frustrated when you don't have as much control over the situation as you’d like. The reminder of another person’s mere presence—in this case, Hannibal’s—is enough to send you over the edge.

“I’d like to go alone,” you blurt out, quickly glancing at Hannibal before looking at Jack once more. Your boss seems to understand what you’re trying to say and he takes a deep breath.

“Hannibal,” Jack says diplomatically. “Do you mind if we have a private conversation?” Jack asks, his gaze still locked on you even as he speaks to Hannibal. The psychiatrist nods politely and leaves the room. The moment he leaves, you feel all the tension slowly seep from your shoulders. The occurrence doesn’t go unnoticed by Jack, whose brows furrow for a second.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Agent?” Jack then asks scrupulously. You appreciate that he’s asking, but the hesitant manner in which he does so makes you feel as if you’re a fragile tea cup. Contrary to other people’s beliefs, you’re more than capable of handling yourself. You had done so for years without Hannibal’s assistance and you can continue to do so in his absence.

“I’ll be fine,” you answer quickly and determinedly. You clench your fists at your sides.

“Is there any reason why you requested to go alone?”

“I’m just burned out,” you respond honestly. As much as you enjoy Hannibal’s presence, you feel that you need time alone. You constantly have to monitor everything you do or say in front of the psychiatrist. That necessitated self-awareness, coupled with any preexisting environmental stimuli, can make you feel overwhelmed rather quickly. You don’t utter any of these thoughts aloud, but Jack seems to comprehend the underlying sentiment.

“Ah,” your boss says with an understanding nod. He folds his hands on his desk and levels you with an inquisitive gaze. Admittedly, it took you years to get used to Jack’s demanding stares. The power dynamics in your professional relationship made you feel as if you had to make eye contact with him in order to show proper respect. Thankfully, you eventually learned that the very notion was false. “Very well. You can go on the mission alone.”

“Thanks, Jack,” you smile slightly, feeling appreciative of your boss and his understanding. Jack Crawford can be rather stringent and assertive at times, but it’s during moments like these when you remember that he cares about your comfort in the workplace.

“And, Agent?” Jack asks. You raise a brow. “Be careful out there.” He continues. You appreciate the warning, but it sounds a bit ominous. Does Jack expect something to happen? You shake off the thought.

“Yes, sir,” You say before turning around, hitherto missing the way Jack’s eyebrows furrow at the honorific. You settle for leaving his office. Hannibal is waiting outside, but you walk past him and make your way back to your office alone.

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself standing before the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. As you look up at the building, the only thing you can feel is a profound sensation of dread. The hospital looms over you ominously, its dreary beige exterior making you feel rather uncomfortable. With each step you take, your resolve weakens. Maybe you should’ve had someone accompany you after all. You shake your head and grip the unnecessarily tall door, before stepping inside. The entrance hall is rather luxurious, despite your knowledge that the building is a government-funded prison. It takes you a moment to locate a sign and find Frederick Chilton’s office. Minutes later, you’re standing in front of an ornate wooden door that rests ajar, allowing you to see into the office. The man sitting at the desk looks up and gestures for you to come in.

“Hello, Dr. Chilton,” You decide to say, before moving to take a seat at the armchair across from his desk. The man’s attention is evidently pulled away from his papers, as he levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. You’re about to introduce yourself before understanding passes over his face and he seems to recognize you.

“The killer in the flesh,” Chilton remarks in amusement, leaning back in his chair and crossing his leg over his knee. You’re briefly struck with a resemblance to Hannibal, before you quickly do away with the thought.  Chilton possesses none of the effortless grace that Hannibal does. In fact, Frederick Chilton’s movements and posture just make him seem like he’s peacocking.

“You’ve been reading too much TattleCrime, Dr. Chilton,” you remember to say, making sure to plaster a smile on your face to lighten the blow. Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t immediately recoil or usher you out of the office.

Instead, Chilton laughs. You curse internally. It seems that your prickly responses have only increased his interest. “Maybe so,” he acquiesces, leveling you with a hungry gaze. You instinctively lean back in your chair. “Care for an hour-long consultation? Entirely free of charge, of course.”

“No thanks.” You respond quickly.

“Most people would jump at the chance to speak with me for an hour,” Chilton remarks casually. At least, you suspect that he wants to sound casual. Instead, you fear he just sounds pompous and arrogant. You have to grip at the fabric of your jacket to keep yourself from saying something you may regret.

“I’m not most people, as I’m sure you’ve realized,” you snap with a little too much venom, before taking a deep breath. Lashing out at him won’t get you any closer to a conversation with Gideon. “Anyway. I’m here to speak to Abel Gideon.” You look at Chilton expectantly. There’s an awkward silence that descends across the space, before the man sighs. He looks you up and down—in a manner that makes you profoundly uncomfortable—before shaking his head.

“Unfortunately, you lack the proper paperwork,” Dr. Chilton smiles sadly. You aren’t fooled—it’s clear that he doesn’t truly care about the inconvenience this will cause you. “I’ll cut you a deal, though. You can speak with him after our consultation appointment.” Is the idea of a consultation with you really so fascinating to him? Despite his desperation, you don’t intend to entertain the thought for even a moment. You’ve met many of Chilton’s type—mental health “professionals” that treat their clients as test subjects. You have no interest in becoming a case study.  

“Thank you for the generous offer, Dr. Chilton,” you say stiffly. “But I’ll have to decline; I’ll be back with that paperwork.” You don’t give him the chance to respond, instead rising from your seat and walking out of the office. You can feel the man’s gaze burning into your skin as you leave. It’s a different feeling than the one you get when Hannibal’s looking; that heated gaze of Chilton’s holds nothing but malice for you and hunger for your destruction. You can’t get out of the building fast enough.

After that catastrophe, you return to the institute and report your findings to Jack, who immediately grows irritated at the thought of you being turned away at the door. You can’t help but agree with him—you had really hoped to get everything finished with one visit. Honestly, the last thing you want to do is go to the hospital again. Unfortunately, it seems you don’t have a choice in the matter. Jack mentions that the paperwork should be ready within a few days and you’re effectively dismissed.

“Dr. Chilton has taken a rather unprofessional interest in me,” you recount, crossing one leg over the other in your designated chair. You’re back at Hannibal’s office for your weekly appointment. You’re still waiting on that paperwork from Jack, but you know it’ll be ready soon. In the meantime, you’re content to puzzle out just why Frederick Chilton seemed so interested in you. With that thought in mind, you look up at Hannibal.

The psychiatrist is completely frozen. It would be humorous, if not for the aghast expression on his face. Well, Hannibal’s expression is far from aghast—in fact, it’s almost entirely blank— but you like to think that you’ve learned to discern his true emotions.

“Are you alright?” You can’t help but ask.

“Of course,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. You avert your eyes and instead focus on the fire crackling in the fireplace. When you look at Hannibal's desk, you're surprised to find that the sketchbook from before is nowhere in sight. Perhaps he meant to hide it last time. Hannibal’s voice draws you away from your pseudo-inspection of his office. “I was simply taken aback by your choice of words.”

“What?” You frown. “Oh, unprofessional interest? I was referring to Chilton’s insistence on having an hour-long consultation appointment with me. I think he even offered to do it for free.” You shake your head in disbelief.

“You seem to be rather popular amongst psychiatrists and mental health professionals,” Hannibal remarks moments later, after he’s evidently recovered from his prior inexplicable shock.

“Can’t possibly imagine why,” you remark sardonically, finally understanding why Chilton was so interested in you. “I’m living, breathing proof of the failure of social conventions. Who wouldn’t be interested in all this insanity?” You laugh wryly.

“You’re not insane,” Hannibal maintains with furrowed brows.

“I appreciate that, Dr. Lecter,” you answer with a sincere nod. “But if that were the case, then I fear I’d put you out of business.”

Hannibal’s eyes widen, before a slightly amused smile falls onto his face. He clasps his hands and leans forward. You sense the conversation is about to take a turn. “May I accompany you on your next visit to Baltimore?” Hannibal asks politely.

“Sure,” you acquiesce. Secretly, you feel a little guilty for going alone the first time. However, you weren’t hired to be Hannibal’s partner for investigations. For a while there, you felt as if Jack was sending Hannibal with you to supervise you. It seems that isn’t the case, though—at least, that’s what you concluded after your conversation with Jack earlier in the week. “I can’t imagine it will be much fun for you, though.” You admit. The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane isn’t the most entertaining place on the planet. You can’t quite imagine Hannibal—well-dressed, scholarly Hannibal—standing in those run-down halls. “I disagree.” Hannibal responds, wielding a wicked smirk. You feel a grin growing on your own face in response to his amenability. Hannibal will almost be acting as your security guard, in a twisted way. The thought amuses you far more than it should—so much so that Hannibal levels you with an inquiring gaze. You simply shake your head in response.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, effectively distracting you from the conversation at hand. You frown and ignore the notification, but your phone buzzes again a few moments later and you’re forced to pull it out. Your phone is currently both your work phone and personal phone, although you scarcely use it for personal matters. You get the feeling these sudden notifications are from Jack. Sure enough, when you open the encrypted messaging platform that the BAU uses, you have a few messages from Jack.

Jack Crawford: Just spoke with Alana concerning Gideon.

Jack Crawford: She was his psychiatrist for a while, and maintains that she has information you may need for your meeting with him.

Jack Crawford: I arranged a meeting for the two of you tomorrow morning.

You inhale sharply, before typing out a mediocre response and sending it. You place your phone back in your pocket and take a deep breath, feeling the need to keep yourself calm. You’ve been avoiding Alana ever since the incident… You’d rather not see her again. Unfortunately, however, it doesn’t appear like you have much of a choice. Your growing despair must show on your face, because Hannibal asks you about the nature of the messages.

“I have a meeting with Alana tomorrow morning,” you say, rubbing your hands over your face for a moment. You resist the compelling urge to altogether bury your head in your hands. What should you do? You have to attend the meeting, obviously—Jack asked you to attend and you could use more information on Gideon. However, you’re pretty uncomfortable with the idea of going alone. Suddenly, you think of a solution. “I’m normally not the one to ask, but…” You break off, feeling a bit embarrassed as you stare at Hannibal. However, the thought of Alana making any more romantic advances significantly trumps any of your current apprehension. “Will you go with me?”

“Of course,” Hannibal answers without hesitation. You feel the tension slowly leave your body. Suddenly, the world around you doesn’t look nearly as grim and gloomy. You focus on taking a few deep breaths.

“Thank you so much,” you murmur in relief. “...I’m hoping nothing will happen.” Hannibal frowns for a moment, before understanding passes over his face and his expression turns grave. He looks at you expectantly. His gaze is rather demanding—something you haven’t seen him display just yet—and you decide to meet his eyes. There is nothing but honesty in the lines of his face, the pull to his shoulders.  

“Rest assured, I will not let anything of that nature occur,” Hannibal states with absolute certainty. Something about the determination in his voice and the knowing look on his face makes you feel safe. Moments like these make it even harder for you to connect him to the Chesapeake Ripper. There is no grotesque brutality in the gentlemanly way in which he escorts you out of his office after the appointment; there is no hint of ferocious violence in the softly spoken farewell he leaves you with. When you walk out to the car, the night is blanketed with twinkling stars and a full moon. There is beauty in the veiled darkness. You can’t help but think of Hannibal in the same way.

next chapter

[livelaughlovesubs]

How pitiful

Part two of the other fic I wrote (repost)

Part one

Reader x Raphael

Warning: it’s sfw, but has some dark themes/ content

After a while, the corrosive smell started to bother you. Your hands were dyed completely red now. They were sticky and had feathers stuck to them, the blood of the male dried too. For a moment, it felt like you had a hangover. The things you did in the last few hours and the emotions you felt were slowly fading away, leaving nothing but desire behind. All you remembered was a vivid dream akin experience, one where you got to finally feel alive after falling down this deep abyss. The sudden change in environment seems to have influenced you more than you imagined. How you yearned for the screams and cries of him. It has only been a few minutes, yet that feeling, the rush of adrenaline started to disappear like a childhood memory. You didn’t want to forget it, you wanted to keep it sealed within you forever.

Time was passing by like usual, yet for some reason you didn’t seem responsive, as if you weren’t really there. As if you were floating in space, every nerve in your body turned off and your senses dulled. You couldn’t really acknowledge your surroundings, simply at the wall, contemplating and thinking about whatever you did remember. Everything that happened was being replayed in your head like a show, sadly the graphic setting was low and everything was a blur. Except for those crimson eyes of him.

The different expressions his eyes bore were mesmerising, enough to leave its imprint on you. How the once fierce look he owned turned into one of uncertainties, of doubt and fear. Your room looked like the aftermath of a battle. Luckily for you it was at a hotel, so you wouldn’t need to clean it. This wasn’t earth, it wouldn’t matter if the owner sees all of this, the evident of your action, the proof of your true desires. You felt empty again, like the fulfilment you felt before was ran out. The hand on the back of his head moved to his cheeks, moving his face backwards. He has been resting his chin in the crook of your neck the entire time without making a single sound, slowly it got suspicious.

Raphael was breathing very weakly and shallow, apparently he also got a nosebleed. “Hey, wake up.” You muttered, rubbing his cheeks gently. His pale face had blood stains, but his eyes were still closed. Right now he looked very vulnerable, so helpless as if he was someone that needed protection. At the same time he also appeared like an innocent child in your eyes, one that’s been depraved of love. How pitiful he is, being cast aside by his creator and now stuck in the claws of a monster. Since you wore him out a lot, you let him sleep. It didn’t matter if you knew nothing about the anatomy of an angel, if one is exhausted they need to take a break. You laid him down onto the humid mattress before you got up to go to the bathroom.

Now that you cleaned yourself up and got a towel, you started to clean the still asleep male too, wiping the excessive body fluids of him away. It was a little disturbing considering you were the cause of all of this, but you could manage. When you saw the two holes on his belly, where his piercings have been, you gaged a little. The scene turned out to be a bit more grotesque than you remembered. Speaking of memories, it was strange how you couldn’t recall what happened very clearly. After all, it was just happened, as if you weren’t thinking clearly when you did all that. You didn’t regret it though, because if there’s one thing you remembered, then it’s that you loved every second of it. Every action to the words you spoke, you knew you enjoyed yourself a lot. Enough to make you want to go for a second round.

Eventually you finished wiping him, sitting down next to Raphael again. Still so quiet, this wasn’t normal. Your first thought was that he fell asleep, though upon further inspection his face was starting to get pale. Soon you realised that he passed out and sighed, “…not good.” It looked like he lost his consciousness, probably due to the excessive amount of blood he lost. One glance was all you needed to know your hypothesis was right. In the end, you did rip his wings off, not to mention how the bed was now akin to the red carpet. A stressed out groan left you, why were thing always so difficult. Aftercare is great and all, but what should you do if he needs immediate treatment? It’s not like you can carry him all the way to paradise lost. Will today be the day you kill someone for the first time?

Suddenly the door to your hotel room crashed down, and a group of devils barged in. These devils, they really know no manners. Though you were also glad to some degree, because you saw Satan, sitri, and Marbas. “Y/n!” The devil with the white hair ran towards you, but he stopped after taking three steps. Sitri, who was pushing Marbas, followed his king and stopped right next to him. “Solomon, what happened?” That devil asked, his voice was filled with confusion. They must be shocked to see the state the room is in, not to mention Raphael. “I’ll tell you later. Marbas, can you help this guy here? He’s lost a lot of blood.” You looked calm, terrifyingly so, no panic could be spotted in your voice nor did you have a fast heartbeat. “I’ll see what I can do.” Marbas answered after a bit and got out of his binds. When he got close enough to recognise who that was, he hesitated. He still started treating him afterwards, despite the identity of the patient.

“Satan, why are you here?” In all honesty, you didn’t care, and you had a vague idea how they knew your location, but you didn’t want to answer their questions. You weren’t in the mood to right now. “When you disappeared so suddenly, everyone got worried. Then sitri found you.” Nothing you couldn’t guess yourself. “And? Why’s Marbas here?” This time, the devil with the blue hair spoke up, “I heard two heartbeats, and I recognised that the other one was an angel. That’s why.” So they thought you got beaten up or injured, huh, if that’s the case they are pretty late for a rescue operation. “What about you tell us your side of the story now?” It seems like you won’t be able to get out of this one. You noticed that he gritted his teeth again, one look was enough to tell he wasn’t happy. “Well, you see…” “y/n, your majesty Satan and sitri. I’m done, I stopped the bleeding and treated his injuries. Though this won’t be enough, we’ll need to bring him to paradise lost.” In the nick of time Marbas reported his observations and actions, in contrary to what you predicted, you were able to dodge the questions again.

“Why do we need to go all the way there, won’t the hospital in Gehenna suffice?” Satan scoffed, he was getting more furious by the second. First your disappearance, now all the hassle for an enemy. “Because… I believe only his majesty lucifer and gamigin knows how to properly treat him.” Just as Satan was about to inquire about the former seraphim’s injuries, you barged in, “All right, we don’t have much time, no? Shouldn’t we be on the way?” Everything was taking too long, so you interrupted their little small talk and rushed them. In addition, you also walked over to the bed, picking up the white jacket that belonged to his outfit and wrapped him in it. Sitri seems to have finally caught on and helped you carrying him. This was going to be a long night. It was so much hassle just to keep someone alive, maybe you should let him die instead? Was it because of your hardened personality that you weren’t sorry for him, that you didn’t feel any remorse?

It’s been three weeks since Raphael got taken in at the hospital of paradise lost. Your life hasn’t changed much, in fact it reversed back to how it was before your second meeting with him. Today, while you were visiting him, the sleeping beauty finally opened his eyes. It did caught you off guard, so you started to call for the doctor. “You’re [—]. Ah, lucifer, where’s [——]?” His view was blurry, it was like watching black paint spread on a clean paper. Furthermore his head was hurting a lot, as if he had been on a carousel for too long. It was to the point he couldn’t even register your voice properly. “…where…?” The man uttered, it was more like a groan of pain than words. He tried to cover his eyes with his hand due to how bright it was, that’s when he noticed an IV stuck to his arm. “You [—] hospital, if you [——] noticed.” It was still difficult to understand you, but it got better the more he tried. “…is that you, y/n?” Raphael asked and his hand reached out to you, his body acted before he could think about it. You held his hand and intertwined your fingers, then you squeezed his hand. “Yes.” He flinched at that, a little surprised at this sudden gentleness coming from you. This wasn’t how you were like last time, but he didn’t hate it.

A few minutes later lucifer also came into the room, the patient froze upon seeing his former colleague, he also hold your hand more firmly. You didn’t need two brain cells to know they had something to say to each other, so you got up to leave the room. When you stopped holding his hand, he tensed up again, in the end he eventually let go. Were you overthinking it or was he acting differently than before? Nonetheless, you went out to get some food for him. With a bit of discussing and arguing, you got Satan to give you permission to keep him. He did almost die because of you, with that being said you also thought he’d be more wary of you. In the end, you were proven wrong. For the time being you were going to be nice to him, so that he will want to stay, it’d be no good if he runs away. It’s been three weeks now, three weeks of pure boredom. After all that torturous wait, you finally felt an ounce of excitement.

When you got back to his resting place with a bag of to go food, you met lucifer who was just coming out of the room. They must have had a very long talk, was what you thought. You weren’t really curious about what they talked about though, which is why you asked him instead, “can he get out today? He looks healthy enough.” To your surprise the male disagreed, explaining, “he lost his wings, he’ll need physiotherapy.” The confusion was written all over your face like the front cover of a magazine, you said with an irritated tone, “you mean he can’t walk?” “Not good at best.” You should trust the words of a doctor, especially him who has more experience than you, yet you still couldn’t wrap your head around it. “But, it’s his wings he lost. He always walked without showing them.” Lucifer was kingly enough to explain it to you, how much patience he must have, “not showing them and not having them are two different things. He’s been used to having wings it for as long as he lived, this sudden change will cause his body to lose balance, because…” he has too much patience for sure, normally you though he was a quiet guy, though it looks like he can talk a lot if it’s his field. Great, now you had to listen to him lecture you about angel anatomy.

A while later buer called for lucifer, he had something to take care of and left you alone. You on the other hand was standing in front of the patient room now, still holding the now cold bag. So he has to stay here for a month, and then continuously visit it to get better. Is this was you want? Slowly your thoughts were getting too complicated, which is why you stepped inside. “You are back.” You saw raphael turn his head towards you. How pitiful he looked, all bedridden like this. “Yea, are you hungry?” That was a very unnecessary question, really, you didn’t know why you just wasted your breath with that one. Nevertheless you got closer and sat down on the chair next to him, then opened the bag and let him look inside. Maybe you should have used the microwave first, if there was one that is. “It’s all for you.” You added, in case he misunderstands anything. His hand reached out to your direction, though instead of the food he grabbed your hand. “…” “…?” This was bizarre to say the least, he didn’t make any sense. Both of you stayed silent, a few minutes felt like days. Why did he do that? You wondered, but before you could ask he let go of your hand again and reached inside the bag. “Thanks.” The male whispered, then bit into his food.

It was awkward, none of you dared to say something about the new promises between you two. The situation already escalated to the point where you couldn’t go back, guess you had to keep your word then. At some point, after he finished his meal, he just stared at his hands clenching the blankets. It looked like he was deep in thoughts, maybe even regretting ever meeting you. Was what happened only a mistake done in the heat of the moment? Were you going to tell him, ‘sorry, I didn’t mean to’ and then leave? After taking everything from him? That’s what he was contemplating. He can’t return to heaven without his wings, not that he exactly wants to go back, but if hell doesn’t have a place for him where can he go to? Your expression was neutral, too calm even, he couldn’t read you.

It was frustrating, you didn’t get any backlash from it, yet his life had turned upside down. Out of nowhere he reached out to you again and grabbed you by your collar, “You have to take responsibility, you can’t leave me now.” The male threatened you, getting really close to your face. Despite his deep voice, you saw the fear in his eyes, like a stormy night filled with thunder. He moved up too fast, as well as using too much strength, causing him to lose balance and fall over, crashing into your arms with his upper body. This wasn’t anything too dangerous, since you managed to catch him and prevent the fall of you two. It still hurt a little, because his fingers were gripping your shoulders really tight.

“Be careful now.” You said, pulling him in to hug him tightly, watching him tremble a little. This is weird, it wasn’t a natural reaction, so you questioned, “What’s wrong?” “I can’t…” “What?” He was acting strange, this was starting to make you feel uneasy too. Suddenly you hugged you back, holding onto you while saying, “You can’t leave me, don’t leave, never again. You made me like this, you have to take responsibility. Please, please, don’t abandon me too.” His eyes were unfocused, hieratic and wild, he panted while uttering those words like a prayer. The aspect that confused you the most was his expression, an unsettling, forced smile as he clung to you, repeating those phrases like a madman, “don’t leave, I can’t afford it now, don’t leave me.”

You stroked his hair and tried to reassure him, his voice was shaking the entire time. Has he finally gone crazy now? “as long as you behave good, I won’t leave. I’d never leave. I’m right here, Raphael, I’m right here.” It doesn’t matter if he is delusional or not, it’s easier this way. What a twisted path fate has planned out for him, it seems like no matter which turn he takes, he’ll always end up miserable. Even so he just adores when you hold him, when you make his life worth living by planting the seed of love within him. Just a few words that doesn’t even need to be true are enough to wrap him around your finger. You were no good for him, this much was clear from the beginning. Like the deadliest drug, giving him the illusion of temporal happiness, all while slowly rotting him from the inside. He can’t get out of this, he doesn’t want to get out, as long as you are alive he’ll keep using this drug, begging you for more. You can’t leave now, and he’ll make sure it stays like this forever.

Soon your visiting time was over, it was the break of dawn and you had to go home. You wanted to leave and already got up from your seat, he then asked, “where are you going?” “I’m going home, you have to stay here for a while.” Something was amiss again, the atmosphere got heavier. His eyes widened and you saw him getting uncomfortable, the change was so drastically like a light switch. “Take me with you,” Raphael demanded. “What?” This surprised you now. “I want to go with you.” He repeated his words once again, after hearing it for the second time you were still bewildered.

You’d like to say you saw determination in his eyes, but you only saw suspicion and anxiety. “If you want to, but lucifer said…” You abruptly stopped mid sentence, before adding, “you know what, let’s just leave together.” Then you gave him a hand. He tried to stand up, one step after another and hold your hand firmly. Out of nowhere he fell forwards, crashing into you again. Just like last time you managed to grab him and prevent the fall. “Ugh.” The boy yelped a little, and with your help, he managed to get back on his feet. Why was his balance so off, you thought, before you remembered the words of lucifer. To think losing his wing would have such an impact on him, you didn’t imagine it’d be this bad.

But standing alone wasn’t enough. You took a few steps back, and waited for him to follow you. When he did, he instantly fell over again. This time you weren’t there to catch him, and he crashed onto the floor. “Ah..” it wasn’t really painful, considering what he went through, but it scared him. He couldn’t walk like before anymore and flying was definitely out of the question. Even if he knew it will get better, this shock still had a physiological effect on him. Was this truly his fate, the path his lord has chosen for him? Will he find the affection he never got once he reached the end of this? He stared back to his legs, cursing his pathetic state under his breath, why was everything so hard?

You on the other hand was mesmerised, those vulnerable and desperate actions of his were making forgotten emotions float up to the surface again. These were the feelings you missed for three weeks, life’s been so boring without him like the main component was missing. The way he looked so crude was making your heart pound. You wanted him, so bad it hurt. When he looked up to you, he met your gaze, the face you made was indescribable. Was it joy, want, or anger? It made him anxious. An unfamiliar place without anyone he can trust. He killed may devils, who knows when one of them would attack him? His helplessness was causing him to depend on you more and more. “Get up, here.” Once again you reached your hand out to him, and pulled him up. With you here to help him keep balance, he was able to move more precisely.

The two of you didn’t do anything dramatic, simply walking out of the hospital hand in hand. Even if you walked pass other devils, they didn’t dare to say anything. You were the descendant of Solomon, and he was the infamous red angel. Was. Sometimes he would trip a little and lean forward, but you always managed to keep him on his feet. It felt like escorting someone who was drunk. Soon you two got out of the hospital and you called for a taxi, then you opened the door and pushed him inside. Raphael held your hand the entire time, unwilling to let go even for a moment. And with that, you two were making your way back to Gehenna.

Now you’ve done it, you really broke out of the hospital. It was way less dramatic than you thought, even so it left a bad taste in your mouth. You could still turn back and act like all of this never happened, should you? Then you looked over to the man sitting next to you in the car, he was looking out of the window, observing hell. “How do you feel, Raphael? You only woke up today after all.” He flinched at your words, then turned around. “I’m fine, I don’t need to go back.” Silence, a pretty awkward one at that. You still haven’t figured out how you should treat him, just the thought that he didn’t feel any resentment towards you was weird. On one hand you wanted to talk about it, on the other hand you didn’t know if it was the right time to do so. Suddenly Raphael spoke up again, “can I hold your hand?” He’s been like that all day, wanting to do such an innocent act with you, as if you didn’t turn his life upside down. It wouldn’t hurt to agree, so you held your hand out. The male was still looking out the window, in addition to that he was also holding your hand now. The rest of the ride went by like this, quietly and peacefully.

Once you two arrived in Gehenna, you helped him get out of the car. He stumbled a little but he was able to walk, though sometimes he would lose his footing and stray off. With heavy steps you two managed to get to your room. The devils who saw you two didn’t stop you, in such instances it was better to stay curious than knowing somehting they shouldn’t. You two had to go up the stairs to reach your destination, that was fun. Really fun. After he arrived in your room, you immediately made him sit down on your bed. He panted a little, already tired, probably because he didn’t move for the past few weeks. Satan did allow him to stay here, but you weren’t sure if he had an own room yet, so you suggested, “You can stay here for the time being, until I get you a separate room.” “…can it be the one next to yours then?” He asked, it was more like a condition though. “I’ll see what I can do.” “Then i don’t mind staying here.” That wasn’t something he gets to decide. You didn’t know what to think about sharing your privacy like this, since you didn’t have an answer yet, you changed the topic.

“Raphael, how do you feel?” “I answered you already, I’m fine,” he sounded mildly annoyed. “Yea, alright. Then what you are thinking?” “What I am thinking? Let’s see.” Raphael stretched himself on your bed, while you stood in front of him. “I can still remember the pain very well. Don get me wrong, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I don’t need it.” The male started explaining, his expression was serious and nonchalant. Then he trailed off, “huh, my chest feels tight whenever you aren’t here, if I can’t make sure you are with me my air gets snapped off. Like someone is ripping my heart out of my chest by force.” You weren’t sure what to do with these information, based on what you understood it seems like he has a few screws loose. “And?” “And it aches, it hurts. I can’t stand the idea of being separated from you.” He fumbled with his sleeves, but he wasn’t uncomfortable with sharing his thoughts.

Suddenly, out of nowhere he raised his voice, those red eyes of his showed an insatiable hunger in them, a need that can’t be satisfied. He grabbed your leg and pleaded, “don’t hurt me, you can hurt my body but don’t hurt me. Don’t leave me on my own, okay?” It’d be an understatement to say you were caught off guard by his sudden touch. Instead of replying him, you tried to take a few steps backwards, but he held onto you tightly. “Please.” His voice echoed through the room, it kind of freaked you out. In the end you got closer to him, now only inches away from the boy. This seems to satisfy him to some amount and he continued, “my neck, hah…it feels like a hand is choking me. It’s snapping my air off. Choke me please, take this feeling away.” “What are you talking about?” You couldn’t keep your bewilderedness hidden anymore, trying hard to understand the current situation.

“You are the only thing I have left. It’s only fair if I’m the only one in yours too. I’ll be good, I’ll be obedient, please tell me you need me like how I need you.” His hands grabbed your hips, fingers digging into your waist. “Ugh! Wait a second…” “I gave you what you wanted, because of you I ended up like this, don’t you see how good I’ve been to you?” This was getting uncomfortable, you weren’t exacltly scared for your life, rather you were concerned about the situation. Was this the consequences of your actions? “Raphael, calm the fuck down!” You grabbed his arms, trying to yank them away. It was starting to hurt, his nails were scratching you. Even admits all of this you noticed the flickering of his eyes, how his hands trembled and how he was shaking.

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you adore me? Isn’t that why you did all of this? Please tell me it’s true, don’t tell me otherwise. I don’t care if you have to lie. I didn’t do all of that for you to abandon me. Aren’t I the only one who would go this far for you? Tell me, tell me…! Please. I can’t, I can’t breathe. Y/n. Tell me you love me, please, give me everything you have. This agonising pain is too much to bear. Numb those feelings down until i am a shell of what I used to be. You can take anything from me, even if it’s my eyes. It hurts, it pains, help me, please, I’m begging. I think I’m going mad, y/n, have I made the wrong choice? All of this ache is driving me insane, you are my only escape now. Take it all away, make it go away. Is there no end to my suffering?”

His emotions just exploded, everything was all over the place. He also started crying at the same time as well as shaking you back and forth. Anger, doubt and fear filled him up to the rim. There was only so much he could take, and today was his snapping point. Your hand moved first, slapping him across the face, soon it turned red. His little breakdown was going too far and you weren’t nice enough to deal with it. “Fuck I told you to calm down, what are you doing, spouting one nonsense after another?” It’s rare for you to get this angry. You’ve learned to have a lot of patience after coming to hell but this man was pushing you out of your comfort zone. “I’m not good enough. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I can do better.” For some reason you highly doubted it, I mean just listen to what bullshit he was spouting. “Keep your hand on me, hurt me all you want. I’ll keep you entertained, I can be perfection for you.” The stare he gave you was serious, his tears rolled down his cheek with no purpose. Once again he started yapping about some hallucinations and fantasies he had in his brain.

He felt awful. There was no other way to describe it. Everything hurt, there wasn’t anything worth living for but you. If you left now who knows what he’ll do. Being casted aside all this time made him more insecure than he expected. Like a small bunny that got separated from its mother, walking into the wolfs den without a single clue. All that’s left for him was to clench onto any trace of love he could get. With god gone now, he truly had nothing left to lose, he needed nothing but your affection. This wasn’t about you, this wasn’t about him neither. It was about his obsession with finally feeling loved by his creator. For once he wants to be important to someone, to be useful and seen.

This need of his has been building up for centuries, and now he finally gave in to it. God was it pathetic. The title angel should have never been given to the likes of him, he truly was the one mistake of god. Despite all that you couldn’t deny it, the way he panicked was a little cute. It made your stomach feel butterflies, or was it something? The knowledge that all of this was your work made you feel proud. What a wise decision it was to leave with him today, when he’s still the most unstable. Getting thrown into an unfamiliar environment, meeting all kinds of people that can kill you. Maybe you two were pretty similar after all.

You were planning on being nice to him, you really were, but not anymore after all this drama he caused. “Raphael what are you talking about? You don’t get to decide who I’m seeing!” The words that felt from your lips were like blades stabbing his chest, the filter you had was turned off now. “Be grateful, that someone like me is taking care of something so filthy like you! You know it yourself, you are miserable and vulgar, it’s so selfish of you to want to keep me to yourself.” If he was going to let himself run wild like that, he also had to expect some consequences. The face he pulled was priceless, truly youthful greatest joy now. Tears dropped down his cheeks, you were enjoying yourself again, just like three weeks ago. Yes, this was the feeling you desperately missed.

“Such a pathetic being like you is destined to end up like this. Giving yourself up for me, isn’t it only natural? God favours me and not you.” That was a statement you highly doubted, since you weren’t exactly happy about being down here. Nonetheless, you said it just to make your little dove more miserable. Then you cupped his red and warm face, it was completely drenched in his tears now. His eyes looked tired, he seems to be so done with everything, so you cooed at him, “how pitiful you look…If I own you, you will finally find a purpose in that worthless life of yours again. If you give me your everything, naturally I’ll give you something worthy of it too. You can have an ounce of my affection, isn’t it great? Such a high reward for something like you!”

This was inexplainable, whenever it came to him you were like a different person. Ruining him, breaking him, hurting him, all of this became your favourite hobby. You aren’t a sadist, you are only like this with him! You are a good person, you are saving everyone in hell! It seems even you has lost your mind now. How are you going to return to earth with this mindset? The two of you were a match made from the depths of hell, a place not even god dared to enter. A truly beautiful and twisted bridge full of thorns. Instead of fighting together you made him clear the way for you, only to push him into the deadly river afterwards. Why you’d go this far? Honestly you didn’t have a good reason, it was all done for the sake of your enjoyment. “You aren’t enough Raphael, you are never enough.” A soft smile appeared on your face as you chuckled. This was fulfilling, but that blackhole inside you ached for more. “I’m so sorry Raphael, that you were born, and that you have to keep living. I’m begging you, please be lonely forever. Do it for me?”

Raphael was sobbing quietly, yet his features didn’t tell he was sad, instead relief was written all over his face. He didn’t know why, but you were dazzling right now. When you touched him it felt like the hand of god, you were his replacement for his lord. “I know it hurts, it will only get worse from here on, but soon you’ll be craving the pain.” You whispered, wiping his tears away with tender movements. “Please endure all of this and live miserable with me for a long time.” Stay with you, forever, that was all he heard. He filtered the words out he didn’t want to hear, then he gave you a meek smile. How adorable, so damn cute you won’t ever let go of him. You caressed his cheeks from above, smiling back at him. No one could understand the relationship of you two, it was something truly unique and wonderful. Who would have thought that the bunny and the wolf ended up together?

“y/n, do you love me?” Raphael asked, it looks like he finally calmed down. How strange that such words were able to help him. Or it broke him more, who knows. You had to think about what to say, the feelings you experienced when you were with him, the ache you felt and how you wanted to do so many things to him. After a few moments, you eventually came to the conclusion this must be love. Love makes one crazy, if this isn’t love, then what is it? It would mean it was something much more sinister, and that didn’t have a nice sound to it. Maybe it was just a mutual reliance, each one takes something from the other they desperately need while hurting all the involved parties as they do. Even if that was the truth, you couldn’t care less. All you wanted to do was to hold him while he repeats the words, ‘I’m yours’. You kissed his forehead, then answered with a ‘yes’. He pulled you towards him and both of you fell onto the bed, it bounced a little due to your weights. Then, Raphael hugged you tightly as he whispered, “I’m glad. I love you too.”

[gloryhrs]

⟡ 𝓒𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝓢𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 ━━ 「 Shinji Hirako. 」

✿.*･｡ ꒰ black male reader, high school au!, reader & shinji are both 18/3rd years in highschool, delinquent! shinji (he smokes weed & is a lil mean lol), shinji & hiyori are related, smut (?) at the end idk, shinji is also extremely obsessed w/the reader (real), ah this took me so long (∩´﹏`∩) i don’t know if i’m going to keep it up for long, click 4 art creds! ꒱

ʚɞ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ SHINJI Hirako, 10, wiped the imaginary sweat from his brow. Today is the day he confesses to his best friend, Y/n L/n. His mother and yours had been good friends since high school, which explained why you and he were like two peas in a pod, having known each other since infancy. Shinji couldn't have asked for a better best friend than you; you both slept over at each other's houses daily, played video games, watched horror movies, and snacked on sweets all weekend. When you spent time with him, his heart began to race, his palms sweated, and his cheeks turned a vivid shade of crimson, indicating that he had strange feelings for you. Because of your kindness and the way you care for him, his affection for you grew stronger by the day. His younger sister, Hiyori, used to mock him and label him a coward for not being able to express himself to you, but that will change today!

When he spotted you walking out of the classroom with Kensei and Love, aka your bodyguards, he tightened his grip on the small box of chocolate and flowers. Instead of standing in the center of the hallway, he carefully worked his way up to the youthful group of boys. He observed as you stopped chatting to the boys and focused on him walking, making him much more nervous than before. "Hi, Shinji!" You smiled and waved at your blonde-haired best friend, who looked like he was about to pass out. Kensei and Love turned to look at the sweets and flowers in the boy's hand. He handed the flowers and chocolates out to you with his head lowered before any of them could say anything. "H-Hi Y/n! Please go out on a date with me! You’re the coolest, kindest, and sweetest person I’ve ever met! I promise you won’t be sorry!" His voice cracked at nearly every word, leading Kensei to cover his mouth to stifle the laughter. Love sighed and turned his head in the opposite direction, attempting to erase the scene he just saw.

When Kensei began to snicker at him, you frowned and lightly smacked the back of his head. "Shin, don't be so shy; I've known you for years. And, of course, I'll go with you!" You took the box and flowers from his hands as the dumbbells on his shoulders rolled off with ease, which meant his nervousness was disappearing. He quickly got up and straightened his posture with a bright smile on his face. Before he could form his next sentence, a set of lips that belonged to you brushed across his cheek. Making him lose all sense and turn as red as a tomato. "We should ask our moms to take us to that new arcade you talked about!" You told him as he nodded mindlessly with a silly grin on his lips. "Yeah, we enjoy arcades." His voice cracked once more, this time making you giggle. Both Kensei and Love curved their heads to the side as they witnessed the sight. "Oh, brother! Look for a classroom." Kensei fake gagged as Love sighed, realizing beforehand that this blossoming relationship was most likely going to be a problem in the future.

ʚɞ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ AND Love was completely correct. If he believed Shinji was in love with you in elementary and middle school, he had no idea what was in store for him after everyone entered high school. By this point, everyone knew Shinji was obsessed with you. From having your name tattooed on his forearm and finger to having your initials pierced in his ear, having you as his lock screen and home screen, and owning an I Heart My Boyfriend shirt somewhere in his closet, he's got it all. He's also your biggest fan! From his frequent appearances at your games, he is usually the loudest one in the bleachers, holding a poster. Being the one to carry you and your belongings when it's time to leave, as well as ordering takeout for you and him for the night. Shinji was the greatest boyfriend! No one could tell you otherwise. Most classmates assumed you threw a spell on the blonde, but it turns out he was just in love.

The sound of laughter was the only thing that could be heard from the janitor’s closet. The laughter belonging to you and Shinji, who dragged you in there the moment he saw you in the hall. "Shin, we’re going to be late for class." You murmured as your boyfriend proceeded to kiss your lips, ignoring the fact that not only you would be late but he as well. The small space of the janitor's closet is causing him to press you against the wall, with him lifting your thigh till it reaches his waist. "It doesn't matter if you don't turn up. Plus, I missed you." His pierced tongue dragged across your soft, ebony skin while his lips whispered into the crook of your neck. You ran your fingers through his soft golden hair. "I've missed you too, which is why I'm here. So that I can see you." You sighed. This is what happens when you separate yourself from him for longer than a day. He’ll turn into a baby crying for its mama.

"I barely see you now because you've been so caught up with volleyball and those damn club activities. I thought you forgot about me." He scoffed, his gaze now fixed on yours. You've participated in almost every club and sport since the first year of high school. That's why you were so popular. You gently smiled as you placed both hands on his cheeks, bringing him in for another kiss. "You know I can never forget about you, baby. Plus, I'm free today. This week, Rose, Lisa, and Love are in charge of the clubs. And I don’t have practice until next week." You grinned while playing with his several ear piercings, your initials dangling from his right lobe in gold and diamonds.

Shinji's eyes instantly lit up as he flashed his well-known smile, displaying his gorgeous pearly whites. "And yes, we can finally play that new street fighter game you were talking about." You pecked his cheeks as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, getting a good whiff of your scent before signing. "Mhmm, I love you. Also, you smell so fuckin' good. Like freshly baked cookies mixed with cocoa butter. It makes me want to eat you." He murmured, never letting his smile go. His sweet but strong aroma invaded your nostrils as you chuckled and buried your face in his shoulder. "I love you too, Shin. You smell like vanilla cupcakes with a hint of weed. Which you most likely smoked during lunch." He laughed and drew his face away from your neck. You could read him like a picture book. "Oops." He gave you his signature smirk, his hands trailing from your waist to one of his favorite parts of your body.

"Shin, don't let them find you smoking on school grounds. They almost sent you to detention for three months the last time you were caught." You scolded your partner, who was rolling his eyes. Because of that wet floor prank he committed in his first year, which resulted in the principal injuring his back, the staff were utter jerks to him. "Keyword, almost! My wonderful boyfriend bailed me out and convinced them to shorten my sentence." He kissed your cheek, and because you were one of the school's favorite students, you persuaded the administration to ease up on your nutty boyfriend's punishment. They eventually reduced his sentence from three months to one week of cleaning duties.

"But in all seriousness, I’m so lucky you’re my boyfriend. Everything about you is so perfect that sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t confessed. Just looking at you drives me insane." He whispered, now placing his hands on your ass and gently sucking on the flesh with his lips against your neck. You sighed and tilted your head back, feeling yourself fall into his trap but swiftly snapping out of it. "Shin, don't start again." You bit your lip to keep the stream of noises from coming out, knowing that if you made a sound, he wouldn't stop. He groaned, "Oh, come on. If we stay a little longer, I can show you what else my tongue piercing can do." He ran his hands up your button-up shirt, making you shiver under his cold fingers. You felt your cheeks become hot at the sentence; you knew him for over a decade and still couldn’t get used to his flirtatious demeanor.

"Maybe later, but we have to go now." You pulled away while adjusting your black-framed glasses. It takes some time for the burning sensation on your cheeks to fade away. Shinji followed behind as you opened the door, which revealed the familiar set of teenagers. Shinji put his arm around your shoulder and glared at the group, specifically Ichigo. Ichigo rolled his eyes, and Orihime waved as Uryu and Chad turned their heads away from the couple. Keigo's cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, his mouth dropping from pair. He was undoubtedly thinking negatively. "Eh? What the hell are you guys doing outside the door waiting for?" You whacked Shinji's arm as he swore at the gathering of first-year students. Ichigo scoffed at the man with blonde hair who stuck his tongue out and stuck the middle finger from behind your head.

"Are you blind? We're here to put these supplies up! But, of course, you're absent from class!" The Kurosaki argued back with the third year, who was grinding his teeth together, trying to keep back a torrent of vulgarities and insults. "What on earth were you two doing in the closet?" Keigo asked, his curiosity (and nosiness) getting the best of him. "What did you think we were doing?! Picking fucking daisies?!" He snapped at the youngster, who shrieked and hid behind Chad. Keigo's eyes widened as his cheeks blushed again, putting two and two together. You sighed and pinched your boyfriend's cheek, inflicting pain on him. "I'm sorry about him. We're already late, Shinji, so let's go." You waved farewell to the teens and tugged on his arm as he followed, not before turning around and flashing the middle finger at Ichigo, who quickly returned the gesture.

"I can’t believe L/n-san is dating someone like him." Ichigo grimaced at the sight of the male, who grinned and pulled you closer to him while giving multiple kisses to your lips, not caring about the students walking by. "They’re so cute! From what I heard, they’ve been in a relationship since elementary school!" Orihime squealed at the couple, and Keigo's mouth dropped to the floor. Elementary school?! He remembered when all the girls ran away from him on the playground. How could someone like you date a delinquent like Shinji? "Huh?! Is that why he’s so obsessed with L/N? I wish someone loved me like that." Crocodile tears streamed down his face as he looked at the couple. "Maybe because you’re a weirdo." "WHAT?!"

"Babe, why did you do that." Shinji massaged his reddish cheek while pouting. "I warned you about cursing at the first years, Shin." You just stated, as he sneered and rolled his eyes, this wasn't his first time in trouble for yelling or cursing at a group of students. He still remembered how the majority of them accused him of insulting them, which resulted in him being thrown in detention. "Are we going to your house today?" You changed the subject because you didn't want to hear his complaints. "Yeah, my mom is working the night shift, and Hiyori is staying at Mashiro's. So we can have as much fun as we want." You didn't have to look at him to notice the type of smile he wore as he leaned into your ear.

"You’re right, we can have fun all night." Your fingertips brushed against his exposed collarbones as you moved your hand up his chest. "But if you could just do one thing for me, please." As your hand moved to caress his cheek, you grinned. Shinji nodded while becoming utterly hypnotized. "If you don't make any more trouble today, I'll give you anything you want." Your minty breath fanned over his lips as your lips brushed against his. Shinji nodded his head again after taking a quick look at your lips. Knowing that the only way to persuade him to behave properly is to bring something to the table, you hummed and pulled him into a kiss.

ʚɞ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ "FINALLY, I'm done." Shinji sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair. He clicked the x to close each tab while complaining. He put the joint to his lips while leaning back on the headboard and proceeded to doze off while gazing at his roof, the music playing from the speakers lulling him into a trance. When he heard the bathroom door open, he turned his attention away from the roof and watched as you emerged from the room wearing just a shirt. His eyes studied your physique, revealing just how much those workouts altered your body. You chuckled at your partner, who was virtually stripping you down with his eyes, when you heard the wolf whistle from across the room. "Nice thighs, babe." He smiled at you as you took off the shower cap from your hair and showed him your h/c locs, which were no longer pulled into a ponytail.

"Thank you, baby. Did you finish your homework?" You slipped into the bed as he blew out the smoke, his half-lidded eyes peering back into yours. "Mhmm, now come sit on my lap." He patted his lap with the same grin on his face. When you got into his lap, his hand grabbed your waist and pulled you closer until your chest touched his. Shinji's half-lidded eyes scanned your features; your beautiful e/c eyes were enough to put him in another trance. Not to mention how your h/c locs and the golden jewelry swayed with every movement you made. In his eyes, no one was as beautiful as you. "My boyfriend is so pretty." He muttered, his hand resting on your thigh and letting the flesh seep through his fingers. "Mine is too." You beamed, your hands running past his tank top to feel his toned chest.

"Gimme a kiss." He grinned and placed the joint on the tray, now gripping your ass with both hands. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in. Once your plump lips met his, he pushed his tongue past your lips. Allowing him to explore the damp cavern, the subtle taste of bubblegum toothpaste lured him closer. He groaned when he felt your ass against his clothed cock. From the way you rocked back and forth on his lap, you were completely aware of what you were doing. "Mhmm." You moaned when he began to rock your hips against his rising boner; his mouth completely absorbed the rest of your sinful sounds. When he pulled away from the kiss, you whimpered while he grinned and gently pushed you down onto the mattress. The blonde took the joint and pressed it to his lips, chuckling at his boyfriend, who squirmed on the mattress. "S–Shin please." You called out to your lover as you rubbed your thighs together, yearning for friction since he had stopped.

Shinji put the stick down and crawled between your legs after deciding to listen to your pleading. "Please what baby?" He sucked on your neck with a sideways tilt of his head and a smirk on his lips. The smell of brown sugar drove him to lick and suck every area of your neck, and he could feel himself growing drunk on your trademark scent. When you wrapped your legs around his waist and yanked on his golden locks, he let out a moan. "I-I need you right now." You exhale, the cold metal on your skin making you quiver. Shinji chuckled and drew away from your neck, exposing the dark marks he'd produced on your flesh. He bit his lip and placed his fingers around your neck as he felt himself becoming harder at the sight. His slim fingers gripped the sides of it, causing you to choke on your moans.

"So pretty." He muttered as he removed your shirt, exposing your beautiful dark brown skin. His fingertips skimmed across your beautiful skin before brushing against your nipples, causing you to tilt your head back. "A little sensitive, aren’t you?" He questioned, his thumb and index finger rolling over the sensitive bud while sucking on the other. "O-Oh, Shinji." As he continued to suck on the delicate flesh, you fisted his hair when he tugged on the bud before flicking it off with his tongue. Shinji rutted his hips against yours once more after hearing you say moan his name countless of times. "Shin, p–please kiss me." You exhaled through the moans as he lifted his head from your chest, smirking as he observed your dazed expression.

When his lips made contact with yours, he pushed past your luscious lips. As he groaned against the warmth of your lips, his hands explored your thighs once more. He couldn't get over the smooth tenderness of your lips, no matter how many times he kissed you. His saliva tasted like the sweets he had recently eaten. You both kissed each other as though one of you was going to vanish at any moment. You whimpered as he broke away, missing the feel of his lips. His lustful gaze returned to your needy ones. When he noticed you pouting, he sucked his teeth. "What exactly is it now?" He sighed. You were always so damn whiny when you got worked up. "Can you take your s–shirt off? Please?" You pulled on the fabric that covered his torso, concealing the other tattoos as well. Shinji's eyes softened, and he said, "Of course, baby." He yanked off the tank top and tossed it across the room.

He witnessed as your eyes sparkled at the sight of his chest, your fingertips brushing against the tattoos on his torso. "Do you like what you see?" He teased you as you nodded mindlessly, your gaze fixed on his chest, notably his nipple piercings. "Take off your pants, too." Shinji raised an eyebrow when you spoke to him. What? The way you talked to him gave the impression that he had already fucked your head up. He took both of your hands and pinned them above your head, making you squirm at his gaze. "What's the magic word, sweets?" He asked, his other hand clasping around your neck once more. You poked your lips out while making your infamous puppy eyes at him. "Please?" You tilted your head, giving it a more innocent appearance.

"Good boy. You won’t be needing these anymore." He slapped your thigh before tearing your underwear off, causing you to gasp as cold air hit your cock. When he reached down to the waistline of his sweatpants and teasingly tugged at the fabric, you bit your lip. Shinji laughed again when he heard your whining. "Please, hurry up." You whispered, your mouth watering. Shinji finally decided to stop his taunting and removed his sweatpants and underwear. "O-Oh my," you spoke unconsciously, leaving you in awe of his glory. His gaze moved down your body, stopping on your member that begged to be stroked. "Would you take a look at that? Someone is quite eager." He teased, making you cover your face with your hands.

"Don't look away, baby; let me see that pretty face of yours." He pulled your hands off your face and repeatedly pecked your lips. Even though this wasn't the first time you had seen Shinji naked or stripped off in front of him, it always made you shy. Before taking you and his cock and holding them in one hand, Shinji gave you one final kiss on the lips. His hands felt so amazing on yours that you softly moaned when they made contact with your erection. You both made a series of moans as soon as he started moving his hand. The unfamiliar sensation was like bliss. "Shit, this felt better than last time." Shinji cursed as he watched the gorgeous look on your face transform into unbearable pleasure. From the looks of it, this was going to be a long night for you both.

© gloryhrs, 061623. — notes and reblogs are appreciated! (≧∇≦)

[berryhobii]

Clouds (jhs x reader)

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x black!female!reader

Word Count: 6K+

Warnings: heavy angst, metaphors and illusions of depression, mentions of autism/depression/sociopathic disorders, mentions of the mistreatment of black women in medical situations(bc this very much still happens), overbearing mothers(but she comes from a good place I swear), feelings of being incomplete, feelings of inadequacy, a very bad date, mentions of fetishizing black women, Hoseok being a ray of sunshine, CRYING, mentions of codependency(bc it’s a soulmate au), one kiss but it’s very sweet, lots of rain and sun metaphors

A/N: Hi hi! I’m back with this sobfest of a fic 🥹 I swear I did not mean to make this this sad, it just kind of happened. I rewrote it a bunch of times and finally flowed on his particular idea. I love soulmate au’s, especially the cute ones with a countdown timer but I wanted to try something different. Something not as overt while still keeping the spirit of a soulmate au which is finding your other half. This is also a shoutout to all of the black people who suffer from depression. I know us being depressed isn’t taken as seriously especially to our families. Mental health isn’t taken seriously in black communities altogether and I really hope that will change. I see so many of us breaking generational curses; with our children, our friends, our relationships, and ourselves. I love seeing it. If you’re non black and read this, I hope it gives you some insight as well. To my black and melanated readers, I hope my stories can give you some comfort outside of just BTS. I hope you feel represented, I hope you feel important, and I hope you feel loved. Because you are all of those things🩵🩵much love. Stay safe. Criticism is always appreciated.

~

Dull. Stagnant. Lifeless.

That’s how you’d describe your world.

Each minute passed slower than the last, the monotony of your days only broken up by the arrival of the night. You didn’t even dream. Sleep was purely a necessity for you; you couldn’t escape to the vividness of a dream because color didn’t exist in your world.

You’ve accepted it. Accepted that you’d simply exist, drifting as another human among the billions of others. There was nothing special about you nor did you have any qualities people desired to interact with you for.

Mundane. Indifferent. Uniform.

That was you. Plain ol’ you.

“Are you okay, baby?” The voice of your mother called from the doorway of your childhood bedroom.

Rain pattered against the window, your gaze following whatever drop you found most interesting. You’d follow it until it disappeared or until it merged with other drops, the combined weight causing it to cascade faster down the glass.

You wished you could be a raindrop. Falling from the sky to nurture the earth then returning upward to form clouds. Then at least, you’d be useful. You could help plants grow, overfill the streaming rivers, bring relief to dry deserts.

Raindrops were so important.

You tore your eyes away from the window, looking at your mother. “I’m fine, mama.”

You could say that but she knew it wasn’t true. She also knew that asking you too many questions only resulted in her own emotional breakdown.

Why was her baby like this? What was wrong with you? Why did you look at her like she was just a stranger?

Swallowing back her tears, she managed a tiny smile. “The food is ready. It’s baked chicken, your favorite.”

Was that your favorite meal? You didn’t even know. Food didn’t matter much to you. It just kept you alive.

“Okay. I’ll be down in a second.” You said before turning back to the window, only to find the rain had let up. A light drizzle.

Your mother didn’t say anything, just backed out of the room, a single tear rolling down her face.

When you were born, the doctor’s considered you kind of a strange child. Not only was your mother’s entire labor pain free but you didn’t cry coming from the womb. You were breathing and all of your senses were completely fine.

You just wouldn’t cry.

You didn’t cry when you were hungry or wet, not even when you fell and hurt yourself. You felt pain but you didn’t cry.

Lots of people chalked it up to you just being a well behaved and calm kid. That should have been a blessing to your parents, right? A kid who didn’t cry or throw tantrums to do regular stuff kids did. Your parents should be so lucky.

But your mother knew something was wrong. That perpetual blank stare you always had, how you never smiled or found any real interest in toys or television, how you kind of just drifted around. You reminded her of a still flower on a rippling pond; so beautiful but unaffected by things around you.

She consulted many doctors on possible reasons for your seeming lack of emotions.

Were you chronically depressed? Did you have a sociopathic disorder? Were you autistic?

Maybe. Perhaps. A possibility.

Nothing was set in stone.

It even hit a point where your parents just completely lost hope. They still loved you the same. They’d just have to accept that you were the way you were.

But then your mother took you to see one final doctor who cleared up every suspicion anyone ever had.

Soulmates.

Less than 0.0001 percent of the population were comprised of these special people. However, there was so little information on this phenomena that affected such a minuscule portion of the population. Did a such thing even exist?

Your father was skeptical. He thought you just had some sort of mental problem and that the doctors were misdiagnosing you. He worked in the medical field and he knew black women were more likely to be mistreated. He believed they just didn’t care.

But your mother believed. What else could she do? She was holding on to the little ray of hope that you could get better.

Soulmates were opposites of one another in a multitude of ways. Sometimes it could be something as simple as height or biological sex, other times it could be complex like gender or religious affiliation.

And in serious cases like yours, it could be something as deep as the very fibers of your being.

You were incomplete without your soulmate. Only they could shine the light and illuminate the darkness that surrounded you.

The only problem is there was really no identifying factors that could help find your soulmate. No marks, no red string, nothing.

And with so many people all over the world, the chance of you finding them was almost nonexistent.

But your mother wouldn’t give up. She’d fix you.

~

“He’s a very nice boy. His mother says he’s upbeat and friendly too. He might be the one.” Your mother gushed as she removed another flexi-rod from your hair, her oiled fingers working carefully to unravel each one.

You didn’t say anything, staring ahead into the mirror in front of you. You had become used to seeing your made up face; foundation, concealer, highlight and whatever color eyeshadow matched the outfit she chose for you. You didn’t really care but your mother insisted you wear some to impress your date.

That’s why she was doing all of these preparations; to send you on yet another date in hopes of finding your soulmate.

Now that your mother knew the cause of your “ailment”, she was working overtime to find whoever they were. So far, you’ve met 41 people, male and female, multiple ethnicities, and all from different backgrounds. The only thing that tied them together was that each other them were happy and bright people. Each of them were social and loved by many. That had to be who your soulmate was, right?

All of these people and meetings and you’ve yet to find your other half. Your mother had been expanding her social circle in search of the person who would “heal” you; children of close friends, children of friends of close friends, even random people she’d overhear talking about their own children. She was on a mission and nothing would stand in her way.

Your mother completed the final touches on your hair, her smile wide.

“Look at how beautiful you are.”

She told you that often, ever since you were a little girl. Words of affirmation recited to you in an attempt to build your self confidence.

You guessed it must be true since she said it everyday.

You didn’t say anything again, her smile faltering just a tad but quickly widening again. She retrieved a simple necklace off the vanity, clasping it around your neck.

“There. Perfect.”

Suddenly, the doorbell rang and your mother sprang into action.

“He’s here! Come come.” She beckoned you with a frantic hand.

You stood from the chair, following her out of the room and to the living room. She handed you your purse and draped a shawl over your shoulders.

“Okay, you’re ready. Remember your manners and smile, okay?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

She pulled you into a hug, squeezing you tightly as she always did. Affection wasn’t really something you minded nor did you reciprocate it. Your parents hugged you all the time but you never really felt anything. You understood it was how people showed affection and love, the internet told you that.

You just didn’t get it. You didn’t feel it.

But you hugged her back anyway.

You stood there in her embrace for 23 seconds longer before she released you. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, her thumb running across the apple of it.

Her smile was gentle but it didn’t reach her eyes, that glossy sheen always misting her eyes. Your mother cried a lot but never in front of you. You could sometimes hear her or find her wiping away tears if you’d enter the room, that smile always pulling at her lips acting as if nothing was wrong.

It confused you. It was obvious she was cried so why did she hide it?

Oh well.

“Have fun, okay?”

Opening the door, you found date number 42 standing there. He was dressed sharply in a crisp suit, hair gelled back out of his face, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

His mouth dropped when he saw you, eyes traveling from your feet to the top of your head.

“Wow.” He breathed out. “You look stunning.”

Remembering your manners, you answered, “Thank you.”

Clearing his throat, he held out the flowers to you. “These are for you.”

You took the bouquet from him then you remembered something your mother drilled into you.

“Always smile when someone gives you flowers. It means you appreciate them.”

Wasn’t saying thank you the appreciation?

Still, you put a smile on your face. A practiced smile that you’d rehearse in the mirror under your mother’s watch.

“They are lovely. Thank you.” You tried to add some inflection to your voice to sound grateful but it just came out robotic.

If number 42 noticed, he didn’t say anything, simply taking your thank you for what it was.

Holding out his arm, he asked, “ready to go? Our reservation is soon.”

Nodding, you placed your hand on his arm and let him escort you out of the door and down to his car. He opened the door for you, helping you inside and even making sure you put on your seatbelt before closing your door. He rounded to the driver’s seat and got in, buckling himself in and starting the car before pulling off.

“I hope you like seafood. The restaurant we’re going to has the best seafood pasta.”

You didn’t dislike it. Food was food to you. It was simply sustenance.

You stared out of the window as he began rambling about his favorite restaurants. You blankly watched the scenery pass, not really taking note of anything. Just watching.

Then you saw a raindrop hit your window, followed by a few more.

You heard your date make a noise of concern. “I didn’t think it would rain. Hopefully it’s only a drizzle. I hate when it rains. Don’t you?”

“No.”

He glanced over at you, a little chuckle coming from him. “Ah you’re one of the ones who like rain, huh? Why? It’s cold and wet and makes you sick.”

You continued to watch the drops patter against the window.

Yes rain was cold. It passes through a thin layer of cold air before falling to the earth. Yes rain was wet. It was water.

But rain was also….

“Rain is important.”

He snorted. “I guess so. It’s just inconvenient in cities.”

Inconvenient, huh?

You didn’t say anything in response to him, silence engulfing the inside of the car.

He coughed to break the air before reaching for the radio. A low pop song began playing through the speakers, not doing anything to alleviate the awkwardness but doing everything to prevent any more conversation.

Thankfully(for him), you arrived at the restaurant just minutes after. The rain was still at a very light drizzle which was good since he didn’t bring an umbrella.

He opened your door, holding out his arm to help you out.

The restaurant was nice on the inside. It reminded you a lot of the places your parents would take you for birthdays or graduations.

Clean. Fancy. Stuffy.

You both approached the hostess that sat behind a podium. She greeted you both with a bright smile.

“Welcome to Rêverie. Do you have a reservation?”

“I do. Two under Lee Jihyun.”

Oh yeah. That was his name.

She scrolled through her tablet. “Ah yes. Right this way.”

She led you through tables filled with other patrons. For a Thursday night, this place certainly was busy.

Jihyun pulled out your chair and you thanked him before sitting down.

“Your waiter will be with you shortly.” The hostess said, bowing and then walking away.

After removing his suit jacket and draping it over the back of his chair, he turned to face you.

“So, y/n. Tell me about yourself.”

That was an open statement. You didn’t know what to say.

So you questioned, “what do you want to know?”

He tapped his chin in faux thought, a little inquiring smirk on his face.

“Hmm….what’s your favorite food?”

“I don’t have one.”

His smile dropped a little but he remained positive. Letting out an awkward chuckle, he ran a hand through his hair.

“Okay. What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have one.”

You saw the little twitch in his brow. Your father did that sometimes when he was really focused on his work. He told you it was because he was annoyed or frustrated with something.

Was Jihyun annoyed or frustrated with you?

“Then where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

He exhaled some air through his nose, tilting his head a little. This was getting nowhere.

At that moment, a waiter came to your table with 2 glasses of water and some menus.

“Hello there. I’ll be your waiter today. Can I start you off some drinks?”

Jihyun seemed to perk up at the arrival of the waiter, his smile returning full force.

“Yes we are. I’ll take a glass of your finest red wine.” Then he looked to you. “And for you? A glass of wine?”

You didn’t drink alcohol. Mainly because you just didn’t like it.

“No. I’ll keep my water. Thank you.”

The waiter nodded. “I’ll be right back with those and to take your order.”

Now you two were left alone again. Great.

A silence just as thick and uncomfortable as the one in the car encompassed your table.

Jihyun drummed his fingers on the table, thoughts racing as he tried to think of a conversation topic to get you talking. Then it hit him.

“Your mom set this date up, right? My mom’s been hounding me about settling down. What about you?” He curiously inquired.

He didn’t know? Hmm.

“She’s searching for my soulmate. She said that I’ll be happy if I find them.”

That seemed to spark his interest. “Soulmate?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He tapped his finger again. “So…..how exactly does that work?”

You barely knew fully. The doctor who diagnosed you could only explain so much since soulmates still aren’t very common or explicitly studied.

“I can’t express or feel most emotions, specifically ones of joy or sadness. Whoever my soulmate is is the opposite of me. That’s why my mother set you and I up.”

He let that information soak in. His mother didn’t say anything about this. All she told him was that a friend of hers had a gorgeous daughter. And if he was being honest, he was pretty curious about dating a black woman.

You certainly were beautiful and your poofy hair was interesting looking.

Your personality though? It left a lot to be desired. He was expecting you to be a little sweeter, more responsive to him. You didn’t even react at seeing his super expensive car nor did you say anything about the restaurant. He was putting a lot of money into this date so he was expecting more.

At least you were pretty.

Now as for this soulmate business. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him. Of course he’s heard about soulmates but he thought it was a load of crap.

Then again, you were strange. You were expressionless and lackluster. Your monotone answers showed your lack of interest and you’ve only smiled once since he met you.

Maybe you did have a soulmate. No one could be this boring without reason.

Well, your personality didn’t really matter. You weren’t ugly, that’s all he was concerned about.

He snorted, waving a hand around. “You don’t have to worry about that. You have me now. I’m all you need.” He reached a hand over to cup your chin. “As long as you listen to me and stay pretty, it’ll be fine.”

Listen? Stay pretty? You already did that.

Your objective wasn’t either of those things. It was to find your soulmate; the person who was your other half.

The person who would help you.

“You’re not my soulmate. What could you offer me?”

His eyebrow twitched again, a forced laugh falling from his lips. He released your chin and leaned back in his chair.

“Ha! What do I have to offer? I have plenty.” He bragged with a huff and a flare of his nostrils.

But what? What could he offer you? Your mother said that only your soulmate could give you what you really needed. This man obviously wasn’t it so what could he give you? Why were you even still here?

“Never leave a date early. It’s rude.”

What was the point? Wasn’t the goal of this date to figure out if he was your soulmate? He wasn’t so why couldn’t you leave? All the lessons from those etiquette classes your mother instructed you to sit through danced around your head.

“You aren’t my soulmate. There’s nothing you could give me.”

That really seemed to piss him off because he was suddenly slamming his hands down on the table. The force caused your water to shake, the liquid rippling in the glass.

“How dare you?! I take you on this fancy date and try to be nice to you and you insult me like this? You should feel grateful I even entertained the thought of meeting you.” He ranted spitefully, his entire face blazing red and veins popping out of his forehead.

Grateful? You should feel grateful? How did you do that?

Other patrons were startled by your date’s sudden outburst, whispers and mutters sounding around the restaurant.

That’s when the hostess appeared at your table.

“Sir, please calm down or I’ll have to ask you to leave.” She attempted to soothe him, holding up her hands as if calming a wild horse.

But your date wasn’t hearing any of it. His anger was too much to contain right now.

He pointed at you. “I only went on a date with you because my mom said you were pretty but she didn’t tell me you were so disrespectful. She also said your mother was desperate to marry you off and that she’s been trying to push you on any person she could.” He bellowed with a hearty and mocking laugh. “Just how many people have you been with already?”

“41. You’re number 42.” You answered simply and that took his irritation from a 100 to a 101.

Letting out a growl of frustration, he stood from the table, grabbing his jacket and practically snatching it on his body.

“You know what? I don’t need this! I have plenty of women lined up for me. I thought dating a black girl would be exciting but you’re seriously a bore. I’m leaving.”

He stomped away from the table, leaving you alone and letting the mind’s of the strangers surrounding you racing.

Just as you were about to get up to leave, he came back to the table, snatching the flowers he gave you earlier from the surface.

“And give me these back!”

Ah. There goes number 42. Your mother would probably get that look on her face again. That misty look in her eyes…..that she’d just cover with a smile and reassure you that she’d find someone else for you.

Again and again. Over and over.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your waiter shuffling back over, a small brown bag in his hands.

“Um, we won’t charge you for the wine since it never reached the table.” He stated nervously, worried that you’d blow up next at his words.

“Okay.”

He then placed the bag on the table. “Please take this red velvet cake. It’s on the house.”

~

The rain was pouring when you stepped out of the restaurant. The awning outside protected you from the brunt of the downpour but you could still feel the drops hitting your bare legs.

You should call a cab. A cab would take you home.

Home.

As if they had a mind of their own, your feet carried you out into the heavy rain. The harsh drops hurt your skin but you continued.

Cold rain soaked through your clothes and all the way down to your shoes, goosebumps rising across your skin but it didn’t bother you.

Nothing did. Maybe that was your main problem.

The stares of people you walked by didn’t bother you. The chill of the rain didn’t bother you. The pain of your feet in these heels didn’t bother you.

Why? Why were you like this? Why couldn’t you feel anything?

“Because you’re broken.”

That’s right. You were broken. Like a porcelain ballerina on a music box; anyone could see how poised and perfect you were, a true sight to see. Sparkling and beautiful, their expectations were high but when they turned your key…..

No music came out. The inner workings of your soul were rusted and stiff, your heart merely a muscle that pumped blood through your veins, your life just something you lived.

You had no purpose. You didn’t exist for anything. You were just a doll, one that would collect dust in an antique case until the end of time.

Your feet slowed to a stop, the assault of the rain feeling like daggers against your skin. You tilted your head back to stare up into the dark sky.

You wished you could be a raindrop. You just wanted to fall and then go back to the sky.

At least then you wouldn’t be so useless. You wouldn’t make your mother cry. You wouldn’t be a burden.

You wouldn’t be incomplete.

“Hey are you okay?”

Your ears itched so you lifted your hand to scratch at it.

“Why are you out here without an umbrella? It’s pouring.”

Why were your ears so itchy? Did you need to clean them?

“Did the rain come out of nowhere for you too? The forecasts are so unreliable sometimes, huh?”

You didn’t understand. Why was……why…..?

Your head slowly came down from its craned position and your heart did something other than simply beat.

It squeezed.

Something you’ve never felt before jolted through your entire body, so powerful and consuming that your knees buckled. You stumbled forward a little, the grip on the bottom of your heels doing nothing to keep your upright.

“Oh hey! Are you alright?”

Then you were met with warmth. No, something more than that.

Heat. Body scorching and all encompassing heat engulfed your body. It felt like someone had poured gasoline over you and a lit a match.

A hand touched your arm and that heat spread like a hot brand across your skin. You couldn’t even feel the coldness of the rain that soaked your clothes and skin anymore. It was like someone wrapped a warm towel straight out of the dryer around you.

“Hey….”

Slowly, as if this bubble you formed would burst, you leaned your head back to look into a pair of eyes so iridescent and dazzling that you thought you were staring right at a cluster of stars.

Like the sun after rain, a rainbow stretching across the blue sky.

It was him. He had found you.

You two stayed locked in eye contact for a very long moment. The world seemed to fade away, not even the sound of rain or honking cars could bring you back.

Then like a ray of sunshine, he smiled but unlike your mother or other people you’ve met, this smile held no sadness, no pain, no ulterior motives.

It was pure. It was beautiful.

“Have you been waiting long for me? I’m sorry.” He lifted the hand that wasn’t holding the umbrella to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray raindrop.

Then the dam broke and for the first time in your entire life, you did something you never thought you’d be able to do.

You cried.

Loud and heart wrenching, as thunderous and roaring as the storm you two were in. Every emotion you’ve never felt since birth swelled in your chest, traveling up your throat and out of your mouth as you let out wails of sorrow.

Wails of joy. Wails of anguish. Wails of strife. Wails of gratitude.

You cried.

And he held you, shielding you from the rain and holding the broken pieces of you together before you could fall apart again.

His hand stroked your back up and down as he hummed a song to you. “It’s okay. Let it out. I know it’s been hard for you. I’m here now.”

Yes. He was here. He found you. You’d be okay.

~

The sound of a phone ringing woke you from your haze of sleep. Your head felt fuzzy and your body felt heavy.

Where were you?

Lifting your arm, you felt around the nightstand until you touched the object you were searching for. You turned on your side, bringing your phone to your face, eyes squinting at the brightness.

Mama.

Why was she calling you? Wasn’t she in the next room?

Pressing the answer button, you held the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“y/n! y!n, where are you? My friend just called me and told me you had a falling out with Jihyun. Are you okay? You didn’t even come home. I thought something happened to you.”

Jihyun? Oh yeah, your date. The memories of that awful dinner were starting to come back to you. You couldn’t even call it dinner since you didn’t even eat but whatever.

“Sorry, mom. He left me at the restaurant and it started raining really hard so I….” Your train of thought derailed, more memories of last night flowed into your brain.

Jihyun leaving you. Your walk in the rain. Bumping into someone.

That feeling in your chest….

Your soulmate! You found them. You never went home. You went with them instead.

“y/n? Is everything okay?” Your mother questioned with concern laced in her voice.

You felt something move behind you and you remembered everything.

“Mama, I promise I’m fine. I’ll be home later, okay?”

You couldn’t see the look of confusion on her face but you could feel it was there. “Uh, alright honey. Be careful. I love you.”

You smiled, feeling tears prick your eyes as your heart rapidly pounded in your chest.

“I will. I love you too, mama.”

And you did. You loved her so much. You could feel it.

Just like how you could feel her own tears even after you hung up the phone.

After placing your phone back on the nightstand, you paused and sat in silence for a moment.

So many feelings and thoughts rushed through your body like a rapid stream, rain had fallen and filled the cavern that was your soul, overflowing every empty crevice and nourishing the flora that had been withered and dry. With these new and unfamiliar feelings expanding, it almost hurt.

You were happy that it hurt though because that meant you were feeling.

You could feel now. You were so unexplainably happy.

Turning back to your other side, your eyes met the sleeping form of the person who made all of this possible.

Reaching a hand out, your fingertips grazed over his cheek. You could still so vividly remember how the cheekbone rounded when he graced you with that breathtaking smile. You wanted to see it again. You wanted to learn about what makes him smile, what makes him happy, what makes him sad.

You wanted to understand his feelings.

Your finger traced all across his face; his eyebrows, his nose, his lips, his chin. As if you were trying to memorize each atom of his face.

A part of this felt like a dream, one you were afraid you’d wake up from but if you did, you still think you’d be happy. Happy because at least you had this much. If this was a dream, you wouldn’t mind because this dream would be precious to you.

With another touch of his eyelids, he flinched causing you to do the same. His hand lifted to rub at his face, grumbles and mumbles coming from his lips. You watched as he stretched his body before flopping back down and then his eyes cracked open.

Your breath hitched in your throat, heart going crazy in your chest and another swell of emotions you couldn’t place surging as well.

He blinked sleepily before his eyes finally landed on you. Staring into the brown irises brought that heat back but even stronger this time. You didn’t really understand it but you wanted to.

“Oh, you’re awake? Did you sleep well?” His light voice croaked as he rubbed the drowsiness out of his eyes.

You nodded. “I did. Did you?”

Then he smiled and your heart squeezed.

“Yeah. I did too. For the first time in a while.”

There was a hint of something in his words but you couldn’t place it.

“Do you have a hard time sleeping?”

He looked up at the ceiling, staring as if it held the solution to all of his problems.

“Yeah.”

You felt like he had more to say and you were about to ask a follow up question when the sound of your stomachs growling interrupted.

His smile was bright and his laughter was contagious. “Are you hungry? I can make us some breakfast.”

“That sounds great.”

~

“I’m Hoseok, by the way.” He said as he placed a fried egg on a plate and then served it to you.

He let you shower first, even letting you wear some of his clothes since the dress you wore last night was still soaked through. You were actually already wearing a large t shirt of his and a pair of boxers that he leant you, both brand new of course. A part of you didn’t even want to shower because you didn’t want him to leave your eyesight. You finally found him and all you wanted to do was admire him and be close to him. He felt exactly the same but he was starving since he didn’t eat dinner last night. And now that you thought about it, neither did you.

Now you were both in his kitchen while he whipped up breakfast.

You didn’t even realize you never asked him his name. Hearing it now flared that heat in your heart again.

Hoseok. It was nice. It fit him.

“I’m y/n.”

He smiled at you again. You really liked seeing him smile.

“That’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

You’ve been hearing that for years, all your life really but hearing him say it, you truly believed it. From his lips, it sounded sincere, like he was looking past just your physical appearance.

He was looking at you. All of you.

“I have a question.” He said as he ate a blueberry.

You hummed in acknowledgment, letting him know he could continue.

“Why were you out in the rain like that?”

Any other time, you wouldn’t have hesitated to give the answer but your words got caught when he asked. Should you even tell him? Would he get upset? Why did you feel so guilty?

He noticed your hesitation and it was like he could see the cogs turning in your head. He didn’t quite understand you yet. What were you experiencing before you met him? What were the effects of your incomplete soulmate bond?

You felt a hand place itself over yours where it rested on the table, your eyes lifting from your half eaten breakfast to meet those sweet eyes.

“You can tell me. I promise I’ll accept whatever you say. I’ll accept you.”

Tears prickled at your waterline but you didn’t let them fall. You felt like if you cried again, you’d never stop.

Taking a deep breath, you admitted, “I was on a date.” When he didn’t say anything, you continued. “My mom would set me up on dates in order to find my soulmate. I was on one with this guy and he left me at the restaurant. I was about to go home but something told me to start walking.”

He listened intently, a little burst of anger firing in his heart at whatever asshole left you by yourself like that. He couldn’t help but feel a little relieved, however. Because if they didn’t leave you, he probably wouldn’t have found you.

“I see. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“I’m not.” You quickly responded, moving your hand so your fingers could entwine with his. A look of surprise crossed his face, his gaze going to your linked hands. His own heart thudded wildly like a stampede.

Then you smiled and what an absolutely wonderful smile it was.

“Then I’m not either.”

You two tucked back into your food in silence, hands still locked on the table.

“I have a question too.”

“Yeah?”

“Why were you out in the rain?”

He made a noise, shrugging his shoulder and finishing off the last of his breakfast. “I couldn’t sleep so I took a walk. It started raining on my way back home. There was a convenience store on my way so I got an umbrella there.” He explained as if it was so simple but something told you it wasn’t.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

What a good question.

“Whenever I try to sleep, I get this overwhelming feeling that keeps me up. It’s like…..I’m always uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” You parroted.

He hummed. “Like whenever I try to sleep, I can’t. It feels like….something was missing.��

“Like what?”

He pondered in thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain it to you. He’s been asked that question before and he could never quite answer. To him, showing emotion came so easily. He could empathize with most; he cried when others did, he rejoiced when he was happy, he got angry when something didn’t go his way. All of it came naturally to him.

But when it was time to shut those feelings down and rest, he couldn’t. He took walks often as a way to both clear his head and try to tire himself out. He slept sometimes but never more than a couple of hours, those feelings always startling him awake again. He slept but he didn’t rest.

Something was keeping him awake. Something was missing. Something that he didn’t have.

His eyes left his empty plate to finally lock on the beauty of you. With you, all of those conflicting feelings calmed down. They settled in his heart, that heavy weight that once constricted him now lifted. Like when you curled up next to a window, a book in your lap and a blanket over your shoulders as a gentle rain fell.

“Peace.”

A soft smile stretched across his face, his eyes holding so many feelings that he’s always been able to express but never truly able to receive. Looking at you now, he knew he could have it all now.

He could have peace. The reason he couldn’t sleep was because there were too many emotions storming around him, leaving him lost in the torrent of his own life. He had friends who loved him, family who supported him, and bonds that could never be broken but even with all of that, he still lacked one thing.

One person.

You.

He rounded his small kitchen island until he was standing next to you, his hand that wasn’t holding yours moving to cup the back of your neck. He leaned down just a little. Your lips were so close, a few centimeters closer and they’d touch. A frenzy of everything was happening in both of your bodies; anticipation, fear, passion, and more things neither of you could make.

His eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes, back and forth.

“I’m so glad I found you.” He whispered.

“I’m glad you found me too.”

And just like that, your lips joined. As did your hearts, as did your souls, as did your beings.

Complete.

Like the sun shining through the clouds after a rainy day and the rain returning to cover the sun, you two fit together in a delicate cycle.

One that could never be broken.

The sun. The rain. The earth. The sky. The moon. Red. Purple. Orange. Green.

Blissful. Confusing. Playful.

The colors that made up your world were bright now.

All thanks to your sun ☀️

[beskarandblasters]

Was it all a dream?

Chapter Five: You and me, we got our own sense of time

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist

Series summary: You’ve always had vivid dreams, an escape from your monotonous life. But one night, something appears in your dreams that keeps reoccurring; a pair of brown eyes. -Or- Two people, in completely different parts of the galaxy, find each other in their dreams and try to make sense of the strange connection they share.

Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), switches between Reader and Din’s POV, story takes place in the dream realm and the real world, takes place somewhere between the end of season two/Book of Boba Fett/beginning + middle of season three, eventual smut, line between reality and dreams gets blurred, use of Mando’a words and phrases, no use of y/n

Chapter summary: Din realizes his true feelings for you and you both notice the strange passing of time in this particular dream. In the real world, you start to form an exit plan.

Word count: 3.2k

Chapter warnings: fluff, oral sex (M receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, biting, hair pulling (Din’s), Din working through his feelings, very needy and passionate sex

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

Din

Beige walls. Beige floors. Beige furniture. It’s all the same. Din’s never been to a place like this before. It’s too… domestic. He never finds himself in places like this – in a house. This has to be a dream. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. 

In his dreams, he never starts inside. Every place he’s found you has been outside. Except for that cantina on Coruscant. Even then, his dream started on the street and he just wandered inside. 

But here? He meanders up and down the never-ending hallways, searching for you like before. 

This is a dream, right?

He looks down at his clothes– all black attire, no armor. Yep, this is a dream.

Of all the places he’s dreamed of lately, this is his least favorite. It’s dull. It’s lifeless. It’s never ending.

He turns a corner and finally finds you. And suddenly, all the beige, all the monotonous surroundings make sense. Because there’s you in screaming color. 

He immediately glues himself to you, arms embracing you as if he didn’t just see you the night before. 

“I’m sick of this,” he says, clutching you once again as if you’re going to slip out of his reach.

“Sick of what?”

“Starting without you. I just have this fear I’ll wake up before I can find you,” he says, pulling away to look into your eyes. 

“It hasn’t happened yet, Din. Try not to worry about it now,” you say, bringing a hand to his face and stroking his cheek. He closes his eyes at your touch and realizes that he was wrong before. 

It’s not enough to only have you in his dreams. The dream realm is uncertain. Reality always cuts in at the wrong time, waking him up before he’s ready to let go. At least if he had you in real life, nothing would be left uncertain. He could always be there to protect you, to make sure nothing happens to you. It’s ironic how he went from someone who wanted no emotional or physical attachments to someone who longs for you in his day-to-day life. He supposes Grogu helped him open up more than he realized. 

“You’re right, ner vercopa,” he says, opening his eyes and meeting yours once again. 

“How have you been since the last time we saw each other?”

“Same as it always is. Lonely.”

“I get it. All I do is work and go home.”

“You don’t have friends where you are?”

“Not really. There’s not many humans and I just feel like an outcast.”

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“…No, I am. Seriously there are like less than a hundred humans or so where I am.”

“Oh.”

“And most of them are rude. Probably because we live in such a terrible place.”

“But why is it so terrible? If you can remember,” he asks, trying to get more details about where you live so he can make his search for you easier. 

“…I can’t,” you admit, feeling defeated. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Forget about the real world. We’re here together and that’s all that matters. 

You close the gap between you two again, holding each other silently while he rubs your back. All he wants to do is get you out of wherever you are. You don’t deserve to live in a place so terrible. You don’t deserve to feel like an outcast. If you were by side he’d do all he could to make you feel special, like you matter to him and that your presence makes a difference in his life.

“I don’t know if I like the location this time,” he says absentmindedly. 

“Why not?” you ask, pulling back and tilting your head to the side and smirking like you know something he doesn’t.

“It’s… ominous… Do you like it?” 

“Look behind you.”

He turns to look at what’s behind him and finds a bed. 

He faces you again, matching the same smirk you’re wearing, picking up on what you’re suggesting. 

“Dirty girl you are, vercopa,” he teases.

“What?” you say, putting on a faux defense. “It sure beats a wet field.”

“You’re right about that,” he says, his hand cupping the outline of your breast.

“Not so fast. Sit on the bed,” you say, pushing him back slightly.

“You’re gonna make me wait?” he says, sighing semi-dramatically.

“Who knows when we’ll have a bed again? I’m taking my time.”

He complies with your request, sitting at the edge of the bed and watching you with hooded eyes. You slowly remove each layer of clothing you’re wearing, making sure to tease him and build the suspense. He’s slack-jawed once you’re completely naked, his hand grazing his facial hair. 

“Maker, you’re…”

“What?” you laugh.

“You’re perfect, ner vercopa,” he says, his bulge straining hard against the material of his pants. 

You walk over to him, his arms finding their home around your waist as he looks up at you with adoring eyes. As he admires you, a feeling swells up in his chest that he’s never felt before. It’s overwhelming, almost too much because it’s uncharted territory. But at the same time, it means that this strange connection you share makes sense. He understands it for once. He loves you, even just the idea of you, regardless of whether you’re real. He can’t admit it to you yet – this is still so new, so tender. But he can’t deny how he feels, even if he has to keep it to himself for now. 

You sink to the floor, kneeling before him and palming the bulge in his pants. His hands rest at his sides, gripping the sheets underneath him as you move your hand painstakingly slowly. 

“Let’s get these off,” you say, running a finger along his belt. 

He stands, unbuckling his belt and sliding down his pants before sitting on the bed, cock standing in front of your face. Your mouth falls open as you stare at it with wide eyes. He feels self-conscious for a moment before he remembers that you didn’t get a good look at it in the field. Regardless, he hopes your silent reaction is one of admiration.

You start by running your hand down his inner thigh, inching closer to his groin. The movement of your touch sets his skin aflame, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You’re so meticulous, so slow in the way you touch him, touching him like you want to do this. Like you want to show him how much you care about him through pleasuring him. 

You press a kiss to his groin, soft lips against a patch of his hair, slowly moving to the base of his shaft. The hand on his thigh moves to his balls, cupping them as you finally take him into your mouth. It’s soft. It’s tender. It’s caring. He’s gotten head before, but never like this; never by someone who looks at him the way you do. 

Your tongue slips in between the head of his cock and his foreskin, teasing him ever so slowly as your other hand wraps around his base. Pre-cum leaks from the tip, beading up before running down his shaft in a mixture with your saliva. You keep your tongue flat against the underside of his cock while your hand moves up and down, following the movement of your mouth. You’re so focused on the task at hand that you haven’t even looked up to see his reaction yet. When you finally do, he feels like he could bust right there and then. He tries to maintain his composure, not wanting this moment to end, but it’s hard when you’re doing such a good job, looking at him with wide eyes as you take his cock further in your mouth. 

He just can’t hold on anymore. He cums down your throat, orgasm intensified by the feeling of you swallowing his release. He has to fight the urge to close his eyes, to throw his head back in pleasure, not wanting to miss the beautiful sight before him. 

Once he goes soft, you take him out of your mouth, resting on your heels and looking up at his post-orgasm glow. He leans forward, cupping your face in his hands, and kisses you, a needy, passionate kiss that tells you he wants you now. 

You stand to give him space to shed the remaining clothes he has on, kicking off his pants and pulling his shirt over his head. This is the first time he’s been completely naked in front of anyone but himself. The idea should make him nervous given his creed, but if he’s going to do this with anyone, of course it has to be with you. 

Your hands are glued to his body instantly, hands running along every scar, every freckle, every stretch mark, every tattoo— all things he’s never shown anyone before. It makes him feel vulnerable but in a good way, letting him know that he’s comfortable being his raw self around you.

“You’re beautiful, Din,” you say, caressing his cheeks. 

That’s the first time someone’s told him that, and he doesn’t want to believe you. He knows you wouldn’t lie to him, but he just can’t picture someone actually feeling that way about him when they gaze upon his face. 

“I mean it,” you add, as if you could read his mind.

He wraps his hands around your wrists, gently squeezing them and closing his eyes. 

“Sit on the bed for me,” you softly command, wanting to show him how much you desire him. He opens his eyes and removes his hands from yours, sitting back down on the bed and watching as you move to straddle him. You rest your hands on his shoulders, your cunt hovering over the tip of his cock. He reaches in between your legs, rubbing his cock along your folds, teasing you until you finally sink onto him, taking his length inside you. 

His hands slide up your thighs and rest on your waist, eyes looking deeply into yours. You’re as close as two people could be, your hips rocking against him, slowly burying his cock deeper inside you. 

“I like this,” he says, grunting as you move your hips again.

“Me too,” you say, one hand trailing up to his hair, wanting to make him melt like he did in the field. He moans, biting his lip and cursing under his breath. You just know all the ways to melt him down into nothing but a puddle on the floor, under the mercy of your touch. He leans forward and sinks his teeth into your collarbone, pulling a sharp gasp from you as  you grip his hair tighter. He moans into your neck, a moan that says ‘do that again, show me I’m yours’. 

He nips at your neck, dragging his tongue along the sensitive spots he’d just discovered. You grind your hips into him, fingers tangled in his hair as your bodies fall slack against each other. Your eyes flutter closed and it’s hard to tell where you each begin and end, limbs intertwined with one another, mouths glued to skin. Your mouth happens to fall by his ear, a perfect speaker for him to hear the way you come undone, crying against the shell of his ear. He feels like he could bust right there and then, your warm cunt enveloping his cock, hands in his hair, and melodic sounds that are like a song sung just for him. 

You come undone, walls clenching and releasing his cock. You continue to grind your hips through your release and it causes him to follow suit. He bites down on your neck hard, humming into your skin as he paints your walls with his cum. The movement of your hips eventually slows and you finally come to a rest against him, staying still and enjoying each other's presence. 

“You’re everything to me, ner vercopa,” he says softly, rubbing your back. 

You exhale as if you don’t believe him and his arms tighten around you. 

“I mean it,” he says, kissing the side of your face.

The urge to tell you he loves you consumes him once again. The words are on the tip of his tongue, threatening to break loose but he refrains, keeping his secret to himself. 

Instead he asks, “Do you think there’s a reason we started appearing in each other’s dreams?”

“Do you need a reason?” 

He wants to know why the galaxy bestowed you upon him but he gets the sense that you don’t, that you’re content with not knowing the truth. 

“I guess not… Do you?”

“No,” you say simply, “Being here with you is enough. There’s no need to question a good thing… But if you need a reason, maybe the galaxy knew we were both lonely. Maybe there’s something we can learn from each other.”

He thinks about the last dream in the field and how you made him slow down and enjoy the rain. He thinks about your life compared to his, how you’re stuck in one place and how he has the freedom to roam the whole galaxy if he so pleases. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you can learn something from each other. 

Eventually, he goes soft and starts to slip out of you. The two of you don’t really know what to do next. Usually, the dream would end by now. As he holds you and absentmindedly stares off, he notices something he didn’t before – a window. 

It’s nighttime. Was there light outside when he found you? He can’t remember. He wasn’t focused on the time of day. He was focused on finding you. But something about the ominous dark window is unsettling to him. He just can’t figure out why. 

As if you feel him go stiff, you ask, “Is everything alright?”

“I didn’t notice the window before,” he says, staring straight at it. 

You pull yourself off of him, much to his dismay, and sit beside him, leaning against his shoulder and staring at the window. 

“You were here before me,” he says, “Was it always dark out?”

“No,” you say, a wave of realization hitting you. “It wasn’t.”

“Weird,” he says. 

You get up from the bed and walk towards the window. Din follows, slipping his arm around your waist. Just as you’re both finally comfortable with the night sky, it starts to change. Within seconds, the sun rises, casting the rolling field in a bath of warm light. You look at each other, noticing how his brown eyes are lit up by the sun. 

“That’s strange… Right?”

“Right,” he affirms. 

“We haven’t been asleep that long, have we?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hm,” you respond, turning and facing the window again.��

The sun slowly inches up from the horizon line, hanging high up in the sky. The blades of grass are swaying in the wind, thriving under the sun. Everything is golden, bright, full of life.

He turns to look at you, the sun lighting up your face from the side. Everything about you is a first for him. He’s had sex before but never as loving and tender as it is with you. In fact, it was never loving or tender at all. It was always hard and fast, typically at a brothel in a town he was passing through for a bounty. It was just fucking, never sex with actual feelings attached. 

And yet, deep in the back of his mind, part of him wonders if you’re real. Or if aspects of you are just figments of his imagination, the desires of his subconscious running wild. But another part of him knows that isn’t true. Part of him knows you’re real, somewhere in the galaxy yearning for his touch like he is with yours. That part of him is louder than the other. 

It’s another moment like before where he wants to tell you he loves you. He wants to say it out loud because he’s proud; proud to have you as the person he loves. But he can’t. At least not yet. 

Once again, just as you’re getting used to the brilliant daylight, the sun changes positions in the sky, sinking lower and starting to set. 

“How strange,” you say, glancing out the window, “Time must work differently here.” 

Just as you say that, a radio sitting on the bedside table starts playing music. It’s a song you don’t recognize but it makes you feel comforted; a song slow enough to sway to. 

And that’s exactly what you do. He grabs your waist and pulls you in closer to him. You reach up and wrap your hands around his neck, softly moving back and forth, watching the sunset. It’s silent between you two but you don’t need to talk. He just wants to enjoy your company. 

So the two of you stay there, slow dancing and watching the days fly by, from night to sunrise, to sunset, and back to night again. Time feels so slow but so fast at the same time. For once, your dream doesn’t end right after you have sex. You can finally enjoy each other’s company for once. But even then, when the dream finally ends, it’ll still feel too short, like you were robbed of time you could’ve spent together. 

As the sunset begins to shift back into a dark night, the world starts to fade around you. 

Din starts to shout, “Ni kar’tayl-” but he stops when you disappear from his view. It’s unclear if you heard him or not. And once again, he’s met with the same cold, uninviting bunk in the Razor Crest, wishing he was still holding you by the window. 

You 

Waking up from that one probably hurt the most. You roll over in bed and glance at your clock. Your shift started fifteen minutes ago. Great. 

You’ve developed an unfortunate habit of being late to work. Whether it's because you’re at the library, reading about all the places you see in your dreams, or just sleeping, your dreams are causing you to be late. 

You hastily scribble the details of your dream in your journal before begrudgingly getting ready for work. You’re anxious about what your supervisor will say to you. This is the third day in a row you’ve been late and the last shuttle for the day shift is leaving soon, so you need to haul your ass there. 

Dashing to the shuttle, you just barely make it there in time for the last one, feeling like it’s moving slower than normal. Once it finally arrives at the factory, you’re sprinting to scan in and get to your post already. The elevator stops at your floor and once the doors open, you’re greeted by one of the SoroSuub droids. 

“Employee 5526, you’re tardy again for the third shift in a row,” the droid says in its terrible robotic voice.

“Yes, I know. It won’t happen again, I swear-”

“If you reach five tardies, your employment will be terminated. Do you understand?”

“Yes…” 

“To your post,” the droid says, stepping out of the way. 

Your coworkers stare at you as you walk to your station. Whether it’s the embarrassment or the soul-sucking job you have, you decide that you’re getting out of here. 

And so your plan begins. One way or another, you’re getting off this planet and searching for the man who lives in your dreams. 

Gifs of Din from this chapter

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Art by Roger Mattos

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[imagine-lcorp]

Falling (One Shot)

A/N: Helloooo, my dears! As every year, here it is! A little piece to celebrate the beautiful day of Halloween/Day of the Dead!! Hoping you had a great weekend and that you're enjoying the celebrations, you know I can never miss these holidays. Anyways, pls enjoy this fic and I hope you're good :)

Lena Luthor!Succubus x R//Word Count: 1,233

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When you started to dream about her, you didn't know you would fall this hard for her.

It started a couple of months ago, when you would come back home, tired and sick of the day that was too much like the day before. And the day before, and the day before. With no other want but to forget the day and try to find some solace in the empire of dreams. It was the tedious and lonely routine that left you defenseless against her.

If days are joyless, let the night fill your desires. She had whispered into your ear as you had drifted away.

You remember her in your dreams too clearly. The color of her eyes as they looked at you, so inviting, the sound of her voice, so tempting, the soft touch on you and the pleasure she offered, so needed. She was all you could ever want and she knew what you wanted, as she had made herself in her image and likeness. Green eyes, raven hair, fair skin. A lovely vision indeed, impossible to resist. Besides, you knew she wasn't real so, what was the harm in that?

As time with her passed, it didn't matter that after waking up you would feel tired, that seemed to be your only setting nowadays, or that you would start to fall asleep in places where you shouldn't. At work, during lunch, in the labs, on your way home. At every chance you got just to see her one more time.

It was strange sometimes to see her in the flesh, walking around the office, checking on the labs, meeting with employees in the cafeteria. You had to remind yourself she was not her and her wasn't she. One was real, the other a dream.

Until she wasn't.

It's time to go home, (Y/N).

The whisper in your ear made you jump back from your seat and away from the computer you were working on. You had been jolted awake from her dream by her voice, her real voice, and she had looked at you with concern and worry as you looked around to remind yourself where you were.

"Are you alright?"

"Uh, yes, yes. Sorry, Miss Luthor." You had responded with a hammering heart.

After all the dreaming, the last thing you thought could actually happen was having to interact with your boss.

"May I ask why are you here so late? Everyone else in the lab is gone."

"Sorry, I got caught up in work. We have an important project in our hands." You tried to look apologetic. It hadn't been your intention to stay so late in the office.

"Well, I appreciate your passion for this project but it's almost ten." She had smiled at you. "It's time to go home, (Y/N)."

She repeated and you were jolted awake once more.

The dreams that night were like nothing you had experienced before. There in the shadows, in the safety of your bed, they had been so vivid and passionate, and the affection of them so tender you could have died just right there. Her hands on your chest, her lips on your neck, her legs entangled with yours, blissfully unaware of the world and as the nights passed, the days seemed to blur into the illusion too.

You would see her in the distance before you crossed the street, at the end of the market queue, you would see her disappearing behind doors moments before you had to go through them. She was haunting you now, filling spaces everywhere you went.

Your friends started to worry as did your coworkers. You would drift away mid sentence, spacing into the distance, opening your mouth as if to speak. You would sometimes shiver and tremble, as if an invisible hand caressed your spine. As time passed you would also whisper and murmur, unintelligible words known only to you. It was the dreams invading your waking hours.

"I called you here because I'm concerned." She was sitting behind her desk and looking at you intently.

"Concerned about what, Miss Luthor?" You shifted in your seat.

"Your coworkers have noted that you are distracted, so to speak." She left her seat and rounded her desk, leaning against it as she placed herself in front of you.

"Distracted? How so?" You swallowed hard as you looked at her. You had never been this close to her before.

"You're missing meetings, you don't deliver your reports in time, you stay longer at the labs but it seems you don't get much done." She placed her hands on her sides, grabbing the edge of her desk. "Is everything alright?"

"Y-yeah." You cleared your throat and tried to focus on anything else. Your mind was drifting away into more pleasant places but you had to concentrate. "I've been having a bit of trouble sleeping, that's all."

"Insomnia?"

"More like bad dreams." You looked away.

"Have I been a bad dream to you, (Y/N)?" You felt her fingers on your chin pulling you to look at her once more.

Green eyes, raven hair, fair skin, soft touch. A lovely vision, difficult to resist. Was it real? Was it a dream?

"N-no." You gulped.

"Then we should go home."

Her hands found yours, pulling you up from your chair. She guided you towards the door, never taking her eyes off of you. In them you could see it all. The affection, the desire, the love. She spoke then in hushed tones, whispering words of love one could only ever heard in dreams. It was comforting, it was madness.

At the edge of it all, she pulled away from you, freeing your hands and walking a few steps away from you.

"Wouldn't you want to stay with me forever?" She asked as she opened her arms to you.

She was offering a final embrace and you...you only had to offer yourself in return. And isn't that what love is?

So you threw yourself into her arms.

It felt like you were being carried away into the night, with the wings of love on your back against the roaring wind. Like a raindrop flying among the city lights in fractals of color, until you hit the ground.

Caution lines were put in place that same night as paramedics took care of your broken body. The next morning, police officers started the investigation, asking all relevant people what could have happened.

When the CEO of the company was interrogated as to why an employee seemed to have jumped from her office's balcony, she couldn't come up with any logical explanation. She recalled seeing you from time to time after working hours, still in the office. Maybe it was the burnout that had finally driven you out of your senses. In any case, she couldn't know, she barely knew you.

Police turned around with no more questions to ask. The cause of your death, now clear as it could be. They turned around, ready to deliver their findings to their superiors. And as they did, the couldn't catch the little smile that appeared on her face. A smile so complacent it would have raised some flags.

She walked then to the balcony, crossing her hands over the rail and looked down with the smile still on her face.

No one had ever fallen this hard for her.

[kogareru]

GRIFFGUTS WEEKEND 2023 (@griffgutsweekend) ♡ PROMPT 02: WARMTH. Defined as (1) a high temperature that is comfortable but not hot (2) enthusiasm, intensity (3) the quality of being intimate, friendly, or caring.

At that time, he shone before me as something beautiful, noble, and larger than life || All those little flames throw themselves into the biggest bonfire, the blazing inferno... named Griffith || More than love... I wanted to succumb to a simple, burning desire. But now that it's lost, I first understand... just how much I resided within the warmth of the skin of that man, with whom I shared no emotion... I was in love. I loved him || Even so... Incidentally... I found someone I really wanted... to have to look at me. He didn't have anything. Yet he was trying to take hold of everything... No. Something about him made you... think it could happen. But in order for him to aim so high... he has to always hone himself to the very limit. That's why... there's no room at his side for the weak. But strangely, the more clear that becomes... the more dazzling he is in my eyes... || Darkness. Deep darkness without even a trace of light. How much time has passed since I was cast into this darkness? An eternity... but it also seems like an instant... all my senses are numb, and I can't feel a thing. What of my body? It's like it's floating in mid-air. Have I retained my sanity? Did I go insane long ago? In all this emptiness... only one thing is vivid. Only him. Like lightning on a dark night, he rises up within me, blazing || Lights... fragments of Guts' memories...? They are... just like lamplights || Your new companions, those you protect... warm lights... fine, for now. You cling to those trifling chains... no one will be able to prevent that moment. You'll find yourself consumed by me. May we run rampant with hatred and wild joy... just to crush with these fangs... THE TRUE LIGHT THAT BURNS US.